Actually, what I’m feeling is whew! I loved writing Seville’s New Normal: Insider Tips for Visitors 2022. It started out as a purely practical guide, a way to answer the questions that were constantly arriving in my email inbox: How has Seville changed over the past two years? Is it safe? Is it fun? Can I even get into Spain? With two million people a year visiting Seville, it was clear I could not reply to each and every one individually. So I thought, “Why not corral all my info into a short guidebook?” But then, as I set out to assemble the information in something approaching coherent form, it struck me that Seville isn’t just about facts, it’s about stories. There are ancient myths, medieval legends, modern superstitions, and tidbits of hot gossip about every nook and cranny of this city. It would shortchange the book if I didn’t include at least some of them, along with a few of my own zany expat exploits. The older stories beautifully define Seville’s legacy of lunacy, passed down through hundreds of generations to me . . . and now to you. I love these stories and believe some of them may even be mostly true. For instance, if you’ve visited Seville, you may know the Alameda, an absurdly long plaza in the northern part of the city centro. But did you ever wonder why the two pillars at the southern end are off-center? 
This late 19th century postcard shows the two columns at the southern end of the Alameda de Hercules. You can see the extra space at the right, where you might expect a third column.
Having your city established by an actual god conveys certain bragging rights, and to make certain nobody missed this point, in 1574 Seville officials built a vast public garden — Europe’s first — and named it the Alameda de Hercules. For decoration they chose six Roman columns that had stood on the other side of town for 14 centuries. Hauling ancient, 30-foot stone columns in wooden wagons over unpaved streets through a busy city; what could possibly go wrong? Incredibly, two made it safely to the new garden before one managed to roll off and shatter spectacularly in the faces of horrified onlookers. No doubt a few heads rolled — possibly literally — over that snafu, and suddenly no one wanted the job of pillar transporter. The two surviving columns, topped with statues of Hercules and Julius Cesar respectively, stand at the southern end of the Alameda, their off-center alignment reflecting space left for the third that never arrived. The other three columns are aging gracefully in the Calle Mármoles (Marbles Street), where they are likely to remain until the end of time. 
A couple of years ago I ran across this tour group on Calle Mármoles. The guide was telling absolute whoppers about how the column was broken in transit to the Alcázar Palace instead of the Alameda. But of course, when it comes to legends, who can be sure what's true?
I thought providing some of these tales would give you all a fuller picture of Seville’s landscape, past and present. In the end, what I’ve written is not a conventional guide listing monument visiting hours, railway timetables, and budget hotels; you can easily find all that online. And it’s not comprehensive; you won’t find the top ten of everything in every category. But you will learn where I go for the essentials of life: churros (fried dough), flamenco, that perfect dry martini, a good vantage point for photos of the Three Kings parade, emergency dentistry, pre-flight Covid tests, and the latest changes in Spain’s entry requirements. It addresses these questions from my email inbox: How have the last two years reshaped Seville? When is the ideal time to visit? How can I check Spain’s entry requirements? Why do Sevillanos eat five meals a day? What do locals do for fun? What’s with all the oddball myths & legends? People still take siestas? Do I have to? What if I get sick? Will I have reverse culture shock going home? 
The times, they are a chagin'. The sign on the right advertises (gasp!) a vegan menu at a Seville café — a shocking sight in this ham-loving community!
In the book I explain the most striking thing about Seville these days is how normal it seems. People mask up and get vaxxed without a fuss, and then go about their daily lives. With more than 85% of Andalucíans inoculated, this is quite possibly the safest destination in Europe. Of course, that could all change in the next five minutes due to this pesky Omicron variant or some other nasty surprise. Be sure to keep checking this blog for updates. In the meantime, I’m hedging my bets. I frequently slip a few coins into the nearby shrine of San Pancracio, Seville's patron saint of health. Yes, of course I know it’s pure, medieval superstition. But hey, what harm could it do? 
Here I am making a contribution at San Pancracio's shrine in 2020. The shelf is full of parsley, as the saint is said to be partial to it. Nobody can tell me why.
Seville's New Normal is fun and informative, and my goal is to make it accessible to all. I’ve priced the Kindle version at 99 cents. Even if you’re a subscriber, you might want to buy the Kindle edition because A) it’s a more convenient way to read, B) it boosts my Amazon ranking, and C) the higher that rank is, the more visible Amazon will make my book so more readers will find it. Of course, reviews help a lot, too. The paperback is also priced as low as possible ($4.99). I won’t make much on these sales, but if they make a dent in the number of emails in my inbox, I’m more than satisfied. I’ll be raising the price right after the holidays.
Want a free sample of the book? Click on the live preview button below.
I don’t mean to brag, but figuring out how to insert this live preview was just one of the many pieces of technology I’ve mastered this week. I’ve spent countless hours burrowing into previously unknown recesses of my computer, Amazon’s author support pages, Kindle formatting, Microsoft Word, my web host, and my mailing program. I have triumphed over approximately 43,697.5 technical glitches. The .5 comes from a problem on the sign-up page for new subscribers. It had me totally flummoxed. Then l learned — an hour after I published this post inviting new sign ups — that my mail marketing server is having some bizarre technical difficulties today. In fact, it apparently can't process anything. I'll let you know when the problem is sorted. In the meantime, if you'd like to sign up for my mailing list and get the free book, just email me enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com. I‘ll take care of adding your name to the list and send you the link to the free book. Other than that, I think, hope, and pray that all my tech glitches are resolved, and that my dozen rounds of proofreading have caught at least most of the worst typos. So whew! The book is out! Tonight I will be picturing every one of you settling down in your favorite armchair, happily reading about Seville’s New Normal and dreaming of your next visit to this wonderful, warm, zany city. 
Rich's favorite reading chair in Seville.
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 Yes, the weather's pretty good around here right now. I took this today at lunchtime in Seville's Plaza San Francisco. I love getting email from readers, which is good because ever since I announced my decision to return to Seville from the US, my inbox has been flooded with questions. Practically everyone seems to be contemplating a trip here at some point over the next year, and they are baffled by the entry requirements (a fast-moving target) and curious whether the city’s street life has returned to its usual congenial roar (it has). It’s clear 2022 is shaping up to be a boom year for the city, and for my email inbox. Part of this upsurge in popularity is because “Spain Is Now the Safest EU Destination,” according to the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control. Our region, Andalucía, has vaccinated more than 80% of its residents, achieving herd immunity and “green status” (less than 50 Covid cases per 100,000 inhabitants). Sevillanos are matter-of-fact about observing all the appropriate public safety protocols, especially masking, while maintaining an attitude of cheerful normalcy. People are moving on with their lives.  A waiter crossing the street jumped in front of my camera to give me two thumbs up. Why? Who knows? General joie de vivre? I am constantly astonished to find myself in a city that feels so post-pandemic. Not post-Covid, of course; we all know that the virus is still stalking the planet, and we’d be fools not to take proper precautions. And there’s always the chance some hideous new variant could arise, throwing everything into chaos again. But as of this writing, Seville feels like an oasis of safety in an uncertain world. Is it any wonder so many people are contemplating a visit? My friend Charles is always telling me to stop saying nice things about Seville on this blog because we don’t want too many tourists overrunning the city. I keep explaining to him that people are going to come anyway, and if anyone should be held accountable, it's the city's leaders. At the very same time I started this blog, they launched a multi-million euro campaign to attract visitors, and it’s been successful beyond their wildest dreams. And yet Charles is convinced it's all my doing. I point out to him that I may play some small part in inspiring people to visit, but my real job is making sure they have fun when they get here.  A couple of new arrivals eye the crowd at an outdoor café in downtown Seville. Those who don’t do their research often show up expecting a European version of Mexico. These poor souls wander about, bewildered by the complete lack of spicy food and mariachi music, and confused when ordering a tortilla results in the arrival of a dense potato omelet instead of the flat bread used to make burritos. Others read the tourist literature and limit themselves to the cathedral, the Alcázar palace, and the corporate-owned restaurants and cookie-cutter souvenir shops nearby. My job is to open doors for my readers, so they know where to find the oddball stuff, like tiles that predict your matrimonial future, sites used in filming Game of Thrones, and the kind of backstreet food that makes you want to get up and dance with the cook. On top of all that, now I’ve got tips about Covid safety to share: where you can dine outdoors, get tested before your flight home, and buy masks that are as safe as KN95s but come in fashionable patterns and colors because hey, we all need a break from black and while and surgical blue sometimes.  Just a few of the masks in my current collection. The tie-dye is a KN95 from California, the others are FFP2s from a mask boutique in Seville. So I’ve decided to put together a short guide to the city at this unique moment in its history, helping people figure out travel logistics and entry requirements, navigate the recent changes in the local culture, and stay safe and comfortable in transit and throughout their visit. I’m taking a few weeks off from writing on this blog to organize my notes into something approaching coherent form, and when it’s ready I’ll post the guide online so my regular readers can download it for free and others can purchase it in Kindle or paperback form. In the meantime, if you have any questions or topics you’d like to see covered in this little guidebook, please let me know. And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell Charles about any of this. The less he knows the better. Mum’s the word. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  The term "siesta" comes from the Latin for sixth hour, as people tend to get sleepy about six hours after sunrise. Painting: "The Hammock," Gustave Courbet, 1844. When I mention my daily siestas to Americans, they often look at me sideways, obviously wondering if I’ve entered my dotage, never matured past the age of five, or deteriorated into a day-drinking couch potato during the pandemic. Some sidle away in quiet alarm at this point, but the hardier souls ask, “You take a nap every afternoon? Really? But then how can you sleep at night?” ‘I sleep better at night when I take a siesta,” I explain. “I’m a more relaxed person. My days have a gentler rhythm. And it’s like having fourteen mornings a week!” If they’re still unconvinced, I can now point out that Spain was just awarded the highest health grade on the planet in a sleep study comparing life expectancy, the Bloomberg Healthiest Country Index, and average sleep time. ”Bloomberg gave Spain the highest health grade: 93 percent (that's a solid A), while the U.S. came in 35th with a score of 73 (eek, that's a D...minus),“ reported Well + Good. You may be surprised to learn more snooze time doesn’t automatically earn a higher health grade. Spain averages a modest 7 hours and 10 minutes, while Mexico, despite a solid 9 hours nightly, has the lowest life expectancy of the 37 countries in the study.  After a long morning driving tourists around Seville, this caballero sensibly opted for a restorative siesta under the trees. Lots of factors influence Spain’s health grade, of course, including the famous Mediterranean diet. But I am convinced (based on completely random, unscientific, anecdotal evidence) that another key element is their relaxed attitude toward sleep. As far as I can tell, nobody here in Seville worries about how many hours of shut-eye they’re getting. In the US, we’re bombarded with articles such as the CDC’s “1 in 3 adults don’t get enough sleep” with the ominous subhead, “A good night’s sleep is critical for good health” and an opening sentence citing the CDC’s Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Yikes! One minute into the article and I’m already feeling doomed. When I moved to Seville, I was staggered by everyone’s insouciant attitude toward sleep. Last night, for instance, dinner with friends lasted until 1:30 AM — on a weeknight. You get even less snooze time during the annual seven-day Feria de Abril (April Fair). For this giant party, more than a million people dress up and spend every night drinking and dancing until dawn. They then stagger homeward, stopping briefly to refuel at a churros and chocolate stand before navigating the stairs to their apartment and falling into bed. Two hours later, they’re up, gulping coffee, and stumbling off to work. And nobody seems concerned. “It’s just a week,” they say with a shrug. “I’ll be fine.” And so they are. Although to be honest, I wouldn’t schedule elective surgery, car repair, or even a haircut that week. Not everyone will be operating at peak efficiency.  I've been told that during the Feria de Abril, Sevillanos average about two hours of sleep a night. Photo: Poncho Tours A few years ago, rocket scientists started putting the siesta under a microscope to see if it might prove useful in outer space. “NASA’s research showed that naps really can fully restore cognitive function at the same rate as a full night’s sleep,” reported Business Insider. “The space agency found that pilots who slept in the cockpit for 26 minutes showed alertness improvements up to 54% and job performance improvements by 34%.” Astronauts call this a NASA nap.  Nothing says NASA like a nap t-shirt. In business circles, the preferred term is power nap, to make it sound more grown-up, professional, and goal-oriented. Executive nappers like to point out how many success icons, such as Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, and Albert Einstein, snoozed every afternoon. They’ll then cite the health benefits: siestas reduce the chance of a fatal heart attack by 37% and can reverse information overload and prevent burnout. It’s not difficult to do a cost-benefit analysis that favors siestas. Oops, sorry, I mean power naps.  And then there’s the coffee nap. I personally have not tried this, but apparently you begin your rest period by downing a latte or espresso, then immediately lie down to sleep or just relax for 20 minutes. Meanwhile, the caffeine molecules are fitting themselves into receptors in the brain that are normally occupied by a chemical called adenosine, which tends to build up during the day, making you sleepy. By around the 20-minute mark, stimulating caffeine molecules have replaced all the sleepy adenosine molecules, leaving you feeling bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and zippity doo dah. Proponents rave about the reinvigorating effects of this process, which has been dubbed the nappuccino. Of course, it can be tough to find a suitable spot for a doze, especially if you’re traveling or working in a busy office. That’s why humanitarians in Barcelona, Spain created Nappuccino Corner, a café where, for the price of a modest lunch and a coffee, you get a free siesta in one of their individual resting pods. “They are not completely closed in order to prevent any claustrophobic feeling,” says the website, although I suspect it’s mostly to prevent any shenanigans from taking place inside.  At Nappuccino Corner in Barcelona, you can enjoy some postprandial shut-eye in one of their individual resting pods. With or without coffee, a siesta should only last about 20 minutes. That's because you want to stop before reaching deep REM sleep, which can leave you groggy afterwards. To avoid this, Einstein used to nap with a pencil loosely clasped in one hand, knowing that when he edged toward more profound slumber, the pencil would fall to the floor with a clatter and wake him. Even if you don't sleep but simply rest for 20 minutes, you get the benefits of a siesta. Afterwards, the Spanish advise reanimating yourself with a marienda (afternoon snack) of coffee and sweet pastry — essentially another breakfast — and why not? “Napping gets a bad rap in our culture,” says Psychology Today. “There’s a stubborn perception that napping is a sign of laziness. In fact, it’s just the opposite.” The article explains how a siesta can increase alertness, improve concentration and accuracy, help you make better decisions, and enhance memory and learning.  Afternoon siestas not only improve your mental and physical wellbeing, they give you something pleasurable to look forward to every day. I begin by closing the shutters to create a cozy twilight, then stretch out on the couch; if it's cool enough, I wrap up in cozy blanket. I open my Kindle, read a few pages, then close my eyes, just for a moment … and wake up twenty minutes or so later, feeling deeply refreshed. Do siestas really make you healthy, wealthy, and wise? Science says yes, but don’t take my word for it, or even Einstein’s. Try it for yourself. This will, of course, be easier if you work at home or live in Spain, where everything shuts down for the midday break. And no doubt your schedule is pretty full already. But hey, if Churchill could squeeze in naps while fighting off Hitler, maybe you can find twenty spare minutes in your schedule, too. Just be prepared for a few quizzical looks from friends, neighbors, and co-workers who have yet to discover the happy truth: taking a siesta is hitting the reset button on your day. And who doesn’t want to do that?  Rich is blessed with the ability to sleep anywhere: trains, planes, even (on one memorable occasion) the dentist's chair. Here's he's stretched out on a Czech train a few years ago, lost in dreamland. Now that I'm back home in Seville, my favorite city on the planet, I'm taking a fresh look at local culture and customs while discovering how the pandemic has reshaped the landscape. CLICK HERE TO RECEIVE FREE UPDATES on Seville, travel to Europe, and where to find good eats and survival comforts.  Almost every day I walk by this depiction of souls in torment on the outside of San Pedro church in Seville. I've always assumed it was inspired by the city's summer weather. “Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Charles Dudley Warner (often misattributed to his friend, Mark Twain) Seville made worldwide headlines this week by announcing our city officials will be the first to name and categorize heat waves. Of course, I realize those of you who are reading this huddled in heavy sweaters by the fireplace with sleet lashing the window may have difficulty mustering much weather sympathy for southern Spain. But 100,000 people die of heat in Europe every summer, and Seville, the warmest city in continental Europe, has declared they’re hot as hell and they’re not going to take it anymore. Starting in 2022, officials will rank the severity of extreme heat waves and assign them names, like hurricanes and tropical storms. Naturally we’re all agog to learn what they’ll be called. Naming weather patterns goes back to ancient times when everyone tried to figure out what god to appease or saint to invoke. In the 19th century, a British meteorologist in Australia, Clement Wragge, kicked off modern storm naming by calling particularly nasty cyclones after government officials he disliked. Will our mayor do the same?  Is there anyone you'd like to name a storm after? Getty Image of Hurricane Irma in Florida, 2017. Maybe the mayor will choose women’s names, in the tradition launched by the US Air Force Hurricane Office in Miami back in the 1940s. I suspect those guys were settling a few scores of their own, although they claimed they just wanted to avoid confusion with the military’s masculine Alpha Bravo Charlie phonetic alphabet. By the 1970s, political pressure persuaded everyone to agree to divide the names equally between male and female. Unfortunately the response is far from equal. “Researchers find that female-named hurricanes kill about twice as many people as similar male-named hurricanes because some people underestimate them,” reported The NY Times. “Americans expect male hurricanes to be violent and deadly, but they mistake female hurricanes as dainty or wimpish and don’t take adequate precautions.” Obviously they’re picking the wrong female names. Calling storms after the power-mad women in Game of Thrones or the wickeder Disney villainesses could add some much-needed badass to the warnings that monikers like Wendy or Sally just don’t convey.  Dainty? Wimpish? Ha! Just how scary might Heat Wave Cruella be? Andalucía (as southern Spain is called) is subject to intense zones of high pressure known as “heat domes.” August’s heat dome caused temperatures in the town of Montoro, 110 miles east of here, to reach 117.3 F (47.38 C) — a national record. Experts say that kind of heat can make you weak and sick, drive you crazy, spark violence, and lead to an early grave, especially if you’re under the age of four or over sixty-five. Yikes! Of course, scorching summers are nothing new in Andalucía. In the olden days, people protected themselves by giving their houses three-foot-thick walls, high ceilings, and tile floors. On seriously sweltering nights, families would bring bedding down to the riverbank for the marginally cooler air; if they still couldn’t sleep, they’d while away wakeful hours chatting with neighbors. Nowadays most people have air conditioning, and everyone has fans, but folks still seek water to cool down.  During last August's heat wave, locals beat the heat by climbing into the fountain in Seville's Plaza de España. Photo: Sky News In summer, people siesta during the afternoon heat and emerge at dark, ready to eat, drink, and make merry. The city comes alive at night with outdoor concerts and movies, bars that stay open until dawn, and playgrounds full of children. Friends from the US protest, aghast, at seeing little kids on swings at midnight, but hey, they need to exercise at hours when they won't risk heatstroke. I like early morning strolls, often through María Luisa Park. Friends and I stopped for coffee there one long ago summer, the year café owners began installing water sprayers on the underside of awnings to cool overheated customers with a gentle mist. It was a crisp morning but the staff couldn’t resist showing off their new toy, and suddenly freezing water was raining down on our heads. They seemed stunned by our cries to turn the thing off before hypothermia set in. Two hours later we'd have loved an impromptu shower in the rising heat. At the time, not so much.  In nearby Écija, a town whose excessive heat led to the nickname "La Sartén de Andalucía" (The Frying Pan of Andalusia), local journalist Johathan Gómez proved you can fry eggs on the main plaza. Hydration is, of course, essential in hot weather but at times this might prove trickier than you’d imagine. Some tavern keepers have a natural reluctance to give anything away for free, so if you ask for agua del grifo (tap water) it may take ages and multiple requests before it materializes. You may be told the city water is undrinkable and they’re legally required to sell you bottled water as a matter of public safety. Utter hogwash! Everyone drinks city water. I consulted an expat physician friend who has researched the subject, and he confirmed there is nothing whatsoever wrong with Seville’s agua del grifo. I’ve been known to walk out of restaurants over this issue, because I’m opposed both to single-use plastics and to being conned. But I often find it simpler to order a small beer (una cerveza) or more specifically the beer on tap (una caña), which is usually about 8 ounces of liquid costing 1.20€ ($1.40). This will arrive instantaneously, icy cold, and (according to a study at Spain’s University of Granada ) more rehydrating than water. Apparently the undergrads in the study downed a brewski after working out in triple digit temperatures and found it more refreshing than H2O. The surprising part? Medical testing backed them up. Obviously more research is needed; I doubt they’ll have any difficulty getting volunteers. Fun fact: After I order a small beer, servers are usually quite willing to bring me tap water. I can only assume they’ve read the Granada study and want to make sure I have a viable rehydration protocol. Will Seville city officials soon rate the severity of our heat waves by the number of cervezas it will take to stay hydrated? I can imagine future meteorologist around the world saying things like “Yep, this Cersei Lannister heat dome is a real ripsnorter, folks, at least 15 cañas!”  Locals believe the best way to combat the dog days of summer involves a frosty caña and cazón en adobo, marinated fried dogfish with plenty of salt to restore electrolytes. The UN warns temperatures will keep rising, but I can lay to rest any concerns that Seville is literally hot as Hell. The Book of Revelations 21:8 refers to “a fiery lake of burning sulfur,” so scientists researched the burning point of sulfur and announced Hell’s temperature is 444.6 C (832.3 F). I’m pretty sure Seville isn’t hitting that high any time soon. Whew! In the nineteenth century, Charles Dudley Warner’s joke about nobody doing anything about the weather always raised a chuckle. Today that chuckle has a dark edge to it. We realize that we are collectively doing a lot that affects the weather — unfortunately, mostly making it worse. Seville officials will start naming and ranking heat waves to call attention to the dangers of our ever-hotter habitat in hopes we'll adapt appropriately. I am confident Sevillanos will find a way. I’ve discovered they’re as resilient and resourceful as the desert dwellers in the movie Dune. No doubt they’ll teach me plenty of useful survival tips, and yes, of course, I’ll pass them right along to you. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP FOR FREE UPDATES on Seville, travel to Europe, and where to find good eats and survival comforts. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  Seville's Plaza Salvador was hopping today. On the weekends it's totally jammed. I was startled to learn, when I first arrived in Seville years ago, that I was expected to kiss just about everybody on both cheeks. My landlady kissed me each time she collected the rent, my banker kissed me after we opened our account, and the flamenco singers in the dubious bar across the street kissed me whenever I dropped in to listen to the music. After a few awkward fumbles, I learned it was always your right cheek to their right cheek, then you do the left cheeks, and that's it. You never kiss once (American-style) or three times (as in Egypt, Russia, Switzerland, Belgium, and parts of France), or do four or more, because honestly, who has the time? It’s tough enough to greet everybody you know with dos besos (two kisses) when you meet up at a chaotic bar or crowded party. If you miss anybody, it’s viewed as a hurtful slight that requires a lengthy and sincere apology, if not outright groveling. In ordinary times, you’re wise to kiss first and take names later. Nowadays, of course, Spain’s dos besos tradition has been suspended for the duration. Most of my friends, both local and international, bump elbows and make jokes to get through the slight awkwardness we all feel at the change in ritual. Some die-hard Spanish pals simply dive in for the two kisses anyway; being fully vaxxed in a region with one of the world’s highest vaccination rates, I’m not too worried about this. But in general, I feel it's sensible that people are (mostly) holding off on closer physical contact for now.  I'm fine greeting friends with elbow nudges, but foot bumping, like these two guys in Marseille, France? I don't think so! Photo: The Local.es Don’t worry, even without constant rounds of besos, our lips are keeping plenty busy. “I’ve never sold so much wine,” confided my friend Carlos, who runs the cozy bodega Botellas y Latas. “When people stay home, my orders go up and up.” After a summer of providing comfort to those under Covid curfews, Seville's wine merchants began shifting into high gear to slake the thirst of a population celebrating the freedom from fear that comes with mass inoculation and herd immunity. Everyone wants to gather in the bars, restaurants, and streets to raise a glass together. Having recently returned from California, where wine drinking is taken very seriously indeed, I needed some time to readjust to Seville’s casual attitude toward vino. Bartenders will ask if you want white (blanco) or red (tinto). Don’t worry if you get flustered and ask for rojo (red) as they’ll still get your drift, but tinto is the correct term. They’ll then ask if you want seco (dry) or dulce (sweet) or sometimes afrutado (fruity). And this is where I run into trouble. What I actually like is a full-bodied, buttery white with a complex flavor and a long finish. I have embarrassed myself and numerous waiters attempting to obtain something — anything — along these lines in Seville. They always listen politely until I run out of words, and then they say, making a massive effort to appease the mad foreigner, “Así que … semi-seco?” (So … somewhat dry?) I have learned through diligent trial and error to specify Rueda verdejo (Roo-AY-dah vare-DAY-ho). Verdejo is a full-bodied grape that originated in North Africa and arrived in Spain’s Rueda region in the 11th century, where it was developed into a dense, sherry-like wine. Then in the 1970s some brilliant, public-spirited winemakers from Rueda and France teamed up to create the fresher verdejo we know today. Whew! I can now order a drinkable blanco wherever I go.  One of Seville's more endearing customs is rushing cold drinks to your table then leaving you alone for a while to contemplate your food choices at leisure. The amount I don’t know about Spanish wines remains considerable. So the other day, when Rich and I happened upon DNS Gourmet, a wineshop with a tasting table, it occurred to us that maybe we should gather a few friends and learn more. María agreed to organize a private tasting with four wines accompanied by cheese and other nibbles she sold in the shop. We confirmed some friends were available and set a date for last Wednesday. The evening was tremendous fun, although to be honest, I can't recall much of what I learned about Spanish wines. I’d forgotten that the subject has two levels: the simplistic Q&A you get from waiters, and the deluge of information you receive from real experts. And María was an expert; she’d actually crushed grapes with her bare feet, as people have done for 10,000 years, and showed us a video of herself churning great vats of fermenting grapes with what appeared to be a giant wooden spoon. She’d spent years studying the science of viticulture and art of winemaking. She absolutely knew her stuff.  María poured generous samples and explained the lineage and production process of each wine. María explained that during fermentation, yeast converts the grape’s natural sugar into alcohol; the more sugar the higher the alcoholic content. She then served us a young white called Cuestablanca, made from the Pedro Ximénez grape, usually found in dense, sweet sherries, yet somehow resulting in this dry wine. The second white, a Rueda verdejo called José Pariente, was more to my liking. She said it was good with chocolate, but then, isn’t everything? Glass by glass, my notes got increasingly sketchy. After Hado, a lovely red from the Rioja region, she brought out one final tinto and the real show-stopper: Pago de los Capellanes from Ribera del Duero. One of my friends, new to Seville and only now discovering the wines, took one sip and got that rapturous look on her face that always makes me think of Romeo’s famous line, “Did my heart love till now?” This is one of the few reds I know well, and it always earns that reaction. By this point in the evening, my notes were worthless, illegible scrawls. But I can pass on some valuable wisdom: Spain has 138 wine regions but if you stick to the three Rs — Rueda, Rioja, and Ribera del Duero — it’s hard to go too far wrong.  Late in the evening, Rich, Marta, Marjan, Sandra, and yours truly raised our glasses in the traditional Spanish toast ¡Salud! (Health!) — which has obviously taken on new meaning in the past 18 months. In the Before Times, we’d have kissed María before departing, but now we just thanked her warmly and took off, carrying the leftover wine with us for future study. It’s in situations like these that I really miss the dos besos and their way of transforming a business relationship into something close to kinship. Kissing, like wine, is designed to smooth the sharper edges of life. It lets us relax and feel connected. Of course, you can’t run around doing it just anywhere. Long before Covid, I found that my fellow Californians tend to look at me very oddly indeed if I kiss them the first time we meet. And that goes double in the UK.  Churchill and de Gaulle differed on many issues, including the philosophy of kissing. Which is why I love the story of Winston Churchill preparing for an especially tricky meeting with French President Charles de Gaulle in 1942. A diplomatic advisor urged the Prime Minister to treat de Gaulle with kid gloves, adding, “He will probably expect to kiss you on both cheeks.” To which Churchill replied, “All right, all right. I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet. I‘ll kiss him on both cheeks — or all four if you’d prefer it.” Luckily for all of us, the idea of kissing on all four cheeks has never really caught on. The dos besos tradition, however, is firmly entrenched in the Spanish psyche and will, I hope, become commonplace again soon. I can hardly wait. This post was written in response to a reader who said she's heading back to Spain soon and was worried about the kissing custom in these Covid times. I explained to her that most people avoid the customary dos besos. If anyone doesn't, she can always throw an elbow in their direction. I've been back in Seville a month now, and every day I learn more about how the pandemic has reshaped the landscape and re-defined life in this sociable, foodie city. CLICK HERE TO RECEIVE FREE UPDATES on Seville, travel to Europe, and where to find good eats and survival comforts. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  Every Sevillano knows that a good breakfast includes plenty of olive oil. The idea that “breakfast is the most important meal of the day” was invented by 19th century cereal manufacturers, most probably John Harvey Kellogg, a religious zealot who believed eating breakfast cereal would make Americans strong enough to stop thinking about sex. (It didn’t. Go figure.) The Spanish, who have no such Puritan goals, enjoy their version of breakfast so much they indulge in it twice every morning, with great enthusiasm. At home, Sevillanos typically start the day with a first desayuno of coffee and toast topped with olive oil and ham or butter and jam. They then head to their workplace and put in an hour or two of labor, after which they’ll refresh themselves with a midmorning break at a nearby café, enjoying another round of coffee and toast to fortify themselves until lunch.  The classic Sevillano breakfast of toast with slivers of ham and plenty of olive oil, accompanied by a café con leche. To accommodate the second-breakfast habit, the city has café-bars on practically every block. Some are grand, an increasing number are corporate efforts, and the hipsters outdo one another in providing quirky environments, flat whites, and wifi workspaces. But the mainstay continues to be modest little neighborhood places you wouldn’t look at twice in the US. To American eyes, inexpensive furnishings suggest substandard coffee and cheap food, but that’s not the case in Seville. The other morning we tried the Bar Algabeño, tucked between the Feria Market and the 15th century palace of the Guzmanes of La Algaba (now municipal offices and a museum). We found the Algabeño’s coffee and toast delicious, and the back alley location (which in the US would be another red flag) makes it a great place to watch locals going about their day.  The Bar Algabeño has been serving the neighborhood's breakfast and lunch for 40+ years. The Catunambu, on the bustling shopping street Calle Sierpes, couldn't be more visible, yet many Americans bypass it for the nearby Starbucks. So you’ll mostly find Spaniards at the Catunambu, taking a leisurely second breakfast to restore themselves after the rigors of a shopping spree. In the photo below, the individual in the big orange hat is almost certainly a foreigner, as local women never wear hats in town unless dressed to the nines for a fancy wedding, and Sevillano guys, if they wear hats at all, stick to Panamas.  Catunambu is a famous brand of Andalucían coffee, introduced here in 1897 by Columbian Juan Ferer, who named his coffee after an indigenous tribe in his native land. So what’s everybody ordering for their second breakfast? The choices may be simple, but to get it right requires a fair amount of vocabulary. In Seville, you always order your drink first. The classic is café con leche, half espresso and half steamed milk. Too much milk? Try a cortado, a shot of espresso with half as much milk. Need even more of an eye-opener? Ask for a café solo, a straight shot of espresso. Prefer something lower octane? Café Americano is plain black coffee, and leche manchada (literally “stained milk”) is half an inch of espresso and plenty of milk. I’ve never seen low-fat milk here, but hipster and tourist coffee houses may offer milk alternatives. However, no one will understand a request for “leche de soya” (soy milk), “leche de avena” (oat milk), or the like because everyone knows milk is produced by lactating mammals, not plants. The barrista will be dumfounded by your ignorance but too polite to say so. Ask for bebida de soya (soy drink) or bebida de avena (oat drink) instead.  You can also order fresh orange juice (zumo de naranja), which is sometimes served with a packet of sugar in case you like it extra sweet. This is Bar Alfalfa, my usual go-to for second breakfast. As it only has indoor seating and tends to be quite crowded, I'm exploring other options for now. It’s even more complicated if, like me, you happen to like tea with milk, which is unheard of here. Ask for té con leche (tea with milk) and you’ll be served a glass of steamed milk with a tea bag in it. If you ask for té con leche aparte (tea with milk apart or on the side) they’ll bring you tea but not the milk, assuming you’ll drink that later in the meal or want it left in the kitchen for esoteric reasons known only to mad foreigners. Té con leche aparte para añadir (tea with milk apart to add in) should do the trick, although you may have to repeat it several times to be understood. You can see why I gave up and switched to café con leche.  As far as I'm concerned, a cup of hot milk with a teabag in it is a revolting sight on the breakfast table. Or anywhere else, come to think of it. As for food, toast is such a given you don’t even have to say tostada; you simply order a media (half a small baguette) or entera (entire baguette) and name your toppings. The most common are jamón (thin slivers of Spanish ham), tomate (tomato) which can be ordered with or without the ham, and mantequilla y mermelada (butter and jam). If you want heartier or more familiar fare, such as eggs, avocado toast, or corn flakes, you may find them in places that cater to out-of-town visitors, but you won’t see a lot of Sevillanos eating them. I once made pancakes for a Spanish house party, and they all looked aghast, took one courtesy bite, and went back to their tostadas with sighs of relief. Some years ago, when I did a post about Spanish breakfasts, my long-time reader Vera wrote in to ask why I didn’t mention churros and chocolate, and I had to agree this was a serious oversight on my part. To my brother Mike, a devout chocaholic, this is undeniably Seville's breakfast of champions. You start with churros — sizzling fried tubes of dough — which you proceed to dunk in hot chocolate as dense as pudding. I know, right? Possibly the most decadent breakfast ever invented and naturally a huge favorite with the Sevillanos. It’s mostly a Sunday indulgence but is occasional used to reanimarse (reanimate yourself) en route home from a party at six in the morning or eaten as your marienda, the post-siesta snack that’s essentially a third breakfast.  The name comes from their resemblance to the curly, ridged horns of a Spanish breed of sheep called "churros." “Rich,” I said, “we have to go out for churros and chocolate. It’s research.” “I am willing to make the sacrifice,” he said. “For your readers.” The article 5 Places for the Best Churros in Seville named El Pilar numero uno, and as this is a favorite of ours, Rich and I headed there directly. Unfortunately we arrived during the second breakfast rush, and every outdoor seat was taken. As we hovered uncertainly on the outer edges of the small crowd, an older gentleman rose slowly to his feet and said, “Please, take my table. I insist.” He picked up his half-finished coffee and headed indoors, our fulsome thanks ringing in his ears. The churros and chocolate were first rate: hot, dense, and fortifying to the physique. The bill came to 5.60€ ($6.47), and when Rich handed the waitress a 5 euro bill and a euro’s worth of change, she counted the money and exclaimed, “Sir, you have overpaid me!” And tried to give back the 40 centimos. You have to love a place with that kind of attitude.  Like the Bar Algabaño, the Pilar doesn't attempt to attract customers with fancy furnishings, jazz, or wifi. You go for their food and their kindness to strangers. For Sevillanos and others who love the city, desayuno is one of life’s great treats and once a day simply isn't enough. Most of us have a regular café where we no longer have to order our second breakfast; the camarero automatically places our favorite configuration of coffee and toast on the bar, perhaps nudging a bottle of olive oil in our direction so we can drench our toast even further. I can only imagine how John Harvey Kellogg is turning in his grave at the very idea of all that pleasure packed into a morning meal. But hey, it works for me. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY
As I resettle in Seville, my favorite city on the planet, I'll keep you posted on how the pandemic has reshaped the landscape. But don't worry: not even Covid could dampen the city's appetite for good food. CLICK HERE TO RECEIVE FREE UPDATES on Seville, travel to Europe, and where to find good eats and survival comforts.  As a service to my readers, I am selflessly researching Seville's tapas bars and taverns, and I've learned that even the pandemic couldn't dampen the city's appetite for good food. Coming home after a long absence is like Christmas. I run around for days exclaiming over clothes and crockery and books that seem to have come into my possession by magic. When did I buy red boots? What’s this yellow bowl doing in my cupboard? Have I read this Agatha Christie? But this time, what really stopped me in my tracks was a near-empty glass jar labeled “whole wheat flour.” Suddenly I was back in the early days of pandemic lockdown, baking constantly so Rich wouldn’t risk his life running out for fresh bread, watching my supply of whole wheat flour dwindle as shortages set in throughout Seville. Looking at that jar, I was swept with a powerful feeling of gratitude that those times were in the rear view mirror. Every morning for a week I gazed at that jar, thanking my lucky stars and the research scientists who developed the Covid vaccines. And on the eighth day, I tossed away that handful of old flour, collected my husband, and went out to lunch.  One of my happiest recent discoveries was that Seville has not lost its appetite for good eats in convivial social settings. Modest café-bars still offer a solid bedrock of classic fare, often prepared by someone’s abuela (grandmother) using her abuela’s recipes for such classics as solomillo al whiskey (pork loin in whiskey sauce), colo de toro (stewed bull’s tail), and carrilladas (pig cheeks). When I first arrived in Seville, I was a vegetarian, and somehow I survived for a couple of years on espinacas con garbonzos (spinach with chickpeas) and pisto (vegetable stew). Then I came to my senses, decided my plant-based diet was more of a guideline than a rule, and devoted myself to enjoying everything on the menu. Around eight years ago, innovations began sneaking in: sprigs of fresh herbs beside the solomillo, a bed of arugula under the pig cheeks, chopped chives in the tortilla de España (potato omelet). I worried that the abuelas’ abuelas were spinning in their graves. Pretty soon the old tile-walled café-bars were rubbing shoulders with sleek new restaurants offering wildly innovative menus and amusing napkins, often with presentations involving smoke-filled domes or shrimp shavings that appeared to be fluttering in the bowl. Arriving in Seville again after 16 months away (months in which the entire world reconfigured itself) I braced myself for unwelcome changes in the city’s taverns, cafes and restaurants. Being selflessly devoted to keeping my readers informed, I decided it was my duty to check out as many as possible right away.  The City of Peking was one of the great mysteries of Seville, as nobody ate there and we never saw anyone go in or out. It survived for nearly two decades but finally went under during the pandemic. I worried that other restaurants (ones I actually liked) might share its fate. Yes, a few had closed and will be missed, but I was overjoyed to discover how many old-school eateries survived the recent upheavals. Bodeguita Romero (Calle Harinas, 10) is still serving their signature carrilladas, which Sevillano friends Isabel and Julio introduced me to years ago as the best slow-cooked pig cheeks in the city. Los Coloniales (Plaza Cristos de Burgos, 19) is still dishing up generous portions of solomillo al whiskey smothered in garlic and drenched with whiskey and olive oil. And Casa Morales (Calle García de Vinuesa, 11) is still full of visitors squealing at the sight of gulas, fake baby eels made of pressed fish (like “krab” in the US), a popular replacement for anguilas (real baby eels), a delicacy that’s become prohibitively expensive. I wasn’t surprised that local customers would keep the traditional eateries alive, but what about the trendy new places, with higher prices and more exotic menus, which cater largely to foreign visitors? You’ll be happy to know that most of my favorites are still around, including Contenedor (Calle San Louis, 50), the restaurant whose roast pork convinced me to become a carnivore again. It’s known for its slow cooking, relaxed atmosphere (they don’t allow bachelor parties or other rowdy groups), and some of the best food anywhere. I was longing to dine there again, but it’s always been strictly indoor seating, which I’m still avoiding. I could hardly contain my joy when friends told me Contenedor has added a handful of sidewalk tables.  Insider tip: get a table in the shade! It's still quite hot here during the day. Like many cities, Seville is allowing restaurants to set up outdoor dining wherever they can squeeze in a tabletop, and to build parklets in the street despite the chronic shortfall of parking spaces. Another of my go-to hotspots, Castizo (Calle Zaragoza, 6), has added two tiny tables by the front door, and we were lucky enough to get one of them for a recent lunch with a friend visiting from San Francisco. “The food in this town is extraordinary,” John exclaimed. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.” Now, I often get remarks like that when I pass around a plate of gulas, but this was different; he made it clear he considered Seville’s cuisine a hot rival to anything back home.  How do the local chefs work their magic? To find out, Rich and I took the paella class at Taller Andaluz de Cocina a few years back. I just checked and I'm happy to report the school is still open. Photo by my friend Karen Adelson, who took the paella class with us in 2016. We ate plenty of jamón (Spanish ham) while John was in town, and he wanted to take some along when he left. With some difficulty, Rich and I managed to persuade him it was impractical to smuggle a whole pig leg onboard an airplane, even in checked luggage. He decided instead on a vacuum pack of freshly sliced jamón, which is how practical locals tend to transport it. An American restauranteur once told me he used to import his jamón vacuum packed and hidden in the pages of a magazine, so officials didn’t see it and airport dogs couldn’t sniff it out; I have never personally put this to the test. I took John to the market in Plaza Encarnacíon beneath the Setas (a hideous, mushroom-shaped monument to the egos of civic leaders) to buy some jamón Ibérico (the good stuff). Slicing jamón cannot be rushed; it is an art form requiring graceful cuts resulting in paper-thin slivers that melt in your mouth. I was glad to see this was another local food tradition that hadn’t changed one iota.  Each sliver is tenderly cut from the ham leg by someone with professional training and years of experience. The paper at right shows all the inferior parts that he cut off to get to the best meat. Jamón is the ultimate comfort food for many Spaniards and quite sustaining. A few slices on your breakfast toast can keep you going all day, if need be. A Spanish friend explained to me that one of the reasons meat features so prominently on local menus is that everyone here was raised on stories of the post-Civil War era called The Hunger, when nobody had enough to eat, especially here in Andalucía, the poorest part of Spain and one which stood against Franco. “At home you eat vegetables,” she said. “When you go out, you want something special.” Sevillanos are experts at making do with less; with nothing on hand but a few tomatoes and vegetable scraps, they created the cold soup known as gazpacho. In a place that has known real hunger, every meal is cause for celebration, whether we’re feasting on roast pork or eating bread made with the last whole wheat flour we’ll see for months. Food is about comfort, nourishment, and pleasure, a time to lay down our responsibilities, our worries, and our phones so we can appreciate the gift of this small, perfect moment while it’s right in front of us.  The cauliflower with light hollandaise sauce from Castizo was simply perfect. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY
As I resettle in Seville, my favorite city on the planet, I'll keep you posted on how the pandemic has reshaped the landscape. But don't worry: not even the pandemic could dampen the city's appetite for good food. CLICK HERE TO RECEIVE FREE UPDATES on Seville, travel to Europe, and where to find good eats and survival comforts. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, and anyone considering visiting Spain during these crazy times. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/where-to-find-sevilles-best-tapas-today  Was it worth all the fuss and bother? Oh, yeah. Photo: Donna Goldman So how close did we come to missing our transatlantic flight? We knew returning to Spain under pandemic conditions wouldn’t be easy. But of all the things I’d fretted about, I’d never anticipated a tardy Uber driver on the journey’s very first leg (which was so short it was more of a toe, really). All Rich and I needed was a lift to the Airporter bus seven minutes away. We booked Uber in advance, confirmed, and re-confirmed. Standing on the sidewalk with our suitcases watching the minutes tick by — five … ten … fifteen … twenty … twenty-five — we began to wonder whether it would be faster to call a taxi, steal a car, or hitchhike. Eventually the driver showed up, and when we explained the urgency of the mission, she put the pedal to the metal, achieving speeds of 80 miles an hour. Rich and I clung to one another, hoping we wouldn’t spend the rest of the trip dead. We made the Airporter with moments to spare, arrived at SFO’s international terminal on schedule (whew!), and rushed in toting sheaves of transit documents.  SFO's international terminal was like a ghost town. You won’t be surprised to learn that Covid-19 has complicated international travel paperwork enormously. And that went double for us, as the lack of direct flights between SFO and Spain meant a London stopover that added many hours, gallons of coffee, and handfuls of aspirin to the research and preparations. We soon discovered the UK is very, very fussy about this stuff. Like many countries, it requires a Covid test within 72 hours of the flight. But not just any old Covid test. According to the official website, “The test must meet performance standards of ≥97% specificity, ≥80% sensitivity at viral loads above 100,000 copies/ml. This could include tests such as a nucleic acid test, including a PCR test, a LAMP test, or an antigen test, such as an LFD (lateral flow device) test.” Pretending we knew what any of that meant, we contacted various clinics in an effort to secure the right tests at the right time and, if possible, for the right price. Fees went as high as $300 per person, but luckily our friend John tipped us off to a free pop-up test center in San Francisco, with results sent to your phone in just half an hour. Thanks for that one, John!  Every day the piles of travel documents multiplied. A comment on my blog gave us a heads-up about the UK’s other monster requirement. My friend Jackie (author of the lively blog TravelnWrite) said, “Good luck! We just returned to the States via London. In addition to that test, make sure you have filled out your PLF, passenger locator form. It is required even for the shortest of layovers — ours was two hours long and it took nearly that long to fill out the four-page form.” I thought she was exaggerating — you know how we bloggers love a bit of drama — but if anything she was understating the case. Working online in the comfort of our dining room/transportation planning hub, Rich and I spent ages filling in our passport numbers, Covid history, travel details up to and including seat numbers on every flight, phone numbers, and more. What, no eye exam or letter from a priest? For Spain, we needed a Documental Control QR code attesting to our vaccination status. This could only be completed 48 hours before our flight, at which time they would let us know about any additional entry requirements. I spent weeks fretting about what they might want — an essay in Spanish about why I wanted to go to Seville? An oath of loyalty? A whopping service fee? But in the end, they mostly wanted to know if we were vaxxed. ¡Sí, totalmente!  This was taken in the euphoric moments right after my first shot. (I am grinning under that mask.) Now I'm fully vaxxed and ready to prove it! Photo: Rich McCann All the hours we put into the legwork and paperwork paid off. We breezed through check-in at SFO, producing document after document, including printouts of our Spanish QR codes, and in return we received boarding passes for both flights. We were on our way! The late afternoon plane was about half full, and we expected to sleep much of the next ten and a half hours. Then a woman sat down nearby with an infant who had a set of lungs like Pavarotti and the staying power of an Olympic athlete. Hearing about it afterward, my friend Bob said, “Sorry you had to listen to the screaming baby. It conjures the old aphorism: ‘The plane to Spain can make one go insane!’" Amen to that, Bob. Except for the baby, everyone was scrupulous about face masks — so scrupulous, in fact, that during the safety demonstration, the flight attended had to tell people, “Remove your face mask before you put on the oxygen mask.” Good advice, people! Rich and I happen to loathe Heathrow’s insistent, jazzy marketing and endless crowds, so on arrival we splurged on a pay-to-use lounge called Club Aspire, which is open to anyone. Or at least, anyone who is willing to cough up $33 for the luxury of sitting on comfortable furniture in a quiet room, enjoying free coffee, scones, and clotted cream while plugging in a laptop and maybe dozing off now and then.  Rich enjoyed a quiet snooze in the Club Aspire. Five hours later, we boarded the plane to Málaga, Spain, the closest we could get to Seville from Heathrow. To make us feel at home, they’d seated us near another screaming baby, but by now, who cared? A few noisy hours later we stumbled off the flight, zipped through customs, checked into our hotel, and found a small backstreet tapas bar. As we sipped ice-cold Cruzcampo beer and nibbled thin slivers of jamon Iberico (the best Spanish ham), we kept exclaiming, “We’re back! We’re really here! We’re in Spain!” Much as I love my native California, and appreciated the safe haven it provided during the worst of the pandemic, I was thrilled to fall into the warm embrace of Andalucía’s vibrant street culture once again. It was even more exciting the next day when we stepped off the train in Seville and walked back to our apartment. To my astonishment, surprisingly little seemed to have changed. Roaming the city over the next few days, I saw some stores, cafés, and restaurants had closed while others had opened — in fact, I noticed just about as many changes as I’d have expected after any absence of 16 months. There’s more outside dining now, although many choose indoor seating. People are very matter-of-fact about wearing masks inside stores and other public places, donning them with no more fuss than pulling on a sweater when it turns cool or buckling a seatbelt getting into a car. With nearly 80% of the population fully vaxxed, herd immunity is a fact of life, and as my friend Charles put it, “People have moved on.” And so have we. Rich and I are just about over our jet lag and are busy reconnecting with friends to find out what’s been happening while we were away. More on that in future posts. For now, we’re just rejoicing at being back in our beloved Seville. As I resettle in Seville, my favorite city on the planet, I'll keep you posted on how the pandemic has reshaped the landscape and what keeps attracting visitors to this vibrant community. CLICK HERE TO RECEIVE FREE UPDATES on Seville, travel to Europe, and where to find good eats and survival comforts. CHECK OUT MY FACEBOOK PAGE FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, and anyone considering going abroad during these crazy times. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/what-it-took-to-get-from-sf-to-seville YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY THESE POSTS, WHICH I'LL BE UPDATING SOON  My packing list includes a few jazzy KN95 masks that will help me stay in touch with my psychedelic California roots. Today, my suitcase came down from the attic so I can start packing for Spain. I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to type those words. But I feel compelled to follow them with ¡Ojala! — a Spanish term meaning roughly “God willing and the Covid don’t rise.” Not only do Rich and I have a thousand things to accomplish before we go, but to add to the suspense, the Spanish government won’t send us their final entry rules, pandemic regulations, and instructions until 48 hours before our flight. “I don’t care if they want us to tattoo the Spanish flag on our foreheads,” I told Rich. “We’re doing whatever it takes to get on that plane.” Rich didn’t answer because, as usual nowadays, he was staring off into the distance, running through mental checklists. Yesterday over lunch he told me he’d had the furnace, air conditioning, and hot-water-on-demand systems serviced and bought something called a battery tickler. I thought this sounded rather exciting, but it turned out to be merely a device to keep trickling energy into the car battery while we’re gone. He also bought a gas storage solution he’ll add to the car’s tank to keep the fuel fresh. What? Gasoline goes bad? I decided not to ask, as my eyes were already glazing over and I felt in imminent danger of dozing off… I jerked wide awake when he mentioned the skunks.  We've never seen our own skunks, but I imagine they look like these, which appeared in the Mercury News under the headline "Skunks pay visit to house and enchant the owner." That's one word for it. Oh yes, they’re back. We’d ousted our skunks with non-stop talk radio, then blocked off their den under the shed and saturated the area with ammonia-doused rags, bowls of vinegar, and blood meal, which we’d heard would keep them at bay. But apparently our skunks are made of sterner stuff, because as soon I switched off the radio, they returned. On Saturday friends told us of a service that removed their skunks for $1200. “Worth every penny!” they said. “Hmmm,” said Rich. “I wonder how much it would cost to just keep the radio on?” I looked it up. Running a radio for an hour takes 0.02 kWh, and while I don’t pretend to understand what that is, I quickly grasped the fact it translates to less than a penny an hour. Six months of non-stop radio would cost $43.83. “I rest my case,” Rich said.  My pre-departure checklist included touching up scrapes and gouges in the kitchen cabinets. He continued reviewing our pre-launch checklist: the best place to get our Covid test (required by the UK to fly through Heathrow), logistics of transport to SFO (Uber to the shuttle), and weight restrictions on cabin baggage (to be researched). I reported I'd retouched the kitchen cupboards, a task that had been on the to-do list since the day we arrived back from Spain in May of 2020. Focusing (OK, obsessing) on the details is one way Rich and I cope with the emotional fallout of departure. Going back and forth between California and Seville for 16 years, we've become used to the disruption, but the past 16 months in California are the longest we’ve ever stayed in one place. We’ve gotten pretty comfortable, if not downright set in our ways. “I always find leaving home difficult, especially after so long,” Rich remarked, topping up our glasses of wine during Sunday lunch in the garden. “There are always some pangs of resistance. But I remind myself that once we close that door, the world will open up to us.”  A long, leisurely Sunday lunch in the garden, with a little philosophical discussion and a lot of wine, is one of the California traditions I'll miss. I, for one, am more than ready to live in a larger world. There are many, many things I’ll miss about America, including family, friends, the astonishing efficiency of online ordering, and of course, take-out burritos. But I am exhausted by the emotional pitch of our nation these days. For instance, the Republicans are pushing to recall our governor, Gavin Newsom, and replace him with an anti-mask, anti-vaccine, climate-change-denying talk show host from LA. So I’ve been standing at a busy intersection at rush hour, holding up signs urging people to vote against the recall. While most people wave and honk in support, even thank me with tears in their eyes, I always get a few hecklers. Last week, four youths pulled up in a car and began shouting, “Sieg heil! Sieg heil!” Did they mean I’m a Nazi or they are? Another guy berated me for being “unconstitutional.” Hey, freedom of speech is literally guaranteed by the US Constitution, mister! But while the messaging may be sloppy and ill-considered, it is delivered with full fury. Americans are terrified and they are lashing out. A major survey showed in 2014 American’s top fears were public speaking, heights, and bugs. Today we’re afraid we’re that last generation to inhabit a livable planet, the rest of our lives will be governed by runaway contagion, and democracy could come unglued on our watch. This is terrifying stuff. And if I’ve learned anything during the pandemic, it’s this: fear with a target becomes anger. That’s why people are shouting at me from car windows. And that’s what I won’t miss when I’m in Seville.  I'm lucky to be in Marin, where people just shout. In LA, Tony Moon, one of the Capitol rioters, ripped the mask off reporter Tina-Desiree Berg and swung a thermos at her. One of the things I love about Spain is watching people hotly debate political issues — often with a great deal of leaping up, gesticulating, and shouting — after which they sit down and say cheerfully, “So, another beer?” And chat about soccer and their kids. They consider it their God-given right to criticize the government; 36 years of Franco’s repressive dictatorship taught them the value of democracy and free speech. Another delightful feature of life abroad is that on the very rare occasions when somebody does yell at me in the street, I can never quite catch what they’re saying. So I always assume they’re wishing me a long and happy life, and I wave back and go about my day smiling. What else will I be glad to leave behind? My disaster preparedness go-kits. Between wildfires (which have already taken 2 million acres of my state this year, including 44 acres near me), recurring floods in my town, and earthquakes, I live in a constant state of readiness for biblical-level catastrophe. I’ve stocked the Apocalypse Chow Food Locker and packed go-kits with supplies ranging from spare spectacles to rain boots to a miner’s headlamp for digging through rubble at night. In Seville, I’m equipped for any likely scenario if I carry a few euros and a light sweater. A bit more relaxing. So when Rich hauled the suitcases down today, my heart lightened. Next week I will be back in Seville, an ancient city that’s constantly reinventing itself while remaining true to its essential nature: a vibrant community where family and friends matter more than careers, people sing and dance in the street, and politcial arguments can end in cold beers and laughter. To get there, we’ll pass through London and land in Spain’s coastal city of Málaga, “the land of poets,” one of whom dubbed the city “a martini of the sea.” What does that mean? No idea, but I’m hoping to learn while we overnight there. The next morning we’ll take the train to Seville, stroll to our apartment, and (as we always do after a long absence) begin falling in love with the city all over again. Can’t wait. Amigos: I won’t be posting in the next couple of weeks, as I’ll be in transit and then running around trying to get my wifi reconnected and my residency card renewed. When possible, I’ll post on my Facebook page, so check there for updates. Wish us luck! YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY CLICK HERE FOR MORE
of my weekly commentary on travel, culture, good eats, and survival comforts. CHECK OUT MY FACEBOOK PAGE FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, and anyone considering going abroad during these crazy times. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/returning-to-spain-i-hope  Studies show that pot smokers tend to be more slender than the rest of us. It's science! “Oh, look, you can book marijuana-friendly lodgings through a site called Bud and Breakfast,” I said, showing Rich the ad in our free newspaper. As a travel writer, I felt I owed it to my readers to find out more about this new Airbnb-style website for potheads. The home page shows people smoking hand-rolled cigarettes while lounging around fire pits and hot tubs, looking about one toke away from drifting indoors for a night of psychedelic sex in the Jerry Garcia room. Where was all this when I was in college? And when did the weed world become so mainstream? When I tried to follow some Bud and Breakfast links, such as cannabis-friendly accommodations in Spain, I found myself on a bare-bones page with a non-stop spinny graphic and no way to advance; ah, this was the kind of work I expected from the stoner community. Some things never change. Having grown up in the era when pot-smoking was a felony, I'm still amazed to find it’s a legal, $17 billion industry you can talk about openly. This summer, a physical therapist gave me a free sample of cannabis-infused balm for twinges of arthritis in my wrist. Pals encouraged me to try gummies as well, so I called up The Nice Guys – Friendly Cannabis Delivery. Half expecting the phone would be answered by a slurred teen voice calling me “man,” I got a cheerful, competent professional who explained the difference between the strains indica (mellowing) and sativa (energizing) and recommended I try the Tart Cherry with 18 mg CBD and 1mg THC. The only old-school touch: I had to pay in cash and the driver would come in an unmarked car to my home or the street corner of my choice.  And the wisdom to know the difference. Unfortunately, the gummies made me sluggish and a little dizzy, which was worse than the twinges, and the cannabis balm didn’t really do the trick. So I went back to Tylenol and my heating pad. Others, apparently, are having better luck with the bright new pot industries, especially the edibles. I was curious about how marijuana cuisine had advanced since the traditional pot brownies (also known as “wownies,” and “space cakes”). And that led me to Bong Appétit.  An offshoot of the more conventional cooking show Munchies, Bong Appetit explores the myriad ways to use cannabis in the kitchen. The first episode is just what you’d expect: a couple of young guys with amusing hair and lavish tattoos brewing cannabis cocktails in a slick LA setting. But the second episode is a real gem: Nonna Marijuana’s Italian Feast, in which the 91-year-old shows us how to make weed-infused butter that can add a little extra zing to any dish. Decades ago, Nonna's daughter Valerie suffered grand mal seizures, and when traditional medical treatments failed to help, pot provided real relief. Valerie became a champion of legalizing medical marijuana. And Nonna (who never uses pot herself, saying “It doesn’t agree with me”) developed recipes such as marijuana chicken cacciatore (aka “pot-cciatore”) and gnocchi drizzled with ganja butter. In the video, Nonna puts Matt, Bong Appétit’s reporter, to work mashing potatoes for the gnocchi. He does such a good job, she cackles, “You’d think I just had sex. Look at this satisfied look I have on my face!” I believe Matt actually blushes.  Valerie, Matt, and Nonna in the kitchen at the moment she says, “You’d think I just had sex." Eventually the feast is ready and a group gathers at a long table with candlelight, Italian music, and Nonna's culinary creations. By the time dessert comes around, Matt is helpless with laughter. “Maybe it’s a little too strong,” says Valerie, eyeing the marijuana ice cream she's passing to him. “This could cure cancer.” “I can’t even swallow it,” Matt gasps, going off into more guffaws. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Weed-infused butter? Ganja ice cream? This sounds like a pretty fattening lifestyle. But according to Innovations in Clinical Neuroscience, published by the National Institutes of Health, a couple of rather flabbergasted doctors discovered that in “large epidemiological studies in the general population, findings consistently indicate that users of marijuana tend to have lower body mass indices than nonusers.” Yep, potheads are thinner than the average abstainer. Go figure. The doctors were quick to point out that these “paradoxical and somewhat perplexing” results could be due to a variety of factors, such as how much pot you smoke, metabolism, etc. They note underweight people can rely on pot to stimulate their appetite and help them fatten up. But the fact remains that potheads tend to be skinnier than most. The docs seemed so uncomfortable with the findings that I pictured them wiping their brows as they typed the final recommendation that further research was needed. I don’t think they’ll have any trouble finding volunteer subjects.  Crowds waiting in line outside a cannabis dispensary in Great Barrington, Mass. Photo: NY Daily News While nobody’s seriously recommending pot for weight loss, other therapeutic uses abound. A couple of enterprising women here in Marin County, CA launched Kikoko, a line of marijuana infused teas that let you order by the desired state of mind. Product descriptions include “I’m prone to worry and have anxious thoughts” (who doesn’t these days?), “I just want to go to sleep,” and the ever-popular “My sex drive needs a re-boot.” Before you reach for your wallet, I have to break it to you that these teas can only be purchased in California, at least for now. Similar products may be available in your area, if you live in one of the 35 states where pot’s legal.  Kikoko launched their product line with a series of "high teas," elegant afternoon tea parties where ladies could sample the effects of various brews — then return home via Uber. Marijuana won’t solve the world’s problems; it probably won’t even make you thinner. But it can offer a little relaxation in these jittery times, when everyone is running scared, “coronasomnia” is on the rise, and young couples report having less sex thanks to pandemic depression and anxiety. (I know, what a bunch of lightweights. Kids today!) Whether we partake in the Bob Marley room of a treehouse, at an Italian feast, or on our own back porch with old pals, marijuana is now (in most states) a civil liberty. Let the good times roll. Have you been exploring the newly legal marijuana travel and food industries? What have you discovered? Please share in the comments section below. Also, I haven't tried this cannabis brownie recipe; if you do, I want a full report. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY CLICK HERE FOR MORE
of my weekly commentary on travel, culture, good eats, and survival comforts. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, and anyone interested in the new, respectable world of weed. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/does-marijuana-make-you-thinner |
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As my regular readers know, I never get free or discounted goods or services for mentioning anything on this blog (or anywhere else). I only write about things that interest me and that I believe might prove useful for you all to know about. Whew! I wanted to clear that up before we went any further. Thanks for listening.  Karen McCann
Welcome!
I'm an American travel writer based in Spain, to which I've just returned after a 16-month absence due to the pandemic. As I resettle in Seville, my favorite city on the planet, I'll keep you posted on how the pandemic has reshaped the landscape and where to go to find fun, adventure, and great food in this quirky, engaging city. Sign up below to get updates when I publish anything new. 
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