Vacation Backlash

Back from vacation and feeling more than the usual back-to-my-life-blahs. While I could blame this on my fading tan, I'm more compelled to point a finger at the celestial bodies wreaking havoc above and on this earth. Alex Miller offers a robust analysis of our most recent state of unrest, caused by Pluto digging into Capricorn after a 13 year stint in Sagittarius.

So as a balm for my vacation blues I'm offering you this nugget to muse over.

The Road to Ronda

A new friend from Marbella invites us to her country home in Ronda. A summer house in the mountains? Lovely I think, envisioning deep green pastures and rolling fields of clover. The fact that my fantasies of European country life resembles the set of the Sound of Music should tell you something. Cecilia tells us it's a very curvy drive. The roads vindicate her comment, proving to be delightfully twisty, and in some places, treacherous. What I don't count on are the radical shifts in terrain. One moment deep ravines, around another curve water trickles down a boulder, presumably from melting ice. The sun adds intensity to the landscape by dodging through metallic clouds. Across a ravine the sun breaks on the side of the mountain shining on what appears to be snow. On closer look the chalken cliffs reveal themselves to be nothing but rock. But what a surreal, lunar moonscape! Surely this could double as a set for Apollo 13?

I'm told this magnificent range of mountains is the Sierra Bermeja.The animal life appears as abundant as the landscape pristine. Woolly sheep hug the rocky crags, in coats of dirty white, rust and yellow they graze on spiky shoots of grass. The possibility of crossing paths with one of these guys or a cow, sparrow hawk, long-eared owl or an Egyptian mongoose! is a possibility that thrills me as they are all inhabitants of this Sierra.

We reach our destination within one hour, with Cecilia skillfully navigating the curves, Julie closing her eyes lest she hurl and me devouring the countryside. Our hosts, Maren and Ignacio Diaz meet us at a gravel path, beckoning us to follow their dusty Land Rover. We follow down a dustier path that might be mistaken for a road. Later we are told this adventurous driveway had to be built as no other means existed to navigate to the house. This comment personifies our hosts, as we learn they are masters of conjuring whatever they envision.

We arrive at the house, which is more of an estate than the snug country home I anticipated. It's all a country home should be: a gorgeously sprawling main house; horse stables in which live Uniquo - a tall dark handsome fellow with an almost black mane and Flora - a dainty former working horse with a wheat-colored mane plaited coquettishly over one eye; an eternity pool built for swank patio parties and summer lounging with a jacuzzi inserted in the middle. Best of all is Puccini, a feathery, blond Labrador who gently grabs my sundress in his teeth and leads me to his favorite spots. He's so obviously a human lounging around in a canine body. I can't help but kiss his muzzle and melt at his beseeching gaze that seems to say 'You wanna pet me. You know you do.'

Our hosts serve champagne, olives grown on their olive grove, jamon serrano and crumbly Manchego cheese made from sheep's milk. Normally I love the holy trinity of bubbly, briny & salty. But today I'm a wee bit queasy from last night's Sangria, made with delicious local wine but an ungodly amount of sugar and ultra sweet fruit brandy. So instead I sip lightly, hoping to do justice to our lunch - Paella Marinara.

Lunch is served in an indoor courtyard, reminiscent of a Moroccan palace but with distinctively European views of rambling hills. Olive oil, grown from the olive grove and pressed locally is passed to soak up the hearty breads. The aroma of the oil first captures attention, grassy and redolent of young green onions. Then the paella, deeply yellow from the saffron, is moist and unctuous. The tiny calamari are tender and infused with a seafood broth as is the rice. Matter of fact, all the fish has reached a similar state - the tiny cockles, juicy shrimps, with heads still intact, tender bits of filleted fish.

The host and his son Luca (named after Suzanne Vega's famous song) entertain the house full of women. Ignacio is a casual metrosexual wearing great jeans and the demeanor of a man at peace with life. Luca has the face of an angel and the manners of a diplomat. He charms us with scenes from his favorite movies in impeccable English. Mr. Bean Goes on Vacation features prominently. No mere Cars or Ice Age creatures for this sophisticated child. Moreover he configures oil freighters (complete with cranes, captains and motors) out of Lego's. We sense a facility for engineering with that little man...He invites us to view a movie. As Mr. Bean is unavailable we tuck into a Night at the Museum in the upstairs viewing room, replete with sound-reducing sueded walls and light-reflecting navy decor.

While the menfolk finish the film Maren charms us in the great room. A steady fire has been burning from the same log in the walk-in fireplace to warm our chilly shoulders. I can't decide what kind of wood it is as nothing in the USA has such a long burn time. I assume it's one of those magical logs that litter the Andalucian countryside as I've seen tree stumps curing on the roadside. Maren has gentle blue eyes at odds with her lean energetic frame. She speaks several languages beautifully and manages to make each of us the center of attention. No small feat in a roomful of 5 women. She's a successful entrepreneur and I'm guessing it doesn't hurt her business at all to look like a celebrity.

A fellow guest, a resident of Malaga has graciously brought me a present of an Egyptian Tarot Deck. Bae is a water nymph masquerading as a woman - willowy, mischievous, lush with emotion. I read a spread called the Celtic Cross in the magnificent gold papered Egyptian deck. I've never seen it before but know instinctively how to interpret the nubile characters. We talk, a room full of women each from a different destination on the globe. And yet we understand each other intuitively, sisters from a previous life, forever bonded by spirit. There's an Indian proverb that says: When two or more women gather together, the stars come out in daylight. The stars shone that afternoon.

We talk about careers, men, art. And yes, in that order. I find out why my attempts to dance at the local discotheques have been met with such a negative reception. I am chagrined to learn only prostitutes (many of whom are Russian) patronize the venues. Never having been mistaken for either Russian nor a lady of the evening I accept the inevitable conclusion that I will not be dancing while in Marbella.

A couple from Madrid arrives. They tell me of a street in Madrid populated with Indian restaurants and their fondness for the cuisine. I invite them to New York so I can properly prepare a meal on my own turf. They are either very polite or would love to take me up on the invitation. The sun prepares to descend, showing off colors that a painter would greedily hoard. Time appears to stand still as the sun suspends itself between two mountains for seemingly an hour.

It's night time before we finally drag ourselves away. We are replete, exhausted, enamored of this home and it's inhabitants. Tomorrow I fly home but today I must drag my head out of the magical clouds of Ronda.

So this is Marbella

On retrospect, I will view my time in Spain as Godsend. Exhaustion sets in from crazy work hours assisting in the divestiture of businesses for a company I will not name (for fear of being attacked). Top that off with the death of my grandfather at the ripe age of 102, I was beat! So a week in the Costa Del Sol was a welcome diversion.

Marbella, south of Spain. Oddly fascinating juxtaposition of cultures, languages and personalities. My hostess for the trip is Cecilia, a statuesque Swede with white blond hair and a glorious pink-gold tan. She's magnificent and adorable by turns. She lives in the highest building perched on the highest point in Marbella. She finds space in her minuscule but sophisticated apartment to accommodate not one but two finicky females. There's three of us, the Tres Amigas; the athletic Swede Cecilia, Julie an exotic Asian/Swede and me - Indian but taken for everything from Brazilian to Moroccan.

Situated on the east coast of Spain, Marbellan weather is reminiscent of the Bay Area. Smokey, sultry, chilly mornings that the stinging sun burns away by noon. Though watery at times the sun doesn't forget it's atomic origins and singes skin, hair and unprotected toes in its path. Days are spent sunning at the beach, on the terrace, at the Puento Romano resort that's hosting the Andalucia Women's Tennis Invitational. Red clay courts (my favorite!), talented girls slugging it out amidst polite applause. The one day we miss Serena Williams gets eliminated in the first round.

Day trips are a must and we visit Gibraltar, hugely amused by the Apes, the size of small dogs, hair bleached blond by the sun. Sweet, sorrowful faces as wrinkled as a 90 year-old's. They eat fruits and vegetables and invite themselves into cars, on your shoulders and head. They find Cecilia's hair fascinating. The feeling is not reciprocated. While fascinating from a historical perspective Gibraltar today has a dingy overcrowded vibe, packed with Brits, North Africans and Spaniards. While the view of Morocco over the strait is stunning, the coastline has declined into an industrial glut of tankers and cranes. Apparently The Rock is not adequate to house all the eager inhabitants therefore land is being manufactured on the ocean, a la Dubai. It's a shame really, for such an ancient harbor to be overwhelmed by industry, not it's historical significance.

While Gibraltar is the bottom-most tip of Europe, Mijas is further north easterly. The drive offers unparallelled views of the Mediterranean, reminding me of the Amalfi Coast, my favorite place on earth. Perhaps due to the promixity to Good Friday that we see not one but 6 aerial crosses in the sky. Ethereal trails lefts by planes that transform heaven into a cathedral.

The roundabouts - rondels - instead of traffic lights in Fuengirola. Each a spectacular display of gardening delight. Red, orange, lavender Bougainvillea. Symphonies of geraniums, Banzai trees, and eerily lifelike sculptures of elephants at the Holiday Inn mage resort.

Each restaurant or cafe is cuter than the next. We're starving but when we stop for a bite we're informed it's siesta time till 7:00. Three ravenous girls can NOT wait till 7:00 so we pacify our hunger with cheese, olives, bread and wine. A friendly little dog we dub Mr. Happy trots by and politely asks for a snack. Indeed he gets one. The shopping can't be beat. Jewelry, tchachkis, souvenirs, clothing. Oh my!

In the midst of the charming towns we come across a Tibetan temple. Even more fascinating is the Good Friday montage playing out the crucifixion of Christ on the hillside next to the temple. The bone white temple is modern yet pure with spirituality. I am moved to tears, sensing the dieties that blessed this temple. We purchase momentos from an outgoing clerk with piercing blue eyes that somehow manages to steal a kiss from each of us. The sound of Tibetan chanting is our soundtrack as we traverse from town to town.

Each day we return home exhausted, dusty and happy. We sip wine, have a Nat Sherman as we dress for dinner. Birds sing till nightfall, which is 9:00 pm in this part of the world. Once the birds fall silent, the dogs take up the symphony, yapping and chattering from dusk till the wee hours. And as we get closer to sleep a few dogs relent to the night and howl their sorrows as only a dog can.

Requiem for a Grandfather

The thing I will always remember about my grandfather's funeral will not be the thousands of people who showed up from all corners of the earth. It will not be his seven children or 18 grandchildren or 11 great grandchildren exhausted after keeping vigil by his side after 4 months in the hospital. It won't be the century-old buddies or the former employees, students or colleagues that paid tribute.

It will be the way his culture bid him farewell. Aged men gazing on their crony with deep sadness and a surge of disbelief. For here lay the man who cheated old age for more than a century. The way the women cradled his stone cold head in their hands, blessing his forehead with the love only a woman can bestow. The way my cousins Polly and Patty's voices broke when they sang a medley of Amazing Grace. So much so that the audience picked up the melody so the girls' voices, thickened by grief could rest. The way my cousin Yvonne sobbed at the closing of his casket and told the congregation, I cry not for him but myself for he is no longer here to guide me. I have to find someway to find the answers inside me now. The music performed by my cousins Rekha and Tommy which gave eerie beauty to such a somber ceremony.

Most of all I will remember the rain pouring down during the funeral service but the clouds blowing away as we drove to the cemetery. The sunlight as it bathed us and the casket as we tossed roses upon it.

Most of all, the sense of closure as the most important familial chapter of my life ended with the casket was lowering into the earth.

Veeraiah B. Chedalavada. January 13, 1907 – March 29, 2009