Filed under: Uncategorized
Okay, I’ve finally done it! I’ll have these 3 empty posts fully updated by the end of next week and then I’ll be writing more; a sort of chronicle of my adventures in Austin and where I’m headed next!
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: barcelona, beach, bus, death, drive, friends, gaudi, homemade, hummus, illness, mosaic, plague, pueblo. ingles, sick, sitges, sleep, soria, Spain, tile, travel
Half way through my second week at P.I. my friend Leti (awesome Leti!), who I’d met when she was working at Valdelavilla last year, called to tell me she was headed to Barcelona and asked if I’d like to join her. Dimitri had left at the end of the previous week to walk the El Camino or learn Swahili or go spear fishing on the moon or something, but I hadn’t really thought about what I was going to do next. There’s something about not having plans that gives you the feeling that anything is possible and makes you feel that you really control you’re own destiny. It meant that I was free to except her offer, but it also meant that I had unknowing sent the Universe a challenge and the Universe responded ‘Whose in control?’ and gave me The Plague.
Now, I know you’re first instinct when you hear someone who is currently alive describe an illness in such grand terms is to assume that they are a whiny bitch who has an exaggerated case of the sniffles (and go off on a tangent in your head about how you’d believe them if they were dead and told you that…but that would mean they were a zombie and you’d have to separate their head from their body etc.) but let me assure you; the sniffles aren’t capable of producing the pure evil coming out of my various orifices. By the time Leti (awesome, understanding Leti) showed up I was in a pretty bad way. Fortunately, she’d worked at Valdelavilla through enough P.I. programs to know that most people are wrecked by the end of the week and had arranged for me to sleep in the guest room at her parents house while she finished getting her stuff together for the trip. When we arrived I crawled under the covers, my whole body shaking, my breath wheezing through liquid lungs and prayed for sleep…or, at the very least, death.
She let me sleep during the hour long drive to her apartment in Soria as well and by the time we arrived I had pretty much stopped shaking. Well, not really, but I didn’t want to ruin Leti’s (awesome, understanding, compassionate Leti) time so I was trying. The bus to Barcelona left from the station at midnight and the original plan had been to get everything ready to go at her place then head down too the pub to meet some friends for farewell beers. Not wanting Leti (awesome, understanding, compassionate, energetic Leti) to miss out I insisted she go with out me and, ever the optimist, told her to have a few beers since I was sure after a little more sleep I’d be well enough to drive us to the station and then run a marathon using the bus to cut down on wind resistance by the time she got back. Obviously, this was a sound plan that could in no way go wrong. Unfortunately, we had both failed to realize that I can’t drive a stick shift.
The bus stop in Barcelona
When she returned I had just stopped trying to figure out if I could throw up in a trash can across the room without moving and she was ready to pass out on a six hour bus ride so neither one of us was prepared for my surprise at the discovery of a mysterious third pedal. Using Logic we determined that we had to be at the bus station, that Leti (awesome, understanding, compassionate, energetic, mildly panicked Leti) couldn’t drive and that there were no cabs around. Clearly, I would have to get a crash (hahaha…ha) course in how to drive a stick. Hilarity ensued and a few dents later we woke up Leti’s (awesome, understanding, compassionate, energetic, mildly panicked, resigned to the situation Leti) roommate to take us. Six hours later we arrived in Barcelona relatively unmolested.
Leti’s full name is Leticia, pronounced Le-tea-the-a, but after a few years of us Anglo’s calling her Let-e-sha (as in ‘Hey girl! What you doin’?') she has adopted something of a sassy alter ego that comes out when she gets excited. So, while we waited for her friend Paco to pick us up Leticia *snap*snap* was slowly getting into the mood. I was likewise preparing for all the fun to come by examining my snot like a diamond inspector; judging color and quality for any indication of The Plagues current and future state. Paco, called Paco Fiesta or Party Paco for you English speakers, is a sweet, funny guy who claims he doesn’t speak any English despite Leti’s assertions that he can…he just won’t. This put me in the delightful position of being allowed to provoke him in the name of his English language education. Fortunately for Party Paco I had been somewhat subdued by The Plague so my spunky and sometimes feisty side (or, as the broken young men in my wake might call my aggressive and sometimes scary side) is much less spunky and feisty then usual. Even so, we strike up a playful acquaintance and I manage to get the occasional English phrase or word out of him…especially if he is pointing out that he can see my boogers or that I snored all the way to Sitges.
Gaudi inspired kitchen
Sitges (rhymes with bitches, as in ‘We’re in Sitges, bitches!’) is a small beach town just outside Barcelona where rich, gay men go to wear teeny, tiny bathing suits and look fabulous while drinking expensive cocktails. It’s also where Leti’s cousin lives, who is not a rich guy man, but just happens to like gorgeous beach towns just outside Barcelona and doesn’t seem to be bothered by teeny, tiny bathing suits. When asked to describe him Leti leans back and, with Fonzie like thumb gestures, calls him a ‘Good Time Guy’. After meeting him I finally get what this means. He’s an incredibly laid back graphic designer with a ponytail and, I’m guessing, he smokes weed…hence the thumb gestures. His wife, who has prepared us a table full of fantastic homemade snacks when we arrive is mellow and welcoming and absolutely lovely. Their house is amazing as well. They’ve been custom building it for years using mosaic tiles inspired by Gaudi to cover curved surfaces and create beautiful designs.
Homemade hummus!
I could have spent the whole week just hanging around the little paradise they’d created and filling it with tissues, but there was a beach to bath on, hunky (if unavailable) men to gawk at, drinks to sample and adventures to have so off we went! As quickly as we could we gathered our belongings and in no time at all we were standing in line at the pharmacy. This was by far the most exciting thing I’d done in Spain for two reasons. 1. It gave me hope that I might actually, one day, feel better and 2. This was the freakin’ Willy Wonka version of any pharmacy I’ve ever seen. I was unaware that it was possible to skip the doctors visit and get diagnosed directly by the pharmacist, but after a conversation that consisted primarily of Leticia translating questions involving my bodily fluids fantastic things started happening. He typed a few things in to the computer and suddenly little boxes were popping up from nowhere on the counter or dropping from overhead into waiting baskets and within moments I had an answer to The Plague.
We spent the rest of the week relaxing on the beach and I began to feel a lot better.
Medicate me
On Leti’s final day we stayed in Barcelona and after I walked her to the bus station the following morning I headed out to find a hostel and quickly realized how impossible this task would have been just a week earlier without Leti’s (awesome, understanding, compassionate, energetic, patient, wonderful, fantastic, generous Leti) hospitality. Unexpected things were ahead, but because of her I was no longer a disease-ridden piriah. I was just a regular ole’ backpacker with a ridiculous abundance of medication…so, a regular ole’ backpacker.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Anglos, full emersion, learn English, madrid, pueblo. ingles, Spaniards, valdelavilla
Or, at least, that’s what it feels like to them for the first couple days. What really happens is that the Anglos take their cue from the Spaniards, who encourage them to speak for hours on end about the minutia of their daily lives while they listen with rapt attention; smiling and nodding encouragingly to indicate that no detail, no matter how mundane, should be omitted. Okay, so that’s just how it appears to the Anglos at first, but fortunately there are two patient, understanding and, most importantly, funny task masters to beat everyone into submission as well as help guide the interactions.
However, as people grow more comfortable with each other, fall into the rhythm of things and start drinking it gets easier and everyone ends up having a wonderful time. For some people, the experience is even profound and for a few, like myself, it can be life changing. My time there last year was the catalyst that got me started on this adventure, but even if spending a week at Pueblo Ingles doesn’t make you want to sell all your belongings and set out to see the world you won’t leave empty handed. At the very least, you’ll have acquired a better understanding of a different culture and, most likely, a lifelong friend or two that you can exploit in the future. That’s where I met Mariano actually.
When he got accepted I signed up for the same week and it became our unofficial rendezvous spot after weeks of having our own solo shenanigans. We wouldn’t necessarily be traveling together again after that, but it’d be great to catch up. In fact, it was unlikely we’d be leaving P.I. together because I had agreed to attend a second week directly following the first. In hindsight, that was an insane decision or as I would later come to think of it ‘Fucking WHAT?!’, but I’m very lucky I didn’t know that when they asked because it was also a rewarding one, but more on that in a bit.
I’m sure there will be reason to share bits and pieces of it over time, but for now it’s just mine…and if you have a problem with that then go have your own damn intense, emotional experience A-hole! Jeez! What I will tell you is this: Each week is unique. If you choose to return to the same location then the setting and schedule will stay the same, you may even hear a few of the same jokes, but the people are so diverse and the dynamic of the group changes. It’s a whole new world each time. For me, no group has been better then another, just different. I’ll admit, it is hard to transition when you follow one week with another. The attachment you make during that short time is strong. The people attending the second week arrived as my first week friends were leaving. I had a moment where I just glared at the ‘replacements’ and wondered who the hell these strangers thought they were! In the end I knew them all as friends too. It seems very simple, to just talk to someone, but it’s more physically and emotionally draining then you could ever imagine. You open yourself up and watch as others do the same. The amazing thing about Pueblo Ingles is that they make sure you do it laughing. Some people even learn English!Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: castilla y leon, cochinillo, cordero asado, music, porron. family, prawns, segovia, sepulveda, Spain, suckling pig
It was not so much the nearly nine hundred year old castle (yeah, we went in…it’s crazy in there!) that keeps Segovia connected to it’s past as it is the shepherd herding his flock on the outlying roads or the storks nesting on the roof of a church in a village square. This seems to be the case in the entire region of Castilla y Leon where Segovia is located. Between meals with family, festivals with friends and the occasional, well deserved, siesta, we explored. We drove while listening to music from a long-ago-Segovia that had recently been rediscovered by a vigilant musician, but came very close to being lost to time. It felt like getting a covert peak at the past. One town called in particular, Sepulveda, left me feeling like I was in on a secret. I’d never imagined there could be an entire town dedicated to making a single dish. Seriously! Walk into any restaurant and they won’t even ask for your order. They just ask if you are eating or not. If the answer is yes, then you will be served a whole, traditional, roast lamb (cordero asado) with whatever vegetable is in season. When I finally get around to writing my ‘travel article’ (I totally said that with a straight face!) I’ll tell you all about rest of these unusual and extraordinary places…or maybe I’ll just keep them to myself…we’ll see.
Prawn time!
We arrived early so Mariano’s father could begin cooking the prawns while the rest of us took a walk along the river in hopes of catching a glimpse of these crazy little lobsters they sometimes catch there. By the time we returned the remaining Aunts and Uncles had arrived and things were in full swing. I helped set the two tables (one for adults and one for us kids…including the youngest of the brothers…hahahahaha) while being schooled In the ways of the porron. Drinking from the spouted, glass vessel is a skill that demands to be mastered and successfully getting the contents into ones mouth is the reward.
sounds like 'pour on'...sort of
Admittedly, I had a few wet streaks down the front of my shirt but, in the end, I OWNED that sucka‘! As I was gaining confidence with the porron; tipping it from greater and greater distances (nothing compared to what Mariano can do. That man is a porron DIETY!) the main courses arrived. Due to their long preparation times they’d been ordered from a nearby town and I was dying to see them.
they have teeth?!
Two giant dishes sat on the table. One containing the roast lamb and the other a cochinillo, aka suckling pig. A frenzy ensued as hand’s deftly separated meat from bone and it was only my gorilla training that allowed me to photograph the pig intact before it was rendered unrecognizable.The meal was simple in it’s ingredients; meat, bread and a salad consisting of lettuce, tomato and onion, but decadent in it’s flavor. We ate and talked and drank until the food was gone and then we just talked an drank…and then we danced. That’s right! Louise brought the truck closer and turned on the music we’d been listening to all day as the daylight faded. It’s eerie and robust; full of sounds just slightly unlike anything else and Mariano tells me that one of the instruments was only just rediscovered. It’s something very old, but I may never have heard it before. The smallest of Mariano’s aunts, who I swear holds her own among the throng by sheer force of will, (you’d think she was 7 ft. tall) took me by the hand and, in front of everyone, taught me the traditional dance of Segovia. She has the energy of a hummingbird and was so engaging that I didn’t have a chance to feel ridiculous for a second. Although, even if I had the liberal amounts of brandy that came with desert would have eradicated any such worries. Now we are talking and drinking and dancing but the light is gone so it’s time to leave the little house and return to town.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: bull, danger, family, horse, pole, run, segovia, Spain
The bull pen
Big ass horses
The bulls are in that pen. The crowd is growing more expectant and rowdy by the minute and, even though I’m not sure what we are waiting for, I’m starting to get excited myself. The men on horseback are joined by motor cross riders, which confuses me further, but adds an electric edge to the air. When an ambulance arrives horses, bikes and people seem to move into position and it’s clear that that’s what we’ve been waiting for. A false sense of security! I mean seriously…one ambulance? There’s at least a hundred drunk people here and they’re about to release bulls, but hey! That thought only came in hindsight so…
Here bull. Here bully, bully!
My initial impressions about the bulls are proved to be way off base as stories circulate that the escaped bulls killed a horse and may have injured someone. When the bulls approach they seem to be headed toward the other gate so I try to get closer by stepping into the street. My zoom lens has reached it’s limit when the bulls make a sudden turn and head directly for the entrance I’m standing in front of. They hurtle towards me and the thought that immediately pops into my head is ‘HOLY CRAP!…I’m going to get an amazing shot!’ Fortunately, Mariano is thinking about the horse one of these huge beasts killed so easily and begins calling my name. I however, take this as encouragement that I can get closer and stand my ground. As I happily shoot away Mariano yells my name louder and louder until he has everyone on the sidelines joining in and I finally realize that I need to get the hell out of there! Most Spaniards grew up knowing the damage one of these powerful, enraged animals can do but I was like a little kid talking to a stranger with a white van. I run to safety like I’m being chased by a bull(hahaha…oh, me) and am greeted by a group of amazed men who, mistaking my ignorance for courage, laugh and slap me on the back. A relieved and slightly bemused Mariano simply says, “Your Mom is going to kill me.”
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: big beans, bulls, family, food, love, madrid, segovia, Spain, tourist, traveler
Cinderella's castle
I had never heard of the city before, but the guys filled me in on some of the highlights (among other things Segovia is home to the castle that inspired Cinderella’s) but assured me that we wouldn’t be doing too much regular touristy stuff.
Spanish love
We’d left late (or early depending on your frame of reference) and it was well after dark when we arrived, but it became immediately clear that our evening was just beginning. We ate dinner with his father which was delicious and extremely hearty. I soon learned that the only way to avoid another generous helping of food is to physically block access to your plate with your hand. A lesson that would be utilized several times over the week since expressing care and love through food seems to be a theme in Mariano’s family and Spain in general. Afterwards we headed down to one of the local bars and I got a glimpse of just how interconnected this little community on the outskirts of the city was.
Horse pole vaulting?
We woke up at 8 (only in Spain would that be considered absurdly early) and piled into Mariano’s Dads…truck? It was sort of a van/truck-with-a-cap hybrid that only last night had housed a giant bag of pine cones and a dead squirrel they tried to convince me we would be having for dinner. (It was not, in fact, for dinner, but I never did get a clear explanation on what it was doing in there) With his Dad driving, Mariano, his brother Louise and I headed to a different town where we were to watch the running of the bulls…or something like it. Mariano spent the drive attempting to explain what we were going to do and see once we got to our destination, but I had such an imbedded image of Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls, that I couldn’t process that this might be different somehow. We pull off the road into a huge field miles outside of the town where it seems other cars are also stopping and I briefly wonder if this has something to do with the dead squirrel when Mariano tells me we’re here. In a field? Yes, we are in a field. Are we getting more pine cones? Who are those men on horseback and why are they carrying pole vaults? What in the world is going on?
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: beach, breaker, heart, International, linkedin, madrid, Spain
We did not make it to Gibraltar. Approximately four minutes and thirty-seven seconds before the mutiny began we saw lights in the distance and Boris changed coarse to hit land. I think we would have happily grounded ourselves on sharp rocks at that point just to be off the boat. Fortunately, there was a marina and we were able to dock without becoming fodder for an Edmund Fitzgerald type sea chantey. I was right in the middle of a dance demonstarating how grateful I was to be standing on solid Earth and involving more hip action then is considered decent when Avi proclaimed that this would be our last stop until the boat hit Israel. If I had been planning to stay onboard this would have been extremely dissappointing news (since it’s crazy expensive to leave Israel and I’d originally hoped to get off just before we got there) but, I’d already decided it was time to take my leave. My relationship with Dimitri had long since turned sibling and as much as I loved the guy I also wanted to punch him in the face. I was ready to be on my way and the fact that the boat had landed in Puerto De Santa Maria, not 10 miles from where I was born in Rota, seemed like a sign that this was the right place. I packed my bag and said my good-byes so I’d be ready to go first thing in the morning. As it turns out saying good-bye can sometimes involve a lot of alcohol and when I woke up I was feeling great in that way that should warn you of bad things to come. I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go next but I was filled with enthusism (most likely the lingering effects of last nights many toasts) and headed in a direction that looked promising in the vague hope that an idea would come to me along the way. Almost immediately my brain got to work, the blood started flowing, synapsys started firing and in a near shout it declared “LAY DOWN!”.
I obiediently aim for the other side of the path that follows the line of the beach and into a grove of tall trees. The branches don’t start until they’re fairly high up the trunk so, although there is plenty of shade, the area feels open and bright. The trees have been shedding what appear to be dead pine needles, creating a soft bed underfoot and I lay down using my bag as a pillow. The delayed hangover drains away quickly. I close my eyes, allowing the waves hitting the shore to become white noise and concentrate on the remarkable feeling of being still. The world may be revolving but it’s doing it like a Mother tip-toeing past her sleeping childs room. I feel an awareness of my body now that it’s not part of the constant ryhthm of the ocean. The sun is warm on my feet, the pine needles are rough under my bare arms and somebody is definately staring at me. I open my eyes and sure enough, there’s a guy standing with his bike a little ways off staring at me. He’s wearing flip flops, which somehow makes him much less threatening but I do a quick mental inventory of my various weapons (yeah, thats right, I have a few knives. You need them on a boat…plus they make me feel like I’m in a gang. Only, since no gang memebers use knives as thier primary weapon nowadays, I’d be from West Side Story and all our gang related activity would be choreographed. When you’re a Jet!) and try not to look nervous. Neither one of us is sure who is supposed to feel awkward about being caught doing what they were doing, but my hangover threatens to return if the issue isn’t resolved and the pine needles are starting to get ithchy so I sit up and say hello.
Bag assistance
To make a long story short (communicating the following information took around four hours and the use of a Spanish to English dictionary which he just happened to have on him) his name is Juan, he thinks America is great, would be honored to show me around the following day and knows where a good hostel with WiFi is that I could stay at that night. He clearly would have liked to stay at the hostel with me, but I had a lot I wanted to do that night and quite frankly, I hadn’t been without company since I left Austin months earlier. The idea of one night completely alone was so overwhelmingly appealing that I could think of nothing else. I tried pantomiming taking off my clothes to indicate I’d like to change into my pajamas and pointing at the bed to show I’d be going right to sleep, but for some reason this caused him to think I meant something all together different so I finally resorted to gently shoving the slightly confused looking Juan into the hall.
By the time he arrives the following morning he is in love with me. It’s fairly common. Men fall in love with me all the time. I don’t completely understand this phenomenon but it’s very useful because my bag is heavy and men who are in love with you always want to carry your stuff, (Maybe they think this guarantees sex. It doesn’t…but don’t tell them that.) which is especially handy on this day because it’s about 8 billion degrees out. Instead of exploring we spend most of the day sweating profusely and looking for water, but it’s a lot of fun anyway and by the time we sit down at a little cafe by the beach I know Juan isn’t going to be pleased that I’ve decided to head for Madrid later in the evening. I picture a scene from the end of Harry and the Hendersons and I start to feel bad, but when I finally tell him he seems downright excited for me. It’s not until we get to the train station that I realize he’s excited because he thinks he’s going too. That’s when everything turns Old Yeller. I finally make it on the train sans Juan by promising I will return to Puerto de Santa Maria, which I might…someday. It could happen! I settle into my seat feeling like a jerk for lying but the knowledge that I have now broken hearts on 3 continents gives me a sense of accomplishment that makes it all worth while. I head to Madrid wondering what other goals I will reach during my time on land. It’s a good thing I saved up on good karma because the way things have started, it seems I’m going to be making a lot of withdrawls. (Insert evil laugh here) Madrid; here I come!
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: asia, beef bowl, cure, eat, fish, fishing, food, gyudon, linkedin, Mahi Mahi, navy, preserve, Russian, sail, salt, sushi, thailand, waste
It’s only in the last few years that I can honestly describe myself as an omnivore. Before that I existed primarily as a carnivore using vegetables solely as a means to covey salt to my mouth. I love salt. As my taste buds mature and my culinary curiosity grows I’ve found myself experimenting with new flavors, giving old ones a second chance and discovering that Nature has provided us with a lot of tasty ingredients…and that some things really are disgusting; like eggplant (and don’t go giving me that ‘aubergine’ bull. It’s called eggplant and it’s freaking gross), with all its’ nasty little seed pustules. In general, I’m in awe of all the choices there are out there and by the different places they come from. Despite the typical slow start I had as a kid excepting things outside my comfort zone, I’ve always been attracted to authentic foods and traveling is the ultimate way to experience the real thing. It’s food at its origins.
Prior to the trip to Spain my Mom and I took last year, most of my overseas travels had been with large groups of Americans. I was not surprised when, during our high school trip, my classmates spent large portions of their free time roaming the bistro and sidewalk café lined streets looking for a McDonald’s franchise (after all, who among us is really adventurous enough to try Italian food at that age? seriously? That’s like the least threatening food there is!), but it began to wear on me in the Navy as, port after port, my shipmates, these supposed world travelers, did the exact same thing. What was everybody so worried about? If you don’t like it it’ll be gone in the lesser part of a day…or, in the occasional regrettable case, a few weeks, but gone none the less. Can you say that about that tattoo of your now-ex girlfriends name?
Granted, some missteps are to be expected. In Thailand I once ordered what appeared to be chicken in curry from the photo on the menu only to find out it was actually generous chunks of lemon, with rind attached, in a blazing hot, take-your-best-guess sauce. Failure that epic is rare and it certainly didn’t stop me from trying again. I even learned a valuable lesson; low-res, poorly photo copied images are not to be trusted.
I was fortunate to eventually find a few kindred spirits and together we went into the exotic markets of Thailand, the tiny soup booths of Kowloon and the futuristic automated establishments of Japan being introduced to such marvels as Yakiniku, Gyudon and the diversity of Asian street food. (Mmm….meats on a stick…)
Beef bowl!
Overall, my forays into foreign food and new food in general have been eye opening, delicious and, more importantly, dysentery free. Due to that my desire to know about food, flavor and where it comes from has grown exponentially. So, when Hana, the boats official cook and a bon-a-fide Russian woman, placed a slab of pink matter in front of me and handed me a fork I didn’t hesitate…as much as I would have had I not just been going on and on about how enthusiastic I am to try new things. It looked like a large tongue with hundreds of raised taste buds, but I knew it couldn’t be because I had just witnessed the dramatic death of the creature from which it came.
A school of Mahi Mahi had appeared earlier that day to inspect the little zebra fish that were speeding along under our boat. Boris keeps two poles trolling the water behind us at all times, but it had been weeks since they had actually caught anything and Dimitri and I had never caught anything so we were all running around, shouting 
MAHI MAHI! whenever we made eye contact and generally acting like excited little kids when one finally bit. It was HUGE and watching it strain against the line, coming out of the water all green-blue and yellow blurs was mesmerizing and exhilarating. It fought the whole way and when it was finally dragged onboard it continued to fight. It thrashed against the solid plastic seats, blood splattered every surface and the fishes struggle quickly went from fascinating to very sad. In an attempt to end it’s suffering quickly Avi began whacking it in the head with a hammer. This gave the whole scene a snuff film quality that I found unsettling so when we hauled in a second one I suggested trying a different method. The resulting efforts to quickly end the Mahi Mahi’s torment (and frankly, mine as well) were not an improvement and I’ll spare you the details, but as I’ve always said, if you can’t sit next to a cow while you eat a steak you probably shouldn’t be eating it. Admittedly, I have never done this (who has the time?) nor do I actually say this, but there’s a point in there somewhere and I’ll bet it’s a good one. Probably something about respecting the circle of life and acknowledging the special something or other blah, blah, blah.
Anyway, as it’s been explained to me, Russian cooking isn’t so much about flavor as it is about preservation. Using it all and making it last.
Um...
They eat everything so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found a spinal column in the soup or that I was now sitting staring at a lightly fried egg sack. It was a new flavor alright. Having been stationed in Japan for three years I am fully aware that I am not a ‘raw fish in the morning’ kind of girl. In fact, I’m something of a sushi camel. A little raw anything goes a long way (I can practically hear all of you declaring that you could eat nothing but sushi all day long. Well here, have mine and be quiet) and after the first few days it was all I could do to not look stricken when someone pulled out another hunk of fish and I realized it wasn’t over yet. On the other side of this I was glad we weren’t wasting anything and extremely curious as to how they managed to keep it all from spoiling.
The answer to this last subject would be a personal revelation. It would change not only the way I think about health and eating, but how I perceive food itself because…it’s SALT bitches! They salt the ever lovin’shit out of the fish or meat and put it in the freakin’ sun and that’s not the half of it. 
Anything that can’t be cured they pickle! It’s like a fucking salt orgy! Sure, garlic and it’s buddies are allowed in, but every herb knows it wouldn’t be a party without salt. When we get to Gibralta I’m buying some Tupperware and then Spain better watch out. I’m armed with recipes and a salt shaker and about to go on one hell of a pickling rampage. You can try to guard your olive groves Spaniards, but you can’t stop a girl on a mission!
