Eating Well -- Agritourismo Ca'Lattis

I'm writing this post from inside of the restaurant at Ca'Lattis. Piero, Sonia, Carla, Lorenzo, and Sonia's husband (I still have to learn his name) are sitting around one of the beautifully arranged tables playing some sort of card game. From the small bit of Italian I can understand, I believe Piero is having an excellent hand.

As I'll be staying in one place for almost four weeks wherein I'm allowed plenty of time to write, I've decided to address my time on an Italian Agritourismo one aspect at a time. I have so much to write regarding life in the Po Delta, that tackling my posts this way will give me the focus I need to do it a bit of justice.

First aspect to address?

The meals.

As I wrote in my previous post, breakfast is not a meal eaten by traditional Italians. Dinner is a late affair, hence it takes Italians a couple of hours and cup of caffieinated beverage to get going in the morning. A very sleepy-eyed Carla opens up the restaurant at eight thirty. Lesly and I stumble in with our computers (or iPhones...) and notebooks full of Italian verbs and phrases. Carla doesn't ask what we want anymore -- just brings out a tray of fresh-made cappuccinos. After I told the family that I don't tolerate frumento (wheat) very well, Carla has started bringing me a mele (apple) to eat in the morning with my delicious cup of coffee. They are very understanding of my odd American "food for breakfast" habit.

A typical Italian breakfast

Lunch. Lunch is always abundant, VERY Italian, heavy, and superb. Lelsy and I meander into the kitchen around twelve thirty every day to see if we can help Laura with any final vegetable chopping/taste testing (Laura is always thrusting tasty morsels of food at us). Carla's parents, sister, and nephew usually eat lunch at the restaurant, so we set the table with enough plates for the whole family plus the two of us. The first course is always pasta. Pasta, pasta, pasta. There's a joke in the family that Piero (the man of the house) will have nothing but spaghetti. "Piero sempre spaghetti. Spaghetti, spaghetti, spaghetti." Because the family understands that "Aimee, no mange pane", "Aimee, no mange spaghetti", e "Aimee, no mange biscotti", they are considerate enough to give me an extra large helping of salad with fresh pomodorri (tomatoes) from Laura's garden.

One of the dishes Laura arranged for me as a first course

The second course is always some sort of meat dish. I've eaten a lot of muscle s, clams, sardines, and various pork products since I've been here. Pork and seafood seem to be the most prevalent meats in both Spain and Italy. Cow and chicken have rarely made it to my dinner plate in either of these countries. In Italy, they have the word "Porchetta," which translates into "suckling pig roasted whole." I love that they have a word for this. I also love that Laura makes her own salami and various sausages. The most incredible thus far has been a salami wrapped in coniglio (rabbit). The rabbit was from the farm and the pig was butchered last winter. The seafood is brought in fresh from local fishermen and most of the vegetables we eat are from Laura's garden. She grows melone (cantaloupe), zucchini (zucchini), melanzana (eggplant), pomodorre (tomato), lattuga (lettuce), and all the herbs that she needs for her daily cooking. She does buy her bread and pasta from the store, but since she doesn't feed me anything with frumento, I just get to enjoy the food grown and harvested right here in the Po Delta.

But back to the second course of the first real meal of the day...

The meat is usually served by itself. In America, we seem to have become more accustomed to mixing our flavors than in other parts of the world. Here, you have a meat dish (seasoned to perfection, of course), a vegetable dish, and a beautiful plate of local cheese (often served with honey). At the dinner table, I've rarely seen the family members mix the three dishes together. The only meat that is mixed with another food group is the delicious combination of cantaloupe and proscuttio. Other than that, each dish is thoroughly enjoyed for its separate, distinct flavor. Wine is served with lunch and dinner, and everyone partakes, even Sonia's ten year old boy, Lorenzo. There is always more than enough food to go around, and since the family knows that I practice yoga in the morning, they always scoop the excess onto my plate, saying, "Mangi! Yoga! Mangi!" I ate so much lunch yesterday that I was too full to eat any dinner. This resulted in me going almost twenty four hours without food, as there is no real breakfast. Lesly tells me that I'll adjust to this style of eating soon enough.

Cotechino con cren

Dinner is a very similar sort of affair. There is usually a bit more meat involved, more wine drunk, and bigger chunks of watermelon served for dessert. The salads are very simple, and the dressing makes me miss home -- olive oil, apple cider vinegar, and salt.

After most of us have cleaned our plates and are crying out "Basta, Basta!" (enough, enough!) when Laura tries to scoop the leftovers onto our enormous platters, Piero brings out the grappa. Grappa is an alcoholic drink most prevalent in Northern Italy. It's always produced from pumace (what's leftover from the winemaking process), and then each company or family (it's often made at home) adds their own flavouring. The grappa that Piero makes is flavoured with salvia (sage), and he swears up and down that it keeps the mosquitoes away. I smiled, nodded, and downed my grappa. It was very sweet, smooth, and the sage gave it a sort of outdoorsy, rustic flavor that helped balance out the sweetness. Piero reminds me of the father from "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" in that he thinks that grappa can cure all ills. While grappa is a lot tastier than windex, I have my doubts regarding its status as a miraculous panacea.

And the zanzara (mosquitoes) have yet to relent.

Fresh duck eggs are amazing, by the way.

Next time I write, I'll go into a bit of the history of the area of Taglio di Po, the beautiful, FLAT Italian Delta where I'm staying these four weeks.

Agritourismo Ca'Lattis

I'm writing this post from train 2243, which is taking me from Venice to Rovigo. It's running a few minutes late, so I'll have to do some serious sprinting to make my next train from Rovigo to Loreo (having been blessed with a ten minute layover...). This is one of the older trains, so my ticket cost less than 6 euros, and I get the pleasure of a very jostly ride. People used to pay money for this sort of thing. Excessive jostling would shake the fat right off them... or so they optimistically believed.

Speaking of weight, I've lost three pounds in the month that I've been gone. I find this very odd, considering that I was so bloated and unhealthy the three weeks of yoga school, and have been splurging on ice-cream, wine, meat and cheese ever since. Apparently my yoga belly and my Bologna belly were merely figments of my imagination, not adipose deposits on my abdomen. I don't think I've lost muscle mass, as I've been doing yoga fairly consistently and walking for hours every day. I'm going to hope that my sluggish metabolism is finally up to speed and my body can handle a normal amount of food. Which would be lovely. In yogic philosophy, engaging the jalandhara bandha is supposed to cure endocrine illnesses. If that's true, I'll walk around with my chin glued to my chest, effectively engaging jalandhara all the live-long day.

Part two

I'm finishing off this post in the small, comfy trailer which I'll be calling home for the next month. The bathrooms and showers are outside, and there isn't any air-conditioning (and it's very hot and humid in this area of Italy), but I'm relishing the privacy of having my own trailer. This is the first time I've unpacked my clothes since I left 409 West Kennedy, and it feels really good to settle in and settle down. And it's a good thing, because this farm is so isolated that I won't be able to get out much, even if I wanted to. I'm a little disappointed, as I had hoped to buy a train ticket to Rome and Naples and a little city Svetlana recommended called Trieste (sp?), but I can tell that I'm going to be very happy here. The Italians I'm staying with are incredibly friendly and laid back. Carla and Piero own the Agritourismo and share a house with Carla's parents, Aldi and Angela (I think..), and the chef extraordinare, Laura (pronounced La - ow - rah). I hope she'll tolerate me hanging about the kitchen when she cooks. The jolly Italian woman is a delight to watch and I KNOW I could learn a lot from her.

The Agritourismo at night

The Agritourismo Restaurant

The little park they have set up for tourist children

Today was such a relaxing day, and I'm told that most days will be the same. I did about half an hour of yoga outside of my trailer at seven thirty, surrounded by the multitude of cats, kittens, and two gigantic dogs. I think they're some sort of Tibetan mastiff breed, but I'm not sure. Breakfast is at eight thirty, and by breakfast, I mean cappuccino. Italians don't eat breakfast. Just cappuccino and a piece of biscotti. They also don't drink cappuccino at any time of the day. If you order anything other than an espresso after ten o'clock in the morning, they'll give you the "silly tourist" look. A look I've received quite often since arriving in Italy.

Brando. The Tibetan Mastiff who knocks me over during yoga

A few of Carla's many cats. They have eye problems because Brando and Bella try to eat their faces. 

After "breakfast", Leslie (another WWOOFer from Chico, CA) and I fed the animals. The geese, the horses, the donkeys, the ducks, the goats, and the rabbits. Excepting the horses and donkeys, all the animals are being raised for the dinner table. Feeding and watering them takes maybe two hours. Today we planted a patch of fagioli (beans), but that's kind of a rarity. Most mornings Leslie and I will be finished as soon as the animals are fed.

Lolo

I'm sure this goat has a name, but I haven't learned it yet. Carla names everything. And once she names an animal, she won't eat it.  Which frustrates Laura to no end. 

The geese are for eating and eggs, so they remain nameless.

Chicho and Gringo

Lunch was amazing. I'd eaten a bit of gluten this morning and last night because I was a little timid about offending my hosts, but when I saw the huge vat of pasta Laura was preparing for the afternoon meal, I owned up to my problem with gluten. Laura and Carla were very understanding, and I feasted on fresh zucchini and cured carne (meat). Dessert was a giant slice of watermelon. My stomach is pleased.

The language barrier is definitely making things interesting. Carla speaks just about as much English as I do Italian. Which is next to none. Everyone else (except Leslie) speaks hardly a word. There have been a lot of hand gestures, awkward laughter, and me shaking my head whilst abashedly saying, "non capisto."

A few more things about Venice before I wind down:

My stay with Paolo was incredible. He went well out of his way to make me feel completely comfortable. He even took me to the train station and waited with me at the gate until my train left. Once again, I felt completely overwhelmed by the generosity of the people I've met on this trip. It's been such a tremendous encouragement to know that it can be so easy to meet people and make friends and have amazing conversation. You just need to be doing what you love to do and you'll end up crossing paths with people you love being around. That's a big lesson I've learned from this trip. I've probably mentioned this lesson in a previous post, but it's important enough to me that I'll indulge in some redundancy.

At the train station with Paolo

I saw a shirt that said, "don't drink and drive. Smoke and fly."

As much as pigeons annoy me, I found it very depressing to see all the young boys gleefully trying to stomp on them. I saw a pigeon hopping past me on one foot, the other was so mutilated that it looked like a wad of pink chewing gum. I wondered if he'd gotten stomped on by one of the overenthusiastic boys.

In a few of the places I've stayed at in Italy, the faucets are operated by a lever that you press with your foot. This system makes a lot of sense to me. No germs, no waiting for motion sensors that don't work, no water turning off before your hands are clean. Sink pedals. Brilliant.

That's all I can think of for now. My posts will most likely be frequent, as I have all my afternoons free to wander about the countryside, work on plays, study Italian, read Shakespeare, and write to you.

Love,

-Aimee

Catching Up -- The Shady Spots of Venice

I'm writing this post whilst drinking a very strong expresso in a little coffee shop in Venice. I had to pay an extra 1.50 euros to sit down, so I'm going to make that money count and take the time to write you all.

The last week has been a whirlwind of activity. During my final two days in Madrid, I interviewed my two hosts (which was amazing), visited Retiro Park and the Prado museum again, ate a fig the size of a large orange and a mango that dwarfed my head, and was lucky enough to be able to enjoy the company of a few girls from my yoga program. I've been doing my best to maintain a consistent yoga practice, so I commandeered Kelly and Jakob's balcony for an afternoon and practiced my sun salutations next to the two marijuana plants. In Spain, it is completely legal to grow your own marijuana. Each household is allowed one plant per resident and can only grow for private use. I think this is a fantastic law and would love to see something like this implemented in the states. As a first step toward legalization, at least.

All in all, I loved nearly every bit of Spain I was fortunate enough to see. The people are friendly, Madrid is clean and lively, the architecture is beautiful, the food is incredible, the public transportation is very efficient, and the countryside took my breath away. It definitely has its problems, but so does every large city. I had to learn very quickly to avoid leaning against a tree whilst clad in anything remotely suggestive, for fear of being mistaken as a prostitute. There are many girls and their pimps lining some of the main streets, and it's a very disheartening sight. Because of the job crisis, there is also a fair amount of homeless beggars sitting at the intersections with their cats or dogs and cans for spare change. The over-abundance of obnoxious street performers is probably directly related to the job crises as well, so as much as their high pitched trilling got under my skin, I did my best to not show my irritation the couple of times they chased me down with their roses and balloons.

The boating lake in the middle of Retiro Park

The glass chapel in Retiro Park

I learned that when they introduced the Euro to Spain, working Spaniards were unknowingly robbed blind. Jakob explained it to me very well, but I don't know if I can relate the situation with nearly as much clarity. If I remember correctly, the euro was worth about 44 cents more than the Spanish currency. When they converted, they did not take this difference into account. If a bottle of water cost 1 Spanish dollar (I don't know what their currency was called...), then it just changed to 1 euro, thus subtly raising the price 44 cents. The only thing that they DID convert was the salary. If you used to make 10 Spanish dollars an hour, you would make 6 euros an hour with the new currency. Thus, cost of living was raised and wages were lowered in one fell swoop.

A few tents leftover from the protest in Puerto del Sol

Protestors in Puerto del Sol

 A few of the signs put up by the protestors

I tried the Tetilla cheese, Trina! I wasn't able to have very much because the cheese market we found was exorbitantly expensive, but I had enough of a taste to experience the delicious texture. It wasn't quite as strong as I prefer, but the texture was pretty sublime. I've also eaten an ABUNDANCE or jamon since I finished yoga boot camp. My taste buds and my atrophied muscles have been in a constant state of ecstasy. Thank god for tasty animals and people who can prepare them so exquisitely. My spirit may never reach samadhi, but my taste buds will.

I had to leave for Madrid's airport at 4:00 Friday morning. It was a melancholy experience for me, due to all the friends I found myself leaving behind. I could have stayed with Kelly and Jakob for weeks and been completely happy. I would've camped out on their balcony and just enjoyed listening to this happy couple talk to each other. I'm not sure if I've ever had the joy of witnessing people more head over heels in love, and god, it's a lovely thing to see. I was also pretty broken up about saying goodbye to my fellow yogis. There were some close friendships formed during that training, and I desperately hope that I'll be able to keep these people in my life.

Anyway... Four in the morning. I lugged my massive bag down five rickety flights of winding, wooden stairs, and walked the ten minutes to the bus station. I had been planning on taking the metro (I'm a metro queen these days ;) ), but Jakob told me the night before that the metro doesn't get going until six thirty. Thank-you, Jakob.

After the forty five minute bus ride to the airport, I found my terminal and checked in. I had to go through the massive security line twice though, as I absent-mindedly put a bottle full of water through the scanner. The guard told me to go to the bathroom and empty it. It was "not possible"' for me to just drink it or empty it out in one of the many drinking fountains.

I waited in the terminal for about two hours before my plane left. There was a half hour delay, but after that, the flight was good. After arriving in Venice, I caught a half hour long bus ride to the Venice train station. After waiting in line for another half an hour, I managed to purchase a ticket for Bologna. Forty five minutes later and after indignantly yelling at a man who asked me to pay him a euro for carrying my bag up five stairs, I caught my train. The first hour was spent in panic, thinking I had boarded the wrong train, but the second hour was spent in very pleasant conversation with a fashion designer named Luca, who kindly informed me that I was indeed on the train for Bologna.

After arriving in Bologna, I got lost. Very, very lost. I was hot, tired, irritable, dehydrated, and GOD did I have to pee. I had directions that said things like "stay right to stay on ***** street", and "stay left to stay on ***** street". I wandered around like a dehydrated lunatic until two very nice Italian women told me that all the "stay right" nonsense just meant "cross the square."

I love Italians.

My desperate urge to relieve myself gave me an extra boost of energy, and I summoned all the speed I could muster and bee-lined for the hotel. Thirty minutes later, I found myself in a very pleasant hotel room with a note from Svetlana on the bed, telling me that she'd gone for a walk and would be back by five. As much as I'd been looking forward to seeing her, this bit of solitary respite was a relief. I smelled terrible, I was cranky, and I needed to pee so badly that I probably would have blazed right past her into the bathroom anyway. By the time she returned from her walk, I felt fairly human again. We went out for a together, and I experienced a whole new level of creamy goodness in Italian ice-cream.

Our hotel lobby

Our frequently visited ice-cream parlor

Italy is similar to Spain in that both countries eat late dinners, so Svetlana and I, sustained by some obscure flavors of delicious ice-cream, wandered the colorful streets of Bologna until eight thirty. Svetlana had done a lot of research regarding which restaurants to eat at, so the food was local and superb. During the last three days, I've succeeded in re-toxing my body (after my three week fling with vegetarianism) with superlative cheese, wine, ice-cream, meat, and coffee.

A little restaurant that served only pork, cheese, and wine.  What more could you want?

Svetlana and I in a hole-in-the-wall type restaurant in Florence

Where there was wine. 

And my body feels good. Really, really good.

Except I think I just got the most intense sunburn of my life. We'll see how that pans out tomorrow.

What happens when you just finish bragging about how you never burn

After doing yoga on the roof of the hotel, Svetlana and I spent the whole of Saturday meandering through Bologna, on bus and on foot. We both loved the city, and I wholeheartedly agreed with Svetlana when she said that she should have been born in Italy. She seemed so comfortable and happy there. I felt incredibly fortunate that she let me experience Bologna with her.

Rooftop yoga

Svetlana really does belong in Italy

We walked through a mall with the most expensive stores in the world. I think I finally understand why people can be so passionate about style. The clothes and bags and glasses I saw in Bologna were exorbitant, but they were stunning works of craftsmanship. A boot stopped being a boot and became a piece of art that you could tell someone had poured an abundance of hard work and creative energy into. I loved window shopping with Svetlana, because she has such excellent taste and could point out to me all the little things that added up to make the whole article beautiful. Much like Alex can do with music and film. I told her that by the time I get home, I'll be dirt poor, but have impeccable taste.

Svetlana saw me eyeing a very sweet, blue dress, and generously offered to buy it for me. I do believe it's the nicest dress I've ever owned, and I love the way I feel when I wear it. It's similar to getting a haircut that expresses your personality better. I know these are revelations most of you have had before, but I've denied the importance of clothes for so long that this is a bit of a worldview shift for me.

After doing yoga to the sun rising over the city of Bologna, Svetlana and I enjoyed breakfast and headed down to the train station. There was quite a bit of confusion regarding buses and trains and platforms, but we ended up in Florence before noon. I think Svetlana described the city quite acutely when she said that it was all one big museum. The architecture was breathtaking, but the crowds of thronging tourists were stifling. The city had pockets of foul smelling air every couple hundred feet, and most shops were full of touristy trinkets. Svetlana had developed pretty severe blisters on both feet, but trudged on like the traveling trooper she is. She didn't complain at all -- just expressed immense gratitude when we found a shop where she could buy some bandages. We stopped at a very authentic local restaurant for cheese, meat, wine, and octopus salad. The hole in the wall lunch room was definitely one of the highlights of our trip to Florence.

A very small section of the marble church in Florence. The thing was massive. 

Florence

After returning to Bologna, Svetlana and I indulged in more delicious ice-cream, and then returned to the hotel to put up our overworked feet. Following yet another phenomenal dinner, we hit the hay. Hard.

I had my morning yoga session at six, and I was very pleased with how well I challenged myself and the fairly complex routine I was capable of designing. I will be a yoga teacher one of these days, just you wait. 

We had no ice-cream on Monday (surprise) as the ice-cream shop we enjoyed so much was closed. In Italy, I gather that it's commonplace for restaurants and barbershops and the like to close on Mondays. Bologna also follows Spain's lead regarding their siesta time. Don't mess with the siesta. 14 to 16 are holy hours.

A church from which we were very gently asked to leave, due to my bare shoulders. I felt like an immoral woman all day. 

Seriously. NEVER touch Italian produce. 

A street market in Bologna

Some really interesting street art we were lucky enough to happen upon.

I caught the train back to Venice at about 17:00 and arrived at 18:45. I had to wait until 20:00 for Paolo (the very nice Italian physical trainer I'm surfing with) to pick me up, but it gave me a chance to listen to a Robb Wolf podcast and indulge in some nostalgia.

Paolo's place is lovely, and it's a ten minute bus ride into the heart of Venice. He gave me his bedroom and is sleeping on the couch. I found this a bit odd and uncomfortable, but he said that this arrangement works out better for him, so I'm trying to be okay with displacing the person I'm surfing with.

In my exhaustion from the long three days and my elation to be in Venice, I completely forgot to contact Alex and Svetlana to tell them that I was safe and well. Paolo took me into the center of Venice, and I was so enthralled that I didn't remember to email until I got back to Paolo's at midnight. Sorry about that, Alex.

Venice

Venice at night

Venice at night

Today has been a strange sort of day... Paolo left for work a little before 8:00, and unlike the last people I stayed with, he did not give me a key to his apartment. Which is perfectly fine and understandable, but it kind of left me feeling a bit stranded for the day. However, there are far worse places to feel stranded than in Venice, Italy. I took the bus into the center and have now been wandering around the city for nine hours, stopping in cafes or in patches of shade to write every now and then. Nine hours is a long time to be walking by yourself. Venice in general is a difficult place to be by yourself. There are so many couples enjoying the romantic atmosphere of this ancient city. I keep wanting Alex to be here to enjoy it with me. And make fun of the way I pronounce "ancient". It's been a lonely, lovely, tiring, introspective sort of day. As much as I'm blown away by the unique beauty of this city, I'm looking forward to 20:00, when Paolo gets home and I can take a nap.

Rialto Bridge

Lost in Venice

Relieving yourself in Europe is ridiculously hard. 

Reassuring. 

A park I wandered into. 

A local's boat

Tourist boats

I'm wrapping this post up from Paolo's apartment. After getting quite lost in the labyrinth of Venice, getting all sorts of funny looks for making the alarm go off in a grocery store, and hearing more German spoken than I did in Berlin, I took the bus back to Paolo's. Or the general vicinity of Paolo's. I managed to get lost yet again as I was looking for his apartment. It really is a gift, my ability to get lost under any circumstance. 

Paolo gave me a wonderful evening. He made me a delicious arugula/ parmesan salad, and then took me out to the best ice-cream shop in Venice. A shop which is far out of the tourist's radar, I might add. He says that none of the good restaurants or ice-cream shops are in the tourist areas on the island. They save the good food for the natives. I'm really fortunate (once again) to have a really knowledgable, generous host to help me navigate through all the nasty stuff most tourists have to deal with. Also, Paolo is just a really nice, intelligent guy. He's even letting me do my laundry in his washing machine -- something I haven't had the luxury of in over a month.

I start my first WWOOFing experience tomorrow. Carla is picking me up from the train station in Loreo at 20:00. I'm very excited about being able to stay in one place for a while. I've loved every second of my time in Madrid, Bologna, Florence, and Venice, but I'm about ready to settle down and get to work. I don't know what the internet connection will be like at Carla's, but I'll do my best to let you all know when I arrive.

Theme for Wednesday: Used to be. As in the status of something changing. Tomatoes USED to be poisonous. Acai USED to be able to make you live forever. And stuff. Soy USED to be really healthy for everyone.

I love you all and hope you're having a magnificent summer!

CERTIFIED YOGI! -- Calle del Infantas

I am writing this post from the fourth story of a small apartment building in the center of Madrid. A couple I met on couchsurfing agreed to put me up for two nights, and I'm so glad I decided to take the risk and couchsurf as opposed to booking a hostel. Couchsurfing is so much more personal and the people you meet really want to spend time with you and make you feel as comfortable as they can. I spent the last forty-five minutes chatting with a lovely fellow named Jakob from Denmark. Copenhagen, actually. I seem to be meeting people all over who just make me miss Alex more. Jakob is a young film director who works as an English teacher as he struggles to find work in the film industry. Everyone in Spain struggles to find work in any industry these days, though. His girlfriend, a girl from Arizona named Kelly, should be back from work in a couple of hours. I'm looking forward to meeting her. Her couchsurfing profile says that she once played guitar hero until she had blisters on her hands and that she makes a great veggie lasagna.

In other news, I am now a 200 hr certified yoga instructor! I still have a lot to learn before I'll feel comfortable teaching a yoga class, but I'm well on my way. My plan for the next few months is to develop a really strong personal practice, cuing each asana transition verbally so that I develop a strong sense of the language I'll have to use. Also, as some of the farms I'm volunteering at teach yoga, I'm going to ask if I can practice my assists during scheduled classes. I found a couple of books on yoga anatomy and teaching that I can download onto my kindle, and I'm going to videotape my practice to see what I can improve in myself.

I made some really great friends at Lalita, and I'm going to miss living in an environment wherein I share so many interests and values with the majority of the people around me. I want everyone I met to come to Wednesday night dinner. I just want Wednesday night dinner to be a carnivore fest. I've been out of Lalita for four hours now, and I have yet to put some meat in my system.

A few things I learned in yoga training:

Mosquitoes hate incense, so burning a stick is the yogic way of smoking them out. After the first few nights in Lalita, the entire dormitory was a thick haze of herbal smoke.

The most expensive bottle of wine in Acebo was four euros. The least expensive was ninety cents.

Due to something called Bone on Bone Compression, only one out of ten people will ever be able to do the splits, regardless of how flexible their muscles are. As of now, I am thoroughly convinced that I'm one of the unlucky nine.

There are programs all over the world for traveling yogis. You apply to teach at a resort for three months, they provide food, housing, and a small stipend in exchange for a couple of yoga classes a day. I plan on taking full advantage of this particular opportunity my certificate has opened up for me.

The most refreshing soup I've ever had: melon, mango, and mint. It tastes like a chunky virgin mojito.

Fresh figs are just about ripe this time of year. I found a fig tree on the outskirts of Acebo, and gorged myself on the gorgeous, mostly ripe fruit every chance I got. Now I really understand why the pope outlawed them for good catholic consumption. Something as sumptuous as a fresh fig must be from the devil.

I know this isn't a very long post, but I'm going to call it good for now. So much has happened during the past couple of weeks that I'm feeling overwhelmed and don't even know where to start. In the future, I'll do my best to post every three or four days so that I don't get stuck sorting through a myriad of interesting experiences and trying to figure out which ones are the most interesting.

A few pictures from training before I head out on my quest to find some Tetilla cheese:

They really are everywhere

Flying

Marcus helps Ruthie into Tortoise

FIGS!

Leslie with an Irish Wolfhound we found walking around the streets of Acebo

Arm balance

Bakasana arm balance

The natural pool a few km away from our training center

More balancing bruises

Ardha Chandra Chapasana

The countryside around Lalita

Side Crow

Samadhi. Yes.