The Drive to Oviedo

The drive from Olite to Oviedo (o-v-a-dough) via San Sebastian and Bilbao is beautiful.  The roads are good, the traffic light, wispy tendrils of mist brush the mountain tops and sink into the valleys. Crossing into Asturias we are amidst a sea of green, a green so intense, so beautiful and manicured, the mountains look like gardens.

We continue driving. Around. Over.  Through.  The mountains.   In the middle of a very long tunnel, I ask Michael, “How many of these do you think we have driven through today?”

“More than you have fingers and toes to count on,” he says.  Michael refers to the tunnel engineer as “The Digging-est Dog.”  A Dr. Seuss classic.

Finding our Apartment in Oviedo

 Busy with my map, trying to determine how far away we are from Oviedo, I look up to discover we are here. I call Conchita on my cell to let her know we will be at the apartment soon.  Our Tom-Tom leads us past the corner where I know our apartment should be.  We pass the park I have seen on Google Earth and turn on a street without a name—at least it has no name we can see.  I know we are driving away from our destination—I can feel it. There are two parking spaces a few feet away.  “Park here,” I say — rather quickly.  I know Michael wants to follow the directions of the Tom-Tom, but for some reason, he listens to me.

Leaving our luggage in the car, we hunt for Calle Uria 1 (ki-yeah  u-ree-uh) on foot.  Michael even asks directions.  The woman points.

Walking through the streets, what I see of Oviedo reminds me of downtown San Antonio in the late 50’s and early 60’s—minus airmen in their dress blues—a place where you would go to buy things. The only difference between San Antonio back then and Oviedo now is that the floors above all of these shops and restaurants are filled with apartments.  This is a town where one lives and works and walks and shops and cooks and plays and prays. It is all here.

I look at Michael. “I always wanted to live downtown.”

We look at addresses, counting down numbers, and see a woman standing in the doorway of the Santander Bank building.  It says #1.  We are on Calle Uria.

“Conchita?”

 We pile into a tiny elevator that states 4 Personas Maximum; the three of us barely fit.

Our Apartment in Oviedo

Conchita unlocks the apartment door and we walk into faded glory. The residence is huge—almost 3,000 square feet.  Lovely fabric lines the long hallway. Hanging on the wall at the end of the entry there is a framed gold key to the city of Miami, given by the three-decade-long-term-mayor, Stephen Clark, to Conchita’s father.

An assortment of unique antiques punctuates the space. The sofa in front of the living room fireplace—apparent in the VRBO listing—is gone. The two side chairs remain.

In the area beyond the formal living room, a large curved sofa fits the curve of the wall that edges the curved balcony overlooking Calle Uria and a gloriously green park. There is a large formal dining room—the table covered in an oilcloth patterned with a hodgepodge of brightly colored fruit. Five assorted chairs are scattered around the table. In its glory days, the room could easily host twelve to fourteen with space to spare.

Marble floors snake through the house and climb the bathroom walls. Inlaid-patterned wood in the bedrooms squeak beneath our feet.

Conchita, who lives in the same building on the ninth floor, explains away the quirks of where we will live for the next three-and-a-half-weeks, “The apartment is very old and everyone living here has been here for a very long time…”

Moving In

Retrieving our luggage from the car, we roll two suitcases apiece along the length of Calle Conde de Toreno, turning right on Calle Uria.  I take the first elevator upstairs with one suitcase. Michael returns to the bottom floor to retrieve the rest.  Taking longer than I would expect I am about to go check on him when he appears. He couldn’t get the elevator to work.  Finally, he walked up the stairs, pushed the elevator call button on our floor, went back down and came back up. Our lift will take some getting used to—we are at the low end of the learning curve.

The high was 83°F in Oviedo today (last year’s high was 84°F on September 17), and now even though the temperature has dropped to 73° F. the apartment remains hot and stuffy.  There is no air conditioner. I really wasn’t expecting one—not when the sun only shines 50% of the time and the average high is so low.  So I am not surprised to find that there is no fan in any closet, in a nook or tucked into any cranny. Michael helps me open all of the windows that oblige our feeble attempts. The apartment is the era of my mother’s house, some of the windows just as cantankerous as hers were.

Michael talks of sleeping on the balcony.

Not eating since breakfast, and too exhausted from driving all day to do anything else, we cross the street to McDonalds and have a deluxe burger, fries and a coke for dinner.  Then I remember last night’s feast…from the sublime to the ridiculous…

Parking — Maybe

We head for the rented Citroen and begin our journey to the car park I emailed prior to our arrival to confirm pricing and availability. Michael’s Tom-Tom delivers us to the mouth of the underground garage in short order.  We are told by the attendant that the price is 500€ for four months, not the 104€ per month I was quoted. Unfortunately, I printed off everything for our trip book with the exception of the one email I seem to need. We pay for 24 hours and head back to the apartment and my phone to check the email sent to me by the parking lot administrator.  We agree we can wait till tomorrow to return, pleading our case, phone in hand.

Back at the apartment we happily find that the open windows are having a cooling effect.

Rain in Oviedo

Michael suggests a walk in the park.  I suggest wine.  I freshen up and we begin our first adventure.  Following our noses only, to nowhere in particular, we walk.  Rolling thunder and distant lightning split the skies.  Looking at Michael I say, “I forgot…Weather Bug said it would storm at 8 o’clock. What time is it now?”

“Seven-fifty-nine.”

Everyone else on the streets seem to ignore the thunder, we do the same.

Sitting at an outdoor café sipping wine — and having dessert — we people watch.  Mike points out everyone old. I point out everyone young.  Raindrops spit and spatter.  The sky opens a bit wider and spills rather than spits…then it pours.  My raincoat and our two umbrellas—purchased just for rainy Oviedo—are in the apartment.

Oviedo Apartment Woes

Back at the apartment there are more problems.  The computer won’t charge.  The voltage change from America to Europe and our Spanish adapter causes the charger for Michael’s small notebook to burn out. We can’t remember which light switches work and which don’t—there are a myriad. There is coffee but no filters. And of course there is no WIFI, but I knew that a week ago. Deciding this is all too much, and wanting to wash off the hot and sticky dust of the day Michael decides to take a shower. There is no hot water. THERE IS NO HOT WATER!!!

Michael sits down beside me. “It hasn’t been a good day,” he says.

He looks so forlorn and what he says is so true—it hasn’t been a good day—or at least a good late afternoon.

We look at each other, laughter bubbling up and spilling over into our temporary home.