Unbelievably, it has been six months since we set off on our little adventure. Moreover, a one-year adventure has now turned into at least 18 months and I will not be surprised if it morphs into a two-year life altering session.

I have experienced many interesting places, some mesmerizing, some reminding me of home. I have spent time Greece, Holland (of course), driven across the continent three times, was stuck in London for the ash cloud airspace shut down, Barcelona and of course have put on many miles in the our area around Calpe. Additionally, I have also been able to spend quality occasions with my two children, which is the reason we are doing this in the first place.

However, as fabulous as that all sounds, I find myself still shaking off the longing for my own ‘stuff’. Some of my struggles such as missing friends, family, and learning to cook again rear their ugly heads more than I care to admit. Filling my days can be a challenge, especially when Wayne is not here with me. However, the days that are brilliant more than make up for the life review that greats me every morning.

I have regrets and doubts, just like I did before we left, the things I mull about now are just different, that’s all. I still have anxiety over certain things but they too have changed focus. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know we are doing the right thing but that does not mean I cannot question and review every now and then. All I have to do is check the weather back home and then look out my window here in Spain and it turns everything around in a moment.

One of the regrets I have is taking our North American vehicle over here with us. The paperwork, the delays, the hoops to jump through and the frustration simply is not worth the other conveniences we were expecting, such as saving money and buying a vehicle with foreign language contracts. Not to mention the size of it. I never thought of my car as a large vehicle; it is on a Camry base, considered mid-size back home. Here, it is a monster car and in the oldest parts of Spain and Europe, I deem it gigantic. For highway traveling, it is perfect, that is until you get to your destination and try to park the goofy thing. Our other options were not that great and expensive, so in the end, I think it will work out that we made the correct decision. 

As much as I am enjoying the freedom of not be responsible for anything other than my 20 pairs of socks that I brought over (yes, I brought 20 pairs of socks and only 7 pairs of underwear, that’s the ‘what the hell was I thinking’ if I ever heard one). I really miss my favourite things such as books, my much-loved housecoat or my pillow. Mostly, it is the touchstones of my life I long for when those moments of doubt creep into my thinking. Usually it’s when I am having my first coffee and thinking about my favourite coffee mug packed away in some box in storage.

I yearn to speak in my home language, Canadian with another Canadian. (Yes, Canadian is a language.) Somehow talking on the phone is not the same. What I would not do to order a coffee, (with cream!) complain about the weather and sit down for a face-to-face chitchat with another Canadian. Sorry my British and American friends, even though you speak English, and I enjoy and appreciate you, there is something about chatting in your home slang that makes a conversation worth the attempt. Funny, I have no inclination to learn Spanish at all, even at the encouragement of my husband. I think it has more to do with looking back rather than forward that is feeding the resistance.

Now that I know we will be here at least another year, why not buy a new favourite housecoat? (Although it will not be the one Spooky snuggled up in with me.) Why not buy a new favourite coffee mug? (Although it will not be the 26-year-old matching mug I bought for a very special friend and I back in 1984.) Why not make new friends? (I have been resisting putting in the investment of making new friends when I thought we would only be here a few months.)

Familiarity is what I am without a doubt craving. A friendly face, a prairie storm, hockey and  Costco. The only solution to my longing is to distract myself, change my thinking and behaviours but I’m finding that near impossible. My day to day has not changed that much from when I was living back home. I wake up worrying about the kids, check my email, surf Facebook and then plan my day. Laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning and bills still need attention. I try to get to the beach for a walk every day. (Okay, that has changed.) Maybe I am trying to hard to hang on to a little bit of my familiarity or maybe we are just creatures of habit. I still can’t answer that one but I tend to find my rhythms soothing to me, somehow ensuring I have not forgotten who I am or where I came from.

Its easier said than done to constantly live facing forward in the moment and not long for the past when your moments are so brand new, all the time. New surroundings, new climate, new food, new language, new routines. Nevertheless, is not every moment brand-new? Anything can change in a moment. A phone call can send you in a different direction. An accident could happen in a split second. Heaven forbid if you lost everything to a fire or a flood. Every moment is always brand new, whether you are in your daily routine, traveling or longing for people and things you miss.

Doubts and regrets, I think no matter where you are in life you will  always carry with you, reflective of the life situation you currently inhabit. Touchstones and familiarity reminds us of who we are and how far we have come. Learning to live in the moment certainly helps. Counting blessings and being grateful definitely helps. As Helen Keller said so eloquently, “Keep your face to the sun and you won’t see the shadows.” – Good advice that’s easy to take here in all my moments in sunny Spain.

There is a difference between having no choices and choosing not to choose. Having no choices in life is a handicap of freedoms. Having too many choices is a paralyzing coma induced nightmare which then eventually becomes a handicap of freedoms.

My Granny had a couple of nice outfits, sufficient clothing items with matching shoes, purses and they seemed to work for all situations. For years she had one nice burgundy polyester outfit that she wore to every family function and one special dress that she wore to every wedding and extra-special family function, like traveling on a plane to see her son in the States. She had a couple of day wear dresses, skirts (later pants), blouses and sweaters for daily wear. She had a few aprons that she rotated and one special one she wore for Christmas. She had a tan pair of shoes with small heels that matched everything and of course her famous white Keds sneakers, which she wore every day, even with her skirts. When they wore out, mostly from over washing, she bought another pair exactly the same. She could have easily fit every item of clothing she owned into the two suitcases most of us take on a two-week holiday. I can still hear her, “How many sweaters does one person need? I can only wear one at a time. Stop buying me more sweaters.” Now I wonder if it really was the number of sweaters or the fact it made her life more complicated making the choice of which sweater to wear on any particular day.

I’m still not sure if she was amazed or disgusted over the amount of clothing my sister and I owned growing up and especially into our teen years. Some time ago she saw the number of clothing items and toys our children were endowed with she gave up commenting completely.

I dream about her simplicity of life, how her self-imposed lack of choice actually gave her more freedom. A life of choosing to live simply and to a certain extent, a life with no choices to be made verses a life with no choices. As we embarked on our adventure, I had imaginings of a life less complicated, floating from country to country, sipping wine, savouring cultural food with closed eyes moans. We have successfully maintained somewhat of a vagabond lifestyle in that we have left a lot of belongings behind and live without the clutter of attainment, but we have a far way to go to reach the level of ease we are ultimately striving towards.

Case in point: we had come to a fork in the road so to speak of where our next stop on this train ride would let us off. We spent hours analyzing every option which included, but not limited to:

1. Barcelona
2. Costa del Sol
3. Portugal
4. South of France
5. Italy
6. Greece
7. Holland
8. UK

Brother. We spent hours upon hours on the internet reviewing villa rental prices and travel advice blogs and websites. Country vs.. country; city vs.. city; culture vs.. culture; cost vs.. cost. The only thing we were successful in was a self-induced paralyzing coma of indecision, sometimes brought on by too much wine whilst surfing the web. Too much information actually took away our choices. Throwing our arms up as if in giving up and asking for divine wisdom, it was at this point we realized that we haven’t really embraced the Spanish culture and decided (at last) that we would stay in Spain. But where in Spain? Madrid? Barcelona? Malaga? Costa del Sol? Costa Brava? Brother.

Once we narrowed it down to two choices, Barcelona or Costa Blanca (where we are now) we drove up to Barcelona to investigate it further. Driving in the traffic of a large world-class city and realizing we would be in an apartment (both undesirable on our wish list) helped make our decision a little easier. In the end we chose lifestyle over substance. Beach over city. Stability over having to make this choice again sometime in the near future.

We signed a one year contract for a place close by to Calpe, just outside of Denia. It has a few more creature comforts and extended room for company. It has a lot of features on our check list – a view of the sea and a pool from the top of the list. It certainly doesn’t have the vibe of Barcelona but that’s okay because Barcelona isn’t going anywhere anytime soon; it’s only an afternoon’s drive away to the cultural investigation and small boutique cafe’s I am yearning for but miles away from the traffic and crowds we so want to avoid.

I believe when you own the uncomplicated life, the owner of fewer choices, the happier you will be. It has nothing to do with where you are, how much you make, how much you have or what culture you are embracing. It has to do with peace of mind that the choice you made is right for you and over analyzing many choices will always uncover the negative side to every choice. Having too many choices forces you to see the negative side of all choices, so no matter which choice you end up with, it starts with a twinge of regret and that regret eventually invites his friends doubt and proof.

Although I am happy with our choice I can’t help wondering if we made the right choice. Will I be bored sticking around for a full year? Will we grow a root and completely bury our original dreams of touring Europe? Are we too isolated? Did we go too big? Too small? Where was simplicity of living life by the coat tails and hanging on? See how easy it is to over analyze a choice and bring up doubts and watch for proof?

When we would visit Calgary, we always took my Opa out for lunch. Soon after we sat down and ordered our first drinks, the tension would start. Opa always asked for a ‘beer’, never mentioning it by brand. Of course the waitress would rattle off all the brands they carried and Opa always the replied with Bud as it was easy to understand with his thick Dutch accent. When she arrived with the drinks, it was time to take the order. Opa, in his simplicity, (wearing the same jacket and pants he always wore when he went out) one time asked for a ham sandwich. We all braced ourselves for what was coming as the exchanged always went something like this:

White or brown? White.

Toasted? No.

Cheese? Yes

Lettuce and tomato? Yes.

Mustard or Mayo? Mustard.

Fries or Salad? Fries.

Gravy on your fries? <Insert Dutch swear word>! All I want is a ham sandwich and a beer, what is the problem?

So many choices upset him. In his mind they took something very simple and complicated it beyond his comprehension.

Chose what is worth making choices on and let the rest fall into place. Chose not to have so many choices and let the simplicity fall into place. Choose the simplicity and let the happiness fall into place. Choose the happiness and let your life fall into place.

Colourful building

It was already past 2:00 p.m. and I was hungry. I found one of those little hole-in-the-wall types of bistros that are never listed in any tourist books but loaded with locals; I took a seat in the so-called non-smoking and ordered a vino tinto. I honestly don’t mind wandering alone as it gives me time to pursue my other favourite interest; people watching.  

And there she was, at a table of 7 other people. Eat, eat, eat, chat, chat, chat, eat – and without warning – SHE PUT HER FORK DOWN. She took a sip of wine, laugh, laugh, laugh and her fork was – gasp – exactly where she left it. Nobody took it away! Nobody stole her food! She calmly picked the fork up and continued to eat. And – AND – she did this more than once during the same meal. I was left speechless. Who knew?  

In North America, we don’t eat. We feed. Whatever we can get, as fast as we can get it and the most we can fit in all at once because only God knows, in the land of abundance, where our next meal will come from. It might actually be 10 minutes late and we would find ourselves starving to death. I’m sure I don’t have to point out the proliferation of fast food outlets but I may have to point out the hundreds of ‘quick cooking’ cookbooks and/or shows on the Food Network that encourages a gourmet meal in 30 minutes or less. Cooking and eating an inconvenience we must rush through and not an opportunity for pleasure, connection and time for us. Time for us to linger. There are actually courses now on how to eat like a family.  

Old town Calpe

Ask any North American about the wait service in Europe and you will hear moans and groans about how terrible it is. How s-l-o-w they are. Many countries will not bring you your bill until you specifically ask for it; they never assume you are finished, nor are you rushed to get out until you tell them you are complete. And complete mostly includes lengthy conversation with the people you are enjoying your meal with and the wait staff would never consider interrupting that connection time. Nobody from North America assumes the fast service is wrong, we think the Europeans have it wrong with their ‘crappy service’. How mistaken we really are. In Europe, lunches and suppers are given sacred time and take at least an hour and a half, if not more. In Spain, everything shuts down from 2-5 so that a long leisurely lunch is enjoyed. Most stores in Europe are closed by 6 pm so that the shop owners can be home to enjoy supper with their family. Eating is enjoyment and not something you ‘stop for’ but rather look ‘forward to’.  

Beach in Calpe

Food as pleasure is intertwined with body as well. For what I can tell, no one here has a ‘body image’ problem. Many languages don´t have a translation or concept of “body image”. On the beach I can tell you that bikinis rule in Europe. Big and small, young and old, mostly everyone wears a bikini and with absolute confidence. Men wear Speedos and some, thongs. And trust me, not everyone is svelte and toned. Nor hair free. They are at the beach to soak up some Vitamin D and enjoy themselves and if you don’t like what they look like, don’t look. Females of all ages and sizes have no trouble topless sunbathing and from what I can see have no awkwardness whatsoever. I for one could not imagine tanning topless around my two adult children and I’m sure they would be equally horrified. Sitting at the beach is for pleasure, connection and time for you to recharge and everyone respects that.  

The first thing that springs to my mind is how did it we get all so screwed up? Did not most of us come from European stock? How did food and pleasure and body image get all turned upside down and inside out? When did food become something we fight? We measure, we control, we judge? When did our body become something we fight? We measure, we control, we judge? And how are the two connected?  

Just my theory and I may be totally way off base but I summarize the European eating and body culture as akin to the wise Queen, she is confident in her ways, her authority and her presence. She rushes for no one or nothing. She has become and is becoming. She asks no one for permission but is also not permissive. She is aware of the wisdom that has arrived with her age and uses it to her advantage. The food culture, for the most part, has remained in calm order and overall her Queendom is happy and content.  

North American eating and body culture, however, is the Princess; attention seeking, navel gazing and reliant on her looks and using her looks, for power. Although she doesn’t like to admit it, nothing matters to her more than how she is perceived by others. (Young, skinny, sexy advertising.) She has so much ‘to do’ she has time for nothing. (Busy, busy, busy.) She can’t be thin enough or young enough for her Prince. (Gyms, workout equipment, diet food.) She wants everyone to be just like her for her own security. (Best selling diet books, Oprah phenomenon, judgement) Unfortunately, she is well aware of the coming end to her Princess age and is trying to control everything and fighting it all the way, (plastic surgery, Botox, superficial body changes) which can also show up as fighting with others to release the anger. None of this has worked well for the masses and now there is a mess of things. (Obesity epidemic, 23 year olds with 10 plastic surgeries in one day, diet mentality, family breakdown.)  

But we know; we remember. When there is a special occasion, holiday, or celebration, what do we naturally gravitate towards? Loved ones and food. We give our inner Queens room to take control shine through. We prepare, we dress up and meet. Whether as a family, friends or date and have a special meal either at home or in a restaurant. We break bread, as it were, we eat. We linger, we laugh, we smile. We know how to do this, we have just lost our way, that’s all. 

A few years ago concerned about my health and particularly some weight I gained, I saw a Chinese doctor and I mentioned to him that I was trying to lose some weight but nothing was helping. I asked him for some suggestions and as he began to speak I was sure he was going to transmit some ancient Chinese secret for a long life in my skinny jeans. Listening intensively, on the edge of my seat, all he said was, “Put your fork down, walk away.”  

I’m taking that advice now – except for the walking away part. I’m going to let go of my North American Princess manners around food and body image, develop into the natural progression of things and be my own Queen, more confident in my journey and in my wisdom. And receive pleasure from my food. And connect. And enjoy. And slow down, linger and relax about it all. I’m going to put my fork down and stay.

They were 40 and 47. Their sons were 18, 10 and 8 plus they left one in the ground at home. They fearlessly, on the words of someone they trusted, embarked on a journey that would change all of their lives forever. They set sail for a mysterious land, a land that produced such fine young men who liberated their country, in hopes of better things for their children. They set sail for a strange land in hopes of a better chance of their children living.

My Oma and Opa reached the shores of Canada in 1958. They had not had it easy up to that point. Opa lived through 2 World Wars, the death of a son during the Second World War, imprisonment by the Nazi’s in WWII and almost losing the love of his life to breast cancer in 1949. Oma was born during WWI, married and had her first child on the eve of WWII, lost a son during that war, had her husband taken from their home in the middle of the night, never knowing if she would see him again, and beat breast cancer in 1949. In 1949.

My father was 18 and eligible for the Navy, something he was eager to sign up for, which terrified my Oma. She already lost one son due to war and the Cold War was heating up. At the time, they saw no other option but to leave Holland, to leave Europe far, far away, for the peace of Canada.

Opa quit his very prestigious job (at that time) as a supervisor at a box factory. They packed up their precious belongings and boarded the ship from Rotterdam. It took two weeks to arrive at their first official Canadian address in Bowness, Alberta after landing in Montreal.

They didn’t speak a word of English. Not a single, solitary word. There was no welfare, no safety nets, and no free English-speaking classes. Sink or swim, baby. Promised work, upon arrival, had dissipated into thin air and suddenly Opa had no idea whatsoever how he was going to support his young family. (The consequence of surgery to cure Oma’s breast cancer she was unable to ever work again.) Opa finally found work cleaning offices at night. He did such a great job (no English needed – cleaning is universal and there was no one to talk to anyways) before he knew it he had a second job and then a third cleaning at a bank. (He was always so proud that he was trusted enough to clean at the bank.) He was lucky to catch 4 or 5 hours of sleep a day. He never considered it work beneath him, any work is honorable and you do your best, no matter what you may think. My father helped him with cleaning and the boys went to school to bring home the English lessons. As my father’s English improved, he was able to secure a job at Eaton’s which income also helped support the family.

I am in awe of the brazenness of it all. I am in awe of the sacrifices they made for their children. They started their second lives, from scratch, at an age where most are enjoying their middle years, and they did it with young children in tow. On the days I complain the internet isn’t as good as it was back home, I think of Oma who didn’t find out her sister died until two months after the fact because of the communication hurdles back in the time. (Remember Europe was still rebuilding from the devastation from WWII and telephones and telephone lines were beyond reach of ordinary citizens.) I can talk to my sister every day, free. I have the internet, cell phones and cheap long distance. A letter can travel the world in a week.

I can complain I long for the Canadian foods I am familiar with and fire up the internet and have them delivered pronto.  Some days I feel silly I kvetching about myself imposed situation when I think of her isolation and how homesick she must have been. There were no Dutch Import food stores back then and only a handful of Dutch people to commiserate with. Not only did she study a brand new language, she also had to learn to cook all over again with most foods she never saw before and without her favorite ingredients. (Corn was pig food in Europe back in the day. Opa never could bring himself to eat it in the 92 years he lived.)

You know, I never remember them complaining. I never remember them awfulizing how bad it is or what a wrong decision they made. I’m sure there were tears of some sort but I never saw them. I was only shown the joy of how happy they were to have me and my sister in their lives. Sure, they terribly pined for their family and culture back in Holland but the new life that was blossoming in front of them at some point became all worth the sacrifice. They moved on from missing what they had to looking forward to what was coming.

Sadly, Oma passed away from cancer after only living in Canada for eleven years. She was only 51 but realistically lived two full lives. After Oma died, Opa was somewhat encouraged to maybe move back to Holland to retire. It was at this lonesome period in his life I did sense some despair of wondering what would have been had they stayed in Holland but as the grief of losing his partner in this journey eased, these thoughts dissipated.  (In his later years he wouldn’t even leave the Calgary area in fear he would die while gone and we wouldn’t bury him next to her. )

So, on those days I feel sorry for myself that I miss a Timmy’s, or a dryer or my friends and family, I remember what Oma and Opa went through to make sure their family and future family had safer lives. And I am thankful that I have such powerful and deeply rooted examples of perseverance and bravery. It truly puts everything immediately into perspective. I keep thinking of the Buddhist saying, “I complained I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet.”

Have we made the correct decision to pack up and live an adventure half way around the world? To strange lands and countries we have only heard of or seen in documentaries? We are very similar in age to Oma and Opa when they began their second lives.  (Both situations were choices to change things up, although we do not have young children in tow and our income is secure. Also, for the most part, we can find our own language just about anywhere in the world.)  Nevertheless, are we putting our future retirement in perilous conditions?

I am approaching the age my Oma passed away. Although difficult, I’m sure if she had a choice she would have never reneged on her last 11 years of life living in Canada. I sincerely hope they were her most peaceful and fulfilling. Besides, how do I know I don’t have only 11 years left myself? Do I really want to spend them in fear of the known and unknown? Playing it safe but somewhat (to me) boring? Or do I want to create my legacy of being brave enough to shake it up and live my (and our) dreams, even though I have and will continue to have moments of aloneness, misgivings and worries.  (But never regrets.)

In the words of my beloved Opa, “I woke up breathing today. Another bonus day. So far, so good.”

I was on my way from Calpe to Rotterdam, a sunset flight. As I normally do when I get frustrated with life, I throw on ‘Desert Rose’ by Sting on replay in the iPod until I get the message that ‘nothing is at it seems’.

Looking out the window assisted in my mood transformation by allowing the nothingness to permeate my mind, thus erasing the troubles of the day. Engaged in books, electronic devices and napping, the other passengers were all missing it. Was I the only one peering out the window, enthralled in the magical show of the sun disappearing into the horizon, leaving only intense red, pink, and then orange to hold away the darkness? The colours of the sun-trail literally holding up and away the blackness as best it can – supporting and squeezing out one more moment of this day.

Now I know where neon colours come from. If you‘ve never been on a sunset flight, may I suggest you put it on your to do list. The colours are spectacular; the navy is darker, the purples richer, the red-hot intensity, the bright pink neon and the royal blue heavenly. With nothing to block the view, the sunset, along with the colours, seems to last forever, especially if you are chasing the sun south to north. Wisps of purple lace-like clouds dance among the band of colours, uniting them into one collage.

Try as it might, the blue on top of the ribbon band starts to give way to the heavy navy, then purple, which in turn gives way to the night. Compressed by the enormity of the night sky, the colours magically grow richer and deeper.

Glowing red, orange, yellow, green (yes, green where the golden yellow kisses the blue sky) blue, indigo and violet. These are the colours of transformation. These colours transform day to night, brightness to darkness. And these are the colours of our chakras, the energy centers in our body whose significance can transform us from cave dwellers to angels.

On the other side of the sunset, a sunrise emerges. Now, the night is dissolving as the golden rays of the sun fights to lift the veil of night by illuminating the sky. A gentle reminder that night does not always win this epic battle steeped in eternity and light will prevail.

The land turns dark first, lights on the ground start to sparkle, one here or there and it’s not long before full villages are illuminated. Soon, a star appears. And then another. As you look up, full constellations are in view. The universe and man, in a beautiful demonstration of ‘as above, so below’, with only a thin band of visible spectrum of colours separating the two. European villages twinkle like the dew in the morning on the spider’s web. Each little village with their spoke like roads and alleys connect to each other with a fine silk line. Only the football pitches brightly lit are discernable, randomly scattered, like the bugs caught in the webs.

My analytical mind wonders what all of this means. Why am I obsessed with all of this? Why has this enthralled me for over an hour? And am I not weary of Desert Rose yet? Is this a metaphor that darkness compresses the light, intensifying it not unlike negative issues should only make the positives brighter? The darkness overtakes the light but the light never gives up and also pushes the darkness to back from which it came.

As we approached nearer to the ground, more people took notice of the happenings outside of the cabin. Some to simply point out their house, some to just wonder in the miniature landscape of it all. In the end, I realized it didn’t mean anything at all. It wasn’t a deeply hidden metaphor. That’s my previous life (BA – before adventure) chatting to me that everything needs meaning, everything needs to be analyzed and anything that grabs your attention and fills your time needs to have value. How many of us make an excuse to take time to sit and read a book? How many of us find the occasion to sit watch a whole sunset – without doing anything else? How many of us purely do just one thing at a time?

Unexpectedly, I was aware I was simply observing the beauty of the world without all the day to day distraction and noises that most people cope with. Without all the details of living in a modern world, my life is becoming less stressful and more meaningful. Without possessions to worry and fret about, other parts of my experience are able to shine through, and most importantly, without self judgment.

My ambition now is to pay attention to not only the moment but the full exquisiteness of the moment, whether I am observing or doing. Basically, I have removed the muddle we call details to reveal that some things are spectacular just as they are – even uncomplicated things like colours and sparkling lights in the air.