To All Ye Facebook Naysayers

Moving through life I encounter people who, for inexplicable reasons, I know are meant to be repeat players. My lifestyle does not afford the luxury of being in constant proximity to my people and so we hold to each other through less conventional means. Cosmic brain signals, letters, facebook.

Five months ago I became increasingly conscious of a Philmont friend, from training the summer of '06, who was existing somewhere in a far away life. Jeff 'Beantown/Boston' had since become a New York Business dude. He has stories of suits and incognito house slippers, people who don't believe in eye contact, cars that don't stop at pedestrian crosswalks, initiating office department recycling revolutions, and 40 story buildings towering everywhere. Three months ago we began a facebook dialogue through which he alluded to this existence and I was dubious as to the long term effects of being too deeply immersed in such a place. Now, I am certainly an explorer but I never considered this city, concrete jungle of which he spoke. I extended a casual invitation that he come visit. I had considered it more as a tiny reminder to him that another kind of life existed, I could not let myself get my hopes up that he might actually come.
Three months later he was standing on my doorstep in tan work boots, sagging jeans, and carrying an experienced old backpack. He had been awake for 30+ hours but knew enough about jet lag to insist on staying awake through the day. We walked through the old city and talked about the adventures that had brought us to this place. I reveled in conversing with someone with a sophisticated grasp on the English language, no matter how comically the jet lag and Boston accent slurred his speech.
It so happened that the Spanish decided to throw their fiesta de San Sebstian so that it would coincide with his visit (remember, Spanish fiestas last a week). On Monday night there were fires and grills spread throughout the city. Concert stages littered the streets and Spanish rock could be heard intermingling with traditional Mallorcan ballads from another stage up the street. There was a gentle rain which eventually drove people in early (3 am) but as long as the music was playing and the fires were burning, people were out celebrating the patron Saint of their City. We grilled steak strips (although the traditional practice was to eat pork) and talked with everyone and anyone who might be out. I ran into pupils and their families and Jeff found a harmonica playing South American who he beat-boxed along with.

For the next 4 days we walked the streets, perused the museums and old homes, and stared at the Cathedral and Sea. We took an afternoon tour of Monumental Mallorca, led by a Mallorcan guy who loved Nashville and slicked his hair like a Greaser. The history was fascinating and the insight into the family and hierarchical workings of these people hundreds of years ago made me grateful to be living in this century. For example this architrave in the front vestibule to one house is of two women with their fingers to their 'shushing' lips. The banner around them says, essentially, 'keep quiet and get married, ladies'. I am still not sure how I feel about that. Either way, it was a learning experience. As were my conversations with Jeff. It is always fun to see your city through the eyes of another. Especially someone who knows about all the things you don't. . . like cars and business negotiations (the African street vendors from whom I had always shied were an interaction in which he thrived). I remembered my days of haggling prices in the markets in South America and it appeared that this guy had made a professional study of this as a science. Crazy stuff.
We ate at all varieties of restaurants and discussed how Soda tastes different abroad. I was able to use Jeff as a sort of apology to my 6th grade class. They had all been extremely dissappointed in me, as an American, for knowing next to nothing about New York. Jeff came in on Wednesday and fielded questions ranging from sports, to geography, to the Jewish influence on the city. Yeah, these 6th graders went there. Everyone enjoyed it. Jeff spent the rest of the day feeding into another, entirely foreign to me, interest, golf. I, meanwhile, inhaled the murder mystery book he had brought for the plane. My reading material here is a disjointed, bare-knuckles collection of Dostoevsky, Douglas Adams, and Isabel Allende. However, I am very excited because in one of the museums I picked up a copy of "A Winter in Mallorca" by George Sand. In fact, I am going to tuck into my reading chair and have at it.

So, anyway, that is my argument that anything can happen.

Peace and chicken grease.

Under Deep Cover

I am proud to report that I have infiltrated the deepest levels of Mallorcan living. Yesterday Marga, Josep, Toby, and I loaded up and drove out to their country house to meet with a big group of other families. Here is photo-documentation of my recon mission: (FYI- Spanish people are very enthusiastic about having their photos taken)

We arrived at about 9 am and the sun had not summited the hills we were settled into and it was quite chilly. Marga's parents had been there since the day before and had the fire burning in the hearth already. We unpacked and began to settle in. Josep and I tucked in by the fireplace and broke out the beautiful old chess table that a man from Africa had given to a Valent great-grandfather for undetermined reasons.

I spent the morning journaling and playing chess, then wandered down to the torrent with Marga and her father. Mallorca does not have rivers, only these little seasonal streams. This one was about 3 feet wide and not a foot deep but they were impressed with how much water it had. Marga told stories of playing down here as a little girl and pointed out what had been her favorite spot to lay in the shade and read. Marga's father led the expedition with a small hand saw to cut back the plants and undergrowth which had appropriated the trail over years. From the torrent we hacked our way over to the pozo (well) which had been found by divining rod a few decades ago. The cement block shaft plummeted about 30 feet before reaching the water which, unlike in most wells, was moving and periodically would produce large, roiling bubble-splosions. They had tapped a sub-terranian water table which, some people hypothesize, networks all the way to the mainland.
Marga and I left her father with his wrench, 3 lengths of pipe, a saw, and some WD-40 to tend to his land and satiate his country-bred-boy need to be productive. Back up at the house there were tended fires burning everywhere. in the outdoor kitchen one little stove warmed up coffee, another was beginning to boil the arroz brut we were going to eat for lunch while the brick bread oven was piled with brush, waiting to be lit. The warm fire inside continued to crackle and I curled up to write a story and take a nap.

I ambled back outside and I found Marga's mother and Josep popping almonds out of their skins. The nuts had already been shelled and she had boiled them for a few minutes to loosen the skin. All we had to do was squeeze on them and the white flesh jettisoned right out. Then she offered to show me how to make guirlache (in Mallorquin, Tambo d'ametlla). She roasted the nuts until they were dry and then began to mix in sugar, constantly stirring so it would not burn. Then she coated a round metal pan with lemon juice (squeezed from the lemons we had picked from one of the trees) and put the whole concoction in. She topped it off with another good squeeze of lemon and then popped it into one of the fire ovens. The result was a delicious, brittle-ish dessert.

Around 11 am, everyone showed up. There were 3 other couples and their droves of children. They unloaded, bearing foods and games of all varieties. A round of introductions was fired off and everyone was incredibly friendly. Our first order of business was to merendar on any variety of meats and breads which we spread out. Then Josep requested that we go tree climbing again. He and I wandered out and found ourselves being followed by four other kids. The 3 year old, Tony, took his perch on my shoulders and we meandered out, single file, to find a suitable tree.
I am not sure what the deal with these kids is but they don't know how to climb trees. We found a prime one and they all just stood there and looked at it. After a few minutes I asked who was going to climb first and they volunteered me. As soon as I was up, I turned around and three of them were packed around the trunk, climbing over the top of each other. One of the girls, Ava, practiced her English by asking if this wasn't dangerous and I informed her that it was, especially when they tried to climb in a mob. I recognized the skill level I was working with and opted to talk them all back off of the trunk and we went in search of something more suitable. We found it.

We headed back toward the house at the sound of the horn. It was time to start making the bread. We (I was in the kid group for this one) were each given a plastic tub in which to mix the flour, yeast, water, salt, etc. and began mixing. Then we covered the tubs and set them aside. It was time for lunch. The kids ate first while we adults stood around outside and toothpicked little sea-food looking things floating in platters filled with fresh, fruity tasting liquids. I can still, a day later, taste the saltiness on my tongue.
Then the kids wandered off to play in the house and we (adults) commandeered the table. A huge wok looking pot filled with yellow rice, snails (still in their shells), and a variety of other meats was served. Meals are one of the most significant differences I have noticed between their culture and ours. When Matt was here he noted that no one eats while walking on the streets. This, I believe, can be attributed to the fact that, for them, food is always something worth making the time to enjoy. Meals are not just about filling your body with the food necessary to sustain it but also to indulge in companionship and conversation. 2 hours of conversation and snail-shell-sucking later and we were on to dessert and coffees.

We got out our dough balls and kneaded them before letting them set some more. Then we patted them, and pricked them, and I marked mine with a B and put it in the over for baby and me.

Then everyone pitched in with cleaning up and eventually everything was done and cleaned up and by 6 pm our lunch date was coming to a conclusion.

Another good day in the Mallorcan country.

How strange, an American who doesn't like ketchup

I have always enjoyed packing. It is a comfort to me to know that I can quickly narrow down the things I need in life and make them fit in a bag. On January 2nd I packed my passport, journals, camera, and clothes and Matt and I headed off for Andalucia.

Our flight came into the airport of Sevilla. It was about the size of the terminal in Juneau and was fittingly underwhelming. We caught the bus into the city and it was that part of the trip which first brought me to face the wonders of southern Spain. We quickly unpacked and cleaned up and prepared to meet the city outside our hotel door.

The old part of the city was wide, cobblestone streets with buildings, from all architectural influences, continuously lining the narrow horizon. A sleek tram system glided through the middle of it all on shiny tracks. It was striking to watch the trains running past the old buildings; it was such a contrast.

We arrived in the afternoon and so our first experience with the city was in evening light. We wandered past holiday shoppers at the vendor booths spilling over with scarves and paintings and trinkets and foods. We walked down an alley between main streets and the bell-tower of the cathedral reared up into the dark sky. It was a massive complex. Just looking at the base of the walls you could see the variety of the stones and materials used. The different textures of the rocks told of the different times and cultures from which they had come. This building had not only experienced, but defined, a grand array of people. Now I was getting to experience them all at once.
As the evening progressed the cold drove us to an indoor shopping center to hunt for food and evening activity.
It was called plaza de armas and looked like it could have once been an important train station. We caught a movie, dubbed into emasculating male-ish voices, and called it a night.

The next day we got to see every face of Sevilla, it rained warm and cold and was clear skies warm and cold. We saw rainbows and un-ripe mandarins. The city was certainly a different old beast in the sunlight.
Hip frenchies lounged on the outdoor patios, gesturing wildly with their cigarettes. Covens of beautiful young Spanish women gathered to replay and plan their lives and men. We toured the buildings of the city and caught one of the cheapest lunches I have ever encountered in Europe. The inside of the cathedral was just as impressive and intricately massive as the outside and the way up to the top of the tower was a ramp because the Muslims used to ride their horses up to the top when they were late to call prayer. Or when they had to defend their city or whatever...

The moment which probably struck me the most that morning was the Plaza de Espanya. Unlike most of the other plazas I have seen, this was a giant semicircle. The tall, red brick building curled around a walking space, boasting a tiled mural to each of the provinces of Spain. This lined a waterway which was gracefully hung with splendid bridges. Everything here was in circle and orb shapes. All the way in to the center of the circle where a fountain cast water mist into the sunlight. The edges of the entire thing were brought up tight by two towers at either end of the building. It was a magical, round space of arches and mosaics and sunlight. Yeah, I loved it.

Then we found our way to the castle complex and I came to a whole new level of fantasy world. There were networks of courtyards and fountains and walkways lined by winding, intricately designed tesselates, again from the Muslim influence. Although the castle had been made a place for Christian royalty, the styles were mixed into a hodge podge which a 21st person like myself could almost mistake for intentional. The once brilliant colors were fading but retained an enriching influence on the whole thing. It was difficult to capture with a camera but it was pleasant to experience in person.
We wandered through ever more intimate courtyards until we found ourselves in what had been the ladies's walking spaces. This led discreetly out into the one of the most magical garden sequences I have ever lost myself into.

Each garden had a different theme and reflected a different culture. Vegetation changed according to the colors and textures of the walls. The English gardens sported peacocks and were open and elegant and had tall, quiet, dark walls. Other gardens had reed plants whisping out of fountains in red stucco walls which drained around the feet of 30 ft tall palm trees. It even had a hedge maze but we found the mud off-putting. This was an adult trip and it is important to behave as such. We spent a fantastic afternoon playing in the trees, harassing pigeons and staring at things that were so much older than we could ever imagine being. So, I guess, maybe not THAT adult-y.

The next day we caught the Ava train to Cordoba. We smoothly swayed through the countryside and I was lulled to sleep. I woke up in a train station identical to the one we had just left. It was eerie. However, outside the building, Cordoba was very different from Sevilla. Our taxi drove through walls of middle-modern looking apartment complexes before dodging into a frantic network of half-streets, alleys, and amblers. The cabbie managed it like a pro and we were soon making a tight square around the outside of a huge wall. He unloaded our luggage, charged the extra 'trunk space' tax and left us standing right in front of the Mezquita/Cathedral. Our hotel opened out to the walls.
Again, we unloaded our things and headed straight out to explore. We circled/squared the outside and admired the many doors in the face of the building. We decided we should seek alimentation before breaching the walls. We enjoyed a lunch of tasty taps in a restaurant which exuded any of 5 different cultures. Greek, Spanish, British, Arabic, etc. It was delicious and, thus energized, we wandered into the walled courtyard in front of the church.

Now, I need to tell you a quick story. Some 5 years ago I was a college freshman and I was slumped in the back of my architectural history class. I had picked this class because I loved the subject and it fascinated me but I was delighted to find it administered by the most fascinating little Nordic lady named Nano Nore. In the haze of slides and explanations and terms I remember one particular picture in the text book. Red and white arches bounded off into the background atop a forest of pillars. The picture caught my eye and I spent an extra 5 seconds staring at that page, dreaming of seeing that place and absorbing the wisdom of the philosophers and mathematicians who had once wandered those halls.

We purchased the 8 euro tickets and walked into one of the most breathtaking indoor spaces I have ever enjoyed. There were few openings to the outside and what few windows there were, were so filtered by the colored glass, that they did not inject much light. The space was heavy and dim and cool. The marble of the arches was solid and chill to the touch. The double arches were crowns everywhere. Depending on where you stood and from what angle you looked, they were a different sequence. The man in the wheel chair or the toddler wandering around with his mom would take away a very different conception of this space. It was marvelous and seemed to go on forever. However, after a few times around I began to recognize different intricate walls and figured out which was the quibla and from there the rest of it fell into place.
And then there was good old King Ferdinand III the Saint. In the 1200s he raised a huge baroque/gothic dome chapel in the middle of it. The majority of the walls were littered with dozens of chapels to saints and the coordinating doors have their names on bricks outside the doors. It truly was a creation.
The evening took us out onto the Puenta Roma to watch the evening light crawl up the walls and across the river.
The next day we got caught up in Dia de los Reyes parade and pelted by candy and creepy little stuffed animals. Huge, strange creations wandered down the street, driven by people wearing leotards and tights. Virgin Marys and Santa Clauses and Oriental Kings threw handfuls of hard little candies into the hands and upside-down umbrellas of family hordes. Colorful parasailors whirred around overhead. It was a nice good bye.
For now at least.

*All the awesome pictures in the post are the work of the gifted Matt Jones.

Don't blink, you'll miss it.

The way I see it, I have been in 2009 for 6 hours more than most of you folks back state side. As such, I have a lot to tell.

Wrapping up '08

After the Christmas festivities Matt and I made our way up into the Serra de Tramuntana mountains for a few days exploring around Lluc Monastery. While the weather was not feeling particularly cooperative, we adapted and made do. We spent a few nights in a converted monk's cell, alternating exploring the grouds of the small town and meandering the many trails in the area.
One day we maneuvered a labyrinth of treacherously slippery rocks out to a formation called es Camel. Veins, like those you would see in leaf, had been etched into the stone by centuries of rains and percolating water. The corrugated ridges were almost sharp, which was enough to intimidate me into being cautious where I stepped. I have never seen rock quite like it; the texture was that of a very fine grained sandpaper and, despite the water's centuries of effort, maintained its sun-dried bone, white hue with very little discoloration.
The formation, which was the focus of our excursion, rose some 15 feet. A certain trickle of water had worked a wedge into the middle of the massive rock, creating two humps. A suspended stone projection from this brought to mind the image of a camel. We sat on this outcropping and reflected, watching families setting up camps and going for walks, hundreds of feet below.
Other days I took quite time to walk the hills and ancient pilgrim paths. There was a pervading sense of peace and timelessness in that hidden mountain valley, belied only by the pillowing of rich, green moss built up over the fountain at the entrance to the monastery.
It is a Catholic tradition to pay some sort of homage to the baby Jesus around this time of year and a common avenue for that is to make a pilgrimage. As such, there were many families visiting the area and watching them made me think about my own family and how happy I am that they are all well and strong.

Molt D'anys

We caught a morning bus back to Palma on the 28th and wandered the city a little more, watching the New Years preparations materializing around us. Bakeries displayed all varieties of elaborate cocas and tortas, boasting bright tidbits of caramelized fruit and glazed in shimmering sweetness. Mounds of bunches of grapes were brought to the front of stores and confectionery delights abounded.
On New Years Eve night we took a taxi to the city center and made our way, in an ever thicker stream of people, through the cobbled alleys and streets toward the Ajuntament. We were met with dancing lights and a sea of bodies. Families, old people, single people, groups; everyone was there and everyone had grapes. Fortunately we had been forewarned of this particular tradition and had come armed with our own grapes. There was no ball dropping and the clock did not chime so we watched the people around us and when a young man who seemed confidently in the know began to eat his grapes, so did we. 12 grapes in the 12 chimes for the New Year. It was quite a task to achieve and before we could finish, champagne rained down and shouts rose up. And so 2009 began.

How to Start a New Year

On January second Matt and I caught a plane to Seville for our '2009 tour de Andalucia.' An event which will take more concentration than I can muster on an empty stomach to describe. More to follow.

Let's put a little Gift Wrap on 2008

And so, we put the final details on 2008 and prepare to move into the next round of 364 1/4 days. I feel pretty good about this past year. I graduated from college, got to work in Alaska, and moved to Spain. On top of that, I continue to be blessed with family and friends who love me and support me. Yes, life has been good. And it has been scary. I can feel my perceptions quickly altering as I begin to see the world through these new adult eyes. I have a deeper grasp on the significance of the passing of time and it makes me want to cling to the here and now because I know things can be so different in a matter of months. Just look at stock markets around the world. Yes, we may go down, but at least we will all go down together. I can think of no better time for us to all join hands. And keep a loaded shotgun under the bed.
So, here is to 2009, possibly to be one of the toughest years to have been faced in generations.

~~~~~~

This past Friday I aired up a borrowed mattress and my dear friend Matt showed up on his 'tour de Spain'. The weather turned amazing; right on cue.
I had spent the past 2 weeks sloshing through heavy Mediterranean rains. Every morning I go up and looked out at the dismal clouds, but resigned myself peacefully to them, in exchange for the weather promising to turn perfect for my visitors. And it did.
We spent Saturday riding the Paseo Maritimo enjoying the sun and the brisk winter breeze was invigorating. It was lovely and I wondered if my Papa Morris was somewhere on the other side of the Ocean, riding his bike too.

On Sunday I got up and got excited. Today was my big Christmas present. I almost didn't believe it until I actually saw Granddaddy striding through the glossy airport. They had made it! Something we, sadly, could not say for their luggage.
We took a taxi to their hotel and had a choice between rooms overlooking Cathedral La Seu or the Passeig Mallorca, the roads which escort the largest torrent on Mallorca into the Sea.
They quickly settled in and we took an afternoon walk down the road past where Dorothy seemed to have found herself rather far from Kansas. The next day we ran into a man in the U.S. army, stationed in Germany, from Joplin, Missouri but spending Christmas in Mallorca with his wife and their baby. We come from everyewhere. Even, sometimes, the same place.
The next day grandmother, granddaddy and I intended to take the old train to Soller but the rail was closed for repair so we took the bus instead. It was beautiful and fun. We were on a quest for Gelati but to no avail. We took the old wooden tram down from the town of Soller to the port of Soller.
There is an interesting story behind why the towns in Mallorca are set up at a distance from the ports. And that story is...PIRATES. Before tourism caught Mallorca up, the coastal lands were the most useless. Not fit for crops and succeptible to piracy. The towns would set up ports and the housing along the water was often that of poor fishermen. A few kilometers inland they would build their churches and stone houses and shops. The people here really just don't want trouble. I suppose that is the best perspective when embracing a history of conquests and reconquests.
We ate lunch on the dock in the Port de Soller and enjoyed the sun and the pan amb oli and sodas served in petite glass bottles. We then ambled down to the beach and picked up ocean smoothed rocks.
Another day we took a trip to Valldemossa where we walked throught the sleeping gardens of the church where Chopin had spent a winter. It may not be its most beautiful season, but it was this climate which had nurtured Chopin's music, and so we sat in the maze of shrubs and let it fill us as well.
We walked back into the cobblestone center of town and into a cafe where we ordered hot chocolates and an assortment of Mallorcan pastries. Something improtant to remember is that over here hot chocolate is made with milk and is truly more akin to melted chocolate than we Americans are used to. The pastries, from bottom to top are ensaimada, torta de pina, coca de patata. They really hit the spot and sent us off happily, back to Palma. To give me an opportunity to have a face-off with a certain pumpkin pie and to allow the grandparents to truly appreciate the Spanish culture by enjoying a siesta.
I am not going to go into the gruesome detials of my pie-scapade, but all in all, I would say it came out a success. It at least did not scare the Mallrocans off and the Americans who knew seemed impressed that it had come out so well considering the dimensions of the pan were much wider and shallower than at home.

On Christmas day we all gathered together over quite a spread of food. Jamon Serrano and melon, cheese and grapes, salmon, and then, a turkey, stuffed with pork and bacon and dates and apricots and hard boiled eggs and who knows what spices. The turkey had been completely emptied so we cut him in half, in large slices. It was delicious and unlike anything I have ever seen. We chatted and communicated, Granddaddy quite holding his own in conversation and Matt doing his mallorquin to french to english interpretation of the world. We passed around gifts and I looked around and fell in love with my impromptue family. After we had all eaten, grandmother and I were watching A Christmas Carol and I began to wonder where granddaddy had gotten to. I found him downstairs in the garage, sitting astride a rusty red 1970s Vespa scooter, talking with Marga's dad. I do have a picture, but I think I am going to hold on to it as potential black mail.
And so, that was my unconventional Chirstmas.

Social Observations, You are Not Alone

Living in a foreign country is an interesting experiment in the process of realization. When I first got here, I collected bits of data about the place from everything from billboards and adverts, to the architecture, to people’s attitudes and so on and so forth. With time that picture accrues depth, people open up and talk to me and I begin to notice repeating trends and patterns around me. What can be jarring is when exploration into these depths reveals that the face of the picture is not what you interpreted it to be.
Today I was giving a lecture to a high school class about Protestantism in the United States. When I opened the class I asked for a show of hands of who was Catholic. About as I expected, some 7/8ths of the class responded in the affirmative. I went on with my talk and it seemed to be received well. At the end of the class I had a few minutes left over and I decided to indulge in my curiosity. I began to ask the class questions at large.
My first question, “how many of you go to Church once a week?” They sat there and looked at me, and looked around. Not a single hand went up.
“How many go to Church once a month?” Again, no one. As it came out, most do go to Church on Christmas and Easter but that is about it.
I was a bit taken aback by this. I mean, this IS a Catholic school and these kids did just open the class by telling me they were Catholic.
The question which came from my surprise and protestant mentality was, “well, how do you consider yourselves Catholics if you do not practice?”
“Our parents had us baptized when we were babies.”
Here, Catholicism is not a choice made by the individual, it is made by their parents. It is a condition for life. Having just spoken about fluctuations in Church membership (specifically the declining percentage of Protestants in America versus the increasing number of Catholics) I felt there was something unfair about the whole thing.
Catholics are so just because of something their parents did to them when they were babies and they accept it as a condition for life (and will answer any statistician who asks that they are Catholic), whether they practice or not. On the other hand, Protestants are so because they practice Protestantism. The mentalities behind the answers are so different that it is almost like asking different questions. This makes me even more dubious about statistics and polls.
My picture of Spain was painted by soaring, monolithic cathedrals and from hearing everyone call themselves Catholics. I put these things together and interpreted them through my Protestant lens as meaning that every Sunday these cathedrals and churches were filled with Spaniards. It seems this is only true on religious holidays. Lesson learned.

As a result of my college thesis I brought a curiosity and interest in the immigrant culture here. From the articles and studies I read in the library in Liberty Missouri, I had put together an academic understanding of what immigration from Africa to Europe looked like. In my studies though, I focused primarily on detention facilities and those held in legal limbo there. It is interesting to reconcile my narrow theoretical picture to this grander physical one.
I always explained African immigration to the EU as having the same dynamic as Mexican immigration to the US. And in doing so, I was more correct than I knew. However, my focus on African immigration caused me to miss the fact that South Americans also comprise a massive number of immigrants in the EU. But, as I said, the picture is strikingly similar. Construction sites are predominantly manned by African workers, house cleaning ladies are from South America; small businesses and city jobs are for the Spaniards.
This dynamic bleeds into another notable similarity between here and the US. In the 1960s Mallorca began to become popular amoung tourists. There was a sudden and huge demand for large scale construction projects and, therefore, cheap labour to man these projects. Thus restrictions against immigration were lax. Today, Spain is facing similar housing issues as we are in America and attitude towards the immigrants is turning as well. As people become afraid for their own jobs in the face of something so huge, complicated, and difficult to understand, the reaction is the same. Interesting.
The word CRISIS (pronounced creesees [say it out loud. It sound funny]) is everywhere. I hear it at least 10 times a day on the news. People mention it in conversation. I even saw a store sale add the other day which, in giant letters, announced that they offered prices so low they would turn the crisis around.

So, I suppose what we can draw from this is…
Don’t feel bad America, Europe is gagging too.
And
Sometimes, statistics and numbers can make us think things are happening a certain way but you should take a real pulse yourself to be sure before you go burying anything.

Okay, so, I know this is nothing more than an internet blog and you are probably just reading this out of casual interest, but I would like it very much if you would do something this week. When you are out and about in your world, look around and watch, see if you can’t blow some assumption you have been carrying around out of the water. I know you will probably want to think this will be harder for you than it is for me because you have been living where you are much longer but I suspect that your situation actually may very well have just lulled you into complacence and there are plenty of assumptions just waiting to be questioned.
I am very interested in hearing about what you notice.

Post-script- A few days ago the bakery lady said something about being constipada. I thought this a highly innapropriate thing to inform me of, especially over my loaf of bread; but I let it slide. Then I was talking to some people at the school and someone mentioned that one of their students was constipada and wouldn´t be surprised if everyone was within the week. I was more than a little horrified by this idea. Contagious constipation really is a frightening thought.
Today I succumbed to a raspy throat and sniffles, and after several comments aimed at me involved the word constipada, with a general gesture at the nose and sinus region, I have realized the error in my thinking.

Reflections on Weaving, Turkey, and Americanism

The analogies of life to weaving and thread have been going around for centuries; from the Bible to philosophers to normal people walking down the street, trying to understand why they are there. The latter was me this past Wednesday.
I was walking to school from my house, I passed our street´s dumpster and the old lady who leaves mushed rice out for the wild cats was at her post, setting out styrofoam trays of the ucky looking stuff, right across the sidewalk from the street dumpsters and recycling bins. We smile at each other because one of my first encounters with the various giant, differently colored and differently shaped recycling bins was not a simple one and she helped me through it.
Another block along and I pass the portly little mechanic, always standing at the door of his garage, watching life go by and fixing cars in between. We, also, have established a "hello"ing relationship which has now grown into small comments and laughs about what groceries or books I may be carrying. It was right here that the realization hit. These people have been woven, in small ways, into my life and I into theirs. It made sense and my mind´s eye could see us each as a thread.
I thought of all the other threads of life with which I come into contact. There are my friends and loved ones. Who, although we may not be physically interwoven right now, I can feel, running parallel to me, reinforcing me, and hopefully I am doing the same. There is the nest of amazing women who have so graciously welcomed me into their lives and homes. There is the bakery lady who always responds to my inquiry as to her health with "bien, gracias a Dios" and who knows that I prefer my barra de pan a little on the white side, rather than too toasted. These people, who make up the living waypoints of my day, who pass through my life in this regular and rhythmic pattern. Creating for some grander design for all of us.
It was a stabilizing realization for me. For as strange as I may feel being in such a different place, it is impossible for me to fall off the grid, because I have these connections and they have me.

This past week was Thanksgiving. I know, SURPRISE! I got to talk some about the holiday to a few of the classes and my mention of pumpkin pie was generally greeted with looks of incredulity and disgust. The kids didn´t even know about home-made chocolate chip cookies (they sell neither chocolate chips or canned pumpkin over here), all they had ever heard of were Chips Ahoy!
Thanksgiving was a rainy day which I spent thinking of my family and sending as much love as I could to them. Trying to imagine what they were all doing at certain times, as well as thinking of all that I have to be grateful for. The list is a long one. On that day the closest I came to a Thanksgiving meal was a turkey sandwich.
On Saturday an American mother from one of the schools I work at invited me to the "American women in Mallorca" club´s Thanksgiving meal at some schnazzy restaurant on a cliff over the sea. On our way there I realized this was to be my second encounter in two months with other Americans.
We certainly were an ecclectic collection. There were embassy people, international business people, Burberry clad children and their matching parents. Most were international couples
"I was a shipping merchant from the US to Mallorca and I met my Italian wife here."
"I am in international shipping and I met my Sweedish wife in Germany and we keep our summer house here."
"I just graduated from college. I am here because I want to grow up to do everything in the world."
"I studied Spanish in University, I came over here on holiday and fell in love and have lived here 20 years now."
We each had a story and they were all interesting and I enjoyed the exchange. The political debates, the funny things we miss, why they dub movies over in Spanish with annoying voices, where do you land a personal jet on Mallorca, etc.
It took quite some effort, I learned, to get the cooks at the restuarant to understand what we wanted to eat. The women who had coordinated the meal had come in a week earlier to show them recipes and ideas as to what we eat on Thanksgiving (again, they were appalled by the idea of pumpkin pie so we had some kind of berry pie instead).
Over here, one of the major points about a meal is its presentation. Small portions arranged in such an elaborate way as to make one unsure how to approach desecrating it. Thinking about this brought another interesting obeservation to mind. The simplicity of the foods we eat on Thanksgiving (please don´t hate me all you folks who worked so hard to prepare the meal, hear me out). The foods are simple. Meat, potatoes; no colorful displays, no exotic ingredients. A turkey and mashed potatoes, as a founding feature of a national holiday. These are the same foods that people armed with muskets and ploughs ate. Something like that could not have come from European people. The truths of America are best seen and easiest understood in these subtilties. But they are difficult to explain. Especially in Spanish. So mostly these observations are just for me. And now you.

Happy December everyone!