According to my calendar and this tree on my block, my semester is now halfway over. In less than two months, I’ll be finished with grad school.
That little fact hasn’t quite set in yet, but the cold weather is starting to. Battling the urge to hibernate has proven more difficult than I’d imagined. Looking forward to seeing my family and home in less than two weeks. Looking forward to a brief change in scenery.
And those are my ramblings thoughts for now.
Filed under Small Victories
Normally I don’t post about my baking exploits, but today I must. I made pumpkin scones this morning, and they were the most delicious thing to ever come out of my tiny oven. If heaven is anything like what I imagine, it will smell exactly the way my apartment smells this second. Good Lord I am a happy person right now.
Shamelessly proud of these
Glamour shots of scones are difficult
Shame on me for underestimating you
And here’s the recipe in case you’re interested:
For the Powdered Sugar Glaze:
Filed under Nonsense, Small Victories
At the beginning of July, I had the opportunity to visit my brother in Mallorca where he studied abroad over the summer. I spent eight days there with him, and it was undoubtedly one of the best weeks of my life. The island was beautiful, fairytale-like even, and together we saw beautiful things and met wonderful people. One experience, however, stands out in my mind more than the rest: the day we found the remnants of the plane my grandfather had died flying there 51 years ago.
Mallorca
First, I’ll start the beginning of the story with my brother’s words:
“On June 25 1960, my grandfather was involved in a plane crash in the mountains of Mallorca. The only information my family had as to the crash’s location was that it was in the mountains. No specifics were known. My grandfather, alongside one other American pilot, was training German pilots how to fly the new model of the US military’s fighter jets. Each American pilot had a German pilot onboard. The initial crash report said that immense fog had inundated the mountains to the point of little to no visibility at the time the planes were attempting to land. The pilots were unable to see ahead of them, and the two jets proceeded to crash into the mountainside. Wreckage spread for miles. Fast forward 51 years to my study abroad experience in Spain.
With my grandfather’s story in mind, I asked every Majorcan I could if they knew any details about the accident. During my first month in Mallorca, I was only hitting dead ends. A few people remembered hearing the news when they were children but didn’t know the exact location. My teacher Magdalena tried to help me find information and even went out of her way to look for documents at a library containing the history of all the plane crashes in Mallorca’s history. Again, it was a dead-end and the section for 1960 was blank. After all my efforts, my teacher’s efforts, and my host padre’s efforts, I still had no promising leads. Magdalena said her best guess was the village of Soller because of the vast mountain ranges there, but this was still just a guess. I was lucky enough to have my older sister visit me for a week in Mallorca at the beginning of July. On her last day, we went on an excursion to Soller with the CIEE group. We still had no idea if this was actually the place where my grandfather died, but we were determined to see it through.”
And the story begins through my eyes. (As context, I’m transcribing the story from the notebook I wrote it in at the airport on the day I left Mallorca.)
Yesterday, Patrick and I left Palma with students from his class at 8 am. We took an old train that moved in slow motion to the town of Soller- about 1 hour away by train.
Soller
It was a beautiful ride through the countryside peppered with groves of lemon trees.
Train Station in Soller
After we arrived, Patrick’s teachers took us on a walking tour of the town and to two museums, one of which had a substantial collection of ceramics by Picasso. After the tour, we took a 20 minute trolley ride that chugs through the streets and homes to the rocky beach- a beautiful piece of earth that’s set serenely against the mountain ranges, the ranges Patrick and I had been told might be where our grandfather’s plane crashed. Patrick and I stayed the afternoon with two other students. The other 8 who were with us headed back to Palma around 2 o’clock. After a few pleasant hours at the beach, we got back on the trolley around 4 and headed to the center of Soller. The next train to Palma didn’t leave until 5:30, so Patrick and I thought we’d be able to stop at the building in the middle of the square for information about the plane crash. His teacher had told us that building would be our best bet. Turns out, in a very Spanish way, the building closed at 2 pm. Downtrodden, we walked to a nearby cafe to regroup.
After sitting outside for a bit, we decided to ask employees at the restaurant if they knew about the accident- a long shot, we thought. Patrick and I went inside and asked the girl working the bar, Andrea, if she knew the story. In broken Spanish, we explained ‘el accidente de dos aviones.’ She spoke little to no English, but we knew she understood what we were trying to say. That’s when she told us to hold on. She went and got her father, the man who owned the cafe, and we explained the story again to him. Once we finished telling him, his eyes lit up and he walked us out into the street. He pointed to a mountain with two cell phone towers on top and said, “alli.” There. He said the crash site was near those towers. For the first time, we realized how close we were. The problem, he said, was that the crash site was on private property enclosed by large gates that can only be opened with a key. We immediately asked if it was possible to get there. The cafe owner said he knew the owner of the property, and he called him twice for us. No answer.
After three failed attempts to reach him, we sat back down to regroup again. An older man named Juan who’d been chain-smoking outside had overheard our conversation. He began to tell us that when he was 8-years-old, at a time when Franco was still in power, he went on a field trip with his class to the crash site. He said he even thought he remembered how to get there. He said he’d be happy to take us, but his car wouldn’t be able to make it up the mountain. The face of the mountain was steep, and we needed the right car to make it to the top. Slowly, we became disheartened. We were told that it would be a three-hour walk even if we were able to take a taxi somewhere close- and a taxi was going to be extremely expensive if it would even take us up the mountain at all.
By that point, it was approaching 6 o’clock. In addition to all the other factors against us, we were now fighting daylight.
In a turn of events that’s nearly impossible to explain, our luck began to change. The young girl who worked at the restaurant, Andrea, told us she might be able to get the keys to Pedro’s land. Andrea was trying desperately to help us. Not only were we complete strangers, but we were also unable to communicate in the same language. That fact alone simply amazes me. After an hour or so of being unsure of our next move, Andrea told us she could take us there, and that we’d go with Juan and her boyfriend, Pedro.
After she got off work, we got into her sister’s car, a small black hatch back, and set out on our journey.
Packin' Up for the Ride
Sweetly, Andrea turns to us about 20 minutes into the drive and says in English, “This is a safari,” with her thick, Spanish accent. She was exactly right, though, and I wondered how out of all the English words she knew, she somehow knew the meaning of the word ‘safari.’ The trip (both up and down the mountain) was absolutely frightening. We drove for about an hour up the curvy, one-lane mountain road that had no shoulder. About halfway up, Andrea had to get out of the car and throw up. I couldn’t tell if Juan’s driving was erratic, or if the mountain’s curves were really that ruthless. Either way, I knew we’d get there. An hour later we were at the top of the mountain. We could see the town of Soller set against the ocean. Everything looked miniature. Juan said we were 1,000 km high- so high that clouds were passing through our bodies. We were only an arm’s length from heaven.
Looking Up at the Towers
Tower, up close
When we arrived at the top, there was a woman standing outside of one of the buildings. She worked for the cell phone company and her job was to oversee the towers. She was holding a puppy and looking over the mountains. Juan explained the situation to her and she showed us a piece of the plane near the building she worked in. Then, she pointed us in the direction of more wreckage.
The First Piece
Juan showed us a few small parts of the plane. They were scattered, of course, and sharp as knives. A few minutes later he yelled for us and we walked down a short path. He was standing next to one of the plane’s wings. We couldn’t believe it. We all looked at the wing for a while in silence, and Pedro helped us rip pieces off that we could take back. We took pictures of our findings and got photos with Andrea, Juan, and Pedro (who we later deemed our ‘Spanish Angels.’ ) After a few minutes, Patrick approached Andrea to thank her for the experience we were having. That’s when she told us her grandfather had died before she was born, too. She started to cry, and it was then that I knew she understood what this meant to us. My heart sank low into my chest.
Our Spanish Angels
While looking around the site, we experienced the dense fog that came without warning. I have pictures that show how low the visibility was; the photos look like we’re standing in front of a white wall. It was unbelievable. Maybe it was my grandfather’s way of letting us know he was there with us.
The Wing
We stayed on top of the mountain for a little more than an hour. We took more photos and sat on the rocks and talked. It was amazing to feel such a deep connection with people we’d met only hours before and who hardly spoke English. As dusk settled in, we gathered our things and headed back down the mountain. They drove us to a nearby bus station where we quickly realized the bus had stopped running. It was late, probably 10:30 by this point, so Andrea called a taxi to come pick us up. We parted from our angels with hugs and kisses, and we all left forever changed.
When Patrick and I got back to Palma, we returned to Carlos’s (his host padre) apartment. Carlos had a friend from Holland staying with him, a peculiar man with a British accent and the body of The Grinch. A nice man, though. When I walked into the living room to meet him, Patrick had just finished summarizing our day’s journey and showing them the precious metal we had come away with. Carlos’s friend looked up at me and said, “I’m glad you found what you came here for.” On so many levels, he was dead on.
After talking with them, we called Momma and I told her the news. She cried, but I knew they were tears of joy. She told us that we had fulfilled a life dream of hers, and she no longer felt the need to go to Mallorca and see the place where she’d lost so much. We had done that for her, and Patrick and I couldn’t have been happier to do it. I’ll never forget her telling us how thankful she was that her father died in a place with such kind, wonderful people. She was right, though. He died in one of the most amazing places in the world, and with that, I think she found a bit of peace she’d needed for nearly fifty years.
A View of Soller From the Top
Filed under Adventures, Close to the Heart
Another recent adventure some of you may have already heard about: my trip to Philly.
It’s safe to say I LOVE-d it. My friend Courtney and I took a bus to Philly 2 Fridays ago after work. From NYC, Philly is only a 2-hour ride, and Terry Gross made the trip feel like minutes. I convinced Courtney to stay in a hostel which was one of the larger successes of the trip in my opinion. I was surprised she wasn’t trying to double-book us a room at the Hilton. Courtney has become one of my best friends in New York, but our differences never cease to show themselves; it is a wonderful thing.
The hostel was excellent. To our surprise, it was a 5 minute walk from where the bus had dropped us off. It was across from a nightclub–which we thought was hilarious until we wanted to sleep. Note to self: falling asleep to the muffled sounds of rap music is incredibly disenchanting. Luckily, it became a joke and not an issue.
I will try to hit the highlights from here. Friday night, almost immediately upon our arrival, we threw down on some Philly Cheesesteaks–one of man’s greatest accomplishments besides getting an astronaut on the moon. It’s up there.
Well played, Philadelphia.
YUM. After that round of deliciousness, we headed to a nearby pub and met some crazy folk from Jersey. Entertaining to say the least.
On Saturday, I was committed to being a tourist. We went to Independence Hall, saw the Liberty Bell, went by the Betsy Ross house and ate the most delicious meal of our lives.
This guy would go gay for Ben Franklin. Not joking.
awesome mural.
Betsy Ross house
There she is.
RIP
Me & Courtney
Philly
That was Saturday. A full day of walking around and enjoying every bit of it.
On Sunday we saw another side of Philly. Our first stop: Eastern State Penitentiary. It’s one of the oldest prisons in the country and is now a U.S. National Historic Landmark. It’s famous for a few reasons: it’s considered to be the world’s first, true penitentiary, its tales of escape (in 1945, 12 inmates managed to dig an undiscovered 97-foot tunnel under the prison wall to freedom), and its famous (or infamous) prisoners.
Al Capone's cell
After taking a chilly but thorough tour of the prison, we headed to our last stop for the weekend. It was quite possibly my favorite one: Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens. I included a link with additional details, but basically it’s an area full of mosaics in the middle of the city. The place is giant maze. It was truly something to see:
Courtney met a man
It’s hard to capture the size and feeling with photos, but it at least gives some sort of idea. The man who created the Magic Gardens, Isaiah Zagar, turns trash into treasure in the most literal sense. On our walk back to the hostel from the Gardens, we saw another building that he had covered in mosaics. His work is in multiple spots around the city.
That was my last rendezvous on the road before school started. This week was my first of classes. I’m getting back into the swing of things and battling the latest waves of snow. Nineteen inches fell in Central Park today. I got a couple pictures on my trek to the subway this morning:
Snowpocalypse
Snowmageddon
Alright, that’s all I’ve got for now. Write again sooooon.
Filed under Adventures
Silence has taught me a lot lately. First, out of some sense of obligation, I will acknowledge my radio silence in writing. Keeping my academic blog last semester was taxing in all the ways it may not seem. I love to write, I love to tell stories and I love to be creative when doing both. Maintaining that blog made me feel like I was a roach under a size 13 shoe, and all I could do was wait as my demise inched closer. Luckily, it never fully came. Dramatics aside, I felt stifled. It was hard to find the time to write, but it was also hard to find the energy to write well. Instead of posting poor writing and half-hearted tales, I felt it best to wait out the storm. Alas, a break in the clouds.
I’ve had some incredible experiences during this little blogging break, and I want to share one of them while it’s still fresh on my mind.
I went home to Nashville over the holidays, a week spent in my heart’s hometown. One day in particular clouds the memory of the rest but in the best sort of way. I went to visit my grandparents one evening. When I arrived, my grandfather asked me to go take some pictures of the house next door. The house had burned down shortly after Christmas, and all that was left were its skeletal remains still emitting the unmistakable scent of fire. He asked me to take pictures to send to his daughter. I didn’t think twice. I trudged across the yard through the thick, cold air just as it was getting dark. I started to walk up the driveway. The house sat like a bird perched on its stoop. Everything stood still. Then there was silence:
It looked like the set of a horror movie. Everything was affected by the fire: the van that sat under the porch, the windows that had blown apart, and the ground covered in a gritty, black blanket of soot. I crept behind the house like I was sneaking around a crime scene. I found the back door wide open and walked inside. Ninety degrees to my left, the house stood untouched. Ninety degrees to my right, the house was no longer. I snapped some pictures of the gutted interior and marched back to my grandparents’ house with an odd feeling rolling around in my stomach.
When I got back to their house, I described exactly what I’d seen. Then my grandfather told me he had built that house. He had raised his children in that house. Everything immediately made sense.
I’ve often asked myself: If someone were to break into my house tonight and steal one thing, what would I want them to have the least? There aren’t too many things I’d ever be happy to lose, but there are things I could deal with better than others. At one point, my immediate answer may have been photographs, but with technology allowing you to keep nearly every memory carefully cataloged on the internet, pictures might not be so bad after all.
A merciless fire, ignited by the misfortune of circumstance, is harder to understand. Having something intangible take both physical and emotional pieces from you seems like a much more bitter pill to swallow. Of course, human loss will always trump any other sort of earthly loss imaginable. What’s second? Maybe this comes pretty close. Either way, I know that house burning down yanked on my grandfather’s heartstrings. Every time he drives by it I’m sure he’ll feel the pull again.
As one of the biggest supporters of both my blog and my writing, I thought it might be nice to write about something important to him, however bittersweet it may be. Love you, Dude.
Filed under Close to the Heart
Hello, dear blog readers:
As you may very well know, school and work have both begun, and I am busier than ever. Consequently, I have had little free time and my blog has been put on the back burner. I hope that won’t be the case for too long.
One of the classes I’m taking is focused on social media, and we are required to blog once a week. I had to start a new blog for the class, and you can read my thoughts here if you’d like. Since it’s an academic blog, most of the posts are related to public relations or social media (Disclaimer: it might be a snoozer for some.)
In the meantime, I hope to update this blog as regularly as possible. Also, please feel free to e-mail me at any time. I’m always having to check my e-mail for school/work, so chances are I’ll get back to you much quicker that way.
More to come…soon!
Filed under Poor explanations
Yesterday I took the ferry from Manhattan to New Jersey where Tommy picked me up and we set off for the Jersey Shore (Point Pleasant if you want specifics).
For those of you who don’t know, Tommy was a huge help to me while I lived in Knoxville and helped me find my apartment when I moved to New York. He has saved my life a double-digit number of times and always came to my rescue when I had apartment “issues” in Knoxville. (A few examples include creepy crawlers moving in, a washing machine that wanted to share all its water with my bathroom floor, and my closet that spontaneously self-destructed while I was at work.) He has a son my age who just graduated from college, too, so it’s fun to combine forces and hang together.
The shore was a 45 minute drive or so from where the Ferry dropped me off. On the way there, I was trying to imagine what exactly the beach and people would look like. Was it going to be anything like the TV show that has made the Jersey shore famous for its guidos and booze-crazed youth? Was I going to see girls pulling each others’ hair or maybe even tan, burly guys getting into fist fights over nothing? Unfortunately, (or fortunately I suppose), I didn’t see anything like that.
A few things that did surprise me:
Thinking about it now, if I had to describe the Jersey beaches to someone who has never been, I’d tell them that they’re an absolute combination of southern beach landscape combined with Las Vegas casino-style atmosphere.
Tommy and I sat in the sun and enjoyed our fresh-squeezed OJ and vodka drinks while watching people act like nut cases. There’s something about booze, heat and bright sunshine that make people act like they’ve been drinking for 6 months straight no matter how long they’ve been at the beach. The weather was excellent, though; temperatures were in the 80′s but the breeze off the ocean kept me from ever breaking a sweat.
I snapped a few pictures while we were at the beach. (I downloaded a new app to my iPhone that gives a retro effect to these photos. I’m lovin’ it.)
After a few hours of taking everything in and watching some live music, we headed to Lavallette, NJ, where Tommy’s brother lives. We met up with Tommy’s son, his nephew and a bunch of other family members there. Just like Tommy, all the men sound and look like they are original cast members of the Sopranos. If you’re not wearing a gold chain and smoking a Cuban cigar, you can forget it. I hung with Tommy’s son and nephew and watched Entourage while the brothers fired up the grill. An hour later there was a feast to be reckoned with: burgers, potatoes, mozzarella & tomato sandwiches, grilled chicken, cherry pie, etc. The works.
So we ate delicious food, sat and talked on the front porch and eventually got tired and decided to head out. Tommy drove me back into the city and dropped me off in Times Square to catch the train and I headed home.
It was good to see a face from home and eat home cooked food.
Tomorrow I start school and work both so I’ve spent today lounging around and trying to do as little as possible since I know that soon my days of napping and reading books for leisure will be out of the question…
Filed under Adventures
