Mollyblog

But when were you UNDER Spanish?

Another tidbit I could've posted in Spain, but didn't...

It’s finally time to go home. Heather and I have been taking turns getting homesick, having dreams and/or nightmares about home, tiring of the daily work of traveling: packing and unpacking bags, never knowing where anything is, bathrooms with light sensors that don’t work. And, for Heather, speaking Spanish. The words were getting harder to recall. She felt her accent was getting worse, not better, by the day. And she was sick of hearing the tones and lisps of the language constantly ringing in her ears.

“I’m over Spanish,” she said. “Is that bad?”

I assured her it wasn’t.

“I don’t speak Spanish, so I don’t care,” I said. “But I speak enough for both of us.”

Which was true, in a sense. As long as our needs don’t extend beyond the answers to these questions:

Do you have cigarettes?
Where is the bathroom?
I’d like coffee/wine/gazpacho/Coca Cola light/a glass of beer/ a ham sandwich.
Where am I?
Where is it?
What time is it?
How are you?

And as long as no one asks me a question that can't be answered with: Pute Madre (or ‘fuck yeah’).

Better than a gypsy curse

This photo is from a million years ago, when I went to a country called Spain with my friend named Heather. This was so so long ago, you may not remember either one of these strange proper nouns. But trust me – they’re both real. And because I still have  pictures to post, and because I can’t resist an opportunity to show you how pretty my friend’s neck is, I’m going to tell you the long long ago story of these ancient photos anyway:

So. Once upon a time Heather and I went to the Alhambra. It was pretty. I got lost. Then we left. Or tried to.

But as we were leaving the crowded entrance/exit area, a gypsy woman stopped us.

Having visited Spain before, and therefore knowing what it means when a woman offers you a sprig of rosemary (namely, that eventually she’s going to read your palm and ask you for money and, because of her gift and the amazing powers of the trans-lingual guilt trip, you’re going to feel obligated to give it to her), I tried to walk past her.

But Heather was more than happy to engage the short, dark-haired stranger. So I agreed to stop. I took the rosemary sprig she handed me (I’ve always liked the way it smells, and I really do think it’s pretty) and let her read my fortune. Something about two children, a long life and a man with either big eyes or pretty eyes, as translated by Heather from the woman’s Spanish.

Next she took Heather’s palm and forecast three children and a husband. Then she looked Heather in the eye.

“Stop worrying,” she told Heather. “You’ll get married.”

Heather promptly gave her a few coins, more than happy for a few minutes respite from our culture’s discomfort with single women.

As for me, I was less moved by my reading.

But getting to tease Heather about her ridiculously large family for the rest of the day turned out to be worth the experience anyway.

God is no Green Builder

While travelling through Spain, Heather would often comment on the types of buildings that lined a city street. Were they multi-use spaces? Multi-family homes? Or were they the ultimate bastions of non-sustainability: single-family dwellings on large plots of land, or single-use buildings in the city center?

Spending so much time with Heather, I found myself thinking in similar terms. So that when we sat down for dinner outside the Alcazar - historically used both as a cathedral and a home for royalty, and arguably one of the most beautiful buildings in Europe - I couldn't help but be appalled.

"That's so unsustainble," I said, pointing to the massive stone walls where white birds were circling. "I mean, that's a single-family dwelling!"

Heather found this delightful. But even better? Later in the week in Granada, as we passed a church — otherwise known as a House of God (of which every town in America seems to have at least twelve).

"Oh, please," I said. "That's not only a single-family dwelling, but come on. How many houses does one family need?"

Comedy and La Carta

Things to do while waiting to order your food at Cafe Oliver on your last night in Granada:

1. Drink your water.

2. Practice your Spanish.

3. Read the Bible.

4. Talk about world peace.

5. Decide which menu items could be band names.

Can you figure out which option we chose?

I'll give you a hint:

Grilled Red Mullets

Monkfish

Gilthead

Steinbutt

Popped Clams

And just for kicks, here's the unintended (or intended. you'd have to ask Heather.) euphemism of the day:

"He gave me great squid."

leoTARD

Q: What does a tree wear to Jazzercise class?

A:

A leotard. Duh.

My Secret Garden

So yeah. I managed to get lost in a garden at the Alhambra. Wonder how I could do such a thing, considering the whole place has been designed by super smart tourist-trap designers to tell you exactly where to go? Well, when going from the main building to the Generalife, Heather and I accidentally took the exit instead of the entrance. By the time we'd realized it, we'd climbed down several flights of stairs. Flights of stairs we did not want to climb up again. So we figured we'd just do the tour backwards, listening to our handheld audio tour guides in reverse order. You know, fish against the current and all that.

It was a great idea until we got to the Architect's Garden, a labyrinth of tall hedges separating row after row of small flowering shrub. The exit was a pair of nondescript stairs descending from one of those rows, somewhere near the middle of the garden -- not difficult, I'm sure, if you're coming from them. But trying to go to them without knowing where they are (because no one posts signs of how to go backwards through the tour, of course) was quite another story.

At first I tried to use my stellar powers of intuition and deduction. An exit would be exactly opposite the entrance, right? Well, no. That's where I ran into construction barricades. Then maybe it would be on one of the corners? Wrong again. The corners just led me to more parts of the maze, which put me right back where I started. Perhaps I could just see where the people were coming from and follow their path? Wrong again, because they were simply winding in and out of the rows just like I was. Feeling like a dumbass (because really, this "maze" was a simple rectangle with simple straight rows), I gave up for awhile and resorted to taking pictures. If I was going to spend THE REST OF MY LIFE in this garden, I figured, I might as well enjoy it.

The photo on the left is the view from the edge of the garden, where I was sure an exit should be. The building peeking up over the trees is the Alhambra proper. Pretty, no?

Soon after taking that picture, I sat down to regroup. And you know what helps me regroup the best? Self portraits that make me look really really tired.

This photo is from the Tribute to Dad portion of my adventure. See, my dad was something of an amateur photographer while I was growing up, and all his photos seemed to have one of two themes: flowers or fruit. The flower photos were pretty, I guess, but unremarkable in that they were, well, flowers. With leaves. Just like you expect 'em. I preferred the fruit photos, though, as they were a bit wackier: a banana on the beach, for example, or an apple on a rock at Yosemite's Half Dome. Since I had neither a banana nor a beach in my Garden of Captivity, though, I settled for roses.

At right, the beautiful hedges. And by "beautiful" I mean, "really good at making me feel stupid."

The next phase could be called "Oooh look at all the pretty shapes." It involved me taking close up photos of plants while other people actually went to and fro in the garden. Other people who knew how to get out of the garden. Must've been Mensa scholars.

And here you can look at some flowers. Because I did. For a long, long time.  

Then, after much toil and sweat, I found the exit. Which was, you know, right there all the time.

Sigh.

Perhaps there's a reason they have you go through the tour the right way...

I'm a Princess...IN SPAIN

I've started to perfect the art of never doing anything I don't feel like doing while I travel (with the exception of transportation and housing compromises, which are unavoidable). But I'm also trying to learn how to be flexible when with other people. And Heather has been one of those other people for three weeks. She's been fantastic about not complaining when she wants to go for a walk or visit a museum and I opt instead to sit in a cafe and tippity-type on my iBook.  But by the time we reached Granada, with the trip wrapping up and two weeks of avoiding touristy things behind him, it seemed time to set aside my aversion to What You Have To See and go spend a day with my friend.

That's how we ended up at the Alhambra last Monday morning, an admittedly gorgeous estate but one I already explored five years ago. We went early to beat the line (which we got stuck in anyway) and I marvelled at the gorgeous forested walk, all lush and green like Portland, and the ancient structures along the entrance. I too k picture upon picture of windows and door ways, just like last time I was there. I was fascinated by the complex tile patterns on all the walls, so unlike the slap-'em-together construction we see here.

And then I got bored.

So I did what I always do when I'm bored with something but have no way of leaving it. I started to tell myself a story.

So this is the story I told, helped along by the atmosphere of the Alhambra and the surprising appearance of quite a few cats roaming the grounds. (And, of course, my lifelong princess fantasy which is always waiting for any excuse to be manifested in my imagination.):

I am a princess and this is my palace. Soft fabric skirts swirl around my legs. Curls and veils frame my face. All of the nooks and archways are my places of repose, where I lean on velvet cushions of red or gold and read or write or dream.

I wake ever morning under white covers in a room with white curtains , sun glinting onto my nightstand where a bowl of pomegranate seeds and a glass of ch ampagne lay waiting, placed by an attendant who massages my feet and my hands before I rise.

These are my kittens, roaming the grounds. I’ve named them. Ruby, Mango, Minga, Sariah, Azul. Ruby likes to sit with me while I read or nap. Mango is lively and prone to getting into trouble. Minga and Sariah are sisters, curling up together in the light filtering through the ornate window panes. Azul is a quiet, independent and mysterious cat, like a shadow, disappearing from view when you try to approach her.

In my bureau are stacks of silk scarves, rows of soft dresses, robes and slippers, jewelry like water.

And I am in love.

And that's as far as I got. Because by then, Heather had caught up to me and we took a nap on a terrace in the English-style garden and headed over to the Generalife, where I proceeded to get myself lost in a different garden for about an hour. But that's another story...

(By the way, I'm not sure why it follows that if I'm a princess with gorgeous things, I'd therefore be in love. But it does. And I don't have to explain it because it's my fantasy. So there.)

Back in SB, yo

So as I mentioned, I'm back in the States. At this moment, back in Santa Barbara, sitting on the patio at Elsie's with Siouxsie and the Banshees playing inside (on the stereo, silly. not live.) Strange to be back, and, as it always is when I return from travelling, strange that it's not stranger to be here, where everyone speaks English and I drive a car and there's actually food made without mayonnaise or ham and just about everyone really does know my name.

Thing is, just because I'm home doesn't mean I'm done talking about Spain. In fact, I have a backlog of posts to make (and more of my fabulous photos to accompany them, of course) that should last me for at least a week. And since I'm still sort of in vacation/travelling/nomad mode (I'm living out of my car for awhile, as seems to be my natural state, 'cept this time I'm going to be based in L.A.), I'll keep going with this travel blog dealio as long as I feel like I'm travelling.

So never fear. Plenty more to come. Now we'll just see how much I can manage to type before my friends show up in 20 minutes and remind me how funny it is to be typing on a laptop in a bar. Til then, I remain the biggest, happiest, jet-lagged geek in the world.

Home Safe and Almost Ready to Blog

I know, I know, it's been days since I posted, and you're all wondering how we finished off our week in Granada (fantastically), if we made it to Madrid (damn straight), whether we sat next to smelly gum chewers on the plane (no, but it was much worse than that), and if we got home safely (yup, sure did). Thing is, I've been so busy shopping, packing, sitting on a damn airplane and then attending my childhood best friend's bachelorette party (I know, poor me) that I haven't had time to post. But fear not. I not only have plenty to say about the last leg of the trip, but also have no plans to stop posting now that I'm back in the good old US of A. Life is taking some interesting turns these days, and I plan to document them as long as I'm inspired to do so. Which, if my brain keeps generating ridiculous puns, could be a very very long time. So look for more, and more frequent, posting starting up again in the next few days. And until then, you can entertain yourself by looking at the archives. Ever seen a snowman made out of matzo balls? A laminated Peep? Didn't realize until just this moment how much you've always wanted to? Well, you're in luck. Because you can see just these things by clicking on the links at the left.

Ooh, and while you're at it, check out this fascinating flash history lesson about the Middle East. Seriously, it's a little slice of geek heaven.

Missing Massage

As our trip is winding down and we've done just about everything we wanted to do, there is one thing left I'm craving: a massage. Let me revise that. I am craving a massage from one Miss Carrie Lewis, massage therapist (and songstress) extraordinaire. While in Barcelona, I had the good fortune to receive a mini-rub from Carrie, who works out of the lovely expat-owned yoga studio Anahata (Aribau 61, in the Gracia district). It was a hand/foot/head massage indulgent enough to make me wish I could return for the full shebang. But alas, our next (and last) stop is Madrid. Perhaps we'll make our last day a spa day. But if you ever find yourself in Barcelona with shoulders sore from carrying all those bags (because you, of course, will have made the same too-much-luggage mistake I always do), look Carrie up. And when you're done, head over to her favorite neighborhood restaurant on Carrer d'Enric Granados. I can't remember the name (and I didn't actually have time to eat there), but just look for the place in the pictures.