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!

What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it is all about?

Man, life flies. I have been around for 22 years but I still have no idea how to reconcile that into anything. I mean, I have gained experiences, I have learned and grown, but to most other humans I am still young, and being faced with mountains and buildings which have spanned centuries, well, I just have a hard time fitting the context. In this same way, things can happen, big things, that can throw us off kilter. Like, moving to a foreign country, for instance. But sometimes those things seem more managable than say, a double booking over the holidays or a sickly laptop. Humans are so strange.
So, as I am sure you can tell from what I have already said, I have been spending a lot of time outside, just thinking, because my laptop is on the fritz (I am using Marga´s) but I have yet to find anyone to look at it, so I don´t know. It is largely due to my dislike of the foreign keyboard that I have not posted. That and the fact that I can´t upload pictures. Again, something tiny having a disproportionate effect...
So that is my apology for not having photos with this posting.

Since I last posted, I have been living on much as I have in the first month of coming here. Exploring, learning, loving.
I went on a ladies picnic last week with 4 of the women from school and their children. We went to Isabelle's country house, settled into a hillside outside Valldemossa. I helped get the food started and chatted with the women as the kids played in the expansive yard, spanning three terraced levels of earth. I soon set off to explore the trails around Valldemossa, as I am planning a cross-island hike that goes through here. I set off with my little backpack, in my hiking clothes with my map and I was on top of the world. Turns out I became incredibly lost and, at no point do I think I actually had any idea where I was, but it was fun and the valley and hills were so beautiful. I always knew how to get back to the town and that was really all I needed. I watched the differing phases of daylight move across the town and the trees and made it back by 2 for lunch.
We ate in the traditional old kitchen, with the fire burning in the corner. And I was totally in on all the grown up talk. And, listen, this is to all you adults who ever told me "I´ll tell you when you are older" or any other such dismissal, I want you to know that you guys made adult talk seem a lot more exciting than it actually is. I mean, jeeze, most of the time you just talk about your kids and stuff. I thought the secrets of the world would be laid out flat and clear. Turns out you guys are just as confused about things as we were. Except you worry about serious things, we kids were mainly worried aobut who had the better fort.
But it was fun, I felt like an explorer into this new territory of `adult womanhood.´ Sitting and talking and bustling. I think I am getting pretty good at it, but I do still have tons of work left to do. As evening approached we packed all the kids and dogs and food up and went home. It was an awesome day.
Then on Sunday, Marga and I met up with the big group of teachers again and we went on another excursion. This time we walked the cliff tops of Cap Blanc, to the south west lip of the bay to Palma. The cliff faces waved off into the distance, eventually giving way to a glimpse of the largest city on these islands (comprising half the population of the entire territory) as a tiny haze of buildings. The cliffs were orange and warm, like the sun that day. So different from the gray and white of the cliffs in England. An entirely different feeling and alluring in its own way. We walked in the sun and the breeze along the incredibly flat brink of the cliffs. Stopping to look out to the sea and chat. We quickly came across some old soldier bunkers. Some little mounds dug out with views out to the sea. To defend against pirates. Seriously. Anna. Pirates.
We found a tunnel between bunkers but no one wanted to go through it because it was so dark. Being a Hughes, I of course had a flashlight on me. Three of us walked through the tunnel. It was very tunnely. Long, dark, cold, echoey. Cool.
We went on about another hour and then sat on the cliff for our lunch. A few of the women were incensed that some had suggested we only spend an hour eating lunch so we could walk more. It quickly became clear that this was generally regarded as impossible. So we settled to. Same elaborate lay out of food, same lounging and constant preoccupation with keeping me from going too close to the ledge, same mutual joy in sharing in such an amazing place.
The seagulls drifting on winds below us, the low shrubbery that hid delicious mushrooms under their branches (the women were teaching me about which are safe and which are poisinous). It was a brilliant and tiring day. Just my kind!
Since then it has been back to classes, starting to do a little tutoring so that is good, and today, on our weekly adventure, Cristina and I went to a village called Sant Elm, that looks out over this nature preserve island called ´sa dragonera´. The place was a literal ghost town, as it was a cloudy and chilly day, but Cristina and I had a coffee and talked about life and watched the water and enjoyed the peace and silence.
And now I am sitting here, sharing it all with you, thinking about dinner and starting to do a little lesson planning, but I had actually better get to it.

I love you all, thank you.

Field Trippin'

A few days ago Marga invited me to join in on an excursion for the third and fourth graders to the village of Orient and its apple orchards and mountains.

We arrived at the school early today to help make the bagged lunches and then I got to observe elementary school teachers at work, organizing 50 some odd squirming, excited children into something resembling enough order before the buses showed up. We headed north and east of Palma on one of the few autopistas on the island before pulling off into a village where we promptly got the larger of the two buses stuck on some back road.

Now, let me explain something about European buses, their fronts are completely flat and their turning set up is far different from cars with 'bonnets', so if you are sitting in the front row, as I was, you watch through the giant, flat pane of glass and feel yourself moving directly toward, say, the wall right in front of you, before cutting off and turning. In this exact arrangement we came to a T in the road, facing a wall, with a wall to our right and a stone fence to our left and after several attempts which brought us to within centimeters of the wall in front of us, we maneuvered backwards down the street (much to the amusement of the capped old chaps having their morning 'meet me at my garage' discussions) and came at it from a different route.
Suffice it to say, the drive into the mountains was breathtaking in several senses of the word. We followed a narrow, winding road up between two mountains called Castell d'Alaro (left) and Alcadena (right) between which, according to native lore, witches nightly string a tela de araña on which to play and dance until sunrise. They were beautiful, striking and screamed "get on your climbing shoes, find some ropes and climb us!"

We drove through impossibly lush fields nestled into and along the necks of mountain valleys, all the while singing the standard 'kids on a field trip' songs.

We soon were pulling into the tiny village of Orient, comprised of some 10-15 huge old stone edifices, surrounded by plots of green fields and apple orchards. As we arrived at about 10:30 the first order of business was to get all the kids seated at old wooden benches at tables and for everyone to snack. This gave me the opportunity to explore the two streets of the village and to locate the tiny restaurant which, according to one of the teachers, serves some amazing, stone oven baked dishes (something to bear in mind granddaddy and grandmother=)). I was struck by the isolation and peacefulness of the area. It was a nice counterweight to flurry of activity that was my miniature companions.

We then set out into the warm sunlight toting tiny backpacks with uniform sweaters tied around waists or carried awkwardly over arms, heads, tied to hats and backpacks and any other strange arrangement which might strike a 4th grader as a good idea. We passed through a couple low fields around the village, stopping several times for our tour guide to teach us about the village, the industry and history of the area. He did all of this speaking in a Mallorquin dialect which Marga told me she had not heard since her grandfather. I was able to understand and process about 25% of this but seriously enjoyed the sounds as well as the pleasure of focusing and straining my mind to capture what I did know and to compound onto that, picking up what I understood and putting together what I could infer from gestures and the likes.
We made our way into an apple orchard where we were each allowed to pick an apple to take home to show our parents...so, check it out mom and dad! Look what I got on my field trip today.
From there we began to climb into a shaded wood, thus requiring the re-employment of the fleece I had earlier packed away. Along the trail we came across families carrying wicker baskets full of mushrooms they had picked on the mountain-side, as well as a flock of curious, bell toting sheep.

We passed a tree which they calculated to be over 300 years old and on to a recreated site the traditional method of making coal here on the islands. This process took from late spring to early fall and required full time maintenance. To begin with a large pile of solid logs were stacked close together, covered by a layer of samller wood, thatched with a heavy grass and then encased in dirt. The middle was left open as a sort of smoke stack and could be covered or exposed according to the temperature of fire necessary to enable the process. The aim being to reduce the wood to coal. The process required constant supervision and as such a small hut was built close to the fire ring where a man lived through all the months of burning. To my right you can see the recreated burn pile (only about half the size of the historical burns) and in the background to my left you can see the low hut in which the watcher resided, sleeping on a mat of reeds supported on rocks.

From there we ambled on up the mountainside, collecting acorns, rocks and whatever else struck anyone's fancy. Each, naturally, requiring some sort of proud display to anyone who would pay attention. All the kids were quite taken with the idea of using the acorn tops as finger hats and of the double snap and palm to fist horse sound that dad has taught me. We came to a dynamited pass where the herds were moved between villages. We passed several other old burn sites and found a large poop which the children decided probably belonged to one of the witches who must hide in those mountains during the day, waiting to play during the nights.

We stopped again to learn about native insects and birds before moving on to our lunch site/battleground/princess castle/enchanted wood/free for all toilet. While climbing in one of the trees I silently witnessed the passing of a roving soldier battalion of 3rd grade boys trying to decide which tree they should, in their words, 'poison.'

From there we passed down, back out of the woods, through a dried up 'torrent' bed and on down a long, muddy sheep path with striking views of the surrounding meadows to our pick up point. I then stared happily and mindlessly out the window as we departed the peaceful valley and was soon sleeping all the way back to Palma.

I loved seeing such a secluded area of Mallorca, existing quietly in its own epoch and time frames. I also enjoyed watching the children and how engrossed they could become with objectives such as filling an empty water bottle with nuts, stones, exploring for bugs, working together to secretly carry a 10 ft. branch over a mile, just for the joy of manly teamwork and eluding teacherly detection.
Quite a joy.

Here we are, there we go

So much has happened since my last post that I have been intimidated out of posting for a few days. But I suppose 'the times they are a changin'' and it is better to keep up as well as I can. So let us begin with Halloween.

Marga and the English teachers orchestrated a big Halloween bash for the kids. It took the whole afternoon period (3pm-5pm) and involved bringing 150 kids into a gym where we had set up 6 stations for them to visit. Card making, Halloween mask decorating, magic potion station, story station, mystery box and 'bobbing for apples.' I was in charge of the story station so I put together 2 stories to read to the varying levels. For the older kids I told a simplified version of Sleepy Hollow, complete with pictures and the galloping horse sound I learned from my Dad when I was little. For the younger kids it was a story about an old woman at her spinning wheel and the arrival of a strange visitor who came in pieces (feet, legs, body, etc. [vocab they knew]). The magic potion station was a big hit b/c the kids got to drink the Ghoulish Punch which resulted and they also got to try pumpkin seeds. Something which they found interesting. They also liked the mystery boxes, where they put their hands into boxes we had decorated that were filled with things such as a hairy pretend spider, bones, jello, noodles, etc. By far my favorite station, if for nothing else than the amusing 'lost in translation' nature of it was 'bobbing for apples.' When I first suggested the idea the teachers were all gung-ho for it, but they then decided it was too dangerous, so instead they decided that hiding candies in vats of flour and letting the kids nuzzle it out would get the idea across. I must admit I was a bit worried about flour paste suffocation but it worked out with no side problems aside from a flour fight at the end. All in all it was a great success. The kids had fun and we spoke to them in English for most of it. At least half the kids donned some piece of a Halloween costume and were quite pleased with themselves. There were a lot of witches and vampires and such but it is clear that an American conception of Halloween is catching on over here.

After this exciting Friday activity we had a 3 day weekend to play with so I opted for a walking visit to the grounds of Bellver Castle which sits on a hill overlooking the city of Palma. I am including a video I took from the top of the castle.
I then explored the grounds, which I pretty much had to myself as the rainy weather had scared almost everyone else indoors. Afterwards I engaged in one of my favorite exploring activities which involves taking various city buses out to their furthest point and then getting off and wandering around. The one I chose on that day took me out to Isletas to the farwest side of Palma where I watched the sea waves overtaking the beaches and walk ways and enjoyed the sea breeze and watching the locals delighting in the unusually active waters. I sat for about an hour, eating my bread and cheese and mandarines wondering at the temprament of the waters and enjoying the occasional sea froth which managed to jump the 10 foot wall on which I was perched and splashed my feet. At the end of the day I was surprised to touch my face and find it coated in salt. Proof of my outing and a very good day.

I have found there is something to the weather here. Whie various small cloud cells bring varrying degrees of rain, they are also broken up by spots of brilliant, piercing sunlight and blue skies. Watching the shadows of the clouds glide across the water and the mountains and the inevitable rainbows that result is utterly lovely. And it is a celestial blessing when, on an otherwise wet day, the sun breaks through and shines directly and exclusively on you as you are going about your daily business. A little kiss from heaven.

On Tuesday Cristina and I took our weekly outing and went to visit the village town of Deiá, located on the west coast of the island in the Tramuntana mountains between Valldemossa and Soller. It is a tiny village known for being the village of the artists. Once there it was easy to see why. The town sits on a smooth little hill settled in a deep valley, surrounded on all sides by steep mountains with a perfect V shape view out to the sea. Houses were burning their fall leaf piles and I watched as these few columns of smoke rose upwards before being scattered into thin hazes by the winds which caught them just as they crested the mountain tops. We climbed to the top of the hill of the town to find the old cemetery where Robert Graves was burried. Being the day after the Day of the Saints, it was full of freshly deposited flowers and mementos. It was a beautiful peaceful place to spend a few moments of quite reflection on those in my life who have left this earth and to send thanks to them for their contributions to this earth and the people around me and, as such, making it possible for me to be here now, enjoying these moments in the capacity that I do.
Unlike most towns here, where the cemeteries are on the outskirts, the graveyard and adjoining church claimed the very top of the hill and center of the old village, commanding a gorgeous view of the surrounding mountains and the gorge which leads out to the sea. The hills were covered in mandarine and lemon trees, the ground carpeted by bright green undergrowth. The mountains rose into the deeper green of the larger trees and above that stood the windwept tops where the rocky earth stood out, spotted with low growing trees and shrubs. The sun set over the town, casting the old stone houses in the warmest hues of yellow and red and orange before relinquishing them to the cool shadows of evening.

Since then I have been busy in procuring clothing which befits the cooling weather. Turns out that just because these are Mediterranean islands does not mean it is always warm and temperate here. Apparently the winters here get down to around 10 degrees C of a very humid and bone chilling nature. As such I have been on the hunt for on sale sweaters, long pants and purchased a warm coat. All of this being brightened by the prospect of visits from a number of my most goodest favorite people ever! I am loved and blessed and more than thrilled to share it with you in any way possible.

~~~~~~~
Aside from these reflections and stories of my life, we are facing monumental changes in our own American culture. The election of Senator Obama to the position of President has been a matter of great excitement over here. Strangers on the street and in the supermarkets stop me to congratulate me on the election of Obama, so much so that it makes me wish that Presidential elections were international popularity contests because if so, we just won a big gold star. It will be interesting to see what this really means for us. Regardless of our individual sentiments on the matter, I think it says a lot about our country that we have elected a black man to the role of leader and face of our country.
And so again I say, 'the times they are a changin'.'

No Matter Where in the World I go, the Rain is Still Wet

What a week. I have been working on plans with the English teachers at La Purisima to put on a Halloween party for all of the primary classes. It takes a lot of planning to come up with what to do with 150 kids for 2 hours! But we have also been having a lot of fun doing it. Picking out what we are going to dress as, planning activities, etc. It will be fun, especially since this will be the first 'Halloween experience' most of these kids have ever had.

Besides that, another interesting recent event was a rain storm. I have learned that Mallorcans are not a people well equipped for such cataclysmic events. For starters, they clearly did not build their sidewalks with rain in mind, as they become incredibly slippery when wet. Secondly, I was to be working with the kids this fateful Wednesday but instead we all watched Toy Story in Spanish b/c we could not go outside. Fortunately the rain had stopped before we got out of class.

Probably my most eventful day of the week was Tuesday. I spent my morning standing in ques around the police station waiting to get my NIE (Numero de Identificacion para Extranjeros). It was lovely. The building was in the middle of a huge construction site and I had to get there 45 minutes before the place even opened so that I could even stand a chance to get in. I got to wake up gently to the sound of jack hammers. Every woman's true passion, as any man knows. It actually was not so bad but my inherent loathing of waiting in lines predisposed me to dislike the process. However, due to the fact that I am a real live grown up, I sucked it up and took it. I think I got it pretty easy though b/c once we were moving and I got inside they directed me elsewhere. I was dubious because the place they were pointing me to had no line, and in a place like this, if there is not a line, it probably means you have gone wrong somewhere. But I moved in the general direction the man had pointed me in, ducked under a few stretches of tape, peeked through a few doors and happened into the room where you get to take a number to wait to be served. Naturally there was a line but apparently if you stand and look like a confused white girl in just the right spot you get to take a number before everyone else. So then I waited in a small lobby and noticed that the woman sitting next to me had a Cuban passport. Being a good American, I have never seen a Cuban passport so she let me look at hers. That was pretty exciting. My number was called and I walk to this young man sitting behind a desk and took a seat. He seemed to translate "good morning, how are you" as "please flirt with me" which I decided could not hurt my chances at getting the proper documentation so I let it be. 2 headshots and a black fingerprint later and I was out the door with instructions to return in 40 days to pick up my number which will allow me to open a bank account and get on with life in general. So hooray.

I then made my way through town and back up to La Purisima to meet with Cristina for our Tuesday afternoon outings. This particular Tuesday we went to a town called Soller. It is apparently the chilliest place on the island, as it is in a valley. but its being in a valley meant we got to go through this super long tunnel through which I could not even hold my breath half the way! As we drove through the mountains I noticed it getting ever greener and the hills were steep and littered with old stone fences in the most improbable places. We arrived in the town and maneuvered a parking spot some blocks out of the way. It is a pretty big town with many very narrow and winding streets. It was very pretty, with a striking old church in the middle. It was a pretty town with all sorts of alluring mountains around it. One of note rose above the rest. The trees cut off about half way up and the top half was absolutely bare. It looked much like a tooth. Although not Tooth of Time quality white. More of a reddish off brown gray. (Yeah, wow THAT makes sense). But anyway it was beautiful and looked challenging, and I noticed people walking around town in hiking clothes with trekking poles and backpacks and now I can't stop wondering if maybe it is climbable. I will be looking into this.
Either way, We ambled about for a bit and then caught the old wooden trolley out to the sea side where we walked on the beach and ate artisian orange ice cream made from oranges grown there in Soller which are renown for being the tastiest in Mallorca. I have never had ice cream quite like this before and really found the entire experience delightful. Everyone we saw was relaxed and half of us were contentedly having at ice cream cones, each in our own way. There were the bottom feeders, who nibbled the bottom of the cones off and drank it from there, there were the perfectionists, licking around the ice cream, keeping it always in perfect symmetry and avoiding any dripping, there were the One-siders who really only seemed aware of the ice cream facing them, allowing the other side to drip deliciously all over their fingers, and many other such variations. I was musing on this diversity of characters when Cristina pointed out that it was all but impossible to feel stress in a place like this. It really did seem that everything about the town was structured so as to make stress and hurry an impossibility. I liked this observation very much and gave myself over to it in all ways possible. The roads were really to narrow to speed on, there were no office buildings anywhere, I did not see a single suit the whole day, everything was slow and content.
As we walked along the water the harbour turned into a beach turned back into a boat harbour where I made my acquaintance with two forms of local boats. The first is associated with Menorca (another of the islands) and is called a Menorquin Yacht. They are more plesure oriented and most come, like the one pictured, with a back deck to hold a prop boat to take in to visit islands and such. The second boat is a Mallorcan fishing boat and I am just kicking myself because I was so determined to remember its name for you guys. I will ask again tomorrow and figure it out. Either way, it is not so much of a pleasure boat and is used for fishing and other such practical endeavours. These boats populate the harbours by the hundreds and there is something about looking down a length of dozens upon dozens of them that remind you that no matter how touristy a place can be made, people still have to eat, and people work for their food and the idea of locals doing it on small scale, fishing for their families and the fish market gives me a deep sense of pleasure.

We caught the trolley back in to the city and maneuvered the labyrinth of its streets with very little event and only a little bit of backtracking. It was an awesome day and I now know of a city where I am going to have to go again.

If you are reading this, then you are probably a person that I am missing. But I love you even more than that, so live well and please carry me in your hearts b/c I am carrying you in mine.