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.

Haza del Trigo; Lost in Time

I walked through my new temporary home, the village of Haza del Trigo, a while ago to take a few pictures, and in the plaza by the church an elderly lady motioned for me to come and join her on the bench. Of course she speaks no English, and I had a hard time comprehending her local Spanish, but a few things were understood. One was that she is a widow, and tears well up when she mentions it. The other was that she was curious about Utah. She told me her name but I have already forgotten it.
I tried to explain that I was taking care of a house and a dog for Catherine and Johnny- one of two 'English' households (Catherine is from Dublin) in this otherwise all Spanish town. And that I was looking for the dog, Mutley, at the moment, as he had disappeared. I wasn’t very worried about him, as like the many other dogs in town he roamed free most of the time and was certainly not in danger. It was just me getting used to the routine, and knowing what to expect.
Haza del Trigo- up a winding rambla (dry river bed) a few minutes from the coast, a village of about 100 inhabitants lives in white boxes stacked organically on a hillside. There is a paved road that winds up from the main coast highway, but they are as likely to use the rambla, especially since they can only turn right from the paved road, now that it is a highway. They are also as apt to be on mule-back or motorcycle as they are in a car. This past winter was the wettest in 60 years, and the flooding of the rambla kept it impassable to cars for unusual lenghts of time, while washing out parts of it. It is still recovering.

The little casa I am tending sits near the edge of the town, overlooking some farms- unfortunately many of them are covered with plastic greenhouses- and beyond them are some low hills and the sea. The casa has a kitchen/living area on the first floor, two bedrooms and a bath on the second, and a terrace on top with fabulous views. John has been remodeling the house and it is at this time very comfortable and full of charm. Lots of nice tile work, a winding wrought iron staircase, and gardens in front. Also in front is a small plaza, a play park for kids, and a place that many villagers seem to gravitate to on their daily walks. Catherine tells me that she sometimes has to keep her door closed if she is working on something and doesn’t want frequent interruptions. While I’ve been here neighbors have stopped by with produce from their farms below the village, leftovers for the dog, or just to chat.
So far I have met Emilia, Jose and Pablo, the other English couple (Roy and Linda) and one of their daughters, and the lady in the plaza this morning (I learned from Jose that she has Alzheimer’s). I have said hola to many more, as they are usually sitting in the streets when I walk.
Catherine and I walked down the rambla the day I arrived, and a man from the village on a motorcycle stopped to talk. He was asking Catherine if I was wealthy, and teasing her about her ‘father’, Johnny.
The coast towns just below here seem to have preserved a sense of dignity, of maintaining their personality while having tourist amenities. There is no sense of opulence, of expensive places or shops, or the jutting stacks of condominiums that have spoiled so much of the east coast. Most tourists who come here are Spanish, but there is also the scattered community of northern European expats. I have met two ladies from England, and know of a few from Germany. One (Swedish?) gentleman who had a stroke stays at a campground in his van, and rides around on a motorized wheelchair. It appears that this area remains a relatively inexpensive place to live; drinks are half what they were in other places, and tapas still free with drinks.
A new highway is slowly being built across the region, higher in the hills than the old coast highway. It has tunnels and overpasses that don’t quite come together yet. On the beaches in Las Mamoles, mountains of piled sand and gravel are meant to become a wider beach, as the original was barely a walk way. Meanwhile, like the rest of Spain, Europe, most of the world? business is off, many places are for sale, and people wait. This is a place in transition, suspended. The sense of a place of a different time still presides.

I go to sleep with a frog concert from the rambla, and wake up to layers of sound from pigeons in the roof tops, a cacophony of bird song, and the staccato bell sounds from the goats on the hillside across the rambla. The major theme is tranquility. Catherine and Johnny have just left for their ten day trip, leaving me alone in this village... I plan to just soak it up for a while.

Up in the Alpujarras

This is what I imagined Spain to look like. Rugged mountains, where wandering up narrow winding roads you see what look like sparsely spread outcroppings of white rock- and find they are villages, old and beautiful, in which every building is white.

Valor is the end of the bus line from Almeria in the east, and from Granada to the west. I watched the simple beauty of the countryside growing with the treachery of the roads.

Now I am up here on a hillside, at a 'finca' owned by Terry and Ginny, a couple from England who have retired and live here full time- Mostly for the sunshine, the simplicity, and the beauty. They have two small houses, a swimming pool, and stone terraces lined with gardens. They are off the grid, have their own water system and use solar power for their limited needs- like filtering and heating the swimming pool in the summer, lights in the winter. And wifi by satellite.

Also here are Pete and Alice from Sydney, and Simon from Turin, Italy. The hosts told me when I arrived on Monday that their weekend was just beginning, so I have had two leisurely days of sharing cooking, walks, playing cards and sipping tea and wine and Cava (Local champaign). The view of the long valley to the south goes almost to the sea. Birds sing beautiful new-to-me songs,

and the air is perfumed with wild growing herbs like anise and rosemary. Two silly dogs demand play time.

Work here will probably be gardening. Morning five hours or so, then lunch and siesta, resting up for an evening of tea time, vino, and wild card games. Over the last three years, helpxers have built terraces, the swimming pool, stairs to upper levels, gardens, a mud oven, etc. It has worked well for everyone apparently. So not all of these places are less than advertised...

This area was the last that was held by the Moors, until Ferdinand and Isabella took Granada in 1492, and sent Columbus to the new world. These mountains were set aside like a reservation for the remaining Moors, for a while, but after an uprising they were kicked out of the Alpujarras too. Except for two in each town to manage the irrigation systems...

It feels like not much has changed up here in a long time. Refreshing, to say the least.

Bus Station Party

Pictures: ( they are backwards in order- Marina at Alicante, Javier and Edith, The boat with a dragon on the sides, a courtyard at Ken's casa, and the 'sails' I was working on.

Living in the moment... no point in trying to hold on to anything!

Yesterday morning Ken asked if I had decided whether to stay on for a month of 'training', which requires some kind of contract. I had already decided to leave on Monday morning, but had a feeling that as soon as I told him he would have some kind of reaction.

I was right- it took him a few hours, during which Jer and I helped him work on his beached boat in Denia's harbor. We scraped the dragon sculpture on the sides of his boat to get it ready for re-painting. (The boat had broken loose in a December storm and the sides were bashed against the rocks.) The boat is a strange creation that he built with fiberglass or resin, designed for eco-tourism.

All morning we were getting lectures about how the multinationals had ruined the planet. Ken's lecture's are arranged around a set of questions, which I unfortunately often fail to know how to answer. Like, if your baby is crawlin on the dirt floor, what do you do w' it? I said pick it up? which was wrong, apparently, and I missed the connection between that and the multinationals. Ken was losing patience with me, but i had lost patience with him days before. Every sentence in his linguistic pattern ends in a question that pretty much demands acquiescence. isn'i'? wasn'i'? didn'I? With his south Kent accent, or whatever it is. I usually responded with a question of my own, which apparently was mucking up the flow of his delivery.

Anyway, after a morning of scraping, waiting for the paint to be prepared, Ken offered to make tea, but then realized he was out of propane. We then set about to vacuum the sand off the sculpture, but he discovered he was out of gas for the generator. So then he got huffy and said we were leaving. It was a quiet ride back to the house- and as we were getting out of the car, he said, "Right then, you (looking at me) will go pack yer stuff and be off. And you too (Jer), since you are not enthusiastic about the program. Off w' ye, now." He walked off to his dark little rooms in the bottom of the casa.

We looked at each other. "Where did that come from?" Jer asked me.

"Heck if I know." Other guests- Javiar and Edith, were there working on getting a van ready for traveling. They just shook their heads; they were used to his sudden outburts and said he didn't mean it.

I quickly decided to go anyway. Jer did too, so we got on the internet and found bus schedules and made plans. I had a place set up for Monday- and thought that two days on my own sounded good. I found a little hotel in Alicante, a few hours down the coast. Jer found a helpx spot north of Barcelona. We decided it felt great to be leaving. So it was to be a 'bus station party'- Jer's words, and Javier and Edith would give us a ride. They thought it would be funny when Ken found out we actually did leave.

The bus ride is a favorite time for me- a free feeling, an in between place. Spain's bus system is especially convenient, the buses are nice and on time, and not very expensive. So far it has cost me less than 30 euros total to get from Barcelona to Alicante.

I watched the coast roll past on my left,- and more open farm land, small terraced orchards and vinyards, old stone houses in the hill sides on my right.

Then there are more piles of high rises and condos near a city like Benidorm, with Spanish McMansions spreading out over the hills.

I am now enjoying a private room in Hotel San Remo. I walked around a bit last night and plan to see more today. like the Castle Santa Barbara- a ninth century building on a hill nearby.

Tomorrow I take the bus again, for a place called Valor, to do some painting and gardening. These people have great recommendations on their helpx site, so I expect better treatment! I also have a house-sitting job near the coast for the next week. (Both Helpx). So, more soon. I plan to write about the other people out here on the helpx trail- most of them just out of school.

Pedreguer

I have enjoyed a few days of relative cakm, a chance to settle in a bit and sleep more. The good things about this particular helpx place is that there is internet whenever we want, the place is pretty and backs up against a nature park. Pedreguer is across the highway, a relatively small and quiet town but with stores.

The pictures are from the sculpting project- including a sea horse in the early pieces-of-toilet-and-sink stage. The coast view is in javea, just to the south, on an unusually hig surf day for the Mediterranean.

The down side is working with a fellow who keeps changing his plans and is not very organized, who likes to complain and blames the 'woofers' for anything and everything. He is interesting for a while, but soon his ranting about 'the multinationals' starts to get old. Maybe he is right- what do I know, but some of his assertions have detracted form his credibility somewhat. Like that American prisons use electric dog collars on the prisoners to keep them under control. (?) And that the Red Cross is a profitable foundation for the Rockefellers? ??

Pedreguer is a small, cordial but not welcoming, town on a hillside. It has a few grocery and pharmacy type stores, some bars, and of course everyone naps until 5 in the afternoon, which you realize if you are foolish enough to walk over at four to buy something.

Just lately I have personally prepared and painted six sheet metal 'sails' for wind generators, and helped the boys pick up piles of weeds that they have hacked out of the walkways.

My cell phone doesn't work here, I got another that should, but it is limited in usability as well- can call the US between 8 pm and 8 am- but usually too tired to talk at that time. Overall the whole cell phone situation here in the EU is difficult. One needs a different chip, if not phone, for each country. And only a few companies have decent coverage. The plans are complicated, and anything not specifically on the plan can be 4 euros a minute.

All that aside, I am thinking about heading south, towards Granada- I have one place in Andalucia, I just need to decide when I am ready to move on. It shall be soon!!

Casa Paz

Note; I have added photos to yesterdays blog.

I notice a pattern in which I allow myself the illusion of 'security' or simplicity via another person's participation, enough to get me on the road to some otherwise too scary place. Then, the illusion goes away, one way or another, and I am then forced to suck it up and become more self-reliant.

Now I am using my Spanish more, taking risks, pushing myself to get out and find out how to take the bus, which seems simple enough but not where I must do it in Spanish. Like saying the name of the town I want to get to- pronouncing it Ber I a, when it is actually BER i a. Confused the ticket guy.

Standing in line- you are expected to be pushy. If you wait to be invited to the ticket window, or order something at the cafe, you will be ignored.

The bus passes through Villafrance, Tarrogona, pine forests,Castillio, Valencia...with endless piles of highrise condos along the shore (many now for sale) and a growing mountain range to the west.

Casa Paz...Ken did meet me at the bus station as he said he would in the email. He is an ex-Brit but has been here for over 30 years now. Retired, in his late sixties, trained as a mechanical engineer , he now calls himself a bio-engineer. He has a 'charity' organization, which I think means non-profit, developing low tech solutions for energy self-sufficiency and for helping the oceans to begin to heal. He builds ceramic and concrete (a special kind that is eco-friendly) sculptures that are then placed off shore at the correct depth for fish habitat. They are shaped like sea creatures, turtles, rays, etc., but big and full of nooks and crannies for fish to hide. He seems to have it all thought out.

On first arriving at the farm house, Ken showed me a project he is working on, almost finished, which is a wind turbine made mostly with parts of old washing machines. I will have to send a picture of that later. He says it should generate 6 KW of power.

The house itself looks exactly like a Spanish Villa should look. Over 3000 years old- parts of it anyway- with lovely gardens and pools and courtyards. One also notices that the yards all around it are stacked with recycled stuff. In addition to the old washing machines, there are old sinks, pieces of metal and lumber, pipes, cans, sheds full of more stuff and tools and bins. The driveway is lined with the afore described sculptures- each the size of a VW. In between, there are piles of broken ceramic sinks and toilets.

There may well be a fine line between madness and genius. I can't say for sure which side we are walking on here.

I met my pentouse flatmates, two young fellows from Australia and Switzerland. I rather like the feel of the place, with my own room, and the fireplace in the living room. After a good sleep, we started to work on clearing weeds around the sculptures so we can finish a few of them, but the rains came. So Ken took Jeremiah (Aussie guy) and me to Denia to check on his boat, called Puff (The Magic Dragon) which was shipwrecked a few months ago and he has been rebuilding it. No way I can describe it, but to say it has a relief gold dragon spread on the sides of it. so again, you must await the photo. He built it himself. It is intended for the education of children, a big part of his overall project to begin healing the oceans (and Mediteranean Sea).

After grocery shopping - stores here are so smart- to use a cart, you put in a euro. When you are done, to get your euro back, it must be returned to the rack. In the rain, some people still abandon the cart- so we got a free euro!

Ken was telling me lots of stories all the while, including about the local gypsies, some of whom have been stealing his jusnk to sell for scrap, going on for many months now. Some of the steel is pretty valuable, apparently.

Returning to the casa, a grey car was trying to pull out of the driveway. Jeremiah and I couldn't figure out why Ken seemed to be intentionally blocking their exit. He got out of the car and was talking to the two young men in the car, then started to yell at them. He yelled at us to get out of the car, while they were trying to scrape past it. They couldn't, and things escalated. Ken got a hammer out of his car. The guys dragged a steel sink out of their back seat. Ken kept yelling, telling us to memorize their license plate number. One of them jumped in Ken's car and moved it, then jumped back in his. They ran into Ken who was standing in front of them, and Ken smashed their windshield with his hammer. They kept forcing him, so he finally moved out of the way. I tried to use my cell phone but it doesn't have reception here. Jeremiah had thought to get a photograph of the guys.

I helped Ken dial his home phone to call the police, he was pretty much a wreck. Things are calmed down this evening, and he is ok but his knee is bruised. I guess after all those months of being pillaged, he was primed to take action when he met them face to face.

Still raining, but lovely here,

Really.

Last Day in Barcelona

Photos: Plaza Reial, protest signs at George Orwell Square,

and Sculpture in honor of George Orwell

Sunday, May 02, 2010

I understand that some people want to know more about what happened with John… The poor man was under some impression that this was not just a blind date, but some kind of arranged marriage?! While touring Barcelona with him, little things started to add up to a big deal. When I left my hostel to explore without calling him up first, he was upset. “You should have called me! I would have come over and gone out with you!” Red flag.
The fatal day, he wanted to show me the beach of Barcelona. He had become increasingly romantic, which was making me nervous. Pink plastic flowers?! Painting supplies? And he was making more and more comments with sexual overtones…had I seen the local pornographic comics yet? Did I bring a bikini? I yelled ‘no’ when he got us (on the motorcycle) too close to a car, and his comment was he liked it when I squeezed my knees in. I asked if he thought it was funny to endanger me, and he just shrugged. Last red flag.
The beach seemed a dismal place, dirty sand, lots of concrete, and nude men parading up and down or striking yoga poses, watching sideways to see if anyone was impressed. Another surrealistic scene!
Sitting on a concrete walk way, I told John that I was letting him go find another travel companion who could appreciate him better. “What do you mean? What did I do?” He tried to convince me I was wrong, we just needed to get up on the Camino, he said, and I would feel better, and any misperceptions and wrong expectations were all my doing, as hadn’t he mentioned in an email, that he was a normal man? Did I expect him to be celibate the rest of his life?
Whew, more than surreal. He alternated between anger and hurt, then fell silent. I admit to a cold, dispassionate state of mind. I was done; I walked.

Two more days in a hostel would give me time to find a new plan. On the internet, trusty helpx again, I wrote to a few places in the vicinity. Ken from Casa Paz wrote back immediately, saying that his expected help had been waylaid by the volcano. The place was a bus ride down the coast, near Denia. He said he could meet me at the bus station.
Meanwhile, A little more about the stories from that great walking tour, and the cooking class.
The pictures sent earlier, of the church in a little square, with shot up walls, was some of the horrible stuff that happened in the Civil war. The guide talked about Picasso liking to drink absinthe in a bar called the Four Stars, where he overheard someone talking about how wonderful Miro’s work was, and proceeded to demonstrate his own superior skills on a table cloth. A replication of the scribblings makes up the façade of the art institute building in the Plaza Nova. The art building is the one and only ugly building in this big square, but the decorated façade helps a little.
Another story was about the Plaza Reial, originally homes for the people who had become wealthy by pillaging the Americas. During the civil war, they were driven out and the place was used as a hospital. Then, for the Olympics in 1992, palm trees were imported from Hawaii, on a rental agreement which is still being paid on.
The coast line was also changed for the Olympics, including two highrise buildings standing separate from the rest of the city, built for the athletes. And a plaza, called George Orwell square, is actually a triangle. There is a sculpture there, also done for the Olympics, in honor of Orwell because of his support during the civil war. At the unveiling, people were puzzled as to the meaning- and the artist explained that it represented a TB germ, because Orwell died of TB. The people were still puzzled. Very few people liked the sculpture, but there it still stands. Meanwhile the plaza has become a place where dealers sell cheap beer to attract crowds, and drug deals. The apartments around the square have protest signs hanging from the windows, asking for dignity.

Cooking Class:
For 18 euros, I joined a group of about 20, all students from several different places, studying for a semester in Europe. It was hands on for making Sangria , tapas and panella.
Sangria- Mash cut-up fruit (any) in a pitcher, add sugar and Brandy, fill half full with cheap red wine, add orange and lemon juice and ice.
tapas- panchetta and sheep cheese slices on toast spread with a garlic and tomato paste, for example.
Panella- in a large hot pan, cook chopped garlic in olive oil, add muscles and calamari, add chopped onions and green and red peppers (less red than green), tomato puree, white wine. Add salt, pepper, paprika, turmeric, sassafras, and bay leaves, add short white rice, more wine as needed. When almost done add shrimps and muscles.
Good luck. I know there is something missing, but this is the general idea, all in one pan, like a wok.
We helped make this in a huge pan, and then helped eat it in between practicing making the sangrias.
Tomorrow I expect to describe my new digs, and 'job'.

Change of Plans

Ah the winds of change. Turns out the real blind date is with all of Spain; not a person. I was appresensive about leaving the 'ease' of traveling with a guide, but that quickly became replaced with a great hunger for the freedom of being 'alone', which of course one never really is.

Lets just say I now rejoice in the choices and opportunities of one day at a time...

I found a free walking tour today- around the gothic areas of old Barcelona. Between the Romans and the Moors, they were here for only a few hundred years., but provided a great base on which lots of great buildings are overlaid - One picture is a church in a quiet little plaza (another picture) where people were lined up and shot during one of the insurrections. Forget which one, but it is May day, isn't it?.

The tour covered lots of ground, including the Plaza Nova where there happened to be another anarchist demonstration going on, so very Spanish. This is about Catalunya wanting more independance from Spanish rule.

I seem to have no control over where the pictures put themselves at this point, so they are all at the top- I think-

Anyway, I will be going out to a cooking class soon- to learn about making tapas and pannellas? and Sangria. Naturalmente.

I plan to leave tomorrow on a bus for a town called Denia, where I will locate a helpx host who is

doing some interesting things with waves and boats, can't tell you much yet- but will find out!

One issue I have now is that I have too much laggage due to initial plans including transportation- so I hope to be able to afford shipping a bag back. So much nicer to travel light!

Good for now, hasta luego-

Castilian spanish is most confusing, by the way.