The City Train Path
There are flowers
Bright red flowers, on this path that I discovered
As if some city dweller imagined my route to work
And decided to make it beautiful
They start near the train station
And lead to a tree lined road
And when there is no room for flowers
The bike path is bright red too
It is good, I suppose, to beautify the uncomfortable parts of life
Because these flowers bring a smile to my heart
Our Family Used to Smell Nice
There are days with the baby that we just admit we’re not going to look or smell good. And there are days we decide to look nice and smell fresh that later become overwhelming. One of the first things Jeni said this morning was “I hope the baby doesn’t poop in church today.” It was like weather forecasting a baby storm. While we were having breakfast we heard a sad, gentle cry.
I gently raised my daughter from her rest in the crib to change her moderately wet diaper. My wife had fed her shortly before, so she was calm. I took off the old diaper while she laid on the waterproof changing pad. All of the sudden she started peeing. The changing pad did its job but the baby peed so much that the pee pooled up and reached her body, back, and neck. My wife came to the room and we maneuvered her out of the pee while I cleaned her up with $100 worth of baby wipes. The bath would wait until after church. Nearly done, we were shocked when the baby let out another fountain of pee. With more wipes and further folding of the crib bedding we got her fresh enough to go out in public. I adjusted my hopes for church from our baby-standard “arrive almost on time” to “arrive before it ends”
I threw her crib bedding in the wash and we sipped our now-cold coffee and chewed our now-cold breakfasts. I hung the sheets when they finished their “fastest possible wash” cycle and Jeni and I rushed down to the bus with a few moments to spare before this moderately- late-to-church option passed us by.
Our neighbor, who had been hoping to meet our baby since her birth, found us in the entry and we decided to talk instead of catching the bus. We were happy to chat with her and figured we’d start our day after the talk. When the neighbor left Jeni asked me how many bottles I put in the baby bag, laughing and pointing out that the first one had no rubber nipple. Two-thirds of the water had spilled and the baby diaper bag was soaked. The bottle was built with just the base, the sealing ring, and the bottle topper. We had no clue how much of our emergency diaper supplies were soaked along with the bag.
Jeni took the baby to the bus while I went to find the rubber nipple. The neighbor knocked on our door with a baby gift and I chatted with her a bit in the living room. In my faltering Spanish I told her I was back home looking for a “bottle titty” None were sanitized so I boiled water and dropped one in. I grabbed two diapers just in case and left.
Back below I saw that I had missed the bus. Impossible to actually worsen my arrival time at this point I walked through the park to join my family at church.
A tiny bit into the sermon, Jeni and I felt very blessed by what our pastor was sharing. “Carry on despite discouragement and take heart”. Not long later, Jeni looked at me halfway through her feeding of the baby. “She pooped… a lot…. and she’s still pooping.” I took the baby downstairs and carefully carefully tried to get her changed before any poop got on the clothes. Impossible! The onesie got soaked in the massiveness of the poop and the pants got stained. I spent $100 more worth of wipes cleaning up my baby. Back up the stairs in the shame of her diaper-only outfit we looked at what we could do to clothe our little treasure. The emergency clothes we always packed were soaked. All that was left was a onesie hoodie that was supposed to serve as a coat.
We dressed her up in that onesie hoodie and I fed her what was left of her meal. She fell asleep in my arms while my church friend mopped the floor around my seat. The last one sitting in the sanctuary, I felt like he could have mopped me too. The last four hours had been full of every kind of waste liquid I could think of.
Jeni went downstairs, cleaned up the disaster I had left in the other room and joined me upstairs with the baby. We looked into her sleepy face. She was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen. No amount of bodily explosions could change it.
Learning (a poem)
My pants are as new as my job
Me and them are at the bus stop navigating this teetering change together
A little baby is crying in my home
And a beautiful mother is singing her all the words she can think of
My brain is stiff with sleep
But a hot sandwich with a note warms my soul
I thought that I owned my time like I own this collared shirt
I thought I owned my time
Still Accidentally Traveling the World
I wrote two years ago about the way my family accidentally broke our travel rules. My siblings and I grew up understanding that leaving the country as independent travelers was something between discouraged and unthinkable. This was largely for good reasons - my family of 5 is a strong-forged web of loving relationships. We have an established life in Pennsylvania with connections and opportunities. Our loved ones beyond the immediate family are almost all in the U.S.A and many are in our state. But I think the rule was also motivated by fear. The fear of unknown dangers and the fear of the pain of separation.
Bafflingly, I grew up convinced that I should spend a span of my life in South America. When my family processed our first passports and the security worker screened our plans, I was the only family member who said he was thinking about going to Peru. I explored that path, but eventually decided it was not for me.
A series of steps of faith and personal adventures brought me to my temporary home country - Spain. How we Accidentally Became World Travelers . And my brother and I started paths to become more than travelers, paths to become married men abroad. Neither of us knew the path when we took our first steps, but for both of us it has been a marvelous adventure.
I met my wife on my last exploration trip to Spain. I rented a room from her family and had strong feelings for her by the time I returned home. We spent a year apart falling in love with phone calls and video calls. Our relationship spanned hours and hours of Jeni tutoring in Spain while I worked 12 hour mental health hospital shifts. I used to call her on my 7 am 12 minute drive to work and many other more relaxing times.
My brother traveled to Thailand with two motivations that he sensed as one combined direction. Explore possible church work in the country and continue dating a girl he had met in Pennsylvania. They started the ministry year together in Chiang Mai but the relationship soon ended. Ryan knew it was not the type of relationship he needed.
When I finally saw my brother again, 12 months after his launch to Thailand, we went swimming in the sprawling Atlantic Ocean. He told me of his love interest in a young woman who worked with him in Thailand. He wanted to date her, but he was not sure about her character. Did she really want to follow the God who is so important to my brother and I?
As soon as Ryan got back to Thailand, he started to realize that his friend both was and wanted to follow God. His heart became hopeful. Over months and months they got to know each other and decided that they will get married.
I bought my tickets for Thailand this week. My parents and my sister and I are preparing to unite there to celebrate my beloved Ryan. It seems our unintentional travels will never stop. But God’s hands have been guiding them all along, calling us to obedience and filling our lives with blessings.
The Dreams We Don’t Expect
From the steps of the cathedral, the mountains looked small and uniform. My mom and I held our cans of Aquarius, thankful for the electrolytes. We wondered what lay beyond the hills, but today we had no intention to cross them. We were midway through some of the happiest days of my life. My sister, Mom, and Dad had come to see Jeni and me in Spain and to meet their first granddaughter - my first child.
18 year old me would have shuddered at the luxury of my current life, but he would have been thrilled by the spirit of what I am living. I never thought my Spanish studies would take me here. First of all, because I was supposed to learn Spanish to “help poor people”. I used to wield that poverty label with a lot more freedom, placing people into clear categories. And I used to think that people in poverty needed my charm and intelligence to fix their lives up.
Beyond that, Spain seemed distant and irrelevant. One of my teachers offered bonus points for learning the “vosotros” form of verbs, used only in Spain. I didn’t bother to learn that form and I told myself I was headed to Central or South America with what I had learned. I put action to that belief, traveling to Chile absolutely alone and spending 2 weeks in a country where I knew absolutely no one. But that trip left me sensing that I had no purpose to live in Chile.
My parents paid my way on my first trip to Spain. A small puddle jumper took me and my Dad to the Iberian Peninsula for a few short days of an amazing family trip to Europe. And that small puddle jumper triggered a series of events that led to me falling in love with Jeni in Spain.
And now in Spain with that same love and a baby we take care of together, I am dreaming things I never expected to dream. Dreaming of returning to my home country. Dreaming of being neighbors with my parents. Dreaming of living in a place where I fit in without trying.
Teaching Preschoolers - My 19 Day Masterclass
This July I took a sort of MasterClass. Really it was a job, but it was completely out of my norm and I was learning rapidly every day. I accepted an offer to teach preschoolers English. For 19 days I learned; through trial, error, and observation, how to teach 3, 4, and 5 year olds. Please enjoy my new-found wisdom. Since this was only a 19 day experience, you can also enjoy my persisting ignorance where present.
3 to 5 year olds are super sweet when they are calm. They take your hand, they tell you stories that mean something to them but seem meaningless to adults. They love to play make-believe with other kids their age. And they tend to take care of each other when they are in the mood to be nice.
On the reverse side, 3 to 5 year olds do not understand mutual respect or really mutual anything. In 19 days I was told I smelled like cheese, commanded to leave the class, frequently ignored, and shot to soaking by water pistols/balloons. I also repeatedly watched kids actively involved in a water fight game start to cry because they got wet. They would try to spray their friends, get hit, and come tell me with tears that someone got them wet with a water gun.
5 year old boys, from what I take away this month, are only impressed by brute strength and sheer bravery - both of which are pretty easy to demonstrate since adults have more strength in their arms than preschoolers have in their bodies and we are willing, when necessary, to kill spiders or chase bees out of the room. 3 year old girls seem to only be impressed by absolute kindness. So, working with the two groups of kids at the same time can be quite challenging.
Preschoolers are also shockingly well behaved when they are entertained and will even help you clean up or prep supplies. But as soon as they get bored they will sabotage your class with foolishness. I regularly had someone laughing while they tried to run away from adult supervisión, laughing while they climbed the playground fence, or laughing while they tried to hide from the teacher in 100 degree heat.
Finally, preschoolers are impressive humans. They have formed souls and minds exploring the world and trying things out. They can remind us how special it is to be alive.
I am writing this sleep deprived from my crazy month of employment. What would you add to my findings?
Family Playlist
Spotify has changed my life. The ability to stream any song in music history to address any emotional or social need at any moment, is mind blowing. I have been creating a playlist celebrating our baby and the fact that we are now a family of three.
One of the first songs I popped onto my playlist is “Lovely Day” by Bill Withers. I imagine singing it to my baby girl on days that I have no energy left.
When i wake up in the morning, love
And the sunlight hurts my eyes
And something without warning, love
Bears heavy on my mind
Then I look at you
And the world’s alright with me
I also added Sleep Tight my Little Darling sung by Jenny and Tyler. The soft beautiful vocals are like a lullaby for me and my baby at the same time.
With Arms Wide Open by Creed was irresistible. The lyrics show why:
I’ll take a breath
I’ll take her (my wife) by my side
We stand in awe
We created life….
Chorus sung as if to the baby:
With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything…
Then “This is your Life” by Switchfoot because a few weeks ago I realized this life that Jeni and I are building together is “everything I dreamed that it would be when the world was younger and I had everything to lose”
I added a beautiful version of For the Beauty of the Earth (Barlow Girl’s cover) because God’s majesty is such a key part of my day to day life.
The last song on the list is the goofiest. A song Sofía’s uncle introduced me to “Cumbia del Monstruo” by Canticuénticos.
What aspect of your life is waiting for a good playlist? It’s time to curate that musical art. Add the first 4 or 5 songs today. All the rest can be added later on.
Barrio Party 2024
About 3 million people live in Madrid, so we split ourselves up into tiny barrios or neighborhoods. This weekend our barrio is hosting our once a year block party and its’ been really cool to check it out. We stopped by the first night long enough to see what was around and chat with some of our neighbors. Yesterday we went back to join in the party, at least as long as our energy lasted.
At the end of the 8 minute walk from our front door, we found food and beer/soda tents and a respectable stage for concerts. There was a T-shirt booth hosting our bario’s name and a booth of information connected to our massive local green area. A young guy was beatboxing for the final performance of an open mic.
Our family got some salchipapas (french fries with thin hot dog slices added) and I made sure mine had salsa brava. You can figure out what that is by experience when you visit us. We got some drinks and sat on the steps where I take my guitar lessons. The patio where I had bought my tomato plant was next to the concert stage. I felt so much belonging. At the same time, there were hundreds of people at the celebration that I didn’t know. And I only saw two I did know. Jeni had reminded me the night before that every apartment in our barrio can holdt35 families inside. It’s shocking to think about.
The weekend party is a mini version of our everyday life here in Spain. We feel like we belong with our neighbors. We love our neighborhood, and we enjoy it every day. But we will always be different than the people who grew up in the barrio. There will always be many connections we don’t have. I experienced the two sides symbolically at the party. A grumpy vendor wouldn’t sell me the t-shirt size I needed and I ended up buying one a little too big out of a desire to be neighborly. They didn’t know me and I think my foreign accent made them doubt that I should be there. It bothered me as I sat on the steps with my family. But later that night I saw the president of the neighborhood association sweating in his work in the food stands. He gave me a surprised shout of recognition and a smile when he saw that I was there enjoying the party. We’ve only met once and he reminded me of the ways I do belong. It’s a beautiful tension. And my family embraces it every day.
Reach for the crevice
We are at critical phases of three things we’ve never done before - growing jalepeños on a terrace, finding my full time work outside of my home country, and raising a baby. In each of the three there is a massive amount of power outside of our hands.
In our best moments, we let what we cannot reach alone. We scan the options we have to move forward, choose and evaluate at least one, and reach, grip, pull. It is a lot like the movements I use for the rockfaces in my tougher hikes. Identify handholds within reach, test the option that seems best, and (if it feels steady) use the crevice to gain elevation.
Many times in life, I obsess over the things beyond me. I look down the steep trail and imagine the pain of falling. I stare at the clouds and fear a thunderstorm. I long for the handholds that are clearly out of reach and consider leaping towards them. Better to climb in pairs - I see this everyday as Jeni and I guide each others’ movements upward.
I must embrace wisdom and perseverance. Although my momentary choices are often left to me, I know the direction God wants me to move. I know my plants and my family count on me to participate in their lives. And though I would give up on the plants for an easy lifestyle, I’ll never give up on my family.
We are reaching, gripping, pulling crevice after crevice and the results are starting to come. The plants have budded, and Jeni’s amazing body has nearly finished preparing the baby. Our finances our healthy from the work we did this school year, and I had two near misses for the full time job that will allow us a lifestyle pivot. The climb is slow, but so very worthwhile.
Did someone send you here?
My move to Spain has been a fascinating blend between being a freeform expatriate and a sent church worker. Some days the bleed is frustrating, but many days it is a blast. The duality is actually so complicated that I often find myself unsure where one part ends and the next begins. So I love to honor the confusion of the situation when the topic comes up.
One of my favorite memories of this conversation happened during a church meeting. We were all talking and one of my friends asked the church to keep in mind that I had come to Spain as a missionary. My neighbor called out from the middle row with a laugh in his voice. “I know he came on a mission! He came on a mission to marry Jeni!” It’s fairly true.
The question came up the other day too. Some church friends invited me over to watch Real destroy Celta Vigo. Their son actually had the idea and invited me during one of our English tutoring sessions. So we were all eating snacks and watching football. And one friend asked me “You’re a missionary, aren’t you?”
I am completing an unpaid missions internship in Madrid. I moved without completing my organization’s launch program, but with their blessing. The government of Spain is paying me to live here and teach English in the public school system. And moving here was really important to my personal goals because I was getting ready to marry a woman residing here. Duality.
In many stories I read of the people before me, they changed nations to follow God. Without a partner, without a job, into isolation. I stand in awe of their decision, but I am grateful for the different purpose God has been giving me for this time away from home. Loving and enjoying my wife, joining into a church that is already powerfully active, getting to know my new family members from our marriage.
I continue to live freeform in the midst of my flexible internship. The employment based income my wife and I bring in results in a permission of space to choose how to live. But I am serving as a representative of my church back home. And I purposefully seek to support their team members and projects. The overlap is usually quite natural. Because Jeni and I, along with the church team that guides me, are all getting to know and learning to follow Jesus. And that brings clarity and consistency to these dualistic years.
From Tourist to Tomatoes
I still remember the feeling of my first trips through the city. I was always lost - from the moment my hosts and I left the apartment until the moment we arrived at our destination. There was no continuity from one place to the next. I simply walked out the door and appeared in a new location. Since everything was so new, every day was mysterious. And I lived each day in a blur of happy confusion.
I don't tend to see those initial destinations these days. They were fun to experience once, but not worth spending time and money on over and over and over. The little pig someone fitted into a bigger pig and cooked up for my gourmet meal was delicious, but not something I need every month. The palace is magnificent, but I prefer to see it from the highest crest of my weekly park walk and skip the crowds milling through the courtyard. Segovia is beautiful, and will still be beautiful the next time I am entertaining a special visitor.
In this much more routine month of my life, I bought a tomato plant. I was leaving guitar class, on my way to an errand, when the sight of it changed my evening. I left the errand for some other day and raced home with a $5 cherry tomato vine. Thrilled with what I had found, I sent my dad a picture on the way home from the store.
Tomatoes are a symbol of tradition and stability for me and my Dad. Many of our favorite memories together are of our times planting tomato plants outside of our various homes. We planted them no matter where we lived, and they bore fruit wherever we went.
I can hear him and see him in the garden with me. “Hammer down that stake and I’ll tie it up”. His brow is wet with sweat and soon we will go inside to cool down. Mom is planting carrots with Ryan and Christy. The sun is setting over the farmer’s fields. The soil is dark and fertile.
Now my little tomato plant carries the symbolism of all those memories in a city that was once a foreign land. I pass it every day on the balcony and it reminds me that Jeni and I have made a life here. We are so much a part of the city that we are harvesting fruit warmed by the Madrid sun.
Yesterday I relived one more tradition my Dad has taught me - the sharing of the first harvest. I plucked the two plump early bloomers from the little vine and sliced them thin into taste sized pieces. I sliced a soft cheese and sprinkled some basil on the plate with a hint of salt. I made sure everybody in our home got to try a piece so we could all enjoy tasting the treasure that we will have this Summer.
Bringing old family traditions into my life in Madrid has been a lasting pleasure. It gives me a sense of connection to my family in the states and it gives my current home an additional sense of peace. What traditions have you brought from childhood into your new life? Are there any you want to add now?
Man Trip
My friend Hernan invited me to go hiking and river swimming this past weekend. As the trip got closer, our buddy Pablo decided he might come along. He texted me around midnight the day before the trip and I wrote him back in the morning. “We’re leaving from metro Tribunal at 7am”.
We all met up at the metro, with our hodgepodge gear and excited hearts. Pablo’s military background, my past-life hiking in the U.S., and Hernan’s quiet self-reliance were all hinted at in the clothes we wore and the way we carried ourselves as we grouped up in the pre-dawn chill of the city. An ambulance was parked with its blue lights flashing and there was a couple kissing like couples do in the streets of Madrid - parting ways after an all night bar/dancing date.
We left the cold for our second metro entrance and boosted our month long passes to zone C2. Pablo bought a couple sandwiches to avoid breaking into what we had stashed in our backpacks for the day, and we were ready to go. From Tribunal we traveled 6 stops to Plaza de Castilla. From there we hopped on an ALSA 197 for the 1.5 hours trip to Torrelaguna.
A few days before the trip I doubted we were going to make it happen. Hernan and I are both working a lot, and he’s pulling Saturday shifts to manage his construction projects. We had decided that this was the weekend for the trip and had committed to text further plans. I hadn’t had time to figure out any good routes and until Saturday morning I hadn’t heard of any plans from him. But I reminded myself of what Hernan has told me a couple of times with pride. “Rob, in Colombia we don’t make plans when we travel. If there’s a trip I want to take, and the day comes that I have the chance to go, I take it. I buy a ticket that day to get me closer to my destination. And when I get halfway I ask around about how to get the ticket for the final leg.”
Hernan called me on Saturday and explained what still sounded like a non-plan to me. But he gave me enough details to get ready on my end. Leave from Tribunal at 7am, use the inter-city bus, look for hiking and a river. In the morning, everything went great -even accidentally arriving to the hourly bus 5 minutes before it pulled out of the station.
In Torrelaguna the three of us met up with a friend of Hernan’s who lives in the town. He told us how to get to our two destinations for the day, smiling at our Arengtinian, Colombian, U.S. blend of life and language. We had some coffee from Hernan’s thermos lid and bought some junk food from the corner store since their bread hadn’t arrived yet for the day. And we were off!
We walked the highway for two hours, carefully using the sides of the road to get to Patones. Despite the traffic, the views on both sides were beautiful - hundreds of olive trees, open farm land, and distant mountains. At Patones we saw the tour buses and the hikers going up to Patones de Arriba. We decided to take the trail before continuing our search for the river.
On the way up the mountain we found our first great surprise of the day. A cave alongside the path, 15 feet up in the air, with a few easy footholds to reach it. We all climbed up and checked it out. Hernan was thrilled and started climbing through the 3x3 foot passage to see what he could reach. “It goes through” he called out! And into the cave we went. Stowing backpacks out of sight of the trail but not bothering to bring them all the way through the tunnel. After a short crawl, there was space to stand in an opening with a 15 foot ceiling. We looked at each other, thrilled with what we had discovered and snapped some pictures. A menacing further opening stretched black into the distance and gave me the creeps on our way back out as we lit the crawlspace with our phones.
We continued our ascent to Patones de Arriba, which turned out to be a beautiful lesser-known tourist town. After a short exploration of the hilltop village, we had a drink at the restaurant nearest the descent and washed up from the cave.
From there we went to search for the river. We walked 2 more hours of highway looking for a place to swim. We finally met an elderly local man who told us about our options for the day.
“Hello! Excuse us, is there a place to swim in the river around here?”
“What?! No.”
“Oh shoot. So it’s prohibited to swim around here?”
“Ahhh, no. There’s no problem with swimming in the river, it’s just that it’s all pretty low right now. There’s not much water to swim in. If you want to go to the popular spot, you can go backwards about 1 mile.”
“We were also thinking about checking out Pontón de la Oliva. Are we close enough to get there on foot?”
“Oh yes. It’s down the highway, maybe one mile. Just keep an eye out for the signs. It’s not a town, but it has one bar and a few buildings. It’s mostly a nature area.”
We thanked him and decided to look for the river as we approached Pontón de la Oliva. We had seen the spot he had referred to a mile back and were not satisfied with what we saw. We headed down the highway until I saw a sign that said “Rember, no lighting campfires here.” To me that seemed like a clue that there was some kind of camping or hiking spot so we stepped off the road and into the grass grown highway pulloff.
It was a swimming hole! We took a moment to use the forest bathroom and then checked out our options for a dip. I stepped into the river shin-deep. Despite the sunshine, the water was super cold!!! It was so cold I second guessed my plans to swim.
“All at once Rob! All at once!” Pablo egged me on.
“You go first man”.
And he rushed into the water half jumping half running. He was freezing too but he jumped around long enough to convince the two of us on the shore to gather our testosterone and enjoy what the day had in store for us. We all took turns dipping in and out of the freezing water a couple of times and then floating down to our swimming hole from a few feet upstream. It was the second great surprise of the day.
We aired out in the sun, leg muscles and torsos contracted from the cold, before we pulled our pants over wet boxers. Pablo shared his spray on deodorant with us since he was the only one who had thought to pack it. And we ate cheese, lunchmeat, and guacamole from our backpack stash - adding to our hard boiled eggs and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches we had devoured in Patones. We laid down in the gravel pulloff and half rested half slept in the deliciously warm sun. The noise of a car jolted me up to look around and the car behind the one I heard meandered into the pulloff. I nervously motioned for them to stop, worried they were going to run over my buddies, and the driver politely and carefully avoided us and our gear.
Awakened by the arrival of the new swimming hole guests we packed up our things to go, happy to realize we had discovered a spot known by the locals. We hoisted our bags and took to the highway for another hour of highway trekking before reaching Pontón de la Oliva.
We saw the highway turnoff and the landscape quickly changed to resemble a popular destination. Rows of cars parked along the sides of the now narrow roads and beautiful stonework marked the descent to the entrance of the reservoir. Kids played in the puddle flow from the dam that looked quite a bit like a regal castle. We walked past the puddle flow and towards the bar. Hernan had been hungry all day, and together the three of us had used the better half of our backpack rations. Before we could make it to the bar for lunch (and it was the perfect hour for lunch) Hernan saw the paths toward the tops of the dam. They were calling out to me too. We veered left away from the bar and the three of hiked up and up and up.
The path seemed to never end, but we kept ascending. Pushed by the distant leading of Hernan and the desire to see the water behind this massive dam, we made it to a beautiful set of mountain peaks. Hernan’s wife called that moment, and I wondered if we would be racing home to arrive for the birth of his baby due this July, but everything was fine.
The peaks were beautiful. Ridiculously awesome cliffs and splendid mountain flowers. We scurried from one rock formation to the next, thrilled with our discovery. We enjoyed a fantastic hour up there taking in the views and looking for the most impressive cliffs to enjoy the thrill of the heights. We continued around the dam looking to close our hike with a loop. Instead of a clear path down we passed more and more people practicing cliff-side repelling and were eventually informed that this side of the mountain was closed off at the entrance. We made our way back to our peaks and descended the mountainside.
The three of us were super happy with our day as we made our way down the mountain. And Hernan and I were anxiously thinking of returning to our extremely patient but extremely pregnant wives before midnight. It was a three hour walk back to the town where we could catch the bus to Madrid, which meant we were five hours from home. And it was already 5pm.
“Should we hitchhike, Hernan asked?”
If ever there was a day for hitchhiking, it was today. This generational family destination and rappelling enthusiast meetup gave a clear sense of general safety. Everybody leaving the park for the day was headed to the left or the right. And everybody who went left was going to pass one of our return points.
“We should.” I said “There’s three of us. Nobody’s going to try to harm us.”
We stuck out our thumbs as a couple of cars went by. An SUV with a baby, a car with one single nervous young woman. Another family SUV and finally a small work truck with two rappellers in the front seat.
“¿A dónde?” asked the Spaniards.
“A Patones”. We hopped in thankful for the ride and finished those first kilometers home in minutes instead of hours. We hopped out at Patones and walked toward Torrelaguna. This time we knew the way so we took the mountain trail instead of the highway, keeping the road in sight to ensure we made our destination. Up and down the mountains but always towards our town, we passed hundreds more olive trees and many farm fields. We hiked in exhaustion, nearing the end of our water and food but knowing that we had rationed it all correctly to reach our bus.
When we got to town we had just missed the early bus. Jeni was getting a little restless back home but we had an hour and fifteen minutes before the next ride into the city. We bought three big baguettes, some corner store cheese and lunchmeat, drinks, and gummies. We ate in exhaustion seated on the low wooden barriers edging the city garden beside the bus stop.
Our bus came right on schedule and, with that long ride and a short metro trip,we each made it home to sleep. It was an amazing day, and I couldn’t believe I had lived the experience from my home in the city. A cave, a river, and a mountain, all without spending the night. I can’t wait for the next adventure!
La Abuela's Beans
I find myself in the kitchen, giving in to my continuous urge to cook something. What I really want to do is get ahead on my rotation for family lunch. But the meat won’t be dethawed before I lose this excess energy. I look one more time at the beans that are sitting beside the sink, waiting to be fried. “I’m going to do it.” I tell myself. “It will be a happy surprise for Tesla when she sees what I’m up to.”
Tesla is at the dining room table, where I have just put away my guitar at the end of a short practice. She is sewing, one of her most common activities these past months. She has been full of spunk and energy, sewing baby items for my growing (in the tummy) girl - her first granddaughter.
I prep the cutting board, dig two teeth of garlic out of the strong bulb, and peel a golden onion. My hands go to work and, unlike my prep for those first beans, my fingers know what to do. The year and a half has changed me. Thin slices of onion, chopped in pieces, cross chopped. Peeling the garlic, slicing it small.
Tesla comes in and asks me what I am doing. I can’t decide if she’s bluffing or not because I thought the noises of the knife and the smell of onion would give me away from the start. Either way, she is pleased to see me preparing the beans and she makes sure to correct some part of my plan for preparing the dish. This is a sign of love and care. This is a sign of belonging. “They’re going to turn out good.” I kindly tell her. “I’ve got all of your instructions written down.” “Try not to read this time” she replies. “This time it’s to learn the process.”
I take her advice about how to blend the beans, and I am quite pleased with how they turn out. Everything follows the will of my hands. Everything responds to what I have learned. I pour the blended beans into the flavorful mix of onion, garlic, and a small amount of cooking oil. I turn down the heat. And after a bit of stirring, I go to find my wife.
She is taking a small Sunday nap as her body perfectly crafts the details of our six month old (in the tummy) baby’s body. Mondays through Fridays she is teaching middle school math and science, Sundays she’s at church. The sleepiness is one of the few side effects she’s felt as she forms this life. I wake her up, feed her a grape I brought from the kitchen, and head back to keep vigil on the beans as they finish heating.
When Jeni walks into the common area, I feel proud like a 6 year old with a drawing on the fridge. Her beauty is glowing in the apartment entrance. “I made the beans!” I exclaim and I gently touch her tight tummy. This love we share has brought me happiness I did not think existed. And the baby God has given us has changed how I fit into this family. I finish the beans with a sense of peace and contentment. La abuela’s beans. The beans of my baby’s grandma.