My mother-in-law will outlive us all. That is one truth I can always cling to. Carmen is 86 years old, lost a daughter to cancer a few months ago, and still carries her own groceries up two flights of stairs (28 steps. Veinteocho. She counts them out loud for us). She still starts cooking lunch at nine in the morning–red peppers, green beans, potatoes, always on the stove. You could not possibly eat enough to satisfy her need to feed you. She bullies you into breakfast before you can even take that morning pee. A child of the Spanish Civil War, with memories of hunger, she bursts into tears when she realizes she overbought bananas, and now some have gone bad and will have to be tossed. “Los platanos!” she weeps as she thrusts them helplessly toward the heavens.
Tourism seems to be back up on the Spanish coast this year. The Russians are coming, actually they’re here, along with the Brits and lots of other pale-faced types eager to cook their skin like its 1985. They’ve come to the right place. The sun is out and the beach is gorgeous. Our regular tweaky waiter at Cafe Central is less tweaky this year. He’s gained a little weight and cut his hair short. He seems to twitch less now. The north african guys still line up on the beachfront walk, their counterfeit Chanel and Ray Bans packed into duffle bags which they will quickly unpack and spread out as soon as the Policia turn their backs and move on. This packing and unpacking, police looking then not looking, is a dance that happens throughout the day, every day. No one deviates from the routine. 
This year Carmen’s neighbor Antonio, a spritely old man always accompanied by his tiny white terrier on a leash, has been ubiquitous. He’s got a family dispute over property going on, and knows that one of Carmen’s sons is a lawyer. There has been much animated discussion and gesticulation about the details. Partly because in Spain everything is a THING. There are no small throwaway points or observations. Every time we walk down to the little restaurant owned by the Indian family– where you can get anything at all hours from full English breakfast to chicken curry to doner kebab–Antonio seems to be there, ready to further discuss his legal situation. It’s become kind of a game of Where’s Waldo as just when you thought you’ve shaken him he suddenly pops his head around the supermarket aisle as you’re innocently buying a Popsicle.
Yesterday, we made our yearly visit to see Gabriel’s brother Javi and his family for Sunday afternoon paella in the backyard. Javi as usual unapologetically greeted us stark naked, pool cleaning tools in hand. I averted my prudish American eyes and beelined for the kitchen with Javi’s wife Ana, Carmen, and my niece Ines. Gabriel joined Javi for the pool cleaning, and as I watched from the porch, sipping my water, eventually saw Gabriel strip naked as well before flinging the pool net over his shoulder. What is this, an epidemic? Must get nude around the pool? Its not like he didn’t have his bathing suit with him. Incidentally my nephew Fernando did manage to keep his shorts on so apparently some are immune to the compulsion. 
A couple of nights ago another nephew– there are many nephews, and they’re all so cool and ridiculously good looking, if mostly unemployed due to the depressing Spanish economy– took us to a Coachella style outdoor concert. We arrived there at midnight, a tad early for Spain, but I was impressed that we made it there at all. Cos at midnight in the US I’m usually already well into my second REM cycle. The good thing is in Spain they let you sleep in as late as you want, and then you get to take a nap after lunch as well. So I was ready to rock. The concert wasn’t that exciting but I got to watch a lot of young people stagger around drunk as their friends held them up. Ah memories.
So life here pretty much remains the same as last year. As for our bike ride, I really don’t know what to expect. We are riding from Galicia, northern Spain, to Lisbon, Portugal. The plan this year is that the ride will be easier. As in flatter. (What, no Alps?) But then I’m aware of how foolish it is to plan on something being easy… I hope, however, that I can make this blog entertaining, because if all I have to say every day is: nice ride, beautiful scenery, pass the wine…well. I’m sure you’ll get bored. But hang in with me and we’ll see if something exciting happens. This year has been a ride for me already. Believe it or not, turns out biking is the easy part.
Tomorrow we get up at the crack of dawn to take a plane to a taxi to a bus to La Coruna in Galicia. All dragging our bikes behind us. I don’t know how I’m going to fall asleep at a reasonable hour now that I’m on Spain late-night concert time. Right now, the light over the ocean is turning pink and gold as we sit at the Cafe Central, tweaky waiter standing by. There’s a playscape on the beach in front of me, and as parents sit and sip their wine, I watch the kids squeal and swing from the bars like monkeys. 
Tomorrow Galicia.