I had a dream that I was chasing after a pigeon-like bird. The bird eluded me as I tried to catch it. The word I used to describe it in my journal was “defiant.” I lunged to capture it in my arms — and in real time, I dove off the bed. I woke up with a bloody, swollen forehead, having crashed into the bedroom wall. I happened to be alone in my apartment, so I crawled to the kitchen, put a sack of frozen peas on my head, and stumbled back to bed. It was 4 AM.

At 7 AM, I called my American friend, Carole, who came right over and began to cleanse the room by burning sage. She offered ice packs, good company, a few jokes, and deep concern. She was the closest female friend I had here, the only one who could see me with a bloody welt on my head, looking like a midlife zombie, and tell me all would be well.

I called the teledoc, who assured me I did not have a concussion. Despite his suggestion that I go to the hospital for a battery of tests, I decided to stay in bed for two days, binging on Spanish tortilla de patatas and something very American: Girls episodes.

Shortly before the head bash incident, I had accepted a job working for one of Spain’s great directors, a friend I’d known for decades. It was an exciting time that involved developing projects and included several round trips from Madrid to LA for meetings. I was also finishing an online teaching semester, taking language classes, and working on my novel. Oh, and my daughter announced she was getting married in 4 weeks to her wonderful longtime partner. It would be a civil ceremony and a small family dinner in NYC, but still… There was a lot on my mind.

Perhaps it was the squares of dark chocolate I consumed instead of dinner or the lack of solid sleep during the previous four nights? Maybe it was the repression of deep-rooted fears and uncertainties about my new life in Spain?

Whatever caused this crazy somnambulating episode that left me bloody and nauseated on my bedroom floor was troubling. And what exactly was that bird I was chasing…?

I was living across the hall from where I live now, and it seemed like my corner interior apartment had become a haven for Madrid’s emboldened pigeon population. I was well aware of the caradura chat group that gathered on my ledge to charlar and poop.

After the accident, I took action: I consulted with the guys at the ferretería [hardware store] on how best to go to war by ruffling some feathers. He handed me a long spiky reflective strip, which I installed on my balcony. This was sure to make my ledge unappealing.

After a deep dive into sleep disorders and how to fix them, I reinstated a practice of meditation and began a sleep regimen that includes nightly melatonin, some lady meds, and my own ritual of peaceful suggestions or neuroprogramming.

After roughly 731+ nights of relatively restful sleep—and zero episodes in which I’ve hurled myself out of the bed and crashed into a wall—I believe my method is working.

Wait, there’s more. Here’s the crazy part that I didn’t make up:

Madrid, Summer 2026 - 38.8 C./ 102 F.

Yesterday, I opened the bathroom door — If you must know, I was considering a shower in the dark because of the heat — to find a furled-up black pigeon. I wasn’t frightened (maybe a little), but I did feel a bit like I’d entered the Twilight Zone. Hella déjà vu? Here it was, unapologetically, the bird from my dream. There I was, faced with my nemesis, forced to reenact the battle that once broke me… Or was I?

Who was best suited to escort the bird out of the open window? Not I. My neighbor, Daniela! She’s a talented artist who features birds in many of her paintings. She was already feeling sorry for the bird when I told her about my dilemma.

She arrived an hour later with pro gear: plastic gloves and a small cotton sack. I stayed outside the door, not feeling brave at all. What I witnessed confirmed my decision not to offer an assist. The scared bird flew up to the ceiling, swooped down into her hair, fluttered around as birds do, knocked several items on the floor, landed on a just-washed towel, and pooped on my bathmat before Daniela swaddled it in a sack and gently carried it to the open window. Birdie has joined the chat group across the hall.

I’ve been visited by other animals — a long-ass snake once slinked across the hood and into Sally Daughtrey’s car engine—as we headed to her daughter’s middle school recital in Eagle Rock, California. I always look for the symbolic meaning behind these visits.

When a black pigeon lands in your Madrid bathroom, it can be interpreted in several ways, according to the unseen and all-knowing spiritual advisor of the Internet. Here’s the one I like:

“…a black paloma symbolizes peace, but specifically the quiet peace that comes after you have overcome a difficult challenge…”

Current mood: wingin’ it.

-

My first interview at the immigration center went worse than expected. I sat opposite a woman who looked about 20-something, hoping she might greet me with a friendly smile—or even a toothless replica. Instead, we exchanged a quick greeting—and moved on to the business at hand: my request for a visa. I wanted to stay in Spain.

When did you first enter the country? she asked, flipping through my passport. When I answered July of the correct year instead of August, we were off to a bad start.

The interview, conducted in Spanish, disintegrated quickly into a series of demands for things I didn’t have or couldn’t produce. The idea was to show that I’d been living in Madrid for more than two years, paying rent, and participating in Spanish society in a variety of prescribed ways. If I had had close relatives, that would have helped my case. An ex-husband who grew up here and previous visits to see his family didn’t seem to impress anyone. It was like telling an American you’ve been to Disneyland.

The biggest issue was that the essential documents I’d brought to the meeting, the ones on the checklist, were mostly originals. I had neglected to make copies of some of the requisitos [required items]. All ears? That was an automatic fail.

At one point my young interrogator asked a question about my identity card. Displeased with my answer, she challenged me with a death stare. I returned it. We stood locked in a Larry David-coded head tilt for about 30 seconds. She then put some Xs in boxes. “Se acabó por hoy,” [that’s it for today] she said, and pointed to the door. I had ten days to come back with the right stuff. I gathered my pile of unduplicated papers and waited to shed my tears over an iced café con leche at the place down the street.

Throughout the heatwave I’ve been collecting evidence of my Madrid years, consulting with my lawyer, strategizing with Spanish friends and Americans who’ve been living here for many years. A few had worthwhile ideas; others were baffled. What will you do if you can’t get the visa? my well-wishers asked. Unlike people seeking refuge here in Spain, I’m lucky to have options. I will say though, that whatever your status, contemplating a move to a foreign land is not for those who like things buttoned up.

There is an uncertainty that pervades both daily life and long-term planning. Trade-offs and compromises. Anxiety about being untethered and questioning where you belong is a constant. There’s a freedom in the uncertainty because on a good day it translates to possibility. What’s unknown might work out better than expected. So why not go with that?

This is not to say that I don’t slide into the bardo, where nothing has an answer and decisions often lead to questions. I think of how much I miss all my friends and family, how great it would be to return home. But home is complicated. I wonder if I could return to standing in line at Target, wishing I could see a doctor about my computer neck, or merging onto the 101 Freeway—instead of visiting a 17th Century monastery or planning my Portuguese weekend.

I refused to give up my quest for the Spanish visa—

…no matter how hope-less…

…no matter how far…

Gloria, the new interrogator assigned to my case, and I went three rounds over ten days. From behind her partition, she raised her voice to me several times. She wasn’t just passionate about the visa requirements; she was shouting.

Why this, and why that?? But why?? she repeated. I did my best to defend myself in a foreign language. There were no polite smiles exchanged, just instructions and compliance. It was rough. I faltered and sputtered. I used the subjunctive and confused the past perfect. I got knocked down —put on my new progressives and got back up again. At times, this visa seemed out of reach. An impossible dream.

Yet each time we met, progress was made. Gloria added some X’s to the page at the top of my stack. She gave me another ten days to get the final documents that I needed to complete the application.

During this phase of the process, I realized I have real friends here in Madrid, empathetic people who listen and care. Friends who took time out of their day to counsel me, coax me out of the Visa hole, and share their war stories from Spain’s bureaucratic trenches. They offered me coffee, vermut, and colloquial expressions related to housing that made me sound more natural, [el catastro anyone?] as well as the handy number to call for ASAP appointments [010]. Somehow, with the help of my care team and after getting lost in the faraway neighborhood of Las Tablas in search of another city office (zapped of all ánimo in the heat) I made it to the final interview.

Gloria was in a good mood at 10:30 AM when I arrived. I had my shoulders back and my head held high. When I handed her a copy of the final missing item she’d requested, she thanked me. Woujabelieve, the whole meeting ran smoothly?? It wasn’t at all what I had expected. But that’s the thing about living abroad: one day it’s a broken elevator, zombie roaches on the stairwell, no-siesta, total crapola day —and the next, you're visiting a 17th Century monastery, planning a breezy weekend in Portugal, and living the dream.

Glo shuffled papers, reviewing everything I’d assembled, her eyes flitting from page to screen. No shouting. Not even a growl. After about 10 minutes, she took her hands off the keyboard. Sign here, she said. You should get the answer within two weeks, vale?

The approval for another visa is pending, but we certainly slayed some dragons, didn’t we?

Gloria wished me a nice summer and I wished her the same. When I thanked her for her patience, we both smiled.

Stay tuned for updates at Moodboard: Madrid

Current mood: monastically optimistic.

Another reason to stay: Real Monasterio de la Encarnación, Madrid

The record-breaking heatwave here in Spain has been brutal. Imagine a thermal blanket wrapped around your entire body while a trumpet of heat blares into your sweaty face. You get the picture.

At the bars, shops, and public pools of Madrid, the daily chats are not of climatic doom—that’s too existential—but of inventive ways to stay cool before we go. Got aire? is a common question, followed by how they manage the high temps with a combo of showers, fans, and blinds positioned up or down at certain hours of the day. Luckier folks escape to mountain towns or seaside pueblos.

When I reveal that we’ve been sleeping on a sofacama (sofa-bed) in the living room, parked by the only air conditioner, while a fan circulates the frigid air, many want to tell me about the portable unit they found incompatible and returned to El Corte Inglés.

Earlier in the week, I had to venture out to a scheduled appointment in the beautiful barrio de Salamanca. Afterward, I shuffled along in the shade of three fiery blocks until I reached the home of my favorite tortilla de patatas in all of Madrid!

Casa Dani, located in Mercado de la Paz, is an unassuming counter with a blackboard featuring the greatest hits of Spanish comfort food. While there are other contenders for the best tortilla de patatas in this city, [Juana La Loca, Pez Tortilla, and Sylkar among them], I’m going to say the combo of taste, texture, and presentation, along with the overall vibes in this low-key spot, makes for a hands-down winner. Casa Dani juega en otra liga.

The tortilla comes out golden with freckles of caramelized onion. It’s shaped like a compressed planet, oozing with egg and soft flecks of potato, and ready to be scooped with your fork onto a slice of barra, a crusty bread you find across the city.

The servers are moving at lightning speed, grabbing orders from the kitchen, shouting to each other and laughing, while patrons wonder if there’s room for white asparagus or the daily rice dish. My classic tortilla came out first, and I savored every bite. I followed that with salmorejo, a cold, thick, and slightly garlicky summer soup made of tomato and day-old bread, often topped with crumbled egg and ham. Simply put, it’s divine, and exactly what’s needed to combat the heat.

Having spent my afternoon at the counter in Casa Dani, I strolled through the market, where I picked up a jar (more like a vat) of salmorejo for my fridge, a loaf of bread, and some cookies from the bakery that was calling my name. Mission accomplished, I waited for the bus a few minutes [I’ve embraced being a patient gal who rides the bus] before hailing an air-conditioned taxi.

Upstairs, I fluffed the pillows, peered out at the columns of windows with their lowered blinds, ditched my phone, and joined my neighbors in a communal siesta.

Folks, I found it: Love Story: John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette.

It’s not just an A-level Ryan Murphy binge-soufflé. This is a nonstop screen-snorter set in the 1990s that begs you to click next, even when you’re struggling with possible dry eye, and you’ve eaten the last of the melatonin gummies you brought back from the States. Friends, this show has it all, including The Sexiest Man Alive (rewind to 1988).

Paul Anthony Kelly as JFK Jr. zooms around the West Village and the UES, often footballing shirtless in Central Park or lounging in a pair of bulgy (CK) briefs. Frankly whatever he does is great. John is fueled by prep-school-groomed, original nepo bae bae magnetism (no backwards caps worn at the dinner table, Jackie pleads ). While in real life, actor Kelly, a ripe 37, has secured his future as everyone’s favorite ILF.

John Junior is on the go, weaving in and out of pre-bike lane traffic, pitching his creative, if short-lived political mag, George, to skeptical investors who, like all earthlings, just want to be adjacent to Young Kennedy Energy. Or he’s busy flunking the bar for a second time, and seeking advice about love and purpose from his legendary, chain-smoking mom. America’s Widow is played with grace and gravitas by Naomi Watts.

Sarah Pidgeon plays spindly, catch me if you can, Carolyn, the woman who steals John’s heart while rising to fame as a CK-clad publicista. Her version of Carolyn has a good heart, icy reserve, and (previously unseen) charisma.

Love Story is also a tale of a time and a place that some other kids I know and I lived through. On occasion, being older than social media itself has its advantages. I remember how we once stood mesmerized in Times Square before Calvin Klein’s 4000 sq ft. billboards, highlighting what can only be described as some men’s megalithic crotches. That was the same era in which the world discovered the vulnerable beauty of teenager Kate Moss, topless and doe-like in the arty/softcore pages of CK Obsession ads—that face—shot by David Sims and Mario Sorrenti.

Alas, I’ve been allowed only a brief binger’s snack break, and I must return to my Kennedys. There’s more to decipher (like the mean portrayal of Daryl Hannah as an unlovable, coked-out, lukewarm mess?) Excuse me, that wasn’t the Daryl H. I remember. Why the haters?

Even though I know what happens at the end of this tragic love story (boy, is it a downer), this show has put a momentary pep in my step.

Are you watching? Let’s hear…

‘sta pronto.

This is what happens if you sit on your tight little stack for too long without hitting publish: It stops raining. Now you’ll have to imagine this street in Lavapiés with the sun shining on it. :)

Or you can fuggetaboutit, because now that the sun is shining, the mood has changed, as it does over here, and just about everywhere. I’m no longer interested in making the My Fair Lady, Rain in Spain references or talking about how the two weeks of grey skies and charcos gave pro procrastinators like me a license to stay inside, sprawled on a sofa with bowls of olives and pistachios nearby, and write. In conclusion to the slippery story never told in the Substack that never was: we must write, whatever the weather.

Today, a sunny one, I zoomed in and out of El Rastro, the ginormous outdoor market held on Sundays in Madrid. I was in search of a living room rug upgrade, if you must know, but ended up at the tienda with the best classic vinyl. The owner has a stack of well-loved records that are reasonably priced, along with a box of risky hopefuls with familiar covers but no labels on the discs themselves. You have to roll the dice on the risky guys for 1 euro. Works for me.

I recently bought a record player and speakers, and I’ve been slowly collecting 20th Century gems. So far, on the nostalgia train: Sinead, Grace Jones, Joni Mitchell, Lou Reed, Sly, Police, and Carole King. No Zeppelin yet, but I did contemplate, Yessongs, and Pink Floyd (not Dark Side, so)…Ya veremos.

Workwise, I’m in a moment of awe and surrender, as my novel is being read, IRL, by some O.G.’s of the publishing world, omg. It could be months before the responses come in, so that’s the surrender part. The worst advice I’ve followed is to distract myself with doom scrolling until all trace of dopamine is depleted and that sinister cortisone drip takes over. I’m better than that.

The best advice I’ve given myself is to avoid the Interweb when possible — and write something else! [Thought bubble with personified lightbulb]. So, here I am bossing myself around on a sunny day. I also started a short story that could eventually be something if I weren’t so distracted by the snarky self-critic who says in a raspy voice, You’re no George Saunders. And I have about 45,667 meh-to-promising words of a new project about an older gal with chutzpah who moves to Madrid.

Habrá mas. x

The 9+-hour flight from Madrid to Chicago was not totally hellish, but air travel for coach-class plebeians like me is certainly not for the faint of heart. Entitled humans are doing what they do best: coughing, spilling things, calming howling babies by slow walking down the aisles. Attendants are doling out crap headsets that distort the sound of holiday favorites like Elf, and offering food that seems more like a set of beige props covered in plastic.

Then there’s the time difference. It’s 10 am, but it’s really nine hours later for me. Should I take the Spanish melatonina and go to sleep now, or wait for some subtle cue from my diurnal clock? Should I watch a video on nervous system dysregulation when I arrive, only to later get re-regulated to a Spanish lifestyle that includes jamón and vermút, with a 2 AM bedtime?

Having survived the flight, I dropped my bags, and without much time to schmooze, drove with my son and his partner to the gorgeous Rockefeller Chapel at University of Chicago to see Cameron Winter in concert. Yes, I’m showing off big time. But I must thank the artist’s manager for an extraordinary night in which the album—which lives on repeat as part of my daily routine—sounded even better than imagined. The hushed sanctity of the venue, the shared experience with my son—and let’s say an entire generation—and the zeitgeist of the music felt hopeful, memorable.

This part of my journey—and yes, it’s a physical journey so I can use the J word—is about spending time with the younger adult kid and his beautiful partner, eating good food, and checking in with a few Chicago peeps. While I’m here, I hope to see the Yoko Ono show at MCA and slide into a few pilates classes.

Just as the fully redacted but stupefyingly VILE Epstein files hit our collective screens, and CBS refused to air a segment about the abject horror of our state-funded torture centers, the flu has hit our household here! So, I get to be a mom again, while dancing as fast as I can: pounding the usual litany of Vitamin C, magnesium, fresh air, warm blankets, chai tea, cashmere socks, curative sleep, and hand-washing lockdown style. All of this so as not to become Rudolfa The Red-Nosed Leper whom no one wants to see. (Hope I haven’t offended any lepers in the making of this Substack.)

We have a plan for Christmas Eve at a cousin’s home in Hyde Park, and I have two more (short) stops on the Didi’s Back, whirlwind tour. Returning to the US is always a trip. The news, when seen from abroad, has no context. It’s steroid-level shock and awe. My zone is forever Super-soaked. When you’re physically here, however, you see that life goes on around these heinous events, and more insidiously, in spite of them. Celebrity skin routines prevail.

When I think of home, I now picture my cozy spot in the center of Madrid with the same Monstera plant that everyone’s required to foster. I also think of L.A., where my friends who are family live and thrive, as a distant home. In third place is New York, where my daughter and her husband live. I think of New York fondly as my hometown. Because it is and always will be, no matter how much my kids remind me of how long it’s been since I actually had an address there. BME, Big Mamdani Energy, has me curious and excited again about the latest iteration of the city that never sleeps while we ride a free bus to affordability!

As the 2025th year [gahhh! I see you, George Jetson] plip-plops and shamedy-bams to a bumbling close, I cherish my loved ones, near and far, sending love to those who are getting treatments, suffering, or struggling to stay afloat.

Of course my glamorous life abroad is not always glamorous. We pick and choose what we want to present, right? But I can say that it’s always interesting. With the help of my patient immigration lawyer, Carlos, I’ve discovered another crafty way to renew my Spanish visa and stay in Europe.

I commit to finishing an uncensored, chaotic draft of my second novel — and pls stay tuned for what I hope will be big news in early ‘26! I’ll also have updates about Casa Genoveva, an amazing 19th Century home and retreat venue in central Portugal in which I’m a partner. I plan to lead a writing retreat there in 2027. Oh —I commit to spending more time living each day. Just being. Some things that may seem unattainable in the U.S., are do-able abroad.

I read several great books this year, in part because of my proximity to two fanastic bookstores in Madrid, including, Parent(h)esis and The Secret Kingdoms. Here’s a quote from one of my favorites of the year, rec ‘d by my son.

Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico:

…just as the visual points of difference they sold to their clients were sold to others by creative professionals all over the western world, an identical struggle for a different life motivated an entire sector of their generation.

Wildlife.

Have been in town for just a few weeks to do some repairs and rent my home. I found a great fit, an enthusiastic young couple who want to get married and settle here. The plan is for me to stay in the cottage in the back when I’m in town while they enjoy the main house. I’ve reclaimed the cottage, which was built in my post-divorce era by the late Cristobal (RIP), a builder/musician who once worked at Unite Here Local 11. Together we did lots of trips to Home D with the radio turned up loud and our hair covered in plaster dust. After renting the cottage for several years, I finally get to live in it part-time. I get to wake up to the orange tree that knows many secrets, and the untamed garden that surrounds it.

Things I loved about this trip to L.A. (See jaguar below.)

Green space. Vegetation. Wildlife. Beautiful produce. Sunshine. Beloved friends. People who care. Aka Good People.

-I need less space. It simplifies everything. Live where you fit and fit where you live.

-California avocados are better than the ones in Spain? Maybe I enjoy them more.

-Los Feliz coyotes are larger and much more entitled than I remember. They operate like gangsters in a silent film, slinking around in their auburn fur coats, napping on neighbors’ patio couches, and cruising across lawns and driveways with celebrity swagger. Alej and I heard packs of them howling and yapping at nightfall in Mt. Washington the other day. Sounded like a feast.

-When it’s 90 degrees F., as it was in early September, small-sized smoothies at Lassen’s are still $16. I should buy a blender.

-Tipping is out of control here. Even those who are used to it mention how bad it is. We want our baristas and store attendees to be paid well, but isn’t that the employer’s responsibility? It’s hard to tip one dollar when someone hands you a $6 blueberry muffin. (Slow service invites relaxation — no tipping required in Spain. )

-Here you’ll be asked if you want your whatever “to go” or “for here,” but you’ll only be served coffee in a ceramic cup if you ask for one. Otherwise, it’s one-use paper or plastic for everything.

-JG. arranged a tour with a docent and I learned that there’s a jaguar living in the L.A. zoo who has more animal magnetism than any movie star. He’s had zero work done. Radical acceptance, I guess.

-Water bottles are not a thing, certainly not a personal accessory in Spain. Here they cost $38 and match your workout clothes. Yes, hydration is underrated.

-The car, the traffic, and the parking situation are all worse than ever. Yes, I see more bike lanes, but…

-Even a buzzy Los Feliz restaurant closes at 10:00 PM during the week. People invite you to dinner at 6. :) Wump wump wump. Why eat lunch?

-Don’t call your L.A. friends after 10 PM without apologizing for how late it is. In Madrid, people leave me voice messages at midnight (including my lawyer). So, yeah.

-Hiking or simply walking in the morning or at sunset in Los Angeles with a friend is still an unbeatable way to have almost all your physical, spiritual, and emotional needs met.

-Baller’s Hardware is where you’ll run into someone in the dishrack aisle who you haven’t seen in years. They always look better ( years younger or just different) than you remembered because they live in L.A. If you are me, you’ll be interrogated about the move you made to a foreign land.

You’ll end up buying some vinegar-based cleaning products, a Swiffer, a sink drain thingy, and some Baller’s merch!

-New (to me) restaurants and bars in Echo Park and Highland Park are great. Bacetti’s! Prices are high everywhere. I say this as someone who lived in Silver Lake when choices ranged from men-only leather bars, Tiki, Tropical, Taix, Casita del Campo, and Mille’s.

-Good people are still delivering food to unhoused and food-insecure people. Musicians are still playing gigs all over the city. Artists are still working in their studios and preparing shows, architects are still building houses, teachers are teaching (despite low attendance), therapists are seeing panicked clients, filmmakers are struggling to make relevant films, and actors are still appearing in plays in the black box theatres of Atwater Village.

What the USA says to me this time in 400 words or less:

-During 2025, the nation has recorded 19,000 gun-related injuries and more than 10,000 deaths. There have been 381 mass shootings — so far this year. [updated from August 2025 figures].

The day of the Catholic school shooting in Minneapolis, during which two kids were killed and 20+ injured, not a single person I know mentioned it. Not because any of us is cold-hearted. It’s because we’ve been forced to accept that mass shootings and gun violence are a part of American life. We’ve been raised on violence and the threat of violence. Full stop.

The Masked Men.

Wondering if when I go to Home Depot or Kaiser Permanente, I’ll witness a raid or an ambush of some kind. I wonder how involved I’ll get. Will I cower, head down in my car, or will I try to help? How to help? Who’s the calvary now?

-During the beautiful meals in family homes overlooking canyons, there is a necessary time-out to talk about each person’s plan B, and who recently got a passport for another land. Spain, where I’m living, and Portugal, where I’m involved in an artists’ retreat, are often mentioned as places of refuge. Barbados, Belize, Canada, Italy…Where to find your consolation prize.

During these dinners, I’m asked questions about my own exit strategy. I keep it simple: If it looks like this now in the USA, I think those who can, should at least imagine where they might go in two years from now, when things are different. Buzz kill. The mood grows tense. People have ties to this country: kids in high school and college, elderly parents, fantasy football leagues, FOMO ...

What to believe, what action to take?

I’m lucky. I’m here in L.A. just until it starts to feel uncomfortably comfortable — and then I’m out. This coming and going is in itself a privilege. I leave behind my beautiful community of friends, my real family. I leave them to manage this tension between a realm of good that I believe stretches across the nation — and a state-run system of cruelty.

Hasta luego. Peace out.

-

Rare moment. The Plaza Mayor gets pretty crowded in summer.

Heading into my third year here in Madrid! I can’t believe it. But then I remember the days spent standing in long lines with the the other immigrants at the comisaría, waiting to get my fingerprints. Each time there’s a moment when the superhot policeman tries to pronounce my first name. There’s an epic struggle with the first three letters, as he contorts himself in a Celtic half-nelson: Diiiairrrdajjjeeinndareee!

The pause for a sip of water.

That’s my cue to advance to his desk to tell him, tranqui, I switched to Didi in 2022. This elicits a grin.

“Okay, Didi,” he says, “come back to pick up your NIE in a month.” And off I go, with a skip in my step, to the coffee bar at the metro station. I’ve got the paperwork and a vague plan to stay in Spain for another year!

I finally feel a bit settled now that I have international friends who are interesting and fun to hang out with. It took a minute. People told me it would take time, but I didn’t listen. Besides, last year I lost one new bestie to Thailand. Yeah, an American who is smart, cool, funny, and very much reading the same life chapter as I am. But you learn that not everyone stays. Now I have a friend to visit in Chiang Mai. Shout out to C-Jota.

I hang with newish neighbor-friends Peter and Rob and their well-collared chihuahua mix, Susie. (All former Palm Springers). They moved to Madrid eight years ago to enjoy life while working remotely. They own a beautiful pad in Huertas. They’re not going back.

We’ve been trying new restaurants, including one I recommend in Lavapies, Rambal. Fixed menu, great wine, no rush. Not that anything is rushed over here. During lunch, which starts around 2 and ends around 4 ish, we talk about new exhibitions in town, crunchy towels, how to keep your indoor plants watered while you’re off buying ceramics in a UNESCO village in Portugal, or bathing on an island that took less than three hours to get to. We debate which film we should see at Cibeles to get out of the heat. When we ex-Americans are together, the conversation eventually shifts to the dire situation in our homeland. We share sound bytes, podcasts, and theories and often decide the best thing to do for now is to…order all three desserts.

The heat wave has sadly been lethal here in Spain. It seems to have subsided a bit, but it’s still bloody hot! So hot, that Rob generously brought over a futon so I could park it on the floor of my living room, beneath the minisplit, and try to survive the wave. (That’s right, no aire in my bedroom).

Speaking of survival, some wonderful L.A. friends came to visit en route to Valencia a few weeks ago. They’re thinking of fleeing Los Angeles, or, less urgently, relocating. We went out to dinner—the L.A. friends and the newish fab friends (one from Ireland and one from Portugal)— at a legendary place that is known for flamenco, La Candela). Its Spanish-tiled walls are covered in paintings and promotions for the GOATS of this art form, including Camarón and Paco de Lucía.

We enjoyed a long evening, during which some drunken girls who crashed the bar nearly disrobed. Ole!. I recommend Candela’s albondigas, and the canelón made with congrejo. The flamenco was emotionally charged as always. Wish I could tell you the singer’s name or why I always weep during flamenco shows, but alas, it’s just what happens. Sangria and song are a lovely mix on a warm Spanish night.

As for the writing life, I’m happy to report I’m working with an agent on the novel I wrote last year, and making progress on a project about an older woman who Marie Kondo’s all her stuff and buys a one-way ticket to Madrid.

Hmph.

From lunchtime yesterday until sunset, I had no idea what the AF was happening. The not knowing was not cool. Imagine a sinister collab of literary greats: Atwood meets DeLillo’s White Noise. Given recent world events and recent aggressions toward Europe, the only explanation I could reckon for many hours was that part of the continent was under silent attack.

I walked to Plaza de Colón, thinking I would catch the bus back to my neighborhood. I then saw that the restaurants and bars, usually buzzing with loud voices and rounds of beer, were dark or shuttered. Buses were packed like sardine tins. Glass doors of posh stores were left wide open when electric eyes were frozen in place.

People emerged from metro stations with strained Almodovarian faces, waving their arms to tell others that trains weren’t running. Listening to small group conversations, I learned that the entire city…no — the entire country… no, also Portugal…and wait…France… and Germany?? What? had no electricity or power at all. Wauuu.

Joining a mass movement, I walked along El Paseo del Prado toward my neighborhood of Lavapies. Everyone had a cell phone in hand; no one had a signal.

As I passed the Thyssen museum, I asked an official-looking guard in a yellow vest if she knew anything about the disruption. She repeated that The Iberian Peninsula had no power, and added a few countries to the list. “Es un ataque,” I tried to confirm.

She agreed. “Parece que debe serlo,” she said. It seems it must be.

I kept marching. If we were under attack, and I couldn’t tell any friends or family, it seemed the next order of business was to get some lunch. However, the ATMs weren’t working. Any open store or lunch counter was taking cash or a promise-to-pay only, and without electricity, the contents of my fridge would soon spoil.

As I was heading up Calle de Moratín, I spotted David, a kind and familiar face, coming from his bookstore. He and I chatted quickly about the day’s events. How surreal it all seemed. He reached into his wallet and handed me 20 euros. He was off to find his wife.

When I got to Lavapies, I saw more worried faces along with groups of restaurant workers who’d come out onto the street to play music and dance. What else could they do? No one had any verifiable information. After claiming they had “nothing, no food to serve customers,” the Falafeleria on Santa Isabel kindly prepared a delicious plate of rice and vegetables topped with tahini, for 6 euros. I sat down next to two travelers from the U.S., who had just arrived in Madrid.

“What do you think is going on?” I asked them, hoping for a kernel, some new detail they’d overheard.

“Some kind of attack,” one said, mentioning a few familiar names of powerful men who might be responsible. I finished my lunch and told them I hoped we would know more soon. “The creepy thing is that if this is a premeditated attack, what happens next?”

In the dark stairwell of my building, I ran into a group of young women, each from a different country, who were staying at a neighbor’s flat on my floor. I’d heard people were sending WhatsApp messages but they confirmed that this was more fake news. No one had cell service; no messages were being sent. Zero. Zilch. Just Stop.

The international women said if the power was not on after sundown, they would come by with board games and cookies. I thanked them and descended four flights of stairs, in search of people and provisions. The American in me still wanted to believe that I was somehow mightier than the problem. Ja!

One guy I spoke to at the Italian place on the corner claimed that if you stood in front of the Four Seasons Hotel you could get a partial signal. I never made it there, but I did ask at the front desk of a smaller hotel. “We have no signal, we can’t communicate with anyone or send any messages,” the beleaguered woman at the desk explained. I thanked her and headed out, passing the droopy-faced Americans at the bar, swirling warm drinks.

Circling back toward my house, I saw the door open to the darkened ferreteria (hardware store). Groups of older folks were huddled around the counter, trying out flashlights of varying sizes. A few contemplated a transistor radio for 36 euros. It looked handsome and reliable like it had survived the Franco regime. I settled on a couple of flashlights that nearly fit my 4 euro budget. When I told the owner I didn’t have quite enough, he winked at me and told me to pay him next time.

My next stop was Chris G.’s house where I’d been hanging out the day before. His street, which is only minutes from Plaza Mayor, was quiet. Like me, a few folks were scratching their heads, trying to figure out how to let their friends know they’d arrived. The buzzers were not working, and unless windows were open, no one could hear you call their name. I stood in front of his house for a bit, buzzed a few times to no avail, sat with my worry, and decided to try finding another friend in La Latina’s Plaza de la Paja.

By the time I got to Eitan’s building some of the terrazas were filled with people and dogs, and kids passing soccer balls. A few store owners sold candles and other helpful items out of baskets in front of their shops. The mood was livelier than it had been earlier in the day, perhaps because by then, we had sort of accepted the not knowing.

I met some of Eitan’s neighbors in his lobby who didn’t know which apartment he lived in. They directed me to the mailboxes, and quietly disappeared into the new world order. I tried with my new flashlight to see which apartment was Eitan’s, but couldn’t be sure. Eventually, I called his name from the street. No luck.

From there, I went to sit in the adjacent Principe de Anglona, an aristocratic rose garden dating to the 1800s. My plan was to smell the roses and contemplate the fate of humanity. Was this all just a “cascading infrastructure error?” An interconnected power grid spanning three countries that just --oopsie, like dominoes flopping one on top of the other -- crashed? That seemed farfetched and fucked up. I thought of my kids in the US, wondering what the hell happened to their awake at all hours and ready to chat, Madrid-based mother? Did she lose her phone? Why doesn’t she respond?

I guess a lot happened in that garden: I plotted out a chart-topping thriller, penned by a writer with a sexy pseudonym. If only I knew how to write a multi-layered mind-bender, involving sexual intrigue. Pedro Pascal as Pedro Sánchez. A multinational chess game among world leaders. But all would be well in the end, I hoped. Minor collateral damage.

From the garden, I walked to Tirso de Molina. I had two flashlights and less than 10 euros stuffed in my pockets. I imagined I might find Sofia and Diego doing something normal like chatting in front of their house. I thought they would greet me with smiling faces. We could huddle together, maybe prepare an evening meal. We’d all live to send another email. But, as I turned onto their corner, the most remarkable thing happened: the lights went on!! People started clapping, cheering, hugging, and toasting on the streets of Madrid. Though the wifi didn’t return until hours later, the world had shifted in the right direction.

If in fact, this massive disruption turns out to be, as suggested, a freakish weather event of seismic proportions, that shouldn’t be dismissed. It should trigger many dystopian concerns as well. More will be revealed.

I’m still processing what happened on 28 April, but this much I know: we find our friends, neighbors, and allies in unexpected places: in stairwells and hardware stores, in ATM lines, bookstores, bus stops, and falafel shops. Despite the sheer madness of this moment in history, we still find them gathered around battery-powered radios, hoping for words of truth and connection.

In my cozy Spanish hideaway on the third floor, at roughly 9 AM yesterday, I put on the morning song: Zeppelin’s, Over the Hills and Far Away.

I love how it starts up modestly, like Plant’s going to seduce us with a love song. Then it revs up with Jimmy’s plucky guitar God rhythms and goes full twang. We ride along in suspense as the song builds to a get-the-Led out Zepplosion! I conjure Plant’s cascading curls and skintight bellbottoms commanding the stage at Madison Square Garden, the entire stadium vibing in a head nodding frenzy, like a supersized amoeba powered by a collective toke of Acapulco Gold—and that’s when the sun came out in Madrid.

We’d been hoping and waiting for more than two weeks. Where is Spring? Madre mia, some of us, not I, said. In a city that’s always sunny, the dreary days felt like a Velázquez painting missing its color. Finally, we’re bringin’ Alegría back (!) Believe me when I say the streets are packed. Now I have even more excuses for wanting to be out and about — away from the page and the screen.

There are various crafty ways to avoid crafting sentences. Over a long career, I’ve become a pro at avoidance. Just one more song. C’mon, man, it’s The Rain Song. Don’t be a buzz kill. One more piece of toast from the new panadería topped with that animal welfare-certified butter from Galicia that comes wrapped like a present. Because it is a present for my soul.

Some of my favorite diversions from writing include (not in any particular order): separating the recycling (expectations run high here—I was once scolded by a feverish Madrileña who urgently reassigned my misplaced oat milk carton); rearranging the linen closet in a color-coded fashion for my imaginary guest who’s already said she may not be coming from Valencia next week; doing same to medicine cabinet — it’s always 10:30 at night when despite my being oblivious to the hoarded triplicates of melatonin and dental floss, I decide the frenetic purge must be done now.

Then there’s the post-lunch poking around in Spanish hardware, herbal, or widget stores, asking questions about odd items and potions, only to search the exact word for the thing that plugs up your drain; there’s popping into bookstores and acting all puffy like I might just read a 600-page revelation (the kind my late father kept bedside) about the Kennedy years; chatting with every cafe owner and Euro canine who has a pulse; browsing shoe, bag, and lipstick counters, or simply shuffling at El Corte (with a stop at the lunch counter for oysters) drinking yet another cup of arrrrrythmia-inducing coffee at Los Feliz Cafe (whose vibe reminds me of my homeland) or inhaling a cardamom bun at the Swedish bakery downstairs (where they call me “Didi” like I’m a chatty older person with an accent, who stays up very late); and yes, returning to the house where I once slid into social media like putting on a wet bathrobe.

Now there’s a ban, a self-imposed limit on doom scrolling. It was getting out of hand.—No, that’s demure. It was a surefire prelude to a silent scream that would make Edvard Munch aroused. This resulted in a shame spiral. Or a little bit of both: an indoor panic spiral accompanied by circular waddling and repetitive opening and closing of the refrigerator with a look of disgust. Not a good scene for a writer with projects.

Recently, though, as I say, things are looking up—unfortunately not over there but over here. The sun is back in place, no longer dilly-dallying at some undisclosed hideout. And I was jumped into a book club. By this I mean, they needed English language readers for the English session at Madrid’s new brilliant bilingual bookstore, Liberería Parenthesis, owned by my lovely polyglot-literary pals, Eitan and Giedre. We read, My Tender Matador by Pedro Lemebel, one of Chile’s greatest of all time. (A new discovery for me!) It’s an urgent love story between a trans woman and a Marxist revolutionary, set against the frightening and all too recognizable landscape of Pinochet’s regime. Mind blown, I remind myself that Lemebel wrote this poetic story by getting to a writing space and returning there repeatedly until the work was done.

If you’re feeling stuck, afraid, overwhelmed and all the rest, you might just have to get the Led out. And then, quietly, without fuss and fanfare, ease off the Galician butter and make something, build something, support something that gives you hope.

Many is a word
That only leaves you guessing
Guessing 'bout a thing
You really ought to know, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. — Plant/Page

Since you all have sources more qualified than I to speak about politics and offer solace as you navigate this unhinged world, I’m hoping to steer clear of punditry. I’ll dedicate A View From A Broad to writing as a practice for living well. I’ll talk frankly about the joys and challenges of relocating to a foreign land. And I’ll share some of my travels: disguised as a low-budget princess, I frequent European capitals, mountain villages, and legendary beaches. If that works for you, stay tuned! :)

Writing Practice/Writing as Practice

Do I write every day? Yes, but believe me, it’s not always sit down at the table, turn on my genius, ease off the pistachios, and channel Joan Didion. Sometimes the magic happens during stolen hours at the end of a long day, in a journal next to my bed. Or it happens in docs on my phone during a bus ride to my co-working space, or in my head, later to be scribbled on a receipt lodged in my wallet.

Should you write every day?

If you like, sure. I don’t have too many rules for people who want to take their writing practice seriously or unseriously. But I do know that if you want to feel you’ve accomplished something — you’ve finished a draft of an essay or a story — you have to dedicate hours, days, weeks, or months to that goal. Simple as that.

Reading About The Creative Process

Should you read a lot of stuff about being creative, or just be hyper-creative?

Both are helpful. However, I wouldn’t suggest telling yourself that you’re just going to read three to eight more books about writing before you’re ready to write a sentence or a line of poetry. Bahh.

Along with a short story collection by Bernard Schlink, (The Reader) found at The Secret Kingdoms used section in Madrid, I’m currently reading (slowly) a book in Spanish, Crea Sin Limites, by screenwriter, Miguel Alcantud. He’s smart and has lots of brainstorming, re-imagining exercises for creative people, and suggests new ways of playing and having fun. (And the typeface is really big).

Many great writers, including George Saunders, Stephen King, Anne LaMott, and Zadie Smith, have inspirational essays about writing as a practice, and I’m partial to Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way!

As Good as It Gets

I’m experimenting with flash fiction and my latest piece has been rejected twice. Hmn. Twice barely counts; rejection means you’ve made something that others might see.

My novel, The Lost Days of June, is out to agents and I’ve gotten some amazing responses. Dedos cruzados.

On a day when I was feeling blue about the diabolical cruelty, the ailing climate, the human suffering, and…and just all of it, I remembered that three weeks ago, I was ridiculously lucky to be in Tuscany with a dear friend from college, eating pasta with truffles harvested a day earlier from our host’s backyard.

I also remembered the impossibly beautiful Boticellis in the Uffizi…

…the peas and parmesan mini sandwiches…

…and the walks across the ancient bridges at night.

Florence, March 2025

View from the bus stop for #27: The Palace Hotel. La Fuente de Neptuno. Madrid, 2025.

Here, after three weeks of rain, the sun has finally appeared!

Mwaaa.

My intention for these pages was to write about beautiful buildings and plazas, remote islands and hill towns, funny Spanish phrases, and the unique heartbeat of Madrid, my adopted city — as seen by me, an ex-pat, an outsider. However, you may agree that the daily search for hopeful inspiration often gets conflated with tragic world events. Is it me, or does the world appear at times like a beautiful if scandalously undernourished polar bear clinging to a melting glacier?

I’d like to wrap up the year by thanking those who have supported me in my writing endeavor, and in this bold, romantic, and often lonely 2-year + experiment of living abroad. The plan continues to be having no plan. I navigate my course when it’s time to renew my visa, writing and teaching, and believing that if I’m patient, unexpected opportunities will arise. And they do!

I live in a modest apartment in the center of Madrid, which does not overlook anything as glamorous as Plaza Mayor, but instead features an authentic view of my corpulent neighbor in his sleeveless T-shirt, accompanied by his cat, cooking cocido or ironing his sheets. Where am I? I’m 15 minutes from three museums: El Prado (which is like living near The Met but better), Museo Reina Sofia, and Museo Thyssen.

I can spend a weekday afternoon surrounded by Goyas, or drink a cava on a rooftop overlooking the glittering Royal Palace. I can end the day by walking from there to see Picasso’s Guernica, which always delivers a punch. I can get a same-day cita for a gel manicura downstairs, for 12 euros, and eat a gooey slice of tortilla de patatas with a cafe con leche, before catching a double feature of Spanish cinema around the corner at Cine Doré, one of Europe’s best art house cinemas, for 3 euros a pop.

For most of last year, I worked in story development for a friend, one of Spain’s great directors, and am excited to continue to consult and send things his way. In the confines of my one-bedroom flat, I wrote a novel, The Lost Days of June. It’s been well received thus far and is currently out to agents. :)

Thanks to all who read, promoted, and took the time to reach out to me with kind words about Real Lives of Married People, my story collection. Your enthusiasm has meant so much to me and has kept me going during times of uncertainty.

My daughter got married in 2024, and we gained an amazing son-in-law and an expanding family. I feel very fortunate to see both my kids growing in their personal and professional lives. Knowing they’re good allows me to run away from home and live in Europe!

I plan to post more in 2025 about what I’m up to, creating a respite (or maybe inspiration) for readers who entertain the idea of getting away from it all, short-term or longer, — and have the privilege to do so.

As for the view from abroad at the end of 2024, I do prefer this particular view for now: the art, the neighbor cooking cocido, the sprawling parks, the older ladies (like me) with their elegant shoes and bags, and even the noisy pigeons on my balcony. Me thinks I’ll be here in Spain for another year or two. I promise to let you know when I have a plan.

I wish you peace, love, dignity, human rights, good health, and universal healthcare.

DM

It’s very hard to keep both stories, and both countries, in your mind at the same time. — Ezra Klein

Hello, Friends:

Happy Halloween! pronounced with a hard “H” sound here in Madrid.

I’ve been chatting with Madrileños about how Halloween has evolved into a real event here, involving costumes and baskets of chuches. This morning, walking through Plaza de Tirso de Molina, en route to my co-working space, I passed witches, mad scientists, a partially bandaged mummy, and some teenage characters I didn’t recognize from a Spanish version of American Idol.

One Spanish friend, a handsome guitar player, 24, who dressed as Gandolf last year, will go as a member of a legendary Spanish band of the ‘80s. Spaniards believe all reasons are good reasons to celebrate. I might go with friends to watch horror movies at the local art house cinema. Not sure.

As you imagine, the undercurrent that rules this week for me and my ex-pat friends is, of course, the election. It looms in my mind, spookier than any costume or slasher film I might see. And this time I don’t have to make a plan to leave the US if the election doesn’t go our way. I’ve already done that! :)

Everyone in my orbit has been a part of this fight. From abroad, I did my share to help Dems win these races: phone banking, sending out weekly $20s to flip seats, having uncomfortable conversations with a couple of misguided friends, and dropping off my overseas ballot at the post office. I sent my ballot weeks ago with a hopeful kiss and a silent prayer. I imagined my vote becoming part of a deluge of votes for Kamala Harris. Wouldn’t that be amazing? Despite some huge issues I have with some of her domestic and foreign policies, she has run a tireless campaign and succeeded in earning my vote. For me, the alternative is terrifying.

I signed up to watch the election night coverage with an expected crowd of 200 Dems Abroad. We arrive at the bar at 11 PM, and finish around 5:30 AM. Your guess is as good as mine as to what kind of tears will be shed. Dedos Cruzados.

Meanwhile, I’m staying busy. Helping friends who are opening a bookstore, eating good food, teaching some classes, and sending out one novel while writing a chaotic first draft of a new one. I kind of think that’s what you have to do. Take your nervous, creative energy and channel it into something productive. As Michelle Obama said, do something.

I liked the way politico veteran James Carville signed off his optimistic piece in the NYT about how and why Kamala wins this thing, so I’m borrowing it:

See you on the other side.

So what to do about the prez? As I commented in the NYT the day after the “debate,” it’s time to plead with dear Bidey to step down and bring on Kamala —yesterday.

Kamala could be armed with the full, unyielding support of Biden’s delegates, as well as a fleet of Big Pants party influencers and demillionaires. She can further Biden’s promising agenda for climate, women’s reproductive rights, gun control, union empowerment, and so much more. She doesn’t have to be the best president we’ve ever had; she needs to be the next president. The first female president in our nation’s history. Believe it: we can still rewrite the narrative.

All this punditry is a time suck that’s taking us nowhere fast. There are other great candidates, yes, of course, there’s this one and that one, and… simply no guarantee that anyone can beat Trump at this point. I’m willing to be wrong about Kamala, but I’m not wrong about our current president. We can no longer gamble on the guy who’s psyched to work from 10 AM to 4 PM! and says he’s sure he can beat Trump “in 2020.” The guy who says he’ll quit when the God almighty taps his shoulder (and whispers in coded geriatric lingo), it’s time to be shufflin’ on.

I’m not going to sing Biden’s praises. We’ve all heard enough about his good points, weighted down by confused grandpa vibes. I was done long before well-meaning Jill Biden praised her dear hubby after the debate for “answering all the questions!”

If you want the view from abroad, the Spanish folks I talk to are terrified of another Trump presidency. Yes, the folks who endured Franco for nearly 40 years, now enjoy a civilized society with actual freedoms. These blue-zoners have excellent healthcare and seem so confident they are on the right side of history, they even let communists, right-wingers, and anarchists, on occasion, parade down the Gran Via!

Spanish society is far from perfect, but here you can be sure that while your kids are playing futbol in the plaza at 1 in the morning on a summer night, no one will use their legal-to-carry, semi-automatic rifle to randomly slay 30 people.

Among other things, Europeans are concerned with sustainability, and with health and wellbeing. But not just for themselves as individuals. They seem to be concerned for living creatures around the world.

Writing about some of the differences between US and European culture, says smartly about the US: “It’s the idea of individual liberation. The idea that everyone needs to be emancipated from everything... They need to find their true self and be it. Even if that means severing ties with family, friends, church, Nation, anything and everything that came before.”

So, beyond the violence, militarization, and disregard for the climate emergency that a Trump regime promises, we have a moral obligation to put a Democrat in the White House. We must ditch the American ethnocentric view and make this election about our concern for the greater world—and the planet itself. It’s so much bigger than Joe or Jill or their donors, or the huddle in the Hamptons, or the golf games, or even the moody Annie Leibovitz photo shoot.

In my Democrats Abroad meeting in the park the other day, there was anxiety and plenty of chatter about what will happen in the US election. One attorney, originally from the deep South, warned that her state might vote against Kamala because of her racial identity. Others leaned toward replacing Biden—by any means necessary. It’s not because Biden is a loser. Biden has served our country for decades. It’s because Spain, like the rest of the anxious global community, is counting on the US to keep a lazy, deviant, xenophobic, climate denier out of office. To be clear, in this upcoming national election, I will vote for a democrat. So let’s pick a winner.

1. La Gotera / The Leak

THE LEAK, DAY ONE: It was a beautiful Saturday! Amazing lunch with a friend, (fresh fish menu del dia = 16 euros), a walk through nearby Barrio de Las Letras, a deserved chocolate eclair, and a heavenly coffee from my place on the corner. Upon returning to my third-floor flat late in the evening, there it was: a leak had formed a soupy puddle, dark and murky. Un charco. Also alarming was a perplexing stain growing on the entryway ceiling. An outline of a woman’s torso? A sea anemone? Guernica?

I grab a bucket and place it under the drippiest section of the leak. I put a casserole dish under the sweating threshold between the front door and the living room. Looks like I won’t be making a casserole anytime soon.  In olden times, I would have poured myself a Spanish vermut on the rocks (ice is a luxury item here), and a slice of orange. Instead, I park on the corduroy sofa with a bowl of Spanish olives, listening to the plut plut…plappity plup-plup of water splattering into a large red bucket. 

From my balcony, I can hear crowds of regular people enjoying themselves at the rooftop terrazas of Madrid. It’s a joyful sound. So why am I envious? Because they’ll be out late and none will arrive home to find a pond in their entrance, with a pair of Hoka sneakers floating peacefully next to a tennis ball.  

THE LEAK, DAY TWO: Using a winning combination of Spanish and pantomime, I talk to my Argentine vecinos who live on the floor above me, Mel and Matias. They tell me in perfect English that they’ll check their shower and see what’s going on. I again call my casera to tell her the leak is still intermittently leaking. She tries to blame everything on the upstairs neighbors but I’m not convinced.  I sleep pretty well, knowing that a Spanish-style investigation into the leak is probably, possibly taking place. 

THE LEAK, DAY SEVEN OR SO: After a flurry of calls, a tecnico, a man of skills, possibly un fontanero with a notable midsection, arrives, brandishing a boxcutter. Balancing on a kitchen chair, he cuts a square in my ceiling. He doesn’t ask my permission the way a surgeon would.  Instead, it’s one and done before I can protest. He pokes around up there with a flashlight. His head disappears inside the ceiling. All I see for about ten minutes is a headless figure holding a flashlight. When he’s a whole person again, he tells me that he’ll have to check the building’s water closet, which lives above my apartment.  

Vale, vale, vale, I say. Okay. 

We stare into each other’s eyes. Hoy? I say, feeling hopeful if naive.

Hoy, no, he says. No, not today. 

Why not? It’s been leaking for like five days. My sneakers are ruined. Zapatos mojados…

He shrugs. No tengo la llave, he says.

You don’t have the key?

No, no llave. He shakes his head and I see that he has white plaster in his hair.

But what about the hole in the ceiling?

Tienes que esperar, he says. You’ll have to wait.

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