published pieces on the web

Hello! I am writing this to inform my tiny readership that a few of my pieces have been published elsewhere on the interweb. You can find my tips for hitch-hiking at the Dirty Vagrant travel blog and a memoir piece about my unlikely connection to the pressure cooker at The New School's Inquisitive Eater magazine. I hope you enjoy them and please feel free to drop me a line if you have any comments or suggestions about my writing. I'd love to hear from you. Cheers!

Late-night wander round sleepy hollow

The bus driver shouts the name of my stop and I stumble off the bus bewildered, having just woken up from a short nap. It’s nearly one in the morning in London and I’m exhausted from six hours of traveling. Although theoretically it’s only a quick hop from the continent to the Queen’s land by plane, it involves so much waiting, sitting and standing for hours in a succession of blank rooms with cardboard walls and florescent snack machines; it’s exhausting. But, I have finally made it to my destination and I will soon be reunited with my good friend in her warm and cozy flat – or so I hope.

“This bag weighs about two tons,” the bus driver informs me darkly. I laugh nervously and take it from her. “Thanks, have a great night.” I wait for the bus to pull away before heaving my giant backpack onto my shoulders, wobbling slightly as I try to steady myself. Once I’ve gained my balance, I take in my surroundings. The street is lit up with neon signs as far as the eye can see; that’s a good sign. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single person out. I see a map at the bus stop so I amble over to check it out. Peering at the map, I try to make sense of where I am and search desperately for my friend’s street name. My heart sinks a little; I don’t recognize a single street name or underground station in the area.

I spot a few men doing road work on the other side of the street so I cross over, nearly getting run over by an oncoming car driving speedily on the right side of the road. “Right, London,” I think to myself, making a mental note to be more careful about street crossings. I tell the construction worker where I’m trying to go and he takes a moment to think, scratching his chin unreassuringly. He looks up and down the street, a bit befuddled. “Well, the tube stopped running a few minutes ago… How long can you walk with that thing?” he asks me in a thick British accent, pointing at my bag towering an extra foot over my head.

My heart sinks a bit further. “I think I’m just going to give my friend a call. But thanks for your help.” I start off down the road in search of a pay phone. I spot one on a side street and jostle into the tiny glass box, my enormous backpack sticking out into the street. I slide in my credit card and follow the directions. “This is a credit card call,” the woman’s voice on the line informs me. “The cost is three pounds per minute. Press one if you accept the charges.” I nearly choke when I hear the price rate. Six dollars a minute!? That is insanity. But, I’m in a new city, I have no idea where I am, and it’s the middle of the night. I hesitate for a minute before pressing number one with defeat.

Jackie picks up cheerily. I don’t let her get a word in and immediately begin talking at her very fast, explaining my situation. She springs into action to find me directions on her computer. “Hmmm… That looks like a bit of a hike,” she informs me, much to my dismay. Of course, the telephone doesn’t have a chronometer so I have no idea how much time (and therefore, money) is being spent. I give her the number stamped in the pay phone and she promises to call back in a minute. I hang up with relief, hoping not to have done too much damage to my bank account. With conversion fees and hidden credit card charges, you never know.

I keep my hand on the receiver expectantly, but a minute turns into two and the phone still hasn’t rung. I begin to worry. Thankfully, I see a couple walking across the street so I pop outside the box, being sure to keep the door open in case the phone rings. “Hey, which way is Kilburn?” I shout into the night.

“The tube stop?” the woman replies. “Yeah, I’m trying to get there but the underground stopped running.” I explain. “Whoa, that’ll take forever,” her boyfriend says matter-of-factly, adding to my mounting panic.“No, it’s not so bad,” the girlfriend tries to reassure me. “It’s that way, maybe ten minutes walking,” she points down a dark road that twists out of sight. “Thanks,” I mutter half-heartedly. 

They hurry home and I turn my attention back to the phone, willing for it to ring. My efforts are unrewarded and I resign myself to the reality of the situation. It looks like I have no choice. I begin to walk hesitantly down the street in the direction she pointed. There’s not a soul in sight. I see a movement to my left and jerk my head to check it out. Skulking in the shadows across the street, a reedy golden fox makes its way shiftily down the sidewalk, ignoring my presence. A fox in the middle of the city? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in the woods! I gape at it in shock for a moment before continuing on my journey; we both have places to go.   

As I walk down the deserted street, I crane my neck to see if I can make out any sign of life in the distance. The night is still. An almost full moon peers down at me eerily from behind a streak of gossamer clouds. A cold wind rustles the trees furiously; streetlight shadows dance all around me. I shudder as fear creeps up on me from behind. I shake it off resolutely and march forward, pushing away all thoughts of scary movies to the farthest reaches of my mind.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I see movement up ahead, car beams crossing the street; my heart perks up. “I must be getting to a major road,” I think to myself happily. Finally, I make it to the cross street to find it’s not a major intersection at all, just a one-way lane with the occasional car streaking by in the night. Another bus stop map informs me that I am nearing my destination, but I still have a while to go. I leave the comfort of the well-lit road and plunge into the darkness once again. As I take in the neat facades on both sides of the street, I think about the families behind the brick walls; most of them are probably asleep for the night, and I am envious. It’s strange to be surrounded by such a sleepy neighborhood when I myself feel completely on edge, my body buzzing with nervous energy.

At last, I make it to a proper intersection. Cars rush by in a blur and blinking lights colorfully advertise kebabs and haircuts. The sign on the street reads “Kilburn High Road” and I rejoice. The tube stop is somewhere on this street, I’m sure of that- but which direction? My intuition says right, but I have no idea why. I cross the street and ask a hoodied chap standing in line for a sandwich. He points me to the left and away I go. My fear dissipates and is replaced with a wave of joy; I feel light on my feet even with my mammoth backpack pulling down on my shoulders.

I see a red circle in the distance and assume it’s the tube stop. Another wave of happiness. As I approach, though, I realize that it’s just a sign designating a one-way street. Hmm, it’s probably on the next block, I try to convince myself. A bus stop map doesn’t prove to be helpful in my pursuit. In fact, it only confuses me further; it seems as if there are multiple Kilburn stations in the area. Oh no. I begin to panic.

I accost a white-haired woman coming off a bus. “Kilburn station? I’m looking for the Kilburn tube station,” I ask her urgently. “Well, up ahead is the Kilburn Park station,” she responds cautiously. Heart starts sinking fast. “I need Kilburn, just Kilburn.” She points down the street behind me from where I came. My heart is in my shoes. I knew I should have followed my intuition. “Anyway, the tube won’t be running this late, dear,” she says kindly, obviously a bit concerned for this confused traveler. “I know… My friend lives right next to it, though,” I explain dejectedly as I fall into step with her. “Well, tell your friend to come here and get you!”, she says with a laugh. I mumble something about pay phones costing a fortune in this country and we part ways. She wishes me good luck as she turns down a side street and I start the arduous task of retracing my steps. (This seems to be a theme in my travel stories!)

My joy has vanished. Instead, I dream up scenarios where I see the stupid guy who sent me in the wrong direction and tell him off. I have no idea what time it is and I’m sure that Jackie is worried sick about me. I quicken my pace and send her telepathic messages, hoping she receives them soon. I pass by the sandwich shop where I first asked for directions; my hoodied friend isn’t there. My body aches all over, and I wish so badly that I could take a break and drop my bag, but I press on.

Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the Kilburn underground station glowing warmly in the cold night. I’m too exhausted to react; no more joy or anger, nothing. The following street is Jackie’s; I turn down it and search for her house number. The upstairs light in her building is on. “Jackie!”, I call out quietly into the night, looking for her buzzer in the darkened doorway. She sticks her curly head out the window. “Carmella! Thank God! Stay there, I’m coming down!” I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction; I made it. She throws open the door and squeezes me in a hug. The exasperation of the last few hours fades away as I follow my friend up the stairs and into her warm, cozy room. The tea kettle wails on the stovetop and I collapse on the bed. Another day in the life of a vagabond.

Berlin: for the people, by the people

Arriving in Berlin, I was immediately struck by the sheer livability of this city. Even as a foreigner, it is apparent to me how easy it is to function here. Everything from transportation to drinking laws is designed FOR the people, not against them. The entire city is constructed with its inhabitants in mind, and although that should be standard procedure, in most cities, this is not the case.

Take, for example, an empty lot. Rather than allowing the highest bidder to take the land and run (and build yet another empty high rise, as they would surely do in Miami), they open up the space to design students all over the city. They turn it into a contest for them to come up with the best designs and uses of space for the lot. Once they have chosen a few of the best, they will present them to the inhabitants of the neighborhood for them to decide which they prefer. The people have a say, because they live there and their happiness matters to the city of Berlin. This kind of thing would be virtually unheard of in the States, or at least in South Florida where I live. In the U.S., money matters more than people. It’s as simple as that.

My lovely host Benjamin brought me to a giant abandoned airfield just south of the city on Sunday afternoon. Although the airport itself, Flughafen Berlin-Tempelhof, is still considered “the mother of all airports” because of it's enormous size, the city shut it down one year ago. The airport no longer abides by certain national codes and the city has since replaced it with a new airport. What is to come of the space? It’s been handed to the people, of course. For now, you can roller blade down the enormous runway, picnic anywhere on the massive airfield, or fly your kite to your heart’s delight. In a few years, there will be a new library in the park, and a few additional water features for beautification. But for the most part, it will remain as it is: a huge space accessible to the Berlin public.

Yet, the city has given Berliners the chance to make their mark on the land. In one corner of the airfield, hundreds of people have built their own garden plots out of whatever used materials they can find: bath tubs, grocery carts, cardboard boxes, pallets, scrap wood, and anything else you can imagine. I even saw one garden constructed completely out of old shoes! To participate, all one has to do is sign up online. Oh, and there’s one other tenet to abide by: the gardeners must be sure to make a seated space for two people to enjoy their plot. The result is simply magical: a jerry-rigged mishmash of plants spilling out of drainage tube and cowboy boots! 

Walking around the community garden, I was in heaven. Tons of children were running around, climbing on structures set up just for that reason. Some plots had bee hives tucked away amidst raised beds full of flowering nasturtiums and overripe tomatoes having reached the end of their days. And everywhere I ventured, every corner I explored, I found people –people sitting and reading in solitude, or picnicking and laughing with friends; but everyone I came across was simply enjoying this special space.

I can’t think of a place in Miami where I could go for a similar experience. Any place with any culture or beauty, usually comes at a price. And even so, the accessible natural beauty in our city is highly limited. Unless you want to brave the parking madness on Miami Beach, or trek to Oleta River State Park 14 miles outside of the city, you’re pretty much out of luck. I think about my own neighborhood of Coconut Grove, which I love dearly. We’re probably one of the only places with a sense of community and open park space to be enjoyed by all. And yet, Kennedy Park is a joke compared to most other city parks. Today, I went for an uninterrupted 7km run through beautiful parkland in the  middle of the city. I ask you: where, oh where, would that be possible in our city? Nowhere.

the quiet beauty of anonymity

Tomorrow, I take my leave of the Marianna and fly to Berlin. I will spend about five days there visiting a friend before hopping over to London for the remaining of my time in Europe. Tomorrow, I strap on my pack and head back out into the world. I feel as though I am emerging from a cave. A great cave, to be sure, with plenty of light (and crazy amounts of wind), but a symbolic cave nonetheless.

My life as of late has been reduced to a few simplicities: sleeping, eating, working, reading, cooking, baking, swimming, jogging and writing. It’s been exactly what I needed after four straight months of bouncing around like a maniac. I love traveling, let me make that clear, but even the most transient of vagabonds needs to be a hermit every once in a while. This has been my hermit time, and it has been lovely.

Over the past three weeks, I have barely spoken to anyone besides my father. Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I’m a talker, and yet lately, I have been nearly mute to the world around me. Many people I meet, at the store or around the marina, assume that because I’m American, I don’t speak any French. Usually, I would set them straight and respond in fluent French, but, I haven’t been correcting them. Rather, I have embraced my place as an outsider, a quiet observer in a “foreign” land. I have not offered much besides the niceties of “bonjour” and “bonsoir” to the people I pass, and I have been gifted an alluring blanket of simple silence – simple being the key word here. There are plenty of voices and noises around me all the time, but rarely are they directed at me. I am left to my own devices, to answer to almost no one - and that is sweeter than you can imagine.

I hadn’t really realized that I could enjoy this level of communication disconnect before. I have always been one to make a big effort to associate with the people around me, especially when traveling. I have been greatly rewarded with eye-opening conversations, incredible connections, and beautiful relationships with strangers who have turned into family. I encourage all who travel to make this effort; you won’t be disappointed. But just as engaging with the world and people around you is a rewarding and important part of traveling, so is sitting and digesting all that you have consumed while traveling. Connecting can become tiresome after a while; it demands a lot of energy from a person. You’re constantly putting yourself out there, trying to learn as much as you can, experience everything to the maximum, and frankly, it’s exhausting.

This existence of quiet anonymity has given me the time and space to communicate in another way, through my writing, and for that I am full of thanks. My only hope is that I can carry with me this peace and quiet into all aspects of my life, especially when I am back at home creating my routine. It is not something that just happens naturally, especially in a big city like Miami; these are things that I have to etch into my daily life, and not just find the time but make the time to do these things that bring me joy – writing, baking, cooking, swimming, running, and the like. It’s hard when you’re trying to pay bills, have a social life, spend time with family, and all that jazz- but it is possible.
Some things must fall away, of course, but this is the essence of prioritizing, and action expresses priority. I hope I can organize my priorities in such a way that I carry the simplicity of the lifestyle I have been living aboard the Marianna into the complicated and crazy life I will inevitably be thrown back into when I return to Miami at the end of the month. I set this now as my goal for the future, and I intend to stick by it.

gender inequality: when words become actions

There are a lot of things that my father and I disagree on, and we’ve been known to get into heated debates on a variety of subjects. One thing we argue about a lot is gender equality. Not that my father thinks women are incapable or less than men, but it’s something that he believes is a nonissue, while I am of the opposite conviction.  Whenever I complain to him about a man being condescending, or even if I call him out on using a patronizing tone with me, he gets very defensive and argumentative about my claim. “You’re too sensitive,” he scoffs. “No one can say anything around you without you getting mad!” This is not at all true, although unfortunately I have never found the right words to articulate my point of view to him. I usually just mutter something along the lines of “you’re a man, you’ll never understand,” and bitterly give up trying.

I am a fully capable, reasonable, and intelligent woman; but it just so happens that I AM sensitive when people, especially men, find it okay to speak down to me or criticize women for no reason. As I have matured, I have witnessed, through my own experiences and those of other women I respect greatly, the systematic, unhealthy, and frankly, disturbing convention of male condescension towards women. To some women of older generations or others who have witnessed this truth repeatedly in their lives, this comes as no surprise. But for me, a mid-twenties woman who has grown up in a world of near-equal opportunity between men and women (or seemingly equal on the surface), it has been a shocking realization. It became apparent to me at my small liberal arts college, when I started to realize that many of the men in our administration treated male students differently. In many cases, women were treated as over-emotional and irrational. We all went through the same rigorous criteria to be accepted into this school, so why were women being treated as less intelligent or capable than the men?

This condescension towards women is most apparent in patterns of speech, word choice and tone of voice, and once you pick up on it, it is hard to ignore. I hear it in my professor’s jokes or my uncle’s criticisms - and it infuriates me. It infuriates me when they make these misogynist comments, and it infuriates me even more when women just accept it as a fact of life and learn to deal with it. Maybe I’m one to blame. I don’t make a habit of calling out my uncle when he criticizes his wife constantly about anything and everything. I didn’t tell my professor that I found his joke offensive. But I do find it worthwhile to tell my father exactly why he should be more conscious about the way he speaks to me and other women. At least I do that much.

So why do the words, the jokes, the tone bother me so much? I could never explain it fully before, but I’ve finally found a way to make my father understand. Over the past few days, the Amherst College community has been dealing with a student’s chilling declaration of sexual assault on campus, and the subsequent mistreatment that she experienced from the administration. Thepublic outcry has been one of horror, criticism for the college, and widespread support for the victim and rape victims everywhere; the alumni response has been very vocal and organized. The overall response from the online community has been heartening and lightning-fast.

Nevertheless, it has become shockingly obvious that the college is in desperate need of some serious changes in the way they deal with sexual assault victims and rape offenders. It’s not enough to have the policies; it’s about how the administration implements those policies as well as the sort of climate they cultivate around gender equality. Unfortunately, until now the college’s laissez-faire attitude around this subject has aided in creating a climate that shelters offenders and promotes misogyny. It hurts me to learn that such terrible things have been happening to women (and men) at Amherst College, but it also hurts me that my alma mater’s name is becoming synonymous with misogyny. Hopefully, something productive will come of this traumatic series of events, for everyone’s sake.

My father was horrified when I told him what had been happening at Amherst. As we discussed these events, it finally became clear to me how to explain to him my sensitivity when it comes to verbal (and nonverbal) condescension from men. Comments that misogynist men make, words they choose, and even the tone they use are all meant to put women down and make them feel inferior, whether they are conscious of this or not. Simply put, this is a form of showing dominance over women. Some women might internalize this unknowingly, as might our children; and so, a pattern of paternalism is born – the pattern we as a society have existed within for centuries. Hence, the frightening situation we as a college community face today.

Amherst has been letting certain men on campus get away with blatant and sometimes horrific displays of misogyny. Through their actions (or inactions), the college is sending a message that male dominance is okay. Maybe it stops at words, or pictures, or jokes – but maybe it doesn’t. The fact is, what is to stop a man who thinks he is superior or dominant over a woman from letting those words turn into action? This is how rape happens.

And finally, my father understood.


PS check out this great article and video

Flagrant racism in France

Every day, I run by the words “ISLAM HORS D’EUROPE” spray-painted on a wall by the marina. Islam Out of Europe, it demands bluntly. Anti-Muslim sentiments like this one can be seen all over France and throughout Western Europe. As an American, I find this kind of brute racism appalling. We definitely have our racial issues in the States, but we have also been dealing with them long enough to be out of this stage. Granted, I’m not sure if the elephant in the room type of racism that we do experience in much of America is any better, but in most of the places that I have lived (South Florida and New England), you would never see something like this splashed across cement. Someone might make a racist comment to a friend in passing, and we certainly have racial issues within our government, but that is not the sort of racism that I am talking about. I’m talking about overt, in-your-face racism. I am not making any judgments on it – it is far too complicated a situation for me to even begin to understand or analyze – I am simply making observations about what I have seen and heard around France, Belgium and Spain, the European countries that I know best.

In Europe, I have heard people- normal lovely people, even close family members –make horrendously racist comments towards Muslims, in private but also, surprisingly for me, in public and even in the presence of people from this background. There is no shame in it, and people are often surprised by my horror. Petty things, such as someone cutting you off while driving, are immediately blamed on Muslims, even if the blame is completely unfounded. Parents of European children would never allow their children to be friends with Muslim children (and I’m not sure if the same is true the other way around). My teenaged cousin in Brussels began dating a Muslim and she found herself shunned by her family and harassed by the police on a regular basis. I often receive racist chain mail from my European family and friends lamenting – no, berating – the rise of the Muslim population that has become so prevalent throughout Europe.

The truth is, I hear as much Arabic on the streets of Toulon as I do French, if not more. I see just as many halal meat vendors as I do traditional French bakeries. If I wanted to get a spa treatment in an Arab hammam, that option is available to me here. Veiled women pick their children up from school, stand in line with me to buy groceries, ride local buses and attend rugby matches with the rest of the city’s population. But yet, they stand apart, congregating together in the early evening to drink their tea at an Arab café in the old city. As of yet, I have not shared a conversation with an Arab during all of my time in Europe, and I am not sure why that is. They occupy the same space as the Europeans, but unlike in America with many of our own minority groups, they do not try to mesh in the least. Language is a big barrier, religion an even bigger one. The racist graffiti that I see splattered everywhere and the constant barrage of racist slurs that are the norm in these countries do not help to ease the tension, of that I’m sure.

There are so many sides to this story. Like I said, I won’t even try to analyze. I only want to offer my shock as I see and hear these awful things being slung at this population constantly – in the media, in the government, and more blatantly, on the streets of European cities. It makes me realize that, although we have a long way to go in our fight towards racial justice in the U.S., we have come a great distance already. We once had widespread segregation laws and our own set of normative racial slurs poisoning our country. Whilst these racist sentiments might still exist among a subset of our population - and sadly, I know they do – this is no longer the norm.

This overt racism is constantly visible each time I travel to Europe, and every time, I am no less taken aback by it. In the United States, we have developed a quieter kind of racism, the plague of political corrected-ness. I try to explain to my French friends that we don’t use the word “black” when describing people of color in the States. This perplexes them; they don’t understand the historical stigma attached to these words. They don’t share our country’s shame towards slavery and segregation. They’ve never experienced this as a part of their past, but they are living it as a part of their present. I don’t think they see the connection that I see; they don’t comprehend the reason why I am so appalled by the slurs they speak so nonchalantly. When I pass by that sign each day, “ISLAM HORS D’EUROPE”, I immediately envision those horrible and thankfully outdated signs declaring “whites only” allowed in a restaurant. I see visions of police turning powerful water hoses on blacks protesting peacefully with Martin Luther King on the streets of Montgomery. These are stories that are a part of our collective memory as a nation, and they make brusque displays of racism very hard for me to comprehend.

The truth is, Europe has been around for a very long time. The cultures of Europe as we know it today have developed over hundreds of years, and that history is a huge part of these people’s collective memory. It’s hard for an American to understand the kind of deep-set cultural heritage that exists here, since we are a newborn country in comparison. But this is exactly what the growing Muslim population threatens to destroy. I can understand the concern - honestly, I can. Europeans have worked a long time to develop the social systems that they have in place. As a whole, these countries have been around long enough to “get things right,” in my opinion. People generally live good lives. Lots of time for leisure, more than enough vacation time, equal access to health care, affordable education for all, a vigorous middle class – these are the things that are important to them, and they have worked towards them over the course of their history. These are also the very things that the increasing flow of Muslims are taking advantage of and therefore, destroying rather quickly. One can understand the anger. On the other hand, I’m a humanist. People are just people. It seems so backward to me to fault an entire population for the actions of a few, and even so, is this really the most productive way to deal with it?

Another truth that Europeans might not want to acknowledge is that Islam has been in Europe for hundreds of years too. This influx is not new. The tension has always been there. Don’t you think they would have found a better way to deal with it by now? Perhaps by, I don’t know, getting to know one another and working towards a peaceful existence together? But that’s just the idealist humanist in me talking. Carry on with your racial slurs and bigoted tendencies. They really seem to be helping the situation a lot. 

Mistral Madness

Yesterday, we lost a day of work on account of bad weather - which is fine because yesterday was Sunday and working on a Sunday is sacrilegious here in Europe. Yet, there are many things we would have liked to do, had the weather allowed us. The funny thing is, it never actually rained on us.

The morning started off beautifully, sunny and clear. We began our tasks for the day: me washing the hull and Papi patching some holes in the dinghy. I was able to get my work done, but just as Papi was beginning to set up his project, these scary clouds began to show themselves from behind the mountain range that abuts the coast. Actually, it’s very picturesque; from the boat, we get a great view of the massive grey and green cliffs that are the last of the Alps before mountains meet ocean. Any bad weather that we get usually comes from the other side of those rocks, and I love to stop whatever I’m doing to watch the showdown between water, wind, mountains and clouds. Yesterday, I was privy to such a show.

From the dock, we watched as angry-looking storm clouds valiantly pushed their way over the edge of the mountains towards the sea, carrying the potential for a severe thunderstorm to erupt on us in a matter of minutes. We began to wrap up Papi’s project so that it wouldn’t get rained on, keeping an eye on the approaching tempest. After a few minutes, I noticed that the dark masses that we were so afraid seemed to be retreating! Much to my delight and confusion, the clouds were creeping back little by little behind the mountain from whence they came. I pointed this out to my father, and he scanned the conflicting skies. “We can’t take a chance,” he replied, and we continued packing up tools and equipment while the sun emerged forcefully from behind dark clouds. Before we were done, the skies were nearly barren of any sign of a meteorological disruption, and only a few stray monsters were left clinging to several crests to our west.

I’ve seen this incredible phenomenon before, when stormy clouds hover over the mountains just a few kilometers from us threatening to drown us in dreariness, before disappearing from the horizon completely. It’s amazing; you see what’s coming, and you prepare yourself to face it, but in the end, it never comes. The sun reigns king!

The way I see it, it is an epic battle between the ferocious, unwavering mountain winds and the all-powerful gales that sweep mightily over the sea. Sometimes, the mountain wins and he pushes those storm clouds over the peaks and straight out to sea, without forgetting to downpour on us first. On days like yesterday, the ocean winds hold their own – at least for a little while. The harbor might have been spared of the deluge for the moment, but it was only a matter of time until the fierce mountain winds fought again.  Back and forth, the two of them battled it out all day long. As a result, we weren’t able to get any work done, never sure if the impending rain was finally upon us or not. We knew it would come eventually, but who could say when? In the meantime, the skies were painted with dirty streaks of cotton clouds agonized by the constantly changing winds, bolts of lightning decorated the skyline. The skies couldn’t make up their mind.

It wasn’t until nightfall that the skies finally did open, in a violent downpour of pent-up frustration that had been building throughout the afternoon. The clouds exhaled and the waiting game was finally over. The city imploded. Waves lapped over the docks and fishing boats rocked in unison as the sea skulked towards the streets. Rugby players covered in streaks of mud skidded madly on their home field as they played their much-anticipated match against their rival team from Montpellier. The crowd went wild, reaching stratospheric levels of exhilaration, barely noticing the buckets of water dropping from the sky.  

What we were actually experiencing was “le mistral noir.” Usually, le mistral, a strong wind from the northwest that rakes over the northern belt of the Mediterranean, brings with it clear skies and sunny days. But sometimes, it doesn’t have the strength to dispel the knots of bad weather, and we get stuck with a dark and crazy day like yesterday. 

Today, the mistral is howling with full force. As I write this, gales are reaching an impressive 27-30 knots per hour; the mast of the boat is swaying 80 feet above the water, quivering like a plucked string on a badly tuned guitar. The forceful wind is just as hindering as rain (or the extended threat of rain). Most outdoor activities become impossible with this amount of gale and we are forced to remain indoors, shielded from the cold wind but forced to deal with mundane tasks such as cleaning and putting order to the mess that has accumulated aboard. Like a rainy day on the farm (even though this day was sunny as can be), I took advantage of being inside to do some food preserving; I put together a small batch of fig jam to take with me when I leave, a tasty souvenir to remind me of this time, these winds, this rocking boat.