La Tormenta Y Los Ciclónicos

Sunday was quite the day here on the serene Mediterranean. We began the day with rough seas, which continued rougher until the sky exploded with thunder, lightning, heavy rain. And … San Geraldo’s cyclonic winds. A storm is “una tormenta,” which seems especially appropriate for San Geraldo given how tormented he becomes. But he still calls them los ciclónicos (the cyclonics).  This was almost deserving of the designation. I went out on the terrace to take some pictures, tried to go around the corner for a different view, and was almost blown off my feet. (So no photos from there.)

We moved (San Geraldo did) plants and brought in (San Geraldo did) some furniture. We also picked up (I did. See? I did do something) a couple of big cacti that got blown over. All three yuccas are finally well-secured and positioned (click here for a bit of their stormy history).

We were supposed to take a walk down the paseo with our friends/neighbors Jean and Ray for an always wonderful dinner at Sandpiper. But it was blowing and storming so hard at the time that we instead went downstairs to Cosmopolita, a restaurant right outside our front door. All the street lights went out for a short time as a result of a lightning strike. San Geraldo, whose great-grandmother was killed in 1909 when their house was struck by lightning, was slightly stressed (to put it mildly).

The surf actually came up onto the paseo in places (over the low wall separating the beach from the street) and even flipped heavy wooden trash holders and walkways on the beach. The walkways end far from the surf-line, usually.

(Click the images for a closer look at how things progressed.)


The name of the song is “Llueve,” which means “It Rains.” His name is Pablo Alborán (or as our friend Elena calls him “Mi Pablito” — My Little Pablo).
He was next to me on my overnight flight from New York in September. He slept. I respected his obvious desire for privacy and quiet. Elena will never forgive me.