Tag: spain

Whether we embrace it, fight it, admit it, or deny it, the fact remains that much of life is based on luck. Luck makes sure that we’re in the right place at the right time so that we can experience the thrill of spotting Al Pacino leaving a fancy New York City restaurant just as we’re passing in front. And luck can even determine the outcome of a special day, as was the case on Tuesday, David’s birthday.

I have been in Spain long enough to know that arriving at an intended destination requires a fair amount of luck.

I thought that Spain was supposed to have endless sun, but for the month of September all I’ve seen is rain. I thought that it was dry, that its reservoirs were only half full and that just last year it was suffering from the worst drought in 70 years. But all I feel is wetness as it seeps through my Puma shoes and soaks my socks and drenches me within seconds. I thought that I was going to have a year-round tan—as David’s (my husband) step-mother told me so when I first arrived—but I look up at the sky and only see a layer of clouds so thick that it seems impenetrable from any rays of light.

Life is made up of choices. It’s made up of monumental intersections and sometimes just small little forks, but each turn in the road is significant in life’s course. But don’t look for a map to show you the way. Life is a river and the map is ever changing and time doesn’t stand still long enough for consultation.

I’ve often thought of life’s forks. How different my life would be if I hadn’t moved to Paris after college to be an English Assistant for a year and if my friend, Mimi, hadn’t encouraged me to stay a bit longer to work at Hard Rock Cafe for the summer.

While I hardly claim to be an expert on the area, considering that I can’t even communicate with the locals, I have learned some things since my arrival to Torrevieja on the 18th of June:

- It’s about 45 kilometers south of Alicante, which is where the closest airport is located. David (my husband) and his stepmom picked my sister and me up (this new adventure couldn’t have begun without her by my side) by car. Quite a luxury considering that the taxi service to Torrevieja costs 55 to 70 euros!

I officially became the 74th American living in Torrevieja, Spain—assuming the latest census records on file are accurate. In a town of just over 100,000, I am certainly a minority here, and the whole fact of me even being here is so unlikely that it makes me wonder how it all came to be. After all, I don’t even speak Spanish; never mind that it’s practically the first language in California where I’m from. Romanced by the melody of French from the age of 12, I chose to learn francais instead. But that’s immaterial. I speak English and French, yet, as of late-June, I now live in Spain.

So why Spain? It was a combination of things that pushed my husband, David, and me out of our two-bedroom, rent-stabilized apartment in New York City’s Spanish Harlem for a more authentic experience across the pond. (We had moved from California to New York a few years back). It was pretty much a perfect storm of incidences that led to our departure

There’s nothing more horrifying than going to a cemetery to visit a specific tombstone only to find that you can not find the tombstone you came to visit! That’s what happened when Luisa, my mother-in-law, wanted to pay her respects to her father who was buried in the cemetery of Callosa de Segura, the village where she grew up.

It had been three years since she had been and it was one of the highlights of her visit to her village. We had even trekked long and far during the hottest time of day to make our way to this small cemetery hugging the bottom of the mountain. So when we arrived and Luisa couldn’t find the tombstone, I couldn’t believe my ears. And when she was sure that it had been where there are now just vacant, broken tombs I thought she must be hallucinating from the heat. Was she absolutely positive that this is where it was? Yes, she was sure. She had been here countless times. How could she forget the location of her own father’s grave?

When traveling in Spain, it’s not unusual to see crumbling homes. They dot the countryside and leave you wondering who they belong to and how they ended up in such ruins. But don’t assume that they’re abandoned and be weary if you dare to venture into one. We made that very mistake and were startled by what we found.

Riding home from Murcia, a beautiful city an hour south of Torrevieja, we spotted such a house. They’re often way off in the distance, surrounded by empty fields—this one was right by the side of the road, close enough to see a For Sale sign and a number graffitied on the home wall.