A thousand apologies for the long absence! My only and (I think) pretty decent defense is that I have been a little caught up in the traveling bit of travel writing, and have not actually had much time to sit down in front of a computer to do the writing bit. But I have to admit, I also floated away because I suspected the project might be falling on deaf ears... Thank you, those who wrote me admonishing emails, for convincing me otherwise, and now that I find myself in the most familiar of all places on this journey (lovely, leafy Oxford) I feel not at all guilty about shifting exploration energy toward some serious computer time.
Unfortunately, no length of computer time could adequately capture the last days of Carrasco or the incredible people and things seen since I left Spain. I did, however, write things down when they seemed especially important, and am very glad to finally be able to share some of them with you. No doubt these discrete moments will, strung together so clumsily, all appear very disjointed and make very little sense. But consider them teasers, pre-views, or preparations, if you will, for the long, far superior conversations we will have upon my return (next week!).
Somewhat of a 'party week' at Carrasco began with the arrival of Jess and Emma, two twenty-something surfers from Cornwall enjoying a weekend away. The two of them, George, and I took their rental car to the beach for a long Sunday, hoping to evade a short spell of mountain cloudiness and catch a glimpse of weekend life in a Catalunyan fishing village. We were not disappointed. In gorgeous direct sunlight, we watched perfectly picturesque naked children play in the sand, backpackers strip as they climbed down from coastal paths to collapse gratefully in Mediterranean waters, and a rosy, round Catalonian grandmother settling herself on the sand to bare all to the mid-day sun. Mostly for the benefit of my British companions, who giggled almost non-stop throughout the afternoon of nudes, I did not join the topless crowd. But, seeing the sweet abandon with which Grandma Catalynua sunned herself, I was pretty sorely tempted.
Jess and Emma were soon joined by Dave, a 40-something electrician slash pub performer from Liverpool, and then replaced by Emir (a nutritionist from Ireland's west coast), Lucy (a historian from northern England) and Simone (a teacher from Melbourne). Emir, a solo traveller, seemed primarily interested in getting a tan, and Lucy and Simone (who had met on an 8-week overland trip through west Africa earlier this year) were taking a break from high-energy travels before continuing another 6 weeks or so through Spain. Of everyone I met at Carrasco, these two had by far the most impressive travel itinerary (although George's three consecutive gap years put together might bump him up the list). After the overland trip, Lucy stayed on in Senegal to work with abandoned children and live in a home-stay, and Simone had continued on for another 8 weeks (or was it 14?) of overlanding through central Asia. There are few travel experiences more impressive, I would think, than camping in Kazakhstan.
It was pretty evident that these travellers were more interested in relaxation through food, drink and conversation than through the many benefits of a regular yoga practice. George and I, who by that point were feeling a little overly-relaxed, were only too happy to trade quiet contemplative evenings for somewhat raucous ones, and to help the newcomers work their way through a good portion of Sarah's wine store within a few days. It helped, of course, that all of these new guests were very interesting people, with more to discuss than we would ever have time for. And when both the conversation and the wine is pretty much bottomless, only one kind of atmosphere can flourish (hint: it is not the kind of atmosphere that makes you happy about 7am yoga).
By the end of the week, I had learned a new dice game (called, of course, 'Chicago' and taught to Lucy by a farmer in New Zealand), several new Irish songs and phrases, and decided confidently on a career as a high school teacher in Australia, where they give you 7 months of paid leave after a few consecutive years of teaching (during which you are of course entitled to 3 months of paid leave per year anyway. If anyone knows how to get me an Australian passport, please let me know). As this little group disbanded, it felt a little like the end of summer camp- I can only imagine, never having been to summer camp myself. My faithful volunteering companion George was also leaving to return to England, and we all spent an evening exchanging email addresses and phone numbers, pretty confident that they would never be used, but feeling obligated to at least suggest the continuation of friendships so obviously tied to a particular time and place. Although, as one of my favorite fictional characters concludes, 'many friendships are born and maintained for purely geographical reasons,' it does not necessarily follow that they are inferior to those that extend through space and time. Brief collisions of this kind are, I think, full of their own rewards, and are certainly one of the jewels in the crown of frequent travel and changes of scene. Simone, who at 39 has just bought her first apartment, has pledged to sell it the moment private property interferes with the all-important sense of traveler's freedom. She plans to summit Kilimanjaro with some friends next year, and considers it a first test of her ability to resist the dangerous side effects of real estate.
My last week at the retreat was full of teaching, walking, and taking pictures (which are now up on facebook if you care to peruse). New guests arrived, as well as a new volunteer (full of celebrity-sighting stories from her week at Cannes), and a new kitten. Duly named Pedro (though I suspect it is a female), the kitten monopolized lots of our attention as it slowly became very brave, at one point pouncing on a stink bug and receiving a full blast of its spray in the face. And, as if to dispel any feelings of familiarity I had developed in the area surrounding the retreat, I experienced my own animal attack in the form of a dog bite while out on a run. Fortunately, we knew the dog and the owner, and I was not subjected to a rabies vaccination (which, by the way, would have been absolutely free in Spain under their excellent health care system), but I can now report from personal experience that there is nothing like the adrenaline of a dog bite to make you finish a 4 mile run in really good time. Stella, Martin's dog, accompanied me on all successive hikes and runs, which is why she features so adorably in many photos.
Stay tuned for tales of overnight trains, Paris, Normandy, and channel crossings on the ferry. Much love to you all!
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