Life: Idiotropic

One of the blessings of living in another country is that even in the most mundane tasks there is either beauty or oddities.  Amazing things or completely bazaar things that you might not expect.

Today, thanks to a torn down building, I got this glimpse of the backside of the Betera church while heading to the bank.  Not something I'd normally see as churches here are so often completely surrounded by buildings, but a nice view on a pretty day and a bit of beauty that makes standing in line at the bank a tad more tolerable.


Sant Espirit
We took the back roads towards home through orange groves and over little mountains until we reached the monastery in Gilet, Sant Espirit.

This little gem is tucked among the mountains behind my house - probably 10 minutes by car.  From here you can hike all around the hills there.  It's quiet and peaceful.  The monastery itself was closed.  Apparently you have to ring to enter and we didn't.  A little cafe on the side serves small snacks, ice cream, and drinks.  Beer, yes.  White wine, no.  We had cafe con leche and I tried to talk to the old man who worked there, but he was eager to close and not very chatty.

The scenery is lovely and the monastery is obviously still active.  Ancient trees dance around it - really, it looks like they are dancing.  So old are they that this kind of tree has sort of lifted off the ground, a hole between two "legs" of wood at the base, so many of them look like they could just start walking around.  Who knows... may be they do.  ;)

It's a perfect picnic spot with tables and a nice parking area just below and another picnic area behind it.   



I learned of Sant Espirit a few months ago from a British man at a Canet ice cream shop while I was there with a friend and my little girls were exclaiming, "they speak English," then rushing over to practice theirs as if they were starved of it.

He also told me that he lived in Gilet, "a quaint little town with a lovely plaza and good restaurants."  So, after our monastery stroll, we drove into Gilet at lunch time to find just that, lunch.

The vendors at the weekly market were packing up flats of vegetables in the plaza.  We didn't see one restaurant there.  We crossed over and walked around.  Strolled through narrow streets.  Passed a little electronics shop.  We didn't see any restaurants there, but I did like this simple "fish shop" sign.  We were beginning to wonder what the British in Gilet were talking about. 

Our last lap on the other side of the plaza gave us just two choices:  A bar with tapas or an Italian restaurant.  We chose Italian and I learned a valuable lesson.   One word can make a huge difference in a menu item title.  Or, when ordering food at a foreign restaurant, be sure you understand EVERY WORD. 

For example, I understood that for our second course, we basically had the options of lamb, pork, or fish.  Neither wanted fish, pork is quite ordinary, so we both ordered the lamb (which brings me to a second lesson learned: when ordering something unknown and potentially scary, don't both order the same thing).  I heard the "title" of the dish, but she rattled it off quickly and I didn't quite understand all of it.  As the waitress walked off, she said, "pastel." 

And it hit me.  Pastel.  Pastel means pie.  Pie?  Lamb pie?  Huh.  So I'm envisioning a pot pie or may be something layered with nice hunks of grilled lamb and some flaky crust... something delicious.

The plates arrived.  Two plates, sadly, of the same item.  Imagine the shape and size of the average Sara Lee pound cake.  About 1" thick.  The color of old baloney.  The texture, a foamy mousse.  Not creamy, but foamy.  Lots of little holes.  Tastes like lamb.  But the look and the texture?  Ugh.  It sat there all greyish pink on my plate with a decorative squirt of sour cream sitting next to it on a lettuce leaf.  Shudder.

It tasted fine.  Yes, I tasted it.  I ate most of it.  Not proud, just hungry and didn't want to offend the waitress who did ask later as she looked at my non-empty plate if I didn't like it.  I lied.  "No, it was very good.  I'm just full."

Taste isn't everything.  While this spongy pate of sorts might be fine spread on bread or crackers in a very (emphasize very) thin layer, a 1" layer of cold sponginess upon my plate is not what I'm up for.  I've got teeth.  Gimme somethin' I can chew!

The moral:
         1) Comprehension is key, especially in the case of random Italian restaurants in Spain.
         2) When ordering something "unknown" make sure that you order a different "unknown" from your eating partner so that if one is really horrifying than at least you can share the good one and order a bigger dessert.
         3) Don't take restaurant suggestions from the British whose cuisine is almost entirely based on a dare.