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

BLOG # 24-"THERE ONCE WAS A CROOKED MAN WHO LIVED IN A CROOKED HOUSE"

There once was a crooked man who lived in a crooked house and dear readers, there is a woman with a crooked smile who lives in my house and that woman is me!  We all know the Mother Goose rhyme about the crooked man in the crooked house with his crooked cat and now I am the woman with a crooked smile though no cat.  Today my theme is about “Alignment”. This is a very fashionable word at present- my car wheels need alignment, all our “central cores” need alignment-observe my daughter practicing her Yoga for alignment, my grandson, a serious rower doing his demanding “core exercises” towards alignment, to say nothing of the very popular “Pilates” and the meditative Alexander techniques -all of which in my long life I have attempted not too successively to do. But now I have to work on a new and completely unexpected alignment.  I have, of all things, a crooked jaw!   When I open my mouth to it’s greatest extent my face is crooked and I look not unlike Marley’s Ghost   This disconcerting knowledge of my nonalignment all came about because I was having earaches in my right ear and a marked inability to open my mouth widely..  When I told my dentist he sent me to a “jaw physiotherapist”, a delightful man who joyfully asked me to open my mouth widely while looking in a mirror.  To my horror my mouth listed grotesquely to the left -not a pretty sight.  Evidently I have been clenching my jaw thereby weakening my left jaw and tightening my right one. Now I have a whole new exercise program to add to my busy life involving many tongue depressors and crooked yawning exercises to straighten myself out so I won’t resemble the crooked man.  I even have photos of myself with twenty tongue depressors clenched in my mouth that my thoughtful daughter captured on film. The whole point of these difficult and comic exercises are to help me realign my jaw and return my face to it’s normal pleasant appearance.  I do these exercises four to five times a day and while I do them I contemplate .the importance of good alignment not only on my jaw but also in a more broadening sense, especially on the world stage where poor alignment is so apparent and  so crucial to correct.  The real area where alignment must be seriously considered is in the imbalance of the “haves’ and “have nots”

Now, there is an area where we really need a good alignment physiotherapist- a compassionate enthusiast like my physiotherapist, to straighten everything out. Unfortunately, on the world stage this isn’t really as successful as the straightening of my jaw.  What usually happens is someone with good intentions makes a few attempts at alignment this works for a short period and then even worse imbalance occurs and crookedness takes over. Of course, speaking of crookedness, I need to mention briefly “Politics” Now there is an area where Straightening out is essential- but I won’t go there, instead I will say goodnight and “good alignment”.

BLOG #22 WRITER'S BLOCK

  Writer’s block

It was bound to happen dear readers.  I have been feeling a heavy cloud on the horizon looming closer and closer- a heavy oppressive gloom engulfing me like a shroud. I speak dear readers about that inevitable attack on writers that is impossible to avoid.  I speak of course of that frightful plague called “THE WRITER’S BLOCK. Yes it has finally happened. I sit here staring at a blank page, my fingers flexed in the time-honoured typist position, and nothing happens. It feels like my fingers are buried in muck-like mud resembling prairie gumbo, and I am unable to move them.  I wonder what my writer mentors- Earnest Hemmingway, Kurt Vonnegut, Günter Grass would do in this situation. Do they tear their hair in despair, drown themselves in Whiskey until blackout or go on a rampage?  You will notice that my mentors in this case are all male. I have no doubt about this. This is not what happens to female writers. There is no way Jane Austin would ever have suffered from “writer’s block”. NO- Jane would have calmly hidden her manuscript behind the clock on the mantelpiece, smiled brightly and have gone into the kitchen and washed the dishes or mended the socks. Not for her the luxury of writer’s block and despair. This is the prerogative of male writers, and obviously, me. So what shall I do? Shall I follow in the footsteps of my male writer mentors and cause a riot or shall I follow my dear female writer mentor Jane Austin?  I think neither. I think instead I will go and paint my toenails a glorious bright blue and bask in the sun. I am so-oo glad I am a woman!  So dear readers don’t fret, I will not despair, drown my sorrows in whiskey or spend a week in an opium den! I will do the sane female thing of beautifying and adorning myself and let the writer’s block take care of itself and so I bid you goodnight until happier times.