We’re leaving for Italy today, a honeymoon I’d only imagined in my dreams.
First stop: Venice
The wedding was also a dream: chaotic, beautiful, loud, and full of laughter and dancing, which are the same things, really.
Paparazzi
I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day, a better man, a more loving family (Spanish or American).
See you after Italy! Blogging and honeymoons that involve Venice, Florence, and Rome don’t really mix …
In case you didn’t know, yesterday was Father’s Day in Spain. Happy Father’s Day to all the Spanish dads (and the American dads living in Spain)!
I wrote a post once called Why You Should Have a Spanish Mother-in-Law. Read it—I talk about Mario’s mother, how great she is, and how much she worries about me. (I almost hate to cause her that worry, but it does make me feel loved.) Anyway, I got to thinking, and it seems that Mario’s father deserves a post because he, too, is wonderful.
Mario and his dad, Jesús, are similar in many ways. They are both intelligent, passionate learners, avid readers, and generous, kind people. They are both golosos (they have a huge sweet tooth). They never pass up a chance to eat dessert. I would say that Jesús wins this one, though; I think I’ve seen Mario refuse dessert a time or two. Jesús? Um, no. At a wedding we all attended last June, after a huge meal, he gleefully recounted how he hate not only his (very rich) dessert, but also those of two other people sitting at his table. Typical. I really love it when he brings out the cookie box after every meal—Mario’s mother, Pepita, is always rolling her eyes. Again, typical.
Jesús is a high school teacher, although he teaches middle-school-age kids really. In Spain, high school includes both middle-school and high-school-age kids. He teaches geography, and he knows basically everything there is to know about Spain. Also, everything. I still remember the first time I went to Mario’s house in Zamora to meet his family. There we were, for some reason discussing wine and vines, and there was a word that no one knew. His cousin told me something along the lines of , “Well, no one knows that word.” But guess what—Jesús did. Typical.
Teaching me about Sanabria.
Last year, after my day at the local high school, I would often go over there for lunch, even if Mario wasn’t there. For some reason, I think Jesús was glad of this. After a full day of teaching, he got yet another student: me. He loves to teach me, and I love it, too. You see, Mario and his brother, Víctor, have heard it all. They’re always telling him, “I know, Papá.” Well, I don’t know, so he gets to tell me. And tell me he does, often with millions of details I’ll never recall in two hours. Nonetheless, I enjoy it immensely. He also enjoys teaching me Spanish words. I’ve stopped telling him if I already know them, just because he enjoys telling me so much. Also: he’s really funny and always ready with a joke, no matter if you think it’s lame. (I never do!)
I have some really great parents, parents who always support me, parents who loved me immensely since the day I was born, parents who have gone to Spain twice to see me (and are going again in July!). Yet I am so lucky, because I get another set of my parents—mis suegros—who love me, who worry about me, who make me amazing food … the best set of suegros I could have ever asked for.
Happy (Belated) Father’s Day to Jesús: ¡eres el mejor!
One of the best parts of writing a blog are the people you “meet.” While I’ve not met any blogger friends in person, I’ve had the opportunity to interact with a lot of different people, whether that be fellow bloggers or people who just like to read my blog. I especially love emails, and always love to hear from you! So if you’ve ever thought about saying hey, please email me at: kalhendr[at]gmail[dot]com.
So I’m very happy to introduce my first ever (!) guest post from my friend, Melanie. Melanie, like me, is in a relationship with a Spaniard. What’s distinguishes her from most of my friends who are in relationships with Spaniards is that she and her husband live in the U.S. In Texas, to be exact. Thus, she has a unique perspective – one that I think we don’t get to hear a lot about in my corner of the blog world. Anyway, I’ll let her take over from here.
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Whether it is marriage that has strengthened your commitment to your foreign partner or some other less formal arrangement, continuing a bilingual/bicultural relationship may not be as easy or the same as first starting one. After learning how to deal with and coming to enjoy each other’s similarities and differences in the beginning of a relationship, here are a few tips for a continued rich personal and cultural experience for you both:
Customs
Embrace each other’s cultures wherever you live: do not let where you live dictate the extent to which you appreciate each other’s cultures. For example, I find it extremely endearing that at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, Spaniards individually greet and wish each other “Happy New Year” with two kisses. On the other hand, I also appreciate the way that celebrating birthdays is a little bit more fun and special in the US with birthday cake, presents, and parties (customs I haven’t noticed as much in Spain). Enjoy each other’s traditions by following them wherever you are. It may make your partner feel special that you remembered something significant from his or her culture and brought it to life in your own.
Turrones
Food and Drink
While it’s easy to compare whose country may have better cuisine, my advice is that it’s better not to make the contrast because this battle will never end! Instead, enjoy both countries’ gastronomy by learning each other’s family recipes or purchasing cookbooks (I personally recommend Culinaria Spain, edited by Marion Trutter for those interested in Spanish dishes). Wherever you live, make an effort to cook each other’s favorite dishes. For example, it is my personal goal to always learn a new recipe from my mother-in-law every time we see each other. Making these dishes later keeps my husband happy.
Tortilla de Patata
People and Travel
While you may have enjoyed visiting your partner’s pueblo the first few times around, remember that a person’s hometown is always special to him or her. Even if going back to visit a small town on numerous occasions isn’t as exciting as packing up to go on a cruise or other exotic vacation, try to enjoy the experience through your partner’s eyes, childhood, and relationships. Learn new phrases from in-laws. Ask your partner to take you to one of his or her favorite childhood spots – whether it be a hangout, school, look-out point, etc. There will most likely be a story that goes along with the ride. And remember, most importantly, that family members and friends will always be happy to see you whenever you go back to each other’s hometowns. I always ask my husband to take me to the Mirador de Cáceres because the sights are that beautiful!
La Parte Antigua de Cáceres
Enjoy the journey
You may not know where you will live in a few months, next year, or for the rest of your life with your partner. That’s okay. Remember to enjoy where you live in the moment, and know that you are probably there for a justifiable reason: job, family, health, etc. It’s easy to become anxious thinking about the future and how this whole bicultural-bilingual relationship will work out. But being too focused on the future can impede moments shared together focused on building understanding and deepening that cross-cultural love that brought you together in the first place. Remember that several simple moments of joy can add up to an overall rich and happy life.
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Thanks, Melanie!
I have a Spanish (almost) mother-in-law. Her name is Josefa, but she goes by Pepita. She is great.
I am 5’11″. She is, perhaps, 5’1″. She was raised in small Spanish pueblo with her many brothers and sisters; she was the youngest. She learned French in school and thus does not know any English. It’s okay, though; I speak Spanish (surprise, surprise!).
I know you don’t happen upon a Spanish mother-in-law every day. I know! I am just saying … they are pretty amazing MILs! Why? Here’s why:
So yeah, get yoself a Spanish MIL and maybe you’ll be as cool as me. Though I really doubt it. I think Pepita could kick your Spanish MIL right outta the water! No, but really -her food is better. It’s just a fact; you’ll have to accept it.
Uhhh. I like it.
Happiness = fuzzy new slippers, mulled wine, Christmas baking, laughter with family, and candlelit dinners.
The lights were blurry as they whizzed by. My cocoa was still too hot to drink. It smelled marvelous, almost magical. Dad switched on the radio, the announcer’s voice crackly and distant. “… Santa and his reindeer were spotted tonight,” he was saying. My pulse quickened and I imagined a tiny silhouette of a sleigh, of eight reindeer dancing in the inky night sky. Santa’s on his way …
From the window our tree blinked. The car pulled neatly into the garage, and we leapt out, eager to enter the house’s glowing warmth. The heat hit us as I pulled upon the door, my glasses fogging up. Four stockings hung above a cheery fire in anticipation of presents. It was finally time to open the first gift of Christmas. I ran into the living room and flopped myself down onto the couch,ready to feel the thrill that the unknown evokes. The present was always pajamas, yes, but the knowledge could not take away my excitement at the prospect of ripping off the red and green paper, of the scent of newness upon the clothes as I held them up.
But first…first, we read from the oversized family Bible with its gold-rimmed pages. In the days of Caesar Augustus… began my mother, stealing glances at my brother and me, our feet dangling over the edge of the couch, our eyes lovingly focused on her for this moment, this one magic moment. The story, although familiar, the phrases well-worn in the deep recesses of our memories, yet the words never lost their magic. For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Savior is given.
Soon enough, it was time. Time to set out Santa’s snack, to write him a letter, to thank him. My hands grasped the pencil tightly, etching the words onto the lined sheet of paper. Thank you for the presents. I hope you enjoy the snacks. In our home, Santa ate snack cakes and Pepsi, not cookies and milk, an eerily similar combination to what my father ate on a daily basis, but my mind failed to make the connection. My father promised to set out food for the reindeer, and off to bed we went, our bellies full of cocoa and anticipation.
Snuggled under the covers, sleep evaded me. The Christmas lights outside twinkled, a tease that told me I still had a good eight hours to wait. I could not help but listen for the distant jingle of sleigh bells, of hoofbeats, of the snack wrapper being opened. I turned over, sighed, and wished for sleep. Sleep never came easily that night. Santa was on his way, could be placing carefully gift-wrapped packages under the twinkling tree this very second, and sleep would not come.
Soon enough, however, light bled faintly through my blinds. Jolting myself awake, I sat up in bed, my pulse once again picking up speed. Was Seth awake? I had to use the bathroom, but dared not leave my room for fear of seeing the surprises awaiting me in the other room. It was a dilemma – to exit or not to exit? My full bladder told me one thing while my mind told me another. And so I waited anxiously. Perhaps five minutes went by, perhaps ten. But I had to leave, could not stay, my racing mind unable to take the weighted speculation. Seth too was awake, his face lined with the anxiousness I felt. Together we waited impatiently. We raised our high-pitched child voices, stomped around the tiled bathroom, flushed the toilet, all in the hopes of being heard in the other wing of the house. We dared not enter the bounds of the living room, dared not catch a glimpse of the presents awaiting us under the tree, but we longed for our parents to awaken, to venture into our bedrooms and say breathily, “Merry Christmas, my love!” whilst gathering us up in a hug that meant safety, love, and magic. A hug that, in the end, meant Christmas itself.
The presents were never the reason I loved Christmas. They were nice, sure: dolls and sweaters and lip gloss, smelling of everything my girlhood represented. But Christmas, for me, was more than just a box in snowman wrapping paper. It was the smell of cinnamon rolls in the oven, laughter, nose-crinkling smiles, snow falling softly outside my window, mashed potatoes with obscene amounts of butter, spoons on noses at the kids’ table…Christmas could not be contained in a box wrapped in red paper. Christmas was family, was fellowship, was cookies baking in the oven, was the love that my parents and I could not express in words.
To this day, I am unable to say what Christmas means to me. I once heard that when you turn 24, they neglect to tell you that you are still 23, 22, 21 … 1 years old too. So when I wake up this December 25, forgive me for feeling like a child once again, full of hope and anticipation and desire for the magic of Christmas.
On Sunday, I went with Mario’s family to a little village called Puebla de Sanabria. Puebla is located in the northeastern part of Zamora (the province where Mario is from – they’re from the city itself). It’s beautiful, but most of all the lovely Lago de Sanabria, meaning Sanabria Lake.
It’s quite different from the rest of Zamora, which tends to be quite dry and brown. There’s not much rain. The lake is the largest glacial lake in the Iberian Peninsula, which includes Spain and Portugal.
I love traveling with Mario’s dad because he gets excited about everything and is the quintessential teacher/professor type. He teaches geography at a local high school, and it shows. Unfortunately, his voice was gone from a rather vicious cold, and he was unable to speak. Instead, he’d gesture wildly, hoping someone would interpret for him. Mario was quite good at this, especially after it became clear that the main thing he was getting pumped up about were there the chestnut trees. It was though he’d never seen one, even after he’d pointed out the fifth successive tree.
Here he is talking to me about some fact or another.
There wasn’t that much walking involved, although I suppose my family is a different sort from most Spanish families. A 2 kilometer long walk (approximately 1.25 miles) left his cousin saying, “We are soooo sick of walking.” It was cold, but I ususally can handle 1-mile long walks. After this, we visited another small site and promptly went to the village to eat lunch.
They say Americans are fat and Europeans are skinny, but don’t let that make you believe they don’t eat. Oh, they eat. Lunch is a long, drawn-out affair, starting with appetizers and progressing on to wine, salads, potatoes, and large steaks that took up a whole plate. Later, there’s dessert (maybe cheesecake or rice pudding) and shots of liquers, wherein Mario and I struggled to assert the fact that, yes indeed, alcohol depresses your nervous system, even if you do feel more awake after a glass of wine or two.
Me with Mario’s family and his crazy little cousin María.
I got to experience the phenomenon that will henceforth be known as Hurricane María. María is actually the daughter of Mario’s cousin Floro and his wife Marta. She is five years old and full of energy. Last time we met, she latched onto me with an intensity that can only be described as fierce. She couldn’t remember my name for the life of her, so I ended up being known as simply Marlin. Yes, like the father from Finding Nemo and, no, I don’t think we resemble one another, but you be the judge.
She talks a mile minute and, after this trip, I know why. It’s called…sugar. As we sat in the café, savoring our cafés con leche, María opened one sugar packet after another, pouring them into her mouth, on napkins, on the table, etc. Later, she stuck her hand in the spilled sugar and slowly drew her tongue across her palm. Her description of her typical breakfast? “Toast with sugar and three little spoonfuls of honey.” Sugar high much? Now, I doubt that statement’s veracity, as her mother claims she barely eats breakfast, but still…in her world, I think that would indeed be a rather delicious start to the day.
María, if you feed me toast, sugar, and honey we really can be best friends. And you can call me Marlin all you like.
All in all, a great day with good food, family, and friends. Couldn’t ask for more.
