Our Barcelona holiday

So we set off for another year-end vacation. Barcelona, over Christmas and returning on eve of New Year day. It is the first time in recent years that we could nail down a common time when everyone in the family are free to go together.

When the kids were still schooling it was easy enough to plan for holidays. The year-end school vacations presented the best opportunity for all to go. Holidays together were great for family bonding 24/7. But now, with my elder boy on tight work schedules, and the other two in college, we have not had much luck in packing the entire flock to fit our holiday plans.  Jenny was never too excited about travelling without at least one or two kids in tow. A good experience should be shared. That was her unyielding mantra since children crashed into our lives. And her heart was always with the children.  With only tiny fragments left for me, I knew where I stood in the line. And I am fine with that.

But for this December festive season, viola - I could get all three available. For Spain and Barcelona, a tantalising visit beckoning.  But sadly, the travelling band is not complete. A vital piece missing, now that Jenny has left us.

The flight on Emirates airways went smoothly enough. We had a pick-up arranged for us to bring us to the Airbnb apartment we had booked some weeks ago.  Which was nice given that we were all worn out from the long flight. Staying in an Airbnb apartment would be a first for us.  It was much like the typical self-catering apartment but slightly cheaper.

So how did the vacation go? Free and easy as always. We never believed in trying to cover too much ground. Well, if you still care to read on, here is our travel journal in brief…

The Sagrada Familia

 Day 1 – Bought two-day train passes for everyone that allow us unlimited train and bus trips in the city.  First stop was the Sagrada Familia, a Gothic church building that appears to be perpetually under construction with the famous Catalan architect, Antonio Gaudi adding his unique touches. The outer church façade is impressive indeed, but marred by the looming presence of 3 tall cranes, fingering the sky along with the many church spires. 

We opted to save on the tickets. Having visited countless cathedrals across Europe, many far grander than this one so we were doubtful if was worth spending money on admission. This would also be the first church we have encountered that charges admission fees. Could Spain be in such need for revenue generation?

We spent the rest of the day strolling around the city centre and at the waterfront area. The city have great vibes but enough of street beggars to tell a different story.



Parc Guell
 

Day 2 – Visited Parc Guell, another of Gaudi’s grand if not somewhat gaudy creation. Located high on a hill-top, getting there would have been a vigorous climb but mercifully, much of the ascent was aided by escalators. Someone painted a “Tourist go home” sign on one of the escalator steps to remind us we are not so welcomed. An unhappy resident probably, who got tired of the unending stream of tourist intruding their privacy perhaps. But I'm pretty sure even they would find the escalators useful. And would these mechanical fixtures have even been installed if the park was not such as a popular attraction for visitors all over the world?

Afternoon was spent strolling through the Gothic quarters, the oldest part of Barcelona. Totally enjoyed the walk through the many narrow cobbled alleys and plazas. Almost transported back to medieval times. Visited the Barcelona history museum and walked through the remains of a sprawling archaeological site built since Roman times, more than 2000 years ago. A very impressive curative display of Spanish history.

Had a delicious Christmas eve dinner at a somewhat swanky restaurant downtown. Their juicy ribbed veal, tapas and seafood paella are worth dying for.

Day 3  - Christmas day.  We checked out to make our way westwards to Zaragoza, a city about 300 km away. Rented a car at the Sants Estacio or train station. Turned out to be a vexing 3 hour wait before the car arrived. Got totally flustered. Zaragoza, 300 km away would be a 3 hour drive.  Turned out to be longer, due to heavy fog and it was dark by the time we arrived. Again we stayed at an airbnb apartment, but this one was really a private residence. Tried hunting for a restaurant that can serve a decent meal befitting of a Christmas day dinner but all the restaurants nearby were closed. Managed to grab some hot food served at a small cafe. Simple dinner but were thankful that we got our fill at least.

Day 4 – Strolled over to the Aljaferia palace, a fortified Islamic medieval palace built in the 11^th century, one of the major attractions at Zaragoza. From there, we walked to the city centre along the river Ebro. Chanced upon an Irish pub which shows live screenings of English premier leagues football. Watched the Stoke vs Man United game (Stoke won!) and later the big match between Liverpool and Leicester City (Reds won!). By the time the matches ended at 6.30pm, the city centre was crowded with people – Zaragozans mostly and a few aliens like us, all congregating in Christmas celebratory mood.  Tried searching for a restaurant that can serve us a good meal but they all appeared to close early.  Food-wise, Zaragoza was a major let-down.  Fortunately my boy’s culinary skills spared us from starvation.  We picked up essential foodstuff from a nearby super-market and back to the apartment, in no time we were tucking into delicious chicken stew. A gastronomic delight that would have made Mum so proud too!

Zaragoza city centre was full of people

Day 5 – Checked out early and prepared for the long drive back to Barcelona.  Approaching the city, we detoured and drove up the monastery located high above the Montserrat mountain with its very unique rock formations.  The panoramic view of the city from atop the monastery was simply breath-taking.

Checked into our 3^rd apartment we rented via Booking.com. Supposedly a 3 bedroom apartment about 8 km from Barca City centre but we struggled to locate it.  The address given was wrong and without internet access we could not access the contact number. As it was getting late we drove back to the city for dinner. Thankfully most Spanish restaurants understand the value of free wifi. We finally located the apartment and settled in.

Day 6 – We set off in the morning for a ½ hour drive to the sea-side town of Sitges, known for its picturesque and pristine beaches and many sea-front restaurants. The late morning sun, shimmering like jewels on the Mediterranean sea provided a stunning backdrop for lots of photo-taking. We had seafood lunch at one of the myriad of seafront restaurants.

Drove back to Barcelona city centre and had a simple tacos dinner at the Gothic quarters.

Day 7 – Our last full day in Spain.  Drove to the town of Figueres to visit the Salvador Dali Museum to satiate the artsy cravings of my daughter C. The 1 ½ hour drive was followed by a more than 1 hour of queuing for tickets. I suspect that the long queue time was a deliberate scheme to mitigate overcrowding of the museum building. Inside, we were consumed by Dali’s surrealistic and mystical art-form. It was a unique journey into art leaving us both dazed and inspired.

Back to Barca, we spent the remaining time strolling through the city.

Jenny would have been absolutely thrilled if she was with us for this trip. A self-drive holiday, sight-seeing in exquisite historic towns, walking through the cobbled streets, looking through the many shops with their quaint and colourful souvenirs on offer. Sampling the delicious local food-fare. It would be the perfect holiday for her.

So everywhere I go, I could not shake off the fact that she is missing from our travelling troupe. I pictured her in our midst. She would be wearing her black trench coat, in her skinny blue jeans or black slacks, carrying her bright red knapsack behind her that she uses only for her travels. Such exotic trips without her sometimes put me into a sullen mood, detached from the many attractions and sights. But no regrets on making the trip. The bonding experience with my three kids was priceless. Jenny would give a thumbs up too.

Packing up for vacation

Where is my dark blue woollen sweater, that fuzzy warm and cosy one that I have worn for so many year-end winter holidays?

I ruffled through wardrobes, cabinets and old luggage bags that we used to store away much of the bulky winter wear acquired over the years.  I could retrieve all sorts of woolly jackets, overcoats and fluffy apparel, some new and not-so-new ones. But not a trace of my favourite woollen sweater.

If Jenny had applied some kind of schema on how all these stuff are stored up, it remains an unsolved mystery. But for each family vacation, a year-end ritual since our kids were all old enough to travel with us, she had always taken full charge of the luggage and packing.

“Just let me have the clothes you want to wear and don’t touch anything else”, she commanded with no-nonsense authority. Good sense told me not to interfere.  A woman and her half-packed luggage were not to be messed around with. She always pack early, at least a good two weeks ahead of the vacation, sometimes even earlier.  And she has refined the process to an art-form, bringing along every item she could conceive a need for.  All the while keeping within the luggage weight limits.

So where would our travels bring us to this year?

A 9-day vacation to colourful Barcelona. Catalonian country. Spain in the winter and in Christmas. A dream holiday for us. And one that Jenny and I had been putting off for some years in the past, thinking that we could always go the following year. We were stalling on this destination because we could not pin down a date that all five in the family would be available. So we took off for less exciting destinations, since not all could go. Thinking that there will be other years that we could still make it happen. After all Spain will always be there, awaiting our conquest.  

But of course we have no inkling, not a clue that for Jenny the years would run out, so soon.

So I find it hard to approach an otherwise exciting holiday in a far-flung country with the same kind of enthusiasm as I had in the past. Even for Spain.  This colourful country, famed for its flamenco, magnificent tacos, beautiful women in ruffly dresses and angry bullfights. Alright, forget the bullfights. It is a cruel sport and a major turn-off for animal-lovers like us and thankfully most parts of Spain have outlawed this hapless tradition they once called sport. 

Spain would have been the epitome of an exciting country to visit. When Jenny was by my side.  Each time we plan our holiday, booking our hotel apartment or browsing the net, sussing out attractions and interesting places to visit. Our family vacations were mini-projects to be worked on together. But some tasks are better done divided. Like the packing and the booking of flights and accommodation which she duly took care off. Come to think of it, I did very little for these “mini-projects”. Aside from handing over my credit card.

So why did I even bother to go this time? Well I tossed the idea to the kids. Spain got their engines rumbling and once they confirmed their availability I bit the bullet and forced the airline booking. Payment made, there would be no turning back. No wishy-washy indecisiveness that could creep in when the real hassle of preparing for the long haul trip kicks in. Like having to pack.

Common sense tells me I should still travel as long as health permits.  Jenny loved travelling. And she was the source of my infection, the day I got smitten by the travel-bug.  Jenny would feel let-down if I deprived myself and the kids of travelling because she is not with us.  This much I am sure of her.

True, the family is now so incomplete. A vital piece is missing. And it is hard to muster and whip up the same enthusiasm and excitement as felt in the past, whenever the date for our impending vacation approaches. Perhaps we had taken one trip too many. Perhaps the kids have grown also. Robbing them of their childish fervour. Sad but entirely inevitable.

But mostly that dour pre-trip feeling that gnawed away my enthusiasm is plainly because she is missing. And she will be missed more so during our travels. Spain will come with some pain. I will just have to brace myself for it.  

Never mind the woollen sweater. It’s an early morning flight tomorrow and I am done with the packing.

Adios, amigo.

About moving on...

Do I want to move on? The simple and honest answer is no.

If moving on means leaving her to drift away, banished to the nether reaches and deepest recesses of my memory, so I can start anew. Because I do not want to start anew.

Just a few days ago, as I was browsing my Facebook account, I came across a link shared by my boy W.  A response to a person grieving.  My son must have been thinking of me.  Or was he also similarly gripped in grief? But what caught my eye was the statement that the response is the “best Internet comment of all time.” A bold claim indeed. Might be worth a read.

http://magazine.good.is/articles/best-comment-ever

That grief hits in waves is true.  Very large ones at first and eventually diminishing. But the scars run deep, as deep as the love I feel for her. I could relate with everything written in that posting. The article offered good advice, beautifully crafted and definitely worth sharing.

I can accept that Jenny has died. In truth, I have no other choice. It is pointless to think otherwise. My mind is not capable of conjuring delusions of any sort, so this is not the time to fool myself. Even as the thought of living in this physical world where she is no longer a physical part of is uncomfortable and unreal.

Hence I am not resisting. But while I can accept the change (her absence now), and what I cannot change (bringing her back), it is too much to expect for me to just get moving on with life. And be back with the normal, as if nothing had happened.

I am not sure how long I will need to grieve. Right now it seems like I will be grieving for the rest of my life. I have read elsewhere that grief is none other than the love we feel for the person we lost. My love for Jenny has not changed with her passing. I will be grieving for a long time then.

And I will hold on to many of her things. 

Jenny’s demise was akin to a mighty ship sinking, as said in the Fb posting shared by my son. And all around me there will be floating debris, remnants of the wreckage. I need to cling on to stay afloat. To hold on to what she has left behind for me. Her photographs, to remember her various postures and expressions.  Her soft pillow and worn out cotton bolster. Now bringing me such comfort each night.  Her clothes that hang patiently in her wardrobe.

Perhaps it is too early.  Way too early. I have to accept that grief is something only that old cliché time can heal. But I am doubtful that I can ever re-claim my life and start anew.

So how do I move on, now that Jenny is no longer here to share space and time with me?

Dragging myself home from work, the house is unusually quiet. Soft clanging of utensils from our helper in the kitchen. The kids often spend long days out, at work, studying or hanging out with friends. Some days one or two or if I am lucky, all three are in. We would dine together, sometimes at the table or in front the TV. No fuss meals. They are usually cheerful, quite unlike their father who usually needs cheering up.

I would retire early into my bedroom after dinner.  Or what used to be our private chambers, the master bedroom of the house. I would spend most evenings alternating between my paperback books and browsing through other grief sites on the iPad, now a recurrent habit. Sometimes I strum my guitar. I enjoy watching music videos also or cover versions of my favourite songs to pick up new guitar tricks.

Jenny and I had spent most of our evenings together in this spacious room, where aside from our king-sized bed there is ample space for a sofa set and coffee table. Jenny had spent many relaxing hours couched on this sofa, imbibing an endless diet of Korean dramas, her favourite past-time.

I would be sitting on my side of the bed, staying clear from hers. Respectfully so. I had stashed away her large comforter blanket to spare it from collecting dust. So except for her pillow, her side of the bed looks bare and empty. It mirrors the emptiness I feel inside me.

Occasionally on Friday evenings there are invitations from friends to meet up for dinner or drinks. I could relax and even enjoy my time with them. Sometimes we chill out at pubs, where the music is loud and heavy. I could get all wrapped up in the music alone, being a music-lover at heart. But always each meeting would end with the same hollow feeling.  I remind myself to limit such bouts of carefree fun and laughter. It seems improper. It means I am not adequately mourning or thinking of her. The vibes are out of phase.

So most of my evenings are times spent by myself. These are times I look forward to and try to have more of.  By myself within the silence and sanctuary of my room I never really feel alone. In fact I feel her presence stronger than ever as every item in our room resonates with her.

So that’s how I move on.
 

My love for cats

I have a confession to make. I am a crazy cat fanatic. It is inevitable, as night turning to day.

You see, much of my youthful life was defined by these furry creatures - cats and kitties that strayed into the back-yard and got themselves adopted, invading my childhood life. I remember surreptitiously sharing my allotment of food with them, earning the chagrin of parents who felt that pets are beyond our luxury.

Our current house pet is a single male cat. We plucked him from the streets, to spare him from what would have been a miserable life. A life of scrounging and sniffing out scraps at food centres, like the lot of so many stray cats.  Our young nation ranks high on affluence to compare with some of the richest cities in the world, but for the average cat, it is usually a life of poverty. Back-alley third world low life. Most people in our country live in government housing and the existing housing rules forbid cat ownership, making ours the most cat-unfriendly country in the world. 

So for Mickki to be rescued from the streets, it was like a cat striking lottery. He has been an affective part of our family for the last 15 years.  We showered him with love and a measured dispensation of discipline, usually to his utter displeasure. But that single act of cruelty we inflicted on him still haunts me to this day. We  neutered him at a tender age. Mickki was defecating all over the neighbours’ lawns and I was fast turning into public enemy number one in my neighbourhood. The vet advised us that his aggressive tendency to mark territory by defecating needed to be culled. And castration was the solution. It deprived the poor animal of the joy of sex. To this day Mickki’s virgin status against his will, still makes me feel guilty to the core.

My daughter C calls me “the crazy cat-man” each time I share pictures of street-cats I capture on my hand-phone. But it is odd for her to say that. For someone who spends an inordinate amount of time ogling and giggling at cat videos on the Youtube as if the Internet 's sole purpose is for broadcasting cat videos.  And who, amongst her other two siblings had inherited the lion’s share of my cat-loving genes.

Jenny on the other hand had little affinity for animals, aside from watching wildlife documentaries on Discovery and Nat Geo channels. A rare fault if I could highlight any.

“I am neutral, neither love nor hate them”, she would nonchalantly declare. I would be embarrassed if I were her.

But thanks to my daughter’s love for cats, Jenny was more tolerant of having a cat in the house than I could ever hope if I was the sole animal-lover in the family. We have to put up with scratches adorning our leather sofa, clumps of fur stuck on the carpet and the fragrance of pungent cat poo in our garden. She grumbled and complained of course but we knew that in the end she would always find space in her heart for the animal too. Because of her love of two other cat-crazy members in her flock.

The more playful feline, perched on a tree and posing for a shot

This week I discovered a couple of fine looking felines just outside my work-place that brought some cheer to my work-week.

How does a homeless community cat get this fat?

On Monday morning this week, I decided to walk from my campus to the nearby coffee-shop for the first time. Along the way I chanced upon two of the finest looking cats I have ever seen. One was overly shy and maintained a guarded distance but the other, a grey-striped tabby was playful and friendly, in need of stroking and physical contact. This feline discovery gave me impetus to establish a new morning routine for my morning cuppa. Taking the same path, they were there again as if waiting for me to come by to greet them.

My two new-found feline friends helped brighten up my days this week. But come Friday evening, a cat discovery of another sort, completely swung the mood.

I came back home to find our Mickki half sitting and lying with its scrawny frame propped against the edge of the garden lawn, its body bent at an awkward angle. It gave a mournful meow and looked at me with tired forlorn eyes. Something was very wrong. I immediately hollered for my daughter C, Mickki’s main care-taker and soul-mate. Indeed this ancient pet of ours is unwell. For some reason it has lost control of its two hind legs and appeared to be in some discomfort and pain. There was no sign of any external injury on its matted coat of fur to suggest what might cause its misery.

Our raggedy ancient cat under treatment by the vet. He is not happy anymore.

My daughter, sick cat care-taker. He is not eating much, sad to say.

We rushed him to the vet.  Pain-killers and some other medicine was administered and because he was so old the vet did not recommend further tests. There could be a lesion or some injury at his spinal cord. 

Back home, he now lies on a pile of soft towels at a corner of our living room, immobile and helpless. He has to be propped up to lap on his water tray and slowly fed with a spoon, eating little as his appetite has all but deserted him.

We fear that he may be living out his last few remaining days.  And the animal appears to be aware that his internal clock is counting down and ticking away. We gently stroke him and massage his shoulder bones. His expression changes little. That blank and faraway look in his eyes.

Do I not know that look well enough?

Jenny wore a blank look too during her last days. Speaking little also. But we know it was hard for her to talk. It would be too draining on her energy. She was sustained intravenously by a liquid menu of vitamins and parenteral mix for some weeks already. There was also a thick plastic tube inserted thru her nostril down her gullet to drain out the gastric fluids. It near disabled her vocal functions. So in her silence, she often wore that faraway look.  In her eyes I could see that she was all too aware. Knowing that for her the end was coming. The clock was ticking away.

Sigh. It is hard for my thoughts not to gravitate back to Jenny. In her last days. As if all our life together was defined and condensed over those days within the hospital walls.

But back to Mickki. We love this cat, so his eventual passing would bring about some sadness. But probably more to my daughter than to me. Cat crazy I might be, but I am not so emotionally vulnerable for an animal.  He was blessed to have found a home, luckier than the average cat that walked this island. A country of mostly unhappy cats.  And he had enjoyed a long and healthy life, well-fed and well-loved by its owners.

Mickki, we all die one day and you will also be mourned. You lucky cat.

Lessons in death and dying, a special gift

How different the world has become. This world where Jenny walk no more.

Is it the loss of someone so close? It did feel like a part of me had died.  Or like the loss of a limb,   as CS Lewis has once described? That well known and inspirational author of so many books had once associated the loss of his wife to cancer to that of having an arm amputated. I hesitate to agree with such a comparison. Both are sad and hard to bear. But how would he know? Has he actually experienced living with an arm amputated? Or even the loss of a finger or some other appendage? Try telling that to the once abled person who now sits on a wheelchair because of his amputated legs.

But my world has been transformed, nevertheless. And permanently so.

Is it the memory of being there to watch her die? Even as it was an expected outcome. Even as we were in search and praying for a miracle to come and help fight off the disease. A miracle that, quietly our rational minds knew would not happen.

I will be haunted by the memories for the rest of my life. As long as I remain sound of my mind and my memory intact.  I will remember.

Witnessing that extraordinary alteration of a living thing becoming an inanimate object, feeling the warmth in her hand turning cold and stiffening as I held it for the last time. And the moment when her embattled lungs decided not to inhale anymore. That single moment would be an experience to last a life-time.

The resonance of death would ring and echo all around me for the rest of days.

Not that death is new to me. I had attended countless funerals, mostly of aged parents of friends and colleagues. Many years ago, I had kept watch of a college friend suffering from severe brain haemorrhage, eventually losing his life. In more recent years, a few close colleagues and relatives had fallen sick and died. My father at the age of 86, succumbed to pneumonia only a few years ago. Death will visit us frequently enough to remind us of our mortality. And the finitude and fragility of our physical selves.

But with Jenny’s passing on, I would now understand death like never before. The real lesson of gone forever has been finally delivered.

Even as this new-found existence still feels strange. It has been more than 7 months. But I still struggle on how to really deal with the idea of her absence. Her infinite absence.

30 years ago, on the church altar, we exchanged vows. “Till death do us part”.  But until she got stricken by this terrible disease we could only guess who would be the first to die. Who would know? It is not in our hands, unless we are suicidal. But in the unlikely situation of both of us being killed in an accident or some catastrophic disaster, we knew that one fateful date, one of us may have to witness and bear the pain of watching the other die. And be left widowed or widowered.

I had sometimes jested with her that with my stressful job and feebler state of health, I would most likely be the first to go. I talked about building my bucket list. Things I need to do before I die. As if the bucket was mine to be kicked first and sooner. 

“So you are so sure you will die first? And leave me all alone? You are really mean.”

The thought of being a lonely and a not-so-old widow must have displeased her. She shot a disdainful glance at me and my morbid suggestions before turning away.  Unlike me, Jenny was never comfortable about casual talk about death and mortality. Especially if it involves either of us.  Perhaps in keeping mum on the subject she understood death better than me. I would need a real lesson like watching her die to understand the terrible pain of death and the impending loss.

I sometimes wonder if Jenny’s passing on has spared her of the pain of watching me die instead. How would she have coped with life without me? It would not be any easier. In outliving her, was I the luckier one? Or the less fortunate?

I sometimes wonder too if Jenny’s passing on has offered me this one important lesson, much as it was not one I would have asked for. But one which I might have needed more than she would.  The lesson in death. Of dying with dignity and grace.

I may have made light of the idea of dying in the past. We all have either laughed or made jokes about death and dying. But going through or witnessing this inevitable process is an entirely different matter. Has Jenny offered me the gift of learning of death so I will be better prepared when my own expiry date draws near?

Being so near to her, feeling the last traces of her life-force trickling out of her, I was offered front-row experience to witness this extraordinary transformation. When she turned from living to non-living, physical to meta-physical. In so doing, I had tasted death.

Not just for me. The rest of my kids were there too. As if in her dying and semi-conscious state she knew and had bided her time until we were all together, united by her bed-side.  We were blessed to be there, together as a family. As we should be.  She could only leave us once and the moment would be forever missed if we were not there on that fateful morning. 

She has shown us how to die. Gracefully and in dignity. Something I can never be sure I am capable of.  

It is a special gift from her, my dearest beloved wife. I like to think so.