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.