Clarence Clemons has apparently left the building. He will be sorely missed.

I have absolutely no right to be writing about Clarence Clemons - I'm not one of those die-hard E-Street Band fans from way back - I only fell in love with them in 2002 after breaking up with one of those South Shore girls who embodied everything in Bruce's songs. She used to say she had doubts about my character due to the fact I wasn't a Bruce fan. I grew up on the North Shore, where the innocent sentimentality in Bruce's music cannot be understood because people there, as far as I could see growing up, were mainly concerned with money and being assholes. They were way too materially privileged to sense the sweet, nerdy, outcast love in the E-Street Band, so they focused on the driving anthems whose lyrics I don't think they ever listened to. They understood Bruce about as well as Ronald Reagan did. I believe their fan status probably made Bruce scratch his head in wonder. But anyway, I got out of there through a pretty major personal tragedy. More than 15 years later I was sitting on my balcony on Prospect Park West, missing Anita, and started listening to Bruce. I totally fell in love. I started annoying my super hip upstairs neighbors by listening to hours and hours of Bruce and The E-Street Band, and about a month later The Rising tour arrived back at the Meadowlands for a ten night stand. I had to go. Vair, vair, funny, said my friends - you'll be the only gay person in a stadium of 30,000 middle class white people re-living their high school glory days, getting legless and mooing "Bruuuuce!" like a crowd of honky Baptists who go see a  gospel choir once every 5 years to prove they can still feel the spirit of God move them through their beer guts.

I bought a ticket through Craigslist from a lawyer in Philadelphia who had bought tickets for his whole family, who had all bailed on him. He was incredulous. This was my first glimpse of the personal, therapeutic nature of the Bruce fandom. We decided where to meet up that Sunday, and I spent the rest of the week trying to convince my Park Slope friends what a huge opportunity they were missing by not going with me. They got endless enjoyment out of this. 

So I was going alone, no problem. The only way to get out there by public transportation was by bus, so in the extremely down-to-earth spirit of the Boss, I made my way to Port Authority and got on a bus out to The Meadowlands. It was filled with people going to the show - and like any Bruce fans, they were comparing the pedigree of their fan status (which is tallied up in years of devotion + number of shows seen + an amazing capacity to remember set lists from specific shows). I was feeling pretty gay...

I get there and meet Andrew - middle aged lawyer, clearly a bit surprised to see this small lesbian with a ceasar cut as his Bruce concert mate. I was wearing clogs, if I remember right. Yes sir, I was. We tried to give each other some space, but once the music started he couldn't contain himself and started , as any responsible Bruce fan would do, to ask me what I knew about the band. I said I knew nothing. He stood right next to me, like a coach, and proceeded to explicate the show. He was very serious and sincere, and the only chance I had to laugh and stare as much as I wanted at the astounding spectacle of thousands of white guys DANCING WITH FEELING AND SOMETIMES CRYING A LITTLE BIT was when Andrew went for refreshments. That alone, my friends, that alone, is a reason to give your heart to Bruce and Clarence. They made the impossible happen, and made it piercingly, poignantly, hilarious and they could, apparently, do this anytime they wanted. After suffering the attitudes and bullshit, willful disdain and blunt brains of this slice of the population, I really could not have invented any sweeter revenge than seeing them unmasked in this way. 

And that was just what I got from watching the fans :)

Watching Bruce was even better. He is a stunning individual. There is absolutely no one like him - he makes Jon Stewart stutter, and I totally get it. Bruce (and it's never just him, right - it's the whole band) is For Real. And like a lot of great people, he has little to do with his titanic fan base. He's said as much. It's a bit surreal seeing this amazing group of friends who clearly have pierced the veil together, conducting a sort of revival for the spirits of white Americans, who are mostly participants in everything Bruce and the band reject. This became crystal clear once he started writing essays on politics and talking about the war at his shows years later. He gets booed a lot by his devotees. 

Anyway the love and beauty radiating off the stage at a Bruce show is absolutely intoxicating. Now two members of the E Street Band have died. I'm listening to "When They Built You, Brother" for the tenth time this morning and having a private wake for Bruce's dear friend and all around fascinating person Clarence Clemons. 

That Meadowlands show, the year after 9/11, tapping into the crack in the souls of East Coasters that tragedy had created, lasted 4+ hours and I'll always remember it. I've never seen anyone else light up a stadium like that - Clarence smiling at Bruce was seriously effervescent. If you ever have the chance to see Bruce with any of the various combinations of the band or solo, don't think twice. 

Like Arnold, I'm back. But not with a crazy story about secret children...

America, seriously. Being away for a while I realized my country makes me very sad. If you know me you know I'm always quick to point out the drawbacks of living in the States, but even I wasn't prepared for the deep sadness I felt coming back. You can say whatever you want about nothing exterior being able to make a person feel any particular way, but the circumstances are tragic and if it didn't impact me I'd be a very disconnected individual. Which I am not. The instant I got back to the States I was hit with an oppressive wave of racism and classism. I flew into the Atlanta airport, where it is extremely creepy that only black people work there. I don't think I saw a single white person in a service job there. Why don't any white people work there? Keep in mind this is Georgia - nothing to do with race is a coincidence. There is a high, tightness in service people's voices there. One thing I didn't experience in the airport was sexism, probably because everyone was just as beaten down as the next person. All of this amidst a constant flow of soldiers taking off for Iraq. Is your head hurting yet? Mine was.

And then I made the mistake of going to a bar to use the internet.

Let me start by describing waiter service in Europe. You walk into a place. If it's not a fancy place when you walk in you're not greeted - you're either alone in an empty room or there are people eating and drinking and you walk in and you can either sit down or wait. I'm so Yank I'll be waiting to be seated until the flesh falls away from my bones. Conditioning. So you sit or stand. Eventually someone comes out and says hello and tells you to sit down without degrading themselves in any way...it's spooky. In fact, they seem to not grovel, out of some deep conviction that they are not doormats. What's an American to do? (Celebrate European democracy). They do not fawn over you as they describe a list of specials that no one should have to recite 40 times before they get through with work. In fact, they are so cheeky as to ask you what you want without going into 27 degrees of insane conditional verbs, like "I'd love to get you something if you'd like to have something let me suggest that you might want to try our....ad nauseum. They do not tell you their name. They may even make you ask what they have - as they raise their eyes to yours - as if they're equals! Warning to middle class Americans here - they actually get paid whether you tip or not, avoiding a lifetime of performing like trained seals, whereas in the U.S., they work regardless of whether they get paid or not. In Europe they even get paid if they take a long time getting to you because you're not the only customer and they have work to do to keep the restaurant clean and running smoothly. You're expected to wait! It's like...manna from heaven. I HATE eating out in the U.S. because of the possible ruptured friendships resulting from people in my party saying things like, "God, I've been waiting like 3 minutes for my drink - it's like this guy/girl doesn't know they're working for tips." Or "They didn't even come check on us and I wanted more (free) chips. There goes their tip." I avoid eating out here like the plague because it often brings out a side of people that should really be reserved for their therapist in an effort to purge it from their character. In Spain I could enjoy a wonderful, guilt-free public dining experience and didn't even feel like I had to reassure anyone working during my meal that I wasn't a complete prick. Because they don't care if I'm a prick or not! And waiters aren't the stress receptacle they are here so people do not take out their anger on them. It's like a miracle, only it's just simple respect. Which may qualify as a miracle in my supposedly democratic nation.

But here at home? The waiter and the floor manager (not even a position in Europe unless you're into the high end places) were so subservient and concerned about my satisfaction with my iced tea and chips and salsa I wanted to pay them to make them go away. I had to reassure them many times that everything was fine and it was the greatest service I'd ever had - and even that didn't get rid of them. I wanted to write them a letter but I'm writing this instead - it's dedicated to Derek and his floor manager who I thought was going to give me a back rub when I couldn't take any more tea refills. I left him a huge tip - partly so they'd know I really appreciated their work, and partly so Derek didn't get questioned under hot, bright lights as to what he could've done to go above and beyond my expectations and hence to have gotten me to spend more money. His defense would be the huge tip. Why do I know these things? Don't ask.

Here I am back home. Back (sorry to obsess) in the land where people who speak Cervantes' language look at the floor when you walk by instead of saying hello. Don't get me wrong, it's not because people here aren't friendly - they're responding to the disgusting racism that governs our lives and is surprisingly rarely mentioned in polite company. The situation here has always been heartbreaking to me, but I'm feeling it more after having been in Spain for long enough to bond, where I was the obvious foreigner, the one out of place, the one who needed to worry about her visa status. And I did worry, because, as usual, I was breaking the law. But I wasn't worried about being brutally deported or arrested - just worried about my next visa.

Hispanic people here avoid my eyes when I go to the store. We live with, and often unconsciously support, a type of Apartheid in this country.  I speak Spanish at home. I'm fluent in Spanish but I'm white, so I have to stomach being treated as other white people are - as a racist. When I was in LA last year I rubbed my eyes as I was forced to accept that Hispanic people weren't even acknowledged in public - no eye contact on the bus, on the street, in cafes - none! I thought Texas was bad - and it is, but California, ouch. Wherever I went Hispanic people only talked amongst themselves and looked down or away when in mixed company. Clearly I'm talking about people who immigrated - not people born here. But we're working on making them slaves as well - there's a new push to not grant citizenship 'solely on the basis of being born in the U.S.' - just typing that makes some bile release from somewhere deep inside and thanks, America, it tastes like shit.

We talk about Hispanic people and immigrants as a big block instead of as individuals, we feel free to not go out of our way to say hello and break the culture barrier, and when white people are trying to be cool they come out with enlightened statements like, "We need them - after all, they take the jobs no one else will do." This is wrong. I hear so many stereotypes and assumptions about immigrants - about what they want, what they 'deserve', what role they play in our country...this situation has got to change (as well  as associating Hispanic people with illegality (a horrific wrong)). I for one would like to stand up and say that as a Caucasian American I break the law all the time in small ways, knowing I'll never have any problem. And so do you! I've overstayed any and all visas ever imposed on me, actually, because they're too restrictive. Because of my passport and my skin color, I can joke about it with friends, rather than have people look at me like I'm a criminal. But I am, technically, a criminal. If I were Mexican I'd probably be in jail or in hiding for doing the same thing.

So what? So why write about this? Because I work in yogalandia, where people are constantly plastering every blank surface with inspirational quotes, but they are ignoring the true opportunity for righting wrongs right here, right now.

Suggestions? Personally I hate suggestions...so please stop reading now if you've ever been subject to the tyranny of 'suggestions' that were actually 'commands', but many of my friends who were trained in corporate America will demand suggestions for improvement because that's the language they speak. Engage in conversations with people you are freaked out by. Take Spanish. Stand up for Mexico because we're destroying their country on purpose. Join groups that fight for black people's rights. Join groups that fight for people's rights who are not like you. If you're a man, join a feminist reading group or read up on what's going on. If you're straight, subscribe to a gay publication. Start to weave diversity into your life instead of feeling lousy about being uninformed. Make eye contact.

Postscript : It's been pointed out that all these suggestions amount to one thing that probably represents everyone instead of who I happened to mention here : working for social democracy in America. I agree. Thanks!

Oh My God How Did This Happen I'm Going Home Soon

Excited and a bit sad about the end of my trip. Of course.

I will miss the deep darkness not being in town, and the amazingly loud and chatty sparrows. I'll miss the low, steep mountains and their days of mist so thick you can't see anything out the window. I'll miss the herb garden where I planted lettuces we don't have in Texas. I'll miss the army of old men, out and about from morning till night, socializing, flirting, drinking a little and generally being charming. I'll miss being a pedestrian. Every year I get worse about discipline in my use of the car. I hope this trip helps. I'll miss Ruth, my fast friend, yoga teacher and very silly partner in crime. Scrumping! I'll miss the quiet in the house, where either I'm alone or with hard-working writers. At least I think they are. I'll miss stopping by people's houses for a few minutes and not leaving for another 8 hours. I'll miss Spotify, and their funny ads, where they pronounce Spotify "Ehspotify". I'll miss the olive and almond trees. When I got here the first almond blossoms were coming out and now the almonds are huge, but won't be ready to harvest until after I leave. I'm not taking it personally.

I'll miss the dramatic, steep-sided grey stone peaks, and the low clouds that envelop them in mist so beautifully. I'll miss the roosters, the sheep and the goats. I'll definitely miss the sound of the goats' bells as they (sort of) hurry up home at dusk. I'll miss the local avocados, which Ruth orders by calling a friend instead of going to the store. I'll also miss her "Mailbox Chapatis" and kitten farm. There's too much to miss about Ruth to list here. I'll miss the stars, of course - back to my light polluted city. I'll miss taking the bus and basking in the neighborhood gossip and news on the way to Malaga. I'll miss being able to take a train anywhere I want to go.

I'll miss greeting new writers and getting to know them sometimes more, sometimes less. I'll miss taking the goat track to town, with the barnyard at the end. I'll miss hunting for petrified almonds on steep slopes of red dirt. I'll miss taking my camera with me everywhere because there's always something to photograph. I'll miss the Bar Niza in Velez Malaga and it's incomparable charm.

I'll miss being remote. I'll miss being more or less anonymous. I'll miss the donkeys and the characters who own them. I'll miss seeing people till soil with a plow. I'll miss seeing horses along the road. I'll miss explaining what a pretzel is to my well-traveled friends. I'll miss the fresh seafood - the enthusiasm over squid and octopus of every size and type. I'll miss the small, Pancake-sized glasses of wine. I'll miss being 7 hours ahead of Texas - I've gotten used to getting the news first. I'll miss breakfasts in bars. I'll miss olive oil being more prevalent than any other oil. I'll miss the career waiters and bartenders, who are not only cool and friendly but really, genuinely, insured and paid decently. I'll miss the relaxed faces and soft eyes. Back to stressed jaw lines and somewhat harder smiles.

I'll miss that no one even mentioned Bin Laden's death. I'll miss the absence of debates over evolution and gay marriage. I'll miss having political discussions where everyone in the discussion bases their point of view on actual facts, rather than fantasy. I'll miss blogging about Spain. I'll miss having no plans. I'll miss the rush hour that lasts ten minutes. I'll miss Europe's more logical mind. I'll really miss people saying, "Yes! Exactly! I totally agree with you!" It's like music...

I'll miss the fields of artichoke and endless orange groves. I'll miss the scent of orange blossoms, for sure. I'll miss people waving as they pass in cars, and always saying hello on the street. I'll miss the carnations. I'll even miss the dog barking right now. I'll miss having white bread, pasta, wine and coffee as if that's normal. I will miss looking at the calendar and having months left to be here. I'll miss buying local olive oil sold in recycled (read: used) plastic water bottles. I'll miss not having to explain myself for wasting time.

I'll miss the "Lookie Lookie Woman" who pushes local produce on everyone who walks up her street or runs into her while walking around. I've never felt so much pressure to buy so much that I already wanted in the first place :) I'll miss the old man who also has a shop in Comares who always throws in a little something for free, and whose place I'd love to take when he retires. I'll miss the supermarket that's barely larger than a convenience store and somehow supplies a village. I'm sure there's more - things I've gotten so used to I won't notice till I'm gone. Just wanted to get a few things down before it's too late!

Mom & me - Barcelona -Hostalric. Narbonne, Cabanes-Les-Fleury, "Catharie", Barcelona to follow...

Mom reserved a room for us through AirBNB - in an apartment owned by a designer in Barcelona. I learned about AirBNB through my neighborhood listserv in Austin and it's a very cool thing. People rent out rooms in their homes, or entire houses, apts, etc. Perfect for us, as we like to meet people and since the more affordable hotels in Barcelona look really unappealing. This place was really cool, and Miguel, our host, was super sweet.

When I got there she was napping - it was pouring rain, as it would continue to do for a couple of days, on and off. The place was one of those big apartments from the Belle Epoque - large enough for a family to spend a lifetime in. Long and narrow - it was one third of the entire floor of the building. It was on the 4th, top floor. To get up there we could walk the spiral, marble stairs, or take the ancient elevator. I love those old elevators that feel like they could break at any minute but will probably be working for another hundred years. You get in and close the metal screen by sliding it shut and then close the mini French doors and push the big button for the floor you want. The elevator starts with a little jolt and sails up to the top. It always makes you feel like you're in an old movie being in those lifts. A great way to get to the front door.

I wrote a little before about the rain in Barcelona so I won't go into that much here. But it was raining so hard it was coming in under the doors of cafes, so we were limited to hanging out, pretty much. We had some great coffee and some great meals in Barcelona. And hung around those adorable little bars that are about as big as a living room and have maybe 6 or 7 tiny tables or booths. Each one was so distinct - a tiny little style universe.

We went to pick up the rental car to head up into France. I think I commented before on our lack of a really good map, which turned out to be a blessing and a curse. We had no problems getting going in the right direction but didn't have much info about what was in between Barcelona and the French border. We stopped for a late lunch in a town called Hostalric. http://www.turismehostalric.cat/en/coneix_hostalric/pagina/34 One of those ancient towns that are so common here but each one blows your mind. Dating from 12th century, the town was built mostly along one road, so we walked up it looking for a place to eat. There were a few places, and we chose the most ancient looking one, the one filled with men only and where the waiter looked like Billy Crystal in the first part of Clean and Sober. When we peered into the place the front dining room was empty and looked, honestly, like it must have looked for eons. Heavy, dark wooden tables that looked like something Friar Tuck would have been seated behind at a dram shoppe in Nottingham. You get the picture. I hope. The kind of service where the waiter doesn't ask you if you'd like a table, but why are you standing there like that - sit down! Well, it's just that we have a question or two - we don't eat meat. No problem! No problem! Sit down and we'll find something for you. Mom looks doubtful - I've been in Spain long enough to know lunch isn't going to be good no matter where we go (Barcelona was far away, already). So we made our way through the deserted front dining room into the back room, which was about half filled with a few tables of guys, aged from about 30 to 65, all enjoying a very long lunch and who were visibly disturbed by our entrance. Deal with it, I say silently.

We order wine, and now a second waiter comes over - even more of a basket case than the first one - makes Billy Crystal over there look sort of fit. A person whose skin is truly a tribute to a lifetime of cigarettes, fried food and a total disregard for vegetables unless they're fried. Looks like he probably has a great sense of humor and appreciates a good joint. Definitely could be from Long Island if he wasn't from Hostalric.

The food part of lunch is yucky and mysterious and we almost can't deal, but we're hungry and they keep checking on us to make sure their fussy lady fishetarians are happy. We go through a plate of fava beans prepared in such a way that they are completely grey and drained of any trace of the flavor of fava beans. I can detect a trace of salt but alas it was added after the poor beans were boiled long enough to cook a goat, so you have to happen upon a grain of the salt by chance. It's a grain of salt in a hay stack situation. We've ordered cod, and when it comes out, well, it would've been great to have been able to run out the back door and go somewhere else, but there we were, with all eyes on us. We were champs, I must say, and made it through enough of it to be able to claim we weren't really hungry anyway. I can't remember if we had dessert but we must've because we hung around long enough that some of the guys were going out onto the balcony to smoke. This left an opening for the men left inside to strike up a conversation with us. Turns out one of them had been living in Ecuador for the last 20+ years and was home visiting his brother who was outside smoking. Absolutely freeking charming man,  around 55 or 60. His brother and a younger man (maybe 35) were outside smoking.We got into a lively conversation about the history of Spain. Those are the moments I'm glad I took out all those loans to go back to school - we had a great time and everyone relaxed and started smiling and they bought us a round of the disgustingly sweet apple digestif served so often in Spain. Not only is it gross tasting, but hard to turn down because it doesn't have alcohol, so you can't refuse on the basis that you don't want more alcohol. You either smile and accept it or out and out say No, I don't like that. You can guess which of those options is more conducive to making friends. Blech. We hung out there so long that the younger guy (who had had too much to drink with lunch) started to get a little twinkle in his eye and we had to split. Another amazing old Spanish man adventure. They're everywhere and I love them.

It was getting late so we headed back out on the highway North. We were headed to Narbonne (home of Charles Trenet) to see my lovely old friend from my year at the Universite de Toulouse 20 years ago. Unreal.

My Country of Old Men

Last week I was in Santiago de Compostela, a city so overrun by visitors since the Middle Ages (literally, tourism there is only now achieving the volume it had pre-Renaissance) that it's a little daunting for someone like me. But I feel a certain responsibility to get to know the place a little, it being a city of enormous historical significance and one of the most visited pilgrimage sites in the world. Yes, I know, poor me. I survived, and managed to make some real contact while I was there.

The landscapes in Galicia are smooth and soft, rather than bright and bold, like Andalucia, or elegant, like Catalonia. Streams and rivers in Galicia gurgle quietly, wildflowers are smaller, more delicate, and rarer than where I've been spending most of my time. Even the grand Cathedral in Santiago has a quiet humility inside, as opposed to the gaudy, gold-dipped cathedrals of Sevilla and Malaga, which inspire respect through their power suits. They impose their spiritual authority by making everything else in the world look puny and 'less gold' - but Santiago feels very personal, despite being one of the most visited churches in the world. The hush inside is soothing, and the priests holding mass while tourists roam freely into every corner of the cathedral seem unfazed by the constant movement during mass. Somehow the immense Cathedral feels intimate. What does not feel intimate is talking with people in the center of Santiago - that's where you can really feel the effects of the endless rush of visitors in restaurants, bars, and cafes. Efficiency has overridden hospitality. I've never been served so quickly, efficiently, or impersonally in Spain. So I walked out of the old part of the city into the newer, less picturesque part, where people smile and say good morning on the street. I was sitting on a bench, listening to a fast stream running through the perfect morning in a park carpeted with unbelievably soft grass and tiny white and pink wildflowers speckling the expanse of green.

An old man appears at the far end of my field of vision walking slowly, leaning on a cane, down the path toward where I'm sitting working on my computer. He walks past me, looking down, but I look up. We don't say anything, but I let my gaze follow him for a moment before turning my attention back to my laptop. A few minutes later, after having reached the end of the path and turned around to go back, he passes by me again. This time he slows down before he reaches my bench, I look up again and say good morning, and he says he's going to sit down and rest for a moment. He sits, with some difficulty, but after a careful manoeuvre leveraging his weight against gravity he's sitting comfortably and looking out at the lawn with me. I remark on what a beautiful morning it is and he agrees, saying it's warm for this time of year. I can't resist - I start asking him questions, starting with if he is from Santiago. He's still sharing my view rather than looking at me as he explains that he used to live here but now he and his close family live out by the airport. It's hard for me to pin down just what it is I like so much about how really old men talk - every little thing is treated as an important subject - like his saying he doesn't live downtown anymore. He doesn't just declare it, neutrally. His whole being responds - his expression says "How outlandish! How could that be! Living here! No, no, no!" His body expresses an energy when he talks that adds volumes of detail and information to his words. And everything is important - we talk with conviction about the benefits of living outside the congested city, about how much better it is to live in a house with a garden as opposed to in an apartment. He doesn't like apartments because there's no space and you're living underneath and over people. After 3 months in Spain I have to agree with him - and with as much passion as he displays. Spanish people are incredibly noisy and are the worst adapted people for apartment living I've ever known. Quiet is just not a thing here. The reason he moved out there initially was that his sister had a lung condition and her doctor recommended it for her health. So she and her husband moved out to the country (maybe 10 km away) and he also moved, buying a house. She and her husband bought an apartment, which he qualified as, "un buen piso, aunque no hay buen pisos el suyo era bien." Apartments are all lousy but hers was nice. Now that's a good brother. You can have something he can't stand, but yours is good, because it's yours. Love. He was telling me about his work - he worked in a factory that made car parts - telling me how they used to have 3 shifts and the men would work around the clock for days on end and then get a few days off in a row. The women worked a regular shift and had two days off per week. He told me the women worked in an area separated from the men's section of the factory floor by a glass wall and they would be there, working in a line that stretched from where we were sitting all the way to the street - a line of women that long.

He was proud of his job and proud that he never got fired. He said they used to fire people at the drop of a hat. But he was a good worker and behaved well (his words) and was given the opportunity to work in Holland at another of the company's factories and spent four years there, making his Spanish wage plus an extra wage for being in Holland. He was smart and saved his money. When his sister wrote him that their mother was very sick here in Santiago he got permission to go home for a few days to see her. He was especially proud that his boss offered to loan him the money for the trip if he didn't have it, but he didn't need it because he had saved so well. He was trustworthy and smart, and proud of it. I was proud of him, too. His eyes lit up as he talked about how responsible he'd been in his work and his pride was infectious. He was half turned toward me now, looking out past me, but at one point he turned his face to me and his eyes were so lit up with excitement and memory it transformed his face into that of a man 30 years younger.

It took him 4 trains to get home to see his mother, traveling all day and night. When he got home he described her lying in her bed, head propped up on her pillow, looking pretty. She was always very pretty, my mother, he said. She died an hour and a half after he got there.

He had intended to give his savings to his mother, but now that she had passed he offered it to his sister. She refused it and told him to put it in the bank. There was one bank there in the town where they lived, he said, and he did just that - he put his money away. He was supposed to head right back to work but wanted to stay with his family a few days and was mourning his mother intensely - his doctor wrote him a letter to say he was exhausted and needed four days to rest before going back to work.

Later on when he was back in Spain working again, his sister's husband's sister died, leaving a young daughter. His sister and her husband didn't have any children and they adopted the little girl, loving her as if she were their own daughter. They inherited the sister's apartment, so now they had two apartments, one right over the other, and plenty of space. He also told me his sister was transferred to Madrid by the company once, but she turned it down, telling them they could either leave her with her husband here or fire her. They kept her. She was also a good worker, and had the use of her boss' company car as her own.

At one point the old man realized how long he'd been talking and exclaimed "It must be almost noon! I have to go!" But before he did he told me about his thrombosis, explaining that was why he now "walked like a spider". I said I thought he was walking rather well, considering, but he showed me the difference in mobility between the right and left sides, in his arms and his legs. He was right, of course, and I was moved by his insistence that his current physical state was not one that he accepted as normal. He walks a couple of kilometers per day minimum to keep his circulation good.

As I read through the story he told me in the park, I can't help but see how insufficiently it translates his warmth, presence, animation and sincerity. Hopefully you've known a great old man like him, and maybe he was even in your family. My mother's father died before my parents met, and my other grandfather was someone I could never warm up to, having beaten my father throughout his childhood and essentially killing my grandmother by refusing to stop getting her pregnant. She was told after her 3rd child was born that she would be risking her life going through another pregnancy. She died after delivering her seventh child, from internal hemorrhaging. And that's the Twitter version of the story. Don't ask, for I might tell.

When I get old, please, God, make me an old Spanish man. Every morning here the cafes and bars fill up with old men drinking coffee, fresh orange juice, and eating toasted rolls with tomato puree and olive oil. There is no hurry, as they're retired, and in Europe being old still looks fun, as opposed to old age in the U.S., where it looks terrifying. A big part of the old Spanish man awesomeness comes from their ability to connect with others without hesitation or separation. A big part of that, of course, is their generation, and sadly, this generation is passing away. There have been quite a few lovely old men in my world these days, and I'll be adding to this with more stories about them.

If negativity means refusing to believe in utter crap, then yeah, I'm negative.

I've been criticized lately for being negative - I just want to say, as a human being I am the luckiest person I know and give thanks so many times a day for this incredible life that I could never count them. I also say I love you more times a day than I can count, often just in my head as I walk around and mingle in the world. I help people every chance I get. Being intelligent and unafraid to face the cruelty and ignorance in the world do not a negative person make. Usually, it's the people who feel blessed and loved who take the time to point out inequality, stupidity and awfulness so that others may enjoy, at the very least, respect for their plight.

I was brought up in a house of leftist egalitarians, who never paused before saying what they thought and who truly believed that our society was capable of educating people sufficiently that they would see the ultimate common sense and goodwill in creating a more equal society. Neither of my parents came from underprivileged backgrounds - they were both the black sheep of their families. They had friends from all over the world, and my mother's business employed a mini U.N. Never did she think or say these folks were lucky to have a job, never did she think or say that undocumented (a word that did not exist at the time) employees were somehow less and should be treated differently or paid less than any 'legal' person. My mother raised us modeling the business practice of paying people as much as you could afford to, not as little as they'd accept. I was told, explicitly (likely after having made a child's joke about someone's English) that if a person spoke English with an accent that meant they spoke at least one more language than I did and that I should feel the appropriate respect for that knowledge. Our household was pretty open about facts such as American Express not granting my mother (a business owner) a credit card in her own name (it would've had to be in my father's name) - hence, she did not accept American Express at her business. This seemed then, and continues to seem, a totally logical response to the situation. I cannot imagine having thought of my mother as being an angry, negative person for refusing to do business with a company that had misogynist policies.

My parents never took us to doctors. Doctors were drugging up the suburbs like there was no tomorrow in the 1970's, and my parents had grown up without a lot of the drugs that were all of a sudden deemed "necessary" - like antibiotics for every little cold, or worse, for the flu, which doesn't respond to antibiotics. One of my mother's friends was (in the 70's and still is today) a foot reflexologist, yoga teacher and health nut who spent 25 years curing her son of extreme schizophrenia through only natural means. I cannot imagine calling my mother's astute criticism of medical profession's addiction to prescriptions negative. She was right.

I was brought up on the motto "If you've got it, give it." My parents were human, like everyone, but their faults were very much balanced by their amazing humanity and desire for all people to enjoy freedom and liberty and equality. Gloria Steinem was a celebrity in our house (until the book about Marylin). I cannot imagine saying my mother was negative for being a Feminist and actively fighting for a better world for women. She was outspoken, and lots of times it was inconvenient, but believe you me, I was never told, when I was dealing with becoming a woman and all of the disrespect that involves - that I'd see things differently once I was married. In fact my mother never ever in my whole life has asked me if I wanted to get married. Or if I wanted to buy some make up. Or if I wanted a nice dress to look pretty for the boys at school. I cannot imagine calling my mother negative for pointing out to her daughters how prepared they needed to be for the shit coming their way as women.

I was also raised to believe that religion truly is the opium of the people, and thank God, because never were truer words spoken. My parents were moved by art, nature, people overcoming obstacles, by good people helping each other. I'm not saying I was raised by the poster children for righteousness. But they were smart, and more than anything, they never hesitated to point out inequality, sexism, classism, racism, hate, or harmful ignorance. They abhorred oversimplification of complex problems and they abhorred abuse of power. I cannot call that negative.

When I was 21, I learned meditation from monks who slept on concrete slabs with wooden pillows and begged for their food and worked at whatever job was needed in their local community. They took care of their monastery, wrote books, meditated, studied, taught, and also swept floors, helped in the fields, etc. I looked up to them a lot. I looked up to them even more when our teacher addressed sexism in the Buddhist community and denounced it thoroughly, taking time to teach us the difference between the Buddha's teachings and 'cultural Buddhism' that incorporated all sorts of prejudices that had no place in the practice of Buddhism. That monk is still teaching - his name is Santikaro. We were taught to be very astute and to constantly be on the lookout for practices that aggrandized the self and made one feel better than anyone else. We were encouraged to sit, and sit, and then sit some more, until we caught a tiny glimpse of enlightenment. We were taught it may never come, but that one second of clarity would be enough to keep us going for a lifetime of searching, because it was that rare and valuable. Some of us in that retreat did get our one second preview, and it was, in fact, enough to change my whole life. We were lectured every evening on the risks of resting on our laurels and to come back every day to the practice completely free of expectation and demands.

We had a yoga teacher on that retreat, who was from Esalen in CA and who did nothing but complain about the monks, about the retreat, and who told me, among other things, that I wasn't a lesbian because my face is too open and soft - lesbians had hard, closed faces. I should've taken the hint then, that I'd always be more at ease in an environment where spiritual practice was just that - a practice, an inquiry, a never-ending journey without a compass or a map. Free of dogma. The California/USA version of spirituality was and is very similar to, well, a big mess. You could put anything you want in there, and then once you'd been practicing for a year you could call yourself wise and the bearer of love and light, and charge for sharing your 'love' and 'light'. Sorry, the monks, with all their faults, are right. Reality is not for sale, and enlightenment is not 'given' (read: bought) but experienced first hand.

20 years later I have been teaching yoga for ten years and have just been blasted by some of my local yoga community for criticizing Yoga Journal's Talent Contest/cover model contest. I do not see this as a negative thing - it's called awareness. Anger at harmful ignorance is not without value - it's what drives every oppressed people to overcome oppression and to right wrongs. It has been said before, and I hope it will be said millions of times again - without women's anger at being treated as possessions, we would still be possessions! I hate the word 'duh' but really. Really. Feminism being seen as negative is a very sad commentary on whoever says it. Really.

Real optimism and love do not launch huge advertising campaigns and talent contests that make fools of the people buying your product. Optimism and love will not be two of the contestants, either. Real optimism and love do not say, "I just can't take in any more! I'm going to pretend that everything is as it should be, even though I know it's not, and I'm going to call it Tantra and have myself a glass of wine!" There is nothing wrong with taking a break from bad news, or protecting one's heart so that it doesn't get decimated by the never ending greed and cruelty of humankind. But don't call it wisdom - don't call it Tantra - call it "dinner and a glass of wine" for Christ's sake. And real optimism and love just is...no need for sappy quotes that are mainly out of context and therefore stripped of the meaning they originally had.

I am optimistic that yoga teachers will read whole books, not just the quotes, and optimistic that even though we insist on reinventing the wheel (so that it sells as 'new') that some people will see through all of that and come to life willing to see what is there, not what we need to be there to soothe our bourgeois self image. But the people I've known who truly do that are bussers, waiters, restaurant managers, house painters, cooks, gardeners - not yoga teachers. Which is why my teachers are not yoga teachers, and why, as a yoga teacher, I've never thought I had any business advising people. I'm there to share the few things that I know well with people who want to know them, too. It's what the monks taught, and I've never heard anything truer. My job, as I see it, is to give people whatever knowledge I've gleaned about movement - not to be an ass who acts like they understand things way beyond human comprehension. Acting like we know what is going on in the universe is not positive, admitting we don't is not negative. It's what is. I cannot and will not buy into this mentality that anger is only destructive - it's also one of the most constructive forces in life. So if you're not using yours, I'll gladly take it and use it to sign more petitions, write more letters to my fascist Congress people, call the White House more, and write more letters to idiotic magazines posing as community resources.

Letter to Yoga Journal - Et tu, Brute? - I'll be sending this in a week or so - please add on anything you like

Friends - I started a letter to Yoga Journal about their contest, and I hope you'll write your own or take a minute to add something to this one. I'll put your name if you want, or leave it off if you prefer. But do add your comments. Consciousness is writing letters to bastards with  marketing degrees.

Dear Yoga Journal,

Yesterday morning I received several invitations from yoga 'friends' to vote for them in a talent search/cover model contest through your website. I was appalled. I started yelling obscenities in my mind and jumped on Facebook to start yelling them on line. Many other people had the exact same reaction as I did - we want to ask you, simply, "Et tu, Brute?" I came to yoga as a way to feel more connected to my self, my body, and to others. I wanted to be a virtuoso of the relationship with my Self. I had practiced Vipassana meditation at the Wat Suan Mokkh in Southern Thailand, and had an established meditation practice of about a decade when I started asana practice on a dedicated, daily basis. Over time I took classes, went through a teacher training program and continued to study and go through an advanced teacher training program.
Having taught yoga for ten years now, I find that fewer and fewer yoga students and teachers have any understanding that yoga is something that is not based on the values of the U.S. monotheistic, Protestant-dominated, capitalist, sexist, racist, classist value system. They are using yoga as a way to be virtuosos of the free market and the results are very sad, indeed. A lot of this comes from students looking to Yoga Journal as the benchmark for what yoga is. I have a running joke that Yoga Journal should be treated the same way as Playboy - the articles are good, just avoid the pictures. But I've kept my subscription to Yoga Journal to read Sharon Salzberg, Sarah Powers, Ana Forrest, and other insightful experts on yoga and meditation. I don't have any illusions that losing a subscriber will affect what type of contests and/or marketing you use, but I do feel compelled to speak up about this Miss Yoga America thing. I hope that others are taking the time to drop you a note about this - that is, if they're not too busy setting up photo shoots to fill out embarrassing profiles for your contest. One of the worst things about this (for me) is that now that you have gotten every yoga student or teacher who thinks they are pretty and look good doing Hanumanasana to make an idiot of themselves by posting such nonsense as "It's always been my dream to be on the cover of Yoga Journal" or "I gave up a successful career in blah blah blah to teach yoga so I could work barefoot and help people connect to themselves and to nature" the magazine will likely choose someone extremely physically handicapped who teaches yoga to other handicapped people as the cover model as a nod and a Sarah Palin wink to the deeper meaning of yoga. Or maybe you'll just go whole hog and put all the finalists in a wet tee-shirt contest. Same same.
I hope you're catching serious flak for this, and I hope you're listening. This is not yoga, and it doesn't take a swami to call this one.

Sincerely,

Amy Pancake

Apparently it never rains in Barcelona

...except last week. In spite of the weather we had, I wonder if it's possible to not fall in love with Barcelona. It's a place that can't be overly hyped. I thought for sure it could never live up to all my friends' raves and exclamation points, but it's an irresistible place. We spent a lot of time staying in out of the rain, but barely saw our room - we were out early every morning, going from breakfast to breakfast, of course... in the pauses between rain storms we walked and walked and walked - barely made it to any monuments because of course many of them are outdoors, but we made sure to go to the Sagrada Familia and the Casa Gaudi. I confess I'd never wanted to see either one of these (or any Gaudi, in fact) because they look so awful in photos. But there we were, and I didn't have the cojones to come back from Barcelona saying we didn't go. Neither one of us was excited to get on the line of a kazillion people, but we did it, and it was amazing. How something so incredible can take such a lousy picture, I don't understand. So if you're like me, and scratch your head when people go on and on about Gaudi and all you see is a bunch of enormous buildings that look like they were hand made by a fourth grader on Adderall, those buildings really do amaze in person.

Enough, though, about things everyone sees and everyone loves...obstacles are what great trips are made of, and they started before I even left the house. My horoscope said traveling on the 14th was a very bad idea. I got up around 5 that morning, giving myself a ton of time before the bus at 7:05. Triple checked all the things and documents and money I needed to take along, and even had a cup of tea with Sandra, who woke up to see me off. We walked up the driveway to wait for the bus, and spent some time chatting about the sunrise. 7:05 passed. 7:10 passed. 7:30 came around and Sandra went back inside and I walked down to the next village of Ventorros to maybe hitch a ride to Malaga. When I got there it turned out I wasn't the only person left behind by the bus. An old woman I'd met before was out there, and me coming along gave her someone to commiserate with about the bus not coming. She said it was probably that they were working on the "main" road and were taking an alternate route. Anyway, I had 3 1/2 hours to get to Malaga airport and the road was closed. My companion was irritated at having to go into town anyway, because it was just to send money to her son in prison who was being extremely demanding and she eventually decided to go another day. Luckily she is a very nice person and stopped someone to give us a ride to the turn in the road where I could hitch a ride to Velez Malaga, then get bus to Malaga and then a bus on to the airport. I did all of this, which took about 3 hours, so I was pretty excited to get to the airport on time. On the way there I was lucky enough to see one of the sweetest things imaginable - as we passed a man on his scooter he turned a corner and we could see two little lambs tucked into a blanket in a milk crate riding on the back.

The magic of hitch hiking just can't be explained - if you haven't been lucky enough to hitch hike a lot in your life I recommend it. It's probably about one hundredth as dangerous as people think (maybe less), and amazing things happen hitch hiking. Something about being out there, relying on strangers, and of course you only meet strangers cool enough (or wacko enough, I'll admit) to pick up hitch hikers. If you want my psychological self defense class I'll hook you up. Email me. Do not even think of emailing me your safety concerns - you're twenty five years too late and besides, you're wrong. These days I only hitch if I'm really stranded, but way back when I used to go everywhere that way in Europe, and not only did I learn all about self defense (of course), but I got to experience a kind of freedom that seems to be gone with the wind these days. I never see students hitching anymore - everyone is so scared of everyone else. When I was 16 I couldn't fathom deciding to stay home because I didn't have a car or a lift. No one could've convinced me to live like that - always worrying about people hurting you - I thought it was a crock then and I still do. And I get to tell stories about outwitting people with guns - so there. Last time I hitched a ride outside of Austin (long story about a yoga retreat with some seriously over zealous people - a fate worse than hitch hiking in Texas!) I got a ride with two young filmmakers who had always wanted to pick up a hitch hiker but had always been too scared. They were great and it really made their day (and mine, obviously, as I got to where I wanted to go). So it's rare these days, and usually sort of inconvenient, but it always turns out pretty amazing.

The flight to Barcelona was interesting - first time on Ryan Air. I'll just say that is definitely the airline of choice for people who enjoy hitch hiking as a means of transportation. Gives the expression 'bare bones' new dimension. But having said that, I'm in Spain, so the people working the flight treated everyone like gold - I used to say that Texans were the friendliest people you could ever meet. Sorry Texas, but you've been relegated to a distant second. And no, it's not up for discussion. How on Earth can a country that has been through the ringer so many times produce such an incredibly copasetic mood? In the States we have so many things easy, and we manage to be complete assholes way too much of the time. Go figure.
Barcelona airport, ditto. Nice people, it's clean, information is easy to get, and the lady (there's one working the airport train in NYC but she is awfully mean) helping people buy their train tickets was as nice as can be. And the train and subway tickets are integrated so you can use the same card for each, they just subtract more credit for train rides. NYC are you listening? Maybe no one who works for NYC transport has ever been allowed out of their cage long enough to go to Europe. Someone should go and take notes - they don't even make millions of people per year remove their shoes to go through airport security AND SOMEHOW THEY"RE NOT ALL DEAD. Hmmm...must be because only one jerkoff in the world would've ever put a bomb in his shoe. Seriously, America, it's embarrassing. I won't even get started on how fast the lines move and the general lack of needless frustration in traveling in Europe.
Then again, we don't post signs in Catalan, which has probably led more than one traveler to take a long walk off one of the short piers in the port of Barcelona. I speak French and Spanish, so looking at Catalan made me feel, for the first few days, as if I were reading something out of focus. I couldn't retain anything anyone told me if it contained any proper names. There was a lot of smiling, nodding, and asking the very same question several times just to make sure the answer seemed to have the same amount of syllables.  When it started to pour down with rain that pretty much solved the problem of trying to get to a bunch of specific places and we enjoyed many random cafes and bars. I do believe that each and every one was the best cafe or bar I've ever been to.

Leaving Barcelona was another matter, as we'd rented a car but neglected to buy a decent map. And for some strange reason we decided to just wing it with an assortment of small maps that if you put them all together would not have covered all the ground we wanted to cover. We suffered the consequences of this decision, of course, which led, as usual, to some tension and to some wonderful unplanned side trips.

Traveling With Mom

Next Monday I'll be meeting my Mom in Barcelona! My Mom is an amazing traveler, and so was her mother. My grandmother was widowed relatively young, and I really don't have all the facts on her travels - only what has come up in conversation over the years, but maybe one of my relatives will see this post and give me some more history. Mom, yeah, you're the number one suspect for that job. Back to my grandmother...I know she took her daughters on extensive trips all over Europe, including Greece, and Spain during Franco's dictatorship. This has produced both serious and hilarious revelations about my mother - including an instinctual distaste for Catholic cathedrals dripping in gold in the middle of terrible poverty, and her incredibly endearing stories of touring Greek ruins. She still can't talk about Greek ruins without breaking out laughing about getting guided tours of what amounted at times to a single remnant section of a single column of what was at one time a great temple. What I love, of course is that these were her favorite tours, because she got to use her imagination to fill in what those places must've been like.


What was amazing about my grandmother, too, was that she traveled all over South America solo, in the sixties, collecting folk art. If you've traveled in South America even in the last 15 years, you can imagine what it must've been like then. It's not easy now, depending on where you go, unless you fly everywhere. She also traveled a ton within the United States, buying land high up in the Rockies in Crested Butte, Colorado back when there were a couple hundred people roughing it up there. She had 3 daughters and one son. Three out of the four have traveled extensively, doing everything from living and working in Argentina during the Dirty Wars to studying in France (back when France was not at all the place it is today) and then there's my uncle who, after decades spent without running water or electricity high up in the Rockies in a log cabin, now travels to more places than I can keep track of in his converted tug boat.


When my mother wasn't able to travel far (she did have three children), living at our house was an experience in imaginary travel. Don't get me wrong - my Mom wasn't some travel version of Martha Stewart, planning neatly garnished international meals or buying figurines and plates from around the world to populate a bohemian chic suburban home - she was more like Anthony Bourdain being left in a bedroom community outside of New York City, alone all day with three kids, sometimes slowly going out of her mind with boredom, sometimes achieving this rather quickly. Our decor was telling. We had a terrarium coffee table, a blinding orange sofa, a kitchen table covered in piles of bills and paperwork, and for a time we even had red polka dot stickers of various sizes decorating the kitchen cabinets like some feverish hallucination. Basically, we had everything different from what would usually be found in our suburban neighborhood. Nothing matched, particularly, but each piece had a little story. Mom was addicted to General Hospital in the early years of my life, but one day just gave it up. Later she'd watch Yoga With Lillias!, Richard Hittleman and Jack LaLanne. When the Jehovah's Witnesses came to the door my Mom would invite them in for coffee just to have some adult company. My mother being the least religious person you could hope to meet, I can only imagine what they must have discussed. We knew the Fuller Brush man very well, too. I can still see his face and smell his heavy cologne. He had a large mole next to his nose and a big, dyed black pompadour. He had a great voice - it was really deep and rich and he talked in that salesman type of lingo that knew no statements that couldn't be ended in an exclamation - "Well hello there! How are we today?!" They would sit and drink coffee but I'm not even sure if she ever bought anything. She must've. But if I was her Fuller Brush man I wouldn't have cared - she was by far the most promising conversation in the area. Our neighborhood wasn't a gold mine for sparkling personalities. Being a kid I just had a kid's perspective, but I also had access to the houses of my friends and those of some of our neighbors, and at 5 years of age I knew there was something wrong in our town. The place was full of bored women who dealt with that in the usual ways. Craziness, alcohol, medication, crazy hair styles, fashion addiction, anorexia, perfect wife syndrome, I'm too far gone to care syndrome, yacht club syndrome, over mothering, under mothering...and that doesn't cover the mafia wives, who lived cloistered away behind high walls in properties right on the water. Who knew what was happening there. 


So my Mom was crazy bored, which led to many made up adventures around the neighborhood, around town, eventually to Florida, Puerto Rico, Saint Croix, France, and beyond. Sometimes she'd just yell, "Kids! Get in the car! We're going out!' And we'd drive around, going down every driveway posted with a "Private! Keep Out!" sign, every private beach road - anywhere forbidden, basically. Years later, traveling in France with Mom, she'd saunter past every "privé" sign, joking that it was okay because she knew Monsieur Privé very well. It was hilarious then and it would be impossible today. I'm forever grateful for Mom's irreverent approach to travel. It meant that we got to see places we never could've had access, but more importantly because it taught a gloves-off approach to seeing the world. It made everything an adventure - when we had tea or meals out of the house or out of the country my Mom was never the mom who would ask people to accommodate the staid palate of American kids. And I don't remember complaining about eating unfamiliar foods because we didn't know it was an option. If, for example, friends of my parents showed up for a Sunday afternoon get together with a box of Greek pastries, we were offered some. If we were rude enough to say we didn't like it, we got a look that said, "I'm sorry you're so dull and Americanized you can't appreciate anything." Being accused of being overly American in our house was a big insult. Maybe the biggest. This, despite the fact that we really were a very American family. My Mom's father was Scottish, but besides that we were just plain old American. Thank God no one ever told my parents that! They would've gotten the cold shoulder big time. And of course I'm kidding that my parents didn't know we were American, but my Mom had lived in France and my Dad had gone as far as two years of grad school toward being a Modern European history professor. They were determined not to live as if the rest of the world didn't exist. Products that were verboten in our house: Cool Whip, Cool Aid, Jello, soda, candy bars, Velveeta, Fluff, Hamburger Helper, Froot Loops, tuna casserole, etc. Anything overly processed and/or fake, aka American. Anything spelled with a K instead of a C was the devil. My Mom would shake her head in disgust at the ads in magazines and on TV for foods like Pringles Potato Chips, or Betty Crocker cake mixes. You know, I wish more Moms had done that. Even as teenagers, the phrase, "I've been eating too much fast food lately" never ever passed our lips. Just not an option - the lowest we would allow ourselves to sink in food quality was diner food, because diners qualified as a small adventure, and adventure was a major factor in all decisions, great and small. A good adventure could mitigate the sin of drinking Nestle hot cocoa, for instance, with it's toxic little fake marshmallows. In fact, that hot cocoa could actually comprise part of an adventure (a great conversation with someone interesting, being stranded after getting lost, etc) - drinking that nasty stuff against your will would add interest to any story. After all, it was something you'd never be shameless enough to say you liked. How American would that be? 


So you get the picture - my Mom's everyday life is quite an adventure, and she has passed that on to us. I will be sure to update you on any adventures we have that are legal enough to be posted. As for the rest...use your imagination. 

Where does Reality fit in yoga?

I read that article yesterday about the New Age guru who is on trial for 3 counts of manslaughter after 3 participants in his sweat lodge ceremony died from exposure and heat exhaustion. I can't stop thinking about it. The article was a perfect snapshot of spirituality in the United States. It's made up, day to day, with the common thread being America's current motto in all things holy: Whatever Works (read: whatever sells). It's not about seeking to understand the great mystery, or even just learning to be with the great mystery, knowing we most likely can't understand it. It's about placating people and telling them anything we can think of to ease their fears. And the money? Like taking candy from a baby. Dude, Reality is so yesterday.

What happens when 'teachers' act as if there is no underlying reality and just make shit up day after day, with the benchmark for the quality of their bs being whether it sells or not? This: some people will find this squishy logic very appealing, and some will pay lots of money to get teachers to answer their spiritual questions in such a way that the paying customer always comes out looking good. If the 'student' (read, client) is rich, they want to hear that they deserve it, karmically speaking, and should not waste time thinking about those less fortunate, who obviously need to take responsibility for their own bad karma (and pay to learn how to rectify their cosmic profile. Everyone should be rich once their karma is in order. Never mind that the 'teacher' probably doesn't understand karma in the first place). If they're poor, they want to hear they're on the verge of fixing that - they just need to pay the 'teacher' to bring out their inherent self worth, which will result in the world upping their net worth (for how could it not be so?). Don't bother reminding them that a majority of the greatest human beings have been, and continue to be, poor. Oh Amy don't be such a zero-sum pessimist! My wealth has nothing to do with anyone else's poverty! Never mind the fact that the world financial crisis is proving zero-sum pessimism is pretty right on. It turns out that if certain people and/or groups continue to get richer and richer, that wealth actually did come out of someone else's pockets! Stating the obvious? Not in this country, my friend.

In order to achieve your karmic makeover they will offer to: change your Akashic record, take you into past lives, cleanse your colon, excessively purify you of toxins that they mainly can't name, up your metabolic rate with intensive yoga practice (because clearly asana is the path to self worth - once you're hot, your worth goes up), send your nervous system into outer space with kundalini yoga just to prove they can, aromatherapize you, teach you the 7 habits of highly successful people, the four agreements, the secret, the 10th insight, the seven levels of hell, the 7 laws of happiness, 108,000 sun salutations... I sometimes imagine what it's like when several of these authors are in a room together. Are they smiling and chatting, secretly thinking, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, 4 agreements, blah blah blah...my 7 laws were first. Here comes the chicken soup for the soul guy! I should find out who's doing his PR these days." Really.

Some people have amazing gifts. And learning about ourselves any way we can is hugely important. What upsets me is that it has become so commonplace for people to claim 'amazingness' that it is no longer meaningful. It's an unspoken requirement that people claim amazingness in order to attract students/clients. What if you don't believe it's 'amazing' that healing happens? What if healing is the natural result of seeking to be healed? What if the healing is largely a result of meaningful connection? In many cases the New Age falls way short of amazing - it still makes its bread and butter on women trying to find a good man. Oh wait, sorry - they call it seeking the love you deserve, not trying to find a good man. Sexism is alive and well in the New White spirituality, but it's been re-packaged and re-worded to fit your new cosmic profile. Pardon my saying so, but being labeled a 'goddess' is a rather poor substitute for real respect. I say this for a big reason that people hate to hear: women do the self-improving! Women take all those courses! Women do the praying! Women spend their lives on becoming the best person they can be before they die.Women are financing and validating this whole business! Men are usually 15% of any student base. So why are men the highest paid 'teachers', authors, gurus, healers?! Hmmmm, let's think...the highest priced gurus are men, and their clients are mostly women...see a pattern here? Images of churches presided over by men, attended almost exclusively by women come to mind. Yoga schools financed by many talented women but run by men, owned by men... Men writing self-help books (about what women need to do to be happy) that woman buy by the boat load...Turns out all that praying, rearranging the furniture, placing of mirrors, yoga practice, Akashic refiling, taping words to your water bottle doesn't actually fundamentally change your conditioning. What if trusting women turns out to be what we need to do to solve our relationship issues? That is much less glamorous work. Changing conditioning comes from observing how thing are (not the Disney version), absorbing that, and changing behaviour. For women, that won't include acting like a 'goddess' (although it is very funny to see them act that way) or running from yoga to pilates to Whole Foods and back every day. It will not be joyous and fun and liberating to absorb the state of our world - or to stop living in a way that is toxic and disconnected. Change is no walk in the park.


The article about the trial was written by someone who likely was astounded to learn that someone could let themselves be cooked to death in the vain hope of being heated into a successful, lovable, respectable person. But to anyone in the New Age community, it's not surprising that people will mistakenly believe that the more they are willing to 'let go' of (read, the more things you're willing to do even if you don't understand how they work), the higher the subsequent reward could be - should be (must be, according to Oprah and that flake who wrote Eat, Pray, and then Pray to be ME!). In fact I think a lot of New Agers, if asked about the deaths, might say something like, "That was their souls' journey" or the classic, "I'm just so glad I've attracted something better for myself than that." And there was probably some agonizing over cups of Yogi Tea (created by another self-proclaimed guru) and much exclaiming about how this tragedy does not properly represent New Age spirituality. (I sort of wish they'd just go ahead and call it the New White spirituality and get it over with. We're talking about the exact same values.) We need to do some soul searching, my fellow new age professionals, about this - we need to look at this and ask ourselves if it may have happened, in part, due to a general lack of humility. Do we say things to our students and clients that are not really true? Do we make promises we have no way to back up? Do we recognize the difference between being positive and being delusional?

Dying in a sweat lodge run by some white guy claiming to possess native wisdom when clearly he's a yuppie in khaki pants spewing nonsense on Oprah's couch is TOTALLY on the list of possible things that could befall you if you're in enough pain. I've been crazy enough to think about suicide in my youth, and I certainly bought my share of amulets and crystals when my life was just one train wreck after another. I've listened intently to descriptions of how strategically placed crystals could clear up my imbalances, how repeating ancient mantras could create a new groove in my soul deep enough to trump the  broken record of pain I was living, to how prayer and letting go could transform my world from chaos to bright, clean, easy happiness. But the real message here, and this is so key, is that people will almost always tell you the solution is outside yourself, and the more it costs, the more actual value it holds (Deeppockets Chopra, anyone?) I cannot stand this disconnect anymore - just so my friends know clearly which side of the universe I pitch my tent - there is an underlying reality and it is good (water does always seek its own level, pigs do not fly). There is no way to know in advance what will heal you (or harm you). No one can guarantee you healing. Being healed will not make you 'successful' or instantly rich. It will usually be enough reward just to be healed, and people who actually have been healed will be very flexible about the rest (we're happy to be here in the present moment instead of in hell).

That's why the sweat lodge deaths have been on my mind so much - they illustrate perfectly what is going wrong with the New Age, which comprises the yoga community, which is important to me. These folks died because they were bamboozled into thinking they could purchase an express pass to a new self. There is none. No matter how awesome your vision board is, it's still just a cork board. But there are plenty of good methods for real change out there. Yoga is one - pick your teachers carefully and be an alert student, not a follower. Stay away from teachers who tell you who you are, what you are, or what you need. Hang close to people who are curious about what you have to say about yourself, and who are at ease saying "I don't know" when they don't know.

Bathrobes are the new black

What a day! Twice! Yesterday I stopped by Ruth's for a chat and breakfast and we ended up on an all day adventure that included, but was not limited to, driving into a cloud full of many, many sheep, going from sun to freezing wind and rain and back again, circling what must have been a hundred roundabouts (many of which I had to go roundabout twice), one million olive trees, half a million almond trees, miles and miles of roads that would give a dead person a panic attack, hundreds of breathtaking views, and a couple of wolves glimpsed in the distance. It was a full day. I slept well. Got up and didn't exactly do it again, but was lucky enough to have a second day of laughs and exploring this amazing place.

Today we started off at yoga (thanks, Ruth!) and then sailed off into the sunny day. Just when I think I've seen too many stunning views to remember, someone takes me to see some more. We drove down into a huge pine forest park where we were the only people, stopped along the way at the Venta de la Nada (I kid you not, I have a photo of the sign), and ended up in Colmenar at a great bar from which I observed a woman walking down the street in her pajamas and bathrobe to sit with a friend at the bar opposite us (yes, every building is a bar here). I thought it was kind of special, and tried to snap a photo. I was too far away and it looks in the photo as if she's just a pretty woman in a long jacket. Which makes me a really bad photographer, I guess. If you read the post about going into church in Comares your bathrobe count will be 2 now. Two women walking around town in a bathrobe. In Comares it makes more sense because hey, it's a small village, and I'm sure everyone ends up seeing everyone else in a bathrobe eventually. Colmenar, however, is a medium sized town with loads of people who may not even know each other. So I'm giving the second bathrobe a little more attention, even if the first one was purple with white stars, which is very cute.

Tomorrow I still have the car till noon, and will be driving to Malaga alone to turn it in. No co-pilot. If I don't post for a few days, check the hospitals.

This is our big night out

That's the title of an old Kacy Crowley song that is my proof that not everything is on the interwebs. It was a hit in Austin in 1999 and I can't find it to save my life. I'd email her website, but y'all mostly know how I feel about folk singers - the more space between them and me, the better for everyone concerned. It's personal. But what made me think of that song, and songwriters, and how irritating they are, is my wonderful night out on the pueblito with my friend, T. The self-same T. who stubbed his toe last week on the pew in church, leading to our encounter and ensuing friendship with the woman-in-the-purple-bathrobe-with-stars-on-it, aka "looky looky." More on her another day.

T. has been working hard all week, and thought he'd like to go up to the village and check out the little bars. And as I've said before, without a sidekick, I'm just a weirdo, so I was thrilled. So that's how, after a hard day of blogging, instead of going to bed, we put on our jackets, grabbed a couple of flashlights, and set off into the full moon night. Walking here is always an experience (the views just knock you flat), and at night, under the full moon, it was even more spectacular. The moon was so bright we really didn't need the flashlights, but hey, I've taken a couple of nasty falls here due to the pitch darkness, and my assorted bruises now remind me, in chorus, "better safe than sorry, Pancake." It doesn't help that when you fall here, you fall on sharp rocks. I nearly took off the top of one thumb two weeks ago on a rock. But I've already whined about that, I'm sure. Onward! Into the night!!

It's so quiet on the way up I have this fear that my voice can be heard loud and clear in every room of every house in the comarca. The quiet American, I am not. T. is soft spoken, so as we approach the village I stop talking and let him take over. As we scale the final steep incline up to the main plaza (writing "main plaza" makes it sound much bigger than it is) you coulda heard a pin drop. The mayor's restaurant is closed. We'
re getting worried. But the other 3 little bars are open, so, like Goldilocks, we have to figure out which one is just right for tonight. The first bar is too subdued - tables of old men deep in conversations we will never be joining. The second bar is boisterous, and I can see a couple of English beards and bowl cuts laughing away with bright eyes and smiles. The third bar... is sad. A few old men in a darkened room watching something on TV that is definitely not animating anyone. They look down in the dumps. This being an exceedingly small town, we have to make it look like we're just out walking and not peering into bars passing judgement on their potential for the night. So we take a little stroll up and down a few steep, tiled streets of ancient whitewashed buildings and circle back around to bar #2.

It's crowded in the small space, which is a welcome feeling. When you're alone most of the time, being crowded together with happy people is pretty awesome. Shocking news (not) - I'm the only woman in the bar besides the cook. So naturally there is a big deal made of the fact that I must have a place to sit, and of course my friend must also have a stool because, well, he's with a lady. Oh, if they only knew the lady I'm not. But long hair camouflages a world of social deviations, and I perform as if I truly expect to be treated with such cortesía. The old man on my right tells T. (you address the man, not the lady) if anyone says anything about his giving away their barstools they'll have to deal with him. Of course I am allowed to laugh, but only looking at T. A lady doesn't laugh with strangers, she needs an intermediary. She may respond to what is said in conversation through her companion, which I do, because I'm not sure he's understood the old man's generous show of caballería and I cue him to laugh.

What happens next is just too perfect. Sure enough we have occupied someone's place, because their beers are in front of us. When they return from the wc or maybe smoking outside (Spain just passed a no smoking law for bars and restaurants), they find us sitting there and they look at T. with a sort of challenging look. That is, until they take note of the fact that he's accompanying a lady. As they take this is in they smile and slide their beers over in front of their new, reduced space at the bar, making eye contact with the first older man who gave their seats away. Their looks say quite clearly, "We're glad you were here to take the situation in hand and show these folks we know how to treat a lady in this town. Right on, brother!" I just look at the floor, like you do, until this exchange is finished.

The rest of the evening was spent chatting, sipping wine, snacking on delicious green olives, followed by a huge plate of calamari. When we stopped ordering things the owner poured us each a glass of local wine. "It's on me," he says, giving me the coy smile of a teenage boy offering to carry my books home from school. He tells me my Spanish is lovely and drifts back to the other end of the bar to attend to his friends. P.s. I'm relating these stories not to impress you with the fact that blue eyes still carry a lot of weight in the world, but I cannot get over the incredible formality used around strange women. I know, I know, I'm strange, but I mean strange as in new to the group. After suffering the attitudes of American men, who seem to have decided women are barnacles, it's wonderful to be treated as if you're the best potential interaction they'll have all day. It's deference with a healthy dose of fascination, and everyone seems to enjoy the play acting. You couldn't pay me enough to live that way, but passing through alternate realities is some good mental floss.

The evening ended strolling (a lost art!) down the mountain the long way, talking about the moon and stars.

In Seville I got very distracted

In Seville the days flew by, walking every day until my legs were sore, being entranced and drawn in to this amazing city. I love Spanish breakfasts in cafes and bars. They serve fresh orange juice, wonderful coffee, and toasted baguettes with olive oil and fresh tomato puree. I had breakfast every morning at a different cafe on the Plaza Alameda, and then I had breakfast a second time in some other neighborhood. This is the life, I think, finished with my second breakfast of the day, getting ready to visit the Alcázar, the old Arab fortress.

It took forever to find it, because I let myself get distracted by every little interesting detail. No camera today. I wore out the battery in the cathedral the day before. When the flashing signal came up on the screen: battery exhausted I thought, “Me, too!”I meander around, buying a few souvenirs and postcards. I have to stop for a third snack before going inside. They serve breakfast here until 12:30 and I thank god for that because I can't stand any of the other food. My gums bleed a little now from all the bread, but oh well. Better than being sick from another oil-soaked piece of fish. I need a food buddy so I can find more things I like.

In the Alcázar I wander for a couple of hours through celestial rooms that have no furniture or paintings on most of the walls, and yet so intricately designed that I feel I barely get the whole picture no matter how many times I circle around. Each time I enter a room through a different door it seems like a completely new place until I notice the floor tiles, or a sign posted on a pedestal I've read before. I see people walking in sublime gardens filled with tiled fountains and orange trees, tall cedars and elegant palms. There are waterways throughout the walled gardens, and I find myself contemplating what paradise must be like. Probably like this, if it exists. I get lost at one point and a maintenance man tells I've wandered into an area they're about to spray and directs me back to where more people are. Along the slender, straight paths punctuated with fountains that intersect even more invitingly dreamlike paths, poets and artists lounge, stretched out on benches in the almost warm sunshine, composing verses, sketching or writing in their diaries. They seem to own the space, discouraging any intrusion by mere sightseers into their private world of deep appreciation for this place that is at once so stately and sensual.

I wander into yet another garden, this one a long rectangle filled with neat rows of orange trees. The oranges shine out from amongst the dark leaves like the stars on the Virgin de Guadalupe's robe. I'm lucky to have come in the winter. Without the oranges it wouldn't be the same at all, I think. I hope they'll still be in season when my mother comes. Ripe oranges overflow every tree in Seville. I read that the city sprays them to make them taste bitter to keep the birds from eating them and making a mess in the streets. But I fantasize about the days when this was a working palace and how the inhabitants must have been able to reach up and pluck an orange down as if they were living in paradise. I hear an American tourist say, loudly, as we pass under an archway, "I get it - they didn't have TV back then so they made pretty buildings." The girl's friends, in her thrall because she is truly a breathtaking young woman, nod in agreement. Later I see this young woman reach up and pick an orange. I don’t warn her about the spray, even though I am very nearby. "Ignorance is not bliss," I think, "it's simply ignorance. Bon appétit."

In the afternoon I went out walking far from the Plaza Alameda and stumbled upon a vegetarian restaurant I'd read about online that's only open 4 days per week. It was open. And scrumptious. No pasta primavera, here, but a menu full of tempting dish like pastel de papa y verdura con dos salsas, and crepas de verdura en salsa de crema. I ordered the pastel, with wine, and dined like a queen. That evening I went to opening night of a romantic comedy. It was a perfect evening. Even better, when I got back to the hostel everyone had gone out together to a flamenco show. I packed my bags and went to sleep in quiet bliss.

The next morning I lingered at the hostel until 10, enjoying a conversation with Enrique, a German-Argentine rock climber working at the hostel.  When I checked out I headed to the plaza for breakfast number one.

The train station wasn't busy when I got there at 11, and I still had two hours before my train. The Seville station is a wide rectangular shopping area with a book store, some home shops and 3 cafes. I buy El País, choose the cafe that has the best view for people watching, and get down working on breakfast number two. Next to me is an older woman, maybe 60. In Spain, 60 is old. The woman is dressed very smartly in a Chanel style suit, stockings, heels, gold earrings, penciled on eyebrows, hair professionally styled, with a quietly elegant air about her. We're neighbors there for about an hour, spying on each other surreptitiously as we read the morning paper, watching time tick by on the big station clock, each enjoying the extra lounging time before our train. During this time a Spanish family settles in at the table across from me, and I spend some time observing the two adolescent boys with their sister and mother, chatting and making each other laugh.

When I look back to my neighbor the woman has gone, and I feel a pang that we didn't get to nod goodbye after the long hour we'd spent in silent company. The waitress comes by to clear the table and notices the woman has left her gloves behind. She clears the table but leaves the gloves, just in case. A few minutes later the woman emerges from the restrooms across the wide hall, and I pick up the gloves, rushing out to return them. Of course she went to freshen up up before her train! So old school! It's a curious moment - the woman looks so pleasantly surprised that I have done this, paid this attention to her, and gives me a look I imagine she would normally reserve for a suitor holding a rose up to her as she answered his knock at the door.

How I'm getting away with this whole thing

I think most of my friends know I'm not home, by now - I'm in Spain for a few months. Of course most of my friends also know that I don't have a lot of money, and they've been asking me how I planned this wonderful trip on such a thin, little shoestring budget. I'm going to list a few websites I joined and used, and I hope to hear lots of stories from friends about their amazing adventures and what helped them to go. I also want to hear stories about using the sites listed here and what comes of it!

My main thing was renting my apartment - no big surprise here, that I used craigslist. Some people still don't use this site, so I have to mention it. The source of many magical happennings is definitely http://www.craigslist.org/. When using craigslist, I've always had great luck and I hope you will, too. Write your ad carefully if you're going to be subletting - make sure you communicate who you are in your ad - nothing worse than posting a generic ad and getting people who want a generic situation, i.e. a place they don't have to care about. If you're subletting your home, make sure you write the ad so that only people looking for an actual 'home' to lease will respond. My title was : Pergo-free zone! That way only people who give a crap about floors will call, and I don't have to worry about all the creeps who would put holes in my walls to put up posters for a stay of one semester.

Then of course I had to make sure I got a ticket - I was very lucky and had frequent flyer miles saved over a period of 20 years and a donation of miles from my Mom (thanks, Mom!) to make up the rest. I include this not to make you sad that you don't have 60,000 miles for a ticket, but to remind you that if you do have miles, to call and get your ticket over the phone. I tried and tried to make it work online and it was ridiculous how quickly they wanted 90,000 or even 120,000 miles for the ticket I got through a customer service rep for 60,000. It doesn't hurt to tell the rep you're using this ticket for a very special trip, so they get a little excited about helping you get there. And if your rep is in a bad mood, thank them for their help, say you need to talk to yourself about the dates, and call back to speak with someone else. There's always someone who'll think it's cool you're doing something besides business travel or going to Disney. Oh, and any big trip like to Europe or somewhere far should include a free layover on one leg. So I got to stop in NY and visit my family on the same ticket. They will not tell you this, you have to ask. Maybe you want to stop in Paris in the way to Berlin. It should be free.

Third most important thing - how can I get housing for free? Housing, unless you're going to South America or Asia, will kill a small budget. The miracle of the internet is that if you have a dream, so do a half million other people and someone's out there facilitating your dream for people like you. Sites that hook people up are generally great for making sure you won't be sold into slavery once you arrive. They check people's info, keep logs of all your communication through their site, and try to keep everyone safe. They also are big on peer comments, so you get to see what others have said about the place you're going and how it was to be there. I joined http://www.mindmyhouse.com/ for $25/year  (or 2 yrs - can't recall). This site is British, and loads of British people have second homes in Spain, so there were lots of situations in the country I was headed to. The challenge is finding someone who's not just looking for a free caretaker/dogsitter. You may love dogs, but they can't be left for weekend excursions and you could end up stranded at home most of the time. In which case, write a book. About the dog. I was extremely lucky that there was a small retreat center looking for someone exactly like me, but there are new posts all the time and there's always something that might allow you to do someone a favor and still have flexibility.

I also joined http://www.workaway.info/ ($25/2 yrs) that hooks people up with volunteer opportunites where the host houses and feeds you in exchange for (usually) a half day of work, Mon-Fri. The obvious advantage of this is that you are living with people and therefore not alone in someone's remote villa burning up the youtube videos to entertain yourself and the dog. And I have to say that even though I opted not to do this there were a couple of opportunities that were just incredibly tempting. Learning from a horse whisperer? Helping a university professor with her computer skills and data entry? Helping with winter maintenance at breathtaking historic boutique hotels?  There were many more that sounded truly fun, and you'd be linked to the community through your host. Down side on this was that mainly non-Spanish speakers use this site so you'd be speaking Spanish when you went out but probably not at home. A wonderful woman here in Andalucia who hosts work exchangers uses http://www.helpx.net/. Again, these sites are big on hosts and volunteers reviewing each other, so you get a pretty good idea of what you're getting into.There's also http://www.wwoof.org/ that has a worldwide network of small organic farms looking for hlp in exchange for lodging and meals. That site has been around for over 25 years and you could spend a lifetime exploring what's on there. As for me, I'm past the grape harvesting stage of my life and really don't want to find out how many baskets of olives I can pick in a morning. But there were decades when I was totally game, and maybe you are.

Now that I'm in Spain, I'm starting to use my http://www.couchsurfing.org/ membership to take little side trips and get to know some people who live here and love to show off their home city. So far I've had someone offer to take me traveling indefinitely but my visa doesn't allow for that so I'm working on going to Cordoba for 3 nights, instead. For last minute excursions I've been using youth hostels, of which there are literally thousands now. Used to be there was one in every city - now there are 5-10. And no, I'm not always the oldest person staying there - I have run across some 'well over forties' who still love backpacking and meeting people. In Madrid we were actually the majority.

Don't let anyone talk you into a fucking worldphone. Skype is amazing and I can even Skype from my Ipod Touch. I can use Skype to call a phone (anywhere in the world), too, by paying all of 2 cents/minute. And you can leave voice mails on Skype, too, so you're not limited to sitting around waiting for people to be online. I bought a Spanish cell phone because they were practically giving them away, and if you want to by train, bus or plane tickets online you usually need a phone number in the country where you're purchasing that ticket. I got a pay-as-you-go phone for something like $10 and I can receive calls and texts for free, so if anyone needs to get me ASAP they can. Also good to have if you're going out hiking alone, etc.

I also got a free, international texting number through the app TextNow. It never hurts to be available in lots of different ways in case you lose your phone or can't get online. Europe and free wifi are not in a love affair, and Americans will feel like they can't function if they're not in constant contact with several hundred people. My cell phone company at home (CREDO) - the Best Cell Phone Company Ever - also let me pause my service for 6 months, so my bill there isn't zero, but it's definitely quite reduced and no one's leaving me voicemails or texts and feeling ignored when I don't respond. The number won't work until I reactivate it.

There are a load of great apps for travel, too, so having an Ipod Touch is a great thing (thanks, Mom!). There are even several apps that tell you where to find free wifi wherever you are. Note that sometimes there really is no free wifi around town, but if you're desperate McDonald's and Starbucks have it. But at Starbucks it's only for 45 minutes and often slow, so you can't get much done in that time.

I know there's more, but that's the most important stuff about getting out of the US for an extended period even if you don't have a ton of money. Honestly, you learn a lot more when you don't, so there. Now get online and make tracks. Then tell me how you did it, please!