The Bread

I remember thinking, “Wow, I feel like I am in trouble or something”. The village “hobbit” judge stood before us as we were seated side-by-side. His smile was warm and familiar; he spoke slow, clear, and in the language I most of the time understand, castellan Spanish and not in the native language of the village. I had plenty of time during my interview last month to make him accustom to my Spanglish. An interview with the sole purpose of determining if me, the immigrant, has other alternative motives for wanting to marry this Spaniard. Luckily, Ruben and my answers matched perfectly---We both know that we met on a train about 4 years ago (check), I was an American traveling with a bike and he was Sir Sebastian, smiley train mechanic (check); He likes the mountains and I like them too (check); One father specializes in paella and the other Bar-B-Q (check); and no other husbands or wives (check). Just to make sure on that last one, the old Spanish law mandates that our engagement is posted for two weeks in the town hall, just encase any unaccounted husbands or wives object (Don’t worry grandma, I have a copy for you). After two weeks, no other wives of Ruben came forward, but what did happen was that the news spread quickly through-out the village -that were getting married, something we did not share with many, not even all of our family.

The room was large for Spanish standards; walls were bare and there was plenty of light. No flowers; no corny music; no rings; and absolutely no white dress, or any special clothes for that matter (Yes, I did take a shower for all of you that are wondering); and no family, just the required two witnesses. Christbol and Karol, our two special friends and my top two favorite hobbits, besides Ruben. They know how dirty Ruben is, and they know that I am a little sleepy, and sometimes grouchy, in the morning; something you would only know if you lived in the same house.

The judge started with a joke. He announced that because I do not understand Catalan (I know about 10 words)and Ruben has trouble understanding Catalan at times, that it is best that he proceeds the wedding in Catalan and not in the language we both understand. Silly hobbit.

Luckily, he did proceed in the language that we both understand. He started with our story and said it was like a movie (and one day it will be a novel-one that I am starting). Then we were read the Spanish law and our human rights; we are free to marry and have a family, the basic ideas that animated the movement developed in the aftermath of Second World War). What followed was different, nothing like my first wedding ceremony. No biblical reference to what is love, no expectations said about what a husband or wife should be or do, no becoming one yoke, or any mention of obedience. What was said was Pan, yes- bread. Funny because the Spanish love their crusty white bread and always find a way to talk about food and ironic because this is my number one “lesson learned” from my first marriage. “Eat from the same bread but not the same piece”. Love works with life only if you can first love and stay true to yourself (your own slice) and find someone that is aligned with you (likes the same type of bead, i.e Ruben I and both prefer whole grain with nuts and seeds).

So after a kiss…..

two signatures…..

We now have a little blue family book that says we are married and can have up to six little American/hobbits….

There are moments I regret not having another traditional wedding-friends-family-party-beautiful dress-decorating, but this moment passes fast. The action of Ruben and I getting married simply means that we can be together to love, regardless of visa laws or citizenship. No special day, kiss, ring, or a piece of paper will guarantee forever, it will be our daily actions that will dictate our future. To love is easy, what is hard is remembering the “bread”.

Love, Katelyn Wells (AKA Dr. Hobbit)

I little poem about bread:From Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Home Again

It has been a while since I have taken the time to write you. The benefits of working and going to school via the internet sometimes results in the negative aspects of "being sick of the computer"; thus, the BLOGing gets put to the back burner.

But I am back.

For the past few months I have been living between Spain and Nashville Tennessee; traveling to Kentucky, New Orleans, Colorado, Wyoming; continuing school in Colorado; working via the internet for a job that I love. Many things have happen, my thoughts are evolving, I am experiencing new things, and the best thing is that I have discovered how good it is to be home............

I remember a BLOG that I wrote about a year and a half ago. I shared about the awkward feeling of not feeling “at home” anywhere, except when I was riding my bike. The familiar seat, the ache of my leg muscles, the same sound of my lungs searching for breath, the feeling of air chilling the sweat of my effort was the only familiar I had when floating between Wyoming, Tennessee, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Scotland. All that I previously associated with home, I had given up. A husband, a job, a home, my pets, my friends, most of my things...all except for my bicycle. So you see, the only “thing” I thought I had left, that felt familiar, was me on my bicycle.

Two years have past and I have not accumulated “things” that make me feel at home at one place over another. When I am in one place I do not wish to be in another. I am never sad to leave or good to be home. I am lucky to be where I am, at the moment, never wishing things any other way. I have come to realize a bicycle, having things in one place, or doing any one thing will never make me feel at home.

Because I can do all these things anywhere….
Like finding beautiful places to climb in Kentucky.

Playing tourist with my family and Ruben in Tennessee.

Having a dinner party with friends in Chattanooga.

Being goofy in Wartburg, Kentucky

or at the Hillbilly Lounge in Swannee Tennessee.

Riding up mountains with Mary in Mt Evans Colorado.

Seeing snow in Spain.

Mountain biking with friends in Nashville Tennessee
Having Thai food with Andrea in Colorado

Seeing a sunset in Slade Kentucky

.
Going for a hike with Jodi in Laramie Wyoming.

Going for a walk with Michelle and Camden in Golden Colorado.

I am different now because what makes me feel at home is when I am with the people that "I do all these things with".
My “home is where my heart is” and my heart is with all of you.

So it is good to finally feel at home..again.

I forgot...again, Monistroll to Mura to Tarrassa 50 miles & Bisaurin, Pirineos

If you go back and read though some of my BLOGS, you may notice a common theme. I have a tendency to lose, forget, or break things. My bike in Scotland, prescription sun glasses in Portugal, helmet at the Philadelphia airport, shoes on the train in Italy, another pair of shoes at a seafood restaurant in Spain, etc.

When I was a little girl, I always just blamed it (losing things) on the little leporcons that lived in my room and seemed to take my socks. Now, the leaporcons have followed me to Spain and now like Ruben’s socks.

Ruben’s mother makes it a point to now ask me if I have everything, because I seem to leave something behind every time we visit her.

A pair of pants last December, my Spanish book in May, and now my hiking tennis shoes that maybe have had their last adventure up a mountain, that is until I hopefully return again some day and find them again.

But if this time never comes, my tennis shoes made a great last assent up one of the highest peaks in the Pirineos, Bisaurin

with great company.

Accompanied by Ruben’s mother and Amador,

I found a earth heaven that was most vibrant because of the piercing blue of the Spanish sky.

The rock and dirt camino starting at the refuge,

extended well beyond what the eye could actually see,

winding up through scarce forest and past the breath taking lilly scattered valleys,

which actually inspired me to try a Katelyn version of the Sound of Music, “Hills Are Alive” that then lead to a grinning Spanish man.

We walk for over two hours up towards the white, until it was time, insisted by Slyvia, to leave her and Amadore at the base of the mountain.

They watched us through binoculars walk another 1.5 hrs on sometimes unstable rock that was no problem for the Spanish mountain goats,

and well, not really any problem for my favorite Spanish mountain goat.

We past memorials to the dead that must have died there from the hard winters in the past, overlooking a horizon of colors

continuing toward what is atop all mountains in Spain.

A reminder to me that all this beauty must of came from someone that has a different name to all the people of this world.

So my story continues, because now I have no shoes, and there is nothing I like more than an excuse and a mission that includes my bicycle. I could of waited until Ruben returned from work and was able to drive me 20 minutes to the sports store, however all was aligned that day. The arriving fall dulled the heat of the sun, my projects for work were complete, all my friends in the village were on Holiday, and the mural of my favorite rock “elephant” of Montserratt)

needed to dry.

Also, I wanted to accomplish my goal of exploring all the “little” beautiful roads in the Bages region. http://www.property-net-spain.com/provinces/barcelona/bages.html. Moreover, I wanted to explore the roads of Sant Llorenç i l'Obac Natural Park.

http://www.diba.es/parcsn/parcs/plana.asp?parc=4&m=198&o=2 that are situated approximately 15-20 miles from Monistrol de Montserratt

and around-about on the way to a major city, Tarrassa, where I could purchase some new shoes.

My adventure began with a plan to get shoes, and shortly evolved into also purchasing a new helmet, because I realized “I forgot” my helmet in the car of Ruben that was now parked at the train station. Hesitantly, I borrowed the 1980’s fast looking helmet of Ruben

and began the 50 mile journey through Spanish forest that was more dense than Montserratt, because the fires of the past left the land how God intended it to be. Winding up and down the mountains

passing cobbled villages of Rockafort and Mura

,

on roads that for a moment I pretended were made just for me and my bicycle.

Reaching the rock of Sant Llorenç i l'Obac Natural Park, similar in form and substance to the conglomerate rock of my now home, I was positive, and it was later confirmed, this was also a great place to climb.

Finally reaching the city, I now had the task to find the sports store that could be described as a “Wal-mart” of sporting goods. It seemed that two young policia had there eye on me as I was braving the traffic and stopping every 5 minutes to ask for directions while utilizing my spanglish. Yes, I was “lost”, but not for long, because they then insisted I follow them.

My 10 minute police escort lead me to my final destination to purchase my new shoes that would make it home by bicycle

Moreover, I had a more safe return with a new helmet that will now become Ruben’s new helmet, because I cannot bare to see him wear that thing again in any more countries.