THE PROJECT
Today's September 4, 2024. Seven years ago tomorrow, I embarked on a three-month cat-sitting adventure in Spain. Regrettably, I did not keep a journal during the trip.
Over the next 87 days, I’ll attempt to rectify that by creating an entry each day which will explain my activities on the same day exactly 7 years previous. I’ll do this by jogging my memory with my dated photo gallery, Google Timeline, a weather time machine, and my personal notebook, emails, and texts.
Before we get into it, some background on how I ended up in Spain for three months looking after a cat named Blanche.
BACKGROUND
In early 2017, doctors informed me that if they couldn’t “get to the bottom” of my Transient Ischemic Attack (a minor stroke) within the next 12 to 18 months, the risk of a “full-blown” stroke was high. After ten months of tests without answers, I was left with a grim prognosis.
I understand that this may sound like an exaggerated reaction to some of you due to the "minor"ness, but strokes run in my family. My sister was left disabled by a stroke at the age of six months. She died when she was just fifteen. I was ten.
Since I didn't want to die in a record store — I owned a shop called Good Music — I made the decision to sell my inventory to a competitor and relocate to a place where, if my head did pop, it could pop happy and tanned, preferably on a beach at sunset.
After a mere eight hours of online searching, I responded to an ad placed by a woman in Spain who was seeking someone to care for her cat for five months. She quickly responded to my message, asked only a few questions, and within 24 hours made the decision to hire me. It was only then that I conducted some research and discovered that Canadians are limited to a three-month stay in Spain.
Surprisingly, she dismissed this limitation, stating that she had dreamt on it and believed that I was the ideal candidate for the job. Notably, she did not request any references. I'd like to say that this didn't seem unusual at the time (I was a little distracted), but I do recall asking myself, "What's the worst that could happen?"
I booked a return ticket for an 87-day trip, arriving in Barcelona on September 5, 2017, a Tuesday, and committed to arriving in the town of Oliva, 400KM south, on the 8th. My host would spend the day showing me around, explaining the cat's peculiarities, and then fly out on the 9th.
During my trip, I worked on two personal projects: Burning the Days (BtD), daily poems sent out to a mailing list I was running at the time, and Loneliness, Violence, Grief, and Regret, a novel — my first, which remains unfinished to this day.
For the sake of fairness, but for Blanche, I've changed the names of almost everyone I encountered.
The project starts tomorrow and will continue through early November.
Daily entries will appear in on the front page of the site and be added to the bottom of this page as well. So, you can either bookmark this page and use the table of contents on the left to navigate, or read them on the front page if you're a daily visitor.
DAY 1 — September 5
Direct from YYZ to BCN. Easy flight. (Aren't they all?) Arrive 10:36am.
SIM card. Sandwich. Metro to the AirBnB in the Gracia neighborhood to drop off my bag and get my key.
Marble stairs, 3 flights. The door is huge + heavy. Mariano shakes my hand, shows me the room, explains the fussy shower.
Head back out. Fantastic bookstores with gorgeously designed and printed books. Pick up a copy of Good Morning, Midnight. Walk. Beautiful architecture everywhere.
The busiest streets I've ever seen. Street corners that somehow aren't. Genius. Scooters everywhere.
Walk to Restaurant Casa Delfin for lunch. So good.
Lots of walking.
715PM — Grab a cocktail at Solange. Read from the Rhys novel. Inspired by a particular passage, I jot in my notebook:
A woman. A nice woman A nice, beautiful woman. A very nice, beautiful woman. It's going to be different this time...
People-watch. Think about working on the novel. Grab the bill.
More walking. Dinner on the rooftop of the Hotel Casa Fuster.
Work a bit on LVGR. Tighten:
I'd tell you I paid good money for the boy, but that's not entirely true because the child wasn't expensive and the money wasn't earned by honest work. I killed a man for it and the cost didn't even eat up what remained after seven months of party and drink.
My wife had always wanted a child and I had always wanted a son so the purchase quelled both our longings. But things change when you swap money for blood. Your life gets harder. Your luck turns. Things fall apart.
For my wife, punishment came as a cancer. For my daughter, it came as a curse, though she wouldn't call it that. "Clarity of identity," she'd say. Something I can never claim for myself. As for me, punishment's still coming, a vision on the horizon I fear is not a mirage.
Unlike my kid, I've never felt I had an identity. I don't know who "I" am or what "me" means. So unaware of what I did not know, I didn't even know I didn't know it. She made me aware of what I lacked, Siobhan. It's an Irish name. Chose it herself. We'd named her Steven, April and I.
1130PM — Head down to the street.
Youth chill in the evening air:
Midnight — arrive back at Mariano's. Total distance walked, 17.8KM.
DAY 2 — September 6
Hit a few bookstores and am impressed with the Spanish editions. Wonderful paper, slick covers, great design. Once again wonder why British editions are so dreadful compared to other countries'.
Taifa Llibres is particularly wonderful, as is Libreria LA Central. Toronto just doesn't have stores like these. Killed by greedy landlords, Heather Reisman, etc. I consider picking up something I know cover-to-cover thinking it'll help learn the language. Jesus' Son? The Postman Always Rings Twice? Silly idea. Brain is absolutely useless for learning new things right now.
Walk the streets towards Park Güell, see some great graffiti.
Spend most of the day in the Park and Gaudi's house. Am rather fond of his bedroom.
Head to Elephanta. Meet Anabel Caravaca and am charmed. Write a bad poem, which she takes. Stay way too long, but not long enough, unfortunately. Have to catch a train to Valencia in the morning. We decide to stay in touch online.
Head home to get some sleep. 11.3KM covered. Lightweight.
DAY 3 — September 7
Wake early. Pack. Grab a frittata on the way to the train.
Ride 328KM south to Valencia.
Train ride mostly uneventful. Sat next to an American stand-up comic with a sad sack story about losing all his money on his European tour. Couldn't tell if he was trying to hustle me. Didn't laugh once.
Another AirBnB. This one more "factory."
Walk just under 10K. Museums. Basilicas. Much porcelain. Grotesques and gargoyles abound. Delicious Charcuterie and the worst Martini I've ever had. I think it was gin, lemon juice, and olive oil. Unimaginably bad.
I am older than the Font Del Túria, but it has me beat in beauty, poise, and bird shit.
I think Valencia is the most beautiful city I've ever seen and I don't think it's even close.
DAY 4 — September 8
I spend the morning in Valencia, then buy a ticket to Oliva, about 80km south. While waiting for the bus, I meet an American couple who are heading to Cullera. They are incredulous when they find out I've been hired from Canada to cat sit.
The bus ride is cheap at 8,10 euro, but my mother would say it was the milk run. I almost miss my stop but get the driver to pull over again.
Call Joe the British cabbie, who is expecting me. "Five minutes," he says, and is there in three. "To Arianne's house?" Si, I nod. "Are you good friends?" he asks.
"I've never met her."
A look of concern on his face. Inside, I panic. Something amuck. I should have asked more questions before boarding that plane.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I don't understand."
"She's hired me to look after her cat while she travels."
"Didn't you say you were from Canada?!"
"Yes."
"And you're here for 3 months?"
"Yes."
Another puzzling look. Something is definitely amuck. We arrive at the house. I pay him and he asks if he should wait. I tell him no and he drives off.
Locked gate. I consider climbing it, but wait. Ten minutes and out she comes, saying she didn't hear me calling. Is she what I expected? What did I expect? "It's hot, let's go inside." An accent, but not a Spanish one.
She introduces Blanche, the cat. My charge. Instantly, I know she's going to be a nightmare.
Arianne offers lunch and I accept. Fish and rice. The two bedroom house is charming. "How long have you lived here?"
"A few months."
"And you're off on vacation so soon?"
"I'm already on vacation. This isn't my house."
"I'm sorry?"
Arianne rented the house for a year. Paid in advance. After seven months, she wants to leave. "They've found me."
"Who?"
She doesn't answer. The expression on her face is either, "You know who," or "I'm not sure I can trust you with that information." I remember the look on the cabbie's face.
She paces the kitchen holding a butter knife. "Tomorrow, Mateo will join us for lunch."
"Who's Mateo?"
"This is his house. He wants to meet you. He says he never agreed to another 'tenant'. He's not happy I've hired you. He's police. Retired." Great.
"Tomorrow? For lunch?" She nods. "But what time's your flight?" I ask.
"I haven't bought my ticket yet. I was hoping you'd help me with that. No point using my phone. Lets talk about it tomorrow. You should take a walk. Get to know the area."
"Do you want to join me? Show me the area?"
"I've seen enough of this town to last a lifetime," she says.
I walk the beach.
DAY 5 — September 9
Last night as I tried to sleep — the house is a two bedroom — I could hear Arianne. She was mumbling to herself while pacing. At least that's what it sounded like. I heard her rifle through the kitchen drawer and imagined her choosing a butter knife with which to finish me. I fall back asleep.
I'm an early riser but she even took that away from me by being an earlier riser. I wait until I hear her leave and then get up and head out myself.
I walk the beach and surrounding neighbourhoods and wonder how lunch with the landlord-cop is going to go.
I stop at La Botigueta and get some terrific veg, including the best carrots I've ever had. But when I return home, I find that Arianne has already done all the shopping and seems slightly perturbed about my purchase.
She's making rice and fish. As she stirs, she stares out the window. "He's the one that's doing it," she says. I look over her shoulder. In the distance, maybe 400 feet, I see another house. No people. Does she maybe mean the dog?
I change the subject, ask how often she gets to the beach. Does she like the area? She confesses she rarely leaves the house. "Not one more minute in this town," she says.
Mateo arrives and we quickly hit it off. When I tell him I sell records, he immediately starts talking music. I hate talking music but humour him. I also help him with some phone stuff — he's having issues and maybe I know how to fix them. He's no longer concerned about who is going to be staying in his house.
We exchange numbers and when he leaves, I ask Arianne if she wants to buy her plane tickets now. She says we will have to use my phone. I say that's fine, as long as she doesn't use my credit card. Not even a smile.
She explains what she wants: Spain to the Maldives, stopping in Abu Dhabi for four days. Only wants to fly in one direction, no flight longer than six hours. No layovers.
Takes me four hours to figure it out. The fastest I can get rid of her is two days from now. An eternity when your host is armed with a butterknife.
I ask again if maybe she wants to show me around. She declines, muttering a word in a language I don't recognize under her breath.
Along a path I sense someone ahead of me in the bushes. It's Mateo. I say Hi and he walks along beside me so I stop. He needs to talk to me. He points back at the house, saying, "She... what is the word..." He points his finger at his head and swirls it through the air, the universal symbol for scrambled brains.
"Paranoid," I say, and Mateo stabs the air between us.
"That's the word! Paranoid!"
"Yes," I say.
"You'll take care of my house?"
"I'll certainly try," I say.
He nods, offers his hand. We shake and go our separate ways.
Of course, I walk.
Love the colors of the buildings here.
Toronto would have a collective aneurysm if someone painted a building that color.
DAY 6 — September 10
There's a stray cat on the property who had kittens a couple weeks before I arrived. Arianne calls her Nina. I get along with her much better than I do with Blanche, my charge.
For a late lunch, I discover Ca Fran. Civilized portions of local foods. Solid Vermouth. I teach the young barkeep to make a martini. Mid-day, I'm the only customer and feel comfortable bringing out my keyboard to do some writing.
When I get back, Arianne has packed and is ready to go, despite there being another 16 hours before Joe picks her up in his taxi, she sits on the couch, hands folded in her lap, waiting.
I decide to press my employer on her past. I find out:
- Though fluent in the language, she's not Spanish, but Maltese
- She was a school teacher
- She retired early after selling her house
- She left Malta to "get away from some people"
- Those people have found her
She never explained what they were after. Why they'd be following her.
When I ask why Abu Dhabi, she says it's been a lifelong dream. I ask, why, then, are you only staying 4 days. An answer in Maltese comes. When I ask what that means, she stares.
In fact, each time she speaks to me, I feel she's trying to gauge whether I can be trusted — not with the house, but with her answer.
At that moment, I know something very bad is going to happen. Don't know where or why.
After the sun sinks, wild dogs can be heard fighting and barking through the night.
DAY 7 — September 11
Joe picks up Arianne. They're off to the airport.
I decide to branch out from the Playa and head to and beyond the city proper. There are orange groves between us and a ton of loud guard dogs, most of which are behind fences. I find a "mountain" with a portion of castle atop it. Looking down from the other side you can get a good look at the whole of Oliva.
I don't yet know the cities beyond, but vow to get out to them.
DAY 8 — September 12
Freedom.
Mentally untethered to the possibility that my host may eat my beating heart, I wake early and start walking south along the shore. I find myself in Denia, though amazingly do not make it to the mountain I spotted a few days earlier.
While I walk, I listen to David Whyte's What To Remember When Waking.
In it, he reads his poem Todar Phadraic. It is not my favorite of his works, but its genesis interests me as it's the first I hear of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a mythological race of people who lived in Ireland. Uninterested in battle, they "turned sideways into the light and disappear into the originality of it all." Whyte describes this event as them "no longer wanting to have that conversation." This interests me because I know that if I do not expire on the Mediterranean, I do not wish to return to the place and life that I left behind exactly one week ago.
It is the tedium of modern life that chisels away at me, and it is that which I hope to dance around while tricking it into thinking I'm dancing with.
I recall what Scott Rosenberg taught me in my 20s: give it a name, so I Christen it the time-rich life. Simultaneously, Jim James puts his lips to my ear: "Tryin' gets nothing done."
As always, I walk.
Sardines are cheap at the Super Mercado. A different breakfast for Nina.
I close the day sleeping with the bedroom door open.
52KM.
I wake a few hours later with a full bladder. Raised by women (mother, aunt, sisters, grandmother), I've always peed seated. Tonight's no exception. Sitting there, I feel something soft against my calfs. Blanche sidling by. I bend to stroke her and rise bloodied.
DAY 9 — September 13
I've lived with dogs all but 10 years of my life. Those years (they were not sequential) were mostly spent grieving dogs. In that time, there's few truths I've found more on the money than A dog is a mirror. In other words, there is a direct relationship between your dog's personality and you. I'm old enough to know that this is a controversial opinion that is not shared by people with bad dogs, but I promise you, of the dozens of dogs I've lived with at home, on the road as a pet sitter, and as a dog walker: it's true. If there's something wrong with your dog, there's something wrong with you.
Find your problem
Fix your problem
Your dog will also be healed
Cats... do not always reflect their people. Blanche, however, did. She was trouble waiting to happen. Long-haired, she was in need of daily brushing. But she mostly hated being touched. I'd hold a comb out at arms length and she would walk through it, "brushing herself". Occasionally, the comb would snag. When it did, Blanche would stop, turn her head, and say, "You're the one who's doing this. This is your fault." And then Blanche would punish you.
Last night on the toilet was not the first time I've been scratched by a cat, but it's the earliest, and among the deepest, and the only time it's happened in the dark. I had 78 days left with Blanche and I was determined not to let her get the upper hand again.
I wake. I walk.
