Afternoon at Maroni's

Occasionally, life just happens. Regardless of how much in control we think we are, sometimes we just have to go with the flow and experience the wonderful things that appear before us.

Four days ago, I arrived on the campus of Mary Baldwin to take a film class. Two hours later, after surrendering my library card for $4000 in equipment and with the blessing of my professor, I became an independent film maker.

Today, armed with a microphone for the first time, I set out to fulfill my last assignment: interviewing people in the community about a "current topic of interest." The exercise was more about teaching me the intricacies of sound recording than video. I schlepped my 10 pound camera bag through the streets of Staunton, VA with the intention of ending up at a gas station to discuss the gas prices, how much we all love our president, alternative energy sources, etc. etc. Little did I know that this was one of those times that the universe had other plans for me.

As I reached the street corner near the station, a portly, white-haired gentleman approached me and directed me to the BP around the corner. He further asked what I planned to do there and, when I explained my intentions to him, informed me that he couldn't think of anything more boring. "Wouldn't you rather spend the afternoon with me?" My immediate initial answer was a vehement "NO!" Curiosity, however, rose above my gut and so I agreed. "Well then, come have a beer in the oldest restaurant in Staunton!"

As he half pulled, half escorted me into the tiny, run down eatery with no exterior to speak of, I surrendered my fate. I was immediately introduced to all the patrons (subsequent introductions occurred each time a new person entered), handed a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and six hours later, had all the footage I could handle and more.

Maroni's, which has been owned by the same family since the early 1900s, is unofficially a gentleman's club. Women are welcome (though few venture), and are occasionally allowed to have opinions, but never to buy beer. If you can be classified as remotely attractive, crass comments will fly in your direction. Race and sexual preference matter not, as all are accepted if you abide by the unwritten rules of Maroni's. Non-conformance will result in being listed on the shit-list (a white board above the bar) or permanent ejection by the owner, a slight, white haired beauty in her 80s.

Maroni's customers are loyal and trustworthy, a fact proven by the tabs they meticulously keep to record the purchases that they serve themselves. They help cook and clean and, later, even provided entertainment on acoustic guitar, passed around from guest to guest. Occupations and social classes are well represented with retirees, students, construction workers, chiropractors, city council members and even the mayor in regular attendance. They all come to solve the world's problems, or forget them, for a few hours in beer and burgers.

As the sun began to set and after consuming countless PBRs, I emerged, newly inducted to the shit-list. A great honor, though I will never share my transgression. I entered this place a tired college student with some camera equipment. I left inspired, rejuvenated, and slightly drunk by the sense of community that pulses in Maroni's.

Life on Campus Day 1

It's 7 PM on the East Coast and I have just settled into my first dorm room in a decade. Things are a bit different this time around. I'm ten years older, a bit wiser (hopefully), and instead of my parents and a U-Haul, I managed to move my belongings in using one small suitcase. Instead of a semester, I'll only be here a week. Phew.

I'm here for "summer week," similar to other schools' J-terms, where you study really hard for a short period of time and get full credit. My class is video production and I am the only student. My professor has been a rocker for 20 years, has 2 screenplays currently being optioned in Hollywood, and mainlines coffee until well after 8 PM. This is my second class with him and I look forward to the energetic, dizzying approach he brings to learning.

The dorms are, well, dorms. They are concrete, utilitarian and barren. There is no trash can. I have no roommate (!), but do have a suite mate who brushes her teeth every ten minutes. So much for water conservation. Our suite is positioned directly across the hall from our "dorm mother." (Note to self: cancel the Tuesday night kegger!)

I am the youngest of all my classmates. Well, that's not entirely true, but I'm the youngest who isn't pregnant. Everyone is wonderful and I've made lots of friends. Well, until the "incident" at dinner. Sitting at my table were 5 girls from all over the South, all were Christians - that came up within 5 minutes of introductions. Not far into our conversation, one of the devout Baptists made made a flip, racist comment about one of her son's friends. I, without restraint (shocking, I know), expressed my offense.

It always takes me aback when people make hateful comments, especially to people they barely know. It is insulting to me that she thought I also would agree with her - I must fear, distrust and dislike people of a different color as well, right? It is unacceptable to me that others supported her so openly. Trust me, I am not delusional that there is still a lot of hate in our country, but it always disappoints me to learn that it festers just below the surface in the unlikeliest of people. Perhaps Eric Hoffer was right when he wrote "to know a person's religion we need not listen to his profession of faith but must find his brand of intolerance.”

Oh well, I never really bought into the sorority girl scene anyway. My fate this week is sealed. Off to wander about town and campus. The skies are growling persistently, so my evening could be short.

Adios Espana

It doesn´t seem like 3 weeks since I last sat in the Bat Cave in Cat´s Hostel Madrid with my first blog from Spain. But, it has and it´s my last night here. Impossible. After 12 hours spent trying to get back to Madrid from Barcelona today, I am ready to come home. There have been other indicators along the way that it is time to travel home, so I´ve compiled them into a brief Top Ten list. Enjoy.

Top Ten Indicators that it´s Time To Leave Spain
10 - It´s been raining and foggy everyday for the last 10
9 - There isn´t a means of public transportation you haven´t taken, all in the same day
8 - You´ve completely cataloged all markets ending in eria: zapateria, cerveceria, lavanderia, licoreria, pasteleria, peleteria, perfumeria...
7 - You have 2000 pictures of every old building, pile of rocks and piece of art in Spain
6 - When you ask the waiter ¿Que me recomienda?, he responds vestidos limpia.
5 - You´ve had at least one attempted pickpocket for the past 2 days
4 - You spilled a glass of wine (actually this one might get you thrown out of the country)
3 - The entire country has run out of olives
2 - Your backpack outweighs you
1 - You´re so broke that your fellow hostelers are taking up a collection to pay your departure tax.

So, my journey home begins tomorrow morning. It will be a 30 hour day as we get to turn our clocks back as we fly over the Atlantic. Look forward to seeing you all soon! Hasta luego!

Montserrat

Montserrat has long been linked to heaven on earth and I decided to spend this day trekking it. The universe always seems to have other plans, however, and as the train approached the base of the mountain, fog rolled in. Boarding a cable car that would take me to about 700m, I realized spectacular views were going to be nonexistent, and so resigned myself to exploring the ancient monastery that is also there.

Upon arriving, I found the Basilica at the center of the monastery, which dates to 1035ish (though most of the original structure was destroyed by Napolean´s troops), and went inside. The decorations of the building are opulent and mindboggling. Gold, silver, bronze and marble adorn floors and walls covered in ancient mosaics. Iron fixtures hang from the ceiling to light the way through small, narrow hallways. The centerpiece of the cathedral is La Moreneta, a black virgin, and I was able to admire her closely.

I moved to sit in the sanctuary to take photos and the church bells started ringing. Before I knew what was happening, the church began to fill with monks, nuns and other tourists. I was in the middle of a full blown mass. Not understanding the Latin-Spanish service, I sat quiety until communion, when I exited.

A brief visit to the monastery´s museum yielded masterpieces by Picasso, Dali, Carravaggio and more. There was an uncovered Egyptian mummy as well. Wandering a bit outside in the square, the heaving clouds finally gave way and burst open. Taking shelter once again in the Basilica, I was rewarded by a performance by the Boys Choir. There voices were ethereal. Before they sang, the visitors were asked to recite the Lord´s Prayer in their native tongue. It was truly incredible to hear it recited in no less than 5 languages in unison.

As I made my way back to the arie for a ride down the mountain, I noticed a sign post pointing me to ´Via Cruces´. The deluge was over and curiosity overcame me, so I turned left and proceeded up a wide walkway lined with crosses - thus the name. After walking for about 10 minutes, there was a staircase leading to the right up into the trees and into the mountain. No one was around. Of course, I took it.

A short 30 minute hike straight up the mountain took me to a small shrine near the top. The clouds and fog momentarily blew away and the views were breathtaking. I was completely alone in this paradise atop the mountain. Screaming children and puffing trains were far below me in the distance. I sat quietly watching birds build nests. Eventually, the fog began to blow back in underscoring the mysterious and haunting aura of this place.

I spent a few more hours walking on footpaths through the towering rock structures before coming back down. Montserrat is a magical place that I will not soon forget.

The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plains

It´s been a whirlwind few days, though I can´t exactly pinpoint why. It´s been cold and raining since we arrived in Sevilla. We managed to shoe shop while dodging huge raindrops all the while. I entertained fellow shoppers by trudging through (okay, maybe skipping) deep puddles in my flip flops. There was no point in even trying to stay dry, so I did a bit of singin´in the rain.

Needing a bit of sun, we ditched Sevilla yesterday for a jaunt to Cadiz, a beach town on the Atlantic coast. A quick bus ride and we left the fog and rain behind for a beautiful sunny day. We wandered the city for a while, finding an extensive food market where every kind of fish was available. They were fresh too...choose yours from the pile and the fishmonger was ready to carve it up for you. I was delighted to find a spice vendor and successfully purchased two varieties of paprika. Sandra and I bought enough fresh produce for several snacks and had a great picnic on a jetty in the ocean.

Afternoon was spent enjoying the (topless) beach. We walked for miles in the sand and now have a large collection of rocks, shells and sea glass that must somehow make it home. Perhaps it is a good thing that the Spanish version of the TSA threw away my olive oil this morning upon boarding the flight to Barcelona.

We made it to Barcelona by breakfast, leaving Sevilla at 4 AM. Exhausted, we hit the city in full force, exploring legacies left behind by the art and architectural genious of Gaudi. His work is brilliant and fills the city with unique color and shape. The city is completely different than the rest of Spain we´ve seen. First of all, it´s arranged on a grid (!) so it´s relatively simple to navigate. Secondly, it´s located in the far north, and many folks speak Catalon, which is sort of like Spanish, but not really. It´s cosmopolitan like Madrid, but it´s treasures are very different. We´ve only just begun to uncover them.

There´s a wonderful pastellerie by our hostel where we had breakfast this morning. The owner speaks Catalon but only a tiny bit of Spanish and no English. He enthusiastically showed us around his shop, describing in great detail the confections he had to offer. Our mouths watered as we chose our pastries, chocolate for one and cheese for the other. He happily offered us cafe con leche as well, quickly making friends. He´s a dear sweet man that I know we will visit often during our 5 days here.

My afternoon was spent arguing, via an international (collect) conference call, with Capital One and BB&T about who was most incompetent about handling my funds. Standing on a busy street corner pay phone, I´m certain that everyone passing by received an education in the intricacies of the English language, as I found myself temporarily penniless without assistance from my ¨no-hassle¨credit card and hometown bank. When calm negotiation got me nowhere, I pleaded, then I yelled, then I cried. An old lady passing by offered me a handkerchief, a sweet gesture that made me cry harder. Michael, with Capital One, tried to soothe me. I think he cried a bit too. In the end, BB&T won the jackass award. I won the ultimate prize...cash in my pocket. Perhaps it is time to bank a bit of sleep.

Me gusta zapatos

Our first few hours in Sevilla were quite unique. After traveling by bus to the city, we were tired and hot, and schlepped our packs around the confusing maze of streets for nearly 3 hours before finding an open hostel. It turned out to be an hourly hostel (I´ll leave the story there...it´s really very gruesome) and we´re both still a bit freaked out by the experience days later.

We´re now settled into a wonderful backpackers hostel filled with really wonderful people. While we´re here on the only Sunday that there´s not a bullfight, I managed a tour of the bull ring, which is amazing and dissolved my trepidation about the whole practice. Bullfighting is a part of Spanish culture that dates back hundreds of years and is really more art than sport.

Two nights ago we attended a Flamenco show, an experience we hope to repeat tonight. Tapas and rioja fill our days and nights here with many new friends from around the world. Old buildings and piles of rocks are taken very seriously here, but I´ve about reached maximum capacity at this moment for those. So, we plan to spend some time in the outdoors. But, since it has been cold and raining for the past two days, we´ve had to curtail those plans. Instead of renting bikes today for exploring the countryside, we´re going shoe shopping. Seems like a fair trade-off to me.

¿Acer sol?

This day in the Sierra Nevadas has convinced me that I was in fact hexed yesterday by the angry gypsys. Oh, that´s right. I haven´t told that story. Well...Sandra and I were walking through the square when two ladies pressed rosemary into our hands and began to tell our forture. It all happened too fast to protest and we went with it. It was quite hokey, but included blessing, stamping on the ground, assurances of long life, love and happiness. Whew! All was well until the end when my lady asked for payment. I was fine with giving her a euro, so began scrounging in my pocket. Meanwhile, Sandra was feeling very generous and had given her lady 5 euro. It only took 2 seconds for my lady to start clammoring for 5 as well. She wouldn´t accept less and I wouldn´t pay more, so I broke away from her and left the square quickly with her shouting behind me.

Fast forward to this morning. We awoke to cool temperatures and a bit of fog (the first day it´s been less than 75 and sunny). Traveling to the bus station to buy our ticket for the short drive to the mountain was simple enough, but when we arrived, we were only allowed to buy a one way ticket. We thought it was a mistake at first, but when we returned to the counter to exchange the ticket, we were met with much resistance. I argued as best as I could in Spanish, but it was no good. There was some screaming - on my part, in frustration - and on the part of the ticket vendor that we would miss our bus - so we decided to take our chances on the return and board. Worst case, we would hitch back, or sleep under the stars.

On the bus we met a group of fellow travelers in the same situation and we commiserated for a bit. When we arrived in Sierra Nevada, we were deposited on the side of the mountain in pea soup fog so thick we couldn´t see more than 5 feet or so. The driver waved farewell and pulled away. We were stuck. It made more sense to be stuck together than stuck apart...so that is how we acquired four Islamic traveling companions who were, incidentally, dressed only in shorts and t-shirts. It was less than 50 degrees on the mountain.

A la Maria von Trapp (albeit with slightly worse weather than on a typical Hollywood set), we set off on a few short walks that were manageable. Finding a pile of snow, an innocent lob of one small ball caused a full scale snowball fight. Not smart. Now, we are cold AND wet. But, we managed to scale a few sheer cliffs with loose rocks, observe an altar to Mary on a mountain top, and climb to the top of an observatory whose door was open (or maybe there wasn´t actually a door on it). Billy goat sentries watched us from high above in their watch tower, and we were lucky enough to get fairly close to the group they were guarding. We convinced a guard to let us pass through a military zone and eventually managed to find our way back to a tiny coffee shop despite a map that was written in German and the pea soup fog.

Soon enough, pea soup fog turned into full scale downpour and we still needed to walk an hour down the mountain. We had determined that a bus would return us to Granada at 5 PM. It was noon. Bob´s ski shack was friendly enough until about 2 when Bob had had enough of entertaining our motley crew. It was still pouring, so we begged him to take us partially down the mountain where we could meet our bus.

Once there, with travel companions who were nearly frozen, we found a cafe and spent the afternoon discussing religion and politics (shocker!). It was quite eye opening to hear our Muslim friends´perspectives on the war and the state of the world. They are also Britains and are more than willing to passionately discuss many subjects. There´s nothing like opening your mind and letting a few new perspectives in!

So, perhaps the hex has been lifted. Or perhaps there never was a hex. Whether my traveling companions agree or not, it was a skipping kind of day that I would repeat many times over.

Love is my religion

This has been a beautiful day. The morning and much of the afternoon were spent wandering around the Alhambra. We scaled hundreds of steps...as if our legs weren´t already protesting! The watch tower was the most impressive. Views from the top were endless. American accents are much more prevalent here than anywhere thus far, and I am forming a strong distaste for it. Generally, the Americans I´ve come in contact with exude an entitlement mentality that is completely intolerant of the culture they are visiting. It is infuriating.

The rest of the day brought some wandering alone. I found an open air market. I am such a sucker for a market. The endless maze of stalls with colorful offerings is enchanting...chatting with shop keepers...smelling, tasting, touching. I found a pair of pants I loved and the shop keep suggested I try them on. It turns out that the dressing room was nothing more than a waist-high sheet stretched across the center of the shop. No thanks! Moving on...

I also visited the cathedral...as you do. My camera is filling with photos of old buildings, so I chose a less traditional path around the city (read: no tourists!) and documented the incredible grafitti that covers every empty space. This included a visit to the University of Granada, the energy around which was intoxicating!

Much time has been spent this trip exploring other people´s religions - we´ve visited a steady stream of churches, mosques, synagoges (even was the subject of a hex by an angry spanish woman, but that´s a story for another day). It´s time to find some religion of our own. Mañana. We will explore the beauty of the Sierra Nevadas on foot.

After the mountains, we move on to Sevilla. I don´t know what´s in store, but I know it involves flamenco!

I heart Granada

My girlfriends were right. Granada and I love each other. Upon very cursory inspection of this new town, I may just stay forever. It´s built in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, making it very attractive for my hiking feet. It´s also bordered by a beautiful little river, lending cool breezes to hot days. Random staircases form pathways off major roads and what you find is always a surprise. Middle eastern fare dominates and my palate is well pleased. Spanish whisky is now a favorite, and I´ve become a pro at peeeling labels off of wine bottles. Trobadores abound, pleasing my musical ear.

Our pension is fabulous. Recommended from a friend met in Honduras. We´re on the second floor in the pension. It´s tiny, with only bunk beds, a small bench and baker´s rack for depositing clothing. But, it overlooks the Alhambra and has a window that opens it´s wrought iron gates to the open air.

Tomorrow brings a tour of the Alhambra gardens and more wandering. This seems like a great place to get lost for a while.

I feel pretty...

oh so pretty. I feel pretty, and witty, and...
Okay, enough of that indulgence! My point is, it´s been all about prettiness for the past 24 hours. Though traveling frugally is still the name of the game (the dollar´s value against the euro makes me hyperventilate regularly), minor indulgences are always in order. When else will I have an opportunity to bathe in authentic Arab baths? Two hours of soaking was wonderful medicine for my aching legs.

This morning, I wandered through the gardens of a 14th century palace. It was easy to get lost in the beauty. Imagine the stories those fountains could tell. It is reputed that the discovery of America was discussed here. I´m certain that´s only the beginning.

Leaving Cordoba, I´m now in Granada, which is nestled into the base of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. They are snow-capped even though the weather below is always around 28 degrees C. Vineyards and olive tree farms surround us. Arab influence is even more prevalent here than in Cordoba.

Tastings and pigeon poo

Yesterday was a day for tastings. Olive. Wine. Cordoba. After breakfast, I intentionally lost myself in the narrow, winding, and seemingly endless streets of the city. I visited the Museo Bella Artes and Museo Julio Romero de Torres, which were both interesting in very different ways. Afterwards, I continued wandering and happened into a little shop that was filled with olive oil and wine. The proprieter approached me and offered an olive oil lesson and tasting. ¡Si, por favor! But of course!

It turns out you taste olive oil in the same way you taste wine. First, you smell it. Then you swirl it around in your mouth. Finally you swallow it. It´s a wonderful experience when you´re guided by someone as knowledgeable as Pepe. I chose my favorite, which turns out to be one of the top rated oils in all of Spain and now have 20 pounds of it to tote around for 2 weeks. It´s smooth, with a fairly strong taste of green olive, followed by a little kick at the end. Then, Pepe offered me a copa de Fina, which is a very dry white wine made from grapes grown in Cordoba. Not my favorite, but good to try.

For dinner, we ended up at the Museo de la Tapas y el Vino, so of course we tasted tapas and wine. After asking the waiter ¨Que me recomienda?¨ we sat back and waited for him to choose our food. Drinking our bottle of Cermeño (tinto de Toro), which was estupendo, we wrote the following review of our dishes:
Rabo de Toro (stewed oxtail) - I threw vegetarianism to the birds and enjoyed this fabulous local dish. Didn´t know oxtail was so boney though. It was a mess to eat!
Croquetas caseras de espinicas (Spinach croquettes) - Ooey, gooey, creamed spinach with cheese wrapped in a breaded crust. Goodness from start to finish. We ordered more!
Aceitunas (olives) - Sandra found the pits problematic. I thought they were wonderful and was proud of my pit mastery. I know my monkeys are happy for me.
Asadillo de Pimientos - slimy roasted red peppers with scant tuna. Not great.
Albondigas de Bacalao en sala de tomate - fish (cod) balls in tomato sauce with hard peas. Enough said.
Pulpa a la Gallega - bland Galician octopus, which was predictably chewy

Finishing all of this, we were still hungry, so we ordered more Spinach croquettes and added Croquetas de Jamon. The jamon tasted like ooey, gooey, chipped beef in cheese. Yummy goodness. Then, we ordered postres. The waiter brought us a tower of chocolate cake and whipped cream. It was gone in a flash of dueling forks.

On the way home from dinner, after midnight, a pigeon shat upon me. I suppose it wouldn´t be an international trip without some crazy animal mistaking me for their private baño. When Sandra finished laughing, which took way too long, she handed me a tissue...and took a photo.

Rat tails, flamenco dresses and more

We´ve left Madrid for the beauty of Andalusia. Traveling by bus to Cordoba was a beautiful way to see the countryside. The area around Madrid is flat, but as you get further south, the land starts to roll and olive trees and vineyards abound. It´s hot here, at least 80 every day.

Cordoba is full of wonders to explore. It´s a melting pot for Jewish, Muslim and Christian faiths. In fact, the primary attraction is the Mezquita-Catedral, which is a Mosque with a Cathedral smacked down in the center.

We found a beautiful guesthouse right by the Mezquita, which is run by a lovely fellow Sagittarian and his family. Our room is tiny, but private, a nice change from the hostel in Madrid. The bathroom is miniscule with a shower the size of a postage stamp. The whole room floods each time you shower. Sleep was impossible last night as our window opens onto the main square. We were entertained until the wee hours with passersby singing and dancing their way home. But, it is homey enough for a few days and the price was right!

There´s a festival going on whose name escapes me for the moment. It really doesn´t matter as the concept is simple. There are numerous red flowered crosses scattered around the city. After dark, the site of each becomes the location for a huge street party. It´s sort of like ¨church youth group gone bad¨as every 15 year old in Cordoba is dancing in the streets with cocktails. We found three crosses last night and began learning flamenco, which we are determined to master by our return. There are beautiful little girls (about 5 years old) who were dancing in their flamenco dresses until 2 in the morning. !

Yesterday was also the day of the wedding in Cordoba. We saw 3 and inadvertently crashed two. My traveling companion went as far as to enter the church during the ceremony and exited just behind the bride and groom. Scandalous!

The rat tail is alive and well in Cordoba. They are a status symbol, I think, though not sure exactly what status. There are long ones, short ones, dyed ones, ponytailed ones, fat ones, skinny ones. I´ve never seen that many...even as an 80s school girl!

Sandra and I have separated for the morning. She´s going to explore piles of old rocks (I´m told they are valuable architectural sites). I´m headed off to view the artwork of Cordoba´s most famous artist Julio Romero de Torres. His artwork was highly respected in his time, but has lost luster since his death. Cordoban´s still idolize him and I must see.

¡Viva España!

It feels so good to be wandering internationally again - still in a Spanish speaking country, though with a friend this time. Spain is beautiful and filled with amazing things to explore. Sandra and I have been in Madrid for two days, but we´ve already acclimated to a European schedule. I have no idea what time it is at home, and I am very much enjoying eating, playing and sleeping at will.

The flight here was long. We arrived at 7 AM local time, which is around 1 AM on the East Coast. The last hour was beautiful - there was nothing but blackness until then, but at around 6, a thin line of light appeared on the horizon. It grew larger and larger and pinker and pinker until the sun popped up over the horizon, blinding us. We met a couple of guys (who were an actual couple) in the airport who turned out to be huge primadonnas and, despite many Spanish lessons, could not figure out how to change their money. I ended up being the mouthpiece for everyone (scary!) and somehow managed to get us out of the airport and into the subway station.

Our hostel is wonderful. It was rated the best hostel in the world in 2005. It is supposedly haunted, but I´ve sensed nothing yet. There´s free internet and breakfast (if you can get up before 10 AM). I´m sitting in the basement, appropriately called the Bat Cave since it´s black concrete from floor to ceiling, listening to a weird soundtrack (most recently Ghostbusters theme) as a disco ball spins.

Madrid is very cosmopolitan and very old at the same time. ¨Public art¨ fills the streets in the form of old architecture and statues. There is no shortage of things to see and I´m certain I´ve taken more photos in 2 days than I did in 3 weeks in Guatemala. We visited Museo del Prado and the Reina Sofia today, drinking in as much art as we could. The most poignant moment was when we rounded a corner at the Reina Sofia and were face to face with Guernica, Picasso´s painting telling the story of Nazi German bombing of Guernica, Spain. It was breathtaking. The painting itself is huge, but it was difficult to see because visitors were stacked 4 people deep to view it. I had to make a concerted effort to pull myself away when I finally had my turn at the front of the line.

It´s festival time here (the 200th anniversary of some really terrible things in Spain - here for more, which is rewarding and challenging all at the same time. Challenging since everything is closed - including banks, which makes withdrawing money difficult. We finally found an ATM in the Ritz and used their bathroom - I have pictures (it was worth it). Rewarding because its a party everywhere you turn. We got to see a parade at the Palacio Real today and hung out in a parque for a concert by the National Symphony.

What else? The food...oh, the food. It´s phenomenal. In addition to gazpacho, churros, and freshly baked pastries from the corner market, I ate an entire plate of olives yesterday. They were stuffed with some sort of ooey, gooey, garlic and cheesy goodness. The rijoa and sangria flows freely and it is impossible to resist.

As wonderful as Madrid is, I am ready to move on. We leave tomorrow morning to travel by bus to Cordoba. This begins our trek to the region of Andalusia in the south of Spain, where hiking, biking and flamenco are our priorities.

V is for vodka

It occurs to me today that I'm actually a college student in the throes of finals week. No shit, you say. True! Beyond the fact that my Mac is permanently glued to my lap and I'm using textbooks for pillows (osmosis, anyone?!), I've consumed nothing but pizza, chocolate chip cookies, coffee and liquor for the past 72 hours (with the exception of one veggie wrap from Arts). Ugh...I've got to find some vegetables.

Coffee jitters and little old men

I am mainlining coffee this morning while banging my head against the table at my favorite coffee shop (props to Arts Etc who makes the best coffee and veggie wraps - okay, hands-down, the best food - in Martinsville). I love it here - it's inspiring and comfortable. Regardless, statistics makes no sense today and I can think of hundreds of things I'd rather be doing. But Spain is calling and this project must be finished before I depart, so I press on. For a moment.

Focus not being what it should be, I am distracted by a group of men sitting to my right. This group spends every morning here, drinking Maxwell House coffee (that's made specially and only for them as they don't like the brew of the day), munching bagels and muffins, solving the problems of the world. They range in age from 60-90 and the size of their group fluctuates from 5-15. I am generally able to tune them out, though it's impossible to work when they are all here as it is a true cacophony.

My relationship with this group is complicated and ever-evolving. They tolerate my presence nearby and occasionally draw me in to conversation, but women are strictly prohibited from sitting with them. So far this morning they've sung "Happy Earth Day" (to the tune of Happy Birthday), discussed the Chicago Cubs (I know because they asked me who the manager was and were very impressed when I came up with Lou Piniella - no small thanks to Google), and scoffed my choice of shoes (flip flops - as is always).

This group is not homogeneous by any stretch of the imagination. Some are sweet, some are curmudgeons, some are Democrats, some are Republicans, some are racist, most are male chauvinists, some are quiet, some are loud, they are all religious. No topic is safe from scrutiny and I overhear the snipits: the turkey that got away, city leadership's decision-making abilities, kids/wife/family driving them crazy though they all obviously love them dearly, church politics. Sometimes they agree, other times they argue, but they always return for daily camaraderie.

They tell me jokes. Today, as is true most days, chauvinistic in nature. In short: Man robs bank. Asks guy if he saw him rob bank. Guy says yes, man shoots guy. Man turns and asks another guy same question. Answer, "no but my wife did." Sometimes the jokes are both religious and chauvinistic in nature (I think they get bonus points for these) - predictably some variation of God messing with Adam's rib to the detriment of the world. The occasional poke at themselves: "when you're as old as I am, your memory is the second thing to go." So I hear.

They tell me these jokes and I laugh, at the delivery rather than the message, but they don't know that. There's really no point in explaining it to them. They come from a world where women cater to their every whim even when those whims require them to wear high heels to clean the house (true story). To them, women exist to feed them, dress them, drool over them. Now, they are old enough to flirt with young women and not be threatening - in fact, they are adorable and endearing (if not just a tiny bit infuriating) and I'm quite lucky that they enjoy entertaining me so much.

"To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old." ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

Southern Traditions and Double Standards

There are many things I love about living in the South. There are just as many things that I hate about living in the South. Curiously, some things fall into both categories.

Take, for example, manners. The importance of manners should never be underestimated and they are spoonfed to native Southerners from the time of conception. This goes beyond the usual niceties of "please" and "thank you," extending to "sir" and "ma'am" at the least. I won't bore you with all the other tenets of Southern manners - everything you've heard is true.

While I see the value in being polite and showing respect, I absolutely detest being called ma'am. The word makes me feel old and matronly and can raise my blood pressure like nothing else. I realize how completely irrational this is, especially since the terms roll off my own tongue without second thought.

Regardless, that's how I feel...well, that's how I felt, until today. I was 5 miles into my daily run and met a man who was out for a walk. I was jamming to Gnarls Barkley so loud that I barely heard it - "Ma'am." I turned my head - eyes flashing, biting my tongue to avoid spraying venom - only to see this dear man with his hat off his head, clutching his cane, bending at the waist, wishing me a good day and a safe run. You'll be hard pressed to find a sweeter scene anywhere, and I'm quite sure I fell a little in love.

Everybody wants to be a dot

The wandering dot is alive and well in the form of a Guinness commercial. If my likeness must be used, I can think of worse brands! =)

Chapulines...they're what's for lunch

Go to Central America and you'll find lots of unique things to eat everywhere you turn. Finding similar foods in the US is a little more complicated. So, when I found Chapulines on the menu in a D.C. restaurant, I had to try them. Grasshoppers on a taco...I was intrigued. And not disappointed.

A Mexican delicacy, Chapulines are tiny, marinated fried grasshopper carcases. Delivered in handmade corn tortillas on a bed of avocado, they are slightly spicy, slightly sweet, very crunchy, and really wonderful! I highly recommend them, especially since there is no longer concern of lead poisoning from consumption. At the very least, it is good to know that I will never go hungry!

The Great Potomac Primary

Today, I voted in my first Presidential primary - an event dubbed "The Potomac Primary" by the media. I love voting. I always leave the precinct walking a little taller, feeling like I have performed my civic duty and contributed a bit to the betterment of our world. I feel no different this morning, but it was a long road here. I have friends who have firmly supported Barack Obama since the beginning. I have friends who supported Hillary all along. I know even more people who have struggled with their decision for the past 18 months. I fall into the latter category.

Many people, especially women and African Americans, feel pressure to vote for one candidate or the other simply because they are female or black. That is absurd, though I admit I felt the pressure to support Hill for that very reason. Ultimately, we have to look beyond this as we cast our votes. Aren't we teaching our children that color doesn't matter? And - if girls can do anything boys can do, they should earn it and not be handed it by default, simply because of their gender.

In the end, I am proud of my Democratic party for presenting two minorities for Presidential Candidate. Either of them is a far better choice for the future of our country than any of the Republican candidates. In November, I will vote for whichever Democrat is on the ballot. Today - and without hesitation - I cast my vote for Barack Obama based on the changes I believe he can make for our country and for the rights I believe he will protect. Visit www.barackobama.com for specifics.

Adios Central America

I awoke this morning and was momentarily confused about where I was. There were no new bed bug bites, no black flies swarming, no firecrackers and bombs sounding, no fresh coffee brewing. Then, the realization - I am home.

After leaving Utila, I decided to make a quick visit to the Honduran town of Copan Ruinas, which is located near Mayan ruins of the same name. The town itself is very charming, with trademark cobblestone streets and Mayan Artisan Centers lining them. Linka Indians, in particular, have a very distinct style of pottery and I made a significant financial contribution to their people.

The ruins themselves are very beautiful. Experts put them in the same category as Chichen Itza in Mexico and Tikal in Guatemala, which are supposedly the best. Not having visited the others, I can't be sure, but they were incredible. I spent the day wandering through this ancient city envisioning what life must have been like for the people who lived there. Every rock and tree root had a story to tell.

Yesterday, I left Guatemala at sun rise with Volcan Fuego belching smoke and lava in the distance. It was very beautiful and sums up everything that I've come to love about Central America in three short weeks - it's beauty and volatility. There is so much I didn't see, and I was sad to leave, but emotion overwhelmed me when the US customs agent in Miami welcomed me "home."

Under the Sea

Winter in the Caribbean, in general, and the Bay Islands, specifically, can be terrible. Relentless rain covers the islands for days on end making it impossible to stay dry. My time in Utila has proven typical of January and, with the exception of 2 sunny days, it has been cloudy and rainy all week. I keep expecting to see fish swimming in the deep puddles.

It seems that the best solution to avoiding the rain is to get in the water! Utila is the perfect place for this as there's not much other reason to be on this island unless you plan to scuba. Despite very rough seas, which have stranded many on the island as the ferry cannot travel, I was able to complete 7 dives over 3 days. What I saw was spectacular! (Pictured is one of my favorite dive sites from land, Lighthouse Reef.)

Getting under the water was challenging as waves crashed over our heads, tossing the boat unpredictably around, making it nearly impossible to hold onto the guide line attached to the boat for our safety. However, once we descended into the depths of the ocean, things calmed considerably and opened up a whole new world to explore. With few exceptions, visibility was great at 30 meters and I marveled at this wonderland. Diving is so peaceful...a group sport though you feel largely isolated, hearing only the sound of air rushing through the hoses into your mouth and the bubbles as you exhale.

Hand signals between buddies provide communication and we all marveled at beautiful fish and reefs together. My efforts were rewarded with two sightings of Hawkbill turtles, which are so graceful. It was nearly a spiritual experience to watch them effortlessly glide through the water, turning to watch us with mild curiosity. I saw small rays, lobster, horseshoe crabs, jellyfish *OUCH!* and more fish than I can name.

My favorite dive was, surprisingly, the night dive. Boarding the boat at 5 PM, I was anxious about diving in pitch black. I tend to be a little uneasy in familiar surroundings when it's dark, so my apprehension was heightened. Once you descend, it's amazing how the collective lights of the group's torches illuminate life not present in the day time. Vivid reds gleamed in our lights and we saw not one but two octopus, octopi?. We all turned off our torches at the end and were able to see bioluminescent plankton glowing blue and white through our masks. The dive was over all too soon and we surfaced to torrential rain that made us all wish we could sink back down into the inky blackness.

The only disappointment was the lack of whale sharks. They have been spotted regularly on the north side of the island. But, the seas were too rough for the captains to pilot boats to that side, so searches were impossible. I leave this beautiful island tomorrow, already making plans for a return trip and more underwater exploration.

Honduran Wonderland

It's been quite a while since my last post and so much has happened that I'm not sure a post can do it justice. I left Rio Dulce last Sunday on a boat headed towards Livingston. The river itself is a tropical paradise and there was much to see on the two hour journey. The boat made a stop at a natural hot spring in the middle of the river and I was able to swim for the first time on my trip. We saw children paddling in kayaks, a fort built to control river access and am iguana spotted from an impossible distance by our boat driver.

Arriving in Livingston, I no longer felt like I was in Guatemala. It's on the Caribbean coast and feels as such. The people, called Garifuna, are beautiful. They have very dark skin and speak their own language, which is a combination of Spanish and others. It was quite challenging for this Spanish novice to decode! After one night in Livingston, which included the elusive Coco Loco and high intensity punta dancing, it was time to surrender to the call of the islands.

Utila is one of 3 Bay Islands off the Honduran coast. It was an excruciatingly difficult journey to get here, which included a boat, van, shuttle, 2 buses and another boat over 18 hours, but entirely worth it. I arrived too late on New Years Eve to dive, so this afternoon is my first opportunity. I have 7 dives scheduled over the next 3 days, including one tomorrow to the North side of the island where whale sharks have been frequently spotted very recently. I'll also dive tonight in an attempt to overcome my fear of the dark!

New Years was wonderful and spent with an international group of new friends/fellow divers. Australia, Holland, Germany, America and England were well represented in the motley crew that spent the evening together, creating wonderful memories.

Honduras is so different from Guatemala. There is no trash, the trees are lush and the landscape green. The people mostly speak English as tourism is very prevalent here. I love it here and yet the mystic beauty of Guatemala is calling to me. Part of my heart will forever remain in that incredible country.

I am also beginning to feel the call of home. I'll leave this beautiful island paradise on Saturday to begin the journey back. What an amazing trip this has been...one that has renewed my spirit and given me so many other gifts along the way.