Entries about tourist sites

The village of Deia is a postcard pretty town. Set in the hillside on the island of Mallorca, the town is a stone vision that looks much as it must have looked a hundred years ago. The homes are charming with gorgeous flowering vines, palm trees, stone patios, and hanging pots with flowers spilling over. A walk through the village is like a walk back through time. You can hear almost nothing except for birds chirping, the clang of a bell dangling from the neck of a stray goat, and an occasional (but rare) car driving up the mountain. When the morning fog lifts from the mountain and the mist disappears, the sun casts shadows on the ever-changing terrain. You can look down to the sparkling deep crystal blue of the Mediterranean. I loved pretending I lived in Deia. I fantasized about writing every day on my patio, surrounded by all this beauty and silence. My muse was with me there.

A wonderful hotel with a great location is the Hotel Colon in the heart of Barcelona in the old town. It's close to everything...you can walk to Las Ramblas and to the metro which is incredibly easy to use. I've never been anywhere before where a yellow (yes, like the yellow brick road) line leads you from one station to another. Barcelona is so easy to navigate.

The Hotel overlooks a plaza and the lovely cathedral. There was a street market right in the plaza while we were staying there. Without asking, we were upgraded to a room with a balcony and a view of the cathedral. There is a sister hotel alongside the Colon that is less expensive and smaller, but still has nice service and a great location.

The staff was friendly and extremely helpful. There is a nice bar where you can sit on a sofa, sip wine and just hang out. There is also an outdoor cafe and a restaurant. I will stay there again when I return.

When I was in Deia, Majorica a few months ago, there were a surprising number of village cats. Deia was lovely and an inspiring place to write. I wrote some poetry, as I often do when I travel. Here is my cat poem:

Spanish Cats

In Deia
Spanish cats wander.
Black, calico,
amber, brown,
black and white;
One with piercing green eyes.
pauses a moment to gaze on an intruder.
She approaches as cats do.
Warily, as though it doesn’t matter
if I acknowledge her.
Aloof, indifferent, defensive.
Ah! But those eyes betray.
I reach out to touch her;
she arches slightly,
her pleasure nearly imperceptible.
I see it.
Few others would.
You need to be paying attention.
Or else,
you must be that cat.

Feb. 2009
tg

This is the setting of my screenplay The Contessa's Vineyard. It's a romantic comedy about a twenty-something New Yorker who loses her father, her job, her apartment and her so-called boyfriend in the span of a few weeks. She flees to a writers' retreat in Tuscany to complete her novel. There she discovers wild boar, two tempting men, an array of quirky writers, and finally, her voice.

I am applying to the Sundance Lab for screenwriters if I can ever finish my cover letter and application. I've already submitted the script to a few places and I got decent feedback. Although, they think it needs more conflict. It's a romantic comedy...not Indiana Jones. I think I'm better at screenwriting than at novels. My story ideas are good...my novel writing tends to include too much description. In screenwriting, the description is in the visuals (notice the photo!).

If my script ever makes it to the screen, I want to be on set as a consultant. Do you blame me?

I admit it. I have a tendency to be rather obsessive compulsive. Several years ago, I started working my way around my top fantasy destinations in France (Monet's garden in Giverny, Cannes, of course Paris, --twice, and so forth). After a couple of trips, for reasons I won't go into, I digressed and took my first trip to Italy. That was addictive and I ended up making several more trips there, working my way from north (Lake Como) to south (Sorrento and the Amalfi coast). Several trips to Tuscany in between and I was badly hooked. But, a few side trips later (Morocco, Spain) and I've broken the addiction. So, I've decided to return and continue my journeys through France. Maybe it has something to do with Obama being in the White House. Maybe I'm blindly, optimistically hoping that the French don't hate us quite as much as they did now that the brash and unsophisticated Bush is nearly forgotten; like a bad diner meal we know we had but we choose not to dwell on it.

Well, even if the French still don't like Americans, I'm busy doing my internet research, brushing up on my bit of French, and planning my journey. For me, this is half the exhilaration of the entire trip. For me, the journey begins the second I decide to go and Google my first destination, my first hotel or apartment, my first foray into finding the best (and cheapest) flights.

This time, I'm going to Provence. The land of Cezanne, Van Gogh, lavender fields, Roman ruins, and cafes where you can linger as long as you like and waiters aren't rude if they ignore you for hours. Arles, Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, and maybe the wild and wicked Marseilles. Oui, oui.