Together again

 Anthropoid Phoenician sarcophagi. Cadiz Museum

Gentle reader, it's been a busy and wonderful week.  Wednesday afternoon the rest of the family joined Charlie and I here in Spain.  All of a sudden the spartan and orderly life of a geographic bachelor and his dog blew up in a hundred wonderful ways with the addition of wife, teenage boy and Basenji.  It is so nice to have the little temporary house filled with bustle, disorder and conversation.  To his credit, Charlie had carried the burden of being my sole conversational outlet for a month tolerably well, but I believe he is glad to be relieved of the responsibility.  He is sleeping contentedly now on the cool floor as another warm day fades toward twilight, with the air of a hero who has accomplished great things and now is happy to bask in the glow of his glorious past.  The basenji, an African to his very bones, is stretched on backyard flagstones soaking up the last of the westering sun.  Though only here a scant 5 days, he seems at home this close to the haunts of his distant forefathers.  It need hardly be mentioned that the teenage boy is sleeping...


I'm embarrassed to report that the morning following the arrival of my reinforcements from home, I  bundled them into the Citroën, and whisked them off to go a-house-hunting. The next day, Donna was unceremoniously deposited at the Housing Office for her turn at the housing brief, and then collected at lunch time and once again dragged off to look at properties.  The end result of all this unseemly dragging of jet-lagged family members (for the boy uncomplainingly followed along in all this) hither and thither has, however, been worth the bother.  We have selected a house!  Donna is off to Housing tomorrow morning to stake our claim to a delightful walled garden home, not so far from the base and handy to shops.  There is grass for the dogs, a pool for the boy, a couple of citrus trees and, most important to your humble correspondent, the end of searching.  Ulysses can have been no more relieved to finally see Ithaca and fair Penelope than I shall be to sign the rental agreement.

The week was not all taken up by the quest for Spanish digs however.  On Saturday we bundled into our rental car and headed off to Cádiz.  There are many ways to reach the erstwhile Agadir of the ancient Phoenicians from this side of the bay, including passenger ferries and train service from  El Puerto de Santa Maria.  We wanted to drive though, because as long as I've been here the graceful curve of La Pepa, the new bridge, has beckoned from across the water.  It's an amazing structure - a 3 kilometer long, 187 meter tall, cable-stayed suspension bridge that swoops in a long graceful arc above the bay.  It was only opened months ago, and is point of pride for all the Spanish folks I have mentioned it to.  After detouring around El Puerto we found the highway entrance to the bridge, and across it we sped.  The view of the city, the bay and the mainland - distant mountains gauzily visible through the late morning haze - was magnificent.  It required a fair amount of concentration to keep up to the speed limit and not slow to enjoy the panorama.

The name "La Pepa" deserves a little bit of explanation. The official name of the bridge is "The Constitution of 1812" bridge, celebrating the place of Cádiz as the site where the first Spanish constitution was proclaimed, back during the Napoleonic war for the peninsula.   It would be overturned only 6 weeks after the restoration of Ferdinand VII, but was by all accounts a  foundational document of classical liberalism, and served as a model for constitutions around the Mediterranean and the New World.   Anyway, the Spanish people nicknamed the 1812 document "La Pepa", a diminutive form of the name Josephine, because it had been proclaimed on March 18th, the Feast of  St. Joseph.  I love the idea of a grave and formal document being given a nickname!  It's like calling the Federal Tax Code "Old Stinky Pants", or the Bill of Rights "Molly".  Pretty cool, huh?

Anyway, safely parked in an underground parkade on the outskirts of the old city, we headed out on foot.  At the Tourist Office we picked up a map. Each of 4 possible scenic strolls was highlighted in a separate color on the map, and as it turned out, indicated by a matching colored line painted along the sidewalk.  How civilized!  We headed for the purple line, but soon took off among the labyrinthine streets in search of Plaza del las Flores on a quest to find one of Cádiz's famous freiduras - the original takeaway fried fish stands it is claimed.  30 confusing minutes later we were at a table at Freidura Las Flores, and tucking into cold beer and hot fried seafood.  The place was thronged on a hot Saturday afternoon, and there was soon a line waiting to be seated.  We crunched our way through an assortment of flash-fried finned and tentacled delicacies (maybe 30% of which I could tell you the names of), and then paid up and headed off down the purple line.

I have no idea what I'm eating, but I like it.

After more meandering, with a stop for ice cream, we came to the Museo de Cádiz - the province's major museum.  It was about 2:30 pm by this point, and the folks at the admission kiosk indicated that the museum closed at 3:00, but that we were free to explore the archeological floor of the museum until then if we wanted (and very kindly declined to charge us).  This was fine with me, as the two things I had really come to see were a couple of truly extraordinary archeological specimens.  The museum's collection itself had really been founded on the basis of the discovery of a magnificently preserved Phoenician sarcophagus during the construction of a shipyard in the city in 1887.  The bearded figure of this "anthropoid" sarcophagus (he's on the left above) was crafted around Sidon in the mid 5th century B.C.E, probably by Greek artisans and shipped to some wealthy Phoenician merchant here at the farthest extremity of the (then) known world.  It wasn't until almost 200 years later that the even better preserved and more richly carved female figure from about the same time was discovered, and the pair united in the Museo's collection.  I've been trying to find out a bit more about the circumstances of discovery of the later, female figure but have not found much.  I'll have to go back with better Spanish and more time.  I hope that the two of them got along well with each other in life is all...

The rest of the weekend was devoted to rental cars, groceries and the constitutive processes of homemaking wherever one is located and I shan't bore you further with recounting them.  There was some truly amazing tapas by the docks in Rota (oh, the shrimp and garlic!), but perhaps I shall tell more of it another time.

We are all together again.  Hooray!

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Coast of Hyraxes

Hello All!  

I say “all” optimistically of course, but I suppose that is the liberty of blogging.  While I’m sure I probably could see how many folks have peeked at my maunderings, it’s far more pleasant just to imagine…

So, another interesting week here in Hispania Ulterior.  That was the name of this region under the Roman Republic and, if Wikipedia is to be believed, the name “Hispania” is derived from the Phoenician word for “coast of hyraxes” – as the Phoenicians apparently misidentified the many rabbits of coastal Andalusia as hyraxes with which they were familiar.

Rabbit.  You probably know that unless you're Phoenician

Hyrax. 

  I’ve appended a couple of pictures for comparison.  I don’t know.  Perhaps Phoenician wine was pretty strong.  I must add that “Coast of Hyraxes” would be an excellent name for a punk band.

Weather has been pleasant in the main.  The mid-afternoons have been quite warm, but the mornings and evenings have been gorgeous.   The blue of Andalusian morning skies is quite striking, and perhaps more so when seen against the almost aquamarine bay of Cádiz.  The clouds this week have been lovely high wispy cirrus, sometimes resembling delicate calligraphy.  The fauna count continues to increase.  Charlie and I surprised a small family of red legged partridge on a morning walk through one of the deserted pine forested areas of the base, and on my way to the hospital this morning I saw a smaller raptor - a falcon of some sort - being harassed by an irate group of swifts.  It was quite the display of avian aerobatics.  This area is also home to the Mediterranean chameleon (the only European member of the family) and the base is said to be a common habitat for them.  I haven’t seen one yet…but of course it’s a chameleon, so I wouldn’t, would I?  I’ll let you know how the hunt goes.

So, I took some time yesterday to walk around the town of Rota, and thought I would share a little of that experience with you.  I'll preface by saying that I was a bit worried that Rota would turn out to be a "military town" - the Spanish version of that agglomeration of pubs, used car dealers, payday loan shops and tattoo parlors that accretes outside military bases the world over.  I'm happy to say that at first blush this is not the case here.  It is certainly true that you are able to get by in English and rudimentary Spanish  a bit more easily here than you might 30 miles inland, and that there are more restaurants that are open an a decidedly un-Andalusian 7pm as well, but the core of the old town seems to be not so much affected.  I expect that some of this reflects Los Roteñas themselves, and the rest reflects the Spanish tourist economy.  As German, British, Belgian, French and Spanish tourists flood the Mediterranean  and Southern Atlantic coats each summer, the beach community folk have had to adapt their lives around the different argots and rhythms of visitors of all descriptions.  Perhaps the Americans from the base are just seen as more persistent guests; to be accommodated where necessary, indulged where possible, and tolerated as needed.  That is the most preliminary of observations however, little encumbered by actual fact, and should be treated as such.  I hope to have more to say on the topic in a couple of years.

And of course there is the incalculable effect of sheer ancientness.  Rota has archeological roots that go back at least to the Bronze age.  It is the likely site of the settlement of Astaroth - an outpost of the Tartesian empire, and it is probable that the current city was founded by the bunny-challenged Phoenicians around the same time as Cádiz, across  the bay.  1100 B.C.E. for those of you keeping score at home.  To the Romans after the Second Punic War, it was Speculum Rotae, which translates as best I can tell to "Mirror wheels".  A lighthouse maybe?  An early unreleased Paul McCartney album? When the Moors took the town in the 8th century, the named changed to Rabita Rutta -  the watchtower of Rota - and it is from this title that the town took its current on the Spanish reconquest.  So, yeah, the folks here have seen a few militaries come and go.

I walked off-base from the Rota gate in the late morning on Saturday.  The direct sun was warm, but the sea breeze made the stroll a pleasant one.  I paused outside the gate to spend a while watching the storks on their improbable appearing nest, and then continued down the street.  Like a lot of older 

Nesting storks outside the Rota Gate

towns, Rota gets more ancient and more charming as you approach the historic heart of the city.  The more recent construction, nearest the base and the highway, is the same sort of drab cement construction that surrounds the towns of Sicily and the Italian Mezzogiorno.  But as I pressed on, the streets grew narrower, the roads changed to cobblestone, and the buildings lining them took on a more conventionally Spanish appearance.  I happened upon a well dressed crowd outside the door of a parish hall (and a well dressed Spaniard is very well dressed indeed), and as I perdóname'd my way through, a bridal party made their way out into the sunlight and were cheered into a waiting antique open car, which chugged off through the narrow streets.  Of interest, not only do the Spanish throw rice at weddings, but it's medium grain rice - suitable for paella.

Streets of Rota. From the blog "Setsail.com"

I strolled on, the treble honking of the antique car horn echoing off the walls of buildings and fading very slowly away.  The city fronts on a elbow shaped bit of land, right where the coastline turn from south to east facing, with golden sand playas bracketing either side of the small port. Standing on the Paseo Maritimo at the apex of the angle one looks east to the Navy Base (which has a pretty nice stretch of beach itself), and West as far as the eye can see.  The promenade goes westering on for miles, and past the old walls of the city is lined by hotels and beach front apartments.  I had left the gate about 1100 and it was now near noon, with the sun growing in intensity.  I headed through a gate in the honey covered sandstone wall and back into the old town.  Perhaps the prettiest and most iconic plaza in Rota is the one framed by the Castillo de la Luna, a 13th century castle built on a Moorish foundation, and the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la O, a 16th century church with a roughly gothic style.  

They are both of the same honey colored sandstone that gives the city wall its warm hue. Best explanation I can give of the "O", I found in the Catholic encyclopedia, and I offer it here:

"The feast of 18 December was commonly called, even in the liturgical books, “S. Maria de la O“, because on that day the clerics in the choir after Vespers used to utter a loud and protracted “O”, to express the longing of the universe for the coming of the Redeemer (Tamayo, Mart. Hisp., VI, 485). The Roman “O” antiphons have nothing to do with this term, because they are unknown in the Mozarabic Rite. This feast and its octave were very popular in Spain, where the people still call it “Nuestra Señora de la O“."

I shall have to make a particular point of attending services on December 18th, obviously!

Wandering on from the plaza, I meandered through the maze of curving and intersecting streets.  When we lived in Sicily, it was often said that villages with intricate maze-like streets had been built that way apurpose by Muslim occupiers of the 8th and 9th century to make the towns easier to defend.  I haven't heard that said anywhere here in Spain, but these are early days.  The streets cleared as the sun reached a zenith, and on many of them I wandered alone.  I was fascinated to note that the white washed houses that seem to crowd the lanes so very often had ornate doors of wood and wrought iron and that these doors were almost always open.  The effect of the brilliant sun and the white walls is to make the view into these interiors an inky black, but in many cases the light of inner courtyards can be seen, and whole unsuspected interior space opens up, with glimpses of colorful tile, fountains, and flowers cascading out of planters.  Often town folk sat at their ease in the darkened breezeway between street and courtyard and solemnly contemplated the curious passerby.  It had the feel of a stolen glimpse into the secret heart of a city's life and all sorts of other dreadful metaphors occurred to me.  Gentle reader, I shall spare you those.  Pithy they were.

My last stop en route back out of town was at the Mercado Central de Rota, a public Market established around the cloister yard of the former covent of the Merced, with a lovely external tower, and a two story arcaded central courtyard.  I didn't stop for fish, or meat or olives, but all were on display and I shall have to return with money and shopping bags.

Mercado Central de Rota - Destino Cádiz - Source: Texts and Photos: Ayuntamiento de Rota.

And home I went.  Charlie needed letting out, and a dozen minor chores called out for attention.  As it turned out I drove back into town later that evening (and those charming narrow winding streets seem a good deal less charming when you're trying to maneuver 3000 pounds of balky Citröen through them).  This time it was to attend a "ronque" - the carving of a great 500 pound ocean tuna, in celebration of Rota's vanished past as a major fishing port.  I shall beg your indulgence and not describe it in this episode both because it was not so interesting as I had hoped, and because I still have washing up and house cleaning to do.  Wife and son and Basenji arrive tomorrow, and I hope to have the little house triced up and in apple pie order.  Pie de manzana order, in case you were wondering.

Until the next, then.

Miscelánea

Hello!

I apologize to those of you who have been waiting breathlessly for the next installment.  A combination of simmering fatigue, constitutional indolence, and an aged and sclerotic computer are the prime culprits.  My check-in process is all but complete, with only 4 more trainings, and 3 days of further orientation to go.  In fact, it is all but certain that I will actually do some anesthesia tomorrow!  Not too bad as things go in the modern medical military, especially as a new arrival to a small overseas duty station. In truth, it is only in the last days that I have fairly consistently slept through the nights, and it will be nice to come to my first case with such faculties as remain to me at their best.  I have no overarching theme for this post but thought I'd mention a few things that I've seen or that have drifted through my stream of consciousness.

I'm still in the process of hunting for a house.  It has been a bit frustrating, my disinclination to decisiveness notwithstanding, as several of the houses that I have found that seem almost perfect have been pulled off the rental market for the summer months. Their owners hope to charge outrageous summer rental prices to the folks from Madrid and Extramadura who will flock to the beaches of Andalusia for the holiday months of July and August.  The population in Rota and El Puerto de Santa Maria triples in those months and prices, apparently, quickly hit exorbitant levels.  There will be plenty of long term stuff available come September, but who wants to wait that long to start the settling in process?  Not I.  That said, I have at least three likely prospects for next week in the lovely urbanización of Vista Hermosa, and am optimistic that one of them will be THE place.

Right now though, I'm still in temporary housing on base.  As I believe I've mentioned, it's nice
enough - fenced yard, modern appliances, and well tended.  As it turns out though, a fair number of places are unoccupied.  There are I'm sure,many reasons for this, including the coming and going of families, the ongoing maintenance of the houses (which have been here for a long time), and the condemning of some of the places nearest the shoreline due to cliff erosion.  The odd thing about this is the feeling you can get at most times of the day that you (and your dog) are the only inhabitants.  The streets are empty.  The sun beats down on the perfectly trimmed grass,  the wind soughs through the yards and open car ports, and magpies flit from tree to roof, and there is nobody to be seen.  It has the feel at times of one of those phony towns built in Nevada or New Mexico where the effects of atomic blasts on suburban infrastructure are to  be tested.  I've included a photo above so that you can get the sense of it.

Speaking of magpies, my Spanish critter count continues to grow.  Besides assorted lizards and rabbits, the birds have been a treat.  There is a small flock of bright green psittacine birds that I take to be monk parakeets.  They are an invasive species from Argentina, but they are so similar to the green Mexican parrots who love raising hell in the trees around our home in Ocean Beach, that I can't see them and not smile.  There have been hoopoes, egrets, and at least two species of raptors that I am too slow to identify.  My favorites this week have been a pair of what I presume are glossy ibis seen walking through the marshy area near the school, and a pair of nesting white cranes currently

Glossy Ibis (AFZO.org)

occupying a huge nest atop an apparently abandoned electric tower just outside the Rota gate.  They are gorgeous birds, and I've seen them landing in the nest and at other times circling in the ruling air over the fields of Rota.  Cool, huh?

White Stork (LES MERVEILLES DE DANIELLE: septembre 2011)

We're actually pretty close to a real birding paradise, as the Parque Nacional Coto de Doñana, at the delta formed by the Guadalquivir river is just a few miles to our north.  It's home to lots of indigenous species, and a popular spot with migrating species as well.  I'll hope to get there this Spring, although by reputation it's also a great place for those fond of mosquitos...

On Sunday, armed with guidebook and GPS, I headed into the city of Jerez (actually Jerez de la Frontera, acknowledging its long ago role as a border city during the Reconquista).  There is sherry-based tourism aplenty there and, being fond of a nice fino, I look forward to spending hours educating my palate.  On Sunday though I was headed to the Archeological Museum, north of the town center.  Spanish drivers and pedestrians are far more rule based than their counterparts in Southern Italy, but even so I found navigating the narrowing streets of the oldest parts of the city a bit exciting, as the Garmin lady and I had divergent ideas about where it was prudent to turn.  Eventually we compromised.  I found an underground parkade a mile south of the town center  and turned her off.  It was a pleasant day for a walk though, and it was fun to wind my way through the barrios of the town.

 The museum itself was a small gem with a great collection of stuff from the stone tools of the Paleolithic era, through Greek, Roman, Visigothic and Moorish artifacts.  As it turned out, admission was free on Sunday, as was the audioguide provided by the very helpful folks at the front desk.  Save for one small family group, I had the place to myself.  It's a rare treat to meander slowly through a museum with no call to be anywhere at any particular time and I had a lovely couple of hours.  There were a lot of small highlights, a couple of 4000 year old cylindrical idols with graven owl-shaped eyes among them. (see above).  My favorites were the 7th century B.C. Greek helmet, retrieved in unbelievably good shape from a nearby river where perhaps it had been cast as an offering, and a wonderful Roman sculpture from the late Republican period.  I was astounded at how the sculptor had wrung from the stone a portrayal of such delicacy and detail - unsparing of the subject's age and flaws, but communicating something of his immense dignity across the millennia.


After a marvelous ruminative interlude, beckoned by the rumblings of hunger and mindful of Charlie on his own at home I headed back to the car.  The streets of the inner city, which had been only sparsely populated during my morning walk, now bustled with people, cars and sidewalk cafes.  If I were a more evolved soul, I would have sat down and enjoyed a solitary lunch...but instead I found my way back to the parkade, the rented Citröen, and eventually my little house on base - where the streets were empty.

The Sot-Weed factor looks at houses in Andalusia

“The man (in short) thanks both to Burlingame and to his natural proclivities, was dizzy with the beauty of the possible; dazzled, he threw up his hands at choice, and like ungainly flotsam rode half-content the tide of chance.”

The Sot-weed Factor, John Barth

Well, here it is my second Sunday in Spain.  The morning air is filled with the cooing of what I had been mentally terming “mega-pigeons”, but I now believe to be Wood Pigeons (Columba palumbus).  Their call is a euphonious blend of a typical urban pigeon’s coo, and the more complex and plaintive song of a mourning dove. The rain of yesterday has mostly moved off to the east, and the sky is busy with puffy white and gray clouds bumbling along in pursuit.  The sun is quite warm when it finds a space to shine, but the intermittent shade makes for a very pleasant temperature. Indeed, so far the days have been remarkably pleasant, with any tendency to excess heat being moderated by a fairly reliable ocean breeze.  July and August loom in the imagination however, like tedious dinner guests invited long ago in a fit of generosity whose imminent visit is now quietly dreaded.  The locals just shake their heads when asked about the summer temperatures.  The Spanish seem to rely on the breeze, shade and strategic planning of the day’s activities.  The Americans prefer air conditioning.

Now, as you may imagine, there is much to do upon transferring to a new duty station in a different country.  Indeed, the collision between U.S. Military administrative requirements, Hospital programmatic imperatives and Spanish bureaucratic necessities engenders a complex and sometimes frantic paper chase among the far-flung, and oft-closed offices of the entities concerned with each point of statutory correctitude.  The Byzantines - gone from this region since 624 - must surely feel their legacy is preserved and indeed improved upon.  But all that has proceeded apace and without any undue drama.  

I do still have a week of mandatory International Cultural Relations training, 3 days of hospital orientation, and a week or so of Focused Provider Practice Evaluation to complete before I shall be held to be an actual useful member of NH Rota’s staff.  There was a time that the apparent presumption that I might well have forgotten every military duty that I have learned in 28 years along with such competency as I possessed at all the other Navy Hospitals and Navy Medical Centers where I have labored -  attested to by voluminous databases whose purpose would seem to be avoiding this very inefficiency - there was a time, I say, that this would have irked and disquieted me.  Now? I am unruffled.   One learns to use the time spent waiting, as the forms which must be filled out in perpetuam are completed yet again, in serene contemplation of the transience of all things…or one goes mad.  As far as I know, I am not mad.

In truth, all the desiderata of the world of bureaucracy are easy to accept.  There is no choice to  make, so submission is the blessedly rational response.  Would that this were true of choosing a house.  As the quote from John Barth’s wonderful novel above - describing his protagonist, the feckless Ebenezer Cooke - seeks to hint, I too am constitutionally predisposed to see the “beauty of the possible”, and can find the apparent merits of almost any choice offered.  I like to think that this reflects my essentially optimistic nature, but someone not charitably inclined toward me might opine that this trait instead reflects an unwarrantedly romantic view of my own ability to deal with challenge and adversity, and an utter incompetence at projecting my likely future state given a potential starting point.  This combination of qualities has indeed resulted in some, um, interesting acquisitions over the years.  I pause here while memories of various wildly unsuitable jobs, cars, apartments, boats and articles of clothing here float before my mind’s eye…

So…when I am shown the neat and orderly rows of apple-pie-order cottages that make up the on-base military housing, I think to myself what a fine thing they are.  Handy to everything and constructed to the tastes of A/C loving, big fridge owning, washer/dryer using, cable TV watching, 120 volt and 60 Hz power consuming Americans.  Of course, if you think your HOA is a bit too involved in your domestic affairs, try having the Navy as your landlord.

When squired through the labyrinthine streets of the old town sections of El Puerto de Santa Maria or Rota, the towns to the east and west of the base respectively, I am charmed by the busy urban life on offer in the thoroughfares of the city.  Roads and alleys whose twists and turns reflect their ancient roots as cart paths and pedestrian lanes, and upon whose cobbles it is likely that Columbus trod in his time. Tendias, Carnecerias and Restuarantes bustle with comings and goings, and one feels oneself in the very heart of things.

In a walled garden, tucked into the rural outskirts of Rota I listen to the neighbor’s hens clucking and chirruping amiably, and contemplate the hand built rough beam ceilings and reflect to myself on the rustic virtue of time spent closer to the earth and the green things that grow therein. 

Led among the pine shaded villas where wealthy Madrileños and Sevillanos keep their summer homes I am enchanted by the sound of the nearby ocean, the cool breezes from the bay, the gardener-tended yards with cascades of red, yellow and purple bougainvilleas draped over thick stone and masonry walls.

This is not to mention cute, cute, cute traditional Sevillian style houses with tiles, and arches, and ornate iron window grilles, being tendered by little old people so perfectly adorable that one suspects them of being planted by a casting agency.

You will say that these are first world problems, and that I should expect no sympathy from anyone, and I will abjectly agree (although I’ll stick my tongue out at you when you’re not looking.)  It does make the life of your humble correspondent a bit uncomfortable at present however - especially as I am to present the accommodations chosen to wife and son on their imminent arrival to Andalusia.  I’m starting to  feel like one of those male bower birds you see on a BBC documentary - scurrying here and there around the rainforest attempting to set up an appealing domestic arrangement so that the very discriminating female of the species can be coaxed into moving in and raising a clutch.  My heart belongs, I fear,  with the Wood pigeon coo-cooing on my roof - what matters where our nest shall be, for I am a fine fellow with a lovely sonorous song.  Sigh.

I shall leave you there, gentle reader, and hope that my next missive will be filled with tales of a new casa.  Right now, I have to go find a car…

Jonah never made it

In my favorite chapter of my favorite book, I encountered for the first time the name “Tarshish”.  The book is Moby Dick, that comic, tragic , profane and mystical explosion of a work which I return to every decade or so and always find fresh.  The chapter, number 9, is titled “The Sermon”, and in it the author tells of Father Mapple, the deacon of the Whaleman’s Chapel in New Bedford, preaching a sermon on the subject of the book of Jonah.  It is Melville at the top of his craft, as sublime a bit of American prose as has ever been written, and I recommend it and the entire book to you wholeheartedly.  As Father Mapple, a former sailor and harpooner, now in the “hardy winter of a healthy old age” and long dedicated to the ministry warms to his topic he says the following:

“With this sin of disobedience in him Jonah still further flouts at God by seeking to flee from him.  He thinks that a ship made by men, will carry him into countries where God does not reign but only the Captains of this earth.  He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here.  By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city that the modern Cadiz.  That’s the opinion of learned men.  And where is Cadiz, shipmates?  Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days…”

And here, courtesy of the United States Navy and orders to Naval Hospital Rota, Spain, I sit.  Cadiz appears, from where I am writing,  in misty chiaroscuro across the bay that bears its name. The air is alive with the sounds of unfamiliar birds (okay, there are some starlings and song sparrows too), and the Sunday morning breeze ruffles the leaves of trees whose names I don’t know.  Sunday in Tarshish - on the borders of the ancient kingdom of Tartessus, perhaps the origin of fabled Atlantis.  Isn’t life interesting!  

I don’t know that I’ve fled anything in particular, certainly not the Lord Most High’s order to go and preach, although I suppose that we all flee something in our past whether explicitly recalled or not.  I’ve come instead to complete something.  By the end of two years spent here I will have finished 30 years in the Navy Medical Corps - the statutory end of a military career.  That number still amazes me, or it does so until I pass a looking glass.  Seriously though, it feels like I’ve been doing this a while…but only a while, not 3 decades of my allotted span.  It has flown, or flowed, or something  and even when that inexplicably wizened face peers out at me from the bathroom mirror it’s hard to feel that 30 years have passed.  Maudlin rumination aside though, here I am to serve out the last portion of my career, to make ready for whatever is next and to spend a little time getting acquainted with old Tartessus and its surroundings.

I made my way here accompanied by my step-dog, Charlie, from San Diego this past Thursday, on a combination of commercial and chartered military flights, with only a moderate amount  of confusion, delay and anxiety.  I shan’t bore you with an account except to observe, as occurred to me during a seemingly interminable wait for bus transportation at a Virginia Beach hotel, that the military does a superb job of preparing one to go to arbitrary places at arbitrary times and to wait there with only vague expectation of relief.  It is superb training for life, and once indoctrinated one becomes as one enlightened.  What doth it profit one to worry and fret and importune the heavens?  Be satisfied that you are where you are meant to be, and that no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.  It’s all about letting go.

My wife, my high-school age son, and my basenji  - 27 pounds of delightful curly tailed wickedness named Khufu -  will follow in a few weeks as final exams (for the boy) permit. My first task therefore is find us a house, with a dog-appropriate yard, near the base, and I shall be embarking on that in the next weeks.  After that there will be settling into the demands of doing anesthesia in a small overseas military hospital - my third time in that particular role - as well as jumping in to assist with whatever administrative stuff I can help out with.  But as time permits, I can’t wait to get out and explore this fascinating area.  So much stuff I’m interested in intersects at this peninsula.  Here are some of the earliest cave paintings known; the remnants of the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, and Romans; a few traces of the Visigothic kingdom; the rich heritage of Al-Andalus; the complicated legacy of the Reconquista and everything implied by the fateful year 1492; the Spanish Armada; the battle of Trafalgar; Wellington’s Peninsular Campaigns; the Spanish Civil War…and I’ve only scratched the surface!

If you’re interested, my hope is to limber up some creative writing muscles not much used since the days of “Djohn’s Djibouti Djournal”, my fitfully maintained account of a deployment to the Horn of Africa some years ago, and to give something of an account of our time here.  So, if you would care to join me for an irregularly irregular series of reflections on my experiences here in Spain, please be my  very welcome guest.  Let’s make the voyage to farTarshish that Jonah never completed, and see what revelations might yet await his arrival.  Vaminos!