Category: Uncategorized

Almost Finished Editing


“Out Of The Chute” is almost ready, a little more editing, tweaking and fussing about and it will be ready to go to the printer.

“Out Of The Chute” protagonist, Fancy Lady, got her name by mistake and has spent most of her life living with it, up to it, or surpassing it. At age fifty, she finds herself as an out-of-work attorney/executive who climbed her way up to the top of the ladder in the entertainment business. Follow her friends, family and memories as they open her up to understand what life is once you get off the rat-wheel to success.

In a time of disappointed entitlement, when assumptions of achievement lie tattered next to worn-out Gucci shoes and threadbare Armani suits, her story has the ring of universality. Like ‘Everyman’ who thought they were destined to sit at the table with the wheelers and dealers, failure is not the only option. “Out Of The Chute” is about picking up the pieces, throwing out the arrogance and starting over, this time as a participant in the real world.

News Flash: “Cave Dreams” novel now available on Amazon


Lynn Cave Dreams 2

My first novel is now available on Amazon.com at this link http://amzn.to/1f9ERLH  or just copy   Cave Dreams by A.R.Donenfeld-Vernoux  into your browser.
“Cave Dreams” is the story of an unlikely meeting between Aldo, the last survivor of a clan hidden in the mountains of Corsica for thousands of years, and Lenya, a modern woman raised in New York City, trying to recover from overwhelming grief at the loss of her husband in an accident.
Aldo comes from a culture unbiased by modern life, technology, religions, wars, and civilizations; from a time when god was a woman and sex was holy.  He was trained in the rites of sacred sex and the belief that giving pleasure to his mate is the highest honor and power he can give to his goddess.  Now he is alone, searching for the woman with whom he can complete the mystic circle of life.
Can Lenya overcome the prejudice and arrogance of each civilization: the belief those who came before have nothing of value to pass along.  She is a grown woman, is it too late for her to understand another way of thinking, to explore and glory in her sensual side?
This author believes “Fifty Shades of Gray” is one of the most important books in recent years because it opened the discussion into female sexuality, a topic hidden in the shadows for generations.  The HBO series “Masters & Johnson” has taken up the cause with it’s own slant, another crack into the secrecy of the subject.
“Cave Dreams” follows two people from opposite spectrum of  civilization, beliefs, and culture, further separated by thousands of years of experiences.  To each, sexuality has very different meanings.  What could possibly happen?

Day 4 Barcelona In The Sun


The alarm clock went off, I think, but I didn’t hear it. Jet lag and angst got the better of me. Carli slept in too, but by eleven AM we had eaten breakfast, dressed and were on our way out the door. The sun was brilliant and drying off the last of the puddles left from the day before.
Carli had been studying the bus and metro diagrams on the map she bought. Between the two of us, we figured out how to find the tourist bus line we had spotted through torrential rain. They offered a two day ticket with the ability to get on and off at any of their stops, take the time to look around and get on the next bus at no extra charge. A good deal. We toured all afternoon and got a feel for the city and learned it’s history through  a recorded eloquent female British voice. In the past, I’ve taken tours where the recorded voice was so garbled or spoke the language so poorly I had no idea what they were talking about. Not the case with Barcelona Tourist Bus orange and green lines.  At most of the stops there were small cafes or bars where you could use the facilities for the price of a beer or soda and a couple of tapas.
The different neighborhoods are fascinating, especially the old ones in the original parts of the city. Many of the houses on the main streets of Passig Gracia and Las Ramblas are opulent in an upper 5th Avenue Manhattan way; original owners vying for prestige with the fanciest house. On Passig Gracia the styles range from Gaudi masterpieces through every architectural style known to man from the 18th century through the present. The area of Barcelonetta, originally an ancient fishing village, appealed to me with it’s narrow streets and smaller homes. The scale was comfortable, homey and gave the feeling of a true neighborhood. Carli is attached to the area where our apartment is located and I have to agree because of its accessibility to bars, restaurants, bakeries and tiny convenience stores packed with everything under the sun. After four days we are already buddies with the Indian family who run the closest mom and pop market and the nice young man at the telephone store.
Taking the tour bus gave us a quick tour to decide areas we want to go back and poke around in some more. There is a big flea market we’ve targeted and a leather factory outlet. After all, we need something to go with the new shoes we bought on our visit to Corte Ingles.
It happened to be my birthday, so Carli took me for dinner at the highly touted Pudu Can Manel by the harbor. Supposedly the place to go for paella. The first course arrived, a typical Spanish salad of lettuce, chunks of fresh tuna, hard boiled eggs, carrots, and succulent garden tomatoes. The next course was seafood paella filled with rice and very few hidden shrimp, calamari and some mystery seafood that is probably better left unknown. I found it disappointing. It was tasty but rather dry. Dessert was a flan out of a package.
But the place was just the sort I remembered, like our “local” favorite seafood restaurant in Fuenterrabia (now Hondarribia to satisfy the Basque). Sparkling white tablecloths and shining glassware, walls wooden and graced with pictures of owners going back to the 1800’s, service brusque and competent, all typical of Spain’s myriad of old style seafood eateries. It was a very pleasant evening all in all, and the fact that it was capped off by an ice cold shot of peach liquor was icing on my birthday cake.

Don’t Get Me Started…


While our country teeters on the edge of financial ruin and Tea Bag Republicans point their fingers at citizen ‘entitlements’ to complain that we have our hands out holding the begging bowls, no one seems to have any interest in the facts.  Who really is holding out the begging bowls?  Let’s examine the truth. …and yes, I know it’s the Tea Party, I also know what a ‘Tea Bagger’ is and feel it’s a more accurate label.
 
Social ‘entitlements’ that are being targeted for reduction are Social Security and Medicare.  These have been funded over the working life of the recipients by payroll deductions that were supposed to sacrosanct, put aside solely for this purpose. Surplus could be ‘borrowed’ by the US Government with an obligation to the recipients to pay it back.  To date the US Government owes 2.7 trillion to those citizens who have paid into this fund, i.e. ‘recipients.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_Security_Trust_Fund  Where are the ‘entitlements’?
 
The US Congress is established under the Constitution.  It also provides that “No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States: And no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall, without the Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument, Office, or Title, of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince, or foreign State.” 
It’s specificity is to underline the fact that an egalitarian form of government was to be established where all citizens were to have equal representation.  That was later further underscored by Abraham Lincoln in his Gettysburg Address 
“- that we here highly resolve these dead shall not have died in vain; that the nation, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people by the people for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
 
Once again, on August 26, 1920 with the passage of the bill providing women with the right to vote, the egalitarian basis for the US was ratified.
 
However, Congress then set itself apart from the rest of the citizens by providing for itself retirement and medical plans far different from those available to the citizens they are elected to represent.  See below.
 

http://www.senate.gov/CRSReports/crs-publish.cfm?pid=’0E%2C*PLC8%22%40%20%20

 
http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2012-01-19/congress-s-six-figure-benefits-add-to-674-billion-u-s-pension-shortfall.html

At the present time, Congressional ‘entitlements’ will cost the American people 674 billion dollars for the shortfall in Congressional pensions that have to be footed by those people they represent…and accuse of looking at the government with their hands out.  An ordinary American now is asked to wait until age 70 to retire, while Congressmen who have served 20 years can retire at age 50 and have to wait until age 62 if they have served 5 years or more.  The pensions that they receive are for life and are not reduced by any other income they may receive, contrary to basic Social Security if taken early. 
 
Then, there are a few questions I want to ask…why are oil companies receiving tax benefits?  The US screams about oil imports and rising prices but in fact the US is becoming the worlds largest oil exporter.  
Exxon reported a quarterly profit of 16 billion dollars for 3rd quarter 2012, or 12%.  It seems to me that a company with that kind of profit is a real welfare queen to cry for tax reductions.  How about we increase their tax on the oil they sell off shore and reduce the tax on US sales…provided that doesn’t find it’s way off-shore through shelters.
 
AIG is advertising that they are back in business and have paid the US taxpayers back in full plus a profit.  What is the status of the other companies the US taxpayers have funded during the financial crisis?  How about the banks?  Wall Street financial institutions?  Those account for the biggest welfare queen scam in the history of our country.  How many and who have paid us back?
 
Entitlements are an interesting term.  If you really take a hard look at the financial machinations that have gone on under the Bush administration and some of which have followed through to the current administration, it is hard to give credence to the rage of the know-nothing Tea Bag claimants.  It’s on a par with the woman who screamed that she was against Obamacare but don’t let the government touch her Medicare.  
 
My take on ‘entitlements’ is to put Congress in the same pot as the ordinary citizens, forget any ‘nobility’ they claim, they are as ordinary as the rest of us and let them know it.  It might be interesting to see them squirm when we want to reduce their ‘entitlements.”  
 
Also, I propose jail time for any member of any US governing body who personally, or through any family member, trust, company etc. receives money or benefits while in office or within ten years thereafter from any source that benefited from a vote cast by such person.  If they go to work for another company on a full time basis, like be at their desk like any other employee, they are off the hook.  No speaking engagements, ‘fake consultancy’ or other scam to be paid off when they are out of office.  I’m sick and tired of elected officials taking ‘baksheesh’ for their votes.  We are worse than a 3rd world country with the graft scored by Congressional members.  They are actually limited to 15% of their compensation from outside sources, a prohibition against ‘honoraria’ and certain other sources of income.
 
For pity sake, tax the hell out of the oil companies or just nationalize them like they had in Mexico.  They take a natural resource from beneath our country, why not have it owned by the American people?  That way the government gets all the benefits from price increases and foreign sales.
 
Here are a few more ideas to mull over.  Make advertising of prescription drugs illegal like it is in other countries.  The main cost of pharmaceuticals is advertising and research.  Actual production in most cases is minimal.  Then open the market for prescription drugs to companies outside the USA and allow them to compete in sales.  There is no reason for the escalating cost of drugs other than that the government permits it.  This will certainly help bring medical costs down substantially.
 
Please legalize drugs and stop the war on drugs.  The annual cost state and federal cost is over 41.3 billion.  It is estimated that 85% of prison costs are drug related.  If the US government taxed drug sales at the same rate as alcohol, the increased tax revenue would be approximately 46.76 billion.  If you add savings and new revenue together it comes very close to 100 billion dollars, give or take a couple of billion.
My take is to legalize the whole bundle of drugs.  If someone wants to snuff themselves by drugs, I say go for it!  That’s their decision.  But think of the ramifications…no drug pushers at schools, no ‘excitement’ of doing something illegal.  In countries where drugs have been legalized, drug use has typically decreased, deaths from drugs and HIV from sharing needles also decreased, taking the experience of Portugal as an example.
My suggestion is to take some of that 100 billion and spend it on education instead and perhaps even a little on rehabilitation of addicts rather than jailing them.
 
This would also save Mexico a lot of angst, but might increase the crime rate when the drug cartels find they have lost their best client.
 
And I’ve just begun on the lying, conniving crooks who screw the American people…don’t get me started!

Gypsies In Town


In the war years of the 1940’s, I live in the small town of Mamaroneck.  Gypsies come to town most summers.  There’s an open field near Mamaroneck High where they set up camp.  They arrive over several days in cars with tents and a few trucks with trailers.  Many arrive in closed wagons, painted and decorated in once bright colors and, to me, mysterious looking scrolling designs and flowers.  Those wagons are pulled by large, well-cared for horses.  Gas is scarce during the war and hay is cheap.

Mom says they are families that come together for marriages.  She warns the Gypsies steal children and I’m to play in the backyard while they’re in town.  I want to go to the Gypsy camp but I’ve only seen it when we drive by.  I’m not allowed to visit there when Mom and Nan go.  They say I’m too young.  The two of them whisper together about the camp and it’s possible dangers: pickpockets, child-stealers and black magic spells; but it doesn’t stop the two of them from going to have their fortunes told and later whispering together about their future.

When the camp is in town, a very handsome Gypsy man comes to our street with a pony cart and a bell he rings.  We know he’s here to take us kids on rides for a quarter.  One time he has a monkey on his shoulder too. Mom lets me ride in the cart all the way down the block and back.  The pony’s buff colored with a long brushed light blonde mane and a braided tail.   It’s glossy fur looks like gold in the afternoon sunlight. The cart is painted shiny black like my patent leather Sally pumps, with some delicate designs in gold paint.  The seats have red plush cushions with gold fringe.  The harness and fittings are polished leather with silver.  To my innocent eyes, it’s the height of elegance.

I take my seat alone in the cart, touching the softness of the red plush spread around me.  The driver turns to me and smiles, his big black mustache is long and soft looking—much handsomer than Pop’s grey and red one—and his teeth shine white against his dark skin.  He flicks his whip over the pony’s head and we begin our leisurely trip to one end of the long block and back. He walks next to the cart with a whip in one hand and the other on the harness to make sure the pony doesn’t steal me, a delighted little girl with blonde curls and a missing front tooth.  He walks at a slow pace, the pony clopping next to him, and I notice he has a ring in one ear, pierced.  I’ve never seen a pierced ear before.  It’s almost as fascinating as the pony and cart.

As we turn the bend in the road,  Mom and Nan and our house disappear from sight. The big maple and oak trees on either side wave their canopy over Stuart Avenue and change it from a country street to a far-away place.  The sun filtering through the leaves dance shadows across my private coach, surely a magic spell transporting us…somewhere else.  The lazy summer air fills with the drone of bees, birds and insects, the hum of a few cars or an occasional truck left with enough gas during these war years to drive the Boston Post Road, and the clop-clop of the pony on its slow journey.  Several orange and black butterflies come and visit this strange entourage.

The Gypsy turns back to make sure I’m still there.  I’ve been very quiet.  He smiles.  I smile back.  A tear slides down my cheek.  I’m so thrilled with this adventure I can’t control the joy.  All by myself.  No one else to share the magic with.  I imagine for these special moments I’m transported beyond imagination into the reality of my mind: a princess riding in a magical coach.

We go to the corner of Sophia Street and turn around.  A dog barks off in the distance, probably chasing something down by Guion Creek.  No cars pass us.  No one is on the street or in their yards.  We have the whole road to ourselves.  I look around our neighborhood for the first time with total clarity and see the Victorian houses, the large three story monsters with verandas that lace around them, gliders on some, others with a chair or two to catch the cooling summer air in the stifling heat of summer.  Two story houses, country farm style sprawling into lawns that languish down the hill in back to touch the creek.  A 1920’s French replica with stucco and odd shaped roof-line, and then our house, Mom calls it a Dutch Colonial.  Mom and Nan standing on the sidewalk talking together as they wait for me to return from my journey.  I can see them as soon as we clear the bend.  They turn and wave.

My coach stops in front on the welcoming slate step, crooked and raised on one end as if punched by a giant’s fist, but really a root from the tall maple that shades our front walk. Mom and Nan have been joined by Gongie, my grandmother.  They stop talking to greet me, their princess, as is my due.  I’m smiling so hard I fear my cheeks will crumble under the pressure.

Feet once more on solid ground, I turn and grab the man around the waist and hug him as  I whisper so only he can hear, “Oh, thank you, it was especially wonderful.”  He seems shy and a bit stiff but he pats me on the head and says nothing.  Do Gypsies speak our language? I wonder.

“Did you have fun?” Mom asks as she hands the man a quarter, plus a generous ten cent tip.

“Oh yes.”  My eyes must still be shining, not dimmed by the fading magic of the ride.  “It was wonderful. Thank you Mom.”  I sigh.  A princess must be gracious.

He turns the cart back down the street and I wave goodbye to him.  He waves back with a grin.

I give all three of them a hug before I sweep majestically up the walk.

It takes almost two days before the glow of my journey fades.  By then the Gypsies have packed up their tents and wagons, gone to places unknown.  I cross my fingers and with eyes closed, wish very hard that the Gypsies come back again next year.

See also at:  www://curmudgeongalbaja.blogspot.mx/

De Witt Stetten


My earliest memory of going to ‘the city,’  Manhattan, was to visit my godparents, Alice and De Witt Stetten.  They were best friends of my mother and father and I was lucky to have arrived a girl, otherwise I would be sporting the monniker, De Witt, today.  I prefer Alice.

They lived on Central Park, one of the large apartments built just after World War I, the great war to end all wars.  The city was growing by leaps and bounds and it was chic to overlook Central Park with its lush greenery, winding paths and hidden treasures, lakes, statues and meadows.

The apartment was as large, if not larger, than our big house in Mamaroneck.  I remember best the living room—almost cavernous with a grand piano in one corner.  I never heard anyone play it.  Maybe someone did once, there was a son, DeWitt, a daughter, Margaret, perhaps one of them took lessons as a child.

On the piano was my favorite piece in the whole apartment, a sculpture of Uncle De Witt’s hands, by some famous sculptor of the day.  Just the hands to less than an inch of wrist.  In repose, one hand lightly over the other.  It was done in marble, a light color, lighter than skin but only slightly.  There was a delicacy, a gentleness in the pose, the veins prominent on the top and visible as shadows when the light hit a certain way.

The adults would be on the other side of the room laughing, having a cocktail or a cup of tea, chatting about whatever nonsense adults chatted about.  I wore a plaid pleated skirt, white blouse and navy jacket, white socks and black patent leather sally-pumps.

I sat on the piano bench and stared at the sculpture.  My blonde hair was to my shoulders with the top piece twirled and twisted into a bun.  The center of the bun was left open, a convenient coliseum home for my pet turtle, George, who spent most of his life living there.  At least when I was on the move.  If I had to go, George went with me.  Seven year olds can be very demanding.

My mother knew how to keep me quiet and well mannered, several books always did the trick.  I learned to read at an early age and was happiest with my nose in a book. But I wasn’t interested in the books, George and I were fixated on the hands.

The fingers were long and tapered, but there was a strength that seemed to glow around them.  I could imagine them doing wondrous things, and in fact, that was what attracted the artist to them.  Uncle DeWitt was a renown surgeon. I sat on the piano bench and marveled at how one man could fix people and how another could make a piece of marble into a representation of something so life-like, so human.  Neither George nor I knew how it was done.  But I appreciated the skills thinking as only a child can, that they were both a kind of magic.

Mexican Patio Concert


The sliding glass door opens to my patio. Dog beds scatter the cracked stone floor while leaves skitter across, stopping only for a detour around a chair, a table, anything in their way.

Seconds ago rude birds intruded on the mornings silence in cacophony almost painful to the ears. Now it’s quiet. Cat on the prowl? The birds have no respect for the four small patio dogs, knowing their jumping skills are limited to the dining room table when no one is looking to guard a cake left in the middle, a wedge cut out perfectly for a snout to forage in.
There once was a Jack Russell Terrier on the patio who, in his youth, could snag a bird mid-flight, faster than an eye could blink he’d have a grin on his doggy face and feathers out each side of his mouth. He’s long gone, beyond bird memory, and when he was on this patio he was too old for bird-snagging, slow with arthritis and half blind with age.

No, must be a cat on the prowl.
The school across the street is quiet. No singing, no children’s voices lilting “Frere Jacques” over the fence and across the street. Quiet. Where have the birds gone?
A car passes in the street. One of those non-bird-catching dogs jumps on a tarp protecting the outdoor loveseat. It’s plastic creaks and crumples in complaint. Somewhere close, maybe a block or so away, a loud bang breaks the silence left by birds. Backfire? Firecracker? Gunshot? Neighbor dogs bark up and down the fraccionamiento, but the patio dogs are silent. They save their voices for skateboarders. The bang must be too far away, outside their zone to protect.
An electric saw rumbles nearby. Could be home repair. Maybe a new roof to brave the winter rains? Maybe a new house bringing a new family to a once empty lot. New dogs to join the Hound Chorale as they stake their verbal claim.
But cats challenge both birds and dogs in the contest of who or what makes the most noise. Late at night, on the verge of sleep, lights out and two patio dogs snuggled close, the howling, yowling, crying, screeching begins. Generally close—outside my bedroom window. For some reason unknown to me, my corner attracts skateboarders and fornicating cats. The skateboarders own the day, the cats the night. Thankfully, the dogs remain respectfully quiet when the cats sing. Perhaps they are jealous or maybe enjoy vicariously the thrill of mating. Perhaps they don’t give a fig about cats.
One day we had a feral kitten in the bushes. It was thrown there by someone. To feed the dogs? Maybe they thought with four dogs one cat wouldn’t be noticed?
Two days, two friends, many scratches and several cat traps later this three-quarter pound angry soul was out of the planter and into a home where it was appreciated. Neither the dogs nor I appreciate cats. It was cute, as kittens can be. No thanks.
Still no birds. An occasional car. Children’s voices chatter far in the distance. A loudspeaker on a truck chants its presence in and out of hearing. The saw quiets.

My coffee cup is empty. Time to take a shower. No patio concert to miss.

Colors of a Room


Today I sat in the living room at home in Mexico. I’ve been working for the last week to repaint most of the downstairs.  Today I spent putting things away I wanted to keep and making a pile to go to the Cruz Roja, Mexican Red Cross, thrift shop.  The Cruz Roja pile is not as large as I want it to be, but there are certain things I can’t bring myself to pitch out.  Things with memories of people long gone from the earth but still populating my brain.  The ashes of Tom, my Jack Russell Terrier who traveled the world with me for over seventeen years.   I keep meaning to put him somewhere, but since I’m never sure how long I’ll be someplace, I don’t seem to want to let go of him.  What if I move?  Will he be lonely?  Shall I put him on the hillside overlooking the ocean next to my husband?  At least then they’ll be together.

So I sat in the living room and looked around.  Really looked around, seeing everything in different places and with new colors. No point in writing a memoir, anyone with two eyes and half a brain could tell all about me just from sitting there.  Each wall is a different color.   I don’t care for rooms painted with a sameness, all walls one color, one choice to be surrounded by.  Not for me at all.  I like variety.  Had four husbands, uncounted lovers.  Lovely men, at least for the most part.  Most have died.  One lives on, now over ninety and still going strong.  I’m still here and don’t seem to be going any place soon.

The wall next to the street is yellow.  Not even one color yellow, but several, glazed, rubbed on by hand with care, circular directions, never up and down, no straight lines.  Layer upon layer of yellows piled one on top of the other, each one shining with it’s own power and glow.  When you enter the room that’s what you see—yellows.  Sun.  Light. Open.

The wall with the books, DVDs, vases and memorabilia is painted green.  Light, spring, green tea, delicate sprouts, everything growing.  Not too many layers here, a bit of glaze just there…and there; enough to give it texture.  I don’t much like flat either. 

Facing the green and branching off the yellow is the piece de resistance…pinky color.  It was hard to get just the exact hue, a touch of white, a soupcon of marigold, a bit of peony, a cup or so of glaze, all mixed together to go over a base coat of the softest lightest blush, the color of innocence, youth, first love,  the blush on a virgin’s cheeks. Layer upon layer tenderly rubbed in to give depth, the feeling of age, experience, knowledge.  No bubble gum pink for me.  Not a chance.

The wall of the dining room behind the large mirror is mellow lavender, the color of lilacs outside my childhood bedroom window.  Their tiny flowers foretold the coming of spring, their sweet fragrance reminding me life was moving on and cycling along.  Another year passing.  Time to grow tall, time to learn, time to be strong.

Yellow again climbs the stairs to my room, but a lighter color, subtle, cheerful but not boisterous.  The color of a winter sun, warm, but no longer hot.  It warms to the corner and then melts into blue, light, delicate, like the soft blue green color of new ice in the pond in Mamaroneck where I grew up.  Where we skated in the winters and cooked jimmies over an open fire until they were black outside and hot and soft and potato-fragrant inside.  Where we sat around on rocks, still in our skates, holding the steaming potato in our hands, impatient to get at the good stuff inside, but reluctant to give up the warmth of the charred black skins.

In my house there are posters on the walls, and paintings, and a drawing by a friend of a laughing man.  Posters from the time I was filming a television series in Spain at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

The Eiffel Tower and sidewalk cafes in France hang side by side with Flamenco dancers and flowers painted by a 1960’s New York artist, name long forgotten.  Canals in Venice, streets in Puerto Rico, women in Labadee, the South of France, our home in Spain.  A menu from a castle in Italy turned into a restaurant that rehabilitates drug addicts.  A large rose diptych I bought to greet my husband when he came into this house for the first time.  He always sent roses to greet me in lonely hotel rooms when I traveled the world for business.  I sit and look around and can fill in the blanks, the people, some friends, some not so friendly.  All colors of the rainbow each with their own memory writ on walls and my mind.

I never liked to stay in one place.  I was never a good wife or mother, too much to see in the world, too many places, too much to do. Shpilkas, that’s what I’ve been accused of.  It’s Yiddish for ants-in-the-pants.   I’ve never been attached to a house, a place, a town, or a city, only people.  The things around me that are important to me move with me and I’m at home wherever I am.  Only my last husband understood; he was very much the same.  Perhaps I should wish I’d been better at those domestic parts of life, but it’s far too late.  There are no do-overs in life.  We all do what we were born to do, we tread those paths that send their siren call to our ears, and if we don’t follow those sweet voices, we might end up regretting it all our lives.

As I sit in my room in Mexico, amid colors, layers and memories. . . I’m content.  But maybe, just maybe, I’ll add a dash of brilliant red someplace.  There’s always time to stir things up a bit.Image

Day 4 Barcelona In The Sun


The alarm clock went off, I think, but I didn’t hear it. Jet lag and angst got the better of me. Carli slept in too but by eleven AM we had eaten breakfast, dressed and were on our way out the door. The sun was brilliant and drying off the last of the puddles left from the day before.
Carli had been studying the bus and metro diagrams on the map she bought. Between the two of us we figured out how to get to the tourist bus line we had spotted through the rain. They offered a two day ticket with the ability to get on and off the bus at any of their stops, take the time to look around and get on the next bus at no extra charge. A good deal. We toured around all afternoon and got a feel for the city and where we were.
It was interesting to learn some of the history of the city through listening to an eloquent female British voice who was clear in her explanations. In the past I’ve taken tours where the voice coming through the earphones was so garbled or spoke the language so poorly I had no idea what they were talking about. Not the case with Barcelona Tourist Bus orange and green lines. It saved our feet and took us through all the neighborhoods we had seen on the internet when looking for an apartment. At most of the stops there were small cafes or bars where you could use the facilities for the price of a beer or soda and a couple of tapas.
The different neighborhoods are fascinating, some old in the original part of the city. Many of the houses on the main streets of Passig Gracia and Las Ramblas are opulent in an upper 5th Avenue Manhattan way of original owners vying for most prestige by having the fanciest house. On Passig Gracia the styles range from Gaudi masterpieces through every architectural style known to man from the 18th century through the present. The area of Barcelonetta, originally an ancient fishing village, appealed to me with it’s narrow streets and smaller homes. The scale was comfortable, homey and gave the feeling of a true neighborhood. Carli is attached to the area where our apartment is located and I have to agree with its accessibility. It’s a neighborhood with bars, restaurants, bakeries and tiny convenience stores packed with everything under the sun. After four days we are already buddies with the Indian family who run the closest mom and pop market and the nice young man at the telephone store.
Taking the tour bus has allowed us to decide which areas appealed most to us and where we want to go back and poke around some more.
There is a big flea market we’ve targeted and a leather factory outlet. After all, we need something to go with our new shoes.
We stopped briefly at Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s masterpiece. And it truly is breathtaking. We were too tired to go inside, it will have to wait for another day.
It happened to be my birthday, so Carli took me for dinner at the highly touted Pudu Can Manel by the harbor. Supposedly the place to go for paella. The first course arrived, a typical Spanish salad of lettuce, chunks of fresh tuna, hard boiled eggs, carrots, and succulent garden tomatoes. The next course was seafood paella filled with rice and hidden shrimp, calamari and some mystery seafood that is probably better left unknown. I found it disappointing. It was tasty but rather dry. Dessert was a flan out of a package.
But the place was just the sort I remembered, like our “local” favorite seafood restaurant in Fuenterrabia (now Hondarribia to satisfy the Basque). Sparkling white tablecloths and shining glassware, walls wooden and graced with pictures of owners going back to the 1800’s, service brusque and competent, all typical of Spain’s myriad of old style seafood eateries. It was a very pleasant evening all in all, and the fact that it was capped off by an ice cold shot of peach liquor was icing on my birthday cake.

LAX to Barcelona…Hopefully


Carli and I are on a jaunt to Barcelona for a week in a rented apartment and then pick up The Liberty of the Seas to cruise for fourteen days. We stop at Cartagena, Malaga, Seville and then on to Las Canarias  to visit Tenerife and Las Palmas before crossing the Atlantic to Ft. Lauderdale.
Our start is inauspicious. Our plane is more than an hour and a half late leaving Los Angeles. Immediately it’s obvious we’ll miss our connections from Madrid to Barcelona. Carli is booked in Business Class and I’m in the cheap seats so we are both sent to hang out in the First Class/Business Traveler’s lounge. Pretty cool, it’s a nice place with surprisingly good food and very pleasant attendants. After stuffing ourselves on Beef Bourguignon, cheeses and drinks, they call our flight.
Did I say we are traveling with a dog? Carli brought Baby, her companion/service dog.
Baby is a Chorgi, a Chihuahua-Corgi mix for you non-dog people. He’s about as mellow as they come and takes all adversity with aplomb. There is something about his big upright Corgi ears and greenish yellow eyes that instantly captivate everyone who meets him. He’s a true gentleman who looks up and submits graciously to ear rubs, neck scratches and compliments
Carli travels airports in a wheelchair.  She’s piled high with Baby, his bed, bags, coat, carry-ons, and I’m schlepping along with a cart filled with our two carry-on bags, handbag, raincoats, neck pillow, books, computer…like that.

Almost at our gate, the cart I’m pushing falls backwards on me. The cart and I end up in a not-so-loving embrace as we sprawl ass over teakettle onto the marble floor. Ignominious. Embarrassed. Slightly in shock. I don’t seem to know how to get my various parts working well enough to get back up. Two men run to my rescue and manage to haul my unhelpful body upright. It must have been akin to trying to right a tipped cow. I thank them profusely. Did I say embarrassed? I limp my way along to the plane, bleeding a bit from one hand and decidedly sore in yet undiscovered places. Ouch!
Carli is delighted to see me moving. She watched the fall in horror and later tells me she thought we were off to the emergency room instead of on the plane.
I’m still groggy as an air hostess leads me to my seat where I paw around in my carry-on bag to find a book and instead find a fistful of some gucky stuff covering the interior contents of the bag. Some unknown thing has managed to squish itself out of its prior confinement when I fell on it. Very bad show indeed!
Face cream? No, too clear looking. Looks more like snot but clearer and cooler.
The Argon oil I bought at the book fair last week and just had to bring along? No, not oily enough.
I have nothing to clean the stuff off with, no tissues, not paper towels. I think of KY jelly. I know I certainly didn’t bring any of that.  Through the crowd of eager passengers streaming aboard, I plead for papers towels and the Air Hostess passes along a handful of napkins. That’ll work.
I wipe off Frommer’s “Barcelona,” Dorling Kindersly’s “Spain” and Ursula K. Le Guin’s “Steering The Craft.” My computer case and handbag are covered with sticky goo and I’m stifling the urge to run off the plane and forget about the whole trip. Obviously Mercury is in retrograde and this is not the time to travel.
In my frantic muddling about in the goop in my bag, my seeking hand attaches to a very goopy baggie and there is the culprit—a tube of hair gel, colorless, thank the powers in the universe, that has no bottom. My landing on it must have blown it out, the force making sure that every object in the carry-on was thoroughly covered with the goop, yes, goop. Only slightly relieved I know it had no oil in and should wash off leaving no stain. A small comfort.
The ensuing flight is long. Cramped. Boring. Everything I managed to bruise in the fall starts to ache. My fingers hurt and my palm turns an alarming shade of blue; shortly the sore fingers considerately start to match. My friend Patria, who likes everything coordinated,would approve.
When I went to get out of my seat, my knee refuses to obey without some intense mental prodding. When it does move, it hurts like hell. One way to avoid the pain is to sleep, which I do for most of the trip.
In Madrid, we have a short time to make the next flight to Barcelona, missing the one we arranged for, of course. We are the last off the plane as Carli has to wait for her wheel chair attendant who turns out to be an adorable young guy who takes very seriously his job of herding old ladies around airports. He’s determined to get us to Barcelona and hassles the connection desk to get us on the next flight.  It’s leaving in a few minutes. Running across the airport does little for my knee but we make the flight, stumble to our seats, the plane leaves the walkway to stop dead after rolling a few feet.  We sit on the tarmac for close to an hour and I’m way back somewhere jammed in the middle seat. I don’t care. Next stop Barcelona. Trip over.
In Barcelona we claim three of our four checked bags; my large bag is the missing one.  Of course.  With all my clothes. For Barcelona. For a two week cruise. At the airport they said the suitcase would arrive the next morning. The baggage department fills out a claim form, they take the address where we are staying from our apartment confirmation which I underline and hand to the woman taking the information. She gives me a number to call to check on the bags arrival.
One of the first things on my list is to get a disposable rechargeable cell phone. By the time we reach the apartment it’s too late and all the stores are closed. The next day is Sunday. Have to wait until Monday. That will pose a problem as the woman at the baggage department is intent on insisting that I give her a contact phone number. I tell her we  intend to get one. In the meantime, I figure I can rely on my computer and Skype.
We arrive at the apartment and are met by someone from the agency. The apartment is suitable but very oddly arranged with bizarre hallways, strange nooks one tiny bathroom, one normal one. Someone with not much design sense had a fling at the remodel. Oh well. We move in. I connect to the internet and call the baggage claim number to find out if the errant suitcase has arrived in Barcelona. The woman on the line tells me it’s arrived and will be delivered in the morning to the address I left.
The shower is not easy to crawl into but it feels wonderful after being in the same clothes for more than twenty four hours. I check out what’s in the small suitcase. One short and one long sleeve tee-shirt. Underwear. Two pairs of jeans. One is the wrong pair. I thought it was the comfortable pair when I packed it. Turned out it was the tight pair. Curses! I have makeup, medicine, toothbrush and toothpaste paste. I’ll survive. But I won’t look smart on the cruise in tight jeans and ugly sandals I wear for Tai Chi and walking. I mean really ugly. The kind you wear and hope your jeans or yoga pants hide them if you have to wear them in public. Comfortable, I’ll give them that…not great to wear on the cruise formal nights.
The next day the suitcase doesn’t arrive, but after half-dozen frantic calls, someone tells me that they had delivered it and it was accepted.  Where?  Who accepted it?  She gives me the address.  Down the street at the wrong number! She gives me the name, a boutique hotel.  I call, they have it and can I come and pick it up?  I’m so relieved I’m effusive with thanks both over the phone and when I walk a block to pick the suitcase up.

Carli and I celebrate by shopping for new shoes and letting out a sigh of relief.  I know she didn’t want to listen to me complain about my missing case all the way across the Atlantic!