Day 12-We wake up early and pack our bags and we are off to Asturias with Daniel and his girlfriend, Patricia. First up is a stop at the market, where we buy bread, cheese and meat for a picnic lunch along the way. North of Madrid, past Segovia, the color of the land changes from brown, orange and yellow to green and gray. We cross great bridges spanning muddy bottomed valleys, the girders wrapped in fog, and the other side often obscured so it is like we are driving into a mystery. Gray mountains hide behind gray fog, and shafts of sunlight shine through the breaks in the clouds in wondrous displays of shadow and light on the fields and green valleys. Livestock dot the fields, and silver ribbons of water spiderweb down the sides of the hills. Towns lie tucked into the folds of the hills. It all has the look of a picture postcard, and reminds me of my ancestral home of Scotland, on a larger scale.

Rooms have been arranged for us in the small working class town where Daniel�s aunt lives. We arrive around dinnertime, and go over to his aunt�s house, where his cousin offers to show us a good restaurant. It is here I am first introduced to cidra.

Cidra is fermented apple cider. We sit down at a large wooden table in an open courtyard. We are the only ones in the restaurant. I go inside with Daniel to place our order. Inside is all exposed, unfinished wood. Huge contraptions, which Daniel explains to me are used to press the cider, line the walls. We order some tapas, and the barman hands Daniel 5 glasses and two unlabeled green bottles full of murky liquid.

There is a trick to pouring cidra. One cannot pour it into the glass as you would a normal beverage. You must hold the bottle high above your head, and the glass just below your waist. Then you tip the bottle and try to hit the glass. This method of pouring brings out the flavor, it is explained. Conventional pouring changes the taste. What dramatic reaction happens to the cidra during its 3 foot tumble is not explained, but I take them at their word. Daniel�s cousin demostrates for us. Maybe two-thirds of the liquid makes the journey from bottle to glass successfully. The rest lands in a bucket places on the ground with a drain in the bottom. Where that drain leads, no one says, but judging from the pulp accumulated at the bottom of the bottle, I guess that it may end up back in the still to be rebottled and sold again.

It does taste good, but whether that is its natural state or is a result of the special method of pouring, I can�t say. It is much like Saki, in that its alcoholic affects are not immediately apparent, so one continues to drink more, until suddenly it hits you all at once and you are out. Daniel, fortunately, has warned us of this quality beforehand, and won�t let us drink too much too fast. When my turn comes around to have a try at the pouring, I have a pleasant buzz. I manage about a 25 percent success rate, the worst so far. I blame the alcohol. You must practice more, Daniel admonishes me. While Daniel and his cousin catch up on family business, I turn to Phil and discuss the possibilities of opening a cidreria(Cider Restaurant) in America. There are plenty of tapas bars, but no cidrerias that I know of. The potential seems unlimited. It seemed like we could turn it into just the kind of tacky, packaged exoticism shit Americans would eat up.

Day 13-Daniel won�t tell us where we are going. He merely gives directions. We wind along roads cut into the side of the hills, above the green valleys scattered with cattle till we reach the sea. The part of Spain we are now in is known as the Costa Verde, the "Green Coast." We�re going to the beach. It is certainly not going to be warm enough to swim, but we can walk in the sand and pick up shells. There is a river running into the sea, and along the river a boardwalk. The tide is in, so we get to see the river flowing backwards. Across the river is a scattering of houses. Smoke billows profusely from one of them. Hugo asks what that place is. Daniel answers, "It is where we cook people to eat them. We are primitive savages here in Spain." He is only joking about actually eating the people. They do cook people there; apparently it is a crematorium.

We walk along the beach. The waves are big, and loud enough to drown out anything but shouted conversation. There aren�t many shells so we throw wet clumps of sand at each other. The sand is bracketed on each on by big bluffs descending sharply to the water, and covered in trees. Somewhere across the water in front of us is Ireland.

We drive from the beach to the Picos de Europa. The Picos de Europa are the highest point in a chain of mountains called the Cordillera Cantabrica. It was largely due to this range of mountains that Asturias and northern Spain were the only parts of the country to successfully resist the Moorish invaders. Now they are one of Europe�s preeminent outdoor playgrounds.

Along the winding road through the mountains is a church. Above the church, in the face of the cliff is a chapel. We ascend the stairs and walk along on tunnel. In one opening, 3 crosses stand silhouetted against the bright sun, casting long shadows over the back wall of the cave. Hugo and I wait outside as our catholic friends go into the chapel. There are several rows of pews, and a small altar set in a small space carved into a wall, where candles burn. It is damp, and the stone walls seep with moisture. Incense and candle smoke hang in the air. Old women kneel in prayer. It is all very solemn, and as with the procession in Cordoba, I am at a loss.

Just below the cave, three streams of water shoot out from the wall, collecting into a quiet pool at the bases of the rocks. The Spanish have built a fountain from which seven spigots protrude. It is said that young lovers who drink from each of the seven streams will be married within the next year. Daniel, his girlfriend and his cousin cross the slippery rocks to the fountain. The kickboxer wants no part of it. Hugo and, despite our good friendship, have no plans on tying the knot anytime soon either, so we wait with him on the bridge over the green pool. Daniel�s cousin takes a drink from one to the spouts "for luck," and returns to stand with us. Daniel bends down and begins to make the rounds before a look from his girlfriend stops him. They then drink from a couple "for luck" as well, and we return to the car and continue on our way.

We are above the tree line and the wind has picked up. The exposed gray rock, looking like broken bones protruding through the skin of the earth, are pitted and porous, with algaed pools collecting in the depressions. The grass is bent and windswept, kept short by the constant grazing of sheep and cattle. Stone fences bend over the rises. We are held up for awhile as a procession of cows makes their way up the narrow road.

We park at a scenic overlook, a "buena vista." There is a cobalt colored mountain lake, its surface raised into sharp serrations by the wind. The sky is intermittently clouds then clear, which the sharp peaks breaking apart low cloud banks as the pass over, allowing sunlight to break through. We can see for miles from here, over the quilted patchwork of green valleys, greener stand of trees, white towns and brown cultivated fields, all the way to the sea fifty kilometers away. From here the sea is almost a mirage. It is strange to see it and not hear its sound. It seems unreal. Something seen in a dream.

On the way back, we stop in a small village for lunch. We find another cidreria near a river. We sit at a picnic table under a broad, shady tree and right on the water. Chickens peck around our feet. Workmen nap in the grass on the opposite bank. Nearby, a stone arch bridge crosses the river, the stones dark with moss and lichens, and an iron cross hangs from the middle arch.

The kickboxer wants to know what American�s think of Spain, what do they know of his country. I mention Sergio Garcia, a golfer who recently dueled with Tiger Woods for a major golf championships. I struggle for other things. I take a stab at Lourdes, a place always on supernatural shows because of a vision three young girls had there of the Virgin Mary. But that is in Portugal, he tells me. To change the topic, I ask what the people of Spain know of America, and the first thing out of his mouth is "Monica Lewinsky." Our food comes, and I show much improvement in my cider pouring skills. Here there is not bucket to catch the spills, leaving the runoff to water the roots of the tree.

We return to out hotel and clean up and go out for dinner. We meet a friend of Daniel�s cousin, a pretty girl with a name I can�t pronounce because it begins with one vowel followed quickly by five consonants, none of which is apparently silent. "Ixtzthea," I think. We walk through the small town and The girl points out to us stilt legged buildings pronounces "oreos," which are used as something like pantries, for storing fruiting or drying meat, and which are unique to this region of Spain. Hugo decides that he has to find a model of an Oreo as a souvenir, which he can stick in his mother�s Charles Dickens Christmas village.

The waitress at the restaurant manages to impress us by pouring our cidra behind her back, getting about 75 percent of the liquid into the cup. Our meal is interrupted when Hugo, thinking our glasses to be cheap plastic, squeezes his a little to hard and it shard, sending what turns out to be very thin and expensive glass spraying across the table and into our loaf bread. At the end of the delicious meal, Daniel pats his bulging stomach, which he calls "la curva de felizidad", "The curve of happiness."

We walk from the restaurant to the intercity train station. We are going to Oviedo, the capital of Asturias, where it is the 2nd to last day of the Festival de San Mateo, a two week celebration in which most of the businesses in town shut down so everyone can stay out all night partying. While we are waiting at the station, for reasons I can�t recall, Hugo explains the American terms "prick" and "crotch potato" to Daniel�s cousin and her friend. The two of them are looking at me, whispering and laughing. Feeling self-conscious, particularly after what Hugo has just been telling them, I ask why. In broken English they tell me, "You, you look like, like, what is his name, Mac. . .Mac. . .Macgeever." I look like MacGyver!? Hugo is doubled over laughing. "Yes, like Macgyver, or Julio Iglesias, jr." So to the Spanish, I look like either a jack of all trades tv detective, or the son of a Latin heartthrob. I am not sure if this is a compliment or a joke.

The train drops us off and we walk through the streets of Oviedo. Oviedo is a gray, industrial town with very little apparent character at night. There are many people around, but it is still early, only 10pm, so it will get much more crowded. It drizzles on and off, and when it starts to rain, we seek shelter in a bar or in a doorway. We meet two more cousin�s of Daniel�s, two guys, twins actually, Javier and Oscar. I drink some Spanish beer. Music throbs from every other doorway. We spend a few minutes in each place, looking for familiar people, I guess, before heading back out. Hugo and I order some vodkas y limons from a tent along the street, and while we are standing there, Hugo saves a full vodka bottle from sliding off the table while the girl working the booth is kissing her boyfriend, and in gratitude, she uses a good portion of that bottle to make our drinks extra extra strong. I am starting to feel talkative, thought my Spanish is no better drunk than sober. During one of the frequent rainstorms, while the others grab some cover, I sit on a bench in the rain with Ixtzthea while she tells me how she will be getting her license soon when she turns 21, which is when you get your license in Spain. I tell her my younger brother just got his learner�s permit to drive at 15. I try to tell her about the festival we went to outside Madrid, which probably came out something like "Other day we go festival. Many young people, fun, no police wonderful country Spain nice beautiful."

We walk around some more. We hide under a tarp when it starts to rain. Being taller, I hold up the tarp for two girls who turn out to be friend�s of Ixtzthea�s, Christina and Maria. They join our party and we walk around some more when the rain stops. Hugo shows up at my side with two more vodkas y limons. Our group has grown to around 15, mostly friends of Ixtzthea�s. When the rain begins again at it�s regular 15 minute interval, we take cover on some steps under the awning of an apartment building. The girls gather round meI and ask questions about America. Hugo is in the midst of a political discussion concerning women�s rights with Patricia. I tell them about our flight over "Long we fly many planes 15 hours luggage our lost." They ask what we think of Spain so far and I tell them where we have been. They ask which I like better, Asturias or Andalucia.?

"Well," I say, "Andulicia is so warm and sunny and there are all those nice beaches, and here it is always cloudy and raining. . ." and their faces fall while I pause dramatically before I continue ". . .but of course I like Asturias better. It is muy bella with las montanyas y los rios y el mar and it is all verde y muy, muy bella." And they all laugh and I am given their official stamp of approval.

We give up waiting for the rain to end and strike out looking for a place better than these steps. In the middle of a plaza, I somehow get separated from the group. Rain falls out of the black Spanish sky in wet silver drops, splashing on the cobblestones, mixing with the dirt and grime before collecting in the dents and impressions of the stones in little puddles, reflecting the lights angling down from streetlights and out of open doorways till I am surrounded by a thousand tiny prisms of smeared rainbows.

Someone touches me on the arm and I turn to look. It is Christina, who I met earlier under a tarp.

"Heem?" she says my name in the form of a question, mispronouncing it as all Spanish speakers do.

I don�t remember her name so she reintroduces herself and asks if I am lost and I say that yes, I am lost, so she tells me she can show me where everyone went. She takes my arm and leads me through the streets and we talk. She speaks some English, so I speak in Spanish until I am stuck and then use an English word, and she does the same in reverse, and we manage to communicate pretty well. She asks me what young people do in America for fun. And I tell her there are parties but none like this, no festivals like this. No one likes people loitering in the streets in America, drinking openly and having fun. The police are there to herd people along, keeping them moving to the next little room where they will stand and talk with all the same people. Because the fun so often turns destructive. She asks why. I say that I think it is because we are so often restrained, made to feel guilty for enjoying ourselves, that sometimes people rebel in a explosion of violence, the way many college students, who in high school were given strict curfews and little freedom and not trusted by their parents, the way these people so often get to college and then go crazy from the sudden liberty, the profusion of choice, and end up partying to much and dropping out, or worse. People are generally good by nature, I say, if you let them alone and give them a chance, but when boxed up or backed into corners they will lash out. My Spanish and her English are not quite up to explaining these concepts, but I believe she gets the gist of it.

She tells me she has just spent a semester studying in Portsmouth, England, and that is where she learned her English, and she likes to speak it wants to learn more, to see New York city someday, which is a wish commonly expressed by most of the people I meet, New York city for some reason still representing the promise and hope of America to people around the world.

She tells me how much she loves Asturias, and as she speaks I look at her as her brown hair falls in rainsoaked curls to her shoulders and across her face, her blue eyes bright like pieces of the sky as she talks of her homeland. And I am won over. I want to live somewhere where one feels such an affinity to the land. I am thinking of the Gypsy Kings song "Montanyas;" "I am going to walk to the mountains where I was born." A cante jondo in the deepest sense. Northern Spain is after all where the cante jondo was born. Where I grew up it was nice, a nice house on a big lot in a leafy suburb, but there is nothing about the suburbs that makes me say "I am home." Nothing to connect to. It is something that is missing from modern life. A sense of place. A "This is where I belong." No one rights songs about walking back to the hospital where they were born, the affordable tract housing where they spent their childhood.

And as I listen to Christina speak of Asturias, I decide that for her, I will become The Poet of Asturias. I will tell the world of this beautiful place she loves so much.

I tell her how much Asturias reminds me of Scotland, where my people are from, or the Pacific Northwest, the only other places I have been that have called to my soul "You are home."

We find the bar where everyone has gathered. Daniel hands me a drink. There is music and dancing. It is hot, so I talk of my wet sweater and throw it on a pile in the corner. Patricia tries to get Hugo and I to dance, not understanding dancing is not something American men like to do. I am drunk enough to give it a try though.

"No," she tells me, "You have to move your hands and your feet." After she watches me trying to sway to the beat with my feet rooted to the floor like concrete blocks. "Move your feet," she commands.

"It is hard enough to keep just one half of my body in time with the music, let alone two halves," I tell her.

"In Spain, we move our feet," Daniel interjects. "You are in Spain, so you will dance with your feet."

Hugo shows up with more drinks and hands me one.

"Jim, you are drinking too fast," Daniel tells me.

"Ahh, estoy bien." I say.

Besides, the more drinks I have, the looser my feet become. Soon I am dancing with both halves of my body, and while it is not a pretty sight, it is not completely laughable either.

A song comes on, one for which you apparently are supposed to have a partner. Daniel tells Hugo and I to ask someone to dance. We demur.

"What are you afraid of?" he says. "Just ask someone to dance. The girl will show you how to do it."

Daniel�s cousin grabs Hugo and off they go around the floor, leaving me standing by myself. Daniel continues to prod me. Finally, I turn around and see Christina.

"Ayuda me bailar!" I shout over the music, which I think means roughly, "Help me dance."

She laughs at me, the way one laughs at a baby when he repeats something he�s heard the grown-ups says but doesn�t really understand, and she takes my hand and tries to show me the steps.

"Me corazon es tuyo," I tell her, and she laughs again. I think Daniel is right, and I have been drinking too fast.

I manage not to hurt anyone, and eventually the song ends. Someone hands me another drink. It�s either late or early, around 5am. People are starting to disperse. Our group has shrunk back down to Daniel, Patricia, Daniel�s cousin, the twins, another cousin, Hugo and myself.

We leave to catch the 6 am train. It is still raining. I am very drunk. While the others try to walk beneath awning, I walk right down the middle of the street.

"How are you doing, Jim?" they ask me.

"Estoy bien!" I shout back, "Hace buen tiempo!" (I�m fine. The weather is very nice.)

I am more than happy to provide the comic relief. We are on the train and suddenly there are flashes outside the window. "Fuegos artificiales!" Hugo says.(fireworks), impressing all around with his Spanish vocabulary. The rain has finally let up, and they are shooting off fireworks at 6:30 in the morning. The sky lights up, and the inside of the car flashes like a mulitcolored strobe light show. "Me encanta Asturias," I shout. Page 7