Tequila!

This was the week of Feria del Virgen del Rosario (the fair of the Virgin of the Rosary), which culminates tomorrow with a procession if the weather cooperates. We've had rain and sun, with here and there a downpour, these last few days. Wednesday night (glorious weather), San Geraldo and I walked over to the fair.

OUR FIRST VIEW OF THE FAIR AS WE STROLLED OVER FROM THE BEACH.

Often, when we have friends visiting from the United States, they're surprised by sales booths they spot at fairs and outside movie theaters. Invariably, someone will look dumb-founded and say, "They're selling shots of tequila?!?"

TAH-KEY-YA!!!

OK, so the thought crossed my mind the first time I saw a booth, too. But then I realized it's not spelled the same. It's "taquilla" (pronounced tah-KEY-ya") and not "tequila." It's a ticket booth. Given my one experience with tequila shots when I was 20 years old (sharing an entire bottle with one other person), I'm even a little afraid to approach the ticket booth.

Wednesday was Children's Day at the fair. Well, every day is children's day (and adults' day) at the fair. But Wednesday, is the most popular day for children to dress in traditional costume.

THIS YEAR'S LIGHTS.

WAITING FOR THE PARTY TO START AT ONE OF THE CASETAS.

BUMPER BOATS! A BOY IN TRADITIONAL COSTUME.
HE LOOKS LIKE A BOWERY BOY TO ME.

SAN GERALDO LOVES SWEET CORN (CORN ON THE COB).
HE COMMENTED THAT HE NEVER SAW ANY AT THE FAIR THIS TIME.
I HADN'T EITHER... UNTIL I LOOKED AT MY PHOTOS THURSDAY MORNING.

ABOUT TO HEAD BACK THROUGH THE GATES.

Tequila!!!

Can't Touch This

If you've been following my blog for a while, you might remember that I can be a danger to myself, even while sleeping. I tend to move a lot while sleeping, as I do in my waking life. And I mean a lot.

I sleep with four pillows, which invariably end up on the floor on either side of the bed a few times a night. I sometimes wake up during the night with my head hanging off one side of the bed and my feet the other. It's one of several reasons San Geraldo and I have separate beds.

Many years pre–San Geraldo, I actually pushed a "sleeping companion" out of bed. I swear I was asleep when I did it. She never came back to try again.

In Sevilla, I fell out of bed and ended up scraped and bruised (click here for that).

This week, I discovered a new danger.

I keep my nails trimmed neatly and fairly short. No claws here. Monday night, I was having some kind of bizarre dream that I thankfully can't remember. In the dream, for some odd reason, I ran my nails up my forehead. I woke up with a yell and realized I wasn't just dreaming. I was bleeding. I had scraped two furrows into my head. When I went to clean things up and inspect the damage, I noticed that I had clearly run my thumb nail along my temple at the same time.

TUESDAY MORNING.

It didn't look too bad in the light of day Tuesday morning, although Elena did immediately gasp when we met for coffee. It actually looked a bit worse Wednesday but only because it was quickly healing and had begun to scab over. Now if I could only remember to not touch my forehead! (And to keep my head out of the direct spray of the shower.)

At 5:00 Thursday morning, I woke with a yell. I had done it again.

THURSDAY MORNING. MIXED SCRATCHES.

This time, I re-opened (and expanded) the larger of the two scrapes in front and I added another one parallel to it. The new wound isn't too visible because it hasn't scabbed over yet.

My nails are now filed to stubs (that can still scratch, unfortunately). I was thinking of wearing a stocking cap to bed. But then I came up with an even better idea. Baby mittens!

BABYMITTEN,COM HAS QUITE THE SELECTION OF NO-SCRATCH MITTENS.
I WONDER IF THEY COME IN MENS' LARGE.

And since I'm now scratch-mixing...

Overexposed

San Geraldo and I strolled over to Sandpiper Tuesday night for dinner. As we neared the restaurant, we heard music we hadn't heard on the street before. Could it be the half-naked Brazilians (click here)? Yes!

(Click any image to see more flesh.. if you dare.)

At the height of summer, the group comprised close to 10 musicians, singers, dancers, and gymnasts. They've dwindled to only four. Not quite the same effect. But at least I got to see them in action.

THE LITTLE GIRL (DAUGHTER OF A RESTAURANT OWNER) WAS ADORABLE.
BUT IT PROBABLY WASN'T THE SMARTEST PLACE FOR HER TO STAND.

PASSING THE TAMBOURINE ON SANDPIPER'S TERRACE.

Since the Half-Naked Brazilians were a bit of a let-down (at least for me), I thought I'd share another half-naked foreigner who passed by Tuesday morning.

THIS BARE-BELLY (BEER BELLY?) LOOK IS POPULAR AMONG THE TOURISTS...
SADLY THOUGH, NEVER AMONG THE TOURISTS WITH ABS OF STEEL.

Where Mitchell Moves, #1

I was going to title (or entitle) this post, "Why Mitchell Moves," but that would initiate a major psychiatric evaluation and treatise. I move because I'm always running away from something. I move because I have no stability. I move because I don't like putting down roots. I move because I like adventure. I move because I am easily bored. I move because I thrive on change. I move because 'the grass is always greener.' On and on...

Basically, I have moved a lot in my life. This is the first in the series on "where" and not "why." Eventually, you should have a clear understanding, at least, of why my blog is called "Mitchell is Moving" (if not in fact why Mitchell moves).

Here's where it began (click any image for a closer look):

UNITY HOSPITAL, ST. JOHN'S PLACE, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.
(THE YEAR BEFORE I WAS BORN.) 

FROM  GOOGLE MAPS.  THE NEIGHBORHOOD HAS BECOME TRENDY,
SO IT PROBABLY LOOKS VERY DIFFERENT NOW.

I was born in 1954 at Unity Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. My parents and sister were already living in the neighborhood of East New York, on Van Siclen Avenue. We had the upstairs apartment in a 2-family row house owned by my uncle's mother. My aunt (father's sister) and uncle lived downstairs with my two cousins. One more child followed in each family, but not until after we left Brooklyn when I was around 1-1/2.

MY PARENTS AND SISTER DALE (PRE-ME).

OUR NEIGHBOR, COUSIN REESA (LEFT), WITH DALE.

Built in 1901, the house was already 50 years old when my parents first moved in. It had the original back porch with darkly aged and rotting wood. The porch creaked and shook whenever we were out there.

MY MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER HOLDING DALE, WITH THREE OF MY COUSINS.
THAT'S AN AWFUL LOT OF PEOPLE TO BE ON THAT PORCH AT ONCE.

MY FATHER AND DALE ON THE PORCH.
(STAYING CLOSE TO THE WALL.)

THAT'S ME IN THE KITCHEN.
(THE DOWAGER DUCHESS LIKES RED.)

THE PATTERN MAY HAVE BEEN A BIT MUCH FOR DALE.

My Mother The Dowager Duchess had already developed her fashionable and arty aesthetic. Very trendy and custom-made furniture. Fabrics in combinations I would now include in my "what patterns you should not combine" posts. But, fashion is fashion.

HERE I AM MODELING THE DRAPES, AND THE CLUB CHAIR IN ITS SUMMER SLIP COVER. 

The sofa was 9 feet long (2.75 meters). In 1964, when we moved from a house in the suburbs to a high-rise apartment in Brooklyn, the sofa didn't fit in the elevator. The movers had to carry it up 16 flights of stairs. The Dowager Duchess gave them some iced tea, I think, and $5. (Maybe it was $10 and beer.)

THE NUBBY 9-FOOT SOFA AND I.
THAT'S NOT A DOLL; IT'S AN ACTION FIGURE! YEAH, THAT'S IT! BABY G.I. JOE.

DALE AND MORE SUMMER SLIP COVERS...
ON THE 9-FOOT SOFA AND THE WING CHAIR.

DALE IN THE TUB. (THERE'S ALSO A SHOT OF ME,
BUT IT WOULD NOW BE CONSIDERED KIDDY PORN.)

A CLOSE-UP OF THE HOMOEROTIC BATHROOM WALLPAPER.
ALREADY UP WHEN MY PARENTS MOVED IN.
(CHECK OUT THE BUNS ON NEPTUNE!)

An appropriate musical selection from 1954
(although I ain't a-getting ready to meet the saints)...

You Know I'm Goin' To Surf City

Fuengirola is not famed for its surfing beaches. However, there are some spots that serve the purpose and we do sometimes have good enough waves for die-hard surfers who aren't choosy. Last week's few days of stormy weather were a boon to surfers. When San Geraldo and I took our walk on the beach, we saw two guys zipping up their wet suits. They didn't hit the water until we were already upstairs, but I managed to get two shots from the terrace of one of them catching some waves. (Click the images to go big.)

NOTHING TUBULAR*, BUT I'M SURE HE WAS SO TOTALLY STOKED**.

NOT CRANKING***.  STILL BETTER THAN ANKLE SLOP****.

A couple of days later, the sun was shining upon us and our morning coffees. People were back out for leisurely strolls on the Paseo. And the tourists were [shamelessly] showing off their resort wear. One guy (in a questionable combination of shorts and shirt) was into the surfing theme. His shirt made me immediately think of a "Jan and Dean" song from 1963. Specifically the line: "I got a '34 wagon and I call it a Woody."

(Click here if your sense of humor is not as juvenile as mine and you don't know what I think of when I hear the word "woody.")

[LAST] RESORT WEAR.

A WOODY OF THE TYPE MENTIONED IN THE SONG...
(THIS ONE IS IN HUNTINGTON BEACH, CALIFORNIA)

A CLOSE UP OF HIS WOODY.

"You know it's not very cherry*****, it's an oldie but a goody..."


*Tubular: Awesome or really great. Describing a wave as tubular because it forms a tube.
**Stoked: Excited.
***Cranking: When the waves are good, it's said to be cranking.
****Ankle slop: Waves too small to ride.
*****Cherry: Pristine, totally clean.

Kowabunga, dude!!!

Cat Litter and Banana Bread

San Geraldo was back having fun in the kitchen yesterday afternoon. He made three loaves of his delicious banana bread (his mother's recipe). Our friends here all call it cake. The bread/cake is even more delicious than it used to be since San Geraldo now uses Canary Island bananas.

FRESHLY BAKED CANARY ISLAND BANANA BREAD.

Now everyone knows (don't they?) that peanut butter and bananas are delicious. So I figured peanut butter spread on Canary Island Banana Bread would be even better. That was my breakfast today. It was even better than I imagined.

BREAKFAST.

Sticking to my peanut butter theme for the next meal (but foregoing the banana bread), San Geraldo made me PB&J — a peanut butter and jelly (actually orange and elder flower marmalade) sandwich. Of course, San Geraldo's version looked nothing like any PB&J sandwich I've ever had. Anywhere.

PEANUT BUTTER & JELLY (PB&J) A LA SAN GERALDO.

Between breakfast and lunch, we went downstairs to Café El 90 for coffee.  San Geraldo bagged up a loaf of banana bread as a gift for the owners Domenique and Yvette, and the cook, Vanessa.

Note:  The following information might be helpful before you read further.
• San Geraldo is half Norwegian.
• The Norwegian word for cake is kake (sounds a bit like kah-kah).
• The Spanish word for poop is caca (sounds exactly like kah-kah).

BANANA KAKE.

Every morning, San Geraldo scoops out the cats' litter box, bags up what he scoops in a clear plastic bag, and takes it downstairs to the trash.  I don't even like carrying the bag because I can smell the cat poop right through it. In addition, if I do take the poop downstairs, I seal it in an opaque bag, so no one knows what I've got.

It's one of the many 'subtle' ways in which San Geraldo and I differ.

This morning, San Geraldo took the bag of cat poop in his right hand and headed out the door. However, in his left hand was the bagged-up banana bread, which he was about to switch into his right hand along with the bag of poop. Of course, I stopped him.

CAT CACA.

"Jerry, don't do that! Give me the bread!" I whined.

He laughed and responded, "What?!? I've got kake and I've got caca." 

As I took the banana bread from him, I muttered, "Damned kids."

Too Close For Comfort

I walked into the front bedroom this evening and heard what sounded like the motor of a powered paraglider. Usually, they fly over the water. But when I looked outside I saw one swaying wildly from side to side as it zipped by. He was right over the beach and awfully close to the paseo. Along came two more, flying higher and with less sweeps to the sides, although they too were flying mostly over land. They were either daredevils or out of control. (Click any image if you don't mind getting too close.)

It looked like the wildest of the three (the one who buzzed our building) came close to touching down on the beach in the distance. They all got a bit more lofty on the return trip.

WASN'T IT SUPPOSED TO BE A COW?

And with another song in my head...

Keep On Truckin'

We've had a couple of storms recently. The first resulted in our corner yucca biting the dust yet again (click here if you missed it). The second was last night (Tuesday). I slept through it. But San Geraldo told me about it in the morning. There was an exciting lightning show far out (thankfully) at sea. The surf, which has been churning this week, was kicking up this morning and got wild this afternoon.

9 A.M.: THE VIEW FROM OUR LIVING ROOM.

It looked like the entire city clean-up crew came out to regrade the beach and remove the debris. Trucks of all kinds.

MAKING HAY.

AND HEADING OFF FOR MORE.

MORE.

NOT A VERY STABLE OR ARTFUL HAYSTACK.

TRUCKS EVERYWHERE. 

ALL KINDS OF EQUIPMENT.

THE GARDENS ARE THRIVING ALL ALONG THE BEACH.

SAN GERALDO AND I TOOK A WALK THIS AFTERNOON.
STILL A LOT OF CLEAN-UP TO BE DONE.

Keep on Truckin'...

AND, AS LONG AS YOU'RE TRUCKIN'...