Visa By Marriage

It isn't everyday that your partner comes home and announces that he is in the interview process for a job overseas, but it could happen. Seven years ago it happened to me. Within 5 days of walking through the door and making his announcement Mark was offered a job he couldn't refuse--an opportunity to work in his field in sunny Southern Spain. I'll admit that we weren't exactly living in dreary England, and it wasn't the weather that made the job offer appealing. No, it was the fact that my partner had been dreaming of returning to Spain after my year long teacher exchange (an experience I refused to repeat).
Of course I had no problem with the idea of a year or two abroad, especially if I didn't have to work. However, there was a hitch and the visa being offered to Mark was not valid for domestic partners. It didn't matter that we had been together for years, that we were in a committed relationship, or that we owned a house together. In order for me to legally accompany Mark we need the "simple" paper that showed we were husband and wife.  We never really sat down and discussed it, and there was no formal proposal; but as we stood in Kinkos faxing his signed contract we knew what had to happen. We didn't spend hours on end making wedding plans--Mark was too busy preparing to leave the country in under six weeks.
One of the most important days of my life was planned by me and my best friends. The Girls were with me for every step of the way--date, announcement party, venue, guests, reception, and ring selection. They went so far as to make the flower and cake arrangements without my input and I could not have done a better job. Both my bouquet and cake brought tears of joy to my eyes.
We began the planning with a brainstorming session that took us from a drive through wedding in Vegas to a simple ceremony at our home. We decided on keeping the pending marriage a secret until the announcement was made at our annual Christmas Tree decorating party. (You may want to note that our our yearly tree was far from traditional and consisted of a hollowed out cactus adorned with over 500 white lights and a hundred colorful hand crafted mexican tin decorations.) The sparking sight would provide the back drop for our vows.
Our small and simple ceremony occurred on Tuesday after Thanksgiving, exactly 10 years after our first kiss and 4 days before Mark was to leave to Spain. We were joined by our Parents, and my 3 B.F.F.--each playing a key role:  Bride's Maid, Best (wo)Man, and photographer. The event was presided over by one of Mark's ex-colleagues who just happened to be a Minister.  I think he did the service more as an act of friendship than as a belief in our eternal love. Maybe we shouldn't have told him we had to get married for the visa. Also, it didn't help that as Mark slipped the silver band around my finger he declared it a symbol of his freedom (it should have been love). When the ceremony was over, and the Minister walked down the path with our gift of gratitude tucked under his arm (a dozen bottles of Spanish wine), I couldn't help but wonder if he was headed home to get drunk.
With papers signed, pictures taken, and Kalhua--which my paternal Grandmother had bought in Mexico for this vary occasion when I was 6 years old--was drunk we headed to a local restaurant to celebrate a union that was going to embark us on the adventure of a life time. This all occurred 7 years ago today.

Mom and I

Mom and I at Teotihuacan

This week is a free week over at photohunt.  I decided to post this picture that my Mom recently sent me of a trip we took together to Teotihuacan, Mexico.

In September of '07 my mother took a group of University students to study in Morelia, Mexico.  I was able to join her for 8 weeks of her trimester abroad.  I will never forget the wonderful time that we had together.

My trip to Mexico also played an important role in how Mark and I arrived in Australia.  When I returned to Spain, the urge to explore the unknown had resurfaced.  I told Mark that as much as I loved the Old Continent, it was time to move on. When a job opportunity opened up in Australia, we were more than ready to pack up our bags and move.  If you follow my blog you can tell that it is a move that we do not regret.

A Fishy Story

On my way home from the gym, I stopped by the fishmongers and picked up a nice looking whole trout.  There was a time when I would have turned around and run before buying a whole fish.
When I arrived in Spain, 6 months after Mark, he told me that he thought it would be nice to have some fresh fish once a week.  After all, we were a mere 60 km from the ocean and he felt we should take advantage of the accessibility to quality fresh seafood.  Besides, he had really come to enjoy a whole grilled fish.  An image of my Spanish Host Mother, from many years earlier, sucking on the heads of whole grilled shrimp came to mind, and I said "You have got to be kidding."  After all, I come from NM in the middle of the desert and had no idea how to buy or cook a whole fish.
I wanted to be a good wife, especially since we were newlyweds, so it was off to the fish store.  I held my breath as I entered and looked around.  Other than a couple of swordfish steaks, there was not a single filet for sale.  Just the whole shebang--head, scales, fins, and guts all included.  I approached the counter and was closely examining the fish.  At the exact moment that I realized some of the fish had teeth, I heard "Que te pongo?"  I can only imagine the look on my face, as I turned around and fled the store.
After several days on the internet, I learned all that I needed to know about cooking a whole fish.  The next time I entered the fish store I was able to confidently make a purchase.  The guy offered to clean it for me, but I told him I wanted to give it a try on my own.  I was surprised by how easy it is to clean a fish, and from that day on I have had no problem buying and cleaning a whole fish.  In fact, I now prefer buying a fish whole, since it is much easier to tell how fresh it by looking at its eyes.
That being accomplished, the next step is going to be getting a fishing rod and heading out to the Jetty.

Yank

On my 7 a.m. bottle drops (see I Can't Stop Chasing Men) I was recently asked if I was from Canada.  When I replied, "No, I am from the United States," the bottle collector took a brief pause and then asked hesitantly "Are you a Yank?"  I had to chuckle, and said "Yes, I am a Yank."  My "friend" looked a bit confused and he then told me that he met another woman from the United States who got mad at him for calling her a Yank, and wanted to know why.  After all, when he was in the war the Americans all called themselves Yanks, and they even sang Yankee Doodle.  I was then treated to an Australian rendition of this American themed song.

I couldn't really answer his question.  I have heard many people from the US call themselves Yanks, but also know of many who are offended by the term.

I myself take the expression with tongue-in-cheek.  I don't really find it insulting, but instead look at it as a part of the Australian culture of  Ozspeak.  

Perhaps this an easy cultural border for me to cross; after all it is very common for New Mexicans to refer to people with nicknames--Cissy, Pancho, Chuy, Lupe, or Lalo.  There are also those names used to refer to people behind their back--La Falsy, Patito, Cry Baby, Big Boy, and SLT (Sabe Lo Todo).  The use of these names could be seen as derogatory in nature by some, but for many New Mexicans it is a cultural norm. 

I also know that Mark has no problem referring to himself as a Yank.  Even though he is not originally from New Mexico he is also familiar with the use of nicknames for humorous effect, and he went to college with Mango, Muscle Head, Crisco, and Uncle Animal.  

On the other hand, I know that I took offense to being called a Janqui in Spain.  I had no problem when called a guiri, though I identified myself as a New Mexican.  Maybe this was because I wanted to distance myself from the local US Air-force base--many of the service men, women and their families did not integrate into the local community.  Or perhaps it was my need to show my New Mexican-ness and the fact even though I  learned Spanish as an adult, I have historical ancestral ties to the language.  

As far as the present is concerned, I doubt that you will find me walking down the street singing Yankee Doodle, but I will not take offense at being called Yank.  However, I am insulted by Sepo--another term used for people from the United States.  It comes from an Australian tradition of playing with words.  Since tank rhymes with Yank, they take the term Septic Tank and reduce it to Sepo which comes to stand for Yank.  I do find this term to be a bit beyond tongue-in-check, and can not find any endearing qualities in it. 

Excuse me, please?

My morning runs started back when I was in High School. I never was on a team, I just would get out and do it. I continued to run off and on in college, both as an undergrad and grad-student. About 15 years ago, running became an integral part of my life. Over the years, I have worked up to 10 kilometers, 5 times a week. I no longer view running as exercise, but rather as a normal part of my life. When I wake up, the first thing I do is put on my running shoes.

I loved running in New Mexico. Since we lived near the University I had two different routes I could choose from: the golf course or Johnson Field. Oh, how I loved those morning runs. There is nothing like cool fresh NM air and a sunrise over the Sandia Mountains. In the fall there is the special bonus of the smell of roasting green chile.

Of course, I can't complain too much about my runs here in Glenelg. There are plenty of shared use bike paths. This means I am able to run for kilometers on end along the ocean and take advantage variety of loops. My only complaint about my runs in Australia is that when the wind blows, it blows!! There is nothing shielding us from those antarctic winds, and there are spring days when I worry I may get blown all the way to the Red Center. The hot winds of the North aren't much kinder, and they tend to bring the flies.

None the less, it was my running in Utrera that proved to be much more challenging. First of all, when we first arrived there were no other women runners in the pueblo. Women would walk, but I was a bit of a freak show. It wasn't long before I had the whole town talking about me. When I meet someone new I would get the "I know about you, you are the runner." Of course it didn't take long for the gossipers to start monitoring my running. If I missed a day, the questions would start "Aren't you feeling well, you didn't go for a run?"

Then there was the problem of where to run. I didn't feel comfortable running the dirt roads on the outskirts of town: they were just too isolated. The narrow cobblestone streets were far from ideal. Way too much traffic on the wider streets. Fortunately, just at the end of town, there was a long wide, tree lined paseo (walking area). I was able to run up and down the paseo six times, combined with 6 loops around the park across the street, and was able to make my 10 k's. Somehow, I managed to get over the monotony of all the up and down, and round and round--but still there were a few challenges. On rainy days, the park was muddy. The kids ditching school liked to throw rocks. Some days the park caretaker would show up late, and the gates would remain locked, though my biggest problem was probably the old men in the park. There was a pack of about 10 seniors that walked the park daily. They would take up the whole path, making it impossible to pass them. When I ran up behind them I tried to make as much noise as possible--cough, jingle my keys, drag my feet--but they seemed never to hear me. As I got closer, a polite "excuse me" got no results. So the only choice left was a full on bellow of "on the right!" This not only got their attention, but also drew the reprimand, "Nena! Nos asusaste!" (Girl, you scared us). Of course, the whole process would repeated itself on my next two laps.

One evening, when having a drink with one of Mark's coworkers, I was describing my running situation. Eva just shook her head and laughed. She informed me that I was going about it all wrong. That if I wanted to get them to move I would have to yell out , "Coño, quÍtense de allÍ!", which roughly translates as, "Get the hell out of my way." Given my upbringing which stressed respect toward eleders, I was never able to brazenly address the pack of older gentlemen. So, I was left with the daily routine of politely announcing my presence and being yelled at by the Senior Citizen's of Utrera .

One Step at a Time

When visiting my Mom in Mexico a couple of years ago, we heard of a woman in San Miguel de Allende who custom designed and handmade the ultimate walking shoe. I just had to get a pair, not because I have a shoe fetish (which I do), but because I love to walk.

These shoes are made for....

I walk everywhere: the grocery store, gym, laundromat, butcher, bakers, bar, cafe. etc... Now granted, most of these stops are within a 10 block radius of our flat. However, the gym is a half-hour walk in each direction. I don't have to walk--there is public transportation doorstep to doorstep--but I prefer to use my foot-mobile.

When people find out that I walk this distance at least 4 times a week, they want to know why. They question if it is part of my exercise program--no that is the 10 k morning run. They worry that I haven't figured out the tram system--I have a tram pass. They think I am just crazy.

I repeatedly find myself explaining my love of walking. I can spend hours on end wandering streets and neighborhoods. Just ask some of my past visitors. They may even confess to having done some walking training before coming down under.

What is my passion about walking? When was the last time that you: heard the shriek of a cockatoo or the coo of a morning dove, felt the warmth of the sun on your hair or a breeze on your face, smelled the winter rain or a garden of springtime roses, saw the naked branches of a jacaranda or a cat lounging in the sun, or even tasted a fresh picked grapefruit. For me a walk is much more than transportation. It is my connection with mother nature and the world around me. It is the vehicle that allows me to discover the world--one step at a time.

Do you like to walk?

How did I get here?

And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

(from Once in a Lifetime by The Talking Heads)

A question that I sometimes have to stop and ask myself. I never imagined that I would be living in Southern Australia. In fact, many years ago my husband (at that time partner) asked if I would consider moving to Australia. I told him no way. Yet here I am. Our journey here has not been simple or direct, but rather an amazing adventure.

It all started in the fall of 2003. I was tiring of working as an Elementary School Teacher, and my partner of 10 years was having some doubts about a career in Academia. We were ready for a change. When Mark was offered a job, as an Environmental Engineer, in Southern Spain it seemed perfect. However, there was one hitch, the company was unable to offer a Visa for a domestic partner, so we would have to tie the knot if I were to be able to go with him. So within one month we were married, and Mark headed off . We decided that I would finish the the school year, and join him in the summer. Besides someone needed to pack up the house and put it in storage. So six months later I joined him for what I believed would be a year abroad. Little did I know that one year would quickly turn to four.

We lived in Utrera, a smallish town just outside of Sevilla. We made friends and settled in. Weekends were spent hiking through the Spanish Country Side. Vacations spent exploring Europe. We found a comfortable routine as well as a lifestyle that suited our needs and we were happy. However, with the passage of time, things became mundane. We were enjoying life, but were not as excited by it as we had once been.

As we rang in 2008 in Pisa, Mark asked where I wanted to ring in 2009. My response was Sydney. After all ever since the year 2000 we had dreamed about bringing on the New Year under the Harbour Bridge. Besides it would be fun to visit another continent. I have since learned to be careful of what you wish for. Our comfortable life continued to beg for change, and within five months Mark was offered a job in Australia.

My dream of fireworks in Sydney was turned into a life in Adelaide. Within a month we were packed up and moving to the Land Down Under.

And you may ask yourself

What is that beautiful house?

And you may ask yourself

Where does that highway go?

And you may ask yourself

Am I right? ...am I wrong?

And you may tell yourself

My god!...what have I done?

(partial lyrics from Once in a Lifetime, The Talking Heads)

I am

I am from a seed that was planted to keep a young man from going to war,
an everlasting bond between two people.

I am from east coast meets southwest.
Mayer and Mayita.
The sandpiper of the beach,
and the road runner of the desert.
Periogies, cabbage rolls, babka,
Chile verde, enchiladas, and empanadas.

I am from the flat lands of Indiana,
a place never considered “home”.
Cold winters and humid summers.
Corn fields, horses, playing in the woods,
the musty smell of antique shows.

I am from the picket line.
A child’s voice chanting
¡Justicia si! ¡Uvas No!
¡Que viva Cesar Chavez!

I am from New Mexico.
Turquoise blue skies,
and sunsets the color of sandia.
Bicultural and bilingual.
Two worlds coexisting,
yet the constant us/them or ellos/nosotros.

I am from Spain,
but I am not an Española.
The sun of Plaza Nueva,
toastadas con tomate y cafe con leche.
The passion of los gitanos,
moonlit nights at the Alhambra.
Cañas, tapas y Flamenco.

I am from the bedside of my Abuelita,
“buscame piojitos, m’hita” .
Helplessly watching her wither away,
unable to ease her pain.

I am from south of the border,
the home of La Virgen Morena.
The tunnels below Mexico City,
my escape route from Polanco.

I am from a family of teachers.
Not an academic,
but an educator and a life long learner.

I am from many places,
but I am one.
I am Maya.