Cuatro mujeres y un mar... ¿Hace falta un hombre? (Bernarda Alba not included)

Ah, back from the land of sun, sand, and sea... and ready to write about it in a timely fashion for once.  This weekend, Ángeles, her friend María, María's daughter Sara, and I all drove to Gandía, a lovely town on the Mediterranean near Valencia.  Interesting historical note: Gandía was the dukedom of the Borgia (originally Borja) family.  The notables of this family include Alfonso Borgia (aka Pope Callixtus III), Rodrigo Borgia (aka Pope Alexander VI), Cesare Borgia, and Lucrezia Borgia.  The scenery en route looks a little like Jurassic Park (complete with the occasional parasail- unfortunately not pictured- for those who have seen the 3rd one):

María's family has a seaside apartment with a gorgeous view.  This was my "room" (really a terrace) for the trip:

And the view(s):

The hotel next door was apparently rebuilt recently to resemble a boat.  I can sort of see it.  This is what I like to wear on my balcony too:

The old man and the sea indeed.  Seriously, though, as soon as I hit the senior citizen mark, I'll rock my spanx in public as well.  After arriving late Fri. night, Sat. morning we hit the platja (that's Valencian (a dialect of Catalan) for playa, or beach. Yes, like Galicia, the Comunitat Valenciana has it's own language).  Let's just say that this beach was a bit different than Lake Superior.  Other than the warmth and salinity of the water, look what I found:

Every time I went swimming, I was somewhat terrified of getting stung by one of these suckers.  All the algae in the water didn't help, either.  Whenever a tendril of plant matter wrapped around me (pretty much constantly), I was convinced it was a jellyfish, and I saw enough of them washed up on the beach for my worry to be legitimate.  However, I went swimming anyway.  Another difference: there are actually people here, and we apparently came in the "off" season.  Thus, the beaches are packed from my point of view and empty from that of the Spaniards.

María is the friend from the party who speaks a little English and tries to make sure I understand everything that's going on.  I appreciate it because, while I usually can understand now if someone directly addresses me, dialogue is another thing entirely.  Sometimes, I can follow along well and even participate in the conversation.  Other times, I have no clue what anyone is saying and just kind of nod and smile and try to listen harder.  It's really easy to zone out, though.  It's funny- sometimes I forget what language is being spoken.  This can be good or bad, depending.  Sometimes, if I get into a conversation, I forget to try to understand and generally understand a lot better.  Then, if I reflect on the conversation later, I remember the gist of what was said in English instead of Spanish.  For example, I remember that María said about her earrings, "Oh, you like them?  One of my friends made them," when I complemented her on them (brightly colored snails- very me), but I can't remember what the words were in Spanish.  Obviously, I could translate that in my head and have an approximation, but the point is that I remember things in English still.  On a related note, María asked me something this morning and I was expecting her to speak in English for some reason.  I sat there and stared blankly at her while trying to process why I couldn't make sense of what she was saying.  I had to remind myself to listen for Spanish.  Oddly enough, the opposite sometimes occurs if someone inserts English words into conversation.  Generally, if I don't think about it, it doesn't matter.  Ironically, it's when I try the hardest that I do the worst.  I've started thinking in Spanglish.  For the most part, my thoughts are in English, but sometimes I stop myself and realize that they've been in Spanish for awhile.  They're rather like the half-and-half ice cream cone at dairy queen.  Lets say the vanilla is English (because you always get more vanilla.  Always), and the chocolate is Spanish.  When the machine turns on, I seem to press the middle lever a lot, and it comes out something like: "If we're going 100 km per hour and there's 200 km to Toledo, volvemos en dos horas, mas o menos."  Or, "She asked if I enjoyed the weekend, o algo así."  Whenever I think about writing this blog, I start to work out how I would say things in Spanish before I realize that I can just say whatever I want in English.  What freedom of expression!  I never realized before how many ways there are of saying the same thing, what nuances and humor and double meanings are evident to a native speaker.  I'm learning, though, and that's key.

Sat. night, we went to see a movie, Lope, about the early life of Lope de Vega.  One of the most important figures in Siglo de Oro Baroque literature, one of the best dramatists of the Western world, and author of some 5,000 works, including poems, novels, and plays, de Vega could be said to be the Shakespeare of Spain.  He helped define Spanish theatre and is considered one of the best lyric poets in the Spanish language.  The movie itself was pretty decent, and I followed along well.  What parts of the dialogue I missed were filled in by context.  I'm pretty sure there was more salt in my popcorn than in the sea, though, and I could literally feel my tongue shriveling like a worm in the sun for the last half hour or so.  

Sun, we returned to the beach for a last hurrah, then headed back home.  A comment on the beaches in Spain: tops are optional.  Due to my painfully obvious tan lines, I was a bit self-conscious at first (the skin under my swimsuit is a color I like to call "Boo Radley white"), but when I saw Kitty Kat below (and many others like her), I figured I was all right.

I had a wonderful picture of Ángeles sleeping on the beach, but I told her I wouldn't put it on here.  ¡Qué lástima!