Who goes on a diet while on vacation?


Dear friends,
It’s been too long! This summer, I was again the victim of intent. In my defense, I blame the hot sun, the bad WiFi signal, the good food, and the even better Spanish wine from preventing me from posting regularly. In any case, I’m home again and very excited to share some of the photos I took on my vacation. I am slowly getting up to speed in regards to house work, personal matters, and follow up doctor’s visits. Please bear with me and know that I will make my way to your blogs to read and leave comments as soon as possible.
For now, I leave you with this question: Who in their right mind thinks it’s possible to visit a foreign country and stay in shape and/or lose weight? Not me! Every day, as I sat on the beach, terrace, or outdoor cafe, I witnessed people valiantly trying to stay in shape. Day after day, they would run, stretch, and power walk. As you can already guess, I wasn’t one of them. I refused to partake in rigorous activity in 95 degree weather or God forbid, deny my taste buds the opportunity to savor the lovely dishes that Spain is famous for. Since you weren’t there to join me, I thought it would be a good idea to share some of these with you.

Tostadas con aceite, toast with olive oil
Tostadas con aceite, toast with olive oil
Tortilla de patatas, potato omelette
Tortilla de patatas, potato omelette
cafe con leche y croissant
Cafe con leche y croissant
Tarta de queso con salsa de frambuesa, cheese tart with raspberry sauce
Tarta de queso con salsa de frambuesa, cheese tart with raspberry sauce
Cafe con leche, for any hour of the day
Cafe con leche, for any hour of the day

What’s your favorite treat when you’re on vacation?


Who’s ready to take the first step?

cafe con leche

My father used to say that intent wasn’t the same as getting things done.

Intentions are actions placed on pause; projections of what’s to come. They are not the same as those actions that are actually executed.

My lack of execution is all I could think about this morning.

You see friends, before I left home, I had every intention of publishing a post where I would inform you that I was on my way to Spain.

I had every intention of taking pictures of Roxy at the airport.

I had every intention of donning a disguise and setting off in search of Javier Bardem the minute I landed.

I had every intention of writing a whimsical post that would describe the hot Spanish sun and the blue-green hue of the Mediterranean Sea.

I had every intention.

But alas, such has not been the case.

On the day Roxy and I were supposed to fly, after waiting for more than five hours, we were informed that our flight had been canceled.

It appeared that the good French air traffic controllers had chosen that very day to go on strike.

Two days later, we again made the journey to the airport, and this time , while we were successful, we were surrounded by grumpy and irritated people who could only talk about the inconveniences they had sustained.

Perhaps it was the absorption of the negative energy that surrounded us or the cramped seat that did not allow for any leg room, what was responsible for putting me in a funk.

Yet the truth is that in a funk I have been for the past four days.

This morning, as I sat drinking my third cup of cafe con leche, patiently listening to my mother’s banter, I saw a man on the street below.

He must have been around 90 years of age.

He walked slowly but with purpose.
Carefully, he pushed his walker and dragged his left foot which desperately tried to keep pace with the one on the right. After taking only five steps, he stopped to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. He then paused for ten seconds before continuing on his way.

I watched him until he reached the end of the street.

Looking at the clock, I realized it had taken him twenty minutes to walk less than 200 yards.

A countless number of steps, 12 pauses, and three brow wipes later, he had made it to the end of the street.

As he turned the corner, I hung my head in shame.

Not merely intent, but execution, was what the elderly gent had accomplished on this warm Wednesday morning.

I was humbled.

Here I was, just four days into my vacation, sitting on the terrace complaining about my inability to walk the same way I had walked last summer.

Yes, I had every intention of attempting to regain my gait, of going from point A to B, yet here I sat, hosting my own pity party with only my mother in attendance.

Every great journey begins with the first step.

The old adage seemed to perfectly describe what the old man had started and I had yet to begin.

Feeling inspired, I donned a pair of old sneakers, my sunglasses, and a sun hat.

“Mamma,”I said, “grab your hat. Our search for Javier Bardem begins today!”

Pain be damned.

One way or another, one step at a time, I am determined to be reacquainted with my old self, to mimic the actions of the old man and reach the finish line.

I am determined to not allow excuses and self pity stand in the way of reaching my goal.

I smile to myself as I take the first step.

Do your actions stay at intent or do you get things done?

Reporting from sunny Spain,

How does one make synchronicity’s acquaintance?


When things fall into place just so.

When good fortune touches a moment, an hour, a day.

When things work like they’re supposed to.

When life is good, the sun shines, and birds sing.

When the day smiles at you and beckons you to go forward.

Because everything is going to be fine.

Today wasn’t that day.

Opening one bleary eye to stare at the alarm clock that hadn’t gone off, I realized I was late.
Way late–to do something that I hate almost as much as going to the dentist.

What’s that, you ask?

The dreaded pap smear, or as I like to call it, the “cavity inspection.”

Jumping out of bed as fast as my wonky knee would allow it, I made for the shower.

Twenty minutes later, I was exiting the building, but not before hitting my elbow on the hand rail.

As I ran to the bus stop, an elderly woman sitting in her garden took great delight in telling me that the bus “had just left.”

Just as my derriere was about to make contact with the bus seat, the bus driver announced that we had to get off the bus.

I didn’t understand a word he said and instead came to this conclusion as I witnessed the exodus of fellow passengers.

Two minutes later, a kind woman who saw my bewildered state informed me that there was an accident on the main road and vehicles weren’t allowed to pass.

Realizing I only had twenty minutes to get to the hospital, I did the only thing left to do: I ran power walked the two miles.

With sweat trickling down my back and other body parts, I arrived at my destination with one minute to spare.

Never you mind that my wonky knee almost gave out twice or that I realized half way through my trek that the feeling of freshness I had experienced after my shower was long gone.

Perspiring, hyperventilating, and realizing I desperately needed to find a bidet, I made my way to the counter.

Ten minutes later, I was on a gurney being told to prop my legs on stirrups and relax.
(An oxymoron, if you ask me.)

Metal clamps waving ominously before my eyes, I realized today was not the day.

The day when synchronicity makes the world a perfect place.

When a stranger who looks like Javier Bardem looks at you admiringly and asks, “How you doin’?”

When butterflies land on your shoulder and little children smile at you sweetly.

Today was a day when birds poop on your head.

Because that’s exactly what happened as I left the hospital.


I have yet to make its acquaintance.

When was the last time you experienced synchronicity?

Note: Today’s photo has nothing to do with synchronicity–of course!

Instead, it’s a reminder that tomorrow is National Coffee Day.

Drink up, fellow coffee lovers!