santanyí’s market

Santanyí holds a wonderful market every Wednesday & Saturday; since I usually work on Wednesdays, I try to go on Saturday whenever I’m home (meaning: the few weekends I don’t spend travelling).  I live a 5-minute walk away from the center of town, where I buy my fresh fruits and veggies, snack on bunyols and rubiols, and chat with the people who work at the market stalls.

When my family came at Christmas, I tried to give them all the traditional, “typical” Mallorcan food that I had heard of.  Little did I know, we only scratched the surface.  I have since been discovering more and more delicious food, a lot of it available at the market and the local forns (bakeries).

New favorite breakfast (and anytime) pastry: Rubiols de brossat.  These are sweet, breaded pastries filled with “brossat,” a type of soft, sweet cheese curds.  My favorites are flavored with cinnamon.

Rubiols

Here’s a random picture of somebody eating mató, the
Catalan (from Catalunya) version of brossat, drizzled with honey.

New favorite lunch/dinner/anytime snack: Llonganissa: another yummy kind of sausage, filled with peppercorns.  Spain is big on sausage: when I was visiting Becca in Cáceres, I tried two kinds I’d never heard of before (morcilla and one that started with a p), and I’m sure there are dozens more that have escaped my attention.  My favorite snacking-and-tapas sausage is llonganissa, which is cured, meaning all you have to do to make a fabulous lunch is buy a hunk of extra-cured Mahonés cheese, a loaf of spongy multi-grain bread, a long piece of llonganissa, and a bottle of good red wine, 

Llonganissa

Sa Rota by Bodegas Bordoy:
my new favorite
(pricey: €7!!) wine

Formatge maó; cheese from Mahón, on Menorca

and head for the mountains or the beach to have a picnic.  All of the food items are available at my local market; the beach is a 4K bike ride away, and the mountains are only accessible by car, so I visit them when someone comes to visit me (like Katelyn; we hiked up to the monastery La Trapa and picnicked among the goats).

From left to right: Katelyn snacking with a view over the bay of Sant Elm; shaggy-haired goat

When Melissa and her sister, Sarah, came to visit me this weekend, we of course went to the market, which is starting to get livelier and livelier as summer (and tourist season) approaches.  We sampled all of the amazing cheese from the cheese man and bought honey from the oldest lady at the market, who sells her preserves and produce using an antique balance and a slow, patient way of paying attention to every item and customer.  We bypassed one of my favorite stands—the lady who deep-fries fresh bunyols right before your eyes—because we had already indulged ourselves on rubiols (see above).

Bunyol: typical Mallorcan donut, made with pastry flour, potatoes, lard, and a whole lot of sunflower oil.
Oh, and doused with sugar, of course. 

I usually buy a half-dozen bunyols every week, and munch them as I wander around the market.

The market itself has several different sections: I spend most of my time at the fresh fruit and veggie stands

and at the artisanal cheese and meat stands.

A lot of the local boutiques put out a table on market day, and there are usually several booths selling flowers:

There are also several jewelry stands, stands with kitchen & bath items, tables full of random plastic knickknacks, and tons and TONS of booths selling knock-off sunglasses and leather belts and purses.  Walking through the various booths, you hear all sorts of languages, from Mallorquín to Spanish to German, French, and English, to Arabic and various African languages spoken by some of the sellers.  There is some heckling, but generally, if you take the time to talk to each seller about his or her wares, and be a pleasant, open-minded person, the market is one of the most wonderful, community-oriented events in town.

The market takes up the main square in front of the church, a large square to the north of the church, and several side streets.  The main square looks like this on a sunny day:

And the square on the north of the church looked like this during Sant Antoni (I don't have a decent picture of it in the daytime)

And here's the main square on a cold & rainy market day:

The market is one of my favorite things about living in Santanyí.  That, and the great restaurants: Melissa and Sarah and I went to the Indian restaurant AGAIN this weekend.  DELICIOUS!

friendly faces

Over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten to see lots of familiar faces: on my trip to Germany I visited Ashley, Melissa, and Sarah; Linnaea and Katelyn came to see me in February; I just visited Becca in Cáceres (and we skyped with Nadia—woohoo!!!); Melissa and her sister are coming this weekend; I’m going to Barcelona to hang out with my uncle and cousin next weekend, and then my uncle and cousin are coming to my house the weekend after that.  Phew!  Then I’ve got a one-weekend break (what will I do with myself?) before I head off to Girona to meet up with Joy for 2 weeks of adventuring.

Before launching into future adventures, I wanted to share some of the highlights from my visits with Linnaea, Katelyn, and Becca.

***

Linnaea & I:

·         walked to the beach
·        went to the Indian restaurant just a few blocks from my house (DELICIOUS!)
·         went to Santanyí’s market
·         played speed Scrabble
·         got takeout from the Indian restaurant (DELICIOUS!)
·         went out for coffee & almond cake at my favorite café

From left to right: the Indian restaurant (photo from their website); my speed Scrabble board (because the tiles come from a Catalan version of Scrabble, there are no W's, very few H's and J's, and there are a few extras: Ç, LL, L·L, and NY); Sa Botiga: my favorite German-owned café (photo from their website)

***

Katelyn & I:

·         went to the Indian restaurant (DELICIOUS!)
·         went to Santanyí’s market
·         drove to Talaiotic ruins a few km from my house
·         explored lots of beaches I hadn’t been to before, and went to the southernmost tip of the island (Cap de Ses Salines)
·         drove to the westernmost tip of the island (Sant Elm) and hiked up to the abandoned monastery La Trapa, which was founded by Trappist monks escaping from the French Revolution.

From left to right: remnants of Mallorca's prehistoric Talaiotic culture (the round structure is a talaiot; the square ones were living quarters); neat graffiti on an abandoned urbanització near the beach Es Trenc; view from the westernmost part of Mallorca towards the small island Sa Dragonera; La Trapa (my favorite place to hike in Oregon was at the Trappist Abbey; now my favorite hike in Spain was up to this Trappist monastery!)

***

Becca & I:    

     ·         uf! this is too hard to write w/o complete sentences.

The absolute highlights of this weekend were the great conversations.  It was wonderful to get to know Becca a little better, to meet her friends, to chat with my friend’s friends’ friends’ friends, and to learn more about Spain and Spaniards.  It was a relief for my brain to hear Spanish all around me (instead of Mallorquín), and I loved learning about a completely different region of Spain—if Mallorca is the conservative Florida of Spain, Extremadura is its liberal Wyoming—the state that no one thinks about much, but that really holds some cultural and natural gems.

Mercado de San Miguel, Madrid

Cáceres

Cigüeña

Speed scrabble!

Monumento Natural Los Barruecos

Tetería Árabe in Cáceres

Royal palace; photo from my
December visit to Madrid

Goofy chicas

To visit Becca in Cáceres, the capital of the province of Extremadura, I flew into Madrid late Friday night and had to stay in a hostel, which was, unfortunately, rather dirty and uncomfortable, but I made up for that by roaming around Madrid from about 11pm-1am.  I eventually ended up at the Mercado de San Miguel and bought a glass of rosé and chatted with the bartender.

On Saturday morning, I caught a train to Cáceres, which is about 4 hours from Madrid.  I love trains.  I don’t know about there being rain in Spain on the plain, but the trains in Spain on the plain are fantastic.  Becca met me at the station.  We had coffee and pa amb oli & went to a frutería; satiated, we headed out to explore.


There was a music festival going on in one of the squares, and we met up with some of Becca’s friends to hear flamenco and reggae music.  Becca showed me around the old center of Cáceres and we climbed church towers and listened to the cigüeñas (storks common in Extremadura).  We made some amazing pasta and chocolate chip cookies and played speed Scrabble before crashing for the night. 


The next morning, we went on an excursión with some of Becca’s friends, friends of the friends, and friends of friends of friends.  Our huge group went out to a town near Cáceres and went walking out in the countryside through boulder fields and around small lakes.  


After the long walk, Becca and I napped (I <3 siestas), met up with her conversation partner, drank Moroccan tea, and had a lovely, long conversation.  

In the evening, we skyped with Nadia (definitely a highlight!), and then went to one of Becca’s favorite bars for a couple glasses of wine.


My bus left Cáceres at 1:45am (yuck-yuck) to head back to Madrid, where I arrived at a bleary-eyed 6am.  I made it to the Puerta del Sol, watched the sun rise over the royal palace, ate churros and chocolate in the Plaza Mayor, walked past the Prado and through the Parque del Buen Retiro, and eventually made my way to the airport to fly back.


Unlike my weekends with Linnaea and Katelyn, whom I had visited in November, this was the first time I’d seen Becca in 10 months.  We were never very close friends in college, although we shared a lot of the same friends and we studied abroad together.  Throughout the weekend, we had a lot of good conversations, and I wish my visit hadn’t been so short—she has always been a person I wanted to get to know better, and after about 1 ½ days together, I feel that I know Becca just a little more.  I have the feeling that I’ll be seeing all of these friends again sometime farther down the road, and I’m looking forward to it.

this week’s roundup

Two vignettes & a plea from this week:

***

I tutor my landlady’s kids (a 10-year-old girl & an 8-year-old boy) twice a week in English.  We play games, we sing songs, we review the harder bits of what they’re learning in class, and we talk about whatever they think is interesting.

          After Wednesday’s class we were talking in Spanish, and apropos of nothing, the girl said, “There was a tsunami in China,”

          “Actually, it was in Japan, but close enough,” I said.  “Did you know that there was also a tsunami in Peru?  Any idea why?”

          She shrugged.  “Because it’s close to Japan?”

          “No, Peru is in South America.  On the other side of the world,” I said.  “Anyway, after the huge waves hit Japan, they bounced back and went all the way across the Pacific Ocean and hit Peru.  But, where the waves were 10 meters high in Japan, they were only 1 meter high in South America.”

          “Did it flood?”

          “Well, I suppose if someone had built a house right next to the beach, then yes, it probably flooded a little,”

          “In America, are the houses made of wood?”

          “Well, in North America, yes,”

          “I know the countries of North America!” the boy said.  “The United States…New Zealand…”

          “No, idiot.  New Zealand is in Europe,” his helpful sister shouted.

          He started again: “The United States…Ireland…”

          “Try again,” I said.  “What’s right above the United States?  It’s really cold?”

          “Alaska!”

          “Canada,” I answered.  “And the last one…?  No idea?  Well, it’s Mexico,”

          They both shouted, astonished: “Mexico is a country???”

***

For the past week or so, my roommate's daughter, son-in-law, and grandson have been visiting from Bulgaria, which has turned our normally-tranquil apartment topsy-turvy!  The 2-year-old grandson is, as they say here, a “terremoto” (an “earthquake”).  I´ve learned a few words from him in Bulgarian: “topka” and “adibe” (“ball” and “again”.)  He doesn´t say the word for “again” correctly, though... apparently it´s supposed to be something like “haribe”, but it´s a difficult word for a 2-year-old.  When I take him for a plane ride through the apartment, and he shrieks “Adibe! Adibe!” I understand him pretty well.  I am getting very in tune his shrieking.  :)

On Tuesday, our neighbor, who has a 4-year-old and a 4-month-old, came over for a visit.  Watching my roommate's 2-year-old grandson and the 4-year-old neighbor interact was wonderful. The 4-year-old only speaks Mallorquín, and the 2-year-old only speaks Bulgarian, but they understood each other well enough.  The 2-year-old would shriek, the 4-year-old would laugh, and then they would both start chucking balls and puzzle pieces around the room.  It was great fun.  The 4-year-old was also quite nice to my roommate’s grandson, and gave him the choicest of toy trucks to play with, and kindly let him with my roommate’s AWESOME giant Pilates ball, even though the 4-year-old was eyeing the thing covetously.

They’re leaving tomorrow and our apartment is going to be pretty sad without them.  Well, luckily I’m taking off tomorrow, too, to visit Ms. Becca W. in Cáceres!  No moss growing here…

***

As well as playing with adorable toddlers and teaching two very intelligent but geographically-confused kids, my mind this week has been in Libya.  My friend is coming home to the US today, which is both great and terrible news.  I’m not going to pretend to imagine what it must have been like to leave family behind in an uncertain Benghazi.  What started as jubilant, peaceful protests—a celebration of the people’s freedom of speech and freedom of self-governance—has turned into a civil war, just as Qaddafi’s son threatened so many weeks ago.  The dictator of Libya didn’t stop at sending his own military in to bomb his own, peaceful civilians—he even called in foreign mercenaries to do his dirty work.  Now, the Libyan military is pushing eastward towards Benghazi, and the rebel army that sprang up as a response to Qaddafi’s initial violence is resisting as well as it can.  There are mixed reports: the military is winning control of city after city on its inexorable march towards Benghazi, but the rebels are also pushing back, and meanwhile, the US hems and the UN haws.  The UN is planning on voting today on whether or not to use airstrikes on Qaddafi’s forces to take out the tanks; now that a no-fly zone would be useless, people are talking about imposing a "no-drive zone".   Inside Libya, misinformation is flying everywhere—remember Qaddafi’s declaring that his people loved him, and anyone who didn’t was drinking Nescafé that was spiked by Al Qaeda?  I talked to my friend a few times over the past month, and the stories she told were chilling. I struggle to imagine what it was like, and I don’t think I’ll ever understand.  I try to read as much as the news as possible, but I’m not sure how much I’m actually understanding.  How much can we learn to understand others by sitting at home and scrolling through news stories?  The tiny, skewed window we get into others’ lives as they are interpreted by news corporations is usually nothing close to the real thing.  Even so, that is no excuse not to try to stay informed.  I have no earthly clue what it would be like to live under an oppressive, murderous regime, then to have a few weeks of pure, terrifying hope, and to now wait in fear for bloody reprisals--but I'm trying to at least follow the plot line, even if I don't understand the characters.

If there’s one video that you should watch that explains what the waiting is like in Benghazi, waiting for the military to attack, it’s this one. 

Update: while I was typing this, the BBC reported that Benghazi is now being bombed.  Pray, please, pray.

for your listening pleasure

Catalonia (Cataluña in Spanish; Catalunya in Catalan—the province of which Barcelona is the capital, and the origin of the language with which I struggle daily) has a great music scene.  Here are a few beautiful videos, straight from my YouTube to yours.

Enjoy! Què ho gaudeixis!

(and an apology for my rather choppy translations.)

***

Cançó: Un Tros de Fang

Artista: Mishima

A piece of clay

You don't know how you make me feel

like a puppet out of its box

so small and insignificant

a piece of clay in your hands

You don't know how you make me feel

like an idiot who counts lost time

between "I'll see you" and "Today, I can’t"...

You don’t know how to recognize

the gold in me—it looks like tin to you

I’m getting wrinkles and I’m rusting

What’s sweet to me tastes bitter to you

and to keep the nonsense going,

what burned us yesterday is drowning me today.

***

Cançó: Boomerang

Artista: Manel 

Boomerang

Our long-bearded uncle arrived, our grandparents made special food, and he said, “Boys, you’re getting tan,” and he said, “You’ve grown at least a hand-span.” 

Ignasi and I listened, a thousand adventures of far-off countries, and they were good and entertaining, but it was difficult to forget how his strange gift flew over the neighborhood.

We situated ourselves below, a prudent distance away from the ladies who were tanning and from the parked cars.  We studied the air currents,  we wiped the sweat off our hands.

But the boomerang ran aground among the tree branches and never came back.  But the boomerang needed the skill of a professional.

And all the rest came down, with Vanessa—oh, Vanessa, how should it go for her?—and they ate seeds and jeered from the bench.

Until, bored with the spectacle, Xavi, who was older, came down.  “Let me try, get back; let me try, you bunch of know-it-alls…this is a wrist, what it wants is a good arm game.”

And, gentlemen, it’s as good to insist as it is to know when to withdraw.  And I don’t know about Ignasi, but in my case I can recognize that it hurt to see the thing get more interesting in Vanessa’s eyes.

But the boomerang ran aground among the tree branches and never came back.  But the boomerang needed the skill of a professional.

But speaking of time, I think that was the July that Indurain melted, and we cursed the Dane and the climb up to Hautacam.

The years, anyway, have made us like men, and even though neither of us has procreated, I keep thinking of alternatives in case it never happens.

And in this world, between my heights, there won’t ever be the details, but I’ll make an effort, and one gift I’ll abstain from giving—that childhood be fun, magical, free, ok, agreed.  But there isn’t any time to loose, and, sooner or later, only one truth remains.

The boomerang ran aground among the tree branches and never came back.  The boomerang needed the skill of a professional.

And, Vanessa, if you hear this, a very big hug.

***

Cançó: A Vegades

Artista: Els Amics del Arte

Sometimes

I’m sorry if I go to sleep to Vent del Plà, I’m so sorry

I’m sorry if I leave hair the shower, I’m so sorry

I’m sorry if I walk through the kitchen you just mopped, I’m so sorry

I’m sorry if I tolerate crudity, I’m so sorry

I would write you a love song,

but nothing I would say would be original—

The Beatles would have already said it in Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

And sometimes birds shit,

And sometimes I love you but I don’t like you,

And sometimes I wonder if you never screw up,

And sometimes I burn the toast—

but that last one, only once in a while,

only once in a while…

I’ll learn to smile at your mother’s house, I’ll learn

I’ll learn to cook that dish that you like, I’ll learn

I’ll learn to change the toilet paper, I’ll learn

I’ll learn to give you a complement, I’ll learn

I would write you a love long…

And sometimes birds shit…

In an Apache Tribe…

***

Cançó: Corro sota la pluja

Artista: Anna Roig i L’ombre de ton chien 

I’m running in the rain

I’m running so I don’t feel that I’ve been still and waiting

I’m running after a dream that I’m not sure is ahead of me

I’m running for the adventure of running after someone

I’m running because of the energy that’s making me come to you

I’m running in the rain after that sweet memory

that maybe you still keep in some corner of your heart

I’m running in the rain because I want to

but if you don’t stop, maybe in the end I’ll think it’s better to leave you with it.

There’s like a whisper that tells you, “Follow him close!”

And another that says, “Go slowly;

it’s better to let someone who’s escaping from you leave,”

But, maybe, if he’s escaping, I can catch him?

I’m running because I’m coming to the place we have to get to,

and to see clearly in your eyes if the memory is still there.

I’m running because it’s going to be time to rest,

and to know if you want to be seen, or if you are really escaping.

I’m running in the rain after that sweet memory

that maybe you still keep in some corner of your heart

I’m running in the rain because I want to

but if you don’t stop, maybe in the end I’ll think it’s better to let you go.

***

And, not that it has anything to do with Catalan music, but just because I LOVE Fleet Foxes and their album is coming out May 1st, I wanted to share their new single with y'all!

Song: Helplessness

Artist: Fleet Foxes

(no video, just click on the link below to hear the mp3)
http://assets4.subpop.com/assets/audio/8475.mp3

chopping legs off of lent

Welcome to Lent!  Countdown to Easter: 6 weeks!  On Friday, the kids got to pull a foot off of the seven-legged Old Lady Lent, who has 7 legs to mark the 7 weeks before Easter—hey, if Germans and German-Americans can have Advent calendars full of chocolate to mark the days, why can’t Mallorcans pull feet off of old ladies? 

Jaia Corema, or “Old Lady Lent,” is a curmudgeonly Mallorcan folk figure, whose history I have been unable to unearth.  I became aware of her existence on Friday when, instead of leading the English class with the 5-year-olds, I was told that we were going to celebrate the first week of Quaresma (Lent) by singing this song:

Sa Jaia Corema

Sa Jaia Corema

ara vindrà

amb unes esgrelles

i un bacallà.

Sa Jaia Corema

set peus té

i cada semana

un n’hi tallaré.

Jaia Corema,

peus petits,

caga en terra

i pixa en es llit.

***

Old Lady Lent

Old Lady Lent

is coming soon

with a grill

and a cod.

Old Lady Lent

has seven feet

and every week

I’ll cut one off.

Old Lady Lent,

who has small feet,

poops on the ground

and pees in bed.

The kids LOVE this song.  They sang the last two lines over and over again, and even mixed it up a little by swapping the words to, “poops in bed and pees on the ground,” followed by gales of laughter.

After the song, the teachers read a story about Jaia Corema (my translated version below), and then the kids got to pull one of the legs off of a paper figure of Jaia Corema.  Each Friday, they get to pull off another leg in anticipation of Easter.  I'm not sure how this tradition started, but the story below illustrates the reason for de-leg-ifying the troublemaking  Old Lady Lent.  Hey, apparently the tradition used to be that when Lent was half over, they would saw a wooden effigy of Jaia Corema in half—I'd say she's getting off pretty easy nowadays.  Only 6 weeks to go!  (5 weeks and 2 days until Easter break, if we’re going to be accurate.)

***

Once there was an old woman named Jaia Corema, or “Old Lady Lent,” who was wrinkled and crotchety and couldn’t stand children.  Jaia Corema lived in a village full of children, and she always grumbled that the children laughed too loudly and were altogether a bother.  Whenever they played too close to her house, she chased them away, shouting and shaking her broom.  There was also a wizard who lived in the village, Xiviu, who was red as an ember, who always told her to leave the children be.  One day, he got tired of warning her to leave the boys and girls alone, and he put a curse on Jaia Corema.  Along with her two long, thin legs, she suddenly grew five more!  The wizard told her that if she became a friend of the village children, he would take away the spell and she would go back to having only two legs.  Jaia Corema promised to be good and Xiviu, who was as red as fire, agreed to lift the spell.  Jaia Corema kept her evil broom hidden and pretended to be nice to the children, and every week, Red Xiviu took away one of her extra legs.  Finally the old lady had just her own two legs, and as soon as Xiviu’s back was turned, she quickly began to chase after the boys and girls with her broom.  The wizard Xiviu, who of course had seen her, was so angry that he took away both of her legs as a punishment for lying to him.  Since then, Jaia Corema has no longer been able to chase after anyone.

feathered deus ex machinas

Today was the parade of sea creatures in our school’s celebration of Carnival, but since I was feeling a little off, I decided not to bike over to the school on my day off to take pictures of the dolphins, octopi, squid, mermaids, and fishermen, as they trooped off to parade through the old folks’ home.  You’ll have to believe that they were pretty darn cute (or, at least, all of the costumes that I put together were).  When I get photos from the other teachers, I’ll post them here.

Instead, I lazed around the apartment, washed the windows (Sofia’s family is coming from Bulgaria on Thursday, so we’ve been giving this place a deep-clean, as well as toddler-proofing it in expectation of her 2-year-old grandson’s energy).  I made Turkish coffee, then American coffee, then thought about studying Catalan, made photo albums on Facebook, commented on other people’s photo albums on Facebook, moseyed around on other people’s blogs… you know how it goes.  The internet is a vortex.  


I then got off my lazy rear and read a little bit, finishing off On Her Majesty's Secret Service.  There's a bookstore in Palma run by an English chap who lets you buy 3 used paperbacks for €10, and if you bring any 3 books back, you get 1 for free.  It's basically a library with inordinately expensive dues and a limited selection; that's how I ended up reading James Bond.  The whole book was a lark.  Read it, if you ever feel like being highly entertained. There is an enormous escape-on-skis scene that has beautiful descriptions of the joy and art of skiing, and hilarious descriptions of Bond's constant inner monologue.  Bond is using all of his moves (which he informs us are called "the Arlberg crouch," "the Sprung-Christiana," "jinking," and "schussing."  Oh, for the glory days of skiing when the skis were terrible and skiers actually had to be good) and Bond is escaping the Bad Guys when he sees a train coming.  "By God, it would just about be passing the train station as he wanted to get across the track!  Could he make it - take a run at the low embankment and clear it and the other lines before the train got there? It was his only hope!" Of course he makes it, but the Bad Guy behind him isn't so lucky.  "...there came a terrible scream from behind him, a loud splintering of wood, and the screech of the train's brakes being applied.  At the same time, the spray from the snow-fan, that had now reached Bond, turned pink!  Bond wiped some of it off his face and looked at it.  His stomach turned.  God!  The man had tried to follow him, had been too late or had missed his jump, and had been caught by the murderous blades of the snow-fan.  Mincemeat!" (On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Ian Fleming, pp.157-158).

from the 1969 movie. Mincemeat!

So, anyway, if you want to laugh to yourself for an hour or two, as well as enjoy the actual tension that Ian Fleming builds, pick up a Bond book from your local Palma bookstore.


***
A month ago, I wrote about BBFLs (best books for life), and have since spent considerable time trawling the blogosphere, amazed at the amount people write about books.  There are blogs dedicated to “to-read” and “best-of” lists, blogs full of snarky reviews, blogs turning a critical eye on the illustrations, blogs serving as self-help sites for self-publication fans, blogs endlessly bemoaning Kindles, Nooks, etc., blogs discussing the _____ (fill in the blank) of anything relating to books, and almost-relating-to-books-but-only-if-you-get-the-literary-reference-mentioned-in-my-last-blog blogs.  The more the merrier, I say!  Hey, if people aren’t reading books, at least they’re reading blogs, right?  Or at least writing them.

***

For your perusal: a few beautiful book-related blogs, which led me to more book-related sites, which are definitely worth checking out if you live on a Mediterranean island, you work 12 hours a week, and the frigid temperatures (below 60ºF) dissuade you from going to the beach:

#1 site you must check out: http://www.booksidoneread.com/  wonderful book reviews (“reading books so you don’t have to”) on a wide range of books, from historical tomes to classics to YA fic and chick-lit. Recently focused on Daphne du Maurier and her modern spawn.

#2: Ron Charles from the Washington Post as created a podcast persona: he’s the “Totally Hip Book Reviewer” and he periodically posts videos.  Check out this one on Moby Dick:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/video/2010/09/22/VI2010092201878.html

#3 A favorite from high school, still worth mentioning here: http://www.rinkworks.com/bookaminute/classics.shtml  When the Cliffs Notes are too wordy, turn to these people for their “ultra-condensed” versions of classics.  A few AWESOME samplers (of books I actually enjoyed in their full form, of course):

IF ON A WINTER'S NIGHT A STRANGER by Italo Calvino

You think you're reading a condensation of If On a Winter's Night a Traveler, but you're not.

THE END

THE SUN ALSO RISES by Ernest Hemingway

Stock Hemingway Narrating Character

It was in Europe after the war. We were depressed. We drank a lot. We were still depressed.

THE END

THE COLLECTED WORKS of E. E. Cummings

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**They also have ultra-condensed sci-fi/fantasy classics, of which the following are beautiful in both their shortened and unabridged forms:

THE ANDROMEDA STRAIN by Michael Crichton

Scientists

A deadly virus that turns blood into a fine powder has been brought to Earth by a fallen space probe. We must contain the area and study the virus in our impenetrable fortress-like laboratory.

(They do.)

Horror! The virus is loose in our impenetrable, fortress-like laboratory. We are trapped by our own ingenious defenses! We are going to die!

(They don't.)

Oh. The virus has inexplicably mutated into a non-fatal form. It now eats rubber instead of turning blood to powder. We aren't going to die after all.

Reader

COP OUT! COOOOOOOOOP OUT!

THE END

RETURN OF THE KING by J. R. R. Tolkien

Aragorn

We must travel the Paths of the Dead.

Eowyn

You'll die.

(They don't.)

Gandalf

The Hordes of Mordor will destroy Minis Tirith.

(They don't.)

Gandalf

We must attack Mordor. We'll all be killed.

(They aren't.)

Gollum

Mmmm, yummy finger! (dies)

Frodo

The Ring has been destroyed, but now we will die in Mordor.

Sam

Buck up, Master Frodo.

(A bunch of feathered DEUS EX MACHINAS come out of NOWHERE and save EVERYBODY.)

THE END


***
Happy reading!