“To love without knowing how to love wounds the person we love.”

Pet fucking peeves

1. The nonanswer. If you want to degrade and demoralize someone, it's a great idea to simply not respect their speech. WHY THE FUCK YOU'D WANT TO DO THAT IS A MYSTERY. This is another weapon in the arsenal of inhumane tactics it's totally okay to use on women you love or have loved. Why you would choose behaviours that degrade someone's humanity - that's a good question - why would anyone ever do that - unless, of course, they think they'are seriously more valuable as a human and your well-being is not their goal?? Fuck people doing this. Do not do this. Women aren't your underlings. If you aren't scared of losing her respect and admiration you're a complete waste of her time. Worse - you waste her time and injure her with your stupidity.

Dating is not a war so WTF are you doing? (post #2 for straight men)

Your collective behavior can only be interpreted as a cry for help. Fear not. Help is everywhere. In fact, help has always been everywhere. This is one of the most excruciating aspects of being female in this culture. We're pretty much waiting around for the chance to help you and you keep kicking us in the teeth. Again, I will not hear your arguments about women being crazy. IF YOU BREAK SOMEONE'S SANITY you lose the right to complain about their insanity. Clear? So far I've never broken a woman's sanity, so this whole crazy side you refer to is your crime and your doing. You should, in fact, be indicted for that. You don't get bitching rights about damage that you, yourself, have caused. If someone even has the audacity to think the words "it takes two to tango" I will hunt you down and kill you in your dreams.

When someone is discounted as not fully human they will probably go insane eventually. You want to complain about your crazy mother? Your crazy aunts? Sisters? GF's? CHANGE YOUR OWN BEHAVIOR. It's like magic, really. It's like watching straight women hang out and play with their gay male friends. Miraculously these women are always having a blast with people who treat them, well...like people. So, jealous no more! You no longer have to wonder why she's so much more relaxed and cool around her pals than she is with you - they are good to her!

I think men are due for a reality check - they've got women pretty whipped right now. Women don't care much about or are confused about Feminism, they still have little earning power, their prestige is still lower than men's, and now they have to contend with the "pornapocalypse" of unchecked violence and humiliation that is rewriting the definition of "subhuman". But they've got everyone saying that that's okay. The veil is okay. The porn is okay. Stealing my potential and my psychological health is okay. Destroying any chance we have of experiencing deep relationships and sex with men is OKAY. It's okay with people. They talk about how many reasons it's okay. It's not okay. How could this ever be okay? Can most of you even kiss a woman well (again, I am only addressing hetero men here - gay culture is different and has its own issues)? Can you? Do you even know? Do you have the slightest clue what you're doing, or are you stumbling through it like everything else, because people make excuses for your ineptitude? Physical contact constitutes billions of unique languages - the one you speak with another is its own language - that particular language is created by and for you and that one lover. Each one is the product of billions of years of evolution and your own life of impressions, experiences, and desires. Even if it's not romantic, this is what is available to us in our sex lives. Unending creation and discovery. You do a disservice to the word "sex" by using it to refer to whatever happens to go on with your dick, no matter how checked out you are.

Tragically, that's not even in the realm of many people's imagination, much less their worldview. People talk about sex like it's a simple thing, like getting off and having sex are the same thing, like getting off is better, in a way. I'm not sure how we got here. Oh right - patriarchy. Which you think is benefitting you. Not having rights to your one and only wild soul is not a benefit - just in case you're unclear on the exchange. Being artificially stalled in your emotional development in order to fit a societal standard of disconnected, zombie-like behavior is not winning. The only thing is that even though you're losing your true inheritance as a human being, you get a little power over other people. You get to basically live like a fuck up but instead of calling you out, the society builds a web of industries to support not only the fiction of who you are but convincing everyone else that their greatest achievement would be to successfully tailor their own behavior to yours, so that you feel like you can "relate" to them. So you don't feel threatened by their questioning your brutal stupidity. So all you ever have to do is look uncomfortable with a situation and everyone will scramble to adjust reality to meet your numbed out, tepid comfort level.

If you approach your life like it's meant to suit you, instead of looking at how your life and the lives of others intersect to influence, shape, grow and care for one another in a progression that is not controlled by your comfort level, well...you get what you get. Not only is that useless and life-stifling for you, but you're meant to be interacting and infusing the lives of others with your spirit and your heart - and you're not. So you're pulling that bullshit on everyone, not just yourself. It's time to talk about that.

You're Doing It Wrong - Yes, Everything, But Especially Breaking Up

From here on out this blog will mostly talk about American men and their social, emotional, and relational habits resulting from their total emotional abandonment by almost every single person in their lives. I am DONE with people not talking about this. This is probably one of the biggest reasons we have destroyed the planet so needlessly - men are willfully isolated emotionally and then they cannot be fully human.
I do not care if everyone thinks I'm completely cracked. It hurts - physically - to continue to leave this topic unexamined. I don't want to talk to women about men - I want to talk to men about men. As a lesbian (homoflexible but culturally a lesbian), as a person who has always considered herself to be somewhat in the middle in terms of social gender categories, I say to you: YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.
I want to help. This is not a debate. This is a lifeline. I will not discuss. I will not do a comment thread. I will not listen to your point of view. I will use hyperbole. I will make generalizations. If you're a man who has figured these things out then EXCELLENT for you but do not ever say to me: not all men. Because ALL MEN. Of course there are exceptions - this blog isn't for them and they know it because they see the same bullshit I see. People raised as men - this isn't about negating anyone's true identity - this is about looking at the intentional disguises we force boys and men to wear in this culture and how the emperor has no clothes. This is a very deep honoring of men and a demand that they be more active, honest, and open in their struggles and their relational lives. This terror of silence MUST END. In an effort to get this karmic duty of mine out of my personal life, I am taking it public.

I'm So Done Breaking Up With You in Silence and Misery

It doesn't have to be this way. I simply cannot fathom walking away from or ignoring a lover. Do not walk away from someone who needs to talk with you. If you like someone enough to be dating them, then it would be a fantastic idea to act that way as long as you know them unless they do the sorts of things that leave a person feeling dehumanized and degraded. Otherwise, um yeah - you're in this together.

Stop acting insane once you touch someone's body. RESPECT YOUR GOOD FORTUNE. If you are lucky enough to have someone to screw, respect your luck and remember what irresistible pleasure that person is able to create with you, by the grace of your nervous system and theirs. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TREAT SOMEONE WHO CAN GET THAT REACTION GOING WITH YOU LIKE THEY'RE NOT A SMALL MIRACLE??? I do not know. I don't want to know. I've had sex with a lot of women and honestly have never been treated like anything less than part of their inner circle afterwards. It's enough to make you think women aren't the problem. Because they're not. I have not slept with many men - it's too awful (not the sex, the people) to want to do often. When I have, I am continually shocked and depressed by the sheer inhumanity displayed towards me. And this is from men I clearly once considered to be good people, since we've dated. But no. I am a lesbian, motherfuckers - I do not believe your bullshit about women being crazy. I've broken up with lots of women - IT'S FINE. To this day I have never broken up with a woman to see her transform into a devil. Not once. I've seen anger, lies, hysterics, etc, etc - never saw one of them turn into something not human - quite the opposite. I would say almost every man I've dated has turned into something not human during the break up. An entirely different person. Straight men make women the enemy during break ups. Let it be known that that is insane. You know who your enemy is, dudes? YOU. Men are allowed to turn into absolute monsters and no one calls them out - I'm calling it out. Relationships take guts. If you don't have any, start working on it. If you have the will to address the blank space where your interpersonal bonding ability should be, you can fix it. And you should. You will be happier. And so will the people in your life.

If you like someone enough to have sex with them, I would try to remember that after having sex with them. Sex is for grown ups. If you are so traumatized that the intimacy of sex turns you into Godzilla and you know this from past lovers - you really have no business going there with someone unless you are at the very least working on the issue (openly - not fake working on it in your own mind).

That's it - I did it - I put something constructive out there - this is the beginning of a long discussion of male socialization, why we all want to wring your necks, and how to begin to address it. Sexism is not personally your fault, but it is sure as hell your responsibility to eradicate. Or you can go on being miserable and ruining everything. This is for all of us to fix, but men aren't trying, and it's work, people, it's work.

Next time: HOW TO DO IT RIGHT

I'll have what she's having

Every once in a while I share the list of what supplements I'm taking because I think it's really interesting to find out what works for people and it seems all of my friends have health secrets we'd all benefit from learning - but who stands around listing their favorite vitamins? Besides me, I mean. 

My post today isn't an endorsement of any health treatment - we are each responsible for doing our own research on suggested products and evaluating for ourselves whether or not it's worth a try or if it applies to our personal health needs. 

That said, I'd love to hear any comments, feedback, wisdom, cautionary tales, etc...

So here is the list of things I currently choose not to live without:

maca - energy - fountain of youth, people, fountain of youth

Raw Kombucha - enzymes - I needed these my whole life and only stumbled upon recently.

dhq (Siberian Larch tree extract) - stamina, energy

reishi mushrooms - Google the benefits - too many to go into here.

New Chapter Every Woman II - best all around multi-vitamin I’ve found. Miles ahead of the others.

resveratrol - reverses cellular aging

cat’s claw - improves dna copying

molasses (organic, unsulphured blackstrap molasses) - iron, magnesium, potassium - best source of iron I have ever used, including Floradix.

probiotics - gut bacteria

copper (chelated) - we don't get enough of most minerals

bamboo extract - for skin and hair

topical magnesium oil - for cell function - nothing short of a miracle!

Himalayan pink salt

oregano oil (wildcrafted, in olive oil)

chia seeds

raw cacao

raw, organic coconut oil - how did I ever live without this?

goji berries - superfood and great snack

astaxanthan - a colorful, fat-soluble pigment found in microalgae, yeast, salmon, trout, krill, shrimp, crayfish, crustaceans, and the feathers of some birds. It’s harvested from the sea, and sold in capsules. One of the richest sources of antioxidants available, it gives noticeable protection from the sun after a couple of months of regular use.

So happy researching to you, and I hope you'll drop a comment here if you have a health secret you'd like to pass on :)

Gay marriage blah blah blah

The gay marriage debate...on the one hand, and on a strictly personal point - I am not interested in getting married, so that's not why I am behind it so intensely. And it's boring - it's such a no brainer of a debate, which is why when it goes to court the results are always the same. But it does need to pass, on the other hand.

This morning a client asked me, "Would you have gotten married if you could have? I mean, have you wanted to get married and not been able to?" Out comes "Yes!" faster than I could even think it.

I wanted to get married ( and should have been able to) and the fact that I could not definitely changed my life. Everything that happened around that was a source of incredible growth and change for several years.

I needed to get married for visa reasons and couldn't. I can't tell this story so I won't - suffice to say the stress and sense of terrible defeat that came with being gay and from different countries, neither of which yet allowed gay marriage was crushing. It was unreal - and we suffered everything from Immigration agents mocking us to deciding how many laws I was willing to break in order not to have my heart break fatally through forced separation. Some people one cannot live without. Hopefully we all have someone like that in our lives. The fact that people are okay destroying others' lives and hearts and futures by refusing to recognize everyone's right to marry and keep the people without whom they cannot live close, is unacceptable, as it always has been.

The thing is, if you asked me on a given day if I believe in marriage (marriage in general) or not I would more likely say no, than yes. I have become so used to the fact that I can't do this very simple thing, that I have convinced myself I would not choose it. I cannot conceive of being able to get married to a woman. Now I have no idea - I would like the chance to find out.

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.