All good adventure stories involve treacherous ascents, dangerous confrontations with Mother Nature, the strengthening of friendships in the face of peril, and of course a loyal animal companion. My first adventure story recipe had all the necessary ingredients to a truly good tale, and it was set in one of the most beautiful mountain valleys that I have ever laid eyes on.
It all started on a quiet and sunny Saturday morning when we left Granada on a bus that hugged the vicious curves of the street, ascending towards Capileira, one of the white villages of the Alpujarras. The Alpujarras, a series of little white villages on the south side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range, were built and inhabited by the Moors when they were kicked out of Granada in the late 1490s and served as their last refuge. After a couple of hours of winding and climbing, the bus dropped us off in the small village where a chilly breeze was blowing. We filled up our water bottles from the natural spring water tap, adjusted our packs and set off on the first day’s hike towards Trevelez, the tallest village in continental Spain, where we hoped to arrive that evening before sunset.
The climb instantly started vertically, and we climbed up and up for a couple of hours. We walked through beautiful pine forests, climbed rocky hills looking across the beautiful southern valley, incredible pastures with grazing cows, natural waterfalls and springs, and sparkling lakes. It was the most stunningly sunny day, with an endless sky revealing an infinite horizon. The flowers were all abloom, little lizards darted from rock to rock, and the birds sang their most beautiful spring songs. Every couple of hours we’d stop to snack on a monster bag of trail mix full of nuts, dried fruits and chocolate, and to drink the cold spring water we’d poured in Capileira. At around 5 or 6 in the evening, about 3 kilometers away from the day’s destination, we came to a path that had completely been washed out and had fallen through due to the torrential rains that the area had been exposed to. We climbed over the first rapidly running river, jumping over rocks, but were unable to climb up the deep canyon to get to the other side. Turning back we ran into an older Dutch couple who were also disoriented due to the obstacle. They were going to turn around and backtrack 10 kilometers to the next town. After a small moment of panic, we quickly decided to bushwhack down across a private pasture and forests towards a road that we saw in the distance, thinking we could then hitchhike to Trevelez. We went through the gate guarding off the private property and quickly began our descent, not knowing exactly which way to turn, but always going down, down, down. At the bottom of the valley we reached the road leading to Trevelez and after a few failed hitchhiking attempts we walked the last 3 kilometers by foot along the road. We’d only lost about an hour, and the sun was still out, guiding us to the town safely. Upon our arrival to the small and sleepy town we searched for a good place to set up our tent for the night’s sleep. We found a quiet horse pasture just above the town, and hid our small triangular tent just beneath a ridge, next to a beautiful blooming tree. The night was cool, and the stars were fantastically bright. The only noises of the night were the barking dogs in the distance, and the sound of the grass blowing in the breeze. We sat outside the tent for a while staring up at the immensely dark sky, seeing (or perhaps imagining) many shooting stars in the distance. We crawled into the tent, zipped up the warm sleeping bags, and fell quickly asleep – our bodies throbbing from the day’s walk.
We awoke to a fresh and dewy morning, full of chirping birds, and daily village movements – old men guiding loaded horses up the hill, kids playing in their yards, cows mooing, and the smell of morning bakery bread sneaking up into the hills. As we were taking down our tent and getting ready to go further up to our next destination, a new friend joined us. He sleepily laid in the grass watching us dissemble the tent with his squinty eyes. We barely paid attention to him at this point, thinking he was just another stray dog that wanted something to eat. He was smallish, young and brown and could only walk on three legs, seeming like he’d broken one. He had a good-hearted and honest look in his eyes as he patiently waited for us to get going. When we set off with our packs on our backs, he started to follow us at first a little shyly but then more and more like a journeying friend. Andrew was a bit skeptical and was grossed out by my touching him, but after a few hours of walking up, up, up through fields and pastures, forests and rocky hills our loyal companion convinced Andrew that he was with us for good. He limped the entire way, but he limped quickly and gracefully and never self-deprecatingly. After much thought I decided to name him Azhar, an Arabic word that is also used in Spanish to mean divine luck. It’s also the name of the beautiful flowers that bloom on orange trees.
We broke the snow line after a few hours and started hiking in the snow, at first a strange sensation to press into the cold, wet snow but after a while we got pretty accustomed to it. By about 3 o’clock we reached the place where we wanted to set up camp – a little grassy plateau just beneath a towering waterfall, surrounded by glacial lakes, trickling streams, and snow-covered mountains. It was the most picturesque camping site I’d ever seen. We set up camp, rested and stretched for a little while before bracing the next climb – summiting Mount Mulhacen, the tallest peak in continental Spain. It was intimidating, towering, snowy and high above the clouds. To my inexperienced eyes it seemed impossible to climb, but my adrenaline from the day’s hike kept me optimistic and eager to start hiking upwards. I couldn’t believe what we were about to do, but we started up the first tall face of the mountain, next to a streaming waterfall with a couple of Snickers bars and two bottles of water. It was a completely vertical climb, like climbing a hundred-thousand snow stairs all the way up. One wrong step and I felt like I would fall tumbling down this steep, snowy mountain. Azhar stayed close the entire time – staying behind with me if I fell behind, or leading ahead to clear the path or survey the next steps. He was unlike any dog I’d ever met in my life.
At one point in the hike, with my legs feeling like jelly and the vastness of the mountains beneath me, the whirling wind whipping me around, and the clouds obscuring my vision I reached a moment of utter panic. I didn’t know whether to turn around and go back, which I was terrified of because I didn’t know how we’d even begin to climb down the steep mountain, and I didn’t want to keep going up because my feet were soaked and frozen in my shoes, and the wind was picking up. I let my imagination soar and created a million ways for us to die up in those frozen hills of Mount Mulhacen, but I broke out of my morbid thoughts enough to muster the strength to keep going up with tears in my eyes from fear and weakness, but we kept going. And it was the most worthwhile push of spirit I’ve ever had. We finally summated the peak within about an hour and a half and it was worth the tears, the fright, the cold feet. It was worth everything. We towered above the clouds, above the mountains, above the snow-covered peaks. On one side we could see the valley from which we’d come and on the other side the rest of the Sierra Nevada, Granada, and further still the Mediterranean Sea. On clear days they say you can see all the way to Africa from the top.
The trip back down wasn’t nearly as treacherous as I’d thought and we happily slid down any which way we could. Before too long we reached our quiet campsite, with our happy and exhausted dog quickly curling up in a little ball next to our tent. It was getting dark and the temperature was dropping quicker than I could think to put more clothes on. We made a little fire, had a poor man’s dinner of tuna fish, bread and cheese and gave Azhar half of what we had. We watched the beautiful colors of the sky blending and fading as little playful birds flew all around us, chasing each other before going to bed. By the time it got completely dark, it must have been below zero degrees. I put on at least 5 layers, got in the sleeping bag and crawled into the tent. We must have been asleep long before 10 o’ clock, falling with the sun, like tired and worn soldiers, sun-kissed and wind-chapped. Our bodies ached, throbbed and protested any additional movement but they rested satisfied on the soft ground where we laid our tent.
In the morning we woke up long after the sun, lazily packed up our tent and ate a trail mix breakfast. Saying goodbye to the grand beast standing behind us was momentous; we’d conquered the peak and spent the night sleeping in its lap. Every little bit we’d turn around on the descent and look the mountain up and down once again, wowed at our own ascent. The walk back down to Trevelez was a piece of cake after the climbing we’d done over the last couple of days. The only hurt was that of my blistered feet and sore hips. We spotted some wild mountain goats and they froze in the distance. Azhar froze as well, raising one of his floppy ears to listen well to the sounds. Before I could realize it he’d bolted off after them, showing his animal instincts. He was gone for a while, and I thought we’d lost him but sure enough after a while he came trampling down the path to find us, with his tongue hanging far out and his breath faster than ever before.
We arrived back to Trevelez by 2 o’clock and had an afternoon beer and some pizza and bought a big can of meat for Azhar. We had to say goodbye to him, although it broke my heart. I had already planned the rest of my life with this dog – how I would take him back to Malaga, keep him until the end of May, travel with him, and then scrounge up some money to take him back to the US with me. But my unrealistic whims were incapable of being fulfilled so we said our goodbyes without words and as though he knew that the goodbye would be difficult, Azhar quietly disappeared. Never before had I fallen so hard for an animal – he was so thoughtful, so giving, so selflessly loving, so honest. Never once did he ask for food, never once did he look at us with a begging look on his face. He had the most honest eyes. Perhaps he was divinely sent to protect us, perhaps he was completely random, or perhaps we just imagined him because from the moment he disappeared we saw him no more. But he certainly made this adventure more magical, more enjoyable and more divine. I hope that one day I can return to Trevelez, with the beastly mountain towering in the distance, and I hope I can look around a narrow corner to find his pretty eyes looking up at me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Collapsing into Colorful Walls and Placid Canals
Eleven days, three countries, five cities, two small towns, many random beds and an airport floor; planes, trains, buses and cars and innumerable stories and characters all made up our spring break trip to the northern parts of Europe.
The trip started on a cloudy Thursday evening in Malaga when we boarded our first Ryan Air budget flight heading straight for London, what I had long imagined to be the epicenter of Europe. I quickly discovered that it was more like the epicenter of the world. The most striking thing about London, besides the stereotypical movie accents, was all the colors of people that walked up and down the streets speaking many different languages. If I had to describe a typical “Londoner” I wouldn’t say that it was a person that was born in the city. We stayed with a couple in the outskirts of London who were living together and were just starting university in London. Phil was from the Czech Republic and had lived in the Ukraine when he was younger where he had met Alina, who was originally from Germany but had also lived all over the world. We met a few of their friends one night when we went to Phil’s end-of-term departmental party, which took place in the basement of his university. They were from all across the world, to name a few countries – Brazil, the Ukraine, Poland – none of them seemed to be true Londoners. But those are the beautiful paints with which this city was painted. We spent the first day in London walking along the shore of the Themes River, seeing a few of the big sights like Big Ben and St. Paul’s Cathedral. We spent a few hours in the Tate Modern museum and took a walk down Fleet Street. In the courtyard of Somerset Palace an old Sikh man approached me kindly, taking my casual smile as an invitation to get to know each other. He was wearing a classy and formal suit, had a cane-like umbrella in his hand, and looked clean and pristine. His beard was long and his voice deep and soothing with an unmistakable Indian accent. He nearly hypnotized us with his melodic voice and ended up talking to us for at least a half an hour about love, life, marriage, religion and how to find the wisdom within ourselves. He said something about God that stuck with me. He said that God was like a glass of water and that Muslims call it one thing and Christians another, but in the end it’s still a pure and simple glass of water no matter what you call it. I thought it a beautiful way to perceive the world and our differences.
On our second day and last day in London we visited another museum, the British Museum, where we could have spent days wandering the exhibits, but we hit the main things, like the Rosetta Stone and then wandered back out into the cold and rainy street. We took the tube to Camden Town where we walked along the streets peering into vintage and second-hand markets full of old-fashioned dresses and jewelry. After Camden Town we ventured towards Notting Hill to see its beautiful and quintessential houses and the famous Portobello Road market where one could buy anything they set their minds to – from avocadoes to old sewing machines. That evening we prepared a Mexican meal for Phil to thank him for his hospitality and after only an hour of sleep on a mattress on the floor we headed out into the late night of London to catch a bus to the airport where our flight would be leaving from early in the morning. It was an uncomfortable night of barely any sleep but it put us into Berlin early the next morning. The morning was crisp and cloudy and people walked in trench coats and heavy boots.
We were warmly welcomed by our host Giulia at the subway station near her house early that Sunday morning. Giulia, a smiley and warm political science student from Florence, Italy, recently moved to Berlin to do her European exchange semester abroad. She said she’d fallen in love with the city when she was young and always dreamed of living in it. Her hospitality melted me when we entered her beautiful vintage apartment where she’d prepared her bedroom for us, giving us her bed and all of her space. We took a couple of hours to nap before bracing the city for the first time.
Berlin left an incredible impression on me that I think I’m going to continue churning over. I have never been to a city where the history was so evident and ubiquitous as it was in Berlin. It was as though at every corner something was screaming out about the past. It was as though Berlin’s complex and intricate history was still living, still breathing, still walking with me down the street. Many apartment buildings, including Giulia’s, had little gold plaques with the names of the Jews that had lived in those buildings before the Holocaust. An incredible Holocaust Memorial was erected in 2004 near Brandenburg Tor to commemorate the lives of those who died due to the hatred and genocide that plagued the country. I had never been to a Holocaust museum before in my life and the affect this one had on me was staggering. I could barely see as I walked along the corridors of the exhibit due to the tears that were stinging and clouding my eyes as I listened to story after story of Jewish families from all over Germany, all over Europe. I’ve studied the Holocaust in school since I was a child but I had never felt it so strikingly, so livingly. And what haunts me more than anything and what I still can’t seem to understand is how this ever could have happened. What made people so evil and hateful?
The other incredible and ever-present history was that of the Berlin Wall and the stark and current difference between East and West Berlin. Parts of the wall still stand and remind Berliners every single day of a very recent past. We spent a long afternoon weaving in and out of East Berlin along the old borders of the wall admiring the recent political art that has been painted onto the remains of the wall.
One of my favorite moments in Berlin was a walk we took through a beautiful old cemetery with a native Berliner and his wife and baby who were showing us around their neighborhood in West Berlin. The cemetery was like out of a fairytale with big beautiful tombstones and tall old trees. Young and colorful flowers were growing out of many of the graves and there bushes of beautiful roses and daffodils and yellow, purple, red and blue flowers. I’d never before seen burial houses, but this cemetery had these big houses with the names of different families on them so that everyone in the family could be buried together in one place. The thing that struck me most about this pleasant walk through this old cemetery was how rare it was to find oneself enjoying a graveyard in the United States. I think of so many cemeteries near home and I cringe at the thought of walking through them because they’re far from beautiful. Cemeteries should be places where we crave to take an afternoon stroll, where we enjoy the sunshine on our faces and where we want to keep going back to whether to pay our respects to our dead or to just soak in the depth and heaviness of what it means to be alive.
Another afternoon we spent at a big Turkish market in an area of Berlin with a high population of Turks. It was a warm and sunny afternoon and after walking through the extensive market we sat down on a stone platform next to a river and basked in the sun with other Berliners. On my favorite night in Berlin we cooked a big meal at Giulia’s apartment for her and her friends and roommates to show our appreciation for their warmth and hospitality. We made a splendid meal for ten of Spanish tortilla de patata, bruschetta, salad, avocado dip and red wine that we ate by candlelight in an empty wooden room. The table was full of people from all over Europe – Italians, a Turkish girl, Germans, a Hungarian girl, and the three of us. Cultural lines were blurred and languages compromised to share a meal speaking English in Deutschland.
The next leg of our trip was rapid and seems like a hazy dream of train rides and canal strolls. We woke up in Berlin at 5 in the morning and were in Amsterdam by about 1 that afternoon. We spent the afternoon walking endlessly along Amsterdam’s canals and narrow streets. Being back in this city that I had loved so much a few years before, reminded me of the time that I’d spent there with my sister. It’s amazing how inseparable our associations with people and places are. After a long day of walking in Amsterdam we took a short train to Haarlem where we’d be staying the night at a squatter house. I’d never been to such a place before in my life. I’d read about and heard of these “abandoned” or “unoccupied” houses before but I never thought that I’d spend a night in one. It was an old and pretty destroyed and broken three-story building in this small town that before hadn’t had running water or electricity. However this group of young people occupied it illegally and constructed everything themselves. It’s pretty incredible how they figured out how to tap into the city’s water and electricity and to install internet and hot water without the help of any kind of societal infrastructure. But the place was most certainly a dump. We made a big pot of pasta when we arrived and offered it around to the squatters. There were some very interesting characters, once again from all over Europe; a Latvian drunk who was aggressively certain that Americans ask too many questions, a rebellious Austrian who claimed that she hated people and called everyone a bitch, a vegan blonde Dutch guy with long dreadlocks and a pot of delicious vegan shwarma, and that’s only to name a few.
We slept in a room upstairs that was divided from the others by hanging blankets on an old mattress on the floor. Next to my head there was a glass of milk with hair in it that had been there for God knows how long. I had nightmares about it, but it’s all for good stories. Needless to say I was excited to be leaving the story-filled squat the next day and to be heading to Dusseldorf. The scenery changed a complete 180 degrees. In Dusseldorf we stayed in a million-dollar house, owned by two German opera singers who had been John’s host parents when he lived in Germany a few years ago. We had a warm shower and slept in clean sheets and in the morning awoke to a wonderful breakfast of delicious German bread, cheese, Nutella and coffee. His host mom even gave each of us a big chocolate bunny to commemorate Easter.
After a long and lazy morning at the opera singers’ house in Dusseldorf, we headed to Cologne where we’d be spending the last couple of days of our trip. The most stunning Gothic cathedral towered over us as we got off the train and stepped into the main square of Cologne. We were welcomed by Andrew’s German friends who’d been foreign exchange students in Fairview a few years back – the brothers Kamman: Johannes and Benno. They were wonderful hosts and took us in like their own. The first night they took us out on the town to see Cologne by night and then the next day, Easter Sunday, we went with them to their mom’s house in the German countryside, in a little town called Siegburg. Her home was beautiful and so warm inside, intricately decorated and with a wonderful garden in the back. While she prepared a lovely home cooked Easter meal, we explored the little town. We climbed a big hill where we visited an old monastery with beautiful gardens and towers. We walked in on the Easter service in the church and heard a lovely monk chant and song, with pleasant incense burning in the church. The view from the monastery of the countryside down below was incredible, and the capriciously rainy day set the most perfect setting for this Sunday afternoon story to unfold.
The meal was delicious and the company great and after a few long hours of eating we headed back to Cologne to rest our tired minds – our last night in Germany. The following morning we woke up early to see Cologne by day before our flight back to Spain. We walked along the Rhine River and visited the quaint historic center of the city and then climbed 533 stairs to the top of one of the towers of the beautiful cathedral. We came down just in time to catch our train to the airport.
It was a trip of endlessly warm hospitality, cultural exchange, intense travel, and endless stories to tell for the rest of my life. I can’t believe how lucky I am.
The trip started on a cloudy Thursday evening in Malaga when we boarded our first Ryan Air budget flight heading straight for London, what I had long imagined to be the epicenter of Europe. I quickly discovered that it was more like the epicenter of the world. The most striking thing about London, besides the stereotypical movie accents, was all the colors of people that walked up and down the streets speaking many different languages. If I had to describe a typical “Londoner” I wouldn’t say that it was a person that was born in the city. We stayed with a couple in the outskirts of London who were living together and were just starting university in London. Phil was from the Czech Republic and had lived in the Ukraine when he was younger where he had met Alina, who was originally from Germany but had also lived all over the world. We met a few of their friends one night when we went to Phil’s end-of-term departmental party, which took place in the basement of his university. They were from all across the world, to name a few countries – Brazil, the Ukraine, Poland – none of them seemed to be true Londoners. But those are the beautiful paints with which this city was painted. We spent the first day in London walking along the shore of the Themes River, seeing a few of the big sights like Big Ben and St. Paul’s Cathedral. We spent a few hours in the Tate Modern museum and took a walk down Fleet Street. In the courtyard of Somerset Palace an old Sikh man approached me kindly, taking my casual smile as an invitation to get to know each other. He was wearing a classy and formal suit, had a cane-like umbrella in his hand, and looked clean and pristine. His beard was long and his voice deep and soothing with an unmistakable Indian accent. He nearly hypnotized us with his melodic voice and ended up talking to us for at least a half an hour about love, life, marriage, religion and how to find the wisdom within ourselves. He said something about God that stuck with me. He said that God was like a glass of water and that Muslims call it one thing and Christians another, but in the end it’s still a pure and simple glass of water no matter what you call it. I thought it a beautiful way to perceive the world and our differences.
On our second day and last day in London we visited another museum, the British Museum, where we could have spent days wandering the exhibits, but we hit the main things, like the Rosetta Stone and then wandered back out into the cold and rainy street. We took the tube to Camden Town where we walked along the streets peering into vintage and second-hand markets full of old-fashioned dresses and jewelry. After Camden Town we ventured towards Notting Hill to see its beautiful and quintessential houses and the famous Portobello Road market where one could buy anything they set their minds to – from avocadoes to old sewing machines. That evening we prepared a Mexican meal for Phil to thank him for his hospitality and after only an hour of sleep on a mattress on the floor we headed out into the late night of London to catch a bus to the airport where our flight would be leaving from early in the morning. It was an uncomfortable night of barely any sleep but it put us into Berlin early the next morning. The morning was crisp and cloudy and people walked in trench coats and heavy boots.
We were warmly welcomed by our host Giulia at the subway station near her house early that Sunday morning. Giulia, a smiley and warm political science student from Florence, Italy, recently moved to Berlin to do her European exchange semester abroad. She said she’d fallen in love with the city when she was young and always dreamed of living in it. Her hospitality melted me when we entered her beautiful vintage apartment where she’d prepared her bedroom for us, giving us her bed and all of her space. We took a couple of hours to nap before bracing the city for the first time.
Berlin left an incredible impression on me that I think I’m going to continue churning over. I have never been to a city where the history was so evident and ubiquitous as it was in Berlin. It was as though at every corner something was screaming out about the past. It was as though Berlin’s complex and intricate history was still living, still breathing, still walking with me down the street. Many apartment buildings, including Giulia’s, had little gold plaques with the names of the Jews that had lived in those buildings before the Holocaust. An incredible Holocaust Memorial was erected in 2004 near Brandenburg Tor to commemorate the lives of those who died due to the hatred and genocide that plagued the country. I had never been to a Holocaust museum before in my life and the affect this one had on me was staggering. I could barely see as I walked along the corridors of the exhibit due to the tears that were stinging and clouding my eyes as I listened to story after story of Jewish families from all over Germany, all over Europe. I’ve studied the Holocaust in school since I was a child but I had never felt it so strikingly, so livingly. And what haunts me more than anything and what I still can’t seem to understand is how this ever could have happened. What made people so evil and hateful?
The other incredible and ever-present history was that of the Berlin Wall and the stark and current difference between East and West Berlin. Parts of the wall still stand and remind Berliners every single day of a very recent past. We spent a long afternoon weaving in and out of East Berlin along the old borders of the wall admiring the recent political art that has been painted onto the remains of the wall.
One of my favorite moments in Berlin was a walk we took through a beautiful old cemetery with a native Berliner and his wife and baby who were showing us around their neighborhood in West Berlin. The cemetery was like out of a fairytale with big beautiful tombstones and tall old trees. Young and colorful flowers were growing out of many of the graves and there bushes of beautiful roses and daffodils and yellow, purple, red and blue flowers. I’d never before seen burial houses, but this cemetery had these big houses with the names of different families on them so that everyone in the family could be buried together in one place. The thing that struck me most about this pleasant walk through this old cemetery was how rare it was to find oneself enjoying a graveyard in the United States. I think of so many cemeteries near home and I cringe at the thought of walking through them because they’re far from beautiful. Cemeteries should be places where we crave to take an afternoon stroll, where we enjoy the sunshine on our faces and where we want to keep going back to whether to pay our respects to our dead or to just soak in the depth and heaviness of what it means to be alive.
Another afternoon we spent at a big Turkish market in an area of Berlin with a high population of Turks. It was a warm and sunny afternoon and after walking through the extensive market we sat down on a stone platform next to a river and basked in the sun with other Berliners. On my favorite night in Berlin we cooked a big meal at Giulia’s apartment for her and her friends and roommates to show our appreciation for their warmth and hospitality. We made a splendid meal for ten of Spanish tortilla de patata, bruschetta, salad, avocado dip and red wine that we ate by candlelight in an empty wooden room. The table was full of people from all over Europe – Italians, a Turkish girl, Germans, a Hungarian girl, and the three of us. Cultural lines were blurred and languages compromised to share a meal speaking English in Deutschland.
The next leg of our trip was rapid and seems like a hazy dream of train rides and canal strolls. We woke up in Berlin at 5 in the morning and were in Amsterdam by about 1 that afternoon. We spent the afternoon walking endlessly along Amsterdam’s canals and narrow streets. Being back in this city that I had loved so much a few years before, reminded me of the time that I’d spent there with my sister. It’s amazing how inseparable our associations with people and places are. After a long day of walking in Amsterdam we took a short train to Haarlem where we’d be staying the night at a squatter house. I’d never been to such a place before in my life. I’d read about and heard of these “abandoned” or “unoccupied” houses before but I never thought that I’d spend a night in one. It was an old and pretty destroyed and broken three-story building in this small town that before hadn’t had running water or electricity. However this group of young people occupied it illegally and constructed everything themselves. It’s pretty incredible how they figured out how to tap into the city’s water and electricity and to install internet and hot water without the help of any kind of societal infrastructure. But the place was most certainly a dump. We made a big pot of pasta when we arrived and offered it around to the squatters. There were some very interesting characters, once again from all over Europe; a Latvian drunk who was aggressively certain that Americans ask too many questions, a rebellious Austrian who claimed that she hated people and called everyone a bitch, a vegan blonde Dutch guy with long dreadlocks and a pot of delicious vegan shwarma, and that’s only to name a few.
We slept in a room upstairs that was divided from the others by hanging blankets on an old mattress on the floor. Next to my head there was a glass of milk with hair in it that had been there for God knows how long. I had nightmares about it, but it’s all for good stories. Needless to say I was excited to be leaving the story-filled squat the next day and to be heading to Dusseldorf. The scenery changed a complete 180 degrees. In Dusseldorf we stayed in a million-dollar house, owned by two German opera singers who had been John’s host parents when he lived in Germany a few years ago. We had a warm shower and slept in clean sheets and in the morning awoke to a wonderful breakfast of delicious German bread, cheese, Nutella and coffee. His host mom even gave each of us a big chocolate bunny to commemorate Easter.
After a long and lazy morning at the opera singers’ house in Dusseldorf, we headed to Cologne where we’d be spending the last couple of days of our trip. The most stunning Gothic cathedral towered over us as we got off the train and stepped into the main square of Cologne. We were welcomed by Andrew’s German friends who’d been foreign exchange students in Fairview a few years back – the brothers Kamman: Johannes and Benno. They were wonderful hosts and took us in like their own. The first night they took us out on the town to see Cologne by night and then the next day, Easter Sunday, we went with them to their mom’s house in the German countryside, in a little town called Siegburg. Her home was beautiful and so warm inside, intricately decorated and with a wonderful garden in the back. While she prepared a lovely home cooked Easter meal, we explored the little town. We climbed a big hill where we visited an old monastery with beautiful gardens and towers. We walked in on the Easter service in the church and heard a lovely monk chant and song, with pleasant incense burning in the church. The view from the monastery of the countryside down below was incredible, and the capriciously rainy day set the most perfect setting for this Sunday afternoon story to unfold.
The meal was delicious and the company great and after a few long hours of eating we headed back to Cologne to rest our tired minds – our last night in Germany. The following morning we woke up early to see Cologne by day before our flight back to Spain. We walked along the Rhine River and visited the quaint historic center of the city and then climbed 533 stairs to the top of one of the towers of the beautiful cathedral. We came down just in time to catch our train to the airport.
It was a trip of endlessly warm hospitality, cultural exchange, intense travel, and endless stories to tell for the rest of my life. I can’t believe how lucky I am.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Through the Tunnel of Time and into the House of Dreams: A Trip to the Canary Islands
The four days we spent in La Gomera, a small island the Canaries, passed like a slow, sweet and constantly fulfilling dream. Perhaps of all of the trips that I have done over the last six months of my life, this one has left the most moving impression and has given me the most space to reflect on life and its daily, weekly, and yearly meanings. As I was sitting on the volcanically black beach, looking out across the deep blue ocean and the colorful rowboats dotting the little bay on our last day in La Gomera, I thought to myself that if I died today, I would die having lived, seen, met and experienced things that most people never see in their entire lives. I can’t even begin to count my blessings when it comes to how lucky I have been and how much I have gotten to live. It has all been so intense and so full.
We left Malaga early on Thursday morning and boarded our Vuelin flight for Tenerife North. After reading a Pablo Neruda poem on the plane, we both fell softly asleep and were awakened from our catnap by an incredible landscape down beneath. The view from the airplane revealed the black cliffs shooting up from the Earth, the ocean beating up against them. Mount Teide, the highest peak in Spain, showed its snowcapped tip as the plane slid into the runway. We took a bus directly from the airport to an old town called La Laguna and spent a couple of hours wandering its cobblestone streets, admiring its colorful buildings and taking pictures of the beautiful wooden balconies that are typical to the area. We had a lovely makeshift picnic on a stone bench in the sun, with trees surrounding us and city pigeons pecking at our feet. As resourceful as we’ve learned to be in our travels when it comes to food, we ate a nutritious meal of bread, cheese, tuna fish, red peppers and cucumbers. Soon after we got on a tram that took us to Santa Cruz, a big port city, where we had a cup of coffee and then took a bus to the ferry that would carry us to our island – La Gomera. The ferry glided through the Atlantic Ocean as the sun was setting in the horizon. We went out on the deck to take pictures of the setting sun and the rising moon and as we were standing there with the warm wind blowing against us, we spotted several dolphins lazily jumping in and out of the water along the path of the ferry.
When the ferry docked, we disembarked and were warmly welcomed to the small town of San Sebastian by Vivian and Pablo, our hosts in La Gomera. Vivian, a tiny woman with short brown hair that she spikes all around with gel, is a young painter from Costa Rica. She moved to La Gomera three years ago to be with Pablo, her husband who is a native of Gran Canaria but has been living in La Gomera for the last seven years. He works for the Ministry of the Environment and is a serious environmentalist, nature-lover and an example of a most gentle human being where the word “tree hugger” fits perfectly. The moment we met them we felt at peace, safe and at home. They drove us to their little house, which is a little bit outside of town, in the hills of La Gomera. In the darkness of the night we couldn’t yet see the stunning surroundings, but the shadows of the mountains suggested a spectacular view in the morning. Vivian showed us around their little house, while Pablo prepared the evening’s dinner. The house had an undeniable element of magic to it. It was an old, square building, with old wooden doors and windows that were painted a striking blue. Everything else was a beautiful white. Sheer white curtains divided the room that Andrew and I slept in and the gentle breeze blew the other curtains warmly into the room. They had a perfect collection of books and music and played whimsical Costa Rican and Spanish tunes as they prepared the meal. Andrew and I explored the garden behind where they harvested their own vegetables and had a plethora of exotic plant species. A narrow, stone staircase led to the top of the house where a stone terrace looked out across the valley and the surrounding mountains.
Vivian called to us and said that dinner was almost ready. A soft rap on the door and in came their friend Pancho, a bearded man, who brought wine and laughed a lot throughout the night. Pancho, a native of La Gomera, has been a long-time friend of Pablo’s. It was Pancho who traveled to Costa Rica with Pablo the first time he met Vivian. After only spending several days with Vivian, Pablo and Pancho left to go back to his Islands on the other side of the world. But Vivian didn’t leave Pablo’s mind. He returned to Costa Rica to visit her once again and then invited her to visit him in the Canaries afterwards. That’s when he asked her to marry him. And she said yes. And she left her country, her family, her entire life to be with this special man. She said all she needed to be happy is to be with him, and to be able to paint. She said she would die if she couldn’t paint.
She made a vegetarian Costa Rican rice dish and a delicious avocado salad that night. We drank glasses of wine and afterwards ate from a tub of ice cream that Pancho had brought. We talked about politics, the United States, Spain, history. The bonds were already forming. We made plans for the next couple of days of our stay in La Gomera – walking.
The next morning we woke up to a simply lovely breakfast in their little kitchen: Costa Rican coffee, bananas picked from the surrounding banana trees, bread and cheese. After eating a wholesome meal together we headed out on our first hike in La Gomera. The island was stunning at first sight in the daylight. We drove along a winding, narrow road and parked our car on the side of the dry, arid road. The first trek began. The scenery was stunning. The power of words may not suffice in describing it, nor the power of photography. The landscape was dry and arid in some places, and then endlessly green in others. The body of the land was a series of valleys and mountains and we traversed at least three that day. We walked, and walked, and walked for six or seven hours. Along the way we planted two palm trees that we promised to come back and visit in thirty years, we stopped in abandoned old stone houses and found remains of people who’d visited it before us, we dug up an unfamiliar root and ate it (it tasted like radishes, but looked like potatoes). We finally arrived to La Cabrita, a tiny beach that’s only accessible by foot and by boat and we realized that the sun was quickly setting. The boat to San Sebastian had only room for three of us, so Pablo and Andrew continued on by foot and Vivian and I got on the little boat and took it back to San Sebastian. That evening, once we were all reunited, tired from walking and wholeheartedly spent, we went out to the local Chinese restaurant and replenished our bodies with good, warm food. My sleep that night was epically sound and my dreams profound.
The next morning a similarly simple yet beautiful breakfast awoke us and we ate together, planning our day again. This time we’d explore the islands internal national park – Garajonay – one of the world’s most unique forests. Pancho joined us on the hike that day. We went in two cars, leaving one at the top and one at the bottom so we could hike up towards the highest peak. We passed through what the locals call “El tunel de tiempo,” (the tunnel of time) and instantly the tunnel lived up to its name. The temperature dropped at least 10 or 12 degrees Celsius on the other side of the tunnel. It was a completely different environment than the day before. Everything was intensely green, and so wet. They call it horizontal rainfall, where the trees absorb water from the clouds and a light mist sprays everywhere constantly; a stark contrast to the rest of the island’s arid climate. Garajonay was absolutely spectacular. We hiked another four or so hours and saw incredible tree species, plants and birds. At the end of the hike the rain started to fall even harder and we hid ourselves in the warmth of a little restaurant where we tried typical Canary food, full of spices and eclectic flavors.
That evening Andrew and I made dinner for our wonderful hosts in a small effort to say thank you for all that they’d done for us. We made pizza with all the toppings in the world and a big salad. They loved the food and we spent the evening playing a fun game. I didn’t want to go to sleep that night knowing that it’d be my last night in this magical house where dreams are born and remembered and tranquility oozes from the crevices in the walls.
Another simply beautiful breakfast the next morning, after which we packed up our bags and loaded them in the car. We still had the entire day to spend on La Gomera and Pablo suggested we take a driving tour of the entire island, so we could see the sides we hadn’t yet gotten to see. We got in the car and with beautiful tunes playing on the radio we circled the island, slowly stopping along the way to see cliffs, waterfalls, beaches, valleys and rock structures. We ended on the lower west side where we stopped to go to a small beach and bathe in the ocean. It was cold, but fresh. The sand was hot, the sun was pleasant, and the day was perfect. I didn’t want to wake up from what felt like a dream. We had a pleasant lunch in a little café by the water and then got back in the car to head for the port where our boat would be leaving from soon. The goodbye was truly sad. In such a short time, we’d bonded so much with these two beautiful strangers. They expressed their wishes for us to have stayed longer, and we wished more than anything that we could too. A deep friendship was formed…one that I will never forget.
They accompanied us to the ship, we said our final goodbyes, and Andrew and I boarded the big boat. The sun had already set and we floated back to the big island in the dark. What a magical weekend.
We left Malaga early on Thursday morning and boarded our Vuelin flight for Tenerife North. After reading a Pablo Neruda poem on the plane, we both fell softly asleep and were awakened from our catnap by an incredible landscape down beneath. The view from the airplane revealed the black cliffs shooting up from the Earth, the ocean beating up against them. Mount Teide, the highest peak in Spain, showed its snowcapped tip as the plane slid into the runway. We took a bus directly from the airport to an old town called La Laguna and spent a couple of hours wandering its cobblestone streets, admiring its colorful buildings and taking pictures of the beautiful wooden balconies that are typical to the area. We had a lovely makeshift picnic on a stone bench in the sun, with trees surrounding us and city pigeons pecking at our feet. As resourceful as we’ve learned to be in our travels when it comes to food, we ate a nutritious meal of bread, cheese, tuna fish, red peppers and cucumbers. Soon after we got on a tram that took us to Santa Cruz, a big port city, where we had a cup of coffee and then took a bus to the ferry that would carry us to our island – La Gomera. The ferry glided through the Atlantic Ocean as the sun was setting in the horizon. We went out on the deck to take pictures of the setting sun and the rising moon and as we were standing there with the warm wind blowing against us, we spotted several dolphins lazily jumping in and out of the water along the path of the ferry.
When the ferry docked, we disembarked and were warmly welcomed to the small town of San Sebastian by Vivian and Pablo, our hosts in La Gomera. Vivian, a tiny woman with short brown hair that she spikes all around with gel, is a young painter from Costa Rica. She moved to La Gomera three years ago to be with Pablo, her husband who is a native of Gran Canaria but has been living in La Gomera for the last seven years. He works for the Ministry of the Environment and is a serious environmentalist, nature-lover and an example of a most gentle human being where the word “tree hugger” fits perfectly. The moment we met them we felt at peace, safe and at home. They drove us to their little house, which is a little bit outside of town, in the hills of La Gomera. In the darkness of the night we couldn’t yet see the stunning surroundings, but the shadows of the mountains suggested a spectacular view in the morning. Vivian showed us around their little house, while Pablo prepared the evening’s dinner. The house had an undeniable element of magic to it. It was an old, square building, with old wooden doors and windows that were painted a striking blue. Everything else was a beautiful white. Sheer white curtains divided the room that Andrew and I slept in and the gentle breeze blew the other curtains warmly into the room. They had a perfect collection of books and music and played whimsical Costa Rican and Spanish tunes as they prepared the meal. Andrew and I explored the garden behind where they harvested their own vegetables and had a plethora of exotic plant species. A narrow, stone staircase led to the top of the house where a stone terrace looked out across the valley and the surrounding mountains.
Vivian called to us and said that dinner was almost ready. A soft rap on the door and in came their friend Pancho, a bearded man, who brought wine and laughed a lot throughout the night. Pancho, a native of La Gomera, has been a long-time friend of Pablo’s. It was Pancho who traveled to Costa Rica with Pablo the first time he met Vivian. After only spending several days with Vivian, Pablo and Pancho left to go back to his Islands on the other side of the world. But Vivian didn’t leave Pablo’s mind. He returned to Costa Rica to visit her once again and then invited her to visit him in the Canaries afterwards. That’s when he asked her to marry him. And she said yes. And she left her country, her family, her entire life to be with this special man. She said all she needed to be happy is to be with him, and to be able to paint. She said she would die if she couldn’t paint.
She made a vegetarian Costa Rican rice dish and a delicious avocado salad that night. We drank glasses of wine and afterwards ate from a tub of ice cream that Pancho had brought. We talked about politics, the United States, Spain, history. The bonds were already forming. We made plans for the next couple of days of our stay in La Gomera – walking.
The next morning we woke up to a simply lovely breakfast in their little kitchen: Costa Rican coffee, bananas picked from the surrounding banana trees, bread and cheese. After eating a wholesome meal together we headed out on our first hike in La Gomera. The island was stunning at first sight in the daylight. We drove along a winding, narrow road and parked our car on the side of the dry, arid road. The first trek began. The scenery was stunning. The power of words may not suffice in describing it, nor the power of photography. The landscape was dry and arid in some places, and then endlessly green in others. The body of the land was a series of valleys and mountains and we traversed at least three that day. We walked, and walked, and walked for six or seven hours. Along the way we planted two palm trees that we promised to come back and visit in thirty years, we stopped in abandoned old stone houses and found remains of people who’d visited it before us, we dug up an unfamiliar root and ate it (it tasted like radishes, but looked like potatoes). We finally arrived to La Cabrita, a tiny beach that’s only accessible by foot and by boat and we realized that the sun was quickly setting. The boat to San Sebastian had only room for three of us, so Pablo and Andrew continued on by foot and Vivian and I got on the little boat and took it back to San Sebastian. That evening, once we were all reunited, tired from walking and wholeheartedly spent, we went out to the local Chinese restaurant and replenished our bodies with good, warm food. My sleep that night was epically sound and my dreams profound.
The next morning a similarly simple yet beautiful breakfast awoke us and we ate together, planning our day again. This time we’d explore the islands internal national park – Garajonay – one of the world’s most unique forests. Pancho joined us on the hike that day. We went in two cars, leaving one at the top and one at the bottom so we could hike up towards the highest peak. We passed through what the locals call “El tunel de tiempo,” (the tunnel of time) and instantly the tunnel lived up to its name. The temperature dropped at least 10 or 12 degrees Celsius on the other side of the tunnel. It was a completely different environment than the day before. Everything was intensely green, and so wet. They call it horizontal rainfall, where the trees absorb water from the clouds and a light mist sprays everywhere constantly; a stark contrast to the rest of the island’s arid climate. Garajonay was absolutely spectacular. We hiked another four or so hours and saw incredible tree species, plants and birds. At the end of the hike the rain started to fall even harder and we hid ourselves in the warmth of a little restaurant where we tried typical Canary food, full of spices and eclectic flavors.
That evening Andrew and I made dinner for our wonderful hosts in a small effort to say thank you for all that they’d done for us. We made pizza with all the toppings in the world and a big salad. They loved the food and we spent the evening playing a fun game. I didn’t want to go to sleep that night knowing that it’d be my last night in this magical house where dreams are born and remembered and tranquility oozes from the crevices in the walls.
Another simply beautiful breakfast the next morning, after which we packed up our bags and loaded them in the car. We still had the entire day to spend on La Gomera and Pablo suggested we take a driving tour of the entire island, so we could see the sides we hadn’t yet gotten to see. We got in the car and with beautiful tunes playing on the radio we circled the island, slowly stopping along the way to see cliffs, waterfalls, beaches, valleys and rock structures. We ended on the lower west side where we stopped to go to a small beach and bathe in the ocean. It was cold, but fresh. The sand was hot, the sun was pleasant, and the day was perfect. I didn’t want to wake up from what felt like a dream. We had a pleasant lunch in a little café by the water and then got back in the car to head for the port where our boat would be leaving from soon. The goodbye was truly sad. In such a short time, we’d bonded so much with these two beautiful strangers. They expressed their wishes for us to have stayed longer, and we wished more than anything that we could too. A deep friendship was formed…one that I will never forget.
They accompanied us to the ship, we said our final goodbyes, and Andrew and I boarded the big boat. The sun had already set and we floated back to the big island in the dark. What a magical weekend.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
A Spanish Thanksgiving
Not only was it the first Thanksgiving that I’ve spent away from home, but it was also the first birthday that I’ve been away from my family and friends. The night before I lay in bed unable to think about anything except how much I was dreading the next day, how lonely I would feel waking up without my best friends making me pancakes, without my dad’s fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and without the love and intimacy that I was always so lucky to have on my birthday. When I woke up and pulled open the curtain on my window, I saw a dark and overcast sky and raindrops pecking at the window. The second rainy day since I’ve been in Malaga had to be on my birthday.
The first pleasant surprise came as I was riding in the car with my coworker and my cell phone rang a familiar tune. My aunt Dina surprised me with a wonderful birthday wish and so started the kind wishes I received all throughout the day. I didn’t want to tell anyone it was my birthday, I wanted to just celebrate Thanksgiving and pretend like it wasn’t a personally special day as well. My plan was foiled completely because from the moment I set foot in the school teacher after teacher started coming up to me, kissing me on both cheeks and wishing me “felicidades” on my special day. After my presentation about Thanksgiving traditions the kids surprised me with a big birthday song during which I burst into tears for absolutely no reason other than the fact that a spell was cast on me when I was a child that ensures that I cry on my birthday. During recess the teachers surprised me with two little cakes with candles in them and sang the by-now familiar Spanish birthday song. I fled the school at around noon to catch the train from Alora to Malaga in order to embark upon the task of cooking a giant Thanksgiving turkey. As I was sitting in the little dive bar next to the train station, drinking a café con leche, watching the bartender chop onions while drinking a large Cruzcampo, Tracy Chapman’s haunting voice came on the radio singing “Baby Can I Hold You Tonight” and the second stream of tears came pouring out of my eyes. They certainly weren’t tears of sadness because I felt completely content to be sitting in this little Spanish bar, waiting for a train that would take me through the most breathtakingly beautiful valleys and mountains, back to the city that was now my home. They were just tears of astonishment, when life feels so surreal, so inexplicable, for some reason tears pour out of my eyes.
It was amazing how fulfilled and complete I was able to feel on this day, so far away from everyone I love, and it was all thanks to the beautiful emails, letters, phone calls and wishes I received throughout the entire day from all corners of the world. The power of words is something incredible.
As soon as I got home I peeked in the fridge at the massive, sixteen-pound turkey, that took up half of our fridge. I’d had a nightmare about it the night before, that it was still alive. The white feathers stuck out of the bag and it still resembled the bird that it once was. I quickly shut the door and started working on the stuffing instead of touching the bird. The onion, celery and bread stuffing was done rather quickly and I left it on the side to wait for its bird to be prepared. The night before my roommate and I made a pasta salad with olives, tomatoes and feta cheese, a Moroccan chickpea salad with green apples, red peppers and lemon and a sweet potato and carrot puree. We finally tackled the turkey. I did it with my eyes closed and my lips pursed. It may have been one of the hardest things I’ve done, after having been a vegetarian for so long, there I was picking feathers of a big turkey. We finally had it prepared enough to put in the oven and the epic five-hour cooking of the turkey began. In the meantime we made a Caesar salad, mashed potatoes and gravy.
The hours passed quickly and before we knew it, the hour was 9 and our guests were ringing the doorbell. First it was Herminia, my lovely 22-year-old conversation partner who’s from a nearby village but is living in Malaga and studying tourism. She came at the tail end of the preparation and helped us finish the dishes that had yet to be finished. The turkey was a golden brown in the oven and we finally pulled it out. With the next ring came Flores from Alora and Jose Angel, a teacher that works with us at the school. They brought wine and cheesecake. Next came Clare, my French roommate, with her French friend Elodie with champagne and red wine. Two rings later Eva and Patri, two 22-year-olds from Malaga that I met through my “intercambio” ads carrying several bottles of Lambrusco, a cheap but delicious sparkling red wine. And finally our last two guests, Juan Diego and Manolo, arrived from Alora with a beautiful red Christmas plant and more bottles of champagne and wine. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicating and everyone hovered over the dishes asking what they were, how we made them, what the traditional ones were. None of our guests had ever had a Thanksgiving meal before and they were all quite interested in our stories about typical American Thanksgivings. It felt so poetically appropriate to be having a Thanksgiving in a foreign country with the people that were still somewhat unknown but that had found themselves open to helping us adjust to our lives here in Spain, that offered their companionships so graciously, their language help, their travel suggestions and their food offerings.
We filled our plates to the brim, put the turkey on the dining room table, turned on the Beatles on my computer, poured ourselves little plastic cups of wine and all toasted each other for Thanksgiving. We each said something we’re thankful for and then embraced the delicious food. It was some kind of miracle sent from the heavens that all of the food came out so great, that we didn’t burn anything, or mess up a single recipe even though it was both of our first times cooking a Thanksgiving meal. The conversation was great, the wine accompanied the food nicely, and everyone reached for seconds, and thirds, and fourths. After a few courses, a few of our guests and Elena bustled around in the kitchen doing something secretive and suddenly they turned out the lights and brought out a birthday cake with candles. I was incredibly surprised and pink-cheeked but I managed to blow out all the candles and make a strong birthday wish in my head.
After desert everyone chanted for me to play my guitar so I serenaded our guests with my old classical guitar songs. Everyone was full, pink-cheeked from the wine, and content to have spent their first Thanksgiving in Spain. This was certainly a birthday that I will never forget – from the turkey, to the rain, to the people, to the cake.
The first pleasant surprise came as I was riding in the car with my coworker and my cell phone rang a familiar tune. My aunt Dina surprised me with a wonderful birthday wish and so started the kind wishes I received all throughout the day. I didn’t want to tell anyone it was my birthday, I wanted to just celebrate Thanksgiving and pretend like it wasn’t a personally special day as well. My plan was foiled completely because from the moment I set foot in the school teacher after teacher started coming up to me, kissing me on both cheeks and wishing me “felicidades” on my special day. After my presentation about Thanksgiving traditions the kids surprised me with a big birthday song during which I burst into tears for absolutely no reason other than the fact that a spell was cast on me when I was a child that ensures that I cry on my birthday. During recess the teachers surprised me with two little cakes with candles in them and sang the by-now familiar Spanish birthday song. I fled the school at around noon to catch the train from Alora to Malaga in order to embark upon the task of cooking a giant Thanksgiving turkey. As I was sitting in the little dive bar next to the train station, drinking a café con leche, watching the bartender chop onions while drinking a large Cruzcampo, Tracy Chapman’s haunting voice came on the radio singing “Baby Can I Hold You Tonight” and the second stream of tears came pouring out of my eyes. They certainly weren’t tears of sadness because I felt completely content to be sitting in this little Spanish bar, waiting for a train that would take me through the most breathtakingly beautiful valleys and mountains, back to the city that was now my home. They were just tears of astonishment, when life feels so surreal, so inexplicable, for some reason tears pour out of my eyes.
It was amazing how fulfilled and complete I was able to feel on this day, so far away from everyone I love, and it was all thanks to the beautiful emails, letters, phone calls and wishes I received throughout the entire day from all corners of the world. The power of words is something incredible.
As soon as I got home I peeked in the fridge at the massive, sixteen-pound turkey, that took up half of our fridge. I’d had a nightmare about it the night before, that it was still alive. The white feathers stuck out of the bag and it still resembled the bird that it once was. I quickly shut the door and started working on the stuffing instead of touching the bird. The onion, celery and bread stuffing was done rather quickly and I left it on the side to wait for its bird to be prepared. The night before my roommate and I made a pasta salad with olives, tomatoes and feta cheese, a Moroccan chickpea salad with green apples, red peppers and lemon and a sweet potato and carrot puree. We finally tackled the turkey. I did it with my eyes closed and my lips pursed. It may have been one of the hardest things I’ve done, after having been a vegetarian for so long, there I was picking feathers of a big turkey. We finally had it prepared enough to put in the oven and the epic five-hour cooking of the turkey began. In the meantime we made a Caesar salad, mashed potatoes and gravy.
The hours passed quickly and before we knew it, the hour was 9 and our guests were ringing the doorbell. First it was Herminia, my lovely 22-year-old conversation partner who’s from a nearby village but is living in Malaga and studying tourism. She came at the tail end of the preparation and helped us finish the dishes that had yet to be finished. The turkey was a golden brown in the oven and we finally pulled it out. With the next ring came Flores from Alora and Jose Angel, a teacher that works with us at the school. They brought wine and cheesecake. Next came Clare, my French roommate, with her French friend Elodie with champagne and red wine. Two rings later Eva and Patri, two 22-year-olds from Malaga that I met through my “intercambio” ads carrying several bottles of Lambrusco, a cheap but delicious sparkling red wine. And finally our last two guests, Juan Diego and Manolo, arrived from Alora with a beautiful red Christmas plant and more bottles of champagne and wine. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicating and everyone hovered over the dishes asking what they were, how we made them, what the traditional ones were. None of our guests had ever had a Thanksgiving meal before and they were all quite interested in our stories about typical American Thanksgivings. It felt so poetically appropriate to be having a Thanksgiving in a foreign country with the people that were still somewhat unknown but that had found themselves open to helping us adjust to our lives here in Spain, that offered their companionships so graciously, their language help, their travel suggestions and their food offerings.
We filled our plates to the brim, put the turkey on the dining room table, turned on the Beatles on my computer, poured ourselves little plastic cups of wine and all toasted each other for Thanksgiving. We each said something we’re thankful for and then embraced the delicious food. It was some kind of miracle sent from the heavens that all of the food came out so great, that we didn’t burn anything, or mess up a single recipe even though it was both of our first times cooking a Thanksgiving meal. The conversation was great, the wine accompanied the food nicely, and everyone reached for seconds, and thirds, and fourths. After a few courses, a few of our guests and Elena bustled around in the kitchen doing something secretive and suddenly they turned out the lights and brought out a birthday cake with candles. I was incredibly surprised and pink-cheeked but I managed to blow out all the candles and make a strong birthday wish in my head.
After desert everyone chanted for me to play my guitar so I serenaded our guests with my old classical guitar songs. Everyone was full, pink-cheeked from the wine, and content to have spent their first Thanksgiving in Spain. This was certainly a birthday that I will never forget – from the turkey, to the rain, to the people, to the cake.
Friday, November 20, 2009
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