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.