This past week has been magical. I walked to Finisterre and on to Muxía, arriving at my endpoint yesterday.

This part of northwestern Spain is absolutely, stunningly beautiful. The Camino history is palpable here. In Finisterre, I attended Mass in the church where Ferdinand and Isabella worshipped on their pilgrimage in 1491. The very next year, they funded Columbus’s voyage to the New World.

Why do I do this? Why do I keep traveling to Spain and walking long distances? It must all seem a little crazy to you folks at home.

Every single day, as I’m walking, there comes a point when the heat, sweat, and fatigue get the best of me, and I ask myself, “What the hell was I thinking?” Especially now that I’m quickly approaching my 70th birthday.

And yet, being out here, suspended in time, culture, faith, and devotion, I feel so alive.

There’s something incredibly grounding about pushing my body to its limit.
There’s something empowering about the grit it takes to get up and do it again each day.
There’s something sacramental about a hot shower, good food, and wine at the end of the day’s walk.

This is walking therapy. I’m convinced that pilgrimage is the best way to integrate grief, trauma, and loss. When you trek across the physical landscape while gently exploring the inner one, it becomes clear that inner work is easier out here. New stimuli all the time. New relationships, new decisions, new viewpoints from afar. A sense of personal agency arises.

Out here, where millions of people have walked for a thousand years, the morphic field of energy is so powerfully present. I can feel it as I walk. I can see it in the way the path has been rutted into a deep crevasse by legions of human feet and livestock moving across the countryside.

Last night I watched the sun set over the Atlantic, and a few hours later, watched the full moon rise over Muxia’s harbor.

I have accomplished what I came to do.

My beloved Spain, I must leave you once again.

This morning I begin my long trek toward home. Tomorrow night I’ll slip the key into the lock of my own front door, and I will rest.

All for now.

Katie Gilkey and Jim Oyler have been my walking companions for the past five days. Today we arrived in Finisterre, at Kilometer Zero, at the end of the earth.

It’s been a great walk – the weather has been marvelous – misty rain, soft sunshine, and vistas that open your soul. Such beauty here on the Atlantic coast of Galicia.

It was such a great decision to continue our walk this way – the Camino is quite different walking away from Santiago toward the coast. Quieter. Fewer pilgrims.

We’ve walked through endless corn fields, greeted cows, chickens, dogs, and cats.

We’ve eaten some marvelous meals. The hotels ranged from laughably dumpy bad to delightfully modern.

The towns, once ghostly, have revived with the Camino traffic increase in the past few decades. What was once a depressed landscape is now vibrant with the energy brought by the pilgrims.

The café bars, the albergues, the restaurants and hotels, the baggage transfer services, the massage therapists, and shopkeepers all recognize the economic value of pilgrims who are simply passing through.

Our bodies have held up well, but we’d confess to being tired. And yet the will to move forward has not left us. We’ve gotten a little teary-eyed at times, so grateful for the friendship and the journey together.

This part of my adventure ends tomorrow when Katie & Jim head off for the next leg of their European journey, and I will walk on, solo, for two days, to Muxia.

All for now.

For all the times I have walked to Santiago de Compostela, my pilgrimage on foot ended there. Yes, I have been to Finisterre several times in the past decades, but always by car or on a bus tour.

I added Muxía to that finale three times in the past decade, again by car and by bus.

I decided I needed to do the real thing and walk there. It adds about 74 miles to the journey.

Finisterre is the older, pagan, Roman “edge of the world” made famous by ritual and geography; Muxía is the newer, distinctly Christian counterpart tied to a story of Mary appearing to Saint James to encourage his evangelizing of the Iberian Peninsula in the first century. Together they form two alternate and combined endings to a pilgrimage that, unlike the Camino itself, starts from Santiago rather than ending there.

I’m joined in these early days by Katie Gilkey and Jim Oyler – they walk faster than me so our paths will diverge tomorrow, but my, oh, my, this has been such a treat.

We left Santiago yesterday morning at first light – Jim captured Katie and me in the streetlamp lights, and we walked through forests and fields with misty rain as our companion for the day. We loved it. This path is quieter, there are fewer pilgrims, and the walk feels grounding and important.

I’ll reach Finisterre by the middle of next week.

All for now.

I walked into Santiago de Compostela this morning, completing the mission I’d set out on eight days ago. I retraced the steps of my painful “butt breakdown” from 2024, this time joyfully walking the last few days of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

As I neared the end, my friends were also drawing close to Santiago. Cindra and Jagoda were walking the Camino del Norte, while Jim and Katie were heading north on the Camino Portugués. We all arrived today, to squeals of delight, sweaty hugs, and a long, leisurely lunch with shared plates and lots of wine.

The photo shows the five of us who usually gather in Seattle and Tumwater, Washington, meeting up here in Santiago after each of us has walked a long way to get here.

For me, it was the successful completion of a journey that had ended in frustration and pain two years ago. For Katie, it was the realization of a lifelong desire to walk the Camino. For Jim, this is his first time in Europe, and he doesn’t want to go home. For Jagoda and Cindra, it was a chance to see the eclipse and take a good long walk in Spain, their third time walking to Santiago since 2021.

It made my heart sing to be with people I love, who love me, and who love Spain, pilgrimage, and all the effort it takes to do something epic like this.

My heart is happy and full of gratitude for them, for the Camino, for the sense of aliveness that pilgrimage offers. Life is good, and I am truly blessed.

All for now.

Why do people walk the Camino? The reasons are as varied as the people out here.

I’ve met a group of nine women, “Las Nuevas,” a loose tribe of connected friends walking to celebrate a 60th birthday. They’re big fun, and I’ve run into them every day since our first meeting in Portomarin.

There’s Bob, from San Francisco, 80 years young, who travels the world chasing eclipses, then does whatever else is interesting in the area he visits. He started in Portomarin, deciding that since he was already on the Camino, he might as well walk to Santiago. As simple as that.

At dinner the other night, I overheard Ann speaking English. She mentioned she lived in Bellevue, Washington. I told her I’d graduated from Sammamish High School — turns out, so did she, four years after me. Reminiscing about Bellevue, I mentioned I’d helped create the labyrinth at Unity of Bellevue. Yes, she had walked it. Small world, seriously.

A young Asian man stopped me on the trail and bluntly asked, “How old are you?” Almost 70, I told him. He was surprised and impressed and wished me well.

It’s been hot. I’ve started walking each day at first light, making good time in the cool of the morning, but there always comes a moment when the sun climbs high, and the heat beats down.

I confess yesterday I was flirting with heat exhaustion. And I was smart enough to take the advice I’d give anyone else: I stopped at a café for a cold drink, rested in the shade, and called a taxi for the final mile and a half. Y’all would’ve been mad at me if I’d ignored my body and had to call 112. Self-preservation and self-care - the prime directive, always.

I arrive in Santiago tomorrow.

All for now.

One of the themes I wrote about in my book was cultivating the awareness that “Grace Is Ever Present.” It’s always here, I simply need eyes to see it, ears to hear it, and a heart to receive it.

Returning to Spain, to the Camino, lights up my “Grace Detector.”

It is everywhere, in abundance.

• The way the hotel receptionist greets me warmly and efficiently, enabling me to get to my room pronto, with the Wi-Fi password and a local map in hand.

• The way the café owner moves with grace to make my café con leche and pour the orange juice in one motion, with a smile and a “buenos días.”

• An offer to do my laundry, wash, dry, and fold, while I took an afternoon siesta at the hotel, trading a basket of neatly folded clothes for that sweaty pile I’d handed them a couple of hours before.

• Walking down a country road, a car drives slowly past, back windows rolled down, young children enthusiastically wishing everyone “Buen Camino” as they pass.

• The man who set up his electric piano and amplifier next to a stream, serenading passing pilgrims with beautiful music this morning.

• The priest who, after evening Mass, asks the congregation where they’re from. As he lists the countries, people raise their hands, and he warmly welcomes each one. When he named the USA, I found myself hesitant, but I raised my hand anyway. He greeted us, in English, more warmly than I expected. The world knows we’re going through a tough time, and they have grace enough for us.

I am halfway to Santiago, walking joyfully past places I hobbled past two years ago.

My body is strong, and I’m totally in my Camino groove.

Grace has carried me, through the challenges and the joys.

All for now.

The total solar eclipse in Portomarin was quite the event. Everyone showed up at the park with the best view of the western sky, magic glasses in hand, ready to witness something most of us see only a handful of times in a lifetime.

The moon crept across the sun, invisible to the naked eye until the coverage was nearly complete. Then the light drained out of the world. For a minute, it was easy to forget what time it was. And then it appears — the ring of fire, the sun’s corona blazing around a perfect black disk. It all gets noticeably quiet. It looks like a heavenly portal opening.

I found myself thinking about the ancients, squinting up at the same sky, trying to read meaning into it. The Babylonians were the first to crack the rhythm of the thing with centuries of careful record-keeping revealing that eclipses return in cycles, so they could predict when without ever knowing why. It took the Greeks, a few centuries later, to suggest the idea that the sun and moon were just rocks in motion, and that an eclipse was simple geometry, a shadow, cast by one body, onto another. It was a controversial thought in its time.

That idea sat mostly with astronomers and philosophers for two thousand years. It wasn’t until Kepler worked out how the planets move, and Newton explained the gravity holding it all together, that the mechanism became provable and predictable to the minute.

We all watched intently, and then, all too soon, the heavens moved on. The light returned, the birds started up again, the ordinary world returned.

But for that short, holy moment, time held its breath.

It was a gift to witness it.

All for now.

I started walking this morning at first light—still dark when I left my hotel in search of coffee. Breakfast wasn’t served until after sunrise, and I wanted to walk before the heat got serious.

It’s 96 degrees out there now. When I started, it was a misty, lovely 63.

It felt so good to return to the path, following the yellow arrows, gravel crunching underfoot. Plenty of other pilgrims had the same idea; the long-legged ones streamed past me like I was standing still. No matter, everyone walks their own Camino, and I’m here to redeem a painful experience. Around 10 a.m. I passed the spot where, as I call it, “my butt broke down.” I kept on walking, feeling strong.

The mist burned off into clear sun, and the heat climbed with it. I walked as far as felt right, then turned back to the hotel. Tomorrow I’ll pick up where I left off.

Tonight’s the big event: a total solar eclipse right before sunset. Glasses ready, map to the best viewing spot in hand. Pretty jazzed about it.

All for now.

At four feet and nine inches in height, airplane and train seats are not made for bodies like mine. Thirty hours of travel straight through was a challenge.

Two flights, a taxi, a high-speed train, and a final taxi to my hotel. Thankfully, my suitcase shadowed me the whole way, and I’ve arrived in Santiago de Compostela.

I dropped my bag in my room. and went walking around the city in the evening. Oh, that lovely feeling of realizing I’m finally HERE, in my beloved Spain, soon to walk the path I love so much. Seeing the scallop shell way-markers made my heart happy.

Jet lag is a lovely form of an altered state of consciousness. I know what time the clock says it is, but my body and internal clock are still on Seattle time. It will take a few days to connect body and soul in Central European Time. I enjoy the process, yes, even at 3 a.m.

I attended early morning Mass to officially begin my pilgrimage, lighting a candle to ask for grace and strength for the journey, then wandered the city some more.

Santiago is buzzing with a mix of pilgrims and cruise ship day-trippers. The line to enter the cathedral stretches a long way. A table in the shade at a café is prime real estate.

A couple of days ago, the Pilgrim’s Office reported more than 4,300 pilgrims obtained their completion certificates. And they keep coming. Soon I will be one of them. But first, the heavens must align.

All for now.

Hello my friends!

I’ve been quiet since returning to Seattle from Málaga in March. Now, five months later, Spain’s siren call has captured me again.

I’m heading back to northern Spain, to the Camino, to the exact spot where my glute seized up on my solo pilgrimage in 2024. We don’t often get a do-over when things go sideways, and I feel grateful every time I think about this trip.

I leave for Spain tomorrow. On August 12th, I’ll stand in the path of totality for the solar eclipse. On the 13th, I begin walking from Gonzar to Santiago de Compostela.

Two years ago I hobbled into Santiago in pain. This time, I’m walking to reclaim my joy on this final stretch of the Camino Francés. God willing, I’ll arrive on Tuesday, August 18th — the same day as seven friends walking in from other routes. What a reunion that will be.

After a couple of rest days, four of us will continue on to Finisterre, the end of the Earth, and to Muxía, the traditional Celtic end of the path. I’ve been there before, but only by car and by bus. This time, I get to walk it. 120 miles total, one step at a time.

The blog has a new name — Postcards from the Camino — and it’s still free to anyone who wants to come along. Same rhythm as before: a photo and a short story from the trail every couple of days. I trust you’ll enjoy the journey with me. I’d love the company.

All for now.

It’s time to go home. My flight leaves in a few hours, first to Dublin, overnight, then to Seattle on Wednesday. I’ve been gone for two months, and in lots of ways, I’m ready to go home. And yet, it is always hard to leave.

Malaga has been good to me. I’ve been in the embrace of southern Spain through ‘The Big Dark’ of the Seattle winter, through the murders of American citizens by our own government, the invasion of Venezuela, and now the horrors unleashed in another Middle East war of choice. I’m not sure if the news is easier to digest from a distance, but at least I don’t see it unfold on TV. The USA is ruled by a madman, backed up by people who are incompetent and evil in equal measure. The daily assault is hard to bear.

Spain is a sane country, run by sane people, with sane policies. Their Prime Minister boldly embraces immigrants, knowing it is the secret to a vibrant, growing, economy. He boldly said ‘No’ to American ships and planes using Spanish military bases to conduct the war with Iran. There are no guns here. The Spanish people are housed, fed, educated, doctored, and safe. Life makes sense here. Creativity and joy thrive on that sound foundation. They can focus on living good lives.

I’ve spent the past two months walking everywhere, studying Spanish, writing the draft of my next book, going to the movies, and immersing myself in the culture. I’ve made new friends and strengthened old ones.

And yet, and yet. I’m an American, true and through. There are things I miss about my homeland. There are wrongs that need to be righted, protests that require my presence, and votes that need to be cast.

I look forward to sliding myself behind the wheel of Stella and feeling the rumble when I press the ignition button. A Dick’s cheeseburger is probably in my near future, along with Elleno’s Greek vanilla bean yogurt and Tillamook white cheddar cheese. I’m in desperate need of a haircut. I miss my spiritual community and my tribe. I miss my own bed.

I am grateful for the privilege of retirement, for the freedom to come to Spain for the winter, and for the home and community I will soon return to.

But Spain will always be the lover I hate to leave. Whether walking the Camino path, or wintering on the Costa del Sol, my body and soul feel at home here.

Dear sweet Spain, I must go now.

I’ll see you again soon.

I’ve known for several years that you can walk the Camino to Santiago, starting right here in Malaga. Today I laced up my walking shoes, installed an app on my phone with the route map, and set off.

Starting at the Iglesia de Santiago church, the oldest in Malaga, and the place where Pablo Picasso was baptized, a sign marks the starting point for the Camino Mozarabe – the route to Santiago de Compostela for believers coming up from north Africa.

A scallop shell in the pavement in the main square of town points the way, and a yellow arrow on the side of a building gives further direction. Crossing the river out of town, I spied a bronze shell on the lamp post. From there, however, the trail went cold.

I consulted the map on my phone as the Camino path took me away from the historic center and into the neighborhoods of Malaga.

I settled into a sense of adventure, embracing my well-practiced identity of traveler and pilgrim. The walk felt joyful.

It’s Saturday, so the people were doing their normal Saturday things – getting a haircut, shopping at the corner greengrocer, filling tanks and washing cars at the service station, meeting a friend for coffee or a leisurely lunch.

The busy urban street eventually morphed into a boulevard with a wide tree-lined sidewalk. I passed the hospital, schools, playgrounds, and parks, all at a gradual up-hill climb.

I was three miles out of town when I finally came upon an official Camino marker – with a design unique to this route. And from there, yellow arrows appeared at regular intervals.

Yes, I could have gone all the way to Santiago this way, but I’ll need to save this route for another lifetime.

I fished some coins from my bag and hopped on the bus to take me back to Malaga center.

Pilgrim for a day. It was a very good day, and I’ll be back in August for more.

All for now.

I had been looking forward to yesterday, March 4^th, for many weeks. It was the day that one of my dearest friends from home, Sue Soller, would arrive in Malaga on a cruise ship for the day.

I was so excited to see her after being away from home for two months, and so anticipating showing off the city that I love, the city that has warmly embraced me for the winter.

All my raves about Malaga’s beautiful weather fell apart. It rained all day.

I mean it rained.

Meeting Sue and her traveling companion, Linda at the cruise ship terminal, we taxied into town for breakfast at one of my favorite spots. Then some shopping.

Retail adventures in Malaga are pure joy. So many beautiful shops, so many treasures to find. We dodged the rain as we walked from store to store. The streets were slick, but we managed to remain upright.

Eventually, Linda peeled away while Sue and I went to the Picasso Museum. The entire collection had been refreshed since I was there years ago, and luckily, we were inside for some of the worst of the downpour. He was, and remains, a powerful creative force in the art world. I love it that Malaga gets to claim him as its own.

Sue loves Italian food, so off we went to one of my favorite Italian places.

Have I mentioned yet that we were gabbing non-stop? There’s something so profoundly soul-satisfying to be with someone who totally ‘gets’ you, who shares your politics, your faith, your values, and principles, who can find the right word when you’re trying to think of it, who can finish your sentence when you stumble.

Lunch finished, we had them pack up the leftovers, and they put them in a paper bag.

The day had passed far too quickly, so we began walking toward the designated shuttle bus stop to get Sue back to the ship. Still raining like crazy.

We hugged and kissed cheeks and promised to connect as soon as we both were home next week. I walked away feeling so blessed to have such a friend as Sue.

And as I was crossing the street, the wet paper bag completely disintegrated, and there went my Pasta Bolognese, splat, in the crosswalk.

Sigh. Some days you just gotta take the bad with the good.

All for now.

The bus pulled up to the line, and a Moroccan Border Patrol agent came on the bus, collecting everyone’s passport. He disappeared as we waited. Half an hour later, the stack of passports was handed to our guide who returned them to each of us. At least they were in the same order as collected.

Then we were all told to get off the bus. Agents crawled all over it – opening every hatch, checking any cavity for possible contents. The drug-and-bomb-detecting dog came out of his kennel for a sniff around.

Yes, this is a major portal for human trafficking and drug smuggling into Europe.

All clear, back on the bus. Then a few names were called. I was one of them. They wanted to individually check our bags, so I pointed out mine from the baggage hold, and was told to open it. An officer ruffled through it a bit, then walked away. Confused, I didn’t know what to do. Finally, someone motioned that I was OK to go, so I zipped it up, and someone assisted with putting it back in the bus. Whew. Kinda nerved up. Never had that happen before.

One more check of the passports inside the bus, then we were waived through.

A short distance later, we arrived at the Cueta border crossing back into Spain. Same drill with the passports – hand them over to Border Patrol while we waited on the bus. They were returned to our guide, again, graciously, in the same order as collected. One more passport check inside the bus, a quick check of the baggage hold, and then we were waived through. A cheer went up on the bus. Safely back on Spanish territory.

The wait for the ferry seemed long, but eventually, we boarded and I headed for the café. No Ramadan restrictions here, so I enjoyed wine with a young woman from the Czech Republic and a young man from Columbia. Born in 2003 and 2005, I asked them what was the biggest event they remember in their young lives. The Covid pandemic was their answer. I’ve been wrapping my head around that for two days now.

The bus finally dropped me off at 1:30 in the morning. As I walked to my apartment, again the street cleaners were out, along with a few late-night partiers.

Face-first into bed. Exhausted but happy.

I leave you with a very fun music video created by Dylan, one of the young people on the trip. It was such a great journey. I am truly blessed.

All for now.

Chefchouen is a sister city to Issaquah, Washington. The clearest reason I can see is that they both exist at the feet of mountains. The comparison stops there.

The old city is built on hills. My odometer said 2.5 miles that day, most were vertical, with uneven steps, and no handrails to grab. Traveling in developing countries is not for the faint of heart.

Designated as ‘The Blue City,” the name is apt. Nearly everything is painted shades of blue. It is a stunning backdrop to daily life, lending an ethereal aura to everything. It begs for photos – lots of them, so I’ll let them give you a flavor of our time there. See below.

In the plaza, there were women offering henna tattoos. I couldn’t resist. It will fade gradually over the next week, but for now, I smile whenever I look at it.

One of my life lessons I shared with the young people is that when you travel and new opportunities present themselves, the default answer should always be “Yes!.” Of course, one should be reasonably sensible and safe, but don’t let fear rob you of the joy of new experiences. If it changes your life, so be it.

All for now!

It is Ramadan in the Muslim world. This month-long celebration commemorates the revelation of the Quran through a period of fasting, prayer, and increased charity. From dawn to sunset, Muslims abstain from food and drink to cultivate self-discipline and spiritual growth. Refraining from drink includes no wine.

No wine sold, no wine served. Lordy. Lordy.

Abdul, our local guide in Morocco, was observing Ramadan. While we enjoyed coffee and large lunches, he sat quietly on the side. At sundown, he could be seen with fruit juice and a sandwich, joyfully chowing down like a hungry and thirsty man.

We started the afternoon with a visit to Tetouan (tay-too-won), with a medina so maze-like that even our guides took the wrong turn a time or two. We toured, shopped, had lunch, and boarded the bus for the hotel, dinner, and bedtime. I’d been up since 4.

Saturday’s tour took us to the village of Assilah on the Atlantic coast of Morocco. Known as an artist’s enclave, the whitewashed walls were covered with lovely murals. Here again, a little shopping and lunch. I took a wrong turn in the medina and felt lost for a bit. Someone turned me in the right direction eventually, but oh, it was unnerving for a bit.

We stopped along the way for a camel ride along the beach. Did I partake? No, unfortunately. There are some things these ridiculously short legs of mine will not allow me to do. Climbing on a camel and hugging it with my legs is one of them. But I did get a great photo!

The Caves of Hercules were an amazing sight, with the powerful Atlantic Ocean flowing in and out. The amazing power of water had scoured these rocks over centuries. We were there at low tide on a peaceful day. I can only imagine it during a storm at high tide.

Arriving in Tangier, we were given free time to wander. I found myself in a shop with a silk scarf in my hands that spoke to me. Time to bargain. He started high. I started low. I bargained hard. So did he. I walked out of there with a scarf I love at a price I was happy to pay. As I was leaving, he muttered to his partner – “She bargains like a Moroccan.” Cue the satisfied grin on my face.

All for now.

I was out the door at 4:30 in the morning. The Malaga street cleaners were busy, along with a few delivery trucks and some late-night partiers on their way home.

Arriving at the bus stop, I met my tour guides – Tom and Miguel. The others started arriving out of the darkness. Three families with young children arrived, and the remainder were college students in their 20s.

Assessing it all, I realized I was the only American in the group, the only woman traveling solo, and the oldest, by far. Thinking - oh, this should be interesting.

The bus made a few more pick-up stops as we headed west. We arrived at the ferry terminal where we all boarded the ship while the bus went into the hold below. It was rough crossing the Strait of Gibraltar from Algeiciras to Cueta. Arriving in Cueta, which is an autonomous city of Spain on the North African coast and bordered by Morocco, the process began.

Out came the passports, first to leave Spain, then the long wait at the Moroccan border. They collected and reviewed our passports several times. It seemed excessive.

I have no idea whose playlist was on the bus speakers, but I heard songs everyone seemed to know, and I had never heard them in my entire life. A couple of them will end up on my personal playlist. The only two songs I recognized? Every Breath You Take by the Police, and Hotel California by the Eagles.

I was absolutely charmed by the way the young people embraced me – helping me with my bag, offering to take my photo, asking me lots of questions about my life and my travels. For most all of them, English is their second language, and yet, they spoke English with me and at mealtimes when I was at the table. They were absolutely wonderful.

All for now. More to come.

I love art, especially impressionist works, and religious art – not the ‘bloody emaciated Jesus hanging on a cross’ stuff – but chubby angels and saints, oh yes, bring it on.

I seek out the local art museums wherever I go.

One of the best things about Malaga – this city has thirty-eight museums. Yes, 38.

History, art, culture, all curated and presented in amazing buildings, all at incredibly low cost or free.

There’s something for everyone. It is impossible to be bored here. You can visit a museum every day for a month and still have more to see.

https://visita.malaga.eu/en/what-to-see-and-do/culture/museums/list-of-museums

Malaga is the birthplace of Pablo Picasso. He left Spain when Franco came to power and promised he would only return after Franco died. Unfortunately, Picasso passed in 1973 in the south of France, and Franco died in 1975.

However, there’s a huge Picasso museum here, which draws thousands of visitors. He was baptized at the local Church of St. James, where you can begin your pilgrimage, following the yellow arrows all the way to Santiago de Compostella.

Look closely at the painting of the Last Supper below – who is that sitting to the left of Jesus? Sure looks like a woman to me!

I’m off very early in the morning to Morocco for the weekend, and won’t be taking my laptop, so I promise a full report when I return to Malaga on Monday.

All for now.

One of the benefits of having spent six months of my life here is that I have finally mastered the layout of the Historic Center.

It is so easy to get lost in Malaga. The streets are like a plate of spaghetti. The street names aren’t clearly marked. The maps are almost useless.

Malaga is an ancient city, with layers and layers of civilization piled on top of each other, from the Phoenicians to the Greeks, the Romans, the Muslims, and finally the Catholic church, everyone building on top of what was already here.

For 800 years, Malaga was a Muslim medina, no different than Marrakech. An earthquake in 1755 weakened many buildings that were eventually rebuilt, but the winding streets remained.

Today, while out on my paseo stroll, I came upon a family who were looking bewildered with the map. I walked up and offered to help. They were looking for a café where they could enjoy coffee and a pastry. Giving them directions to a nearby bakery would have been hopeless and less than helpful, so I said, “Follow me, I’ll take you there.” They were from Nova Scotia and so appreciated my assistance. Doing my part for international relations, check.

I carried on my way and encountered another visitor, also staring at the map with bewilderment. Approaching her with an offer of assistance, she needed a pharmacy. On a day excursion from her cruise ship, her husband hadn’t brought enough of his medication for the trip. With a prescription from the ship’s doctor, she needed a pharmacy that carried more than the tourist sundries available in the center of town. Her name was Joan, from Newcastle, England. She followed me to a larger Farmacia outside the tourist area. We chatted about Newcastle Washington as I delivered her to where she needed to be. Before we parted, she asked me to point out on the map where she was. I trust she made it back to her ship. Lucky husband has a wife who looks after him.

And since I was now on a roll, I approached two women who were also staring at the map. No English, only Spanish. They pointed to the map where they needed to be. Luckily, it was pretty much a straight shot (as straight goes in Malaga) from where they were standing, so I could simply point and say “Derecto” – meaning go straight.

Taking care of the vistors – my unofficial job for the day. Feeling pretty good about that.

All for now.

Yesterday was my final day of Spanish Classes.

Every weekday for four weeks, I walked a mile to class and back, studying Spanish for four hours each day.

It was HARD WORK. I commented more than once – “geez, I was an ‘A’ student in school, and I have an advanced degree, so why is learning Spanish in my sixties so damn challenging? “

I’ve been taking Spanish classes each time I come to Malaga for the winter, so this is my third attempt. And I think I ‘got’ it this time. All it took was repeating the beginner A1S1 class twice.

Yes, I repeated First Grade.

No judgement.

No shame.

My instructor, Gloria, was excellent. I had her for all four weeks, with a rotating cast of other students. She worked with us at our pace and was willing to speak English when needed to explain things clearly. English is her second language, and some of her butchered pronunciations were totally giggle-worthy, but she worked hard to bring us along step by step.

Now what? I get to sleep a little later, walk a little slower, spend more time with my local friends, and work more on drafting my next book. And next weekend, I get to go to Morocco for three days.

It’s Saturday morning here, and I’m heading out to meet a friend to visit the local Farmer’s Market and visit a museum or two. The sun is shining, and it promises to be in the mid-60s by early afternoon. Life is good in Malaga today.

All for now.