Ibiza - paseo maritimo

Excerpt from a unfinished story

Talia had no idea what she would be getting into when she boarded her airplane in Tel Aviv, destination Ibiza, one of the southern most islands of the Balearic archipelago. She was going to visit her mother who had lived there for the last five years, since separating from Talia’s father and whom she had not seen in about two.

After going through the rigorous security check points in Ben Gurion Airport, Talia was happy to sit back in her narrow seat and watch the Mediterranean below here as she flew practically from one point of that sea to the other. After a brief stop-over in Barcelona, the plane continued on the last fifty minutes of its journey, turning back on itself and approaching the runway on Ibiza from the sea, passing over the Salinas, salt lakes, to land between the soft, feminine hills that covered a large part of the island. Talia had spent part of her childhood on the neighboring island, Formentera, and as the plane hit the runway she was overcome by memories and a nostalgia so strong she could almost smell it.

Talia’s mother, Shiran, was at the airport to meet her. A woman of almost sixty, she could have been ten years younger and was very striking. People often asked whether Talia and she were sisters. They both had long, almost black hair and were of approximately the same height, about 5’6”.

“Talia!” Shiran shrieked when she saw her.

“Mama!” Talia answered. They embraced and Shiran took one of Talia’s bags. They headed outside into the June heat, the air humid and soft on their faces. Soon they were seated in Shiran’s Seat Marbella and Talia was gazing out of the window, taking in the rolling hills and arid fields full of goats, sheep, vines and olive trees. So much of the landscape reminded her of Israel, and but Ibiza seemed somehow softer, friendlier, and yet with a certain untamed feeling about it. The Carthaginians, the first people to inhabit the island, had done so in 654 B.C.E. and had called Ibiza and Formentera the Pituisas, “the pine-covered ones”. It was a name still in use with the locals, and still pertinent to the enormous amount of pines and sabinas that grew on the islands.

After following a long windy unpaved driveway, Shiran pulled up outside an old house with blue shutters. As she and Talia climbed out of the car Talia took in the white plaster farmhouse with the large porch covered in red geraniums, and the spectacular view. The rock that Talia treasured, Es Vedra, looked as magical as it always had and for a moment neither of the women spoke.

“This view gets me every time.” Talia finally said.

“Me too,” Shiran agreed. “And I see it every day.”

Shiran led her daughter through the house to the guest bedroom, a sparsely furnished room with a window overlooking Es Vedra.

“Would you like to take a little siesta?” Shiran asked. “Or are you hungry? We are going to meet Aharon later for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry right now and would like to sleep a little.” Talia said, setting down her bags in a corner of the room.

Shiran left her to rest and Talia stood for a while looking out of the window at the view before going to lie down on the bed. She soundly and when she emerged from her room a good hour later, she found her mother sitting on the veranda reading a book a sipping a cup of tea.

When Talia appeared she looked up and smiled.

“How did you sleep?” Shiran asked. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Like a log.” Talia answered, also with a smile. “And yes please.”

Shiran left to get Talia’s tea and Talia sat down at the table on the veranda. She looked to see what book Shiran was reading and was not surprised to see it was a self-help book. It was practically all her mother had read since her divorce. Talia’s father had already remarried, but Shiran seemed to be having a difficult time finding someone. She had dated many men, all of them with lots of baggage, and Talia felt bad for her, and in some strange way, responsible.

When Shiran came back with a steaming cup of tea Talia thanked her and set it down on the table to cool a little. Then she said she was going to go for a little walk and would be back in five minutes.

Shiran snorted.

“No doubt to smoke. What a disgusting habit.”

Talia ignored her and strolled off to disappear amongst the rosemary bushes. Soon she felt alone in the world, the wind caressing her face with warm fingers, the view dominating her senses. She lit up a cigarette and was overcome by the sensation that something life-changing was going to happen to her on her stay in Ibiza. It was hard to say whether the feeling came from some real anticipation or if it was just the fact that her setting had changed, from the familiar streets of Tel Aviv to this paradisiacal island.

When she returned to join her mother she sat down and took a sip of her tea.

“It is really beautiful here.” She said.

Shiran smiled broadly.

“Isn’t it?” She answered. “Every day I wonder what I have done to deserve this.”

They drank their tea in companionable silence and eventually they both headed inside to change for dinner. They were meeting Aharon, and old Israeli friend of Shiran’s, for dinner at a restaurant in D’Alt Vila, the old, historical section of Ibiza town.

Shiran dressed in a tight, short black dress, Talia in jeans and a white sleeveless t-shirt. Both wore their long dark hair loose, Shiran’s just below shoulder length, Talia’s half way down her back.

“Is anybody else joining us, our just Aharon?” Talia asked as the sped towards Ibiza in Shiran’s car.

“It was Aharon’s invitation, so I’m not sure who else will be there, but I am fairly certain we won’t be the only ones. He likes a crowd.”

Dusk was falling as they parked the car near the entrance of D’Alt Vila and commenced the steep climb on foot. The cobble-stoned street led them through a stone arch-way into the magical old city, all stone and shadows. Lighting was used to dramatize the effect of traveling back in time and it was hard for Talia not to be enchanted by the narrow cobbled streets and ancient whitewashed buildings with cast iron balconies. The streets were punctuated by potted plants, many red geraniums, and restaurants and shops were plentiful. They were meeting Aharon at Can den Parra, a restaurant specializing in Ibicencan cuisine.

Earlier that same day Tamir Laor woke late in his hotel room at the Montesol. A girl lay beside him and he regarded her without emotion. They had had a good time the night before but now, frankly, he wished she weren’t there. He went to the bathroom and had a shower, then dressed in khaki slacks and a navy t-shirt, buckled the brown leather belt and picked up his wallet and cell phone. The girl woke up and looked at him with sleepy eyes.

“Good morning.” Tamir said. “I’m going out. Please leave the key at the reception when you leave.”

The girl nodded and said nothing. Disappointment made its way into her eyes. Tamir was tall and dark, very good-looking and a little intimidating to her this morning, although the night before he had been attentive and fun.

Tamir shut the door behind him and descended down into the street. The Vara del Rey was already a busy hub of tourists and he strode down the wide street to a bar to get a much needed cup of coffee. He picked up a copy of the Spanish paper El Pais and sat reading it while he drank his cup of café con leche. His cell phone rang and he answered it with a curt “hallo.” It was his friend Aharon.

“Good morning, Tamir.” Aharon said in Hebrew.

“Boker tov, Aharon.” Tamir answered with a smile in his voice.

“How are you this morning?”

“I’m fine. What’s up?”

“I wanted to invite you to dinner tonight. I’m meeting some old friends and I wanted you to join us at Can den Parra. Can you make it?”

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”

“Seven-thirty. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then. Bye.” Tamir closed his phone and continued to read the paper. When he had read as much as he wanted he got up and strolled in a leisurely fashion to his rental car which was parked in a street off the Vara del Rey.

Roman Bridge, Cordoba

prologue of "Torero"

I crossed the Plaza de España towards Puente Nuevo, and made my way to the terrace of the Parador, where I ordered a glass of white wine. It was early evening and the sky was the color of nectarines. The white buildings on the other side of the Tajo, which looked like they were sculpted into the cliff-face, were bathed in a pink hue. The scent of jasmine and the murmur of subdued conversations around me lulled me into a sense of contentment despite my inner turmoil.

As I sipped my glass of cold house wine I allowed myself to think about my upcoming departure. I had grown up in Madrid but had spent many summers visiting my abuela, grandmother, here in Ronda and now my visit was drawing to an end. I closed my eyes for a moment and allowed myself to think of Francisco. I thought of his slender, graceful body which moved like a dancer’s, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. I thought of how he seemed slighter when he stood in front of the huge aurochs-like bulls, the toros de lidia which he faced on an almost daily basis. I thought about that smile that he seemed to have only for me and the way his face lit up when he saw me. I pictured the intense restlessness that overtook him before a corrida, a bullfight, and the total calm that replaced it as soon as he walked into the ring. I thought of all these things and felt a small knot form itself in my stomach.

I took another sip of my wine, the glass dripping condensation, and glanced towards the people crossing the Puente Nuevo. It was tourist season so there was quite a throng, but I had no trouble making out Francisco’s loose limbed body striding towards me with that quiet physical confidence that he possessed. As he got closer to my table I saw he had that special smile on his face.

“Hola gaupa,” he said quietly, standing in front of me. “Hello, beautiful.”

“Hola,” I answered, looking into his eyes.

“Care if I join you?” he asked, with his soft Andalusian lisp.

“Please,” I said, waving my hand towards an empty chair. He pulled it out and sat down, making even this mundane movement seem like a dance form.

“What time does your flight leave on Sunday?” he inquired

“4.00pm out of Jerez de la Frontera,” I answered.

“I’ll drive you to the airport,” he volunteered.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised. “I thought you would want to take it easy after your fight on Ubrique on Saturday.”

“Driving you to the airport is hardly strenuous exercise,” Francisco smiled.

“Will you be coming to the fight?” he added casually.

I didn’t answer. Seeing him in a bullfight was a bizarre mixture of torture and ecstasy. It was terrifying to see him face such enormously powerful and dangerous animals and yet it was exquisite to watch his grace and courage. His mastery over the massive animals was something I did not tire of observing. But due in part to superstition, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see it the day before I left.

Pensicola, Valencia

Jerusalem

Tishrei - a poem

Stones the colour of amber

Steps and wall and trees.

Narrow, secretive streets

That climb and twist

Descend and return.

Getting lost in the market

Amidst bright fruit stalls

And little shops with spices;

Wood and metal and silk,

Silence and sudden voices.

David's Tower and Jaffa Gate,

Sunlight and shadow.

Cafes and bottles of water;

The heat and the smells.

A thousand rays of light.

It's all a part of you:

You are no stranger here.

From the Sinai to Jerusalem

You travelled forty years

And now you will remain.

Istanbul

Another bleary eyed morning. Went to bed late because I was enjoying the peace after I put Raquel to bed, and here we are, at six o'clock in the morning...It is great to get all the comments on Facebook. Thanks, everyone! I was reminded of my (business) trip to Turkey this morning when I was talking to my father. I fell in love with Istanbul. I must have been about 27 at the time. I found the people to be unbelievably friendly and hospitable. The traffic was insane though. We were going down a one way street at one point only to be nearly annihilated by another car coming towards us at top speed IN REVERSE! I also remember the food being delicious and watching belly dancers at a restaurant with truly spectacular views of the city, the Galata Tower. Then we went gambling one night in a rather seedy casino and I remember winning although I have no idea how much because I wasn't familiar with the currency at all. Good times!

Ray Bradbury quote

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." Ray Bradbury

Matador

Babysitter here

You've got to love it: nearly sent the babysitter home early because of the constant screaming of "I want to sleep! I don't want to play!" until half an hour before Lauren (the babysitter) was to leavEe when peace suddenly reigned. Only to be broken again when Lauren's mum came to pick her up. "I want Lauren to play with me! I don't want her to leave!"

Now my little angel is sleeping and I still can't write because my husband is giving me a running commentary about Barcelona having won the Champions League...

El Tajo de Ronda

The day I started my blog

The babysitter is here so that I can work on my book (working title "Torero") but my daughter Raquel is tired and is not playing nice. She keeps screaming at her poor babysitter whose style must be cramped by the fact that both my husband and I are home. The latter is watching the Champions league so I thought this might be a good time to start a blog - can't really concentrate on my story. Plus I've just hit an awkward part: the bullfight. How much of it should I describe? I want to draw people into the experience but I am afraid to bore them. A dilemma.