Flamenco Dancing without Flamenco Shoes

For the past week I have enjoyed days with two of my brothers and their entourage (Christine, nephew Chad and his fiancé Cess).  The days and evenings (sometimes past midnight eating, laughing and talking trying to catch up on our lives) have been filled up.  One day I sat on a floral couch in the sunroom off my bedroom and wrote on book 4 for hours. It was a quiet, peaceful day. But, as you know, I don't let grass grow under my feet.  We squeezed into Steven's rental car for some day trips and the camaraderie was priceless.  

SUNDAY (Mother's Day): My brother, Rick and my nephew (Chad) and his fiancé (Cess) arrived after nearly two days travel to get to Malaga.  Although exhausted, they were ready to roll, we walked down the Avenida de España near my rental house here in Calahonda to a new tapas bar.

We called our mother on video as we drank sangria and toasted to a family reunion in Spain.

MONDAY: I lazed at the beach one day while the "posse" visited an old friend in Puerto de la Torre, walking across the sand (hot footing it actually because it gets very hot) and found a place to stab my umbrella into the sand.  Every woman on the beach was topless and all of a sudden, the whim of being in Spain led me to join Spain's culture.  Yes, I did.  And got sunburned, but tanning quickly.  I am unsure if my skin is more tan or if my freckles are just starting to touch each other all over the place.  I felt liberated, free and suddenly - invisible.  And unAmerican because of our timid and very proper culture.  But I'm in Spain and I want every minute to count as a special memory.  This did it. No photos from today... (smile).

TUESDAY: Friends, cousins and flamenco dance lessons.  

We all ate la comida at Venta Gloria at cousin Pedro's restaurant.  He asked us what kind of wine?  

In Spanish, I said, "Tu favorito!"  

He laughed because when I'd asked for Tempranillo wine a few weeks ago, he'd held up a finger and shook it at me.  "No, mi favorito" he'd said and shook his head.  In a heartbeat, he was back with a bottle of Ribera del Duero.  So, we enjoyed his red wine from the northern part of Spain.  He was right.  It's my new favorite red wine (and my friend Rina's too).

Next for the guys: A visit with an old friend.  Paco Rosa was my father's best friend while he lived in Spain.  He has always been Steven's mentor and he'd seen his children grow to adulthood.

For us ladies:  FLAMENCO

Flamenco lessons with our cousin, Laura Ruiz.  This time I was ready.  Sharing the fun with Christine and Cess brought more laughter.  Since Laura doesn't speak English, she spoke into the microphone on our translator.  But she speaks so fast, the poor APP couldn't catch it.  So, typing some of the words helped.   But still no flamenco shoes.  I am sure, by now, that Loli's Flamenco Shoe Shop in Estepona has forgotten me and my shoes.  

Afterward, we joined the guys at Paco's house.  He and his daughters, Encarni and Natalia, treated us to sweets, tinto verano, beer, chips and popcorn.  By the time we left late in the evening, they'd invited us to la comida on Sunday at a chiringuito near Malaga.  I love chiringuitos!  (tapas bars on the sandy beaches that serve sumptuous food with the sounds of the sea breaking waves beside us...)

So, after the Spanish Market at the fair grounds Sunday morning, it's lunch on the beach!

WEDNESDAY IN MALAGA - The Alcazaba and Monte Gibralfaro Castle (means rock of light, standing 130 meters high on a hill) are places one doesn't want to miss in the beautiful city.  Sixteen thousand steps (on my counter) upward toward the Gibralfaro took our breath away, so Steven grabbed one of Christine's hands and mine to pull us up the walkway.  The slant was extreme, mostly embedded stone with a mirador (photo spot) half way to the top.  And of course we stopped to the sounds of a lone guitarist sitting on a rock wall overlooking the bullring far below.  The ochre sandy floor was a perfect contrast to the beautiful day and surrounding trees.  

And the guys enjoyed a cold beer at the entrance to the castle where a thick forest of pines and eucalyptus trees are planted on the hill.  In the original gunpowder arsenal, now stands a museum filled with the castle's history over the centuries. We couldn't take it all in.  Very interesting.

After eating lunch in the umbrella covered, El Pimpi Restaurant, where I pulled my family into promising epicurean delights and sangria, next was the Alcazaba.  I had seen the fortress before, so they went on and I scampered around the plaza, the tiny lanes and people gazed.  I'd slipped on the footpath stones on the way down the deeply slanted walk and needed to give my bones a rest.

Photo:  Torero: Steven / Señorita: Christine                           Photo:  Caballero:  Rick

And then we found a mural specifically for our newly engaged couple: Cess promised to marry Chad.  Perfecto!

So, back to Plaza Merced where I knew Picasso waited on his bench.  I found one in the shade where I watched a man helping his very elderly mother across toward me.  Each step was faltering and her cane made little tap-tap-tap noises across the stone square.  When they sat down next to me, he returned my smile.  He must have read the empathy on my face as she struggled to sit herself down while he held her suspended downward, inch by inch.  Less than a minute later, my throat closed up and my eyes got misty.  The old woman was humming quietly, almost a whisper...my abuelita's favorite song.  It was a song she often sang and it put me back in my abuelita's (grandma) embrace.  Ta da-da-ta-da... Ta-da-da-ta-daaaa.... The aged, soft voice sang Cielito Lindo as clearly as a bird. There in the square next to Picasso, I heard my abuelita sing "Ay ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores.  Porque cantando se alegran...Cielito lindo los corazones..."

I couldn't help myself.  I said, "Me gusta su musica." (I like your music).  The old woman gave me the biggest (nearly toothless) smile and the look on her son's face thanked me all by itself.  AND we proceeded to speak IN SPANISH for twenty minutes.  They were interested in my family roots, my research and America.  She'd been a singer and dancer in Granada when she was young and he said she was always singing happy songs.  A special encounter indeed.  

But I had a date with my family as they exited the Alcazaba and I was late.  I felt like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland as I wove my way across the square, dodging a tour group on Sedgeways and dogs on leashes wrapped around its owner's legs.  

We found each other and synchronized our watches.  Our plan was to meet my friend, Vicky, at five near the Picasso Museum.  She'd shown me her Malaga three weeks earlier.   She was happy to lead us to the Catedral (cathedral), known as the Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación but it is simply known as "the Cathedral."  Inside the gold-leafed walls and statues stands a grouping that mesmerizes my brother, Steven.  When I saw it five years ago with him, I was stunned.  It is still amazing.  Christine's jaw dropped when she saw the likeness to Steven of the age-old soldier.  Vicky was so surprised, she took several photos...

We walked toward the port at the Mediterranean following Vicky to a building where she promised a view to remember on the 17th floor of a hotel.  But alas.  No room for us.   Next stop, La Terrazza Hotel; an open penthouse lounge, 5 floors above the city, offered a view of the port of Malaga.  The "wheel" on one side and the Alcazaba on the other made it magical.  

Vicky had received my book just that day of the  Historia de una niña emigrante and she asked me to autograph it for her.  A red-letter day all the way around.   Except there was no food up there and we were hungry.  Vicky led us back to the car park (we'd never find it on our own) but took a side trip to introduce us to her novio (boyfriend) Antonio.  Another photo moment.  He invited us to eat as his restaurant next time...

During the drive back to Calahonda, Cess told us about a tapas bar she and Chad saw the night before called Tapavino.  With that name, how could we resist?  We loved the place.  Good food, great service and good wine made from tempranillo grapes.

THURSDAY - the beach for all of us.  

Chad and Cess played in the sea as it embraced them in gentle, lapping waves.  I pulled out my chair and sat under my umbrella while Steven and Christine took turns laying in the sun and looking for sea glass and shells along the beach.  Rick enjoyed the lounge chair that Lyn M. lent to us.  Another wee sunburn for us and we were hungry.  Las Dunas Chiringuito was just steps away...the food was delicious, the wind picked up, the waves crashed and we have no idea where the wind blew my new sand umbrella... Rats!  Steven's dessert made my mouth water, but I said no.  Christine snared his cookie.

And then we drove to Los Nuñez.  

Lyn M. and la casa redonda waited for us with our friends, Bobbie and Mike.  The dogs were happy to see me return and I felt at home.  We'd brought wine and chips with us to add to Lyn's always-ready offering.  Conversation never lagged.  She gave Rick, Chad and Cess a tour of the round house and a few pictures later, it was time for the next stop.  We were sad to miss seeing my friend Saidie earlier that day.  If only we had 30 hours in our day...

Photo:  Me and my brother, Rick.

 Photo:  Bobbie, me and Lyn

 Rick, Cess, Chad and me (of course)

About four minutes down the road to El Corrito, where more cousins lived --- waiting to meet the "other brother" and Chad and Cess.  It was a family celebration.  Antonio, Paco, Maria Angela, Manolo, Adrian and Esther.  They treated us to food, wine, Spanish conversation, laughter and so much more.  Another late night and tomorrow is a busy day for all of us.  But, another memorable visit in Los Nuñez.

TODAY (FRIDAY) - My family headed for Nerja's Caves and Granada's Alhambra this morning.  For me?  An outing that led first to disappointment and then hope.  Paco Rosa offered to be my translator after telling me familial documents for Campanillas would be in Álora, not Malaga.  Eterio, the documentary producer, asked if German (pronounced HARE-mon) the cameraman could meet us there?  Of course.  We arrived at the appointed meeting spot in Álora, a white village high on the mountain that holds mystical charm for me.  When I saw German jauntily walking toward us with his large tripod balanced on her shoulder, I waved and saw the blinding smile that I remembered.  I finished my café con leche and he attached a microphone to my bodice front and snapped the receiver to the back of my sundress.  (I could get used to this).  He looks so much like Robert Downey, Jr.! Off we went, with the people at nearby tables staring at his camera and wondering if I was a star (smile).  Once we arrived at the Juzgado (court), I was dismayed to learn the records there applied to land, not people.  German filmed the encounter, but... 

We were told we should go to Campanillas to the church my documents said was San Pablo.  German followed us with his camera, hopped in our car and no luck.  The church I'd been told that my grandfather had been baptized with Iglesia del Carmen, not San Pablo.  My records show San Pablo, so now I was stumped.  Paco drove to the police station and was told there's never been a San Pablo church in Campanillas.  German looked it up to find it's in Malaga.  Disappointment.  He left with the promise of seeing me on May 24th when we film again with Miguel Alba in Benagalbón.

But Paco would not give up.  

He drove us to Almogia, where he knew our Ruiz family information might be found.  When we entered the village, I remembered narrow serpentine streets, so I suggested we park and walk down to the Ayuntamiento.  He raised his eyebrows in surprise and shook his head.  Determined, he headed into the pueblo.  I held my breath, watched people jump into doorways to avoid being smashed into the buildings and held my breath some more.  How the man maneuvered us through those narrow scary streets still amazes me.  But hope sprang forth!  The man at the Juzgado inside the Ayuntamiento gave me hope and possibly by the end of next week, I may see Ruiz certificados (certificates).

I treated Paco Rosa to la comida in Puerto de la Torre at Jose Carlos Restaurant, a favorite.  After maneuvering El Carro through the narrow streets Álora, Campanillas and the hillside pueblo of Almogía, the first thing he ordered was a beer.

The dish was prawns, potatoes and mushrooms with egg, he told me.  When it arrived, I saw two soft-centered eggs under my prawns and on top of my potatoes.  Huh.  When in Spain...okay.  I ate it, but I must say it's not my fave.  

I pointed to an older man at a table across the restaurant and told Paco I was sure it was Jose Carlos, the owner.  Paco turned to look, but only nodded.  When we finished eating, he got up and made a bee line to the man.  What?  He struck up a conversation and I followed behind.  Within a hot minute, Señor Carlos had the idea I knew him.  Then, his daughter learned that Ruiz was my birth name.  And then her husband wanted to see a copy of my book.  And then...whew.  Turns out his name is Jose Carlos Perez Ruiz.  Quite a turn of events.

Now, I'm home again. The house is empty again.  I scrubbed the bathroom and all the floors and here I am.  All caught up on my week.  I hope I didn't put you to sleep.  Daily blogs now...promise.  

What is planned for Tomorrow?  The beach?  Writing?  

Talking on the phone to loved ones in America?  Hope so.