ANYWAYS!
One of the most exciting things I’ve seen in the last two weeks (or is it 3?) is a sheep herding granny in hiking boots. I met her while visiting the village where Marta grew up in Asturias called San Esteban de Peñamellera Baja, population 12. No, I’m not missing any digits there. I meant to write a one followed by a two to form a twelve, and that grand total is not counting the foster child her aunt and uncle have taken in.
Shortly after we arrived, Marta wanted to show me around town so we could stretch our legs, but the whole tour didn’t get even a yawn out of one calf of one leg. As we were strolling down the (one and only) cobblestone street, we happened upon some relatives, which is bound to happen in a town of 12. Immediately my eyes were drawn to the sweet smile of a white-haired woman two inches shorter than me and twice my age. From the knees up I would have thought she was on her way to chapel in her handmade black-checkered dress, gray wool sweater and matching silk scarf. About mid-calf, however, a thick pair of black athletic socks rose up out of the finest pair of Timberlands you ever laid eyes on, laced up tight and ready to hike. She leaned on her walking stick, smiling and waiting patiently for the visit to end so she could head off to seek her flock grazing somewhere on yon mountainside so steep and tall that the sheep all walk lopsided on flat ground. I think she attracted me so because I hope to be dressing classy, climbing mountains and smiling while waiting when I am 85.
On a different excursion last week I met the antithesis of Great Granny Hiker and if I’m like him when I’m 85, I’ll die in a lonely, miserable existence. I got stuck with the Monk from Hell for a monastery tour. What a bitter, bitter man and I chalk it up to a life of abstinence. If he were to get laid I’m sure his countenance would improve 100%. I’m certain he would have to pay for the service given his age, scowl and lack of passion experience. I say pass the plate for a special offering called The Happy Monk fund. I’d empty my pockets. He opened the monastery door, waved our group of about 15 in, and barred the door shut behind us. The lyrics to “Hotel California” came to mind. We eagerly, but respectfully, gathered around him waiting for instructions: -“Look here, I am a man of faith, a monk, NOT a tour guide. I’ll tell you what I know about this place, but don’t ask me about anything else. This tour is one hour and one hour only. Don’t ask me for any more time, because I don’t have it. There is no charge for the tour, but we live off of your donations.” With that he turned his back to us and took off down a long passageway, leaving the group in the dust. We all looked at one another and shrugged our shoulders. There was a unanimous assumption that we were supposed to follow him. By the time the bulk of the group caught up, he had already explained the architecture of the buttresses and was moving on to the garden. Between the history and architecture lessons, he slipped in his homilies. We were informed that the problem with the world today is that people don’t believe in sin and therefore they have no conscious. They don’t study the Bible or believe in heaven and hell, either. Thus, the world is going to hell in a hand basket. Of course, he didn’t use that exact idiom, but I claim translator’s poetic license. Whooooaaaahhhh mule! What I want to know is how a monk who is locked up in a monastery, reads only the Bible and spends all day praying can consider himself an expert on “the world” and “people.” Is he paying news correspondents to slip the headlines to him under the door? This inquiring mind wants to know. I looked at the tour as an hour of religious tolerance. The monastery itself, which was built around 1300, is worth seeing. Just check the schedule to see when Grump Monk is off-duty.
The
reason I was at the monastery is quite interesting. I participated in a
Vaughntown program at the hotel adjacent to it. The deal is, this
company creates a total English immersion experience for Spainards who
can’t travel abroad. They invite Anglos from all over the world to spend
a week at a 4 star hotel for free in exchange for speaking English with
the Spainards. That’s it. 8 hours a day you speak English and get
treated like royalty. I think it a marvelous idea that I’d like to steal
and set up in the U.S. for Anglos wanting to practice Spanish. 
I’ll end with a quick rundown of “the plan,” which probably interests you more than grannies and monks: May 6 I return to Dallas and hope some kind friend will take me in for a few weeks. I’ve set up a few on-line grading shifts to tide me over. If the job offer of my dreams does not come along by mid-May, I’m going to do an 8 day Wilderness First Responder training course in Ashville, NC, which many of the tour companies have been requiring. From there I’ll continue northward to visit my family in VA. If by that time I haven’t been offered a job I want, I’m going to make use of the Brazilian visa Kufucka made me buy for the promised job, and go learn Portuguese, which would be another feather for the tour guide cap. I have 50 some applications and inquiries floating around out there in cyberspace, so all of this could change at any moment. As for the relationship, it’s in a holding pattern. The reality is that we’ve got to get the employment situation worked out before anything can proceed. Yikes, 1236 words. I shouldn’t wait so long between updates. Much love and peace, G
No comments:
Post a Comment