Finding The Best of The Best

 A very dear family friend asked me a very interesting question after seeing that I flew to London to taste a 1973 Chardonnay. Now it wasn't just any old Chardonnay that I flew to another country to taste, it was one that made history and put California/ the USA on the world wine map. This wine won in a blind tasting against the very best French Chardonnays (and other Napa wines) in what was called The Judgement of Paris. There is actually a delightful movie called Bottle Shock all about this wine that you really should see. So naturally it might cause you to wonder, as it did my friend, if this is the best wine in the world? Is there a single very best wine in the world? 

Having read about this wine or that wine being 'the best', my friend asked me, is there one best wine? He asked if I have had a best wine and what made it that? Was it the flavor or the cost? I have been asked versions of this question many times before, but somehow the way he phrased it really made me think and realize that there is a gap in how we, the industry professionals, have been trying to explain wine to you guys (the customers, enthusiasts, wine curious). I am going to try to answer this question differently and in doing so, I hope it starts a more open dialogue about wine.

What is the BEST wine I have ever had? Well, what does that question mean... really. Is it asking if I have tasted a 100 point wine? Is it asking if I have ever tasted a wine that made me cry? Or is it asking if I have had a wine that encapsulates what I love about wine and is therefore the best? My usual answer when asked something like this is that "the best wine is the one in your glass", but putting my smartass quips aside, I am amazed by the flood of wines that come to mind when I think of all the ways to interpret this question. What might make a wine great to me might be the exact thing that makes it the worst to you. This is how I usually put this question back to you, trying to make the world of wines more accessible, or at least that is what I thought I was doing. Now I am wondering if I actually simply left people feeling set adrift in a sea of wine that is so daunting they can't even fathom how to navigate it. Maybe giving finight answers, as opinionated as they will be, IS what people need. Let me give that a try and you tell me, does it help or hurt?

Have I tasted a 100 point wine? Yes. I was in the Czech Republic at a small international wine competition and 2 Masters of Wine and myself scored the wine 100 points. This is incredibly rare. A wine simply does not usually rank exceptional in ALL of the categories: color, aroma, bouquet, fruit, acid, tannin, balance, finish, overall impression. It was a Slovenian red wine that I can not remember the name of. So is that the best wine? Couldn't possibly be if I can't remember the name right? To that measure, I have also been a part of a jury selecting the Best in Show Sparkling Wine at a very highly regarded international wine competition where we were tasked with selecting the very very best out of all the gold medal winning sparkling wines which we later learned were from some of the most impressive producers in California and Champagne, but the blindly tasted winner? A Slovenian wine! I know, Slovenia is making wickedly good wines! What was that wine's name? Yep, you guessed it, I don't remember. 

OK so scores do not make for the best wine... even though technically that is exactly what we are saying as judges. So is it the most expensive wine that I have tasted that is the best? Well, I have tasted a 1990 Dom Perignon which many critics consider the best vintage of several decades and one of the best sparkling wines ever made. It was incredible. I even remember where I was standing when I tasted it at an event. The bottle had been slyly kept under the table while other top sparkling brands sat on the table for people to taste. The wine rep only poured the Dom for a select group of us that he deemed proficient in wine tasting enough to appreciate it. It was rich and creamy, bold in flavor yet elegantly balanced with acidity. It was beautiful and I enjoyed every drop. So is that THE best wine? Well, it was a $400 bottle then, who knows what it would go for today, but I would never spend that much on a bottle of wine... even if I had the kind of money that would allow me to spend that kind of money on a bottle of wine. There are plenty of sparkling wines that are swoon worthy at a fraction of the price. For example the Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque Champagne wines are always exceptional in my opinion and worth the price to celebrate something special. Jesse and I received a bottle as a wedding gift, a time in our lives when we were starting the winery, dirt poor, and absolutely obsessed with wine. After that, every time Jess and I had a big reason to celebrate, that was the wine we turned to (usually around $110). A Vintage Krug Rose Champagne was a spectacular wine given to us by my then wine mentor as a gift when our daughter was born. It is expensive (around $240) and while I have not personally purchased it, if you have the means, you should. A final example is the Canals Munne Gran Duc Grand Reserva Cava that a wine shop clerk helped me select to celebrate our residency going through in Spain. My daughter and I were alone in Spain at the time, using limited spanish to navigate a tricky bureaucratic system in order to register and become official residents of Spain. It had been a harrowing experience that I documented in several blog posts if you care to go on that journey. Being completely broke meant splurging on a bottle of wine was a truly frivolous treat. Luckily (err or maybe not?) we have raised our daughter, who has an amazing palate, to appreciate fine wine so she was as excited as I was to have our celebration be a bottle of wine. This bubbly was delicate yet complex, artistic and delightful while showing exceptional craftsmanship. It was stunning and we cried real tears as we sipped it. It is also only 40 euro. So, are any of those examples the best wine? Maybe, because they packed emotional punches in addition to being great wines. That could push them into the best category, but I hesitate to say that.

Quick aside: If you don't know to explore Cava yet, then you have not been listening to me. For years Cava has been the bubbly that is excellent at very inexpensive price points and bests many very expensive, famous brands. Also, our daughter is 19 and of legal drinking age in Europe.

The Cava did elicit tears, but really it was the event we were celebrating that combined to create an emotional moment. A wine actually making me cry with its beauty, that is a completely different beast. That has only happened once, and it was a moment so stunning that it is one of my most prized life experiences. I had been traveling in Central Europe with my family and judging at wine competitions in several countries when I paused that trip to be flown from Budapest to New York for a competition there. It was my 2nd time at that competition and I had earned the coveted invitation to the private tasting in a hotel room of one of the judges known to have an outrageous wine cellar. That sounds like a sinister plot for a young woman to be a part of, but I assure you it was an honor to be invited. Of those also on the guest list was a man called The Count who was one of the very first Masters of Wine... ever. Several incredible library wines were opened including Grand Crus and collector vintages of Italian greats, but there was one wine that happened to be my birth year, a 1978 Chateau Leoville Grand Vin de Leoville, Saint-Julien, Bordeaux, that stood out. The wine was poured for a room of "experts", murmurs of tasting notes were being swapped, but I had moved entirely into my own world and was tasting with my eyes closed. The wine was 41 years old at the time and while clearly showing age and maturity, it was also holding tight to bright fruit notes! It was astounding to me that the wine could age THAT well and it made me think of the French winemaker who had lovingly crafted this beautiful wine, lived out his life and hoped his wine would age with grace. The year he made that wine, I was born, across an ocean in another country. 41 years later that winemaker would be dead and I would be in a hotel room tasting the remarkable wine, marveling at the winemaker's artistry. The poetry of this thought, the interconnectedness, and the awe of what this man was able to create touched me deeply and I just started to cry. Quiet tears streamed from my eyes and I tried to hide deeper in my chair so I didn't attract any attention from the intimidating crowd around me. A hand on my knee broke me from the meditation and I opened my eyes to see The Count's wife looking at me concerned. Her attention to me drew the attention of The Count who leaned forward and asked "my dear, are you alright?". His speaking caused the room to hush, everyone waiting with baited breath to see what he had to say about the wine and why he was now talking to this little girl (at 41 I was often the youngest in the room of wine geeks). I stammered as I tried to reply and wipe tears off my face. I said I was fine I just thought the wine was beautiful. The Count wasn't going to leave it at that pushed that I describe what I was finding in the wine and why I thought it was remarkable. I shared that it was that someone was making this wine when I was just being born and that I was lucky enough to be siting there 41 years later, tasting one of the last bottles in existence. People stood silently starring at me while The Count beamed with joy. A year or so later I was in Berlin, Germany, at another competition swapping stories with fellow judges when one said the greatest wine story he had ever heard was from The Count who told him one of his most impactful experiences was in a hotel room in New York when a young woman was brought to tears by the beauty of a wine she was tasting. 

But was it the BEST wine?!? I know you are all asking. Well maybe. For me, in that moment, it certainly was. I also just had the privilege to taste the white wine that won The Judgement of Paris, now 53 years old, and it was electric in the glass. A white wine isn't supposed to age like that and it was beautiful. Is that then the best wine??? Or was it the 1977 Cab that was also poured that day that seemed to only now be stretching its legs? Or was it the Vivac Cabernet Franc my husband made (one of my all time favorite grapes in the world) that blew me away and caused me to fall a little bit more in love with him in that moment; seeing that he created something with such elusive resplendence was incredible. 

At this point in my very lucky life I have tasted some truly epic wines in incredible far way, sometimes secret corners of the world and have many "favorite" wineries so I hesitate to say that there is just one best wine. It depends on the day, the place, the reason I am tasting the wine. What I do know is that wine is a combination of extraordinary elements coming together and when everything is just right... the soil and weather conditions, the age of the vine and how much struggle it has had to lead to just the right complexity in the grapes, the winemaker's skill which needs to be as an artist and a chemist, the perfect aging and conditions to lead to its perfect timing to be in your glass and tasting perfectly when you sip it... all of that coming together is as close as we, as humans, will ever come to true magic.

So what is in your glass right now? Is it life changing? Is it remarkable? Chances are it is not. But is it delicious? Are you happy sipping it? Is it making your day just a little bit better? Well that sounds like a pretty awesome wine.

The Impossible Made Possible

The church bells toll only a few hundred feet from my home, but somehow they aren't an invasive sound. My mind travels back to a village in Columbia that we'd spent a month in where the clang of the church bells there was anything but enjoyable and rang so loud you could feel it in your bones. But today, in Spain, I hear the bells and feel serenity.

Serenity has been a little hard to find over the recent months. The search for a "forever" home was full of stress, doubt, worry and a little more stress on top. The housing shortage you hear about is legit, it just isn't quite what you think it is. Spain doesn't hate tourists, yes there were those few instances of water guns being used, but mostly the people of Spain are incredibly kind and loving people. The problem comes from a mess of laws that suddenly turned long term rentals with their rent caps and renters rights, into short term fluctuating priced Airbnbs. This translates to most places being rented for 11 months max, a hefty tax added on and being at the mercy of the landlords arbitrary price gauging during the highly sought after summer months. So if you are not a tourist and don't want to move every few months and also want to live in the city and on a budget of any kind, you are totally screwed. That is why people are pissed. As an example, our rent would be 1,600 euro/ mo + utilities until June when it would sky rocket. Our landlord offered the discounted rate of 4,500 euro/ mo because he liked us. That apartment will now be listed for 6,500 euro/ mo for June, July, August, and September. And it is not a spectacular apartment.

Paying a mortgage back in the USA and paying rent here in Spain not only stretched our bank accounts thin, but our ability to cope. Add the stress of looking for a rental that would be long term and didn't totally suck we had a combination that was almost going to break us. I was on all the websites and in all the FaceBook groups, we had several realtors on the prowl for us and looked at every apartment I could even if they didn't fit our needs. A recently renovated apartment with a huge balcony was tempting, but our adult daughter would have had to live in a closet. I kid you not, the owner justified that it was a 2 bedroom because technically you could fit a twin sized mattress in the closet. Another amazing option was a place that had a to die for balcony, several bedrooms and lots of natural light, but had a walled in kitchen that was so narrow and small that it had zero counter space and you could hardly open the fridge door all the way. I actually became claustrophobic standing in there with Jess. Then, at one point, we found a true gem of a place, we had a verbal agreement and I was measuring rooms so we could furnish it, when the owner came up with a tricky claus... you need to put 40,000 euro in a bank account that will have a hold on it and work as collateral to protect the owner. Is any of this legal? No not really, but there is also nothing you can do about it. What probably happened is that she decided to rent to someone else, probably someone that is Catalan. In case you were wondering, no I do NOT have 40,000 euros just laying around.

Jess was at the point that he wondered if he needed to return to the USA so that we could afford this transition. Our daughter and I could rent a tiny place and we could try getting Jess back over here down the road. Everyone was emotional and it started to feel like the wheels were coming off the bus. And then Jess bumped into our neighbors in the lobby. They had just come from looking at a place that was too big for them, but they thought would be great for us. It was unlisted, in the historic city center, and a reasonable rent with a long term lease. It was too good to be true. We didn't waste a single second, Jess went to go look at it while our daughter and I attended Spanish class. By the end of class I had an eager text to go meet him. He walked us through the twisting cobblestone streets behind the iconic Sitges church to an arched doorway in a stone wall. 

An aside: You know that game where you visit somewhere and you fantasize about what it would be like to live there? You pick the very best street and design what kind of home would make it the most magical. You definitely play at scenarios of which cafe or little market would be "yours". I have always loved this game, especially when I visit Europe. But could it become a reality?

Suddenly I found myself walking into a building that was built in 1901. The heavy latched windows stood open so you could gaze into the charming historic street. A large room, perfect for an office, welcomed us. Up the first twisting flight was the bedrooms and bathrooms full of hardwood floors and quirky charm. Another twisting flight up was the living room and kitchen. The kitchen was huge and even had a window that when you pushed back the shutters you were enveloped in a dazzling view of the tiled rooftops toward the church steeple. The living room balcony drew me to it and I simply had to step out, lean over the railing and relive my childhood fantasy of being a princess in a castle. Up a final twisting flight took us out onto a large rooftop terrace. The view spanned the historic city center and down toward the sea on the other side. It was incredible. Soooo...what's the catch?

Unbelievably there was no catch. It was ours for the taking. Sometimes luck is on your side and everything just comes together. We signed papers and received the quintessential skeleton key that screams 'I live in a castle!'. Our new home is steps from our very favorite section of the city. While surrounded by museums, we also have a wine shop next door and a cluster of cafes and shops around the corner. The very best shopping street, oozing with cuteness, is seconds from our front door and our favorite beach is a 3 min walk. Every day I fall more and more in love with this oddly cozy, stone tower, aka El Torre. Having a long term contract has removed the strain of wondering if we will be on the street soon, but has also given us a space to really connect with. Over the last 6 months my daughter and I moved 3 times. Definitely not the way to feel connected to a place. It has been a lot.

So it's all great now? You might ask. Well, no, not exactly, but getting there. We are in financial stress still. I have a social security number here and get to pay monthly taxes, yay! We are navigating the forever paperwork and are getting closer to the elusive Health Card where I will finally get to see a doctor and get my dwindling medications sorted out. Jess is trying to balance managing the winery from afar with settling in here and our daughter is juggling finishing her film certificate remotely while also jumpstarting a career. We've gathered that Catalan is actually the language we should be learning, but can't even contemplate that yet. For now, we will just try to master the Barca game chant sung everytime the team scores a goal. We can't go for lavish meals, but now have 5 markets we like for different reasons... that one for fruit, that one for meat, that one for spicy peppers you can't get anywhere else. We don't have a car or a scooter, so we go everywhere on foot and take the train to neighboring cities. We line dry our clothes which means they are always a little damp, watch tv in spanish and have embraced sobremesa (the mandatory hangout at the table after a meal for another drink and relaxed chat time). We have made a few friends and finally know where important placas are even though everyone seems to have a different name for them. We sleep in and stay up late. We don't take naps daily, but siesta is mandatory for the entire town and is a quiet time to rest, we take full advantage of that. Maybe the biggest difference from living in the USA and making this feel great is that we no longer hurry. Strolling to your destination is part of the enjoyment of going out... even if that destination is the dreaded Padron. 

Think of All The Beauty...

A year ago my family rang in the new year with glasses of bubbly and hopes for a happy, adventure filled 2025. It is astonishing now to think back to that time. We had zero idea we would be living in another country, having given up literally everything, and be reinventing ourselves a year later. This New Year's Eve, as we clanged plastic glasses filled with Cava together, hurriedly ate green grapes, and laughed until happy tears brimmed in our eyes, we are in awe of our new lives. 

I last left all of you in tears outside the hospital. A lot has happened since then...but also not much has happened. We almost found our long term apartment, have jumped into Spain taxes, and embraced our new futbol team (which is Barça, not because of Barcelona city, but because we live in the province of Barcelona, in Catalonia). You might be asking 'did you get your health card?' or maybe you are wondering 'what happened to the apartment?' or, and I have a packed list of DMs on this one "what is it like living in Spain?!?' I have been wanting to respond, but honestly it is hard to get all of the taxes done, work remotely, get new job opportunities rolling, have siestas, drink amazing cheap wines, eat delicious food and sit in the sunshine AND respond to everyone's messages. Ha ha ha ha, I know, you hate me. I would too.

I swear there really are hard things about giving away all your worldly possessions, upending your entire life and moving across the world, but I can't lie, the longer I am in Spain, in Sitges specifically, I love it more and more, I am happier than ever, and I have zero want to return to the USA. 

Honestly, I really did not expect it to be like this. Even during the hard times like finding the perfect apartment, getting to it before the million other people did, and start shopping for furniture only to have them surprise you with a 40,000 euro banknote claus, or having to pay one type of taxes every month and different quarterly taxes while also living on a decreased salary and paying rent while concurrently paying a mortgage in the USA, or that the lack of my medication and no health card in sight is causing painful Rheumatoid Arthritis flares... I am still impossibly happy.

I wake late in the morning, the sun shining with low cool tones of a winter hue. I sip my coffee and am grateful for the French Press we got ourselves for Christmas, a small luxury when you are broke. I stroll to spanish class and marvel at seeing the sea everyday. The beautiful Mediterranean Sea is Sitges blue, a shade impossible to single out, but lives somewhere between royal blue, cobalt, and azure. Emotions bubble up every single time I crest the grand marble steps in front of the medieval church, a symbol of Sitges. Descending the stairs, there is an elegantly tiled promenade lined with palm trees that hugs the beach and begs you to slow down, take a deep breath of the clean, mineral air and swoon. Charming cobbled stone streets wind through the city center. Cafes line the street and spill out into the walkway clawing at your willpower to join the happy faces watching the people pass by. This is where I live. This is my new life. 

And... also our apartment is too expensive and not great, I still don't have health care, and my spanish sucks, not that that matters because everyone is speaking Catalan anyway. This should be the earmarks of a miserable existence, but it isn't. I am celebrating 4 months in Sitges and yet it feels like I've never been anywhere else. 

There are still plenty of tears as I navigate a new country, but there are more and more times that are due to a cascade of emotion. Like when the sun sets hot pink woven with violet purple, so stunning it made my heart drop into my stomach. Or when the local florist puts new flowers out, electric with shades of yellow, magenta, orange, indigo and every shade of green you can imagine, so delightful that I am dizzy with synesthesia. Or when my daughter doesn't know I am watching her as she gazes out over our town from our favorite wine spot, her red hair gently blowing in the breeze and a look of true tranquility on her face, and it takes my breath away. 

It has taken a series of unfortunate events to bring us here, forced us to make drastic choices, yet the outcome has been bigger and better than our 2025 cheers could have ever dreamt. Pain and fear has given way to beauty and I am so grateful. 

"Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy" - Anne Frank

Wait, What???

I stepped out of the hospital and burst into tears. How could this be happening? Fear coursed through me as the hot tears streaked my face and blurred my sight. The sun was out, but there was a crisp chill in the air. Sitges, Spain's winter is cheeky, one day you are in a thick coat and scarf, the next day you are in shorts on the beach. It keeps you in a constant state of confusion, never knowing what the next day will bring and I thought of this parallel as I walked home. 

"What happened?" my daughter's concern was worn on her face, her eyes wide and mouth agape. I couldn't speak, my chin quivered everytime I tried. My husband asked "Did you get it???" I shook my head no and slumped heavy into the chair.

"I have to go back to the Padro." My words hung in the air like a storm brewing. 

"Noooooooooooooooooo!" my family said in unison as they gathered around me. 

Why would I need to go back to the scariest place on earth and face La Reina again? What did this have to do with the hospital? It is because Spain's paperwork is NEVER over and very well might be the death of me. You see, after hiring a new type of professional to assist with getting us through this, this time for my social security set up, he said I should go to the hospital to register for my health card. He acted like it was so simple, show up with your city registration and passport, they will help you get a health plan and card. No, it is not that simple, at least for me it isn't.

I walked into the hospital hopeful and nervous. I am always nervous when I have to do something important using my deplorable spanish skills. Evidently Spain is having a flu outbreak, so they asked everyone to wear masks, shit. I'm all for masks, but not when I am trying to speak to someone in spanish and also understand what they are saying while not being able to see most of their face. Have you ever noticed how much you rely on seeing people's faces when they speak? I could tell this was going to be difficult. I sat at a woman's desk in the open reception area and handed her my paperwork while simultaneously asking for assistance getting my health card. She spoke fast and at a low volume, a deadly combo in any circumstance. I asked if she spoke english, she shook her head no as she took my papers. Scanning them she saw something wrong and quickly rattled off an explanation. I caught that there was a problem, that I could not get the health card set up until the problem was fixed, and I caught the word 'Padron'. My face froze and I stared at her with my eyes huge in alarm. I could tell she figured I missed the entire thing so she pulled up google translate and started typing then spun her monitor my way. I had gotten it right, there was a problem with my registration, it was tied to my passport instead of my official Spain NIE number. Then I read the fateful words "el Padron". She asked if I understood, then repeated over and over that I had to go to the Padron. It was like a nightmare, I just wanted her to stop saying the word! I stood up and awkwardly stumbled back from her desk shaking my head yes and saying that I understood. She sweetly said that she would help me once I did that AND activated my social security number. Wait what??? I had to get out of there fast, no time to ask questions, I was about to lose it.

That is when I stepped out of the hospital and burst into tears. Just the word Padron conjured up the sound of La Reina's nails aggressively hitting the counter as she barked at me. Shivers ran down my spine. I clearly have PTSD from that lady. 

Here is a breakdown of how this works. First you get a Visa (ha! That makes it sound easy, but it is 4 months of paperwork hell), then when you get to Spain you need to get a residency number and card, this is called an NIE. In order to get that card you need to register with the city you will be living in (the Padron in Sitges). Then you take that registration paper to the police and they fingerprint you and assign your official government number. It is a pretty big deal...and a pretty big hassle. What I did not know was that once you get that special card you have to take it back to the Padron to change the registration from your passport number to your NIE. And that is where we were as I left the hospital. 

Jesse asked if we should all go together since we all had cards and none of us had updated our registration. I think he thought that would make me feel better. It did not. I went to lay down and cry some more. He doesn't get it, it has been so easy for him having come over after us and me having done all the paperwork and found the easiest way to do it for him. The next morning he urged me "to just go get it done." I couldn't, I had to mentally prepare.

A week later I was still not mentally prepared, but the 3 of us stood in front of the Padron office door. I started praying "please God, please don't let it be her. Please, please, please...". I crossed my fingers with child like hope and reach for the door handle. I stepped inside and locked eyes with her, La Reina. It is true, I have bad luck just like my landlord and lawyer had said when I had first met La Reina. Also, maybe God doesn't listen to atheists? 

Those familiar beads of sweat popped up on my forehead and I turned around fast. I started thinking maybe I don't need health care, maybe I can just leave my passport on the registration and never finish the process. I wanted to bolt for the door, but my unconcerned, selfish family were blocking the exit like big jerks. I whispered to them in panic "it's her!!!". When Jesse had registered, he happen to get a very kind older woman working the desk, so this was his first meeting of La Reina. He peeked over my shoulder and pushed me toward a chair. I could feel the blood draining from my face and I felt nauseous. Our daughter casually sat next to me with her sunglasses on and reading something on her phone. She leaned into my arm and nonchalantly said "ya, she is still scary as shit", then sat back in her chair and continued reading. Jesse grabbed my hand and peppered me with questions:

What are we asking for exactly? Do you have all the paperwork and IDs? Do we have to wait for an agent? Are we going to wait if she says it is going to be awhile before we are seen? What is this for again?

If he was trying to distract me, it worked. I was now very annoyed. Evidently the 30 times I'd talked to him about this didn't stick.

The buzzer rang out, it was my number, here we go. Jesse, being a fluent spanish speaker took the lead explaining that we needed to do something with the number on our forms. I wondered how I could be annoyed and terrified at the same time. I had to get involved to further explain that the passport number needed to be changed for our NIE. She gazed at us with steel, emotionless, blue eyes and didn't say a word. We silently stared back... and I might have peed a little. She took the papers and asked to see the NIE cards. She sat down and did something on her computer, looked at the paperwork again and then said my entire name slowly MICHELE ALEXANDRA PADBERG, no one else's, just mine, as she swivelled her chair side to side. Now I can't be certain, but I think she might have been trying to come up with some horrible obstacle she could throw in my way. She suddenly stood up and spoke at double time tempo handing the cards and paperwork back while waving us dismissively away. We backed up slightly and then Jesse asked her to repeat what she said, his confidence shaken. She didn't look at us, but told us to go to the machine across the room giving a pause between each word giving us the clear message that we were a) annoying b) stupid or c) losers, but it was probably d) all of the above. 

The machine was an easy to use guided system to updating your residency info. All of this trauma, drama, and attitude when we could have done it by ourselves? I was speechless, but also relieved to be done and leaving. I called it a win. 

Now back to the other thing the woman at the hospital said... I need to "activate" my social security number? How the hell do you do that???

**** It is true that the paperwork, taxes, short term rentals and no money is blowing my mind, but I wouldn't change it for the world. Spain has given my family a new lease on life. A life that is a little slower; we embrace sleeping in, sietas, and staying up late. A life that feels incredibly supportive no matter who you are, and a life that allows us to gaze at the ocean and sit in the charming streets with a glass of vermouth in hand and feel deeply grateful. As the year comes to an end and we are alone in Spain at the holidays, it is easy to get a little homesick. There is so much that we love that we left behind. The pain can sting if you linger on it for more than a moment, but Spain has a magic that is infectious and has embraced us completely. From my family to yours, we send so much love and wish you a the kind of happiness we have found.

 Happy Holidays!

Madre Mia!

I think I'm hungover. My head hurts and I am nauseous. No it isn't that I was up late drinking wine... although I was up late drinking wine, it is the massive amount of paperwork moving to Spain entails! My hangover is a combination of the letdown from excitement and fear that fueled this move. Adrenalin got me through the initial pile of paperwork, but now I have zero left for the mounds and mounds of more paperwork still to be done.

I have no idea what I thought moving to another country would be like, obviously my imagination was full of charming cafes and cheap wine, what it was decidedly not was learning how to find proof of something that doesn't exist, then having it apostilled, then translated and signed by the authorities in Spain. Yet, here we are. As an example, I somehow managed to get "proof of non-marriage" for my daughter drafted as an original, then apostilled, then submitted to translators and finally signed. Now take that example of ridiculous string of happenings and multiply it by a million and that gets you through simply submitting for a visa.  

Once we arrived in Spain, got our visas (with only a couple revisions after 4 months of hard work), and decided on a place to live, we needed to be registered with the city. Sounds simple, but for starters, I was told to go to the "Padron" which as it turns out is properly called the Ajuntament de Sitges. These kind of little things that everyone thinks you should know and don't are exhausting. Trying to find the Padron office is the same as looking for something that doesn't exist...because technically it does not. Once I found the place, it was impossible to get an appointment so I tried the online suggestion of going and waiting for an opening in the office approach. Supposedly many people are successful with that tactic... what I found out was it is all up to luck. I had bad luck. I was cursed with a woman that seemed to be the gatekeeper to the agents that would help approve me. She was annoyed with me from moment number one. Maybe it was my shite spanish, maybe it was my sharp pointy face (I was once described that way), but whatever it was, she was not going to let me have an easy time with this process. She cited that my rental contract was not proper. I messaged my landlord asking for advice. He assured me it was and that he does many of them and the Padron always approves them. He sent me a photo of his driver's license in an effort to legitimize the contract. La Reina (the queen) was not happy with me one bit when I returned to her desk with this updated information the landlord gave me. All of which I had to try to explain in spanish, bad spanish. You know the feeling when someone radiates annoyance? Well that was now happening as she explained again the issues she had with the contract and that I needed to fix them before anything else could happen. She spoke fast and struck her fingernail hard onto the desk to indicate each of the 5 edits I must make, then pointed to the door. OK, that sucked. And I couldn't help but feel like I also sucked.

Messaging my lawyer, begging for someone to come hold my hand, I was told that while the very letter of the law would ask for these minute details on a rental contract, it was really really rare for anyone to demand it these days. We agreed that she must not like me and that I had no other choice but to try to have these edits made. Let me say again that I am really grateful for our landlord. Remember how I mentioned how great he was in the last post? Well, he didn't want to rewrite the contract in such a silly way, but he did and he supplied several signed copies "just in case". He also agreed that she must not like me and that I did indeed have bad luck. 

With a police fingerprinting appointment looming only a day away that I had to have my registration paperwork authorized for, I returned to the guillotine hoping for mercy. I was literally shaking. Now, I am a very confident, self assured woman, but speaking in spanish whilst doing scary government tasks with La Reina at the helm made me feel like a child having wet their pants at school. I handed her the contract and watched as she skimmed over each word with her hate filled nails. When she looked up she said "vale"(ok) and handed the paper back to me. She motioned to me to evacuate the space near her desk while informing me that without an appointment I may have to sit and wait for many hours for an agent to be available to help me, but I could wait in the open seats as far from her as possible. I had actual beads of sweat rolling down my face as I quickly grabbed a seat, exhaled and tried not to throw up. My daughter tried to give me a pep talk, she held my hand and kept me from having a panic attack. The agent I was able to see within the hour was kind and accepted my forms. Yay! Before I knew it I had our signed authorizations and we were happily skipping down the street to a celebration glass of cava.

Next was going to the police station in the next town over, Villanova i la Geltru. Once again my landlord saved the day and drove us there. Villanova is a city that I know nothing about and taking the train to get to this oh so serious appointment where my daughter and I would become official residents of Spain, might have broke me after the last few stressful days. 

The National Police Station is as intimidating as you think it might be. Armed officers are at the entrance, then in the lobby, then at each hallway; they are in charge of the flow of bodies and all happenings. Afraid I'd find another La Reina inside, I tentatively approached the officer that motioned me into the center of the large room. In stunted spanish I explained why I was there and provided proof of our appointments. He smiled kindly and assisted me with the check in machine, then escorted us around the corner to a new waiting area. Thank God he was so nice. I am pretty sure I would have cried if he was not. The process went pretty easily from there with only a handful of miscommunications due to my lack of spanish skill, and my daughter evidently not having fingerprints (it was really challenging to get the fingerprinting scanner to pick up on her fingerprints!), but when we were set free with our official residency papers in under an hour, it felt like the entire office, police officers and all, were saying "falicidades!". My landlord's car pulled up to pick us up and as soon as the door opened he asked "success?!?" I jumped into his arms saying "Si!Si!Si!". I guess I was a little emotional over the entire thing. 

My daughter and I celebrated that evening with a really special bottle of cava and a sunset view of the beach. Our cards would be ready for pickup in 30 days. We had done it, and the feeling of accomplishment was incredible. 

Now all we needed was to do all of this all over again when Jesse arrived. Oof. Turns out doing this process the second time is crazy easy. I prepared all the paperwork for Jesse, took him to the office and prepared to go to war with La Rena. We walked the beautiful winding streets there and stepped in, my breathing heavy with anticipation and I met eyes with a woman I had never seen before. WHERE IS LA REINA?!? Yep, not only did Jess not have to do any of the scary firsts on his own, or put together strange paperwork, he also never had to meet La Reina! A very friendly woman greeted us, scanned our overly elaborate paperwork and eschewed us on without a beat. We were in and out in less time than it took to walk to the office and back. Jess looked at me with an enormous grin and I said, with love, "I hate you so much right now."

30 days passed quickly and this time I did need to brave taking the train to the police station. It turns out it is a very easy 6 min ride and then a quick taxi. Easy peasy! Somehow all of these step are so full of stress, but we keep braving them. We happily tucked our new cards in our wallets and addressed each other as spaniards. We were giddy with excitement. It was as if we had summited Mount Everest unaware of the dark storm looming on our descent.

The next morning I woke to emails detailing the web of steps I needed to take to file with social security. On the list were 2 things I had been putting off, finally figuring out our very complex cell phone needs so that we have both a USA and a Spain number and getting a Spain bank which seems to be a completely ridiculous amount of hoops to jump through. It was the first depression I have had in Spain. Is this more than I can handle? I don't have the stamina! I actually thought maybe I need La Reina to come tell me what I am doing wrong. 

I felt on the edge of losing it. The feeling of being like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind... feeling paper thin...already buried deep, 6 feet under screams...  but I stepped out onto our little balcony, looked at the ocean and golden light and took in a huge, grateful to be in Spain breath and thought 'you got this'

Come on people, sing it with me 

'Cause baby you're a firework! Come on show 'em what your worth!'

Ya Spain, let's do this! 

Growing Pains - The Arrival

OK OK OK! Everyone wants to hear about Jesse arriving in Spain so let's go!

He landed on Oct 23 and was delivered to our apartment door by our landlord who has become indispensable. He helped my daughter, Denali, and I move into the new apartment, gets things fixed, drove us to the next town over for registering with the police and has been a personal airport shuttle. The airport shuttle service was of particular help with Jess, who would have happily taken the bus or train, but was saddled with 4 giant suitcases (mostly for us ladies) and his backpack, not exactly easy for public transportation. When he arrived, he stepped out of the van with arms wide open and his signature giant smile.

We couldn't wait to hear all of Jesse's stories and share all of ours. A welcome glass of Cava followed by a sieta and he was feeling right at home. "Driving in you got to see some of the town, what did you think of it?!?" I eagerly asked as the golden sun was starting to set. The sea view from our balcony twinkled in the light and the warm air caused condensation to bead on our cold wine glasses. 'It's kinda ghetto. I was surprised.' Denali and I stared at him gobsmacked. She and I had been so delighted when we arrived here. We have also had some serious trials and tribulations to get through here and that has made it feel even more special. Then again we had already spent 2 months in Spain when we arrived in Sitges so perhaps we had a different view. Nevertheless, we sat there and stared wide eyed at him.

Ghetto?!? I didn't know if I should be sad, mad, betrayed or defensive, but I was 100% shocked. This was definitely NOT the introduction to Sitges we had imagined for him. I mean we know Jess doesn't do jubalent or extatic, but this was harsh. I started to second guess everything. 

A little jetlagged the next morning, he allowed me to drag him out on the walking tour of the main circle through town. As I pointed out various landmarks, I noticed that the tarnish on the buildings was a little bit blacker and the sun baked colorful umbrellas a little bit duller to me. Had I been wearing rose colored glasses this entire time??? I tried to think of things that he would appreciate... the town dates back to the 4th century B.C., the Malvasia grape is native to Sitges, the temperature is perfect year round, and there are bike trails into the hills just behind us. I took him to the most stunning views in town, we sat on the beach and drank Rose, and we even took him to one of the most famous gay bar in Spain, The Boys Bar, for a standup comedy show (who doesn't love a gay bar?), but this nut was hard to crack. He said it was beautiful. He said it was great. He looked like he'd dropped his ice cream cone.

After a few more days of stressful work conversations, concern over our home being newly listed on Airbnb, and a general state of depression in the air as I slumped, I suddenly remembered that Spain me isn't like this. Spain me is so happy! I love this town, I think it is gorgeous! I love the beautiful promenade with its incredible restaurants and cafes. I love the charming twists and turns of the old town packed with shops, great shops too not the usual touristy crap. I love that the town is passionate about its foodie scene and more importantly its wine heritage. I am routinely struck by the stunning views and the incredible kindness of the locals. It was time for a talk, was Jess going to fall in love with Sitges or were we needing to shop for a new home?

I was in a good space now that I remembered that Spain me is awesome and not the worrywart-stressed-out-scared-of-what-is-happening-in-the-USA me, so I was able to come to this discussion with gentleness. To my surprise it was actually Jesse that asked that we gather in the living room to talk. He had a vulnerability on his face and he said "I'm sorry you guys. I arrived and disrupted everything you had going on here and I want to know how to assimilate into your scene." Our daughter, always so articulate and direct, told him how much it hurt our feelings that he didn't like Sitges. He quickly informed us that he actually LOVES it here! His eyes shimmering with passion, I could tell this was not just him placating us. I reminded him of how he had called it ghetto and that he had not conveyed to us that he loved it or appreciated it at all. True to form he used humor to illustrate his point 'what exactly were you hoping my enjoyment would look like? I don't skip or say yippie'. Just the idea of seeing Jesse doing these things immediately put the expectations we had had in check. Ya, what had we wanted from him? Probably skipping and singing yippie! He also shared where he was coming from, mentally, emotionally, and physically. It really helped to hear just how stressful getting ready to leave New Mexico had been for him and the disappointment he felt that some of the people he considers most important to him didn't make the effort to say goodbye. He was physically exhausted from working crush for the winery and from travel. He shared how he had imagined this place to be Spain's version of Saint Tropez which in his mind translated to a Beverly Hills wealthy thing that would cause us to go broke instantaneously. Plain and simple, Sitges was not as polished as he expected. It was more like worn leather and gold bangles than furs and rhinestones. OK he didn't say it exactly like that, I used a little poetic license. His initial description of Sitges also reflects that he has vomit mouth where he says whatever jumps into his head first. I am familiar with this aspect of his personality and it has resulted in several arguments. All I'm saying is don't ask if your butt looks big in those pants, not only will you hate the pants, but you may never want anyone to see your butt ever again. It meant a lot to us that he recognized his poor word choice in this circumstance and retracted 'ghetto'. Landing in charming little Sitges with its down to earth vibe and comfortable laid back atmosphere took him by surprise, but he can't get over its beauty and swagger. OK I added 'swagger' because that is how it seems to me, like the town equivalent of Matthew Mcconaughey saying 'alright, alright, alright'. Jess stated that we would not be looking for somewhere else to call home, this was the place and he couldn't be happier. The 3 of us smiled and laughed and hugged just like in a corny made for TV movie. 

It has been a week since Jess arrived in his new home town. The amazing, intoxicating reality of living in Spain is recognizing how different you feel here. Not an external feeling that your body perceives like the weather or even social differences. It is the slow pace and focus on daily happy living that is palpable and forces you to be a more authentic version of yourself. I am loving being able to watch Jesse experience this transition and relax into a new version of himself, one with less frustration and conflict. 

Most days we do wake up excited to embrace the day. Most days we gaze at the incredible history marked buildings leaning over cobblestone streets and arching over the sea and marvel that we live here. On occasion there are days that hurt with the loss of our lives back in NM, or we ache with the difficulties of living abroad, but it passes and we return to being so deeply grateful to be here. I do think we are smiling more here. The stress lines on our faces are softer already, and I think I even heard Jesse say "yippie!" under his breath yesterday.

The Horrors of Moving

Moving to Spain is so glamorous and cool! How amazing to start over. Must be nice to have the money to move to Europe. Are they really just going to up and move??? This seems a little hysterical.

At this point we have heard it all. From the envious to the angry, our move has moved others to emotionally vomit all over it. Here is the truth, we did move, weather you like it or not, understand why or not, wish it were you or not... it happened. Honestly I had no idea it would elicit such intense responses from those near and dear to total strangers, but boy oh boy has it! It has been shocking, those that support us and those that don't and it isn't always whom you'd expect. In the end, it doesn't matter. We have moved. It is wild and weird and hard. I think people don't like to hear that either, that it is hard. People want a fantasy retelling of what this is like, and some days it is fantasy like. Other days I cry really hard and don't want to leave my bed. I miss my old life, I miss people, food, and the familiar. 

As I take a moment to look back over this whirlwind few weeks and absorb the reality of having been in our "home town" now for an entire month, it feels a little like the Twighlight Zone. So much has happened, it's been a constant torrent of activities keeping me distracted from registering with the government to filing for residency with the police all while not speaking Spanish. Throw in there a few festivals, some train closures, and a trip to Poland and you can see how this feels more like a sitcom than life.  

I previously shared about my trip to Poland so we will skip to when I returned from Warsaw and went straight into Sitges Film Festival week. This Film Festival is the largest Horror Film Fest in the world! And it is the reason we are in Sitges. Possibly the most random way to find your home in another country, we got to Sitges by way of being horror movie fans. Months ago (holy shit, I can't believe it was only a few months ago) we were in our beautiful, cozy little home in Dixon, New Mexico, hurriedly trying to figure out a giant move to Spain, when we were looking for any reason to be excited, not just scared about this move. Believe it or not (and many of you don't seem to), it was not our ambition to upend our entire lives, give away all of our possessions and move away from our perfect happy lives. Let's not dwell on the depressing aspect though. It is a fact that Denali and I had never been to Spain and Jess had only been when he was on a backpacking trip through Europe after college... not exactly the trip to plan a family move based on. To say the least, we were a little apprehensive about the move. Anyway, taking our Horror Film Major daughter to the biggest Horror Film Festival in the world seemed like a really good perk. Long story short, we were in Rioja, Spain, where we thought we would for sure call home, and tickets went on sale for the film fest. In a covid fever (yes I got covid AGAIN) I bought the Super Fan Pack ticket packages for Denali and I. Fast forward to ticket selection day and we managed to get seats to some of the most epic premieres EVER! Yorgos Lanthimos' Bugonia, Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein, Black Phone 2, Alpha by brilliant director Julia Ducournau, the director of American Psycho Q & A, awards given to people like the creator of Friday the 13th... I mean it was a dream come true! Errr or a nightmare come true? Depends on who you ask I guess. We were ecstatic! The entire town celebrates this festival with stores hanging corpses from doorways, smattering windows with bloody handprints and every baker or candy maker made their treats into wildly creative horror fauter. There is even a huge Zombie Walk that includes free professional makeup for anyone wanting to participate and hosts hundreds of people from all over the world to walk or watch the zombies. It is an amazing community of fun horror fans. I digress, the point is this was a really really big deal and the reason why we went south of Barcelona to a little tiny place on the coast called Sitges. 

We were in Spain ahead of Jess in order to find "the spot" and we were getting desperate to pick a place. Like Goldie Locks, nothing seemed perfect so we closed our eyes and picked Sitges. I can't really explain why other than to say it has an amazing film school, and is in Cava wine country. It also has the benefit of being not that cold in winter and not insanely hot in the summer. If nothing else, Sitges would be a good place to start off, we hoped. We had quickly booked an apartment in the old city center in what sounded like the perfect location, literally in the middle of everything. We had still not been to Sitges when we did this. Are we insane? Maybe. But when you are under a great amount of stress and pressure, a lovely little seaside town with the worlds biggest horror film festival... you roll the dice. Luckily it is a place we can see ourselves staying in for some time, maybe even forever. Madrid continues to call my name and I still think of that city with longing, but Sitges has grown under my skin. Ooohhhh was that a zombie pun???

Probably not surprising to many of you, our first apartment was a bit of a disaster. OK, it was a dump. Everything was broken, it had rooms with zero windows, oh sorry, they had windows that faced the elevator shaft, so technically there were windows, they just were not functional. The kitchen was so small that as a single person standing there, you could hardly fit. I mean the "oven" was on the floor under a cabinet requiring it to be hoisted up onto the tiny stovetop and plugged in if you wanted to use it. And the makeshift bedroom at the front of the apartment had windows to the street which was a nightmare of its own. The "living room" had an old crappy loveseat that barely sat 2 people and also served as the hallway to the bedroom and the balcony. I did love the balcony that looked over the magical rainbow road. This spot was the epicenter of Sitges with so much fun and glitter that no one slept... including me. 2 am drunk goodbyes that never end,  3am singing show tunes, 4am glass recycling truck pickup, 5am street washing, 6am cafe setup with dragging heavy tables into place... it was brutal.

It sounds like torture, but it was our place. When we got our residency, which took 3 trips to the Padron and a scary trip to the nearby town to meet with the police, we celebrated there. We saw 22 movies, battling sleep deprivation and exhaustion to walk 4-6 miles per day to see them, all from this apartment. It is where I cried because I missed my husband so much it physically pained me. It is where my mom and dad left us with worried faces and tear filled hugs. It is where we hung our feather boas from our Burlesque class during Bear Week. It is where our Spain life truly started. Even though it was an incredible heap of junk, it was a place that will always be so special to us. 

Today, I write to you from our NEW apartment. A place in San Sebastian (it is a beach in Sitges) that is on a quite street just a stone's throw from the beach. We have gone way over our budget to rent this place and it isn't perfect. It is the definition of the Super Sounds of the 70's with wall to wall built in cabinets, but it is so spectacular in comparison to what Denali and I were in that we are in awe. 2 People fit in the kitchen at a time and all appliances are installed and ready to use at a moment's notice. When Jesse arrives, all 3 of us can sit on the sofa, and it even has 2 bathrooms. The problem is my husband hasn't experienced any of this. He will walk into what has to be a time warp of an apartment to see something small and funky. We hope he can see the allure of this small town, but what if he can't? What if he doesn't like it here? What if his lack of zombie interaction means he can't see the gory glory? I have to admit I have been holding my breath a bit. 

It has all felt a little surreal, like we were on an exotic vacation, but Jess joining us means it is real. This chance to start over also means we have to start over... everything is new, you know nothing and that is daunting. All of our savings has been eaten up quicker than we had estimated and the anxiety it is creating is fierce. The intensity of a move like this washes over me and I have to remind myself to breathe. I dig my toes into the silky sand, tilt my face up to the warm golden sun and think about the crisp, citrusy glass of cold Malvasia white wine I will have later today. It is not the end of our lives there in the USA, just a new story we will be writing together in Spain. Lets just cross our fingers that it isn't a script for our daughter's next horror film.

*** Since writing this, Jesse has arrived. Stay tuned for what happened next!