No, not like that you mental-gutter denizens. I only wish.

No, a happy ending of a different type – involving a pussy. Err... make that a cat. Under different circumstances, I would not be making this post at all, but things have turned out for the best.

Remember back to the cats on a temperate concrete roof? No? Well here it is. I was awakened at Oh Dark Thirty yesterday morning by the most piteous cries. (This being about ten minutes before I naturally wake up. As an aside, I really should try to do something about that. I'm on Permanent Vacation, yet I'm up and going before 0530, if not 0500, every frickin' day. What's up with that?!) I open the bedroom window and look down, and what do I see? Yep, there's a cat down there. Give it some time, and I figured, when the sun comes up, el gato will figure something out and get out. I mean, it's a cat, right?

I ignore the piteous cries and head out for a run, figuring by the time I return, he'll be out and gone. When I return and peer out the window, I'm greeted with an upturned schmoo face and meowing with gusto. (The run was great, thanks for asking!)

What to do? I can't get down to where he is because locked doors, and no access. (Yes, an assumption on my part writing "he." But to be fair we all know it's the males of every species of mammal that are that stupid) I don't know the people who "own" the cats - like anyone actually owns a cat - and, frankly I'm pretty fucking unable to communicate in the native language here.*

​I thought about it for a few minutes and realized I could contact my AirBnB host, and they'll know what to do! So I do. And I hear nothing, except for continued crying from below my window.

I leave, I return. Still nothing. I peer out the window. Yep, el gato is still there.

I leave again. I return. Silence. I can't bear the thought of looking, so I don't. After an hour or so, I'm thinking "It's all good, he's made it out." Immediately, a pitiful yowl. Shit.

I send another message to my host, since the first one was unanswered. I hear nothing back. I'm thinking, "Am I going to have to listen to this poor cat fucking DIE outside my window?!" I debate sending a nasty message to that end to the host if I haven't heard back by morning.

Long about 11:00 I get a message back from Georgio: he's contacted the authorities, and they'll be along the next day to rescue the cat. YAY! I may have been reassured, but el gato hadn't gotten the memo just yet and kept up the noisemaking. So, instead of trying to sleep in the bedroom, I close the door, and turn in on the couch in the living room, with the TV on, so I can't hear his cries. Turns out, the couch is more comfortable than the bed. I think I'll spend the rest of my time in Arrecife on the couch.

After getting up before the dawn, again, I putter around, and head out for a run. It had been silent all morning. Good news? Bad news? Silence isn't necessarily golden in this case. After returning, I finally get up the courage to take a look. I raise the blind, I slide open the window, and I peer down. NO CAT! I don't know if he was rescued or if he figured a way out after thirty-some odd hours, but he was gone. As a result, I can safely make this post, because I'm not facing the horror of listening to a cat slowly die over the course of the next few days. Given other shit going on, I'm latching oh-so-tightly on this bit of positive news like a life preserver in a tsunami.

*The latest Translate App for the iPhone is pretty awesome though. It can translate conversations real time if you've made the languages available offline.

It's the fourth Thursday in November, and anyone in the USA can tell you what that means: too much food, too much American football, and tomorrow being a day of rampant consumerism. What does it mean when an American is outside of the USA? (And Brazil as well, since they also celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday in November.) Let me tell you. Not much.

People are going about their business. The topics of interest around here (and I am guessing, because (a) my language skills are abysmal, and (2) it's difficult to get social) is the forecasted rain for tonight and tomorrow, and then ongoing volcanic eruption a few islands down the archipelago. What's that? You forgot about the volcano? Yeah, most people probably have, but it's still going strong. There are a few YouTube channels (1, 2, 3) dedicated to it that broadcast live, around the clock. I've been checking in on them periodically. When a new tongue of lava reached the ocean a few days ago (mostly captured on feed #2), that was interesting and impressive to watch.

As for the rain, it's supposed to drop about 0.5" (13 mm) before it quits. For a desert island that averages less than 4.5" (109 mm) of rain annually, it's pretty significant to get 10% of the annual total in 24 hours. On the hike Tuesday, Gilles and I passed a stretch of hillside (I'm guessing about an acre or two in size) that had been concreted over to funnel and capture the rain in a large underground cistern. It'd be interesting to see it in action.

How do I feel about spending Thanksgiving on a Spanish island? Mostly the same as I would in the USA: I would usually go for a run, as I did this morning. I would spend most, if not all, of the day alone, as I will be here. I would read, and consume electronic entertainment, as I will here. It seems my life is not significantly impacted by my location. I guess I'm pretty well self-contained, and that condition's been unchanged for years now, for all intents and purposes.

So, another Thanksgiving. Same stuff, same life, different food, different place. At least I won't overeat.

Today was another day on the dirt? cinders? lapilli? rock? all of the above? with Gilles. We did a point to point route from Ye to Haría. I think we did some of the route that I would have taken had I done the race a couple of weeks ago. I heard they held a race, but beats the hell out of me how it was advertised, or people registered. Besides, I was (still am to a slight degree) battling a strained anterior tibialis at the time. I don't think I would have survived.

We had another spectabulous time on the trails. Not quite as alone as last time, but I only saw eight people the whole time we were outside of town in a nearly three hour hike. I'd call that having the trails to ourselves. The craters were great, as usual, but the highlight for me were the cliffs. Leg and weather willing, now that I know the route from Haría, and how to get there by bus, I plan to come back and run a lasso around a crater, taking in the cliffside trail as well.

Gilles told me about this little parasite on the prickly pear cactus. It was the basis for red colors in cosmetics and a lot of other products for many decades. Pops like an overdone bloody pimple. Kind of sticky, like blood, too. It washed off readily when I got back to civilization and took a shower though. Maybe I should have rubbed some on my lips for those come-hither selfies I’m so well known for?

Note that the title is wining, not winning, nor whining (or whinging for any Brits out there). I finally tracked down the local wine that's been recommended to me. Okay, it wasn't difficult, I just had to go to the front display of the wine corner at the HyperDino, to where the local wines were displayed facing the front of the store. It's not my fault I approached the WineZone from the rear. That's where the chips and cheese are. As for the wine, I'll be giving it a try soon - probably tomorrow, after another island trek.

At €8.46 ($9.54 at current exchange rates), the Malvasía Volcánica is the most expensive bottle I've purchased on the island. I may – nay, must! – counter that indulgence with a €1.39 ($1.57) bottle of "Cancel" later. Honest, that's the name of it. I wonder just how fitting it'll be.

In other news, I'm getting itchy feet. I will be ready to go when I do in a about ten days. Next stop will be...?

The photo below is a representative vineyard where these grapes are grown. Some tough viticulture, to be sure!

After a couple of weeks of being here, I think I can safely identify the good and the less good about my existence in Arrecife. 

1. Weather. I mean, how can you argue against a consistent 70°F high temperature in November in the northern hemisphere?

2, Coffee: Really good coffee is available everywhere. It's not cheap, but it is good.

3, Bread and pastry: So, so good and inexpensive. I am living on .50 loaves of bread, and los postres? To die for.

4, General fruit and veg: Fresh and tasty. I honestly can't tell you if it's expensive or not. I just buy it.

5. Cheese: I'm eating both queso de vaca y cabra. It’s not particularly cheap, and comes in small packaging (kind of true for everything to be honest), but very good stuff.

6. Mi apartamento: In general, I like it, and think I made a good choice for what I got and its location. It's in a quiet place, small street away from the bustle, but instantaneous access to the main shopping and coastal areas. Definitely big enough for me (and another if another was along and was sharing my bed), decently sized shower with plenty of hot water, a comfortable bed and en suite laundry facilities.

7. Wine. El vino is ubiquitous, and so, so cheap. I'm drinking more wine than beer these days, and the last time I could say that was...never. Just take a look at those prices - and that's in the grocery store in the more touristy area. I don't know if it's significantly cheaper elsewhere, but why bother looking? Those prices are in euros; in dollars, it's about 15% more.

Not a whole lot of negatives, but there are some things about where I am that could be better. I'm sure I'm splitting hairs and complaining about pretty much nothing, but this is my blog, so here goes.

1. Automatically locking sliding glass doors. Wondering why? See this post.

2. Table and chair. The apartment has two barstools and a futon. No real table or chair. If I'm using the laptop for any length, a table and chair would be nice.

3. Television. The television has only 10 or so channels, of which none show any football (soccer). It's BBC with Dr. Who over and over and over, and a couple of other weird channels. It's like the dregs of a cable subscription. I haven’t bothered turning it on since about Day Dos. I'm glad I have the laptop and streaming services to provide the evenings' entertainment.

4. Cooking gear: (a) Trying to use the toaster popped the circuit breaker for the entire apartment. Raw toast for the duration. Thankfully for Positivo Numero Tres, above. (b) Not truly a complaint, but more of a whine. The stove was a bit of a challenge for me to figure out, and while effective for cooking eggs and such, (c) it does NOT work well with the stovetop espresso pot. which leads me to;

5. Instant coffee. Since I am not able to use the espresso machine, I'm relegated to instant coffee in the apartment. I do splurge and get an espresso at a seaside café on occasion to offset the Nescafe Blues.

Enough whinging. It’s time to go to the beach and lounge on a towel in the sand, and read in the sun. My to-do list is a brutal taskmaster, but, dammit, someone’s got to do it.

If you are one of the ones (maybe fives, if I’m arrogantly egotistical) of consistent readers of this mental diarrhea from my brain, you may recall a post from about a month ago titled “Locked In.” I suppose in a karmic twist of fate, the universe thought it appropriate to provide an opportunity to match that with a post titled “Locked Out.”

And so it was spaketh into existence.

Some backstory. I’m staying in a third-floor apartment. It has a nice balcony with a couple of chairs and a small table, accessible through sliding glass doors. Most doors like this “back where I come from!” have a lock that can be engaged, and more importantly in this case, be disengaged.

Apparently, that’s not a thing on these doors. They close, they lock: no questions asked. I noticed that a few days ago, and thought just how fucked I’d be if I accidentally closed them while I was outside.

Well, guess what happened tonight? Yep. I went out to see if I could spot the jets (military, flying low and loud) going over the city. I unconsciously pushed the door walking out. I immediately realized my error, and quickly turned around, but the smooth action of the door conspired with karma, and as I was about to touch the glass and stop the door, I clearly heard the *snick* of the lock.

I was fucked.

No handle. No tools. No way to get down, and besides, without my phone, and without a phone number of the Airbnb host, and shitty language skills, getting off the balcony wouldn’t lessen the level of fucked much, if at all.

No, I was going to have to break in. I tried manhandling the doors open like a green Lou Ferrigno prying open elevator doors. Yeah? No. Fail. I couldn’t even get a fingernail between them.

I thought about the lock. If it was like any other sliding door lock, it’s a simple hook over a loop kind of thing. And, sliders are like screens and other windows in that you can lift them in the path to remove. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could palm the door up high enough to get the hook off the loop. Nothing to do but try. I steeled myself for the effort, flexed mightily (damn, where was La 🦄 to witness my Feat of Strength™️?), and pressed flesh to glass to lift and separate. I was going to be a human Cross Your Heart® bra.

In a gigantic anticlimax, the door lifted easily, the hook glided over the loop, and the door slid open. I was in.

Just another mini-adventure in this big adventure. You know, if the whole retirement gig doesn’t work out, maybe I ought to consider a career in burglary. Seems I’ve got skills.

I finally got my lazy ass out of the bars and off the topless beach long enough to go for a nice 8-mile hike around Timanfaya National Park. I had made arrangements with a gentleman named Gilles to take a tour. Turns out it was just the two of us. I’m really glad that it turned out that way. Gilles is leaving the business, and this was one of the last scheduled activities he was doing. He’s got a young son he’s raising on his own now, and wants to spend time with him.
Gilles speaks at least three languages: French, English, and Spanish. (For all I know he probably speaks Latvian, German and Klingon, too. I didn’t want to ask, for fear of being embarrassed by a “yes” answer.)
His knowledge of the ecology and geography and geology of the area is impressive and comprehensive. Who knew there are thousands of species of lichen in the Canaries? Gilles did. Who knew that orange lichen only occurs where birds poop? You got it: Gilles. And now me. And you. Now you can impress everyone at your next party with that bit of trivia. Or maybe in a StoopaTrivia? Hmm…

I also found out the walls (primarily used for wind protection) and small pebbles (called lapilli) are used to capture and hold moisture for cultivation. The combination also works as a means of insulation to keep the plants at higher elevations from experiencing the variations in temp overnight. Pretty ingenious application of available resources, if you ask me.
What struck me was the presence of life struggling through the layers of rock and ash. There are some fig bushes (yeah, not trees) that have been there for many decades, if not a few centuries. The lichen is everywhere, and the occasional flowering plant can be found peeking through. Considering a significant percentage of the island was nearly entirely covered with lava and ash in the mid 1730s, and that there is really very little precipitation, the fact that anything is growing that hasn’t been specifically planted is outstanding.
Life will always find a way.

In honor of the immense labor involved in hand-stacking the countless walls separating fields and enclosing each grapevine, I’ll be drinking some Malvasía Volcánica vino blanco later this week. I’ll let you know how it is.

Some quickish hits after being here for about 10 days:
1. At the same time, it feels like I’ve been here longer and not. I’ve settled into sort of a routine, but it’s exotic enough to be weird, and new.
2. The cars don’t try to run you over, and at crosswalks, they STOP for pedestrians. After visiting places where this is definitely not the case, it’s a very welcome and pleasant surprise. Tip of the ol’ sombrero to the drivers of Arrecife.
3. After taking it really easy since Thursday, things change this week. Today was a bike rental and ride. Tomorrow is a hike around the caldera, and I’m planning a cave visit for later in the week. Ouchies be damned.
4. €10 for a bike for the day is a deal. No collateral. Give them a tenner, and I have a bike and a lock for 24 hours. It’s a cruiser, and not some special mountain or road bike, but such a deal.
5. The bread here is amazing. And cheap.
6. The pastries are also amazing. Don’t know, don’t care if they’re cheap or not. I just buy them and get fatter.
7. Rioja wine is pretty good and not expensive either.
8. My Spanish sucks ass, but it's not American Abroad Demanding Everyone Speak English bad. Still trying to get better.
9. Obnoxiously bright gray chest hair is even more bright when offset with a tan. Whatever. That seems to be the attitude of pretty much everyone here. Nobody cares what you do.
10. El viento. Siempre.
11. Airplanes land right over the bike trail. That is cool.

The clues were there for the seeing. The small bowl of food presented on the sidewalk, tucked under a broken door, accompanied by a small bowl of water. The scattered remnants of chow scattered around. The occasional fake meow from the mimic bird outside my bedroom window. The rare caterwauling of a cat battle.

They were there, but I didn't see them. Until today. 
​
Walking back from a fun time at a different seaside cafe - one where I was able to understand more than one word in twenty! - I saw a head peering at me from the second story roof next to my apartment. Sure enough, there be cats thar!
I counted nine. That's a lot of cat. And just how do they make it down from a second story roof to the street to get to the food and water, anyway?!

They're cats. They figure it out, I guess. Or magic. Yeah, magic.

In days of old when men were bold and journeyed from their castles, trusty men were left behind, knights needed not the hassles. Wait, that's Jimmy Buffett lyrics, not what I was getting to. Let's try again.

ack in the days of yore, way back, like in January or May of 2021, I planned to visit this lush and tropical isle to participate in a race. Ok, so it's not lush and tropical, and what passes for arable soil is better described as large pebble Zen gardens. But at the root is a kernel of fact: I did plan to visit Lanzarote to run a race: the Haría Extreme Lanzarote to be specific.

It was touted as a bucket list event: difficult in the extreme, but worth doing. I wasn't going to attempt the full ultra, just the marathon distance. At the time, the website showed that it was canceled for 2020 (no surprise) but was still scheduled for November 13, 2021. Based on that nugget, and the belief that the (fuck) Covid epidemic might be in a lull, or even in decline by late 2021, I made travel plans: I bought my one-way ticket and booked an AirBnb. I even trained a bit so I would merely zombie the finish, and not corpse it mid-way through.

As the event drew ever closer, I repeatedly checked the website. It was unchanged, still declaring the race to be on, but registration not yet open. As October began to ebb, my faith in the race occurring also ebbed. This race is not going to happen. My feeling was reinforced by the deafening silence of response to my emails to the organizers.

No problem, I don't need to run like a fucking madman anymore. Heck, I just finished a marathon anyway. I'll go to Lanzarote, eat, drink, sit on the (topless) beaches and enjoy life.

And so I am. But, I figured I may as well pay a visit to Haría anyway. Turns out a rather famous artist lived there. So I learned how to use the bus system here (no mean feat for a guy whose experience with public transport is pretty much only in foreign countries - New York City included), boarded a bus, and headed to Haría.

This is a quiet town. Like super quiet. Like Langoliers at the airport quiet (look it up). The only life was found at César Manrique's home/museum (there were 8? people) and at a couple of restaurants on Constitution Square - mostly cyclists touring the island taking a break. I'm glad I didn't book a place to stay here. I'm not sure they've got internet yet.

As for César Manrique, the house/museum was really interesting and I'm glad I went. He was killed in a car accident in 1992, and the house, reflecting 1960s-1970s influences, was kept as it was when he died. Books, music, technology, furniture and even the contents of the drinks cart are as they were. Sorry, no photos there. They're forbidden and I'm a law-respecting guy. Here are a few others, though. One of the square, the town, the climb to it, and a “field” of Zen pebbles. The last two were taken from the bus.