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.

Double Whammy: Carnival and Sunshine

Although I am sure that my frequent ignorance of what is going on is actually a detractor from my experience abroad, I am unaware of the things I miss out on, so I don't mind. I do, however, get the frequent pleasure of coming around a corner or happening down a particular street and encountering festivities and persons which utterly astound and thrill me.

For example, last week I walked into Llado school and instead of the normal, uniformed students, I encountered droves of miniature medieval princesses and knights, knee high dancing flowers, pre-teens in Moorish garb and belly dancers flouncing down the halls. Turns out, it is Carnival. The entire afternoon of classes was replaced by a reenactment of the life of Jauime I, an important character in Mallorcan history. The presentation was narrated in Mallorquin but even from the little that I understood, I could sense the difference in their presentation to our American renditions of history which feature 'the bad guys' vs. 'the good guys'. At no point were the Moors cast as the bad guys. Instead they were heralded as a 'peaceful and advanced people'; but also, the Christian conquest of them was no less applauded for it. No good or bad, just the way it was. Each grade represented something different with the flower tots representing the passage of time...I think. The whole ordeal was preceded by a parade of the kids wandering along the streets of the pueblo as parents ruthlessly elbowed people out of the way so they could photograph and wipe the noses of their offspring. Carnival is a contact sport.
There were also the younger siblings who wanted to be dressed up too and the parents were more than pleased to acquiesce. My favorite was a toddler dressed as, what I can only describe as, the progeny of a pumpkin and a Dalmatian. It seems that the rule is, the younger the child is, the more attention and coddling they merit.
The next day La Purisima also held a carnival in which each class was dressed as an animal. There were dolphins, ants, jellyfish, cows, tigers, mice, cats, etc. I realized there must be a massive market for costumes here, which struck me as interesting since they only seem to be employed a few days each year. As superfluous as the spending seemed to me, I can't frown on anything which so stimulates any sector of the economy.
The La Purisima presentation was less enthusiastic than Llado's, involving the children merely marching in squares and being rewarded with suckers by La Reina del Carnival but the parents were all there with their cameras and the kids reveled in the attention.
No one who I talked to seemed familiar with Mardi Gras, rather, this was Carnival, the celebration before Cuaresma. It was explained to me as the period of indulgence before the time of penance and sacrifice. Any inquiry I made as to what exactly was sacrificed in the modern day was smoothly circumvented with a history lesson. I suppose this is in keeping with the general first-world trend of retaining the parts of traditions which reward us, without having to go through the less pleasant pieces. How very clever of us.

The good weather appeared to have decided that Carnival was worth coming around for and the locals are convinced it is here to stay. There are still persistent breezes, although they are child's-play compared to the gusts which, only weeks ago, were sending furniture and potted plants hurtling through the air. No one is complaining. They add a pleasing balmy effect the warm sun. While I consider it pleasing, the Mallorcans still think it warrants sweaters and jackets but it is certainly a relief when running as evidenced by the fact that even when I encounter locals out running, they have traded in their leggings for shorts.
On Saturday morning I woke up (at the wee hour of noon) to cloudy skies and decided it would be a 'sit inside and write' day; that is, until pleasant rays penetrated the shutters and beckoned to me so seductively that I could no longer deny their appeal and had to go for a run.
Armed with my MP3 player and bus card I took off for the Paseo Maritimo. I ran along the streets lining the torrent and past the old city fortifications. Everywhere I looked there were children and adults dressed up. It was like a daytime Halloween. Witches, princesses, devils, animals, dolls, pretty much anything you can imagine. They were all headed into the old part of the city for some sort of celebration but I felt I had experienced quite enough of crowds and persisted on my quest out to the coast. My objective had been to run through the sunset but it seems the amount of daylight had increased dramatically so I wound up having to run for about two hours before the red hues began to stretch across the waves and onto the wide sea-side pedestrian pathway.
Everyone else had similar ideas. While natives still comprise the majority of people, I am beginning to be aware of the increased presence of tourists, mainly English and Germans. Again I reveled in the dynamics of the groups of families, friends, and couples ambling along the paseo.
At one point a cyclist passed me and turned around to give me a grin and a thumbs-up. The result of this maneuver was that his bike hit a post and he flew off into the sand. I helped him up, smiled at him as The Clash continued to play in my ears and, after ascertaining that he was fine, I took off again. It was a beautiful and pleasing run and when I got tired I found a bus stop and rode back home where I recounted my adventures to Marga and learned another lesson about Adult World.

I am not actually sure whether it is an adult thing or a Spanish thing but apparently the sort of encounters I experienced with Bike Guy are the potential genesis for romance. I had never considered this; being friendly to everyone is just what Hughes' do, nothing more nothing less. It appears I am behind the times in thinking that romantic relationships are only to be pursued with people I actually know. I did take the opportunity presented by the conversation with Marga to query as to the appropriate response on behalf of a woman to the hoots from passing men. I assume my own embarrassment and downcast eyes are not every woman's response, otherwise the men would not do it. Apparently it is not only an offensive (in the context of sport offensive v. defensive) maneuver on the males' behalf, but an invitation for the woman to asses him in return. If he is acceptable I am apparently free to express my own approval and to allow this to initiate something. I had not thought of projecting different responses based on the looks of the the guy... that just seems judgemental and rude. Apparently adult world plays by different rules than the ones I was taught as a child.
While I find this all very interesting and have taken it into consideration, I am content to omit it from my own approach to such matters. The long and short of it is, this is the longest I have been single in six years and while at times life seems like a little much to deal with on my own, I am finding it immensely satisfying and fortifying and am not inclined to drop that for just any guy. As such, I can almost certainly guarantee that I will not be bringing home a Spaniard, unless ridiculous love blind-sides me in the next few weeks. In which case, anything is game.

On Sunday Marga and Josep and I made bocadillos and loaded up the car with backpacks, Rat-Dog, and water bottles and took off for Andraxt and Sant Elm. We walked along the port in the sun and admired the boats docked at the yacht club as we made our way out to the light house to inspect the seawall which had been destroyed by the wind storms. We made it to Sant Elm in time for lunch and sat in the sand. Josep and I threw rocks at the sea and played tag, to the dog's delight. Then Josep and the dog took to the playground and Marga and I lounged in the sun, I in my T-shirt and she in her sweater and jacket, and absorbed and processed the sunrays. Then Josep and I had a competition as to who could launch the furthest off the swing before loading back up and heading home. It was a beautiful and sun-tiating weekend.

Calma, Calma

A Mallorcan phrase which is touted everywhere from George Sand's book to my own everyday interactions, is "calma, calma." I hear this every time I work myself into a tizzy or put on the airs of being in any kind of hurry. Essentially it is a short chant to remind the listener to chill out. It is not only the words, but the way in which they are said; the syllables are soft and drawn out, almost a cooing purr. During my recent news induced stress I illuminated Marga to my thinking. She listened indulgently and then smiled, laughed, and invoked the chant. The effects were quick and calming. It felt very nice.
So, now, here I am. I have survived my birthday and Valentine's Day, both days which, to me, present themselves more as existential crisis' than celebrations, and it feels good to be on the other side.

The proximity of my departure date (still TBD) has been impelling me to delve further into the areas of Palma which I have yet to explore. Marga and I are putting together a list of mandatory sites and events to attend before I leave. Today I focused on Museum-ing (free museum Sundays, woot!). I wandered over to the museu d'art modern i contemoprani de Palma. It was a relatively sunny afternoon so I sat outside, on the old city walls and basked and journaled before heading inside.
Granted I am not much of a modern art enthusiast but that does not mean I do not enjoy scrutinizing the massive pieces for fun details, opening myself to the feelings they evoke and wash through me, and studying the modes employed for possible ideas for the things I create. In keeping with the Mallorcan tradition of doting on Miro, there was an entire gallery dedicated to some of his works. The rest of the pieces were monolithic creations in hues of grey and brown, employing dead sunflowers, branches, and swans. Yup, a dead swan strapped to a canvass slopped in textures of grey qualifies as art. It was interesting. I did enjoy the sketchings gallery, containing pieces by the likes of Munch and Kandinsky. There was a sense of intimacy to it.
The museum is an inefficiently arranged network of zig-zagging ramps and rooms which eventually lead out onto the roof. Once you are outside the building you are greeted by a tiny army of plumbing pipe made mice. You follow the ramp on up until you stand looking out over the walls at the city and sea all around you.
The most fascinating aspect of it for me was the contrast of the museum to the ancient city walls into which it is tucked. Smooth, white modern blocks of cement and panes of glass meet the warm, textured stones of the oldest part of the city walls. There was no endeavor to meld the two styles; rather, the contrast was pronounced at every awkward juncture and made the viewer deeply aware of the evolving face of this island's culture. I wandered along the tops of the walls and thought about the guards who, hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, strode those catwalks with such different purpose and mentality.

By the end of it all I was feeling very grown up and illuminated. Although, now that I think about it, the grown-up feeling probably had something to do with the fact that I was wearing a turtle-neck...those always make me feel mature. Either way, it was a good Sunday.

Nothing to Report

Dear Reader,

I do apologize for my extended absence. I really only feel that my writing is worth your time when I have interesting experiences to relay and as of late my life has been a little blasse. That is bad for my blogging but just fine by me. But, I kind of miss you guys so I am going to give you a few tiddlie-bit updates and then barrage you with some speculation.

What does one talk about when there is nothing to actually talk about? The weather. The weather has been tripping the Mallorcans out as of late. Winds, cold, rain. "It is NEVER like this," they all complain. They are wrapped in sweaters and coats and I wander around in a T-shirt and jeans. I am almost about to start bundling up just so they will stop feeling the need to point out my inadequate attire and asking if I am not cold. The other day I walked out into a sunny, low 60s, crisp morning. I enjoyed my walk to the bus stop. The heaters on the bus were on full blast and, while I was originally excited to have claimed one of my three favorite seats on the bus, I quickly had to relinquish it because it was too close to the heater. Then I walked into my first morning class and the teacher, Pillar, stood in front of the be-sweatered first graders, wearing a long sleeve shirt, a sweater, and a jacket. Madness I say. Pure and simple.

Aside from that, my schedule at La Purisima has changed a bit. I now work with an English teacher for all my classes and actually am getting to be a lot more involved with the kids. I get 20 minutes of the class time to teach them and, so far, I have taught my first graders 'twinkle twinkle little star' and 'I'm a little Teapot.' They love it. My second graders recently went to see the Wizard of Oz so I have talked about it being the first color movie and we have learned a few of the songs. Also fun.
This past week I presented a Power Point I made about Alaska to several of the older classes and they all seemed to enjoy it and were fascinated by the dogs and the lifestyle.

I have recently begun to explore the world of 'podcasts' and delight in listening to a weekly array of political, international, musical, and historical information. And by 'delight' I mean 'frequently feel impelled to react strongly to.' I listen to Obama's 5 minute address to us each week as he keeps on complaining about what Bush has left him and making statements which give us very little indication as to what exactly he is intending to do to get us moving again; other than the promise to throw money at the problems. I am a simple mind that needs things laid our plain and clear, would it be too much to ask for a President to lay out a basic, bullet point version of his step by step plan to move us forward? A long term plan and a short term plan would really help our confidence. Or have I just missed it? I listen to a variety of reporters and news providers from around the world and from different perspectives as they talk themselves into a tizzy. I am somehow ever more awed at how confusing they are making this whole thing and am further resolved that a bigger government is not the answer to our problems.

Life lesson: things go wrong. This is the universe informing us we were going in the wrong direction. Responding to the situation by running around, exuding fatalism and panic while placing blame and throwing fits does not help in any way. Gay taught me that when I was 17.
It all seems pretty simple to me and I am going to lay it out here so that maybe you can help me understand where I am thinking wrong:

The number four comedy singing duo in New Zealand, Flight of the Concords, presented me with my starting point for this tirade. An American comedian is interviewing them about their rising careers. They are interviewing him back. He enthusiastically asks them "So, how big are you guys gonna make it?"
"Umm...probably, about medium. Yeah. Medium. Maybe medium large," they answer.
He laughs and informs them that, in America, we go BIG. Like, their ambition should be to take over the comedy world.
"No. no, thanks, We like medium."

We dream and scheme for that next step up. We don't just want the biggest house we can buy, we want the house that is bigger than we can buy. So we take out loans that are bigger than we can pay because a salesman with ulterior motives pours sweet dreams into our ears. We furnish these houses on credit cards that we don't even think about having to pay back because They promise us that we don't HAVE to worry about paying them back for a year at least.

It is the rapacious consumerism of the first world that has gotten us into this mess and now we seem to be under the preposterous presumption that we can buy ourselves out of it. It is like we think putting a different spin on the same faulty mentality is going to trick the system into working like it did before. America seems to intend to do this to the tune of 800 billion big ones. I really don't understand how printing more little green pieces of paper is going to help us when we are already so in debt to other countries anyway, but that is something for the economists to work out.
It seems pretty obvious to me that, just like with the laws of gravity, everything that goes up must come down. This is something that I am happy to see more and more people coming to terms with. I am just not sure why we have to think it is such a bad thing. So, okay, you had to move out of your dream house a few months ago and then lost your job last week. That feels terrible and frightening, no doubt. So, instead of huddling inside, waiting for someone to pass the magic law to restore you to your borrowed lifestyle, why don't you go into your back yard and plant a garden? Start growing your own vegetables, save yourself some money; be doing something. Trade some of your tomatoes for your neighbors peppers. No harm in that now is there? That was how Voltaire's Candide finally came to appreciate his life, maybe we can peel ourselves away from the boob tube and internet long enough to try it. Oh but no, I forget, the world's weather patterns are freaking out so the vegetables wouldn't even know how to grow. So, let's look at some other, big scale possibilities.
Obama wants us to go Green. Neat. That can't be a bad idea. Let's draw what we can from it. If he is going to pass laws to make us reduce emissions, let's get scientists in on developing technology. Something America has always been good at is kicking butt and getting to that cutting edge first, let's do it again. New methods will require new infrastructure. Okay, so there, now we have jobs for scientists, architects, builders, and anyone else who can find a niche in that sector. New products will require testing and new shops. Those are markets that will just have to shift. Easy enough. Yeah it will take time but let's get a little cliche and remind ourselves that Rome was not built in a day. To me at least this sounds a lot more practical than inventing highway construction work.
A big deal lately has been the auto industry. We have pushed our use of fossil fuel use to the max anyway. Also, if we get away from our oil dependence and we can leave the Middle East to tear itself apart in peace. The average American home has more than enough cars, I am pretty sure we could make it a year or two without needing too many new ones out on the market. Besides, with auto makers manipulating vehicles into the 'digital' plan, whereby they give themselves exclusive power to fix anything that is wrong, is a step which I do not mind seeing get cut short. Men who can fix their own cars are incredibly attractive and I will not have the industry rob me of that pleasure in life.
Develop new ways to power the factories. Design new cars. Minivans fueled by children's excess energy. Sports cars powered by ego. Whatever, get to it, the sky is the limit. I am willing to bet that Ford's assembly line idea will still be applicable and soon enough the Unions will have their platforms back and everyone can return to their old routines, just in an updated environment.

And, so, yeah. Those are some of the ideas that keep me lying awake at night. I have faith that we will eventually get around to moving everything into order but it really depends on how long we insist on looking around for the answers inside our own sphincter.

*Update: In a recent flurry of emails and phone calls I have been invited back to work on the glacier in Alaska and have accepted. This means I will be heading back to the states earlier than I had thought. I will probably be looking at a ticket back to KC around mid to late April and then back up to Alaska to start work May 1st. I am really excited. Like, really, really excited.

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.