Confession

I made a promise to myself, and I feel the need to confess to the masses (or the 3 people who regularly follow my blog). I ate at McDonalds.

It started out so innocent. I was going into the Cathedral in Valencia, but to my dismay the woman handing out audio guides told me that there were no bathrooms inside. She recommended the McDonald's a couple doors down.

I walked in and was bombarded by the scent of salty French Fries. What was I to do? Believe it or not, I held my ground. I went in and out...and into the Cathedral. But an hour or so later, when we finished our tour and I needed to go again. It was too much for me to resist. I ate 9 McNuggets and an order of Fries.

Today, again, I faltered. I just needed to use the wifi (since our Madrid place isn't currently hooked up--the primary purpose of this post is to tell you that...so now you know)...but the pungent smell of nostalgia took me aback. Another order of Fries.

That's it, I promise. Only food I make myself or authentic food. It's no big deal. I can stop whenever I want to.

Letters From the Top of the World (or Spain?) (or Malaga?)

The rest of my week continued in a mesh of pool, beach and cooking. Then a couple of things changed with our plans and it became a mad scramble to find accommodations and a new time table for the upcoming month.

If I have been sparse in posting, its because I've been trying to figure out the next month, I'm tired, and I'm still trying to enjoy every moment.

So the new time table Douglas and I devised consists of the following:

8/28 - 9/2 : Valencia
9/2 - 9/9 : Madrid
9/9 - 9/16: Barcelona
9/16 - 9/24: Rome
9/24 - 9/29: Dublin

So, all in all, whatever changes may have happened opened up the opportunity to visit Rome--and I couldn't be happier!

Douglas and I had to check out of the hotel at 10am, but our night bus to Valencia didn't leave until 9:30pm. This meant we had the entire day in Malaga city center to explore. We used our time wisely.

On our way into the city we even discovered a ship named after Latin heartthrob Mario Lopez--of Saved by the Bell (Slater!) and Dancing with the Stars fame. But he's Mexican and born in San Diego, so I have no idea why he would have a ship named after him. Though a ship named "Mario Lopez's Abs" or "Mario Lopez's Dimples" would make perfect sense.

Once at the heart of Malaga, we found the Plaza del Obispo. The square is the quintessential baroque urban space of Malaga. After the re-conquest of the city by the Catholic Kinds, this square (which had already existed in the Muslim Malaga) was one of the few important plazas of the city. However, it was not until the 18th century that the plaza's monumental artistic and religious character flourished. The economic recovery that took place in the city played a large role in this improvement since with it came the construction of the Cathedral and Bishop's Palace.These buildings occupy two sides of the plaza and determined the religious character of the square that remains to this day.

The other important plaza that existed is now known as Constitution Plaza. It currently is considered the center of the city and houses a small cultural area of cafes and upscale shopping as well as plenty of souvenir shops. At the center of the plaza, water trickles from an ornate fountain.

During my research of Malaga, I fell in love with Alcabaza and Gilbalfro--a fortress and palace dating back to the 8th century, though primarily constructed during the 11th century. Although the first trip to the city center hadn't provided ample time to pay it a visit, this time I wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.

The word Alcabaza comes from the arabic word for citadel. This is the most well-preserved of its kind in all of Spain.

Douglas and I would be great at defending the city. At least we could out-pose any predatory intruders.

The remnants of what I assume was a mosaic. Along with larger rock fragments are tinier pieces as well.

Gardens, complete with an old school irrigation system and of course, plenty of fountains.

Intricate patterns adorned the floors and ceilings, while the arches also exhibited precision craftsmanship.

Douglas discovers his own way of scaring off intruders.


After we made our way through Alcabaza, we set our sites on Gibralfaro.

Gibralfaro is an ancient fortress on mount of 131 meters (no idea how many feet that is...), which dates back to the time when the Phoenicians founded the present city of Malaga. At the beginning of the 14th century Yusuf I of the Kingdom of Granada constructed the caste on an old Phoenician enclosure. The name is derived from the Phoenician word for light Jbel-Faro, meaning "Rock of Light".

The views from the castle were some of the most breathtaking and awe-inspiring I've ever seen.

Unfortunately, in order to get high enough to enjoy those views Douglas and I had to scale a mountain in flip flops in the sweltering heat. I am not overexaggerating when I say that at one point we (mostly I) had to stop every 20 feet or so. Towards the top the incline was so steep I took off my shoes because I feared that I would slide right back on down. Most people take the bus, and to be honest, I read online that the bus is the best way to get up there and that the "walk" (aka HIKE) is torturous. I just assumed it was a bunch of old people with cataracts, arthritic limbs and porcelain hips complaining. So I took on the mountain, Rambo-style. I take that back. It was more Rocky-style because I had my ass handed to me.

However, I made it. A feat I will remember forever. Mind over matter and all that. And the views and exhibit did not disappoint.

I don't know what this is, but it's a cute picture--and it illustrates the tomato shade of my face after the hike (aka MOUNTAINEERING) up to Gibraltar.

Then Douglas started making fun of "my pose". Apparently I always take pictures with a hand on my hip and my knee popped. I am 100% aware of this "phenomenon" and it is actually a decision I have made. Pictures look forced no matter how you take them. So I might as well stick to a pose that is a classic. Something I won't groan at in 20 years when I look at the pictures.

At the same time, I agree that I end up looking like a cut out doll with a different outfit posted in front of something new. I decided to start changing it up.

Here Douglas and I re-enact our favorite scenes from Indiana Jones.

The trek back down from the precipice of the city was much less arduous than our earlier expedition. We wandered our way back to the city center for some pizza before our nine hour journey to come.

(The pictures are taking too long to post. I will add them in as soon as I can, but I wanted you guys to know I'm still alive. Keep checking back!)

Chef Liane Recommends...

It was another day of systematically alternating between the pool and the beach. However, today, I decided to make dinner. Mostly because Douglas begged me, and I only obliged because I saw bags of Fideo at the grocery store and had been craving it ever since.

Fideo is often called "Mexican spaghetti". This term is ridiculous. It is way better than spaghetti. Everytime I think of spaghetti, I think of a bland ball of starchy noodles. Fideo is more like Mexican ambrosia- food of the Gods.

Growing up, my brothers and I would eat heaping platefuls of fideo at my grandparent's house. On occasion I would ask my grandmother to teach me how to make it. I can say I've definitely watched her and Martha make it several times. Unfortunately the word "teach" doesn't quite describe the experience. With them everything is by sight and feel: "a little of this", "some of that". That's not quite how I work...level teaspoons, people. The extra pinch of salt could ruin everything!

So I bought the ingredients. No big deal. That part was not that complicated. Some Fideo noodles, onion, garlic, tomato sauce and chicken stock. I thought my grandmother may have used tomato paste and chicken bouillon because I think one of those "lessons" had introduced me to those items, but I shrugged and decided that this would have to do.

But what about protein? Well, if you know me, it won't surprise you to know that I decided to make beans. I even sorted through them for rocks, just like Grandma taught me years and years ago--I have no idea how long ago it was, its one of those memories that goes WAY, WAY back. And I did, indeed, find some rocks!

So--the moment you have been waiting for!

Liane's recipe for Fideo:
6 ounces of Fideo
2 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 md. onion chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups chicken broth
1/4 cup tomato sauce

Heat oil in skillet, add uncooked fideo. Saute over medium heat until browned on both sides. Remove and drain on a paper towel.

Saute onions and garlic until onions are slightly transparent. Add tomato sauce; cook 3-5 minutes. Add sauteed fideo and chicken broth; bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer covered for 20 minutes, do not remove cover during simmering.

Enjoy.

I have to say, it was really great!

Douglas then rewarded my efforts by making us all mojitos! What a life.....

Day Trip to the City

Malaga. Although I keep referring to the place we are staying as Malaga, in actuality, we are in Calahonda near Marbella. Malaga is about 30km north up the coast of Spain.

The night before we left for a day trip to the city, Douglas made a Portuguese stew. I admit it, initially I doubted that a stew would be something I'd want to have in the middle of August on the coast of Spain. However, he proved me wrong- and I was delighted. It turned out to be one of the most delicious, flavorful, scrumptious (though not tasty) dishes I've eaten in a long while.

Here's a kudos to Douglas, for proving me wrong and making something that absurdly amazing!




After taking two buses to the city center it hit me: not that I was in Spain, but the smell of the city. The city reeks of sewage, and once, I actually saw a crew pumping the city waste into a truck. The heat of the city doesn't help the smell one bit. But once you look past the smell, there is a remarkable place before you.

At one point, Elise asked me if Spain was like Mexico. No. From what I've seen of Spain-it's a cleaner version of Mexico. As if Puerto Vallarta and Orange County had a pretty baby. A pretty baby that just pooped its diaper.







Malaga is the birthplace of Pablo Picasso. Although he rarely returned after he moved away, the city considers him its pride and joy. Just across from Plaza de Merced is the casa natal of Pablo Picasso. It was so unassuming that I overlooked it more than once on our quest to find it. Fear not, I used my SUPERB Spanish to ask a kindly tattoo shop owner for directions. Nearby, a (slightly larger than life-size) statue of Pablo Picasso's likeness had been erected.

One of the city sites was the Hall of Justice...no wait, that's from Wonder Friends--home of The Justice League (containing Batman, Superman, Aquaman, Wonderwoman etc...). It was called the Palace of Justice. At some point it probably held some government authorities, now, it was vacant.

What can be said? Maybe there is no justice in Spain. Or, maybe, there is so much justice...it no longer needed its own oceanfront palace.

Either way, it was one of the most disgustingly rundown things I'd ever seen.

One of the great draws to Malaga is the old Moorish fortification, Alcazaba from the 11th century. Here I am outside the Roman amphitheater located right beyond the walls of the fortress. We didn't have time to visit the entire thing that day, but there should be time in the upcoming days.



There are very few books I can say I outright disliked. One of them I read in 6th grade: Red Badge of Courage. The other I read my freshman year of high school: The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. It's not that I dislike Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms is one of my favorites (subcategory Romance & War). But something about The Sun Also Rises always rubbed me the wrong way. I wonder if going back now I could appreciate it more. Now that I've seen the sunsets of Spain, fed the Spanish earth my blood, sweat and tears (literally). One thing I've yet to do? Bull fight.

Ancient Rome had the gladiators. The South has dogfights. Spain has bullfights. It might be gruesome, but something about the spectacle has attracted sold-out crowds for centuries. And when we get right to it, its not about the people, but about the money to be made.

I already got a warning text from my grandfather warning me of the dangers of bullfighting, but I assure you all-- I will not be actually fighting the bull myself.

I know what you are thinking. Yes, I did read the story about the spectators recently injured, but SERIOUSLY, if the bull is trying to jump into the crowd, wouldn't you move away the FIRST TIME? It was the third attempt. Didn't they know that the third time is the charm? Or does that not translate into Spanish?

On the way back, the bus stop was like something out of a circus freak show. There was a one-legged woman, a one-eyed woman, a man/boy/child that was much too large for the stroller he was having a fit in (it may have been a full grown man), a couple other oddities, but I have to say, white trash family deluxe took the cake.

What is white trash family deluxe? It was the all-in-one stereotype fulfillment. The "mother"--who looked suspiciously like a hobbit--smoked a filthy cigarette while pushing her baby to the busstop in his stroller. The poor thing was locked into a torture device forced to breathe cancer air. Then she took the baby out and held him on her lap, while she smoked. Then her husband walked over, and he shook like a junkie and was missing a tooth. They also had a daughter who ran on the bus ahead of them. Then they both got on, and then he left, at which point he waved at them through the window. Then they left him. I could see the daddy issues beginning to form in the little girl's mind. That was weird enough. Then the woman starts talking on her cellphone--loudly. People began to stare. She snarls at them-revealing that she has a missing tooth to match her husband/baby daddy/pimp/drug dealer. Then she gets off the phone and starts screaming at her kids--louder still. More people stare. Since the screaming isn't working, she starts spanking her kids. Everyone looks away. That's right--no one wants to be an accessory after the fact to child abuse. I wonder, what do you call white trash in Spain? Hemingway never covered that one.

Liane Likely to Lose Limb

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.

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.*