Andalucid

Don Quixotel

Chalkie was a troubled teenager who turned up at the gate one day. He'd been disciplined with knuckle-dusters once too often.  Derek is a little guy with a penchant for punch-ups after suffering many beatings from his previous owners.  Flash was an unwitting gofer in a drug-running operation.  And Woody was an overburdened fairground donkey whose legs gave way under the weight of too many merrymakers. 

They're just four of the 15 donkeys currently in rehab at the Nerja Donkey Sanctuary. just a few minutes drive from the famous Caves.  The Sanctuary is run by the extraordinary efforts of MD Jim Horne and a dedicated team of volunteers --angels in mud-spattered teeshirts.  It's kept open by the tender hearts and open hands of Nerja locals and holidaymakers, and coastal magazines including SolTalk, which regularly publishes advertorials for the Sanctuary free of charge.

The Sanctuary has rescued more than 6,000 distressed donkeys and mules, horses and ponies over the past 12 years and opened its Nerja centre four years ago to try and help even more.  Predictably, they have since then been inundated with fluffy, feathered and furry castaways.  As a result, the Sanctuary is also currently home to 15 dogs, a dozen cats, three pigs, two turkeys and 14 chickens, who all arrived wearing false hooves and tossing non-existent manes to get past the gate. 

That last bit isn't true, but what is true is that mending all these broken hearts and bodies costs the Sanctuary between €5000 and €6000 every month.  "We dread seeing black rubbish bags thrown over the gate," says Jim Horne, "because they will inevitably contain dogs or cats, kittens or puppies."

The good news is that they are making a visible difference in the Nerja region, especially with their outreach project.  When they started it just two years ago, they were bringing medication and care to around 250 animals.  "You'd see animals tethered with wire which cut into their legs," says Jim. Today, their dedication means that only 20 animals within a 50km radius of Nerja need that kind of care.  That's a whole lot of happier animals, and another bill of around €3000 a month.   

Anyway, Fred and I are sponsoring two donkeys.  Petra is a feisty young woman who keeps the boys in line with some well-placed kicks.  And Woody is the little fairground donkey who will now flirt for carrots. It costs €25 to adopt a donkey for a year.  And you can go visit them anytime!

The Nerja Donkey Sanctuary isn't the only establishment helping the hoofed.  Nose through this beautifully written article on the SearchIberia website, and find out about Pascual Rovira García and his life work, ADEBO (Associación para la Defensa del Borrico) in the small village of Rute, in Andalucia.

I hope you'll all gallop to your screens and help these chivalric individuals in their bighearted quest to bring comfort to donkeys and other animals in distress.  

      

La Joya-ful New Year

Coming back to Lanjarón to find all the big hotels boarded up for winter was depressing.  I'd gotten quite used to paying around €15 for two coffees and a cookie in London and at least all the cafés stay open all year. But the day after we got back, Fred and I walked into town under a triple-rinsed blue sky.  In the market we bought monkfish and clams from Juani to make a great Moro casserole.  We stopped off for the most powerful cafe con léche in town at nearby churreria Café Melilla.  At Carmen's Fruteria, we used root vegetables to beat our way through the shopping-bags-on-wheels brigade.  Then we lugged our bags back past the knitting shop, past Sebastian's fascinating, overstuffed hardware store, past the pastry shop with its Miss Havisham window display of cakes that have become old friends over the past four years.  Suddenly I realised I was happy to be back...

"Feel free to overdress," said the New Year's Eve party invitation from the L.O.S.T. in Spain team (Lindsay, Orla, Sheila, Tony), and almost everyone did.  Even Fred, the Howard Hughes of Calle Huelva, donned a suit and waistcoat and got in the mood.  He looked impressive, though the giant vat of prawn and pasta salad he was carrying to the party spoiled some of the effect.  I felt cold and croaky, so I compromised by dressing up my top half with anything glittery that came to hand, but wearing big boots under my skirt. You can do that sort of thing in Lanjarón.

When we got to La Joya, even the gardens were wearing evening gowns of coloured light.  In the winter-proofed Corral, vaguely familiar men and women stood around outshining the Christmas tree.  All the women suddenly had Shiny Hair - gleaming bobs and shoulder length layers of silk that made them all look like U.S. senators' wives.  And underneath the hairdos were Shoulders, more bare shoulders than in the whole of The Gladiator, but prettier.  All the men looked like James Bond.  Who would have imagined that black tie outfits lurked in so many expat wardrobes?  

Lanjaron chic tends towards fleecy things and jeans in winter, teeshirts and shorts all summer, the kind of clothes you can mix cement in.   Now here was Jan in scarlet silk , Lindsay in black velvet with a sweetheart neckline, Sheelagh in slinky navy jersey with a cutout back, Hildy elegant as a gold-topped cane in black wool and silk. Best of all, Lindsay's mum Agnes in a black velvet suit with cream silk ruffles.  When we were singing Auld Lang Syne, she seized Bernie's arm and flung him around in what I took to be a Highland Reel.  She is a tiny, 88-year old powerhouse, and Bernie must have realised he was powerless to resist.

Two woodstoves radiated almost as much warmth as the hosts.  Everyone bought their signature party dish and after a couple of drinks, my plateful of curry, nudging prawn-pasta salad and coronation chicken, with a slice of goat's cheese and onion tart and some highly-populated rice on a bed of tiramisu seemed just perfect. Glasses were refilled and plates whisked away as if by unseen hands, (I did drink quite a lot), and suddenly 2007 was over.

At midnight, I gobbled up my twelve grapes as Spanish tradition dictates, though I could never time the mastication to match each stroke of the booming clock.  As a result, it seems I will be rich for five months of the year, then have to busk in the streets of Orgiva for the next seven.  But warmth and plenty and friends and laughter are not a bad way to start 2008, and the party underlined what a great community we have here in Lanjarón, both Spanish and English.  Lindsay and Orla, Sheila and Tony, take a bow.  You help make this a great place to be. 

Fred and I want to wish all Andalucid readers a peaceful, prosperous 2008, wherever you are.  Maybe we'll see you in Lanjarón next Spring?

All the best, Arpi

Orgivanised Chaos

"Orgiva's not even Spanish, just an alien place."

"It's full of hippies."

"It's dirty and lacks grace."

And these are just the comments I have heard this week about the capital of Las Alpujarras. Plenty of people think Orgiva is as seedy and crumbling as a stale pipas de girasol loaf from Galindo's - and they don't all live in Lanjarón either. 

On grumpy days, I can see what they mean.  The endless obras, construction works that never seem to decrease the number of buildings needing work; a plentiful supply of potholes but non-existent parking; the run of cafes opposite the church - plastic chair parking lots serving the Orgiva special, a tostada con tomate where the tomate is apparently scraped off the polystyrene bread just before serving.  Stray people and stray dogs busy heading nowhere. Even the little piper wraith opposite Galindo's, with her formless fluting.  Some days I just want to get in, get the shopping and get back to Lanjarón's more sleepy certainties.

But if I don't take the winding road to Orgiva for a week or so, I start missing just that clash of people and energies that drives me mad at other times.  Here's a 'top-of-mind list of things I love about Orgiva:

Café Galindo's terrace (see pic above) on a mild spring or autumn morning.  Who's sipping their café con leche under the big green canopy today?  I might stop to sip and read the latest hair-raising issue of The Olive Press.  And to buy one of Galindo's serious, substantial loaves of wholemeal, oatmeal, five grain or sunflower-seed bread. (The earlier stale loaf allusion was just a figure of speech).

Camac Wholefood Store - To me, Camac is the perfect 'village store' run by the perfect proprietors.  'Organic, international, wholefood and soulfood' is how they describe the contents of their pleasant shop.  I love exchanging weather news and local gossip with Steve and Audrey while buying the all important chocolate peanuts and raisins, Steve's yummy homemade jams and pickles, emerald basil and coriander nodding happily in their pots, Indian and Thai ingredients to transform local chicken or veg...I sometimes go in even when I don't want anything.  Camac is part of the Orgiva experience.

Baraka - Perched just above the Plaza Alpujarra, serving wonderful drippy chicken or falafel shawarma wraps and blended carrot/apple/orange juice, with a thoughtfully-supplied shower in the women's loos so you can clean up afterwards (semi-joke).   And just a waddle away is Café Willendorf.  Excellent coffee in tall thin mugs, squishy sofas (if you get there first), palatial loos.   Dire food but never mind, because for great food there's...

...Cafe Libertad.  Sally and her team of smiling maidens have ditched the original, rather clinical décor and given the room a lightly girly makeover.  No pink ostrich feathers, but soft seating in jewel-coloured velvet now surrounds a big low table at the back, with warm brown cane seating around tables draped with softly shaded cloths.  And the menu - brunchy, lunchy, crunchy, a great balance of healthy and self-indulgent savoury and sweet things.  Fred took a photo of me trying to look dignified as I plunge into the All Day Breakfast Tart, light pastry around a wobbly egg custard filled with bacon, sausage and tomato.  There's a veggie version too.  Unless you are very hungry, get one to share!

Art shows put together at two days' notice.  "They told me the space (the old ayuntamiento next to the Plaza) was available.  I told them I didn't have anything to show just now.  Next day, they printed a poster announcing the exhibition," says a slightly bemused but happy Jayne Morley.  She worked early and late to put up the show, also featuring wildlife photographer Gig Binder, and Fred.   Jayne, a theatre actress turned photographer, is busy putting together aRThOUSe Orgiva, a range of residential courses in photography, filmmaking, theatre, dance, music, writing,  and voice. (Website under construction, like everything else in Orgiva, but getting there).  I love that in Orgiva, you don't have to be rich or connected to some stuffy European establishment to get things like this started.  Good luck Jayne and I hope to report on aRThOUSe's first season soon.

Christmas shopping at Nomadas.  If you haven't been into the sunny mini-emporium above Bar Cañada (opposite Dia supermarket) lately, it's been transformed.  Maria has done away with a lot of the ethnic fabrics, soft furnishings and clothes, replacing them with gifts, decorations and household stuff.  I am going there to do some Christmas shopping next week - the products and prices are a joy, and they wrap your gifts in bright pink Nomadas paper stamped with gold.

The little piper.  Bright-eyed and wild-haired as a Portuguese water dog, this elfin street performer almost lives on the high kerb opposite Galindo's, in the shade of the yellow pillarbox. Her unpunctuated piping is one of the characteristic sounds of Orgiva.  When she is not there, I step around her space.

So if you see me lurking in a shop doorway with a scowl, just ignore me.  But if I've found a shady seat at Galindo's and Antonio has just brought my coffee, then put your shopping down, take a seat and tell me what drives you nuts or lights up your day in Orgiva!

 

High Art In the Alpujarras

It never ceases to amaze me that round every dizzy Alpujarran corner a talented artist is even now pacing his or her studio, designing and making something beautiful, original and collectible. Without even trying, I can tell you what three 'creative campesinos'  are currently working on in these here hills pre-Christmas.   

Thanks to my friend Hiam Odds in Orgiva for bringing this example to my attention:

MARTA MOIA: Fragmentos del Sur

Marta Moia was born in Argentina and studied fine arts and theatre design there. She moved to London, studied at Chelsea School of Art and worked with Saint Laurent and Liberty among others.  She's also produced her own range of furnishing fabrics in her signature Mediterranean shades, with 'haute couture' one-off designs for buyers in London, Paris and Tokyo. 

Since 2003, she's been living and working in Orgiva.  Her latest show is inspired by Moroccan and Andalucian tile and textile designs.  It opens at the Sala Alpujarra in Orgiva (in the main plaza) at 6.00 pm on 30 November, and runs from 1st to 9th December.  Go and drink in the wonderful colours and shapes.

Next, art you can wear: Horsewoman and master goldsmith Rachel Mackie, (Artist on the Hoof, 11 March 2007, 'Our Town') just made me a new improved wedding ring.  (After a bad allergic reaction to a wasp sting, my 15-year old gold and platinum finger friend had to be cut off by the clinic in Orgiva). Like Rachel, it's a delightful original with a practical twist. She remade my old ring and used it to loosely encircle a wider band of silver, so that it turns and moves freely and won't get embedded again as I get older and fatter.

In fact, Rachel has just built a light-filled workshop in her old stables, where you can learn to work with precious and semi-precious stones and metals, to create your own unique baubles.  Classes are held on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, 10.30 am till 1.30 pm.  Bring a carrot. (Joke). Call Rachel on 958 784 137 to find out more.  And check out her website, Heirloom Treasures, for glittering gifts.

Finally, whether you live in Andalucia full time, have a holiday place here, or just aspire to one or the other, you might like something for Christmas to help with the creative visualisation.  So I invite you to take a look at Fred's Flickr site (click on the garlic in the right hand column of Andalucid) and take your pick of colour or black and white images of Andalucia's people, places, architecture and foods.  Select your chosen image and email me at fshively@mac.com, before 19 November for overseas orders, before 30 November for orders within Spain.  We are doing a special Christmas price of €60 (PDS STG42, $85.00), a substantial saving on our usual price of €75 for matted and signed limited edition prints.  Okay, end of shameless sales pitch!

Finally, talking of useful and beautiful, we were delighted to meet up this weekend with Ben and Marina from Notes In Spanish/Notes From Spain.   These international language learning stars (to their many fans worldwide) touched down in Lanjaron for a few days, and recorded a podcast with me and Fred about our adopted town.  It was rather late and we were rather full after a delicious meal at the Alcadima Hotel, but I think we 'sold' Lanjaron with sincere enthusiasm...see what you think and let us know!

¡hasta next time!

 

Expatting Ourselves on the Back?

Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson writes an often amusing, always provocative regular column for The Times newspaper.  At the end of August, he wrote a piece called 'The hell of being a British expat'.  The online version generated over 400 responses, ranging from the unintelligible to the unrepeatable. 

I urge you to do as we did; grab a glass of nice chilled Rueda white or (now it's the end of October) a full-bodied Rioja, gather around your computer and read a selection of these comments - you won't be able to stop until the very last misplaced comma!  Download ClarksonComment.doc

The vast majority of expats who replied were only too glad to fit the description, glad to get out of Britain, glad to be in the sun and on the cheap.  There were a few dissenters who agreed with Clarkson's view that leaving is for losers, but only about five out of the 411 were happy to stay in Britain.

In the same vein, Fred found another article, a more extended rant entitled: 'Who would live in Britain?' at Guardian Abroad. 

I'd love to know what you think.  Those of you who moved from Britain to live here in Andalucia or elsewhere in Spain - are you glad you did it?  Would you ever consider going back?  Has anyone got a good  word to say about the U of K?  Post a comment in the box below and put yourself on the expat map!

Plenty of light; no illumination

How many lightbulbs does it take to switch on an art 'happening'?  In the case of Tormenta, last night's aptly-named performance at Galeria Toro in Granada, the answer is - it couldn't possibly matter.

Gallery owner and friend Cipriana Soto Toro launched her new season of gallery shows last night in the city's arty, studenty Calle Gracia quarter. As a result, a predictable, bouncy mix of art students, old art students and me and Fred crowded into her whited-out gallery space and took our 'seats' - recycled A4 posters promoting Passi, the collective of artists, dancers, and craftspeople who were staging the show. 

I swear I heard my hips creak as I dropped nonchalantly on to the cement flooring next to two gazelle-like dancers.  Luckily, on one side was a trendy dad with a baby whose knitted foot kept kicking my arm, ensuring that I maintained consciousness the whole time the happening was happening.

With no background material and no clue about the story, other than its stormy theme, I was prepared for total mystification.  And I got it.  If I said that there were spasms of activity punctuated by even briefer episodes of applause, that might be giving the impression of more animation than there actually was.  Let's say there were palpitations of movement, each apparently unrelated to what came before or after; that the dancing - sorry, movement - was heavy with incomprehensible meaning; that a group of daffy,  well-meaning young people in white teeshirts, jeans and light bulbs got up and lay down in response to some compelling inner prompting.  I just wasn't hearing the same voices.

To be fair (but it's so much fun not to be), a lot of it was pretty.  Coloured lights were projected through tapestry-like transparencies onto the faces and bodies of the dancers, sorry, movers.  And baroque and contemporary woodwind music played by the Glauka trio was sinuous and elegant.  But it would have been so even without their Blackpool Illuminations dreadlocks.  Still, when the troupe ripped up the white paper backdrop strung on a narrow pole balanced on a performerista's head, and flung the scraps into the audience, signifying the end of the show, it drew the most heartfelt applause of the evening.

When Fred and I were able to get up and use our legs again, we tried to sneak away.  But our night wasn't quite over.  The Granada Hoy press photographer, delayed by traffic, had missed the show and had no photos - could Fred supply an image?  We'd barely said 'si' when we were whisked away by fast car to the Granada Hoy offices on Avenida de la Constitución, where I waited half an hour while Fred's camera was electronically disembowelled. 

Thanked and dropped off where we had parked, at the Neptuno complex, we tottered into smart new café/restaurant Moment O2, where we tried to forget with grappa, wine and coffee.  It didn't work, and we snickered happily all the way home to Lanjarón.   

PS:  See the review and Fredfoto in today's Granada Hoy arts pullout, and some great visual moments about to go on his Flickr site (scroll down right hand column of this blog to access).

Below: In a tragic twist at the height of the inaction, the heroine loses her contact lens and can no longer see the point.

Honey, it's good for you!

I'm surrounded by stalls selling sweet, sticky, fragrant edible things, and a smooth Spanish voice is whispering that they're good for my health and I should eat as many different types as possible.  Am I dreaming?  I dip a cracker into the earthenware bowl in front of me.  Thicker and darker than molasses, with a burnt sugar edge, the flavour of miel de madroños is too intense to be anything but real.  (I can't find a translation for this fruit, any ideas from this lovely photo)?

I'm tasting my way around the Feria de Miel Andaluza, the Andalucian Honey Fair, opening today for its seventh year in Lanjarón.  Dare I say that the building opposite the town's famous Balneario is buzzing?  Young, old and in-between, visitors are congealing contentedly around the thirty or so stalls selling everything from clear amber to chestnut brown honey, as well as soap, hand cream, candles, and even wines containing the magic ingredient.

The honey from Granada has its very own D.O. (Denominacion de Origen) quality mark to protect its purity, a status it shares with only one other Spanish region.  At the stall of local specialist Al-Andalus Delicatessen there are honeys made from chestnut, rosemary, thyme, lavender, orange blossom and even avocado.   A little further down the hall, Apicultura Jeronimo has cuddly beeswax cow candles, plus the oddest-looking chicken version and even Santa candles if you want to make an early start on your festive buying.

Apicor from Cordoba, where I tasted the mysterious miel de madroños, is a honey heavyweight.  The dignified elderly gentleman behind the counter lists the medicinal properties of each honey with the gravitas of a surgeon:  Cantueso (French Lavender - please correct me if you know better) honey is good for colic, flatulence and indigestion. It has powerful antiseptic properties too, so you can wash wounds with it.  Perfect for the greedy guts who has tripped over on the way back from the restaurant.  Romero, or rosemary honey, is good for the kidneys; Azahar, or orange blossom, helps with insomnia.  I try another speciality honey, miel de meloja, flavoured with pieces of pumpkin or squash.  It's a world away from the squeezy bottles of anonymous honey, 'Product of Several Countries' that line most supermarket shelves.  Apicor also sells big, chestnut-brown bars of pure beeswax, for furniture restoration and the like. 

A particularly enthusiastic bunch of visitors is gathered around La Bodega de Maria, based in Laroles.  Her family recipe produces  a  flowery, dark red 'honey wine' that she says is unique.  An elderly man standing next to me says he's been taking a medicinal glass of it every day for thirty years, and has hardly ever suffered colds or sore throats as a result.  If he's a 'plant', he's very convincing.

Other local/natural products are also on sale here.  I bought soaps with extract of caviar (they had a version with extract of snail-shells too), and there were plenty of local naughty treats: Exquisitos Mulhacenes, charmingly named after Spain's highest mountain, are golden brown meringue 'peaks'.  There are the deceptively pure white rounds of queso de almendras, or almond cheese, which must pack the world's greatest amount of calories into the smallest area, and hefty sausages of pan de higo, the dried fig sweet that thinks it's a giant chorizo. One smart tap from a pan de higo could fell a mule.

Spend a delicious hour or so absorbing this important Andalucian cultural mainstay - it's your patriotic duty!  The Fair is open all through the holiday weekend, from 11.00 am to 8.00 pm. And if you still feel hungry when you get out, several local restaurants are doing special honey dishes.  Try classic berenjeñas con miel (aubergine slices fried in honey) or costillas con miel, (honey-glazed spare ribs) at Volante (opposite the petrol station at the Orgiva end of town), or  lomo al estilo Luisiana con miel (Louisiana fried pork with honey) at Casita de Papel, the last restaurant at the Granada end of town.   For more information, you can call: (+34) 958 77 11 96/31, or email: apinevada@terra.es.

¡Buen provecho!

PS: Ever wondered what it takes to make the Spanish dream job work?  I spoke to Jonathon and Rosie Miles at Kaliyoga retreat to find out.  Their story is on the Guardian Abroad website.

Pedigree Chumbo

With their reputation for being hard to handle, and those all-over spiked collars, they're the pit bull terriers of the Andalucian fruit basket.  But just like that other maligned breed, the best of them are soft and sweet under their bristling exteriors.

We're talking higos chumbos; nopales in South America, tunas in Mexico, Indian figs, handiyyas in Morocco, Xian ren zhang in China, mission cactus or figues de barbarie.  There are dozens of names for the fruit of the prickly pear cactus, the opuntia ficus-indica.

Here in Andalucia, the sudden appearance of wiry old campesinos transformed into mountain goats with buckets signals the beginning of the chumbo harvest, and summer drifting into autumn.  The other day I watched an expert fill a bucket with the bright orange fruits, 'fishing' them off their knobbly mother plant with long-handled tongs.  Others wear rubber or leather gloves for hand-to-fruit confrontations.  "You can roll the fruits on the ground to get rid of the hairs," a chumbo-wife told me.  Other suggestions, (thank you Todd of Alcaudete on Andalucia.com) include  waving them around in an open flame, or shaking them in a bag of hot coals.  Or you could just open a tin of peaches. Don't do what I am doing in the picture here, staged for photographic purposes only.

Some say the red fruits are superior to the yellow and orange varieties; others keep them for feeding organically-reared pigs.  Either way, Todd recommends eating or preserving the fruits soon after harvesting, as they tend to start fermenting quickly. They are delicious as both a fruit and a vegetable, featuring in salads, jellies and jams, cookies and syrups, especially in American Southwestern and Mexican cuisine.   But don't go mad.  'Caroig' of Cabo de Gata, also on the Andalucia.com forum, warns: "I've also heard them referred to as 'sh-- eaters,'" advising that too many of the fibrous fruits can lead to severe constipation.

Sacred to the Aztecs, the Spanish brought the plant back with them when they returned from conquistadoring in the New World. Opuntia was historically grown in Spain to cultivate the cochinilla beetle, source of the heavenly red colouring.  Today it thrives in many Mediterranean countries including Spain, Italy and North Africa, as well as arid regions of the United States - in fact it can take over and needs careful managing if it is not to become a nuisance.

There are still chumbos to be had in our local campo.  So for a little while longer, next time you see a Spanish senior citizen clinging precariously to a steep terrace and waving wildly with a white stick, offer to hold his bucket.  He just might peel you a juicy chumbo, and soon you too will be hooked.

Tripping Over My Roots

Writing three fun-size features for Lonely Planet's next guide to Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan (GAA), seemed simple enough: call and email Armenian family and friends; ask them to share memories, folklore, that lullaby Granny used to sing; write poignant prose; get paid.  In fact, it was like extracting pine nuts with my teeth.

Like any deadline three months ahead, it was all going brilliantly until I started to tackle it with four weeks to go.  You'd never think I had a tribe of relatives in L.A. and another branch in London, all practising Armenians theoretically wallowing in cute cultural references.  When my lovingly hand-crafted email questionnaire failed to elicit a landslide of responses, I had to call and Skype at selected targets instead. 

I got lots of stories and 'information'. But knowing that my mother's fourth cousin's mother had once knitted a sock that her intended wore to a May Day gathering as a sign that he was ready to exchange several sheep for her didn't fall readily into my categories on Armenian emblematic fruits, the Church, or Mount Ararat.  I ended up getting soundbites from three men called Moses. 

However, I did discover that several of my older relatives have never even been to Armenia.  Which is odd, because I thought they had all been born there.  (My mother's and father's relatives are distantly related, which explains some strange personal traits I had been wondering about).  My father's family, Seventh-day Adventist converts in Cyprus, knew more about Betty Crocker than they did about Gregory the Illuminator.

Complete strangers turned out to be the most helpful:  Zareh (Serge) Jerejian at Armenia specialists Sunvil Travel sent me an information pack and put me in touch with some heavyweight Armenians: kind and courtly ex-newspaper editor Asadour Guzelian told me a lovely Noah on Ararat story, while a grumpy woman journalist in London collapsed under the weight of her own ego and gave me nothing.

The other godsend was Irina Petrosian, based in Indiana.  With her husband, David Underwood(ian?) she has written a charming book called Armenian Food: Fact, Fiction and Folklore.  She kindly shared some arboreal arcana with me, so do check out the beautifully illustrated fruits of her firsthand research, available from Amazon or from lulu.com.  With David, she also has a toothsome blog site called Armenian Food.

Thanks to these loyal fellow countryfolk, I was able to deliver on brief and on time. Now my editor loves me, and I can dance to the piping of the duduk (flute-like instrument carved from apricot wood) like a young goat...

More, much more Armenia stuff to come as I bother family and friends to find out about the communities in London, L.A., Lebanon, Cyprus and Yerevan.

42 Steps to Heaven

My triplet kid sister Sosi (she's 15 minutes younger than me) and her partner Alan are staying with us this week.  They are the holiday guests from heaven, so Fred and I love to hang out with them, which makes my week of serial work and study deadlines seem even more ill-timed.   

They're here partly to put their Lanjaron town house up for sale.  168 Barrio Hondillo was an unlikely haven for us when we left the States four years ago.  'Oh no,' said my sister when we half-jokingly asked about living there, 'not for you two, it's far too small.'  Whereupon we spent two and a half years there, living, working and entertaining.  Then our possessions and Fred's artwork started to overflow onto the landings and our ageing bearded collie was in constant peril of taking the short way down the 42 stairs.  So we moved to a house that had only thirty.

168 is one of a group of tall, thin houses built around a pretty placeta, or courtyard, whose 24/7 burbling fountain has occasionally featured in my dreams.  The house itself has a kitchen and dining room on the ground floor, a sitting room and an office/extra bedroom on the first floor, two bedrooms on the second floor, and a laundry/utility room and tiny rooftop terrace above. 

It was always worth toiling up the steps to see the view.  When we finally flung open the terrace door, we could look across Hondillo rooftops to the Sierra Lugar (someone's going to correct me and say it's the Contraviesa, but either way, a dramatic mountain range).  The terrace was just big enough to drag five friends up there for dinner, and at least the return journey was always downhill. 

Anyway, they're selling it.  And because the 1970 bathroom is hilarious and the whole place needs a coat of paint and the kitchen's just OK, they're selling it for a pretty reasonable sum.  So if you or anyone you know is interested, drop me a line.  There are some more pictures below. 

The mountains make a great backdrop for your breakfast tostada!

Here I am gazing at the exterior of the house on the first day of Lanjaron's annual Fiesta of Water and Ham, which takes place at the end of June. I'm probably wondering where to put Fred's latest batch of framed photos!