No Quiero Ir...

Ya me queda poco para regresar...I only have a few days left in Madrid and I don't want to leave. Had coffee with my friend from Finland, then walked around Bilbao and such enjoying the cool autumn breeze and rocking my fabulous Moroccan red leather coat. It was bittersweet. The thought just keeps repeating in my head that on Thursday I'll be on a plane back to Casablanca...then on Friday to NYC. I called Iberia and got my flight reinstated so I am actually going to be able to leave the country, but the truth is I just don't want to go. I want to stay and perfect the art of making tortilla de potata. I want to have tapas in Puerta del Sol and watch the sun set over the Templo de Debod. I want to figure out what the hell they put on the sauce that goes over the papas bravas...besides Tabasco. I want to drink mojitos in La Latina and finally check out the poetry readings in Lavapies. I'm not even gone yet and already I'm having separation anxiety. But all good things...

Siesta: Practicing the Spanish National Sport in Portugal

I have reached the point in my trip where I am absolutely exhausted. If I never see another bus, train, or plane, it might be too soon. And I still have three planes, a bus, and a long car ride before I find myself even close to back where I started. Do I regret it? No.

Just spent the last four days tooling around Portugal. Lisbon (Lisboa) is a lovely city that reminds me of several cities. As you enter the city to your right is a huge platform with a statue of Christ with his arms out like the one you might see in Rio de Janeiro (only Jesus is smaller because by the time the got around to constructing the Christ part, some asshole had stolen the majority of the money donated by all those faithful Catholics). Past this if you're on the A5, you'll find yourself crossing a bridge identical to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fransisco (built by the same firm). Then as you walk around in the old part of time you'll find a very cool elevator and some street cars that remind me a lot of what you might find in Vina del Mar in Chile. But despite the familiar parts, Lisbon manages to pull it all together in a way that is beautiful and uniquely Portuguese from the tiny uneven hand made cobblestone sidewalks, to the lovely plazas filled with statues of men on horseback. I found myself pleasantly enchanted. We arrived with several hours of daylight left, so though I was tired and cranky from the ride, I decided to walk a bit and made my way right to the heart of the city.

Sunday afternoon seems to be the same everywhere, a time to chill, to have a glass of port or to sit in an outdoor cafe watching the world pass you by. While the rest of the city seemed dead, closer to the water there were lots of people and surprisingly lots of black men, just hanging out and eating their queixadas (little cheese tarts that taste like cinnamon and are a must try delicacy found in any Portuguese bakery or cafe). Where in Madrid I have seen a large population of what appear to be African vendors, in Portugal there seemed to be a lot of Brazilian or African men just hanging out, seemly much more integrated into the population. I wonder what the difference is. I didn't find anyone I could ask though. I walked all the way down to the waterfront which reeked of freshly caught fish, then made my way back to the hotel for a grilled cheese sandwich and sweet glass of port.

The following day I visited Sintra and Cascais with the tour group. Who goes to Portugal in late September in the middle of the week? Lots of old people from Brazil, Argentina, Venezuela, Columbia, and Mexico. I was the only person from the US (the second youngest...the youngest being my 11 year old friend). There was one woman from Vancouver, Canada (the only person on the bus who didn't speak Spanish). Everyone seemed to stick to their nationality though I was adopted by the Mexicans. I made friends with a family on a trip from Mexico City to New York to Madrid. The mom is a jewelry designer and sells her work in stores around the world. She was in Madrid for a jewelry exhibition, but wanted to take her son and her mother to visit Portugal. So we walked the gardens and the castles together, accompanied by my seatmate, another gentleman from Mexico city.

Portugal seemed to have more Castles per capita than restaurants. Every time you turn around...oh that's so and so's palace. Oh, that's King Whoever's summer house. In Sintra we visited a beautiful castle called Castelo Dos Mouros, the Castle of the Moors. It was built by the Moors in either the 9th or the 10th century, but then taken over and remodeled by King Ferdinand the 2 in the 19th century. That's the short version. All around were these beautiful gardens. The entire town of Sintra is like one huge botanical garden. Everything grows there from kiwi to agave (what they make tequila out of), jacaranda, cork trees, pine tree, oaks, eucalyptus. You name, it grows in Sintra because it's a perfect temperature almost all of the time. After a fabulous lunch of Bacalou (a typical Portuguese dish...cod fish grilled in a strew of onions, tomatoes and spices) we headed to Cascais, a beach town filled with charming little shops. Afterwards we went back to Lisbon. I planned on having a night cap, but I was so tired I couldn't pull myself out of the room.

The next day we went to Fatima. Fatima is a city famous for being the site where three little kids met the Virgin Mary. Mary seems to be following me around Europe. Just before arriving to the city we made a pit stop for coffee at what I can only describe as a one stop shopping for all things Christian. It was literally a warehouse store filled with everything from statues of the Virgin, including a whole selection of glow in the dark Marys, to rosaries, vestments, candles, vials of holy water, crosses made of all different materials and engraved with common names, and of course postcards and port and the obligatory gallo (or Rooster) which is everywhere.

SIDE NOTE: The Rooster Story. There are several versions, but the one I liked the best is about a young man who was a pilgrim on the Road to Santiago. There are several Inns on the road that serve as resting places for pilgrims. Our hero chose the wrong Inn. He was a quiet man who, while polite, wasn't that entertaining of a guest. Somehow his silence managed to offend the woman who owned the Inn. She waited until he wasn't looking and then hid a valuable crystal vase in his backpack. As soon as he left, she called the police and told them she'd been robbed. They found the pilgrim matching his description around midday and asked him if they could look through his belongings. As he was no thief, he readily agreed, having no idea that he was being set up. Of course the police found the crystal vase...which the pilgrim had never seen before in his life...and decided that he was guilty. The penalty at that time was life in prison, but before they took him in, they asked him if he had any last requests. Since it was around lunch time, he asked the officers to feed him one last good meal. So one of the officers took him to his home where his wife had prepared a roasted chicken. The pilgrim, for the millionth time told the man that he wasn't guilty. Then he asked God for a sign of his innocents. If I'm innocent, then that chicken will get up and walk away. Of course the chicken was dead and roasted, so the likelihood of it walking anywhere was pretty slim. But that turned out to be the miracle, the chicken rose from the plate and crowed the pilgrims innocence. The pilgrim didn't go to jail and a colorful rooster became a national logo for Portugal. END OF SIDE NOTE.

So we entered Fatima. The bus dropped us off at the Cathedral which is actually 2 cathedrals, one new and one old, a small chapel, a fountain with curative properties, a garden, a candle store, a candle alter, and a large open space in between it all marking the territory of the compound. I drank the healing water, washed my hands and feet, bought 3 candles, lit one, and prayed. Despite all the people and all the rampant capitalism, I did feel like I was on holy ground. I let the energy of Fatima course through me and ground me. And then, since I still had an hour left, I wandered around the town which was filled with stores selling Virgins. I really don't care for the whole religious tourism thing. It seems cheap and opportunistic. So I bought myself a pastry and was happy to go back to Lisbon.

After being surrounded by so many people wanting healings I found myself with a headache and feeling kind of motion sick and ready to be alone. I promised my Dad I would get him a sweatshirt from the Hard Rock Cafe though, so when we got back to the hotel I just dropped off my candles and set off with Pedro and the Suarez family in tow to buy a shirt and bottle of port for la Bea. This ended up being a much longer excursion that I intended. We found the Hard Rock with ease, then decided to lunch at a little Italian spot. Afterward, we wandered down towards the waterfront where we discovered Papa Bubble, an old-fashioned artisan candy shop where they make hard candy and lollipops by hand. We watched them stretch the candy and it was delicious and kind of whimsical. It was dark by the time we got back to the hotel.





Then we were up early the next day and on our way to Merida where we saw Roman ruins...which just made me think about the US and how similar we are to the Empire of ancient Rome. We're taking over everywhere and replacing the native cultures with our own made up brand of crap. While it was fabulous to turn on the TV in the hotel and have not only CNN and BBC in English, but also MTV, VH1, and 2 Fox channels playing Grey's Anatomy, House, Bones, and several of my favorite shows in English. It was also a little scary. I mean why? There was plenty of TV in Portuguese to watch, but there is something kind scary about how popular the US is...it's not exactly popular, it's like some insidious form of colonization. Conversion by media. And it's not just here...it's in Spain too and Africa. I remember being in Ghana and being asked for t-shirts or jeans, anything US. But why? It's definitely something on my mind. It makes me wonder if pretty soon there'll be no point to traveling because we'll all have assimilated into the same thing...and is that really a good thing? I mean yeah UNESCO is out there turning all these cultural landmarks into world heritage sites, but is this unity or international colonization? I'm happy to be back at my Madrid home.

Portugal

Mojitos con Jesus y Tortilla de Patata

With Bea gone to Geneva, I spent the weekend eating way too many chocolate digestive cookies and watching bad Steven Segal movies dubbed in Spanish. I know, what a waste right? All of Madrid at my feet and I choose to veg out with homemade bocadillos de atun and my computer. To my credit I did apply to two jobs and send out two query letters for my novel, so it wasn't all bad, but at a certain point I realized I needed to leave the apartment. What better excuse than to have a mojito, so I showered got all dolled up and walked to a little Irish pub called The Black Corner. There my friendly barmen Luis and Ruben indulged me with a platter of free potato chips while I sucked down a failed attempt at a Mojito. Between the cigarette smoke and the bad 80s music I couldn't stay long. I thought breifly about walking down to this Cuban place I saw earlier in the week, but I just didn't have it in me. As I was walking home I noticed a little cafe I'd never seen before and on the door was a sign stating "el mejor mojito del mundo 5 euros". I lingered a moment deciding.

"Pasa," the elderly gentleman said.
I lingered a little longer, but he just became more insistent.
"Pasa. Somos todos amigos aqui." We're all friends here. Come in. So I did and Jesus (that was his name) bought me a mojito while Chari, the bar woman, started her evening clean up. Jesus is clearly a regular. He is a big bellied older gentleman with a beard and jolly way about him. While Chari mixed my drink he told me that there was some other black woman who worked here and did I know her? He wanted to know how long I planned to be here and then he paid with a 12 euro coin...which I swear is fake. He invited me to come down for brunch the next day. Apparently there is a buffet. Then Chari gave me some free vegetarian lasagna to go and I made my way back home thinking about the randomness of strangers. It was definitely not the best mojito in the world (it tasted oddly of basil), but it was free and potent. I never did make it down for brunch, but I did leave the apartment to buy some potatoes. I decided that I would make tortilla de potata...a staple of any Spanish repertoire.

I was just sinking into another bad movie when Bea sent me a message saying she was coming home from her conference early. Apparently the other Spaniards at the conference were from Cataluna and decided they didn't feel like speaking Spanish. They iced her out the whole time, so finally she used the Reagan card. I have a friend from the US who just arrived in Madrid. I have to fly back immediately. She didn't mention the fact that I'd been here 3 weeks already. LOL. I was glad to serve a purpose. That got me motivated. I finally pried myself off the couch long enough to actually put together a decent tortilla de patata and to pack my bags for Portugal...where I plan to actually do and see things again. Yeah.

Back in Madrid

For most of my down south time, my camera was unfortunately out of action, but I promise to post some fabulous beach pictures when Bea gets back from Geneva. It's a gray September day in Madrid and I'm enjoying some peach juice and solitude. Those few days in Andalucia were fantastic, but there is something so soothing about being back here again. It feels more like the real world. I'm out of books in English so I'm reading El Libro de Los Abrazos by Eduardo Galeano a lovely book of short stories. This one is called La uva y el vino (the grape and the wine):

Un hombre de las vinas hablo, en agonia, al oido de Marcela. Antes de morir, le revelo su secreto: -La uva - le susurro - esta hecha de vino. Marcela Perez Silva me lo conto, y yo pense: Si la uva esta hecha de vino, quiza nosotros somos las palabras que cuenten lo que somos.

A man of the vinyards spoke in agony into the ear of Marcela. Before he died, he revealed his secret: The grape - he whispered - is made of wine. Marcela Perez Silva told me and I thought: If the grape is made of wine, then perhaps we are made of the words that tell us who we are.

How beautiful and perfect a sentiment when right now especially I feel like this trip has left me full of juicy words. Today I am actually working. Yesterday I edited another 50 pages and today I made my list of favorite YA books with strong female leads or unconventional lead characters and I am googling every author to find their agents and start the query letter process. Wish me luck.

Tortugas, Dunes, y Pinos...desde aqui se ve Marruecos

Vamos a la playa. Wake up, have some breakfast, put your swim suit on...a la playa! When we woke up around 11am, La Charo had been cooking for 2 hours and was pretty pissed when Bea told her we were going to make some sandwiches and go to the beach. Charo was making me a special paella. I felt bad, but I also really wanted to go to this beach Raul had told me about. Bolonia. So after lots of apologizing, Charo decided the paella fixings would keep for the next day. We packed our beach bag and drove to Bolonia.

Top 5 coolest things about Bolonia:
1) A drop dead gorgeous beach with turquoise clear water
2) Sand dunes that cover a grove of pine trees
3) Roman Ruins
4) Turtles that live in the really dirty water beneath the bridge by the parking lot
5) The hidden forest on the other side of the dunes

Top 5 things that sucks about Bolonia
1) The bees in the hidden forest
2) The fact that the turtles are becoming mutated from living in shitty water
3) El Levante, the wind that blows from Morocco...damn what a force of nature
4) The sand that felt like it was eating me alive when the Levante blew
5) Feeling ridiculously out of shape when climbing the dunes

It was really cool, but when the wind started picking up, we finally decided to head onward to Tarifa. Tarifa is the place in Spain closest to Morocco...only 14km away by Ferry. You can see it from the shore and not like Sara Palin can see Russia...I mean you can actually see it without using a magic telescope.

Though Spain in general is a country filled with hints of Morocco, from the gorgeous tiles found on walls and fountains to the ruins of mosques and even the recent fashion trend of "I Dream of Genie" pants, but Tarifa holds more than a hint. There, amid the windy narrow streets and white buildings, I saw more actual Moroccans than I have seen anywhere else during my trip. Also each little shop we stopped in sold Moroccan goods: jewelry, clothing, and bags. There were even a few popular chain stores like Doner Kebab...a Moroccan staple. Tarifa is a lovely beach town, complete with castles, ruins, and a beautiful antique cathedral. It's definitely on my list for places I could chill in for a while.

On our way home we stopped by Vejer de la Frontera a little pueblo blanco at the top of a cliff...which will be the setting for my second novel. A few of you have asked for a sneak preview of book one...but sorry, not yet. Soon te lo prometo.

La Charo y su tierra linda

Caminando por la playa...

Me despierto con suenos raros pensando en otro idioma...back and forth. English and Spanish, dreaming in both...back and forth, past and present, living in both. Another day, another bocadillo de atun con tomate. I love the tuna here! La Charo tells me I should sleep in, so I try and Bea's bed is super comfortable, but I keep having all these dreams, vivid dreams of fighting and teaching and water skiing, but on carpet. I'm being dragged by two brown extension cords through a parade of friends and stranger forgotten and forgiven.

I need coffee...a manchado...yes in this country I am a coffee drinker. El perrito lindo follows me down to the kitchen. He likes to run around me in circles before deciding to look for ham somewhere else. I make myself some toast and eat a peach, stare out the window at another sunny day in Andalucia. The hibiscus is in bloom...orange flowers like silken star splayed open skyward towards a day so gorgeous it's like an answered prayer. Time to check Facebook. Time to write. Time to try to figure out what time it is, what day it is...I am so lost in my multiple worlds.



"Vamos a la playa," Elena suggests.
"Vale."
So I put on my granny bathing suit and we pack a basket with towels, plastic cups, a liter of water and drive through the fancy streets to la Calle Orilla where this is a doorless portal in a white wall that opens out onto the shortcut to Cangrejo Rojo. Sand, sky, water, wind...too much wind...better to walk than lay down. So we walk, run, splash through the waves, pick up rocks, look at the seashells, and talk about Marimotos (my new favorite word...tsunami)and if those fabulous new fangled square houses on the cliffs have Marimoto insurance. We walk the length of 3 beaches, Elena telling me about work with the Juvenile Delinquents at el centro de menores, me trying to explain this trip...which doesn't translate well.

Elena: Que estas haciendo aqui? De visita?
Me: Hmmm is it a vacation? Can you take a vacation from your life? Is it a spiritual journey still? Am I just wandering around the world as an excuse not to have to go to work?

Elena takes my philosophical ramblings cheerfully. She helps me find pretty rocks, then we go back home because she has to get ready for work.Bea arrives around la hora de comer so we eat and she naps while I write. Then we go back to the beach and walk another 3 beaches before Sergio calls from the bus stop at la Plaza de Toros. More pictures, more memories, more hanging out...a couple mojitos at a beach side pub watching the sun go down and listening to merengue. Then Sergio has to catch the bus back to Cadiz. We have dinner with la Charo and Angel on the terrace. It couldn't be more lovely, then out for drinks in Puerto de Santa Maria with Bea's boyfriend Raul. At first I feel a little 3rd wheely, then more like a tricycle.

Bea and Raul tell me the story of how they met in that very bar. I was looking at you. No I was looking at you. I wanted to talk to you, but you were surrounded by all your friends. When you got up to go to the bathroom, I thought...damn it, is she leaving? I sip my cuba libre and people watch. There are chandeliers shaped like giant bunches of purple grapes that I find tacky yet fascinating. We move on and try to find the bar that plays salsa, but it's closed so we go to the rock bar and listen to old Rolling Stones. I tell Bea not to eat the bar nuts...it's unsanitary...dump them all into an ashtray and make them give us fresh nuts. Raul confesses his love of Creedence Clearwater Revival and we must all be drunk because there is singing involved. Is there a bar where we can sing karaoke? Yes. Let's go. But it's closed and that's a sign. Time to go home. But tomorrow...I'll show you the turtles Raul promises....

Regresando a Cadiz

After a hearty breakfast, la Charo dropped me off in la Plaza de Toros, and I caught the bus from Puerto de Santa Maria to Cadiz. It let me off half a block away from the Telepizza on the Avenida. I found myself on La Calle Condesa Villafuentes Bermeja, literally on the doorstep of where my host family used to live. Should I check to see if they still live there? Would they remember me? What would the children look like after 10 years. Marta...the youngest, was 3 when I left. Miguel and Javier were 8 and 10. I decided not to decide just yet. Instead I called my friend Sonia. Sonia and I met about 2 weeks before I was about to leave Cadiz.

The back story on my friends: During the 1999/2000 academic year, I lived in Cadiz and attended the University of Cadiz, where I studied Spanish and Spanish culture. For the first half of the year I lived with a crazy woman and her annoying dog, as well as a host of interesting characters in a lovely 6 bedroom apartment in Vaya Blanca on Calle Tamarindos. That's where I met Dr. Bea...who at the time was in her first year of med school. Also living in the house was another med student from Granada, a German girl, and some 40 year old business man. The German girl spoke English and we got along pretty well. She and my crazy host mom did not get along, and this was one of the factors that lead to me eventually needing to leave the house and get a new host family. I digress.

When we first arrived, there was a welcome party where all the exchange students and our host families got together to mingle, drink good Spanish wine and watch a Flamenco show. Well the Flamenco part never happened...but we did drink a lot of wine and somehow I ended with my 28 other colleagues knocking back the drinks at O'Connel's the Irish pub in the center of the old part of town. We were all obsessed with the idea of making Spanish friends, and kind of disappointed to realize that most of our classes would be just with the other Americans.

In a bold...(alright and also slightly drunken) move, I sent a drink to a good looking gentleman across the bar. I had never done that before (or since come to think of it), but I figured...why not? When he came over to thank me, I realized that though he was cute, he was also about 6 inches shorter than me. Note to self...wait til the cute boy stands up before sending him a drink. It didn't really matter. It turned out Rafa was headed to England the following week to study English for a year...but before he left he introduced me to his cousin David. Through David I met his brother Juan de Dios and their friends Luis, Joaquin, and Paco (otherwise known as Dr. Pudge). We spent all year hanging out...having barbecues in Chiclana, botelloning in La Plaza Mina, and dancing at La Punta de San Felipe. David and Sonia were good friends and in the end Sonia, Juande and Luis ended up visiting me in Seattle. You never know how things are going to turn out.

It turns out, Sonia's family lives about a block away from my old house. She currently lives in Italy with her husband and daughter, but they just happened to be visiting her family for a few months. Before taking me to meet them, we stopped at a small cafe bar to have a manchado and catch up. It's been 6 years since we've seen each other outside of Facebook. She is even thinner than I remember. Her once blond hair is brown, but other than that she looks the same, she laughs the same and she still smokes like a chimney. When I asked about the old gang, she had a story about each of them, but all the stories ended in them not talking anymore. I had tried to contact David a few months ago, but never heard back. Maybe it's just as well. One of my friends told me once that friendships either last for a reason, a season, or a lifetime...but what no one tells you is that you can't tell which friends are which in advance. You just have to wait and see.

Coffee finished, we made our way back to Sonia's house which she warned me would be insane. In addition to her parents, her husband and 5 year old daughter, I would also be meeting her sister Jesse and Jesse's 2 small children. Having spent a whole summer away from small children, going to Sonia's house was a bit of a shock. I honestly think babysitting for children under 5 is probably one of the most effective forms of birth control I've ever encountered. Sonia's daughter and niece were nice enough, but her nephew was a mess. He has 2 teeth coming in so he was cranky and he drooled on everything and everyone. Plus he is an octopus, always with a hand somewhere it shouldn't be...in the toilet, in the kitty litter, pulling the dogs tail...and then for no reason what so ever he would just start to scream. Everyone else seemed to be used to it. They just kept talking like he wasn't screaming at the top of his lungs. When Sonia said she had to run some errands, I was happy to accompany her.

First we went to the supermarket, then to a different kind of market where there were different stands selling fruit, olives and fresh meat. Sonia was determined to bring back all her favorite foods back to Italy. Her luggage is going to be so over weight. It was nice to walk around and listen to all the people talking in that thick Cadiz accent.

We shared a late lunch of chicken with french fries and fried fish (this fish is a Cadiz delicacy) served with a sweet red wine. Sonia's dad told me dirty jokes, while her mom kept telling me I wasn't eating enough. It was actually perfect. Then around 6pm, she dropped me back off at the Telepizza where I met up with Sergio, one of my friends from the Facultad.

Sergio I hadn't seen for 10 years, but he looks almost exactly the same. He is the official Griot for that year in Cadiz. As we passed through the new part of the city into the old, I really felt like I was in some kind of time machine with a running commentary. That's where you guys had that welcome dinner and that's where Son Latinos used to be (the bar where I had my first mojito and learned how to salsa...now it's something else...couldn't bring myself to go in it). He seemed to remember every place we'd ever hung out and knew if it had changed hands or if it was the same.

We walked through la Plaza de Flores, which still sells flowers and past that cafe with the good churros. Then further in past La Catedral...which shows up in every postcard of the Cadiz coastline...la Plaza de San Antonio by my favorite icecream store...la Plaza de San Fransisco where I took my Mom to meet my friends for drinks on Christmas...la Plaza de Mina where a pigeon crapped on my head once. I have to say it was kind of weird, like being a ghost of my own life...the ghost of Cadiz past, and even more so because of being with Segio who reminded me of things that happened that I forgot about...who wore what costume during Carnivales, which girls went out with which guys, how he burnt his hand trying to drink a flaming Dr. Pepper (Flaming Dr. Pepper was one of our bizarre bar traditions. The only place you can get this drink in Cadiz was in a bar called Woodstock...which was a hippie rock bar that was closed to the dorms and often the first stop in a good night out. The Flaming Dr. Pepper is a shot of I don't know what that you set on fire, slap it with your hand-somehow this create suction so it sticks to your hand-and then you drop it in a pint of beer and chug it...it's supposed to taste like Dr. Pepper...yes we were dumb. We were 20, what do you expect?)

Then we visited the Facultad which was eerily empty and looked almost the same. White walls, white and gray marble floors, light green uncomfortable wooden chairs. It was a bittersweet visit. That year in my life was an incredible time. Coming to Cadiz was transformative. I met people, Americans and Spaniards who have become some of my closest friends...and other people who, though we've lost touch, still had a huge impact on my life. I also developed a bit of a wanderlust that hasn't gone away. That was the year I really learned how to speak Spanish, it was the year I learned how to travel, how to salsa, how to make tortilla de patata. It was also the year my best friend died. She was killed in a car crash days before her 21st birthday. At the time only one of my friends had a car. He was in the military and stationed at Rota. When I heard the news, it was too late to get to Madrid. Eric drove me the 2 hours to Sevilla and we spent the night in front of the station so I could get on the first train to catch a flight home.

When I came back to Spain to finish my year...it was hard. I wanted to be that same person I was before, but losing Robin and then being surrounded by people who never knew her...it was hard. All these years later it's still hard. As Sergio and I sat on the wall outside the Cathedral and watched the sun go down over the ocean (as we had so many times before), I couldn't help but be glad it was over. Time is meant to keep moving. And while that means you can't cling to every perfect moment, it also means that when those horrible things happen, you can't cling to them either. I'm glad I came and got to visit the past, but happier still to live in the present.

What Virgin? Oh, Mary. Duh. Bienvenidos a Puerto de Santa Maria.

About 11 years ago, I was walking on the Playa Santa Maria with some friends when my bag was stolen. There wasn't much in it, a discman, less than $10, a pen and my journal. Losing that journal broke my heart. Inside it were the memories from my first 28 days in Cadiz. I cried and cried at the police station and later went dumpster diving to see if the thief had tossed it. I didn't care about the other stuff, but that 28 days...I wanted that back. I never did find it...

I arrived in Puerto de Santa Maria on Wednesday. My train was 2 hours late...I fell asleep, so I don't really know what happened, only that I'll be getting a refund which is awesome. They also provided us with free drinks, so I bought myself some ham flavored chips (only in Spain) and was making my way back to my seat when I ran into a group of students from Semester at Sea. They were drinking Cruzcampo (one of the preferred beers in Andalucia...so I'm told) and telling stories. One of the girls was from Toronto, the rest were from various parts of the States. About three days ago, the Canadian got robbed and in her bag was her passport. This is only the first part of their voyage and they had just arrived in Spain. She had to make a solo trip to Madrid to get it all sorted out, which was probably pretty terrifying, but of all the people in the group, she seemed to be the happiest.

"Yeah, it sucked that my bag got stolen," she told me. "but I wouldn't have traded these last two days for anything in the world. I got to see Madrid."

The oldest person in the group was just barely 20. There were two guys and three girls and there they sat, toasting life and trying to place bets on if they'd make it back onto the ship in time. It was leaving at 6pm and after our 2 hour delay, they would probably arrive in Cadiz just in time to make a run for it.

"What's the worst that could happen," one of the guys grinned. "Worst case scenario, we spend the night in Cadiz, catch a bus down the coast and take the ferry to Morocco. We can get on the boat there."

It was weird to sit there and listen to them, kind of like stepping into a time machine. That used to be me on the train, running late towards some unknown adventure. That's what my year in Cadiz was, one adventure after another, one risk after another, a twisty path full of surprises. I remember meeting my host mother for the first time...Crazy Carmen and her little white dog Pocha whose little claws would click their way across the marble floors day and night. There was that night my first week in Spain where Bree and I went to Sevilla on our own to watch a bullfight, then missed the last train and couldn't find a hostel. We ended up spending the night outside of the Station.She told me then that we would always remember that...but funny I have no idea what ever happened to her. So many people just pass through your life once. And how many sunsets did I watch from the cliff overlooking the ocean at la Playa Santa Maria drinking wine with my girlfriends? Plus carnival and tea time at the Irish Pub where they had the best cookies....mojitos at Son Latinos, where I first learned to salsa. Taking guitar lessons from the Flamenco guy who looked like an owl. Dancing til breakfast at Bar Blue or trying to understand the stories they told during Cuento Cuento (Story Hour) at the Bar Albanta with it's walls filled with mermaids. It all came flooding back to me. What would it feel like to go back? I chatted for a while, then near Jerez I excused myself and returned to sit with my thoughts.

It seemed weird to get off at the stop before Cadiz. I met Charo, Bea's mom, at the train station. I wondered if I would recognize her. 10 years is a long time. Puerto is small though so it was easy enough for us to find each other. Charo is a slender, stylish woman with short auburn hair and a nice laugh. As we drove, she put me at ease with stories about the town and about her family. We arrived at their new house which is in Los Torros, right next to Vista Hermosa...a well named neighborhood. It's lovely. It actually looks a lot like Arizona with all the palm trees and pretty orange, pink, and white house bordered by walls and citrus trees, jasmine and hibiscus blooms spilling lavishly over the sides.

Charro took me on a grand tour of the house, stopping in every room, and pausing to introduce me to Cuca...her little brown dog who loves to run in circles. Funny, though it's a new house, Bea's room looks exactly the same. I recognized her trundle bed immediately because it was the first one I'd ever seen. It still comfy. Then we went outside and walked through the yard. There is a small garden with tomatoes and eggplants, an orange tree, a mandarin orange tree, a gorgeous jasmine bush, and a real live pomegranate tree. The pomegranates aren't ripe yet, but Charo did pick the last of the tomatoes which she served with dinner drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt and oregano.

Since it was snack time, Charo made me a ham sandwich. For those of you who have never been to Spain before, I feel like I should explain. It's not like she just pulled out some cold cuts. She actually pulled out an entire pig's leg (hoof included) and sliced me up some cured ham which was delicious, though I think I must have taken on the ham smell because for the rest of the day, Cuca followed me everywhere. She's pretty cool as dogs go, not too yappy or too jumpy, so we're cool.

There was still a while before Angel, Charo's husband, would come back from work and Charro wanted to go see her mother, so she dropped me off by La Plaza de Torros. True to it's name, in the center of the plaza is a Colosseum built for bullfights. There we checked the bus schedule to Cadiz for the following day.

It seems my timing is getting better. My Dad and I are notorious for always leaving the day before the party. When we went to Canada we left the day before Canada Day. When we went to San Antonio we left the day before Fiesta. But randomly I arrived just in time for el dia de la santa de los milagros (or la virgen de milagros) which is apparently a big party day in Puerto de Santa Maria. Charro explained to me that every year the entire town comes out to watch the parade of the virgen de los milagros. I misunderstood this to mean that there would be an actual virgin...you know kind of a different twist on Homecoming or something...but apparently the virgin is Mary...good to know.

"Que virgen? Habra virgenes? Como es que sabe si ella es virgen? Hay una prueba?"
"Aye nina no...la virgen es Maria."
"Oh. Vale."

"Habra un desfile por alla," Charro told me and then pointed me towards the correct street. I followed it deeper into the city with it's familiar architecture...the balconies rising on either side of me from white buildings. As I got closer, I could hear bells ringing, then more and more well dressed people started appearing. I love people watching here. The older women especially always have on gorgeous clothing. Finally I arrived at a Plaza in front of a large Cathedral. The Square was packed with people waiting for the festivities to begin. There was a real live marching band. They played for a bit and then the parade began...mostly it turned out to be people carrying crosses or big flags with what looked like family crests. I don't know why I thought there would be floats. When someone says parade I always think of Thanksgiving and that huge Turkey balloon ambling through New York...this was much less interesting, but fun none the less to hang out. I only stay for 40 minutes then I met up with Charro and we returned to have a lovely dinner with Angel. Elena, Bea's sister had to work, so it was just the 3 of us.

As I got ready for bed, I felt kind of nervous. Tomorrow I would finally go back to Cadiz.

Chillin' in Madrid

What a gift to just be able to chill. Friday afternoon after splitting a lunch of fresh watermelon, rotisserie chicken and french fries from my new favorite bar down the street, Dr. Bea took off for Granada her friend Ani (from Finland)leaving me by lonesome. What to do? Decided to check out the website Free in Madrid which held a list of fabulous films and events including a special day out with some Donkeys. I kid you not, the Association for the Preservation of Burros was hosting a special event called Domingo Con Los Burros where you could have the opportunity to meet some real live donkeys and celebrate how wonderful they've been for humanity. Unfortunately that was last Sunday, but I did find a poetry reading at the Centro Hispano Morraqui in celebration of Ramadan. Between Google maps and mapquest, I figured out how to get there, then I set off on my first solo adventure.

Turns out the metro is just a few blocks away. It was surprisingly easy to figure it all out. I arrived in Lavapies with a few minutes to spare, then walked a few blocks in the wrong directions, but figured it out in the end. Unfortunately, I was actually quite early...a whole day early in fact, which figures because since starting this trip, unless it's go to the airport day, what day and time it is have been pretty irrelevant. Can you imagine that? Not obsessively marking every moment? Not even really needing to know anything more than what it is you feel like doing...eating because you're hungry and not because it's lunch time. It's a pleasure.

While I never did get to the poetry reading, I did find an Art Center next door that offers yoga and pilates and all sorts of other cool things that I might be back for. Also I discovered a great neighborhood filled with fabulous people watching. Lavapies is much less touristy than the zones I've been frequenting, and in it's way, more culturally diverse as well. As I ambled back towards the metro, I stumbled across an Indian Restaurant advertising mojitos and caipirinhas for 5 euros...how could I resist? Turns out the waiters are mostly from Nepal and they do indeed make perfect Cuban mojitos. I sat outside and had a lovely dinner, then made my way over to La Plaza de Espana which was all lit up and filled with young couples making out. From there I walked a little further and found El Templo de Debod, this temple that was originally built many moons ago in Southern Egypt near the Nile. It's a temple meant to honor Isis and Amun. Randomly in 1960, UNESCO decided that with the building of the Great Dam of Aswan, that the temple might be in danger so Egypt decided to donate it to Spain as a gift for helping them save several other temples...so it's been living in Madrid since 1968 and is widely known as the best place to catch the sunset. I missed the sunset, but it's beautiful at night as well, a lit up and set on a reflecting pool. Afterwards I thought about stopping at a pub for a night cap, but in the end I just went home and chilled.

The next day I was supposed to meet up with Bea's cousin to meet his band and catch a rock show, but I just didn't feel up to it, so I stayed in and watched TV (definitely helping my Spanish comprehension). Then Sunday, since all the museums are free, I visited La Reina Sofia Museum where Pablo Picasso's Guernica is displayed. Then I found a place to grab a tuna sandwhich...it wasn't as good (or as cheap) as the little bar around the corner from Bea's, but the sangria was outstanding.

Now that I have time to chill I am thinking about how busy I always am. At home it's always go go go. I have to get to work, then go to taekwondo, meet up with some friends, attend so an so's political thing or poetry reading, hang painting for my next show and somehow squeeze in an hour a half to work on my writing. Is that really how I want my life to be? Sometimes it's wonderful. Sometimes it's exhausting. I guess now is the time for me to really figure it out.

What I've figured out so far, is that though I enjoyed teaching and even more to the truth, I love working with kids, I'm bored of doing it everyday. I can't explain how elated I am not to have to be spending September in staff meetings or revising my curriculum for the millionth time. And while I can (and sometimes do) write all day and love it, I have this residual mental block that tells me I can't do this for a living. But why not? People do it all the time right? I pass by millions of bookstores filled with millions of books written by people who make it happen. Can't that be me? I'm tired of hedging my bets.

Temporada de Rebajas: La Moda Madrileña

Estoy enamorandome de Madrid. I'm falling in love with Madrid. I honestly don't remember it being this cool. I don't know if it's because 10 years ago, I was so beach crazy and so in love with Cadiz, then subsequently over the moon about Barcelona that I missed the obvious, but I get it now: Madrid is fantastic. There are so many museums and cultural sights, but also great bars and clubs, and live music. This weekend Dr. Bea is headed to Granada for a wedding, so I will be hanging out with her cousin Edu who has a rock band. I'm exited to explore a new music scene and of course... though maybe not this weekend, I've got to check out the salsa scene.

After my most recent travels, it is simply lovely to be able to understand everything again. People talk and I know what they're saying. Also whereas in Morocco the diversity seemed to consist of light skinned Arabs, dark skinned Berbers, and random tourists, here there is a much wider variety than I remember. The people watching is fabulous and the fashion is fascinating.

There is so much going on. Dr. Bea is hard at work on an article on Parkinson's Disease this week, so last night I took a solo stroll to La Plaza del Sol then looped back around by La Plaza de España. There was some kind of red carpet movie event and everyone was dressed to the nines. The press was there snapping pictures. The style here is elegant. I couldn't help stopping in a few stores just to take a peek.

Madrid is gearing up for fall which looks like lots of flowy sheer flower print fabrics in pumpkin, saffron, and rust colors with bronze belts and over-sized loose knit sweaters. I can see the infusion of neutral colors, browns, beiges, tans, with red accent pieces replacing the whites, turquoises, tangerines, and fuchsias of summer. Which of course means all the hot and colorful clothing that I adore is on sale. WHY GOD? Why put me in this city on a budget, especially when they've finally caught on to the fact that size 2 girls aren't the only ones who want to rock the hotness. Whereas 10 years ago, I got laughed out of a shoe store in Cadiz, by a snobby bitch who told me that size 41 shoes (10 in the US) didn't exist, now it seems everything is in my size. I'm going to make up a cardboard sign: Will teach English for Clothes. For the most part I'm being good, but I did have to buy these hot red sandal...for 7 euros who could resist?

From Casablanca to Madrid

Is it over? It can't be. I feel like I've been traveling for months, but really it's only been a few weeks and that was it for Morocco and Ghana. After staying up til 1am with Tiffany and Mauhsin, my body felt wrecked when I got up at 4am to have a quick breakfast of mint tea and hard rolls with butter. Then it was back on that damn bus for the last leg of our trip...the ride to the airport in Casablanca. "I want to go home," was the common refrain. "This was great, but I can't wait to get home." The thing is I felt the same way...except I wasn't going home. I said my goodbyes and collected contact information. We all grabbed our baggage and formed a caravan of overloaded carts, doing our best to help one another through the first round of security. As I looked around at these people I'd become so attached and accustomed to, I realized that shortly they would disappear and I would once again be on my way.

It happened sooner that I thought. Air Moroc has it's own separate terminal and to get to Madrid I needed to find Iberia Air...which as it turned out was in a different building. So there were a few rushed last hugs and handclasps. I made my way back outside in time to see the dreaded bus driving away, so I would need to walk to Terminal 2. A helpful gentleman pointed me in the right direction and I set off walking. Then he called out to me in Arabic...I really need to learn Arabic. It would have really come in handy. He took over pushing my cart and I tried to think if I had any cash to tip with. After a five minute walk, we were nowhere near anything resembling a terminal. I began to wonder exactly how far this terminal was...then dude flagged down a bus and loaded me onto to it, after helping himself to a hefty tip of $50 dirhams (about $7 USD, and half of what I had left in my wallet). The driver was polite. We played the what languages do you speak game and I lost again. I used to think knowing Spanish and Japanese was actually useful, but I did stumble through a little French which he seemed to appreciate. Terminal 2 was a 10 minute bus ride from where we were...which makes me grateful I didn't have to walk the whole way.

It was still too early to check in, so I parked myself at a cafe and had a Hawaii (my new favorite soda...it's coconut, kiwi, and orange flavored) until it was closer to time. I did what you normally do...waited in line, prepared my documents, and when I got to the front of the line, the lady started typing in the computer, then pronounced the four words no traveler ever wants to hear: "Your ticket is canceled."

"What?!"
"Yes. Your ticket has been canceled."
"Wait do you mean the flight is canceled?"
"No. Your ticket is no good."
"But I paid for it. I didn't cancel anything. There must be some mistake."
She just looked at me and kind of rolled her eyes. "Madame it says you are canceled. You'll have to go over there and talk to the people in the business office. Maybe you can buy a new one."

I am not buying another ticket, I yelled internally, but externally I took a deep breath and dragged my stuff across the lobby to the Iberia counter where there was no one working. My mind was racing. I'm alone in Morocco. My travel agent is in Terminal 1 boarding a plane back to the States...so there is no way I can contact her to fix this. Jaouad is probably halfway back to Fes and maybe Hamid might be hanging around in Casablanca, but do I even have his cell phone number? Fuck. Okay. Don't panic. Panicking is bad. But I could feel my mind spiraling. I shouldn't have bought that stupid coat...that was plane fare. Hmm. How far is Casablanca from Tangiers? If I can catch a bus there I can take a Ferry to Tarifa and just bus from there to Cadiz...catch Bea on my way out...but then would I have to do that back in order to catch my flight to NYC out of Casablanca. Oh no, I have to get on this plane. Bea is going to be waiting for me in the airport. I have to get on this plane and I'm not paying 1 cent extra to do it. I'm tired, I'm alone, I'm freaked out...then I had a WWRMD moment (What Would Rev Micheal Do). He would pray.

What is the point of having faith if you don't use it. So I took a deep breath and turned within remembering the silence and peace of the desert at sunrise. I probably looked like a crazy person muttering to myself in English, but I didn't care. I spoke the truth of what was going to happen. Spirit guide me into right action. Fill me with calm and knowing that no matter what happens, everything is going to work out just fine.

Then I continued to wait, my eyes latching onto anyone with airport personnel badges...hoping one of them would come to the counter. Meanwhile a Muslim lady, covered from head to toe joined my waiting line. She was traveling with another lady who looked like she might be her mother. Behind them came two Spaniards who asked me how long I'd been waiting. I was so glad to be able to put my Spanish to use. We chatted for a bit, then they went to go see if they could find someone to help them. Then the Muslim lady and her mom left as well and I stayed there another 5 minutes, thinking okay God...let's get this show on the road. Then the Muslim lady returned. Though we had acknowledged each other, neither of us had spoken, so I was surprised when she turned to me and in perfect English asked me if anyone had helped me. I shook my head and repeated what the lady at the counter had told me.

"Here's what you're going to do," she instructed me. And I knew right away that this was my divine intervention showing up. "You're going to go back to the counter. Look for the blond lady with the glasses. Only talk to her. The others aren't going to help you. And only speak in English. They'll understand you. You're an American right? That's power here. Go to her and don't show that you know any other languages. Only English okay."

Alright. I thanked her profusely and did exactly as she told me to. I was polite and acted confused. I spoke only English and I don't know what that lady with the glasses did, but within 5 minutes I had a boarding pass and an assurance that when I tried to use my return ticket in a month there would be no issues. I went back and thanked Karima (the Muslim lady). Turns out she has been living in Arkansas for the last 2 years and studying English at a University there. She was only back to visit and to spend Ramadan with her family. We exchanged contact information and she introduced me to her mother who didn't speak English, but was so proud of her daughter for knowing another language and for helping a foreigner in need. We said our goodbyes and I went though security feeling grateful and blessed. Then I got waved over to a little blue curtained cubicle where a security lady stuck her hand in my crotch.

"Seriously what the fuck!" I exclaimed.
To which she gave me a dirty look and said in English "Do you speak French?"
"Do you speak Spanish?" I shot back.
"Do you speak Arabic?"
"No. Do you speak Japanese?"
"No."
"Then stop talking to me," I snapped. My fuzzy moment of relief totally violated. I felt dirty and very American in the worst possible way. Would Karima have had the luxury to talk back? We really are a privileged nation. Rather than dwell on the injustice of all the other people who would be mistreated at the Casablanca airport, I returned my attention to the fact that shortly I would be on a plane to Madrid and true to my prayer I hadn't spent 1 cent extra to make it happen.

Since that prayer had gone so well, I prayed some more. I spent too much money God...I need some abundance and some free accommodations. I put it in your hands to work it out.

I arrived in Madrid, exchanged my money (oh the Euro is kicking my ass already), grabbed my luggage then made my way through customs to find Bea and her new boyfriend Raul waiting for me on the other side. I almost cried I was so relieved.

Bea and I met 11 years ago in Cadiz, where we both lived with this crazy lady named Carmen. I was there through the UW to study Spanish and Spanish culture. She was this skinny, Spanish girl from Puerto de Santa Maria studying Medicine at the University of Cadiz. Now she is this gorgeous slender lady Doctor with a fabulous shoe collection and a gorgeous 3 bedroom apartment in the heart of Madrid only a short walk away from La Plaza del Sol.

I am home! I have my own room, excellent wifi and an invitation to stay in Puerto de Santa Maria...the town next to Cadiz...for a week with Bea's family. Everything is working out just beautifully.