Trisha Ray - Log of a Travel Artist: watercolors

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Language Learning: Disaster in a German Kitchen

Rothenburg, not far from my university in Würzburg.

Early on, when I was learning German, I got a part time job.

It was at the university kitchen in Bochum, Germany.

I figured it would be a good way to practice my German.

They had tens of thousands of students.

I worked the lunch shift, 12–3:00.

My job was "Trays".

Placing lunch trays on a conveyor belt.

Over and over.

I must have done a good job.

After a few days, I was promoted to "Sauce".

I poured sauce over the meat, with a ladle.

This ladle had a VERY long handle.

The sauce cart was on wheels.

It was about a meter deep.

I had a pretty good rhythm going.

Suddenly - I DROPPED the ladle into the sauce.

Deep. Gone.

Now what?

I wasn't going to reach down in there.

And: I didn’t know how to say “ladle” in German.

(The German word for ladle, by the way, is Schöpflöffel.

-Even if I KNEW it, I couldn't pronounce it.)

So I did nothing.

I hoped no one would notice.

Pretty soon, the students began to complain.

The whole system—conveyor belt, trays, meat, sauce, veggies— stopped.

They traced the problem back to me.

I stood there, feeling pretty stupid.

So they gave me a clean ladle, and a few dirty looks.

A LOT of grumbling. In German.

Soon - everything started up again.

But the next day, I was back to "Trays".

- Not exactly a stellar career move. Even if I did learn the word for ladle.

(From the book - Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos -)

Kenya: Dancing at the Starlight Ballroom in Nairobi

"My band is playing tonight. Starlight Ballroom,” Jomo said. “I’m drumming. Why don’t you come?
Starts about 9:00.”

The open door unleashed music into Nairobi's tropical night air as we paid our entrance fee. Seeing us, Jomo waved a drumstick from across a massive hall. Hundreds of swaying, laughing, pulsing black bodies filled the room. There were no chairs, no tables, only dancing.

We joined right in. The beat of the African Highlife music was irresistible. Lighthearted and hypnotic, the steady rhythm went on and on. There were no partners. Everyone just danced, hips moving, feet shuffling, heads swaying with the continuous beat. The spirit was contagious.

As I danced, I closed my eyes. Two singers in the band blended voices in two-tone harmony, singing the Nigerian and Senegalese pieces which always started on a high note and descended, sometimes in French, sometimes English, often indecipherable, and always compelling.

“It’s easy to find you in here.” My girlfriend Lisa laughed, as she danced past. “We’re the only white faces!”
It was true. Of the hundreds dancing, only my three friends and I were not African.

“I’ll be back,” I shouted in reply, and pointed toward the ladies’ room.

It was quieter in there, but still hot. The women wore skimpy tops and lapas, long colorful skirts. When I closed the door, conversations stopped. The small room was crowded, and smelled strongly of sweat and perfume. I waited for a stall, suddenly unsure of how welcome I was. The atmosphere became heavy. All eyes focused on me, either directly or surreptitiously. Finally one woman stepped forward and spoke. She took my hand in both of hers, and looked into my eyes. Everything stood still.

“Sister,” she said softly. “Thank you. Thank you for coming. Welcome.”
The others nodded and smiled, and began to talk again.
I returned to the dance floor, and my friend from the women’s room waved as she went by.
Smiling, I joined the dancers again.

From the book:

Meanwhile, Back in Los Ranchos

Three Odd Episodes in Spain

Adventure #1:

The Case of the Unpopular Rental

My first house in Spain became a rental house, since I wasn’t there often.

I had a local rental agent. It was in the town of Nerja, on the Costa del Sol.

The house was cute—beautiful views of the ocean, and the town was growing.

But as a rental, it really didn’t seem to be doing well.

The agent said it wasn’t a popular place to rent.
Every time I told him I was coming down to visit, the place stood empty.
(This was long before the internet or AirBnb.)

One time, without mentioning I was coming, I just flew down from my home in Switzerland for a weekend. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem, since no one ever rented the place anyway. I took my key and opened the door. A shirtless man with a beer in his hand answered.

“Who are you?” he asked, somewhat annoyed.
“Who are YOU?” I asked.

Well, it turns out the place was wildly popular, always full and always rented.
And I never received any of the money.

So much for my first rental experience.

PS: Yes, I did make a fuss.

Yes, I did get some of the money back, after threatening to tell the story to the local newspaper.

But - that was the END of renting it!

Adventure #2:

José Sanchez and the Stolen Toilet

During construction of that same small villa in Andalucia, I felt that the downstairs bathroom was awfully cramped. I mentioned it to the builder, José Sanchez, who didn’t seem to pay much attention. But my Spanish wasn't very good, so I thought maybe he didn't understand me.

The next day, I went into the house - and the bathroom seemed so much roomier!
- I couldn’t figure out how he had managed it - and so quickly!

Then I looked again.

It was only bigger because the toilet had been stolen.

My Spanish motorino - it worked - sometimes.

Adventure #3:

Impromptu Concert in Granada

We found a small guitar shop in the back streets of Granada.

They made their own guitars—Spanish guitars.

Stan picked one up and played a few notes.

The woman who owned the shop stopped what she was doing and disappeared.

She brought out another guitar, and carefully handed it to Stan.

A special guitar.

Stan played.

Soon, the whole shop was filled with people—other shopkeepers, neighbors, family—and two random Japanese tourists, all listening to Stan play. Some danced, some clapped in time.

Truly appreciating the music. One of those moments in travel when you KNOW- it's magic.

- The Japanese visitors probably thought this happened every day.

The Balcón de Europa in Nerja.

I had that villa in Nerja for about 20 years. 1980 - 2000, more or less.

In the early days, it was all farmland. Tomatoes, mostly. Donkeys carried the sacks to and from the village market. Roosters woke us in the mornings. The fishermen repaired their nets by the side of their painted wooden boats. The old women dressed in black, head to toe. No one spoke English. Life was slow.

Who would have thought that everything would become so popular, so modern, so international?

Everyone keeps telling us that - things change.

But - we don't really understand it - until it happens to us.

Duck Eggs - The Story

Remember the ducks?

Stan was trying to persuade them to move - elsewhere.

Away from our freshly painted boat - and - they did.

They headed down the canal a bit.

Friends of ours, Ron and Fiona, live on a lovely old barge from 1910 - "The Swan".

It's moored just a few boats down from us.

Maybe the ducks saw the swan on the rudder - and took it as an invitation to the neighborhood.

A short while later, Ron and Fiona unexpectedly discovered a nest of duck eggs.

Nicely planted under their bicycle cover.

A LOT of eggs.

- Oops. No bicycling for a while.

No feathered female seemed to be sitting on the eggs, so - we took a couple for lunch.

They're big! And truly - organic.

Totally free range, obviously.

The ducks even eat baguettes.

Of course. They're French ducks.

Do you have to cook duck eggs longer?

No, not really. They're more delicate than chicken eggs.

Just put them in cold water.

When the water begins to boil, turn it off.

Let them sit in the water for about 12 minutes. Done!

But first: off to market - to buy some new potatoes, some fresh market tomatoes and greens.

Add a little Dijon mustard, and some French sea salt, and a squeeze of lemon.

Stan choosing greens at the Capestang market.

Duck egg salad. Delicious!

And - a few fresh cherries for dessert.

Grenada - Watercolors on the Island Side

Here in the Caribbean - far south - things are pretty slow.

Cabier Beach, Grenada. Our apartment is on the left.

But we have plenty of time.

We need to be out of the Schengen area for 2 months.

Our house for the first month here (!) was in the "busy" part of the island. The Lime.

A beautiful tropical gingerbread place - this was our view:

Not very busy, really.

Arriving in the islands after leaving winter in London was quite a shock.

The green hills, colorful houses, blue seas.

The eyes - and the mind - need time to change gears.

We had to go to the police station to get our local driving permits - quite the cultural experience.

The fellow who rented us our car turned out to be the local doctor. Nigerian.

When Stan had a sinus infection, our landlady called the doctor. Turns out he's the guy we rented our car from. He checks Stan out, and says, "I'll pick up the prescription at the pharmacy, they know me, and it'll go faster. Otherwise you'll have to wait."

Then he went to the pharmacy to pick up the prescriptions! All for $30. What service.

(Since they don't pay him much as a doctor, he had a small car rental business on the side.)

During the second month, we moved east - to the windward side. Generally, in the islands, the leeward side has the lovely beaches, but can be warm. The other side is windier. NOt as good for swimming, but more comfortable with the breeze.

On the east side, there are no cities. Few towns.
Bumpy dusty muddy roads.

Goats. Chickens. Pigs.
Enthusiastic roosters.

A few years ago we came to this part of the island.

It turned out to be wonderful - but the first night on Grenada was rough!

Jungles of plantain, papaya, coconut, mango, breadfruit trees.

Nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, cashews.
Everything grows here.
And the flowers -!

Beaches without a soul around.
(ok, maybe a few iguanas.)

We found a place to stay at Cabier Beach - and we stayed a month.
It's pretty remote - beautiful - and just right.

View from our apt. No one on the beach but a couple of donkeys.

Pretty soon, it felt like home.

Our local store.

The parrots, the turtles, the monkeys, the zookeeper. (Yes, they even had a small zoo!)

The people who live and work here began to know us and we began to know them.

Weighing scales used at the local "green" market.

It's a mix of French, German and English - and some sort of local Creole.
Alexander, a gentle German, runs the hotel.

Bruno is French and runs the restaurant.

Sometimes a couple of pigs graze the beach, too.

It's seriously relaxed.

We made driftwood sculptures on the beach.

Tried sometimes to catch crabs.

Took daily beach walks.

Enjoyed torrential downpours and spectacular moonsets.

Even took part in a "hash run" - a weekly event with a mix of people, music, noise, color.

Good local beer and BBQ chicken.

(These "hash runs" happen all over the world, apparently. If you find one, try it! It's fun.)

(I drew a LOT of little things in my journals-)

It's the sort of place that - when a visitor comes to eat at the restaurant, everyone winds up sharing stories, and we leave with promises of meeting again somewhere else in the world.

We fed the macaw. Hunted for cashews.

Discussed local politics.

Drew. Played music.

You get the idea.

Grenada isn't glitzy.
It's a regular place, not a "destination".

"Downtown" Crochu.

Most tourists only visit one small corner of the island.

Turns out - it's a great place to spend the winter.

Steel Drums and "Oil Down" - in Grenada

Everyone on the island was talking about "Ail Dung".

-I had NO idea what to make of it.

Turns out, it's "Oil Down", Grenada's national dish.

In fact - it's a whole happening.

It's Independence Day on the "Island of Spice".
Time to enjoy "Oil Down".

Everyone is decorated in Grenada's national colors, red, yellow and green.

The sidewalks are freshly painted.

Stores play national songs all week - "Three Islands, One Nation".

Grenada became independent in 1974.
It was a French colony and a British colony.

Many names are still French:
Morne Rouge, L'Anse aux Epines. Petit Martinique.

(Some are a curious blend of French and English - like "Lower La Tante".)

The British Queen is still on the currency, the Eastern Caribbean dollar.

She's a lot younger in these pictures -

The best place for the "Oil Down" is on the beach.

It's a whole day affair.

Everyone helps. The pot is HUGE. And heavy.

These guys were VERY excited to tell me about their "Oil Down"!

Made with plantains, yams, pumpkin, breadfruit, taro leaves,

salt fish and salt pork, turmeric and coconut milk - and anything else local. Cooked "down" so the "oil" of the coconut infuses the other ingredients.