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.