I’ve strolled the paseo in Estepona, visited the Prado in Madrid and hiked around the Alcazaba in Malaga. I’ve been in the presence of dead saints, seen monasteries with not a wall uncovered by artwork and met local government officials in Romania (didn’t you know I was a famous American writer?). I even made a pilgrimage to Bran castle and ate grilled chicken with roasted plums at Count Dracula Club in Bucharest.
Three weeks of meeting people, seeing places and taking in the local colors, flavors and smells.
The blues and greens of the Mediterranean sea. The bright reds and blues of the painted monasteries. The browns, yellows and greens of grasses, crops and forests.
The thick, pudding-like texture of Spanish chocolate. The buttery smoothness of potato tortilla. The harsh slap of tuica and the fruity lull of afinata.
The waffle-like smell of fresh cooked churros. The faintly dusty and musty scent of old churches. The light musk of crazy Luci the rat-dog.
It is all so much and yet, not quite enough. I could have stayed there longer. But, alas, we must all come back home to reality.
I’ll be sharing my thoughts and experiences with you a little at a time over the next several weeks. I hope you enjoy the vicarious experience as much as I enjoyed the real one.