BLOGG # 40 "AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR"

It is a well known fact that -another of my "questionable well known facts" dear readers-believe it if you wish- the way your new year unfolds depends on how well you have celebrated the New-Year Eve. If that would be the case, my life the past seventy odd years should have been passed in Hell. I don't know about you, but I have never been successful with my New Year Eve's choices. My childhood and early teens were spent-having no choice - with my religious family in the only proper way- on my knees in church listening to the twelve strokes of midnight and then listening to the minister praying to absolve us of our sins-in German.- not much fun and looking back on those years, especially my teen years, the fact is indeed proven. In my student years I fared not much better. With my usual luck I was often assigned to work the New Year Eve. In fact that is how I lost my then boyfriend, for what boy would tempt fate by not having a date on that most important night thus insuring a sexless year! My early twenties are not remarkable for outstanding New Year Eve bashes. I was married in Greece and every one knows the Greeks start a card playing frenzy the beginning of December which ends in the biggest longest card playing night on New Year's Eve. And you better believe the Greeks definitely hold with the well known fact as the financial success for the whole year depends on the success of that night. Once the children arrived, New Year's Eve became a blur of playing monopoly or something in a desperate attempt to help the kids stay awake until about 10.15 on their hopeful quest to see the New Year in. It was in the heyday of my Divorce Years that I thought my luck would change. Believe me -NOT- my wisest choice then was to elect to work the Eve thus, at double time and a half, I could at least insure an easier financial year. When I did choose to test the New Year Eve waters they were disasters. One was while in Toronto, when five of us decided to go to the trendy opening of a "Harbour Front Bash." By a quarter to midnight we had managed to get through the crush and get three glasses of warm champagne served in plastic glasses. We all left before midnight and spent the crucial midnight hour in a Tram. The worst one was in Vancouver when three of us were invited to a house party in trendy Kitsilano. We arrived at eleven pm-the earliest time possible fashionably. The house was suitably dark with subdued music and packed with aging forty-something people trying to look cool. By 11.30 someone came around with a handful of pills. I recognized the powerful sodium amytal sleeping pill and my friend the pharmacist recognized them all except one which he took home to analyze. At ten minutes to twelve the whole house was quiet with somnolent half heartedly amorous pairs coupled- not a pretty sight. We left before midnight- again! The next morning my friend called me at an early hour and said "get up! I refuse to have my Year destroyed because of that lousy New Year’s Eve. We are going out to celebrate with brunch to change the luck." So we did and drank much Champagne and orange juice. Did it make the new year better? I don't remember. So take my advice and choose wisely this New Year's Eve—and a HAPPY NEW YEAR -your faithful blogger

BLOGG# 39 WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

"We wish you a Merry Xmas” versus "Silent Night , Holy Night" As you know, I am in the Christmas mood as all right living people should be. This means,of course, blatant commercial activities with no guilt attached So here I am tripping gaily off to the malls with unfortunately not a full pocket but with a generous spirit. So far I have been malling- love that word- in Victoria’s two major malls and have even visited the two major ones in the great metropolis of Vancouver—the sophisticated Downtown exclusive Eaton’s mall and the super crass Burnaby one for an orgy of vicarious living in the fast lane. During all these indulgent hours I have been serenaded by the latest “Christmas music” piped in via loudspeakers at the highest volume which blasts my “Hearing–aided” ears excruciatingly. Now I happen to love Christmas Carols –the true ones- and don’t really mind the shrill newer ones either, but it is a pity that I can not remember when I last heard “Silent Night “ in a Canadian mall. I suppose since it became politically incorrect I have not heard it and miss hearing it. The pros and cons of political correctness is not what this is about -not at all- it is about the “topsdurvyness of the cultural customs of our present planet. Years ago when I lived in Greece the Christmas festivities were strictly religious and subdued. The New Year was celebrated with gifts and the western Christmas with great spending was unknown. Two years ago I was in Athens, Greece for Christmas and we did a lot of “Malling.” There are many new huge malls since entering the E.U. and Christmas really underlines this new way of living. The malls in Athens and suburbs were an hyperbole of over the top commercialization—the Santas are bigger, the reindeer cuter, the tinsel more vulgar than any I had seen ever, and all the time –interlaced with the excited shouting of eager Greek consumers, the sounds of the original sacred Christmas music of old, so banned in North America at the malls. Here at last I got my fill of my favourite Christmas music - nary a sound of “We wish you a merry Christmas” or “I am dreaming of a White Christmas” or “Deck the Halls” Why was it that here in Greece I could hear all my old favourites? Of course, the Greek people, happily shopping, had no concept of the significance of these sacred pieces, nor did they listen to the words. No, they happily shopped to their hearts content imbued with the materialistic Western Christmas spirit inspired by these “foreign” and beautiful songs unaware of political correctness or sacrilege. When I left Greece I was satisfied and satiated because I finally had had my fill of favourite Christmas Music. I love our present cultural “topsydurvyness” in our great planet and advise you ,dear readers, to embrace it also and have a wonderful Xmas.

BLOGG# 38 CHRISTMAS IS COMING----

“Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, please put a penny in the old man’s hat --  the time has come for me to get into the Christmas whirl.  So far I am quite pleased.  Haven’t I already held my obligatory pre -pre Christmas dinner party?   Listen to me, my dear readers, it is important to get this under way as soon as possible after the 2^nd of December  because, and listen carefully, it is important to get the right and best people to this important event , and believe me, anyone worth inviting is booked solidly from the tenth at the very latest right to Christmas.  If they are not, it means they are not desirable and shouldn’t be in your Christmas whirl list.  That done and my dinner party was a great success naturally, I can go on to other Christmas acts.  First off is Christmas shopping.  Now I know there are people and I can’t say I admire them, who have done their Christmas shopping before the end of October, and I have a sneaking suspicion they did it on the previous boxing day sale, but I am too well mannered to say so.   The only way to do Christmas shopping is to go out every busy weekend and, along with the huge throngs, push your way through shops looking for inspirations.   I have spent many a happy hour over the years doing this.   Any other method or approach to Christmas shopping -for example “on line “shopping, is a sham and an insult to the Christmas spirit.  Unfortunately my family has grown up and all my grandchildren want is money and all their parents want is spirits of their choice to get through the festivities.  This is hardly a challenge to this veteran Christmas shopper.  However I refuse to put money in an envelope under the tree. No. This year both my grandsons will be getting a big package -and that is a basic criteria - a present should be packaged beautifully and be big.  They are both getting 100% cotton sheet sets.   It is time they learn one of the more important  lessons on becoming adults- that most important one of ” a well made comfortable seductively sheeted  bed”   They will thank me for that knowledge one day.   Needless to say the sheets will have subdued colours suitable for males- no flowers- and definitely not satin!   I take my grandmother role seriously.   So I seem to be really caught up with my Christmas whirl.   Of course in this wonderful time of my life I am excused from any form of Christmas baking and no one expects me to contribute to the obscene Christmas dinner.   All that is left for me to do is plunk my ready decorated tree by the window, stock up on my favourite drinks, turn on the T.V  and find my favourite black and white Christmas movies- The Christmas Carol, The bishop’s wife, Miracle on 34^th street and of course White Christmas- while sipping my favourite red wine.   The culmination of this whole Christmas orgy for me is on Christmas Eve, at dusk, when invariably I get an urge to shop for that last present- because there is no Christmas spirit as authentic as that felt at the last- minute shopping spree.  Struggling down the sparkling streets being jostled by merry or not crowds,  steam puffing out of your mouth into the crisp indigo night, or if you live on the west coast like I do, being entranced by the lights shimmering through the pelting rain and umbrellas is ,for me, the highest delight and I never miss it.  So dear readers join me on Christmas Eve on Main Street and really truly understand the true meaning of Christmas.  I remain  your wise Blogger 

BLOGG# 37 PEARLS OF WISDOM

 Pearls of wisdom                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

After a long hiatus dear readers, I have come  back- like a genie who reappears after some obliging person rubs his brass lamp and comes to dispense precious jewels- in my case precious pearls of wisdom.  Dropping from my wise lips, pouring out through my fingers into my trusty typewriter, spreading through the nether world of the internet blogg space, to be snatched up by my eager readers, I am busily spreading my words of wisdom.  So why “Pearls of Wisdom?’ and why suddenly am I the dispenser of such wisdom?--. Ah dear readers, I have just had my Tarot cards read and I am in the present a “seer” and seers are known to be wise.  To be told you are a “seer” is heady business and my head has definitely been turned.  I walk around with a wise expression waiting for any chance to express this wisdom hoping my friends will tap into it –so far not a bite---so far no one has come to me for advice and if I give any unasked it is not appreciated.  I am not sure why this is and I am reminded of another saying-“cast not thy pearls before swine”   This comforts me but not much.  Why, by the way, do we call wisdom “pearls”? Pearls seam a bit bland- they live in clams and clams we all know are dumb! So why do we have this saying?   Anyway the pearl is created from a grain of sand- nothing more unassuming than a grain of sand-and on top of it all, its existence depends on the pain it creates in the poor clam.  We know also the bigger the pearl the bigger the pain to the clam.  Where is the wisdom in that?   Oh I  know !   Pain begets wisdom.  It seems reasonable therefore to say “Clams of Wisdom” instead. This does not have the same ring to it somehow.

    The only purpose of pearls is adornment and every woman knows to have pearls next to her skin is vastly flattering and desirable- that is not wisdom but covetousness and vanity.   So., to sum up this rambling essay, pearls create  pain- not wisdom – they are a great pain.  I must remember this carefully as I give out my unasked “Pearls of Wisdom” and also perhaps remember that I am not a seer but, like the pearl, a “pain in the ass.

BLOGG #36 YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE

 .Well dear readers, I am back. I flew home from Greece the eighteenth of July and have spent the past two months battling jet lag, a terrible cold and the deep culture shock I always feel when I return to Canada after a long absence. Now though I am back and I think my feet are almost on the ground and my Canadian self is slowly coming to fore as my conversation gets peppered with more “EH’S” and “SO SORRY’S ”and I am more and more wrapped up in my “Canadian Modesty flag” I am getting ready to blog again. Before I continue, some of you lovely readers admitted to being confused because the blogs are not in chronological order. The explanation is  though I wrote the blogs at the right time I was not able to post them in the right order, for various reasons. Several of my blogs were also written in Greece not on my computer but my son’s computer and it was quite a challenge for this “learning how to type” typist especially as the directions were in Greek  especially the spell check. Hence  the many errors.   

       This is the first blog I wrote on the second day in Barcelona, but I found it too close to the bone and too painful to post. I post it now at home.

                                       You are not welcome here in Barceloneta

We were walking down Sant Miquel in Barceloneta where we were renting our apartment when we noticed a big sign on a balcony which said gently “you are not welcome here, you are changing the  cultural nature of the area and are making it too expensive for us to live here”.  It was a lovely Sunday morning, sunny and crisp, we were exhilarated because we were going to the Picasso museum and this little message, which we felt was aimed at us, dampened our spirits. Our reactions were as different as we each are.  One of us found it interesting in a historical sense but did not feel it personally.  One of us took it personally and wanted to “do something” such as writing an apologia and attaching it to the sign and asking for dialogue.  I, on the other hand, took it very personally.neurotic that I am. I knew of course as soon as we arrived in this area that we were part of the “gentrifying” movement in this very historic poor vital politically active area but did not dwell on it.  However, seeing it in writing drove it home with a vengeance. I went into a whirl of depression and unworthiness in a spiraling downward path. This whirl was quite submerged into my subconscious as I immersed myself in Picasso’s amazing early years, and while wandering through the fascinating Gothic district, but it stayed deeply submerged to burst forth in the middle of the night into full blown depression.  I felt acutely part of a problem- the problem of being part of the changing of the natural characteristic of this area.  Indeed we heard that there is an organized group working on the government to stop this pattern of “gentrifying the area- a hundred and fifty year old working class community.  Being part of the problem was only part of it for I felt very comfortable and felt “at home” here and I longed to be belong here.  I spent the next two days dwelling on this issue and the feeling of dislocation because of this, but as I continued going on my rounds-shopping for food, eating tapas, exploring the city, I became aware of the friendly expressions and patience of these people whose city we have invaded and felt their warmth and the sting went out of those words “you are not welcome here” and I came to the conclusion that these persons who wrote this were lucky to be able to write  that sign because they knew  who they were and that they belonged  and were even able to confidently say “you are not welcome here”.

                                   

BLOGG# 35 MELANCHOLIC CAPPUCHINO

Well dear readers, it is the last day I am here in Barcelona. It seems impossible that the time has come to leave this wonderful city and country  We are all quiet as I pack. Is there anything more melancholic than packing one"s bag to leave? I don't think so. For one thing, the bag has shrunk! It always does!  When we pack at home we leave thinking we have room to spare and our bag is too big, but when we leave , the things won't fit in,even if your two friends sit on it. At last this unhappy deed was done and I took a deep breath, it was time to say goodbye- first of all a long walk on the prominade passing my pharmacy where the chemist saved my life by supplying me with three months worth of blood pressure pills which I had forgotten at home, and taught me how to say "Gracias" the Catalonian way, then passing the little dress shop where I bought the best belt ever- I lost weight and my jeans were falling off,and my Barcelona umbrella ,also the market and the myriad little bars crowded with bright young things at tapa hour, and then to my favourite bar the"Absinthe" where I first went for cappuchino on that rainy day. Since then it had become my favourite morning coffee bar and of course tapa bar. I ordered the coffee and told her I was at last leaving and we commiserated together and the invariable "you must come again" was said  I agreed but was it possible? I can't see it but I refuse to look in that direction. Better to think "all things are possible and you never know"  To think I will never sit in the Absinthe drinking coffee and thinking about the meaning of life as I had been doing the past months, or laughing and drinking red wine and eating tapas with my friends seems impossible to bear. So I sit, listening to the music- Absinthe specialises in scratchy early American blues- and the melancholic tunes underlined my own melancholic mood. The melancholic cappuchino was drunk, I paid my last bill, and dragged my reluctant feet back to the apartment,-- Goodbe Absinthe and Goodbye Barcellona.

BLOGG#33 A SPANISH "LEONARD COHEN"

This is my last "musical moment" blogg. The event I want to talk about happened in Bilboa.  We had spent an intense few hours at the Contemporary museum- with some wonderful exhibitions and great contemporary artists such as Anselm Keifer, and after resting in the museum garden for a few hours, we decided to head to our hotel. On the way we saw a group of people milling around a theatre which,according to the billboard, was presenting a poetry reading and Flaminco singing for ten Euros.  We decided to go in even though we do not understand Spanish because Poetry is understood universally. Certainly I was moved. The poet was elderly, lean, with shoulder length white hair and a gentle face. With him was a lovely elegant female singer and a romantic guitarist. The poet read his poems, the singer sang stirring spanish songs after each poem and the guitarist accompanied her.  The audince was delighted and clapped furiously as did we.  It was wonderful. At the end of the program the clapping continued demanding an encore. The singer and guitarist finally returned, she took off her shoes,and started to dance the flaminco. All of a sudden this elegant singer turned into a sultry Spanish dancer. She was fantastic as she whirled and clapped to the beat of the guitar.  The audience was frantic and kept demanding more.  Finally the curtain moved and out came the poet with a beat up old guitar. He sat down on one of the chairs and quietly strummed the guitar and sang a beautiful song of his own. The audience was hushed-you could hear a pin drop. He finished, bowed and walked off the stage.  It was a mesmerizing performance and,I thought, a "Leonard Cohen" one. This night was one of the highest spots of our time in Spain.

BLOGG#31 MUSICAL MOMENTS

Although it seems like all I do here is enjoy Tapas for entertainment, that is not true. I have also had great moments ,inspiring moments, listening to wonderful music in unique places.  The most dramatic was at the Catalonia Musicalle- an incredible ornate baroque building built at the turn of the century- 1900- The outside is a fantasy of ceramic tile, statues and glass. The interior has sweeping marble stairways,hanging chandeliers, ceramic and glass decorations.  The ceiling has huge plaster statues mythilogical creatures and the stage has caryatids to guard and protect. This is all a feast for the eyes, but it was nothing compared to the effect of the concert itself. It was the week before Easter and the programme was the Mozart Requiem. We were enthralled. Inspite of the almost "overkill" of the decorations, there was a sacred and holy feel to the concert hall.  the next " musical moment" was a guitar concert. We saw the advertisement in a flyer- Enjoy a concert with the best guitarists of Spain and free wine for ten Euros. Of course we had to go, but first we decided to go to the famous Four Cats Bar- famous because it used to be the hangout for Picazzo and friends when he was a student in Barcellona in the early 1900's. In that bar heavy with artistic atmosphere, ornate arched stain glass windows at least ten feet high, old stone ceiling, I had my usual tinta wine and a sausage tapa- very good. We then went to the concert through a courtyard with orange trees and statues in shadow to a  cript in an old church. It was a simple intimate place with about thirty chairs and lit by candles. The guitarist was surprisingly a big loose-boned man with longish  light coloured hair and  big nimble fingers. The music was stirring and captured one's imagination with the Spanish songs.  The programme lasted about an hour and after a prolonged ovation we went out into the shadowy courtyard, met the musician and had a glass of-yes-red wine. What does one say as one meets a handsome big-boned Spanish guitarist? Sorry to say all I could think of dear readers is to say " thankyou very much" so I will close now and will talk further on "Musical Moments"
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BLOGG # 32 TAPAS I HAVE EATEN IN SPAIN

Well dear readers, the time has come when my three month excursion to this wonderful country is ending.  I am travelling by fast train from Madrid to Barcelona.  The trip will take three hours and the travelling speed of this super train is 300 kliks per hour.  I have decided to stay in the "Bar car" clinging to the bar as I eat a tapa of Iberian ham and drink my usual tinta wine. I want to enjoy the landscape speeding by while I ruminate on my time here. As I list the high times I have had ,I speculate on which ones have affected me most.  Of course the art treaures I have seen are at the top of the list, but I am sorry to say what kept returning to my mind is the tapas I have eaten.  Rather than fight my plebian mind I have decided to encourage it and will now list my favourite ones. The first tapa we ate as soon as we arrived was hot potatoes-cubed fried potatoes with a pink hot sauce, called Brava potatoes-a favourite with tourists. By the next occassion to eat tapas I was more savvy and ordered crayfish and a dish of mussels on toast and red wine- this  was very satisfactory and for quite a while I only ordered anchovies on toast.  Each bar had a different version of anchovies, sometimes a tiny version and sometimes quite hearty. Eventually I stopped ordering two or three tapas at a time as I never knew the portions and found it was better to order one at a time.  One of my favourites was at an elegant bar  at the  "musicalle" -salmon mayonaise with a tiny half egg.  Another high spot was in an obscure square- never found again- "garlic mushrooms stuffed with Iberian ham.  One day we went to the "Orwell placca"- a square named after the well known auther George Orwell who is famous here as a hero in the Spanish resistance movement. We brought the book he wrote  about his experiences and we planned to read a chapter as a tribute to him. Well we managed to read one paragraph before we began to feel ridiculous. Then we ordered tapas and tinta wine for me and "cava"- Spanish champagne- for my friends. Here I had the lowly tapa- olive oil drizzled on crisp bread with crushed fresh tomato- very hearty and delicious. Another delicious tapa was near the Prado in Madrid, a very expensive bar.  We ordered fois gras and pig's trotter- my suggestion. the fois gras was on two slivers of toast with an ambrosial sauce-which we shared, the pig trotter was the size of a quarter- the hide of a pig's foot surounding a jelly-like substance,and covered with the same ambrosial sauce. Was it good?  Frankly I don't know as it was too small a portion and too expensive. The wine was superb. The most unusual tapas we had was on the last night in Madrid.  I had toast with  roquefort cheese?spelling? with anchovies on top.  Was it delicious?  Yes!. Well dear reader, I can see the outskirts of Barcelona and so most prepare to depart. Adios for now from your well-fed blogger.

BLOGG#31 TWO GALLANT YOUNG SPANISH MEN

We have been here in this wonderful city eight days and have been busy finding our way around it-a city of four million.  Yes dear readers I am in love again.  Unlike Barcelona where we aced the complex transport systems, we can't get a handle on it here, so we spend hours with a map walking, finding our way about. The great outcome of this is that we are constantly discovering delightful surprises- tiny tucked in sleepy squares. old silent churches and of course extremely ornate solemn vast buildings- and  daily adventures. The day of this adventure started very well. We started it by having a cappaccino at the Library Coffee shop- a iny intimate place with comfy chairs and piles of cast off books collected over the years from previous english tourists. I found a delightful book on Gertrude Stein which I eventually bought. This place is run by a beautiful charming young woman.She is not part of the adventure though definitely part of our surprises. The day progressed as usual- hours spent in a wonderful art gallery or museum, the difficult choice of where to have our Tapas and wine and getting lost and found again.  Now dear readers don't think the tapas are the same thriughout Spain. no, here in Madrid you get an appetizer gratis while you wait for your wonderful tapa.-usually chips or olives-my favourite and once tiny fish eggs eaten with a spoon- delicious. As we were wandering our way home we found a theatre that was putting on an operetta that evening.I am not an operetta fan- opera is my thing- but hey why not? so we got tickets.  On the way to the theatre that evening we passed hoards of young men and women all going in the opposite direction, shouting and waving red streamers and wearing red shirts. We decided it must be a political demonstration and finally stopped two young men to ask what it was about. Our spanish is limited and so was their English  but we all tried with gestures and eventually I heard world cup "Ah'I said 'Football' and we all put our thumbs up  The Madrid team had beat the hated Barcelona team and they were now coming back to Madrid right now.  We were all delighted-I am not a football fan- and congratulated them profusely.  At this one of the young men became serious and said  "thank you" and solemnly bent low over my hand taking the tips of my fingers graciously and kissed his own as only a gallant spaniard can do. He  did the same to my friend and waved at us and happily ran off- a young football fan.  Well dear reader there was a silence and then my friend said "wow" we must have a tapa to celebrate this great event.- and so we floated up the street to the nearest tapa bar. The operatta was fine we did not understand much of it - a complicated love affair- but it had flamenco dancing and strumming guitars.

BLOGG# on" contemplating while speeding on a Spanish train"

It is a well known fact that while travelling by air one reads but while travelling by train one looks out the window and contemplates and that is what happened  to me on the Bilboa-Madrid train. The scenery speeding by at 125 klicks per hour puts one into the space of serious musings that leans towards fantasy. As soon as the train hit the outskirts of Bilboa, we saw very fertile land- small agricut\ltural holdings with tiny shacks holding equipment. These little gardens were busily growing all the wonderful  produce we were sampling on our tapas- eggplant, peppers, tomatoes, not an inch of space wasted- how econonomically they use their space, and I thought of my native Alberta where space is limitless, and so little used. I wondered if it is true that geography makes the person. There we are, in that vast land, underproducing, wasteful, also somehat isolationist- and why not surrounded as we are by expansive nothingness. Not that I don't admire and love my prairies and find it exceedingly beautiful-but it must make a different kind of person from the Spanish, with their tiny plots and their clustered villages. When driving through the prairies, through the tiny towns and isolated farms, I wonder what they do in their spare time [Ihave never lived in a small town] and try to imagine them in the evenings walking down the few streets and doing- what? I imagine neighbours discussing weather, some gossiping, and sometimes perhaps having a secret liason in  an abandoned building. Now as I look at the passing Spanish villages I wonder how geography affects them.  Does it make them frugal,industrious, secretive, passionate and gregarious. I wonder too what they do in the evening?  I  imagine them discussing the weather with neighbours,gossiping and sometimes having a secret liason in an abandoned village. Well there you are-a a complete conundrum- perhaps we are not so different after all. Then I came out of my musings with a jerk! What am I thinking of!! Of course what they are doing in both places thousands of miles apart, is watching  television- probably here a Spanish version of  "The American Idol" I groaned and then became aware we were climbing into the mounainous region and then saw Picasso's Bulls.

BLOGG #29--PICASSO'S BULLS

It is time for another blogg, and today my subject is about Picasso's bull.  We had spent four glorious days in Bilboa and it was time to go to Madrid -a five hour journey.  We boarded the train in the early morning  in a vast station , broken-hearted at leaving this beautiful city. The train was a slow train- Spanishly speaking-at 125 kilometers an hour. My friend and I both chose window seats to see the scenery. Madrid is situated on a very high plain, so we had a long climb ahead of us. As the train climbed we passed beautiful pastoral scenery punctuated by picturesque Spanish villages until at last we reached the mountains of  bare rock interspersed with  green meadows.  I watched entranced as sheep, goats and cows passed by and then I saw it. I jerked out of my trance and gasped "Picasso's bull!"And there it was - majestic- standing proudly with alert head, his gorgeous horns poised ready for the picador. I have spent a lot of time studying Picasso's bulls and there was no mistaking this one-that was not all- in the pasture beside him were three more bulls placidly grazing! I turned to my friend to show her but of course with the train at 125 kliks they were gone. We decided that this event really needed a celebration so we weaved down the swaying train to the Bar Car where they sold chips. doughnuts, KitKats and of course, Red wine and Iberian ham in crusty rolls. so we stood by the rail hanging on for dear life, nibbling rolls sipping the wine while discussing Picasso and his bulls as we gazed at the passing scenery.-an absolutely perfect day.

























































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BLOGG #28 FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN

Well here I am again after a long pause. We have left our beloved Barcelona for Bilboa -I with breaking heart to fly up to Bilboa to visit the Gugginhiem Contemporary museum.built by the famous archetect Gehry. I had no expectations but to see fabulous contemporary art. We taxied down onto  a  green plain , whisked down a  steep valley by taxi and entered a teeming prosperous city with a lovely river meandering through it. As my friend and I wandered through the city looking,of course, for tapas, my friend said" there be burghers here" and I knew exactlly what she meant. This was not a decadent city like the one we just left,  no, this was a serious city with a serious  mayor, and serious citizens.  It was May 1st so most shops were closed but we were't disheartened. In this Basque region with it's complex history of ironworkers going back to the Iron Age,there was bound to be a tapa bar open and there was one a seious one with solomn chairs out on the street. Here there was no flirty waiter taking your order, no, you had to brave the burghers at the bar to place your order- I got quite confident at this dear readers. The tapas were the best and most varied of any we had sampled, and the wine good. We sat back and looked around at the citizens, the lovely well kept streets and the interesting archetecture not unlike Switzerland-perhaps that was the wine- and down every street we could see the low mountains. O I said "I want to live here. I love this city" The four days we stayed increased my love affair, ////oh my inconstant heart. I am in love with Athens, London, Paris and now Balboa.-and why not? This city is famous for it.s food ,wine,and ingeniuty and it's sense of humour- high on my least- They call the Gugginheim the"Goog" and the big flower dog by Jeff Koons The Poop. Needless to say the Art was wonderful, the history of Bilboa fascinating and a wonderful show all about the Spanish civil war heartrending. the show is called The Mexican suitcase and if you want to know why I recommend you go see it. . so I say goodbye from Bilboa                                                                                                 

BLOGG# 26 RAIN IN SPAIN

Rain in Spain.

It has been overcast and raining for two and a half days now, and the gloom has set in- outside and in the flat. I am alone –my friends having gone to Valencia- and I sit in front of the window watching the rain come down.  It rains differently here than at home.  Here it comes down in torrents lasting a half hour or so, the water pouring down, carrying bits of flotsam, the gutters overflowing and gurgling down the street-a very melancholic sound.  Everything is quiet, no one is on the street until the torrent is over, then they peek out furtively and hurry on their errands quickly before the next torrent.  I sit and watch this for a long time until the rain eventually lessons and then I rush out too- out of the depressing atmosphere inside.  The streets I choose to walk down feel abandoned, the shops are shuttered, the little gay Tapa bars closed, their deck chair piled carelessly inside the tiny bars.  Even the market is closed and the square is empty of it’s usual crowds.  The narrow streets are dripping wet and shaded in greys.   As I walk along listening to my footsteps, I feel I am in a black and white movie circa 1939 or 1940- a heroine on a mission.  It is cold and the wind gusts strongly through the tunnel- like streets and squares.  I am wearing all  the clothes I can-pajamas under my slacks, several shirts, wool pullover, wool cardigan and my new swish raincoat with the high collar, a bright red wool scarf wound round my throat. I do not wear my purple crochet beret. I have a new umbrella with Barcelona written all over it.  I walk to the beach and watch the waves crashing against the rocks.  The wind is powerful and nearly pushes me over.  I decide to seek shelter and find a small coffee shop and order a cappuccino.  The waitress speaks to me in French.  I obviously do not look like an American tourist.  As I sit there I reflect on why I am in Barcelona.  Why was it so important for me to be in Europe?   Why do we in North America desire to come to Europe?  . Europe is not easy.  It is hard.   Every time I come I am reminded of it- how hard it is.  We have to walk miles, we have to figure out the complex transit system, figure out the language- mostly unsuccessfully- and we are always dressed wrongly and eat at the wrong time.  But we still come.  For me it is necessary to satisfy my soul.  Why?   I don’t know- perhaps because we are searching for the homeland of our parents?   But my parents came from Bassarabia not Spain   I ponder on this as the rain pelts outside.  I find no solution to my reflections and decide to leave the subject where it belongs – in the unanswerable void.  I call for the bill and walk home -not much wiser- but know that I feel satisfaction in my soul.  This is how I spend my days in Rainy Spain.   And so I again, dear readers, say Adios from rainy Spain.  Your traveling blogger  Laurie.  

BLOGG # 25 HOT CHOCOLATE

    Hot Chocolate                                                             Well, here I am dear readers in Barcelona Spain.  After a long silence your stay at home staid blogger has hoisted her skirts, fastened her boots, collected her traveling gear and left home to meet adventure in foreign parts. Barcelona was chosen as it has all the characteristics essential for adventures.  It is a port, it has a fascinating history, wonderful food, astonishing architecture

and great art ranging from Gaudy and Miro to contemporary.   The other important thing it is known for is high quality chocolate.  This then is the subject of my blogg- chocolate ,-rich dark chocolate- the pinnacle of  decadent swirling darkness-thick and aromatic that takes you back to the longings that encapsulates all the childish dreams of Christmas, Easter bunnies and chocolate sundaes rolled in one. That, dear readers, describes inadequately the level of delights of the Barcelona  chocolate. I happen to be on a restrictive diet and promised faithfully to all concerned that I would follow it and I did quite remarkably well considering the Spanish cuisine. However on Saturday last I met my “Waterloo”  As we wandered down the Rambla- a street that is dedicated to every sort of temptation, my friends who I am travelling with suggested we go to their favourite chocolate shop- a lovely historic place with stained glass and art deco furnishings.  I had already imbibed one glass of” tinto” wine [red] and eaten two tapas- one of prawns and one of mussels, so was floating down the street when this was suggested.  We entered the shop leaving my brain outside. Very easily ‘Hot chocolate” tripped off  my tongue when giving my order. The hot chocolate arrived.  This, dear readers, was not the murky beige lukewarm drink with a lone marshmallow floating on top as we are accustomed to.  No, this was of a dark brown steaming thickness, a liquid like molten brown gold, a cross between melted chocolate and the dreamiest pudding imaginable. I lifted the delicate china cup to my lips and was immediately transported to a blissful place.  This bliss lasted the half hour it took to drink this ambrosia.  We then –wisely as it turned out- decided to head home.  As soon as we arrived disaster struck!  My body, true to the predictions of my medical advisors, reacted predictably.  For two days I suffered for my indulgence.  I am now a saddened and wiser person who will definitely eschew chocolate—at least till the next time.  Do I regret my lapse in wisdom?   No dear readers, I do not!   And now your auntie blogger will give another wise piece of advice to remember.  “Always live your life with no regrets”   Adios  Laurie