Gone Fishin'

It is beautiful here. Sparkling, golden, ringed with green, sun-dappled, hot as hot. I'm standing in the Caney Fork River in Tennessee. The very cold waters rush by my ankles, thighs and hips in such a way as to feel like I'm submerged in wildly whirling and fizzling soda water tickling my skin and chilling my bones. I've never felt anything quite like it as the powers-that-be release more water gently through the dam this late-June morning.

For the first time in my life I catch out of the corner of my eyes the silvery flashes of trout: browns and rainbows. I gasp with exhilaration...I've seen them!

I'm here to fish and to paddle my way from below the dam to the take-out, and I'm savoring every moment of the natural beauty, trying to focus and regain control over my thoughts which have been torn away since I returned from Spain. I'm constantly aware of the bobbing & turning of brightly colored kayaks around my own, like so many floating crayons strewn into the river by the hand of a child playing on the muddy, sandy banks.

It is beautiful here.

Mist and fog rolled and lingered just above the water last night as I watched, breathless, the deepening silhouettes against peach-pink sky and craggy trees. My friend held his line in one hand, rod in the other, motionless as I traced his dark outline with my eyes and snapped a photo, then another. The scene here today is different, changed. Alive. There remains mystery on the river today but of a different sort. The trees hold no secrets this morning- only the water does. It is deep green and thick with wonder, the excitement of the chase, and nourishment- and the meeting of the three.

The Caney is dotted with men in waders, only their hips to head visible, all strung between flickering lines and flapping fish. Some have handsome hats with chin strings, others baseball caps, but all heads are tipped slightly chin-down toward the water. Some flash their wide smiles at me and my friends floating by and offer kind words and tips, others grumble, still others indicate where we should go and blame us for their tangled lines and poor luck.

I make my way downriver in a jumble of tangled thoughts, moments of peace, muscle flexion, exhilaration, resting. Sweat pouring down my back, my hands grip my paddle then exchange it for rod and reel, slippery yellow powerbait or the corn floating in the little cup-holder. I take in as much of the beauty of water and sky as I can. I power through, then rest. I catch up with my friends, then let them float ahead. I can't decide; I am mixed. I find myself as often as I see the flash of the trout before it disappears out of view. I'm fine with this. I know I am fully here, and that's all that matters.

I try casting into riffles, runs, and pools, with no more luck in one than the other. Many bite, some bend my rod as I reel in, but none hangs on long enough for the #6 hook to embed. I repeat my anthem all day long: "AH!!-aaaoooohh."

As the sun beats down I'm seeing a few things more clearly. I am addicted to this new activity, fishing. I'm addicted to the thrill of reeling in bluegill after bluegill, and now the attempt at trout. I am addicted to the sensation of nibbles on my line, the subtle tug, the connection between nerve endings, woman and fish. I seek the Salvelinus fontinalis, the species grouping for any trout I might found in the eastern U.S. (so says genetic testing). For the moment, I choose to discount the Scottish study concluding that rainbow trout feel pain (it is hotly debated, anyway). For now, my quest is not merely for the thrill or for the rich aroma of my dinner over the fire, but for answers:

How long do you let one fish nibble away and play at your precious bait, potentially sucking it off your line leaving you empty-handed and worn? When do I cut and run?

How can I distinguish between kelp and a keeper before it rises to the surface?

What bait is best? What color? Type?

With what body motion, wrist flick, hip twist am I most likely to reel in a trout?

How much muscle do I use? Does this fish want gentle subtlety or a hearty tug?

Does sweet-talking help in any way?

(Sound familiar?)

Should I go after the plethora of troutling because they're there, or wait it out to try for the Big Brown in deeper waters?

I am quiet, and mark my observations. Moment by moment the water plays tricks on me, mimicking the precise sensation of a nibbing trout as the current drags the sinker along the bottom and plays catch-and-release with the kelp. And then something bites- tears fast and furious at my hook- and in an instant is gone, disappointed with my measly bait, only to leave me wondering just how big and beautiful it was, and what my friends would've said had I muscled it up to reel it in. Did I not have what it takes for that one?

And karma seems to have little to do with success on the river; the guy who behaved so badly at camp last night has caught a stringer-full today. Woman keeps her dignity but no fish.

My friend turns to me and says, "This one just bit the whole hook, line and sinker down to its belly!" He has dinner. That fish wanted the bait so badly, liked what it saw so much, that it went in fully committed the first time- no doubts, no question, and got the bait. You could say, despite the obvious implication of an impending fish fry, that they both won.

Now it must be obvious where I'm going with this. I'm a girl who loves connection, as you know: connection to people, the feel of my nose against the roses in my garden, connection of my hands to my food, and to that subtle nibble on my fishing line extending from my fingertips through my forearms. I even love to hold the freshly-caught fish. But while I so enjoy the gentle sensation of a first touch or initial nudge, I am a bigger fan of the thrill of the catch- whether it be face to face time with friends, or capturing the attraction and love of a special person.

They say patience makes a great fisherman, patience brings you dinner. At least that's what they were telling me on the Caney today. So I suppose my answer is not in how to dress a hook, what color bait to sport, or my motion, but in what I'm gonna do with all that time on my hands while I wait.

I'll let you know. Share

Goodbye Spain

It is nearing time for me to say goodbye to a place I've spent more time planning to visiting than actually visiting. Not easy, but it does come naturally to wind down, stop walking, and contemplate. 

My mind wanders to the many facets of life in Spain that I'll miss. What first comes to mind for me is the Catalan lisp. I realize no one here considers that delicious sound a lisp but, well, there's no better way to communicate it to english speakers. The hard "c", the "z," and the sedilla "c" (I think I'm correct) are all pronounced in such a way as to produce a wet, lusciousness in speech rather than a sound for which to apologize, as Americans would have it. In Nashville when I want to go salsa dancing, I head to a club called "Ibitha." not "Ibiza." I won't correct you when you say it the latter way, but I would rather remind myself of how Spaniards pronounce the island name. Look at me funny, snicker behind my back, but it shall remain. The sound creates a soft richness of speech which makes my eyes linger on the lips of the speaker. And now I'm at a loss as to say more. Come to Spain and you'll know.

The hot, bright sunlight slathered over every person and landscape I will certainly miss. This should have come first. what my friends know of me is that I'm first a sunlight addict, if anything. I would retire in southern France or Italy or anywhere in Spain to chase the sun til my last breath if I could work it out. Just as my daughter was reaching her limit of heat on the beach I was just beginning to feel perfect. Even now I'm situated as close to the sunlit balcony as my chair will allow, my legs cramped against the permanent half-window sealed here for safety. Last evening as we sauntered down the sidewalk to Placa de Reina (say "Platha"), the evening sun was so bright as to defy anything I've ever known of the 9pm sky. (Sunset is 10:30 in June). It blinded us so that we had to cock our heads to the side to make our way to our destination. It is this sort of sun that cheers both psyche and soul and warms the skin. I want nothing else.

With only a few moments to finish before dragging our bags on the 20-minute walk to the train station, I must admit that I have enjoyed far more than expected the unexpected nature of our travels. Up until my trip to St. Martin last summer (which was nearly derailed despite rigorous planning), I was studious before any vacation, determining before departure my chosen haunts, best routes, and the recommendations of seasoned adventurers. The St. Martin trip taught me that sometimes reality works against a plan, and that my stubbornness nearly unraveled my joy. Perhaps that left such a mark as to cause in me an inexplicable inability to plan this current trip to Spain. Up until a week before I felt frozen.... I could not so much as look at a guidebook, map, or train schedule. I had only our flight confirmation to and from Europe, and the desire to see and spend time with my daughter who is studying for one month on the Spanish coast. The impromptu has proven incredibly satisfying, indeed freeing for me. I've been able to follow the momentary whims of my thirteen-year-old daughter who is my travel companion, the late notice of group plans in a hostel, and other surprises along the way. I can honestly say that this is now my preferred way to travel.

I must go. Time to hike it to the train station, back to Barcelona, and to the airport tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, enjoy the unexpected.

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Simple Pleasures Abroad- Vital to Any Big Adventure

Sometimes we allow fear of unknown to keep us from following our sense of adventure. This is particularly true of traveling abroad, seeing the world beyond one’s familiar borders.

I know a number of people who will forego a trip abroad because packing up one’s life for even a few days and planting oneself in a foreign country feels too complicated to be any fun. Did I consider before traveling that that something could go wrong medically, politically, or otherwise beyond our control in unfamiliar surroundings? That my 13-year-old daughter/companion might grow irritable? That the French language with which I’m proficient would hold minimal sway in attempting to explain my needs to a Spaniard? That a few days without my Honda scooter might incapacitate me psychologically? While the answer is a resounding YES, I consider these worthy risks for the level of joy and fulfillment that new life experiences and global education impart.

I would add, though, that being cognizant of the power of a few simple pleasures improves one’s travel adventures remarkably and evokes a joyfulness that no environmental complications can outweigh. I’ve kept track of a few, both photographically and in jotted notes, but find that sitting here in a breakfast nook overhanging Alicante’s La Rambla is the perfect time to share some of them. Without camera or notebook, let me see what comes to mind in this peaceful morning moment, Spanish music softly filling the background….

Well, firstly I note that I’m surrounded by people whose mere proximity to open water seems to have kept them relaxed but passionate about life. Romanticism and bonding are ever-present everywhere I look. Here on this “White Coast” town of Alicante, Spain, most couples hold hands…. particularly the elderly. Friends hold one another’s arms when crossing the street and ascending the metro station stairs. As I’ve seen on other European beaches, entire families play together- and they do so half-naked- with such ease and delight as to make single people like me utterly jealous.

.Coffee. Café con Leches. Espress. Call it what you will, European travel for the coffee lover is palatary fulfillment. I’m coining the word, so just add it to your spell-check. Opaque walnut brown, nutty, smooth, with the mouth-feel of velvet, fantastic coffee in white demitasses can be found on every corner and every nook at any hour. And I hate to admit it, but even the little packets of European Nescafe instant coffee make an amazing cup unlike any American attempt. Our first Barcelona hotel room was outfitted with a chrome hotpot that boiled water in 30 seconds flat- I kid you not- and three of these packets. While not as delectable as the espresso downstairs, that first cup of coffee after an unimaginably long day of travel was a simple pleasure that rocked my first day in Spain.

Columbias. Not a typo- these are my shoes of choice. I brought one pair of heels, tennis shoes, and my Columbia flip-flops. One can’t appreciate other simple pleasures while traveling if one’s feet aren’t happy. Comfortable, fashionable in that “world traveler” sort of way and indestructible, they’ve supported me for two full years before this trip and are keeping my feet and back happy every day in Spain. I’m going to write the company as soon as I get home.

Sunshine. My friends know I am a sunlight addict, the sort who runs home not to catch happy hour but the last few rays after work. Daily long doses of pure, hot sunlight (illuminating my keyboard) just make me feel great inside and out. (This is no health blog so I’ll skip over all the implications of exposure other than to comment that my fair-skinned Irish/Cherokee daughters slathering themselves with SPF 50. This outstanding and fee pleasure lasts from 6am to 10:30 pm.

Piping hot bubble baths: Eight hours of touring Antonio Gaudi’s fantastical architectural sites in Barcelona and your body is bound to ache. (This was the day I chose not to wear the Columbias- silly me). Our hotel came fitted with a short bathtub, a large hot water heater, and shower gel. Three cheers for the massive mounds of bubbles and piping hot bath one can produce with those simple ingredients.

Free wifi (say “weefee” in Spain). The best decision I made in planning this trip was to forego other hotel room niceties to find free high-speed wifi. Suffice it to say that very little of the effort I put forth to ensure I had the correct hardware would have made any difference in Europe had I not had a place in or near my room to log on. With a child asleep during my best blogging/ photo-uploading /emailing hours, I could never have visited distant internet cafes for web-time. H10 Hotel on Las Ramblas in Barcelona also offers two computers- enough for the clientele-which became immensely valuable after my computer charging fiasco. Hotel Rambla in Alicante provides me with free fast wifi in the breakfast area, stairwells, and for a huge bonus- in my room.

Computer technology: What naturally follows is a comment on the simple pleasure of the correct adaptors, converters, chargers, batteries and upload cables, without which little of my contact with friends back home could have been possible. Sure, I could email people from an internet café, but where are those and how long is the line and how much will it cost me? Besides, owning my technological comfort is so much better. Beyond that, I am convinced my friends would have been more silent had I not been uploading photos. Their comments on my Face Book photo albums have been a lifeline for me since I’m traveling without adult companionship. One heartfelt note for the Mac owner, though: Insist that your Apple store clerk SHOW you how to connect every blessed part of your European converter/ adapter / laptop system before you leave town. I jumped for joy four days into my trip in an Alicante student apartment when my daughter’s roomie casually pointed out she was using the same adaptor I’d brought from Nashville. She had pulled apart a certain segment and connected the adapter.....otherwise, one would never intuit how it connects, and may lose one’s temper at a random Apple store clerk.

Carry-on luggage. I am both a petite and savvy traveler. I pride myself in my equally petite luggage- usually. But I lost my mind before this trip, and bought the biggest red suitcase I could find for my stuff while reminding my child to pack light. After I finish typing this, Big Red (that blasted back-breaking suitcase) is headed to the shipping store, “Correos,” for its trip home- stuffed and alone. The simple pleasure? My 19 year old who is studying here brought an extra carry-on at my suggestion, and has handed it over to me for the remainder of my trip. Associated simple pleasure: The bottle of Woolite for sink-washing the outfits I will now need to repeat.

There are so many hundreds more simple pleasures I’d like to relate, but for now must get outside and experience them. Blogging is such a joy for me, but here I am in Spain indoors with only four days left to romp. Here is a short list with more to come:

Friends and family back home

New friends

Croissants

Drinking chocolate

Millefeuille

La Boqueria or any other open-air market

The Mediterranean- it really is blue-green!

Train tickets

Tilework

Patterns

Beautiful wood-carved doors

The abundance of beautiful Spanish men (hey- I’m from Nashville, where women outnumber the men! The streets in Alicante are positively lined with men who smile and call out to me!)

The Mercadona: where I bought five bags of groceries including two bottles of wine for 21 euros- which, with the ailing dollar, was only about $35!

Anchovies- thanks Pere!

Watching Kelli windsurf and kayak

Watching Katie on her photographic journey

A 16-pack of AA batteries- good suggestion, Dad! So much better than rechargeable.

An Agatha Christie compilation (Katie’s choice)

Familiar music on my laptop and iPod

iPhone: I recommend AT&T’s World Traveler plan for a few text and phone calls only, and following their advice on phone settings to avoid using data at all. Their web sites and customer service have been exemplary.

OK I’m sorry but I must run outside. It is sooo late in the morning. Enjoy your day- wherever you are and whatever you do and whomever you’re with. There are simple pleasures everywhere!

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