Pontificum Scriblerus

When communists outlawed religion and with it Christmas in Russia, back 100 years ago, people had to find ways to conserve a legal way to maintain their holiday traditions. So the Christmas habits were transfered to a different, secular, date: New Year's Eve. Complete with a tree, decorations, presents, and a santa-like figure, called Ded Moroz (Grandpa Frost). For some reason though, instead of a Mrs. Claus this dirty Russian old man has a leggy young hottie dressed up in a moderately pornographic outfit. He also holds a (symbolic) staph, and carries a giant bag of presents. Get your mind out of the gutter, people. She's his grand-daughter. Despite the tongue in cheek duo, I have only the best memories of Russian New Years in my childhood. Around the weeks preceeding, the snow would turn blue, storefronts would get sparkly, the smell of evergreen would fill the air, and everything seemed posilutely magical. You couldn't help but get butterflies. My parents always got toget...

Some days I just love my job. I walk into the patient room with my little signout ditto, take a quick glance at the info: She's 98 years old. I'm a seasoned professional, I know what to expect. I don't actually expect the patient to either hear or comprehend me at all, 98? that's usually equivalent to 2. I expect her to maybe pass some gas or ask for a bed pan. So, I naturally assume a "coochi coochi, googli moogli" tone, and raise my voice, since surely, senile presbycusis has taken its toll. "Hello, Mrs. Such and Such, I'm Dr. So and Soooo." Contrary to all my seasoned expectations, I'm met with an absolutely clear gaze, a stern look, a furrowed brow, and the following: "And w ho might you be, young lady?" "I'm the hospitalist. I'm taking care of you today." Here, a sneaking suspicion seeps into my head that she may not be about to pass gas, and that she's likely NOT at all like 2 years old. "Well, yes...

This time, we coincided with the Santo Tomas feria in Bilbao, so we decided to go check it out. It takes place 2 days before Christmas, sort of like a pre-Christmas practice party. It's basically an outside fair and food market that takes place by the ria Nervion downtown Bilbao. Obligatory aldeano outfits are worn by children and adults alike, there is folk music and live roosters. Also, lots and lots of pork. It takes place in the Plaza Nueva in the middle of husband's home-city. We get out of the metro in the old part of town. People are everywhere; they're donning green kerchiefs and are obviously inebriated (it's 11am), so we know we're close. He doesn't say anything, but as we seem to be wandering about rather aimlessly, I ask him where we are. Flushing and mumbling, he admits he completely forgot where the plaza is. He's Bilbaino! That's like forgetting where Times Square is to him. Asking for directions?? Are you fucking crazy? So we never found...

Txangurro, pronounced "changurro," is a crab salad with a home made mayonnaise sauce that is served inside the crab shell, passed around the table and eaten with a spoon. In my husband's family, this is purely man's work. While mom hustles around making most everything else, dad calmy and purposefully sits down, shells the crab, makes the mayo, makes it all pretty. I will not pretend like I've made it or even know how. It's man's work, like I said. But here's a link: http://www.turismoa.euskadi.net/s11-12375/en/contenidos/j_gastronomia/0000002969_j1_rec_turismo/en_2969/2969-ficha.html I don't think this is 100% authentic, like, I don't think ours was baked, or had any brandy in it, but it gives you an idea. I'll bug dad in law for his special recipe, and then post that. Shocking lack of txangurro out there on the web. Now, if you can find real crabs, I'll be super impressed.

On one of my first trips to Spain, I asked what the official drinking age was, and was told that you may not buy alcohol under the age of 18, but yes, beer and wine. Beer and wine are not alcohol. Hey, even the Basque Santa Claus (El Olentzero, see below), is never displayed glassless. The tradition of poteo is really purely B asque: it involves visiting anywhere from 5-15 bars in any one one, and having a tiny drink in each one, a thimble-sized beer or wine. Usually, these are middle- to oldish-aged men who are chased out of the house in the afternoon after work while the wives make dinner. To make you feel like a more of a man, they come in a big glass which is mostly solid bottom, so you're holding on to something heavy. You spend no more than a half hour per bar. Sometimes they give you some olives, too. Butcha know what... 15 thimbles of wine? Makes a bottle! and you do this daily? You can end up majorly messed up. I sure did. Now, I'm no old man... I wouldn't even ...

I came home and am now suffering the back to reality syndrome. Namely, bank account balance, prospect of going to work this weekend, and the burly guys working up on the roof that are torturing me right towards a migraine. My first trip to Paris is forever enclosed by the sad parentheses of two funerals, one right before and one right after, and the biggest impression it has left on me is how goddamn tired I was the entire week, and how restless I felt. I don't remember any flavors at all from two years ago; I think I even shrugged and said, what's the big deal, it's just another big city. I was homesick. This time around though, despite the cold, and the wind, the short days and early dark, despite viruses, cramps and mishaps (like closed museums), I think I get it. I get Paris. This time, I so want to hold on to my Paris impressions... But they're like a spritz of perfume in the air. The scent is so real, but so short lived, and fades away so quickly. You can't gr...

From the crazy whirlwind of our romantic getaway on rue Champs de Mars, Paris, we fell straight into the moist embrace of a family Christmas. We were still under the effects of the city of lights, or at least, I was, so I was apparently propense to cuddle. Except this was now happening under the watchful omnipresent eye of my mother in law. She knows what's up. She sees we're being sort of amorous. "Babies come from Paris!!" she pinches my cheek, and pokes me in my belly, maybe trying to turn it on for its intended function. "Let's see if you two did anything weird down there!" (like what? from what I've learned through the years, babies don't come from any of the weird shit...) "Your son had a cold," I answer laconically. The message is clear though. The older son must bring home some babies. To make this possible, we are presented with the privacy of the master bedroom, while the in-laws sleep in the small living room, and the boys...

Home swizeet home. Cleaning lady so blew us off, so it's dusty. Mom forgot to pick up leftovers from fridge so it's smelly. We left rushed so it's mildly messy. But at least it's all mine!! I'm may or may not be blogging au naturel just because I can. I'm not done blogging my vacation though, I'm just being circular about it. I have many stories to tell yet, both francais and espanol. Right now though... slumber chamber awaits.

According to my friend Jon, I am a major wagon jumper because my fledgling interest in baseball coincided with the miraculous 2004 World Series. I think it's because the World Series coincided with my dramatic re-entrance into Beantown as a freshly baked professional, and much more Americanized version of self. But, mercilessly, I was told, wagon jumping is for pussies; I lost guy points with this assessment and dropped a notch on the totem pole. What would he do if he knew that I joined 30,000 or so wild-eyed Athletic Bilbao fans, crazed myself and acting like I know what the hell I'm talking about, on the field of San Mamés the other day, for a tense, albeit utterly embarrassing soccer, no, futbol game? These Athletic fans have got nothing on the BoSox admirers. You have to prove that you're a true Basque by presenting an impressive Basque pedigree in order to play on the team, so Athletic Club de Bilbao gets hosed in terms of getting good players. Thus, the team currentl...

I meant no disrespect. Before I became an honorary Basque for the week, I was a frank unabashed tourist in Paris. (I hate looking like a tourist, by the way, but there was no escaping it: the real French people rushed around dressed normally, while I was strolling bundled up with 4 layers, holding a map, a book that declares Paris for Dummies on the cover, a camera, and a napsack with tissues, purell, extra socks, and an apple.) On our first night, after a lengthy nap, and a nourishing meal of soupe a l'oignon gratinee , we decided we felt like seeing lights, and people, and getting in touch with our Parisian side in general. So, we took the metro to the Champs Elysées. Have you ever had the wind knocked out of you? Can a street knock the wind out of a person? There were French people EVERYwhere. French speech. Spanish, too. Freezing air in my lungs. Flashing lights. Trees with fiberglass streamers. High heels clicking on the pavement coming at me from every direction. Plaçe de la...

As an outsider looking onto what is completely routine and normal in the town of Portugalete, of Bizkaia, País Vasco, España, I note things to myself that people here take for absolute granted. For example, I am constantly aware of the ethnic pride-slash-mild superiority complex that perfumes the air. I get it: it's partly reactionary after decades of oppression from Generalissimus Franco, partly fanatical in some cases - we all know about ETA - partly completely normal for any tight culturally bound group. Aren't we all a chosen people? Now, the Basques were traditionally a mountain people, shepherds, agriculturalists, always productive upon the green soil of the Iberic North. These days this translates into a fierce sense of us vs. them, and we are the best. Best chefs? Bilbao. Best wine? Rioja. Best fish? Basque. Best meat? Cantabria. The North feeds the South, according to the Basque truth. There is a saying: "No me he quema'o porque soy de Bilbao." I didn...

What exactly is a pueblo remains a difficult concept to explain to those who don't see it for themselves. A pueblo is a village, or a town, also, a people or the people. The word also carries with it a paradoxical sense of both pride and derision, depending on who's saying it. Well... apparently, I'm married to a pueblerino , and who knew! Of course, the village in this case might look like downtown Boston, with more bullici o on the street, more lights, and more people. (This could be just a function ofsucky downtown Boston, though. I don't know.) hanging out with assorted family members Christmas Day But picture this. Every year since every year you remember, during the Christmas fiestas , you come down to the same plaza at the same time, to say hello to the same people, and find out who's gotten married, who's had a baby, who's died, and who's shacking up with a Cuban 20 years younger than them (true story). The bartenders all know you, so as you mo...