Posted by: estheramy | June 17, 2012

Our Journey Begins…

June 8, 2012

Esther and I are sitting on the patio of a café called “Frutti”.  Looking up at a maple tree, I notice bright red leaves interspersed among the green  that are the color and shape of poinsettias, and I wonder now if I’m looking at two different trees.  But no, one trunk!  The leaves also remind me of kites.   The floor is made of slabs of….granite? glistening  silver and gold in the brilliant sunlight.  Relaxing violin music is playing…


What’s remarkable is that our “Excellent Vacation” here in Abadiania started out as a nightmare from Hell.  Both Esther and I mistakenly thought we were supposed to meet our group at the Tulip Hotel, and instructed the taxi driver to take us to that destination.  But, when we arrived, Esther knew we were at the wrong place at the wrong time.  No Casa! We were two hours away from the Casa and though I enjoyed the…not spectacular scenery….the taxi driver spoke Portugese and the ride wasn’t worth $350.00 it cost us.  With no commentary!  “I have to admit”—a favorite phrase of Esther’s when she was a “rebellious teenager” that I created my own Hell by over packing as usual.   (More about over packing, later.)  The taxi driver who may have been German—but he spoke Portugese; many people here speak four or five languages—was trying desperately to help Esther and I find the motel where Brook, our tour leader and our tour group—was located.  I forgot to mention that somehow Esther’s communication with Brook got crossed (crossed communication is a phrase from “Transactional Analysis”….so that we did not know which motel we were supposed to be staying at.  Forgive me, Esther, for divulging this but you thought we were staying at a Hotel Pousada, not knowing that “Pousada” means motel.  Who knew?  I knew, and I know not how!  So, finally, after the driver had stopped at four motels inquiring, “Brooke?  Brooke?” and the Portugese speaking hotel clerks had answered with a few words of Portugese and a blank expression—Esther told him, “Just drop us off!”  She was frustrated and angry and we were both exhausted.  What became evident to both of us was that the taxi driver was “on a mission.”  On a mission to deliver us to the right motel, on a mission to help two lost American women who were in obvious distress.  A couple of times, Esther told me and the driver that she wanted to mail Brook from the Internet Café we kept passing; the driver was driving to and fro.  Each time he stopped at a motel, we left our luggage in his taxi with his door left open.  Neither Esther nor I gave a thought to our possibly endangered luggage.  Only at one motel did the clerk, Owen! (his real name) speak English.  I recognized German being spoken by the four people dining on weinershnitzel.  The dining room was visible from the front desk and the motel, like most of the motels on the two block stretch, was open-air. Each time we stopped, I told Esther I wanted to stay the night and she adamantly refused to do so saying that we’d prepaid and why should we pay extra?  So we soldiered on. When we finally convinced the driver to let us off at the Internet Café, we were both at our wits end and also famished.  We still didn’t know where we were staying.  We had to wait for Brook’s return e mail.

So Esther and Amy started lugging our luggage down the street, heading for the cafes that a woman from New Jersey who was sitting next to me on the bench outside the Internet Café (while Esther was inside e mailing Brooke) told me “existed down the street.”

My backpack, I exaggerate not, must have weighed (I say ‘weighed’ because now its contents are strewn all over our room floor).  I’m “the kind of person” who is a “Messy.”    I think I mentioned before in our blog that that support groups abound for “Messies.”  I still haven’t found the box of salty snack that I swear I’d packed for Esther in either my suitcase or back pack.  Either I didn’t pack it or it’s disappeared because I’m not ‘sposed to eat salty stuff.  But, Esther can, so I hope it turns up.  I had to hunch over as we walked, and I thought about lines of people forced to exit their habitations—like war refuges or people exiting Hurricane Katrina? Or Chernoble.  People having to exit their contaminated homes and land.  Or, Holocaust victims.

As we trudged down the street, I looked up and was awed by the melting  sherbert colors of the motels—tangerine, orange, blueberry, lemon—against the Madonna blue sky.  It ‘twas, painterly.

The motels must be from the fifties judging from the décor.  They’re old-fashioned, not modern ( I’ll have to find out when they were built; I’m Curious Georgette!) I was reminded of the painting of the famous café—“The Café of Broken Dreams? Dashed Dreams!!—I think Marilyn Monroe was sitting on a red capped stool inside.  Sorry says Mrs. Malatrop.  Mrs. Malatrop?  The next day I was thinking there’s something here for all of us Grrrls and that we Grrrls should rent a house, here.  I’m serious!  There are cats all over the place for KT and Rainbow.  People aplenty for L.S. to photograph, scrumptious food for Daniella and big sis, Lee, multi-languaged men and women both for ML to practice speaking all the languages she speaks, technological wizzes to even further Jackie’s skills, logicians for JL to converse with (forgive dangling modifier Ms. Grammarian! You know who you are! And JJ, I don’t know you well enough to say, but I like you!

Right now, Write Now, I glance up at a brown tree with an “eye” and “Nose” that looks like a brown rabbit. Won-der-ful cafes, here for all of us.

By the bye, in the info I’d printed at home, we were advised that sexual thoughts are inadmissible here, but I learned otherwise today in a video we were shown while travelling to a rainforest.  (More in the blog, tomorrow, about our adventure in the rainforest.)  When I read that sexual encounters are “forbidden” I was thinking:  “Har, har har! says the new Buddhist in me. (I’d italicize “In” but I’ve been groping around using Esther’s keypad instead of my Mac Mouse so my text isn’t “formatted” as I’d like… We are on a spiritual journey, Esther and I.  No sex for forty days.  Like Moses in the desert…..


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