Top 10

The 10 top things I still don’t get about Sevillanos.
10. Why it is a merit to get a baja (sick leave).
9. Why they must park where all the others are parking and on top of it must back into the space.
8. The tie - shirt combination and red pants. Just top it off with those mega-sideburns, please.
7. Shall we talk about personal space? Does it exist here? And how they honestly don’t know I am standing 2 feet behind them trying to get by.
6. Why they (excluding older women) are so obsessed with their food and what their mother makes but still have no idea how to cook it themselves.
5. In what parallel world store attendants or service personnel in general live in that they don’t recognise that you are there and instead continue talking to their co-worker.
4. How come they iron their sheets and underwear.
3. Why they still haven’t seen how convenient eating a banana using the peel can be and instead they remove the peel and hold it in their bare hand or cut it with a knife and eat it with a fork. (Likewise, why they use a fork and knife with pizza…hello that is what the crust is for).
2. How they still haven’t figured out how to form a line.
1. Why parents make their children pee in the streets when there is a restaurant with a bathroom only a few feet away. Usually they are sitting in the restaurant´s outdoor seating and others are eating while their child is being held with their pants down over a tree planter.

Logic stinks

What is with these people that think so logically that they ruin any fantasy or dreams a "crazy" person may have.

If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.- Marcel Proust

Skipping stone

Lately I feel like I am a skipping stone. I never truly land, never quite drown: I just skim the top of the water, grazing the water’s surface feeling what it could be like to be here, there and over there. With each little skip and jump over the ripples of time, I awake and wonder will I sink, float or finally ride this wave in to shore?

One month ago I was thinking of leaving this country, waiting for another job to come through and take me away. Two weeks ago, I returned to Spain realised I didn’t want that job at all and that I was home in Spain. A week ago, I decided it was a good idea to go back to grad school for art. By the end of last week, I became an environmental inspector and will be climbing smoke stacks to take samples of air contaminants. Today, I sit reading Royal Decrees in Spanish and wonder where next?

All I know is all this skipping is wearing me down and I don’t feel as if I have control over where I skip to. Something started the impulse and I just have to ride it out.

Surrealing

This morning as always I woke up late, showered, got dressed and made my way to the garage in the basement to get my bike, Millie. I put her in first gear, ascended the multiple ramps, pushed the button to open the door and as it opened I proceed once again up another ramp towards the light of day. I squinted as I come out of my dark cave and people stood and looked surprised that I was only a meer biker and not a car.

Some mornings I like to listen to music. This morning was one of them. So as I began biking I fuddled around and tried to get those darn buds in my ears. Listening to music while biking allows me to disconnect from reality and bike in a sort of fantasy world.

I laugh out loud to myself as I ride along thinking of, I suppose, surreal thoughts and scenarios.

I decided that perhaps I should let you into my sick mind. Afterall if I find it so funny maybe so will you...

My first thought is a frequent one I have. It is this strange fantasy where I slap or pinch the arse of an old man. They seem like they are everywhere in the bike lane and are really just asking for it. I would just love to see an old man's face after a young lady like myself performs a drive by arse slap. This morning I thought about the old man's possible reaction and that of his old man friend. In my fantasy he gasps as he is molested and his friend turns to me and gives me a hand gesture of tisk, tisk. I ride off cackling.

As I pass cool looking people I always think it would be super cool to do like a drive by high five. I would scream "High Five, man" and these cool dudes would give me some skin. That would just rock.

This morning a public bus pulled into a bus stop and about 20, 17 year old boys got out. I pictured them all coming over to me to give me a good morning kiss on the cheek (I am not perve come on) and then skip off to their school.

There are always a few men selling packages of tissues on the street to stopped cars. This morning one man was walking to his post. I was thinking of how great it would be if I could give him money for all his tissues. So I imagined handing him the money and then tissues raining down on me.

Of course sex comes to mind in all of this and as I ride I intermittenly think about..well you know..afterall I do have a sort of phallus symbol between my legs.

As I almost arrive to work, I must cross a black and white striped painted cross walk. I picture that it is the back of a zebra and he lifts his head and tells me to have a nice day.

When I do arrive I come down through the cloud I was on during my commute. I greet a mother that is holding her childs hand taking her to day care. Her child is floating like a balloon, she too, I suppose is in her own fantasy world.

When I "land" at work, I park and lock my bike, swipe my card and return to reality. Hola, buenos dias.

To the screamers....

This is dedicated to you, the one screaming "here I am". "Listen to me and tell me I am special". I just recently moved my blog from myspace to blogger and became aware of all of you out there. Last night when I shut my computer, brushed my teeth and then shut my eyes, I could still hear the murmurs coming from my laptop. They are the murmurs of people, like me, not satisfied with their status quo, not recognised by their bosses or spouses for their achievements... So today, I want to say to you, my friend, you are special, you are doing a great job, you are worth so much in this house or company and I want to challenge you to tell someone today the same. Maybe hokey but I think it deserves a pokey...

A love haiku

arise pheonix
from cinnamon ash, divine

crimson-gold embrace

Reflections On The Road Not Taken

I find that through out my life I have nearly always chosen the harder path, purposefully selecting studies, activities, etc. I fully knew were going to be a tough climb. It was my thought that to challenge myself was the best way to grow and test my limits. Some of these choices have been fleeting adventures (like climbing canyons, knowing I am afraid of heights) and others have become part of my current life. Some have made me stronger and have opened my eyes to reality (working for the US military and in the Baltimore ghetto) where others have, in retrospect, become more detrimental than positive.

Lately, I have been thinking about this way of proceding through life. Perhaps at times it has some merit but I also believe that in other instances it is just putting stumbling blocks in front of yourself. There is merit knowing where your fight lies within the path of least resistance. Maybe there was a reason I got lousy grades in chemistry and good grades in art.

At the time I believed, sadly to say, that my art was not as valuable as hard science and that there was more merit and future in science than there was in art. So I chose a science degree. I did enjoy science but perhaps not as much as I loved art. Art fed my mind and soul where science just my mind.

Before writing this blog I browsed the internet to read Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken. I now see that the road less travelled is often our own and the merit lies in knowing and admitting it and, even more so, having the guts to take it.

A surreal poppy

poppy in the wind
red headed beauty, laughing
ant climbs out its mouth

Faklempt and soon to feel gefilted

Every day there is a volunteer that ensures to remind me that I am a stranger in a strange land. At first it was endearing and I know that they mean it with the sweetest of intentions but day after day having to explain which state you are from (Haha New Jersey, Nueva Jerse Hahah) or that no Americans don't carry weapons or only eat hamburgers gets a bit tiring.

I am not only an American but I am a Jew in Seville. I admit to eating shrimp however, I try to avoid the forever present ham. Here, apparently it is considered a vegetable, the equivalent of parsley for Americans. I will tell you if you are a Jew in Spain, you will never win the battle against the pig. This snorting beast always wins. I know there is no logic in eating shrimp but not pork but I think it is perhaps out of pure spite over the inquisition that I try to prevail over this creature and those that nosh it.

The following days to come are the hardest for me but I have to admit have proved over the years to make for the best culinary escapades and best learning experiences. In one week from today it will be Passover. I will explain to my Spanish friends that it is the last supper of Jesus and they will look at me bewildered. Through out the week I will be "slaving" away in my kitchen making everything from scratch. For me it is in this culinary process where the true meaning of passover lies.

Many of my relatives back home think I am insane for trying all this from scratch. They are used to buying matzah and matzah meal that comes in a box but I make my own matzah and matzah meal, gefilted fish, matzah ball soup, haroset, etc... trying to blend sephardic recipes into the meal. This is where the true meaning of the holiday in my opinion begins. It is where I begin to feel and understand the past of my ancestors, not only those in from Egypt but those that lived in Poland, Russia and Spain.

Matzah is a flat unlevened bread that must be made with in the limits of 18 minutes. I don't know what rabbi came up with this freak time-frame but in order for it to be Kosher (in this case fit for eating at passover) you must race to kneed it, roll it, prick it and throw it in the oven. This makes for all the fun and where you truly understand how the Jews must have felt racing against the clock to make their breads and get the heck out of Egypt. I usually burn myself a half dozen times and end up cursing a whole lot, as I am sure Miriam did. I have learned that it takes a mega hot oven and a preheated baking stone (or even better, an upside down terracotta pot) to get the task right.

As the Jews of the (far and near) past had to make due with what they had when forced to move, I too have had to make due. After a long search for carp and pike I have come to the conclusion that mixed trouts are just as good for the gefilted fish, if not better. I especially love the orange color that some of the them can give to the dish (but could forego poking out their eyes). Homemade, hand ground matzah meal also gives the dish a much better taste. I have to admit that I think my gefilted fish rocks.

Haroset for me is now a persian, sephardic recipe that I love that mixes pistachios, dates, hazelnuts, fresh ginger, cinnamon, wine, walnuts, almonds, apple and pear.

This year's main dish: Morrocan roast chicken.

My family often wants me to come home for this holiday. It is true that it is when I feel the most lonely and the most different. However, I have to admit New Jersey and New York Jews have it easy: stocked selves with boxed matzah and jarred gefilted fish. There is something to be said about feeling Jewish together but being Jewish takes on a whole new meaning when you are the minority (as we often have been and usually are) the odds are against you and you must explain time and again who you are, what you stand for, yes, hava na gila is Jewish, that no you are not always in agreement with Isreali politics and that there in my tupperware is called gefileted fish. Wanna bite?

This blog is dedicated to my loving father.

I dont want no pickle: The return of the Jerkin’ Gherkin

Yesterday was the first day of true spring-like weather which explains the skirt I am sporting today. However, as I got on my bike and started pedalling towards work, I realized that spring does not only bring skirts and t-shirts. It also seems to bring on a sort of unsettled feeling. I have felt it as I am sure you have. It is a potpourri feeling that combines emotions like sex, euphoria and aggression. This commotion of emotion can manifest in all sorts of ways.

This morning I bore witness to its affects. I have spoken often about crazy people I find along the bike lane. And not too long ago I expressed my dissatisfaction that I had not found any of late. Though, like a crocus flower just below the surface waiting for the warmth of spring, they too were hiding - the crazy people that pump my adrenalin in the morning, hiss at me, wave newspapers in my face so that I can't see and nearly kill me or at least knock me off my bike and leave me laying on the ground with my skirt at my neck and my bright orange panties for all to see.

Like every morning, I passed the digital clock that every morning confirms that I am late to work and waited to cross the street. Recently, I have observed an influx of bikers. We can be up to twenty waiting for the light to change green. As we chaotically crossed this morning, everyone trying to get ahead of another, I noticed that a man on foot didn't make the light so he began to run across the street. I knew with the oncoming car traffic my bike lane was his only hope for safety. I slowed down to make way. As I did, a runaway biker, aka the Jerkin' Gherkin, came bolting at me at top speed, swerving not to hit the runner but not taking me into account. As I skid to avoid him, all I could come up with in response is "GEEZ LOUISE". All the way to work I thought, "Am I getting soft?" Geez Louise. Is that the best I could do? Well, at least I shouted it.

A rumble in the rastro amongst the Christna

One of my favourite weekend activities is rummaging through flee market items, finding little jewels that lay among things that I may call junk and others may call treasures. My "jewels" also may be considered by some nothing but trash. However, once I find these things, they make me smile and give me a surge of excitement.

Two weeks ago I found an entire crate filled with old 1950's match boxes. Needless to say, I got down on the ground like a wild bore that sniffed out a truffle and began to scavenge the contents.

This weekend, while in Madrid, I went to the great Rastro: a mega flee market, a cornucopia of cheap lingerie, illegal CDs, caged birds and old chachkahs that sprawls up hill and outward into small side streets. I don't waste my time on the main street where all of the cheap clothes and most usual items are displayed in nice stands. As soon as I can I make my way into the side labyrinths that spill out into plazas of even more stuff.

Part of the fun, of course after the mere happiness of finding an unusual item, is the bargain process. I used to be nice. I would chat with the people; tell them why I wanted the item, etc. A trip to Morocco and a run in with a Berber and an exchange of too much money for a cup of tea and a nice rug, taught me better. Now I know to slightly insult their product, to bid real low and insist that no one is going to buy this piece of crap but me. They will be lucky if I even buy it. By the end of the day, my booty included, three old oxidised sheep bells, part of an old 1950's wind up toy, a little praying Buddha, some hand made square nails and an old wooden rat trap.

When I bargain, I try to do it with a bit of a smile but with tough words so when I heard some guys arguing in Arabic about something, I passed it off as market jargon. I still decided that it would be best to keep walking up hill to keep my distance. On lookers started to group around the men, like a fight in a school yard. That is when the pushing started and some other guys tried to keep it from escalating. Like a second round of row, row, row your boat, I heard chanting coming from down hill adding to the cacophony of fighting men.

A few minutes later the chanting started to get louder and louder and started to overcome the noise of the yelling. It was the Hare Christna. There they were singing "hare hare" and the others shouting their Arabic insults, an ironic juxtaposition. It was such a climatic, surreal moment. I just began to laugh. I looked around. No one else seemed to get the humour. I began to walk up the hill trailing the Hare Christna parade and realised I almost tripped over a dog. He looked up at me; one of his eyes had been poked out. His soket was now just a red hole in his head but I am sure that he too got the absurdity of the situation. I said excuse me, he nodded and I went to meet some friends for wine.

Geriatric Traffic Ring

I usually hit the snooze bar about 3 to 4 times before getting my bones out of the bed. This morning I was dreaming deeply about entering an orthodox Christian church and washing dishes with sand because I didn't have soap. By the time I was awoken, being told, "Shouldn't you be leaving?", it was already 8. I have to be at work between 8:15 and 8:30 and it takes me a good 20 minutes on the bike to get to work. I got up, showered and ran out the door (yeh, I got dressed before running out the door).

This set up of the story is only for you to know that I usually am out of the house 15 minutes earlier than I was today, allowing me to witness what I am about to tell you. The lighting was still crepuscular, perfect for crime. I sped out of the garage and down a street I take as a short cut. The street is lined by a wall that has graffiti, making it a perfect backdrop for criminal activity. About three-fourths of the way down there is a little ally. Usually there is no one in this street but this morning I saw something I think I should not have.

There was a mini bus parked in the dark ally and there were large men unloading a brigade of geriatric q-tips (what the heck can you call these people that is considered politically correct?). One was screaming and he was quieting her down.

I am convinced that this was not an honest dealing. For one, they had the old folk packed in the mini-bus like a bunch of sardines, a bit abusive if I do say so myself. They already have a strange odour of chicken marrow, over boiled soup and asparagus pee which only is intensified when they are put together. Secondly, why were they unloading them in a dark ally if it were not to disorient them? They can't see well as it is. And thirdly, why was the big guy shushing her if not to keep her from drawing the attention of the passing biker?

So I thought immediately that I should contact the families. This could be some type of sick geriatric-traffic ring that is later seen on 20/20 or 60 minutes. Barbara Walters, you're next. I sped down the bike lane, noticing that there were indeed a lower number of old ladies linking arms to block my way. I realised may be it was just this. The families hired the big lugs to take them away. This could make sense...The old bag annoys her daughter in law and no longer can cook potage like she once did. The daughter in law has some extra spending cash and she decides to spend it on elder-disposal; the new treatment that restores your house to the peaceful place it once was.

I suppose they melt them down and make glue out of them or bouillon cubes. Who knows?

Well if you are looking for an elderly person, I have to inform you they may have been taken by the Seville Geriatric Traffic Ring that promises families peace and quiet.

My condolences.

If you are a part of this lethal group, I would like to say your secret is safe here in my blogg. Laurie is my only reader (hi Laurie) and she could care less about Spanish old people.

Exuse me where are you from?..A visit to Istanbul

As I boarded the plane I noticed that slight twinge in my throat as if I were just edging to come down with a cold so I loaded up with vitamins and at every chance I could get I drank orange juice and water. By the time we arrived to the Istanbul airport I had already had that initial sneeze that gives pomp and circumstance to a true cold. However, I am not going to complain because the cold I caught during the time it took to get from point A to point B, was not one of these head colds that deprive you from tasting. Catching a snot attack just would have been pure cruelty.


I tried to eat as many diverse things as possible (I did not find fried lamb balls, a true disappointment): everything from meze (like tapas, the fried Albanian liver was delish and is never to be confused with fried liver of an Albanian) to Gozleme (pancakes) to the famed Turkish delight (love the rose). We even dined at an authentic Ottoman restaurant that prizes itself on historic Sultan cuisine http://www.asitanerestaurant.com/English/index.php.

However, along with the food, it were the key moments of the trip that I am about to tell you about that have made it memorable.


Amidst the snow flakes we visited many of the must-see tourist sites. One of which was the Aya Sophia. Very beautiful. As I was looking around, I spotted someone familiar. I thought "holy kebap" I know him from somewhere. He is famous, yes. It is Vincent Van Gogh. I knew you wouldn't believe me so we stalked him covertly and took his picture. And in case you are wondering, didn't he cut off his ear? Yes, he did but it was the other one.

To warm up a bit we went to the Haman. This is a lovely place where they claim to bath and massage you. It seemed innocuous when we entered. A sweet foreign girl greeted us at the door and gladly took our money. Men and women are separated. You are to disrobe and enter the bathing area where you lay down on a heated marbled surface.

As I walked in I noticed that we were all foreign girls, mainly young. To tell you the truth it was a boy's wet dream: naked girls lying there with their bare bottoms ranging in ethic colours. The women that bathed us, who were not so young and in thier underwear, must have thought that foreign girls were dirty. I watched as they scrubbed the first girl. It must have taken at least a half an hour to get her clean. There were at least 5 women scrubbing us foreign, dirty girls. They cleaned us if we were used cars, letting the suds fall as they may all over and chatting with their friends as if we weren't alive. A mere slap on the arse meant turn belly up. When the woman got to me she smiled and indicated that I should lye face down.

The water and foam trickled down through my legs and I thought how strangly erotic this could be if it weren't Attila of the Hun's sister, Matilda, performing the act. After giving me the denoting slap, she began on my front, scrubbing everything fearlessly, her long large breasts swaying back and forth swishing past my face, each pass a near miss. She washed my hair, rinsed me with a bucket of water and sent me on my way. All of the Attila sisters left at once and left the spanking (and freshly spanked) clean foreign girls to dry off and get dressed. Apparently, in the men's bath, the scrubbers are clothed, scrub you even harder and stand on you while they chat with their buds.

I thought my bath wonderful until I realised that my nipples were permanently irritated from the excess scrubbing. Well at least I was clean (for once in my life).

The next day we set out to find this so called spice market. It turned out to be one of my favourite markets in Istanbul (besides from a more varied one on the Asian side of Istanbul). Before arriving, I was tricked by a shoe shiner. He dropped his shoe shine brush strategically in front of me, just after eying our shoes. "Yes they are leather", he must have been thinking. I went running after him. He "acted" so happy that I "saved" his brush that he offered us a "free" shine. After his friend arrived to "help" the poor foreigners, he accepted our tip but told us he preferred bills over coins.

The grand finale was the show that we went to the last night, that was an all in one show. This included all the dances and music types of Turkey, dinner, transport and the opportunity to kiss a wedding singer. After the Dervish man spun and the belly dancer shook her bootie in front of the Iranian men (they all drilled holes into the table) and they had stuffed sufficient bills in her bijangled bra, a singer that was said to be world famous came out to perform. I have tried to attach a video because I do not think words can describe this moment. He sang Hava Negela and the Greek ladies sitting behind us went absolutely raging mad.

To give time to pass out pictures of those who wanted photos of themselves dressed in Sultan garb, they called the women of the audience on the stage. To be a good sport, I went. Here is where I and the other "ladies" were plainly bullied into kissing the "wedding singer/swinger". After we had sufficiently danced to make our faces red and he had wiped the sweat from his face, he asked our husbands and boyfriends if we could one by one kiss him. Some type of strange fantasy he has had since he was a wee little boy I suppose. I think it would have been a whole lot better had they filled us full of raki (thier famous anise liquor) before getting us on stage. Any way you look at it, it was an eventful end to a lovely trip. After 3 hours of sleep we boarded our plane and set off for the Iberian Peninsula.