The Loudest Street in the World

I am convinced I live there.  Reasons why?

1. We live directly above the Post Office.  This means that exactly at 8:00am (7:55, actually), the big yellow truck roars up right under our bedroom window and loads up.  Directly under us sits the warehouse, so for about 15 minutes each morning (and each afternoon at 2:30pm) there is all sorts of screeching, dragging, stacking, and general noisiness happening.  However, it is important to note that the truck used to roar up at 5:55am until we learned that it was illegal to make such noise before 8am and we filed a complaint with the town hall.  Amazingly, no one had done this before us as it took just one complaint for the truck to change its hours.

2. The obnoxious granddaughter.  Our building is filled with old people.  Directly above us live a set of grandparents (who ironically have complained about our dryer running too often).  They happen to be grandparents to a third-grade girl who finds it entirely appropriate to scream 'Iaia (pronounced Ya-Ya!)' repeatedly from the street instead of ringing her buzzer from downstairs.  Her parents apparently approve of this behavior, as they are often found standing next to their daughter as she bellows for her grandmother from the sidewalk.  When this lovely child does enter the building, she can be heard shouting and yelling up and down the stairs, and through our ceiling as she gallops around her grandparents' apartment.  Three years has done little to help her calm down, and she is just as noisy today as she was the day we moved in here.

3. The yappy dog across the street.  There is a little white puff ball that inhabits the apartment directly across from us.  He likes to show his dominance from two floors up by barking at every dog that happens to cross the street below him.  The other dogs rarely respond in kind, as mentioned before, this dog is no more threatening to them than a marshmallow.

4. Carpentry shop below and to the right.  Sawing.  Cutting. Noisy truck to transport things.

5. Scrap metal shop across the street.  Big noisy truck unloading noisy things.

6. Bar down and to the left.  It is a bar.  Enough said.

7. Moto and Motorcycle repair shop across the street.  Lots of motos roaring up and down our street all day  (and all night) long.  I am not sure why so many motos feel the need to have engines that roar louder than jet planes.  I imagine their drivers will have serious hearing problems someday.  The motos seem to have a knack to tear down the street exactly when I have just gotten Keane or Mati to sleep.  It's awesome.  And illegal, not that anything will be done about it.  After all, this is Spain.  Which brings me to my final point....

8.  This is Spain.  The general population is LOUD.  And seem to have a complete lack of respect for those around them that might be bothered by their prattling on at three in the morning on the street.  Teenagers, children, old people...they're all the same.  Noisy folk.

Maybe I am just grumpy because I have a headache.

Maybe I have a headache because it is too noisy on this street.

Chicken or egg, it is always so much more pleasant here when I can keep the windows shut.  Then I can hide in my apartment and pretend I am back in Germany where people are quiet and respectful.

Of course, there I would be getting complaints left and right about being too loud myself with my noisy dryer and whiny kids...

Heading home

The past few weeks we have been housesitting in Barcelona, and today we head back to our apartment about 20 minutes out of town.  While I have enjoyed being in the city, I will be happy to be back among my own things, in our own space, and on wood flooring again.  Such stress comes with these stone floors when you have a clumsy daughter and a crawling baby who likes to pull himself up on everything and try to cruise about on his tippy-toes.

Still a long stretch of the summer to go before school starts, and much to accomplish.  Matilda still shows little understanding of potty use, though she is going more often than not in the potty and communicating that she would like to sit there.  Once seated, however, she does not do much...often times, I think she uses the excuse to get out of eating dinner or going to bed.  She has us under her thumb a bit, as when she says "Ca-ca" we have no choice but to respond...tricky little monkey.

So all is packed up, and just waiting for the little man to awaken so I can run to the grocery and replenish the goods that we used up during our stay here.  Will be buying lots of wipeys, lots.  We go through those like gangbusters.

Trying to have a more positive outlook on life these days, and so my positive thought for the day is that I am happy to have the apartment that we live in.  It may be small and a bit tight for the four of us, but we have much space compared to most of the other people living on this overcrowded planet.  And again, we have wood floors.  With extra sponginess underneath for our little adventurers.

The Bait-and-Switch

Yesterday, I opened up a newly purchased package of cheese to find that it had gone moldy (mouldy, if you are reading from any other English-speaking country).  So, of course, being of the American persuasion, I decided to make a quick hop to the grocery store to return it.

Not an odd cultural observation?  While I am apt to return things that are legitimately broken, don't suit the purpose for which they were bought, or have gone moldy (mouldy), many people here seem to find this practice strange and perhaps, a bit 'pushy American' of me.

For the most part, when I have had to return things or ask for exchanges here in Spain, this has been done with a smile and quick accommodation on the part of the seller.  Though, the general population here still appears to be a bit resistant to the whole 'customer is always right' philosophy.  Am I always right?  Most certainly not.  But when I do choose to make a complaint or return something, I usually have put in the effort to solve the 'Should I return this or not?' equation.  Simply put, Value of item + Satisfaction of just outcome - Effort expended to get my inherently lazy self out the door and complete transaction in a foreign language = X.

X = Sit at home or Head out the door.

So when regarding the moldy cheese yesterday, X equaled go time, and so I went.

First transaction: the lady at the customer service desk spoke Catalan, so I was golden.  I speak much better Catalan than Spanish, as Jordi's family's home language is such, and I have very little time to practice my (pathetic) Spanish skills.  She told me to find a replacement cheese and direct the cashier in her direction when in line to pay.

Second transaction: After getting replacement cheese, picked a line with a Catalan-looking lady at the helm (and taking a peek at her name tag, deciding it was likely she would be able converse with me in my preferred language).  Still, I always prep my speech in my head prior to interaction, as going off the cuff often results in a tied tongue, sweaty forehead, and a confused conversation partner.  Person in front of me finishes paying, and I step in front of the cashier, ready to interact.

And a decidedly South American-looking woman slides in behind my Catalan cashier with her cash tray, ready to switch shifts.

It was all downhill from there.

I said something like: Woman. There. Change cheese. Me American.  Me good Spanish no.  No. No.  Bad cheese.  No good Spanish.  Me want cookies.  Om nom nom.  Cooookies!

She (rightly) said: ¿Que?

I needed to rework my equation.

Name Change

Like the new template design?  New title, new purpose, and even a new little armchair in the corner of the background picture.  Soon, in a few weeks, a domain name change...ditching the 'goes global' theme, as it doesn't look like there is much going on for us globally these days.

I've come to realize that I do a lot of random observations - much to the chagrin of my husband, who I am afraid has grown a bit weary of my constant and continual reflections and comments on the nature of humankind and its evolution.  Random, I know, but I think about these things...like why Germans are better at managing themselves than Spaniards (or Italians, or Greeks, or pretty much anyone else on this continent for that matter...regardless of how they conducted themselves in the past).  Hint: I think it can be attributed to the old adage about the Grasshopper and the Ant story.  I also armchair anthropologize my family rather frequently, and perhaps it is true that I should keep some of these thoughts to myself.

So I've come up with a new purpose for this blog, and a redirection might be what I need to keep more interested and focused on posting more frequently.  Random observations on peoplekind...sometimes short and sweet, sometimes probably a bit too lengthy and rambling.  But always based in some sort of true-to-life experience on my part.

I'm sure my husband will be happy that I have found an outlet for this sort of mind-meandering that I so frequently indulge in.

Tomorrow's topic: why men have such a hard time being sick.

Okay, maybe not...that's not so much of a unique observation as it is a factual truth.  At least according to most women...

Sick Bug

So after ten months of fantastic health, my little guy has caught his first nasty virus.  He, along with the rest of the family, did have a bout with the flu back in February, but he seemed to weather it better, and just had a wee bit of fever for a day or so and was done with it.  This, in contrast to Jordi and myself, who spent the better part of five days battling high fevers and exhaustion, along with chills and lots of moaning and groaning.

Yesterday morning, as I picked him up out of his chair after a less than successful breakfast (which is unusual for our champion eater), he felt a bit warmer than usual.  After a quick thermometer up the bum, it was confirmed that he did have a bit of a fever at 37.7 C (99.8 F for those of you playing at home).  Not a biggie, though with all of our issues with Mati and fever seizures it is still hard for me to adjust to the fact that life can carry on a bit better when Keane falls ill.  We went on with our plans for the day, but around lunchtime, I discovered that along with the low-grade fever, he had also developed a bit of a rash.

So, off to the doctor we went, to find that due to the holiday schedule of the doctors, there was only a pediatrician in the mornings, and we would have to see one of the doctors that catered to adults.  She gave him an exam and pronounced that he just had a heat rash.  Really?, I thought, thinking that the body temp was a bit higher than normal to be considered a heat rash, but both she and the pediatric nurse on duty did not seem terribly concerned, and so kept my thoughts to myself.

Fast forward to last night, after the temperature shot up to 39.3 C (102.2 F), Keane throwing up his dinner, and being generally much crankier than usual (as he is the sunniest, most content little guy you are likely to meet - why else do you think I flew twice to the US, by myself, with him) and the heat rash theory seemed to be obviously inaccurate.

The fever raged through the night, and unlike his sister, it has been discovered that Keane does not enjoy the taste of orange-flavored Dalsy, the brand of children's ibuprofen available here.  When trying to administer it at around 5am, he promptly vomited all over my jammies, his diaper, and our pillows.  Nice.  So had to dilute it with water and drip it on his pacifier (and on the bed, new jammies, and self).  He was not pleased, but the fever did start to drop.

Upon awakening for the day, I sent Jordi in search of suppository Ibuprofen and Paracetamol (Tylenol, for those of you still playing along from the States).  He returned with just the Paracetamol, saying that the pharmacist was flummoxed that he didn't like the flavor of Dalsy, and that it didn't come in an up the bum version.  Paracetamol doesn't seem to do much for this fever, and Keane was again most displeased with the bum method, so we did battle once again with the Dalsy, along with some wet cloths, and the fever has been gone for a few hours now.  Let's hope another fever spike is not part of this evening's agenda.

The rash is persisting, and I can't quite figure out what he has, though Jordi reminded me that Matilda had something very similar a few years ago.  Most bugs that come with a rash (Roseola, Fifth disease, Measles) typically have the rash appearing after the fever, not on the same day the fever starts.

Who knows?  It will be nice to have my baby boy all better again, eating well, and filling back out to his normal chubby self.  It will also be nice not to have to stick things up his bum and hope that he doesn't shower me with vomit after every meal as well.  Joys of parenting, right?

I love this metaphor.

WELCOME TO HOLLAND

by
Emily Perl Kingsley.

c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.

Mati, you are my Holland...love you, you big crazy goofball.  Maybe you're just speaking Dutch, and that's why sometimes we have a tough time figuring out what you are trying to tell us!

Saint Martin

That is the name of a lovely canal in Paris, near to where I spent one summer six years ago.

It is also the name of our daughter's neurologist.  Of course, his name is not Saint Martin exactly, but the Catalan translation of this name.  We had yet another meeting with him this past week to discuss Matilda's condition, progress, medication, and seizure control.  It must be said, before updating on our most recent visit, that Dr. SM and I do not have the best relationship.  I think he finds me to be an outspoken American, and he does not like when his patients' parents ask questions.  And I ask questions.  What mother doesn't?  Apparently, all of the other mothers he deals with, as he tends to get quite argumentative with me when I ask him to look at our daughter's case on an individual basis, and not to just pump her full of drugs because that is 'how you treat Dravet Syndrome.' (Said with a stern look, and a cursory glance at Jordi as if to say: 'Why on Earth did you marry this pushy American woman?')  Matilda does have the genetic mutation that is associated with Dravet Syndrome, and she certainly does have many of the characteristics - but her mutation is in a different position (whatever that means, though apparently it is a good thing in this case), and therefore she is not presenting as severe as many of the other children who have this diagnosis.  She has far fewer seizures, always associated with a fever, and though she does have some difficulty with motor control as well as speech and cognitive delays, she is progressing with the aid of her speech therapist, psychologist, and physical therapist.  We had to fight for those things, however, as when I first questioned this doctor of the possibility of getting her started with physical therapy about a year-and-a-half ago, his response was: 'Motor skill issues are part of the syndrome.'  As if this means that she is hopeless, and there is no way to improve her coordination.  Dick.  (Sorry for the expletive.)  Anyway, he really hates it when I ask about different medications or lowering certain ones (especially when I suggest that the reason our daughter has stopped eating/sleeping/walking well/etc. has something to do with one of his precious prescriptions that still has yet to get our daughter's seizures under control).  Again, dick. (Apologies.)

So on to last week's appointment.  I had encountered another mother whose daughter has the same diagnosis, and she has been seizure-free for 15 months.  Her medication is different than Matilda's, so we wanted to ask about this med for Mati.  However, knowing the doc's love and respect for yours truly, I made Jordi ask him.  Man, the response was off the charts.  He got really pissed off, pounded the table, looked directly at me (recall that I did not utter a word!) and said 'It is always the same with you, you want to change everything.  If you don't have confidence in your doctor, you should change.  It wouldn't bother me. (Note: I actually think he would prefer it - maybe he was being mean to me in the vein of how guys are mean to girls when they want the girl to break it off with them.) There are just two ways to treat this syndrome, with this, this, and this, or what you are currently using.  You didn't like the previous three medications (Note: Matilda woke up EVERY night from 2 to 5 am, hyper and ready to party - would you like that medication?  Maybe she could have bunked with Dr. SM for the six months of sleepless hell that was Stiripentol.) Switch doctors, it wouldn't bother me.'  Again, this was all directed at me!  There were two student doctors in the room, both looking baffled and a bit wary of their 'mentor' doctor.

What shall we do?  To find a new neurologist would be difficult, as he is the chief of the neuro crew there. Maybe with Obamacare being upheld by the Supreme Court, it is a signal to us to make the move to the US where most doctors seem to have a better handle on bedside manner.

Vila Olimpica

This week, we have become squatters.  Sort of, anyway.  A parent from school offered his apartment to us for a week this summer, while he is out of town, as kind of a housesitting gig.  The place is in Vila Olimpica, the former olympic village for athletes during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona.

About a 10-minute walk from the city beach, and steps from the movie theatre that plays movies in English (not that we can actually go, with two small people taking up most of our time and energy, but still nice to have it nearby!).  We've enjoyed being here, however, not due to the apartment's location, but more so because we just have a bit more space to move around.  The apartment is just 10-15 square meters bigger than our own, it is also a three-bedroom with a balcony, but that extra bit of space makes a big difference.  The kitchen is eat-in, the bedrooms are suitable for double beds, not just twins, and there are TWO bathrooms!  Which, of course, leads us to the continuous discussion: how can we get more space?

Right now, we live in Jordi's grandmother's old apartment, which we have refurbished for the most part, and due to this, we don't pay any rent.  This is a godsend, as our salaries are painfully low (though I feel a bit bad complaining about that, considering that 25% of people in this country have no salary at all to speak of).  Regardless, free is about as inexpensive as it gets.

But we need a place with a bit more room for two growing people (one of which has extreme hyperactivity) to move around, and to have something like yard would be amazing.  That is impossible in our current location, as houses with yards go for around 1.5 million euros.

What to do?