Saturdays in Arure

*decides to restart blog* *writes and uploads post* *promptly stops any blog-related activity for almost two months*

Woof. Yeah, it's been a while. Coming back to the island and re-settling into the culture, work environment, and daily routine has consumed my time and energy, leaving me with a lot of thoughts and not much time to sit down and write them out. This also happened to me last year as a new arrival, of course, but a key difference was that I was seeing it all with new eyes and felt much more of a call to record it in some formal manner. I also had lived a lot less life at that point, and didn't have the feeling that writing casually was somehow betraying all of the deeper things that deserve to be brought to the light, too. Literally every time I've tried to start a post, I write one mega-paragraph about the swirling cocktail of emotions and thoughts in my head and why it's so damn hard for me to write about them, and then I get tired and/or distracted, and step away for long enough that the cycle begins again.

So I am CUTTING myself OFF here, and forcing myself to write about something inane and beautiful!

A couple of weeks ago, fueled by boredom and a touch of claustrophobia, I decided I'd hop on the guagua (bus) to visit Arure, the town at the top of the valley. It's a 15-20 minute ride up, which is about all I can stomach these days. After one too many 1.5 hour bus rides to the capital last year, I've decided I'm no longer willing to put myself through the hairpin turns and mountain switchbacks unless absolutely necessary. Now I wake up earlier and spend the extra euros for a boat ticket, and save myself the nausea. Worth it.

(taken while extremely nauseated)

I came to know Arure last year in October when my dear Fulbright/soul friend Sarah came to visit from Tenerife. I was already wary of the bus, and didn't want to put us through a long ride prior to a hike, but definitely wanted to show her the incredibly varied landscape of the island, and what it looked like from atop the cliffs that tower over my town. So we braided our hair, hopped on the bus, and got off with no plans other than to eat at a restaurant known for its comida típica. 

This was really only my third time venturing into the "interior" of the island, and my first time visiting a pueblo, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. When we stepped off the bus, we were taken aback by the silence, which was punctuated only by goat bells and the occasional raven calling.

As we walked up the narrow street, Sarah spotted a tree loaded with ripe figs, and we stared at it longingly, wondering how we could get a taste. We must have looked pretty desperate, because an old woman appeared on the rooftop across the street, and yelled "¡¡CÓJANLOS, CÓJANLOS!!" ("Take them! Take them!"). She motioned for us to climb the stairs next to the tree for better access, and we began picking. I had never had a real fig before (yep, just Fig Newtons), so I had no idea what I was in for. But the minute I tasted my first, I almost cried. They are so delicious! We loaded our stomachs and then our backpacks, and as we picked, a parade of goats ran down the street below us, bells clanging. To this day, I think it was one of my favorite moments of the grant year.

With what little room we had left in our stomachs, we ate a delicious cheese-heavy meal, and continued wandering around.

At the edge of town, we had spotted something that looked like a bridge, and wanted to investigate. On our way over, we saw signs for a mirador (lookout point/vista), and started half-running out of excitement. Turns out the bridge was just an aqueduct, but as we crossed under it and looked ahead, we both teared up as the view took the breath from our lungs.

Most lookout points are beautiful, sure, but I swear on my life I've never seen one as incredible as this. On the left, a sharp razorback cliff juts forward, mirrored by a slightly softer cliff on the right. Between the two is a green valley which holds the town of Taguluche. The buildings of Taguluche are just sprinkled down the valley, surrounded by palm groves and a road that looks like a fallen ribbon. At the bottom, the ocean crashes dramatically against the basalt cliffs, leaving stains of white foam on the deep blue water. On the horizon, puffy white clouds buffer the dark blue masses of La Gomera's neighbors La Palma and El Hierro. The air smells of sweet juniper, and sound of goat bells is accompanied by kestrels calling and the distant roar of the ocean. As if it didn't already have my heart, Arure took it and ran.

So, in my second year on La Gomera, I've resolved to get up here a lot more frequently. October is prime time because the weather is still sure to be good (in "winter" it can be very blustery and even cold and rainy), and the figs are ripe for the picking. On my first trip up this year, I snagged a couple from trees in town, but felt weird doing it without the permission of a benevolent abuela, even though all of the trees are loaded down and the ripe fruits are bursting open and falling to the ground because no locals eat them. So I focused my energy on taking a hike up into the laurel forest, which marks the beginning of Parque Nacional Garajonay. When my best friend Elizabeth came to visit back in March, we took a similar route and had an excellent time until I received very bad news about my dad's outlook, at which point everything came crashing down. I'll be honest: taking this route again brought back a lot of traumatic memories, but it felt good to retrace the beautiful trail in a stable frame of mind. It just feels so good to get into green woods from time to time--as much as the ocean calls me, the woods are really where I feel most at home.

Mysterious berries--if you know what these are PLEASE TELL ME

After a couple hours of hiking through the silent, misty, decently spooky forest, I popped out into the sun and decided to take a side road back into town. It was, of course, gorgeous and peaceful, and gave me some awesome vistas that reminded me a bit of North Dakota (but with, ya know, the ocean).

As I was strolling along, a sweet smell flooded my nose, and I whirled around. A FIG TREE! In the middle of nowhere! Oh baby, this was the jackpot!! Unfortunately, most of the figs were still little and green, but I found a few ripe ones and memorized the location for my return.

So, of course, yesterday I found myself in Arure again, having given my precious fruits two weeks to ripen. I went up with two goals: to eat figs and to find a shady place where I could finally write. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I made tracks for the tree in town across from the nice lady's house. I lingered for a few minutes and stared longingly, but alas, she did not appear to bless me. Well, that's okay! I practically ran up the hill to the side road, and as I was on my way to my oasis tree, I caught the scent of another more hedge-like tree that had somehow evaded detection last time. So I pulled on my fig-picking pants and filled a container with them, then did the same just a few hundred meters up the road at the original tree. I could not possibly describe how good they taste, especially when eaten in the blue-sky sunshine and sweet breeze. Just imagine the best thing you've ever tasted, but better.

After a very successful harvest, I slowly made my way back down to the mirador for a final sensory indulgence. I took one of those paths across the landscape that is clearly not meant to be a path, but where enough people have uncertainly made their way in the same direction that it kind of is a path. I scared up a bunch of common quail and watched kestrels and ravens glide overhead as the town sprawled out below me. I finally made it to the overlook and found a shady corner where I wrote undisturbed for an hour. These days feel like a balm, like exactly what I've been needing. I can't wait to have more.

Riddle me this, riddle me that. Watch out girls, the blog is back!

Well, what do you know? Here I am, one year after the creation of this blog, blowing the dust off the URL. I’m sitting in a window seat with no one next to me on my flight back over to Europe, feeling much calmer and more comfortable than the 2018 version of myself ever did. I’ve found a favorite long-haul airline (TAP Air Portugal!!), I know exactly how to get where I’m going, and I’m doing the trip in about half the time it originally took me. There’s a pink and purple sunset outside my window, and the girl sitting behind me finally finished her bag of cheese puffs. Life is good. 

After losing my dad and grandma in terrible ways within the span of two months, my world narrowed to a pinpoint. Going to work and taking care of my basic needs felt like enough to consume every last bit of my time and energy, as so much was being expended in the background by grief and processing. The only people I could bring myself to really talk to were my mom, brother, and boyfriend. All of the rest of my thoughts and feelings stayed inside, weighing me down like sandbags. I stopped writing altogether, preferring instead to consume media that didn’t pertain to any aspect of my life. Escapism. 

Although it sounds really sad, and it was, I didn’t fall into a seven-month bout of depression like book characters do after they lose a loved one. There were still good moments and I still felt some happiness. I think one of the biggest misconceptions I had about grief is that it absolutely consumes you. Don’t get me wrong, it definitely can in spurts—but beyond that, it’s just not that constant. Life isn’t painted exclusively in bright colors before a loss and only in dark colors after. So one tip I’d give you if you’re interacting with someone who’s grieving: don’t project your preconceived sad narrative onto them. Sensitivity is nice, but pity… not so much. 

This summer really helped me. I mean it really helped me. I was back in my nest at home in Ohio, and my mom did everything in her power to ensure I felt loved and safe and comforted. She cooked my favorite meals, planted and nurtured my favorite garden flowers, and even welcomed this wild, smelly dog into our family just so I’d have a friend. (okay, that's not really why, but sometimes it feels like it) 

I got to relax and regroup, I went to therapy, and I also went on a lot of adventures in places like West Virginia, Bermuda, and Chicago. Hiking, kayaking, swimming, zip lining, snorkeling, cliff jumping, spelunking, deep dishing, jet skiing, and white water rafting, just to name a few. 

And now, I'm returning to my beloved Canary Island for another year, now with a recharged battery, a sense of purpose, and someone there to leave the light on for me. Funny how things can change in a year. 

This year, I'm the Culture & Pedagogy Mentor for the 32 new grantees coming to Canarias for Fulbright's second year in the archipelago. I've spent much of the summer researching this wonderful place to put together an all-purpose regional guide for Fulbright, and hope to ground truth my findings by visiting each one this year. I've been really trying to avoid sounding like a nerdy camp counselor, but I'm just so excited for this new cohort to arrive in their new island digs, and hope they end up loving it as much as I do. I have a feeling it won't be too difficult! 

Onward. 

The Other Side

Well, folks… We’ve arrived. Four and a half months ago, when my dad got one of the worst cancer diagnoses out there, I tried to imagine this moment: life post-death. I had a few misconceptions: one, I didn’t think it would arrive so quickly. Two, I focused too much on the death part and forgot that life goes on. But bad news turned worse, worser, and worst, until finally even the bad news was more forgiving than the actual progression of events. It was kind of like the classic cartoon montage of a character first falling through an attic floor, then through the next floor, and then unexpectedly through 10 more floors. I’ve been using this metaphor for months now, and it’s still the most accurate one I can find to describe how it feels to have a loved one with terminal cancer. 

And now we’re here in the cartoon basement, which is terrible because it’s sad and scary and lonely, but slightly comforting in an odd way because at least you know you can’t fall any further. A week and a half has passed since my dad shed his meat suit (his words, not mine), and I still don’t know how to picture a world without him in it. To me, it feels like Bill Thompson III the public figure has died—not my dad. Reading the flood of tributes online, I feel somewhat detached. They don’t really make me cry like you might expect. I guess it’s because they’re mourning just a part of the person I knew. Even my sweet mama accidentally fell into this trap—when she sent me the draft obituary full of his accomplishments to look over, I felt I had to add a paragraph about how much he loved things like the Pirates and grilling. These were the somewhat less spectacular but nonetheless wonderful things that rounded out who my dad was.

My dad was a visionary. That man had so many ideas it made my head spin. If you were anywhere close to him, you were destined to get caught up in his creative tornado at some point. Many people are aware of his brainchildren such as the podcast This Birding Life, as well as various Bird Watcher’s Digest events and associated acts. But many never knew he had dreams of installing a pond on our dry ridge top to round out the bird checklists with some waterfowl. He was always planning something, whether it be a music party, a birding outing, or what to grill for dinner. Every weekend we were all home together, he cajoled Liam and me into some grand project like cutting up a felled tree, building a sweat lodge, or going deep into the woods to cook burgers and beans over a hot fire. From an astrological perspective, he was a sensitive Pisces dreamer with an Aquarius persistence, intellect, and worldview—a powerful combination.  

The man knew how to have fun. And he chased it constantly. Obviously, music and birding were two major outlets, but he also loved playing just about any sport or game. Liam and I spent so many endless summer evenings with him in the yard, rotating between whiffle ball, frisbee, basketball, bocce, and more, as swallows chattered on the telephone wire and my mom tried not to get hit. In winter, he was always game to go sledding, and GOD help you if you became his target in a snowball fight. He was also amazing at darts and was the NYC Metro League champion one year, a legacy I am now trying to live up to in the bars on La Gomera. Sometimes we’d go outside with one of his rifles and practice our aim on some old fruit, beer cans, or a stale gingerbread house (you know, Ohio things). There was always a Heineken nearby. 

Travel. Boy, did he love to travel. I think passing along his ability to get up and go and make friends anywhere in the world is one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me. He sparked my wonder by bringing back “surprises” from any trip he went on—beautiful handcrafted earrings, unique toys, fun candies. As I started to venture out into the world little by little, he equipped me with everything I could possibly need, from outlet converters to binoculars. Before I left, he always assured me that if I ever needed him, he would jump right on a plane, and send one of his countless birding friends to help me out in the meantime. Anywhere I told him I was going, he presented me with the contacts of multiple people who would care for me as their own. He’d developed this network effortlessly, just by being himself and genuinely engaging wherever he went. As I prepared last August for my biggest journey yet, he was there with me throughout my panic about moving to a tiny island, and (correctly) assured me it would be absolutely amazing as he expertly packed my suitcase. Any possible problem had a solution when my dad was there. 

The Pirates. This wouldn’t be a proper impromptu eulogy if I didn’t mention this man’s undying love for his hard-luck team. I signed on as a fan when I was 12 or 13, much to his delight. He was convinced it all started back in the mid-90’s when he’d give me my bottle and rock me to sleep on his chest while the Bucs played in the background. Together, we watched the Pirates finally break their 19-year losing streak in a manner not unlike watching a baby giraffe struggle to take its first steps. We had the highest highs—chanting while floating back across the Clemente Bridge after an amazing win—and some really low lows, like when the Bucs slid from playoff contenders to basement dwellers in a couple of consecutive Augusts. Now, when I watch or listen to baseball, I know exactly what my dad would be saying (or rather, yelling): “THAT WAS A HANGING CURVEBALL!” “C’MON!” “How could you swing at that?!” “I could be a commentator.” “LAROCHE, YOU BUM!!!!!” At the last Pirates game we attended together, he managed to do something of which he’d always dreamt: he caught a home run ball on the fly. Made it on TV and got a shoutout on multiple networks and everything. Unfortunately, it was tainted with Cardinal victory, but he was so triumphant it didn’t matter. As we walked out of the park, countless people congratulated him after seeing us on the jumbotron. At his request, I am now the proud owner of the ball. 

I can’t say I planned to write something like this, but es lo que me salió. I miss my dad so much already, and will spend the rest of my life doing so, but I am so incredibly grateful for the 22+ years we spent together and the fact that we got a chance to actually say goodbye. That was the hardest and strangest thing I’ve ever done, but I know that so many people lose loved ones without ever getting the closure of thanking them and hugging them one last time. His life was far too short to live out all his dreams and execute all his plans, but then again, 100 years more still wouldn’t have been enough. 

I’ll leave you with some of his typical wisdom that became a mantra for me. He knew we shared the same tightly-wound and restless mind, and told me a version of this almost every time we spoke. 

“Don’t fret. Almost every problem is a small one. Let them pass, confront them head on, just don’t let them consume you. Worry 80% less.”

Workin’ on it, Daddy. 

La Calima

Contrary to popular belief, living in the Canary Islands isn't all sunshine and rainbows. Well, maybe 98% of the time it is, but certainly not 100%. One of the few less-than-ideal situations that plagues the archipelago from time to time is none other than la calima: a hot and dusty wind blowing from the Sahara directly to your front door. Close your windows and don't even THINK about putting your laundry out to dry unless you want it to end up plastered in dust and/or in the Atlantic.

Where I live, calima is a relatively infrequent visitor that stops by once every month or two just to remind everyone just how close we are to Africa. Here in Valle Gran Rey, it's about 250 miles. But the easternmost point of Canarias is closer to Africa than Cuba is to Florida. While calima is just a colega to me, it's a true [en]amiga of my friends on the eastern islands.

For most canarios, calima is just a minor annoyance. But I always get a little worked up thinking about our first encounter. I was flying back to the islands after Fulbright orientation in Madrid. I was exhausted, and was really looking forward to resting and settling down in such a beautiful setting. As we neared Tenerife, I glued myself to the window... but all I saw was haze. Uh oh... I had read about calima before leaving the States and was relatively prepared, but wasn't expecting her to be on my welcoming committee. Upon deplaning, I noticed my nose stuffed up immediately. This didn't bother me much until I drifted off to sleep in my sweet friend Nelli's apartment, and woke up in a panic 40 minutes later because I couldn't breathe. I looked out the windows and saw the neighboring buildings cloaked in haze. I then proceeded to have the closest thing I've (thankfully) ever experienced to an asthma attack, which was most likely just an anxiety attack with a stuffed up nose. I called my mom and dad and frantically texted my brother and best friend, and eventually calmed down enough to sleep again. But the grudge was fully in place. 

ugh!!

Lately I've been trying to be more perceptive of colors. The past few days I've taken my journal along to watch the sunset, and attempt to put the flash-in-the-pan colors I see into words. One night I was writing about the glass blues and greens and pinks of backlit waves, and the next:

"Today everything is metallic and steely. Calima hides the vivid colors behind its dusty back, settling over the valley like a lethargic cat. I see mostly gray blues and blue grays, but directly in front me there's also a pearly almost-gold. It's like if you made beige shine. All the valley has this hue thanks to the haze. It sits atop the gunmetal of the waves like a glaze, dimpled by capillaries and interrupted by foam. The foam itself looks like white fabric that was accidentally put in the wash with a new pair of jeans; there's a subtle blue hue that just won't let go. The sun, meanwhile, hangs tired in the sky, ready for this blustery day-that-sort-of-wasn't to be done."

As I finish writing this post, calima has mostly blown away, and the bright blue sky is back. I'd love a cleansing rain to rinse off the thin layer of dust stuck to (literally) everything, but that's a pipe dream. For now, I'll just breathe freely and deeply.

_________________________________

I'm back on the island now and away from my family. But here's a beautiful personal update from my dad: https://www.caringbridge.org/visit/bt3updates