My mother told me that in her later years, she would wake up in the morning with visions of paintings in her head, completely imagined. She would get very excited, and have to get up right away and take notes, adding another project to the list of canvases she intended to paint – a list which I found on her desk in our house in Virginia after she died. She told me how her method of painting had evolved over her lifetime from working from life, often sitting en plein air like the impressionists, to being inspired by photographs she had taken during her travels. She would look at the photos, but only as a starting point for her vivid and creative mind. Finally, she was amazed by the final stage of her creative development in which her inner eye delved the depths of years of observation to compose complete paintings in her head, down to the last details, which she then transferred joyously to canvas.
I am not a painter. My mind, though filled with impressions and a pastiche of images, is driven by words, words, words….sometimes, like this morning, they are relentless in their efforts to escape my brain and find their way onto a page somewhere (even a virtual page in cyberspace will do….) So here I go…
December 23, 2010 A narrow (and somewhat harrowing) escape from Brussels
We are up at 4:00 am to get ready for our departure for Lanzarote. The taxi for Charleroi Airport south of Brussels is overdue. We wait anxiously in the darkness, and peer out the window at the snow-covered street. Just two days earlier, airports in northern Europe, including Brussels, were closed due to a lack of de-icing chemicals during this unusually snowy winter. We try to remain calm and optimistic while Vladi phones the taxi service. We are assured that the driver is on his way, and he does show up, but arrives a crucial 15 minutes late. The drive to the airport is tense, as the highway is only partially clear at times in one lane, and we crawl along slowly. I am, nonetheless, grateful that the driver is cautious while other drivers pass us impatiently. I spot a car here and there along the way that has slipped off the road.
When we finally reach the airport, Vladi rushes to check in, leaving me to pay the driver. We have only twenty minutes before our scheduled departure. The taxi driver tries to reassure me by telling me that we will have plenty of time as none of the flights are departing on schedule. He asks for the roundtrip fare, and since Vladi has handed me only half that amount, I fumble in my bag to make up the other half from money I had tucked away from my private tutoring. As I get out, the driver asks me if we have all of our luggage. I am certain that my family has removed our two suitcases from the back, and rush in. I find Vladi in a panic to get us through security, and discover that the suitcase Sophia and I had packed with our clothes for the week is still in the back of the taxi which is now gone. This turns out to be an advantage, since the check-in for our flight is already closed anyway. Alex’s bag is small enough to be taken on board. We have our printed boarding passes, and hustle through security along with hoards of other passengers. Our flight is only slightly delayed, so we manage to board. Sophia and I have only the clothes on our backs, and are faced with the prospect of having to go shopping as soon as we arrive. This may sound appealing, but neither of us feels very inclined. I am relieved that our vacation is saved, even if I have to wear the same clothes every day…
Ahhh! Our direct flight is smooth and uneventful, and we disembark in a dazzle of sunshine…a contrast to the dark, snowy world we have just left behind. My first impression of Lanzarote is a land of black and white, punctuated by the exclamation points of tall, graceful, Hollywoodesque palms, and the semicolons created by the island’s native date palms. The black is in reference to the lava rock so prevalently used everywhere on the island for the construction of container walls, sidewalks, paths, and of course the land itself. White is the color of choice for houses, hotels and most public buildings, though, unlike the Belgians, Canarians are not afraid of color.
Our bungalow is a short drive from the airport in Puerto del Carmen. We settle in quickly (after all, I don’t have any unpacking to do!), then head out to a nearby restaurant for lunch before grocery shopping to stock our little kitchen. It is a pleasure to speak Spanish again, but I am surprised to discover that the locals are not primarily Iberian transplants as I had expected, but natives who speak a lilting Spanish more akin to Latin Americans than to their “fellow Spaniards.” I notice many people cutting off the ends of words like the Spaniards from Andalucía, and, in fact, in one restaurant, the owners proudly announce that they are from Sevilla.
In the local Spar grocery, I am thrilled to find polvorones, my favorite Spanish Christmas dulce (sweet). Polvo is the Spanish word for dust, and these delicate biscuits crumble into a fine powder at the slightest pressure. They are made from toasted almonds finely ground, and after baking, they are traditionally wrapped in twists of lightly waxed paper. They are only available during las navidades, so they are my special indulgence.
Later, we drive into the centro to do the obligatory shopping so that Sophia and I won’t have to wear jeans and sweaters for a week in 24-degree Celsius temperatures. We get frustrated as we aren’t really in the mood, and would rather have our own clothes, but I finally find a pair of shorts and a tee shirt. I am wearing Vladi’s Teva sandals so that I can get out of my tennis shoes! The centro comercial is pleasant for a shopping mall since it is mostly outdoors, and has a terrace on each level with cafés and heladerías (ice cream parlors) with views of the ocean. Christmas lights adorn the terraces, and people are completing their holiday shopping. We end the excursion at the heladería....what a pleasure to be eating icecream at night in our shirtsleeves in December!
December 24, 2010 Christmas Eve ....La Nochebuena
Today we drive 12 kilometers to the largest city on the island, Arrecife, with a population of 59,000. Along the waterfront, a Christmas market appears intriguing, but when we stroll through it later, we are disappointed to discover that it is comprised mainly of North Africans selling plastic ¨designer¨ handbags and cheap Chinese watches.
We park in front of the Ayuntamiento (City Hall) and walk inland, away from the sea towards a church on a small square. The church has posted the schedule for la misa del gallo (literally, the rooster’s mass) tonight at midnight. It is a Spanish tradition to celebrate mass exactly at midnight on Christmas Eve. I would like to attend, but I am not sure that I can persuade anyone from my family to stay up that late tonight, and we would have to drive to a church, as I haven’t noticed any in the resort area of Puerto del Carmen.
In the square, we discover a small Christmas market more to our liking. We buy a local aged dry cheese similar to manchego, and the vendor convinces us to purchase a Lanzarote specialty – a spread made with his cheese, garlic, and olive oil. We wish him and his family Feliz navidad, and move on. Next, I buy fresh tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and freshly baked sweetbreads for Christmas morning breakfast while we listen to a band of musicians and singers in traditional costumes perform villancicos (Spanish carols). Some of the vendors join in, clapping in time enthusiastically.
We stroll on leisurely, and wind our way shortly into la zona peatonal, the pedestrian shopping area filled with people on this Friday before Christmas. I feel very touristy in my shorts. For the local residents, this is, after all, winter, and women are dressed in sweaters and knee-high boots…
The sun is shining brightly, and a light breeze beckons us to stroll out onto the pier that juts out into the ocean. To the left, facing east towards the African coast, we see several large vessels approaching, including a cruise ship. I am glad to have my feet firmly on land…I have never understood the lure of being trapped on a ship with nothing to do but eat, sleep and entertain myself…I can do that on land, but with more alternative options…There is a diminutive fortress here, with a cannon on display to prove its ability to defend against invaders…The Phoenicians arrived on the shores of the island in 1100 B.C., and there are early accounts of the flora and fauna in Pliny’s encyclopedia Naturalis Historia, when he visited the Canary Islands in the 1st century A.D. He mentions several of the islands by name, but refers to Lanzarote and Fuenteventura simply as “the purple islands.” The native name for Lanzarote is “Titerro(y)gatra,” believed to mean “red mountains.” We understand this description better after visiting the Parque Nacional de Timanfaya (more on that visit later). The name Lanzarote is derived from the name of the Genoese navigator Lancelotto Malocello who led an expedition here from Lisboa in 1336.
Later in the evening, we go into central Puerto del Carmen in search of a restaurant for Christmas Eve dinner. We head out a bit late – 9:30 p.m. – usually not a problem in Spain where at 10 p.m. the evening is just getting started. I am surprised when our first choice informs us that the kitchen is closed, though people are still dining. The hostess informs me that the staff wants to get home for their own celebrations, which seems reasonable enough. We move on to a more casual Italian restaurant located up a flight of stairs, and adjacent to a somewhat noisy bar with music blaring. Fortunately, once inside the restaurant, tranquility abounds. At the end of our dinner, the waiter asks us where we are from and how is it that we all speak Spanish (minus Vladi who has declined dinner altogether and remained at the bungalow). We then play a guessing game with the waiter, after asking him his nationality. Alex wins when he guesses Moroccan. Moroccans make up 2.7% of Lanzarote’s total population, with Spaniards comprising 73.9%.
While we wait on the street for Vladi to pick us up, we observe with curiosity a strange sight overhead – what appears to be an illuminated miniature hot air balloon drifts by in the night…Back at the bungalow, I can’t give up on my wish to welcome Christmas, even if I can’t attend la misa del gallo. I light candles around the kitchen and living room, and Sophia and I sit up singing Christmas songs, much to the chagrin of Vladi and Alex who have already gone to bed…We laugh when we remember how much Mom/Grandma despised “The Little Drummer Boy,” the only Christmas song my mother couldn’t tolerate, as much as she loved this season and its music.
December 25, 2010 Christmas Day ....La Navidad
As all days here in Lanzarote seem to begin, we awaken on Christmas to bright sun and a blue, cloudless sky....you have to understand what a revelation this is after living for weeks on end under the gray monotony of Belgian weather in winter....
Our plan is to spend Christmas Day 2010 at the beach...and not just any beach, but the famous Papagayo Beach. Not to forego all holiday traditions, I start the day by making a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs with peppers, onion and cheese, served with the sweetbreads purchased the day before in Arrecife. Then, I prepare a picnic lunch of tunafish sandwiches and fruit, and we head towards the western end of the island, across a starkly beautiful landscape of red velvet mountains, clothed in a lacy layer of pale green lichens. We make a final ascent and then descend down a steep slope onto the western coast near the resort area known as Playa Blanca. From here, we travel on a rustic, unpaved road full of bumps and ruts, as this area is a protected zone and undevelopped, leading to Papagayo Beach. The beach is a crescent-shaped cove, sheltered by natural cliffs that provide a spectacular backdrop. The air is a lovely 24 degrees C today, and we are comfortable enough to lie in our bathing suits, and let the sun caress us. It’s the perfect time of the year for us (especially me!) on the beach, as the sun’s rays are not hot enough to actually burn our pale northern skin. The waves begin to build momentum, and soon we are rushing to move our towels back from the water’s edge. I decide to venture into the water, and enjoy letting the surf crash over me time and again!
Several hours later, as the sun begins its descent, we drive back to the main road, and head towards El Golfo, where a short walk along a cliff leads us to a panoramic view of the black sand beach here. On the way, we pull off the road to take in the steep black cliffs on our left, where the waves are breaking and sending clouds of ocean spray into the atmosphere. The whole effect is breathtaking and energizing. (I am reminded of the information I read in the Austrian Alps several years ago while standing at the foot of a waterfall about the energy we absorb by being in proximity to moving water...) There are no trees and very little vegetation anywhere...just the shiny wet blackness of the jagged rock cliffs dropping sheer into the ocean thirty feet below. We take some photos, then move on...
Near El Golfo, we stop to have a warm drink and a bite to eat, as the air is beginning to cool down. We opt to sit outside on a terrace near the sea, and find a cat sleeping on the rocks near our table. Soon another appears under our feet. The waiter advises us to move to a more sheltered corner of the terrace, as a storm is approaching, and dark clouds are moving rapidly in our direction. He is right! In less than five minutes, the rain begins. He makes several trips back and forth across the small street that separates the restaurant from the terrace, flourishing my soup somewhat dramatically in a covered tureen in the rain. We leave him with a nice tip for being such a good sport on a rainy Christmas evening, and head back towards Puerto del Carmen through an unearthly landscape shrouded in mist, perfectly accompanied by The Doors’ Riders on the Storm playing mysteriously on the car radio...
December 26, 2010 Teguise, Jameos del Agua and a view of Graciosa
We drive inland today to visit the town of Teguise which is known for its Sunday morning market. I am expecting local produce, but discover it is mainly arts and crafts, both local and imported. Teguise itself has more the feeling of a town in Latin America with its whitewashed walls and palm trees. Even the people seem to want to emphasize their distance from “mother” Spain with their more lilting accent, a preference for Carribean rythms and grafitti around the island proclaiming, “Mi bandera es bicolor” – a reference to a lack of enthusiasm for Spain’s control of the island symbolized by the three stripes of its flag. Sophia and I enjoy another of our favorite Spanish treats – churros – long crisp-fried dough sprinkled with sugar. I buy a Moroccan tooled leather footstool that I will need to stuff....
On the northeast end of Lanzarote, we visit Jameos del Agua, a volcanic tunnel that developed when gases accumulated and exploded nearly three thousand years ago. The artist César Manrique capitalized on the natural setting to create an artistic environment in 1968 which includes a bar and restaurant overlooking a deep pool inside the cave. The pool is inhabited by a rare species of tiny, blind albino crabs. We end our tour by driving to the northern-most tip of the island for a view over the tiny neighboring island of Graciosa. Our vantage point is high, and the view is as if from a small airplane looking out over the dry, nearly barren aspect of the island, except for the oasis of white created by the port located on its eastern side.
December 27, 2010
The weather is slightly cooler again today, so we decide to make one more excursion, this time to the Parque Nacional de Timanfaya on the northern coast of Lanzarote. At the entrance to the park, we pass up the opportunity to ride a camel, now a tourist draw, but formerly used by farmers on the island to harness their plows.
Because this zone is a national park, the area is carefully protected, and we are required to wait in a long queue of cars just to get a parking spot further up the mountain. We are then loaded onto buses that tour us through the volcanic zone. It is all very touristy, complete with gift shop and snack bar, but the landscape is fascinating. We have to take photos from the bus windows, as there is no stopping in the park. We wind along a very narrow road through the moonlike rocks and ochre, cone-shaped mountains, formed when the last recorded eruptions occurred between 1730 and 1736, burying one quarter of the island under volcanic ash, and covering several towns in existence at that time, forcing inhabitants to evacuate. After exiting the bus, a guide demonstrates a small geyser by pouring water into a hole in the earth. Seconds later, a column of water and steam rises abruptly out of the ground to a height of about ten feet. The guide also proudly shows us a “natural barbecue” where meat can be roasted by the natural heat emanating from the volcanic rock beneath.
We leave the barren shades of red, grey and black of the volcanic park, and drive further along the northern coast to Caleta de Famara, a beach known for its surf, and a young, surfing crowd. The ocean is invigorating, and we take off our sandals to walk in the foam, watching surfers in wetsuits attempt with varying degrees of success to ride the waves. Alex decides then and there that he wants to learn to surf, and at the time of this writing, has already booked himself along with a friend for a week of surf school in April in Portugal. I have never seen him so determined to take on a new sport!
December 28/29, 2010
Our last two days on Lanzarote are quiet, relaxing and uneventful. We read, stroll along the boardwalk in Puerto del Carmen, and spend some time on the beach, though a strong wind keeps us low to the ground, and well-covered rather than bikini-clad. I came with few expectations, and even less baggage, so our time here has been a mixture of discovery, escape, and relaxation.
December 31, 2010 Sofia, Bulgaria New Year’s Eve 2010
We make a quick stop in Brussels, just long enough to reclaim our suitcase left behind, repack, and take off again on the morning of the last day of 2010 for Sofia, via Zurich. The weather in Zurich is cold and snowy, and the skies over Sofia are grey and cloudy upon our arrival. Vladi’s friend Liubo has his driver waiting for us at the airport, and whisks us away directly to his villa in the Rila Mountains south of the capital, in the direction of the ski resort at Borovets.
Liubo and his wife Diliana built this lovely, modern villa on the site of Diliana's parents’ vacation cottage that burned partially to the ground some years ago. They like to welcome friends for the weekend, and we are happy to be among their guests for this New Year’s Eve celebration. Liubo is a schoolmate of Vladi’s friend Petar, better known as “Pushchik.” He is a successful businessman, and has even forayed into Bulgarian politics. His most recent activity is acquiring, along with his friend and business partner, two of Bulgaria’s main newspapers. He also enjoys plying his guests with an array of wines from his private collection, decanting the reds carefully so that they can “breathe” properly. We are surprised with a sumptuous New Year’s Eve dinner prepared by their cook, of not one, but two roasted suckling pigs! We are invited to peek in the kitchen to view them on their beds of cabbage before they are carved up…I am reminded of the famous cochinillo asado, the regional specialty of Segovia, Spain. (You see the poor little roasted baby pigs on display in the windows of all the tourist restaurants in Segovia.)
Later, after dinner and a brief period of digestion, the real entertainment begins! Vladi has brought along his version of party music as a gift for Liubo, and the playlist is approved by all Bulgarians of their generation, who apparently grew up on a steady musical diet consisting of Deep Purple, Uriah Heep, Queen, and Smokie. They all go crazy when their favorite tunes are played, and I am amazed that no one gets hurt when Liubo nearly kick boxes us in the head as he dances wildly around the room…Fun is had by all, but the evening finally comes to an end at 3:00 a.m. when Vladi ends the musical review with one of my all-time least favorites (left to linger in my head as I fall asleep) Mamy Blue…
January 1, 2011 Happy New Year! Chistita Nova Godina! честита нова година
We wake up very late after the celebrations of the night before. Breakfast is fresh and delicious banitsa, the typical Bulgarian phyllo pastry filled with a mixture of feta cheese, yogurt and egg. The Bulgarian New Year’s tradition is to put little slips of paper with fortunes written on them inside the pieces of banitsa. My fortune, deciphered from Cyrillic, is that my struggle to learn will soon come to its successful conclusion. We determine that this must be in reference to my Dutch course! 
Vladi and I decide that our heads and bodies need some fresh air, so we bundle up and head outside into the crisp sunshine. The villa is located in a wooded and mountainous area known as Mechka, or Mother Bear, due to the presence of a large statue of a female bear just off the road, at the entrance to the neighborhood. We hike up the slope directly behind the house, following a path through the trees, and then a road dotted with villas here and there on either side. Bulgarian folk music drifts out across the snow, and a young couple bursts forth from their front door and greets us: Chistita Nova Godina! (честита нова година!) We reach a higher point beyond all the houses, and wind along a small path again, leading us to a simple outdoor shrine someone has created on the side of a huge boulder. I find it charming, and take a picture. The late afternoon sun streaming through the bare branches of the trees creates a special atmosphere that I try to capture on film – the stillness, the perfection of this moment in time, here in the quiet forest in Bulgaria where I find myself on this New Year’s Day 2011…
January 2, 2011
I am finishing Frank McCourt’s ‘Tis this morning, and having a difficult emotional moment. I am sitting in the living room, surrounded by people speaking animatedly in Bulgarian, and tears start flowing. I am embarrassed, but unable to stem the salty tide. The next afternoon, while sitting in the airport in Sofia, waiting for our flight to Zurich, I write down the following:
I cried as I read the last few paragraphs of the final chapter. Frank and his brothers Malachy, Michael and Alphie traveled to Ireland to spread their mother’s ashes – “Angela’s Ashes” – on the ancestral graves in Limerick. Emotions flooded over me…memories of my own mother’s death just one year ago…her ashes waiting in a box , carefully labeled, alone in the silent, frozen emptiness of the cottage she loved all her life at Indian Beach, thousands of miles away from where I sat, in a private villa, surrounded by Vladi’s friends, just outside of Sofia.
I cried for my mother, for Frank and Malachy and Michael and Alphie’s mother Angela, and for the end of my acquaintance with Frank McCourt, with whom I have shared joys, sorrows, and life’s strange absurdities for the past few weeks as I read his life’s story. What a life! He has many regrets, many wasted emotions…and he is not afraid of exposing them to us, his readers. Painful memories of the impoverished, undernourished, insecure young man he once was…his life a journey that often seemed to lead him down dead-end streets, and yet even in his dark moments he managed to keep moving forward, as life pushes us onward always, inexorably. He writes of wanting to kiss his mother and hug his father, and yet not being able to muster the courage to do so. What was holding him back? His upright, Irish Catholic upbringing? He seemed to drift through life at times, with “dark clouds” in his head, as he so aptly described it. I admire his honesty and his direct way of speaking to the reader from the essence of his being, for introducing us to people we might never have a chance to meet, and bringing them to life on the page through his ingenious ability to transcribe into literature their voices and personalities.
Bravo, Frank McCourt, for achieving your life’s dream of seeing your book jacket displayed on the wall, and baring your soul so that the rest of us can appreciate a life lived honestly if not always happily…for what is happiness? It is not a goal to be achieved…an end in itself…It is life as we live it day to day, in every small act of our daily routines. It is not something that can be found but simply IS if we will it to be…
