Holy Cow I Miss You Guys!

It has been five weeks and I have given up on the DSL line. (Even telephone service vanishes for five days at a time in the landlord's office.) So now I have a set of keys to the southern europe area director's office and I am going to try and post once a week.

This blog is pretty vital to my emotional health. I was particularly struck by Cman's comment about our house. I have a long list of logistics, and the DSL line is right up there with fuel for the car. Postings and comments will become more of a daily thing in Madrid. But for now, its early on a Sunday morning and people carrying loaves of bread keep walking past and staring in the office like I might sell them magazines or tobacco or something (why would the metal shutters be up if I was not selling something! HA)

Pedro (not the famous one in Idaho) just popped his head in. He is a grey-haired guy that sells roasted chickens next door, and he just wanted to greet me and maybe sell me a roasted chicken (why else would I be here on a Sunday morning? HA)

Sights and sounds of this place are more numerous than I will ever be able to fully describe. If living in another culture is like swimming in an ocean, I can say that the novelty of floating in the sea has become given way to riptides and I have drowned.

Driving to language school from La Mora to Mas Blanc each morning, a typically mundane event in the states, is punctuated by 89 curves on a narrow road past olive groves, vindyards, almond and carob trees, crumbling towns, political graffiti, dusty sidestreets and high stone walls. Every task is burdened with beauty. I could charge people $50 bucks in the states for this drive if I served them chocolate pastries and coffee in the back seat. But for every amber ray of sun on on dusty ancient walls, for every elegent wrought-iron lamp that shines its dim light across my dashboard before a dark forest during a vernal equonix (uh... this metaphor is becoming ponderous and I will abandon it) there is a never-ending longing for the life with compatriots I left in Kansas.

I can feel myself embedding deep in this place, and the words to describe the stretching deep in my spirit are not sufficient to the task. All that remains is wonder and longing. I would pay fifty euros for a Thursday night at Homer's, or a game night with you guys.

I've made friends with a rooster. I stand by a fence and throw old pieces of baguette at him while he crows into my face for not being more forthcoming. There are tiny lizards that could make nests in bottle caps along the walls, and I chase them with my finger. The storms, called torments here, remind me of Kansas as wall clouds move in from the sea and blow the rain in wet rages against the glass. At night I see lights on oil tankers moving slowly on the horizon as they make their way back from Suez, and I marvel at the isolation on the dark deep.

Friday night I helped prepare for the men's dinner (fiesta de hombres) that was to begin at 10pm. That evening I was the only EstadoUnidense at the long table. I sat between pastor Juan Antonio (who is always good for a hug without a kiss) and George (horhay) from La Paz, Bolivia. Across from me was Santiago. He asked me (in Castillian) if I liked the driving here. I said (in Castillian) that I did because of the curves. Everyone laughed when I explained that Kansas was flat and straight the further oeste you went. When the 20 or so guys sang the worship songs (that I'd never heard before) I felt that I was witness to a night far back in history before a major battle or extended exploration.

Well, this is probably enough dramatics for one Sunday morning, and I will wrap it up. I will try to post once a week and comment more frequently. Hasta pronto mis amigos...