Gone Fishin'

These past two weekends the sun has decided to peek through the clouds and we jumped on the opportunity to spend some time at the beach. For those of you who don't know, my in-laws have a great apartment in a small fishing village called Portosin. They only go during the summer months, and the rest of the year it's empty. So every chance we get we like to get out of Santiago and spend some time wondering around looking at the boats and breathing the ocean air.

I love Spanish fishing boats. They are all brightly colored. Red, Blue, Green. The older ones are made of wood, but now the newer ones have metal hulls.

Fishermen from Portosin catch sardines, mackerel, anchovy, sargo, pescadilla, rodaballo, hake, bream, anglerfish, etc. But many times they have to go up to the Basque country or down to Portugal to find whatever they can get and bring it home. Other fishermen have to leave Portosin altogether, as was the case for our friend Suso who has to go for months at a time to Mauritania in Africa. Fish keep getting harder to find due to overfishing, so the fishermen have to keep going further out.

Not only is it getting harder to find fish, but it's also a dangerous livelihood. A few years back Suso was out off the coast of Africa with his crew and his boat sank. Luckily they all made it into the life raft and were rescued, but not all are as lucky. They still haven't found the fishermen whose boat went down a few weeks ago off the Galician coast.

The fishing boats come in all shapes and sizes. We spent about 30 minutes watching a little old man trying to get into his tiny little motorized row boat so he could try his luck out in the ria. He couldn't seem to find the best way to manuever it and get in without getting wet, and then once he finally got in he couldn't get the engine started. We left the scene chuckling. Needless to say, about 5 hours later we took a walk to the docks at dusk and saw the same little man coming back to shore with the engine sputtering, drinking a beer. I wonder if he caught anything?

crab pots

When the boats come in at night (or early morning) you know they're coming long before they actually arrive. A loud siren sounds. One siren means sardines are coming. Two for mackerel. All the buyers make a run for the auction house. In come the boats. There's lots of commotion. The ice machine cranks up. The seagulls swarm and hover over the boats. The auction begins. Another long day's (or night's) work is over.

I love strolling through the port area with the piles of crab pots, fishing nets, bouys, and wooden crates. I even love the smell of the fish.

The fishermen work hard, but they also know how to play hard. In a village with only 1,000 inhabitants there are 11 bars. On any given day you can walk into La Parrillada and see groups of old men drinking cognac and playing cards.

Galicia is full of these quaint fishing villages, but Portosin is special to Jose's family because of the many summers spent there since he was a child. The population has grown, the old fisherman houses have all but been replaced with apartment blocks, and a large part of the beach has been turned into a parking lot, but the fishing boats still come and go like they always have.

A Breath of Fresh Air

Today is the first nice day without rain and blustery winds that we've had since Christmas. I'm counting down the minutes until I get off work so that I can run home, have a quick lunch, pack a bag, grab my book and head to Portosin with Jose. I need a change of air. Santiago is caving in on me from all around.

Joss, Jossiño, Pepe

It was a cold, rainy evening in November of 1999, and I was sitting in my room with the space heater on listening to Carlos Nuñez or Ella Baila Sola...I can't remember which. The doorbell rang. I went to ansewer it and it was my next door neighbor. He asked to borrow some glasses for a little get-together he was having with friends. (At least that is what I thought he wanted according to my 10th grade spanish. If not, he must have been pretty shocked when I handed him three glasses.) He asked if I wanted to come over to the party for awhile and I said, sure. (Again, if that wasn't what he said he must have thought I was pretty rude for just inviting myself.) You see, if I were to have the same conversation now I'd have no problems, seeing that I've become fluent, but at the time I had pretty much just stepped off the plane and felt like I was in a Peanuts cartoon. Wawawa.

Anyway, I decided to venture out and give it a try. I walked across the hall and into their apartment. My neigbor led me into the kitchen and introductions were made. That was the first time we met. I was immediately drawn to this interesting guy with beer and cigarette in hand sitting in the corner. I can't really remember anything about the conversation because it felt like I had a high pitched hum in my head all night. That's what it feels like when you can't understand anything for 3 hours.

That was the day our friendship began.

Jose and company would come over to our apartment in the evenings and we'd have coffee and play escoba. It wasn't until one night having chocolate con churros in the old city that I started to see Jose as more than just a friend. I loved hearing him talk about his passion...history. I could see myself spending the rest of my life with him.

I'd always been the assertive type when it came to relationships. Boys had always been somewhat afraid of me for some reason, so I'd gotten used to making the first move. This time was no different. But considering I sounded like a 5-year-old speaking in spanish I decided that this time I'd write everything I had to say to Jose down. I'll never forget the look on his face when he read it. I'm not sure if it was shock from the content of the letter or shock at how pitiful my written spanish was. Needless to say, we've been married almost 7 years now and I'm pretty sure he still has that letter stuck between the pages of a history book on the shelf.

Crunchy Towels

No more! After 7 years of hanging our clothes out to dry and having to iron pretty much everything including T-shirts, we've gone out and bought a dryer. I'm pretty excited. They haven't delivered the Whirlpool yet, but I'll let you know when my towels are soft and April Fresh.

Costa da Morte II

Jose and I took another trip to the Costa da Morte (Coast of Death) when my parents were here back in October. This time we went a little further up north. I didn't think Galicia could get any more beautiful, but it just keeps surprising me. I'm so blessed to live in this amazingly and insanely beautiful country.

As usual, we stayed in a rural house. It's the best way to travel in these parts. It's so much cheaper than a hotel and the atmosphere is unbeatable. Each of our rooms led out to a balcony with a lovely view of the surrounding valley. We all sat out there at night and drank cognac from dixie cups. The perfect combination of elegance and redneck. Good times.

The owners were also really nice. They showed us all of the before and after pictures of when they were renovating the house and served us breakfast with lots of homemade goodies. Peach preserves, fresh bread, pound cake, hot coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice. Mmmm.

The scenery was stunning. Lighthouses perched on cliffs. White ocean spray. Green slopes. Mist. Wild horses. Beauty all around.

Speechless.