Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

I don't mean to weird you out or anything like that, but I have to tell you how much I love my boots. They're Timberland boots, which means they're well made. There's an outlet over in Kittery and we trot over there from time to time to see what kinds of bargains we can find. About four years ago I bought a pair of mid-calf Nubuck low-heeled boots with a zipper up the side. I have worn the stuffing out of them, and even though they're not waterproof anymore they still fit great, and with the right pair of socks, they're . . . well, it's like chocolate for my feet, if you know what I mean. Just . . . ahhhhh. However, I couldn't bring those boots to Spain with me because they aren't waterproof anymore, and there's nothing worse than walking around in wet shoes that were supposed to stay dry. So, I bought another pair just before Christmas. Big sale -- you know -- I was all excited to save a butt-ton of money (as Amber would say), and I ev

So, I have a correction to make. I've been listening to too many people who don't know what they're talking about, and now you've been listening to me, so we're in the same boat. Paseo de los Tristes, one of the featured locations of my last post was not named thus because of the Moors leaving Granada along that road. If you've been here, you may already have known that, and so now you have confirmation that I might just believe anything anyone tells me. Sigh. However, here's the scoop, and it's from a reputable source. Let me tell you about her. Her name is Mari Carmen. That's all the name you need. I can't pronounce, or spell . . . or, heck, remember the rest of her names. Here in Granada, most women have either Mari (or Maria, obviously) or Carmen as one of their names. She has them both, as many women here do. Carmen is the Moorish name for summer home, but it has come to indicate a garden of sorts which includes grape arbors an

Don't let this smug little smile on my face annoy you. It's just that I was stopped on the street by a group of Spaniards tonight and asked for directions, and I gave those directions brilliantly in really-not-too-awful-Spanish. Pardon my gloating. This is simply one more "well, THAT'S never happened to me before" moment. Oh, I've been asked directions here before. Even by Spaniards. Usually the stupid "huh?" look in my eyes is enough to send them looking for a drunk slumped over a bench to ask, who is bound to be more coherent than I. We live in a neighborhood called the Albaicin in Granada. 500 years ago or so, it was spelled Albayzin. Still is, in some places. It was the hub of the Moorish community outside the walls of the Alhambra back before 1492, when Isabel and Fernando (no one here ever called him Ferdinand, I promise!) kicked everybody who bathed or could do math out of their country. Today the Albaicin stands, much the same.

New experiences come in the strangest forms, at the strangest times, in the strangest places. The following account could be considered mildly inappropriate (mostly by my mother, so you guys are all set) -- pah! Who am I kidding? Tame is a bit of a wild descriptor for my style, but this did happen in a public bathroom. There, I said it. I took a very long walk today while John was off at the airport meeting incoming students. My job was to meet one of the students at the bus station and get him to his host family's home. It was the perfect opportunity for a leisurely three mile stroll across town. I love walking, and with good shoes, I can walk practically forever. Seriously. John can't keep up with me, and he's the runner/athlete/ weight lifter/ jock. Go figure. Walking is my deal. This morning was perfect for it. The weather was mild, and the drenching rain didn't come until my walk home. Yuk. I love the walking, don't get me wrong. Just not in th

Is it just me, or is the present a complete enigma to anyone else? Let me see if I can walk you through the Jell-O that is my brain these days. I would advise galoshes, if you have them. I totally get the past. I was there (most of the time), and have a relatively decent memory for a woman of my decrepitation -- selective, perhaps, but only in the happiest sort of way in which I tend to recall the things that made me laugh, or smile or stop in wonder, or the things that filled me with inspiration or compassion or understanding. Those golden, wondrous moments are treasured tokens of my life that I pull out and polish and savor and share with anyone who's distracted enough at the moment to let me start telling one of my stories. I have a jillion of 'em. The future is a little blurry to me, but that's okay, too. It means I can pretend that there are mostly happy things awaiting me there. I love to anticipate -- an upcoming visit from one of my grown kids, an email from