Pseudo-Suitors and Bogus-Beaus (Oblivious To My Own Genius): 2014

Unbelievable, unthinkable, absurd! I stared at the card I had just received in the mail with a slack jaw. I read and re-read the statement in the letter from Spain. "I'll take care of it all," it read. "contact a travel agent; they have great travel packages, who knows? Invest 50 bucks, get a passport and join me." It was near the end of 1989 and it was pretty clear. I was invited to Spain! What would my answer be? I had been offered this holiday, all expenses paid - by my friend, Paul. "A once in a lifetime" ...that is how I described the opportunity. I decided to take that vacation. I made plans for that "once in a lifetime."

Deciding to fly to Europe caused friends to ask me some questions. They were normal curious questions, such as: "Who is this person, paying for this upcoming vacation?" I had described Paul as a friend to most of them, the term that I used was: "An Old Friend." This was quite true. It was very true. We had been there for each other for about 20 years. A lot of things had happened over the years, but we were still really good friends.

Paul and I had met through my job in 1979; he was a client. In 1982, two weeks after my husband moved out (and I was getting a divorce), Paul was in the office and invited me to his pool and a BBQ at his home. That is how we began. In 1983, 6 months or so later, he moved to San Diego and put his home in Oregon up for rent and moved to California. Years passed and we never lost touch. There were visits and calls and letters. I never expected a letter that would send me to Spain.

--------Here is the travelogue, the trip to Spain - Starting the second day of 1990----------

Day 1- January 2, 1990

Departure day! The entire family saw me off at the airport. I felt conflicted, leaving my family for this trip-to-be-treated-like-royalty. I put a lot of those questions away from the forefront just to cope with the actuality of the trip that I was embarking on. I could see that the turn of the new decade would bring many changes for me. Europe would only be the start; of that, I was sure.

It was a long flight, with a stop in Texas even before traveling trans-atlantic. Somehow, I got bumped to "business class" by some kind of "paper snafu." (Works for me!) That was terrific. The treatment from the staff was totally subservient, every wish was catered to. My drinks for free; I received many complementary gratuities from the airline; the dinner service was prompt; I was "royalty". The in-flight movie was a special treat; it was a movie that I had been waiting for, because my step-dad was IN the movie. A few summers earlier, the movie, "Breaking In", was filmed in Portland, and my stepfather had been cast as an extra. I'd gotten very tired, and requested that the stewardess wake me when the movie began. I sat in luxury, viewing the movie "premiere". I had some difficulty with the flight, though... No food settled well; there was a lot of turbulence, and I longed for land, to maybe help with that queasy feeling. I slept fitfully, and I was fortunate to have the special service of business class. I was waited on patiently, and the crew was helpful, as I tried to feel better. That leg of the journey was way too long for me.

January 3, 1990

Ground, solid ground! I was grateful to land in Frankfurt and have a "different kind of rest", because a three hour layover in Germany, (or on any soil,) sounded wonderful. I found my way to the lounge and spent my three hour wait, drinking Pilsner and schmoozing with international travelers such as myself. Language was no problem; plenty of people spoke English. I felt seasoned and saucy.

The flight to Madrid was shared with a native Spaniard named Alfonso and his four-year-old daughter, Natasha. He was going HOME to see family. Alfonzo had married and moved to his wife's native country, Australia. His parents had never seen their granddaughter, and he was excited to share the The Feast of the Three Kings, and the rest of the holidays with his family. He gave me his address and numbers for both Madrid and Australia; I exchange mine. Already I felt settled in!

The Madrid airport was frightful. No one spoke English, and Alfonso had already gone his own way. They herded us out of the plane, through customs, read our tickets, and wrote the number 54 on our transfer tickets (54 - as the departure gate for those of us who are transferring on to Seville.) in broken English, someone told us to follow the yellow line it was painted on the floor. Unlike the Yellow Brick Road, Oz was nowhere in sight, the famed line broke at doorways and resumed further on, and I felt like I lost Toto.

There were no airport personnel at gate 54, no one to translate or help, and about 15 bewildered and irritated passengers trying to transfer to Seville. Few of us looking for gate 54 were natives; I heard German and thankfully some English, though disguised in thick British accents. I asked a British man if he knew how to get on the plane to Seville. He and his companions were as confused as I, but they invited me to join their team, and we would wander together, lost.

We moved like a confused school of fish from airport uniformed men to other uniformed men. Some of the men were military; some more airport personnel; no one was helpful. The blind leading the blind, but we recognized one of the Spaniards who had left with us from Frankfurt, motioning their friends to a deserted gate. Ironically the number 54 was printed over the doorway, and when we went through, there was a bus waiting outside to take us to our awaiting plane. (How any of us could have known that this was our exit gate, was beyond me!)

By the time I arrived in Seville, I had been traveling for 30 hours. The airplane food had not been appetizing; I was rummy from exhaustion; I still was unsure if Paul would be at the airport, and I might have to summon a cabdriver --- and try to communicate the name and address of the hotel that Paul had wired to me. Asking a stranger in a strange land to deliver me to a strange place; that was not appealing.

I was pleased with the luxury of not having to drag my weary body halfway across the airport for my luggage; the carousel was immediately available, when I stepped off of the plane. There was a sea of greeters, all strangers, but I could not find Paul's blonde head, though I scanned thoroughly. Discouraged and weary, I went to a bench, planted my luggage, and began digging for the hotel information. A familiar and welcome voice broke the silence, asking: "What is a person like you doing in the country like this, when you don't even speak the language?" God! It was Paul! Excitement washed me. I was really in Spain, seeing Paul hundreds of thousands of zillions of miles from all the other distractions of my life; we were really together!!! I hugged him in relief.

He took my bags, and led me to parking lot and his Toyota van. It seemed so natural to throw my luggage in the back of his Toyota, trusting my journey and vacation to him, and to take off into the congested city of Seville. SEVILLA - I was corrected. Disconcertingly, Paul didn't seem to know where he was going. He was weaving,with quick turns and obvious circles that we drove in. I was in a stupor, and in awe as I watched him signal, honk, swerve with the best of them, and study convex mirrors for right-of-way turns. If Madrid was an introduction to Spain's hospitality, Sevilla was an introduction to it's city-pace.

The roadways were no more than alleys; the alleys were no more than paths; the buildings were formidable stone or stucco... high, cramped, ugly... letting no sun into any of the mazes they considered thoroughfares. Once in a while there was a breath from the claustrophobic neighborhood, as we paused, looking into mirrors of a roundabout - intersection. A plaza, a fountain, and usually a small cathedral were in the center of the hub. Then we'd round a fountain and weave back through another maze of structures and alleys.

Just when I thought Paul had given up, and was stopping to finally ask for directions, I discovered that we were parking, and unloading the luggage. I could not comprehend that we had "arrived"; it had seemed that we were lost. We unloaded our luggage down a dark and narrow path, in a barrio teeming with festive families. After weaving through a steep cobbled neighborhood, with the roadway no wider than one car width, he turned into a small entrance of a homey stone structure.

I was soon to learn what I saw was not unique. No one had the luxury of elegant exteriors or distinguished portals. The craftsmanship was saved for the interior, where there was a courtyard with foliage, ornate gates, tiles and murals. The boxy ugly exteriors, aged, mossy and deteriorating, could not be spruced up, (and why bother), when you live indoors anyway?

In United States, most residents of a metropolis, living in an urban center, might have a luxury of a rooftop or patio. Outside of the city, we have taken for granted our lawns, yards, patios, and personal space. The ultimate luxury that a resident of Sevilla, or any other large city HERE has, is their courtyard, their oasis. Our courtyard was pleasant and welcoming. I seemed to forget what the alley looked like.

We were given a room key, and I quickly took advantage of the bed. The room was nondescript, with thin blankets and flat pillows, basic furniture and a bare light-bulb dangling in the bathroom. I never got a choice; I just collapsed. I fell asleep so easily, paying no attention to what time I went to sleep, or what time that I awoke. After waking, Paul suggested that we explore Sevilla on foot. Having rested, I was refreshed, curious and hungry.

"Viva La Noche!" Paul explained that this was a theme that I should remember. Roughly translated, it means: "It is the night!" The alleys and pathways were teeming with people of all ages. Families with toddlers in tow, and infants in strollers were a common sight. It was well past 10 PM, but the pace was as hectic as an afternoon at a county carnival. "Family involvement is essential in Spain," Paul stated. "This is still part of the Christmas holiday, and everyone participates. No one thinks a thing about the hour. It's not too late to have the kids up. The Feast of the Three Kings is on Friday, and this is part of that celebration. The parade will draw the families; the families will swarm the city; the city will never sleep."

The first meal that we ate wasn't traditional fare. We found a Chinese food restaurant, and settled for chow mein. I think Paul was "slowing-me into" my acclimation. I was lost in the maze of the city, and was surprised that Paul knew where he was, or faked it well enough to find out how to return to the barrio that we were staying in.

January 4, 1990

I woke late in the morning, disoriented and finally rested. Breakfast in Espana is Café con Leche and a hunk of bread, toasted or broiled. Jelly or marmalade are ample accompaniment. I had one thing on my agenda for that morning: call home, and report-in, "safe and healthy".

I had no idea how difficult this would prove to be. If I had had a grasp of the language, maybe this would've been a simple transaction. Unfortunately, I spent at least six hours of that day looking for pay booths with bilingual instructions on how to connect with an operator, and how to make a phone-card-call overseas. The phone booths were graffitied and in disrepair. Informational stickers were torn off of the walls of the booths, and dialing "zero" was not the way to get through to an operator. We drove out of Sevilla, and on to Malaga, with no success with the telephones. I lost many hours that morning, and still had no success. Paul didn't know enough Spanish to assist with this overseas call, either. (His calls were always aided by being on an American base, making his calls much simpler.)

My first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea was in the Costa Del Sol. We found a venta, (the Spanish equivalent of a café,) and parked for lunch. Even though I was hungry, I could not resist taking a walk on the shore. It was calm and clear. Not realizing that this was no ocean, I was surprised at the quiet lapping of the tide, not accompanied by the breaking of waves. It is just a sea. It was expansive and calming in its quiet shore. I sat on driftwood, closed my eyes and grew giddy on the experience and reality. This was the Mediterranean Sea; I was in another country; halfway across the world from Oregon, my insanities, and Paul and I were alone together! It was almost too much to drink in. Paul joined me, and we walked hand-in-hand, quietly savoring the moment.

Back in the venta, there was a telephone off the lobby, and I attempted to reach America (and my family,) while Paul ordered us lunch. The front desk personnel got involved in my phone call, because when their phone with used for an operator assisted call, it automatically rang their phone. This was my salvation; with their assistance, Paul's "translation", and the operator's assistance, we discovered that my phone card would not be allowed to make the call. They would allow a collect call, and in desperation, I agreed to call home, reversing the charges. By this time, I had no concept of what day it was at home, nor what hour. I had made a commitment to call, so I did. I kept the call short, but everyone was there, and took turns on the phone. At that time, I did not have in the foresight to tell them that I could not call again. The experience was too harrowing, time-consuming, and unpredictable to try to reach them again.

While I was on the phone, Paul took the liberty to order for me. I had a seafood soup, with full bodied, shelled crustaceans floating and looking at me; it was unnerving, because I was not used to having my meal eyeing me, but it was delicious, and I was willing to try any new epicurean delight.

After lunch, we let the highway lead us, as we traveled east. Following the Costa Del Sol highway; it gave us many terrific views of the Mediterranean Sea. This part of Spain is divided into these three areas:

Costa Blanca,

the Costa Brava,

and the Costa Del Sol;

they are the southernmost shores of Espana. We did not concern ourselves with where we were headed; we were driving, stopping at viewpoints, and letting hunger decide which town we would land in for dinner. In Malaga, we took a wrong turn, but since we had no itinerary, and no one to complain, we continue on our wrong route. Result of taking this side road, was ending up on top of the hill overlooking the town right at sunset. What a view! It was one of the most memorable of the trip.

We stopped at a combination restaurant and hostel in Malaga, somewhere south west of Gibraltar, and because it was late, we chose to spend the night there. Before the exhaustion overtook us, we walked along the shore in the moonlight. After a walk, we waltzed in our room, Paul had brought a tape player, and we continued the evening, listening to "Islands in the Stream," by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Night life of Malaga was loud, expensive and refreshing. With everyone still celebrating the Feast of the Three Kings, the night-life lasted until dawn.

The stress of life back home (and letting go of it) - the busy-ness of the day --- everything took it's toll. Uncharacteristically, I sat in the bathroom and sobbed, trying to find an escape from the wraiths that haunted me even in Europe. Paul surely didn't understand where the pain came from, but he patiently waited for an emotionally and physically exhausted companion to join and sleep. Luckily, his patience and kindness and the distance from home / the comforts of Europe... they all were beneficial. I did not fall apart again in Europe, when we were together.

January 5, 1990

The lapping of the shore was a sweet sound to fall asleep to, when I lapsed into that exhausted dreamland, and a gentle way to awaken. It was another pristine sky that morning, and glorious sunshine awaiting us. According to Paul, the weather was absolutely great for this time of year, and the forecast was for more the same. That morning we started off the day with a run on the beach. This was not easy at all. Paved running paths do not exist in Spain. After exercise, we had our typical breakfast: home-baked /broiled bread and Café con Leche.

Even though, (even now,) I'd become hooked on the wonderfully thick espresso/hot milk combination, and continue drinking it at home, nothing compares with the nectar served in those tiny European ventas and other hotels throughout my Spanish vacation. The daily aroma of the home-baked bread, mingled with the strong coffee bean scent, is a tender morning memory, not since duplicated.

Up the coast from where we stayed overnight, there's a romantic little town called Nerja.

Getting there was half the fun. The roads let us astray, (as became a habit,) away from the water and towards the mountains. Just as Paul wondered if we had taken another unexpected/wrong route, the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas

gave way to the Mediterranean Sea right at Nerja. With their backs to the mountains, the view of the sea with limitless.

We spent several hours walking the Cueva de Nerja,

these are subterranean caves that were discovered in 1959. I was amazed as to how warm it was; Paul wondered if it was located on a thermal stream. It boasts of having the world's longest stalactites and was well worth the 150 peseta entrance fee. They have a natural amphitheater in the caves, where ballet and opera performances are given.

According to Paul, (because I've not been to any other caverns,) this portion of the caves that are open to the public is smaller than Carlsbad Caverns, however the beauty was remarkable.

Our journey from Nerja was a match to the tightest turns in the most famous amusement park's roller coasters. We encountered washed out bridges, detours, and extremely narrow (supposedly) two-way roads. The road to Mazzaron was a beautiful drive if one owns a four-wheel-drive vehicle. The Toyota-van was faithfully patient in our unexpected "carnival" ride.

The dirt road was a masterpiece of 12th-century engineering, and that was probably the last time it'd been repaired. Detour signs were strategically placed to lead us to believe that there had been "actual planning" done to repair the road, although there were no signs of construction equipment. (24 hour crews for road maintenance were very common in Spain, so the hour of the day was not an excuse, either.)

Paul expressed his concern and second thoughts, because the international right-of-way signs at times, indicated that we had the right-of-way on that half lane road, and at other times, it left us wondering about our safety, because, at times, we did not have the right of way. We could not tell what was coming around the corner on blind curves. We agreed that the condition of the road was some solace that a head-on collision would be nothing more than a minor fender bender because no one could manage to get up any speed on that surface (or the lack thereof.). No sooner did Paul joke about that, when some local (or was it Loco?) came at us, passing, and doing about 60 clicks; he missed us by his "allotted half inch." Paul thought he was being brave, driving along at 20 clicks, carefully maneuvering on the crumbling brick-path that passed for a road. Why this other driver had a death wish, was beyond us!

Eventually, this "horse-trail" gave way to a two lane highway, and we arrived, late in the early evening, at a coastal resort town, long after passing through many other towns that were void of hostels and hotels. It was quiet, and this entire town seeing unoccupied. Soon we learned that all the hotels in the town were closed for the winter, and only long-term lease accommodations were available. The next town was two hours away; we were tired, and the roads had become slippery from a light evening drizzle.

This did not look good. Paul wandered into a small bar, the only one with a light on. Inside & in Paul's broken Spanish, he asked for a hotel. The answer he received did not compute at all; "What is wrong with this picture?" He asked himself. The crowds response was not in Spanish, but in German. Assured that they did not know Spanish, and he did not know German, someone came over and interpreted Paul's plea for overnight accommodations. It became humorous when they put together the obvious; (it is the middle of winter, the middle of the night, in a summer resort town, in the middle of Spain, in the middle of a bar filled with Germans,) and the next town would probably also have the same no-vacancy story.

A well-dressed gentleman came to Paul's rescue, and asked Paul to follow him to his vehicle. We followed the gentleman, up a steep hill, into an exclusive neighborhood, with a terrific view of the sea and the lights of the city, off to a luxurious house. At the front door, the man spoke to someone, again in German, and they invited us inside. I sat in a confused and exhausted stupor. What could occur was anybody's guess. I wondered if we were spending the night in this house? My thoughts were interrupted when a woman came into the room, made a short phone call, and then told us, (in Spanish,) to go. Were we being kicked out? Then we realized that we were supposed to go with her.

She joined us in the van; I sat in back, as she gave directions back to the center of town, where we stopped at a pharmacy. (A second car had followed us there, to take the lady back. * on another note*: in Spanish, there are no p-h combinations in their language. The sign said Farmacia.) She opened the building and introduced us to the owners of the Farmacia and the five bedroom apartment overhead. They were more than willing to have overnight guests.

The price? Two mil, which is about $20. At that point we would have settled for six mil, and considered ourselves lucky. We had our choice of rooms, baths, and views. They brought linens and toiletry supplies; our only drawback was that there was that the hot water had not been turned on. (After all, who needed to provide hot water to the rental space in the off-season?)

We were lazy about rising; Paul made some Café con Leche from the kitchen that they generously stocked. The sun warmed us as we stepped out onto the balcony from the living room, to enjoy a terrific view of the Mediterranean; (maybe the best morning view of the entire trip.) Enjoying the life of the rich and famous, we were reluctant to leave. We did not want to push our luck, and we expressed our gratitude again to the owners before we departed. There are a lot of friendly people in this world, regardless of the language they speak, and that brotherhood/sisterhood was refreshing throughout the vacation.

I studied the map as Paul drove. By this time, I could estimate how many miles we could log, in a day. This had to include 12th-century road detours, meals, sightseeing, walks on beaches, inevitable occurrences of getting lost, and exhaustion.

I picked out Cartagena as the lunch hour stop. We had heard this name on the news frequently, because of the focus on Columbia, but Spain has its own town named Cartagena.

The sun drenched harbor was stocked with a regatta of sailing ships, ready for a race.

We noted that both men and women were preparing to compete; maybe (we thought,) Spain is changing some, from the male dominated society. There was an impressive plaza off the harbor that strongly resembled the plaza from the "Romancing the Stone" movie, which was also filmed in a different town named Cartagena.

I let Paul order most of the time. He was familiar with native fare, and I was beginning to be delightfully pleased with the seafood choices, soups (sopa) and tapa dishes. I soon learned, after my first order of tortillas, that things are not as they seemed. Paul assured me that they would not be what I expected. I ordered it anyway. What I had for a meal that time was "an omelette." It was delicious, but there's no such thing as a flat-bread equivalent we call a tortilla in the United States. That is a Mexican food, maybe from the Mayan influence. Spain kept surprising me.

Cartagena is where we left the Costa De Sol and picked up the Costa Blanca. (Blanca is the word for white.) It took a few miles to find a truly white beach, but the search was worth it. The weather kept holding out for us, despite it being January, it felt like a fine Oregon Spring day, rather than Winter. On Saturday after we drove further north, we came upon a new town: Alicante.

As we approach the heart of the city, we stared at the Explanada and said in unison, "Santa Barbara!" I am convinced that when the Spaniards settled California, and they saw the bay of Santa Barbara, (this town of) Alicante came to their minds.

This town had, for centuries, grown to the point that there was no room for expansion. It spills right into the sea, and the only road through it, is right on the coast. The similarities to California were more than visual. With the city being well-established, there's no room to enlarge the road, and we were forced to take the coastal highway to get through Alicante, Espana. The same thing occurs in Santa Barbara, California. The city of Alicante is overshadowed by a magnificent castle, named "The Castle Santa Barbara."

There is the famous Explanada de Espana in Alicante that runs parallel to the coastal road that runs on the leeward side of the highway. Palm trees line the road and unique shops adorn the Explanada, including McDonald's. (Hey! For Spain, that is unique. Only the largest cities in Spain sell American fast food.) The shop and palms and Explanada are the striking twin to the Esplanade in Santa Barbara, California.

January 6, 1990 (Sunday)

Sunday, after a disturbing night of listening to the two discos below our room, play their incessant music throughout the evening, (and into the morning,) we began a walk through the beautiful town of Alicante and headed towards the Castle Santa Barbara. We saw what looked like a "path" to the castle from street level, so we wandered around alleys, walked through backyards, and began to scale the hillside, aiming for an entrance (what looked like a doorway) that we had seen from sea level. While noon church bells pealed, and reverberated off the rock cliffs that we were scaling, the sun grew warmer.

The ascent was steep and treacherous, but it was one of the most spontaneous and exciting things we did on the trip. After retracing the path of broken steps, shimmying under gates, and sashaying around cacti, we "reached the top," with a spectacular view of the city and the bay; it was one of the few places that Paul got out his camera for pictures. (Being new to Spain I was going through film much faster than he was.) This 12th-century castle was strategically placed for protection of the city, and a panoramic view of the incoming ships that would have tried to attack that harbor.

We found the entrance that we'd spied from street level, (see the red arrow on the picture,) only to be sorely disappointed. The entrance is fully guarded by an enclosed wrought iron gate. I climbed on top of the gate, and reached on my tiptoes to see if we can scale the castle wall to enter the castle by one more unorthodox effort.

At this point, we failed. All the way to the castle, it felt like we were explorers from some centuries ago, bringing a surprise attack upon the fortress. But the bulwark was intact, after our efforts to surround and surprise.

Deflated, we discovered that we could not even circle the castle and find another entrance, because of erosion and steep drop offs. We had to re-trace our steps down the same way that we'd scaled to the top. Later on in the day, we heard that there was a main road to the castle, and it even had an elevator. Ah! Modern conveniences! I don't think that, even now, I would choose any other trip to this castle than the hike we had on that Sunday afternoon!

After our hike, we packed, and got on the road again. This was our pattern: one overnight city per day, explore the town that we were in, then "get out of Dodge."

One of our most memorable meals was eaten on our way to Valencia. For the end of the accustomed lunch hour, about 3 o'clock, the weather had turned gray and drizzly. We stopped at the only venta in town to see what they had to eat. It was nothing fancy, but we were hungry, and this was available. Paul told the waitress, again in his broken Spanish, that we were there for the afternoon meal. She asked if we like chicken, and if we wanted a whole or half chicken. We decided to split one whole chicken. We received a broiled garlic chicken, rice, bread, green beans, soup and salad. It was the moistest, most flavorful chicken either of us had ever eaten. One bite, and we simultaneously said, "Mmmmm!" I'm still not sure what was done to make this meal so great, but I've not had chicken taste so good, before or since.

While enjoying the meal, the proprietor carried on a conversation with Paul, stretching Paul's knowledge of Spanish, but pleased if they could converse in the native tongue, the proprietor was more patient with Paul. I was left out of most of this, because my Spanish is virtually nil. The owner decided that we enjoyed the meal so much, we should meet his wife, the cook. She had served us, and in decent English, had told us to enjoy. She sat down with us and offered us two pieces of apple pie, "You can learn Spanish if you just keep talking," she told us. She continued to tell us that she had learned English in London, 20 years ago, and that she had not used the language in over 10 years. We talked for another half hour, and we saw again that people in Spain bend over backwards once we attempted to speak their language.

Valencia was our next stop, and the first fully rain/drizzly day that I had seen. It was not easy to find a hostel in the city. Our guidebook had been relatively reliable so far, but finding the vacancy at the right price and with decent accommodations would be a luck of the draw in this larger city. We had a delightful walk through the city, and I was beginning to be very fond of Spain, even though I understood very little of the comings and goings ---and Paul's conversations and hagglings over meals purchases and lodgings.

The overnight accommodations we decided on Valencia were more spend even would plan, but oh! The Furnishings and Niceties!!

A sumptuously large room, beds, and a bath with a tub! This was a very luxurious Valencia suite. I had brought my toiletries into the bath and filled the tub with a complementary bubble bath soap. I was left alone for private relaxing luxury. Our trip to Valencia was unfortunately on the wrong day. The Lladro factory was closed. One of Paul's goals was for us to visit the Lladro factory.

He wanted to surprise me with this fact; even though I didn't know what a Lladro was. But when we went shopping for them, I recognized them, I knew. My mom had a small collection of them. I'd never known what they were called, and had no idea about their background or history until I was in Valencia.

It was a Monday, and the factory was closed; (this is a common thing, because people work the weekends and take Mondays off.) The Lladro family have been making these fine porcelain figurines, and passing down the skill for generations. Exclusively made in Spain, there's no mistaking a genuine Lladro . How they make these figuring seeming to emanate light from within, I do not know - but I've never seen such delicate or exquisite work; and I was surrounded with that in Valencia. We priced several Lladro in Valencia, at mostly galleries and jewelers, thinking the price would be cheaper. This was not so; Paul found them about 30% higher in Valencia, than he could purchase them on the military base - thus ending the Lladro -shopping trip.

We visited the cathedral in Valencia, which contains the Holy Grail, a first century chalice.

We kept encountering the Indiana Jones trilogy, no matter which city we were in. This was an impressive site, and the nearby gold inlaid arch and altar to offset the beauty of the chalice was undue, in my opinion. Again and again, I saw overt wealth contrasted with poverty, and wondered about the inequity. Valencia had many barrios, with people living in squalor, and sharing a neighborhood with churches that were "laid out" in centuries of old wealth. The Catholic Church has a stronghold in Spain; I think that the Spaniards do not feel it is unfair, as I do. For them, it is the church's right and place to be wealthy, as much as it is their place to be poor.

Due to the drizzly weather, we decided the Costa Brava should be explored, instead, during the summer months. The drive from the coast to Central Spain was memorable. The scenery changed, and began to look a lot like my own Oregon. Two large lakes, the first, Embaise de Contretas,

was reminiscent of Lost Lake on Mount Hood, in Oregon. The second, Embaise de Alarcon,

was reminiscent of Lake Shasta, which is in California, close to the Oregon border. We were tempted to stay and rent a boat and just float our vacation away. This was the first time we had seen the green of Spain. The mountains were a refreshing change after all the beautiful beaches and blue-green Mediterranean Sea vistas. As we drove towards Central Spain, we knew we could reach Madrid for the evening, and maybe contact Alfonso. The city was large and expansive, crowded and foreboding. It seemed to be too cosmopolitan to our liking, for we had settled, so far, in small towns at inexpensive hostels, that required little searching.

As we approach Madrid, we saw how the traffic buzzed around; it looked like a hive, and we wanted to steer away from it, at least for little while.

I think Paul since my discomfort with this big city bustle, (and maybe something more, like not being able to communicate in the strange land). Instead of hitting the city, Paul turned away from Madrid and toward the Air Force Base - and because of his credentials, they not only welcomed is on the base, but also to the officers club. It took a few minutes, once we were inside, for me to realize that everything that was said, I understood: the TV, the questions, the conversations around me. It was all in English! I basked in the language and ordered for myself.

Paul had a glimmer in his eye; "You seem to be settling in here. Are you sure you want to see the rest of Spain?" He teased. He was right; it was comfortable, but that was not why I came to a foreign country, so our visit to the base was only for dinner. After we left, we searched the small towns - Madrid's suburbia, for hostels; there were no vacancies. We had planned to be tourists in Madrid the following day, after staying overnight in another quaint barrio, and we knew that night time was a bad time to enter the metropolis to be searching for lodging, but we braved the big city and its downtown streets.

Once in the city's periphery, we stopped at venta, and I dug out the phone number for Alfonso, that he had given me my first day when we flew from Frankfort to Madrid. Paul rested in the car, while I went inside to call Alfonso. His brother answered, and it was not easy having him understand me; his English was poor and my Spanish even worse. When Alfonso got on the phone, he was not too sure where the venta was, and I finally coerced the bartender into getting on the phone and giving directions.

We waited in the van a while, watching the venta. I began to wonder if Alfonso could find us, and if I would recognize him. He had brought a friend along, and when the two of them came around the corner, he beamed at me. "Annie!?" he called out, "Buenos Noches!"

I introduced Paul to Alfonso, and we were introduced to his friend, Miguel. We explained that we had just arrived, and needed help with a good place to stay, and wanted to be sure to see Alfonso now that we were in Madrid. They had us follow them, which was an amazing feat of agility and driving, because they were on a moped swerving in out of narrow alleyways, and we loped along in the Toyota van.

We would never have been able to retrace that route; they parked at a crowded barrio, and a crowded venta with the hotel above. The price was spendier than the smaller cities, but extremely reasonable. After unloading the luggage, we met at the venta for drinks. I surprised Alfonso, Miguel, and the bartender when I ordered Café con Leche and Kahlúa on the side. I blended them both, and they thought that it was a strange concoction, until they sampled it. Who knows? Maybe I started a new trend in Madrid!

January 7, 1990

We explored Madrid on foot, and it was full of wonders and beauty, but it made me sad. The disappointment in town had nothing to do with Madrid, I was disappointed in our forgetfulness; we had left our cameras in the van, once we set out on foot. Madrid is a largely scattered metropolitan city. Funny, I saw a 7-11 store there; it was the only one I saw in Spain. Little bits of America creep into some of these towns, but the prices are sky-high. Just like Sevilla, the roads and alleyways are incredibly narrow and it seems more distinct in a large town, although, REALLY, it is like that everywhere. I remember when we went out for tapas, in some alley, teeming with people - packed like in a sardine can.

Orders were called out from the back, and people passed the message on to the front. You didn't have to weave your way in to get your tapa - (it is like an appetizer.) The money passed hand over head to the front, for payment, too. No one would think of doing a "D & D" (dine and dash) in this culture. Spainards go "tapa-hopping" from favorite place, to favorite place, filling up on bits and pieces of the tapas here and there, served in the teeming crowds.

Here is a blog (*yes, this is a 2014 comment, of course this blog didn't exist in 1990*)...that comments on tapa hopping:http://http://mykitcheninspain.blogspot.com/2010/09/tapa-hopping-round-town.html

The food is passed back, "wrapped" in a square of wax paper (not unlike what we Americans find in a serve-yourself donut case at the supermarket.) Even though everyone has the culture of complete honesty in paying for their tapas, the litter afterwards is of no concern to them. The street the next morning is always looking like wax paper confetti.

So much to see in Madrid! we took in some museums and historical buildings, and stumbled onto the Spanish Stock Exchange.

We did not know what that building was, but that was beautiful in architecture, so we had to see the interior. Once inside this century old building, we saw five-story high ceilings and magnificent marble columns. The building with guarded by the Guardia Sevilla, (the elite federal police.)

As we started to walk past the guard, through a closed door, we were told we go upstairs. This was the mezzanine, which encircled the view below. On the floor, were hundreds of people and three-piece suits closely watching either numerous computers or the big stock- board which took up about three stories.

There, the electronic broadcasting of the world stock exchanges was taking place. Above the board were some of the most magnificent ceiling murals ever seen. Paul was enthralled. The expanse of murals encircled the ceiling, and was divided into sections representing the provinces of Spain. He paid special attention to Cadiz, (where he lived,) Grenada, (where he skied,) and Madrid, (where we were.) at that time, they were fifty provinces and territories in Spain, but centuries ago, when the building was erected, they were nowhere near as many. Each of the eighteen or so paintings were a treat, and a masterpiece of its own.

Even though Madrid was drizzly and cold, we were busy every second of the day. The city was magnificent! People talk about the Prado, which is known for The Ministry of Finance, Academia de Bella's Artes de San Fernando,

Iglesia de las Calatravas,

Ministry of Education and The Ministry of Defense to name a few. These buildings date from 1570 to 1928. If you like museums, go to Madrid. There was activity 24 hours a day. Actually it felt like Spain never sleeps.

Spain has highway construction crews that worked 24 hours a day, garbage collectors routinely collect around midnight through Spain, and the discos are open past dawn. No wonder these people take siestas! Their plan to host the Olympics here in 1992, has many people employed in preparation for that event.

We went back to the military base, for dinner, after our sightseeing, and while Paul did some shopping in the PX (finding items especially toiletries that we couldn't find at local stores,) I did laundry at the base laundromat. This is like being in America, as I shared washing machines with those who have the same complaints as I heard at home. There were wives whose husbands were stationed there, who had no machines at home, and bemoaned how much it cost to use the laundromat, and what a waste of their time it was.

Dinner at the officers club, was not as marvelous as before, and the steak was cooked just as I ordered, and I savored my baked potato and broccoli. It was not fancy, but it was familiar, and that felt very comfortable.

As we left Madrid, the moon rose, a sure indication that we wouldn't drive far. With all of Madrid under construction the Autopista (expressway) was a welcome relief. And hundred 20 km/h, we shot through the countryside. We sought refuge in a small cold town, where we stopped for Café con Leche and inquired about lodging. There were midnight singers, who were slightly off-key, in this festive little town, and townsfolk scurrying around in the cold, wearing mufflers and ear muffs. Again despite the hour or the weather, Viva La Noche! was in effect. It was a striking image in the town with the forgettable name.

January 8, 1990

After waking to another chilly day, with our standard breakfast, we left for Portugal. On route, I asked Paul to stop so that I could photograph a gorgeous city, with a reflection of itself on the river it bordered. That photographic moment made us change our plans; we got off the highway and drove into this town called Salamanca.

It's a medium-size college town, with the University of Salamanca -rich in lore - facing one of their dual cathedrals in the midst of the square.

It offered many contrasts, the slums rivaled those in New York City and Washington DC and, the restaurants and shops were well supplied. The plaza was teeming with college students, and the barrio with peasant's children. We spent a long time enjoying the cathedral. It had become a national monument, centuries ago, and the statues, paintings, murals and gargoyles were incredible. (I used entire roll of film in Salamanca.) The plaza harbored a nest occupied by a pair of storks, (with a romantic Spanish name we promise to identify but never did,) that were precariously perched on the bell-tower. Just like the bee that aerodynamically should not be able to fly, we wondered how they could've decided to make their home in such unstable situations.

Salamanca stayed on our minds for many reasons. We almost passed it by; the beauty was breathtaking. I found a wonderful Don Quixote Lladro in a shop there. The photographs taken there are outstanding, and a lot of history from the town followed us home. America has since celebrated 500 years since Columbus... now stories, movies, facts (and facts about things that we assumed were history and might be fiction,) have been discussed since this anniversary.

In 1992, a movie called 1492 was released. In the movie, Columbus was thrilled when he was summoned to the University of Salamanca for his proposal to be officially heard by the queen's advisers. In Salamanca, we saw several plaques talking about Salamanca being captured by Hannibal in the year 217 BC. It certainly has been around for a while! The University of Salamanca is "newer", having been established by Alfonzo IX of Leon somewhere around 1230 A.D. We continued to marvel how he almost overlooked this town; (the highway was so smooth, and we had been on so many low maintained roads,) and we wanted to arrive in Portugal, that we almost passed it by.

I teased Paul about his power of positive thought. He was so persuasive that Portugal was a warmer place, (maybe even 20° warmer;)... yeah - but it had been summer when he had been there before, but his positivity had me convinced, and we were both extremely anxious to reach a warmer climate. Like a kid, Paul envisioned the sudden changes as he'd receive his passport back from the validating officials, and he'd breathe in in the clean WARM air of another country.

Paul recounted a memory of moving from Kansas to Texas, as a child, and he had expected to suddenly find cowboys with silver spurs and pearl-handled revolvers. He had also expected Indians with long colorful headbands made of eagle feathers, who would be riding horses, charging up and down hills, just as soon as he passed into Texas. "What a disappointment," Paul sighed, "life is just not fair." Amazingly, as we dropped out of the Sierra de Estrela

- into the valley, prior to entering Portugal, the childhood fantasy of a drastic change occurred. The weather was warmer, the roads for the first 200 km were nothing but a pleasure to drive on, and the scenery was fantastic!

Once over the border, Paul wanted me to drive. When I got out of the car to change seats, I stopped to take a photo of an unusual home.

The front of this humble home was decorated with elaborate tiles, near the portico. As we traveled further into the country, it was clear that just like the warmer weather, this was another of those differences that separate Portugal from Spain. Those tile-façades, some of them with an "Our Lady of Fatima" theme, set on otherwise simple stucco homes were the Portuguese norm.

It seems that only an hour had passed before we were at the Atlantic Coast, finding a town called, Figuera de Foz.

We decided to spend the night at this quaint, coastal off-season hamlet. This shore called us, and we succumbed to a moonlit walk. This is another night that will be etched in my memory, for Paul shared intricate details of his childhood to college years, that evening on that beach.

It was there that he took time to play-out a sea battle fantasy, as if he were a child again. The old remains of several fortresses silhouetted the moonlight, and they were situated right on the beach. This was more than any 10-year-old would've hope to see. The imaginary ships that Paul spoke of blasted from his fortresses, followed by exploding cannon shells, flaming sails, burning decks, barrels of gunpowder being carried from going to gun, the dead and wounded strewn about, and - Ah Yes - all the heroic deeds that could ever come to the imagination, in the face of this battle. These were, vicariously, played out on that warm & breezy moonlit night.

The sound of the surf and the knowledge that Paul performed brilliantly were his last words that evening, before bed. That is what I fell asleep to. His fantasy-at-sea showed me the child inside the man and friend that I had grown to care for. His college stories, shared on the moon lit walk, were enlightening and exciting, but in a different way. He told me of his friends, nicknamed the Mirror Mob, and that they were the terror of the campus. Maybe in the 90s they would've been a terror, but for the 60s, their escapades might be duplicated in many other people's college memories.

It's amazing that he got any studying in, got a college degree, or even survived those years, as he retold about his late teens and early years of his 20s. They had frequent long weekends when they would take off and remain stoned for 72 hours. Some of those friendships are still tight today as they were for Paul, over 30 years ago. He had also lost track of some of those people. They accepted and loved and played with Paul. He told stories of being so high that his life was saved by someone with only a little more lucidity at the time. Their group's nickname came from someone totally spacing out over their own reflection in a mirror. Paul said he had not told that story to anyone, and hadn't thought of those escapades in years.

We all have stories of breaking from the rules and thumbing our noses at tradition and propriety. Paul did this in both the retelling of his college years, and shedding his pride to be child again on the beaches of Figuera de Foz. It was fun to see him play, and I felt privileged to be there for the retelling of his college antics.

January 9, 1990

We drove south - along the coast that next morning, and just like when we tried to shun Spain's capital, Madrid, the capitol city: Lisboa (LISBON,) was definitely too metropolitan for us. We took several unexpected routes, (but by this time this is a given.) relatively happy to pay a toll when we found another Autopista. we did not know where we have come from, nor where we were specifically headed. The sign that said the gas was available 10 km up the highway with a happy sight, for we were precariously low on fuel. Once at the gas station, it was another story, due to computer failure. Their pumps would not work and they estimated a 20 minute wait. With no guarantee that they would actually pump gas anymore that day, and discovering that there was a small town, Setubal, that was just 20 more kilometers away, we decided to chance it and roll-on, (maybe only on fumes.)

The forces might be with us, if we made it to the nearest station, in Setubal,

with only having to ask two people for directions. The first person tried to explain in Portuguese, which we knew none, the second person explained in English of which we knew a little. Ha.

Paul pumped 56 liters into the van, paid the credit card, and loudly groused about the high price of gas in this berg. At a little over the equivalent of six dollars per gallon, he joked "Walking would've seemed a more reasonable mode of transportation, if we didn't have so many miles to cover." Funny thought.

We drove around the back of the gas station, and the van quit. "Strange," murmured Paul, "but not totally unexpected in this van. Every once in a while, I fail to give it enough gas as I let the clutch out. Sometimes this Toyota is picky." He turned the key again, and heard the car start for an instant only. Paul didn't try anything else, and he had a sick flush on his face as he looked at me - and we both had an ill premonition as we heard a loud horn of an eighteen-wheeler behind us, urging us to get out of it's way. We were sure that we weren't going anywhere.

Paul noticed two men come alongside. Offering to help, the men and I got behind the van, as we managed to push it out of traffic, and into a parking space. Paul thanked them for their help; we locked the van, and walked back to the gas station to read the sign on the pump that we had just used. "Gasolina," Paul muttered, but there was no relief in his voice.

Paul went inside and asked which pump had diesel, and in a tone of great pleasure, (supposedly helping the tourist,) they indicated the pump that we had just used. We had just pumped 56 liters of diesel in the car that runs on gas. Even I knew that this was NOT good and can be a costly situation. Paul tried to explain his predicament to the station-attendant, but with the language barrier, he couldn't get to first base. Paul mentioned the word mechanic though, and one of the customers inquired, "What is wrong?" Paul explained our fuel-faux-pas, as the man had the biggest grin. (I was envisioning the thought bubble: "Stupid Americans!")

Ah, fate! The gas station customer (who was an African), had come to Portugal to open a furniture store, which was located just across the street. He and Paul struggled communicating between English and Spanish, but they managed to have quite a conversation, nonetheless. The man delighted in retelling his OWN story about his first encounter in Setubal, Portugal. At the very same gas station, he had also filled his tank with Gasolea by mistake! We all had a good laugh on ourselves, and then the furniture-guy asked two men to set out to resolve our problem.

The furniture-man (who became - like our guardian,) assured us that his son would care for our needs. Paul asked about a place to spend the night, and (thankfully) he did not share the answer with me until much later. He had been told that it was foolish to even think about staying in that neighborhood, and if the car was not fixed that very day, we would not need "to worry about a car." We were introduced to this man's son, who was very gracious, and he spoke impeccable English. We were assured that we would be on the road in twenty minutes. It was 4 pm.

Paul and our "guardian" spoke to three mechanics before they could convince someone to come and at least look at the van. The mechanic arrived and patiently waited in front of the Toyota van for Paul to raise the hood. The mechanic looked a little sheepish, when Paul tilted the front driver's seat, revealing the engine under it. After examining the engine, he asked Paul where the carburetor was. Paul rolled his eyes at me: (maybe we don't really need a mechanic;) I could read this in his eyes. The mechanic engaged in a long Portugese conversation with our "guardian".

We left the van and went for a small ("talk about what happened") walk; this was beginning to look very bad. Upon return though, there was a Toyota Diesel Van parked next to ours and an entire family in the wings. Our "guardian" had been contacting other mechanic garages; there was no one with a barrel that would hold that many liters of diesel. He then walked a door-to-door campaign, soliciting for a vehicle that used diesel. He saw a van and inquired after the owner. They had agreed to siphon the diesel from ours to their van.

They had a 86 liter capacity tank and their tank was only about a quarter full. Paul showed him the drain plug on our vehicle. With a slew of Portuguese, that family flew into motion. Papa Portuguese began siphoning long enough to fill a 2 liter container, then he'd plug the drain hole with a rag and hand that container to his wife. First Portuguese son slid an empty container under the drain hole, while Momma Portuguese poured the 2 liter of diesel into a a large bucket that was precariously balanced on three empty fruit crates. Daughter Portuguese, already ran a siphon hose into their Toyota diesel van, & balanced the bucket, while diesel emptied into their fuel tank. First Portuguese son then took the second two liter bucket to the fruit crates while mama Portuguese was sliding her empty bucket under Papa Portuguese's rag. Second Portuguese son was passing out paper towels to whoever wanted them. What an "assembly line!"

While all of this was going on, we left with our appointed "guardian," who assured us everything was running smoothly, and we toured his father's furniture store and Paul discussed purchasing a leather couch. When we returned, we were assured that there was not a drop of diesel left in our tank, so we added 2 liters of gasoline in the Toyota van, and then hired the carburetor mechanic. He had hung around through the entire siphoning ordeal, and now insisted that the battery would never be strong enough to force out all of the diesel out of the engine. He was now prepared to pull the van around the block to do the trick. After being pulled around for about 3 km, the van finally turned over, spit, sputtered and belched the blackest smoke ever seen out of Paul's vehicle. Five minutes later, the van calmed down and purred like a kitten.

This time Paul was extremely careful when reading the label at the pump. He pulled out his visa card at purchase 58 liters of gasoline for the van. He bought everyone a drink at the local bar, and the only person he could force money on was the mechanic. The $10 equivalent he excepted in escudos was more than reasonable. The family with the free tank of diesel was happy; the furniture store family, (who had bent over backwards for us,) was happy to have been a help, and we were happy to wash our hands and be on our way, (some 20 minutes later?). It was 7:30 pm. The sun was already lowering. We left Setubal on toward the southern coast of Portugal.

It felt good leaving that neighborhood, without spending a few hundred dollars for the mistake. The cost would have been astronomical, if there had not been changes made to the van. (When shipping the van to Europe, a few years prior,) the government normally would not have allowed the removal of the catalytic converter. Unleaded fuel was not commonly available in Europe at that time, so they would bend the law and the van was altered, to remove the catalytic converter. The damages were 3 1/2 hours and $90. Amen and Hallelujah!

Paul commented that Spain and Portugal had the friendliest people he had ever encountered, even with his limits on the language. He felt it was cheap, at half the pric,e and felt good about the fact that not one person derided him for such a dumb mistake.

A side note on the diesel experience: Paul received an education about the living and economic conditions of both Africa and Portugal during our "3 1/2 hour layover." Our "guardian" had asked Paul how much he had paid for his aviator sunglasses. (Knowing already to inflate the price,) Paul told him they cost about $20. This came as quite a surprise, because the equivalent was $50-$60 if our "guardian" could get them back home. The first thing that Paul did when he returned to his own naval base was buy a couple of pairs at the Naval Exchange and ship them off to our "guardian" in Portugal.

After driving for an hour, we had an expensive dinner to celebrate the "good life," in a small town situated on the river. It had quaint cobbled walkways to its numerous shops and venders in an area called the Algarve.

We strolled, sharing the evenings bustle, commenting on the full moonlight and reflection on the river, and enjoyed the gentle warm breezes. The idyllic setting was interrupted when I stopped, doubled over in pain. I couldn't tell where exactly the origin was from, but the pain had stopped me cold. Could it be my Appendix? Questions kept arising; as I could only walk a few more feet, and then I hurt again.

Paul became concerned about me, and with only aspirin on hand, he insisted that I drink heavily enough to not feel anything, to sleep, and maybe recover in the morning. I believe that we resorted to whiskey; it's a blur. We pulled into a resort town, Albufeira,

and the fancy hotel, to settle me into bed quickly. No more of the driving-around that had been done frequently on our every arrival into a new town, or walking on the streets, scouting the bargains of the unique restaurants, searching for the best accommodations... all that ritual was deleted to get me bed rest.

Paul learned that this town with a veritable British paradise, and most of the tourists there, were from England and Scotland. The area: The Algarve, is well known for its coastal beauty. This part of Portugal was referred to as "The End of Europe." It was just a slight jaunt across the channel to be in Spain, and this was a pampering town and a favorite hotel of Brits and Scots. I remember little of it that night. I hurt, and alcohol had made me very tired.

I felt somewhat better in the morning. I sat on the balcony, looking at the ocean, writing in my journal, and listening to Paul's tape of Linda Ronstadt. He insisted I take time to myself and make some journal entries.

Some of the music left me melancholy, knowing that soon I would feel melancholy about all of this; this vacation was soon coming to an end. Before we left Albufeira, it was my responsibility to remember the cassette player, for Paul had gone off to the gift shop for some over-the-counter painkillers. (I would keep up with the doses of the over-the-counter meds, for sure.) He had already packed, and I was supposed to follow with the packed remnants of my time alone on the balcony.

When we left, we headed east along the coast and stopped at a car wash listening to the radio play.

A side note about Europe. Europe does not coddle its customers/patrons. An elevator is not in a cage. It is a moving platform. Keep your hands to yourself - makes a lot of sense. Put your hand out while the elevator is moving, and you could lose a limb? Too bad on you. The same thing with the car wash. It was not enclosed. Right out in the open of a parking lot was a rail system that the brushes moved back and forth on as your car was scrubbed by brushes, soap and water. If any one in the parking lot approached the moving parts of the car wash? Too bad on you, dummy. I thought that was interesting; clearly the US coddles people in their "protection" or avoiding litigation.

The radio played Paul Young's "Every Time You Go Away." My Paul serenaded me - accompanying the radio version, as the car-wash brushes scrubbed the van he sang:

"Hey: if we can solve any problem, why do we lose so many tears! Oh and so you go again, when the leading one appears.

Always the same thing. Can't you see we got everything going on and on, you know?

Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you. Every time a go away, you take a piece of me with you."

His eyes locked on mine, unnerving me with the way he could look into me. The depth of knowing me after all these years, plus a complete unmasking, an entire emotional nakedness that comes from being such great friends for such a long time, and the feelings that penetrated me to my core, was always clear in his gaze. It communicated "I'd love to tell you this: don't go. Always be by my side," and without words it also spoke, "Let me memorize, this, for I know none of this is permanent, and time will soon be out of our grasp." Paul sang; his reverie was broken with a "Damn!" uttered by me. That is when I remembered his cassette player back at the hotel.

After we left the car wash, we found a phone and called the hotel to ask about the cassette player. Yes it was there, and locked away in their safe. Even though this meant backtracking, it turned into one of the most memorable days of this holiday. When we returned to Albufeira and retrieved the cassette player, Paul realized that we were not far from one of his favorite beaches, Portimao.

We retraced our journey even further, to this wonderful hidden treasure of Portugal. The beach water and sky were pristine that day. We parked and descended steep cliffs into a totally isolated cove.

The jutting rocks were orange from a mineral, like iron. These coastal rock formations were like Arches in Utah, or Sedona, Arizona and Garden of the Gods in Colorado. The sea was translucent, the place deserted, except for us. I never wanted to leave. After a while, the cove we were on had ended, unless we squeezed through a rock with a narrow passage like the eye of a needle. (It was so picturesque, I took a picture of this ocherous monolith with the ingress that we passed through.) We played like children that day. Paul and I kicked up sand, had water splashing fights, and I kept gathering more shells for my European beaches seashell collection. At the end of this cove, we found a staircase carved into the cliff, that ascended straight up. In that climb we huffed and puffed. There was a reprieve of a landing at the half-point and we stopped for a breath and another picture.

That photograph is the only time my camera's self-timer had ever worked! Paul insisted that we'd have a ship in the distance, sailing by in the frame. He was right! The site below was magnificent; one could see to the bottom of the sea, it was clear and pure. My photographs of this day are some of my favorites! Lost now, after a flood, very few of the pictures remain.

I certainly felt like I belonged in Portugal. I felt like I belonged with Paul. We topped the evening off in Portimao with a dinner at an Indian food, family-run restaurant. We were risky and went with hot, (very hot food) from India. Tear filled eyes later, we thanked the family who had laughed at us, as we had to wipe the tears away. The unfamiliar spiced food was great - and el fuego!. In all the good of what was happening, unfortunately, the over the counter medicine had worn off and my pain had not ceased, but increased and Paul insisted on returning to Albufeira after dinner.

We returned from Portimao and back to the Albufeira resort and, hoping for enough English speaking people to help us; we were fortunate and someone contacted a doctor, and we made an appointment for the following morning.

January 10, 1990

That Dr. spoke perfect English, (probably to cater to the tourist population of Albufeira, where many people retired to, that came from Great Britain.) The doctors diagnosis was "not quite a hernia". Even still, my strained muscles gave me concern. I filled a painkiller prescription, and that not only eased my mind, but it helped with the discomfort.

After the doctor appointment, we continued on, enjoying the city of Albufeira, it's markets, beaches and fabulous restaurants. On the shore, there were men, weathered and aged by years of fishing the sea, sitting beside their vessels, mending their nets with leathered hands.

There were those with less worry about the sea, windsurfing in the great breeze and hot sun. (Funny these two groups of people were both as bronze... one out of leisure, one out of necessity for a livelihood.) We enjoyed a wonderful seafood bisque for lunch, and I bought gifts to bring home to my family from the shops of Albufeira.

It was easy to see how Albufeira got its nickname: "The End of Europe." All of Europe ended up there! We spent our last evening in Albufeira playing International Trivial Pursuit with a mixture players from around the world. Africa, Scotland, Ireland, Great Britain, France, Poland, Italy, Canada, Iran, Australian, Spain, Portugal and the United States were all represented.

The Trivial Pursuit knowledge, and sometimes lack thereof, of each contestant, and maybe therefore each country, was amazing. We really enjoyed ourselves, and noticed that some answers in our minds were "a given." They were knowledge that every American grew up with; of course we knew them, but then something would appear about the game of cricket or maybe soccer or royalty and I was lost; the British players knew the answers immediately, and so on with the other international players. We were not winners; we were fun players, but not very successful.

January 11, 1990

When we left Albufeira, I made sure to have the tape player with me. Paul knew of a favorite spot, where he had taken a three-day weekend before. The first time in two weeks, we had a real destination: it was Castro Marim.

One last complete day together, (and evening together) of this holiday was spent in the small border town. It was not tourist season, so the rates were terrific. The two bedroom apartment (the smallest available,) was fully furnished with pots, pans, champagne glasses, TV, radio, and patio chairs on the balcony; all of these were standard provisions. We also had an astounding view the of the Atlantic Ocean. Those were standard accommodations, offered at $20. No wonder it was one of Paul's favorites! We set up house for the last time together, then went to a disco for dinner and dancing.

It was difficult to not focus strictly on each other, when we knew that this was not lasting. I cannot recall how many people were at the disco, what type of music they play, how often we danced... I do remember Paul's, blue eyes, very serious. "Tomorrow," Paul had made it clear, "You will be in Sevilla; I'll drop you off, and then I will head back home to ROTA."

It was a sad mixture of melancholy and bliss, having such an incredible holiday with my very best friend and supporter, and knowing that I would soon have to head off on my own, back to the US. I had intended to shop while still in Portugal. We were a day behind, forgetting the cassette player and my need to see a doctor, back in Albufeira, this caused us to spend two nights in the same place. That one extra day put us in Castro Marim a day later than planned, and it turned out to be a holiday, (though I don't know which one.)

There were parades, cannons, festivities, and closed shops in Castro Marim all day. Planning to shop at the better exchange rate of Portugal did me no good, if no one would sell anything to me, so I gave up on buying those last minute gifts that I was going to buy in Portugal.

Leaving the gracious country of Portugal, we took a 20 minute ferry, cruising the Rio Del Odiel into Ayomonte, Espana.

Again it felt sad, as I watched Portugal slip into the distance; the time, (and the holiday,) were disappearing by the minute and into the horizon.

Not having a knowledge of this country, I was unaware of how long before we would again arrive in Sevilla. We stopped at a roadside stand, and bought some delicious oranges. They were juicy and incredibly sweet. This was the first roadside fruit stand I had seen on the entire trip. Savoring the juicy oranges, savoring the last drive together, savoring the day and the fantastic weather of Spain... none of these could halt time. Everything went too fast anyway, and by noon, Paul had checked me into the Hostel la Rabida in Sevilla. Paul did not want it to end, clearly neither did I. Nevertheless, this was it. We stood in the lobby, drifting back in time...

For years to come, we would remember gazing at each other's faces as an artist study. Limning them inside our own heads, we etched them on the inside of the eye, against absence. The canvas was already taking on color, shape, dimension, definition. Neither of us could stand it too long. I felt that again, he was boring into my soul with his cerulean eyes. There were days before, we had sat, looking at each other, drinking Café con Leche, in one of the many ventas that we had visited, cellaring like camels, against the desert, spending all of our energy savoring the scene, storing it up against the dearth.

Both of us wanted to remember it that way, treasuring not just the experience of the holiday, but also the experiences of each other. We looked as if we were hungry, lingering in that lobby, as if we could eat it, lardering our minds with the way it had been for us, was for us then, together. We were stocking it up against the winter of deprivation. We were storing it against an unknown length of time of the fast, the aching hollow, filled only with correspondence, our lives so far apart. The sadness of knowing how long the hunger would be was weighty. The feast was over; the famine begun.

Who knew when we would see each other again? It'd been more than three years this time. We had two weeks of constant exposure to each other, gluttons that we were. The impending starvation put me in fear, sadness, and illogical desire to hold onto Paul and not let him out of my arms. Our goodbye peck did not look at all like the hunger or sadness we felt. It was brief, sweet, fleeting, and was one long, last penetrating look, Paul left the lobby. I stood there, immobilized, shaking, Eyes brimming with tears. I rushed to my room, hoping to not meet anyone's gaze. I could feel it; I knew that I would burst. Hopefully this would occur in the privacy of my room.

I ran a hot bath, and as I soaked in it, I cried. Lord knows how long it took for me to pass through that valley. I was one drained, drowned, wrinkled and pitifully empty woman when I climbed out and dried off.

It seemed overwhelming to me to be in Sevilla alone. Knowing that Paul was on the road back, that I would have 24+ hours, hours alone in Europe, and (worst of all,) that I would have to return to the states after only nibbling on happiness, were cruel blows. knowing what was waiting for me at home was concretely sad. Things back home, in Oregon were part of the MOST difficult of my life. It is not worth getting into details of WHY, but I could see this respite in Europe coming to an end, and the disparity was glaring at me. I felt doomed to only vicariously or briefly have a life I had hoped for.

There was only one way to make it through these next hours, I told myself: breathe and endure. There wasn't any more energy to cry. I sat on the edge of my single bed, staring out the tiny window, trying to find an emotional center that would at least allow me to leave the four cramped walls, and maybe eat dinner. I knew that wallowing in pity would only depress me, and at least for now, the debilitating grief was over.

I found that my restaurant's hotel served a fine sopa (soup) and I drank Café con Leche. Their version of it was to serve both the rich espresso and the steamed milk in their own stainless steel pitchers. Spain is the only place I've ever seen that allowed the customer to concoct their own Café con Leche. Too bad it's not a more widely accepted practice. I made my version strong and refilled it to my hearts content.

I took a brief walk around the barrio that evening to acquaint myself with landmarks. I intended to take many walks, and to see many sites, (including the cathedral with the famous La Giralda de Sevilla tower.)

I couldn't afford to wander the wrong way down an alley. If in the first few days, I'd been left alone, I would have been too timid to venture out. After two weeks of hit and miss touristing, though, "ala Paul," I was cocksure of my skills.

The weight of the day soon took over. I'd ridden back from the border with Paul, seeing him off in the lobby of La Rabida, cried myself to exhaustion, ate a hearty sopa and took a long walk through Sevilla. I was ready for sleep, and even with all the caffeine that I'd consumed. I fell asleep easily. Enamored with this traditional fare, I returned to the hotel's restaurant, and had a typical Spanish breakfast, the next morning. The rich homemade bread, was still warm and the crust was flaky. They served many choices of jams, jellies and marmalades to accompany my "toast." Just like the night before, I was allowed to concoct my own strength of Café con Leche. Wanting lots of zip, (real or induced,) I made my nectar quite strong.

Armed with tourist literature, maps, and the route memorized in the evening before, I set out on my own. A single woman in Sevilla, on foot, and prepared to conquer anything that I met. I found spots of interest, many detours on back alleys, and had a wonderful tour of the Sevilla cathedral. I walked up the ramp of the turret of the famous La Giralda La Giralda de Sevilla the tower. It was made specifically for the king to easily ascend on his horse and view his kingdom. (All the other Catholic towers I had been in, were made with turret staircases; a ramp! the luxuries of being royalty.)

The view from the tower was spectacular. The bells pealed as I was there; they were deafening. There was a statue in the foyer with four "foot bearers" of a carriage: inside the carriage was a member of royalty, carried like the Ark of the Covenant; it was all gilded in gold. Magnificent!

This church had countless alcoves, all separate chapels unto themselves, each dedicated to individual saints. Catholics were devoutly praying at various pews, lighting candles and genuflecting in reverie. Everything in Spain seemed church-oriented. There was more religion than I had seen in a long time, and it was personally disturbing. I had "abandoned" the Catholic Church, myself, at the age of 16; I was in Spain 20 years later. The attitude and servitude were foreign to me, and they would have been foreign to me, even if I were in the US. I still respected their devotion, and surprised myself once, when walking through the front of the chapel, I genuflected and "crossed myself," purely out of habit and without thought.

I was enjoying the beauty of architecture, and the awesome structures, built with so little technology. Everything left me dumb-struck. I could have toured all day. The drawback, which I could not escape from, was the recurrent pain in my side. The medication dulled it, but it never left. This tired me more than I had expected; I missed Paul and his doting care. I know that I'd have to care for myself, so I returned to the hotel for a nap. This was more wearying then I would have imagined. I was still weighted by the absence of Paul; it was palpable, but not enough to immobilize me anymore.

I returned to the hotel and was shocked out of my sleep by the phone ringing at my bedside. I grumbled a deep "Hola," into the phone. "So you are there!" said Paul. Oh how I missed him; the tears streamed down my face as we talked. He was still concerned for my health, missing me as much as I was him, and back to home and HIS regular life. We talked of what I had done for the day, how my health was, how I enjoyed the cathedral... things he had wanted to share with, or be there for, and now (as always in the past,) we shared vicariously.

Paul informed me of how he had planned for my "hopefully flawless" departure. My flight out was early the next morning; the taxi arriving at 5 AM. Paul had already talked to the desk clerk about me not doing any heavy lifting, my need for a wake up call, and for the desk clerk to be aware of all of this in the wee hours of the next day.

If I was to be fortunate, all would go as planned. The only thing I had intended to do was get dinner, stay in and read. I had to get up so early, and it would be so much to adjust to, starting the next day... I wasn't very adventurous anymore. Trepidation had begun to set in, for my intuition was strong about returning to the US.

Departure and back home.... January 12, 1990

I woke just before my phone wake-up call, and I laid there watching the last few minutes in this other world tick by. I answered the phone in Espanol automatically, and thanked them in kind. "Odd," I thought, "how long will I be gracious in this language; & how long before I am arguing in English?" It would not be easy, going home. This was a given. My nervous stomach would not tolerate any breakfast that early, and I would probably be fed on the plane, I remembered.

The taxi driver was punctual, but that is the only thing that went as planned. The desk clerk at that hour was not the bilingual employee, (and instructions had not been passed on from shift to shift,) even though that was Paul's request. It caused confusion, because neither of us spoke that needed language, and I could not lift my luggage. Pantomime with the only successful tool; I managed to get the driver to follow me to my room, carry my luggage and put it in the taxi trunk.

Once on the plane, I rested between Sevilla and Madrid. It was unnecessary, this time, to get off the plane and re-board. That was fine with me; the last time was a royal pain! Iberian Airlines was as uncomfortable as I had remembered. Their pressurized cabin wasn't appropriate; turbulence was frequent; each take-off felt like we had bounced the tail on the runway!

I was grateful to be in Frankfurt airport again. It was an international airport just like PDX; I was comfortable in any language there. I was laid-over for three hours again, and after spending my various currencies at gift shops within the airport, I returned to the same watering-hole as I have been in at the beginning of this journey. I begin a conversation with some Delta airline hostesses; they were returning to the states also. I was flying Delta, too - however, they were to be on a different flight to Kentucky. I told them I was going to Dallas, which is the way I had traveled on the way to Europe.

As I watched the incoming-outgoing flight board adjust to changes, I began getting nervous. No flight to Dallas was listed at all. I found the airline hostesses I had talked to at the bar, and inquired about the Delta flight that I was looking for. They researched that data for me and told me that there was no flight to Dallas, and I was booked on their flight to Kentucky. Phew! I could've been stuck in Germany for a long time, waiting for a flight to Dallas, if I had not met these women, and later searched them out.

I did not get the bonus of traveling in business class on my return flight. Damn! My discomfort was not-to-my-liking and being treated preferentially, (and the free booze!) would've been more comfortable. I was still in pain, and the higher level of care would have been nicer on the return flight. It was not my choice of seat, or accommodations, but I settled in and put on my earphones. It was a good selection of in-flight recordings of music and comedy, and some songs just took me on a little journey.

I was flying! I hoped that I would find out "who I was / where was I headed" when I returned to the states. What was going to happen my life, my unemployment, my shattered dreams, away from my great friend, Paul. Would I find what I longed-for? Hardly. I foresaw myself in a lot of pain. This time in Spain was a wonderful break from reality, but life was awaiting me in Oregon. The amount of difficulty and upcoming fear seemed to be never ending. The next months were going to be SO difficult.

I loaded up on cup after cup of coffee, knowing it would be a long time - approximately 30 hours, before I would be in Portland. I was flying against the clock, had no concept of what time it was. I heard an announcement that our first stop would be at the "Greater Tennessee Airport." That didn't even sound like where we were supposed to land! Of course I had at first thought I was going to Dallas; who was I to say they couldn't put their plane down in Tennessee? I wasn't staying there, I was just going on, so I did not care.

It was time-consuming, and it meant heaving my luggage again. I was in no physical shape to tote or lift it, and already I had begun hating the oh-me, pity-me, poor-injured-me mode. Nevertheless, I had to get help as I dealt with the custom officials. I was sure that oranges were the least of their concerns, but they had to go through every bit of my luggage that I had. I was not trafficking in anything else but fruit; the spare suitcase that I had brought for mementos was filled with T-shirts, film, (awaiting development), ceramics, European toilet paper, purses, scarves... typical tourist junk, nothing was actionable by the federales.

I asked the first uniformed airport person the question that had been nagging me since I had heard them announce the airport we had landed in. "Which state are we in," I said, "is this Tennessee or Kentucky?" (It was hard enough to believe that I was in the United States - and hearing lots and lots of English, but I was tired & more than confused.)

"Please, where are we?"

He explained very patiently, "We are in Kentucky, ma'am. The airport is shared by two states, and it has the name of the other state." He assessed me for minute, then added, "You've been up a long time haven't you?"

"Yes," I confirmed, "and I'm flying to Portland, Oregon. It is a long time still before I get home."

He tipped his hat, "Well good luck to you, ma'am."

LUCK. I needed a healthy does of that! The next stop was Utah. As promised, I went to a phone booth in the Salt Lake City airport, and called Paul's brother for him. Gratefully, I got the answering machine. I identified myself as a friend of Paul's, and that his brother was sending a "Hello; how are you?" message. Phew! I don't know what I would have done if his brother was actually home! What would I have said more than that? It would have been awkward to talk. I would "meet" Paul's family in a computer-chat room, (that Paul set up about two or three years later - maybe 1992...) to facilitate communication due to his dad's "transition into deafness".

Ironically, I had yet to find a job working for The Housing Authority; that happened a few months later. Working there, I learned about the "ITP" Interpreter Training Program. The people I met there were instrumental in influencing me to quit that job, become a full time student and switch careers, toward interpreting. Back then, home computers were new, but Paul was tech-savvy; he knew computers well. He distributed computers to different people (me included) for free. They were BASIC computers with black and white screens, and he set up an INTRANET chat room.

Paul's (late-deafened father, Don), his sister in Chicago, and his brother (occasionally) and I would get on the same chat-room and carry on some great conversations. We would email each other and set up a log-on time. Don was very isolated when he was late-deafened, and this gave him some socialization. I even - once - got a letter through the US Post Office from Don, in 1996, when I was working at a Deaf camp in Central Florida for six weeks. It was great being a part of Paul's family in this manner... BUT...

I had not REALLY met Paul's family yet so, questions like: "So, how do you know my brother?" ... and... "When you did you last see him?" --- these were questions that I might have to answer with the Utah brother. I didn't want to sound sad; I'd rather sound cheery. I was also acclimatizing myself to the fact that I would be back home -in Oregon- in just a few hours, and that was a completely different world. Yay for answering machines!

When I took the carry-on luggage off of the plane (in Oregon) for the last time, I sincerely wanted to ask the flight attendant please, PLEASE take me back to Europe! Don't make me get off this plane.

Nevertheless, I bolstered myself and walked into the Portland airport. I was home, and all the struggles I had left behind were awaiting me. 1990 - I knew would be a huge year of change, and I had the incredible fortune to start it out, well-cushioned, in Europe.

I faintly remember the trip home, the pounding of my head, the induced electric buzz of caffeine, the zombie eyes that still could not recognize what country I was in. OH! I needed sleep. "Sleep." Is a euphemism, here, for I lay awake in fear of impending danger. For the next 30 hours, I suffered jet lag and a pseudo-alertness as a "scout" awaiting the next barrage of life-awry. I could do no more than drift off.

January 13, 1990

The second night at home, I skittered about, still on a anxiety-high, I barely grazed the land of dreams. When I did, I woke yelling: "Paul! Where are we?" (Typical question, actually, knowing how often we "were lost.") As I woke enough to look around, I saw that I was in Oregon; I was not in Spain. I was afraid sleeping, and I was afraid when I was awake. (I was always on "the kind of alert" that happens when one is exposed to domestic violence, even if the other person is not near, but COULD be...)

Without speaking of the details and ugly incidents of life at that time, I can say that those were the norm of which my days were made. It was clear to me (LONG before the trip) that I had a sad and deteriorating life.

In that year, a lot of changes happened. It had taken me more than three years to be even begin to be able to write down anything out of my travel journal, after returning from Spain. In writing this, I get to re-live the joys of the beginnings of 1990.

Unbelievable! Unthinkable! Absurd! (Wasn't it the best time in my life?) Spain and Portugal with Paul --- the answer is still yes!

(...and 9 years later, after the ITP program, and moving to Florida for an approximate two year interpreting internship, this is a photo of Paul and me biking in a fund raiser event on the intercoastal water way in Navarre, Florida.)

I returned to Oregon in the last week of 1999, and Paul visited Oregon once since then.

When computers became more accessible, I finally put together a comprehensive blog, transcribed from written notes, thus, I wrote the ESPANA Blog.

................................................Paul and I: Friends. We will always be friends.

Pseudo-Suitors and Bogus-Beaus (Oblivious To My Own Genius)

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Shredding & Shedding

Thursday, August 21, 2014

ICE - --- (18 years later)

Monday, July 28, 2014

ESPANA

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