I never miss the chance to tell the story of when I worked on a cooperative California/Baja California project and was stopped by a Tijuana cop for, get this, driving too fast over a speed bump. Tijuana cops inspired nothing less than trepidation in me, and my fears were flamed, undoubtedly, by the tough portrayal of (baby, baby) Benicio del Toro in Traffic. This particular time I was wearing a form-fitting red skirt-suit that emphasized my, shall we say, assets. I’d safely stashed my bag and all pertinent papers in the trunk. The cop was determined to ask for them one by one, which probably had something to do with the fact that that entailed me getting in and out of the driver’s seat at least three times, each time giving him a nice view of leg. Well, the situation degenerated into him asking me not once, not twice, but three times (one for each view of leg?) if I wanted to “ir a conocer Tijuana“. This after my patiently explaining I really had to be on my way as I was meeting with a high-level Tijuana official. Well, after work then, he proposed. By the end, through clenched teeth, I finally managed to convey that no, I did not want to go (with someone who was probably little better than a drug trafficker himself and had undoubtedly kicked in his fair number of teeth, ribs, balls — well, my imagination has never been known to know limits). I got out of there intact, no traffic fine, no instructions to “follow him to the station”, fortunately, but I have to tell you I never again wore that particular suit south of the border.
So a month ago, knowing I had to do something but quick or I’d never get the damn residency card I need to leave Spain (or, more accurately, to return to Spain — more on this saga here) in time for my trip to Berlin, I took myself in hand. I chose a sleeveless clingy red top and set off to Avenida de los Poblados sin número, armed with the name of the boss and the knowledge of the best time to go, which had come from my previous three painfully fruitless visits to the same place. I walked up to the guard with my best gringa manner that combines respectful good-breeding with the full expectation that I will be treated as a VIP, and asked him to point out the jefe, which he did immediately. As luck (finally!) would have it, said jefe was just finishing up a conversation with someone who clearly was not as interesting as the gringa dressed in red. He turned immediately to me, and didn’t even allow me to finish my explanation as to why it was of critical importance to Europe that he expedite my paperwork for me to be able to travel. Cutting me off mid-explanation, he directed me to one of his staff who immediately attended me. Amazingly, instead of the full fingerprinting which all previous officials had led me to believe awaited me, they only took my right index finger (same as for a California driver’s license). I have some idea it might have to do with being an American but this will likely remain shrouded in dark bureaucratic fog, as are so many things for me here. Raise your hands to the level of your hips, palms facing up, fingers spread open, lift ayour shoulders as far as they can go and put on your best quizzical look — here you have it, the world-famous bureaucratic shrug, which I first learned in Nicaragua and which is an even more necessary survival tool in Spain.
There’s a turning point in an immigrant’s life in a new country, when one starts to get that feeling of, “oh, I get it”. This was my turning point and I marched out of there feeling like from now on, things will be better for me here. As an obvious first step as a successful new Spanish resident, from now on every article of clothing I purchase will, clearly, be red. Two days ago I went for my fifth visit to Poblados sin número and there was my shiny new resident’s card waiting for me.

Back to Valencia, then: its real forte is the amazing food. For paella valenciana, we checked out
OK, sure, let’s grant that it’s not that easy to wind down such a misbegotten quagmire as the Iraq war; that’ll take time. And socialized health care for the U.S., well, the Clintons tried and failed nearly 20 years ago; it’s not easy. 

However, it’s the second floor of the exhibit, fourteen vast murals on loan from The Hispanic Society of America (which I never knew existed), that’s really special. More than just art, they are an ethnographic treasure, depicting different regions of Spain with an explosion of color that shouts Spain, SPAIN, SPAIN! Those back in the U.S. — make plans to see them when they return to their home in the Bronx early next year. Those here in Madrid, you have two more weeks before the exhibit closes on September 5th.
I didn’t hang around longer than to take the ferry over to Portugal, walk to the beach and see its most northwestern point, thereby thumbing my nose at what I’ve taken to calling the La Migra Española (who’ve forbidden me to leave the country for 6 months). That’s me on August 7th, at the 3.5-month-point, in another country, with the south-western-most point of Spain at my back. Take that, Migra.
I continued up the coast to Pontevedra with its beautiful river and charming old town, hitting the very first day of the village fiestas. I people-watched a good long time at the Church of the Virgin of the Pilgrims as I was under the impression she would be trotted out around town, but there was only a parade, firecrackers, and numerous doves released in front of the church (signifying what, I have no idea). The next day I met R. at Santiago de Compostela and we trained it up to her flat in A Coruña, where the fun really began, involving copious quantities of octopus, with the best pulpo I’ve ever put in my mouth at Pulpeira de Arzúa. As advised by Desaparecido, who made a short appearance (strictly via SMS), I got my hands on berberechos, a special type of clam indigenous to Galicia. He’d invited me to sample them once in Madrid and they were unforgettable, so I got a couple of R.’s local friends to advise me.
The thing to do is to prepare them at home, so I went, found myself a whole sack-full for the ridiculously cheap price of 3 euros, soaked them in salt water as instructed, steamed them alive, and R. and I had a feast. They are a type of clam that is so flavorful that there’s no need to add anything at all. Imagine the ocean as a food and you have berberechos.