Wrapping it up in France

Pictures: In the Citte, the Cathedral (Basilique Saint-Nazaire), Old Cazilhac, Cemetary at the Citte, detail on a monument.

Still ‘chillin’’, literally! It has been rainy and cold here in Carcassonne, with only a few sunny hours since I got here. I have mostly enjoyed it; it reminds me of Oregon.
Saturday I decided to walk into Carcassonne from Palaja, where I am staying. Ross started out with me, but the rain got to him about half-way (he had decided against the brightly colored umbrella that was available), so I went on alone. Over all it is about 3 or 4 miles, and a lot of it was on a narrow highway with no shoulder to walk on, just deep ditches on both sides of the road, full of wildflowers. The last third, after the pretty old town-turned-holiday-house-subdivision Cazilhac, was on the ‘old road’, a little used back road that goes directly to the old walled ‘citte’.
Walking between fields of wheat, sunflowers, and vineyards with the frequent old stone buildings or ruins on a winding road made it easy to imagine how it was hundreds of years ago, when this very road was in use, though probably not paved. Seeing the towers of the citte rise ahead of me, donkey carts, flocks of sheep and goats, and the occasional knight with entourage would have been no surprise.
The rain continued, and when I had wound my way up into the back walls by the cathedral, I found a deserted place, the cobbled streets wet and quiet. It was afternoon break time- in Spain it is called siesta, but I don’t know the name for it here. I found most restaurants were closed but found one sidewalk cafe still open and went in to warm up and have a cheese omelet and small glass of red (rouge) wine.
Both times I have been here before, I have gone into the cathedral- after all the glittering gold of Spain’s cathedrals, this one feels simple but elegant. The best part however is the men’s a’capella choir form Moscow that performs in the central space with a combination of fantastic acoustics and amazing voices. They are selling CD’s, and sing for about 5 minutes every hour or so.
The crowds start to reappear in the streets, but mixed in are lots of people dressed in medieval costumes- just to embellish my time warp experience. It turns out there was a jousting match, but I never found the jousting field. I visited the cemetary just outside the citte walls, and like other cemetarys bith here and in Spain, it has a big wall around it. The graves are monuments, very few just head stones like we are used to. THey are often very ornate, and decorated further with figures and I found a bus back to Palaja late afternoon. I was still wet from the walk, and getting cold.
At the house, things had been getting tense between the hostess and the other helper, but I didn’t know why. He said she blamed him for a broken gate, and he denied it. She said he needed to grow up. While we were expected to have meals with the hosts in the upstairs kitchen before, we were now, as of Sunday, told to make our own meals in the downstairs apartment. This is how I would have preferred it anyway. I think that Jean is in a tough situation, trying to do too much, with too many things going wrong. William’s health is a major issue, and managing holiday rentals is stressful enough. Add financial problems and myriad other details like finding that neighbors have been dumping trash in back of her property and that her best pet goat is sick…Ah, the quirks of help-xing. We are the third and fourth helpers Jean has had, and the previous two were pretty awful by her description.
We have finished a large patio, painted a bathroom, tiled a storage shed, helped clean, weed, odd chores…about 7 hours most days. While she has acknowledged that the standard for helpers is 4-5 hours 5 days a week, she gets pretty upset if anyone mentions hours. I suspect that she is so excited to have help, she feels a need to get the most out of it.
I shipped another box today, so finally down to one bag. It saves a lot on Ryanair, and I have learned how to get by with less, and less. One bag! At the post office, as usual, the lady spoke no English, but the last customer happened to be an English teacher, and she was called in to help Good thing, too, because the problems included my needing to go to the grocery store to find a box of the right dimensions, and to the tobacco shop to buy tape to seal it all up. Then back to the post office to fill out forms that were far from self-explanatory. I miss being able to use Spanish! Sometimes people around here do understand Spanish, more likely than English- I think I said that before, but it is a big deal. So hard to be in a country where you have no use of the language whatsoever! Well, I do know a few words now, but far from comfortable.
Ross has left for Perpignon and beyond, to help build tree houses in the Pyrenees mountains. I have a ticket to Glasgow in two days- Ryanair again. Jean knows the owner of a B&B near Prestwick, and the room is 25 euro per night, so I am treating myself to a few days there. Then another flight, to Dublin, and across to the west coast of Ireland by train. I will visit an old friend there, then return to Dublin and go south to help-x again, on a goat farm near New Ross on the south east coast, or a hostel on the west coast near Galway. Choices, choices.
Postscript- Peter the goat took a turn for the worse today, and I went with Jean to the vet. She left me with him in the car while she waited in the waiting room, and meanwhile the vet came out and tried to talk with me about Peter- while I tried to explain that the owner was in the office waiting. In the end, I went in when they took the goat inside, and found Jean who had no idea they were looking at him. The vet was amazing, a lady who did blood tests on the spot, and had already found a large tumor in his stomach/liver. He had to be put down. Very sad, I have only known him a few weeks and I was crying too.
Things are a bit calmer this evening, but the remaining goat, Bella, keeps us reminded of the missing. I think I have my own stuff sorted and ready to travel on, trying to read a bit of Robert Burns as preparation and remembering why I never got very far before- but there is a book here with translations.

Chillin in Carcassone

Pictures-

Some houses in a small village east of Carcassone;

The Cherry Tree Patio in progress; Boot Sale; Ross, Jean and William; The main courtyard in the palace in the Citte; 2 views of the palace; and Peter, one of Jean's goats.

Chillin in Carcassonne

It’s been lovely, ‘asn’t it? Just settin around havin’ a cool one, on the porch? Aye, an it can’ get much better, can it?
Aye.
Another culture warp, it is, ‘Johnny’. In the drop dead gorgeous south of France, mind you, and my hosts are Scottish and the other helpxer is Irish, aye.
I have been negligent, for sure, about writing. I did need some time to not think about much, though. I have been helping with miscellaneous small stuff- like weeding, finishing a wood deck, and building a patio around a cherry tree with pavers. Also went with my hostess Jean to look at a house- she is probably going to sell this one as it is getting to be too much for her to take care of. Her husband William has had a stroke and is not strong enough to help much, but he still does a lot of small jobs. Jean is trying helpx for the same reason, but seems somewhat resigned to finding a smaller place. This one has a finished apartment in the basement (where I am staying at the moment) and a very quaint small cabin up the hill with its own swimming pool. She rents these out to people on holiday, most from the British Isles, and earns a living that, but it is still a lot of work.
Last Saturday Ross (Irish laddie) and I went to the old ‘citte’, the famous walled castle just outside Carcassonne. It’s a bit touristy, but so well preserved it is easy to get a flavor
of what it might have been like to live in such a place. The history period that is most referenced is around 1200 ad, when a growing number of people referred to as ‘cathars’ who generally were Christians who decided not to go along with much of the dogma of the Catholic church. This created an excuse for the Catholic church to crusade right there in what is now southern France, wiping out villages and doing the inquisition thing to try to eradicate the ‘heretics’. Carcasonne, or the Citte, was a major hold out when other cities were surrendering to the massive army, called the Host”. An interesting book, a historical novel about it is called Labyrinth by Kate Mosse.
We went to a car boot sale (like a flea market) on Sunday, and I might have picked up some nice antiques if I was wanting to ship stuff. We drove through several tiny villages on the way, and I got to see some of the countryside. It is all so pretty, peaceful, and green.
We stopped at one of Jean’s friend’s house, where it turned out the friend had left for Crete, and these other people were doing some watering, and immediately invited us to their house for wine and cherry-picking. Jean said of course- she is fond of being spontaneous. So we had a few glasses of wine with people from England, and picked cherries. We also had a bag of mulberries we gathered earlier, so Jean made jam when we finally returned ‘home’.
All three of the people I now live with are hysterical. They tease me about my American accent as much as I tease them about their respectively weird ways of putting things. “You wouldn’t get me the milk now, would ya” means please pass the milk. (Irish) Tree often means three. Tird means third. Etc. Most ‘tings’ are ‘massive’, 'brilliant', or someone is ‘mad about’ someting.
Jean likes to hide from me (or Ross) when we go somewhere, then laugh hysterically when I realize she is out of sight. She calls Ross Johnny, or Scott, or Toby. So far I don’t have a lot of nicknames. She also likes to sneak up on people. A guy was in the store the other day, looking around the corner of an aisle. I could see that he was a security guard and was watching some teens who were looking at makeup. Being very obvious, and with his butt sticking out in the cross aisle. Jean couldn’t resist trying to startle him He didn’t think she was very funny.
William is just as amusing. Maybe due to the stroke he had, he only speaks in one syllable sentences, and it is often difficult to understand him, but it is usually well worth the effort to figure it out. A very dry sense of humor- and he has taken to accusing me of all sorts of things. Says I like my wine (I do, but haven’t actually had much for a while). Jean found some old cigarette butts near the garden, asked who had been smoking. William quickly says “Phibi”. That’s how he says my name. I had bare feet this afternoon, after hours of hauling big slabs of pavers and wheelbarrows of cement it felt good to have no shoes on. He said I had ‘onion feet,’ kept pointing and laughing. Think he meant bunion, but I don’t have those either. Whatever. I think he likes me. Strange man.
France does a few things differently, I am learning. One story is about a British guy who moved here and bought a house. His first tax bill came and he thought it was outrageously high, especially since his road wasn't paved. The mayor had told him it would get done one day soon, but that was a year ago. He went in to complain, and most likely was a bit pushy about it. He got a new ammended tax bill a few days later...for a lot more than the first one. Nothing he can do about that, apparently.
I haven't been able to get any cash out of any ATMs since I got to France- so finally I wrote to my bank- by instant message. They were great. Said that if the machine doesn't ask what account you want it out of, the savings account is the default account. I have several accounts, but the savings account only has a token amount. And its true, they don't ask what account. I have yet to try again, with funds in the savings account, but hopeful now. Amazing what we can do with a computer- so much better than trying to sort it out by phone.
That's another britishism- getting sorted out. "She'll sort you out" or "Did you get sorted?" Oui, Merci. Very good.

France; Another Planet

The Photos-

My new French dog friends, A view of a vinyard near Carcassonne, and the famous palace in Carcassonne where Robin Hood was filmed (with Kevin Costner).

Leaving Spain

The last day in Alhaurin el Grande was another one of those with the increasingly loud Alfred Hitchcock music in the background,. Isabel had gone to Granada with Marcos and family on Saturday, so I had a peaceful day by myself at the estate, mostly reading Hemingway’s ‘Fiesta’, known as ‘The Sun Also Rises’ in the English version. I was happy to note that my need for the dictionary was gradually decreasing, and I was enjoying the reading. I was also contemplating leaving on Sunday instead of Monday as planned, as the hostess had become more and more irrational, or should I say ‘mental’- I don’t like to diagnose people, generally, but there was a definite manic thing going on, what with her being up all night listening to loud and dramatic music, singing, and laughing, all by herself as she worked on a painting or other project.. She would then be awake the next day, but with a diminishing capacity to say anything coherent, or behave in a way that resembled normalcy.
Sunday was the day that Marcos mom and girlfriend were scheduled to fly out of Malaga, As Marco was trying to negotiate with Isa about transportation to the airport, it became more apparent that nothing could be counted on. I was concerned also about making my flight the next morning, so I decided, along with Antju and Alice, to go now to catch a bus to Malaga. We went to the bus stop just outside the gated community- we were expecting a bus at 1. I read the schedule while waiting and realized Marcos had misinterpreted, and it was 3:30 before a bus came. So the three of us took another bus into Alhaurin and sat at a sidewalk café playing UNO and drinking Tinto de Veranos for a few hours.
Then we caughtthe bus, Antju and Alice getting off at the airport, and I riding on into Malaga. I found a hostel close to the bus station, and then wandered the streets of Malaga- as usual, being around 5, the streets were mostly deserted during siesta. The city was largely unimpressive. Dirty, under construction, boring buildings, maybe built during Franco’s reign. I had seen a nicer old section of town a few days earlier, but it farther than I cared to walk from my bus station neighborhood.
I did get occasional glimpses of a tall blonde fellow, however, and at one street corner he caught up and asked me if I spoke English. He was a Brit, but in seemingly unusual circumstances. His name was Robin, and he has lived in Spain for over 20 years, but still didn’t speak any Spanish. I bought him a beer at a sidewalk café, and pried for more information. His story was that he was penniless and homeless, living in a shelter normally reserved for Spanish residents. He had been robbed of his winter’s wages (something about working and banking in Gibralter, and taking the cash out as it was tax free that way) and everything else while sleeping on a park bench. He said he had had a bad reaction to some medication he was taking for the flu. He wound up in a detox place, and when he got out his house in a town down the coast had been repossessed. He was now seeking a job, in sales.
Good story, anyway.
Back at the hostel, the guy in the next room coughed and gagged all night. The linens smelled like stale cigarettes. I had also been trying for days to contact my next host, a lady named Jean in Carcossonne, France. I had not been able to get through by phone or by email and was starting to be concerned about the plans- did she change her mind and not want to tell me? I told myself that it didn’t matter, I would find something, somewhere, but could not get comfortable about the uncertainty.
. I was up early to take a bus back to the airport, to try my first Ryanair flight. Cheaper than bus or train, I was doubtful it would actually work out. But it did, the 25 euro flight plus 15 euro for one checked bag- all went well. I had been especially worried about the strict rules regarding weight and size of carry-on, but others were not so concerned, some even had big backpacks that were obviously oversized, and got away with it.
The only down side is that throughout the flight, the crew are presenting commercials for things like smokeless cigarettes, food and drink (no free anything here) lottery tickets, amusement park deals, etc.
In Girona, I found a bus (Frogbus) that went to Perpignan, which as I had found on the internet was as close as I could get in one hop. I did however finally reach Jean, and felt immense relief to hear her cheerful voice and promise to pick me up at the train station. Train? Whatever. It was 6:30 when I got to Perpignon, and I asked the bus driver where to find a connection to Carcassonne. He pointed to a building across the street- a train station. Seems the only way, so I went in- now in France but not speaking any French. Turned out one ticket person spoke a little Spanish, and nobody spoke English. A bit awkward, but I managed to figure out that I had to take one train to Narbonne, and a different one from there to Carcassonne. With a 10 minute layover.
I do love the trains- smooth, comfortable, and scenery very unlike the bus, away from the highway. I was feeling happier and happier, to see big pine forests, lots of castles, palace ruins, even an aqueduct. Then the coastline, so very different from Spain. Unspoiled, with pretty farms, and flamingoes wading in the shallows of the Mediterranean.
Narbonne is a bigger station, but I did remember to have my ticket stamped there. The train was late, in between other trains, and I wasn’t sure which one but found it and was on, last leg of a long day.
More and more beautiful, the countryside of France worked its charms on me. I felt happier than I had been since Haza del Trigo, and Granada. In fact, those were the only two places in Spain that I would even consider returning to. Granted, there is the north and northwest of Spain, as well as Portugal, that I have missed- so maybe later for them.

I managed to get off the train in Carcassonne, and tried to call Jean only to find that my cell phone had no signal. I tried a payphone but couldn’t read the instructions, it required a card but didn’t like my visa card. Nothing left to do but ask for help- some 'older' people could not understand me in English or Spanish, but I found a young lady waiting out front of the station who spoke a little English, and she was so kind as to let me use her cell phone.
Jean came to get me, and we drove to her place about ten minutes outside of the town. She is warm and welcoming, and fun to talk with, once I get accustomed to her Glasgow accent enough to understand her! Her place is a large house on an acre of yards, gardens, a rental cottage with a swimming pool, and yards for goats and chickens. It’s gorgeous.

Even the weather is dramatically different- cool and drizzley, and after the dry heat of Spain, I am really enjoying it. I slept very well in a basement apartment, listening to French frogs, and today helped Jean with weeding and picking cherries. Life is good, as my t- shirt says.

Alhaurin el Grande

Blog 604 Alhaurin el Grande

The pictures: Isabel's house, inside the main cathedral, a view of Seville from the bell tower (not the est, but don't know how to change it) a couple of views of the Plaza de Espana, and the stair case that I helped tile and grout.

This is clearly the ‘other side of the coast. I find myself in a gated community of million dollar estates. My lovely host Isabel was one of the first to own a lot here, over twenty years ago, and it has grown up around her. Now she has neighbors (from England) who threaten to shoot her rooster. Sounds familiar… I met this guy and he was friendly, came to ask Isa if she wanted to join the new homeowners association he was forming- but she explained that there already was one, from 2002, and there could not by law be another one. He said he had never heard of it. But then, he speaks no spanish, maybe that's why.

Alhaurin el Grande is a pretty town, not very big but surrounded by what I would call unban sprawl- lots of summer homes owned by people from other parts of Europe. It seems rather vacant now, not many people or much traffic around.
Mark, the other helper, comes from a town called Cottbus In East Germany. It is famous for sweet pickles. Mark is 29, and was driving tanks for the soviet army at age 8. He is now a dance teacher, and interested in Flamenco while he is here.
He also told me about a place near Cottbus called Spreewald,a wet area where some parts depend on canals (irrigation ditches) and boats as the major means of transportation. From some pictures he showed meit looked like a gorgeous place. He has made me think about how it is that traveling to former soviet block countries has not even entered my mind, maybe some lingering fears or negative impressions that have nothing to do with reality?
Mark also told me that the most devastating event in his area after the fall of the Berlin Wall was the sudden closure of all business- because it was soviet- and failure to replace it with anything that would allow the people to make a living. An imposed poverty. I don't remember anything about that- who would have imposed such an edict, when and why.
Mark’s girlfriend and mother are staying here while visiting, and the three of them have been away every day exploring the Spanish south. Yesterday I got to go with them to Seville, a few hours drive climbing through rugged hills to a higher flat plain. And higher temperatures. It reached 40 celcius, which is I think high 90s F. We visited the Cathedral y Giralda (Catholic museum), had a good lunch at a classic pub place, then wandered through another church (Iglesia Colegial Divino Salvador), the main government buildings, Plaza de Espana, (under reconstruction) and a big park (Parque Maria Luisa). We wanted to see the Reales Alcazares, a palace or castle, in the middle of the old part of the city, but we were too late. One day is not enough to really see any city, and certainly not this one.
Traveling with three people from East Germany was fun- Marco was especially nice about translating what they were saying from time to time. His mother speaks some English but with difficulty. We were stopped by the Guardia on the way home, about midnight. I had my seat belt on, under my arm, because it was irritating where it crossed my neck, and they were thinking I didn't have it on. I guess even in the backseat, it is required. Otherwise they didn't even want to look at my passport, just the IDs of the others. They took some time to let us go on, but were polite enough.
Now I am relaxing, back here near the coast, and I think everyone else has gone off to Granada. In two days I fly to Girona, and take a bus to Carcassonne, France. Leaving Spain! Maybe it will be cooler near the Pyrenees. Surely it will be different from Malaga.

Granada

Definitely an out of time experience, is Granada. I really did luck out in my choice of cheap accomodation. Anyone else who might be wanting to go there, and save money to stay longer, and ok with a possible bunk bed, it is worth the trouble to take buses up the hill, to stay at the Flophouse by the Mirador de San Nicolas. With all of the Albaicin around you, every little walk is a sensory immersion in the history of Andalusia. Bit by bit the pieces of layers of influence soak into your heart and head. The Alhambra beckons from every mirador (viewpoint). Then, after walking across the river to get to it, you find yourself soaking up some deeply spiritual art.
For me, the contrast from Barcelona's Gaudi works (and my sincere apology to Gaudi fans if this is insulting) was like day and night- I did enjoy Gaudi, but the art of the Alhambra, which I presume was his inspiration, has the opposite effect. The juxtaposition of extremely differing patterns and motifs is done in a way that was calming rather than abrading, makes me feel introspective, grounded, and peaceful, instead of crazy as was Gaudi's effect on me. Of course, that is my personal opinion.

The restaurants in Plaza Larga were kind of fun- there were two main ones that used up a lot of the space for their outdoor tables. Sitting there a lot of the local color presents itself. Boys ride through on horses, lovely hippies with dreadlocks are everywhere (Granada is a hippie mecca), muscled guys in Gothic black with tattoos- but wearing tights -wander past. Musicians are always playing there, and some are really good. I shared my fish dinner with a little yellow cat, who politely waited under my table.
The bill kind of irritated me, as the proprietor had put a basket of bread on the table, then charged extra for it. So the next day I ate at his competitors place, owned by a large and flambouyant woman who is most warm and welcoming. The food however was very greasy and over salted. Ah, well, so it goes. I met a couple from Switzerland there, and people from India, Norway, and England in other parts of town.
My host at the Flophouse gave me a tour of some of the side streets in the Albaicin and the Realejo, the old Jewish quarters of the town which is practically right under the Alhambra. To see the Alhambra itself I stood in line at 7:30 in the morning, for an hour, but did get in the same day which is only possible because there are 600 tickets per day reserved for people like me who don't plan ahead. The grounds can be seen for free, but to get into the main attractions like the palaces, the fort, and the 'Generalife', you pay 12 euros. The palaces alone are worth it. All the pictures on the internet help give an idea of the splendor, but can't begin to impart how it feels to be there.

Tapas: On the Tropical Coast, where I have been the past few weeks, a wonderful tradition is that when you buy a beer or a glass of wine (around $1.50) you get a free tapas, ('topper') or small plate of a seemingly random snack. It might be bread with cheeses or meat or tomaotes, or broad beans cooked in olive oil and garlic, or any of a number of tasty treats. I read that the custom originated using the plate to cover the drink as a way to keep flies out- then something was put on the empty plate perhaps to make it more festive, who really knows. If you are on a budget, you could get by without meals, just a few 'tubos' of beer or tasos of vino tinto...

I did the bus relay again on leaving, four buses total to get to Alhuarin el Grande. I am becoming more comfortable with asking people where are we, and where am I going, and find they are usually happy to help, especially if I try to speak Spanish.
My host here in Alhuarin el Grande, Isabel, is an amazing woman who built houses in Granada for years, and built this small mansion also. She is an artist as of a few months ago, when she can find the time between working on finishing this big house with a few acres of grounds, gardens, swimming pool, frog and turtle pond, etc. I am working on grouting some tiles on a stairway- and helping her in the garden. A young man from East Germany is also here, who has much to say about philosophy and politics. More on that later, hasta luego.

Leaving Haza del Trigo

The pictures: Mutley and his friend, Cookie, Steph's kitchen, Avacado orchard in bloom, another view of Haza del trigo, and a doorway in Granada.

Leaving Haza, and Finding Granada

Another leap. Out of the comfortable and by now familiar home in Haza del Trigo, very hard choice to continue on as planned in light of the invitations to stay on after Catherine and Johnny returned from their vacation in Cannes. I really came to feel like I could stay- and I was getting to practice Spanish every day! Emilia and Jose both made a habit of stopping by to talk every day. And both were very patient with my limited vocabulary and ‘hearing impairment’ (not able to hear the separate words in Spanish, especially the local dialect that leaves out half the consonants).
Steph and I were invited for dinner in Polopos, cooked by Chrissy, an American from Seattle, married to Alex, a Londoner 30 years her senior, and living in this remote village…with internet. Polopos is very beautiful, and from its place higher up the mountain, one can still see the Mediterranean but the hills block the view of all the ‘plasticos’, the blighted spread of giant greenhouses on terraces dug out of the rocky hillsides. In this part of the coast there is very little flat land, as the steep fingers of promontories reach down from mountains to the beach. Even in the recession, there is government support to build ever more of these greenhouse terraces, giant replicas of the ancient ones that are considered picturesque. Local expats cringe as the hillsides are scraped out-even under roads and reservoirs- knowing as already happened this past rainy spring, the steep grades will not hold in the winter. Many roads are still sliding away, even the new highway under construction through the area. And not much sign of repair yet.
The different relationships between the locals and the expats interest me- some expats treat the locals with various degrees of disdain, while many are respectful and try to understand their attitudes. That this region has been so desperately poor for so long, and that the ‘plasticos’ are the first real opportunity most have had to make a go of anything, might be taken into account.
There is so much to be said about so many things, so many stories that emerged in that little corner of Spain, I can only touch on the highlights. I learned mostly that while it is a poor area, and not the most scenic by a long shot, it has much character and a thriving social life.
On this southern coast of Spain in general, the recession has had some unexpected effects- like the number of dogs that had been ‘adopted’ by expats, then re-abandoned when the expats could no longer stay due to the horrible red tape and expense that is imposed on any such endeavor. So many of them do take in the strays, which are plentiful anyway, mutts like Mutley, my little charge at Haza del Trigo. All sizes and breeds are abandoned but mostly mixed and small. How the locals treat their animals is a constant point of contention- but now it isn’t just them.
An article in recent newspaper mentioned a goatherd who was sentenced to 14 years for seriously beating up three people. I heard of another case where a goatherd around Polopos beat up a woman, a childhood friend, and left her for dead because she complained that he let his goats devour the young trees she had been nurturing. Steph told me about her own careful interactions with the goatherd that drives the 400 goats past her place everyday, trying to build a good relationship as her trees, and her water pipe, are vulnerable to the herd’s activities as well. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, up there by herself trying to manage a generator and maintain a small farm. She is one who can seriously benefit from helpxers if she can just find the right ones!
Now, today- I hopped the bus and found Granada. I had instructions for the buses, had to change a couple of times, and that was the hard part. Granada feels so very different, candy for the eyes, I keep thinking I am back in Italy! But no, still in Spain. The Alhambra does take one’s breath away. I found a hostel for 11 euros per night, called the Flophouse Vegetarian Backpackers Hostel (!) which happens to be up on the hill, right in the middle of the Albaicin district. A few steps fom the door, and I have a fantastic view of the Alhambra, and the fantastic streets and plazas of the old city. Not only that, I pretty much have the hostel to myself- an big old house nicely painted and clean. Interesting.

I walked the streets of the Albaicin this afternoon, and managed to get good and lost. Which is of course the perfect thing to do in a new place. I found a café in Plaza Largo which I hope to return to for dinner later, if I can find it again. Some people don’t like the outdoor cafes that post a sign with all the photographs of the dishes, but I find it helpful. Haven’t eaten out here enough to know what they mean by the name of it.
I am planning to see the Alhambra palace tomorrow, and other sites, be the normal tourist. Then on Monday I take another bus down to Malaga, and find a lady named Isabela in a nearby town called Alhuarin el Grande, and spend a week helping her with small jobs. Now I just have to find the manager kid of this hostel and see if there is internet as promised. He wasn’t feeling well when I arrived, so I hope he is ok.

Hanging out in the village

In the potos- The front of 'my' house, Mutley, my little charge, a view of the sea from the road to La Mamola, and another view in the village.








Each day I learn a little more, meet a few more people, and recognize opportunities to remember about living in the moment.
I have braved driving the switchback roads that crawl up the spine of narrow steep hill reaching from the sea. Little (white) villages like Polopos, and occasional solitary dwellings mostly restored from ruins, sparsely dot the landscape.
One such place belongs to a new friend, Steph. She came from England 6 or 7 years ago, to be with her husband- but he died suddenly, three years ago, and she has struggled to carry on with his dreams and projects here- learning a whole new way to be in the world in the process. She doesn’t drive, yet lives in a remote ruin that is partially renovated. She has some rescued dogs (most expats do here) and chickens, and currently also shares her living quarters with a large lizard, because it moved in and she doesn’t know what to do about it.
I have also braved driving the streets of Haza del Trigo, but there are only a few that are wide enough to drive. Parking is normally on the edge of town, a very short walk from the house, but at times there is a closer vacant space. It's always a gamble, because if all the possible spaces are taken, its a long way around on the one way streets to the rambla and back to return to the parking lot.
Catherine’s little Opal had me flustered the first time out, as getting it into reverse required knowing the trick of pulling up on a ring around the gear shift. I did it by accident once, luckily as I was turning around on the cliff road at the time. Later in town with Steph, we had to ask a policeman how to reverse so we could get out of a parking space. He was kind enough not to laugh at me.
I have loaded about half of my belongings into a box at the post office- which is only open about one hour per day- and will find out on Monday, after they have hauled it somewhere else to get it weighed, what it will cost me to ship it home. Hopefully it’s less than the worth of the contents.
A stressful experience involved my computer acquiring a virus- bad enough anywhere, but here is a very backwoods kind of place, and I had visions of trying to explain about the problem to someone who may or may not know English let alone computer viruses. It turned out Steph knew someone, another expat, who did just that as a business. Derrick worked on it for a few hours, says it was a particularly clever one as it hid itself and changed file locations. I apparently got it when I accepted a suggestion to download an update for JAVA, but it wasn’t legit. The malware itself tells you that you are infected and tries very hard to download a new antivirus program, listing multitudes of supposed viruses that it has detected. Then of course, you would be told that to clean them up it will cost you. I guess the learning is to look very very closely at any downloads- even the ones you think are familiar.
It cost me, but mostly I just feel lucky to find someone to help me clear it up! I confess I have a huge dependency on this little computer.
Costa Tropical- this southern coast of Spain is quite varied- economically at least. Here it is still quite poor, and not especially touristy. The vast areas of plastic greenhouses are annoyingly unattractive, but then again, this is the one source of income here- and is perhaps preferable to the tourism route. Farther west, between Malaga and Gibraltar and known as Costa del Sol is the much more ritzy area with expensive hotels, fancy beach clubs, yacht harbors, casinos, and whole villages of expats.
Meanwhile, back in my own little village, I have realized that the goatherd numbers over four hundred, and is quite a sight as it roams the hillsides around here. They are all different colors and sizes of animals, but its more about the sound, of the hundreds of bells that they wear on their necks, all different tones and pitches, which is mesmerizing. I would expect it to be just insanely noisy, but in fact there is a flowing melodious pattern to it, soothing and ever-changing.
Polopops, mentioned earlier- has retained its name from when the Greeks lived here, around the sixth century BC. It is interesting to see that some ancient Greek names stayed after millennium of conquest and upheaval.
Only a few more days here, then not sure yet- could stay with Steph in her 'ruins', but getting a bit antsy to move on.