Life and Death in a Day, Michigan

6/20/2007

I laid last night in Bed. I can sense that my mother is beginning to sleep as we are sharing our sleeping arrangements in the guest bedroom of my Grandfather's home. A beautiful Swedish log cabin with large portions cut and removed for the placement of large angled windows so you can see the lake where were my granfather will catch our supper.

I have that feeling in my chest where you feel like someone is sitting right on your sternum. As you take a breath in; it is slow, drawn in, deep, but seems not to satisfy the need for oxygen. At the same time my throat feels like it is about to cave in. If I had tonsils they would be joining together to inhibit any relief of what one complete breath will bring. As I exhale, quietly, I feel like screaming, as loud as I can. Instead one small tear releases and makes it way down to my pillow. I am careful to be quiet, as much as I can, as the many more tears seem to follow, my nose instantly become filled with snot, thus worsening my ability to breath at all. I am quiet, because I do not want to worry my mother any more than what she has had to in the past year for me. I would call each night, crying every day for months as I sat in the bath for hours a night, naked, stripped, laterally and emotionally. Knowing her, I am sure she has cried enough tears for all the sadness and happiness in the world; but being strong for me, she never let me see one tear, because of me. I am staying strong for her now.

Overwhelmed really. I cannot explain it, but of course in my own way I will try. A great sense of life and death has overcome me.

I see her and touch her brittle skin. I hold her hand, it is soft, but stiff at the same time as the bones pertrude. Any fat padding that was there in her younger years has been taken away with time. She then reaches out and wraps her arms around my neck; I reach out and embrace what is left of my Great Grandmother at 103 years old.

She says quietly in her Scottish accent, “I love you Katie”. She then remembers, with all clarity to ask me how my Doctorate degree is coming along; she use to ask me about my ex-husband but they told her, and she can remember he is no longer part of the family anymore. Amazing really, I think to myself what strong will she must have to keep her mind, her memory, but her body is not as stubborn as her wit. I take off her floppy hat to expose her face so I can see my grandmother maybe for the last time. I have had this moment for years and years, a sense that I must absorb as much as I can because you never know if she will be there for her next birthday, a 104th birthday. I can tell the strokes have left their mark on the left side of her face, I know in my heart that this will be the last time I will see her. I have a feeling of deep loss, but then a comfort that this is part of life, natural, normal, and beautiful.

I felt this again this day, but different and just or even more confusing. I had a feeling of great loss, but then a small feeling of happiness, a hint of something beautiful; a baby did all this. Not my baby, I have no children, but the son that was born to my ex-husband, a child that was conceived while he was still my husband, and at the same time he was telling me he loved me. A child that was conceived with another woman the same time he would look me in the eyes and tell me he could see the face of our children with my green eyes and smile. I do not know what color eyes this child has, or if he has red hair like his father. He has the child that he always wanted, a son, that he even swares to this day that he wishes I was the mother. A son that I would not give him until I was done with school, or things felt right, when things were different. This day never came for us. Now I am grateful, because I know a child would have not stopped him from doing what he did with another. The breaking of a promise.

He let me know of his son, this night, through a simple email. Telling me he was confused. All I said, all I felt is that I wanted him to move on, he had a family now. Let him know that I had forgiven him and that he must forgive himself. Something I do not think he will ever be able to do. A man that is never content, always wanting more, the next best thing, never happy. I hope this child changes him… because it has changed me, and I think made me a little better.

So the sense of life and death can be a little overwhelming in one day. I fall asleep eventually to only awake with the same feeling. Maybe this will fade.

Amore, Katelyn

A family I never Knew, Cold Water Lake Michigan 2 days, 60 miles

6/18/2007

I can hear the cracking of the fire and the slight tickle of water brushing against the lake side sandy beach. Poontoon boats are returning from their evening crews of the spring fed lake that is lined with summer vacation homes and boat docks that ground every water craft imaginable. Fireworks decorate the sky and the waters surface reflect a rainbow palate that fades along with the pops of our dusk time entertainment.

I am vacationing at a summer cabin in Michigan with my mother and her 4 cousins; which are technically my second cousins, and seemingly perfect strangers to me up until four days ago. I am a guest at the annual cousin’s retreat, where these childhood friends that happend to be cousins come together and talk about old times, eat every bake good imaginable, drink a few “adult beverages” and go on mini day adventures. I also took an oath that what is ever done or said at the cabin stays at the cabin. I am sworn to secrecy.......I am surprised with other things, besides the beautifl country side, that I have come to find on my trip to the cousin’ s retreat weekend. Unlike many cultures, the American culture seems to be disconnected with extended family. We do not stay in one place anymore. You grow up and move away, sometime never returning for more than a holiday. The American house hold seems to be shrinking, and extended family becomes a once a year potluck or a 5 year reunion at a camp ground in the middle of nowhere. The week I have come to know a part of my family, my grandfathers side of the family. I have always known I was alot like my mother. Now I see these other women with similar traits, and I find a sence of belonging in all of this.

At first I really kept my distance. Not that I did not feel welcome, but I did not want to intrude on something special these women look forward to each year. So I did my own thing that usually consisted of working on the computer, doing Yoga on the dock, and taking bike rides through the countryside, different than the Spanish countryside…..


Corn as far as the eye can see, sections of flat farmland splashed with beautiful barns

and broken down farm equipment, single enormous oak trees stand along the roadway or bunched together to create a bridge in which I ride my bike through.

Horses and colts graze in the wildflower laden fields.

But this distance faded as I began to warm up to these women that were my blood. I participated in story telling, listened as they shared what lessons they learned from life, I shared my photos of europe, lounged in the sun and chatted, made smores by the fire, began to belch out loud to only "try" to out do them, I started to laugh so hard that I snortted and well we ate.....we ate alot at the cabin. I now can see maybe where my sweet tooth came from.

After four days I have to leave, I was sad that I had to leave such a relaxing place with the best company. However, I have other family that I must see and appreciate. Something that you can forget to do if you are not careful, but this week of learning about a family that I never knew reminded me of what I had and how much yet I have to learn.

Amore Katelyn

It now makes sense, Nashville Tennessee

May 30th
As I sit in my bed at my new home drinking a diet soda, a giggle because I swore I would give up caffeine once again when I returned back to the United States. It is 3:30am, 9:30am in Spain, and I write because I was awaken from a dream-a nightmare, because now things make sense…..

My dear friend, Arturo, gave me good advice when I left for Europe. A world traveler himself, he said very simply, “When you get back from Europe, your problems, your life will be there, leaving is not going to solve anything”. I took this and seeded it deep into my spirit as I traveled, because part of me knew this is exactly what I was searching to do.

You can see it in other’s eyes as you travel. For some, the pain begins to dull and you can begin to see a hint of life coming back. Story of life, good or bad, that is evident as their eyes smile, when the whites glimmer, and the deepest dark of their eyes reflect your face as you gaze into the stranger’s soul. I am not talking about the hoards of early 20- something year old that are more interested in getting high and drunk, but the lone travelers with all that they own at this point in their life strapped to their back. Most, no all, have a story; and they are all open to share portions. As they tell their story, you can begin to understand why they would come to this place; sometimes I hear a story similar to my own.


So as I traveled, I remembered that no matter how far away I was from my problems, life’s struggles; I took time each day to remember what I came from-what lessons God was teaching me- what I had-what I loss-and now what I wanted. I reflected on where I was one year before and the pain that I felt. I remembered how I have grown, and how I want to continue to grow as I am in Europe getting as far away as I can from the memory of the gut wrenching pain.

So instead of stopping time in the two months I was gone, I learned to live again. I learned to like myself again, to love myself again, and begin to trust again. I learned to look in the mirror and see what others saw. This is what Europe meant for me, the best souvenir that I brought back was myself with portions mended, a soul, a spirit starting to be put back together again.

Yes, this is what makes sense as it is only 36 hours as I stepped off the plane and about 12yrs from the moment I read the heart stinging email that told me that my ex-husband is going to be a father. Only short of 9 months, and the same 9 months that will be the laps in time from the day last fall that I picked up the telephone and called a phone number with her on the other line. It will be about 9 months from the Sunday morning that I asked him who she was, and the same morning that he denied the existence of her. It will be about 9 months from the moment I stepped into the lawyers office because I refused to be another one of those police officers wife’s that I have seen at social gatherings who seem unhappy. The light drained from their eyes, my instinct is because they, and everyone else knows that their husbands are taking advantage of being a man in uniform. It will be nine months from the day I made myself get out of bed, put my business suit on that Monday morning, and made it to the 8am meeting that I had to keep leaving because I was unable to hold any liquids or solids in my body. My body still in shock, numb, shut down from knowing that 24 hours ago was the end of a marriage that no matter what I did in the past or could ever do in the future, would rebuild the trust that the past eight months of lies tore down.

So as I sit writing for the first time since I have returned from Europe, it is now 5am in the morning and 11am in Spain. I am ok. I am ok with the fact that the man that I wanted with all my being to have my children resemble, will now have children with the face of another mother.

It now makes sense what the mountains of Spain brought me, what the Tuscan Country side taught me, what the dozens of people that I met on my journey did for me. It all brought me life, my life, that I hold in my hands; a life with what I can make a choice to feel sorry for my self, or a life that I can make better.
So no Arturo, I did not run from my problems and heart ache continues to revel its self even the day I return, but I think what ever happened in Europe….made me better.

Spanish cooking lesson

5-27-2007

I must say that one of my favorite parts of traveling is the opportunity to try new foods. However, at times, I would be the first one to say in the same breath that I do not like to try new foods. Countless times on my holiday, I did not remember my translation book and it so happens the restaurants did not have a menu in English. Therefore, I found myself looking at a big bowl of fish heads, eyeballs, and little tentacles of some squid type creature or a feast of all the imaginable editable remains of a cow or pig. Not my favorite thing to eat…well I did not eat any of it, but elected to eat more bread and hide the uneaten food with a napkin so I did not offend anyone. I had more room for dessert and more wine anyway. I guess this may be a factor in how I could of gained 10 pounds in 2 months on a cycling holiday. The tour de pastry in Portugal, the tour de tiramisu in Italy, and the tour de Tapa in Spain resulted in what Americans would call putting more “junk in the trunk”.

My previous regiment of oatmeal, peanut butter, eggs, protein shakes, veggie burgers, pudding snacks, salad, and splenda was replaced with the most wonderful cuisine; my favorite is the Spanish. I guess I enjoy the Spanish food because of the Mediterranean influence. Fish, vegetables, rice, dates, and nuts is a great portion of their diet. However, like in American there is also a world influence, food from many cultures.

I did have the opportunity to learn many of these traditional Spanish dishes from Ruben. He was very happy to give me my very own cooking lessons. He guided me through making my very first Spanish omelet that consists of potatoes, eggs, onions, and a lot of olive oil. The Spanish omelet is not traditionally eaten at breakfast, as in America, but on bread for lunch, in little slices for tapas, or in big pieces for dinner. He also whipped up some fresh gazpacho, usually served as a cold soup, but Ruben drinks it like it is tomato juice practically at every meal.

Paella, a traditional rice dish that is cooked and served in a special frying pan, is a wonderful combination of fish and vegetables, if you can waite long enough in order to actually get to eat it. The name paella is the word for "frying pan" in Valencian (from Latin patella). The pan is similar to how we southerners take pride in our old iron skillet that has never been placed in the dishwasher, and get its very own oil bath after a good scrub. Paella, mimics the Mediterranean mind set; slower is better. Good paella takes time, but it is worth the wait. Ruben made it for me and we had this along with the Spanish omelet, gazpacho, and a “un-traditional” spinage, walnut, and strawberry salad, dressed with a sweet balsamic vinaigrette that I introduced to Ruben. This is very different from the Spanish mixed salad that consists of lettuce, canned corn, carrots, tuna, and dressed with…ah…. you got it… more olive oil. It was so pretty that I had to take a picture of it. I actually have all the recipes, but have not translated them in English yet, one on my first homework assignments form my tour guide/cooking instructor.

In return, I wanted to fix ruben some American dishes. I soon realized that many of the food that I know how to cook is world food and not traditional; or for that matter from scratch, like all the things ruben made. I did not know how to make greens, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy from scratch (I do not think canned biscuits exist in spain) and well…could not think of anything besides hamburgers that would be distinctly “American”. There is peanut butter, something that I had been eating everyday on toast for breakfast and ruben did not understand how I could stand the stuff. (I actually would search hours for the it and seemed to consume 4 jars in a 2 month time frame). However, I had been craving pancakes and a vegetable omelet with lots of cheese, and strawberry shortcake. So we went to a large grocery store and I scored some Canadian maple syrup and some French crepe mix that worked just as good as bisquick. I added a little katelyn twist and mixed in some oatmeal, berries, nuts, and cinnamon. I think ruben liked it, he said it was like dessert and mentioned it would be good with chocolate, a chocolate crème that is similar to nutella without the hazelnut. I agreed that chocolate would make it much better, but chocolate makes all better. I made the omelet and strawberry shortcake over the next few days. He liked it so much that he said I should move to spain and cook for him. hhhmmmm…. I disagree, he was a much better cook than what I was, but I liked the compliment. He could move to America and cook for me.

I guess what made the cooking lesson so great, in addition to the company, is the view from Ruben’s Kitchen Window…the mountains.

Amore, Katelyn

I just Remembered What Today is, Montserrat, Spain

May, 26th, 2007

Today is my Anniversary. It is late in the evening and it just hit me that 6 years ago today I married my ex-husband on Kentucky blue grass. I saw my father cry for the first time as he walked me down isle that was lined with cloth and daisy peddles. I walked between a row of 100 year old oak trees to the man that I promised to love forever, through sickness, and health, till death do we part. I promised, I do. I meant it at that time, but to love a man that could not truly love back, that gave his love to someone else… I had to break my promise-well part of it. I will always love him, but death did not part us, something that I will never understand did. I search my soul, remember, and reflect on what it was that caused that hell that became my reality. I do not think even after reading dozens of books and a year of therapy would give me an answer. I have stopped the search, well for now. I look forward to what the next day brings. I guess this is why, I just remembered what today is.

I shout out to Ruben as he walked ahead of me.. “Hey! It is my anniversary, wish me a anniversary”. He looks back with the loveliest brown eyes and smiled. I try to explain to him that today 6 years ago, I was married; now I am not. I guess he did not understand because I was up beat about it. I smile because I went all day with Ruben in a magical place that wiped all the sad memories that would have crossed my mind if I were anywhere else in the world. I deserve at least this; one day without the haunting memories of what I lost. Instead my thought was of what I had.

Today I had a wonderful morning as I awoke under a rock shelter, on the dirt floor, huddled against a smiling Spaniard. Actually, I recall that this last night’s sleep was the best I have ever had out side in all my years of sleeping in tents, on the ground under the stars, or on rafts that were stacked on chop busses. Ruben even commented that he never-never slept till 11 in all his time sleeping outside.

Outside is where we both like to be. I ride; he climbs. We both love the mountains and it so happens that we both like to not stay still very long and enjoy a challenge. Today, he guides me on his mountains. Keeping me safe as I scale the rock walls on Montserrat. He poses for me, being silly, as I take his picture as he adjusts the climbing ropes.


I must say that Ruben has a knack for teaching and is the most kind and patient man, besides my father, that I have ever interacted with. I guess, this must be because of his culture, or his nature, or his tremendous effort to communicate with me on a level that most men that speak English have never even attempted. For some reason, I know exactly what he is tring to tell me… from the simplest thing of what music he likes, to how to adjust my weight as I climb, to the most intimate details of what he wants from life. Always apologizing for his broken English, I always shake my head no, I understand.

So today, was a good day. I find that I am finding myself again. Losing the person that I became to try to keep my husband. Returning to the person that has always been there. This is what I tell myself is why that on my first anniversary away from not being married, I am happy again.

Amore.Katelyn

Steps toward the sky, Montserrat, Spain.

I am eating chocolate and cherries, drinking a glass of Tinto Vino and a café con leche over candlelight; sitting in a climbing refuge that is nestled in the trees amongst the rocks of Montserrat. To reach this haven, we climbed over 1,000 vertical steps that reached toward the clouds.

I am told that Santa Benet was first a church that was constructed in the early 1900’s, and now serves as a shelter for climbers that come from all over the world to scale the conglomerate rock walls. The priests of the Monastery manage all of the refuges that are scattered on the mountain. Each refuge is unique and may only be a overhanging rock with twigs fastened to form a wind block or a shelter carved in the rock with a propane stove, candles for light, and left over sleeping pads that lay on the rock and dirt floors. Santa Benet has some luxuries of home; relatively thick mattresses are laid out on the floor that was once where the congregation worshiped, a back room has a kitchen with no running water, only natural or candle light, table and chairs. A little stereo plays FM radio, climbing books and maps line the bookshelf, and a old ham leg hangs from the rafters. I ask the volunteer that works during the weekends, collecting the four-euro fee to use the facility, about the ham. He laughs and says the ham is no good, but it is decoration…. typical Spanish decorations.

Today, I followed Ruben for about 4 hours as we climbed and hiked up and down the peaks of Montserrat. Well… I crawled on all fours half of the time as we were not doing “dangerous climbing” that required gear. Ruben had no problem and I think maybe part mountain goat due to the gracefulness he maneuvered with ease. If any of you know me, you know that I am a cluts when it comes to walking, but put be on a bicycle and I can balance and ride most things people cold not walk on. So yes…dangerous for me; especially in my puma tennis shoes that are not really meant for hiking and climbing, but was the best Ruben and I could find at the “similar to Walmart” shopping center the day before. Like most of my things, my hiking shoes are in the locker…. in Madrid.

We left in the morning. My pack was loaded with the light items as my guide, being the gentlemen he is, carried most of the weight. We are spending a couple of days exploring the National Forest of Montserrat. Lush Spanish forest hug stunning rock formations that have names such as elephant rock (on the left) and momma and baby mummy (the two peaks to the right)

This is also the center of Catholicism for the region of Catalonia Spain. Tourist Busses scale the winding roads brining thousands of people each year to see the village and the “school for the singing children”, as Ruben puts it simply. According to history that I found on the internet, the Black Virgin of Montserrat was carved by St. Luke around 50 AD and was and brought to Spain. It was later hidden from the Moors in a cave (Santa Cova, the Holy Grotto), where it was rediscovered in 880 AD.By the 9th century, there were four chapels on Montserrat, of which only one remains - St. Aciscolo's, which is in the monastery's garden. In the 11th century, the abbot-bishop Oliba founded a monastery on the mountain of Montserrat, next to one of the chapels. Many miracles were reported through the intercession of the Virgin Mary at Montserrat. According to the legend of the discovery, which was first recorded in the 13th century, the statue was discovered by shepherds. They saw a bright light and heard heavenly music that eventually led them to the grotto and the statue. Due to the great numbers of pilgrims that flocked to Montserrat throughout the Middle Ages, the monastery was enlarged from its original humble size. In 1592, the grand basilica of Montserrat was consecrated. Today the Monastery of Montserrat, located near the top of the 4,000-foot mountain, is home to about 80 monks. The monks welcome visitors and invite them to participate in their daily celebrations of Mass and recitations of the Liturgy of the Hour.

am not sure if it is becuase what is housed in these building, the tale of a wooden statue, or visions of Marry; what ever it is...this land is spiritual and I have only felt this one other time in my life. This was in North Carolina, on top of Max Patch were rainbow Indians were honoring the summer solstice. Silent, still, fasting for days; these men covered in tarps looking to the east had pine limbs stuck in the ground circling their body. Torn colored fabric was tied to each limb and waved in the wind. The backdrop of the bald mountain that was covered with wild strawberries and black berries is a 360 degree view of pristine Appalachian forest. Max patch was my favorite place…. I think Montseratt is tied for first place.

Amore,
Katelyn

It still boggles my mind to think that one can hop on a night train and wake up to a totally new culture. So many countries, so tightly situated together. As you cross one boarder and enter into another; the romantic sing-song sounds of Spanish become a hard mix of Dutch, German, Swedish, French, and a few other combined dialects. The majority of people with dark hair, eyes, olive skin and generally a lean small stature become replaced with a crowd similarly appearing with light hair and skin with extra inches or even feet added to their vertical height. The look of the city fades from a vivid palate to shades of pastel without the presence of an Arab influence. The architecture becomes more similar to what I think of what a ginger bread house would look like or the extreme opposite of clean sharp modern designs. The buses are not powered with gas, but a eco friendly electric line that hoovers above your head. Bicycles overcome the roads and sidewalks. Instantly, I like it here.

I am only here in Zurich for a day, but a day that I am grateful for. Ruben, my European tour guide gets perks sometimes for working on the train; he can usually bring friends and family along. Today this friend is me and that means that I arrived on the train in the evening, enjoyed another wonderful meal prepared by my Spanish friend, slept in a first class cabin complete with a full bathroom, and the best part having more time to visit…that is when he was not fixing something on the train…. and then awoke to a whole new country. Ruben has me figured out by now, I must say much faster than most man that I have been in the company of. He rented bicycles so we could crews the city winding up and down narrow streets, on bridges hovering over pristine rivers, and around the most beautiful lake that is hugged by lush green foothills.

We arrived to this stunning lake where had a picnic sitting on our towels, dressed in our bathing suits ready for a post meal swim. After a few hours of sun bathing and more talk about everything you could think about, we headed back to the train, but first stopped at a village market to buy supplies for dinner on the train. He then proceeded to buy me about 10 sweedish chocolate bars so I could take them home with me. I think, “Yep he has me out figured out!”

The next day we arrived back in Barcelona, only to return that evening to attend a NAS concert. On a whim after seeing a poster slapped on a light post, Ruben made a few phone calls and within a half hour we had two tickets. We also had lots of company when we arrived that evening. Friends from his home town in Zaragoza, Spain all piled in a van to come see the American Hip Hop group that was most popular when I was in undergraduate school. I found myself feeling at home with fimilar music, and everyone of his friends greated me with kisses, one on each cheek, and gave me a smile that made me know I was welcome.

I spent the night speaking little English or speaking anything at all, I just danced. You cannot hear much at concerts anyway. After the show, we made it to one of his friends high rise apartments in Barcelona. We all sat on the patio overlooking the city and I listened to the conversations in Spanish as Ruben would stop every once in a while to fill me in…in English. Most of them speaking a little English, I caught that they were making fun of NAS and his gold chains or “bling” and lack of a six pack, of which they call a chocolate tablet. I told them that in American that we call this a 6 pack and they thought this was the funniest thing. If you think about it….the less chocolate tablets and 6 packs of beer you consume; it is more likely you will have a chocolate tablet or a 6 pack, NAS did not, but his bling made up for it; maybe not if you are Spanish. They really do not get the bling bling commercial materialistic getto hip hop that is prominent in the US. I guess this is why one of Ruben’s best friends that own his own record company ALTEREGO-records (http://www.alterego-records.com/) sent me home with 3 spanish Hip Hop CD, stickers, and a T-shirt; because maybe he wanted me to understand the Hip Hop of Spain. It is a different world. I only know this because I am learning my Spanish by listening to this music; no aggression, with a good message, and a flow that is beautiful, because of the language.

So… two different worlds. One different than Spain, and the other a unique culture fighting to not by inspired by the US.

My eyes continue to become widened, my thought process are changing, priorities are re evaluated, and I have only been away for 7 weeks. Time is funny this way.

Amore, Kateyn

Barcelona Bound

I must leave Portugal today. I do not have to, but want to. I am going to meet Ruben Sebastian Garcia, a 100% Spanish man that I met the 3rd week of my holiday. Ironically he was working both night trains that I took from Milan to Barcelona and then Barcelona to Granada.

A traditional Spanish beauty; his dark hair, olive skin, smiling eyes, and warm spirit made a great first impression as he sat down beside me and tried to start up a conversation as I read and drank café con leche in the train’s bar car. Content with keeping to myself, hiding from reality with the help of my ipod ear phones shoved in my ears; his persistence with speaking the little English he had learned over the past few months was just enough for me to put down the book and take my earphones out of my ears. Hours later I found myself knowing a lot about Ruben, his culture, his family, and what he likes to do for fun. I listened … I had to listen very carefully due to his limited English. I too shared about my culture, my family, and what I liked to do for fun. He too had to listen carefully because of my inability to speak any Spanish, my tendency to use slang, and habit of speak very fast…you know how I ramble. At times he would look at me puzzled and would say, “I do not understand”. I replied back, “That is ok, most American men have no idea what I am saying either”. Again this puzzled him; I just giggled because I thought I was funny. Surprisingly, we had a lot in common. Graciously, he volunteered to be my tour guide in Barcelona the day we arrived. I took him up on his offer and was taken to the best lookout points of the city, the best beach, and a great traditional Spanish restaurant. The next day continued with Ruben as I was headed on the night train to Granada. This night we continued our conversation at the train’s bar café, and over dinner in the train’s dinning room eating a traditional Spanish meal that he prepared before arriving to work that evening. Being a lucky girl that I am, I got another Ruben style tour of Granda the next day we arrived.
So this is how I met Ruben and why I have taken him up on his offer for him to be my tour guide at his home in Monistrol de Montesserat (http://www.barcelona-tourist-guide.com/montserrat-spain.html) , a beautiful village that sits below an amazing National Park that surrounds Montesserat. He has planned a week of camping, climbing, and a little trip to Switzerland…oh and of course a promise of the most amazing mountain roads so I can ride my bike.

However, I must spend the day first in Barcelona getting my bicycle wheel fixed. The cursed cobble stone roads of Lisbon have beat up my bicycle leaving me with a wobbly wheel. Luckily, my old travel companion Jon was also in town and had given me a call to see if I wanted to see the city. Obviously, I am glad to spend a day with Jon catching up on our travels of the past 10 days, and it is also a bonus because Jon speaks Spanish and this comes in handy when you need to run errands. For some reason my Spanish-English dictionary does not have the word nipple translated. So asking for your spoke nipple to fished out of your rim and replaced could get interesting.

Barcelona, I must say, is my favorite metropolis city ever visited by myself in the short 29 years I have been alive. Situated on the cost,

30 minutes from mountains, funky modern architecture and art of Dali and Gaudi,


laid back atmosphere, and warm people make you never want to leave.
Decorative symbols of modernism that are imbedded in sidewalks guide you to the next city attraction.

Gaudi gems (http://www.gaudiclub.com/) are the closest man made beauty that can come close to the splendor of what God had given us in the forest, mountains, and sea. Design that moves like water makes you almost think you are looking to the horizon above the Mediterranean Sea. The colors of each tile, similar to the color palate of the Tuscan countryside, dance together to form a manmade landscape that is breathtaking. Each design masterpiece strikes me similar to the way I felt as I cycled the Almaphie cost and gazed to the terraced lemon and orange laden farmland.

I will spend the last 10 days being surrounded by beauty. I may not want to leave…again.

Amore,
Katelyn

Tour De Pastry, Sintra to Ericeria Portugal 64k 4.5 hrs

I thought I was never going to get out of Lisbon today. I got stuck shopping. Yes, I got in the mood to buy some clothes. You see….. I have most of my things in a locker in Madrid and I have been wearing the same 2 outfits for the past 6 days, and washing my 2 pairs of underwear in the sink. Now that I do not plan to cycle with all my things on my back, I figure buying a pair of pants, a shirt and maybe a dress would be a great b-day present to myself…oh yes and the best part is new underwear!!

I finally arrive to my seaside destination after a quick train ride from Lisbon. I plan to ride up to the cost North and visit Portuguese Villages and see the countryside. As I step off the train in Sintra, I am grateful for the drop in temperature and the beauty of this place. I start to try to compare the winding roads that pass through tiled colored buildings, gardens and lush landscape that accent perfectly this unique place.

It is different that Italy or Spain, but equally in its own way just as beautiful. I am instantly saddened when I remember that I left my things in Lisbon. A night in this lovely village, getting dressed up in a flowing sundress, sitting outside at a little bistro table, watching the people interact; feeling the fresh air of the countryside would be ideal compared to the busy city that I must return to tonight. Fighting traffic, waking up to noise of sirens, and sleeping in the most questionable pension that I have stayed in, is my fait for this night.

I continue north and reach seaside villages that hug the cliffs. They are breathtaking. The Atlantic is angry, bringing the tide slamming against the rocks. The wind follows making a challenging crosswind, that requires me to increase my effort to move forward. I am thirsty today, and the heat is intense. This results in me filling up my water bottles at a more frequent rate, in addition to finding a toilet.

I feel awkward hobbling into each bar or café with my bike shoes making the loud tap-tap- taping noise, sweat dripping off my face, my eyes blood read, and you cannot forget the outfit of spandex. Everyone turns in exact synchronization, and looks at me. They generally stare with an expressionless face, but some smile. I can almost hear a swoosh as their heads turn, then ending with a silence that fills the room as they all have their attention on me. It makes it allot harder for me to sneak off to the bathroom without being noticed that I am “not a customer”. Sooo…. I decide that I will be a customer at each stop as I progress through out the day. About each 1½ hour, I find a little café in a little quaint village, enter, have everyone stare at me as I eat the most delicious mini tarts, crème filled pastries, and fruit and chocolate cakes. Then I go to the bathroom. I am thankful that Portugal makes very small deserts, sometimes maybe a couple of bites; because I would of gained 5 pounds on this ride and made it back to Lisbon with a very sour stomach.

It is now 6pm and I have been riding for about 4 hours and have just consumed pastries, water and coffee. I decide that I better eat real food, so the port town of Ericera will be the place I will eat my supper for tonight. As I wind up and down the narrow cobbled streets that look to the sea, I realize that most restaurants are closed until 6. I go deeper into the village and find a restaurant with fresh fish in the windows. When you go to Portugal, you eat fish…fresh fish. So fresh that when you sit down in this restaurant, you order the fresh live, by weight, then they kill it, cook it…and then you eat it. It cannot get fresher than this. I choose shrimp as my table neighbors choose lobster.

I soon realize that time is passing quickly, and I have one hour to make it about 20k to the train station to make it back to Lisbon. As I wind up and down the hilly landscape, peddle into the wind, ask for direction about 5 times because the train station is not in a populated area, but a remote village about 10k outside a larger village; I miss the second to last train that goes to Lisbon, by about 5 minutes. As I explore the small village so I can pass the 3 hours that I must wait until the last train departs, I realize that this is a very very small village. No market, no round about, no hotel, no people…really. However, I do find a one-room shop with a few tables, an espresso machine, more pastries, beer, and random items that one may need such as cans of corn and laundry soap. This will be the place that I will reside until I hopefully catch the train that leaves at midnight back to Lisbon…that is if I am reading the train schedule right. So I sit with my non-English speaking elderly bartender/grocery store clerk in a small room and pretend to read the Portuguese paper as locals come and go and stare at me, say something in Portuguese, get a coffee or beer, and then leave.

It is about time to catch the train and by now I have realized that I have left my flip-flops back at the fish restaurant, and somehow my prescription sunglasses have disappeared during the time that I have been waiting for the train. It does not faze me, because I am really only worried about getting back to Lisbon. Finding a place to stay without my passport and without a hotel or pension within cycling in the dark safe distance, and my ability to speak Portuguese would make for an interesting night in Portugal.

I stand on the tracks and can hear the train approaching. I am tired, exhausted, and cold. The train is coming but not stopping. It is 2 platforms away and I instinctively start to run (remember in my bike shoes because I have no flip flops) after the train, throw my bike over my shoulder, and jump down to the tracks to make it to the other platform. Then I hear the breaks. I look up and people are pressing their faces against the windows staring and laughing. The conductor hangs out the door and says something in Portuguese. He giggles as I approach. I think maybe this is Portuguese humor. They torment tourists.

One hour later my comedian conductor is shaking me. I have fallen asleep and we are in Lisbon. Seems I made it into little ball shape perfectly wedged on the train seat, and crusted drool is on my cheek.
I think….I have never been so happy to be returning to my Indian run pension that has holes in the walls and one toilet that I share with about 30 other people.

Portugal is interesting.
Amore, Katelyn