During that first run-in with the beach I acquired some new information about Malaga. To tell you this story I’m going to begin with another story: Last year my parents, my brother Erik and I went to Pismo Beach. We stashed our belongings in our room and headed out on a fact-finding expedition. And by fact-finding expedition, I mean we went to check out the beach. After a lovely stroll down the seaside, I discovered a black muck on my foot. I went back to the room and spend a good hour scraping and peeling and scrubbing a persistent goo from my poor foot which was, in some places, now skinless. From what I gathered, this mess was tar. A little later, my father quick to do a little research found out that Pismo Beach was named by the Indians of the area. Pismo was their word for “tar”. I learned that the hard way. Somehow, I always am the one lucky enough to step right into history--literally.
I don’t know what Malaga means, but once again I stepped in something. After Douglas convinced me to swim in the rocky ocean (though there was a less rocky alternative nearby), I emerged with feet whose bottoms were stained the color of iodine (to which scrubbing has had no effect), scrapes all over my legs, and a strangely swollen right big toe. Initially I thought it was a splinter since I could see a little dot/puncture wound. But as the pain increased and no foreign body surfaced, another theory came to light. Perhaps, somewhere in the rocky, algae-filled water…something bit/stung me. I don’t know what it is, but I started freaking out when this morning, I started to lose feeling in my big toe and realized I couldn’t actually walk.
I knew I needed to act quickly, so act quickly I did.
1. Operation Uba: My father, Ralf, is the namesake to this attempt at curing my ailment. It’s also called “Operation Walk-It-Off”. As kids, whenever we hurt ourselves, my parents were fans of the “Get Over It And Walk It Off” method of dealing with it. While insensitive, usually, this actually works. So I threw on my flip-flops and grabbed my camera, intending to kill two birds with one stone and providing you lovely folks with some pictures. I got out the door and only halfway to the pool before I realized that “Operation Uba” had failed. I was limping and the pain was getting worse. I had visions of amputation. Worse, self-inflicted amputation just to stop the pain.
2. Operation Ice, Ice Baby: My next instinct was that the pain was caused by the swelling. So I grabbed an ice-cube, wrapped it in a paper towel, and started Operation Ice, Ice Baby. The swelling continued. The redness was spreading. The pain was spreading too. Fail.
3. Operation Self-Medicate: I take three ibuprofen. Toe is throbbing. Can still not walk. Urge to amputate increases. Assuring myself that I can call it “Operation Operation”. Fear of self increases.
4. Operation Elevator: Douglas suggests elevating the foot. No signs of improvement. Patience wearing thin. Pain making me delirious. I think the knife is smiling at me.
Dismal results have me rethinking my strategy. Up to that point I had been formulating my plans on the assumption that the spreading was bad. Well, the spreading of the pain WAS bad, but what if it was poison not just simple swelling.
Let me explain. I am terrified of being bit by something in the water. I love the ocean. It’s one of my favorite (nonhuman) things. Other than sushi-which comes from the ocean, and doubles my love for it! (I also love the iphone and the internet--these do not mix well with water)I wanted to believe it was a splinter. Because if I had, in fact, been bit/stung by something, one of my deepest, darkest fears had been realized. I am not sure how my psyche would recover. What if I would never swim in the ocean again?
Immediacy of problem increases.
If the new working hypothesis was that it was poison, then I wanted to dissipate the poison through my bloodstream. I needed to spread it faster, not slower. It would explain why the ice made things worse. So I implemented:
5. Operation Hot Tub Time Machine: Great movie, by the way, I was pleasantly surprised. In my final attempt at preserving my love of the ocean--and my toe-- I would limp to the leisure center, sit in the Jacuzzi and put my toe in front of one of the jets. Perhaps, if I was lucky, the poison would disperse and travel away from its centralized location on my toe
(insert HOUSE-like graphics where the poison breaks into little balls and moves through the bloodstream--though hopefully not causing some kind of massive internal damage which may or may not include full-body paralysis. If I do go into full-body paralysis, people might mistake me for dead. Then I would be buried alive. And that would make pretty much all my major fears realized.)
When a baby is born, and the nurse puts it into the arms of its (because it could be a he or a she, or some kind of tranny thing or a he “trapped in the body of a she” or a she “trapped in the body of a he”..etc..) parents the first thing they (also, these days it could be a he/she couple, a he/he couple or a she/she couple or other/other couple) do is count the ten fingers and ten toes (then whether its a hermaphrodite or not). (Way too many parenthesis, right?)
So, you sit there wondering, will I come back from Europe with one less digit? Will my parents cry when they see the little stub where my perfectly pedicured big toe once was? Will my brothers laugh when I hobble around because my balance no longer serves me since my equilibrium is destroyed from lack of big toe?
As I sat in the hot tub, I thought about all these macabre possibilities…then I thought about Hot Tub Time Machine, because really--HILARIOUS movie….and then, before I knew it, and before the fat guy in the speedo could re-start the jets…the pain began to subside.
I plan to do a follow-up operation this evening, possibly called Operation Hot Tranny Mess (name still in the works). The current status of the mission is looking brighter. The redness is nearly unnoticeable, the swelling has gone down and I can walk without people checking to see if I have a peg instead of a leg.
Thank you for your concerns, prayers, well-wishes, candle-lit vigils and donations to Make a Wish. The cheery prognosis could not have been possible without you.
Liane Likely to Lose Limb
Sea of Skin
While Elise spent some extra time closely examining her pillowcase, Douglas and I decided to get some early morning pool time.
I’ve been called “white” before. I’ve been called “white” quite often. Never in my life have I seen people as white as the English people in Malaga. Some of these people are so white they are practically blue, as though their skin is nearly translucent and you can see their blood running through their veins.
Conversely, there appears to be a tanorexic convention at this resort. The poolside here knows only extremes: people who never spend a day in the sun & people who spend everyday (probably naked) in the sun.
The pool was lovely, but not nearly as lovely as the beach. The water was as pristine as I’d remembered from the train ride up. The sand? Little rocks and much too hot. The water? Full of sharp rocks. (Which my knees and feet tell the tale of with more eloquence than I ever could) Free hanging boobies? Too many. However, sitting on the waterline and letting the waves crash at my knees was probably one of the most relaxing things I’ve experienced in a while--until my calves started to turn red.
Don’t worry, it was only a warning shade. I have managed to last my first day beachside without emerging as a certifiable lobster. Though, at the present, there are a couple hours of sunlight left, meaning a distinct possibility that I may have spoken too soon.
Now Douglas is watching Stuart Little on TV and I remember exactly where I was when I read that book. I read it right before Trumpet of the Swan while in my grandparent’s old place in Palm Springs. I wasn’t joking about that whole “soundtrack of my life” thing from the first post. I had no idea that Hugh Laurie (aka Dr. House from HOUSE) played Stuart’s “dad”. Talk about range!
(Later that day....)
We met Elise after her “Intermediate Spainsh” class provided free of charge from the resort. We decided to head on down to the pool (again). This time we enjoyed the quiet reprise of the “adult pool”. This meant more free hanging boobies (none of which were mine). Then came happy hour.
From 6:30-7:30 the resort’s main bar offers 2X1 specials on local beers, local wines, and hard-A with mixers. I enjoyed two large, cold glasses of Amstel light which being an infrequent indulgence coupled with my empty stomach made for quite a happy couple of hours.
Douglas, fueled on a couple of Rum & Cokes, decided to treat himself to a Turkish bath. Elise and I joined him awhile later. Not completely sure what a Turkish bath is? I wasn’t. It’s something like a sauna but with tile instead of wooden planks. Is it enjoyable? Not in the least. It’s like being slowly suffocated and realizing that you can’t possibly have enough air no matter how many times you inhale. Not quite the feeling I want after two large beers. So after a few agonizing minutes, I jumped into the equally oppressive Jacuzzi.
I don’t get it. The coast of Spain has a wonderful tropical climate, if you want to sweat…step outside.
The lights went out--a sign that the indoor leisure facilities had closed for the night--and so it came time for night swimming in the ocean. Unlike my German predecessors, I opted for keeping my clothing on. (I'm borderline NeverNude--an absolutely legitimate fictional condition popularized on the most amazing and amazingly underrated show of all time: Arrested Development. Check out the link!)
The ocean water is the perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. Never that moment that flashes through your mind: “Are you sure you want to do this? It doesn’t feel very comfortable.” For men I assume it’s the moment when their balls jump into their stomach--or whatever. Instead its inviting, almost like: “This is what home feels like, crawling right back inside the womb.” In the dark of night, there is a sense that the universe has swallowed you whole and you are suspended in space with no grasp of time or purpose. Then you get sand in your mouth and reality steps back in--don’t you hate it when that happens?
After I’d managed to spit out as much sand as possible, the three of us decided on Indian food for dinner. Yum yum yum. Then, exhausted, we summoned our strength for the 100 foot walk back to our room.
Enter: Malaga (Accent on the First A)
I wish I could write more about the airport, and the flight over to Malaga. I had plenty of witty things to say at the time.
Espero que pueda escribir mas sobre la airport y la vuela a Malaga. Yo tenia muchas cosas a decir a la tiempo.
But then I got off the plane, and everything that I had to say flew right out the window. Malaga may be the most beautiful place I have ever been in my life.
Pero yo exito el vuelo y todos de las palabras quieria decir fue no mas. Es posible que Malaga sea el lugar mas bonita que otros lugares yo fue visitar en mi vida.
As we rode south on the train, the sunset created hues I’ve never seen before in the natural world outside of one window, while the clear waters of the ocean glistened out the other. I knew the public transportation in Los Angeles was terrible, but the Spanish public train made anything in LA seem like a garbage pail on wheels. If the train ride was this exhilarating I could only imagine what the rest of the week had in store for me.
Nosotros fuemos sur en el tren. Okay, I give up. My Spanish is terrrrible. I know some of that was desperately wrong. I clung to the subjunctive far too much. But hey, at least when people speak to me in Spanish I recognize the words, even if I don’t know what they mean. In Germany, I didn’t even know where one word ended and the next began.
The train ride came to the end of the line and desperate to settle in (as it was now nearly 22.00 aka 10pm) we jumped into a taxi and rode to Dona Lola Resort in Marbella. We dragged our things over to Carolina building (all the buildings are named after Hispanic women--there is even a Martha building for Grandma Venti), plopped our belongings into our room and headed out to find some grub.
(This picture shows the Carolina Building of the Dona Lola Resort--I took it the next day..aka in the future)
After watching the latest episode of Jersey Shore, which Douglas had so thoughtfully downloaded in Berlin before we left consistent internet, we all went into our respective rooms and prepared for the week to come (or 6 days).
*To preserve authenticity--I did not double check any of that "Spanish translation" and I'm too lazy to add the accents. Please be kind in your criticisms. Also remember that I never do grammar/typo checks because it takes too long, and once again...too lazy. Much love.*
Awaiting Pictures
The Dresden post will be up soon. I am just awaiting pictures. Since I foolishly forgot to charge my camera (which claimed to be fully charged) before I left, and it died within 20 min of arriving in Dresden, I had to use my iPhone. Horrible quality.
The good news is that I purchased a CD of "virtual postcards" with pictures.
The bad news is that my computer doesn't have a CD-drive.
Fear not. I will figure this situation out soon. Promise!
If you have any questions while you wait...email me at weissenlf@gmail.com
A Note of Thanks
Before discussing my trip to Dresden, which I believe will take quite a few posts, I want to thank my cousins Jan and Katja for their hospitality during our visit.
I think we all had our concerns, but I certainly found myself pleasantly surprised by the visit and am hopeful that they will come to California so I can return the favor.
Dresden- Part I
Prior to my arrival in Berlin, ten years had passed since the last time I stepped foot on the continent of Europe. My memories are as follows:
- Amazing pizza in Austria- My first "Margherita Pizza": Tomato, Cheese, Basil
- Sipping a coke from a glass bottle while staring over the river at the back of the house from Sound of Music, also in Austria
- Erik walking into a red telephone booth, somewhere in Germany or Austria
- Taking a tour of a Salt mine in Salzberg, Austria--very cool wooden slides
- Meeting my family in Germany
- Going to eat with my family in Germany. Erik ate obscene amounts of spaetzle.
- Genuine confusion from said German family at realization that my brothers and I could not climb trees. (Equal confusion from me as to why you would want to)
- My cousin Jan stealing beer and trying to convince my brother, Ralf (who was probably 8 or 9 at the time) to drink it. I was not amused.
- Being deathly afraid that there were snakes in a field. Once again, not amused.
- Having my first soft-boiled egg. Very amused.
The last time I was in Germany, I was not in Berlin.
The streets of Berlin do not smell like Deli meat. Usually, they smell like urine.
To be honest, I don't particularly like Berlin. Throughout my world travels (Oh, to sound pretentious), I don't think there has been a city that I have liked less. More on this to come.
Don't get me wrong- I have enjoyed my time here and the experience has been fascinating. The museums have been interesting. But the city itself- not so much my style.
So when the decision was made to go south, to the city of Dresden, and to visit some of my family--I was ecstatic. Dresden, I felt, was a place that I would like.
We rented a car* from Enterprise and Elise skillfully navigated the autobahn south to the German state of Saxony. Our destination? The McDonald's in Elbe Park.
*Here, I use the word car in a very broad sense.
Our chariot to Saxony was actually a Chevrolet Matiz--which, as you can see from the picture to the right, is practically a toy car. I half expected to see a giant wind-up pin in the back.
The car had no pick-up, a nail-biting situation when driving on the autobahn.
This piece-of-shit almost had me wishing I had a Trabi.
I wouldn't use the word dread to describe my feelings during the drive. It was more of a nervous anxiety. There was geniune excitement somewhere deep, deep beneath the feeling of nausea (completely unrelated to Elise's driving).
It had been a decade since I saw Katja and Jan. I didn't remember very much about them, other than they were nice. I had exchanged emails with Katja and her concerns about her English had me concerned as well. What if's filled my uneasy mind. What if I didn't recognize them? What if they didn't recognize me? What if we couldn't communicate? What if they didn't like me? What if we had nothing in common?
I wouldn't say I'm a worried person. Some might, but I wouldn't. I consider myself cautious, thoughful (as in, full of thoughts), and sometimes this puts more pressure on me than comfortable. For example, I never see myself as simply a representative of myself-particularly when abroad or in situations with people unknown to me. I think of myself as an ambassador. I represent myself, my family, my school/employer, my religion, my political affiliations, my city, my state and my country. So if I make an ass out of myself, I don't think it only affects me. I could potentially be making an ass out of all the institutions that I belong to. Yes, it is a lot of pressure to put on yourself. But, it keeps you on your toes and (typically) on the straight and very-very-narrow. It's not uptight, it's determination and a different worldview. Anyways...
After roughly two hours on the road, we pulled into the McDonald's. I didn't see them. Or worse, I didn't know what they looked like now and could be looking right at them and not even realize! I was too nervous to eat. I was much more inclined to use the water closet. (I have now taken the term water closet and made it my own. Expect me to come back and say: "Would you pause the movie so I can use the water closet?" or "I'll be ready in 5 minutes, just a quick trip to the water closet." I love euphemisms!)
On my way out of the water closet, I noticed a girl and guy standing together. She had thin black hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail. She looked angry. I hoped that wasn't them. Then the guy next to her grabbed her hand, and I let out a sigh of relief. I turned the corner and then I smiled.
Once I saw them, I knew at once who they were. I wouldn't say there is a family resemblance. It's more likely that somewhere in the back of my mind I knew what they looked like. But there was a very powerful feeling of comfort that instantly put me at ease. All those silly doubts, washed away. That's not to say it wasn't awkward for a little while. But family is family. Despite the years, and the distance, and the infrequent communication--Jan and Katja felt like family. After a couple weeks away from home, that was certainly a welcome feeling.
Katja had a busy day planned. We'd leave our car, and Jan would be our chauffeur for the day. First, a palace on the "outskirts" of town. That's one we had to look up in the German/English dictionary she brought with her. Then, a tour of the city on a double-decker bus. Finally, some traditional German food from the Middle Ages.
I was as happy as a kid at Christmas.
Another Note from a Nomad
To my avid, rabid readers:
You have been spoiled. You were used to getting multiple posts a day, and now its been a couple days. I will continue to do my best to post at regular intervals. I intend to do some catch-up today. There are a lot of pictures and cataloging and indexing takes time. Genius also takes time.
Don't give up on me so easily.
And I apologize that my posts are a little more bland than usual. I seemed to have "lost my voice" along with my health.