American Rodeo

One of the greatest benefits of world travel is that it helps you recognize and appreciate what you have at home.
 
I can distinctly remember the feeling I had 24 years ago when I returned to Utah after living in Spain for two years. We drove down State Street in Salt Lake City and I felt like I was in a ghost town. It wasn't for the lack of people that lived there, but because the streets were wide, the buildings low, and everything spread out. In Spain all the buildings were at least five-stories tall, streets narrow, and everything crammed together. For the first time I appreciated the space we had in our humble state of Utah.
 
Other things came to mind that suddenly felt unique to my corner of the world: dutch-oven potatoes, homemade root beer, bugling elk, the scent of sage brush, and the dusty competition of rodeo.
 
Rodeos can be found all across the state, from the Cache Valley to Dixie. I will admit that I wasn't raised going to rodeos. In fact, I didn't attend my first rodeo until after I was married. But it only took once to hook me.
 

Rodeo can be very dangerous.  This cowboy was dragged across the arena during the bareback competition when his hand became caught in the handle.

Last night my wife and I attended The Great American Stampede, a rodeo in my home town. There's a certain feeling that can be felt just walking into the arena. Horse trailers are scattered along the back side of the parking. Steers are being herded into stalls. Men and women wear tight jeans and cowboy hats. The scent of hamburgers and horse manure waft through the air.
 
We sat on the back row of the bleachers next to a woman from Jensen, Utah who was quilting a blanket. Jensen is a small town in the Uintah Basin and I've noticed that a lot of these young cowboys come from podunk farm towns. She asked if went go to the rodeo often. When we said that we try to go once a year, she responded that she goes once a week. Her daughter attends Colorado Northwestern Community College and was competing in Breakaway Roping.
 

The steers wait their turn.

We've never been personally involved in rodeo competition. The closest we got was one year when we entered our 8-year old daughter, Kaitlyn, into the mutton-busting event. To qualify you must weigh 65 pounds or less. They put a helmet on the poor little kids, then put them atop a fat, woolly sheep. The kid holds on for dear life while the sheep takes off like a bullet out of the chute. The longer you ride, the better your score. Kaitlyn didn't score too high.
 
From what I gather, very few mothers want their sons to go into rodeo. They pick up disgusting habits, the pay is low, and it is very dangerous. I've listened to enough Chris LeDoux songs to know this is true. They live out of their car, spend all their time on the road chasing a dream, and become so physically broken down that it takes a toll on family life (or so say the songs).
 

It's bulls and blood, it's dust and mud . . .

The very first rider last night proved that point. It was the bareback riding event. Horse and rider came out of the chute, the cowboy digging his spurs into the neck of the horse and the horse kicking high. When the rider succumbed to the jolting and tossing, he flew in the air, but his right hand became trapped in his handle and for the next five minutes he was dragged twice around the arena like a helpless rag doll. Two other men on horses were finally able to stop the wild bronc and get the hand untied. The poor cowboy limped across the dirt in a lot of pain, holding his arm like it was a piece of meat.
 
In addition to the cowboys and cowgirls, there are a lot a personalities during the evening. The announcer is the one who sets the tone and can get the crowd riled up. The clown pitches in with his antics. The clown also has additional skills with barrels and bulls. And of course, there is the rodeo queen and royalty. Later in the evening we saw the queen on the front row signing autographs for kids.
 

The many faces of rodeo.

Your typical rodeo includes bareback riding, breakaway roping, tie-down roping, saddle bronc riding, steer wrestling, goat tying for the women, team roping, barrel racing, and bull riding. But sometimes it's the stuff in between that gives it extra flavor. Last night we enjoyed a trick rider who twisted and twirled like a pole dancer, but on a speeding horse. And then there was the mutton-busting. I couldn't help but to think of Kaitlyn. I think I've figured out the secret to a long ride. If you straddle the sheep backwards, lay on your belly, grab the wool, and lock your feet around the sheep's neck, then you can stay on pretty well.
 

A young girl competes in the mutton-busting event.

And the winner is . . .

Saddle bronc is probably my favorite competition. It is similar to the bareback. Even though there is a saddle to sit upon and stirrups for the feet, there is no horn to grab. Instead, all the rider has is a loose rope. Therefore he must be an expert in the balance and rhythm of the horse. Last night we watched as one saddle bronc rider was bucked upside down into the air and landed straight on his head. Pretty bad. The injury put the cowboy writhing on the ground for several minutes. At last he got up and walked away.
 

A cowboy successfully binds a calf in the tie-down roping competition.

Perhaps the most iconic event in rodeo is bull riding. It is certainly the most dangerous. In some aspects, it is slightly disappointing. First of all, the riders are required to wear helmets, at least on the college level. This detracts from the cowboy image. Second, the bulls never make it far from the chute, unlike the horses, who seem to go bucking all across the arena. This makes the action more distant. Then, when you couple this with darkness, it makes photography quite difficult. 

Having said this, bull riding is nothing short of spectacular.  Anyone willing to ride a three-quarter-ton angry bull has a stroke of bravery that I will never have.  The goal of bull riding is to stay on the animal for eight seconds holding onto the flank strap with only one hand.  The bull is the most difficult mount of all rodeo animals.  He is the heaviest, and the only one with horns.  It is the only one that will try charging the cowboy after he has bucked him off.  Hats off to anyone who has the courage to attempt such a feat.  The bull riding event is the perfect finale to any rodeo.

During one of the breaks the announcer walked onto the dirt and drew raffle tickets from a jar. They handed out several twenty dollar bills and tickets to a John Michael Montgomery concert. He read the name and city of each winner. All were local except for one, a man from London, England. I don't know this guy from Adam, but my guess is that he was a tourist visiting the area and saw a poster advertising the rodeo. Good for him! I think far too many people come to our beautiful neck of the woods only to go to the National Parks and take in the beauty of Mother Nature. That's fine to a degree, but in my opinion, to obtain a deeper understanding of the culture, you must get off the far too-beaten tourist trail. ♠

Bull riding is the most dangerous event in rodeo.

Lone Rock

I laid down on the sand and let the waves break on my feet and run up my legs and to the pit of my arms. The sand slithered up the small of my back and down the curves of my shoulders. The sun blared across my chest, warming it quickly, but never able to conquer the splashes of water that constantly sprayed from the waves. These were not ocean waves, but lake waves that constantly rolled in as boats hurried past.
 
I closed my eyes and listened. The ripples of water broke on the shore. Jet skis and motor boats hummed past. My daughters splashed and played in the water. Next to us a group of sunbathers spoke French. Someone blasted hard rock, and “Turn up the Radio” rang across the beach. Suddenly a man spoke to me and I was brought from my reverie. “Would you like to move?” he asked.
 
“What was that?” I responded, opening my eyes.
 
“Would you like to move so we don't hit you with our boat?”
 
I looked up and saw a white motorboat with blue stripes faced in my direction. Of course, I moved.
 
They pulled the boat forward and fastened a rope from the nose to a peg that had been pounded into the ground. The boat joined a long line of jet skis, kayaks, paddle-boards, and swimmers that already lined the shore. This in addition to the tents, canopies, trucks, and R.V.'s a little bit further ashore. This is about what I expected on a hot summer's day at Lone Rock.
 

Earlier Savanah and I took the kayaks and paddled across the bay. We passed the buoys and left the din of the shore, but not the revving hum of the jet boats. When we saw them coming we would rest our paddles and let them pass and then bob up and down as the wake of the water passed beneath us. Then we continued our paddle across the blue waters until we reached the other side.
 
The sand there was softer and I sank to my ankles when I pulled the vessels ashore. We walked in our bare feet over hot rocks and up a solid hillock to a low promontory. From here we could see the long line of people and machines that stretched along the opposite side of the bay. We didn't stay long and paddled back across the bay.
 

We cooked hot dogs and corn on the cob over a propane grill while we watched the orange hues of dusk over the rocks of the lake. We sat in camp chairs and talked and enjoyed the warm breeze and talked about coming again next year.
 

Now night had fallen. Campfires dotted the shoreline. Generators buzzed. Country music blared over the speakers. A dozen different conversations mingled together. Lanterns illuminated card tables. Children played with glow sticks. One camp had Christmas lights. The stars fought hard to punch through the smoky sky, yet Mars shined like a beacon in the south.
 
Our family had laid out a tarp and tonight we slept under the stars. We laid on our bags and felt the warm air and listened to music.
 

About midnight the wind began to pick up. Fine grains of sand sprayed in my face and I covered my head with my bag. I could hear waves crushing on the shore and imagined the boats being tossed like toys.
 
Jenelle was the first to move to the tent, then Kaitlyn followed suit. Savanah joined them while Jenna and I hunkered down outside. Every time I peeked out my bag I was sprayed again with sand.
 
Outside I could hear busy campers fastening tents and securing items that might blow away.
 
At last we gave in also. Jenna and I looked at each other and decided it was time. We tossed our sleeping bags in the tent and in a whipping wind we folded the tarp and felt the sand as it blew with the wind. I looked above at the sky and found it full of stars.
 
I nestled down inside the tent and now enjoyed the howling of the wind outside. Our neighbors behind were still playing their music and I wished they would have turned it off. None of us slept much.
 

When morning came, Jenna poked her head inside the tent. She called me, but the rest of her words faded with the morning fog inside my head. But I knew what she wanted.
 
I climbed out of the tent and found Jenna sitting in a chair on the shore watching the skyline. The large orange disc of the sun had just crested the sandstone cliffs. A long coral streak reflected across the water. Everything was soft. No boats. Barely anyone awake. We watched in awe as the light bid morning to Lone Rock. ♠

Carcassonne Cemetery

Cité de Carcassonne is a fortified citadel that stands upon a hill in southern France. The intact walls and conical towers are reminiscent of Disney. Within the walls are a maze of medieval streets and shops and a castle. Just outside the walls there is a drawbridge, a river, vineyards, and one other thing that caught my attention—a cemetery.
 

Anyone who knows me knows that I love cemeteries. Lately, it seems, I can't pass one up—especially when I'm in France. There are other cemeteries in Carcassonne, particularly in the newer part of town, that are much bigger than this one. But being next to a medieval fortress makes this one unique.
 

Cimetière de la Cité is located on the southeast corner, nearly abutting the old walls. We exited the city through the Porte Narbonnaise and the cemetery was right there. Considering that Carcassonne receives thousands of visitors every day, the cemetery goes largely unvisited.
 

The cemetery is not very big, perhaps four-hundred by two-hundred feet. And the graves are not very old. I expected to find graves dating back hundreds of years, but the earliest burial I found dated to the early 1900's.
 

We wandered through the graveled lanes and slowly observed the rows of mausoleums and memorials. Each plot seemed to hold several family members, maybe four or five. Small trinkets and pictures and flowers were placed atop the stone tombs. The headstones were unique in design, featuring crosses and angels.
 

I don't know much about the history of this cemetery. For me it was a solemn experience to spend half an hour walking among the graves and reflecting upon those who passed on. ♠

Narbonne, France

My first impression of Narbonne: It is a city of character. The old quarter is narrow and winding, with surprising off-shoots. Some streets begin as mere arches in the wall. Most of the buildings are a variation of old white, cracking façades, and some are shrouded with sprawling vines. Old wooden shutters cover the windows, while others are decorated with iron-railed balconies, reminiscent of Paris. Every turns brings something new, something unique.
 
The drivers are all crazy. I once about got hit. They drive very fast, and if they brake, it is suddenly. There are lots of Middle Eastern people. We ate at a kebab shop. Also, there are Middle Eastern meat and pastry shops. The people dress nicer than we do in America. No t-shirts for the women, but nice blouses and a pair of jeans. They like to smoke, and it is fashionable.
 

Place de l'Hôtel de ville is the most lively place to watch people, but also holds the largest draw for tourists. Along the canal, sitting on the wall, are groups of school kids lounging and goofing off. Walking along the streets, one has always got to be vigilant not to hit pedestrians, people walking their dogs, bikers, or cars.
 
It is interesting that everything closes early. By 8 pm in the Place de l'Hôtel de ville all the restaurants are locked up and chairs stacked away. One night we were out at 10 pm walking down a street that would normally be busy with people, and it looked like it was two in the morning, or that it had been abandoned. This was odd having come from Spain where it seems that the streets are just as lively at night as in the day.  
 

View from atop tower at Archbishop's Palace.

Narbonne is unlikely to make anyone's top ten list of cities they must see in France. We came because it is near to the Spanish border, and because I like to explore cities that haven't been overrun by tourists. Narbonne seems to fit the bill.
 
Colonia Narbo Martius was a city in the Roman Empire. Located at an important crossroads of the Via Domitia and the Via Aquitania, it ushered traffic between Italy, Spain, and the Atlantic Ocean.
 
Julius Caesar attempted to improve the navigability of the Aude River, which connected Narbonne to the sea. This made it a prosperous port city.
 

Passage de l'Ancre.

In medieval days the construction of a magnificent Gothic cathedral had begun. The decision was made by Pope Clement IV, and it was to be one of the tallest cathedrals in all of France. The choir was completed in 1322, but the rest of the building was never finished.
 
The city of Narbonne had a change in luck when the Aude River changed its course in the 14th century. Continual silting of the navigational access affected the depth of the waterway so that communication between the port and city was unreliable. Also, Narbonne was hit strongly by The Plague, and suffered from a raid by Edward, The Black Prince. All this together sent Narbonne into a decline from which it never recovered.
 
Now days the cathedral stands as an icon of the city, but it is stunted in size, only a dwarf of a cathedral. The choir, side chapels, sacristy, and courtyard all remain intact, but a stone wall abruptly slices the building in half. Perhaps that makes the visit easier as it is not as overwhelming as many other cathedrals. It is a beautiful structure on the inside. A small, but interesting detail that I noticed was a bas-relief of several men (perhaps bishops) with their heads seemingly bludgeoned off. I asked a lady who worked there and she explained that it had something to do with the revolution. Also, I found some graffiti from 1828. I get the feeling that because the cathedral was unfinished, it was also unprotected for many, perhaps hundreds of years.
 

Cathedral of Saints Justus and Pastor.  Construction began in 1264, but it was never completed.

Bas-relief in the cathedral with vandalized heads.

On our final day in Narbonne, we made sure to catch the morning market in a building known as Les Halles. This is a large indoor market, no different than others in Europe, that serves a large variety of fresh produce. The smell of raw meat and fish was everywhere. Stall after stall sold olives, cheese, bread, fresh fruit, and vegetables. We found a booth selling prepared goods.  Kaitlyn ordered a panini and I a pastry with spinach, onions, and eggplant. We ate outside along the canal.
 

Les Halles Market.

One sight I wanted to see was the Archbishop's Palace. It wasn't so much for the palace itself, but for the view from the top of the tower. After a climb of 162 steps, the panorama from the tower is probably the best in the city. The stubby, but towering cathedral is just a rocks-throw away. Below is the terracotta tiled roof of the palace. The Place de l'Hôtel de ville has a symmetrical look from overhead. It is laid out in a rectangle with the Via Domitia in the center, and tables set out on either end. The people walking past appear as small as bugs. The Canal de la Robine slices through the city, stretching into the distance with a green canopy of trees overstretching the waters.
 

Bird's eye view of Place de l'Hôtel de ville.  A remnant of the Via Domitia, an old Roman road, lies in the center.

I found the palace itself intriguing. It is split into two sections, old and new. Rather than a re-creation of what the palace may have looked like, it is more of a museum. The old section holds several Roman artifacts from antiquity, while the new palace is a gallery of paintings. I especially enjoyed a room that had an Oriental theme, which included many North African paintings from days when France enjoyed enclaves in that region of the world.
 

Gallery in the Archbishop's Palace.

We spent a couple hours just wandering around town. We had no particular place to go, but went where our fancy led us. We sat down on a bench to drink a soda. Four old ladies sat across from us. Then a Middle-eastern man started hitting on Kaitlyn, so we decided it was time to pack up and leave.
 

Four young ladies relaxing in Narbonne.

We visited the Basilica of Saint Paul, the oldest church in the city. The church is beautiful, but quite frankly, it blends together with all the other churches in Europe. Although one thing set this one apart. There was an old man tending the church, and in mangled French I asked him if there was a crypt. A big smile came to his face as he nodded his head and lead us to an inconspicuous door where he pulled out keys and we stepped down a flight of stone stairs to the crypt.
 
This was a paleo-Christian cemetery from the third century. I believe the church was either built on top of the cemetery, or the tombs were moved to the crypt after the city was built on top of the cemetery. Either way, it is very old. He left us alone in the underground stone room. The crypt was filled with stone tombs and large vessels or jars. I'm not sure that there were bodies in the stone boxes because there were gaps under the lids and the tombs looked empty. Some of them had intricate engravings on them. Bodies or no bodies, it was a fascinating place to visit.
 

Crypt at Basilica of Saint Paul.

Basilica of Saint Paul.

We wandered around the narrow streets of the old section for another hour and found a small shop where I ordered a panini and Kaitlyn a crepe. We eventually found ourselves back in the center of town and next to the Canal de la Robine.
 
We weren't planning on it, but decided to take a boat ride along the canal. It was a new experience for both of us and I didn't know what to expect.
 
After the decline of Narbonne with the silting of the river, a major work began to create a canal that would maintain access to the sea. The result was the Canal de la Robine. Nowadays I don't know that it is used much to transport goods from the sea, but primarily for leisurely escapes upon the water.
 
We paid €10 each for a one-hour ride. We joined a boat with passengers from France, Spain, and England. Music from the twenties played lightly before we embarked.
 

Boat docked along Canal de la Robine.

The boat immediately passes below the Pont des Marchands, a pedestrian bridge that is more of a building than a bridge, with merchandise outlets above the canal. Then it passes into a lock. I had heard of these, but had never seen one in action. This is the mechanism to raise or lower a vessel to a new canal level.
 
As we entered a chamber, the lower gates behind us closed. A lady jumped out of the boat onto the quay and fastened a thick rope to a snubbing post to secure the vessel. Then the chamber began to swell with water. Slowly, but fast enough to be perceptible, the boat began to rise. I watched the brick walls of the chamber as the water level rose higher and higher. When the level of the water became level with the upper canal, the rope was released from the snubbing post and the upper gates were opened and we continued forward.
 

Our ride was very relaxing. There were no major landmarks. We passed beneath several more bridges and watched people from the banks of the canal. Many smiled and waved. From the balcony of her flat, an old lady lounged in a chair, watching the canal. Docked boats lined the side of the water, each of them unique in character. Most were old. I saw bicycles tied to many of them. Almost all were empty, although I noticed a few boats had people inside cooking a meal or enjoying a glass of wine. It appeared to me that people treat these vessels as house-boats and choose to pass their afternoon with it.
 
The sun made its way toward the western horizon and all was peaceful on the canal. We found ourselves removed from the bustle of traffic and floating through a sleepy tunnel of trees. This was my final impression of Narbonne. ♠

A Day Among Old Friends

Enric stood in the soft rain next to the door of the church. He saw us coming, then took a second glance when our eyes met. I smiled and quickened my step and when we met Enric embraced me. “¿Cómo estáis amigos?”
 
I hadn't seen the Moreta family in 17 years. Kaitlyn was just a baby and we left her home with Grandma. I met Teo, Enric, and their daughter, Marta, 24 years ago during a 2-year church mission in Spain. I had kept loose contact with them through postcards, letters, and e-mails.
 
With pride that could be typical of a Catalán I introduced my daughter, “Esta es mi hija, Kaitlyn.”
 
With a light rain still falling we walked to the car of Enric and drove a few blocks to Teo's store called El Repunt. In addition to selling keys, she is a seamstress who repairs clothing and upholstery.
 
Enric unlocked and lifted a grilled gate, then unlatched the door inside. Teo sat at a sewing machine and immediately stood up when she saw us. “Oh, John,” she said in Castilian Spanish. “You haven't changed a bit! You are still very skinny.” She came right up to my face and gave me a kiss on both cheeks.
 

Soon we were back in the car and on our way from Girona to Palamós. Kaitlyn and I sat in the back seat and for much of an hour I talked to my old friends. For people in their sixties, they looked very healthy. Other than the fact that their hair was dyed jet black, they both appeared the same as they had 24 years ago.
 
Enric asked if we had been in the cloister of the Cathedral. He said one of his ancestors from the Mascot family is buried there. When I heard this I became excited to share that one of my great-great-great. . . . . grandpas, Ramón Berenguer II, is buried in the Cathedral also, but in the nave.
 
Teo reminded us that she was from Andalusia—from Granada. While we drove she played a C.D. of a local gerundense musical group, and sung along and clapped her hands.
 
In typical European fashion, there was nothing smooth about our ride. We made sharp turns, abrupt stops, and twirled on roundabouts. Kaitlyn, being sensitive to motion sickness, became very “mareada.”—but she survived.
 
Northern Catalunya is a very green place. Hills that are wooded with pine trees spread across the land, with much larger mountains peeking from the distance. Old farm houses with terracotta tiled roofs dot the countryside.
 
When the sea came into view it was a deep blue. We came to Palamós where the grand view opened before us. The long sandy beach abutted a sea filled with sail boats and a large cruise liner. We walked the boardwalk until it started to rain, then went to the restaurant where we found Marta and Juan beneath a black umbrella.
 

Marta greeted us with a beso on each cheek, and Juan with a handshake. The daughter of Teo and Enrique had grown since we last saw her. She was tall and slender with long chestnut hair. Juan, her Portuguese boyfriend, I had never met. “João” was his real name, but the Castilian version was much easier to pronounce.
 
I ordered from the menu of the day, eating fish soup for my first course, butifarra and fried potato strips for my second, and bizcocho de naranja for dessert. Teo ordered a pot of steamed mussels for us to share.
 
The conversation at our table was interesting. We spoke three languages. I spoke to them in Castilian. Marta spoke to Kaitlyn and sometimes to me in English. They spoke to each other in Catalán.
 
We spoke of many topics. They perceive Donald Trump as a businessman and clown. He talks of too many things he shouldn't even talk about. Most of all they are very scared because the American President has an extreme amount of world leverage and could create instability on a whim.
 
We talked of food. Marta has traveled to the U.S. Many times and gave us her opinion on American cuisine—we have too many sauces, much of the food is greasy, and everything is loaded with sugar.
 
As the conversation drew on, my Spanish became worse. Perhaps my tongue was tired of contorting in unfamiliar positions. My ability to understand seemed to slip. I found myself more and more asking, “¿Cómo?” Perhaps my friends were becoming more and more relaxed in their speech and cracking jokes that I didn't catch. I have always had a difficult time understanding Enric anyway, especially with how he pronounces his “L's," which he can't pronounce at all.
 
Marta proved to be the true linguistic queen. She was hesitant to speak in English at first, but in the end was able to articulate several complicated issues. She explained that she is nervous because when she speaks she is telling herself in her head that it doesn't sound right. She took seven years of English in school and has had several opportunities to practice.
 

When we finished our meal it was raining on the boardwalk. Teo forgot to bring an extra umbrella so we drove to another location. Near Calella de Palafrugell the downpour had slowed to a sprinkle. The road winds up a long hill where there is a lighthouse and 2,600-year-old Iberian ruins.
 
From a summit the expansive blue Mediterranean meets the shoreline below us, covered by a rugged declivity of pines. On a clear day one could almost see the Balearic Islands from here. Our view was blocked by heavy gray clouds on the horizon.
 

We descended to the village of Calella and walked the narrow streets that flank the coast. Small fishing vessels were pulled ashore and a rusty anchor leaned against a rock wall for display. On a small promontory walkway the Catalán flag blew hard with the wind. The wet smell of salt and rain filled my lungs. I didn't want to leave.
 
But at last we had to leave Palafrugell and the coast. We traveled a different route than we had the first time. Marta and Juan drove in a separate car. We passed through unfamiliar towns with old buildings. Enric pointed in the direction of a sanctuary where Salvador Dalí married his wife, Gala.  Then with pride he added, "And we were married there, too!"
 

I knew we were back in Girona when the imposing gray walls of the Cathedral came on our left, and the smaller, but very impressive Basilica of Sant Feliu just below it. We flanked Devesa Park and pulled into an underground parking garage on Carrer Remences. We took the elevator to the first floor.
 
The Moreta family lives in a flat near Teo's store and near Devesa Park. Their living quarters are simple, with souvenirs on their shelves from friends or their own travels around the world. Kaitlyn and I sat on a sofa so soft that I wanted to fall asleep.
 

They gave us a glass of water and we spoke of many topics while here. Most of all we talked of the battle for Catalán independence. Teo showed us pictures on her phone of the October referendum election when the Spanish National Police used violence to prevent the Catalán people from voting—images of bloody and battered people. Marta explained that one of the key issues is that Catalunya pays far more in taxes than it receives. The people here are fed up with it. Now the Spanish government has arrested several people connected with the rebellion, accusing them of sedition. The Catalán consider them as political prisoners. Both Marta and Enric emphasized that the Catalán are peaceful people and want to resolve this by non-violent means.
 
After the sun had set, Enric invited us to cenar, or to eat supper. The Spanish eat their largest meal during the day, so the cena is a lighter affair. We found an arrangement of jamón, olives, pork loin, tuna, roasted red peppers, and cheese. Teo made a French omelet.
 

The conversation continued and we talked of Muslim immigration in Spain, and local eating and sleeping habits. They said that the idea of the Spanish siesta is a myth because many don't take a nap during the day. Marta says the company she works for, Nescafé, doesn't observe medio dia because they are owned by the Swiss. But Teo, who owns her own shop, closes down between 1 and 4 pm and can't help but to take an occasional short snooze.
 
At last it was time to leave. Enric handed us two bags of gifts, including three bars of turrón. Teo hugged me tightly, kissed me on both cheeks, and cupped my face in her hands. A tear almost came to my eye as I realized that this could be the last time I saw this family. Then she gave Kaitlyn the same affection. “Will you please give your mother a hug for me?” she asked. I waved goodbye to Teo as the elevator door closed, and I never saw her again.
 
Marta and Enric accompanied us down to the street and the four of us walked on a dark Girona night, under street lamps and through rain-scented air. “Your hotel is not far from here,” Enric assured us.
 
We arrived at the Hotel Condal where I sat down my bags and gave each of them a hug. Words felt inadequate to describe how I felt toward them, but I think they knew I was grateful. One last time I said goodbye.
 
We entered the hotel lobby. “Seiscientos cuatro,” I said. She gave me the key and I told her, “gracias.” We stepped into the lift and went to the sixth floor. ♠

(L-R) Myself, Kaitlyn, Marta, Juan, Teo (Enric taking the photo).