Enroute to NYC, but thinking of Spain: Ya te echo de menos

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.