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/