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.

How strange, an American who doesn't like ketchup

I have always enjoyed packing. It is a comfort to me to know that I can quickly narrow down the things I need in life and make them fit in a bag. On January 2nd I packed my passport, journals, camera, and clothes and Matt and I headed off for Andalucia.

Our flight came into the airport of Sevilla. It was about the size of the terminal in Juneau and was fittingly underwhelming. We caught the bus into the city and it was that part of the trip which first brought me to face the wonders of southern Spain. We quickly unpacked and cleaned up and prepared to meet the city outside our hotel door.

The old part of the city was wide, cobblestone streets with buildings, from all architectural influences, continuously lining the narrow horizon. A sleek tram system glided through the middle of it all on shiny tracks. It was striking to watch the trains running past the old buildings; it was such a contrast.

We arrived in the afternoon and so our first experience with the city was in evening light. We wandered past holiday shoppers at the vendor booths spilling over with scarves and paintings and trinkets and foods. We walked down an alley between main streets and the bell-tower of the cathedral reared up into the dark sky. It was a massive complex. Just looking at the base of the walls you could see the variety of the stones and materials used. The different textures of the rocks told of the different times and cultures from which they had come. This building had not only experienced, but defined, a grand array of people. Now I was getting to experience them all at once.
As the evening progressed the cold drove us to an indoor shopping center to hunt for food and evening activity.
It was called plaza de armas and looked like it could have once been an important train station. We caught a movie, dubbed into emasculating male-ish voices, and called it a night.

The next day we got to see every face of Sevilla, it rained warm and cold and was clear skies warm and cold. We saw rainbows and un-ripe mandarins. The city was certainly a different old beast in the sunlight.
Hip frenchies lounged on the outdoor patios, gesturing wildly with their cigarettes. Covens of beautiful young Spanish women gathered to replay and plan their lives and men. We toured the buildings of the city and caught one of the cheapest lunches I have ever encountered in Europe. The inside of the cathedral was just as impressive and intricately massive as the outside and the way up to the top of the tower was a ramp because the Muslims used to ride their horses up to the top when they were late to call prayer. Or when they had to defend their city or whatever...

The moment which probably struck me the most that morning was the Plaza de Espanya. Unlike most of the other plazas I have seen, this was a giant semicircle. The tall, red brick building curled around a walking space, boasting a tiled mural to each of the provinces of Spain. This lined a waterway which was gracefully hung with splendid bridges. Everything here was in circle and orb shapes. All the way in to the center of the circle where a fountain cast water mist into the sunlight. The edges of the entire thing were brought up tight by two towers at either end of the building. It was a magical, round space of arches and mosaics and sunlight. Yeah, I loved it.

Then we found our way to the castle complex and I came to a whole new level of fantasy world. There were networks of courtyards and fountains and walkways lined by winding, intricately designed tesselates, again from the Muslim influence. Although the castle had been made a place for Christian royalty, the styles were mixed into a hodge podge which a 21st person like myself could almost mistake for intentional. The once brilliant colors were fading but retained an enriching influence on the whole thing. It was difficult to capture with a camera but it was pleasant to experience in person.
We wandered through ever more intimate courtyards until we found ourselves in what had been the ladies's walking spaces. This led discreetly out into the one of the most magical garden sequences I have ever lost myself into.

Each garden had a different theme and reflected a different culture. Vegetation changed according to the colors and textures of the walls. The English gardens sported peacocks and were open and elegant and had tall, quiet, dark walls. Other gardens had reed plants whisping out of fountains in red stucco walls which drained around the feet of 30 ft tall palm trees. It even had a hedge maze but we found the mud off-putting. This was an adult trip and it is important to behave as such. We spent a fantastic afternoon playing in the trees, harassing pigeons and staring at things that were so much older than we could ever imagine being. So, I guess, maybe not THAT adult-y.

The next day we caught the Ava train to Cordoba. We smoothly swayed through the countryside and I was lulled to sleep. I woke up in a train station identical to the one we had just left. It was eerie. However, outside the building, Cordoba was very different from Sevilla. Our taxi drove through walls of middle-modern looking apartment complexes before dodging into a frantic network of half-streets, alleys, and amblers. The cabbie managed it like a pro and we were soon making a tight square around the outside of a huge wall. He unloaded our luggage, charged the extra 'trunk space' tax and left us standing right in front of the Mezquita/Cathedral. Our hotel opened out to the walls.
Again, we unloaded our things and headed straight out to explore. We circled/squared the outside and admired the many doors in the face of the building. We decided we should seek alimentation before breaching the walls. We enjoyed a lunch of tasty taps in a restaurant which exuded any of 5 different cultures. Greek, Spanish, British, Arabic, etc. It was delicious and, thus energized, we wandered into the walled courtyard in front of the church.

Now, I need to tell you a quick story. Some 5 years ago I was a college freshman and I was slumped in the back of my architectural history class. I had picked this class because I loved the subject and it fascinated me but I was delighted to find it administered by the most fascinating little Nordic lady named Nano Nore. In the haze of slides and explanations and terms I remember one particular picture in the text book. Red and white arches bounded off into the background atop a forest of pillars. The picture caught my eye and I spent an extra 5 seconds staring at that page, dreaming of seeing that place and absorbing the wisdom of the philosophers and mathematicians who had once wandered those halls.

We purchased the 8 euro tickets and walked into one of the most breathtaking indoor spaces I have ever enjoyed. There were few openings to the outside and what few windows there were, were so filtered by the colored glass, that they did not inject much light. The space was heavy and dim and cool. The marble of the arches was solid and chill to the touch. The double arches were crowns everywhere. Depending on where you stood and from what angle you looked, they were a different sequence. The man in the wheel chair or the toddler wandering around with his mom would take away a very different conception of this space. It was marvelous and seemed to go on forever. However, after a few times around I began to recognize different intricate walls and figured out which was the quibla and from there the rest of it fell into place.
And then there was good old King Ferdinand III the Saint. In the 1200s he raised a huge baroque/gothic dome chapel in the middle of it. The majority of the walls were littered with dozens of chapels to saints and the coordinating doors have their names on bricks outside the doors. It truly was a creation.
The evening took us out onto the Puenta Roma to watch the evening light crawl up the walls and across the river.
The next day we got caught up in Dia de los Reyes parade and pelted by candy and creepy little stuffed animals. Huge, strange creations wandered down the street, driven by people wearing leotards and tights. Virgin Marys and Santa Clauses and Oriental Kings threw handfuls of hard little candies into the hands and upside-down umbrellas of family hordes. Colorful parasailors whirred around overhead. It was a nice good bye.
For now at least.

*All the awesome pictures in the post are the work of the gifted Matt Jones.

Don't blink, you'll miss it.

The way I see it, I have been in 2009 for 6 hours more than most of you folks back state side. As such, I have a lot to tell.

Wrapping up '08

After the Christmas festivities Matt and I made our way up into the Serra de Tramuntana mountains for a few days exploring around Lluc Monastery. While the weather was not feeling particularly cooperative, we adapted and made do. We spent a few nights in a converted monk's cell, alternating exploring the grouds of the small town and meandering the many trails in the area.
One day we maneuvered a labyrinth of treacherously slippery rocks out to a formation called es Camel. Veins, like those you would see in leaf, had been etched into the stone by centuries of rains and percolating water. The corrugated ridges were almost sharp, which was enough to intimidate me into being cautious where I stepped. I have never seen rock quite like it; the texture was that of a very fine grained sandpaper and, despite the water's centuries of effort, maintained its sun-dried bone, white hue with very little discoloration.
The formation, which was the focus of our excursion, rose some 15 feet. A certain trickle of water had worked a wedge into the middle of the massive rock, creating two humps. A suspended stone projection from this brought to mind the image of a camel. We sat on this outcropping and reflected, watching families setting up camps and going for walks, hundreds of feet below.
Other days I took quite time to walk the hills and ancient pilgrim paths. There was a pervading sense of peace and timelessness in that hidden mountain valley, belied only by the pillowing of rich, green moss built up over the fountain at the entrance to the monastery.
It is a Catholic tradition to pay some sort of homage to the baby Jesus around this time of year and a common avenue for that is to make a pilgrimage. As such, there were many families visiting the area and watching them made me think about my own family and how happy I am that they are all well and strong.

Molt D'anys

We caught a morning bus back to Palma on the 28th and wandered the city a little more, watching the New Years preparations materializing around us. Bakeries displayed all varieties of elaborate cocas and tortas, boasting bright tidbits of caramelized fruit and glazed in shimmering sweetness. Mounds of bunches of grapes were brought to the front of stores and confectionery delights abounded.
On New Years Eve night we took a taxi to the city center and made our way, in an ever thicker stream of people, through the cobbled alleys and streets toward the Ajuntament. We were met with dancing lights and a sea of bodies. Families, old people, single people, groups; everyone was there and everyone had grapes. Fortunately we had been forewarned of this particular tradition and had come armed with our own grapes. There was no ball dropping and the clock did not chime so we watched the people around us and when a young man who seemed confidently in the know began to eat his grapes, so did we. 12 grapes in the 12 chimes for the New Year. It was quite a task to achieve and before we could finish, champagne rained down and shouts rose up. And so 2009 began.

How to Start a New Year

On January second Matt and I caught a plane to Seville for our '2009 tour de Andalucia.' An event which will take more concentration than I can muster on an empty stomach to describe. More to follow.