Syttende Mai (Norwegian for 17th of May) is Norwegian National Day or Constitution Day, which commemorates the day in 1814 that the Norwegian constitution was signed. Of course Fuengirola celebrates along with the local Norwegian population. Any excuse for a parade.
Since the holiday fell on Sunday this year, the mostly native Spanish marching band was available in full-force. Tynan and Elena's 12-year-old daughter, Paula, plays oboe in the band (and in a classical orchestra). So, we couldn't possibly miss the parade.
Klikk på et bilde for å forstørre... which I hope means 'click any image to enlarge.' (If it doesn't, unnskyld — I beg your pardon.)
A GREAT PHOTO OP OF SAN GERALDO LOST TO A GUST OF WIND. HE'S BEHIND THE FLAG.
DESIGN VARIES DEPENDING ON REGION OF NORWAY.
RIGHT OUT OF CENTRAL CASTING?
SO NICE TO SEE THE SPANISH FLAG, TOO.
THEY MARCHED BY GRADE FROM THE NORWEGIAN SCHOOL.
THESE 6TH-GRADERS LOOKED LIKE TROUBLE (OR FUN).
I FELT LIKE I WAS IN BERMUDA.
A GIFTED DRUMMER.
PERHAPS SOME NORWEGIAN IN HER GENES.
ADORABLE.
NORWAY MEETS HOLLYWOOD?
THEY CHANTED, "HIP HIP HOORAH!"
ON SAX AT FRONT, THE BAND'S LEADER.
CAN YOU SEE THE MUSIC?
BAND MEMBERS RANGE IN AGE FROM UNDER 10 TO OVER 70.
PAULA (FOREGROUND) AND FRIENDS.
The band is brilliant and my videos are mediocre, so I'll end with the first "traditional Norwegian folk song" I ever heard.
San Geraldo's cousin Inger sang movingly to us during our first visit to Norway. When she finished, we asked what it meant. She explained that it's the story of a fisherman who rows out to find another fisherman in his favourite spot. So, he hits the other fisherman over the head with an oar and knocks him into the water. He then contentedly settles into fishing. Sweet.
The Greek sand clan of the god Chronos has grown since he was first introduced (click here). One day last week, I saw sculptor Ivo working on a zaftig female figure (in sand). The very next day some other characters appeared. I learned that the female figure was none other than the goddess Aphrodite.
Ivo told me he was about to add a lute-playing cherub in an empty space. So, Friday, I headed back to see what had developed. While putting the finishing touches on the cherub, Ivo said he now plans to add the god Ares. Already lolling with Chronos, Aphrodite, and the musical cherub are a winged cherub, the god Pan, and the devil, whose right hand is comfortably planted on Aphrodite's wrist. That is why, Ivo explained, the devil has a little smile on his face. (Click any image to make them more god-like.)
IVO AMONG THE GODS WEDNESDAY.
BETWEEN CHRONOS AND APHRODITE: A CHERUB WITH A UKELELE.
THAT'S PAN ON THE RIGHT. HE'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE THE LEGS
AND HORNS OF A GOAT — AND, OF COURSE, A "PAN" FLUTE.
APHRODITE CAN CHANGE HER APPEARANCE
TO BECOME WHATEVER ONE FINDS MOST BEAUTIFUL. I GUESS THE DEVIL LIKES HER LIKE THAT.
I'm still pushing the magnificent petals I see around town and on our terrace. San Geraldo intends to finish his planting/arranging today, so I'll soon show you the results. Meanwhile, the roses at the Roman ruins park continue to enchant and perfume.
(Click any image for more splendour.)
MY GIN & TONIC AT MESON SALVADOR. WITH ORANGE BLOSSOM PETALS ... FOR FRAGRANCE.
Our friend Ann — aka Slushee (click here) — has been to the salon for another custom-color adventure. Her stylist, Juan, calls his latest creation Bird of Paradise (Ave del Paraiso). He was aiming for the bird, not the flower. Juan is also San Geraldo's stylist...
ANN, AFTER HER LATEST DIP IN THE SLUSHEE MACHINE.
A ROSE...
... IS A ROSE...
... IS A ROSE.
THAT'S ME IN A PAIR OF PEDAL PUSHERS (ALTHOUGH I CALLED THIS PAIR CLAM DIGGERS.)
I wish we could have taken home one of everything from the garden center on Saturday. But space, cyclonic winds, bugs, sea spray, and budget won't allow it. So, here's a sampling of some of the beautiful things we left behind.
Our plants were delivered this afternoon. San Geraldo has his work cut out for him. I'll share pictures of the terrace once he's done. (Click any image to magnificafy.)
MEDINILLA MAGNIFICA (PHILIPPINE ORCHID) ABOUT TO BLOOM.
SO LOVED BY KING BOUDEWIJN OF BELGIUM (REIGNED 1951–1993)
THAT IT APPEARED ON THE 10,000 FRANC NOTE.
MOOSE WOULD ENJOY PLUCKING THE FLOWERS.
WE'D LOVE HIM... WE'D LOVE HIM NOT... WE'D LOVE HIM!
Saturday, we went to Vivero La Vega, our favorite garden center (vivero) to restock the terrace now that the cyclonic winds of winter have passed... and the bugs of spring and summer have returned. While shopping, San Geraldo pointed out a couple of shelves devoted to the successful maintenance of cannabis plants. The garden center — and the cannabis — made me think of My Mother The Dowager Duchess.
Why
In 1974, my parents went to the spring arts show on the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights. My artsy mother bought a few things, including two silk-screened T-shirts. One shirt was for me, she said, and had a repeating pattern across the chest and back of nude male and female silhouettes. Very cool.
Being the ultimate gardener, The Duchess picked up what she called a "botanical" T-shirt for herself.
"A beautiful leaf pattern," she said as she showed it to me.
I smiled. "Mom, that's pot."
"It's what?" she asked.
"Pot," I repeated. "Marijuana."
"What's another word for that?"
"Cannabis?"
"Oh!" she blurted. "When I went to pay, the artist was really pleased and said, 'Oh, you're buying the cannabis shirt.'
"I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just smiled and said, 'Yes, I love it."
She thought a moment and then said, "Well, now I can't wear this. Here, you take it."
1974 NEW YORK: WITH MY NIECE ERICKA AND
THE DOWAGER DUCHESS'S MARIJUANA SHIRT.
My first five surgery staples were removed Monday. The final five were removed Wednesday. Between Monday and Wednesday, the area had swelled more than expected and I got a friendly lecture (in Spanish) from the nurse about over-doing it. I explained to her that I have a difficult time remembering the Spanish word for "should" and instead regularly use the word "could." So, since I "could" walk long distances really quickly just like before, I didn't wonder if I "should." The nurse simply laughed.
I had made my "should" and "could" defense entirely in Spanish. ("A man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client.")
After that, I sauntered slowly home from the medical center and I've been pouting a lot ever since.
I've gone through all the chocolate from San Geraldo, all the chocolate from Linda and Tom, all the chocolate from Jessica, and I am about to start on the gourmet chocolate Judyshannonstreetwhat (see previous post) brought from Seattle's Pike Place Market.
CLICK IT AND YOU CAN ALMOST TASTE IT.
I'm recovering well, although, lounging around so much does not do wonders for my clinical depression. Too much quiet time in my own head. And that's not always a good place to be. But, the fact that I'm able to tell you about it, tells me that I'm on the road to emotional recovery, too. Besides, if this is all I have to complain about, I need to just get over my-damn-self! (Not always as easy as it sounds.)
I'm so glad love and San Geraldo are patient and kind...
When my niece Ericka was around 4, I flew to England for a visit from my home in Boston. Ericka's parents decided to record an audio tape to send to my parents in New York. Dale and Ericka sang songs and talked. In the midst of the performance, Ericka ran out of the room.
Dale called out, "Ericka, where are you going?"
Erica whispered something in return, so Dale asked again, with the tape still recording, "Where are you going?"
Ericka peeked indignantly into the room and said, "I have to poo!"
OUR FRIEND JUDY'S DESSERT SUNDAY NIGHT AT SANDPIPER.
BLOCKING THE DESSERT FROM THE VIEW OF THE DIETING SAN GERALDO.
THE DEPRIVED AND POUTING SAN GERALDO.
Back to Poo[h]
Our dear friend Judyshannonstreetwhat (click here if you need an introduction) is here for another month on the Costa del Sol. Tuesday, we three were having coffee with the Goddess Elena (click here if you haven't met) and Elena said something about "poo." San Geraldo followed up using the word "shit."
Judy said, "Well, that's not the same thing!"
"What?" we all said.
"Shit and poo are not the same thing," stated Judy. "Shit is pee."
"No, it's not!" we all snorted.
"Yes, it is!" she insisted.
"Shit is poo!" we cackled.
"Well, not in Seattle!" Judy harumphed.
And then came (mostly from me): "Are you shittin' me? No shit, Sherlock! BULLshit! You don't know shit from shinola! Shit on a shingle. Shit on a stick. Shit on rye. Ew, that smells like shit. Bleh, this tastes like shit. Does a bear shit in the woods? Let's go get shit-faced..."
Midstream, Judy realised she had had a brain fart, we were all in tears of laughter, and I nearly popped my remaining five post-surgery staples (more on that Thursday).
Once we settled a little, Judy begged me to not tell her sister, Joan.
So of course I immediately emailed her.
Joan wrote back and explained that, because she herself has lived outside the city of Seattle most of her life, she has therefore always known shit and poo are the same thing.
I then emailed Tynan at work, who wrote back saying, "She must have been taking the piss."* Thanks to Judy for chasing all the clouds from the sky. *"Taking the piss" from British slang "taking the piss out of," which means to mock, tease, ridicule, or scoff.
One of our few local sand sculptors has been setting up "studios" in various locations along Fuengirola's 7-kilometer stretch of paseo that fronts the beach. He does some very entertaining sculptures (click here for an earlier example), so I was happy to see him working directly across the street from us a few days ago.
His current work is an interpretation of a statue of the Greek God of Time, Chronos. The original sculpture sits in a cemetery (Friedhof IV der Gemeinde Jerusalems und Neue Kirche) in Berlin, Germany, on the grave of Georg Wolff (a merchant). It was sculpted by Hans Latt around 1904.
I'll soon learn more about the sand sculptor. I learned Friday from one of his assistants (whom he pays to watch over the sculpture when he's not around) that he's originally from Bulgaria where he was for years a champion professional wrestler.
CHRONOS SUNNING ON THE BEACH IN FUENGIROLA, MÁLAGA.
WRESTLER-TURNED-SCULPTOR FETCHING TWO PAILS OF WATER. (AS VIEWED TODAY FROM OUR TERRACE.)
And while Chronos sleeps, time passes.
The below unflattering group photo was taken late October 1972 on the occasion of my parents' 25th wedding anniversary. Two weeks later, an Englishman my sister Dale had met that July in Edinburgh, showed up on her doorstep in New York. Within two weeks, they were married and living together in England. Thirteen months after the picture was taken, their daughter was born. Less than nine years after the picture was taken, Dale died of cancer. Five years after that, so did my father. But I'm still here, still smiling, and still thinking of them.
I've gone through all the chocolate San Geraldo brought home for me last Wednesday — a variety bag of bombones (bonbons), a large bar of milk chocolate with almonds, another bar of milk chocolate filled with orange creme (click here to eat your heart out).
Fortunately, I still had an unopened box of assorted chocolates Jessica had brought over late last week. But, when I inhaled the last of those today I thought, "Now what?"
And, like magic, there was someone at the lobby door.
I TEXTED A PHOTO TO JESSICA AND ASKED WHY SHE SENT
AN EMPTY BOX, BUT SHE'S NOT GULLIBLE LIKE SAN GERALDO. HER RESPONSE: "NOW I UNDERSTAND WHY IT WAS SO CHEAP..."
"Correo," the voice called over the intercom. "Una caja para Don Mitchell Scott." (Mail. A box for me — the Spanish version of my name has many variations...)
Jerry's sister Linda thought ahead. Oh, how I love her.
GOOD TO KNOW MY PRIORITIES ARE UNDERSTOOD.
LINDA THREW IN PIECES OF HERSHEY'S DARK CHOCOLATE BLISS
FOR SAN GERALDO. I LET HIM HAVE TWO... SO FAR.
On our walk to El Jazzy Cafe for morning coffee, we passed some mock oranges in bloom. I leaned close to snap a picture and to get a good strong whiff of the sweet fragrance when a bee shot out of the flower cluster.
I squawked, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, WHOA!" as I jumped back.
San Geraldo burst out laughing. We wish there were video.
TODAY'S MOCK ORANGE... AFTER THE BEE.
When I first met with the surgeon about my hernia, he reviewed my medical history in the medical center's online system.
With a lift of one of his dark and substantial eyebrows, the surgeon asked what sounded to me like, "¿Se muerde una obeja?" ("Did a sheep bite you?")
"Perdona?" I responded.
He explained that, according to my medical records I am severely allergic to "obejas," and he wondered how I knew.
I laughed. "No obejas! Las avejas!"
"Not sheep! Bees!" Back to El Jazzy
When we got to El Jazzy, we saw again the spectacular display of roses climbing the fence that separates the Roman Ruins park (click here) from some tennis courts. The fragrance is amazing and I wish I could post that, too. I kept my distance and took some pictures. These are the true colors of our day. (Click any image and then just imagine...)
