Ada in Spain!

Welcome to Spain, Ada!

Iberia, land of rivers.

The Royal Cathedral.

Ada gets friendly with my favorite cow.

Puerte.

Sunset in the city.



Segovia

The best accident I've had in a long time. You can see the aquaduct and my face if you look close enough.

Nice, Ada Mae. Nice.

Guapa primas.

Kingdom of heaven portrayed by gothic spires.

Is this what it looked like 500 years ago when Isabella de Catolica was here patiently awaiting her thrown?

Mallorca... un otro vez.

The first two days Kellerman and I spent in Palma. We met up with our good friend for dinner and had a great time visiting the Catedral and other lovely sites. Was it Kellerman that noticed that our hostal was rated as a "One star"? Well, my students were talking about their vacations and how they prefer 5 stars over 3 stars... and I told them I stayed at a one star and it was just fine. They were really curious what that meant. ;)

Kellerman and I climbed over the rocks to get this pic (and a similar one of her). I was in a skirt and dress shoes. She was in hiking shoes and jeans. I left her in the dust, but I probably also flashed the fishermen down the way. Crazy Americans.

Here, kitty kitty kitty....

Charlie was a real flirt.



El Catedral

Walkin'

Lately I've become obsessed with blue, green, turquoise, and... turquoise-blue.

Placa Mayor.

Pretty little alley.

The Castle on the Hill

The steps up to the castle were numerous indeed. Kellerman counted. McBride and I gave up after about 200 steps, Kellerman claims there are over 500. We took it like champs.

One of the world's only round castles.

It's rounder looking inside.

The castles houses a decent collection of statues. Some of them are indecent. ;)

The roof had a great view of the city. The city had a crummy view of us.



On Vacation

This is our party car, a Ford Fiesta. How appropriate.


While in Palma we had breakfast at Capuccino. I had typical tostada in the style of Andalucia, cafe con leche, and fresh squeezed orange juice. So happy. Do you see the bottle of olive oil on the table? That was the first thing our waitress would deliver each morning.

The beach in Palma. Sadly, this was the only time my feet frolicked in the water.



Trek Number 1

Our first hike had no trail head. The guide we'd purchased lead us to an overlook where we parked and then scratched our heads for a bit. Then we saw some hikers emerging from a valley and we decided to bushwack a bit. Little piles of rocks were our trail markers and eventually led us to the latter part of the trial we were looking for. Nice work, ladies.

Kellerman is being swallowed by couch grass!

For some reason we thought the couch grass was funny. Perhaps because it was called "couch grass."

In the ravine on our first hike. Couch grass decorates the background. Couch grass! Our hike began at a scenic overlook and ended at a very secluded cove. Very beautiful. We saw some sort of mountain animal along the way but it was too far off to tell what it was. I like to think of it as my mountain goaty bretheren.

At the bottom.
I really wanted to jump into the water. This cove was prime skinny-dipping real estate. Check out the colors. Sigh....

The Queen (Kellerman) and Ravine Girl majestically pose at the end of the hike.

At the top; post-hike.

On the road. At sunset.



Trek Number 2

By the train tracks in Santa Maria del Cami.

We parked in Santa Maria de Cami and walked several miles into the country along roads between orange orchards. The orange trees were full of fruit, the almond trees full of blossoms, and the olive trees a sagey green. Lovely! A farmer even stopped his tractor to confirm we were headed in the right direction.


Aquaduct goodness.

McBride bravely forges the stream. At one several moments during our trip I noticed that I am much more agile on the rocks than Kellerman and McBride. Apparently living in the NW has prepared me a for a life as a mountain goat.

Kellerman, our intrepid guide. At this point we realized that instead of following the trail (which was not marked at all) we had scaled up into the terraced orchards of someone's farm. They were home but ignored us.

This grotto was big. I was small.

Un arbol mucho viejo.

Kellerman and I had a great time imagining ourselves as the senoras of the old abandoned houses along the road.

I've been eating salads at home almost every day. Unfortunately, it's nearly impossible to find a good salad in Madrid. This salad was incredible, however. The goat cheese (queso de cabra, in this case the rulo variety) is covered in nuts and probably fried, though it could have been baked. The baby onions are simmered/pickled in balsamic vinegar and there are three kinds of lettuce and a ripe tomato. The meal rounded off with fresh bread and aoli, a carafe of wine, and some yummy deserts. Sigh.... After a long hike, nothing could be more satisfying.



Our Bed and Breakfast

The view from our door.


Lily the cat welcomes us home to our little green suite. One of the caretakers is good with animals and the six or seven cats swarm around him like a school of fish. He claims that he is good with animals, plants, and not so good with the mujeres. Haha. That's for sure. He named the two black cats "Obama."

He was also the one to show us our room when we arrived. He asked us our names and when I said mine he replied, "Jeeemmee? Joder. Te llamo es Maria. Maria la madre del Dios." The next day he introduced us to his friend the gardener from Ghana. The gardener is looking for "una rubia." A blonde. He gave us a very sweet speech about how he's been saving up for his rubia and how she'd never have to work. He's hoping to travel to the US to find a rubia autentica--dye jobs need not apply. She could work in the house, you know, especially if she were barefoot and pregnant, but she'd never have to have a career. And he'd do all the shopping and errands out of the house because even Corte Ingles (Spain's Macys) is too dangerous. I suppose that may be true in Ghana, but still, sometimes I feel so blessed to be brunette.

Cat orgy. Obama is getting some action, a little menage a tois action. One of the cats I nicknamed "Double-wide" because she was so pregnant; Obama 2 still wouldn't leave her alone!

Por Mes Hermanos

Ahoy Matey! We found the pirate bar of our dreams! It even had thai food! Nothing could be finer. We all toasted Mark and his pirate tatoo on this, our last night on Mallorca.
McBride and I take the wheel.

New Banner

Hola.

Yesterday I got home and bagged all my other plans to work on a new banner for the blog. I hadn't needed to use Photoshop in a while and wanted to fool around with it a bit to make sure I was still proficient.

The banner was made from a quick watercolor portrait study I did with a student a while back. She and I painted each other but my painting of her looked more like me than it did of her. This I layered with a photo I took of myself and matched up the eyes. The colors of both the photo and the watercolor have been enhanced to make the words stand out in certain ways and to keep the colors brilliant even with the layering. The Spanish phrases are phrases I use the most and therefore they pop out of conversations I overhear on the metro and in the street, especially if I'm not paying attention. The phrases in English are lines from songs I listen to often on my iPod when moving around the city.

It was a pain to figure out the sizing etc... If I get bored in the future I might tweak it some more. I hope you like it!

Porque lo digo yo

Hola amigos. Here are a few samples of the things I've written in the past two weeks. Just a few thoughts rolling around inside me. Disfruta.

February 6, 2009

It’s been a while since I’ve written much about my life here in Madrid, or inside my head for that matter. School and wild dreams with a touch of exhaustion have claimed my full attention for several months. There is so much to say that I’m tempted to say nothing of importance at all.

I just returned from a concert near Plaza de Oriente. The performers were students of Istituto Internacional de Musica De Camera de Madrid. The music was so beautiful and the acoustics of the hall so divine, I was kept at rapt attention. This is rare for me. Even during the most beautiful classical performances of my life I’ve had trouble keeping my mind on the music; my hands are usually occupied by note taking or sketching to keep me awake and focused. But tonight I was in full appreciation. Perhaps it was due to the ages of the performers: they were all my peers. It made me ache for all my musician friends: their loyalty, their passion, and their talent. I often wonder what music they’re studying and how much they’ve grown musically.

I did end up sketching a bit during the concert. I brought out my little green book during a Roberto Gerhard trio for violin, ‘cello, and piano. It feels good to sketch clumsily with my black pen again. My little sketch is incomplete and imbalanced but the fact that I was unafraid (especially with the musicians from the first half sitting directly behind me) is such a big step for me. I’m feeling a wave of artistic confidence lately and I should take advantage of that feeling as much as possible.

Speaking of which, I’ve decided to come home to Bellingham this summer. I’ll be living with my parents in beautiful Sudden Valley. Hopefully the seclusion and the change in atmosphere will spur more artistic fervor, but I fear that being near friends and family again will distract me. Sigh… I often wonder if I’m too boring to be an artist. Thus the travel: the more I experience, the more I’ll have to express. Bring on the tragic love affairs! Bring on the strife! Haha….

That’s really not the point for me. Though I’m drawn to dramatic and vibrant art full of emotion and symbolism, I don’t want to create art that reminds people of life’s tragedies. I subscribe to Matisse’s school of thought: Matisse likened his paintings to sinking back into a comfortable chair. He wanted to remind his viewers of all that is beautiful in this world. He painted with light and air—often without any gravity at all.

Today I read a story to my second graders, “Miss Rumphius.” The tale was about a woman’s life, from little girl to old woman. As a little girl, her grandfather asked what she wanted to do with her life. She said that she wanted to see far off places, to meet strange and interesting friends. And when she grew old, she wanted to live out her days by the sea, just like her grandfather. Her grandfather said, “That’s all well and good, but you must promise me one thing. You must also give something beautiful to the world.” That’s how I feel about my life (including living by the sea!).

I want to celebrate the world’s beauty. I want to remind people of all the wonderful feelings and sights they’ve experienced. I want people to challenge their definition of beauty and begin to recognize beauty in the smallest gestures, the most subtle moments. That’s why I want to be an artist.

At the end of the story, the woman returns from her travels with gray hair and an aching back. She breathes in the salty air and plants a beautiful garden. She still hasn’t given her beautiful thing yet. One day she walks all over the island spreading lupine seeds. In the spring when the flowers bloom, the entire island is a beautiful palette of purples and pinks. Perhaps my contribution of beauty in this world will be small, but I hope that like the lupines in the story, the seeds I sow will reseed on the wind every year until the Lupine Lady and I are distant memories.


February 15, 2009

A question has been rumbling around inside me for a while. It seems like such a trivial question. Inspired by new friends, new feelings, and new experiences, it rears its head after long nights out and difficult days at work:

What is age?

A silly question, yet those three words do not accurately describe the question that swells within me. Let me explain further.

Yesterday I went to a Valentine’s party. All week I had expected to wear a slim fitting dress to the party. At the last moment I felt my body contort into a shell of discomfort and shyness. I saw my modest and “cute” body as a child’s body. I saw the dress as an affectation. I was posing, pretending to be sexy. I was pretty, yes, even with my little belly pushing at the middle of the dress; the little black dress suits my body well. But my shoulders rose to shrug in protection of my neck, my back stiff, my legs feeling utterly naked. I felt like I was the little girl in my parent’s bathroom sneaking bits of my mother’s makeup.

I chose instead an outfit I often wear to school—the low neckline of the sweater satisfyingly alluring and yet the color and cut much more appropriate for my second grade classroom than a Valentine’s party. The skirt long, only showing off a slight curve of my calves. But I was comfortable. In this armor I felt confident enough to flirt subtly with a gorgeous Atlanta banker, dance uninhibited in the living room and later the club…. Yet I still felt this lingering quake in my self-confidence, this fear that somehow my exterior will reveal a different person than I want to be.

“I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam and no one in her right mind would make my heart her home. My heart is an autoclave.” –Mountain Goats

This life here in Spain is a transient cycle of emotions and insecurities. One weekend I’ll spend immersed in the lives of my older friends, basking in their appreciation of my young energy and their praise of my maturity. One friend once described me as having a “40 year old soul.” The irony being that I probably don’t understand entirely what he means by that but will understand when I’m older. Another weekend I’ll exhaust myself by spending time among the tipsy and aching conversations of the younger groups. I am not quite comfortable with either world, though I enjoy both in varying degrees. I often wonder if I felt this feeling of displacement “back home” and the rose tinted lens through which I see that old life has made me forget. More likely the limiting social circles of expatriates amplify the feeling.

Does everyone feel this strange feeling of loneliness and affectation? Is this the human desperation that nurtures art, music, religion, and sex? The hope of making the fleeting moments of settled peace permanent is often the beginning of a work of art.

Sometimes I stubbornly seize this lonely feeling and want to conquer it, beat it back and transform it into a violent strength. These are the days that I walk heavily down the streets listening to powerful songs with my back straight and my love of Madrid casting all the rain and cold aside. I laugh at myself and grin foolishly—Madrileños staring after me. These are the days I feel ageless.