As time gets tight

On Sunday, Marga and I drove out to the northern tip of the island. We stopped at Playa de Formentor, a pristine and peaceful beach and I waded around in the crystal clear water and marveled at how incredibly blessed I am to be experiencing these things. We quickly loaded back up and drove further north into an otherworldly landscape of jagged grey cliffs, flecked with vegetation which inexplicably sprouted in the rocky landscape. The skyline resembled the spiked spine of a dragon and the narrow lane wound and curved along the steep walls of rock while gravity scooped away at the fringes of the asphalt, which made it very interesting.
We finally arrived at the old house called Cala Murta and, following the instructions in my hiking guide set out to follow the easy 2 hour trail of En Fumat. Allow me to go ahead and deliver the punch line: we never once encountered the trail. Marga was in a foul quitter mood and as such I felt pressured to get her as far out as possible as quickly as possible so she would fall in love with it and change her mind. This resulted in us finding ourselves at the foot of a gigantic embankment following no discernable trail. She spent the first ten minutes telling me she was tired and could not do it but I pointed out this was impossible, as we had not been walking long at all and I started telling an interesting story. Erstwhile we climbed the terraced embankment using our hands and scrambling up walls. By the time she caught on to my ploy, we were half way up and it was the kind of terrain that is easier to ascend than descend. After about an hour we were 4/5 of the way up and decided to stop for lunch. We sat on one of the retaining walls, built many generations ago and enjoyed the view through the layering mountains between which the sea seeped into harbours.It was beautiful and solitary and my nervous glances at Marga confirmed that she too understood and was enjoying the magic inherent in such ventures. It is the sort of thing you know you would never intentionally get into but once you are there it becomes a matter of conquering. Every wall which she stares at and says "no puedo, es imposible," then promptly surmounts, injects a person with that incredible sense of satisfaction and drives her to that next impossibility, to see if she can overcome that one too.
Eventually we made it to the top and after dipping through a high valley we spotted the sign for a trail off down the steep mountain side. As we stood in this pass, looking around I wondered at the people who had built these zig-zagging terraces and thought about what a desolate spot this must be. Then I looked at the cliff nearest us and saw that a beautiful cross had been etched into the stone. Silly, silly, egocentric me. We made our way down to the trail from which we could see the highway down a very steep hill. Marga decided the trail would lead us away from where we wanted to be going and I realized I had maxed out my ability to persuade her so we took off down the treacherous hillside. I slid on the scree as Marga took a more cautious approach. The hill ended with a 15 foot drop to the road. I pulled a maneuver and jumped safely, then realized Marga might not be quite as happy with this method. I was right. She stood there above me, fists on her hips and just stared. Then, behind her, out of nowhere, appeared a man with a helmet and climbing ropes. He climbed down and then expertly guided her, planting her feet into foot holds and giving her simple verbal commands until we were all safely standing on the pavement. The guy caught up with his friends, who had been caving up in the hills and Marga and I quickly found ourselves back at the car, covered in dirt and sweat and positively beaming. It was a...unique...Palm Sunday adventure.
On Tuesday the 1st and 2nd graders were having a surprise going away party for me and, being a secret, they of course had to begin telling me all about it on Monday. When the party happened, on Tuesday afternoon, I was inundated with dozens of hand drawn cards. The presence of potato chips, soda and sweets sufficiently distracted everyone that I was able to tuck into a corner and look through the cards. They were precious. This experience has been a good one.

Now Semana Santa is in full swing and once I have seen it all and can find a Catholic who can actually explain all the facets of the garb and details of the processions, I will in turn pass them on to you.

~~~~~

One of the biggest lessons I learned in Oxbridge was that nothing kicks a person into gear like a deadline. My imminent departure from the island is the quintessential manifestation of all the adjoining sensations. As I walked out of my last day of classes, beneath the looming cloud bank, I opened myself to the moment wholly. Reality is gigantic and its pressure is immense. It is difficult to explain this sensation. I suppose, the best I can do is to say that, for example, when I looked at a tree, I was aware of how many leaves it had and felt inept for being unable to process them all. Everything around me was so much more than I could process that I had to surrender my attempts at making sense of it all and just let it pass around me. I arrived home and sat quietly and waited to feel something. Again, a sensation I can barely make sense of, much less put into words. The closest I can get to describing it is to compare it to sitting in the absolute darkness of massive cave far beneath the earth. The silence echoes and the open space oppresses. And there is just nothing.
Also, periods of transition always bring on a myriad of dreams. They populate my naps and I wake up out of breath and utterly out of sorts. I wake up in the mornings and find my blankets in a bundle on the other side of the room. It is as if there is all this chaos being riled up inside me but my waking self can't make sense of it, so I ignore it and it comes out by its own avenues. Any insight into or techniques of dealing with these things are more than welcome.

Expressions

An old Mallorcan expression declares:

A mal tiempo, buena cara.

It took me a while to fully understand the implications of this simple phrase because I understood tiempo to mean 'time' but it is also the word for 'weather', although the application of the adage is not limited to inclement weather. I have been having fun throwing that one around over these past few months but it is now that it seems most appropriate. To ease you into the mood for this entry I will start with a haiku, inculcated by the poetic tidbits which Granddaddy has thrown my way since I began blogging in Alaska:

gods thumb their noses
tides rise, rain dribbles and spits
Bring it, Holy Week

It seems our claim to Spring has been temporarily rescinded. We have been under constant cloud cover since this past Friday. From time to time the clouds deign to spittle on us but most of the time they are too busy buzzing around looking ominous. At first I was quite put out by it all, these ARE my last few weeks here, why does the weather have to be cruddy. The Mallorcans are unhappy but most just shrug, saying that Semana Santa is moody like this. I decided that being grumpy about the weather wasn't doing anyone any favors, so I decided not to be; I have, however, had to readjust plans accordingly.
This past Saturday I decided to visit the properties once held by Joan Miró and which now house a museum of his works, his studio, and an old finca which he had purchased and on whose interior walls he scrawled plans for his 3-D pieces. Now, I am not much of a modern art enthusiast but I have always made a small exception for Miró and this visit only broadened that exception. His pieces are playful and childish. Yes, your four year old could have made them, but he didn't now did he. So there. It was a tranquil, overcast afternoon during which I was able to balance staring at the art with sitting on a bench hiding in the gardens of the property and look at the sea, oppressed by the bland clouds as the rocky shoreline rippled into the grey, misty distance.
That evening, when I got home, I was informed that we had free VIP passes to the Carlos Baute concert that night. 'Free' being the operative word, I accepted. Baute is a pretty big deal over here and I certainly enjoyed dancing with my friends and listening to the music but the concert was really rather ridiculous. I mean, at one point he picked a girl out of the audience and when she was brought on stage after 2 songs they had put her into a wedding gown and he was wearing a zip-on tuxedo and he sang some wedding song to her. Married couples swayed and looked deeply into each others' eyes, young girls cried, girlfriends snuggled into boyfriends arms and looked longing while the guys looked anywhere except at their swooning females, and I laughed. I tried to keep it under control but it was really just ridiculous and from that point, there was no chance for me to ever take his music seriously. It was fun/ny.
On Sunday, Marga and I took a drive into the middle planes of Mallorca. The villages remain largely untouched by the tourism boom and the people are, as she explains it, "muy cerados, muy pueblo." We drove east into a tiny interstate-side pueblo for a traditional Mallorcan meal at the very popular restaurant C'al Dimoni. As marga was explining how Il Dimoni had tempted San Antoni I was trying to figure out just who this Dimoni figure was. I suggested that he was Satan and she very calmly informed me that, while she did not believe in it herself, they do not speak that name out loud here. It seems some vestiges of the superstitious nature which so irked George Sand still cling in the cracks of Mallorcan culture. Another taboo word here is 'cancer' which is instead referred to as 'un mal dolent'. Dolent being Castilian for mal. So, essentially it is 'a bad bad.' This naturally led to a discussion of Harry Potter and the use of Voldemort's name.
After we ate, Marga began to navigate us along the 'old highways' and eventually decided that I needed to see Monasterio de Curi. It is situated atop a nest of hillocks, plopped into the bowels of the expansive plains. It offered striking views. Also of note is that it was the monastery where Ramon Llull stayed. The entire drive up the hairpin, narrow road we were passing hordes of cyclists out battling the wind and pattering rain. Marga informed me that most of the cyclists here are professional teams training for the cycling season which begins in a few months.

The rest of the week passed as do most of my other weeks although I have had to begin goodbyeing some of the classes which I only visit on rotation. I baked masses of chocolate chip cookies and delighted my Llado students. I got a lot of hugs and appear to have achieved Rock Star status because, after spending the hour explaining how to bake chocolate chip cookies to my 4th graders, they all wanted me to sign the notes they had copied.
Saying goodbye to my 6th graders stirred something treacherous in me. Several times over this past week I have felt like tears are threatening but, despite the fact that I am more than willing to allow them their moment, nothing comes. Instead I just sit and stare blankly as my feelings wander deeper than I know how to follow with words and sense. It is a weird space. But with my students my face had to show something so I smiled warmly and tried to communicate the depths to which they had affected me while they tried to communicate to me that I was awesome and they would miss me.

Lat night the two English teachers from Llado picked me up and we drove through the darkness and spatter to Montuïri, another "pueblo muy pueblo" where there was a small, plain restaurant which served the best pan am boli around. The restaurant, called simply Bar S'Hostal, was an unassuming white building. There were no menus because all they served was pan am boli but we did get to pick what kinds of meat we wanted. It was a simple and traditional place. The seats of the chairs were each woven in a different pattern, as they were hand-made here on the island. The floor was tiled and chilly and a small fire burned in the large mantle in the corner. Living here back in the day was not a matter for comfort, it simply...was...and this place held on to that feeling. The paintings on the wall were dark realist portraits of tables with a big chunk of cured meat, a block of cheese, some wine and a loaf of bread in the foreground as a fire burned in the hearth behind. We chatted and ate for 3 hours and when I gave them the photos I had printed and framed for them, they presented me with a laminated book of photos of all my classes and a beautiful silver bracelet with the Mallorcan cross as a pendant. Again, as with the students in the past days, I was so overwhelmed that I felt ridiculous even trying to express it with hugs and smiles and words. It is difficult when the depth of feeling wanders so much deeper than words can reach; but when I can stop trying to make sense of it and...just...go there, it is utterly enveloping.

Sprummer

I am finally confident enough with the change in tiempo that I can write about it without jinxing us. The seasons have switched. It took only one or two practice runs and now the sun has dominated the past three weeks. The hillsides are blanketed with blooming flowers, the trees are taking on their unique colors and budding and tossing petals and tiny flowers into the breeze. Honestly, it appears that the only difference between Spring and Summer here is a gentle breeze; although the locals promise me that this is still 'cool' weather. Well, if this is cool, I do not mind missing 'hot.' I also feel that I have a better grasp of the logic behind Mallorcan dress. In the winter they don't bundle up so much against the cold as to retain their acclimatization to survive the sweltering heat which the summer apparently brings. Oh these clever little Mediterraneans...
Either way, this is perfect Bethany weather. Apparently Bethany weather coincides with cyclist weather, as swarms of spandexed, helmeted eye-candy recklessly buzz the mountain roads. Fortunately, I only encounter them when my mountain trails cross the roads or when I am lounging in the evening sun at a pueblo cafe, waiting for a bus to deliver me back to Palma.
I have begun to tackle my To Do list with a vengeance, and, as most of the items on the list are hikes, I have been spending a lot of time outside. My Thursdays are free of classes and, being a weekday, this means I usually have the trails largely to myself.

Last Thursday I hiked the trail called Camí des Correu between the mountain pueblos of Esporles and Banyalbufar. A three hour hike during which I encountered a grand total of four other people. Here is a piece from my journal entry at the end of that day as I sat at the Son Comás restaurant, atop a cliff looking down the terraced valley at the sea:
The hike was lovely. Most of it was much more wooded than what I am used to encountering here. The piney scent and the dirt trails transported me back to Philmont for stretches at a time. At least, until I ventured off the trail and over the trees onto the rocky outcroppings and instead of being met with land undulating off into the distance, I see vibrant blue of the Spring sea.
A scent of wood-fire permeated the foothills through which I wandered. If they could bottle this smell; the pine, the new flowers, the smoke, well, then I would wear perfume. Quite simply, I am my most beautiful when I am out on the trails. I love it and I feel safe and bold in the humility which one cannot escape in such a setting. I have the space I need to work through my thinking; I am small and content and happy and it feels so right. So enriching.
Trying to describe the sea is such an inutil endeavour. Not only are there the significant differences between locations: Chile, England, Mallorca, Hawaii, the DR; being my grounding-points, but even in one location the mood is so varied, according to the wind, cloud cover, angle of the sun, etc.
This afternoon I can see the smooth streams of three different currents sweeping and weaving lackadaisically into and out of one another between the otherwise tousled water. Yesterday I sat on the dock in Palma and tried to comprehend the diamonds which the sun cast onto the peaks on the surface of the sea. Today too, the wind agitates it, giving direction to the motion, guiding my eye and yet having little impact on the massive world which exists below.
Looking around me, at this cliff dwelling village, I see what an impressive feat it is that this place exists at all. Settled into an impossibly steep hillside, which plummets straight down to the sea, the Arabs of the first Century (who established this village), had their work cut out for them. So cut it out they did. The terraces tier proudly; homes tuck into them, seeming to cling as much to their back walls as to settle upon their gravity dictated foundations.

Friday afternoon found me helping Marga wrangle eight 10 year old boys around a bowling alley and then McDonald's, to celebrate her son, Josep's, 'Saint Day.' Apparently the tradition here is that everyone gets assigned a Saint and that day is celebrated like we would celebrate a birthday, with friends and a party. A birthday is more of a family affair. Of course, as Marga explained, this is determined according to convenience. Like, if a kid is born during the summer, they will celebrate their Saint's day (because during the summer everyone is on holiday and less likely to come to a party) and the opposite if the dates happen to fall differently. Clever. Either way, the experience solidified my preference for boys over girls. While Marga was inside purchasing the Happy Meals I kept them all in place by teaching them the 'coin on restaurant tables' games which my dad taught me. All the boys were gone by 7:30 and we were home by 8. At 10 I met Pilar and a group of her friends at a 7th story, upscale Jazz club with a commanding view of the Palma Harbour and we listened as an English teacher friend belted Jazz and Soul. I was surprised that such a mighty voice could come out of such a tiny frame and wondered whether her students had any idea what a foxy lady their teacher really is. It was a busy and wonderful evening.

On Saturday morning, Marga and I packed lunches and drove out to Galilea where we met up with 30-some-odd other teachers and their families for a weekend out. After two hours, innumerable besotas, much milling about (during which I escaped to play football with the kids), we were all finally settled enough to head out for an early afternoon hike and lunch on the trail. About 20 of us, ranging in age from 7-70, made it an hour down the trail before perching amidst a boulder field to eat. I very much enjoyed being with all the people and was impressed with myself for understanding as much of their Mallorquin as I did. There were a few older ladies who refused to speak to me in Spanish and gave me such looks when Marga told them that I did not speak Mallorquin that I determined to just fake it, based on the little which I have learned enough to be willing to try. Apparently my efforts were satisfactory.
My behavior earlier in the day had made me a target for the wee ones and after Singing "One Little, Two Little, Three Little Indians" and "I'm a Little Teapot" so many times that I thought I might vomit teapots and little indian boys, I felt quite inundated with 'people' time in general. While the rest of the group determined to head back, I was unanimously granted permission to venture on the rest of the trail on my own on the grounds that, as Marga explained, "ella es muy exploradora."
Another wonderful trail which eventually grew into a dusty farm road before beginning the steep descent to the village of Calviá. To be honest, the moment I walked away from the group I decided I would find my own way home but the steep descent to the town only furthered my resolve. Another day, another trail, all quite nice except the unreliable weekend buses which, although supposedly passing at 6:30, did not deign to roll through until 8.

And so time marches relentlessly forward and I am doing what I can to maximize on it as much as possible. I am in an interesting space in my mind wherein I cannot wait to see my people state-side, am incredibly excited to get back up to Alaska, and am simultaneously, hopelessly immersed in what I know are the final throes my love affair with this island. Triple goodness of the here and now, the near future, and the not-quite as near future all weigh upon me, making it nigh upon impossible to even comprehend my own happiness.

A Healthy Heap of Muliebrity

About two weeks ago I woke up half way through a thought; it went something along the lines of
Anna is going/
to be here today.
It was one of those rare transitions from sleep to wakefulness that are reserved for Christmas and travel mornings. I snapped into full awareness and was out of bed ready to go before I remembered that she would not be arriving until 3 pm. I made myself an elaborate breakfast, made myself go for a long run, paced, did everything I could to stall, and STILL arrived at the airport 2 hours early. There she was, on the other side of the customs boundary. Then she was in my arms. I was struck by a surreal moment when we pulled out of the hug and I looked fully at her face and thought I was looking at myself. My sister. My other half. Much awesomeness ensued.
We dropped her things off at the house and had tea and coffee with Marga and then took the buses down to the beach where we ambled along, collecting seashells, before plopping down in the sand. Anna demonstrated her natural propensity for pleasingly pointless activities. I had to teach myself to be okay with doing purposeless activities, my sister just naturally began digging a hole in the sand and then lining it with seashells.
The sun set and we wandered into the shopping district where I ventured into more shops with her in about an hour than I have probably graced in total since arriving here. We supped at an outdoor restaurant outside the Plaza Espanya and then made it home for bed.
The next day we took the train which took us to a bus which took us to the village of Alaró. We wandered along the labyrinth like back roads and eventually found the road which led us up the lower part of the steep incline which would eventually lead us to the ruins of Castell Alaró, lining the precipice of a cliff, commanding an astounding view of the planes and valleys leading all the way back to Palma which was lost into a sunny day haze. On our way up we apparently made bosom friends with a local couple who, although they were only walking as far up as the restaurant (half way up the steep climb) insisted that we meet them in the village when we were done and come to their house for tea. They felt friendly enough so we accepted and planned to meet at 5 in the plaza of the village. Anna and I made our way up to the remains of the fortifications in which the Arabs were able to hold out for two years after the Christian conquest of the rest of the island. According to one of my books about Mallorca "in 1285, two heroes of Mallorca independence, Cabrit and Brassa, defended the castle against Alfonsó III of Aragón and were burned alive on a spit when he finally took it by storm. Their punishment was a consequence of their impudent defiance of the king. They pretended to confuse Alfonso's name with that of a local fish- anfós, shouting, 'We like our anfós grilled.'"
Anna and I ate our bocadillos sitting over the cliff and then explored the ruined walls a bit before heading back down the trail and arriving in town with 5 minutes to spare before our planned meeting with our friends, Victoria and Andres.
They rolled up in a classy looking, shiny black car and Anna and I spent a graceful minute wandering around it trying to find the door-handles. Our 'cup of tea' turned into a very thorough tour of their house (involving ancient and illegal artifacts, family portraits, etc.) and was eventually reduced to Victoria showing us funny youtube clips and friending us on facebook. We wound up eating a pizza and popcorn dinner with them and meeting their 14 year old daughter before, at 9 pm, they drove us to the train station.
The next morning Anna came to Llado School with me and got to meet many of my students, much to everyone's delight. That afternoon we napped in the sun on my back deck and Anna battled the onset of jetlag while I went to afternoon classes at La Purisima. That evening we again wandered the city and continued the verbal outpouring of our lives before heading to bed in anticipation of Mom's arrival the next day.
And then there were three. Anna and I had been debating about which custom's exit Mom would be using and then, there she came, carry-on, neck pillow, giant smile and all.
We took the bus to the girls' hotel, Hotel Paladium, and went on to wander out to the old city walls before deciding it was time for lunch. After that we were all in accord that siestaing is an important part of the Spanish experience so we heaped into the two full beds pushed together. That afternoon we walked along the proud paseigs and I showed them the old city. We walked along the walls around La Seu and caught up on each others' lives in the way only a mother and daughters can. We made it back to the hotel in time to sink happily into our books, three abreast (for a total of six breasts).
I lay there and began to feel the elixir of their proximity breaking down and seeping through the cracks of the walls I had built against the sensation of loneliness. I knew I had to let this wall down to fully enjoy their time here but I knew it also meant that horrible aching hollow when they left; but now was not the time to think about that; now was the time to be wholly invested and to drink deeply of all the wonder these two women carry with them. I was proud I had the awareness to realize this and the strength to do it.
On Wednesday morning both the girls came with me to Llado where we fielded questions from my beloved sixth grade class and the little boys tried hitting on Anna to her chagrin and Mom's delight. Then we walked along the Paseo and stopped at the beachfront restaurant of one of my student's Father and ate Paella and absorbed sun. We made it back to the hotel in time to pay due tribute to the siesta gods. It was a slow and lovely day which we ended by chatting about life, men, personal philosophies, and literature over a rotisserie chicken and potatoes at my kitchen table. I began to fully digest the nutrition of the proximity of these two amazing women. I could literally feel my spirit soaking it in and gulping it down, like a desert plant that knows to absorb and retain as much rain as possible when it comes. I felt so blessed and so deeply happy; a feeling which I am sure was also related to a giant box of hand picked, artisan chocolates.
The next day we caught the old fashioned, wooden train out to Soller where we had a fishy and girly lunch along the port, did a little shopping in the town, wandered up to a beautiful overlook of the city, and then ate ice cream on the rocky beach.
We made it back in the late afternoon and had a few hours to process before Pilar and Veronica, the English teachers from Llado showed up to take us out for tapas at the restaurant belonging to another of my student's parents. Three hours later we were stuffed and winding down. The Mrs. who owned the restaurant had come to sit and chat with us for an hour or so and by the time we were leaving, everyone in the restaurant was waving goodbye and we were more than ready to go to bed.
Friday morning we caught the bus up to Valldemossa where I allowed the coca de patatas prove to Mom and Anna that it had been worth waking up to visit. We sat in the morning sun and sipped hot chocolates and coffee and eavesdropped on the conversation between the delightful, ancient English couple behind us and watched the wall of the church where Chopin composed as it continued to not change. We wandered through the gardens and perused the shops before boarding the bus in time to get back to Palma for the now requisite siesta and then Mom and I went to La Purisima while Anna let the sun lull her to sleep.
Mom was a huge hit with my first graders. That evening we went out for tapas again, this time with the teachers from La Purisima and at the restaurant which the teachers frequent. As such, we merited besos from the owner as we were leaving. It was a lovely night.
Saturday morning Marga and I packed lunches and water bottles and picked Mom and Anna up at the hotel and drove out to Sant Elm where we caught a small boat over to the nature preserve island of Sa Dragonera. We hiked to the tip of the tiny island and ate our lunch under the lighthouse. We then made our way back to catch the boat back to the mainland, not wanting to spend the night where we would probably be overtaken and consumed by the millions of endemic lizards who occupy the island. We spent the afternoon lounging in the sun outside a cafe and Anna and I played on the beach.
That night we again conferred over a supper at home and Anna and I wove seashells bracelets and watched Space Jam in Spanish before we all trekked back to their hotel where I lay in bed morosely and watched as they packed up. It was unpleasant but also quite alright. I mean, I know I will see them in a month, and it is kind of fun to watch other people packing while you can just sit there, so really, it was just an interesting experience during which I focused on absorbing enough of their presence to get me through this next month.
The next morning we were all awake at sparrow fart and said our goodbyes. After they left I went back to sleep, took advantage of the free Continental breakfast and then walked slowly through the lazy Sunday morning. I ran my laundry, cleaned my room, beat out the rugs on the sunny porch and then took the bubbles Mom had brought for Josep and walked along the docks for several hours and blew bubbles in the spring breeze and waited for Loneliness to decide I was not home and give up on pestering me.
Since then I have been having a whole new series of spring adventures; better saved, I think, for another entry.

Backlog

Since today is rainy, I have been working on indoor projects (to keep me from just sitting here waiting for my sister to arrive in four days). One of my main ones has to been review backlogged info on my computer. In my hunting through the cyber world I came across the blog I kept while I was living in Oxford and, for the sake of solidarity, have imported the entries to a blogger account. If you missed that gem, or are just bored, here is the link:

http://oxyr.blogspot.com/

Also, here is one from summer '06 at Philmont:

http://phil-osophy-n-phamily.blogspot.com/

Trust me: You Wish you Were Here

Greetings all. I write to you from my sun soaked back porch on a clear Friday morning. I am draped across 2 deck chairs, much like the laundry to my left. Dany just left from our morning English practice to go to his band practice and then off to work. I have been enjoying our tutoring sessions so much that I actually feel bad that he pays me to do it. We meet two or three times each week and discuss everything from his punk bands' workings to youth culture and so on. Today we worked with the past tense. Now I have a few hours before I go to teach my afternoon classes and am putting them to the best use I can think of. Writing to you.

On Wednesday afternoon I grasped one of the most significant lessons I have learned from living here; sometimes there is no reason to move directly and efficiently between point A & point B. I can now fill an entire day without doing anything. Ordinarily I am a very goal motivated person and free time was difficult to contend with. Since I only work 12 hours each week, I have a lot of free time on my hands. So, I got out of classes Wednesday morning and was headed to the bus stop to go home, trying to think of what I would do with my afternoon. There was not enough time to catch a bus out of the city so I was contemplating a nap when clarity struck. Why should I make it such a priority to get to homebase? Instead of the bus stop I walked the three blocks out to the Paseo and began ambling along the shore. Soon a long, white sandy beach presented itself and I dropped my shoes into my bag and kicked along in the surf, collecting seashells for some art projects I am working on and watched the small fishing boats floating lazily in the mid-day sun. Two hours later I was back at the old city and got home just in time to make a bocadillo for late lunch.

Yesterday was my free weekday so I decided to get out of the city. I caught the bus out to Soller and maneuvered the gently upward sloping two kilometers of 1 1/4 car wide, "two-lane" roads to the tiny village of Biniaraix (pronounced Bean-ya-raish). The village was a collection of about 20 residences and four restaurants agglomerated into four concurrent edifices. It sat on a gentle rise looking out over the valley of Soller and tapered up into the narrow mouth of a gorge which wandered up into the Tramuntanas. The terrain quickly became very steep but was covered in terraced olive groves all the way to where craggy cliffs jutted upward. At the highest point of the town was an old public bath-house where a horse track led off to the right. The path curved around one of the lower hillsides, offering walkers a view of some of the oldest and grandest fincas in the region.
Immediately thereafter the track turned into a cobbled footpath, originally built to guide the faithful in their pilgrimages through the mountains to the Sanctuari de Lluc. This particular trail is called Barranc de Biniaraix or Es Cornadors. It began to climb through the terraced farmland. The trail was wide enough for three people to walk comfortably abreast and was comprised of wide, shallow, constantly upward slanting steps cobbled together out of rounded stones, easily collected from the rocky surroundings. The path followed a torrent up the gorge, at some points "communicating with a large number of olive groves" (as my guidebook explained), at others passing between and below high boulders which forced the trail against the torrent, and at still other points, precariously winding along a cliff edge, looking down hundreds of feet at the water flowing below.
I encountered dozens of other revelers, the majority of these numbers occurred in packs of Germans (about 10-15 in each of three groups), trekking poles clicking awkwardly and all chattering happily, much like the birds whose songs echoed throughout the gorge. The rest of the people I encountered were in pairs, aside from a group of trail builders whose pounding jackhammer reminded me that history takes maintenance. At least, that is what I told myself so that it would not annoy me.
The trail became ever steeper and I began to wonder at the houses I encountered. Who would build up here, so far away from the roads?! Then I remembered George Sand's laments at the island's lack of a road system and realized that, back when these houses were built, this would have been considered an easily accessible area. Only to our car-dependent generation would this seem 'inaccessible'. Realistically the houses were probably about 5 km from Soller with another 10 km on to the port. Prime location really...
I continued the ascent which passed several spigots and troughs built into the cliff walls from which walkers could easily draw water. One in particular was built into a pile of stones. I could hear the water gurgling and surging behind and under the mass of lime-stone. The rusted tin cup which was chained to the basin made me think of these peoples' consideration for others, contrary to Sand's laments. It seems that being a fastidiously modish Frenchie disinclines the locals to demonstrate their particular brand of hospitality.
Eventually the trail came up against the foot of the rough, craggy cliffs and led along their base, to a saddle. It was around here that I began to notice how my feet would drag when I was not focused on them. After asking some passing hikers for the time I realized I had been so determined to conquer the climb that I had been going for three hours without stopping for a break. This is one of the dangers inherent in being armed with a camel-back. Since I did not have to stop for water, I did not think about stopping at all. I decided I had better remedy this before I injured myself. I found a small grassy slope which ended abruptly in a spectacular cliff which dove to the torrent, gushing along below. I unpacked my lunch, took off my boots and settled in happily. A few minutes later one of those large hiking groups began to tromp along past my back and I was chagrinned to hear many of them murmuring, "smell. smell." Being the utterly self absorbed person that I am, I assumed they were speaking English and referring to the...scent... wafting from my boots. Then I heard their other words and realized they were Germans, saying, "schnell, schnell." I finished my sandwich of jamon serrano and tomato in relative peace and took a few moments to gaze down the gully which, at its juncture to the wider valley below, was framed by massive jutting fingers of stones. I loaded back up and continued my climb.
The terrain in the wide saddle changed drastically. The path became more akin to what we are familiar with in the United States as a trail; a narrow dirt path. It curved along a hillside which led down to a small clearing around the torrent where a lush, short grass grew. I knew enough to recognize this as one of those 'better seen than experienced' type set ups as the grass of that variety tends to be stubby and prickly and even if you do insist on taking a nap on it, you wake up with your back soaked through by the saturated soil. Soon another juncture appeared in the trail and my particular path led off to the right, crossing to torrent and balancing along another cliff. At the water crossing I was, rather suddenly, struck with a severe boredom with continuing to climb. As I had not set out with any particular objective or specific peak to summit (and probably subconsciously influenced by the strong poop smell permeating the area), I felt no shame in turning around right on the spot.
Heading back down on the rocky path made my knees unhappy and they informed my hamstrings and gluteus of this. So I decided running would be easier and more fun. I hurtled past all the groups I had recently seen and was kind of surprised at how quickly I found myself passing the trail crew again. They started the man-hooting thing again and one of them chanted "Obama. Obama." One of his companions informed him it was now "Señor Obama." I clarified that it was "Señor Presidente Obama," and we all laughed and I jettisoned on down.
I made it back to Soller in time to catch the 5:30 bus and got to witness the arrival of the "Palma Schools" bus from which erupted about 30 village kids, into the waiting arms and onto the mopeds of parents. It really was a sight to behold.
I felt accomplished and pleased and, odds are, I probably thought about you at some point during the day.

Double Whammy: Carnival and Sunshine

Although I am sure that my frequent ignorance of what is going on is actually a detractor from my experience abroad, I am unaware of the things I miss out on, so I don't mind. I do, however, get the frequent pleasure of coming around a corner or happening down a particular street and encountering festivities and persons which utterly astound and thrill me.

For example, last week I walked into Llado school and instead of the normal, uniformed students, I encountered droves of miniature medieval princesses and knights, knee high dancing flowers, pre-teens in Moorish garb and belly dancers flouncing down the halls. Turns out, it is Carnival. The entire afternoon of classes was replaced by a reenactment of the life of Jauime I, an important character in Mallorcan history. The presentation was narrated in Mallorquin but even from the little that I understood, I could sense the difference in their presentation to our American renditions of history which feature 'the bad guys' vs. 'the good guys'. At no point were the Moors cast as the bad guys. Instead they were heralded as a 'peaceful and advanced people'; but also, the Christian conquest of them was no less applauded for it. No good or bad, just the way it was. Each grade represented something different with the flower tots representing the passage of time...I think. The whole ordeal was preceded by a parade of the kids wandering along the streets of the pueblo as parents ruthlessly elbowed people out of the way so they could photograph and wipe the noses of their offspring. Carnival is a contact sport.
There were also the younger siblings who wanted to be dressed up too and the parents were more than pleased to acquiesce. My favorite was a toddler dressed as, what I can only describe as, the progeny of a pumpkin and a Dalmatian. It seems that the rule is, the younger the child is, the more attention and coddling they merit.
The next day La Purisima also held a carnival in which each class was dressed as an animal. There were dolphins, ants, jellyfish, cows, tigers, mice, cats, etc. I realized there must be a massive market for costumes here, which struck me as interesting since they only seem to be employed a few days each year. As superfluous as the spending seemed to me, I can't frown on anything which so stimulates any sector of the economy.
The La Purisima presentation was less enthusiastic than Llado's, involving the children merely marching in squares and being rewarded with suckers by La Reina del Carnival but the parents were all there with their cameras and the kids reveled in the attention.
No one who I talked to seemed familiar with Mardi Gras, rather, this was Carnival, the celebration before Cuaresma. It was explained to me as the period of indulgence before the time of penance and sacrifice. Any inquiry I made as to what exactly was sacrificed in the modern day was smoothly circumvented with a history lesson. I suppose this is in keeping with the general first-world trend of retaining the parts of traditions which reward us, without having to go through the less pleasant pieces. How very clever of us.

The good weather appeared to have decided that Carnival was worth coming around for and the locals are convinced it is here to stay. There are still persistent breezes, although they are child's-play compared to the gusts which, only weeks ago, were sending furniture and potted plants hurtling through the air. No one is complaining. They add a pleasing balmy effect the warm sun. While I consider it pleasing, the Mallorcans still think it warrants sweaters and jackets but it is certainly a relief when running as evidenced by the fact that even when I encounter locals out running, they have traded in their leggings for shorts.
On Saturday morning I woke up (at the wee hour of noon) to cloudy skies and decided it would be a 'sit inside and write' day; that is, until pleasant rays penetrated the shutters and beckoned to me so seductively that I could no longer deny their appeal and had to go for a run.
Armed with my MP3 player and bus card I took off for the Paseo Maritimo. I ran along the streets lining the torrent and past the old city fortifications. Everywhere I looked there were children and adults dressed up. It was like a daytime Halloween. Witches, princesses, devils, animals, dolls, pretty much anything you can imagine. They were all headed into the old part of the city for some sort of celebration but I felt I had experienced quite enough of crowds and persisted on my quest out to the coast. My objective had been to run through the sunset but it seems the amount of daylight had increased dramatically so I wound up having to run for about two hours before the red hues began to stretch across the waves and onto the wide sea-side pedestrian pathway.
Everyone else had similar ideas. While natives still comprise the majority of people, I am beginning to be aware of the increased presence of tourists, mainly English and Germans. Again I reveled in the dynamics of the groups of families, friends, and couples ambling along the paseo.
At one point a cyclist passed me and turned around to give me a grin and a thumbs-up. The result of this maneuver was that his bike hit a post and he flew off into the sand. I helped him up, smiled at him as The Clash continued to play in my ears and, after ascertaining that he was fine, I took off again. It was a beautiful and pleasing run and when I got tired I found a bus stop and rode back home where I recounted my adventures to Marga and learned another lesson about Adult World.

I am not actually sure whether it is an adult thing or a Spanish thing but apparently the sort of encounters I experienced with Bike Guy are the potential genesis for romance. I had never considered this; being friendly to everyone is just what Hughes' do, nothing more nothing less. It appears I am behind the times in thinking that romantic relationships are only to be pursued with people I actually know. I did take the opportunity presented by the conversation with Marga to query as to the appropriate response on behalf of a woman to the hoots from passing men. I assume my own embarrassment and downcast eyes are not every woman's response, otherwise the men would not do it. Apparently it is not only an offensive (in the context of sport offensive v. defensive) maneuver on the males' behalf, but an invitation for the woman to asses him in return. If he is acceptable I am apparently free to express my own approval and to allow this to initiate something. I had not thought of projecting different responses based on the looks of the the guy... that just seems judgemental and rude. Apparently adult world plays by different rules than the ones I was taught as a child.
While I find this all very interesting and have taken it into consideration, I am content to omit it from my own approach to such matters. The long and short of it is, this is the longest I have been single in six years and while at times life seems like a little much to deal with on my own, I am finding it immensely satisfying and fortifying and am not inclined to drop that for just any guy. As such, I can almost certainly guarantee that I will not be bringing home a Spaniard, unless ridiculous love blind-sides me in the next few weeks. In which case, anything is game.

On Sunday Marga and Josep and I made bocadillos and loaded up the car with backpacks, Rat-Dog, and water bottles and took off for Andraxt and Sant Elm. We walked along the port in the sun and admired the boats docked at the yacht club as we made our way out to the light house to inspect the seawall which had been destroyed by the wind storms. We made it to Sant Elm in time for lunch and sat in the sand. Josep and I threw rocks at the sea and played tag, to the dog's delight. Then Josep and the dog took to the playground and Marga and I lounged in the sun, I in my T-shirt and she in her sweater and jacket, and absorbed and processed the sunrays. Then Josep and I had a competition as to who could launch the furthest off the swing before loading back up and heading home. It was a beautiful and sun-tiating weekend.

Calma, Calma

A Mallorcan phrase which is touted everywhere from George Sand's book to my own everyday interactions, is "calma, calma." I hear this every time I work myself into a tizzy or put on the airs of being in any kind of hurry. Essentially it is a short chant to remind the listener to chill out. It is not only the words, but the way in which they are said; the syllables are soft and drawn out, almost a cooing purr. During my recent news induced stress I illuminated Marga to my thinking. She listened indulgently and then smiled, laughed, and invoked the chant. The effects were quick and calming. It felt very nice.
So, now, here I am. I have survived my birthday and Valentine's Day, both days which, to me, present themselves more as existential crisis' than celebrations, and it feels good to be on the other side.

The proximity of my departure date (still TBD) has been impelling me to delve further into the areas of Palma which I have yet to explore. Marga and I are putting together a list of mandatory sites and events to attend before I leave. Today I focused on Museum-ing (free museum Sundays, woot!). I wandered over to the museu d'art modern i contemoprani de Palma. It was a relatively sunny afternoon so I sat outside, on the old city walls and basked and journaled before heading inside.
Granted I am not much of a modern art enthusiast but that does not mean I do not enjoy scrutinizing the massive pieces for fun details, opening myself to the feelings they evoke and wash through me, and studying the modes employed for possible ideas for the things I create. In keeping with the Mallorcan tradition of doting on Miro, there was an entire gallery dedicated to some of his works. The rest of the pieces were monolithic creations in hues of grey and brown, employing dead sunflowers, branches, and swans. Yup, a dead swan strapped to a canvass slopped in textures of grey qualifies as art. It was interesting. I did enjoy the sketchings gallery, containing pieces by the likes of Munch and Kandinsky. There was a sense of intimacy to it.
The museum is an inefficiently arranged network of zig-zagging ramps and rooms which eventually lead out onto the roof. Once you are outside the building you are greeted by a tiny army of plumbing pipe made mice. You follow the ramp on up until you stand looking out over the walls at the city and sea all around you.
The most fascinating aspect of it for me was the contrast of the museum to the ancient city walls into which it is tucked. Smooth, white modern blocks of cement and panes of glass meet the warm, textured stones of the oldest part of the city walls. There was no endeavor to meld the two styles; rather, the contrast was pronounced at every awkward juncture and made the viewer deeply aware of the evolving face of this island's culture. I wandered along the tops of the walls and thought about the guards who, hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, strode those catwalks with such different purpose and mentality.

By the end of it all I was feeling very grown up and illuminated. Although, now that I think about it, the grown-up feeling probably had something to do with the fact that I was wearing a turtle-neck...those always make me feel mature. Either way, it was a good Sunday.

Nothing to Report

Dear Reader,

I do apologize for my extended absence. I really only feel that my writing is worth your time when I have interesting experiences to relay and as of late my life has been a little blasse. That is bad for my blogging but just fine by me. But, I kind of miss you guys so I am going to give you a few tiddlie-bit updates and then barrage you with some speculation.

What does one talk about when there is nothing to actually talk about? The weather. The weather has been tripping the Mallorcans out as of late. Winds, cold, rain. "It is NEVER like this," they all complain. They are wrapped in sweaters and coats and I wander around in a T-shirt and jeans. I am almost about to start bundling up just so they will stop feeling the need to point out my inadequate attire and asking if I am not cold. The other day I walked out into a sunny, low 60s, crisp morning. I enjoyed my walk to the bus stop. The heaters on the bus were on full blast and, while I was originally excited to have claimed one of my three favorite seats on the bus, I quickly had to relinquish it because it was too close to the heater. Then I walked into my first morning class and the teacher, Pillar, stood in front of the be-sweatered first graders, wearing a long sleeve shirt, a sweater, and a jacket. Madness I say. Pure and simple.

Aside from that, my schedule at La Purisima has changed a bit. I now work with an English teacher for all my classes and actually am getting to be a lot more involved with the kids. I get 20 minutes of the class time to teach them and, so far, I have taught my first graders 'twinkle twinkle little star' and 'I'm a little Teapot.' They love it. My second graders recently went to see the Wizard of Oz so I have talked about it being the first color movie and we have learned a few of the songs. Also fun.
This past week I presented a Power Point I made about Alaska to several of the older classes and they all seemed to enjoy it and were fascinated by the dogs and the lifestyle.

I have recently begun to explore the world of 'podcasts' and delight in listening to a weekly array of political, international, musical, and historical information. And by 'delight' I mean 'frequently feel impelled to react strongly to.' I listen to Obama's 5 minute address to us each week as he keeps on complaining about what Bush has left him and making statements which give us very little indication as to what exactly he is intending to do to get us moving again; other than the promise to throw money at the problems. I am a simple mind that needs things laid our plain and clear, would it be too much to ask for a President to lay out a basic, bullet point version of his step by step plan to move us forward? A long term plan and a short term plan would really help our confidence. Or have I just missed it? I listen to a variety of reporters and news providers from around the world and from different perspectives as they talk themselves into a tizzy. I am somehow ever more awed at how confusing they are making this whole thing and am further resolved that a bigger government is not the answer to our problems.

Life lesson: things go wrong. This is the universe informing us we were going in the wrong direction. Responding to the situation by running around, exuding fatalism and panic while placing blame and throwing fits does not help in any way. Gay taught me that when I was 17.
It all seems pretty simple to me and I am going to lay it out here so that maybe you can help me understand where I am thinking wrong:

The number four comedy singing duo in New Zealand, Flight of the Concords, presented me with my starting point for this tirade. An American comedian is interviewing them about their rising careers. They are interviewing him back. He enthusiastically asks them "So, how big are you guys gonna make it?"
"Umm...probably, about medium. Yeah. Medium. Maybe medium large," they answer.
He laughs and informs them that, in America, we go BIG. Like, their ambition should be to take over the comedy world.
"No. no, thanks, We like medium."

We dream and scheme for that next step up. We don't just want the biggest house we can buy, we want the house that is bigger than we can buy. So we take out loans that are bigger than we can pay because a salesman with ulterior motives pours sweet dreams into our ears. We furnish these houses on credit cards that we don't even think about having to pay back because They promise us that we don't HAVE to worry about paying them back for a year at least.

It is the rapacious consumerism of the first world that has gotten us into this mess and now we seem to be under the preposterous presumption that we can buy ourselves out of it. It is like we think putting a different spin on the same faulty mentality is going to trick the system into working like it did before. America seems to intend to do this to the tune of 800 billion big ones. I really don't understand how printing more little green pieces of paper is going to help us when we are already so in debt to other countries anyway, but that is something for the economists to work out.
It seems pretty obvious to me that, just like with the laws of gravity, everything that goes up must come down. This is something that I am happy to see more and more people coming to terms with. I am just not sure why we have to think it is such a bad thing. So, okay, you had to move out of your dream house a few months ago and then lost your job last week. That feels terrible and frightening, no doubt. So, instead of huddling inside, waiting for someone to pass the magic law to restore you to your borrowed lifestyle, why don't you go into your back yard and plant a garden? Start growing your own vegetables, save yourself some money; be doing something. Trade some of your tomatoes for your neighbors peppers. No harm in that now is there? That was how Voltaire's Candide finally came to appreciate his life, maybe we can peel ourselves away from the boob tube and internet long enough to try it. Oh but no, I forget, the world's weather patterns are freaking out so the vegetables wouldn't even know how to grow. So, let's look at some other, big scale possibilities.
Obama wants us to go Green. Neat. That can't be a bad idea. Let's draw what we can from it. If he is going to pass laws to make us reduce emissions, let's get scientists in on developing technology. Something America has always been good at is kicking butt and getting to that cutting edge first, let's do it again. New methods will require new infrastructure. Okay, so there, now we have jobs for scientists, architects, builders, and anyone else who can find a niche in that sector. New products will require testing and new shops. Those are markets that will just have to shift. Easy enough. Yeah it will take time but let's get a little cliche and remind ourselves that Rome was not built in a day. To me at least this sounds a lot more practical than inventing highway construction work.
A big deal lately has been the auto industry. We have pushed our use of fossil fuel use to the max anyway. Also, if we get away from our oil dependence and we can leave the Middle East to tear itself apart in peace. The average American home has more than enough cars, I am pretty sure we could make it a year or two without needing too many new ones out on the market. Besides, with auto makers manipulating vehicles into the 'digital' plan, whereby they give themselves exclusive power to fix anything that is wrong, is a step which I do not mind seeing get cut short. Men who can fix their own cars are incredibly attractive and I will not have the industry rob me of that pleasure in life.
Develop new ways to power the factories. Design new cars. Minivans fueled by children's excess energy. Sports cars powered by ego. Whatever, get to it, the sky is the limit. I am willing to bet that Ford's assembly line idea will still be applicable and soon enough the Unions will have their platforms back and everyone can return to their old routines, just in an updated environment.

And, so, yeah. Those are some of the ideas that keep me lying awake at night. I have faith that we will eventually get around to moving everything into order but it really depends on how long we insist on looking around for the answers inside our own sphincter.

*Update: In a recent flurry of emails and phone calls I have been invited back to work on the glacier in Alaska and have accepted. This means I will be heading back to the states earlier than I had thought. I will probably be looking at a ticket back to KC around mid to late April and then back up to Alaska to start work May 1st. I am really excited. Like, really, really excited.

To All Ye Facebook Naysayers

Moving through life I encounter people who, for inexplicable reasons, I know are meant to be repeat players. My lifestyle does not afford the luxury of being in constant proximity to my people and so we hold to each other through less conventional means. Cosmic brain signals, letters, facebook.

Five months ago I became increasingly conscious of a Philmont friend, from training the summer of '06, who was existing somewhere in a far away life. Jeff 'Beantown/Boston' had since become a New York Business dude. He has stories of suits and incognito house slippers, people who don't believe in eye contact, cars that don't stop at pedestrian crosswalks, initiating office department recycling revolutions, and 40 story buildings towering everywhere. Three months ago we began a facebook dialogue through which he alluded to this existence and I was dubious as to the long term effects of being too deeply immersed in such a place. Now, I am certainly an explorer but I never considered this city, concrete jungle of which he spoke. I extended a casual invitation that he come visit. I had considered it more as a tiny reminder to him that another kind of life existed, I could not let myself get my hopes up that he might actually come.
Three months later he was standing on my doorstep in tan work boots, sagging jeans, and carrying an experienced old backpack. He had been awake for 30+ hours but knew enough about jet lag to insist on staying awake through the day. We walked through the old city and talked about the adventures that had brought us to this place. I reveled in conversing with someone with a sophisticated grasp on the English language, no matter how comically the jet lag and Boston accent slurred his speech.
It so happened that the Spanish decided to throw their fiesta de San Sebstian so that it would coincide with his visit (remember, Spanish fiestas last a week). On Monday night there were fires and grills spread throughout the city. Concert stages littered the streets and Spanish rock could be heard intermingling with traditional Mallorcan ballads from another stage up the street. There was a gentle rain which eventually drove people in early (3 am) but as long as the music was playing and the fires were burning, people were out celebrating the patron Saint of their City. We grilled steak strips (although the traditional practice was to eat pork) and talked with everyone and anyone who might be out. I ran into pupils and their families and Jeff found a harmonica playing South American who he beat-boxed along with.

For the next 4 days we walked the streets, perused the museums and old homes, and stared at the Cathedral and Sea. We took an afternoon tour of Monumental Mallorca, led by a Mallorcan guy who loved Nashville and slicked his hair like a Greaser. The history was fascinating and the insight into the family and hierarchical workings of these people hundreds of years ago made me grateful to be living in this century. For example this architrave in the front vestibule to one house is of two women with their fingers to their 'shushing' lips. The banner around them says, essentially, 'keep quiet and get married, ladies'. I am still not sure how I feel about that. Either way, it was a learning experience. As were my conversations with Jeff. It is always fun to see your city through the eyes of another. Especially someone who knows about all the things you don't. . . like cars and business negotiations (the African street vendors from whom I had always shied were an interaction in which he thrived). I remembered my days of haggling prices in the markets in South America and it appeared that this guy had made a professional study of this as a science. Crazy stuff.
We ate at all varieties of restaurants and discussed how Soda tastes different abroad. I was able to use Jeff as a sort of apology to my 6th grade class. They had all been extremely dissappointed in me, as an American, for knowing next to nothing about New York. Jeff came in on Wednesday and fielded questions ranging from sports, to geography, to the Jewish influence on the city. Yeah, these 6th graders went there. Everyone enjoyed it. Jeff spent the rest of the day feeding into another, entirely foreign to me, interest, golf. I, meanwhile, inhaled the murder mystery book he had brought for the plane. My reading material here is a disjointed, bare-knuckles collection of Dostoevsky, Douglas Adams, and Isabel Allende. However, I am very excited because in one of the museums I picked up a copy of "A Winter in Mallorca" by George Sand. In fact, I am going to tuck into my reading chair and have at it.

So, anyway, that is my argument that anything can happen.

Peace and chicken grease.

Under Deep Cover

I am proud to report that I have infiltrated the deepest levels of Mallorcan living. Yesterday Marga, Josep, Toby, and I loaded up and drove out to their country house to meet with a big group of other families. Here is photo-documentation of my recon mission: (FYI- Spanish people are very enthusiastic about having their photos taken)

We arrived at about 9 am and the sun had not summited the hills we were settled into and it was quite chilly. Marga's parents had been there since the day before and had the fire burning in the hearth already. We unpacked and began to settle in. Josep and I tucked in by the fireplace and broke out the beautiful old chess table that a man from Africa had given to a Valent great-grandfather for undetermined reasons.

I spent the morning journaling and playing chess, then wandered down to the torrent with Marga and her father. Mallorca does not have rivers, only these little seasonal streams. This one was about 3 feet wide and not a foot deep but they were impressed with how much water it had. Marga told stories of playing down here as a little girl and pointed out what had been her favorite spot to lay in the shade and read. Marga's father led the expedition with a small hand saw to cut back the plants and undergrowth which had appropriated the trail over years. From the torrent we hacked our way over to the pozo (well) which had been found by divining rod a few decades ago. The cement block shaft plummeted about 30 feet before reaching the water which, unlike in most wells, was moving and periodically would produce large, roiling bubble-splosions. They had tapped a sub-terranian water table which, some people hypothesize, networks all the way to the mainland.
Marga and I left her father with his wrench, 3 lengths of pipe, a saw, and some WD-40 to tend to his land and satiate his country-bred-boy need to be productive. Back up at the house there were tended fires burning everywhere. in the outdoor kitchen one little stove warmed up coffee, another was beginning to boil the arroz brut we were going to eat for lunch while the brick bread oven was piled with brush, waiting to be lit. The warm fire inside continued to crackle and I curled up to write a story and take a nap.

I ambled back outside and I found Marga's mother and Josep popping almonds out of their skins. The nuts had already been shelled and she had boiled them for a few minutes to loosen the skin. All we had to do was squeeze on them and the white flesh jettisoned right out. Then she offered to show me how to make guirlache (in Mallorquin, Tambo d'ametlla). She roasted the nuts until they were dry and then began to mix in sugar, constantly stirring so it would not burn. Then she coated a round metal pan with lemon juice (squeezed from the lemons we had picked from one of the trees) and put the whole concoction in. She topped it off with another good squeeze of lemon and then popped it into one of the fire ovens. The result was a delicious, brittle-ish dessert.

Around 11 am, everyone showed up. There were 3 other couples and their droves of children. They unloaded, bearing foods and games of all varieties. A round of introductions was fired off and everyone was incredibly friendly. Our first order of business was to merendar on any variety of meats and breads which we spread out. Then Josep requested that we go tree climbing again. He and I wandered out and found ourselves being followed by four other kids. The 3 year old, Tony, took his perch on my shoulders and we meandered out, single file, to find a suitable tree.
I am not sure what the deal with these kids is but they don't know how to climb trees. We found a prime one and they all just stood there and looked at it. After a few minutes I asked who was going to climb first and they volunteered me. As soon as I was up, I turned around and three of them were packed around the trunk, climbing over the top of each other. One of the girls, Ava, practiced her English by asking if this wasn't dangerous and I informed her that it was, especially when they tried to climb in a mob. I recognized the skill level I was working with and opted to talk them all back off of the trunk and we went in search of something more suitable. We found it.

We headed back toward the house at the sound of the horn. It was time to start making the bread. We (I was in the kid group for this one) were each given a plastic tub in which to mix the flour, yeast, water, salt, etc. and began mixing. Then we covered the tubs and set them aside. It was time for lunch. The kids ate first while we adults stood around outside and toothpicked little sea-food looking things floating in platters filled with fresh, fruity tasting liquids. I can still, a day later, taste the saltiness on my tongue.
Then the kids wandered off to play in the house and we (adults) commandeered the table. A huge wok looking pot filled with yellow rice, snails (still in their shells), and a variety of other meats was served. Meals are one of the most significant differences I have noticed between their culture and ours. When Matt was here he noted that no one eats while walking on the streets. This, I believe, can be attributed to the fact that, for them, food is always something worth making the time to enjoy. Meals are not just about filling your body with the food necessary to sustain it but also to indulge in companionship and conversation. 2 hours of conversation and snail-shell-sucking later and we were on to dessert and coffees.

We got out our dough balls and kneaded them before letting them set some more. Then we patted them, and pricked them, and I marked mine with a B and put it in the over for baby and me.

Then everyone pitched in with cleaning up and eventually everything was done and cleaned up and by 6 pm our lunch date was coming to a conclusion.

Another good day in the Mallorcan country.