We continue to be housebound, waiting out the stomach virus that has plagued us for almost a week to finally run its course. Yesterday the pharmacist said it was rampant in Oviedo. Warned of this continuing risk I ask for some liquid hand cleaner to keep in my purse, along with feel better pills and lotion from the US which has a premium price of 15,00€.  I discovered this morning the Spanish lotion I purchased last week at El Corte Ingles isn’t what I expected;  continually wondering why my skin would not absorb it.  I was seduced by the words– Advanced — DermoRestore. Natural y la hidratacion. Testado Dermatologicamente.  Yesterday I Googled two other words—Gel de Ducha—body wash.

Now  I sit here drying my hair with my Spanish hairdryer—purchased over fifteen years ago from a town south of Mijas on the Costa del Sol—a thousand thoughts running through my head.  Tumbling one after another into oblivion or maybe a separate file in my brain where future retrieval will be possible.

I miss an Internet connection.  I have so many questions and no answers. King Charles III—why did he run the Jesuits out of Spain? And Gerald Bull a Canadian engineer who designed a supergun for the Iraqi’s—I want to know more. And the shroud of Turin and the history of Oveido and what happened to it during the Spanish Civil War and America in Asturias; my mind spins with all I have heard or snippets I have read, begging the question, WHY.  And I have so much time to think of these things because of being mostly housebound till Michael feels better. I read novels on my Nook to entertain myself, knowing some of the statements must be fact-based, but I want to be sure and know more, and more questions are raised.

And I think of communicating in Spanish and that perhaps I could get along here and eventually not be such an obvious a tourist.  The pronunciation is different in España than in Mexico.  I order postre (pōst-rāy)  and get a funny look.  “Ah you mean păste-rāy.” And I think of phonics in grade school—second grade? third grade?—and how I hated that daily class and didn’t understand it and was bored by it—maybe intimidated by it—then I remember  Mrs. Myers my second grade teacher and Mother Vergilius who taught me in the third grade and the Brigidine Sisters straight from Ireland with their funny way of talking and I think I understand my young self’s problem.  Perhaps if I paid more attention or was taught by someone without an accent I wouldn’t be made fun of now by my friends when I say the words corn and corner and coin.

And I wonder why, if the people that live in this country call it España why must we Americanize the name to Spain. Why can’t it be Españaeverywhere?

My hair is dry and I comb it through remembering Michael telling me he doesn’t like my new haircut, but I do—it is easy.

I walk into the bedroom, making my way to the bed, straightening the sheets, fluffing the pillows, straightening the covers.  Then I take a load of laundry into the utility room, mixing white towels with white synthetic long sleeved shirts with socks with pricey Wacoal undergarments…  I don’t do laundry this way at home, but here I need to wash clothes and towels daily in order to get things dry and doing so means combining the odd assortment.  Last week I mixed pink and yellow bath towels with Michael’s navy blue pajama pants—forgetting they would probably fade since at home darks are always washed with darks—and now the towels are purple and lime green. I wonder where I can replace what I have ruined.

Yesterday the sun was unexpectedly shining and we went for a walk in the park across the street from our apartment to get Michael out of the house, both of us breathing in the fresh air and seeing teenage lovers—in the mid-afternoon—caressing on park benches.  It is a beautiful park with wild geese and ducks and fountains and statues and places for small children to play, a dog park, and many paths for people of all ages to stroll and sit and be.  The sunshine in Oviedo is a gift, and when it is given the park is full.  This week in the evenings and early dawn the park turns into a noisy raucous rambunctious howl as the citizens celebrate the festival of San Mateo Oviedo with concert after concert in this park and on four other stages scattered around town.  The music, right outside our bedroom window revving up at 10 p.m. and continuing until 2 a.m. and later, has taught us the beauty of earplugs.

I walk into the living room to check on Michael.  He asks me to make reservations once again in Ribadesella, a small town by the sea, for tomorrow night.  He feels almost like his old self.

The sun shines even on a cloudy day.