Finding a Home - The First 2 Weeks

The green screen at the Tabakalera

Our life had been whittled down to a few suitcases and ukuleles. It seems such a small amount, except when you have to carry it all. 3 big suitcases, 2 carry-on, 2 ukes and a mando is a huge amount to schlep  on your own.

We arrived at our Airbnb, situated in the area of Romantica in Donosti, via a big ass taxi. Thank goodness the apartment was for 4 because the suitcases took up the second room. The apt is small and the beds hard as a rock – no good for our tender hips.

Cameras and equipment for your tic tok pleasure 

Spain is the land of families and Catholics. Sunday nothing is open, except for the many bars/cafes that line neighborhoods. Not that the drinking is out of hand, it’s just that every one’s flat is so small, it’s the only way to escape.  We arrive to Donosti without provisions and nary a grocer open. Thank goodness there are an influx of emigres here. The Indians and Orientals gladly open on Sundays and thus we were able to find milk, eggs and bread to make it thru the day.

Monday, we have a date with Ana. Ana is H’s  Zoom Spanish teacher who lives in the Amara section of town. A delightful young lady, we enjoy a coffee together and plan our courses for the upcoming months. Afterwards, H and I roll onto the FNAC center for shopping at the Super Amara grocery store. So much smaller than what we are used to but such a better of a selection of everything. Wow! Fresher. Cheaper. Welcome to Europe.

With the essentials of living behind us, we immediately turn to looking for housing. Spain has a weird logic to realtors. There is no MLS. Decide on a neighborhood you want and find the realtor there.

 

I want a driving school with a Citroen

After a week of exhaustive searching for living arrangements, and many miles on foot, I believe today we close the deal! Tonight, we meet with owners and if they like us (what's not to like?) money is exchanged and voila', we have an apartment.

We took daily bus rides around the city, to get to know different neighborhoods. Last night we sat in an outdoor cafe, near the new apartment, to hear how loud it was. Wouldn't want to have a punk rock nightclub next door! Though on a major road, it is a tolerable amount of street noise. Afterward, since it was late, we checked out the local jazz club. It does not hold a candle to the Saxophone Club (Bangkok), but it will do.

The Ecuadorian Carnival contestants 

I am ready to have a home and start exploring the fun parts of Donostia.

 

 

Home sweet home

Sorry folks. Nothing is in order,  Blogger is not behaving. 

The building 

Soon to be the office/music room

What am I going to do with a dining room?

One of the fabulous beaches in Donostia

Kitchen

From the kitchen to the living room

Entry hall and grand mirror

I could not have wished for a better terrace

Living Room - looka' them floors! 

Master BR with built in's - also en suite

Long hall with built-in

Blue en-suite

Guest room w/ balcony.

 

Protesting

The Hotel Melia is situated on the edge a large park and beside the river “Nervion” and opposite the Gran Via, or main avenue of Bilboa. As we began our stroll across Dona Casilda Iturrizaar Park, there were a series of loud bangs and pops. Being ‘Merikans, our first thought was gunfire. Our second thoughts were fireworks, as we were in close proximity of the Futbol stadium. Soon after the loud bangs began, we witnessed a short but lovely display of fireworks, emanating from the roundabout at the headway of the Gran Via over the beautiful art deco buildings. Ahh, Futbol, we are in your land.

Crossing the tranquil park thru meandering paths alongside fountains, playsets and an abundance of trees, a soft chanting began in the distance, growing louder by the minute as we neared the Gran Via.

“They must have won the game,” says I. “Who ever they is.”

Nope. Not quite. Not by a long shot. As the Gran Via came into sight, a large protest line became apparent. By large, I mean at least a couple of thousand people. It was an impressive number of well-mannered people, waving red banners. Mostly young. The police were escorting the crowd in the lead and in the rear.

I love a good protest, and I was thrilled to see one so well attended, as the protests I usually attend in Florida were anemic at best.

There are always dumb asses in a crowd, and those dumb asses were setting off fire crackers in this crowd, though no one seemed to mind.

We filmed, we photo-ed, we laughed and we definitely could not figure out what the crowd was protesting because it was all in Basque. At that point, we needed to get across the crowd to get to food and wine. We debated for several minutes the etiquette of crossing the line. It wasn’t a picket line, so did those rules apply? We noticed other pedestrians weaving thru the crowd, going their merry way, so porque no?  Our journey thru the crowd began. As we entered the mass, I noted new police arriving, via the sidewalk. We were midway thru the crowd. Suddenly  was an incredibly loud bang, compared to the firecrackers and a huge amount of smoke began to rise from the direction of the police.

The crowd surged manically. My thoughts drifted to how to treat tear gas and where was our quickest exit. H grabbed the back of my coat, hanging on for dear life, as I began to push thru the crowd like I was heading for the stage at a concert. Folks were darting left and right looking for side streets, there were screams for a moment or two. It was an every woman for herself type of situation. Reaching the other side of the wide boulevard which took an hour or just a minute, I turned back as the crowd began to settle down. Some stupid ass, must have thrown a smoke bomb when the extra police arrived. Oh anarchists! After the initial panic subsided, we felt the crazy laughter rise up from our throats. Cackling as we proceeded, we found fabulous pintxos, wine before the bars became filled with thirsty and hungry protestors.

Take a Deep Breath - Frankfurt Edition

Tucked inside the H terminal at Miami International Airport, we were first in line at the Lufthansa check-in, right behind the tiny Japanese woman and slightly larger Korean woman who were on a ski trip.  We really, really want to upgrade to business class. An upgrade would be an exciting and extravagant beginning of our new life adventure.
We were also anxious because we had loads of luggage and lots of ukeleles to transport.  

We waited for about an hour and forty-five minutes in line, drinking shots of Cuban coffee while we chatted up the skiers.

 

Eventually we were waved in to the promised land of Ticketing. The handsome Attendant at check-in informed H that I did not have a premium economy seat and therefore was ineligible for an upgrade. H prickled up at this, in his very Wassery way, which is not a pleasant experience when it is directed at you. Frantically, we searched our emails for confirmation of purchase to prove the gate attendant wrong. H was the winner when he found proof of purchase. An upgrade ensued with anticipated glory of lay down seats. 

 

Looking at a 3 floor apt here!

 Gaining possession and inspecting our boarding tickets, I inquired why I didn’t have my normal PreCheck. The attendant responded I was not in the Trusted Travelers Program. I may not be trustworthy but I do pay for the title and I have the card to prove it, or at least a picture of it on Dropbox. I provide him with my ID numbers, which he stated didn’t work. I look up my copy of my card on Dropbox to verify the numbers, which doesn’t help because there is only a picture of the front. The numbers are on the back, of course. I only have a copy of the front.  However, the image of the card strengthened my case that I was Precheck worthy. The Attendant indicated that he would get us thru Precheck personally and printed new tickets for me. As we had upgraded, it made us very important customers and we were escorted to Precheck.

H passed thru the TSA checkpoint with flying colors. When TSA scanned my ticket and I was not allowed to pass because as the TSA agent said, “this ticket isn’t for this airport.” Wrong airport entirely. At this point, I had never had the new ticket in my hand. Mr. Lufthansa was rightly embarrassed and ran off to his kiosk to correct the problem while I waited beside TSA, like the troublemaker I am.

All sorted out, we proceed to dump our computer gear, etc to be scanned. In front of us was a family of 5 with 3 small kids in tow, who had to send several items back thru the scanner. There was an increase of the chaos and carnage to avoid from this family, but finally we were in the international terminal. Woot.

The sign said it was a 15 -minute walk to the gate and my Fitbit indicated It was around 1200 steps. We made ourselves comfortable, got provisions, went to the bathroom and settled in to wait the 2 hours before the flight. Digging around for something to read, H hands me a computer. 

 

“What’s this?” I inquire

“It’s your computer. I told you I picked it up for you at TSA” said the gallant husband beside me.

“No, it isn’t. My computer’s in my bag. This is not even the same model.”

The abject horror in both of our eyes when we realize he had picked up the harried families computer.

H ran it back to TSA and I scanned the crowd for the family of 5. We’ll never know if they got it back in time or not.