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.