Fun with Gud Fud

Cooking and baking are perhaps my favorite distractions/adventures. Sometimes it is a catastrophe, but it is mainly successful, and sometimes astonishingly so. Like almond butter cookies. Using my favorite peanut butter cookie recipe, I substituted almond butter for peanut butter and absolutely love it. I wonder how substituting the melted butter with olive oil would work out . . . Hmmm.

I've been on a bit of sauté kick . . . okay, so it's just about the only way I cook anything, stove top. Maybe it has to do with Spain: stove-top with olive oil. A la plancha. Even artichokes. I find it to be so much more flavorful than steaming. But Spaniards also boil veggies . . . ick  : P And of course, I love love love the colors. 

Zucchini-Shroom-Black Bean Quesadilla à la Dublin

Corn Tortilla, Dubliner Cheese, Black Beans, Sautéed Mushrooms and Zucchini . . . mmmm

Lemon-Ginger Stash Tea

Although I wasn't quite able to capture the colors, the orange radiated like the sun from the middle into the bright yellow.

Sautéed Vegetables

Aren't they so pretty?! I threw in the broccoli, then the onion, then grey squash and shrooms, and for the last bit the spinach (to keep it from wilting too much). Cut up a tomato for the top and grated a bit o' parmesan, and ate with a heated whole wheat pita spread with baba ganouj.

¡Buen provecho!

Stillness

Stillness is one of those funny deals that we through around with great respect to the idea but little adherence to the practice. Be still and know. Be still and listen. Be still and . . . oh look!

It is hard to be still and more so when it seems so unrewarding. But that is the problem We expect something out of stillness, and we are so busy waiting, looking, waiting patiently for that something, breath baited and eyes pealed, that we miss it. We miss everything.

My stillness today was a little atypical. I was attempting to send a text message. This is quite difficult for me. Really, quite difficult. I like to write somewhat correctly. Blatant misspellings are not acceptable (blatant meaning that I notice it). Besides, I wasn't too focused. I would stop and space into the distance. I was out walking for walking, for air, for it is my last day in Grand Rapids until it is time to come back.

Believe it or not, I was being still. Texting does not seem very still, not to those who watch those crack fingers punching keys at 200 words per minute and not to myself or others who labor over each letter, but this was stillness in some strange way. My mind was not whirling. It wasn't focused on much of anything. I was just breathing. Being. A funny concept, I know.

Anyway, amidst that, amidst that still moment after running from office to office tracking down professors and trying to hold myself together, two people popped into the moment, one right after another, two gals from the Spring Semester in Spain. They were both on the phone but they both took a moment to say hi, give a hug, and offer their prayers as I head home for the fall.

Had I not set myself down to breathe, attempted to send a text without much focus, had I not mistakenly slipped into stillness, I would not have seen either of these women who have a gift of sending out sunshine to whomsoever they encounter.

That is the point of stillness--when one is still, one is not expecting, one is vulnerable to the unknown . . . and the gems of stillness, of that unknown, are best seen in reflection.

Contained Chaos

My mind, right? Or my writing? Well, the latter could use some help in the containment department but, de todos modos, I have realized that the framing of something, true containment, is actually something I really do like. But, But But But, that which is contained needs to have chaos, chutzpah, life, personality, room for imagination to the point that it seems to exceed the bounds of the frame, which is where I think the inspiration for these photos came from . . .

Some ruminating, marinating, or what you will

• The San Lorenzo Valley is gorgeous. This is a piece of paradise. The trees are awing.
• People are good. Yeah, no, evil, horrid, fallen, inclined to malevolency, however one would like to put it, but also good. Everyone.
• Societies are parasitical. Within each society there are sub-societies living as parasites on the “greater society.” This also means that societies are organisms.
• There are few better feelings than feeling small. Small in a sub-sub-sub-society in a itty bitty corner of a world bigger than our specific expression (yet smaller than our general comprehension); small in the face of history; small standing upon, beneath, surrounded by history; small walking down a one-lane road lined with homes with a backdrop of mountains: San Lorenzo Valley tree-lined ridges, Sierra Nevada snowy peaks, painted cliffs of Valle de Laguar; small in the drivers seat wondering at the constant flow of vehicles; small strolling along West Cliff, through Fall Creek, between tables at Mount Hermon Dining Hall, star-struck at the waves, the ferns, the people, on and on and on; small because while health, relationships, structures, communication, religions, people, words fail, the world keeps turning, flowers keep blooming, language continues evolving.

Summer Service

Warning: Sarcasm and smart-aleckyness is running high.

Service is something . . . well, with which I have a bone to pick.

What a servant. The “humility in serving” is a virtue to be sought (and a cliché to be avoided).  It is one of those top of the line “Christian virtues” too. (Excuse the obsessive use of quote marks . . . and apparently parenthesis . . . I have yet to learn to write in tones.)

It is also my job. And I enjoy my job. 

Just a thought: why is service so valued in ideals but undercut in support? People do not consider waiting to be a way to earn a living.

Here’s the weird-o-ness that just rubs me the wrong way (don’t worry, I won’t point too many fingers . . . only the middle):

These highly social people (I know because they don’t shut up), socially competent people, drag-ass through the shift, complaining about anything and everything and refusing, absolutely refusing to do the bare minimum (serve the damn coffee). This job . . . is a job, shut up? These people are friendly and kind and absolutely incapaz, incapable of bringing themselves to serve genuinely, or serve at all (their job title: server) for that matter.

Contrarily, Miss Antisocial (none other than la escritora, me) who is a genuine jerk inside, rarely smiles, does not socialize, who is incapaz, incapable of opening a conversation more than once in a blue moon, frazzles around the tables serving coffee, would you like room for cream? and even joking with the guests. I’m a bit put out if I’m pulled away from the service sector or told no, you may not continue, go home.

Maybe I misunderstand the word, but paradoxical is how I see this situation. Not to mention mind boggling and frustratingly impossible to understand. 

Call of the Kitchen

Back home, so where do I go? To the kitchen. (At home and for employment. Work starts Saturday.)
Annie, what's for dinner?
Who me?
Once the big bro gets home:
So, uh, Annie, I noticed there aren't any cookies . . . hint, hint.
And I do enjoy it, so I have been fairly productive without many hints. Actually, I just kind of took over. But here are some highlights:

Bread--flour, water, leavening, salt

Pizza--the grody piece with the bites taken out was pear, onion and garlic, mushroom, and gouda. Generally I prefer pear with brie, but with the heat the flavors of the gouda and pear come together quite nicely. And I had a mushroom excess or I wouldn't have added those, but it worked out well, says I. The full pizza is veggies (spinach, onion, garlic, zucchini, mushroom, tomato) and goat cheese.

Biscotti--currants heated in orange juice, the dough flavored with orange and lemon zest, lemon extract, and cinnamon, mmmm. Breakfast: coffee and biscotti and fresh morning air.

Cooookies. This izAmerica. Home of cookies. Peanut butter cookies a la Annie: plus oats and cinnamon.

 

¡Buen provecho!

Relearning America

Home. Home is a concept that needs to be reevaluated but I’ll save that for later. I’m not feeling profound or philosophical today. Maybe tomorrow. But why is home on my mind? Aren’t I in Spain? Those twenty days of adventure?

Well, shucks folks. La aventurera (me) got a little adventured out and is home. Since Friday. Welcome back to the United States of America. God blesumerica. ‘Cause it needs all the help it can get. Kidding—kind of. I’m negative today. We’ll try to keep that off the blog, but seeing as I’m a speaking in various persons about myself, who knows what sort of box I’ll write myself into.

Thoughts:

• U.S. cities are so illogical. (Wait, how many U.S. cities do I know?? Hmm. Maybe I’m not allowed to say that seeing as my city experience is next to nothing.)
• I can’t bring x, y, or z back home from Spain—and not because they are dairy, meat, or produce. America the prude and conservative and more so when hanging around the corridors of the sub-culture called Christianity. Fíjate bien dónde pisas. It is not necessarily better or worse; it is just different and I need to readjust so I’m not always in a state of shock. From, Really? We do that here? to Sure, go ahead. Me? No. From skunk-in-headlights to verbalizing yes I understand but do not agree. Y finito. The difficulty . . . why must people have such a desire to argue? To convert? . . . and more so, me? Open my mouth and say not only something but something assertive? Ha. That’ll be the day. 

. . . and I got distracted so forgot my other thoughts . . .

This summer:

• Mount Hermon Dining Hall
• My bicycle
• Shakespeare Santa Cruz
• Attempts at Socialization (not as in converting folks to communism)

Back to the States—I need to be positive, so what is it about’merica, about the United States that I can’t help but say ahhhh yeah:

• ·      Skylines serrated by ridges topped with trees and trees and trees, ridge in front of ridge in front of ridge in varying shades of greens and grays, with mist trickling down from a blue sky painted with rose, daisy, or iris clouds . . . on and on and on
• ·      Country Music
• ·      Thrifty’s ice cream
• ·      The Farmer’s Market (the Spanish markets are amazing, but I’m but I’m trying to be positive here. There is an extra bit of homey-ness to the Farmer’s Market, perhaps simply because I am not from the city and know these folks)

El Camino de Santiago

Known for architecture from across the centuries and views varying from the pyranees to rolling vineyards, from red soil to green pastures and rocky cliffs, the ancient tourist attraction that pulled Spain out of the Alto Edad Media (first part of the middle ages) is, while perhaps less spiritual in the American sense of the word, is quite the experience . . . and I only walked four days.
Snapshot moments:
My cyclist friend from Leon, José. He asked if the bed was free. I asked if he had come on bike at the albergue. Simple enough. And we took a stroll through the little town of Puente la Reina chatting. He drives autobuses for Alsa and took it upon himself to teach me all the tacos and fixed expressions he knew. He bought me a beer, and then dinner. We couldn't stop laughing that night because of the atrociously loud snorer bunked a few beds down, and we said adiós, buen camino the next day.

The various folk in Estella: an australian woman who gave me a wash cloth and shower gel (do I smell that bad?? No, kidding, she was sending things back home because she had brought too much), who I could barely understand and who could barely understand me because our accents are so distinct. A couple from the States who were completely unable to operate in the town, so I accompanied them shopping and translated their meat, cheese, what you will needs to the grocers. The brasileans who gave me their left overs (a decent portion of salad, spagetti, and wine) for change of my washing the dishes (good deal).

Marriage proposel in Viana. Or we could just be lovers. And I won't be around too long, That's my grandson, he's a good boy. That is also my grandson. If you come to Logroño, I'll come down every day to see you . . . oh dear, oh dear, dos besos y nada más, mi amor. But I'm sure you want more than dos besos. I really love you. Que gracia.

Bufada en Logroño. Met a guy at the bus station in Logroño, said bye, went to store my stuff before seeing the city and he invited me for a coffee. Umm. Okay.
What do you drink?
Cafe. (he said a coffee, no?)
You don't drink alcohol?
Yes (but you said a coffee).
What?
Beer or wine, either one.

So he orders me a beer, we sat and chatted until his bus came. He is an immigrant from Somalia and lives in Vitoria but loves to travel and wants more than anything to see the United States. He's going back to Somalia in a month to see his family for the first time in five years.

Santa Semana Murcia

Why Murcia for Holy Week? For Santa Semana en España, people think Sevilla, not simply because it also starts with an S and is an emblem of Spain for its colors and life, for the bull fighting and Flamenco, for the hot spring and summer days filled with música gitana and stereotypical slides of Spain but for the emotion that accompanies the heat and music and holy week processions.

But I chose Murcia, which is home to the great baroque sculptor Salzillo, much smaller, and much closer. And I think I chose wisely. This year many processions were cancelled due to weather, but in Murcia only one was rained out, and I could actually see without being suffocated these beautiful scultpures in their full glory with fresh flowers on the shoulders of the penitents.

What did I write in the moment??

23 abril 2011

Spring Break--for the first time since high school, spring break is where it belongs, Easter. So where is Waldo? I don't know (and frankly don't care, he was always a little too stripy for me) but I am in Murcia, in a grossly overpriced Taperia, so I'm going to get all the mileage possible out of this setting.

So why Murcia. Because it is home to the works of the baroque sculptor Salziollo, which you can see in full glory during Semana Santa (holy week--it just sounds better in Spanish with the alliteration), in the midst of awing processions. This evening was cancelled due to rain, unfortunately, but even if they lack the characteristic charisma of Cordoba, Cádiz, Sevilla, and Granada, there is something overwhelming and awing in the beauty of the colors, the care, and the countless steps.

Then Easter Sunday's lunch/dinner--

Swiss chard, tomatoes, eggs, bell pepper, eggplant, olives, bread, Murcian wine, queso manchego, garlic . . . mmm . . .

post Easter--El Camino de Santiago, give me a bit, I am a student, you know :)

Mi mamá

By starting a blog, one obtains certain rights, the majority of which I have not used or abused—such as the political rants right, the this country rant, etc. Today I choose: the bragging right . . .

I have the best Spanish mamá on earth. Not questionable. Her name is Elena. We laugh, we mimic eachother, we rub off on each other, she cooks expertly . . .

[This here is the paella we had up at the casita Sunday (with the wine we drank)

 and the almuerzo valenciano—peppers, fish, eggs]

. . . she has her own shop, she takes Sundays to work at her casita, taking care of the fields, the house is delightlfully decorated with paintings that she has picked out over the years, she only buys produce from the market on Fridays because its fresh (as opposed to the supermarket that has produce everyday), she takes pride in who she is and how she presents herself but does not obsess . . . I could go on and on.

She’s not perfect—there are times I wonder what she is smoking (other than nicotine)—but she is so genuine and open and above all alive. She glows with life, even when it smacks her in the face, her anger, disappointment, hurt, etc. is alive and honest.

She told me the other day that she sees me as a writer, not as a teacher. I succeeded in not scowling at her, because for all my antisocial tendencies and lack of vocal projection, it’s a bit of a dream I’ve had (why I don’t know) for, oh, the past eight years. Don’t tell me you don’t see it. Of course I can be a teacher. Bug off.

The other day her sister Pepa was over and Elena told her I always tell her that in a couple of years she’ll remember me in her country . . . oh, that woman in Spain, she wasn’t well. But she’ll remember . . . and then after reminding me that she’s anti-technology so the letters had better come by regular mail, said that she’d come to my publishing when I’m an author. My turn to laugh—ha ha, I write circles, darling. It is rare that anything important comes out understandable (like essays for final grades—instead of that A I was hoping for there is a note asking what on earth I was trying to say and that I please explain it soon). Tsch tsch tsch—you can do anything you want in this life, isn’t that right Pepa?

The following morning I actually felt that way. I had this lovely image of writing and owning a restaurant in my mind. Will it happen, probably not. But maybe some day, you’ll find a restaurant with one cook who happens to be an author :) When I’m not cooking or wandering about in my underpants drinking coffee and writing, I’ll be off biking or surfing (I’ll learn someday), or simply floating in the big blue sea.

To come:

--Semana Santa (Holy Week) in Murcia (Holy Wednesday through Sunday)

--an attempt at the Camino de Santiago between Pamplona and Logroño . . . which, if the walking doesn’t go well, La Rioja isn’t a bad place to be stranded . . .

Andalucía

Our adventure in Andalucía began in bus, rolling steadily up and around, snaking down, exploring the horizons of southern Spain. Along the waves of land grows rocky cliffs, cave homes, wildflowers, and particularly between Granada and Córdoba awing fields of olive trees and olive trees and olive trees with the Sierra Nevada mountains in the background.

Granada has this frame, this frame of rugged majesty competing with a canvas of culture and color, past and present, song and silence. Crawling up the narrow streets contained by white handkerchiefs, walls carefully embroidered with brilliant flowers of the Albaicín, the once arabic neighborhood, la guitarra gitana trickles down, mixing with aroma of tea, jasmine and wisteria. Between the peaks of the mountains and walls of the homes exists the music of water, the Generalife, and the glow of the Alhambra.

Sevilla came a weekend later via plane . . . some snapshots of two days spent running:

The Cathedral of Sevilla and la Gibralta at 1 am—glowing, glowing in the night, with bats flying above . . .

Puente Isabel II—this bridge was my source of peace. An afternoon next to the river, outside of a café with a view of the bridge and the Guadalquivir, a night sitting silently, another with friends—what a sensation of peace and awe of I am here, in Sevilla, España.

Fallas: fire and fun

Denia is located in the community of Valencia, whose patron saint is San José. In a mix of Catholicism, Iberian tradition, Valencian humor, and Spanish fiesta, the 18^th and 19^th of March the Valencian population celebrates the day of San José (Saint Joseph) with the Festival of Fallas.

The Fallas are sculptures, often quite large, that artists each year design and create with a social critique in mind and poems to help communicate the satire, written in Valenciano. Several days before the actual festival the fireworks begin. Children throw small explosives and at seven in the morning one can expect be awakened by a local noise making fest. As the Fallas (the actual sculptures) are placed in various locales throughout the city the spirit of Fallas grows stronger. The Falleros and Falleras can be seen in their outfits and the fireworks (or explosive noisemakers) become more frequent, but this is a poor sample of the Mascleta, Ofrenda, and Crema to come.

The Mascleta is the culmination of fireworks, of noise. When a person from the United States thinks fireworks, s/he tends to think of a brilliant show of lights in the summer sky: the fourth of July. In terms of the ample amount of explosives necessary for this event, the two (la Mascleta of Fallas and the 4^th of July) might be on par, but the focus is entirely different. The Mascleta is all about noise. The 4^th of July Americans ooo and ahh over the colors, assuming the fire hazard is low enough to permit the showing. Oooing and ahhing at the Mascleta would be quite silly—nobody will hear the pathetic attempt at appreciation. Nobody hears very well the cheering afterward either. But everyone feels (yes, literally feels) the trembling of the sound through not only the eardrums but the asphalt, the entire body.

La Ofrenda is the Catholic component of this festival. The Falleros and Falleras make offering to the Virgin, flowers, in a long procession of participants dressed in the traditional ropa fallera. The dresses are beautiful, hand embroidered, colorful . . . and I’m going to stop before I embarrass myself with my lack of correct clothing related vocabulary. The women wear rich necklaces, earrings, and hair décor that also functions to hold the Iberian styled hair (that is to say, in the style of La Dama de Elche—put that in Google and there should be pictures of the ancient sculpture).

La crema is the burning. The beautiful, awful, interesting, satirical art, the Fallas, are burned with fireworks, fire, fireworks, and flame. It is quite exciting. And it takes all of the senses: smell the fireworks, hear the explosives, taste horchata and churros, feel the ground tremble, and see—see the Fallas, the Falleros, the flames, the fun.

Castell de Castells: La Casita

This weekend, Sunday actually, Elena, her son Vicente and his wife Adriana, their children Alisa and Vicente, and I went to "the casita," in Castell de Castells, where Elena has olive trees, orange trees, and etc. To be brief: it was lovely. Elena made arroz al horno (rice cooked in the oven--with all sorts of tastiness) and I made bread--which was also cooked in "el horno," and we worked together cleaning up the fields, picking violets, cooking . . . lovely. Check it out:

Not the everyday oven, eh?

Calamares y Caña: El ser madrileño

Okay, so I’ll never be madrileña (a Madrid native), even if I were to move in tomorrow and spend the rest of my life working on it, it would take more than the luck of the Irish, dynamism of California, and a blessing from every other label I have ever fallen under: Mount Hermonites, Christians, Baptists, cyclists, bookworms, Calvinists, etc. It is a different world. Fascinating. Frightening. Wow. And trust me, I saw nothing.

Madrid is llenísimo of people: brimming, dripping, weaving. And with each person comes sound—sonido y ruido—even if it is nothing more than the shuffling of feet or nothing less than setting off a noisemaker that could be likened to an invisible firework. And Madrid is big. Chicago is big. So what? Climbing out of the subway in Chicago, one looks around to orient the station entrance with x, y, and z buildings, and then, looking at the base of the building, begins to follow it up . . . and up and up and up . . . and up. Scared of heights anyone? Madrid is not exactly skyscraper row, but the buildings are not only tall (anything over four stories is tall in my book, and these were at least twice that height), but wide—grandísimo in all respects. Stately, elegant history, everywhere . . .

and everywhere, culture. Culture in every sense. The Palacio Real with baroque madness popping off the walls, street life all day and all night, Indian food, museums: El Prado, La Reina Sofía, Thyssen-Bornemisza; discotecas, “El esplendor del románico” exhibit by Mapfre, calamares y cañas . . .

Who doesn’t want to eat a bocadillo de calamares with a caña? How can’t one be madrileño? Well, I don’t know. I can’t even begin to describe the ambience of Madrid—it was awesome. As in awe. As in overwhelming. Honestly, it scared the living daylights out of me and left me exhausted. But in contemplating the vivacity that keeps the life pumping through the veins of the people and the people pulsing through the city, I started to like it, to be tempted by it . . . tempted to swim through the wakes and ride the waves as if it were the Nor Cal coast. I didn’t have time to put that to the test, but the taste lingers . . . calamares y caña.

Before the adventure in Madrid:

Thursday morning we headed out from Denia to Toledo—I love it, I love it, I love it. Toledo is roped in by the Tajo river (pronounced the same as Tahoe), brimming with history, and surrounded by rolling, rugged hills.

 We visited:

The Cathedral of Toledo—which is awe striking . . . I only saw half before we had to hope onto our next visit, but I was amazed.

La Iglesia de El Salvador (an ancient mosque converted into church, the original pillars are still intact, pretty darn sweet—to be eloquent about it).

La Iglesia de Santo Tomé—where we goggled over El Greco’s masterpiece El entierro del Conde Orgaz.

El Museo Sefardí—a Sephardic Museum (the Sefardí are the Spanish Jews who were expelled various times from Spain—Sephardic communities still exist throughout the world, and families still have the keys to the homes left behind).

Whew! Throughout all of Toledo (which I spent the afternoon wandering through with some friends, because we could, and it is simultaneously cute and wowing with the picturesque streets weaving in and around history) there are Sephardic shops that specialize in el arte demasquinado. It is gorgeous. Generally not one for jewelry, especially not anything fancy and not usually big on gold, I was oohing and awing at every window of these artisans. But I didn’t want to pay fifteen to twenty or so euros for earrings, so I simply bookmarked Toledo as where I spend a bit of money on something superfluous (but so intricate and . . . wow . . .) and selfish when I’m rich . . . ;)

Friday, first stop: Valle de los Caídos. A monument constructed under Franco to himself, really. I’m not up to writing a historical essay here, so I’m going to trust my audience to do the research—but I will say the monument is controversial and if not frequently visited by the tourists, is less visited by the Spaniards, it is part of a rather widely ignored history: the civil war, the dictatorships, the mass graves to which both sides contributed . . .  but it is history, as Ricardo, our bus driver commented (I love hearing him talk about history, current events, lo que sea, he has well-formed and informed opinions built on a foundation of knowledge that is wowing in and of itself), no matter what one thinks of it. The inside of the monument was, like the cathedrals, big and awing, but in a very different way. Perhaps due to the lighting (or lack thereof) and dimensions (it was huge), or the knowledge of how it was construed and to whom under x circumstances, it was not a desirable “wow.” The aura was heavy; the feeling of smallness was a little crushing: directing the vision more to feet than up and around. It was a relief to step outside.

Second stop: El Escorial—I don’t remember it terribly well right now; I’ll have to muse about it later. The library was pretty sweet—I remember that much. And it was huge. It’s where all (well, not all) the Spanish royalty are laid to rest.

Third stop: Segovia. Roman Aqueduct. Just look at the pictures. Isn’t that something? And El Alcázar. Ahaha. Yaz. I’m not sure where to start with that one either. There is a lot of genius involved, but I’ll pull on the pattern theme from before. In the arte hispano-musulmán one will find, rather than paintings of angels, intricate, geometric patterns. These patterns are busy, but not overwhelming, colorful but not clashing. And yall’ll just have to use your imagination, because I cannot put words to what my camera could not capture. These designs, like the Sephardic damasquinado and Celtic patterns, are genius and captivating, but indescribable.

Saturday: Madrid all day. El Palacio Real. Calamaris y caña. Annie wandering Madrid: an exhibit on el arte romanico; a floor of the Thyssen (impressionism, Geiger, Rembrandt, Pissarro, Dyke, etc.); El Prado; Indian food . . . good night.

Sunday: A stroll through el Parque de Buen Retiro and a stop at Segóbriga, Roman ruins. My descriptors are running out, and getting boring (“pretty sweet”), and sleep is in order. I do have classes (no, we don’t just play here, believe it or not). Cheers! 

Adventure in Alicante

Destination: Alicante, Alicante.

Actually, my destination was Valencia with some friends, but I missed the bus. But it was more important to me to sit and eat breakfast with my mamá than try to get out the door.

PS—breakfast was delicious. Pan tostado (she has a toasting pan that she toasted the bread on), which we ate with aceite y sal (olive oil and salt) y café con leche. Mmmm.

Realizing I had missed the bus, I reverted to my earlier plans (before having been invited to Valencia) and caught the 8:20 train to Alicante. Honestly—I did nothing all day. I was going to try to find the Museum of Contemporary Art but I was more concerned with not being concerned or focused having a schedule or list of to-dos. I’ll have to go back, because I would like to go, this weekend simply wasn’t designed for it.

Okay, nothing is a lie. I walked. Wandered. Went shopping. Gasp. Bought shoes—18 euros and of quality my friends.

Drank my first coca-cola. Ever. I kind of like that—my first coca-cola I drank in Spain. Ha. There is something funny about that.

Ate pan recien hecho (recently made) and Spanish cheese (there are lots of cheeses, I don’t know this one’s name, or any, really) for lunch.

When I came back to Denia Sunday morning, I went the ocean directly, put my feet for a bit, and breathed, later enjoying a croissant and café at a panaderia/pastelería, then sitting on a bench in the sun before returning home.

Home. I slept from 14:30 o pico (2:30 or something) until 20 y pico (8 pm and a bit).

Dinner: Ensalada de: purple lettuce (it starts with an r), avocado, celery, seeds, cheese, olive oil, lemon juice . . . mmmm. Huevos revueltos: scrambled eggs with egg plant and some other stuff, I believe—delicious. Sopa: soup, crema de verdura, veggie cream soup, except it tastes like veggies, not cream. Mmm. Happy Sunday. 

Que Locura

Vhat can I shay, I’m losing my Mind . . .

Sometimes one does crazy things.

Like a Skype account. That of course, had a very specific reason, to chat with a professor. It was a rough weekend/week.

Or a FaceSpace account. Scary. Do you have any clue how many e-mails fly into the inbox with the creation of that diabolic account? Horrifying. These are things that can be deleted. Perhaps I will be after Spain. I’m really not crazy over it.

Or putting a picture of myself on-line. Que horror.

But what is on my mind recently as a crazy thing?

Hmm . . . Hair.

Tattoos are silly: they cost un montón and what if you decide you don’t like it? Bummer man. You had better be darn sure. But hair . . . hair grows out. Dying it wouldn’t be the best idea for me, because by time it grew back out, it might all be grey (I stopped counting grey hairs when my roommate straightened my hair—“pull it out! Another? Pull it out!!” there were quite a few, and of course they grow back and multiply regularly.

But hair . . . What has been my mantra, anyone?

Hmm. I haven’t done anything yet. I won’t clue you all in anymore to what I’m thinking, but maybe I’ll come back shocking yall. :) 

El Desayuno Diario

Siempre me ha gustado el desayuno. Siempre, siempre. En los EE.UU. y aquí en España. 

Aquí es sencilla pero los colores son geniales. Mira:

Zumo de naranja; tostada; aceite de oliva.

Café, claro, pero dedicaré un día al café, tengan paciencia.

[Breakfast: I have always loved it. So simple, so tasty, but the colors . . .]
[. . . fresh orange juice and rich olive oil . . .]

Vall de Laguar

Optional excursion. Cost: 30 Euros. Destination: Vall de Laguar.

Oodles of poodles signed up, oodles of poodles dropped out. 30 Euros was too much, supposedly. And on top of that, there was already too much homework. Oodles, I suppose that isn’t the word to describe less than 25 people, and I’m pretty sure the whole group hadn’t signed up, but in any case, eight students wound up going. And seventeen people missed out big time.

La Professora and eight students, including myself, took the bus up to a small town, a pueblo, behind Denia, in the mountains. Friday night we ate Espegetis (spaghetti) and Salad and Pan (bread) and aceite de oliva (olive oil) after toodling around town—primarily sitting at the kid’s park oohing and awing at the view of the valley dropping down from almendras y olivares (almond and olive trees) into orange fields below us, running into a Denia framed by Móntgo and lowering jagged peaks, into the ocean. Climbing up the terraces were yet more almendras y olivares—creating a pastel blur of beauty in the face of austere, rocky summits spotted with chaparral.

Saturday morning we had hot milk with the choice of colacaol (a sweet chocolatey powder) or coffee (café con leche) and pan. Bread, yes, we live on bread. There were breakfast crackers too. Or cookies. However you’d like to call them. At nine we headed out on our hike . . . and I’ll tell you what . . . I cannot describe it.

First off—I was thrilled out of my mind to be on this trip. I was thrilled that the group was small, and not only small, but low-key. We spent Friday night reading around the fireplace. If someone had a question, s/he would ask it and whoever had the answer would offer it. It was quiet, calm, relaxing . . . oh, and before all of this, we went on a prickly pear adventure. I offered the knowledge that the fruit on that cactus there is edible and quite tasty . . . seven of us spent probably an hour sitting on a rock off the side of the road eating prickly pears and spitting seeds with enthusiasm, and then spent the night trying to hide from the professor why we were picking at our hands and lips (we didn’t want to worry her with the knowledge that we were eating things off the side of road).

Anywho, the hike. It was long and a lot of climbing and descending and it was beautiful. Beautiful not in the well-watered sense of beautiful or the springing with florescent flowers, but beautiful in scent, beautiful for the painting of almendras (soft pink petals) and olivares (soft green leaves) leaning over rocky terraces, beautiful for the painting of orange and grey and brown on the cliffs, for the shape of the land, for the juxtaposition of mountain and ocean, for the deep blue sky, for the sky light warming the skin, and the taste of air, cool and green in the shadows, sweet and earthy in the sun.

That night the professor headed back and us kiddos, er, young adults, were left loose. We made tortillas españolas . . . mmmm. A spent another quiet night in front of the fireplace. Sunday was a day of exploration. seven of us headed out to find a trail and find out way to the top of those peaks over there. Ready, set, go . . . where? When you aren’t following a path, it is hard to get lost, so we were fine, and it was quite a bit of fun. I had missed exploring, climbing up, down, around rocks, looking for the trailing, giving up on the trail, and finding the summit. Awesome. Literally, awesome. We sat a good hour at the summit after trying to decide which rocks were higher (this one? No, that one looks higher. Oh! And that one’s even higher! In Spanish, of course). From our throne we could see Vall de Laguar on one side and trace out our route from the day before, and another valley on the other side, with mountains further back that appeared to be snowcapped.

 

When we descended, we spent another hour sitting in the kids park where we ate lunch—visualize three college aged girls sitting in a circle with bread, knifes, and a bottle of olive oil in the middle—and did absolutely nothing.

It sounds like a “nothing” weekend, but it was everything. Not just for me either, from what I gathered, everyone in the group needed it. We were all continually complimenting the group as a whole for being adventurous, kind, and calm. For being okay with sitting all together without saying much at all. For allowing silence, questions, room to breath, and opportunities to laugh. 

Bumbling about Barcelona

Thursday, bright and early, we (twenty-four students from Calvin, twenty-five high school aged students from Juan Chabas, and three professors) headed up to Cataluña, first stop Tarragona. In Tarragona: Roman ruins, coffee (at a very friendly pastry shop), a gorgeous Church . . . a good time. 

 

We stopped at Parque Güell, designed by Gaudí, en route to the seminary where stayed (which, p.s. was gorgeous) just outside of Barcelona. Wow, colors, funky, natural, dinosaurs . . . those are the words that come to my mind when I try to describe Gaudí, but more specifically Parque Güell. 

Friday we headed into Barcelona—first stop: La Pedrera y la Casa Milà. Second: La Sagrada Familia. The work designed and started by Gaudí and still not finished. This place is enormous. From a distance, it is a little unsightly, but upon approaching (once over the shock of size that is expanding with step closer) the intricacies become clear and the immensity of Gaudí's vision begins to seep into one's mind. This is, of course, before even entering the cathedral. The pillars, the stained glass, the precision and craft . . . wow . . .

 

The remainder of Friday is Annie wandering, bumbling about Barcelona. One thing I adore in Barcelona, and many of the Spanish cities that I have seen: shutters. The streets become narrow, the buildings are all tall (five or six stories), and in stretches of three to four (and sometimes more) windows, these never-ending structures are divided by color and material and matching shutters with miniature terraces. It was difficult for me to keep walking instead of pulling out my camera in attempt to capture each picturesque vista, an impossible feat.

 

Besides bumbling up and down the relatively quiet ways (that is to say, not swarming with tourists like myself), I passed some time sitting and staring at ruins while eating my bread I picked up at a panadería amidst my wandering, if they can be called that. I do not recall the name of the pictured structure, but I first spotted the wall simply glancing down a street from a main road et voilà: look what we have here.

 

Age is awesome, literally awesome. But so modernism. El modernismo catalán is the Spanish version, the version of Cataluña (and thus Barcelona) and of Gaudí but also of Lluís Domènech i Montaner, the architect of the Palau de la Música. Unfortunately, the Palau is private and pictures are forbidden but wow. Light and flowers. Mosaics and muses. Local materials. This place dazzles—as in I was dazzled out of my mind by its brilliance, by the way that the colors dance and compliment, by the concise details, by the meticulousness that prevents an overwhelming array of light and color from crossing the into obnoxious. It is so much as to dumfound but just enough.  Brilliant.

Saturday we visited el Montjuic (the mountain, which gave to quite the view of the city), the Villa Olímpico, el Barrio Gótico, el Barrio del Born, a church, and a cathedral. The summer Olympics in Barcelona was the spark of Barcelona as a modern city, a tourist attraction, a known name. And although I could tell yall all about the Olympic centers we saw—my favorite part was the church.

The church and the cathedral were started at the same time, but the cathedral has yet to be finished—the church was constructed in fifty years (it was a functional demand—it was to be the religious base for the people living in the area and therefore the its construction was willed and voluntary). The church is visibly smaller (but still huge . . . okay, okay, dinky in comparison to La Sagrada Familia), constructed in the gothic style, with much fewer details than the cathedral; it could be deemed as simple. 

 

For lunch—the Pike’s Place Market of Barcelona: la Boqueria. I just love the colors.

 

Last stop Saturday—Casa Batllo also constructed by Gaudí. Modernismo Catalán: light, very few if any straight lines, intentional use of the natural. Casa Batllo is full of light, of stained glass, and of ocean. The colors of the glass, the waving of the walls, the entry of through the center staircase, the colors of mosaics evokes the idea of an aquarium—not with the feeling of stuffiness or that of being stuck inside (usually where I am at after hours at the Monterey Bay Aquarium) but rather with the openness of the ocean; the overhead arches give an illusion of size and the stained glass is situated as to glow even in the most interior rooms. From the top of this maze of art, I watched a rosy sunset.

 

Sunday—the drive back. Boring. Actually, the sky was gorgeous, and the landscape provided a pleasant distraction. But. Cavas Codorniu—much more interesting. Very interesting. Cava is the Spanish version of Champagne. Yup, we went to a winery, oh gasp. I won’t put you all through translating what I was taught about the making of wines and champagne (a name claimed by the French, therefore, the beverage made in Spain is “Cava,” the Catalan word for Cave, seeing as that is where it is made), but it was fascinating. There is even a Codorniu vineyard in Napa, California. It wouldn’t be the same, of course, the climate is different and the soil is different . . . maybe I’m preaching to the choir but go on a tour of a winery—the science and art behind it all is absorbing.