kellycrull.com - expat life in Spain

Alleke at the pool last summer

Living in a foreign country often feels like that game we would play at the pool as kids where we would try to see how long we could hold our breath under water. Mostly we played to see who could last the longest, but also because it was fascinating to be under water where everything looked and sounded differently.Using water as my analogy, I feel like when it comes to living in a foreign country there are three kinds of people: swimmers, snorkelers, and fish.

Swimmers (holding your breath)
As kids at the pool, we had to come up for air at some point. It was inevitable. In my experience, most people who live abroad are holding their breath. They want to see how long they can last. They come to see the world from a different angle, and they study or work temporary jobs so they can experience the local culture. Most eventually return home to be closer to friends and family or pursue a career.

Snorkelers (sucking air through a tube)
Others, like us, are snorkeling. We found jobs at home that sent us to work in a foreign country. In our case, April and I work for an international church called Oasis Madrid, and as such, were hired by an international non-profit organization that pays us from home. This is a viable means of living in a foreign country, but it’s fragile. If anything happens to that snorkel tube, we need to come up for air. Exchange rates and permission to work in a foreign country can change. Plus, most international organizations and companies, like the military, expect their employees to move every couple years, making it difficult to settle down somewhere and integrate. April and I love our jobs, and plan to keep them, but if we wanted to stay in Spain and change careers, it would be very difficult because we found our jobs at home, not here. Our education and experience from home don’t translate very well.

Fish (breathing water)
To live in a foreign country permanently means to completely reinvent yourself. In other words, if you want to breath under water, you have to learn to be a fish. I haven’t met very many fish, and by that I mean I haven’t met many non-European couples who have moved to Spain, found Spanish jobs, and plan to stay. After a year or two, most people decide it’s not worth the trouble, and they realize they don’t want to be fish. They miss their families, or the familiarity of their own culture, or they realize they could get a better job at home.Let’s face it, those from the foreign country will almost always be more qualified for most jobs. They speak the language, they intuitively know how things work, and they have a base of friends and family who support them. Learning to be a fish is not simply a matter of putting in enough time and effort, it means countless people going out of their way to listen to you fumble along in a language that’s not your own, rent you a room or an apartment when they don’t know much about you or your culture, and give you a job when others are more qualified. It can happen, but it’s a slow process.

What I do know is…
I didn’t expect April and I to be some of the few internationals I know who still live in Spain. I really don’t know why we stayed, and they left. Many of them seemed more fit for Spain than us, and what makes it even more bizarre is we liked living in the US and we love our families, so it’s not like we didn’t give up a lot to move here.I suppose we stay because a) we are a part of a very close-knit group of people in our church who care about us, which makes us feel like we belong here, b) we believe our jobs are important and help make Spain a better place, which gives us a purpose for being here beyond just seeing the world from another perspective, and c) Spain (specifically Madrid, and even more specifically our neighborhood) challenges us to be the kind of people we want to be. So, we feel like Spain helps us to be better people.

Photo of the Moorish arches in the Synagogue of Santa María La Blanca in Toledo, Spain.

My wife April and I are American, and our daughter Alleke was born in Spain. We often get asked questions about April’s pregnancy, the hospital where April was born, whether it is possible to have a natural birth in Spain, and in general what April’s experience was like giving birth in Spain.

So, I asked April if she would be willing to tell her birth story here on kellycrull.com, which you’ll find below. Also, if you are interested in knowing more about having a baby in Spain, visit my newest blog called Spain Dad, a baby blog.

On October 2, we had our regular prenatal classes that evening. After doing our normal stretches and meditation, Carmen, the midwife told me and the other woman who was at 38 weeks that it was time to practice pushing. Knowing that our baby girl was due in two days, I figured it was a good idea. After class, we talked with Carmen rehearsing all the things we needed to do if I went into labour. She mentioned to Kelly that she was going to be on-duty in the hospital on Tuesday night and Thursday morning, so if we wanted her to be there, try to plan accordingly.

For the past few nights, we had been taking long walks, which was our habit during the pregnancy. That night we decided to take an extra long walk, knowing that it could help induce labor. We left the classes and walked about 15 minutes to a bookstore to get a baby book for Alleke. Then we walked out from Plaza Fadrell to the edge of town, past the concert hall, nearly to the basilica, and then back again, down the tree-lined boulevard. Once we got home, we had been walking for nearly two hours. Since it was a little past midnight, we decided to go to bed.

Around 2 am or so, I woke up with a lot of pain in my hip sockets. I kept shifting around, trying to fall back asleep, or trying to stretch what felt like really tight muscles. I slept off and on, getting up to go to the bathroom, or just feeling like I was in pain. For awhile I laid there trying to time how far apart the pain was. Now and again the last few weeks I had restless nights thinking I was in labour when I obviously hadn’t been, so I thought this might be the same. About 7 am I finally woke up Kelly (whether intentionally or from being so restless I don’t know) and explained what had been going on. He asked if I was in labour, and I honestly couldn’t tell him, but said we probably should be ready, because I was consistently having pain in my hips.

After eating some breakfast, I made some heating packs out of old socks and rice and popped them in the microwave. When I laid these on my hips, it helped the pain go away and I could sleep more. I took a nap and Kelly worked in the office for the morning. We had decided a few days before that before the baby was born, we really wanted to go to one of our favorite restaurants for a last menú del día. When I woke up from my nap, the pain in my hips had subsided some, so I decided we should go to the restaurant. We headed out and walked past the four or five restaurants in our neighborhood that we liked. Either we didn’t like what was on the menu or the restaurant was full, so after getting really frustrated, we eventually returned home. We sat at home for a little while trying to decide what to do and I finally said “I can’t just stay here and concentrate on how I’m feeling. It’ll be better if we just go.” So around 4 we headed out again and went to the closest restaurant which had space at that point because it was later.

Once the food came, including a heavy paella, I realized that this probably was not such a good idea. I was still getting the pain in my hips off and on, and when it was strong, there was nothing I could do but shift in my chair and grit my teeth. Getting to the comfort of my own home seemed like a much better idea. Besides, I wasn’t much of a conversation partner.

On our way home, even though we were only a block away, I had to stop and push against a light pole during a contractions (which I had finally started to label the stretching pain in my hips). While we were stopped, Kim called to talk to Kelly, and he told her the baby would probably be coming any day, but didn’t say that I was actually in labor. We got home around 5.30. I finished packing what I could of our hospital bag and changed into my pajamas. I went to sit on the couch, with my heating pads, and read Chronicles of Narnia for awhile. The whole day Kelly kept asking me what I wanted him to do and finally I said that I just wanted him near me, even though I didn’t need any help yet. So he sat on the other couch working on a web design. While I was reading, stretching, breathing, imagining my cervix opening, etc. I tried to time the contractions. They weren’t coming consistently, but did seem to be about every 7 to 10 minutes. I eventually decided to try to take another nap with the rice socks helping for the pain.

I woke up a little before 7. I was still groggy, but I remember Kelly saying something about a plug-in he had found for the new website he was working on. That’s when I screamed, heard a loud pop, stood up, and ran to the bathroom. Kelly followed yelling, “What happened, what happened.” I sat on the toilet saying, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I think my water broke.” It wasn’t as much water as I was expecting, though, and I felt like my entire insides were emptying out and the pain had jumped off the scale.

Read more »

I’ve put together an audio guide with everything you need to know about planning a trip to hike the Camino de Santiago.

The audio guide is an interview with my wife April. She answers some of the basic questions most people have about the Camino de Santiago and shares her experience walking the Camino Primitivo in June 2005.

You can listen to the interview as a whole or by topic.

Complete Audio Guide:
El Camino de Santiago, A Podcast
(78mb) Listen Now

By Topic:
What is the Camino de Santiago?
(2mb) Listen Now

What are the different routes I can take?
(3mb) Listen Now

How long does it take to hike the Camino de Santiago?
(2mb) Listen Now

What is a typical day like on the Camino de Santiago?
(4mb) Listen Now

Who should I travel with on the Camino de Santiago?
(4mb) Listen Now

What kind of people do you meet on the Camino de Santiago?
(4mb) Listen Now

What is the credential and why is it important?
(8mb) Listen Now

What equipment do I need to do the Camino de Santiago?
(9mb) Listen Now

What is the hiking like on the Camino de Santiago?
(3mb) Listen Now

What is there to see on the Camino de Santiago?
(7mb) Listen Now

How do you know where to go on the Camino de Santiago?
(5mb) Listen Now

Do you need to speak Spanish to do the Camino de Santiago?
(3mb) Listen Now

What are the hostels (albergues in Spanish) like on the Camino de Santiago?
(11mb) Listen Now

How much does it cost to do the Camino de Santiago?
(4mb) Listen Now

What have you learned from hiking the Camino de Santiago?
(6mb) Listen Now

Would you hike the Camino de Santiago again?
(2mb) Listen Now

Read my review of Margaret Malewski’s GenXpat online at the American Citizens Abroad website.Here’s the link. You’ll have to scroll down to GenXpat under the list of reviewed books and click on the title.www.aca.ch/cadacabo.htm

One place I take friends who visit me in Madrid is a flamenco bar called El Mesón de la Guitarra. The bar is a dimly-lit cave carved out of the wall of Madrid’s most well-known square, Plaza Mayor. On any given night one or two men with guitars will strum their chords while older men crowded around wooden tables bellow their flamenco with fierce vibrato.

I brought my friends for the music initially, but one evening a man at a table next to us who was eating a plate of peppers ordered a plate of the same for my friends and I. Now I bring my friends for the music and the peppers.

Read my full recipe online at Other Spain Magazine. Here’s the link:

spain.othercountries.com/otherspain/pages/recipes/pimientos.asp

These little potatoes are probably the most traditional tapas food in Spain. They can be found almost everywhere. I usually order a plate of patatas bravas when I’m out for tapas with friends because they’re cheap, they’re vegetarian (there’s usually at least one herbivore in the group), and in a country where most food is cool on the tongue, these little spuds, packed with hot pepper and vinegar, make your mouth zing.

Read my full recipe online at Other Spain Magazine. Here’s the link:

spain.othercountries.com/otherspain/pages/recipes/bravas.asp

April and I lean on the old stone wall. From here, 166 meters above the city, Alicante unfolds before us like a living tourist map. We trace our steps from yesterday through the city, from the train station down the wide, glittering Avenida de la Estación, past the dignified Mercado Central, right onto La Rambla, eventually worming our way into El Barrio, circling the Catedral de San Nicolas once before arriving at our hostel, our Les Monges Palace.

The port looks like a parking lot for boats, a square patch of water with each boat in its place. Palm trees stitch up the port on all sides. Bulky nightclubs nap close by. They need their rest for tonight, like last night, when we walked between the palm trees and the clubs, the port going off like fireworks, lights flickering in all directions, disco music echoing in our ears.

Now, in the early afternoon, Alicante is tame, like the golden retriever jogging next to its master along the beach. It’s December and 20 degrees. Three wet heads bob in and out of the cool water just beyond the white-laced shoreline.

This morning we walked Postiguet Beach till we found the “tunnel into the mountain” as the girl at the tourist office put it. We searched the beach like pirates, even though there was no “x” marking the spot on our map, until we found the tunnel. Only once we found it, was it obvious were it was. The entrance, framed by a red billboard, told us in capital letters that this black hole drilled into the side of the mountain was not the path to buried treasure, but to El Castillo Santa Bárbara, the proud castle that sits perched above the city, a reference point as trustworthy and faithful as the sea and the mountains.

At the heart of the mountain, we paid our 2,40€ a person, stepped into the elevator and were pumped to the surface in seconds by this mechanical artery. The steel doors opened, and our senses were jolted by everything Mediterranean. Read more »

Guest contributor to kellycrull.com is Kelly Wills, a good friend of mine living in Madrid and this year celebrating her first Christmas in Spain. Besides having a great name, and possibly having watched A Charlie Brown Christmas a few too many times, she brings us this Christmas tale straight from Plaza Mayor in Madrid.

I bought a Christmas tree yesterday–the first big one I’ve ever bought. It’s 180 cm tall, which is 5.85 feet, for those of us to whom centimeters means nothing at all (I had to look it up–I didn’t know either). Not the tallest in the world, but the biggest I could find. It will do. I’m ridiculously excited about it. I can’t wait to take it home and fix it up with all the trimmings.

Oops.

I don’t have any trimmings. Not one light, not one garland. No ribbons or tree skirt. No star. I can’t even find my Bing Crosby Merry Christmas CD. I have one little gold ornament with black bears on it. It says, “Harlan County, KY,” I think. It’s my first ornament. I plan to go to a cien pesetas store or to the Christmas market in Plaza Mayor to get decorations, but the thought of it still makes me a little sad. No matter how much I spend on decorations (which won’t be much), my tree will never compare to the tree in my parents’ house. It’s the most beautiful tree in the world.

Our family has been considering getting a new tree for at least the past decade. The box it was stored in has long ago disintegrated, so now it’s just wrapped up in a sheet (often fastened with panty hose tied around it) for most of the year, hanging from bungee cords in the garage. I’ve always thought it kind of looked like a body hanging up there, but there’s my overactive imagination for you. And too much CSI.

But when we put the tree together, it’s magical. Shaping it is always a painstaking job, pulling out each individual twig from each branch, making sure that each bough curves like a real tree (rather than sticking straight out in fake tree fashion), enough to look realistic but not so much at the bottom that the tree will be too skinny at the top. And of course, it only can be shaped while listening to Bing Crosby.

Next come the lights. Inevitably, at least one string is missing a bulb that has to be sought out, and at least 3 or 4 have been put away improperly. We wonder who on earth went up into the attic and messed up the strings of lights that were in perfectly good shape last MARCH when we put the tree away.

The white lights are wrapped around the middle of the tree, as far inside as they will go, followed by strings of colored lights on the middle and outside. This makes the tree look infinitely deep, as if it were its own Narnia-like forest where you could walk in and never come out the other side. Next come the garlands (silver, gold, sometimes red). At this point it’s getting late, so we leave the ornaments for the next day, turn out the lights, and enjoy our half-done, but still beautiful, work of art.

The next day, with Bing back on (maybe interspersed with Amy Grant’s christmas album and Handel’s Messiah, but Bing is the standard), we start hanging ornaments. Here’s where the real magic starts. It is scientifically impossible for all those ornaments to fit on that tree. First there are the clear glass balls that go deep into the tree to reflect all the colored lights. After that, we have the colored glass balls–boxes upon boxes upon boxes. The tree is full. But we’re just getting started. Now it’s time for the fun stuff.

My parents have been married over 30 years and haven’t thrown away an ornament. There are the ones from their first years of mairrage, a few from their childhood, and my sisters’ and my baby ornaments. They’re both teachers, so each year the collection is added to by students who either have conscientious parents or who are making a last ditch effort at upping their B+ to an A-. There is the white paper dove that Mrs. Martin gave me in the first grade. There is Kim’s popsicle stick sled, painted red. There is the aluminum foil angel that Country Mother (my great-grandmother) made. There is the wooden nativity, the clothespin reindeer and the cuckoo clock. There is the dancing soldier, the red ice cream cone looking thing, and the countless pictures of us as kids. I had really big teeth in the second grade, and wore a purple dress. There is the Star Trek ship where you press a button, and Mr. Spock says, “Starship to Enterprise…Starship to Enterprise. Spock here. Happy Holidays. Live long, and prosper.” There is a tiny bird’s nest that rests on top of a branch, and a cat that has “Fluffy” written in marker on the back of it–my grandmother got that one for our cat. (Only she called him Fluffy. To the rest of us, he was Fat Boy.) Sometimes, to finish it off, we would buy a box of candy canes and hang them from any branches left unadorned. All of these ornaments had their own hierarchy of importance. Kim and I, for years, had staked out which ones were ours to hang, and hanging someone else’s ornament was right up there with blasphemy in our family. There are some things you just don’t do.

I remember finally being old enough to hang things near the top of the tree when I used the cricket (wooden stool) that Uncle Poppy made, and then finally feeling like a full fledged adult when I didn’t even need that help anymore. I was 14. I had arrived.

The house was always quiet the night after the tree was decorated. Usually there would be a Christmas movie on TV or something, and we would turn the lights down in the rest of the house and congregate in the living room around the tree. We never made a plan to do this–I think we all just decided together to take that time and admire our handiwork. There was our family–me, my sisters, my parents, grandparents, great grandparents, and now neices and nephews, all represented in one way or another on our tree. The more we looked, the more stories we remembered. Sure, the tree was a bit busier than ones you would see in Good Housekeeping, but it’s the most beautiful tree in the world. Ever since I was little, I remember being so proud when a visitor would come into the house and start the ooh’s and ahh’s, touching ornaments and asking the stories behind them.

This year will be my first Christmas away from home.

So even though I’m excited about my new tree, having my own tree makes me a little sad. It’s like an admittance that I’m an adult, that I have to make my own tree now and start collecting my own ornaments to put on the tree (although, Mama, if you want to send me some of ours, I’ll be more than happy to take them off your hands.) I’m only 24. I don’t have years of stories to tell for different ornaments. At best I can make the tree beautiful, but it still won’t be our tree in Kentucky.

But I do have one ornament with a story. I have my Harlan County black bears ornament that my mom gave me before I came back to Spain. My first real ornament for my first real tree! It’s just a little ornament, but it means alot to me, and will have a prominent place on my tree.

I would like to have seen my parents’ tree in its first year. Were the ornaments sparse? Was my mom sad that there weren’t many stories on it yet? What a difference a couple decades make.

I hope that in 30 years I will have a tree that’s just maybe a little too old, with too many ornaments, so that my tree is full almost to the point of bursting with things from my parents and grandparents, and my own family. I hope that my kids will get excited about paper doves and popsicle stick sleds and clotheshanger reindeer. And then I can point to the Harlan County ornament and say “This was my first ornament.”

“And this one next to it? I got that at the market in Plaza Mayor in Madrid, Spain.”

I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.