I Am Just So Angry

**This post contains copious amounts of swearing. If you can't handle it, stop reading now.** 

I am just so angry.

I don't want to be mollified by prayers or platitudes about self-care. I don't want to dedicate myself to working towards the collective good. Today, I want to marinate in my anger and have it validated. 

I am just so fucking angry.

I am not interested in women's marches or girding for the next battle. I need to be angry and I need all of you to accept it.

We didn't lose a sporting match. It wasn't our team versus theirs. As a long-suffering Leafs fan, I know exactly what that feels like. This is so different. We are standing on the precipice of something very dark and ugly and if I can't be angry about that, then when can I?

Here's my abbreviated list of anger items. (It's only abbreviated because I'm just so fucking tired.)

I am angry that extreme and mostly male politicians around the world are making our lives less safe. I am so pissed that they are swinging their limp dicks around to prove that toxic masculinity is the only way to govern. 

I am angry that they use us as cudgels against each other and can't find ways to sit and discuss the obvious issues that most of us can easily see. I am furious that they are actively breaking centuries-old norms and changing laws to suit their disgusting need for absolute power. 

I am so angry that most of these leaders see women as their enemies or handmaids instead of their equals. I am so nauseated that they think that it is still ok to pay us less, roll back our bodily autonomy, slow-walk us on childcare issues, and pretend that they are our protectors. (Don't come at me with a not-all-men bullshit excuse. This is a failure of political leadership, and it is mostly a male problem.)

I am furious that these assholes have mesmerized strong pluralities of our populace with simplistic slogans, and hostile solutions to complex problems, and have offered permission structures for the worst of us to rise and punch down at those who cannot defend themselves.

I am raging at the idea that my granddaughters might have less say over their own healthcare than I have enjoyed. Yes, I live in a country where this isn't a problem, but I am always on edge that it could become one. I was in Dublin when Ireland finally adopted abortion rights in their still very Catholic country. The joy spilled out onto the streets. I weep at what my sisters south of the border are currently enduring. 

I am fuming at the behind-the-curtain deals and the quiet handshakes that are happening to keep the worst people in power. I am so very angry that billionaires, oligarchs, and dictators are colluding behind the scenes to act in their own self-interests rather than those of their citizens. 

I am livid I still have to tell my LGBTQIA+ friends and family that their humanity is no different from my own. It is beyond the pale that these wonderful humans are still being used as political cudgels.

I am so pissed off that the worst human beings imaginable are our political leaders and that almost all of them are unprincipled shitheels. Party be damned. The naked corruption and self-interest are so antithetical to what we were previously taught about good and effective leadership. There is simply no decency in most of these people.

I am angry that many of my Jewish friends have become one-issue voters. I am angry that they can't see how they have been manipulated in the name of political self-interest. Israel needs to be protected, the hostages released, and antisemitism needs to be eradicated, but supporting the unholy alliance of disgraceful world leaders to prop up Netanyahu has to end. I have no doubt that Bibi tanked numerous peace initiatives to help Trump. We know for a fact that they were talking offline. Hamas and Hezbollah are existential threats that need to be destroyed, but we Jews need to acknowledge that the comprehensive destruction of Gaza and Beirut is highly questionable. The Palestinian people are our brothers and sisters, and they deserve to live their lives in peace. 

I am angry that many of my non-Jewish friends can't see how we Jews are suffering right now. Both of these things can be true without bowing down to Pharaohs who want to pit us against one another because it is good politics.  

I am so fucking angry that we can't tell the difference between a factual news item and a bogus one. I hate that the richest man in the world has monetized his social media network to act as a propaganda arm for the extreme right-wing motherfuckers. Most decent people are angry every minute of every day because they doom scroll inside of their political bubbles of choice. Ask yourselves why you viscerally hate moderate politician XX or XY, and then try staying off the socials for a month. You might actually feel better and realize that somebody somewhere has ginned up your anger for their selfish gain. 

I am so angry that these pricks are destroying what makes our cities liveable. Parks, bike lanes, and transit projects are being shelved globally because of questionable construction projects that line the pockets of donors. I am pissed that they are building their political careers on the backs of the most vulnerable. The unhoused, those sick with addiction, the new immigrants and the poor all have reason to worry about what is coming.

I am fucking furious that when men in power feel threatened by smart, strong, and opinionated women, they automatically resort to epithets and insults. I never thought I would hear the "c" word uttered by a presidential candidate, but here we are. 

The Husband and those close to me have validated my anger today. Many others probably would tell me to suck it up, buttercup. Those individuals can seriously go suck it. Today is not the day to fuck with me. I am fuming in so many ways that it will take a while to calm down. Anger is a righteous emotion, and right now, I feel I am on the side of the angels. Do you want to tell me I'm not? 

Fuck off. 

For Talia On Her Third Birthday

Dearest Talia,

Happy 3rd Birthday!! It amazes me every single time I start to write one of these letters, just how quickly time passes. As we approach your third birthday this week, I am simply stunned that this is my fourth letter to you. I have yet to bother to read my previous missives. I thought about it, but I think I prefer to let them all stand on their own. They are each a snapshot in time. I hope they offer some positivity, some life lessons, a bit of old-lady humour, and maybe even a bit of grandmotherly advice. And if they don't? Well, I hope you know that I tried. 

On your third birthday, I want to tell you about one of my all-time favourite movies. Eat Drink Man Woman is a Chinese-language film by the great director Ang Lee. Mr. Lee is probably better known for his Oscar-winning and groundbreaking flick Brokeback Mountain. That movie is one that I hope you will see someday, but when I tell you that I think that Eat Drink Man Woman is a seminal film, I am not exaggerating. (It has been remade in English as Tortilla Soup and it deeply inspired another Chinese language movie called Joyful Reunion, both of which are worth seeing.) The title comes from the Confucian classic, The Book of Rites. It refers to basic human desires and demands we accept them as natural. Eat Drink Man Woman was released thirty years ago and I saw it for the first time when your dad wasn't much older than you are now. The fact that I keep rewatching it is a testament to its message and its staying power.

Eat Drink Man Woman is the story of a famous, semi-retired chef who lives in Tapei. Chef Zhu is a widower who goes to great lengths every Sunday evening to prepare a family feast for his three daughters. The movie opens with a montage of Zhu cooking his various delicacies. It is an array that blasts the senses. You can almost smell and taste his dishes. Every time I see the film, I want to jump through the screen and pull up a chair. Zhu's daughters are less than enthused by the continual demand that they show up every Sunday for a dinner none of them seem to care about. Each woman has a repressed need to show her true self and as the story unfolds, those needs are met. The film expertly displays the important link of food to family, and why even though we may not always sit together for a meal, those tastes and smells stimulate our memories and emotions. 

Several years ago, Zaidy and I had the opportunity to have a special viewing of this film at the TIFF Lightbox Theatre here in downtown Toronto. The guest speaker that evening was the very famous Toronto chef, Susur Lee. Chef Lee spoke of why he prefers to cook his dishes in a family style. He wants people to not only savour his phenomenal cuisine, but he wants them to sit, chat, enjoy, and connect over his food. He talked about the importance of eating together as families, and about how critical it is for families to find history through cooking, recipe sharing, and communal noshing. He said all of this as a proud Chinese-Canadian but he could have just as easily been speaking about my Jewish/Polish/Russian roots.

It isn't unusual to have memories triggered by food. Whenever I bake a chocolate chunk cookie, I remember making them with my mom and her admonishments about the "best ingredients" and how I should never use artificial vanilla. The horror! Those times in the kitchen with her are so precious. I will relish them always. I am instantly lost in a haze of tearful remembrance every single time I eat a rugelach. Nobody made them better than Aunty Marlene. I can see my own grandmother Essie jarring dill pickles and the memory floods back whenever I smell the herbs. Every Pesach seder, Rosh Hashana dinner, Purim Hamentaschen bake, or meal in a Sukkah tethers me to our ancestors. Food and eating are essential to our development of family ties and whenever we eat or cook together, we strengthen those bonds.

When my Aunt Marlene died, I was given a recipe file she kept. Bits of scrap papers or stained computer printouts that she had stuffed into a folder and many were written by her own hand. When I cleaned out Bubby Sheila's closets in Florida this spring, I found a similar cache. Most of these recipes are probably useless to me and I will never even attempt making them, but I can't part with them either. They are like warm hugs coming at me from across the decades. I hope that someday someone will want them. For now, they are more precious to me than a photograph.

Talia, I want to spend hours cooking, baking, and eating with you. I want you to get to know the history of our family. I want you to have our recipes that have been made with love and care. I want to play with you while we make challah dough. I want to help you sneak chocolate chips from the cookie batter, and I want to remind you to always use the best ingredients. When we cook and eat together, we make irreplaceable memories. On this your third birthday, I bequeath to you the gift of your heritage, your family, your recipes, and all our love. 

Here are two family recipes to get you started. 

Bubby Sheila's Famous Chocolate Chunk Cookies

1/4 cup white sugar

1 cup dark brown sugar

2 1/2 cups (scant) flour

1 cup unsalted butter (softened)

1 egg

1 tsp pure vanilla (NEVER ARTIFICIAL!)

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1/2 cup pecans (chopped and optional. Your dad loathes nuts so I often leave them out.)

1 large bar of President's Choice dark chocolate (chopped) (YES! You read that correctly. An entire large bar of chocolate.)

1. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, baking soda and salt.

2. Cream together butter and the sugars.

3. Add the egg and vanilla

4. Carefully add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture until combined.

5. Add the chocolate chunks and nuts.

6. Using a small scoop, make balls and place them on a baking sheet. (I always put them in the fridge for about 15 minutes before baking.)

Bake at 350 degrees for 12 minutes. 

Aunty Marlene's Rugelach (Good luck making these. I simply cannot replicate them even though this is the complete recipe she always used.)

Dough

1/2 pound butter (softened)

1/2 pound cream cheese (room temperature)

2 cups flour 

Filling

1/2 cup sugar

2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 cup pecans (chopped)

1/2 cup raisins

1/4 cup chocolate chips (optional)

Dough

1. Blend butter, cream cheese, and flour together in a food processor or in a bowl with your hands.

2. Mix until a smooth ball forms. 

3. Divide into 4 equal parts.

4. Shape each into a ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. 

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. 

2. Sprinkle pastry board generously with flour.

3.  Roll each ball into 1/8" (•5 cm) thick circle. 

4. Spread a small and thin amount of raspberry jam over the circle. (Any jam will do, but Aunty Marlene always used raspberry)

5. Sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar, nuts and raisins. (Don't forget the chocolate chips.)

6. Cut the circle into 12 wedges.

7. Roll each wedge from the widest end towards the point to form a crescent shape. 

8. Place on a greased cookie sheet point side down.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until brown. Remove and cool on a rack. Sprinkle with icing sugar before serving. These freeze beautifully.

Happy Birthday, my darling girl. Enjoy all that life has to offer. Eat the cake and cookies, dance with spirit and joy, hug with strength, and always remember those who came before. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Bubby

Lives Well Lived

The following posts may be broken into several sections. It is difficult for me to say everything I want about this subject. There are a lot of memories and emotional components that might get in the way of brevity. I apologize in advance and will absolutely understand if you don't want to follow or go along for a prolonged ride. It might get wordy. I am not sure how it might turn out, but I will try hard not to make it pedantic and deathly boring. I will also try to infuse some humour. There will definitely be some sap and for that, I apologize.

There is a conversation to be had about our "stuff". George Carlin began this dialogue back in 1986 with his brilliant soliloquy. I highly recommend you watch it. Not only is it wickedly funny, but it is truly an excellent distillation of conspicuous consumerism. Carlin was truly on the cutting edge of modern philosophy; an iconoclast ahead of his time. 

It is easy to dismiss the things we keep as unimportant. 

"Why the hell did Bubby keep a drawerful of rubber bands? What was she thinking?"

Bubby probably filled a drawer with what we see as junk because she grew up when everything could be used again. Bubby wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but rather an early adopter of environmentalism. She understood the value of renewable objects. Tossing that stuff into the trash was anathema for her. It was her "stuff" and judging it from across the chasms of time seems disrespectful.

There are so many memories attached to our stuff. The Playbills I keep from live theatre performances are of no value. They are simply printed magazines with pretty covers. But when I see them, the joy I felt sitting in those theatres comes flooding back in jubilant waves. What is the harm in holding onto them? 

The same goes for artwork or chachkas that are accumulated over a lifetime of collecting. Maybe you have mugs or little silver spoons purchased during your travels. Perhaps you are a connoisseur of local artisans. If you are a traveller, buying some knickknacks brings back memories of adventures well-spent. Surrounding oneself with "stuff" can bring joy and contentment. I am certainly not advocating hoarding or a troublesome addiction. I am merely looking at the memorabilia we all collect. At this moment, I am having a difiicult time seeing the downside.

Which brings me to the reason for all of this nostalgia. We are at a point in our lives where we are dealing with downsizing my parents' "stuff." This isn't the first round of divesting. They have moved several times in the past decade, so all of us who are involved are well-versed in the task. This time it feels different, more permanent. As such, there are many emotions that need to be managed and many egos that need to be stroked.

As I write the first of these posts, I am sitting in The Southern Home. It is unusual for us to be here in the heat of a South Florida summer, but my parents recently sold their condo and we were tasked with cleaning out their "stuff". This space is filled with memories from their globetrotting days. They were true collectors of local artisans from all over the world. When we first started this exercise back in the winter, knowing that they would be selling, I watched my mom wander around the apartment in a wistful haze. She and I would decide on what needed to go; I would take it out of the cupboards to mark it for removal; and then twenty minutes later, I would find it back in its original location. It didn't matter what the object was. It could have been a broken serving dish or a drawerful of dried-up pens. My mom found comfort in knowing her "stuff" was where she left it. While Toronto is where their family is, South Florida has always been home for them. Over the past three and half decades, this was the place where my parents thrived. Their relationships, their social situations, and their activities were all far more engrossing and engaging down here. They didn't simply visit for five months of the year. They lived here. My mom and my Other Mom would spend weeks at a time here, just the two of them, while their men commuted back and forth between the countries. The memories here are vivid and colourful and the sadness at them having to part with this place penetrates my soul. 

We knew early in the spring that The Husband and I would be the ones to deal with the sale of this place. (We didn't know how quickly we would have to rearrange things in order to fly down, but that story is for another post.) After all, we are also here a lot and we fully understand the importance and magnitude this space has for both of my parents. My brother and I have the luxury of being on the same page when it comes to my parents' and helping them to continue to live their best lives. Not all families are this fortunate, so I will count my blessings. Walking into their condo on Tuesday was heart-wrenching for me. I could hear my aunt's voice. I could smell the cookies baking. I could see my dad sitting at the pool. Thirty-six years came flooding back in an instant. It was a lot of years, and yet not enough. 

Some of their most prized stuff was shipped to grandchildren and beloved families in Toronto. Some were given to dear friends down here. The buyer wanted a few things, so The Husband made some deals. We had building friends walk through and take mementos. We gifted some things to workers in the building who are forever sending items back to needy families in Cuba and Central America. (We also gifted the staff here all of my dad's booze and told them to have a blowout fiesta in his honour.) Photographs were lovingly boxed to be shipped at a later date. We cancelled their phone number. The same number they have had for thirty-six years. We called charitable organizations to take the furniture. And we called the junk people for the broken and battered "stuff". We did it all in five days. Thirty-six years of memories and "stuff" dispersed in five days.

I have cried more than once during this exercise. I have silently told Marie Kondo to go fuck herself on numerous occasions. The Husband has been my rock. He celebrated his birthday in the middle of this week. It is not an ideal way to celebrate, but he has been unbelievable. He has given me the space to work the problems, and more importantly, the space to grieve. Nobody has died, but a chapter of our lives has closed. (Once again, another post.) 

I wrapped a few small items to take home to my parents. I packed a small mezuzah designed by Agam and a small ceramic gator. They will find places of honour in my parents' new space in Toronto. I also shipped home my mom's favourite wine goblets. I hope to have a toast with her when they arrive north. Because in the end, it isn't just stuff. It is a reminder of lives well lived.

He will have a place of distinction in Toronto

Thanks for reading. We fly home tonight and I will continue this series of aging and downsizing when I return to The True North Strong and Free. 

Where Ya Going? Barcelona

I love visiting art galleries. We have spent hours in the great ones from around the world. 

I also love visiting places that inspired the artists I love. Understanding how they came to create their masterpieces, brings the works to life in a multi-dimensional way. Seeing Van Gogh's bedroom at Arles, or Monet's cottage in Givernay gave insight into the artist and their process.

We are having similar experiences here in Spain. Seeing the El Greco masterpiece, The Burial of the Count of Orgaz – El Entierro del Conde de Orgaz in Toledo, provided an awareness of what the artist was feeling and doing at the time of creation.

Spain has a history of producing iconoclastic artists. Velasquez, El Greco, (technically Greek but claimed by the Spaniards) Goya, Gris, and moving into the more modern masters, Picasso, Miró, and Dalí. We had been warned away from a trip to the Picasso Museum here in Barcelona. Many of his greatest works are elsewhere and we were privileged to see Guernica at the Reina Sofia in Madrid. Miró also has a gallery here in Barça, but there is only so much time. But given the chance to travel to Figueres to see the great works of Salvador Dalí? We jumped at the opportunity.

We booked a full-day tour to visit Gírona and then to Figueres. I have spent a good portion of this trip lamenting the golden age of Spanish Jewry. The philosophers, artisans, and thinkers who came from this place make me sad about what could have been had they been permitted to stay. As we began our walking tour of Gírona, I knew the Jewish Quarter would be a shadow of what had previously existed. We decided to return after our initial pass in the old city, to spend time in the Jewish Museum. We were gifted with some old writings of The Ramban, Rav Mosse Ben Nahman Gerondí. Nahmanides was the highest legal and religious authority on The Iberian Peninsula. Like Maimonides before him, he studied medicine but by the age of sixteen, he was already writing commentaries on the Torah. Those of us in my weekly Talmud study will remember that the Ramban was the first to insert Kabbalistic overtones into his writings. I imagined him walking the cobblestone streets of his hometown before he escaped to Jerusalem because of persecution. Maybe it is the troublesome world in which we find ourselves today, but I am exhausted by stories of Jewish persecution and expulsion. I honestly do not have any good answers for any of it, but I know I am tired of trying to explain it. At the proverbial gift shop at the exit of the museum, I bought a small mezuzah. It isn't much, but it was my way of telling the Jews who are still here in Spain and are trying to keep our history alive, that they matter. 

We made our way to Figueres to visit the crazy dream-filled world of Dalí. He was a character. The museum in his hometown was fully designed by him and every detail had his stamp of approval; from the eggs that adorn the roof of the building, to the faux-Oscar statues. His most famous work, The Persistence of Memory, isn't here. You might know it as the "Melting Clocks" painting. That particular canvas is on display at MOMA in New York. It is worth seeing. Here in Figueres, we glimpsed the more personal Dalí. His love for his beloved wife Gala, his homage to Picasso, and his desperate need to be the centre of attention. The museum is crammed full of everything he loved and adored. It was worth the two-hour drive to try and play Dr. Freud to Dalí's dreamscapes.

Some random thoughts. 

• It is raining here on our last day. The weather has been spectacular save for rain of the first day in Madrid and the last day in Barcelona. We couldn't have planned it any better. 
• We wandered down to the beach yesterday. The America's Cup of sailing will be here in about one-hundred days. Does that float your boat? (See what I did there? Hey Phil! That's how you do a pun!)
• We met a nice couple on our tour. They are Kentuckians who made sure we knew right up front that they aren't supporters of the Orange Menace. But, here's the funny part of the story. If you know of our escapade through Mt. Vernon Kentucky about thirty-years ago, you will be amused to know that this couple lives only thirty miles from there and they told us that the Pizza Hut is still standing. (If you want to hear this story, contact me offline.)
• It was Temps de Flors in Gírona. The entire town was decked out in flowers.
• We also wandered through La Boqueria yesterday. This market has been in the heart of Barcelona since 1836. Think St. Lawrence Market at treble the size. Fabulous.
• The tapas has been incredible and I have learned a few things. Fried artichokes? Yum. Fried goat cheese drizzled with honey. OMG! Chickpea croquettes is just a fancy name for falafel. Any olives, anytime, anywhere. I'm happy. Sangria is just as good without alcohol. Adding orange flavours is a new personal favourite. 

Most of today's photos are by The Husband. The mezuzah and ketubah are mine. 

Home tomorrow. Rest for a day and then I will chat with anyone who wants to visit this fantastic country. Adíos España. Hasta luego.

Flowers in Gírona

That's the Dalí museum. Can you spot me?

There were dozens of these Oscar like sculptures

Dalí's self-portrait 

My uncle had a serigraph of this.

Dalí's Mae West

The market

This ketubah is from 1377 Gírona

 

That's Barcelona with a "TH"

I once spent a glorious day and a half in Barcelona. I knew then that it wasn’t nearly enough. Twenty-two years is a long time to yearn for a return. 

Where Madrid still holds onto a lot of its old-world charm, Barca is a truly cosmopolitan city, steeped in the heritage of Catalunya. The locals get very testy when you refer to them as Spaniards. Catalan is the predominant language spoken and its place of prominence above the Spanish cannot be ignored. The locals will speak to me en español, but I get the distinct feeling that they would prefer I address them in English.  The separation movement, which is coming up to a hundred years, is still very vocal and active. 

We spent our first evening here at a Flamenco show. The history of Flamenco is fascinating. The acapella chants have their roots in Romani folklore and tell the stories of love; sometimes unrequited, sometimes fulfilled. The costumes date back centuries and it takes years to master the pounding footwork of the solos and pasa dobles. The shows are traditionally performed in a tabloa. It reminded me of clubs in which the Beatles used to perform in Hamburg. Flamenco is so popular it even has its own emoji. 💃 I honestly thought it would be hokey, but once again I was proven wrong. I loved it. The Spanish guitars were unbelievably great and the performers dazzling. The food was mediocre but, who cared? We were captivated.

The high art of Gaudi dominates Barcelona and the pride the locals feel for their native son is pure. The centenary of his death is fast approaching in 2026, and the planning is well underway. Contrary to popular opinion, Sagrada Familia will not be fully completed by then. The Jesus tower and the front entrance will finally be done, but there will still be ongoing work on four more towers. When The Husband and I first visited back in 2002, we weren’t permitted to enter Sagrada Familia. The inside was worth the wait. It is truly a masterpiece, with sensations of the natural world overwhelming the senses in every corner. Ascending the tower and then walking down the four-hundred steps of his own personal Fibonacci sequence was remarkable. And the light? Oh, my! The light permeates every inch of his designs, whether at the church or his buildings. Truly something needed to be seen to be fully understood. 

Some random thoughts.

• Sra. Lee (z"l), my high school Spanish teacher would be proud of me, but she left out Catalan from the syllabus. It is a weird language. 
• Did I say four-hundred steps down? My quads are barking four-thousand or maybe four-hundred-thousand. I’m sore today. 
• We have been pretty good at planning ahead on this trip, but we blew it with Park Güell, a Gaudi sculpture garden. We didn’t realize we needed to pre-purchase tickets until we hiked for forty minutes up the mountain, only to discover that tickets were sold out. We will try again before we leave, 
• Las Ramblas is a happening place. Music, street performers, art, and lots of touristy shit.
• "Nothing is art if it doesn't come from nature."~Antonio Gaudi
• "The straight line belongs to man, the curved one to God."~Antonio Gaudi
• "Those who look for the laws of Nature as a support for their new works collaborate with The Creator."~Antonio Gaudi

Almost all photos today are by The Husband. If the video manages to load, it's mine.

I'm Certain I'm of Sephardic Heritage

I've often been asked where the name Cincinatus comes from. In truth, any story I give is just a wild guess. My people have deep roots in Eastern Europe, Poland to be exact. The generations there are many. 

But my birthname can also be found in the history of ancient Rome. You can read about Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus here if you wish, but my broader point is that there were Cincinatuses in the Mediterranean region during Roman times. Is it not possible that I might have had some Sephardic roots? I've always thought there might be a bit of Sepharad in my blood. It might also help explain my deep affinity with this place long before I visited. 

Ok. I will grant you all a "bullshit" right about now, but I can't help but feel a pull towards this country. I just love it here. There is much in the history to abhor. The constant conquering and dismissing of religious pluralism is more than a little disturbing, but I honestly think I could spend huge chunks of time in Spain. The weather is glorious; the food is incredible; I am getting better at the language every day; and I love the idea of the EU. Of course, there is the small detail of finding more than a handful of Jews in any one locale, but I think I could adapt.

We found another gem in Granada. Located at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains, (the other Sierra Nevada mountains.) Once settled by the Iberians, Visigoths, and Romans, the current settlement was a major city of Al-Andalus, and it eventually became the capital of the Emirate of Granada under Nasrid rule. The Nasrids were the last Muslim rulers in Iberia. Like other communities here in Andalusia, Granada features magnificent architecture, preserved neighbourhoods, small markets, and a bustling city centre. And just like other communities we've visited, everything looks better from the top of the hills.

Always uphill. Climbing. Uphill. In both directions. Uphill.

Our first climb was to El Mirador de San Nicolas. We heard the views of the city were spectacular. They are, indeed. It's a party up there. Backpackers, musicians, vendors, and tourists meld together to share the common experience of trying to get the best looks at La Alhambra in the late afternoon sun. The medieval palace/fortress was putting its best face forward. Our official visit wouldn't be for another day, but even just casting a glance at the famous site was breathtaking. We meandered our way through the ancient neighbourhoods. The pomegranate or granata is emblazoned into the cobblestone streets. One street resembled an Arab shuk; with shopkeepers taking to the narrow passages trying to entice us into their stores. We did succumb to some delicacies; candied nuts and some nougats. We had a lovely time just chilling with a sangria and some cerveza.

The visit to La Alhambra almost defies description. The climb up the hill was steep but satisfying. Tourists are tightly controlled at the palace and we had to register our tickets with our passports. Timing is essential because if you miss your window, you are out of luck. Some places really need to be seen to be believed. The restored mosaics, fountains, masonry, and etchings are simply stunning. The Sultans definitely lived well and knew how to defend their people. As late as the early nineteenth century, La Alhambra had fallen into disrepair. The work done to restore it has been methodical and labourious. It really is a once-in-a-lifetime visit. We capped our time in Granada with a meal at a Moroccan restaurant. It seemed only fitting. My faux-Sephardi side was truly sated by our trip to this magical land.

Some random thoughts:

• The American writer Washington Irving is revered here. After some research, we discovered that he was an ambassador to Spain in the early eighteen hundereds and it was through his writings and fundraising that money was raised to restore La Alhambra. He is memorialized with a statue at the foot of the palace and a fountain is etched in his honour.
• We kind of overdid it on our purchase of Dulce Arábes in the shuk. The candied nuts were just too delicious to ignore, but we absolutely overbought. I also purchased Sabor de España delights for loved ones back home. My carry-on is a bit heavy.
• Helado was consumed once again. Yogurt for me. OY!
• I am finishing this post from the airport in Granada as we await our flight to Barcelona. Air travel around the world is so much more civilized than North America. When will we finally be able to stop removing our shoes?

La Alhambra from Mirador de San Nicolas

Restored mosaics

Nasrid Palace

Lion's Fountain

A miniscule part of the gardens at Generalfe

The watchtower. Yes, we climbed it.

Washington Irving

Pomegranate cobblestones

Gorging in Ronda

I have discovered a truism about Spain.

The entire country goes uphill. In both directions. Flat walks are nearly non-existent and there is no such thing as a paved road outside the major metropolises. Everything is cobblestoned. My Apple Watch is wondering where all the elevation points are coming from. The thing is, to fully experience the wondrous encounters this beautiful country has to offer,  you must get out of the cities and into La Frontera. 

We left The Rock behind us and ventured into the mountainous regions of España. Now here's the thing. I'd been suffering from a nightmarish cold ever since some boor hacked on me during one of our train trips. The last thing I needed was a twisting and turning journey up into the hill country of Málaga province. Unfortunately, that is exactly what I got. We have been on planes, trains, metros, cable cars, and buses during this trip and believe it or not, it was a car ride that finally triggered my motion sickness. We had to pull over twice, prop me up in the front seat, and pray to all that is holy that I wouldn't puke in the rental car.

We pulled into the town of Ronda and I was literally seeing stars. I refused to allow this f***ing cold to slow me down, so I insisted we do some initial scouting of the sites. This is one magnificent village. Known for its cliffside location and a deep gorge that divides the town, Ronda was historically a rest stop along the Arab trade routes that started in Granada and ventured forward to Córdoba. The former Islamic dominance is still quite visible throughout the town, even though the Inquisition ended all Muslim observance. The Arab baths, which were a travellers' weigh station have been lovingly uncovered and were a highlight of our first day here. The old Roman bridge provided beautiful picturesque views of the gorge and a magnificent vista of the many farms and haciendas in the valley below. This area is well known for its olive and orange groves and the pomegranate trees are just beginning to blossom. Day one in Ronda ended for me with a fever and an early bedtime while my fellow travellers found dinner. Between the cold and the motion sickness, I was cooked. The beauty of Ronda would have to reveal itself to me on another day.

And reveal it did. Spain's oldest bullfighting ring and museum are located in the centre of town. I have very mixed feelings about sports which involve animals and this one is always deadly to either the matador or the bull. There are many reasons to abhor bullfighting, but I must admit that learning about the special military history and its importance to the Spanish heritage did give me pause. I still don't like it, but I understand it better. We got a chance to stand in the centre of the ring. This place is enormous, but it probably feels quite small if an angry bull is stampeding towards you. The old costumes were a lovely revelation and the great matadors are national heroes. I will never attend a fight, and I still think Hemingway was an overrated misogynist who romanticized this sport for the masses, but I can at least see some merit.

The absolute highlight of Ronda is the trip into the gorge. We thought it would be a quick jaunt down and back. This was a real hike! The paths held grades of at least 40 degrees straight down and we knew that we needed to climb back up. We aren't in terrible condition, but I was still recovering my breath control from a cold. We didn't rush it and we are so glad we didn't. What a glorious experience and a necessary excursion if you find yourself here. I only hope the photos do it justice.

Some random thoughts:

• The wildflowers of Spain are magnificent. The poppies are in bloom everywhere. Simply lovely.
• The Spanish seem to distain Kleenex. It took us days to find a box for my aching sinuses.
• I think my favourite thing so far is just sitting on a patio at a cafe in the late afternoon and chatting. What a civilized way to live.
• There are spice shops everywhere. I might have to buy some Spanish saffron and smoked paprika.
• I could live here. The language is becoming easier for me and the weather is perfect. 
• I am fascinated by the doors of Spain. I will try to put together some photos for a later post.

All photos today are from The Husband. His eye is perfect. 

Bustling streets of Ronda

The bullring

Poppies

We climbed all the way down and back

The wildflowers of Spain

Arab Baths