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.