Foreign

The winds come up from Africa, the Sahara to be specific and shake the planet late some nights.  It sounds like the roof will pull right off as the hinges strain on the shutter windows.  Isn't that exotic? It even feels exotic tumbling out in my north Chicagoan nasal voice.  Sometimes I playfully whisper, "Africa."  The students find my accent strange.  They often mock me when I say things like " bag" or "pop."  It's cute that they think that they don't possess one.  I hear more Pitbull here than in the United States, seriously- and it's interesting to watch what happens to the students when a popular American song comes on.  They look longingly with their doe eyes and you can almost see a small tear shed as they belt out AS LOUD AS THEY CAN, those familiar lyrics.  Every outing has resulted in a frantic search for a Mexican restaurant.   I think we are getting home sick, as much as they say they aren't- I can smell it on them.  They LOVE the tourist shops, coveting keychains and tourist tees.  Bless their hearts.  They are foreigners.  I am a foreigner.  Everything is different for us here.  

  

     This week we found a kebab place in the village, but what was there truly inspired.  A Spanish local woman makes home cooked food in a menu del dia, for 6 Euro with three courses to take away.  The best spanish food I have had so far has been from a kebab place, where she cooks from her own kitchen with her little one peaking through the door and husband politely doling out the goods.  It's so Post Modern.   I'm glad I can buy it out in the open because it's a bit like crack.  I don't know if you've even known you were sad AFTER eating something because it elated you so.  I have seen the light.  Paella.  Roasted chicken with ratatouille.  Torte.  Let's just say I went back the next day and I may visit again today.  She WILL be my friend.  I will have the recipes.  She WILL acquiesce.  

     

      This weekend we went to the Costa del Sol, Malaga and Nerja and a little town I can't in any way pronounce much less write on an iPad.  I may blow up the autocorrect.  Malaga was such a cool city, costal with a fresh young vibe, which reminded me of Spanish colonial Caribbean islands.  The streets were narrow and the restaurants were all packed with people spilling out on the patios sipping coffee and wine.  The architecture, as always here was spectacular.  Details abound.  I took too may pictures.  I could easily live there.  We saw a beautiful,"one armed" cathedral that was unfinished but nothing sorely missed.  We see many cathedrals here.  Most don't dissapoint.  

      Sadly we left so early in the morning we needed calories and caffeine and luckily the liaisons let us stop for provisions.  So the morning started out rough but quickly turned a corner after we had taken care of our stabby dispositions.  We saw a ruined roman theatre in the center of town as well as Picasso' childhood home and baptismal church around the corner.  For some reason I thought he came from a meager beginning, not the case.  Definitely comfortable.  The house had two floors filled with prints but the highlights were his sketchbooks, his drawing horse and supplies and his childhood books complete with illustrations.  It was truly interesting to see how violent and influential his imagery from childhood was.  

After our half day wandering, we trekked to a small village where Jose de Gálvez was born and buried.  He was a kind of John Wayne to the Spaniards during the 16th century acting as an expansionist for the kingdom in both South America and in Alabama, Florida and California.  My eyebrow raised several times after touring the museum due to an interesting read on history and the lense that was presented about "heroism, expansion and liberation."  The lovely mayor treated us to a delightful meal of pork, ratatouille and patatas fritas.  We toured de Galves' church and crypt with a professional and thoughtful thanks delivered by An articulate and considerate volunteer named Clay. 

That evening we hauled off on the bus to Nerja, a costal city with beaches, shopping, eating and the ever important strolling so prevelant throughout Europe.  We immediately dropped our bags in the hostel and made way for the beach, dipping our toes gleefully in the Mediterranean water.  And then getting out again...because the water in April is about 50 degrees.   Nerja is a tourist town and it was an interesting cross section of Europe.  We watched folks walking watching us.  We walked the promenade sipping on cafe con leche and the students chewing on gelato.  We were in heaven after our long day, I think.

      The next day was filled witha few hours relaxing on the beach.   An early morning to see the light rise and a later morning just lying there.   I watched the kid's stuff as a few dunked themselves in the water and horsed around.  We looked at shops and most importantly had a two hour meal outside of a Mexican restaraunt.  Hallelujah.  Tortilla chips and guacamole.  We chatted about the day, the personalities on the trip and our dreams for the future.  No really, we talked about our dreams.  It's funny what the long meal ( but also familiarity from back home and a two for one drink special) brings out in people.  We capped the day off with a treat or two from a patisserie across the hostel and a quiet busride home.  We were all in bed early I think.