2011 11 04
This morning I woke before my wife. Nothing unusual in that. It was black, raining and blowing 25 knots.
Working from primitive sense memory I put the kettle on for coffee and sat down to the Spanish lesson. You know, my everyday routine.
Fatigue was gangling my synapses and the computer did not seem to want to boot up. So there I sat, no brain and no mechanical assist. Usually I can cover up an hour or two of retardation by randomly hitting keys on the computer and complaining about the "slow internet" in Spain.
Meanwhile the water was not yet hot enough for coffee. What was wrong with that Kettle?
The residue of yesterday's exercise of driving, to Murcia, around Murcia, through Murcia and back again was confirming what I had thought of Murcia through most of yesterday.
Unhappy I was, not only with Murcia but also with the unpleasant taste in my mouth. Unable to undertake emergency site restoration due to the refusal of my stubbornly recalcitrant kettle to heat my coffee water I hit the fridge in desperation, looking for anything that might cut through the patina of early morning and age and gross stuff that was clogging my olfactory canals and most of my sensory inputs.
Hah. A glistening bottle of L'Ambrusco. Red this one was, but I think that is strictly a function of coloured additives. "What colour are we making today, Jose?" Cold as ice the bottle was already frosting with ambient humidity. Merely the sight of the bottle drew forth memories in my hot dry throat: that delightful effervescing light strawberry sensation.
Deftly pulling the cork, with L'Ambrusco a task requiring more skill at keeping the cork in the bottle than pulling it out, I looked about for a glass. Any glass would do, even one of last night's beer glasses.
Oh who was I kidding. I put bottle to lip and in one multi swallow draft I rejuvenated my entire cranial cavity. Oh. Oh!! It burns so nice. Icy and hot all at the same time.
Clarity came, carried on the backs of tiny alcohol tinctured bubbles. My life began.
The kettle boiled.
I turned off the stove and sat before my now humming computer with my bottle of L'Ambrusco at hand and a hummus sandwich. Hmmm. "Must have found some hummus while searching the fridge" I said to myself as I settled in to Rosetta Stone.
How Lucky For Me.
ps. "Tomato" is the derogatory term used by the local expat Brits to describe local Spanish citizenry. As their economy contracts the only work available to many Spanish here is tending plants in the local greenhouses. Greenhouses which feed all of Europe all year long.
Most of our friends are local Spanish. And no, they do not start many mornings with a bottle of L'Ambrusco. Only the good ones.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
2011 11 02
No Photos - the BC dropped our waterproof camera in the Mediterranean. It's being waterproof explains why we find ourselves high and dry without any images.
As a retirement home Almerimar is more than adequate. We engage in a lot of rest home activities: drives in the countryside and reading, morning exercises and language classes.
So far we have avoided guided bus tours.
Thankfully we have avoided descent into the nightmare of expat British society: drinking at the British bar, watching British soccer leagues, meeting at the "British" chandlery each morning to complain about the inferior races that surround us.
Even with the aid of frequent resort to good cheap alcohol, there are times I miss living somewhere relevant.
Being in "The Med" has captivated the Budget Committee. My wife likes old broken useless things so Europe is win win for the two of us.
Everything worthwhile in Spain seems to have been designed by the Moors, built by the Romans and paid for by the Germans. There is not much Spanish in Spain but we do enjoy stabbing away at the language.
There are days when we downright eviscerate it. With relish.
We look forward to doing the same thing to Greece.