No Matter Where in the World I go, the Rain is Still Wet

What a week. I have been working on plans with the English teachers at La Purisima to put on a Halloween party for all of the primary classes. It takes a lot of planning to come up with what to do with 150 kids for 2 hours! But we have also been having a lot of fun doing it. Picking out what we are going to dress as, planning activities, etc. It will be fun, especially since this will be the first 'Halloween experience' most of these kids have ever had.

Besides that, another interesting recent event was a rain storm. I have learned that Mallorcans are not a people well equipped for such cataclysmic events. For starters, they clearly did not build their sidewalks with rain in mind, as they become incredibly slippery when wet. Secondly, I was to be working with the kids this fateful Wednesday but instead we all watched Toy Story in Spanish b/c we could not go outside. Fortunately the rain had stopped before we got out of class.

Probably my most eventful day of the week was Tuesday. I spent my morning standing in ques around the police station waiting to get my NIE (Numero de Identificacion para Extranjeros). It was lovely. The building was in the middle of a huge construction site and I had to get there 45 minutes before the place even opened so that I could even stand a chance to get in. I got to wake up gently to the sound of jack hammers. Every woman's true passion, as any man knows. It actually was not so bad but my inherent loathing of waiting in lines predisposed me to dislike the process. However, due to the fact that I am a real live grown up, I sucked it up and took it. I think I got it pretty easy though b/c once we were moving and I got inside they directed me elsewhere. I was dubious because the place they were pointing me to had no line, and in a place like this, if there is not a line, it probably means you have gone wrong somewhere. But I moved in the general direction the man had pointed me in, ducked under a few stretches of tape, peeked through a few doors and happened into the room where you get to take a number to wait to be served. Naturally there was a line but apparently if you stand and look like a confused white girl in just the right spot you get to take a number before everyone else. So then I waited in a small lobby and noticed that the woman sitting next to me had a Cuban passport. Being a good American, I have never seen a Cuban passport so she let me look at hers. That was pretty exciting. My number was called and I walk to this young man sitting behind a desk and took a seat. He seemed to translate "good morning, how are you" as "please flirt with me" which I decided could not hurt my chances at getting the proper documentation so I let it be. 2 headshots and a black fingerprint later and I was out the door with instructions to return in 40 days to pick up my number which will allow me to open a bank account and get on with life in general. So hooray.

I then made my way through town and back up to La Purisima to meet with Cristina for our Tuesday afternoon outings. This particular Tuesday we went to a town called Soller. It is apparently the chilliest place on the island, as it is in a valley. but its being in a valley meant we got to go through this super long tunnel through which I could not even hold my breath half the way! As we drove through the mountains I noticed it getting ever greener and the hills were steep and littered with old stone fences in the most improbable places. We arrived in the town and maneuvered a parking spot some blocks out of the way. It is a pretty big town with many very narrow and winding streets. It was very pretty, with a striking old church in the middle. It was a pretty town with all sorts of alluring mountains around it. One of note rose above the rest. The trees cut off about half way up and the top half was absolutely bare. It looked much like a tooth. Although not Tooth of Time quality white. More of a reddish off brown gray. (Yeah, wow THAT makes sense). But anyway it was beautiful and looked challenging, and I noticed people walking around town in hiking clothes with trekking poles and backpacks and now I can't stop wondering if maybe it is climbable. I will be looking into this.
Either way, We ambled about for a bit and then caught the old wooden trolley out to the sea side where we walked on the beach and ate artisian orange ice cream made from oranges grown there in Soller which are renown for being the tastiest in Mallorca. I have never had ice cream quite like this before and really found the entire experience delightful. Everyone we saw was relaxed and half of us were contentedly having at ice cream cones, each in our own way. There were the bottom feeders, who nibbled the bottom of the cones off and drank it from there, there were the perfectionists, licking around the ice cream, keeping it always in perfect symmetry and avoiding any dripping, there were the One-siders who really only seemed aware of the ice cream facing them, allowing the other side to drip deliciously all over their fingers, and many other such variations. I was musing on this diversity of characters when Cristina pointed out that it was all but impossible to feel stress in a place like this. It really did seem that everything about the town was structured so as to make stress and hurry an impossibility. I liked this observation very much and gave myself over to it in all ways possible. The roads were really to narrow to speed on, there were no office buildings anywhere, I did not see a single suit the whole day, everything was slow and content.
As we walked along the water the harbour turned into a beach turned back into a boat harbour where I made my acquaintance with two forms of local boats. The first is associated with Menorca (another of the islands) and is called a Menorquin Yacht. They are more plesure oriented and most come, like the one pictured, with a back deck to hold a prop boat to take in to visit islands and such. The second boat is a Mallorcan fishing boat and I am just kicking myself because I was so determined to remember its name for you guys. I will ask again tomorrow and figure it out. Either way, it is not so much of a pleasure boat and is used for fishing and other such practical endeavours. These boats populate the harbours by the hundreds and there is something about looking down a length of dozens upon dozens of them that remind you that no matter how touristy a place can be made, people still have to eat, and people work for their food and the idea of locals doing it on small scale, fishing for their families and the fish market gives me a deep sense of pleasure.

We caught the trolley back in to the city and maneuvered the labyrinth of its streets with very little event and only a little bit of backtracking. It was an awesome day and I now know of a city where I am going to have to go again.

If you are reading this, then you are probably a person that I am missing. But I love you even more than that, so live well and please carry me in your hearts b/c I am carrying you in mine.

Silvestre- something that grows naturally without being planted or maintained

Yesterday I was invited on an excursion with a group of 12 of the teachers from La Purisima. We met at noon in the school parking lot and carpooled up into the Serra de Na Burgesa. 12 women, fit into 3 European cars is quite a to-do in and of itself, throw in the hairpin mountain roads heavily populated by road cyclists and you have the makings of something akin to a comedy routine.

The day was overcast with high clouds and a steady haze which made my attempts at landscape photography painfully inutil but once I let go of that endeavour I was free to just enjoy it all through my own eyes. While some of the women were a bit put out that we could not see quite so clearly, I rather enjoyed the effects the haze had, and not just because I am a white girl who sunburns easily. From the mountain roads we looked out over the city of Palma and out into the Sea where the water faded into the haze faded into the clouds, creating a continuity betwee water and sky which I found fitting and lovely. We walked along a wide dirt road for an hour or so, out to a lookout over the city. We stopped and watched the sailboats in the distance and I could see native pride manifesting itself across the faces of so many of these women whose families have called this place home forn generations.

The organizer of the expedition and general fearless leader (pictured far right in the photo above), who used her walking sticks with some amount of authority allowed me to amble along with her, hearing her stories and learning from her. Some words of note were, first of all, that Mallorca does not have tides. As we are sitting in a sea, with only a tiny outlet to the ocean, the moon's pull is not as significant. I had never considered this. Lesson learned. Secondly, we had a discussion as to the personality of the Mallorquins and I thought it particularly poignant when she told me, "First I am Mallorquin, second I am a Spaniard." She is another of those who have a long history on these islands and again I was struck with just how blessed I am to have encountered and been allowed to join this group of women. i truly am and I thank God every day for allowing me this insight to such a proud culture. Their maintenance and pride in their own language is, I think, a mighty testament to this. Like when I was hiking in Wales and witnessed a grandfather teaching his 6 year old grandson Gaelic. I am struck by these tight knit communities, maintaining their traditions and culture in such a mighty way as language.

To those who have not had the fortune to work with a herd of cattle nor who have had the opportunity to witness their dynamics, please understand that the following is not meant as any sort of derogation to the women:
Often times as we walked along the women were chattering amoungst themselves in Catalan and I could understand precious little of what was being said. As such I spent most of my energy observing the movement and attitude of the whole of the group and I was struck by how similar they were to the cattle I worked with on Gay's ranch. A large collection of only women, moving along. Gathering into small groups and chatting for some time as we continued on the same course. Stopping and waiting for one another, regrouping and then separating back into small groups, the components of each cluster changing each time. Hearing their community voice was striking and amusing. The hum of constant conversation, some rising above others, sometimes lulling, sometimes stopping altogether as we just walked and enjoyed the scenery. Hearing the swell of general protest when we encountered difficult terrain and the sounding of an alarm when one of the number fell or dropped behind. The happy sounds as well settled down to lunch, the after lunch murmur as some of us napped and others discussed amoung themselves. The general group mentality made me miss the cattle and, I felt gave me an insight that might help me better understand the animals if I ever have my own herd. It was an interesting insight.

At about 2:30 our now narrow trail came to an end at a crest atop which sat a ruined stone edifice. No roof, three walls and filled with rubble, but with benches all around the outside and a fantastic view. We had reached Mirador de n'Alzamora, built in 1931. We sat with our backs to the building, looking out over the Mallorcan landscape. To the left a deep valley wandered back into the mountains. The opposite wall was scattered with trees, accented by veins of sheer white rock cliff. The cliffs and ridges dropped into a low valley populated by olive tree farms, patches of cleared dirt, waiting for next year's harvest and every here and there a villa or farm house. Beyond this the sea sparkled in some spots under the odd patch of clear skies. Other spots were a steady murky while still others were disrupted by so many small peaks and swells, roiled by the wind or perhaps some current that only the sea itself and some knowledgeable fishermen knew about. then again, off to the right, the land rose again into those irregular hills and mountains that make this island so different from other places I have been rose up, rounding back to where we sat and ate and lived and felt peace and happiness and the general wellbeing of sharing such an experience with others.

The immediate order of business for us was to get lunch laid out. Everyone began diving into their packs to produce any of a variety of meats, cheeses, breads, crackers, cakes, pastries, etc. Everything was laid out on a blanket which we had spread out between us all. A number of the women fell to cutting up meat or slathering tomato juice across pieces of bread. I was so pleased to see this sharing mentality before the "get me some" attitude I had gotten used to hiking with the young boys at Philmont or eating on the glacier. After everything had been divvied up, we all set too, and it was delicious. It turns out that for these women, lunch is a 2 hour affair, involving a lot of sitting and talking time, many a chance for a nap on warm stones and even some time for me to slip away and explore. I saw a little group of mountain goats, one black, one brown, and one white, playing and eating and exploring out on points that I could only wish to have the ability to climb to.

Once we had had our fill of food and napped and chatted, as if on some silent cue, everyone began cleaning up and packing things away and off we went again. We walked back by a different, shorter trail and everyone began picking bouquets of fruits and flowers to bring home. By the time we reached the cars and began fitting our things into them I would say we had almost twice the amount of stuff as we had had when we took off. It was funny to see these tiny trunks packed with so much greenery. Todas nos despedimos with many kisses and hugs and the general consensus that we would would have something grand to share when we see each other again in classes on Monday.

A very good Saturday.

Sometimes we all have to learn the Hard Way

For example. yesterday I walked out to meet the 6 year olds for gym class. As I walked into the open gym area they were all running around, chasing each other and playing. One of the little girls started running at me and as she did so I swooped her up and flipped her over, squealing and laughing. It was like some sort of alert. I saw half the heads snap in my direction and identify that yes, I had in fact just done something very fun looking to one of their peers. This initiated some sort of attack sequence in their little brains. It was on par with a scene in Jurassic Park. I had to overcome my own instinct to run away when I saw a good number of them from all corners of the room head straight my way. They hit me like a wave and crowded around me with their hands up jumping and squealing "ahora mi! ahora mi!" So I fell back into my super English teacher defense mode saying "I don't understand you. English please." HA! It worked; they all looked to one another trying to figure out what I was asking of them, although they continued to jump against me with their hands up, trying to climb me. Just at that moment the Little Miss Know it All of the class ran by and informed them all in Spanish, "she says for you to all stop touching her ta-tas." They all fell back and stared at me. I had to restrain myself from laughing and quickly made my escape to the other side of the room with the teacher to await instructions for the games we were to play. Lesson learned.


I am also experiencing the learning by doing technique on another level. While this teacher exchange program has been happening in Spain for some years now, this is the first year of it being in the Balearic Islands. As such, instructions are still rather convoluted and are coming from all directions. Sill little details and questions arise, such as "do I have health insurance? Is that what that form was about?" "who pays me, the schools or the government?" "If I do get a Spanish bank account to have my checks sent to, who do I tell so the checks actually get sent?" "Exactly what other types of paper work do I have to fill out to be legally here and to work?". I have resorted to directing these questions to the American consulate here and to the facebook accounts of other kids in the same program, asking them how they are going about things. This is proving to slowly be helpful and I should hopefully get it all worked out soon.
Marga was sent to a teacher's meeting regarding we Auxiliares de Conversacion and she too was struck by the inefficiency and weaknesses in the system. Such as, why are they having the teacher's orientation meeting weeks after the Auxiliares are already at the schools?
I was starting to get frustrated with the whole ordeal but then I realized that if I break it down, the government is just like us, doing its best to move forward and learning through doing (or that is the idea at least. . . I think/hope).

I suppose these are the kinds of things we get frustrated with but with a little bit of grace and a whole lot of persistence we can get through and hopefully make things better in the end.

I would like to conclude this post with sharing one of my new most favorite things. Today I did some neighborhood exploring. Identifying all the various tiny shops within blocks of my house that might cater to my various needs. Post office. Paper shop. Bakery. The bakery is just around the corner from my house and I walked in and bought a fresh baguette, still warm from the oven. I took it home and made myself a sandwich and sat out on my deck and watched the darkening clouds roll and roil overhead and enjoyed my sandwich, all of the components of which were made within miles of where I live. It was pleasant.

One final bit, I have an address, feel free to use it at will:
c/ Margarida Xrigu, 31
Palma de Mallorca, Spain 07011

A Day in the Country

In celebration of Columbus Day, there was no school today. I am not going to go into how confused I am regarding which countries celebrate this short little man, but I certainly have nothing against the free time he has bought us. As such, today Marga brought me out to her family's country home. It is just around the mountain from the city of Andraxt ( pronounced An-drach). We took the autopista to Andraxt then wound the narrow lanes of the city, getting stuck once behind a car which kept stalling at the hands of a driver who could not seem to decide where he was going. He was immediately identified as a 'turista'. We turned off the city roads onto an uphill climb where we almost immediately encountered a family in a horse drawn buggie. After dropping back to give them right-of-way, we began a steady climb out of the extremely populated city on an impossibly narrow road. At each hairpin turn Marga tooted the horn, notifying any potential downhill driver of our endeavour. We soon ran into a group of about 6 folks on horse back coming down and again gave way. I could smell the horses and the freshly rained on green around us and I could hear the assortment of birds singing to us of the Mallorcan country life from the shrubbery that encroached on the path/road. It was a lovely and eventful drive. I can assure you all that driving here is nothing like driving in America.
We pulled up to an old stone building on the left where Marga's parents' car was already parked and full of jugs of the water drawn from the house's own well which we drink (as the city's water is not so tasty). I got a variety of responses when I inquired as to the age of the building, ranging from 150-300 years. I did, however, learn that it used to be an old windmill used for grinding wheat into flour and that it has been in the family for more than 4 generations.
There is a large room which they had recently renovated which was where the mule used to walk in circles. working the wheat. While the roofing and floor was new, there was still a trough in the corner where the four legged labourer used to take his union break.
The house is a matrix of what used to be grain storage rooms, now filled with antique furnishings. They recently updated the bathroom from a hole in the ground to a flushing toilet. While still not connected to the main grid for electricity, there is a generator which they use when necessary. The kitchen involves a large fireplace and a hearth around which are stone bench seats where generations of people have sat to cook, chat and work. Making stories, sharing stories. It is an amazing house with many a low doorway, Marga informed me it was not built with 'tall' people, like myself, in mind. Dad, I suspect you may be able to relate somewhat?
A second part of the kitchen was a covered room outside, one entire wall blackened from the wood burning stove built into it. This is where Marga's mother, also named Marga, was cooking up some sort of magic.
We took a walk along one of the country roads and by the time we got back there was time for one chapter in my book and then lunch. A lettuce and tomato salad (covered with salt and olive oil of course), grilled red peppers, bread and pork chops. We had been 'merendiendo' (snacking) all day, but somehow I found room not only for the lunch but also for some dessert which grandma had made. It was all so delicious.
Afterwards Josep Maria, the 10 year old son, and I went and explored the trees on the property. One of which the government had officially decided to protect due to its significant age. I thought it should probably be protected, if for no other reason, than that it is one of the best climbing trees I have encountered since arriving here. Once we wandered back to the house there was quite a commotion over the 'culebra' that was found swimming in the rainwater in the bottom of an empty paint bucket. I thought it was quite a commotion for a 4 inch long little guy but apparently snakes are not very common around here. Apparently St. Patrick's influence reached farther than expected. Either way, they were very impressed to hear about the sorts of snakes encountered by my cousin and even more amazed to hear how they are dealt with (so you are internationally known Brian, just a heads up). I then went out and wandered by myself for a bit, taking in this new countryside, adjusting my perception of what a 'farm' looks and functions like, and taking in the old building ruins, the stone walls, built by hand and just the general ambiance of the place.
I feel an almost constant inclination to try to make this new place fit into old perceptions. To reconcile it to the way I think it 'should' be. To fit this round peg through my square hole. But sometimes I can just sit, and let go, and let the place wash over and through and around me. I realized today that places and people aren't made to fit conveniently into perceptions, they just are, and we are free to absorb as much or as little of them as we believe we can handle. In this light, I strive to make myself an empty vessel, without a top or a bottom. To just let these things flow and to teach me. But I also realize I am not channeling any significant portion of this world; rather, I am submerged in a sea. I am so small that all I can do is try to learn as much as I can and tell the stories, and do my all to share the best of me and contribute as much as I can.

Food

It is a quite Thursday evening. We just finished eating supper (which we usually eat together at around 9) and doing dishes. I went in to La Purisima today to talk to one of the older classes and the kids were shy at first but once we got going it was pretty fun. On Wednesday I had my first really full day of teaching, the longest one of the week for me from now on. I go over to Llado in the mornings, as I have to be there at 9 I have to start maneuvering the bus system at about 8. There I move through the classes with the English teachers. Then at 12:30 I get back on the buses and go to La Purisima where I work with the 6-8 year olds. But it is pretty fun because I get to do PE with them which entails playing outside. All in all I think work will be fun. I am hoping to get some private tutoring work though so I can actually afford living in this city!
I have been being introduced to all sorts of cultural information and food and I am pretty proud of myself (turns out my parents' years of trying to teach me to eat what I am served has panned out rather well).

As far as the food here goes, well, it is quite different from in America. However, their cafeteria food at the schools is pretty standard. We eat off of metal trays with 4 compartments. My first day I was served noodles in a broth. I sat down in the teacher dining hall and started forking the noodles. Marga, one of the English teachers asked me just what I thought I was doing eating soup with a spoon. Realizing that this was soup and feeling rather silly I went for a sarcastic joke, saying, "oh, this is how we do it in America." Turns out that did not translate well and now every time we eat soup Marga offers me a fork. We have now established that Americans do not, in fact, eat soup with forks but she still teases me.

Aside from that incident, I have been trying all the different kinds of food possible. The first thing to note about Mallorcans is that they put olive oil and salt on most of their foods. The first time Marga saw me putting cheese on a slice of bread she offered me some olive oil and was rather shocked to hear that we do not do this regularly. A common food here, pan boli, is a slice of bread, with oil, salt, a slice of tomato and a slice of cured ham (jamon cerrano) to top it off. Also sometimes they put cheese on it. I tried this for the first time tonight and was happily surprised. Look mom, I am eating tomatoes voluntarily! There is also this kind of small tomato which you cut in half and squeeze out over the bread, almost like a lemon or something.

Another local food is called 'sobrasada'. Once a year families get together and slaughter a pig and make meats for themselves for the year. Sobrasada is this meat, ground up and mixed with a variety of spices. Not very spicy but a very full flavor. I like it spread on a slice of bread topped with a local cheese, Manchega.
On Tuesdays Cristina, another of the Spanish teachers, gets done with work at 1 and we have decided to make these girls' afternoons b/c her kids don't get out of class until 5. This past Tuesday we drove up to the mountain village Valldemossa where there is the church where Chopin hung out and composed. Cristina had been coming to visit the village since she was a small girl and she insisted that I try a common snack here called coca de patata. It is made of potato but made like a bread. It comes in the form of a bun and is sprinkled with powdered sugar. Pretty tasty. I also drank a small 'horchata' some sort of nutty tasting milky blended ice.(pictured left is me in the Valldemossa gardens with coca patata and horchata).

A national favorite is paella. It is pretty much a hodge-podge of seafoods and land meats with arroz brut (dirty rice). It is, as I sometimes call the foods which I am not sure about right away, 'interesting'. Marga teases me about that too.
A lot of what they eat here on the islands is heavily based in foods grown here on the islands. For example, the other day, driving back from our mountain excursion Cristina and I saw a bunch of men out picking olives out of the trees with long hooks. They are then processed here on the island and bottled and then I pour them over my pan boli. It is really nice to see the places where my food comes from, so close to home.

The main trees that I see around here are olive, orange and almond. And grazing underneath and around them are sheep and cattle. The olive trees are so beautiful, with gnarled trunks and almost sage-like colored leaves, dancing in the sun and sea breeze. They are representative of these islands as it is one of their large exports, comprising a significant portion of their economy (far second of course to tourism which comprises more than half their economy).
Well, more later, off to bed for now.

First Few Days

I am sitting out on the porch of my new habitation feeling the growing chill of the evening. I spent the day walking the way along the ports and beaches of Palma. The sun was bright and warm and the water was chilly and gorgeous. The horizon was littered with sail boats and ships drifting along, enjoying the lazy Sunday breeze. When the sun got too intense I sat on the shaded benches and watched all the different kinds of people. Tourists on bikes, taking pictures, sun bathing. The locals walking their dogs and children and speaking to one another in Catalan, a Spanish/French mix. It was a lovely day.
But let me start from the beginning:
I arrived on the afternoon of the first of October and by the time that my luggage and I maneuvered the bus system and found my hostel I was bushed! I spent 10 minutes sitting on the beach watching the sunset and then passed out at 7 pm.
The next morning at breakfast I ran into another girl doing the same work as I am and so we found our way together to the orientation meeting. We spent the morning listening to explanations of our new duties and the intricacies of the Spanish school system. When that was over I went back to my hostel intending to look up some flats for rent but my 20 minute nap turned into a 3 hour sleep, so I woke up just in time to grab some supper with Elisabeth (the other student?teacher? I mentioned above, and then back to sleep.
I woke up early Friday morning and found my way to the first school I will be working at, Llado. I met the two English teachers, Pilar and Veronica and sat in on the 4th grade class. The kids were learning various body parts and were quite proud to introduce themselves to me, saying, 'yjello, mi name iz _____". I was then presented to the headmaster, Guillermo, with whom I set up a schedule which has me there Monday and Wednesday mornings, working one hour with each of 6 classes, 1-6 (kids ages 6-12). They were very friendly and warm and seemed enthused to have me. This being the first year of this program functioning on the islands, we are all new to this and I am quite a novelty.
After that I found my second school, La Purisima, right about lunch time. The three English teachers, Marga, Marta, and Cristina were very welcoming and brought me to eat lunch with the rest of the teachers. Then I sat in on a high school class where I drew a map of the US and showed them where I was from. The students then asked me to show them where the Simpsons lived.
La Purisima is a school founded by Franciscan Nuns with a special interest in children with disabilities. There are 400 some odd students there, of whom 50 or so face some sort of extra challenge in life, most deaf but some with behavioral or psychological issues. The deaf children have their own classes but the rest of them are matriculated into normal classes. As such, one of the boys in the class I was visiting has some form of autism. He has impeccable hand writing but cannot take a shower by himself. He is very enthusiastic about learning English and so found asa many excuses as possible to come talk to me...
'jyello, my neem is William.'
'What time is it?'
'I have calculator that says in English.' (He was very proud of this)
Other students came up to me and asked what we ate in America. Did we listen to Spanish music? Is the food better in America or Spain? etc.
It was really fun and the kids' enthusiasm was contageous. I am sure I will enjoy working with them.
After the class I sat down with the three English teachers and the headmaster, Ventura, and they decided that I would be most helpful working with the 3-5 year olds on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons. While I am sure I will have fun with the little ones I was a little disappointed that I would not get to work with the older kids. However, they do several excursions, like camping trips and field trips, each year and they invited me to go along on these so that should be fun. Afterwards Marga showed me to her house where she had an upstairs to rent. I was naturally dubious of what sort of living conditions to expect and was greatly impressed when she showed me in to her home. It is lovely and elegant and tasteful and very clean and tidy. The upstairs is my domain, including an expansive porch which overlooks her little orchard out back. I was so impressed that I accepted her offer immediately (having heard horror stories from some of the other Conversation Auxiliaries [that is what we are called] regarding the sort of living accommodations which can be obtained on our limited budgets). I was particularly thrilled when Christina, the other teacher who had come along for the adventure, asked the address of my hostel, that she might pick me up whenever I so chose to move my things over here! YEAH, avoiding that transit on bus was a very welcome matter!
The next morning she and her 4 year old son, Carles, picked me up and I dropped my things off and then Cristina insisted that she show me the grocery stores and other such necessities in the area while Marga went to a meeting. On out way to the grocery store we passed a coffee shop where one of the other teachers, also named Marga and her husband, Tony, invited us over. I was given the choice between a short or a tall coffee and it was evident that declining was not an option. Turns out they drink coffee like it is their job over here. We chatted for an hour or so and I talked with Tony, who is from Uruguay, about everything from food to music to the state of living and government in Uruguay. We then said our goodbyes with the double kiss and made our way to Mercadona, the grocery store right down the street from my new house. I bought a few food items and such and then Cristina dropped me off at my new place, into which I entered using my very own key!=)
I spent a bit unpacking and talking with Marga and then she insisted on taking me to lunch in her favorite place in the world, Port Deantratx, where she grew up. It was a lovely drive, some along the water some in the mountains. The vegetation here is very different from at home. Most of the trees are some variation of conifers, which are apparently better at surviving with what little rain falls here. Either way, it is very lovely. We drove to the little port town and wandered along the coast, past the house where Marga grew up and out along the sea wall to the lighthouse. It was lovely, looking inland at the low lying, irregular, textured mountains, and then out across the sea at the sail boats. We made our way back to the touristy area and had patella for lunch, a humongous platter of this short fat yellow rice mixed with pretty much every variation of meat, both land and sea faring, mixed in. It was really very good. Here the big meal of the day is lunch and so Marga was nigh upon horrified to hear that in America we get 30 minute lunch breaks and wondered that wouldn't making supper the big meal of the day just make you sick? It was a funny thing to try to explain. Afterwards we drove to Ikea and she bought some things for my comfort such as a trash can and noteboard and the likes. That night we walked along the coast through the middle of Palma and by 10 pm we both had this interesting head pain from talking and thinking in the others' language. We got home and I went straight to sleep and did not wake up until after the time that church would have been finished so I made my way around slowly for the morning. Marga insisted I drink a glass of milk with breakfast b/c that is what Americans drink at breakfast, no? The milk here is different from that at home, it is more of a cream almost, but still tasty. I then ventured off into the day which I described above, ending soon with the conclusion of this post.=) Early to bed before my first big day of work tomorrow!

Some interesting differences I have noted:

-Door keys here are different, involving depressions in the broad side of the key as well as the jagged edge. Doors lock with a series of 4 heavy bolts.
-Pillows are long and narrow and pillowcases open at both ends.
-all trashcans are tiny

Well, that is all for now. I am going to shower and head to bed soon.
Loves.
~B