Escape from Granada

After 3 weeks in Granada, we were feeling a little city-bound. So last weekend we rented a car for a day to explore the surrounding area.  Eager for some water, we drove to a lake about 45 minutes outside of Granada. Just minutes outside the city limits, the towns are tiny or as Zoe described them “a couple of buildings, a school and a grocery store”.  Apart from tourism, agriculture is a key part of the economy, and olives are the top crop. Spain is the world’s largest exporter of olives (and Italy the largest importer of olives, apparently much of which are grown in Spain, pressed, labeled as a product of Italy and shipped elsewhere, but that is another story) and this region grows the vast majority of them. At an elevation of about 2,000 ft, the landscape is eerily similar to California’s Sierra foothills. Except as far as one can see, the hills were dotted with olive trees. Some of these trees seemed truly ancient with huge, gnarled trunks. Occasionally, an almond orchard broke up the silvery hills, but these were smaller and far fewer in number.

Our destination, Lake Bermejales, was a man-made reservoir.  After walking across the dam and gawking at the enormous fish, possibly trout, Zoe noticed a smudge of smoke on a nearby hillside and proclaimed a forest fire, more of brush fire, really, given the vegetation, but with the winds picking up it began to spread quickly. A crop duster soon showed up and began dropping water onto it. It made a couple of passes before it was joined by a helicopter. The helicopter was far more efficient as it had a huge bucket suspended from a rope/chain and scooped water from the dam which it then dropped in a dramatic plume. In short order, the heli repeated the loop. The crop duster made a couple more flights until a second helicopter showed up, then packed it in. Later, we read about some huge forest fires in Marbella not far from here. Clearly its the season.

The water was a lovely shade of green and the website showed people on a sandy beach with a pier and paddle boats. We drove nearly all the way around, yet were unable to locate a convenient beach access, or frankly anything really resembling a sandy beach. The road was narrow, curvy and vomit inducing, which kept us from making the complete loop. In one village, we asked an elderly man whether we could find a beach. He replied yes, but it was dangerous. When pressed for why, he responded that the water was deep. Finally, as Zoe and I were turning green with carsickness, we just pulled alongside the shore and went for a very refreshing swim. Unfortunately, the beach was full of evenly spaced small dead bushes, so getting in and out was a little uncomfortable (ahh, that's why there is a pier!). But once in, the water was fabulous, clear and cool but not too cold.

Afterwards we stopped in a town called Alhama de Granada for lunch. This was the first town taken from the Moors in 1482 during the Granada wars. Granada is name for both the capital city and the province in which we we live. We were struck by a building named the “Inquisition house” next to the town’s church, whose sign claimed that it was never used as such. Subsequent reading has thrown this into doubt as the Inquisition started in Granada province in 1480 as the Catholic Kings (Isabela and Ferdinand) gave conquered Jews and Moors the order to convert or leave Spain. Yes, the kids are learning some interesting history here.

Upon sitting down, we learned that the restaurant we selected offered a set tapas menu. You could make your dislikes known, but not voice a preference. We had packed a snack and planned to eat out. By the time we arrived we were quite hungry. We decided on lunch for 2 persons, a mistake given how much our children have grown and how much they like tapas. We should have ordered for at least 3 as the food disappeared into our famished tummies in minutes. Our waiter, used to the leisurely consumption of his Spanish customers looked at the leftover crumbs and remarked...that was quick!

Our foray into the countryside has restored us. While the public spaces are beautiful and abundant they are nonetheless city parks. Our closest nature is a walking trail alongside the river Genil near the pool where Zoe swims and the heavily wooded grounds of the Alhambra and we use them as often as we can. In the coming weeks, a couple of weekend trips back to the coast, and trips to Madrid and Sevilla are planned. And we still have plenty to do and see right here in Granada.

Week 2 Recap

By all measures, our second week has been a success. The kids are registered for their after school activities: swim for Zoe and soccer for JT.  We have access to our Spanish bank account. JT has books for all his subjects -and they were free. The school determined that the kids would benefit from working with a Spanish tutor, so they’re meeting with her once a week. Zoe befriended a girl from Granada. JT started speaking in class. (I guess he must have been pretty quiet the first week, because he told me one of the kids looked at him in surprise and said “You can speak Spanish!? 

When living in a country with a language in which one isn’t fluent, one takes great pride in accomplishing life’s most mundane tasks. Zoe started swim team this week. This required several rounds of emails and phone conversations as we tried to find a team that practiced at the pool closest to the apartment. A normal phone conversation does not require a script, a dictionary or an anxiety attack, but these are not normal conversations. One cannot fall back on hand gestures, pantomimes or internet pictures on one’s phone. There is no body language to smooth the transaction. Just words. So having a couple of successful phone conversations can really make your day.

JT is also registered for soccer. This required a bus ride (another success) to the central sports office which services the entire city, population 250,000. Ten minutes after the place opened, I arrive and take #34; they are serving #15.  Despite having 10 desks staffed, it takes nearly 45 minutes to work through the line. While I wait, I practice what I am going to say in my head. I see people with folders and wonder if I have all the right paperwork. After only being here for 2 weeks I understand that the Soup Nazi was probably modeled after a Spanish bureaucrat. No [fill in the blank] for you! I look at all the bureaucrats, most of whom appear jaded, and hope for someone who is patient. Thankfully, I hit the jackpot and am helped by a delightful, friendly woman. She lets me look at her screen. She deletes the second account I accidently set up for Zoe because I couldn’t remember the user name she’d been randomly assigned. She complements my Spanish.  I leave with everything accomplished. She makes my day.

Nearly every time we do something, it’s a learning experience. When we are lucky, it’s an experience that we can benefit from. Sometimes it isn’t.  Our dealings with the bank are a perfect example. Armed with the right passport, we return to the same branch customer service rep about our account. She compares Tom’s old passport with his new one, calls the branch office in Palma de Mallorca where we opened our account and decides we’re legit. She asks if we want to close our account and take out our money. I explain that we lost our ATM card and we’d like a new one. She literally rolls her eyes and says---why didn’t you tell me that in the first place. This after we spent a ridiculous sum of money to have the passport express mailed to Spain.

Thankfully, the majority of the time we have a misstep, we learn something. We look forward to the next time when we can do it better. We appreciate the small things, and try not to take them for granted. We really appreciate small business owners who are friendly and patient. We reward them with our business. Celebrating our successes, however small, is key. This week we are celebrating, just a little.  

The Mystery of European Appliances

European appliances are a bit of a mystery. During our 5 day stay in Malaga, I was never able to figure out how to use the induction stove. I have a gas stove, have always had a gas stove, and after this experience will always have a gas stove.  After pressing many buttons, a burner would start, but oddly, would turn itself off after 30 seconds. We tried using different pans and finally managed to work 1 burner, enough to make eggs in the morning. The apartment had a binder stuffed with manuals for the kettle, the microwave oven, the washer. Every appliance except, of course, the stove.

On the positive end of the appliance scale stands the electric kettle. Hands down it is awesome.  An electric kettle instantaneously transforms even cold water into a roiling mass. The microwave doesn’t compare as minutes after boiling, the water is barely lukewarm. This boils water so hot, it will sear the tastebuds from your tongue 5 minutes after it’s turned off.

 People have been telling us how fortunate we are that our apartment is equipped with a washer/dryer. Almost no one in Europe (or most of the rest of the world outside of the US) has a dryer. People hang their clothes to dry on a rack or line. Out of windows over high-traffic streets, up high where there the wind is full of dust, in courtyards with everyone else’s laundry, in humid weather where it takes forever. When removed from the line, the clothes are stiff as a board and feel like sandpaper. So having a dryer is huge.

We have a dryer, but we don’t use it. We hang our stuff out on the little rack on the porch like everyone else. But why, you ask, would I hang clothes out when I have a dryer. The dryer takes 3 hours to run. So does the wash cycle. Which means a load set on the wash/ dry cycle takes 6 hours. To put that into perspective the kids attend school 5 hours a day.  Even worse, the washer is the size of a pot you'd use to for a lobster boil, so basically it runs non-stop.

The other day, the washer stopped working. The magic reset: pressing “start” for 2 seconds only produced more beeping. Unplugging the machine didn’t work either. I pressed every button and held it for 2 seconds. Nothing. A baby icon flashed while all the buttons beeped. The flashing baby finally clued me into a child lock. After a little time on Google, we found directions for disabling the childproof lock. When we mentioned it to the kids, they looked sheepish and confessed to “leaning” on the machine when it suddenly started beeping. So our children ended up using the childproof lock to shut us out.

Our dishwasher has problems as well. It seems to lock but will turn itself off mid-cycle when it shakes itself open.  Several mornings, we’ve been confronted with hungry children and dishwasher full of dirty dishes. The apartment is stocked with the bare minimum of dishes, glasses and silverware, so it means we have to wash them before we can eat.  Clearly, there are worse problems, but why appliances are so different from Europe to the US remains a mystery.

Nocturnal Wanderings

Granada, a beautiful city by day, is transformed into a truly special place by night. For the first week, we cling to our normal schedule:  dinner around 7, kids in bed before 8:30, wake up no later than 8 (school starts at 9).  The other evening, the rental agent stopped by at 7pm and was undoubtedly perplexed to find us eating dinner. Weekend has arrived and we embrace the “when in Rome…”   On Friday at dusk we set out for the Albayzin. This neighborhood lies next to the Alhambra (14 century Arab citadel and palaces) along the Duaro River. Perched on a hill, it retains its Medieval Moorish roots with a veritable warren of narrow winding streets and white houses. 

Several streets have a bazaar like ambiance with tiny shops hawking tourist goods of a middle-eastern flavor from Moroccan tea sets to beaded shoes. This is definitely the spot to sample Arabic and Lebanese cuisine or savor tea and a sweet. While colorful and dynamic during the day, the streets are positively magical by night. In the tiny plazas, street musicians lay claim to a corner and lay out a guitar case or hat to collect coins. Some of these groups are quite talented and attract large audiences. You can’t spit without hitting a heladeria (ice cream shop) and nearly every person seems to be savoring a cone or cup. We find a shop that offers an orange chocolate concoction, my favorite since childhood and its nirvana. By 10pm the kids are toast, so we head home and sleep decadently late the next morning.

Saturday we have a different cultural experience. From the 15th to the 26th of September the people of Granada celebrate the festival of the Virgen de las Angustias, Granada’s patron saint. We knew from the posters plastered around town that it was a big deal and it started Saturday at 6pm. We didn’t realize just how big a deal it was until we stopped at the grocery store to stock up for weekend provisions only to find EVERYTHING was closed. The silent streets outside our normally bustling apartment should have been a dead giveaway.
 The festival kicked off with a floral offering. I imagined people laying flowers around a statue, but that would have been like describing the London Eye as a ferris wheel. When we arrived, a line of flower-bearing people hundreds long snaked around the block. In the road, various cultural and civic groups were lined up, some with elaborate floral baskets. Church and state comingle easily here so the bomberos (fireman), military and police groups were present alongside flamenco dancers, marching bands and equestrians (yes on horseback). Each group “performs” in front of the grandstand. Flanking each side of the church are 25 foot tall green metal racks. A few minutes after 6, the bells begin pealing ---they are huge and bronze and I am certain they can be heard throughout the entire town as they are deafening at this distance.  As if on cue, onto each side 9 men wearing harnesses scale the racks and begin handing flowers from street level to top. Each bouquet must be freed of its paper/plastic wrapping and stuck into the grill work. They work quickly and methodically. After 15 minutes it’s clear that this will go on for hours. We decide to come back tomorrow to see the finished product and instead wander up to the central part of town until hunger drives us home.

Survive and Thrive

We all survived the first week of school.  The kids are slowly making friends and tell me they understand more each day. One of the reasons we selected Jose Hurtado (other than it had room) was its reputation for integrating foreigners. In the first week, they assessed our children’s level of Spanish to determine whether they needed a tutor. (I am not sure what they decided yet). Our kids were each paired with someone to help them in class. In JT’s case, a bi-lingual child whose been here since she was 2. More generally, while the max number for each of their classes is 24, both kids have 20 students. In JT’s grade, his class had both a math and Spanish language arts test to assess his skills. On the downside, Granada is a small city and our community an insular part of town, so most children, as in Incline have been in school together since pre-k.  (Schools start with pre-k 3, but is only compulsory from age 6.) This does make it harder to make friends.

Spain offers 3 kinds of schools: private, concertado and public. Private and public represent opposite ends of the spectrum and concertado schools are a hybrid. Private schools tend to have a particular focus: international, Montessori, British or American curricula. A very small percentage of kids attend (fewer than 7%) as they are very expensive. The concertado schools are a hybrid…formerly Catholic schools and religion is part of the curriculum. Compared to regular public schools, they tend to fill up quickly. Children wear uniforms and must buy their own books and school supplies. Parents pay some tuition after primary school ends in 6^th grade, but nowhere as steep as the private schools. Given the size of our neighborhood, there seem to be a lot of schools. I haven’t figured out if that is because people work in the center and drive their kids in or they actually live in the neighborhood. There are at least 3 concertado schools within 10 blocks of our apartment.

In Granada, public schools have shorter days than US schools: only 9-2, but less recess. So over the course of the 5 hours, the kids have a single half hour break for snack and outdoor play. Before and after care is available for a modest fee. The aftercare includes a full sit down main meal with organic fruits and vegetables. It’s quite expensive given how cheap food is, so I am certain there is an equivalent of a reduced lunch program. The kids have math and language arts 5 periods each over the week. Oddly, 2x a week, math is blocked for 2 hours. Science is offered 4 hours a week, English 3, PE 2. They also have art, music and religion/values. Religion is an elective subject that the kids have to sign-up for, which we didn’t know so they have a free period instead. About 75% of the kids attend religion. English is kind of a joke, since in the kid’s opinion, the teacher doesn’t speak very well and speaks mostly in Spanish during the session.  

By the end of this first week, Zoe and JT have enough confidence to walk to school together on their own. They will also run to the corner store to buy bread. The lady at the local panaderia already knows Zoe’s order. After several missteps, we almost have all of their school supplies. The teachers are surprisingly anal on this point. JT is missing most of his books yet, because I didn’t realize I had to do more than file away the official looking paper he brought home. Slowly we are all adapting.

No Te Preocupe

If I had a nickel for every time someone has said, No te preocupe, I’d be living large. This ubiquitous phrase loosely translates to “Don’t worry about it”. But I do worry. I worry because I understand about 60% of anything anyone says to me. What if the essence, the critically important stuff is contained in the other 40%?

I am told we need the empadronamiento paperwork to send the kids to school. When I fill it out, she sends me off with "no te preocupe". Does this mean they will approve? Deny? Or it doesn’t matter? I worry that maybe someday they may say, your kids can’t stay in school without it.   

I worry because sometimes it does matter. When we buy the wrong notebooks and drawing pad for school, JT’s teacher decides the whole class can’t have art because the paper he has is missing a narrow margin around the outside. Really…what a great way to endear a child to his new class!

I worry because when we go to the bank to get a new cash card for the bank account we opened 10 years ago, they won't give us one because Tom’s new passport has a different number than his old passport.

I worry that the kids Spanish isn’t good enough for them to make friends. Today, Zoe, as an "extranjero", was assessed to see if she warrants a tutor. I worry that the local accent is too strong for them.

I worry because the swim team people seem so nice, but then tell us can’t watch practice to see if it’s a fit. And practice is from 8-10pm and we have to take a city bus to get there.

Deep down, I know it’ll all work out, but sometimes I just can't help worrying.

Our Granada Digs

When your husband turns to you and says “did you ask if she had another place available?” immediately after the rental agent leaves, it’s a clear sign that he does not like the place you’ve rented... For three months… For a small fortune. Gulp!

Malaga ruined us. While there, we rented a charming, albeit tiny 2-room flat a stone’s throw from the beach through Homeaway (VRBO). The location was prime: just a few steps from the newly renovated port, 10 minutes from the city center, tapas bars and restaurants. As a corner unit, the narrow deck wrapped 2 sides on the 9^th floor, with a view to the ocean (when leaning out) or to the port. At night the sound of crashing waves drifted through the apartment. Since it was so high, ocean breezes blew through continuously. Fully-renovated in January, the place practically gleamed, everything was so new.

Our Granada apartment, advertised as Jolie Granada (which is supposed to appeal to the British as we’ve seen no French tourists) is a bit smaller than our main floor in Incline Village and much larger than the Malaga apartment. The main part consists of a “great room” kitchen/dining/living area and 2 bedrooms, each just large enough for 2 singles and a double. The closets are spacious with built-in dressers. Unfortunately, it’s on the ground floor, which means it’s noisy, and the street is a busy throughway for Alhambra buses. The view is limited to the shuttered windows of the retired nun’s home across the street. The décor is IKEA, which I generally like, but the color scheme tends to bland natural woods, which I don't. On the bright side, the sun shines in afternoon and we’ve a small private patio with 2 large storage closets. JT has made this his spot for practicing headers. I describe it as perfectly adequate; Tom would likely use less flattering language. The most important aspect: location, location, location…it’s just a 3-minute walk from the kid’s school, and about 10 minutes from my school. The neighborhood has many bakeries, grocery stores, restaurants and even 2 bike shops.  It's not perfect, but it'll work. 

School Starts

The verdict on day 1: better than expected. Last night we had a lot jitters, butterflies and requests to homeschool. In the morning, it grew worse: can we skip today? I don’t want to go!  Why do we have to do this? As we all walked together, we fell into step with the hordes of other families making their way to school.  At the schoolyard, the scene was chaotic: tons of parents and kids greeting each other, loose lines by grade. Our kids were plainly terrified, make that practically catatonic with fear. Then it got a little better. The lady from the Bucknell exchange program who’d helped me via email, introduced herself, then an American man who’s been here for 6 years with a girl in JT’s class, and a British woman.  (Like the kids, we too stood out like sore thumbs). Knowing that some kids spoke English made it seem a little better. Then a boy who JT had met while playing soccer over the weekend, came up to shake his hand and point him to the right line.

The kids went in first, followed by all the parents. Everyone piled into the tiny “auditorium” to hear the principal give a speech stressing the importance of punctuality (which is basically ignored, after all, when your kids go to bed at 11, how do you get them to school on-time??!!). The rest was lost in the acoustics and hall noise. All the while, JT was giving Dad the “what have you gotten me into glare” Then the kids went to their classes and we left.

We worried aloud about what state they’d be in when we went to pick them up. Are we doing the right thing? Are they going to make friends? Will they be teased? Notice how only adults say “what an awesome trip!”  At 2pm, JT came bounding out with a huge smile and seemed very animated about his day. I think he was just happy it was over. Zoe seemed more subdued. They’d survived and were understandably proud of themselves. We were sure proud of them.  

R&R in Malaga

In my mind’s eye Malaga resembles Naples: a city with a rich history and culture, but a bit worn around the edges and past its prime. Happily, I am mistaken. It has a rich history and culture, yet is clean and safe. The town realizes that tourism is its lifeblood and invests heavily to ensure those areas are well-maintained, patrolled, and brightly lit. The fallout from the economic crisis is visible in subtle ways: that gorgeous sparkling airport that opened in 2010 is not air-conditioned. The tourist corridors are pristine, but off the beaten path shuttered buildings and deteriorating infrastructure are more apparent.

Our strategy to ease the children into Spain seems to be working. Initially, we planned to travel directly to Granada after arriving in Spain so that the children could acclimate to their temporary home. Later, we decided that it would be silly to pass on a few days at the beach during the heat of summer, especially since Malaga is “Spain light”. With so many British and German tourists, English is generally spoken in restaurants. Still, the kids use their Spanish for those transactions most dear to them: namely ordering ice cream, cheese and bread. Otherwise, they’ve both been clams. While I do the heavy lifting of dealing with information, taxis and bus tickets, Zoe stands at the ready to supply a word or correct my mistakes.

Call it jet lag, or call it inertia, but we have fully embraced Spain's crazy late schedule. Restaurants open at 8pm for dinner and it’s a leisurely affair.  The way we explain it to the kids: in Spain it’s not dinner and a movie…it’s dinner OR a movie. On a weeknight, a single waiter might serve 8 tables, so no matter what we order, a couple of hours just flashes by. After dinner it’s the obligatory search for the best ice cream and before we know it, the kids are staying up til 11pm each night and sleeping in until 10 each morning.

I had moments when I worried about what JT would find to eat, as he has grown increasingly picky over time, but he has managed quite well. His reaction to gazpacho: yum!..it’s ground up salsa. The boy who won’t eat potatoes in any form: falls in love with patatas bravas (fried diced potatoes with a spicy red sauce). At home, a sandwich isn’t a sandwich without Nutella. Here, JT regularly demolishes his own invention known as the “sandwich of paradise”: an open faced version consisting of bread dipped in olive oil and layered with a hard sheep’s cheese (oveja curado), and salami or turkey. And of course we all love the ice cream.

My only complaint: Malaga is full of tiny dogs. While I am personally not a fan of the toy variety of dog, I don’t begrudge others their choice of pets. At home, I think: coyote food. But the city, and our apartment building in particular, is full of elderly women who take the dog to the nearest post (right in front of the building) to do their business. It reeks like urinal and the cleansing fall rains are a couple of months off.

After 5 relaxing days in Malaga, filled with little more than building sand castles, swimming in the Med (cold, but not by Tahoe standards and murky by Tahoe standards), and the search for the perfect ice cream, Tom and I realize it’s time to focus on reality. School starts in a few days and while we've enjoyed this past week, it’s time to transition the kids to a school schedule. On Wednesday, a week after our arrival in Europe, we board the bus to Granada (a much more pleasant experience than Ryan Air on numerous levels) to start a new chapter.   

London Daze

Flying to Europe from the west coast is never comfortable in cattle class, so basically the flight met our expectations.  Before our journey, we’d read up on the latest theories about how to minimize jetlag. One measure advised adopting the eating schedule of the country to which you are flying. For us, this translated into no food after 2pm PDT or 10pm London time. Normally, this would have presented a challenge.

However, we neglected to read the fine print of our itinerary and learned upon boarding that Icelandair offers only food for purchase. There we were in Seattle airport...a foodie’s paradise with Ivars, and numerous gourmet options and we boarded our flight empty handed. Fortunately, children were exempt from the food blackout.  Zoe was committed to staying awake the entire flight, as evidenced fact enhanced by her drink of choice: caffeinated tea. I think she was waiting for me to fall asleep so she could tune into the Hunger Games. JT and I wisely had no such qualms and slept as much as we could.

Icelandair, on the positive end, moved our seats from their original spot at rear of the plane to the front, thus making us near first in line to clear passport control in London. The U.K. agents make US passport control look like teddy bears, they don’t crack a smile or exude an ounce of warm.  Fortunately, the process was far more efficient than I remember, maybe it was the computerization, but we were out in less than 15 minutes, and given our level of exhaustion, it was awesome. After short naps, we walked around Piccadilly Circus and took the kids to our favorite bookstore, Waterstones.

Armed with rain jackets and hotel umbrellas, we were prepared to face the worst London could throw at us. Fortunately, we faced nothing more severe than scattered showers and even saw the sun on our last day. With only 56-hours at our disposal, we planned to cram more into our stay than in all of our previous visits. This ambitious plan might have exploded in our given the time change and jet lag, but our time in London was largely a success. To start, we borrowed a page from the Tomeo family playbook and let each family member choose one activity. JT chose the London Eye (the giant Ferris wheel), Tom: Indian food, Zoe: Kensington Palace and Naomi: the Tower of London. Since many of these places were covered by the London Pass, we sprung for those and subsequently enjoyed a ride on the Thames, a tour of the Tower Bridge (the picturesque bridge that we thought was the London bridge), and The London Bridge experience (the actual London bridge).

Despite having seen many fascinating historical sites, the crown jewels and a palace, the London Bridge Experience was hands down the kid’s favorite. It’s basically a haunted house with some historical skits thrown in.  Our kids have never really been to a haunted house, so this proved to be the most memorable experience. With narrow passages, scary tableaus and bloodied people leaping out from every corner, my ears hurt for some time afterwards as Zoe screamed directly into them for several minutes solid at the end of the tour.

The Indian restaurant was amusing for different reasons. Tom chose a restaurant recommended by his London-based friend, who clearly placed food over family-friendly when making his suggestions. The restaurant lay just around the corner from Parliament and seemed to cater to a well-heeled clientele based on the elegant wood paneling, white table cloths and lack of kids menu. This was not your garden variety Indian food of shared curries and chicken tikka masala, but amazing Nuevo fusion Indian food. We endured several tense moments with Tom quite literally sweating it out while we debated how to surreptitiously bolt before ordering. With our completely exhausted children teetering uncertainly on the edge of collapse, we negotiated dishes they could live with and they rallied to actually enjoy the meal.  (although Zoe eschewed the native cuisine in lieu of basic Scottish rump roast).

Ryan Air, most noted for its rock bottom fares and on-time arrival percentage, was the low cost carrier we selected for our flight to Malaga. This portion of the trip was without question, the most stressful. This flight was responsible for my combing through every luggage retailer in Reno and Carson, tape measure in hand, in search of the elusive 20cm x 40 cm x 55 cm carry-on bag. Seriously, a cottage industry of youtube videos and products have sprung up around people trying to get as much luggage as possible onto Ryan Air flights. They have the box. And they use it.

We breezed through checking our luggage (just a hair under the 20 kg limit each), and snuck each carry-on out of the line of sight into the box and determined that one piece was a clear no pass. Upon boarding the lines were immense, and every 5 steps bold signs warned 1 carryon only IF IT FITS.  (seriously women are not allowed a purse separate from their luggage). Just as we a couple people back from boarding, an attendant pulled an elderly gentleman over to grill him about his luggage. It didn’t fit in the box and given the 35 pound per bag checked baggage fee (a whopping $55), he was naturally fighting it. I used this distraction to angle my overloaded backpack out of view and successfully snuck out the door. Ryan air is like riding a bus. Actually based on the tourist bus, it’s a step below riding a bus. The seats are tiny, advertising is pasted to the overhead bins and they pitch lottery tickets on the loudspeaker. Later, I read in the Malaga local paper that 3 Ryan flights in a single day had been forced to make emergency landing for running too low on fuel after being delayed en-route for weather.  Hmmm, I guess cut rate fares have a price.

All in all we love London. I could live here if only it weren't so bloody expensive. The prices would be reasonable if the pound and dollar were at parity, but far from it. Factoring in the exchange rate, and suddenly we are pouring money down the drain. Its been lovely, but a couple days feels just right.