The view across the presita from our rooftop in Alcocer

The distance is only about three miles. A short drive down a very bumpy cobblestone road from San Miguel to Rancho Alcocer. Its a drive we’ve made repeatedly during the year and a half it took us to build this casita out here. But actually its a lot further.

The charms of San Miguel de Allende are by now legendary. With its delicious blend of old Mexico and contemporary vibrancy, it has all the elements for an exciting stay in Mexico. We discovered it to be an incomparable place to visit but seriously flawed as a place to actually live. Through a series of surprising happenstances, we ended up building our house in a small village just outside town. Did I mention “very fortunate” happenstances?

We thought of that distance on the drive back from San Miguel last night after visiting with friends there. A short distance to drive reveals a huge difference in kind.

It takes no time at all to remember the difference from there to Alcocer. The light pops off the hills here through the crisp air and jumps back to me in sharp delineation. The rains of July have turned the hills green and they rise up against white clouds and a too-blue sky. In the other direction, the old dam holds the lake above the valley that falls to the far plain, then draws my eye on away.

The silence is predominant, but not pure. It is punctuated by the coo of a dove, the crow of the rooster, the squeal of some delighted child in the distance. But it hovers and enfolds and embraces. Without it, the small rush of wind that ‘hoools‘ in the windows might not be heard. It provides the character to this pause.

The dogs that bark at night and the speaker trucks that occasionally blare through the village reel me back in from the idylic. But they are only some small bit of bother. The massive might of the peacefulness remains. Its strength becomes mine over time.

Stefanie models the Talavera tile kitchen

When will your house be done? When are you moving in? How long dear Lord, how long? When you build in Mexico you have to get ready for the hurry up and wait. No schedule is firm, no crew is consistent, every budget is filled with bubbles and shadows. But "poco a poco" the thing gets done. You watch it happen day by day and the changes are so incremental that you sometimes miss the effect. Certain features appear rather rapidly and you go "Wow, look at THAT!"; a spiral column to support the front porch roof, the shaped bricks that form the top edge of our stepped stair rail, the finial at the top of our onion-dome cupola. But the mass of changes accumulate slowly over the course of days and weeks. That and the fact that our focus is always on whatÕs still left to be done all militate against awareness that any real progress is being made.

Stefanie poses with our friend Floyd in front of our house in Mexico

The best way to see what has evolved is with the help of friends. It’s time like these when you just need to borrow some eyes. We invited a group of friends over a few days before leaving for Florida even though our construction site was still a mud and gravel lot, the exterior paint job half finished, the second floor is still a work in progress with tile-lights-bathroom in various states of completion. But inviting them over was the right thing to do because those borrowed eyes helped us to see what we’ve actually done. Where we see an unfinished structure set amidst a chaotic heap of construction rubble, they see a little gem of a house with no mention of those other distractions. I’m always looking at what’s left to be done instead of what’s right there before my eyes. The accumulation of details needs a fresh set of eyes to appear whole.

Hermilo does the brick rail on the staircase

Our friends were generous with their praise for our efforts. All of them had experience with the distinctly Mexican process of home construction, to one degree or another. We had good conversations up on the roof patio, comparing notes and swapping horror stories. But I benefited most by being made to see the whole thing at once, as something to be appreciated and celebrated, instead of just a pile of unfinished details moving glacially towards completion.

The cupola. Mario said "This is art" This is right.

The first floor is largely done; the terracotta tile is sealed, the walls are painted. Our bed frame and headboard arrived a day before our mattress. And we had one lovely night sleeping on it before we had to leave for Florida. The refrigerator was moved in just as our cooler arrived from our rental casita. The built-in closet was installed the same day our car arrived with a pile of cloths on hangers. "Just in Time" construction. And just in time to leave for Florida and another rounds of art fairs.

Paint on walls of the dining room. Cat installed in the chair.

We’ve left the house to our work crew; Mario the head maestro ("El Mejor"), Hermillo the other magnificent maestro, and Diego and Francisco our two helpers who endlessly mix cement and carry it up to the maestros. Oh, and our cat. We’ve actually built the place for her I think. Paintbrush will get to enjoy the fruits of our efforts more than we will the next two months. She’s got several prime sunny spots to lounge in and a place to look out the window there. Our previous rental casita had virtually none of those kitty amenities. And she’s got Margarina to come every day to tend to her needs.

Our full crew will be working for two more weeks while we’re gone and after that we might just have ourselves a house. We’ll return in April to touch up paint, put some plants in the ground, put our feet up. Take a look around. Start to "see" the place.

In general, things don’t turn out the way you planned. Did you notice? If you can just accept that on principal life becomes one sweet kick in the pants; an adventure, instead of ruthlessly inconvenient. The problem arises from the fact that you have to make plans in the first place. We focus on our well laid plans in order to confront our fear that otherwise life will just happen to us in some random, chaotic fashion. So we diligently make plans; to change jobs, to move to a new town, to travel to foreign countries. But in the process life happens to you in some random, chaotic fashion anyway. The trick here I guess is to make plans but also to plan to be flexible. And definitely don’t be too surprised when life forces a hard right just as you were veering left.

I talk a lot with Stefanie about us being “plan junkies”. Since we’ve made the big break with our past lives (the previously mentioned “great leap into the unknown”) we have seemingly been in continual plan mode. And one wild plan begets another. In the context of our current lives as international gypsies our recent plan seemed perfectly reasonable; drive up from San Miguel de Allende, Mexico to complete a small circuit of art fairs in south-central and midwest states of the U.S., spend a few days in between settling details on our other house being built in Paducah, Kentucky, and then head back to Mexico. All done in roughly four weeks. One late detail that we tacked on was leaving the car in Longview, Texas to ride Amtrak up to Chicago before starting the art fair circuit. We needed to pick up some choice pieces of artwork from a gallery there as well as some we had left with our sister Kathy.

Well… the drive up through Mexico went without a hitch, unlike our previous trip (read “Art Fairs and Car Repairs”). We were sailing along north of Houston when we cracked a bolt on our alternator bracket and began thrilling to the sound of a loud “Schreech!!” heard coming from the engine during acceleration from a dead stop; the classic engine noise from loose belts. At our first repair shop stop the mechanic pointed out the problem and said the broken bolt would need to be drilled out which would cause us a delay of at least a half day. Our train was leaving from Longview that evening around 7 pm and we still had a three hour drive ahead of us. It was around noon. After the mechanic described the problem as being caused by the broken bolt sliding out of position (it was a hinge bolt on the alternator bracket) I suggested that he just “slap some goop on the thing” to keep the bolt in place for a few hours until we could get to Longview and have it repaired properly during our week in Chicago. I was half joking in desperation but after a moment’s thought the mechanic shrugged and said, “Might work. Can’t guarantee it in writing though.” Sensible man. I’m not sure what made me even say it other than my experience with the many ingenious rigs that our Mexican friends devise to solve problems on the fly. It actually worked like a charm and helped us get up to Longview for the train… eventually.

Our drive up from Houston was a wire-to-wire thrill ride because we needed to maintain an average speed of over sixty for three hours plus. All I remember from that segment is a white-knuckle-gripping Dave at the wheel of our heavily loaded RAV4, zipping down hills at over eighty on a rolling Texas highway yelling “Ya gotta go eighty downhill to clear the top going at least 45!!!” or something. Stefanie thought there was a reasonable chance that I had become a danger to her livelihood. While her priorities were on continued earthly existence, my sole purpose in life was to make it to the Toyota dealer by closing. Survival came second.

There were some further antics ahead as we approached Longview. Mileage signs toyed with our emotions by tacking on an additional 3 or 4 miles here and there. A seriously screwed-up Mapquest printout had us driving down a small weed-choked road near the edge of town as the clock ticked mercilessly down to 5 pm (their posted closing time on the web). Stefanie is trying to get me turned around and headed back towards town while I’m insisting that “Mapquest says it’s right here!!” and she’s saying, “Does it really look like a car dealer might be around HERE somewhere???”

Heading back into town we used a bit of blind guesswork to stumble on the place, pulling into the dealer’s lot just after five to read “5:30 pm” posted as the new closing time on the service department’s glass door. I strode into the office high on some naturally occurring substance in my blood, announcing “We made it!”, and blurting out “Your closing time on the web is…”, and “Take a look at this set of crappy directions from Mapquest!”. The kind people in the office had a somewhat different energy level. They just smiled and waited for this invading force to settle down a minute before asking, “Help you with something?”

Sometimes the biggest obstacles are internal… as in internal combustion. Our well-traveled vehicle gave us great service and no surprises on the trip to Chicago and back over Christmas. Such is the case with aging autos that recent history provides no guarantees for future performance as our second major trip began less auspiciously. We left San Miguel for Florida in the early morning darkness and began to notice the windows fogging up, a problem that was eventually diagnosed as being related to a failing water pump. In between San Miguel de Allende and the border at McAllen, Texas we spent some quality time with two mechanicos who helped stitch the old Toyota Rav4 together with various temporary rigs (some of which may have included actual bailing wire) just to get us to Los Estados Unidos. We spent an extra night in Monterrey at a sweet little fleabag while we weighed our options after enduring a second rig job by the highway. The trick for these guys is to get you moving again as quickly as possible with the best fix they can devise, after siphoning off as many pesos as possible from their grateful unfortunates. I shouldn’t sound ungrateful since they are extremely resourceful and without them we’d probably still be broken down by some Mexican highway. By Monterrey we were zeroing in on the water pump issue after a few wrong turns down thermostat and head gasket dead end lanes. With the previous rigs in place we only had a small leak to managed by packing extra water and stopping every hour or two to cool down and refill the radiator. In that fashion we finally limped across the border into Texas. The car spent about 28 hours in the Toyota dealer’s shop in McAllen where we had them fix the water pump and change the timing belt, which was about 40,000 miles overdue for replacement.

The "Golden Crunches" along the Gulf Coast

We left McAllen, miraculously just a day behind schedule. Driving through part of Katrina country we saw plenty of twisted and broken trees, and blue tarps covering roofs still in need of repair. The commercial property came back the quickest of course but there were still many tall blown-out signs visible from the highway. Remarkably normal though, considering the magnitude of the disaster and the fact that this monster storm ripped through here just six months ago. The causeway bridge at Pensacola east bound on I-10 is in the process of being replaced and we inched along across the old, patched up structure. Our Super 8 in Baton Rouge was still pretty trashed out, not from the storm directly but instead from the refugees who crowded into these rooms and made a provisional life here for quite a while. That whole place may need a gut rehab after the punishment it took from being a full-time family housing facility for five-plus months. There were even some displaced people still living there in the process of sorting out their lives.

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Stefanie’s watercolors on display at Ft. Pierce, Florida

After another overnight in Tallahassee we drove down to Sarasota for the first art fair where I got to hang my batiks on our newly fashioned display panels for the first public showing. Stefanie and I began the first of many discussions we would share over the course of the next four weeks regarding the look of our display. We were very pleased with the panels themselves, crafted in Mexico as a team project between a local metal fabricator and us. We got lots of compliments from other artists who were curious to know where we got them. The other features of the overall presentation will be refined over time, adding nice name plaques, sign banners outside the tent, maybe even some accent fabric to add color and a friendly softness. All in good time of course. This trip was the great shakedown cruise though Florida, to “learn by doing,” to see what worked and what needs to be improved.

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…she didn’t have to wait long for the crowd

As for the show itself, it actually turned out well for me. We talked with many people who were fascinated with my approach to batik-making. Many of the guests who came in to chat were exceptionally knowledgeable about the batik process and art in general, really a sophisticated art fair crowd. At the very end of the show on Sunday a couple came back for a second look at my “Market Watch” batik. She wanted to know more about how to care for the piece and, since it is not framed with glass, how it would fare. I reassured her that it would not be a problem; I told her to keep it out of direct sunlight, and that it was treated with water-resistant spray so any accidental moisture would just roll off. She said she really loved it and her husband said, “Take it down!” Of course I was tickled to hear that since it amounted to my biggest single sale ever at $2,200. In the process of wrapping it up and completing the credit card transaction I asked what they did for a living and he said he was a “storm chaser’, working at construction contracting in the hurricane corridor along the Gulf coast. While we initially had concerns about the amount of discretionary funds available for art purchases due to all the hurricanes, that sort of turned it on its head. Depends on which end of the stick you sit I guess. By now “Market Watch” is probably well settled into its new Victorian home in Alabama.

A Lesser Blue Heron goes after lunch near the shore

That was the major highlight of my two art fairs since the second show in Tampa provided absolutely no sales. I met another painter named David in Sarasota; he also showed his work at the same Tampa art fair. He offered good counsel for me with tips on improving various aspects of my presentation. He told me that the no-sale shows (called “zeros” on the circuit) come with the territory and over time you begin to sort out the promising shows from the not so promising. The goal, of course, is to have more of the former than the latter. Ultimately, it’s all a crapshoot since it all falls to the luck of the draw and a profitable show one year can be a bust the next. A sculptor in the booth next to us in Sarasota said that after ten years doing these fairs he was still trying to figure it all out.

A White Ibis in a high perch at Ding Darling

Stefanie’s shows in Marco Island, Fort Pierce and Holmes Beach garnered some sales and she sold her beautiful watercolor “La Maceta” to a lady who teaches with her sister. That piece has been a favorite of mine since she created it. I told the buyer quite sincerely that she has excellent taste because I really think it is one of Stefanie’s best pieces.

Two Great Blue Herons look to filch fish on the beach at Captiva

So, our first spin through the Florida art fair circuit is over. Our relatives in Ft. Myers were gracious and generous hosts for us in the days between shows. The weather was spectacular with no rain and very little wind (the bane of Florida art fairs). Our little art fair travel kit held up well and with some small repairs will be ready to go in the fall. We even got in some quality wildlife viewing time with a memorable day spent on Sanibel Island viewing various critters at the spectacular wetlands reserve called Ding Darling.

We’ve returned to our casita in San Miguel now, seeking forgiveness from our emotionally starved kitty cat, getting on with the next phase of our lives here. That will include some long hours happily creating more art, completing our small house on our land in Alcocer, and attuning our senses more acutely to this life we have in Mexico.

A tiny green tree frog came to visit the other night, just one of the many improbable creatures that are here amongst us that I seem to be focusing on these days. Turning on the light in our bathroom I caught the quick blurred movement of a greenish spot no bigger than a thumbprint. Looking more closely, I spotted a bright green frog clinging to the wall, flattened and in a disk like one of those tin clickers you get for parties. I gathered him up in my hands but he squirted out a couple of times before Dave could open the front door for his release to freedom into the night.

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Our blessed casita

Similarly, a small praying mantis startled me when I sniffed a large pink rose blooming along our front property wall. He moved from behind the blossom just as I brought it to my nose, putting us eye-to-eye. After such a rude introduction he ambled off onto the rose leaves where his sweet green blended more perfectly, awaiting other more fruitful encounters, no doubt.

"Our"palacial veranda -percs with our rental casita

The grapevines outside our door, I’ve found, are home to a couple sphinx moth caterpillars. Big as a man’s thumb and about 3 inches long, their grayish-brown skin with diagonal stripes along their sides makes them difficult to spot as they glide along the thick vines. Our maid’s little boy, Eddie, pointed them out to us as we stood last week contemplating whether or not the peaches on the tree outside our front door were ripe enough to pick. After Marta swept them off the vines with her broom I had to convince her that the mariposa nocturna (moths) that these rather frightening creatures would eventually morph into were worthy of saving. Their horn spot, meant to look like an eye, gives them the appearance of a Cyclopes, though in reality they are blind. I picked one up and placed it back on the woody vine and Eddie followed my example with the other, though not before menacing his mom with the little wormy.

Horseplay at the side of the presa in Alcocer

The improbable indeed has seemed to have crept into our lives of late. Weeks of looking at property around San Miguel after our hoped-for lots in Colonia Mexiquito fell through made our prospects of finding something reasonable within our price range and specifications seem all the more questionable. We were turning over every rock but finding little to inspire us. Worse, our time frame to get underway seemed to be slipping rapidly away from us. Obviously we could not go on indefinitely looking for property without consuming the very funds we would need to build our house.

Our little bit of paradise in Alcocer

After some days in a funk over our situation, we began to hash out the possibilities before us. Maybe San Miguel wasn’t right after all, we wondered. But the question always came back to where, if not here. Paducah, Kentucky crept into the conversation. It seemed a likely candidate because of its central location and its artist relocation program. Our trip there last summer had piqued our curiosity but hadn’t quite convinced us. But now, with the sands seeming to shift under our feet, it deserved another look. A peek at their website showed promising progress within the community with new artists and intriguing houses at reasonable prices.

Toward the presa from our property

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Flocks of sheep graze the slopes of the Picachos

It’s funny how when a decision is finally reached, especially one that seems almost inspired, doubly when it’s been within arms’ reach all along, that the rest of the puzzle falls into place. Realizing the rightness of Paducah for this point of our lives as a home base for establishing our art careers in the States, within hours we also found the right piece of property to suit us in San Miguel, a place to fulfill our dream of an artists’ retreat. One that is a mere fraction of the price and twice as big as anything else we’ve looked at in all these past months. And if all that weren’t enough to convince us, the charm of the surrounding village of Alcocer and the bucolic countryside trumped the deal. Like the little green tree frog, the improbable and unexpected had landed in our laps.

We were invited to a birthday party for a four year old boy, a son of some friends of our former landlords. We went along with another couple who are renting the same downstairs apartment that we lived in last fall. The boy’s extended family live in a small village about a half-hour’s drive west of San Miguel. The entire village was moved to higher ground years ago when they dammed the river to make a reservoir . As we drove out there we could tell that the recent rains had only lightly colored the hills with fresh green. What is supposed to be a drenching, daily thunderstorm this time of year has so far only materialized as infrequent showers. The reservoir is of no use to them because they don’t have the water rights and the money isn’t there to put in the pipes and pumps.

Meeting Boniface’s sister and her burro

We turned down a dirt road by the town’s shuttered clinic which is staffed only on weekends, and pulled up alongside the Aunt’s house. Boniface and her sister and brother came out to greet us, “Boni” gave us the welcome of special guests by offering her cheek for kisses. We entered the property briefly to meet their burro and some chickens ambling in a tidy little courtyard. The brother brought out a small stone sculpture of a dog he had made and gave it to our friend. It was a special order for someone back in San Miguel that she was enlisted to deliver. The hound was a sad-eyed mutt but sensitively carved and we passed it around with compliments to the artist.

Riding to the maize field

The party took place up the road a little further at a modest house with a wonderful view towards the Presa de Allende (the reservoir) and San Miguel behind. We met the entire family of aunts, sisters and grandparents. We also met the honored guest, the serious faced little four year old who was to have his “cumpleanos” celebrated that afternoon. Tables and chairs appeared from inside and we gathered around for an early supper of tomato-y chicken soup and crisp tortillas.

The Presa with ruins of an old hacienda

The grandfather was an unending source of merriment for us as we listened to one story after another emerge from him accompanied by his smiles and laughter, all directed at us through piercing, playful eyes. Stefanie and I tried to follow the Spanish with our growing (still brutally limited) language skills. With key bits of help from our translating friends, we were able to mostly follow. And certainly the spirit of joy in the story-telling was not lost on us.

Stories and smiles from grandpa

After “tres leches” birthday cake (a fantastically moist Mexican concoction) and “Happy Birthday to You” (in English, which really tickled our hosts), we headed out into the campo to see their bean and maize plots. Listening to our friends talk about the dry weather and seeing the obvious concern on their faces, it was apparent that the maize crop, which had been planted a second time this year, was again hanging in the balance. We headed down a dry canyon and up onto the far side where the maize plot sat, small shoots inching up tentatively from the dry, rocky earth. Spread out in front of the field was a spectacular landscape. Below us was the lake in which stood the ruins of an old hacienda’s grain storage tower. The old pueblo’s church was there too, but it held to dry land and at the water’s edge.

Dave gives the slingshot a whirl

Beyond we could see San Miguel up against the side of higher mountains and all around lay the rolling desert foothills, glowing in late-afternoon sun. The grandfather, in fine mid-sixties form, entertained us by whipping rocks into the far distance with his rope-style slingshot. He talked about having rock fights in the past with others on distant ridges and about how he could rangle cattle back onto the trails with a well-aimed pellet. The guys all had to have a go at the handmade sling. I let two rocks fly and I think I felt something pop in my shoulder on the second.

Trying to "make it rain"

The grandfather regained the sling and let go on one last rock, sending it high into the sky. Someone yelled “Make it rain!” and we all laughed. Returning to the village, Boniface recalled years when the dry arroyos would fill with the runoff from abundant rainfall. This year is different as they are made to sit in their new town high above the reservoir, to watch the skies and wait.

 

Stefanie composes in Green Park, Athens

Our earthly circumnavigation fades to the background of my mind these days with visions of our wanderings crystallizing in the quiet of night just before drifting off to sleep. Outside the realm of the unknown the memories are friendlier. The difficulties of travel, the discomforts of lumpy beds, the uncertainty of food and lack of routine all fall away. In the safety of knowing the story’s “end” I linger over the images inside my head from our 10 weeks of travel. I’m finally free to just enjoy myself rather than worrying about the next thing down the line.

Colorful Singapore street market

 

Stefanie observes a ceremony at a Hindu shrine in Bali

That I am not an easy traveler is not surprising since I’m a worrier in general. So it fits with my character that travel makes me apprehensive.  Countless people have told us, “Oh, you’re so brave!” Believe me, I’m far less resolute than I appear. Yet there’s a duality that I find myself confronting. That is, my curiosity about new places rubbing up against a certain fretfulness about the unknown. Experience tells me that once I’ve arrived in a new place and had a chance for sleep the novelty of the adventure usually wins out. I can say I’m glad I did it, pushed the “what-ifs” aside and sought my curiosity’s satisfaction.

Dave relaxes for a lunch break outside the rainforest in the Cameron Highlands, Malaysia

 

Winter weather outside Grand Bazaar in Istanbul

Over the weeks of travel we learned the need to pace ourselves. We constantly repeated the mantra, “You can’t see everything.” We learned to pick and choose, prioritizing our hearts’ desires against what would be nice to see. I learned that every day need not be crammed with some sightseeing activity. In fact some of my favorite spots include times of relaxation in very ordinary places, like Green Park in Athens, where the locals stroll and the old men play endless games of backgammon. We went there twice during our two days in Athens and it felt like a luxury to sit quietly in a park and soak in the sun and do nothing more than share the daily lives of ordinary citizens. The week before in Istanbul I realized that our trip was a sort of marathon, an act of endurance as much as a trip of a lifetime. Part enjoyment, part pain and drudgery.

The train station at Pythion, Turkey and Greece border

Across Europe Dave focused on train stations. There’s something timeless about them; people arriving from and departing to distant places, and waiting eternally. The analogy to us was clear. Yet I will always remember us with our backpacks, Dave with the larger two, me with the smaller ones, strapped on front and back, and always – always – my wide-brimmed hat atop my head. I see Dave ahead of me on the sidewalk and my reflection in the store windows as we make our way to our destination. There’s a determination in our step and a keen attention to what’s out there. It’s as if to say, we know where we’re going. Though we didn’t always. Part of the adventure, part of the fun, was making it up as we went along.

Our street at night in Baeza, Spain

              

 

Donkeys carry hides past our pension in Fez, Morocco

And I had to remind myself of that. Especially as the time progressed and I grew weary of strange eating schedules and unfamiliar hotels. Yet in the end I find that’s a good deal of what makes me glad we did this trip. Knowing I can overcome the unknowns, combat the doldrums of waiting, survive the minutiae of planning, and wait out the occasional case of “nerves” that overtakes me. The payback was huge and well worth all of the downsides. Walking the rice fields of Bali. Snorkeling in Amed. The relief of a morning thunderstorm in Singapore. Gliding up the Mediterranean from Greece to Italy. Our intrepid hike through the countryside of Ronda, Spain. Watching the donkey train outside our pensión in Fez. One memory gives rise to the next. It’s good to be home but it’s just as good to know we went.

A game of backgammon in Green Park, Athens

Green Park in Athens was full of families pushing strollers and little knots of men playing backgammon. Or else performing a curious ritual that we would see again in Italy and Spain. It’s a kind of walking discussion. But I don’t think it’s anything like what we do as we walk, which is most often idle chit chat or casual appraisals of what we see. These older men, in twos and threes usually, proceed very slowly, almost as if the stroll is mere pretense to the real purpose. I would watch many of these perambulations over many visits to the park. The men walk in rapt discussion, often accompanied by hand gestures, or else with hands firmly clasped behind the back. Suddenly they would pause as one man would try to drive home a point. Then they would both stand still and face each other. One man would gesture with a bit more animation, hold forth while his companion(s) would focus intently on him. After a period of about a minute or so there would be a brief exchange, maybe a shrug or two, a “this or that” gesture by flipping over the hand, and then the walk would continue. And always, an inward focus on the subject at hand passes between them. The conversation was the focus, not the walking and the watching.

Conversation is the focus in Baeza, Spain

I’m struck by the character of these gentlemen. They seem to be engaged in a foil with the important thing. They parlay, rejoin, sally and engage each other with opinion. The exchange of views is the only priority. A good day is one that includes this event. A productive day, one that has the highest value is a day spent in conversation with a good friend.

I’m reminded of the ancient philosophers of Greece, as they walk today in their steps. Though their discussions may not always reach to those realms, they operate in the same spirit. The salient features are there; an intensely inward focus, the need to express one’s views and to seek out a response to them. The desire for clarity.

The forum at the train station, Baeza, Spain

Thoreau says that man is not meant to do everything but man is meant to do something. These older gentleman have passed from the doing which characterized their active lives into a “doing” that expresses itself in simple, elegant conversation.

Post Office as palace

Madrid is all grandiosity. Great statues soaring in the sky atop practically every other building you pass. Not just some meek, chaste Madonnas but fabulous sweeping chariots and horses chafing to get underway, towering muscled Hercules posturing to the masses below, winged creatures of vast imagination in frozen animation. If that’s not enough, the buildings themselves are adorned with further flights of fancy – dancing cherubs, leering gargoyles, gilt angels, wrought iron vines just for the hell of it. Even the post office looks like a palace. It’s Michelangelo gone mad. It’s a Roccocophile’s paradise. Compared to Florence, with its glow of ochre and sienna and age-old Renaissance style buildings, Madrid feels more brash and daring. It grabs your attention and demands a response, an interaction. It asks you to dance, and a strong partner it is.

Roccoco everywhere!

Statue and all lit up on the Metropolis Building

Dave and I glided into Madrid on a hotel night train from Marseille, France the day before Easter. The streets were quiet in those early morning hours, as the Madrileños were catching some shut-eye from their late night out as usual, no doubt, and week-long festivities of Semana Santa, the week leading into Easter. Our first walk that morning out of our Gran Via hostel took us past the Metropolis building, with a winged statue atop, and through the winding streets of the Centro into the Puerta del Sol. Considered the place to start your exploration of the city, Puerta del Sol is the true center of Madrid, as well as Spain, as it is from this point that all distances are measured. Before travel exhaustion overtook us, we managed to make our way along the Paseo del Prado past the Prado museum itself, the holy grail of artists, just to get a glance at it and breathe in the atmosphere, saving its exploration for later. By the time we trundled back to our room for naps, Madrid had taken claim to our hearts.

Making keys in the Sunday Rastro

Besides the architectural art and world-renowned institutions, Madrid also has its share of quirkiness. One of the most popular spectacles is the Sunday Rastro, a weekly flea market that stretches for blocks on end and attracts locals and tourists alike. It’s wall-to-wall people on the order of Taste of Chicago, and not for the faint of heart. You can get every kind of clothing as well as knives, jewelry, Spanish linens, small electrical components, and you-name-it, besides having keys made on the spot. We joined the strollers while keeping a close eye (and hand) on our valuables but took a pass on the merchandise. Another form of entertainment we found was running the gauntlet up our street from the Puerta del Sol to our hostel on Gran Via past the working ladies who positioned themselves along the way both day and night. Juxtapositioned across from them were almost always 3 police cars and 6 municipal police who plied the street as well. Their simultaneous presence would suggest some unspoken truce or understanding. After all, the ladies simply stood, leaning against the buildings or talking among themselves. All those restive women with nothing to do. Which is not to suggest that we selected a less-than-desirable part of town. Granted, besides the shoe shops and cafes there were a number of sex shops as well. But this was no Combat Zone of Boston fame. All of the above rubbed shoulders with four-star hotels and pricey department stores, along with a constant throng of people moving about the whole gamut every night as part of the dance.

A little baudy, a little naughty in Plaza Mayor

One night on our way to find some little place to eat, out and about at the earliest possible hour of 8:00pm for dinner fare, we came across a violin, cello, and viola trio unceremoniously positioned against a department store, adding a classical air to the early evening. The music glided and swept around us, and we stopped to the side along with others to listen. Dave seemed to think the piece was Pacabel. “What does it sound like?” he asked. To my “ear” it sounded like the wonderful strings of viola and violin with the bass of the cello. But not recognizable as Pacabel, which I know. “It sounds like something classical”, was all I could say. Soon the song ended and they began another. “Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons,’” Dave informed me. I couldn’t recall “Four Seasons” though I knew I had heard it many times before. Suddenly there came a little flourish of notes in a marked cadence, the sound of strings in a familiar coupling, and what before had been merely pleasant became a memory released, a lost friend found. Without thinking, the tune sprang from my lips surprising even myself, and Dave and I embraced to share this unexpected poignant moment.

Ah, surprising Madrid. It swept me off my feet.

Flamenco, the grand dance of Spain

Instanbul’s Blue Mosque at sunset

After Asia, Europe seems like another civilization. OK, it is but still… something seems like a long lost friend here. I’ve always pooh-poohed the European travel thing, having a strict bias towards Asia, beginning with my stay in Nepal many years ago and gathering steam in visiting other points east. Arriving in Istanbul from Penang, Malaysia (via Bangkok) I had a flash of familiarity, and it was from the comfort of things western. Not like McDonald’s or Pizza Hut. Asia had those to little effect, but western style architecture, signage, words I could sound out and at least have a hope to understand. Also a somewhat less chaotic (to me anyway) style of urban living, no more horse carts, chickens, open butcher shops with sides of pork getting hacked up. Penang was full of these sites, as well as being hot, almost too hot to enjoy. An Asian city like Penang seems all a jumble, somehow just managing to sort itself out. A gloriously mad tussle, the teeming throng.

A streetcar moves down an Istanbul street

And then, after a long flight from Bangkok, through Dubai, we got to experience the sudden transition of being in the west. We came into Istanbul late and it was a dark taxi ride to the Sultanamet neighborhood. The darkness offered only glimpses of the huge mosques; Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, that with Topkapi Palace lend the characteristic profile to this city. Their palpable, timeless presence, almost hidden by the night were waiting for us as we emerged from our modest room in Ayasofya Hotel. We came out onto the cobblestone streets of old Istanbul into a clear-crisp late winter morning. A full strength revelation emerged as well; the realization that my prejudices regarding Europe (we were, after all, right on its edge) were proving false. The familiar-exotic axis still swung distinctly towards the exotic with the morning call to prayer coming from the many minarets and the multi-domed mosques looming overhead. But it was a glimpse of something familiar inside all of it that was comforting somehow, something that looked like me.

Sweeping up in the cafe below Topkapi Palace

My bias away from Western Europe is that it seems to be pretty much the same as America. I always assumed that travel to London or Paris would be like travel to some new region of the States. Language differences aside, I’d still see malls, lots of shiny new cars and all the same haggard parents chasing after similarly indulged children. That type of travel was poison for me; until now I practiced strict avoidance. This entry into Europe via Istanbul was then the perfect antidote. I was pleased to be discovering an exotic western city. The same… but different. something about the “not quite familiar” is even more tantalizing and intriguing then the patently strange.

Preparing to tour the Blue Mosque

The vision of Istanbul that first morning was a craggy, weathered version of my own culture. Not a precise projection back, more like a distant relative from the old country. One with a different history, different language, even different behavior. But one who still has the familiar compliment of facial features that conveys relatedness.

The Blue Mosque

The city carries the vintage of buildings from the post-war era; tattered now but full of character and personal scale. The sweet shops with their honey-soaked pastries, sandwich stands and compact general stores pocket the streets. The faces on the pedestrians are severe as people get about their business, but smiles appear too in small knots of conversation here and there.

Hagia Sophia

All this “pace of life” stuff is common. The grand plaza, shouldered by the two great mosques, is singular. To stand in the middling space and turn first left, then right is to have two competing, yet complimentary, visions. The Blue Mosque is sedate; slate-blue grey and geometrically symmetrical. Precise. Harmonious. Resonating perfectly in the music of the spheres. Hagia Sophia is muscular; warm, orangey-red tones and massive. Brooding. Powerful. A much more earth-bound structure but sublime and full of enchantment and mystery as well. After visiting both it was fun to stand there between them and look first left, then right. The same. Different. Left. Then right. The guy selling those tasty sesame covered bread rings from his cart probably thought I had a tick. But I knew that I had only this moment to attach them to memory. And this city with its contradictions and continuities, with its tantalizing similarities, was giving me something.