Of cheese, jamon, and the windmills of Don Quixote

Wow. It´s been a really, really long time. Where to even begin? How about with how annoying it is that every country has its own fucking keyboard which makes typing rather irritating for certain people who cannot abide typos... not that those people are anal, or anything...

ANYWAY, so I left Warwickshire on the 6th of November and have not been back there since. What the fuck?! I´ve been living out of the same little carry-on suitcase all this time... fortunately, with two loads of laundry in between.

Obviously, New York was wonderful. Also obviously, my citizenship test was ludicrous, especially the fact that I almost got the September 11th question wrong on account of my specifity not matching the government  sanctioned response, "Terrorists attacked America." Also, apparently the question "how old must you be to vote in the US" must be accompanied by the phrase "and up" (as if 18 yr olds might be the only eligible age for voting... come on, bureacracy, even I expected better). Not a citizen yet, though, as still have to return for my official oath-swearing... But hey, any excuse to visit New York is acceptable by me!

Ok, so NY was grand. Then I flew to Ireland which was not only seriously breathtaking (will soon run out of unique modifiers) but also full of my lovely family! Toby is an absolute blast, combining the large personality of the Whites with a kindness and genuine character ... Anyway, he introduced me to my first hangover in many years (in fact, if I´ve ever complained to you that I had a hangover, I didn´t know what I was talking about) but not the last. Killarney National Park has several lakes, sinewy mountain paths, windblown evergreens, flowers in November, green moss and lichens and vines everywhere... in short, it is fucking beautiful.

Then on to the Spanish roadtrip! Although I´ve never seen the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Toby alluded to it several times... although none of us were ingesting drugs, exactly, unless you count beer and wine and Manchego and Jamon Iberico and not sleeping nearly enough for any reasonable human, and especially not for an old granny like me! To skip ahead for a minute, can anyone whose known me in the last ten years imagine me Tapas bar-hopping until 4 am and then allowing myself to be taken to a nightclub, not to return to the hotel till past 6? Cordoba... (must be said in a tone mixing villanious intent and awe, a la Toby)

So, to the cast of characters:

• Toby, my cousin from Cork, seemingly immune to the effects of drink and exhaustion
• Brendan, the urbane country gentleman (or the country urbanite?) from Dublin, who would doubtless cringe if he heard me describe him as such, who runs through the rain from sheltered doorstep to sheltered doorstep as only a very tall Irishman can (Toby and I were content to stride grimly through the rain, although I couldn´t help laughing at Brendan´s swinging arms and legs, almost as if he were dancing some hyperbolic manic jig)
• Martha, the sweet and quirky Spanish transplant to Ireland, who abandoned us to see her family midtrip
• And myself of course

We began in Barcelona, drove through Aragon to Calacietes. Imagine a village of 1200 people, its population down by two-thirds as young people fled towards jobs and ... probably anything else, really. The looming sand-colored buildings date from at least the time of the Moors (1600), the wind was scouring through the empty streets, the cold was biting fiercly -- yes, I felt a little as if we had arrived at a zombie village where none would be seen until after sunset.

Anyway, on towards Toledo, stopping at small towns along the way and sampling olive oil from little plastic cups (the purpose of the trip being to procure the best small olive oil suppliers). Martha acted as translator until she left midweek, leaving the job of asking about olive oil acidity and manchego pastuerization to me... and of course, Toby couldn´t resist having me ask questions like "how much milk does an average sheep produce daily?" Along the way we toured a modern ham-curing facility that felt like we had stepped into Space Odyssey 2001, with plastic coats, hair nets, and booties covering us from head to foot like disposable mad scientists. So many legs of ham! It fucking stunk, and unlike my companions, I did not cherish this stink. No. Then of course there were the famed windmills of Don Quixote, as picteresque as one could imagine, minus the bus of tourists dismounting to the right (luckily just as we were leaving).

Finally we arrived in Malaga, where we were nearly dead from exhaustion and from Cordoba of the night before, and after a brief siesta we headed to Los Banos Magicos de Malaga, the Arab-style baths. Interestingly enough, there are no baths per se in this sort of institution, but rather a series of fountains of hot water and marble slabs to lie on, into which one ventures armed with a blue plastic bowl and then -- strange as this sounds -- pours water onto oneself continually until the heat and humidity induce horizontal positioning. As your head pulses from the heat and from the evident detoxification of your body, you realize that the Arabs really were the most advanced of the ancient civilizations, inventing the number zero being only the most minimal of their achievements. Funnily enough, we accidentally arrived at the Baths during a time reserved for a special "couples promotion," so there we were -- two English cousins and a tall Irishman, amidst several sets of intimate Spanish couples pouring water over each other tenderly and huddling together. Serious party-crashing!!

And now at last I am in Granada, in a lovely hostel I seriously recommend called the White Nest, in a city that, having toured much of Spain I can now say with some small authority is the most beautiful amalgam of Moorish and Renaissance architecture and cultures one could imagine, complete with mideival buildings, tiny winding streets, stone-stair strewn hills, and the largest and best preserved Arabian palace in all of Spain overlooking the city. GO THERE!! Or rather, come here...

On Thursday morning I ride the bus to Almeria to spend a quiet couple of weeks with family. Sleeping in the same bed for fourteen days straight seems absurdly luxurious to me.

And there my ramblings pause... Please send news of your own lives! I do miss you and would relish even a few terse but evocative lines... love, E