nearly spring now.

A good Indian.

Ironically Indian food is the most popular food in Britain. Maybe it's the influx of Indians over the last while or perhaps it's an attempt to break away from centuries of bland food. Or perhaps it's both. Centuries of bland food creating an amazing business opportunity for immigrating* Indians. Whatever you do, don't get huffy with me, I'm just stating accepted stereotypes. *I never know if it's immigrate or emmigrate.

So me, my British mate Ben, my dad and four non-english speakers poured into an empty Indian restaurante at about 7 in the evening, feeling rather hungry. Instantly everyone felt at home due to the welcome in broken english. Nothing like common ground over a language no one spoke particularly well. (With the exception of my mate Ben, none of us there were born and bred on the Island.) So in the middle of English England in an Indian Indian restaurante we were: two Americans from the States, two Spaniards, one Colombian, one Dominican, and a whole host of Indians from India. And Ben, the sole representative of the host country.

We were sat around a table in the middle of the room were asked what we wanted. Indian beer and lots of water for the heat was the concensus pick to drink. And a lot of blank faces as to what the heck these Indian names were that described Indian foods. And which were the ones that blow the top of your mouth off? Well many thanks to the one native present, Ben sorted us out with his vast knowledge of Indian culture, food and the occassional word that was supposedly English that I didn't seem to catch.

15 minutes later we has 7 bowls of seriously nice looking bits of meat soaking in sauces of varying colors and an hambre big enough to eat a horse. (That's not me saying it was horse meat btw, just that we were hungry.) Being the wimps that we are and coming from the land of non-spicy food (Spain) we had avoided roof blowing dishes and elected normal to medium. And some none/nom/nam/nan bread beside our steaming dishes of Indian rice.

And one heck of a feast later we had polished it all off. Including an extra round of chocolate mints on the house! We had been invited back, we had invited to Spain, we had agreed to meet up for holidays by the beach, and perhaps take a group pilgrimage with our new friends to their little pueblo in India. Signs of good times.

So Indian food holds a high place in my memory. The Indians even higher and perhaps once day we will all meet up on our side of the channel. To share a similar experience over a good paella and pig.

De todos modos, we could sure use a good Indian here in Badajoz...

Back in Spain now after a brief respite of a few days in England. Will write more on that after I catch up on sleep. Just occurred to me that I used the word respite without being 100 percent sure of its meaning. Funny, it's a normal occurrence for me in Spanish, I say it if it sounds right. In English I tend to be a bit more hesitant to use a word I'm not completely sure about.

So shortly I will tell of my Indian meal and friendly British customs agents. Here's to both and a good night's rest...

It's raining but it doesn't matter.

Sunday started promising, sunny, warming up with only a light breeze. That was walking to church.
Walking back it was barely sunny with definate winds kicking up and more than a few clouds barreling along.
The post-lunch forecast was suddenly threatening. Grey was the word with no hint of sun.
The hour arrive and as I stepped out of the house the sky started lightly spitting.

Now the importance of the weather on Sunday is that Sunday afternoon is my futbol afternoon. There are a couple of hardcourts about 10 minutes away that have constant games a happening. And Sunday is when I join them. Now *football wasn't my first game. (*soccer that is. Call me a traitor but I think America should join the rest of the world in calling it as it is, soccer nothing.) Basketball would probably claim that. Growing up in heartland Indiana it wouldn't be anything else. But man I enjoy a good game of football sala, as it's called. Now difference between futbol and futbol sala is that futbol sala is played with only 5 on each side, one in goal and 4 playing the pitch. And instead of being played on grass it's played on a surface pretty much the same as a tennis court.

So needless to say I like my Sunday afternoon kickarounds. And today it starting raining just at the hour of kickoff. But the game kicked off anyway. We continued playing as it turned into a steady drizzle and then a steady rain. And pretty soon it didn't matter. Of course there was no turning on a dime, but you adjust. Such is the game of sport. And the moral of the story is that. Sport is sport. Futbol is futbol in rain or sun. It might have been raining today but it didn't matter.

miracle

For what we need to know, of course, is not just that God exists, not just that beyond the steely brightness of the stars there is a cosmic intelligence of some kind that keeps the whole show going, but that there is a God right here in the thick of our everyday lives who may not be writing messages about himself in the stars but in one way or another is trying to get messages through our blindness as we move around down here knee-deep in the fragrant muck and misery and marvel of the world.
It is not objective proof of God's existence that we want but the experience of God's presence. That is the miracle we are really after, and that is also, I think, the miracle we are really get.

Frederick Buechner (The Magnificent Defeat)

(w) the undervalued letter.

W, wow, what a letter. There before I even reach the second sentence I've already used it 5 times (including the title of course). Where else could you find the lineup w,w,o,w,w used in gramatically correct english? The importance of the letter w to the english language reaches far and wide. Don't be fooled by it's place at the end of the alphabet. That actually underlines its true value as a letter that does not depend on it's place in line to derive it's virtues. (V is of similiar fortitude, in the previous sentence it was used 3 times! and in this one 2!) But back to w, which is of double importance. Note: two v make one w. vv=w.

Where would we be without who, what, why, where, when and how? The very foundation of our language rests on this humble and not-yet widely acclaimed letter. To ask a question, you practically are forced to rely on its services. Try to avoid it (v again!) I dare you. Okay, the verb "can" does its bit to break up the monopoly, but honestly, would you like to go around all day limited to can and could? Heck, even the conditional form "would" jumps back to our letter! Haaave it!

So we agree that (w) is important. Good.
Now for the shocker.
The letter doubleu does not exist in Spanish. Search between V and X in a small dictionary and (w)hat do you find? NOTHING. Search in large dictionary and you get maybe t(w)enty words starting with W. ALL STOLEN FROM ENGLISH. Not one is an original Spanish (w)ord. You (w)ant an example? Waterpolo. And Waterloo if you are talking about famous battles. Mind you they're pronounced, vaaaterpolo and vaaaterlu if you want specifics.

Ho(w) the Spanish (w)ould undervalue perhaps the most crucial letter in our tongue I don't know. I guess that just goes to show that cultures and languages are (w)idely different. And to each his o(w)n...

eh-hem.

I realized it's been two weeks since I've posted. Sorry.

I had written a couple of paragraphs that were naff. So I just deleted them because I realized I was writing just to fill space. So while I am again writing just to fill space, this time it will be wasting less of your time.

Shortly I hope to write something that won't be a waste of time.

not so long ago...

reminiscing late one evening.
it's a nostalgic activity, slightly slanted to one side.
slanted because do we really remember accurately?
the good, the bad, the monotonous.
or is it mostly just good with the bad melting into a puddle?
or the bad growing like weeds till it swallows up any good that was?
or neither and actually while we remember with a subtle slant, memory speaks as much truth as the present.

well whatever.
tonight i've been remembering. i uploaded photos a good number of fotos from the last couple of years so i could order prints- i'm a bit behind on the process. to decide which ones i wanted i had to shift through them all. i've only just begun and it's like being flooded with things that one hasn't forgotten, but one hasn't been conciously remembering either.
a few nights ago i was sifting through old posts from this very blog. again, things come rushing back and i even occasionally surprised myself.

i think memories are equally as important as one's present and maybe the dreams for tomorrow. without memories there is no history. and no history means nothing to jump off of, or fall back onto. it's funny, but the present can be taken from us (or at least given), while the past never can. that being said, i hope i never offer up the present for the opportunity to go back to the past...

the game

arial shots

random bits of barcelona

cold feet and hot water

Suddenly it hit me that I have been using a hot water bottle for the last month and I haven't even given it a mention here!

The use of a hot water bottle certainly deserves a mention. Matter of fact, it should get it's own post. Which of course, is what this is. It's an entire posting devoted to the hot water bottle. I would post a picture of it, but I've so many pics up at the moment with more coming, that I think I'll just describe it.

It's a normal size for a hot water bottle, nothing more nothing less. The actual bottle itself is of the typical pink rubbery substance that hot water bottles generally consist of. However, like a mitten, a green cloth of terry substance covers it nicely. Every night I boil some hot water and fill the bottle, seal it up, and lay it where my feet generally rest in the icebox I sleep in. Also known as my bed.

I'll have you know that it is probably a top quality, premium made, water bottle. That's because however many hours later when I wake up in the morning, its still lukewarm. Which is better than ice. As I write this sentence, it lies behind me, under the covers, gently thawing out my sheets, preparing them for me.

I'll tell you, life hasn't been the same since I got it. I sleep better now. I wake up warmer, which in turn means I am warmer throughout the day. That means I am a happier person. Which means I sleep better. It's a wonderful cycle. So if you suffer from a cold bed at night, I recommend that you too, get yourself, a premium, top of the line, green terry covered cloth water bottle. It will change your life.

A few photos from high up in my city.

the briefest of updates

My oh my que frío hace! A cold wave has swept down from England and Germany to freeze the fingertips off all the Spaniards. Not that it wasn't cold before, just that now it's freezing. Okay, so just a degree or two above where I live, but considering the houses sit only about 5 degrees warmer than the wind chill outside, its cold!

Well I suppose this should be an about about me. Updates on my life for those who find themselves interested.

I'm currently making my own greatest hits album by Mana while I type this. It's going to be good, let me tell you! I've got to cut one song to fit it on the disk though, its like choosing between your own children.

I continue to stick my hair up in the morning with this sticky stuff and shave every other day. Though with the cold, the odds on a beard are going up if you are on your way to the local bookie.

Recently finished the best novel I have read in the last four years. Easily. It's called the shadow in the wind by a guy called Zafon. A fat book but it cut late into my nights and early into my mornings so it didn't take long to finish. My top three novels (in no particular order) are now: The Shadow of the Wind, The Brother's Karamazov and maybe the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. Cept that's three books. As for what book just got booted out, ahh I dunno. Before I just had a top 2.

Go Bears.
Go Barça.

It's that that is all I can think of to say about myself without getting too deep into things. I'm short on time so it'll have to do for now. Maybe a more worthy post will come along in a few days, I'm off to Barcelona for a couple of days.

If I were the owner of an ancient, mysterious house...

If I were the owner of an ancient and mysterious house I would make sure it had lots of windows. But it would not be a house of glass, for these are times in which one must be careful not to be too fragile. The windows would let lots of light in, both sunlight and lightning, and not to mention the sound of the rain. And towards the center of all those eyes, there would be a large door. One that opened up very wide, to accomodate many people, coming and going.


But there would be small doors too, in various and secret places. Ones where one must stoop to walk through. Ones that would hold lots of secrets and even more stories.


There would be windows even in the corners where they were difficult to place. There would be windows, for it would cause young children to let their imaginations run wild with the shadows that were glimpsed beyond them.

Around the library I would consider having remembrances of some of the writers whose works were held inside that library. It would be to pique the children's interest in the world of books. I would have to carefully consider that however, as the heads may simply scare the children instead of inspiring wonder and fascination.


But perhaps high above the ground I would allow pets to roam, and they would guard roof terraces and keep an eye on what was happening below, in case someone would get lost in the maze that they oversaw.





A wall would surround the maze, with only a small hidden gate to let one in. The gate too, would have many stories and a few secrets.


Somewhere, a small street would run through the property, with a walkway over the top, where one could sit and read, occasionally lifting up ones eyes to watch the paserbys hurrying underneath to get out of the rain. The rain that was lashing against the many windows.



And somewhere, amidst old garden sheds, trees that are older than history, surrounded by stone walls would be a tall tower. It would stretch above everything else, overlooking what was to be overlooked. It would not have many windows. And every so often, the sound of a bell being rung would steal over the house, and it would cause all to stop what they were doing and listen. It would go on for a minute and then slowly die away in the evening light. Only every so often, with not much regularity. However the tower would only have one entrance, and that entrance would always be barred and locked. No one would know who had the key, and it would make stories rise up in the children's hearts. Stories of past deeds, past loves, past losses... Stories mixed with intrigue and wonder and perhaps a small amount of fear only if they happened to be looking at the tower as the last gleams of light dissapeared to the west.

hair

haircuts are funny things. i spent the last week planning on getting a haircut, only to wake up each morning and decide that either 1. i was having a good hairday so why get it cut, or 2. i was poor and should save the money, thus deciding each day that i would not get a haircut.

this morning i woke up and decided neither were true. so i went and got scalped.

a survey of sorts

I would like to put a few questions to those who will see this. Please respond in the comments box, even if you don't feel qualified. To any or to all of the questions. And remember, only honest responses are valid, I don't want citations from apologetic commentaries.

Do you believe in hell, and if so what is it and why/how does it exist?

What is the criterium for spending eternity with God?

What do the words grace and choice mean to you?

2005,2006,2007

Of note:

Café en España now stretches over three years. Numberwise anyways, starting in late 2005 and now having reached early 2007, there are three years to navigate! Thought it should be commemorated. Thanks for the faithfuls who have been here from the start. And for those who haven't because I suppose that is what grace is all about.

random shots of the motherland

some disrespected sign. the view from the toilet (impressive isn't it?). juli and i outside a quality door. a fence with heads on it. you can figure out which caption goes with which picture.