Rabid Excitement at Casa Aloe Vera

School is out for summer! And, the kids couldn't be happier. Exams are over. Report cards are finalized and the 30lb. bag of books, packets, and graph paper that made it across the ocean with us has been closed indefinitely..or until summer work begins. Their first priority was to sit down and read for pleasure. Glorious! In the first 2 days in Huercál-Overa, Quinn read 4 books and we barely saw him out of his lair. So, where are we exactly? Ask almost any Spaniard and they couldn't place Huercál-Overa on a map either. I'll get back to that. However, let me tell you about our quick stop en route. About 30 minutes outside Granada, we parked in Guadix, a town known for its cave homes, called Troglodytes.

The population of Guadix is 20,000 and they say that half of those are living in these underground caves. It's a bit misleading just how many cave homes are in this tiny town simply because the only thing visible is the chimney stack that juts out of the ground at intervals, reminding me of cylindrical tombstones plunked down along the hillside. I spoke to one resident, probably in his 70's, who takes donations if you'd like to come in and see his home. He tells me he was born in this house and is the fourth generation of his family to live there. Offhandedly, he remarks that he'll die here too. Modest on the inside with white rounded ceilings and corners, I ducked inside the small doorway as if entering the home of Bilbo Baggins, and took a look around, feeling a bit odd making myself at home and snooping around in someone's living room. Like any cave, the consistent temperature makes for comfortable living, even in the heat of Southern Spain. His walls were graced with images of the Virgin Mary and quilts that I imagine go as far back as his 4th generation ancestors, yet with the modern conveniences of any home. We thanked him, dropped a donation in the tray, and finished our journey to Huercál-Overa.

So, here we are in Huercál-Overa. In the middle of the Almería province, we came upon a dirt road marked by a stake in the ground and a crudely painted off-kilter wooden sign that read, "Casa Rural." They aren't kidding! More like, "Casa REALLY Rural."

The land looks entirely barren with olive color scrubby brush and sand that makes you wonder how anything can grow in this region. In the distance, the Sierra de las Estancias mountain range undulates in varying shades of brown and resembles large dirt mounds from a construction site. However, as you exit your car and walk through the bright blue gates of Lola's place, it quickly becomes an oasis with profusions of flowering trees, lemons, olives, lime, herbs, pomegranates, honeysuckle, and aloe vera. With rustic charm, this little compound oozes life and care.

The crisp white and sea blue colors add exponential cheer to the otherwise dry earth palette and the birds seem to understand how good they have it here, considering they sing all hours of the day and night.

Our little rustic space is entirely charming whether you're inside cooking a meal in the slanted beamed-ceiling kitchen or lounging in the hammock in the afternoon while reading a book. Many times I found myself dozing off in that hammock and thought, "I have nowhere else to be."

Our lemon tree was picked the first morning and because I had had a sore throat for the last couple of days, Gaelan took it upon himself to cut and juice a lemon, multiple times a day, heat it up, and serve me hot lemon water. In no time, my sore throat was gone and I told Gaelan that he's living up to his name, which means, "Healer."

Lola is the owner of this part farm - part yoga retreat - part hotel, officially called "Casa Rural Aloe Vera" in the dusty countryside. Lola’s hands are knobbly and weathered from constant work. In her large straw hat, jeans, and long sleeve shirt, she does not stop moving from sunrise to way past sunset. We expressed our willingness to do any work around the farm if she asked, but it seems easier for her to do it all rather than explain it to some city folks. She invited us to go down the lane, past the bristly donkey, to feed the chickens a fruit slop mixture one afternoon. And, in preparation for an upcoming weekend yoga retreat, we helped her make loaves of bread and cook them in the raging hot brick oven fire lit with olive branches. Her kitchen looks like it was ransacked although she seems to know where everything is. Lola creates everything organically and naturally. At night she places cloves inside of cut lemons to keep away mosquitos. She cuts sprigs of thyme to clear the air in the cottage, makes poultices with aloe vera for cuts, extracts honey from her bee hives using a centrifuge, and makes fig, orange, and blackberry marmalade from the bushes and trees at her farm. Here it feels like a different time and place - healthy and in harmony with how nature intended to be.

Our little companions for the week were two rambunctious baby kittens, their scaredy-cat Mom, and mostly absent Father unless he smelled us cooking lasagna, prompting meowing at the cottage door. These two kits provided endless entertainment for "our kits" who miss their own.

You get a very clear sense of your language proficiency (or lack of) when you find yourself in a one-room urgent health center in the middle of nowhere playing a panicked game of charades. How did I get here? I'll tell you. In other parts of Spain, my walks are accompanied by the sound of flatware clinking on breakfast plates through open windows, shop owners cranking their metal awning to start another day, and quick-paced Spanish conversation banter across balconies as I pass. However, in Huercál-Overa, it is silent. I've spotted the occasional rabbit, scared from the underbrush by the sound of my feet, but otherwise, it's utterly quiet.

Walking on a dirt road, I came upon a house that seemed to defy physics. With no roof, it was simply a pile of stones that any stiff breeze could bring down.

The owners, it seemed, were 4 skinny dogs and as soon as they heard my approach, four heads, eager for action, popped up and peered out the open roof. I'm a dog person. I love them. But, when I saw these dogs headed my way, snapping and growling, I took the hint and ran. The smaller, loud-mouth of the bunch with a Napoleon complex, continued the chase, lunged, and bit the back of my leg, drawing blood. After repeated kicks and some wild screaming that I now wish was on video, I limped home. Lola, in her organic way, promptly cut me some aloe vera as a disinfectant. But once my legs stopped shaking, Kip and I considered the other possibility: Rabies. Perfect. So, we piled in the car and headed to a tiny clinic in town. The clinic was set to close in 30 minutes so Kip suggested I get the process started while he parked the car. "Liam, you're coming as my translator," I directed. As we entered, the sign says, "If you don't speak Spanish, you must bring a translator." God bless Liam. He’s better than me at Spanish but the title, “Translator” is a stretch. At this moment, I knew the word “dog" and "leg." I had no reason to know the word for "rabies" or "bite" because, why the hell would I? So, to get the point across, I began snarling and making biting sounds while repeating, "Perro mi pierna." Liam looked on aghast at his mother's acting skills and lack of language ability after 2 years of Duolingo and over 2 months in Spain. The receptionist, with as much bedside manner as a mortician, said she couldn't help until I had a translator and my passport. (At least that's what Liam told me) At that instant, Kip blew in the door, my passport in hand and a cape draped around his Spanish-speaking shoulders. All was right with the world.

As I looked back and forth between the doctor and Kip, like following a really confusing tennis match that your life depends on, it became clear enough that I would not need a rabies shot. In fact, Spain has not had a case of rabies since 1978. Disconcertingly, even if I did contract rabies, Spain doesn't carry the vaccine. So, here's hoping...because once symptoms start, you're basically a goner! Kip later joked that he wouldn't kiss me until the 3 day waiting period was over because the kids needed at least one parent. Let’s hope this wasn’t my last sunset.

Fortunately, the rabid excitement tapered off as I woke each morning with no fever or frothing mouth. Instead, we were lulled into a state of blissful relaxation. The kids could wander to their heart's content, pick flowers and olives for their "stews," play with the kittens, read, or wander to the pool for a game of sharks and minnows. It is the epitome of both freedom and safety, something that is mutually exclusive in most places now.

The days passed in peaceful perfection. Each day, after my walk (now accessorized with a bamboo stick) I'd skim the bees out of the pool and take a refreshing dip. The hours seemed to meander and with no schedule, we started to lose track of the days. Wandering, you begin to notice beauty in the little things, a star-shaped husk of a seed or the striped purple shadows cast under the cane reed pergola. Armed with my trusty camera, I felt I’d come to know this place intimately. To take a step back from life, while zooming into the small things that allow you to be fully present is a gift we all deserve more often than we give ourselves.

To pass on that gift to our children is infinitely more important. To see them so comfortable with themselves in stillness and quiet is reassuring and hopeful. As a society, we don’t often give kids the time and space to sit and think before they’re off to some activity that fills their days. Kids aren’t given those moments of internal quiet, a moment to wonder "what should I do next," before something is planned for them. It is that quiet that sparks their imaginations. It's what they should be doing. They are kids. Play is work.

A little ”blue” to be leaving this piece of utopia, we still have more to experience and are thankful for it. We leave for the seaside town of Altea.