I’ve been homebound for 12 months and counting, and the ache to travel is steadily worsening. I’ve thought constantly about my love for photography and writing, and how exquisitely those marry with my passion for travel. A veritable orgy of combined pleasure. I genuinely hope one day I can make my living - no matter how pitiful, or plentiful, it may be - off of this trifecta obsession.
Unfortunately, as it happens to us all once in a while, I am currently chained to my homeland with financial shackles. And though I wrench and pull and whimper and cry, I must yield to their unwavering strength of reality. For the moment, I am stuck here. But this does not stop me, as it would not stop any hungering traveler. The cogs are turning and the wicked glint of percolating thought is twinkling in my eye. Something will happen soon, I assure you. And maybe I will be able to find those elusive dollar bills along my way. Tricky little buggers though they are, I do need me my good eats and the occasional roof over my head.
In the meanwhile I must still get my travel fix. And so I have decided to try and re-start up my travel blog here, regardless of the pathetic and troublesome lack of actual travel. I can still write about my home city – which, all biases aside, (ya right), – is a lovely place to visit and definitely worth writing about, and I can research, investigate, and create my opinions and thoughts on other places in the world.
Now, if this doesn't end up happening, (god that pesky mutiny of mundane boredom), I will probably still write a bunch of random crap. Just for the sake of feeling the words drift from my thoughts through my fingertips. It's such a satisfying feeling, and I will pop the cork from that wine bottle and drink from it as it should be.
Salud, Na zdorovie, Yamas, Salute, and Cheers.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Daddy's Advice
When I was sad as a little girl my dad used to kiss me on my nose before bed and tell me everything would look brighter in the morning. It helped me sleep because I found myself looking forward to waking up. I had unconditional trust in my Father. The sentiment and metaphor were simple and sweet, but the amazing thing....was that it worked. Things were brighter. And refreshed and invigorated I took on the world with a renewed vigor. I love you, Dad.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Lost Notes From Spain - My last day.
I've reached my last day in Spain. I am ready to come home. Whatever my reasons for coming here, I am leaving with a sense of contentment and of completion.
I didn't realize how bad it was. Before I left I was... Pain. I couldn't stop hurting and I didn't know why. I didn't even fully recognize that I was suffering. But I was sitting on the train yesterday and I did notice something; the absence of that pain. It was if it had manifest itself as this coiled copper ball of energy, electrically snapping at the bit with my silent anguish. But this tightly wound expression of what I had been living with daily was no longer inside me, no longer sapping my strength and personality.
I glanced at the table in front of me - as the sun streamed in, the lanscape shooting past while I jostled gently in my seat with the movement of the train - and I saw it there, in the middle of the table, flickering weakly.
I laughed softly to myself, intrigued by the mental image I had conjured, and thought, I think I may just 'forget' you there.
For the rest of that train ride I had a secret smile continuously playing across my lips. I truly felt lighter, and for the first time in many months, years even, I felt genuinely happy; right down to my core.
It took an entire month away. Filled with a hodgepodge mess of confusion, happiness, loneliness and fatigue. I felt fear, moments of peace and discovery, joy, and yet an overwhelming sense of being lost. But somehow I got what I came for - two day's before the end of my trip, cut right to the wire - but I got it. And it has all been worth it. I picked up something new here, something glowing and bright, and I think I'll place it where that pain used to be, tucked up safely inside, and take it home with me.
It is time to go home.
05.18.11
Madrid, Spain.
I didn't realize how bad it was. Before I left I was... Pain. I couldn't stop hurting and I didn't know why. I didn't even fully recognize that I was suffering. But I was sitting on the train yesterday and I did notice something; the absence of that pain. It was if it had manifest itself as this coiled copper ball of energy, electrically snapping at the bit with my silent anguish. But this tightly wound expression of what I had been living with daily was no longer inside me, no longer sapping my strength and personality.
I glanced at the table in front of me - as the sun streamed in, the lanscape shooting past while I jostled gently in my seat with the movement of the train - and I saw it there, in the middle of the table, flickering weakly.
I laughed softly to myself, intrigued by the mental image I had conjured, and thought, I think I may just 'forget' you there.
For the rest of that train ride I had a secret smile continuously playing across my lips. I truly felt lighter, and for the first time in many months, years even, I felt genuinely happy; right down to my core.
It took an entire month away. Filled with a hodgepodge mess of confusion, happiness, loneliness and fatigue. I felt fear, moments of peace and discovery, joy, and yet an overwhelming sense of being lost. But somehow I got what I came for - two day's before the end of my trip, cut right to the wire - but I got it. And it has all been worth it. I picked up something new here, something glowing and bright, and I think I'll place it where that pain used to be, tucked up safely inside, and take it home with me.
It is time to go home.
05.18.11
Madrid, Spain.
Lost Notes From Spain - set to reflection
The sun is hot, pouring down. I lay languidly amidst the rays, soaking it in. Granada. I whisper softly to myself. España.
I've been fortunate on this trip to meet a myriad of amazing people. Goofs, free spirits, lost souls, the rule bound and people simply set to discover. I love this. The continual catch and release of personal experience; the gossamer touch of individual perspective.
Today I lay on the balcony of a friend I may have made for life. A distant sister soul found thousands of miles from home. She studies quietly on the other side of the sunny balcony, a comfortable silence easily achieved.
I am set to reflection. Why do we travel? To find ourselves, find beauty.. love.. Why do we do what we do? Travel, work, play.. on a continual quest for fulfillment, gladness, gratification, peace, pleasure, repletion, satisfaction, serenity... A thesaurus of aspiration. We crave an abstinence from confusion and discontent. Like a game of hide and seek we smuggle ourselves away from dissatisfaction. However we chose to do so.
I find through world travel a constant wonderment at the highlighted flood of desire and need. Here it is heightened. Brightened. I watch people needing to discover, to experience, to find themselves. I am them, too.
I have it inked into my skin. Right below the scar on the back of my neck that symbolizes my brush with death. Life.
08.05.11
Granada, Spain.
I've been fortunate on this trip to meet a myriad of amazing people. Goofs, free spirits, lost souls, the rule bound and people simply set to discover. I love this. The continual catch and release of personal experience; the gossamer touch of individual perspective.
Today I lay on the balcony of a friend I may have made for life. A distant sister soul found thousands of miles from home. She studies quietly on the other side of the sunny balcony, a comfortable silence easily achieved.
I am set to reflection. Why do we travel? To find ourselves, find beauty.. love.. Why do we do what we do? Travel, work, play.. on a continual quest for fulfillment, gladness, gratification, peace, pleasure, repletion, satisfaction, serenity... A thesaurus of aspiration. We crave an abstinence from confusion and discontent. Like a game of hide and seek we smuggle ourselves away from dissatisfaction. However we chose to do so.
I find through world travel a constant wonderment at the highlighted flood of desire and need. Here it is heightened. Brightened. I watch people needing to discover, to experience, to find themselves. I am them, too.
I have it inked into my skin. Right below the scar on the back of my neck that symbolizes my brush with death. Life.
08.05.11
Granada, Spain.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
El Perro y el Hippy
My breath was coming out in short pumps and gasps. One foot in front of the other, I limped and wobbled my way, bound and determined.
Just think, Kristina, I breathily whispered to myself. Think what you'll be able to say. You walked 4 hours in the Alhambra and climbed a freaking mountain in one day. With, Kristina, I continued to murmur to myself, with a spinal cord injury. Just think.. just imagine what the photo's could look like. You can beat this sunset. You can get there in time.. Push.
I absently swung my Canon 50D camera around to a more comfortable position and continued my personal cheerleading, You can do this...
Hearing a voice clear I looked up from my focused stare down with my wayward feet and suddenly realized my motivational whispering wasn't quite as inaudible as I imagined it to be. People were looking, peering at me curiously. 'Loco touristica.' and a shake of the head.
I giggled silently and continued panting my way up the extensive stretch of long steps that pass for streets in the Albayzin quarter of Granada, Spain. Set on a mountainside the walkways are wide and meant only for foot traffic. Gradual steps press upwards relentlessly to the height of the hills. Tourist style tea houses, shops, and tapa's bars line the beginning of your climb, but eventually melt away to houses and local places to eat or drink. Beautiful, and completely charming, but, I'll admit, a touch challenging for a woman with gait, stability, and fatigue issues.
Still, I pressed on stubbornly.
Incredibly, more than once during my strenuous ascent, I was stopped by a concerned citizen. 'Tu es bien?', Are you okay?
I love the Spanish!
Seeing my labored breathing and awkward gate I was often stopped to see if I was all right. One gentleman even took my arm and walked me for a ways. After letting me go he sagely advised me the best way to reach the top was to dance my way, and with a flourish and a bow, which left me grinning from ear to ear, he actually danced his way back down the street of steps.
I love this place.
Caught unaware and distracted with my determined walk and chance encounters, the end was suddenly in sight, or rather, ear shot. The rhythmic pulse of distant djembe drums throbbed in the air, invisibly tugging me on. Practically bursting out of the end of a closely walled walkway I saw the edge of the square I had been so obstinate about reaching. Glancing up at the sky I grinned happily. The sun had not yet set. I made it.
Almost laughing I awkwardly climbed the last few steps and entered the square, lit brilliantly in the late sunlight. Dancing, singing and lounging people were lit afire by the last vestiges of the sun. I entered a hippy heaven, complete with an abundance of puppies and pooches running free and playing with each other and their owners. Soaking it in I looked peacefully to my left, and saw the gentle slope of the city leading to a view of the Alhambra on another hill of its own. The massive palace constructed during the mid 14th century by the Moorish rulers of old glowed majestically in the dying light. Drawing my gaze back to the square my senses were assaulted by the gypsy-like celebration that happened every night. Poi spinners, jugglers, guitarists, percussionists and a surprising number of canines all joined the evening and shared their voice, their talent, their moment, with each other. This was just life here for them.
Idly I wondered if other locals turned their nose up at this congregation of clearly new age mentality. Within walking distance (my walking distance!) there was another section of the city with wide boulevards and expensive shops. The contrast and closeness of these wildly different mentalities tickled at my curiosity. But I wanted to live in the here and now, so letting that thought slip innocuously back into the recesses of my mind - unimportant in comparison to my need to experience what I'd worked so hard to see - I swung my camera up, and began to photograph. Some noticed, some didn't. A few felt the rush of having an audience and immediately began showing off. I didn't mind.
Eventually I let my lens drop and just breathed. I wasn't photographing very well and my battery was dying. Distracted and quite fatigued from my long day I ached to simply exist in this one moment, this physical manifestation of the reason I travel. This was an experience so simple yet so heart warming in it's newness and easy beauty that peace and contentment coursed through my tired limbs. So I sat, with a goofy contended grin on my face, and bathed it all in.
You made it, Kristina. I smiled gently to myself. You knew you could.
And so I did.
Granada, Spain.
Just think, Kristina, I breathily whispered to myself. Think what you'll be able to say. You walked 4 hours in the Alhambra and climbed a freaking mountain in one day. With, Kristina, I continued to murmur to myself, with a spinal cord injury. Just think.. just imagine what the photo's could look like. You can beat this sunset. You can get there in time.. Push.
I absently swung my Canon 50D camera around to a more comfortable position and continued my personal cheerleading, You can do this...
Hearing a voice clear I looked up from my focused stare down with my wayward feet and suddenly realized my motivational whispering wasn't quite as inaudible as I imagined it to be. People were looking, peering at me curiously. 'Loco touristica.' and a shake of the head.
I giggled silently and continued panting my way up the extensive stretch of long steps that pass for streets in the Albayzin quarter of Granada, Spain. Set on a mountainside the walkways are wide and meant only for foot traffic. Gradual steps press upwards relentlessly to the height of the hills. Tourist style tea houses, shops, and tapa's bars line the beginning of your climb, but eventually melt away to houses and local places to eat or drink. Beautiful, and completely charming, but, I'll admit, a touch challenging for a woman with gait, stability, and fatigue issues.
Still, I pressed on stubbornly.
Incredibly, more than once during my strenuous ascent, I was stopped by a concerned citizen. 'Tu es bien?', Are you okay?
I love the Spanish!
Seeing my labored breathing and awkward gate I was often stopped to see if I was all right. One gentleman even took my arm and walked me for a ways. After letting me go he sagely advised me the best way to reach the top was to dance my way, and with a flourish and a bow, which left me grinning from ear to ear, he actually danced his way back down the street of steps.
I love this place.
Caught unaware and distracted with my determined walk and chance encounters, the end was suddenly in sight, or rather, ear shot. The rhythmic pulse of distant djembe drums throbbed in the air, invisibly tugging me on. Practically bursting out of the end of a closely walled walkway I saw the edge of the square I had been so obstinate about reaching. Glancing up at the sky I grinned happily. The sun had not yet set. I made it.
Almost laughing I awkwardly climbed the last few steps and entered the square, lit brilliantly in the late sunlight. Dancing, singing and lounging people were lit afire by the last vestiges of the sun. I entered a hippy heaven, complete with an abundance of puppies and pooches running free and playing with each other and their owners. Soaking it in I looked peacefully to my left, and saw the gentle slope of the city leading to a view of the Alhambra on another hill of its own. The massive palace constructed during the mid 14th century by the Moorish rulers of old glowed majestically in the dying light. Drawing my gaze back to the square my senses were assaulted by the gypsy-like celebration that happened every night. Poi spinners, jugglers, guitarists, percussionists and a surprising number of canines all joined the evening and shared their voice, their talent, their moment, with each other. This was just life here for them.
Idly I wondered if other locals turned their nose up at this congregation of clearly new age mentality. Within walking distance (my walking distance!) there was another section of the city with wide boulevards and expensive shops. The contrast and closeness of these wildly different mentalities tickled at my curiosity. But I wanted to live in the here and now, so letting that thought slip innocuously back into the recesses of my mind - unimportant in comparison to my need to experience what I'd worked so hard to see - I swung my camera up, and began to photograph. Some noticed, some didn't. A few felt the rush of having an audience and immediately began showing off. I didn't mind.
Eventually I let my lens drop and just breathed. I wasn't photographing very well and my battery was dying. Distracted and quite fatigued from my long day I ached to simply exist in this one moment, this physical manifestation of the reason I travel. This was an experience so simple yet so heart warming in it's newness and easy beauty that peace and contentment coursed through my tired limbs. So I sat, with a goofy contended grin on my face, and bathed it all in.
You made it, Kristina. I smiled gently to myself. You knew you could.
And so I did.
Granada, Spain.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Poison of Text-based Messaging
I am no saint. I text. Though mainly I do it because everyone else does. You can't force someone to meet with you, or pick up the phone. But I hate it. I really do. And hate is a strong word I passionately apply to my feelings towards this abhorrent phenomenon of communication.
I want to write a paper on how our reliance on texting is creating a psychological rift in our social demeanors. It's the same epidemic that preservatives in our food have caused. Because the problem isn’t clear and obvious it is slowly ruining our psyche like those preservatives have ruined our gastrointestinal systems. One day we woke up and realized that the reason we all have such problems with our stomachs is because we've been slowly poisoning ourselves; just as we'll realize one strong reason why we have such issues communicating with each other is because we've slowly trained ourselves out of human contact and relations.
I think we're letting the importance of physically present communication fall by the wayside. "But I'm at work." "But I just have something quick to say." "But it's just easier." These are convenient excuses, but I believe, simply blinders that help us ignore the quiet killer. Patches of 'quick and easy' versus 'quality and health'. It's the McDonalds cheeseburger of communication. We've been moving steadfast into the realm of realizing how bad and unhealthy that kind of food is for our bodies. We need to recognize what unhealthy communication is doing to our minds and our emotional connections.
I watched a study that researchers made on infants. This study was actually about the linguistic learning curve in humans, and how it dramatically decreases after only a few short years. It also discusses a critical learning point between 8 and 10 months wherein an infant will learn specific sounds related to their particular language, and after that period the infant is no longer able to process the distinctions in other language’s sounds that are different to it's own.
What I found interesting, though, and as relates to the current issue, is that during this study researchers decided to see if it would make a difference if the child would learn equally as well from having a human teacher, as compared to a television, or simple auditory stimulation.
The children learned absolutely nothing from the television or recordings. It required human contact and interaction for them to acquire the skills.
No, we are not infants. But I believe that this highlights the importance of verbal, visual, and physical contact. It is ingrained in our psyche. We need this contact; straight from the instincts of birth.
I have been back from my trip to Europe for only 2 weeks and I already feel a serious decline in my state of happiness. I keep finding myself wishing I were there, chatting with people over breakfast, having coffee with new friends, going to dinner with people. And therein lay the obvious connection. Now that I am in Vancouver my main form of communication is back to text based messaging. It's just too difficult to get a hold of my friends and too easy to text. My physical contact with people has declined 10 fold, and so has my level of joy.I'm sick and tired of eating McCrappy text messages. I honestly believe it's an epidemic of our human connectivity and that this is directly tied in to our level of happiness. I believe a strong reason for the general malaise many of us feel is directly linked with our addiction to text based messaging. I know from personal experience that if I am upset about something and ‘talk it out’ through text, I am left distinctly less satisfied than if I were to have a verbal or physical conversation. And there have been one too many instances in the past years as texting became more and more common, of a long drawn out text miscommunication, (who am I kidding; fight), that upset me to no end, only to be resolved and deflated within minutes on the phone or conversation in person. And more often than not, even if the argument was still worked out over text, that lingering itch of dissatisfaction would linger.
For the most part, we are social creatures. We crave, desire, and need social acceptance. Our basic psychology demands communication between each other. But, like eating McDonalds instead of a healthy meal, we are poisoning ourselves. Sure, we may not always be able to eat perfectly, and likewise communicate healthy, but we should put in a sincere and motivated effort to achieve the highest level of health. Physically, psychologically, and emotionally.
Patricia Kuhl: The linguistic genius of babies - http://www.ted.com/talks/patricia_kuhl_the_linguistic_genius_of_babies.html
Image 1 pulled from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Texting.jpg
Image 2 pulled from: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/mobile-phones/7612663/Teenagers-prefer-texting-to-talking.html
**I also realize a large reason we text as much as we do, is because it is cheaper than minutes on the phone. I feel this should change. This world is driven by money, and in a tight economy such as we have now, every penny counts. I believe if using minutes to call someone were cheaper than texting, it could make a huge difference.***
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
epiphany
I realized with such clarity and solidarity today, that I am changing. So simple, but epiphanies tend to be. I desire different things, derive pleasure in different places.
This trip has been a strange experience. It hasn't been nearly as magical as I had expected. Inspiration has remained stubbornly out of my reach. It occurred to be me today as I sat and sipped a cafe con baileys - as yet another small but perfectly annoying event destroyed my sense of peace, leaving in it's wake a sense of lonliness, despair, and fatigue - that I am on the wrong path. I am a circle piece trying to cram myself into a square hole. I am malleable, though, and so with effort I can squish myself in there, but it's uncomfortable here. I am in constant pain. I don't belong. I am chasing my past.
I realize now that the lack of inspiration, the absence of 'magic', is of my own making. My own undoing. My own shattered voice trying to sing songs I don't know how to sing. I am wearing the broken glasses of my past, silently harboring the pain and trudging around lost, weary, and half blind; wearing the weight of my history.
Today I take those glasses off. I am sending all my energy out into the world asking for help, for courage, for strength to leave them off.
I must move forward. I will not forget my past, as if wiping my slate clean in order to start anew. It's not possible. It is written in celestial ink on my soul. Instead I'll review my past, read my books of history - and finish them where possible - until the story is no longer held in my present. Until the weight is gone because I can truly recognize, understand, and accept that though I may have once been that person, I am no longer her. We learn from our past, but live in the present. I'll write it out, speak it out, let it out, so it no longer fills me, but drains out into the cleansing wind. My history will be written on the walls of my soul, but, I myself, will be open and free.. and present.
Like the songs I used to write, let out, and finish.
The voice of my soul, singing to let go.
This trip has been a strange experience. It hasn't been nearly as magical as I had expected. Inspiration has remained stubbornly out of my reach. It occurred to be me today as I sat and sipped a cafe con baileys - as yet another small but perfectly annoying event destroyed my sense of peace, leaving in it's wake a sense of lonliness, despair, and fatigue - that I am on the wrong path. I am a circle piece trying to cram myself into a square hole. I am malleable, though, and so with effort I can squish myself in there, but it's uncomfortable here. I am in constant pain. I don't belong. I am chasing my past.
I realize now that the lack of inspiration, the absence of 'magic', is of my own making. My own undoing. My own shattered voice trying to sing songs I don't know how to sing. I am wearing the broken glasses of my past, silently harboring the pain and trudging around lost, weary, and half blind; wearing the weight of my history.
Today I take those glasses off. I am sending all my energy out into the world asking for help, for courage, for strength to leave them off.
I must move forward. I will not forget my past, as if wiping my slate clean in order to start anew. It's not possible. It is written in celestial ink on my soul. Instead I'll review my past, read my books of history - and finish them where possible - until the story is no longer held in my present. Until the weight is gone because I can truly recognize, understand, and accept that though I may have once been that person, I am no longer her. We learn from our past, but live in the present. I'll write it out, speak it out, let it out, so it no longer fills me, but drains out into the cleansing wind. My history will be written on the walls of my soul, but, I myself, will be open and free.. and present.
Like the songs I used to write, let out, and finish.
The voice of my soul, singing to let go.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
tips for beginners
Day 1 - and I am alone at last!
So far? Fantastic. I move at my own pace, I breathe to my own rhythm, and I do what I want. If there's one thing I can suggest to travelers, it's to make sure you try traveling alone. There is nothing like it. People speak of traveling to find themselves, and this is the surest way to do it. I love it. I ache for it.
Also, honestly, I love the free walking tours. Unless you're already well educated on the history of your destination, or just don't give two hoots, swallow down the it's 'muy touristca' pride and take one of these little segways into the past. I find that taking one of these strolls through the city really opens the doors on the reality of any given city. Sure, wander. God, yes, just wander and get lost. See what you discover. But a little tour will add three dimensional depth to your experience. Also, these tours are often conducted by fellow travelers who are looking to make a little money to support their passion. And I always feel good slipping them a tip to help them do what they love.
And never be afraid to talk to people. There can be some bad apples and sour grapes but there are also fruits beyond imagining. Tastes you've never conceived of. Either that or just a good story!
love,
wanderingquad
04.28.11 - Malaga, Spain.
So far? Fantastic. I move at my own pace, I breathe to my own rhythm, and I do what I want. If there's one thing I can suggest to travelers, it's to make sure you try traveling alone. There is nothing like it. People speak of traveling to find themselves, and this is the surest way to do it. I love it. I ache for it.
Also, honestly, I love the free walking tours. Unless you're already well educated on the history of your destination, or just don't give two hoots, swallow down the it's 'muy touristca' pride and take one of these little segways into the past. I find that taking one of these strolls through the city really opens the doors on the reality of any given city. Sure, wander. God, yes, just wander and get lost. See what you discover. But a little tour will add three dimensional depth to your experience. Also, these tours are often conducted by fellow travelers who are looking to make a little money to support their passion. And I always feel good slipping them a tip to help them do what they love.
And never be afraid to talk to people. There can be some bad apples and sour grapes but there are also fruits beyond imagining. Tastes you've never conceived of. Either that or just a good story!
love,
wanderingquad
04.28.11 - Malaga, Spain.
magic ignition
Writers block. Stop and twist. Take a sip. Lost in beer rings and simple things. I take a glance to my left and my eyes linger. Is it the simplicity of travel? Magic ignition. Lights from fire a thousand years old cast wicked sparkles in starstruck expression. Tacit belief in something so brief. Am I living? What I've struggled for. Romance in our breathing, and here I am still thinking in fantasy. A thousand years - a thousand miles - can't change a simple thought. Lips moist, the drink tracing thoughts, cool down my throat. Hm. I think this one will stay unfulfilled. But my minds eye is full. So deliciously full.
04.28.11 - Malaga, Spain.
04.28.11 - Malaga, Spain.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Snorry McSnorrerson
ahhhhh... snorry mc gooberson is in my room. A creepy old german guy in tighty whities is snoring up a storm. Faaaantastic.
I don't think my earplugs are gonna hold a candle against this fellers bonfire. BRUTAL.
Creepy? I say this because earlier today as I'm sipping on my drink in the hostel bar he saddles up next to me at the bar and - inconspicuously? I think not - presses his knee into mine. Rest assured, there was plenty of room, and this was not an over-reaction to a squishy situation. Oh, no. I'm then thrust into a conversation I don't particularily want to be in - nor can understand very well due to his thick accent and liquored up brain power - but I politely oblige, as long as I can handle it. The problem is that persistantly pervasive knee, yes, but also in his enduring need to lean in to me as he speaks. Sure, you're thinking, he's leaning in, creepy old guy, straying knee, whatever.. he's lookin for a cheap thrill. But his breath.. oh heavens his breath.. smelled a little bit like he'd spent some time praying to the porcelain gods. And every word he speaks has me envisioning chunky bits flying from his mouth.
Joy.
This is not exactly condusive to productive conversation, let me tell you. I finally politely excuse myself and move along my merry way.
So I enter my room this evening to a symphony of saw worthy snores and a giggling roomate waving his hands in the air like a conductor. Lo and behold, it's my ol' german pal, scantily clad in the tightest pair of underwear a young woman never wants to see a man of that age sporting, doing the best impression of a hacksaw I've ever heard.
Joy, squared.
I've gotten kind of close with a couple of the hostel workers, though, and I'm hoping to maybe sleep elsewhere? It's funny.. it's an 8 bed dorm and this man's going to wake up to a completely empty room. My conductor roomate is paying for his stay by working at the hostel, and is trying to butter up his way out of dodge, too.
Evacuate!!! - I'm thinking - Creepy old snoring german on the loose!
Hmm.. I think I'm SOL on the new room frontier. Farknutters.. joy, cubed? I hope he's only staying one night.. ooh man. Not sure I can go into the fourth dimension of joy with this fella.
Alright, here I go.. earplugs at the ready. Goodnight and sweet dreams! Haha.. riiight.
wanderingquad
I don't think my earplugs are gonna hold a candle against this fellers bonfire. BRUTAL.
Creepy? I say this because earlier today as I'm sipping on my drink in the hostel bar he saddles up next to me at the bar and - inconspicuously? I think not - presses his knee into mine. Rest assured, there was plenty of room, and this was not an over-reaction to a squishy situation. Oh, no. I'm then thrust into a conversation I don't particularily want to be in - nor can understand very well due to his thick accent and liquored up brain power - but I politely oblige, as long as I can handle it. The problem is that persistantly pervasive knee, yes, but also in his enduring need to lean in to me as he speaks. Sure, you're thinking, he's leaning in, creepy old guy, straying knee, whatever.. he's lookin for a cheap thrill. But his breath.. oh heavens his breath.. smelled a little bit like he'd spent some time praying to the porcelain gods. And every word he speaks has me envisioning chunky bits flying from his mouth.
Joy.
This is not exactly condusive to productive conversation, let me tell you. I finally politely excuse myself and move along my merry way.
So I enter my room this evening to a symphony of saw worthy snores and a giggling roomate waving his hands in the air like a conductor. Lo and behold, it's my ol' german pal, scantily clad in the tightest pair of underwear a young woman never wants to see a man of that age sporting, doing the best impression of a hacksaw I've ever heard.
Joy, squared.
I've gotten kind of close with a couple of the hostel workers, though, and I'm hoping to maybe sleep elsewhere? It's funny.. it's an 8 bed dorm and this man's going to wake up to a completely empty room. My conductor roomate is paying for his stay by working at the hostel, and is trying to butter up his way out of dodge, too.
Evacuate!!! - I'm thinking - Creepy old snoring german on the loose!
Hmm.. I think I'm SOL on the new room frontier. Farknutters.. joy, cubed? I hope he's only staying one night.. ooh man. Not sure I can go into the fourth dimension of joy with this fella.
Alright, here I go.. earplugs at the ready. Goodnight and sweet dreams! Haha.. riiight.
wanderingquad
Rainy Malaga
It's raining here in Malaga.. and so I am bored.
Unless you're a big museum buff Malaga doesn't boast an exceptional amount to do. Except for beaches and it's Alcazar and the adjoining Gibralfaro - which, to be perfectly honest, don't quite rival the one in Sevilla, and I'm told the one in Granada either - there's only a few things to do to occupy your time. So I've spent my days getting tipsy and enjoying tapas after tapas and sprawling myself spread eagle on the beach. No complaints here, really. But, this means, on a rainy Andalucian day like today, I'm tapping my toes in my hostel and thinking about my next glass of cerveza.
Sitting here bored in the hostel I'm set to reminicing. I've met some exceptional people so far. An old spanish painter who asked me to call him Pepe stikes out the most in me. A perfect example of Spanish charm and friendliness. He saw me limping along in the Alcazar and pulled me over to him. Blasting away at me in spanish and handling the leaves of the bush beside him he finally caught on to the blank expression of incomprehension on my face and switched to a charmingly accented english.
"Smell!" he says. Sure enough, the bush had a lovely herbal-like fragrance. Trust an artist to catch on to something like that. We laughed and chatted for a moment, and then he moved on to start his painting. I wandered around for a while and saw him again later chatting up another stranger. I love that sort of friendliness. There was nothing but happiness in his eyes, and a joy in talking with those who enjoyed life as well.
After this I move on to Granada. And I'm seriously excited. I keep hearing such wonderful things.. I can't wait to experience them for myself.
Cheers, world!
~the wandering quad
Unless you're a big museum buff Malaga doesn't boast an exceptional amount to do. Except for beaches and it's Alcazar and the adjoining Gibralfaro - which, to be perfectly honest, don't quite rival the one in Sevilla, and I'm told the one in Granada either - there's only a few things to do to occupy your time. So I've spent my days getting tipsy and enjoying tapas after tapas and sprawling myself spread eagle on the beach. No complaints here, really. But, this means, on a rainy Andalucian day like today, I'm tapping my toes in my hostel and thinking about my next glass of cerveza.
Sitting here bored in the hostel I'm set to reminicing. I've met some exceptional people so far. An old spanish painter who asked me to call him Pepe stikes out the most in me. A perfect example of Spanish charm and friendliness. He saw me limping along in the Alcazar and pulled me over to him. Blasting away at me in spanish and handling the leaves of the bush beside him he finally caught on to the blank expression of incomprehension on my face and switched to a charmingly accented english.
"Smell!" he says. Sure enough, the bush had a lovely herbal-like fragrance. Trust an artist to catch on to something like that. We laughed and chatted for a moment, and then he moved on to start his painting. I wandered around for a while and saw him again later chatting up another stranger. I love that sort of friendliness. There was nothing but happiness in his eyes, and a joy in talking with those who enjoyed life as well.
After this I move on to Granada. And I'm seriously excited. I keep hearing such wonderful things.. I can't wait to experience them for myself.
Cheers, world!
~the wandering quad
Monday, April 25, 2011
My Injury - Beauty Blooms Above the Swamp
Beauty Blooms Above the Swamp
*This is a shorter story of my accident, as compared to my second post in this blog, and how I received my spinal cord injury*
I found myself in midsummer, and in my arsenal I had a car, a lovely new N license, and the perfect sunny weekend I could spend up in Kelowna with my Mom. I was my first long distance drive and I was rearin' and ready to go.
Cruisin’ down the highway in my 'new' little 89 hatchback, I breathed easy and listened to some amazing music at a volume much too loud, (what else is new), with the windows down and the breeze beautiful. I made it to Hope, called my Mom for one of our little check-ups, ate a chocolate bar and checked my simple route for the fiftieth time. Getting back on the road, I slid easily through the Coquihalla tollbooths and enjoyed my first taste of a 110km speed limit.
Somewhere on the connector near Kelowna, something happened. I still don't know how - I must have zoned out, or possibly fell asleep? - but abruptly I'm no longer in my lane; I'm driving on the left shoulder of the road. White plastic pillars are smacking the front of my car, a beating panicked heartbeat. Suddenly the legal limit seems much too fast.
I want to get back on the road.. how did I get here? Smack, Smack, Smack.
I pull right.. Too hard. I'm new at this. I fly across the road.
'Oh god, this is happening.'
There's a jolt and the car is stopped. All I'm aware of is that my head is on the driver’s seat, my left arm curled up around me, and there's a seatbelt tight around my neck cutting off my breath. I try to move, to get up, but only my left arm does this strange little twitch. It then occurs to me I don't know where my body is...
I've broken my neck.
The next thing I knew I was being flown to Vancouver General Hospital with my Mother by my side. I was put into surgery that night after a myriad of MRI’s and other tests. I don’t remember much, but I do remember seeing the tear stricken and seriously frightened faces of my family and friends leaning over me. I saw my father's ragged face and red eyes, my step-mother telling me she loved me, and my friends, shaky and wild eyed.
I came out of surgery with a brand new and expensive neck - my C4 and C5 vertebrae fused together with some fancy new titanium hardware and a small piece of my hip. This, and a chilling diagnoses of an almost completely paralyzed body with a 10% chance of walking again. Safe to say we were all very frightened.
VGH was my home for the next five weeks, four of which I always had someone with me. Someone from my family, or a friend, was near 24/7. They worked in shifts to ensure I was never alone. Honestly, I can attribute a massive amount of my success to their determination and love for me. Any time I tried to get down on myself and lose my resolve or drive to succeed, they were right there with a healthy dose of, "Don't you dare!" and kept me encouraged and motivated. A body doesn't heal well if it's stressed, and we truly are more in control of our bodies than we give ourselves credit for. But we need to try to heal. If not, we will accomplish nothing. I believe this. I am proof of this.
Over the following weeks I met some amazing doctors, therapists and nurses - some of whom helped me more than they know – and gradually arms began to move, my legs began to move, and every new movement, however slight, was a cause for bountiful tears of excitement and hope.
I have what’s called an ‘incomplete’ spinal cord injury. This means my spinal cord was only pinched and bruised, not severed. It’s for this reason that I recovered at all and am not still laying motionless on that distasteful hospital bed. A complete injury reveals itself in someone who has absolutely no sensation or movement below the level of their break. An incomplete injury, however, is challenging in a different way: the damage is mysterious, and so the recovery is unpredictable. There can be a lot of hope, and painfully, no results.
For me, amazingly enough, my results were nothing short of phenomenal.
I then spent seven weeks at GF Strong Rehabilitation Centre. Two weeks into my stay I was given the all clear, and I stood up for the first time.
I cannot tell you the feeling. After having been bed and chair-ridden for weeks, and after all the fear and worry that the 90% chance I wouldn't walk would be the winning side of the ratio; I stood. And seeing the world from my height - such a simple thing - just standing at my height and looking around, I couldn't stop crying. In fact, I had pretty much the entire physio gym in tears; in celebration, in envy, and in an inspired resolve to get where I was. They talk of miracles... The word doesn't hold the weight of how incredible I felt.
From then on my therapists had a rough time keeping me in my chair. I had, and still do have, difficulty pacing myself to avoid the fatigue issues that plague spinal cord injured patients. My body has to work harder than the average bear in order to do the same amount of work as a healthy person. But I couldn't - and still can't - stop. At first they tried to have me use walking aids, but I threw them off as annoyances, my desire to heal outweighing their need for safety. And what did I say to them with a mischievous little wink? “Don’t worry, I’ll be running in no time. Imagine trying to stop me, then.”
So here I am today, almost three years later. I do still have a limp and (okay, okay), I’m unable to run, (for now!), but all things considered, I’m beyond lucky. It was hard work. Incredibly hard. But with belief, passion, and determination, (and a whole lot of love from family and friends), I blew that 10% chance out of the water. I am convinced that if you don’t push yourself past your limits, you’ll never know where those limits truly lie. And I can guarantee you they are further than you may realize. Again, I am proof of this.
My rehabilitation wasn’t all candy and popcorn, though. Complete functionality didn’t magically come back and I didn’t hop, skip and sing my way back to my old life. I had to give up dreams, and make new ones. I had to struggle and compromise: scream, kick, yell at, and finally give in to some things. But I learned incredible lessons. I learned that there is so much more strength in me than I realized. That when you give up dreams the world doesn’t come crashing down. Instead, new possibilities emerge. Fantastic people you’d never meet are found, new passions and desires emerge from the woodwork of your life, and an inner strength that may have been hidden, but was always there, blossoms right before your eyes. Beauty does bloom above the swamp.
Believe in yourself. Push yourself. Be amazed by yourself.
But please, for heavens sake.. don’t break your neck figuring it out! It’s in all of us. It's in you. Right now.
*This is a shorter story of my accident, as compared to my second post in this blog, and how I received my spinal cord injury*
I found myself in midsummer, and in my arsenal I had a car, a lovely new N license, and the perfect sunny weekend I could spend up in Kelowna with my Mom. I was my first long distance drive and I was rearin' and ready to go.
Cruisin’ down the highway in my 'new' little 89 hatchback, I breathed easy and listened to some amazing music at a volume much too loud, (what else is new), with the windows down and the breeze beautiful. I made it to Hope, called my Mom for one of our little check-ups, ate a chocolate bar and checked my simple route for the fiftieth time. Getting back on the road, I slid easily through the Coquihalla tollbooths and enjoyed my first taste of a 110km speed limit.
Somewhere on the connector near Kelowna, something happened. I still don't know how - I must have zoned out, or possibly fell asleep? - but abruptly I'm no longer in my lane; I'm driving on the left shoulder of the road. White plastic pillars are smacking the front of my car, a beating panicked heartbeat. Suddenly the legal limit seems much too fast.
I want to get back on the road.. how did I get here? Smack, Smack, Smack.
I pull right.. Too hard. I'm new at this. I fly across the road.
'Oh god, this is happening.'
There's a jolt and the car is stopped. All I'm aware of is that my head is on the driver’s seat, my left arm curled up around me, and there's a seatbelt tight around my neck cutting off my breath. I try to move, to get up, but only my left arm does this strange little twitch. It then occurs to me I don't know where my body is...
I've broken my neck.
The next thing I knew I was being flown to Vancouver General Hospital with my Mother by my side. I was put into surgery that night after a myriad of MRI’s and other tests. I don’t remember much, but I do remember seeing the tear stricken and seriously frightened faces of my family and friends leaning over me. I saw my father's ragged face and red eyes, my step-mother telling me she loved me, and my friends, shaky and wild eyed.
I came out of surgery with a brand new and expensive neck - my C4 and C5 vertebrae fused together with some fancy new titanium hardware and a small piece of my hip. This, and a chilling diagnoses of an almost completely paralyzed body with a 10% chance of walking again. Safe to say we were all very frightened.
VGH was my home for the next five weeks, four of which I always had someone with me. Someone from my family, or a friend, was near 24/7. They worked in shifts to ensure I was never alone. Honestly, I can attribute a massive amount of my success to their determination and love for me. Any time I tried to get down on myself and lose my resolve or drive to succeed, they were right there with a healthy dose of, "Don't you dare!" and kept me encouraged and motivated. A body doesn't heal well if it's stressed, and we truly are more in control of our bodies than we give ourselves credit for. But we need to try to heal. If not, we will accomplish nothing. I believe this. I am proof of this.
Over the following weeks I met some amazing doctors, therapists and nurses - some of whom helped me more than they know – and gradually arms began to move, my legs began to move, and every new movement, however slight, was a cause for bountiful tears of excitement and hope.
I have what’s called an ‘incomplete’ spinal cord injury. This means my spinal cord was only pinched and bruised, not severed. It’s for this reason that I recovered at all and am not still laying motionless on that distasteful hospital bed. A complete injury reveals itself in someone who has absolutely no sensation or movement below the level of their break. An incomplete injury, however, is challenging in a different way: the damage is mysterious, and so the recovery is unpredictable. There can be a lot of hope, and painfully, no results.
For me, amazingly enough, my results were nothing short of phenomenal.
I then spent seven weeks at GF Strong Rehabilitation Centre. Two weeks into my stay I was given the all clear, and I stood up for the first time.
I cannot tell you the feeling. After having been bed and chair-ridden for weeks, and after all the fear and worry that the 90% chance I wouldn't walk would be the winning side of the ratio; I stood. And seeing the world from my height - such a simple thing - just standing at my height and looking around, I couldn't stop crying. In fact, I had pretty much the entire physio gym in tears; in celebration, in envy, and in an inspired resolve to get where I was. They talk of miracles... The word doesn't hold the weight of how incredible I felt.
From then on my therapists had a rough time keeping me in my chair. I had, and still do have, difficulty pacing myself to avoid the fatigue issues that plague spinal cord injured patients. My body has to work harder than the average bear in order to do the same amount of work as a healthy person. But I couldn't - and still can't - stop. At first they tried to have me use walking aids, but I threw them off as annoyances, my desire to heal outweighing their need for safety. And what did I say to them with a mischievous little wink? “Don’t worry, I’ll be running in no time. Imagine trying to stop me, then.”
So here I am today, almost three years later. I do still have a limp and (okay, okay), I’m unable to run, (for now!), but all things considered, I’m beyond lucky. It was hard work. Incredibly hard. But with belief, passion, and determination, (and a whole lot of love from family and friends), I blew that 10% chance out of the water. I am convinced that if you don’t push yourself past your limits, you’ll never know where those limits truly lie. And I can guarantee you they are further than you may realize. Again, I am proof of this.
My rehabilitation wasn’t all candy and popcorn, though. Complete functionality didn’t magically come back and I didn’t hop, skip and sing my way back to my old life. I had to give up dreams, and make new ones. I had to struggle and compromise: scream, kick, yell at, and finally give in to some things. But I learned incredible lessons. I learned that there is so much more strength in me than I realized. That when you give up dreams the world doesn’t come crashing down. Instead, new possibilities emerge. Fantastic people you’d never meet are found, new passions and desires emerge from the woodwork of your life, and an inner strength that may have been hidden, but was always there, blossoms right before your eyes. Beauty does bloom above the swamp.
Believe in yourself. Push yourself. Be amazed by yourself.
But please, for heavens sake.. don’t break your neck figuring it out! It’s in all of us. It's in you. Right now.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Semana Santa en Sevilla
A rhythmic thrum pulls me from my sleep. My eyes flutter open and there is a thick scent of incense coating the air. I half sit up, still groggy and confused from an afternoon powernap. I don't understand what is going on.
There it is again, a deep bassy percussive boom, rhythmically pulsing through the air. My eyes widen. Semana Santa. I bolt out of bed, my heart thudding with the beat. I was told I had missed all the processions.
Racing to the window I am surrounded by the thick musk of the ceremonial incense. I can't see anything, though.. just what looks like a normal crowd down in the street. But I still hear the drums pulse somewhere to my left, not far off. And even though I am not particularily religious, I feel it in deep. There is something inexpressible about this.
I whip out my camera and race downstairs. I must see this. Everywhere there is all at once crackling excitement and a deep solemnity. The juxtaposition of emotion entrances me. Or maybe it is the incense. Or the continuous thrumming of the drums. I am enthralled.
Then I see, coming down the small road right where I am staying, there is a crowd moving towards me. I see the tips of the pointed green Semana Santa hats gathered at the end of the walkway, swaying slightly in their slow movement. I realize quickly they're coming directly my way. I am on the parade route. I look up and see Kristin's head poking out our hostel window off the miniature balcony of our second story room. I can't believe my good fortune. It is the perfect view.
I dash back upstairs, (or, at least as fast as my gimpy body can take me. I'm limping, lurching, laughing and forcing my body to climb the steps), and burst into our room. My friends immediately move out of the way of the window, (how wonderful they are), and there it is. The procession slowly and stately moving up the street beneath me. A brass marching band strikes up, a blaring trumpet tenure that pulls at the heart in a strange way.
I start to click my shutter, awkwardly adjusting the settings as I amaturely express one of passions.
It is beautiful, exciting, solemn, wonderous.
I can't stop photographing this. The drums continue to pulse deep, hitting my heartbeat.
I am in Sevilla during Semana Santa.
I can't believe this.
Sevilla, Spain - 04.23.11
There it is again, a deep bassy percussive boom, rhythmically pulsing through the air. My eyes widen. Semana Santa. I bolt out of bed, my heart thudding with the beat. I was told I had missed all the processions.
Racing to the window I am surrounded by the thick musk of the ceremonial incense. I can't see anything, though.. just what looks like a normal crowd down in the street. But I still hear the drums pulse somewhere to my left, not far off. And even though I am not particularily religious, I feel it in deep. There is something inexpressible about this.
I whip out my camera and race downstairs. I must see this. Everywhere there is all at once crackling excitement and a deep solemnity. The juxtaposition of emotion entrances me. Or maybe it is the incense. Or the continuous thrumming of the drums. I am enthralled.
Then I see, coming down the small road right where I am staying, there is a crowd moving towards me. I see the tips of the pointed green Semana Santa hats gathered at the end of the walkway, swaying slightly in their slow movement. I realize quickly they're coming directly my way. I am on the parade route. I look up and see Kristin's head poking out our hostel window off the miniature balcony of our second story room. I can't believe my good fortune. It is the perfect view.
I dash back upstairs, (or, at least as fast as my gimpy body can take me. I'm limping, lurching, laughing and forcing my body to climb the steps), and burst into our room. My friends immediately move out of the way of the window, (how wonderful they are), and there it is. The procession slowly and stately moving up the street beneath me. A brass marching band strikes up, a blaring trumpet tenure that pulls at the heart in a strange way.
I start to click my shutter, awkwardly adjusting the settings as I amaturely express one of passions.
It is beautiful, exciting, solemn, wonderous.
I can't stop photographing this. The drums continue to pulse deep, hitting my heartbeat.
I am in Sevilla during Semana Santa.
I can't believe this.
Sevilla, Spain - 04.23.11
Memories from Atocha
I was in Madrid so briefly last time the only thing I remember was this train station. So I sit here chancing brief glimpses through the pupil of my memory. This escalator.. that ticket booth.. that garbage pail in which I frantically unloaded my.. ahem.. Amsterdam merchandise before moving through baggage check.. you know.. routine stuff :p Oh the memories.
Madrid, Spain - 04.22.11
Madrid, Spain - 04.22.11
The streets of Madrid
Madrid, Espana. The streets were quiet this morning, another peaceful awakening for those native to Madrid. The week long semana santa, (easter), holiday affording them a sleepy start to the day. Shops in the trendy Chueca district opened lazily, if at all. Looking up the sky was cloudy and gray - this, I am told by a local, is an anomaly for Madrid this time of year - I suppose we brought a little of Vancouver with us.
We drifted back to the hotel for a seista, (spain is perfect for me, and my need for constant midday naps. It's like they designed life specifically around my injured needs), and then left for a fantastic evening otu with a wonderful man named Gonzales, (Gon-thal-es). Being a business contact of one of my travel friends he was happy to drive us around his city, our own personal tour guide. We stopped for a peek at the Palace and it's cathedral, and then made our way to stand breifly in the direct geographical center of Spain. As a tourist, this was pretty nifty. As an artist, I was bored.
By this time the streets were full and bustling, the celebrators of Semana Santa out in full force. Occasionally someone dressed in the iconic garb; tall pointed hats with only small eyeholes through which to see - not unlike those seen on people in the kkk, but, worn for completely different reasons - could be seen dotting the crowd.
We moved through, dancing with the crowd until we reached Plaza Mayor. Rich in history this large and open square has always been a hub for activity. In the past, bullfights, trials, executions, markets and theatre all presented themselves there. Today it stands bordered by tapas bars and restaurants, their patios spilling out into the square. Here street performers make their living, and I sat romanced by the feeling and indulged in a glass of sangria while listening to Gonzales' stories. Here the artist in me sang.
Soon we tipsily giggled our way to Botin, reputed to be the oldest restaurant in the world. Guided by the forsight of our gracious host, our reservation directed us to the most beautiful section of the time rich building. Down "in the cave" as Gonzales put it, we sat in wonder. It wasn't a cave, so much as a time capsule built of old brick stones and thick rich wooden beaming. Artistically placed lanterns and plates adorned the siimple brick walls, and the romantic lighting lent a relaxed and comfortable feel to our dinner.
We laughed over wine and gazpacho, (which is, by the way, an incredibly fantastic cold soup that I definitely invite you to try, if you ever chose to eat there..) and tripped over the language barrier with the good grace of alcohol and high spirits.
1735. This place has been open as an inn and eatery since 1735. I am still reeling from the thought. My mind drifted as I sat there letting the indulgant red wine settle onto my tastebuds, to how many souls have been in that very spot, enjoying their own Spanish cuisine and company.
History, delicious food and glorious company.. Salud. To experiencing life.
Madrid, Spain - 04.21.11
We drifted back to the hotel for a seista, (spain is perfect for me, and my need for constant midday naps. It's like they designed life specifically around my injured needs), and then left for a fantastic evening otu with a wonderful man named Gonzales, (Gon-thal-es). Being a business contact of one of my travel friends he was happy to drive us around his city, our own personal tour guide. We stopped for a peek at the Palace and it's cathedral, and then made our way to stand breifly in the direct geographical center of Spain. As a tourist, this was pretty nifty. As an artist, I was bored.
By this time the streets were full and bustling, the celebrators of Semana Santa out in full force. Occasionally someone dressed in the iconic garb; tall pointed hats with only small eyeholes through which to see - not unlike those seen on people in the kkk, but, worn for completely different reasons - could be seen dotting the crowd.
We moved through, dancing with the crowd until we reached Plaza Mayor. Rich in history this large and open square has always been a hub for activity. In the past, bullfights, trials, executions, markets and theatre all presented themselves there. Today it stands bordered by tapas bars and restaurants, their patios spilling out into the square. Here street performers make their living, and I sat romanced by the feeling and indulged in a glass of sangria while listening to Gonzales' stories. Here the artist in me sang.
Soon we tipsily giggled our way to Botin, reputed to be the oldest restaurant in the world. Guided by the forsight of our gracious host, our reservation directed us to the most beautiful section of the time rich building. Down "in the cave" as Gonzales put it, we sat in wonder. It wasn't a cave, so much as a time capsule built of old brick stones and thick rich wooden beaming. Artistically placed lanterns and plates adorned the siimple brick walls, and the romantic lighting lent a relaxed and comfortable feel to our dinner.
We laughed over wine and gazpacho, (which is, by the way, an incredibly fantastic cold soup that I definitely invite you to try, if you ever chose to eat there..) and tripped over the language barrier with the good grace of alcohol and high spirits.
1735. This place has been open as an inn and eatery since 1735. I am still reeling from the thought. My mind drifted as I sat there letting the indulgant red wine settle onto my tastebuds, to how many souls have been in that very spot, enjoying their own Spanish cuisine and company.
History, delicious food and glorious company.. Salud. To experiencing life.
Madrid, Spain - 04.21.11
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