the core of mans spirit comes from new experience

"The core of mans spirit comes from new experience," unfortunately for me, I believe this to be true. Does this mean I will never be satisfied staying in place, treading water or just living. I think it might. And for me, new experience means travel, learning, moving. This wanderlust I find within myself is more apparent then ever. But the other side of me feels that "Happiness is only real when shared" With my intention to settle, the lust gets stronger, to a point that just two months in to the "settling," I am already anxious for new adventures, new places, new minds to pick, new ideas. . . these two sides of me are at odds. I guess I need that person to share in new experiences. . . will that bring the two sides together?

amigos para siempre

Saying my farewells to the city I have called home for three years has been a lot harder than expected. Some days I am so ready to leave, but my love for Madrid goes a lot deeper than the city. The friends I have made here are unique, every single one of them, a little jewel to add to my already stunning collection of friends. They are what makes this city so great. We have had some perfect last weekends filled with retiro pic-nics of hummus (yummus) and salads, days filled with nothing but tinto-de-veranos and conversations that last until close. Seeing all the people in the neighborhood, the fruiteria men who call me guapa and carino, the "hummus sin acete" men at the fallafel, the Argentinian woman who sells me giant sunflowers, the bartender who gives us free top ups at the Mexican tamarind margarita place, the pinxios at our Sunday afternoon bar with chalk wall bathroom, the ladies who dance, the ones who have heart to hearts and the ones that i can't bear to say goodbye to. People living a similar life with similar values are hard to come by, and what luck I have found many. The one that I make up musicals with, the one that despises musicals, but loves to dance until the wee hours, the one who stays up until the wee hours. I am so lucky for the people who have made Madrid my home.

Joaquín Sorolla

Sunday in June, hot and perfectly sunny. I decided to investigate a museum that I have wanted to visit for awhile, the Museo Sorolla. The Museum is the old house of Sorolla with a gated garden, the light streams through the plants and makes amazing patterns all over the tiled fountains. It might be the most peaceful place I could be on a warm Sunday in Madrid. The entrance was free today, so I went up tiled steps into this room filled with paintings of women in white dresses, blowing with shadows of purple and lilac, blue and pink, the use of color is spectacular. Going through the garden on the way begins to prepare you to understand a the way Sorolla sees the world; through shadows and light spots through unexpected colors. So much art ceiling to floor with couches and lamps and old paintbrushes. It was a beautiful museum, dare I say my favorite in Madrid. I spent over an hour drawing and investigating, in awe of his use of color and incredibly quick brush strokes.

I have been really into trying to find the perfect group to go with an artist, and today I think I succeeded. Broken Social Scene seemed to fit perfectly with beach views and trance-like state that Sorolla's paintings evoke. "7/4 shoreline" went perfectly with the room of the women in flowing white gowns on the beach. A great pairing and fitting to my sleepy mood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uev2J_cBHjQ

alice in A-dam

Amsterdam, a city of winding canals, buildings that are built to lean over the street, tiny stairs that make my tiny feet look giant, tall people that make me feel like I am living in Alice in wonderland . . . and it truly is a wonderland. We got in late on Thursday night, the garbage people had been on strike for 2 weeks, so their were piles of garbage, not the clean and perfect Amsterdam I remember, but still incredibly charming despite the garbage.

The first day we had amazing Dutch pancakes, mine with apples and nuts and honey . . .incredibly delicious. Then we went to Keukenhof, the largest tulip garden in the world, getting there was a little annoying, taking the train back to shipol and then a bus for an hour, but it was worth it. Disney land for adults, bright colors, pictures taken of each variety, getting lost in a tall garden maze, where is the white rabbit? An uncountable number of tulip varieties and colors and beauty. Fantastic feast for the color fairy (my new nickname).

Back to the city, Erica goes out by herself and comes back, having been hit by a bike, ambulance comes and everything, the Dutch are so incredibly helpful, the bikes are so silent and fast and the shere number is astounding. My perfect city, a city of bikes and water. . . just watch out! Later, CCD and I go out to meet Mateo, who is with Dutch royalty and a giant of a man.

Day two, morning apple pie, a fantastic market, Jordan neighborhood, bicycle seat covers, sunshine . . . then off to walk the canals to the Van Gogh museum, way further than we thought. We get to the museum, amazing collection of paintings, some of my favorites including the almond blossom, and some new favorites that I had never seen before even in reproductions. Van Gogh never ceases to amaze me, his colors are so vibrant, his strokes are so evident, there is a reason everyone loves his works, they are down right incredible in composition, color, moss, feeling, all around, little works of perfection.

This city is such a feast for the senses; Indonesian for dinner, peanut sauce and mango juice is all I need in my life. Out with Mateo and Jan, for drinks. Discussing if there are any downfalls to the Dutch, decidedly no. Everyone bikes, is relaxed and chill, the city doesn’t have the hustle of a normal city, the city is non-smoking, vintage clothes, people love antiques, kids are loved, apple pie for breakfast, great medical care, really tall people, this city is perfect, new goal, find a Dutchman to marry so I can live forever in this city.

Going back to the airport to leave, my heart breaks a little bit, this place is perfect, a city I can see living in forever. Being confronted with the fact that I am moving back to the united states, I get a little sad. Truly I think I have found a city that I belong in, a city I could feel at home in, and it isn't the city I am living in or the city I am moving to, just always only Amsterdam.

porto

Quaint town situated on a river, the town itself keeps growing upward, from below the city looms above, old painted tiles, churches from gothic times to more flowery blue and white tiled baroqe. The feeling that you have been plunged back in time, where old women wear aprons and men wear hats, everyone walks and smiles and says "obrigada" (thank you). The distinction between Spain and Portugal is surprising, the people so kind, they say excuse me if they bump into you, the hospitality of the people are amazing, and the warm smiles are unexpected.

We stayed in a very cute little apartment near the river, the town was a little humid, moss growing on many surfaces, wood so old and dark jets out and amazing hand paitnted tiles pop up in the most delightful places. The goal was to spend as little money as possible, and with a kitchen and a city with the cheapest wine and groceries, it sure wasn't hard. Even going out to dinner, with dessert, wine, and two entrees didn't break the bank.

It was an exercise in relaxation. Isa was my teacher, and I as her pupil was not doing a great job. I did hwoever finish a 500 page book, took a nap, sat at a cafe for hours in the sun, and walked around at a leasurly pace. We spent a lot of time cooking and finding the perfect Vino Verde (yum!). We even painted easter eggs.

Our last day, we got up at 4:00 to get to the airport for our 6am flight, we got there on time, and the woman told us, we were 24 hours late for our flight. . . no recourse, we tried to get another flight, but the price was steep, 500 euro. So we went to the bus station at 6 in the morning, bus stations are never someplace you want to be in the wee hours. It wasn't going to open until 8, freezing and upset at the prospect of not getting home, I threw on as many layers as possible, a little annoyed at Isa for making a 24 hour huge mistake (as she is the one in charge of the flights), then, she says, "at least it isn't rainning," and I burst into laughter, yes we are stranded in cold portugal at 7 in the morning and probably are going to be on a bus for the next 12 hours, but at least it isn't rainning, thanks Isa.

We did end up getting a bus, it was a long trip, but my relaxation classes helped and I read another book and looked through my pictures on my computer and exausted my podcast downloads.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

The start of my spring break trips, it was an utterly spontaneous one. Unsure about going with Anna and Olga to Brussels, I finally decided when a friend told me about a Frida Kahlo exhibition she saw there. I decided I had to go, having never seen a Frida in real life. So I went, and found out that the city was so much more than expected.There has never been a city that has felt so gray. The buildings, the sky, the bikes to rent, everything with this sad gray. It didn't help that it was stormy and everything had a feeling of being on the cusp of bursting into tears. Despite the gray, the city itself is full of good things, good art, good fries, good chocolate, good beer, good people, the Belgians don't do anything half heartily. It is a small city, easily seen and devoured in a two day trip.Day one: 2 bars of chocolate, 2 coffees, 1 tin tin store, 3 great friends chanting about mussels in Brussels, 1 man with a velour suit claiming to be Mr. Satisfaction, Zero toone bars, 5 deliriums.Day two: more chocolate. . . I lost count, 1 small fries with curry sauce, 1 Magritte museum, 50 paintings that got the best of me, 4 sketches that I am glad not to have missed, a pipe that was not a pipe, a peak of sunshine, dolmas, a little fountain of a boy who pees, Frida!
The Magritte museum was perfect, working in chronological order with Olga to translate his french scrawling, it was fully of whimsy of little spots of beauty that I had missed, of videos and music. They did an incredible job of pairing everything. Some of my favorites were the head, torso and legs sketches done with friends, where you fold the paper as not to see what the person has drawn before you, the result and utterly surreal person of sorts. The plants that turn into owls and a pipe that is still not a pipe were some of the highlights.The Frida exhibition was magical. Again, chronological she works on a much smaller scale that I would have thought. Her details perfection, and her need to expel her thoughts and feelings onto the canvas, utterly emotional. The exhibition was accompanied by a booklet that discussed each painting and gave background to each, something I wish every exhibit would have. It was a really beautiful show, and I was sad when it was over.

madreleños y madriz

The home base.

I have yet to actually discuss the place I live, This place of such contradictory feelings. We have the love and the hate and the everything in between. Spanish people are a mystery. Cold, stuck in their ways, have no concept of a line until it comes to bus stops. The consider themselves very modern but are only 40 years out from a dictator. My Spanish bank card is more likely not to work than to work. They haven't figured out how to make Internet websites that function well or are helpful. They go out until 7 in the morning on a weekly basis. It is a culture of people who love to promenade. The streets are constantly a frenzy of people, everyone walks. The fashion can go from incredibly chic to the worst I have seen. On an average day I see shorts with tights under, poop pants (pictures to come) and they have a fascination with boots, even in the summer. It is the hottest place on earth during August. Old woman wear heals on the cobblestones. Spaniards yell rather than talk. There are museums dedicated to ham. The most beautiful place in the city during all seasons is the retiro. In the summer it is the perfect picnic spot with a boat ride. During the spring, the leaves burst with color, in the fall a crisp walk makes for rosy cheeks. The winter it is a little isolated, perfect for a Sunday run. If you say you are vegetarian, they assume you eat ham. Wine is abundant, good and cheap. The food is terrible, but the groceries are cheap and delicious. There is a serious lack of water, lakes, rivers, ocean or sea. Corte Ingles is the bees knees. They lisp. The buildings are beautiful. The city feels so small, I run into people I know all the time. It is always a party.

wellies and brolly

Having lived in London for 6 months, there are parts still wholly unexplored of this city, museums un-touched and entire neighborhoods un-tapped. Staying with our friend Matt in the East End gave me an entirely new and re-found love for London. A part of the city known for Brick Lane, near the river, but far enough away that the tourist culture does not pervade.
We made dark and stormy's to keep with the London theme, took the tube to Camden and saw a great Jazz band, danced the night away and came home to chocolate and Punjabi mix. The days were unseasonably, and unbelievably nice.

Vintage shopping at the Brick Lane market, a food frenzy at the Borough market. Veggie burgers, warm apple cider, a killer brownie. The food alone, the friendly people and the polite responses were enough to drive a woman living in Madrid giddy.

The Tate ModernTower Bridge. . . a moment of sun captured in an utterly gray citytoken London. Shakespeare played here. St. Paulsthe sign speaks for itselfBeauty at the Natural History Museum red phone

Fez in fourty eight

To celebrate Isabella' birthday, aka her turning an odd year that she doesn't want to celebrate, we booked a spontaneous and brief trip to Fez, 22 euro round trip. Morocco is so close to Spain, but when you are there is feels like another planet.

Last time in Morocco we took a taxi from the airport, that was not a taxi, and he drove us about 10 minutes away and made us change into a friends car. . . terrifying, but we were fine, doing things under the table seems to be a common theme. So this time we swore we were going to only take the red petit taxi suggested by the book, but ended up getting another random car. . . this man however, was amazingly helpful, giving us tips of things to do while we were here, calling our accommodations to have someone come and pick us up from outside the Medina. A far cry from the Casablanca experience, this boded well for Fez.

We met out "little man," as Isa like to call him, outside of the Medina. The Medina is a pedestrian and donkey only labyrinth of narrow streets. It is the largest Medina in the world, and the most terrifying place at night, small passageways, darkly lit, sneaky little doorways. The Medina is a place where anyone can get lost. . . even a little GPS like me.
Our accommodations were anything but modest. We oped for a newly renovated palace, the Dar Bensuela. We were giddy by the site of it, a middle courtyard that looks up to the sky, flower pedal laden beds, fancy modern shower, beautiful mosaic and giant old wooden doors. It can only be described as incredible perfection. We had dinner downstairs by the fireplace, more than we could eat, each bite better than the one before.

Since we had only 48 hours, we knew that we had to see as much as we could on Saturday, we hired a guide for a half day (we are sure now, the only way to get around the maze that is the Medina), he showed up an hour late, but was great and friendly from there. He took us to see fountains, mosaics, the oldest university in the Medina, a tannery, to see the kings palace. . . such wonders around every corner. The donkeys were the most terrifying part, the streets are so narrow two people can hardly walk side by side, and then out of nowhere, a Donkey comes barreling down the street. I was hit more than once. None of the aggression of Marrakesh, and a lot more charm. The guide was great for most of the day, until he decided he liked me. . . at which time he asked such questions as "Have you ever tried love?" and said "The man that gets to massage you is lucky." He invited me to get henna the next day, but I politely declined.

Our last day in Fez, Said, the Palace's go-to man, arranged for us to go out shopping with "the little man." The prices in Fez were much higher than in Marrakesh, we think they are not used to tourists so they price everything so high to start, the only good deal we found, was on these decorated pair of ballet flats. Then we went to a Hamam, or bath house, the floor was so hot we couldn't sit down or stand up. . . the steam was suffocating and the scrub harsh. . . tortuous spa day. Back at the palace, Said arranged for us to have Henna, we went to the roof that overlooked the Medina and with a tray of rose petals, had our hands decorated in delicate patterns. I am already trying to figure out when I can go back.