Clacketas

When one is wondering why she abandoned her queensize bed in kingsize California for the miniature discomforts of an alien land, I find it is best to get ones clacketas out of the closet and partake in the best Spanish lesson of your life...tap dancing. Severine mentioned last week she would be taking clacketas and before I thought about it I was in a warehouse studio, encircled by drums and dancers who smoke like they're on the set of Fame doing a "tooka tooka, ta da ta da" (that's a like a Spanish kick- ball change). Leave it to me to get down with an American dance in Flamenco land. But, Flamenco and Tap are sister dances and this is a good way for me to ease into Flamenco, when the price is right. The teacher - a spindly, wild-light-sky-eyed, gritty voiced 40-something woman with whisky on her breath demands perfection "Valle Valle Valle! Otra vez!Punta! Talon! Punta!Talon!" - "OK OK OK! Once again! Toe! Heal! Toe! Heal!" She figured out I'm American and asked me how to say preparar in English, then mocked my accent "PRRREPAAARRRE!" But it was in flirty fun, and the women, the people here in Spain, are very pointed, to the point, direct. They don't coddle you, they say, "Tell me!", "Follow!", "Put it here!". Spanish is a simple language - masculine in a way- there is nothing to hide. Then, the class took a smoke break. There is an immediacy here, a passion, and at the same time the desire to rest and enjoy all that is sensual, all that is the best in life: food, sex, music, art.
So, my ESL certification course ended, and it was, I daresay a waste of my experienced time, since I was hired for 5 hours of teaching before the curse, I mean course, was over. I'm now teaching adults on Saturday mornings for 3 hours, and have 2 hours with 5 year olds on Friday evenings. So, Fridays I have my hand up a Donald Duck puppet's ass, and Saturdays I'm using Nina Simona to teach the Present Perfect tense. Needless to say I had a pinch of a nervous breakdown with teaching and finishing the course so last week I split Barcelona post haste in search of another version of Spain and found Girona, a city almost 2 hours north by train. I wandered the medeival alleys of the sloping city, had my first taste of first-rate tapas (Who knew a piece of bread topped with a cheese cup filled with seafood salad and shrimp was tapas?), and met Sinead, a world-travelling Dublin-ite who became my travel mate for the next few days. We were essentially planning the same trip for ourselves, from Girona to Figueres with the Dali's Teatre Museu, and then on to the coast, except I wanted a bike trip on Spain's Vias Verdes (Green Ways - bike paths that follow the old train routes in Spain and are best for mountain bikes), and Sinead thought that was a wee crazy. So, On Monday, I set out for the coast on a heavy rented mountain bike, and squeaked my way through farmlands, vineyards, some hunters with bloodhounds...until I came upon a small town on a hill topped by a church. I saw droves of people parking on the grass by the bike path, and police officers ushering old couples across the streets. Somehow I knew I had to go where the old people were going, so I tore my tortured bottom from my bike seat, and followed.Up the cobbled steps into a square where artisans were crafting baskets, signs, glass knick-knacks, then further up steps to crepe stands, honey,cheese, wine, olive, and mushroom vendors, and further still to a courtyard packed with people eating under awnings and drinking cava, Spanish champagne. I took a moment to sip some champagne, and as I looked at the sausage and mushroom tapas that were skewering a loaf of bread, I realized this was a mushroom festival! That's why there were these enormous banners adorned by adorable happy mushrooms. Locking my bike behind a kindly olive vendor, I settled into the festival, listened to a local band, watched 20 old women fashion ornate lacewear, and poked around several live birds of prey (a white owl and a hawk among others) that were on display. 2 hours later, with a gentle Cava buzz and mushroom preserves in my pack, I left the town. I made it to the coast in about 3 more hours, just long enough to run into the Mediterranean in my underwear, then squeak the 5-hour uphill return trip. Thankfully, I made it back to Girona by dusk amid feeding bunny rabbits and bats. Since I returned my bike 3 hours later than I thought I would, I asked the rental clerk if I could pay for 24-hour usage rather than 11 hours because it was 1 Euro cheaper. He told me he was very uncomfortable with "these kinds of negotiations". I told him I was sorry for him. He gave me the cheaper deal.
The next morning, Sinead and I packed up and headed toFigueres for a few hours. Sinead had gone to Dali's Museu on the previous day, so while she was shopping and citadel-seeing in Figueres, I was playing on Dali's stage.