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

Luposlipaphobia

Imagine a psychic poet writing about an ironic comedian. That's what Rob Breszny did when he mentioned Gary Larson in last week's FreeWill newsletter. He wrote:

Cartoonist Gary Larson defines luposlipaphobia as the fear of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly-waxed floor.

If being chased by timber wolves isn't funny enough, throw in the kitchen table and a newly waxed floor and I'm in stitches. The fact the Urban Dictionary lists this phobia along with an excerpt from the original cartoon thrills me to no end.

But then that's what it takes to move me, or even amuse me these days.

Let me tell you about my Grandfather

On the brink of his 102nd birthday, hands began to mean a lot to my grandfather. You see for the first time in his life he found himself stuck in a hospital. Not because he was suffering from a heart attack or a stroke or cancer. Nothing so mundane or unhealthy for Gramps. Instead he was doing hard time in a hospital bed, ICU to be precise because he was the object of a hit and run incident.

Mind you, this was a man who walked 10 miles at the very least on a daily basis. It was on such a walk that he was struck by a van! no less and left to fend for himself. Days later our family found him admitted to a Washington hospital admitted at John Doe. Thus his 102nd birthday found him battered, weak but alive.

There are some people you never imagine growing oled, even when they are. He's one of them. Even as my parents age before my eyes, even as I see my grandfather walk slower and listen harder. Even as I feel my joints aching for no reason or small print harder to read. Even as all these things occur do I contemplate my Gramps' mortality. Not until I saw him in the ICU ward of the hospital.

The hospital has to be the most ironic of places. It's supposed to epitomize healing in western civilization and yet, it's the most depressing, unhealthiest place on earth. Only there did I believe his mortality. In a hospital bed with pesky tubes infiltrating arms and chestal cavities, lungs and throat. The things the body does without being asked is quite astonishing. And yet, when tallied up, there's aren't enough machines on the planet that could duplicate the symphony of it's capabilities.

With Gramps encumbered by life sustaining tube his range of motion was severely restricted. Therefore hands became his focus, his primary means of communication. Hands, first of all since his were injury-free. He held ours as we visited, using them to convey voice and emotions as his were restricted. Even though he sustained considerable injuries to his back, internal organs, head and legs, his hands were in pristine condition. I couldn't help but think how beautifully shaped his nails were. Or how limber and gnarl-free his joints.

At first I talked but stopped when I sensed his distress at not being able to reciprocate. So I massaged his hands, encouraging circulation as gently as possible. He squeezed back, not quite content with this small physical act. He touched my watch, fingering the face, the dials, the links. At first I thought he wanted to wear it, but he shook his head when I offered it. Then I realized he was pointing to time in the symbolic sense. Was he trying to tell me it was running out? I feared this to be the case.

But that was 2 months ago. Gramps celebrated his 102nd birthday in the hospital and is now in a recovery unit. He's walking again, slowly but walking indeed. I can't wait to see him again and hold his hand.

The Biker and the Baby

I had not seen him for years. At least a decade. He was caught up in his life, hunting down his passion for freedom, speed and community. I knew him as Praveen, younger cousin. Shy, giving and slyly funny.

He died in a motorcycle crash at the age of 41. He told friends if he should ever get into another crash (yes, there had already been one) then he wanted the plug pulled. Not to live an undignified life in a decaying body without the hope of ever straddling a bike or feeling the power of a couple hundred horses at your fingertips. Luckily no one had to make the decision. While his brain was already 90% dead his body followed 2 days later.

His friends knew him as Bean. Friends I never met nor ever knew in association with him. But these friends, a biker association known as the Tradesmen gave him an honor he would have appreciated. Some 50 motorcycles escorting his body as it was given to the earth on a cold Maryland November.

Odd how life finds a way to balance itself in every act. While i was still assimilating my cousin's loss Thanksgiving rolled around. Food, movies, food and more food. Cousins, my most memorable childhood playmates and now, most precious companions fill every hour of the holiday. Then in perfect sychronicity, I see my new neice and Goddaughter, Sophia. A mere 5 months old and impossibly beautiful. She gladly climbs into my arms, unknown to her except for a few hours after birth while her mother regained strength enough to carry her tiny body.

She is sassy and charmingly grumpy. The things a baby can get away with! She has gray eyes. GRAY EYES! And she is fresh and decidedly unconcerned about the economy, or the state of the Yen or Ruble or Rupee.

As one of us passes to his next life another steps into our world, taking her place in the family strata. It is heart breaking, yet fitting. The family moves on.

Is There a Traditional Thanksgiving?

Presidential Pardons

With 2 months to go in his catastrope of a presidency, Dubya took a swat at one of his final acts in authority; presidential pardons. He granted clemency to 14, the most egregious of whom was Leslie Owen Collier found guilty of unlawfully killing three bald eagles, and using pesticide in hamburger meat to kill coyotes and other animals, including the bald eagle! This guy sounds like Sarah Palin's high school boyfriend. But disregard for the sanctity of animal life isn't the only thing Dubya advocates. (Warning if you click on this link as it depicts the aerial slaughter of wolves condoned by Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin). In addition to pardoning acts commited against wildlife, Bush also pardoned drug offenders, embezzlers and tax offenders.

The drug offenders were of particular interest. Or as Wonkette says: "Everybody else who got pardoned or released from prison was some kind of coke dealer who Bush knew “back in the day.”

And this from a Christian president. Riiiighht.

Shaking Your Fist at God

A former Theology professor used to expound the necessity for humans to engage with God in anger. Now, raging against divinity isn't advised, just ask the ashy remnants of Soddom and Gommorah. However, to the professor's point, reaching out to God - even in anger - constitutes the seminal core of Judeo-Christian dogma; relationship with the divine.

Taking this to heart I found myself shaking my fist to the cloudless heavens last night. Pray tell why you ask? For the substantial decrease in my retirement fund at the demise of Lehman Brothers. For health issues rendering me battered and despondent. For financial instability stemming from dwindling career options. For an upcoming landmark birthday that I would be spending in the Northeast and not on a tropical beach, roasting my toes whilst sipping a Margarita. For all these dirges I voiced my displeasure at the heavens. And shook my fist. I actually shook my fist, which must have looked completely silly to my neighbors. What IS that girl doing?

Remarkably I wasn't reduced to a pile of ashes from my rantings. Which befuddled me until my friend Lourdes shared her philosophy on this topic, as she shakes her fist at God on quite a frequent basis. (And no, she's never been singed into ash, so I'm guessing she hasn't pushed them too far yet). She conjectures the Gods need folks like us. Not to target practice their lightning bolts upon, but for a far more interesting purpose. She thinks, (and I devoutly endorse) that the universe needs us for pure amusement. Imagine their glee upon seeing flesh and blood mortals, asking for (or even worse) demanding our way. Isn't she cute? They must say in galatic-speak. Won't she hurt herself if she keeps yelling?

So next time you're driven to celestial ranting, remember the role you just might be playing; amusement for the Gods. And that, quite likely will elevate your mood. BUT, if you're struck down by lightning, take it up with the big guys. Don't blame me.