New Site

I started blogging angsty poetry as a teen on everyone's favorite site, Xanga. A few years later I discovered Blogger and shifted everything over, recording various adventures in different blogs.
Now, I'm switching again. At the behest of some, and the lure of better site tracking, (not to mention the fact that several of my heroes keep their blogs there), I'm scooting my trend-following butt over to Wordpress.

The fact that you "follow" my site and hopefully draw some sort of enjoyment from what I write, is why I do it, so feel free to check out my new site and like or follow or comment, or whatever it calls that kind of stuff:

http://bethanyhughes.wordpress.com/



See, I can't even figure out how to make the link turn blue and be underlined so you can just click on it. Or maybe Blogger is mad at me for turn-coating. I'm sorry Blogger, you've been good to me.

As time gets tight

On Sunday, Marga and I drove out to the northern tip of the island. We stopped at Playa de Formentor, a pristine and peaceful beach and I waded around in the crystal clear water and marveled at how incredibly blessed I am to be experiencing these things. We quickly loaded back up and drove further north into an otherworldly landscape of jagged grey cliffs, flecked with vegetation which inexplicably sprouted in the rocky landscape. The skyline resembled the spiked spine of a dragon and the narrow lane wound and curved along the steep walls of rock while gravity scooped away at the fringes of the asphalt, which made it very interesting.
We finally arrived at the old house called Cala Murta and, following the instructions in my hiking guide set out to follow the easy 2 hour trail of En Fumat. Allow me to go ahead and deliver the punch line: we never once encountered the trail. Marga was in a foul quitter mood and as such I felt pressured to get her as far out as possible as quickly as possible so she would fall in love with it and change her mind. This resulted in us finding ourselves at the foot of a gigantic embankment following no discernable trail. She spent the first ten minutes telling me she was tired and could not do it but I pointed out this was impossible, as we had not been walking long at all and I started telling an interesting story. Erstwhile we climbed the terraced embankment using our hands and scrambling up walls. By the time she caught on to my ploy, we were half way up and it was the kind of terrain that is easier to ascend than descend. After about an hour we were 4/5 of the way up and decided to stop for lunch. We sat on one of the retaining walls, built many generations ago and enjoyed the view through the layering mountains between which the sea seeped into harbours.It was beautiful and solitary and my nervous glances at Marga confirmed that she too understood and was enjoying the magic inherent in such ventures. It is the sort of thing you know you would never intentionally get into but once you are there it becomes a matter of conquering. Every wall which she stares at and says "no puedo, es imposible," then promptly surmounts, injects a person with that incredible sense of satisfaction and drives her to that next impossibility, to see if she can overcome that one too.
Eventually we made it to the top and after dipping through a high valley we spotted the sign for a trail off down the steep mountain side. As we stood in this pass, looking around I wondered at the people who had built these zig-zagging terraces and thought about what a desolate spot this must be. Then I looked at the cliff nearest us and saw that a beautiful cross had been etched into the stone. Silly, silly, egocentric me. We made our way down to the trail from which we could see the highway down a very steep hill. Marga decided the trail would lead us away from where we wanted to be going and I realized I had maxed out my ability to persuade her so we took off down the treacherous hillside. I slid on the scree as Marga took a more cautious approach. The hill ended with a 15 foot drop to the road. I pulled a maneuver and jumped safely, then realized Marga might not be quite as happy with this method. I was right. She stood there above me, fists on her hips and just stared. Then, behind her, out of nowhere, appeared a man with a helmet and climbing ropes. He climbed down and then expertly guided her, planting her feet into foot holds and giving her simple verbal commands until we were all safely standing on the pavement. The guy caught up with his friends, who had been caving up in the hills and Marga and I quickly found ourselves back at the car, covered in dirt and sweat and positively beaming. It was a...unique...Palm Sunday adventure.
On Tuesday the 1st and 2nd graders were having a surprise going away party for me and, being a secret, they of course had to begin telling me all about it on Monday. When the party happened, on Tuesday afternoon, I was inundated with dozens of hand drawn cards. The presence of potato chips, soda and sweets sufficiently distracted everyone that I was able to tuck into a corner and look through the cards. They were precious. This experience has been a good one.

Now Semana Santa is in full swing and once I have seen it all and can find a Catholic who can actually explain all the facets of the garb and details of the processions, I will in turn pass them on to you.

~~~~~

One of the biggest lessons I learned in Oxbridge was that nothing kicks a person into gear like a deadline. My imminent departure from the island is the quintessential manifestation of all the adjoining sensations. As I walked out of my last day of classes, beneath the looming cloud bank, I opened myself to the moment wholly. Reality is gigantic and its pressure is immense. It is difficult to explain this sensation. I suppose, the best I can do is to say that, for example, when I looked at a tree, I was aware of how many leaves it had and felt inept for being unable to process them all. Everything around me was so much more than I could process that I had to surrender my attempts at making sense of it all and just let it pass around me. I arrived home and sat quietly and waited to feel something. Again, a sensation I can barely make sense of, much less put into words. The closest I can get to describing it is to compare it to sitting in the absolute darkness of massive cave far beneath the earth. The silence echoes and the open space oppresses. And there is just nothing.
Also, periods of transition always bring on a myriad of dreams. They populate my naps and I wake up out of breath and utterly out of sorts. I wake up in the mornings and find my blankets in a bundle on the other side of the room. It is as if there is all this chaos being riled up inside me but my waking self can't make sense of it, so I ignore it and it comes out by its own avenues. Any insight into or techniques of dealing with these things are more than welcome.

Expressions

An old Mallorcan expression declares:

A mal tiempo, buena cara.

It took me a while to fully understand the implications of this simple phrase because I understood tiempo to mean 'time' but it is also the word for 'weather', although the application of the adage is not limited to inclement weather. I have been having fun throwing that one around over these past few months but it is now that it seems most appropriate. To ease you into the mood for this entry I will start with a haiku, inculcated by the poetic tidbits which Granddaddy has thrown my way since I began blogging in Alaska:

gods thumb their noses
tides rise, rain dribbles and spits
Bring it, Holy Week

It seems our claim to Spring has been temporarily rescinded. We have been under constant cloud cover since this past Friday. From time to time the clouds deign to spittle on us but most of the time they are too busy buzzing around looking ominous. At first I was quite put out by it all, these ARE my last few weeks here, why does the weather have to be cruddy. The Mallorcans are unhappy but most just shrug, saying that Semana Santa is moody like this. I decided that being grumpy about the weather wasn't doing anyone any favors, so I decided not to be; I have, however, had to readjust plans accordingly.
This past Saturday I decided to visit the properties once held by Joan Miró and which now house a museum of his works, his studio, and an old finca which he had purchased and on whose interior walls he scrawled plans for his 3-D pieces. Now, I am not much of a modern art enthusiast but I have always made a small exception for Miró and this visit only broadened that exception. His pieces are playful and childish. Yes, your four year old could have made them, but he didn't now did he. So there. It was a tranquil, overcast afternoon during which I was able to balance staring at the art with sitting on a bench hiding in the gardens of the property and look at the sea, oppressed by the bland clouds as the rocky shoreline rippled into the grey, misty distance.
That evening, when I got home, I was informed that we had free VIP passes to the Carlos Baute concert that night. 'Free' being the operative word, I accepted. Baute is a pretty big deal over here and I certainly enjoyed dancing with my friends and listening to the music but the concert was really rather ridiculous. I mean, at one point he picked a girl out of the audience and when she was brought on stage after 2 songs they had put her into a wedding gown and he was wearing a zip-on tuxedo and he sang some wedding song to her. Married couples swayed and looked deeply into each others' eyes, young girls cried, girlfriends snuggled into boyfriends arms and looked longing while the guys looked anywhere except at their swooning females, and I laughed. I tried to keep it under control but it was really just ridiculous and from that point, there was no chance for me to ever take his music seriously. It was fun/ny.
On Sunday, Marga and I took a drive into the middle planes of Mallorca. The villages remain largely untouched by the tourism boom and the people are, as she explains it, "muy cerados, muy pueblo." We drove east into a tiny interstate-side pueblo for a traditional Mallorcan meal at the very popular restaurant C'al Dimoni. As marga was explining how Il Dimoni had tempted San Antoni I was trying to figure out just who this Dimoni figure was. I suggested that he was Satan and she very calmly informed me that, while she did not believe in it herself, they do not speak that name out loud here. It seems some vestiges of the superstitious nature which so irked George Sand still cling in the cracks of Mallorcan culture. Another taboo word here is 'cancer' which is instead referred to as 'un mal dolent'. Dolent being Castilian for mal. So, essentially it is 'a bad bad.' This naturally led to a discussion of Harry Potter and the use of Voldemort's name.
After we ate, Marga began to navigate us along the 'old highways' and eventually decided that I needed to see Monasterio de Curi. It is situated atop a nest of hillocks, plopped into the bowels of the expansive plains. It offered striking views. Also of note is that it was the monastery where Ramon Llull stayed. The entire drive up the hairpin, narrow road we were passing hordes of cyclists out battling the wind and pattering rain. Marga informed me that most of the cyclists here are professional teams training for the cycling season which begins in a few months.

The rest of the week passed as do most of my other weeks although I have had to begin goodbyeing some of the classes which I only visit on rotation. I baked masses of chocolate chip cookies and delighted my Llado students. I got a lot of hugs and appear to have achieved Rock Star status because, after spending the hour explaining how to bake chocolate chip cookies to my 4th graders, they all wanted me to sign the notes they had copied.
Saying goodbye to my 6th graders stirred something treacherous in me. Several times over this past week I have felt like tears are threatening but, despite the fact that I am more than willing to allow them their moment, nothing comes. Instead I just sit and stare blankly as my feelings wander deeper than I know how to follow with words and sense. It is a weird space. But with my students my face had to show something so I smiled warmly and tried to communicate the depths to which they had affected me while they tried to communicate to me that I was awesome and they would miss me.

Lat night the two English teachers from Llado picked me up and we drove through the darkness and spatter to Montuïri, another "pueblo muy pueblo" where there was a small, plain restaurant which served the best pan am boli around. The restaurant, called simply Bar S'Hostal, was an unassuming white building. There were no menus because all they served was pan am boli but we did get to pick what kinds of meat we wanted. It was a simple and traditional place. The seats of the chairs were each woven in a different pattern, as they were hand-made here on the island. The floor was tiled and chilly and a small fire burned in the large mantle in the corner. Living here back in the day was not a matter for comfort, it simply...was...and this place held on to that feeling. The paintings on the wall were dark realist portraits of tables with a big chunk of cured meat, a block of cheese, some wine and a loaf of bread in the foreground as a fire burned in the hearth behind. We chatted and ate for 3 hours and when I gave them the photos I had printed and framed for them, they presented me with a laminated book of photos of all my classes and a beautiful silver bracelet with the Mallorcan cross as a pendant. Again, as with the students in the past days, I was so overwhelmed that I felt ridiculous even trying to express it with hugs and smiles and words. It is difficult when the depth of feeling wanders so much deeper than words can reach; but when I can stop trying to make sense of it and...just...go there, it is utterly enveloping.

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/

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.