 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.
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 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  Griffin (shown here with his human, Dr. Irene Pepperberg) surpassed Harvard undergrads in a series of memory tests, giving new meaning to the word "birdbrain." Photo: Harvard Gazette So this friend of ours is entertaining a group of clients at a posh restaurant. Late in the wine-soaked evening he goes to the restroom, then forgets he has a tableful of guests awaiting his return, sends the valet for his car, and drives home. We can only wonder how long the others waited, what sentiments they expressed as they settled the bill, and whether they were soon ex-clients. I like to recall that story whenever I do something particularly foolish and forgetful. Which happens more and more often, and not just to me. Nowadays what mind isn’t reeling from the latest alarming news about the Delta variant, Afghanistan, hurricanes, floods, wildfires … need I go on? Being distracted by catastrophes undermines our focus and efficiency, so when I occasionally misplace my reading glasses, I know it’s normal and not a sign that I’m losing my memory or my mind. (No, it's not!) So I wasn’t worried a few weeks ago when I went in for my annual physical, which included a memory test.  This isn't the exact memory test I took; it's an online version from Wikifun. Want to try it? Go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9o76FR-k_1M. “Remember these three words,” my doctor said. “Popsicle, banjo, giraffe.” As regular readers will recall (or maybe not, depending on your level of distraction today) Rich’s memory course taught a visualization technique. I pictured myself eating a popsicle and holding a banjo while riding on a giraffe. Then I thought, maybe the giraffe should be playing the banjo. No, not with hooves. Could he be eating the popsicle, so I could play the banjo? Did giraffes like popsicles? Weren’t they leaf-eaters? My doctor’s voice faded to “blah-blah-blah cholesterol blah-blah-blah” as I pondered these questions. And then he said, “So what were those three words?” My mind went blank. Hooves? Leaves? “Popsicle,” I managed. “Uh, banjo…” I paused, then finished triumphantly, “Giraffe!” “Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “You pass if you get even one right.” Whew! While I was congratulating myself on acing this modest test, I happened upon an article about Griffin, a parrot famous for feats of memory.  “He’s the kind of student who asks you, ‘What do I have to do to get the A?' and then he'll do it really, really well,” Pepperberg said about Griffin. Photo: Harvard Gazette Harvard researchers created a version of the shell game, putting different-colored pompoms under cups and shuffling them around, then naming a color. If Griffin identified the cup concealing that color pompom, he got a cashew. Griffin outperformed human first-graders, then Harvard undergrads — arguably some of the smartest minds on the planet. Not bad for a birdbrain! Boy, was I glad my doctor didn’t test me against Griffin. But if I wanted to measure my mental acuity, I wondered, were online resources available? Yes, but I should be very careful about unqualified, unscrupulous, predatory websites that were just out to frighten me into spending money, warned “Online Memory Tests You Can Trust.” This public-spirited message was frequently interrupted by banners saying “Need a mental lift? This brain supplement can do that” and “Personalized music boosts focus time up to 400%” with links to sponsored “product reviews” that read like hymns of praise and rapture. Could this be a case of the pot accusing the kettle of using scare tactics to profit at my expense? I did find one elegant test designed to debunk a productivity myth affecting memory: multitasking. More accurately called “switchtasking” — that is, alternating rapidly between jobs — this so-called productivity booster actually slows work speed, results in sloppy work, and fries our brains. In fact, a University of London study found those who multitasked during a cognitive test showed the kind of IQ drop you’d find after smoking pot or staying up all night — reducing their scores to the average range of an eight-year-old child. But don’t take my word for it (or the University of London’s). Try this test.  Dave Crenshaw, author of The Myth of Multitasking: How “Doing It All” Gets Nothing Done, created this simple test to demonstrate how multitasking makes us less productive. First, time yourself writing “Switchtasking is a thief” on one line and the numbers from 1 to 21 on the next. You might need 30 seconds. Next, try writing the same thing, but switching back and forth between two lines. First write the letter “S”, then drop to a lower line and write the number 1, then go back up to write the next letter, down for the next number, etc. This typically takes 60 seconds and becomes so riddled with errors it looks like the work an eight-year-old, or possibly your dog.  Blogger Peter Tong posted his test results online. Enough said. Obviously multitasking isn't helping. So how can we corral our scattered brains? For a start, we can use commonsense tools like leaving ourselves notes, making lists, and checking online for facts that elude us. “Many of you are worried that if you use Google to look up your blocked words then you're cheating and contributing to the problem, weakening your memory. You're worried that Google is a high-tech crutch that's going to give you digital amnesia. This belief is misinformed,” says neuroscientist Lisa Genova. “You don't have to be a memory martyr. Having a word stuck on the tip of your tongue is a totally normal glitch in memory retrieval, a byproduct of how our brains are organized. You wear glasses if your eyes need help seeing, you have my permission to use Google if a word is stuck on the tip of your tongue.” What warning signs suggest a bigger problem? “If you start forgetting common words frequently,” explains Genova. “So if I'm like, ‘Oh, what's the name of the thing you write with? The thing you write with. What's that?’ ‘Pen?’ ‘Yeah’ — if that starts happening, that could be something. Doesn't have to be Alzheimer's. There are lots of reasons for having issues with retrieving memories, making new memories. It can be sleep deprivation, it could be B12, it can be lots of things.” If this happens to you often, write a note saying “Schedule a checkup” and tape it to your phone.  Neuroscientist Lisa Genova is the bestselling author of Still Alice and other works of fiction about characters dealing with neurological disorders. Photo: Christopher Seufert Photography. For those of us experiencing low-level lapses, self-care is the key. Among my top remedies are travel and getting plenty of exercise (which often go hand in hand). When it’s not practical to journey far, experts recommend learning a new language, making music, dancing, taking an art class — basically anything that gets the neurons fired up and connecting in new ways. Diet can help; make sure, for instance, you’re getting enough memory-supporting vitamin B12, which for me means including fresh fish and eggs in my largely plant-based diet. For energy, I do yoga and qigong — and I drink coffee, which studies show improves alertness, attention, and concentration. Chocolate helps too, obviously.  Sometimes just looking at a photo of a cup of coffee and a brownie gives my tired brain a boost. Feel free to stare at this one as long as needed today. OK, time for a pop quiz: What were the three words my doctor asked me to remember? If you recalled even one, you’re doing great. If you decided not to be a memory martyr and scrolled back to check, you’re doing great. In fact, if you can still remember what a pen is, you’re doing great. Chances are there’s nothing wrong with your memory that a saner world wouldn’t soon put right. Sadly, the chances of that happening are slim to none, at least for now. But take heart. If you haven’t driven off into the night leaving a tableful of clients in the lurch, you’re still ahead of the game. And now a few words from Einstein, the Talking Parrot. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY CLICK HERE FOR MORE
of my weekly thoughts on holding onto some shreds of our sanity as we enter Day 530 of the pandemic. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, and anyone who claims multitasking is making them more productive. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/feeling-like-a-birdbrain-nothing-wrong-with-that  The average person spends 2.5 days a year searching for lost things. Over a lifetime, women spend an average of 81 days rummaging in their handbags, mostly hunting for keys. Photo: Vladimir Godnik How many times have you walked into the kitchen and wondered why you were there? Can’t remember? Can’t count that high? Can’t even recall what the question was? Don’t worry, this kind of forgetfulness is perfectly normal at any age, says neuroscientist Lisa Genova. The culprit isn’t memory loss, it’s distraction. We’re simply not paying enough attention to make those moments stick in our minds. “I often drive from Boston to Cape Cod,” Genova says. “About an hour into this trip I cross the Sagamore Bridge, a really big, four-lane, cannot-miss-it structure. And then about 10 miles and a mere 10 minutes later, I'll suddenly wonder, wait, did I already go over the bridge? I can't recall going over the bridge because that memory was never created in the first place. It's not enough for my senses to perceive information. My brain can't consolidate any sensory information into a lasting memory without the neural input of attention. So because I've driven over that bridge countless times, and because I was probably lost in thought or listening to an audio book so my attention pulled elsewhere, the experience of driving over it slipped out of my brain within seconds, gone without a trace.”  You'd think this massive structure would be impossible for Genova to miss. Yet I frequently manage to cross the Golden Gate Bridge without noticing it. I often cross bridges over San Francisco Bay — including the iconic Golden Gate — and minutes later I’m trying to figure out where I am and if the bridge is already behind me. I’m usually with Rich at such moments, so I tell him it’s because he’s such a scintillating conversationalist, but I’m not sure he’s buying it. Thankfully, we can all stop worrying about such lapses. “Your memory is not a video camera recording a constant stream of every sight and sound you're exposed to,” Genova says. “You can only remember what you pay attention to.” Paying attention is a lot more difficult than it used to be, and I’ll give you three guesses why. Yep, you got it in one: the pandemic. The BBC reports 80% of us are experiencing some memory loss these days, as tested by such questions as “Did you forget to tell people something important?” and “Did you start reading something only to realize you’d read it before?” Of course, going by that, I’ve been experiencing memory loss since … I can’t remember when I didn't do it. But yes, it happens more often now.  This would be me on the moon. "Oh, no. Forgot the key to the airlock door!" I’m not the only one. “I had a great idea for something to put in your memory post,” Rich said at breakfast. “Only I can’t remember what it is.” This may sound like memory loss, but it’s fragmented attention. While we’re doing other things, our minds are busy processing the latest terrifying headlines about the Delta variant and stressing about whether to cancel plans to attend that wedding in Florida. It’s like our brains have become the guy at the meeting who’s constantly texting under the table and can’t keep track of anything we’re discussing.  Does your brain sometimes feel like this — even if you're by yourself doing one task? That's distraction. To “tame the monkey brain” as the Buddhists put it, a Harvard Health article suggests, “Establish some control over your situation.” Gosh, why didn’t I think of that? Just stop this pesky virus from spreading. That shouldn’t be too hard. What else? “Get a good night’s sleep.” If only! Who can sleep easy knowing that the Doomsday Clock, which Einstein created to measure how close we are to global catastrophe (represented by midnight), currently reads 23:58:20? My point is, there’s plenty to worry about without fretting about memory loss as well. Most people can remember, at best, five to eight days out of the previous year (and considering our previous year, that’s a good thing). The recollections we have are constantly being edited, altered, and recombined. Ever sat around telling family stories and heard versions so wildly different from what you remember that you wonder if your siblings actually grew up in the same household?  Photographic evidence supports my memory that we all grew up under the same roof, but at times it seems as if we occupied different worlds. (From left that's Mike, Melissa, Steve, and me.) Why would nature give us such faulty programming? Because memory’s most important job isn’t holding on to the past but letting us construct models of possible futures. Prepping for a first date, a job interview, or a wedding, we collect bits and pieces of memory to create something new: a simulation of the upcoming event. Going back to the office for the first time since March of 2020, we draw on memories of the workplace, Zoom meetings, company mask policies, movies, and memes to create a narrative about what’s likely to happen and how we’ll navigate it. This goes a long way toward explaining why people are responding so differently to the current health crisis. For instance, I know people who refuse to get vaccinated because the most persistent horror movie in their head is about the dangers of medications without full FDA approval — overlooking the fact that we all take older medications, such as thyroid tablets and acetaminophen (the active ingredient in Tylenol), that have been sold for many years without the kind of FDA approval required for new drugs today. I didn’t hesitate to get vaccinated because the scenario in my head — a mix of the movie Contagion plus the latest Covid statistics (4,382,155 deaths and rising) — feels far more compelling.  Remember when this was fiction? Others I know cling to a narrative that says once they’re inoculated, the pandemic is no longer about them. They should be able to skip masks and socialize at will. Unfortunately for that viewpoint, Delta makes us all potential carriers. Nobody gets to sit on the sidelines; we are all back on the playing field. I know what you’re thinking: why couldn’t we get total amnesia about all this grisly stuff and devote our minds to finding the car keys? Because our brains are doing exactly what they’re designed for: working with the data we have to make decisions that will up our chances of survival. Here’s some good news: age is no barrier to mental acuity, according to Genova. She writes about Akira Haraguchi, who at the age of 69 memorized the infinite, non-repeating numbers of pi to 111,700 digits. “He’s a regular guy with a healthy, aging brain, which means something even more mind-blowing — your brain is also capable of memorizing 111,700 digits of pi.” Sorry, Genova, not on my best day at any age. But she has a point: the science of neuroplasticity has demonstrated that the synapses in our brains are not hardwired but change throughout our lives. We can upgrade our brain power at any age.  Haraguchi's lifelong quest for eternal truth led him to view pi as a symbol of life itself. “I’ve got it!” Rich exclaimed at lunch. “The thing I forgot. You should write about all the stuff we can do to boost our mental capacity.” Hmmm, I thought. Like travel. And learning which "memory boosters" are urban myths. “If you don’t have room,” he added, “write about it next week.” So that’s the plan. In the meantime, if you have any anecdotes to share on the subject of memory and how to nurture it, I’d love to read them. With luck, I might even remember to include them in next week’s post. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY CLICK HERE TO GET
my weekly commentary on the pandemic life, road trips, and holding on to what's left of our sanity these days. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, and anyone who has ever lost their glasses, only to find them on top of their head. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/fretting-about-forgetting-its-normal-not-memory-loss  Of all the tools in all the sheds in all the world, I never expected the old radio to be the lifesaver. When country relatives came for lunch last Thursday, naturally the first thing we did was ask them to sniff the inside of our tool shed. As regular readers will recall, last week Rich and I were struggling to identify and eradicate the hideous smell coming from under that shed. A powerful pest repellant had driven away the skunks foraging in the garden, but now we had this new problem to solve. Or was it actually the same problem? “Skunks,” Andrea and Matt said in unison. “But it doesn’t smell like skunk spray,” I objected. “It’s not spray. This is how the animals themselves smell,” said Matt. We all staggered out into the fresh air, wiping our eyes and taking deep breaths. “Any ideas —” I began. “Talk radio,” Matt replied promptly. “Drives them nuts. Doesn’t have to be loud, just continuous. They can’t stand it.” “Just like that restaurant in Ohio — remember, Rich?” I said. “It got rid of teens loitering in the parking lot by playing classical music.” I reached into the shed and flipped on the radio. An NPR host was discussing the Delta Variant. “Take that, varmints!” For the next several days I pictured our skunks huddled under the shed with their paws over their ears gasping, “Stop! Stop! No more!” I suspect the story that really drove them over the edge was the one about Brazil’s President Jair Bolsonaro.  Jair Bolsonaro, president of Brazil, claims the Covid vaccine can turn people into crocodiles. I hope I don't need to tell you this is not true. Bolsonaro's efforts to help Covid spread (Brazil's infection rate is second only to the USA’s!) included mocking masks and telling everybody the vaccine would turn people into crocodiles or bearded ladies. Luckily, people realized this was malicious nonsense and wisely turned to a more reliable source: the viral music video Vacina Butantan. Filmed in one of Brazil’s top biomedical research facilities, the hypnotic tune makes inoculation look so cool that people are flocking to clinics. Bolsonaro is now wearing a mask and telling anyone who will listen he has always supported the vaccine 100%. You see the kind of fun stuff you can learn on talk radio? And yet, after a mere 40 hours of non-stop human yakity-yak, our irritated, sleep-deprived skunks gave up and stomped away. We kept NPR going another day and a half for good measure, then shut off the radio. Into the sweet-smelling silence I said, “It’s like a miracle.” Yes, I am counting my blessings, especially after reading about a couple in nearby Mill Valley who found a skunk that had been stuck in their dryer vent for days.  Don't worry, the skunk survived and is doing just fine. I'm not so sure about the dryer. This being softhearted Marin County, experts tenderly extricated the exhausted, dehydrated animal and nursed him back to health. Come to think of it, they never revealed where they released him afterwards. San Anselmo, perhaps? Could this be our visitor? In a normal year (remember those?) skunks were exceedingly rare in our village, but with so much of the state going up in flames — more than 900,000 acres so far this year — everybody’s habitat is changing. Including ours. Rich and I see all sorts of wildlife around now: deer, bobcats, wild turkeys, raccoons. Earlier this summer a bear was discovered in my neighbor’s tree, creating pandemonium as officers escorted him back to the wild. Shortly afterwards my sister’s dog got loose, and we were all running through the village shouting the dog’s name, not pausing to reflect that cries of “Bear! Bear!” might incite general panic. Luckily Rich found Bear (the dog) before anyone called 911 or the news media.  When we were first married, Rich and I lived in Ohio with our dog Buck and an endless parade of mice, bats, snakes, insects and other wildlife that wanted to become our housemates. Close encounters with the animal kingdom always brings back memories of our days in semi-rural Ohio, where our home was constantly invaded by bats, snakes, squirrels, moles, mice, roof rats, wolf spiders, and more insects than we encountered in the Amazon jungle. On several memorable occasions, mice got trapped in an inaccessible section of one wall, where they’d scrabble around frantically for what seemed an eternity before expiring and decomposing. Obviously this was far worse for the mice, but it was pretty distressing for us as well, and one morning, when we awoke to the sound of frenzied scratching, Rich sat up and said, “That’s it. No more.” He flung on some clothes, strode outside, and came back with a crowbar. “Take this towel,” he said, pulling one off the hook. “When I open up the wall, catch the mouse.” “Catch the mouse?” I pictured myself flailing around with the towel, snagging the creature, and dealing with the business end of its teeth and claws. “Are you nuts?” He shrugged. “OK, fine.” And raised the crowbar.  "OK, they're skipping the towel and going for the crowbar. This is my only chance. Trajectory calculations: check. Micro-bend in the knees: check. Ready ... set ... " (This is not the actual rodent, but this photo captures the spirit of the mouse at bay.) The crowbar smashed a hole in the wall. Instantly the mouse shot out, flying right past my head, landing on the floor, and taking off at a dead run. “You are the luckiest mouse in Ohio,” I called after it. Peering in, we saw the hazard: a hole in the horizontal 2x4 left behind when some wires were moved. Generations of unsuspecting mice had trotted across the 2x4 only to plummet through the hole and become trapped between the framing and the drywall. The carnage in that space … no, even now I cannot bring myself to speak of it. We cleaned everything and plugged the hole, making that 2x4 safe for mousekind. And incidentally saving the noses and sensibilities of the house's human residents.  This is how I imagine the celebrations after the hole in the 2x4 was plugged up, making the world safer for mousekind. Getting closer to nature and the animal kingdom always sounds so romantic, but in reality it’s a messy business. We share this planet with 8.7 million other species, and it can be tricky to co-exist peacefully with the mice, skunks, and bears that wander into our lives — to say nothing of the viruses. Luckily for us, our fellow sentient beings haven’t yet figured out we’re the ones altering the landscape, heating the atmosphere, burning their habitats, flooding their dens, and generally wreaking havoc. With the possible exception of our NPR-listening skunks, most creatures aren’t aware of what’s coming. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either. On Monday 234 UN scientists sounded the alarm: we’ll soon blow past the degree of global warming that marks “code red for humanity.” Climate change is happening now, it's bad and getting worse, and there's "nowhere to run, nowhere to hide," said the report’s co-author Linda Mearns. Some governments are embracing inaction, hoping for an eleventh-hour technological fix — the cosmic equivalent of Rich’s crowbar opening up a way out. Oh come on, political leaders; do you really think we’ll be that lucky? Senior climate adviser Ko Barrett says, “It is still possible to forestall many of the most dire impacts.” Which is rather like saying, “We can’t get rid of the skunks under the shed, but we can keep them out of your house and maybe your garden.” And that’s what passes for good news now. In the midst of all this, I keep thinking of Rich’s happiness course, which suggests it’s all about helping others and gratitude. I’ll say this for hard times: they offer plenty of opportunities for being kind and appreciating the little things. Today I’m grateful for a shed that smells of nothing in particular. And that’s enough to celebrate for now. What are you celebrating these days? How are you adapting to our changing climate? Let me know in the comments section below. 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to sign up for my weekly travel tips and commentary about pandemic life, road trips, and happiness. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, colleagues, and anyone who has ever dealt with "a stench of skunks" (to use the proper collective noun). https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/yakity-yak-non-stop-talk-radio-sent-varmints-fleeing  Is something living under our tool shed? It all started with a skunk digging for grubs in our garden and leaving behind a vigorous amount of spray. For European readers who may not have had the pleasure, a skunk fires off a noxious, sulfur-laden defensive spray so powerful it can deflect a bear attack, temporarily blind a predator, and be detected by the human nose over distances of more than three miles. You do not want these critters hanging about your garden where you might stumble over one on your way home after a wine party.  This is a sight you never, ever want to see: a skunk raising its tail to project its spray on you. Photo: Havahart Rich bought skunk repellant and lavished it on the garden and then, for good measure, the inside of the tool shed. The good news: that skunk is long gone. The bad news: a new, hideous odor has taken up residence in the tool shed. While not as eye-watering as skunk spray (what is?), it clobbers you in the nostrils with a pungent, musky scent — the precise words the Nature Channel uses to describe muskrat secretions. Which is why we dubbed the malodorous mystery in our tool shed “An Excess of Muskrat Love.”  I doubt we have actual muskrats on our property, as wetlands are their natural habitat. Of course, wildfires and drought have displaced a lot of animals lately, so who knows? Photo: VarmentGuard Wildlife Services I know what you’re thinking, and no, the smell isn't coming from the pest repellant; that's more like pine. And we’ve checked every bag of fertilizer and each bottle, box, and tin of Sluggo, ScootMole, Captain Jack’s Deadbug, etc. in our collection; they’re all sealed tight and definitely not the source. Nor is it the final resting place of some hapless woodland creature or domestic animal; the smell isn't right and hasn’t changed over time. Expensive commercial air fresheners have failed to make a dent. “We’re going to have to take this to the next level,” I said grimly on Saturday morning. So we emptied the shed, sniffing everything before hauling it outside, then scrubbed the interior with a pungent mixture of ammonia, vinegar, and baking soda. The concoction stripped paint off sections of the floor, cleared up my sinuses, and reduced the smell very slightly for a short while. “It’s The Thing That Couldn’t Die,” I said.  I'm beginning to relate to the idea that "nothing human can stop it!" Let's hope our story reaches a happier conclusion this 1958 horror classic. Sniffing our shed has become a daily ritual along with ever-wilder schemes for finding and eradicating whatever-it-is. Today we take delivery of a spy camera with an endoscopic tube for peering under the floor, and tomorrow we're consulting a pest expert. Rich and I are determined to get to the bottom of this soon. Because next month we’re finally (yay!) going back to Spain. Or are we? You won’t be surprised to hear that traveling to Europe has gotten very, very complicated, requiring all sorts of QR codes on our phones (and printed on paper, too, just in case). First we signed up for California's new Digital COVID-19 Vaccine Records — which the governor insists are not vaccine passports, just voluntary backups to printed shot cards. I figure they should at least get us through the doors of the airport.  The CA Department of Public Health wants us to keep our paper cards in a safe place and carry a QR code, which can be obtained online after they confirm you actually got your injections. To board the plane to London Heathrow, we have to show proof we’ve had a negative Covid test within the past 72 hours. Oh, good! I thought I might miss out on the fun of having someone shove a swab up my nose; this will round out my pandemic experience nicely. A British friend warned us that once we're in Heathrow we mustn’t set foot outside the airport or we’ll lose our in-transit status. What would happen then? He didn’t elaborate. Possibly we’d be quarantined for ten days in a hotel room full of skunks. At any rate, we’re staying in Heathrow until we can catch a plane to Spain. Unfortunately, Heathrow has no direct flights to Seville, so we’ll land in Madrid and take the train from there.  We're hoping this next train ride between Madrid and Seville won't be quite as fraught as the one shown here, which we took in May of 2020 in order to return to the US. Entering Spain requires filling out an online Health Control Form in advance. What does that entail? Who knows? We can’t even glimpse the form until we can provide details of our arrival flight into Madrid, and we don’t have those tickets yet. We’re planning to buy them later this month. Or maybe not. This pesky Delta Variant has everybody rattled, including me. Three weeks ago, I felt confident about getting on a plane and spending 11 hours in an enclosed space with 150 strangers who would be masked at all times — except, of course, when flight attendants came around with drinks, dinner, coffee, snacks, breakfast, more coffee, and yet more snacks. “People often think of planes as major vectors for transmission,” said Dr. Amesh Adalja, spokesperson for the Infectious Diseases Society of America, “but overall, we have not seen much data on transmission on a plane, except for people that are in the immediate vicinity of that person.” Whew! So all I have to do is verify nobody around me picked up the virus in the 72 hours since their test. And hope that I’m still healthy, too. Although completely vaxxed, I no longer feel very bullet proof, knowing I could contract the Delta Variant. While it (probably) wouldn’t kill me or send me to the hospital, Delta could lodge in my body like a muskrat in a garden shed, sharing the love with everyone in the vicinity. Researchers say Delta spreads like chickenpox; if you get it, you’re likely to infect eight or nine others. Even hard-core anti-vaxxers are lining up to get their jabs; as my sister-in-law Deb put it, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”  Dallas mom Heather Simpson was an anti-vax influencer until she realized her own health, and that of her daughter, really were at stake. She followed the science and got her shot. “It’s nice to know that I’m going to be protected against COVID,” she says. “This is the way to end this pandemic, and I’m glad to be able to do my part.” Just when we thought it was safe to take off our masks, the news has turned scary and confusing again. The State Department says “Do not travel to the United Kingdom due to COVID-19. Exercise increased caution due to terrorism.” (Great, something else to worry about!) It also says “Do not travel to Spain due to COVID-19. Exercise increased caution in Spain due to terrorism and civil unrest.” Friends in Spain say, "Nonsense, things are peaceful, come on over." The NY Times considers travel viable, as long as you dot all your i’s and cross all your borders with the correct documentation. “The welcome mat is being extended most enthusiastically to vaccinated travelers,” gushes Travel Weekly, adding more soberly, “Each country is able to set slightly different entry requirements, causing complications.” The European Union says, “EU countries have agreed on a coordinated approach to the restriction of free movement in response to the coronavirus pandemic.” The situation is changing so rapidly the only thing you can count on is that nobody has a firm grasp on what’s happening now, let alone what's next. One clear truth stands out: this virus isn’t finished with us. We’re still in a pandemic and we may have to give up a lot of plans and dreams that we’re holding dear. But as author Ally Condie says, “In the end, you can’t always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.”  Letting go gracefully lets you move on to other things that may serve you better. I'll bet this old car in Krakow, Poland never expected to become part of an artist's vision. Letting go is never easy, and I find myself anxiously scrutinizing the present for clues about the future. Am I going to return safely to Seville in September? How bad will Delta get? Will I ever figure out what’s happening in my tool shed? Could it be a bizarre revenge plot by the ousted skunks? The Buddhists tell us that learning to live in mystery is good for the soul. If so, I think we’ll all be several notches closer to nirvana before the pandemic is finally over.  Maybe I should just turn the whole Muskrat Love problem over to a higher authority? How are you navigating the Delta Variant? Are you altering any plans over the next few months? Taking extra precautions? Let me know in the comments section below. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY CLICK HERE
to sign up for my weekly travel tips and commentary about pandemic life, road trips, and happiness. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, colleagues, and anyone who hasn't yet heard that Muskrat Love was voted one of the five worst songs of all time. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/travel-in-the-time-of-muskrat-love  San Jose, California is a lot nuttier than I expected and rich enough to follow its wildest dreams. This is Iguanas, home of the Burritozilla eating contest ... more about that below. It took me days to realize what was so weird about downtown San Jose. At first, second, and third glance, it’s a pretty good downtown, with wide avenues, a few solid old buildings, glittering skyscrapers, plenty of housing, and cheerful banners urging the populace to dream and thrive. It’s not breathtaking, like Rome or Bangkok, but as the hub of Silicon Valley, it is one of the wealthiest cities on the planet. San Jose glows with the glossy sheen of new money. It’s not hard to see why it’s rated the fifth happiest city in America. “Well, it certainly didn’t earn that rating through the food,” I grumbled the first night, when Rich and I couldn’t find anything downtown but cookie-cutter food chains and ended up with gloppy pasta and wine that tasted considerably cheaper than its price tag. We had better luck the next morning at Peanuts, an unpretentious café near San Jose State University. Our fellow customers included four uniformed firefighters, a sex worker, three nerdy guys, and two youngsters who clearly had just crawled out of bed after a night of energetic frolicking. It was the kind of place where you help yourself to the coffee, and after my third cup I struck up a conversation with Joseph, who’d taken over Peanuts when his uncle retired.  Joseph Huh runs Peanuts Deluxe Café much as his uncle did for 30 years. "The vibe," wrote a Yelp reviewer, "is very chill, a mix of diner, dive bar, and casual café." “Happy? Yes, San Jose is a happy city,” Joseph said. “Most people who come in are happy-go-lucky. It’s very diverse. Everyone hangs out with everyone else.” That refrain was repeated in countless conversations over the next few days. San Jose is rated the most diverse city in America and my own unscientific, statistically insignificant, random observations agreed. Nearly 400,000 people from around the world have been drawn there by tech companies such as Zoom, Adobe, eBay, PayPal, and Google — which is building a new downtown campus with 7.3 million square feet of office space, 4,000 housing units, and 15 acres of parkland. Are diversity and jobs enough to make this town soar high on the happiness charts? The cost of living is more than double the national average, and the $1 million median home price is twice California’s average, four times America’s. True, San Jose enjoys superlative weather, but if we’ve learned anything from the Nordic countries’ high rankings on the happiness index, weather doesn’t count for much. Then it hit me: maybe San Jose wasn’t happier than other cities — maybe it just thought it was. Long ago I’d worked at the information desk in UC Berkeley’s student union and asked hundreds of people where they were from and if they liked it. The only ones who waxed enthusiastic about their home town? Bostonians. Now, Boston’s a great town; I know, because I moved there for ten years. But Boston isn’t the only decent place to live in the USA; it just happens to have a culture that constantly reinforces the idea it’s the greatest. Seville has the same collective narrative, as do many New Yorkers. Apparently San Jose has that attitude, too. And as we all know, attitude counts. Rich and I were discussing all this at a cantina with plenty of attitude: Iguanas, home to the famous Burritozilla — a five pound, eighteen-inch “hunger killer” burrito. Eating a whole one earns you a free t-shirt — and lifetime’s bragging rights. “Does anyone really order that?” I asked the Louis, the cook. He grinned. “Yep. One woman ate it in a minute thirty-two seconds. Her name is Molly. Look her up on YouTube.” Wow, that woman can eat! I’m no Molly, but I did my best to consume my share of San Jose’s Caribbean, Greek, Portuguese, French, Mexican, and Vietnamese fare. At the popular Nha Trang, our friend Joe showed off his fluent Vietnamese ordering an insane number of dishes — which we heroically managed to finish.  I can't believe four of us ate that much food! The Nha Trang staff was so impressed they started calling Joe "uncle," a term of respect. All this time, I kept trying to figure out what was bugging me about San Jose’s downtown. When it finally came to me, I was shocked and aghast. “Hey, there’s no retail around here. We haven’t seen a single clothing store, bookshop, sporting goods place, or food market anywhere downtown. Does everyone do all their shopping online? Even groceries? Is retail really dead? Say it ain’t so!” We decided to find out. First we hit Little Saigon’s Grand Century Mall, where a marble statue of 13th century Vietnamese naval hero Tran Hung Dao presides over shops selling art, trinkets, and cosmetics. As we approached a small grocery store at the back, my nose began to wrinkle. “What’s that hideous smell? Decaying chicken? Rotting garbage?” “No, durian.” Rich had told me about Asia’s beloved yet stinky fruit, but now I realize that’s like talking about the scent of skunk; you can’t really appreciate it until you smell it for yourself. Yowzer! They say it tastes like almond custard, but I don’t care; I have added “avoiding durian” to my lifetime goals list.  I refused to get close enough to photograph a durian, but this shot ran in the Daily News with an article about a German post office being evacuated due to a shipment of four durian fruits. Of the sixty people who fled the stench, a dozen sought medical treatment fo nausea. Next we visited the Barryessa Flea Market, said to be a vast treasure trove with a farmer’s market and a carousel. Sadly, on the weekday we visited, it was a ghost town, with a few dispirited vendors listlessly eyeing the handful of customers drifting down the aisles. “They just put in a BART station,” Rich explained. “The family that’s owned this property since the 1960s sold the land to real estate developers. The flea market is shrinking from sixty acres to five.”  Retail may not be dead, but in the Barryessa Flea Market it's clearly on life support. “I feel like I’m presiding over a funeral on the Titanic. Where else can we try?” We considered Santana Row, said to have all the high-end shops we’d find in other cities, but instead, we went to check out Nihonmachi (Japantown). And here’s where I really fell in love with San Jose. For a start, there was actual retail — not much, and mostly closed because of Covid, but still, you could actually go into some buildings and purchase things, just like you used to do in the old days before Amazon ruled the earth. There was an atmosphere of cheerful bustle and plenty of colorful street art. One poster read: “Stop Asian hate. Protect the elderly.” I noticed an older woman with a shopping bag pushing a walker down the street, chatting companionably with a young man in a vest marked “Safety Patrol.” He was part of a volunteer group protecting vulnerable residents while they go about their errands. Seeing this in action was heartwarming. Knowing why it was needed? Heartbreaking indeed.  A volunteer with the safety patrol walks this shopper home to the Yu-Ai Kai Senior Center. Last year a resident was attacked right across the street from the senior center.  Japantown in San Jose is one of the last three authentic Japantowns remaining in the USA; the others are in San Francisco and Los Angeles. A century ago, San Jose was nicknamed “the valley of heart’s delight” for its bountiful crops and the entrepreneurial attitude that gave the world its first radio station, first computer hard drive, and first Grateful Dead performance. Today people still arrive there from all corners of the earth seeking their heart’s delight: the chance to create technology that will reshape the future. “Two million people live in Silicon Valley,” said journalist Ben Smith, “and one million of them believe they've discovered the next big thing.” Perhaps that’s what makes San Jose so happy — it’s a place that encourages you to dream big, even if it’s only about your chances of someday consuming an entire burritozilla.  In non-Covid times, Iguanas sponsors Burritozilla-eating contests. I myself will not be participating, but hey, you go right ahead. Send me pictures. Photo: Amy from Chicago on Yelp. Wondering how 182 US cities were chosen and rated for happiness? See the methodology here. About to write and ask me why I didn't visit San Jose's most famous landmark, the Winchester Mystery House? We went a few years ago on Our Magical Mystery Tour of California's Roadside Attractions. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY CLICK HERE
to sign up for my weekly travel tips and commentary about life, road trips, and happiness. FEEL FREE TO SHARE this article with family, friends, colleagues, and anyone who is curious about whether the road to happiness lies through Silicon Valley. https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com/my-blog/an-joe-no-money-cant-buy-happiness-but |
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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
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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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