Author: admin

Posted on

Reasons to study other writers

I’m always looking for ways to improve my writing. I try to write every day, I keep a journal. Whenever I read a particularly good book, I write a review for myself. Sometimes I’m so impressed with the author’s writing style, the seamless way in which a story is told combining all the right elements, in the right proportion, I study the author’s technique; not for the purpose of imitating his/or her style, but to understand what makes one author’s writing stand out from another’s.

In most novels the following elements are present in one form or another – protagonist, antagonist, conflict(s), setting, dialogue, exposition, theme, minor characters, storyline, plotting. But it is the way those elements are put together that distinguishes good writing from bad. I recently read a novel that contained all the above elements; however, as I read I was aware of the author’s missteps and rather than losing myself in the world the author had created, I found myself noticing the problems with the novel. It’s like making a cake. One might put all the ingredients together, but if they are not in the right proportion, the cake will taste awful.

While one can learn to write a novel in a relatively short period of time, reading well-written novels can elevate the writer’s sense of aesthetes. In art schools, students are taught to study the masters. I’m not suggesting that beginning writers have to study Shakespeare, Milton, Twain, Dickens or other writers of a period long ago. It can help; however, there are excellent novelists writing today. What I am suggesting is that when you come across a novel that moves you – not just the storyline itself, but in the way the story unfolds, by how the various elements come together to create a whole – believable characters, authentic dialogue, vivid settings, complex plotting, and a theme that resonates long after you put the book down, reread it or examine passages as one would study a painting or a textbook. Note what the author did that captivated you. Ask yourself how the author made you give up your time, lose yourself to spend hours, days, even weeks to enter his/her world.

My reading lists spans continents. I read widely. I read fiction as well as non-fiction, and poetry as well as drama. If you were to ask well-known authors for their reading list you’ll find they read widely, too. In essence, reading good writing enhances your own.

Posted on

Journaling, a Tool for Writers

I began writing a journal when I read Anais Nin’s Diaries years ago. I’d checked it out of the library and became fascinated with her account of her friendship with Henry and June Miller and other artists of the early part of the twentieth century. Before long I was hooked by that style of writing. I’d started keeping a diary, and on rare occasions when I could remember, I’d record my daily activities. Then I’d lock it; anyone who really wanted to see what I’d written could have easily opened the lock with a paper clip. However, after reading the Nin diaries, I soon found that the small white book I’d purchased was too confining. I needed to write down more than my daily mundane activities. So I purchased a large notebook and thus began my years of journaling.

I now have volumes including a travel journal, one when my son was a baby, a gardening journal in which I keep track of how my plants are doing and my main journal in which I include some of my everyday activities as well as how I feel about those events, describing them in detail. I write poems. I write about heartbreak and breakthroughs. I rant and rave, laugh and cry. My journal is cathartic. When I go back and read my entries from years ago, I can relive the experience, though that is not always pleasant. Sometimes I get mad or feel heartbreak all over again. But sometimes rereading my journal leads me to understand why things went the way they did, and I remember people and incidents I’ve long forgotten.

Keeping a journal is an invaluable tool for me as a writer because it lends authenticity to my stories. It keeps me from having writers block. I don’t need to search for ideas. I would suggest that every serious writer keep a journal. In it you could include detail descriptions of people, events, and places. Practice turning narration into dialogue. In revisiting your journal for material to use for your stories, you’ll see themes that can be used, conflicts which can be developed and resolutions to those conflicts, all the elements that can be used when writing fiction or non fiction. Most importantly, keeping a journal is good practice. Writers write. In my journal I don’t worry about anyone reading it. I don’t worry about correct grammar or punctuation or writing in complete sentences. Most of all, I don’t censor what I write, and because of this, my writing is much freer.

Posted on

The Writing Life

Most writers know that writing is a solitary activity. On the one hand, when I write I need as few distractions as possible to get my thoughts in order, to hear the muse speak to me, and to block obstacles to creativity. (Well, maybe a little music.) On the other hand, I also need to participate in activities that will stimulate me, enhance my knowledge of my chosen field, and broaden my experience as a writer. That’s why I find occasionally attending workshops, conferences and participating in book festivals so stimulating. I get to network with other writers, professional and non-professional, exchange information, get feedback, and learn ways of marketing, and in addition, sell books if I’m lucky.

Retreats – provide ideal places to write. Poets and Writers list retreats, also Artists and Writers Colonies by Gail Hellund Bowler list retreats, residences and respites for the creative mind. I haven’t attended one yet but I have friends who have and their response has been encouraging.

Workshops and Seminars – learn ways to improve ones writing and expand knowledge as well as get answers to writing questions and maybe get feedback on writing projects. I facilitate a creative writing class at my local senior center and have taken classes in mystery writing and creative non-fiction at the community college in my area.

Book Festivals – See what others are doing to promote their books, participate in panel discussions and maybe get to recite a poem or two. Most importantly, meet the public as well as network with other authors. I recommend new authors attend at least one book festival. You might start out by attending one, not as a vendor but as part of the public. I’ve been a vendor at several book festivals; most recently, the Leimert Park Book Festival in L.A. Some may be rather expensive such as the L.A. Times Book Festival; however, going in with a few other authors can cut down on the expense.

Conferences – Network with other professionals and non-professionals. Learn current trends. Experience other genres. A few years ago I attended the AWP Associated Writers Program held in Vancouver. It was fantastic. I took in as many workshops and panel discussions in all genres as I could. I have also been to the Black Writers Online Reunion and Conference. There I had part of my manuscript read and received vital feedback. I learned tips on writing query letters, promoting and marketing my work.

Going to writers and artists’ retreats, attending workshops and seminars, participating in book festivals, and/or attending conferences can provide encouragement to a new writer and reenergize an experienced one.

Posted on

Planned Obsolescence

The other day when I tried to use my printer, it said, “check your color cartridge.”  I had recently installed a brand new color cartridge in it.  I followed the instructions, but it continued to tell me to check the color cartridge.  I figured maybe it meant the black cartridge so I installed a new black cartridge.  No matter, the instructions wouldn’t go away.  I unplugged the printer and plugged it in again.  Slowly the printer began to print.  I’ve noticed this happening more and more frequently.  The printer would take minutes to print out a page, sometimes not completing the job at all.  I was fed up.  “How long have I had this printer?” I wondered.  It didn’t seem that long ago when it was brand new.  I was elated with its many features.  Unlike my old printer that only printed, this one copied and scanned in black and white as well as color.  Five years had passed since I’d replaced my old printer with this one.  Because having a working printer is essential to my work, I went out and bought a new one.  What to do with the old one?  I asked myself.  Toss it in the garbage bin like rotten meat? I envisioned my printer setting on a mountain of trash to become part of a landfill.  Sell it to some unsuspecting soul at a yard sale or on eBay with glowing reports extolling its special features? 
Come to think of it, lately objects I bought not that long ago like my garbage disposal, steam cleaner, and my computer have all quit on me.  Is this a conspiracy? I wondered.  In all fairness, when I checked to see how long ago I purchased these items, it had been a little over five years ago.  Is this how long something you’ve paid good money for suppose to last?  I’ve heard the term “planned obsolescence;” however, I wasn’t conscious as to the real effect until I noticed it happening to me.  I know I have to replace these and other items such as my cell phone and camera, as they are important to me.  Keeping up with the changes in technology is one thing, and it is an expensive endeavor.  Having things intentionally built to break down is another.  I realize I can’t do anything about this.
However, I do have options as to how to dispose of things that no longer work. I could toss, sell, or recycle. I can recycle the computer and the printer, but what to do with the steam cleaner and the garbage disposal? Once upon a time some things could be repaired, but today there are few places to have things repaired.  For me it’s difficult to toss into the garbage something that looks as good as the day I bought it, the only problem is that it simply doesn’t work.  It’s easy to see how some people become hoarders.  Today it becomes a battle of keeping up with a changing society where new gadgets become old within a short period of time.  Things that use to last break down much sooner. Granted, sometimes those new gadgets make life a bit easier.  However, the problem still remains, what to do with something that is no longer useful? Another option is to give the items to charity, like Goodwill, Veteran’s groups or thrift shops with the hope that they can repair them and resell.  It’s good to know I have options. Contributing to a landfill will be my last choice.
Posted on

Travel Lessons Learned

I’ve learned from the many mishaps I and others have had traveling around the country and around the world.  Here are a few anecdotes and tips to help you avoid making the same mistakes.
Years ago, when I went with my aunt to Nigeria, though we were required to have a small pox injection prior to leaving the U.S., my aunt decided she wouldn’t. We spent two weeks in the country having a fine time. However, when it was time to leave and return home, she was stopped by the customs official. “Where is your certification proving that you’ve had a small pox injection?” the customs official asked her. “We cannot let you leave without it!”  She was dumbfounded. I’d been cleared and anxiously waited for her near the exit to the field.  Fortunately, the doctor, a friend of the family, had accompanied us to the airport to say goodbye.  When the officials took her into a room, he went with her while I waited, wondering if I’d see my aunt again. I imagined her being taken away in handcuffs to jail. The plane filled with passengers stood on the runway waiting.  After a while my aunt appeared looking a bit shaken, but grateful she was allowed to board the plane.   Tip – If told that you must have a shot before visiting a country, if you don’t want to be harassed, get it.
Another friend who is an avid photographer was on a cruise when something happened to the ship and passengers were told they must quickly disembark onto a small island in the Caribbean.   She grabbed her camera equipment and followed the other passengers getting off the ship. Only when she landed on shore did she realize she had forgotten to take along her purse that contained her medicine.  She spent several frantic hours in search of a pharmacy to replace her medicine.  Luckily, the passengers were told to return to the ship before her health was greatly affected.  Tip- always keep your medicine with you when traveling.
On my last day in Manila, Philippines, the zipper on my suitcase broke.  Unable to fix it, I searched for a store to purchase a new one.  Despite my dwindling funds, I bought a lovely expensive one.  When the plane landed at my home airport, I waited patiently for my luggage. But when my beautiful new bag arrived on the carousel, one wheel was missing. As it was late and all I wanted to do was get home, I hauled my damaged suitcase to the car and drove home figuring I’d deal with the problem the next day.  When I contacted the airport, I was told they were not responsible for damaged baggage. I didn’t pursue the matter.  Tip – Don’t buy expensive luggage unless you don’t mind the expense of replacing it.
While in the airport in Trinidad returning from a week’s vacation, I stopped in the duty free store and purchased a bottle of Rum Punch.  I put it in my carryon so it wouldn’t break and boarded the flight to Miami where I was to change planes for home.  Unfortunately, the layover in Miami was twelve hours so I decided rather than wait at the airport, I’d spend overnight in a nearby hotel. The next morning I made my way back to the airport for my flight. I checked my luggage and with my carryon, I headed for security. I was more than a little surprised when I was stopped.  “You are not allowed to carry liquids through security,” the security man told me.  “But I bought this at the airport in Trinidad at the duty free shop.”  No matter, my choice was to purchase another suitcase and check it through to my destination, toss the bottle, drink the whole bottle outside the terminal in which case I’d probably be too drunk to make my flight, or to give the bottle away.  I didn’t want to purchase a suitcase just for a bottle of rum, nor could I bring myself to toss it. There was no question about me downing the liquor.  The only alternative was to find someone to give the bottle to.  I rushed around the terminal looking for someone to whom I could give the liter bottle of Rum Punch. I saw a friendly looking man standing by the terminal door. I handed him the bottle and hurried back to security.  I wish I could have stayed to see the perplexed look on his face but I had to get to my plane.  Tip – which I’m sure you know, put any alcoholic beverages you’ve purchased in a well-padded pouch and pack them in your suitcase.     
I learned many other things in my travels such as pack light, and don’t put valuables in your checked baggage, instead put them in your carryon.  I think one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned though, is to keep an open mind, be flexible and have a good sense of humor.

Posted on

An Evening at Madam L’s Soiree

I know you’re tired of reading about my Paris adventures.  This is the last one, I promise. I’d like to move on to other things.  It deals with a very interesting evening we had at the home of a Paris resident and an ingenious though not original way of surviving in the City of Lights.  To protect her identity, we’ll just call her Madam L.  An evening at Madam L’s Soiree.  Before leaving home, a friend suggested that when I got to Paris I must contact this African American woman in Paris who hosted soirees for visitors. “She hosts parties for artists of all genres at her home.”  While my friend hadn’t been to one when she visited Paris, she had heard about her from a friend.
One day during our stay, I called the number my friend had given me. Madam L told me she was having a soiree that evening at her house and gave me directions by train. Her apartment was located on the Left Bank. My sister and I took the train to her stop and followed directions to her apartment.  By that time, night had fallen, and streetlights had come on.  Few people walked along the street. This would be our first time inside an apartment in Paris and we were excited.
To enter the building we had to pass through a huge iron gate.  Once inside, we walked across the yard and into the ancient apartment building that reminded me of Harlem. A note on her mailbox indicated that visitors were to leave the Euros or francs inside her mailbox and come up. We were reluctant to do that.
When we reached her apartment on the third floor, a young woman opened the door and greeted us warmly.  In her hand she held a cigar box into which we deposited our money.  Apparently few visitors left money downstairs. Then we walked into the living room already crowded with people; it was difficult to make out the décor.  I saw three people on the sofa and someone sitting in the only comfortable chair in the room. Everyone else stood around in small groups. Several guests spoke French, a few English. A young black man with an unusually high head came over, shook our hands and told us he had lived there for years. Originally from Philly, he was a poet who had come to Paris and settled.  He found it an exciting and welcoming place. We met two English women who had come over by the Chunnel train from London for the weekend.
 Emerging from the kitchen, our host appeared carrying a large bowl of squash soup.  A harried, slightly intoxicated petite woman, honey brown complexion, she wore beige lounging pajamas and flat shoes, a gold chain around her neck. Her short brown hair was stylishly cut. She didn’t appear very friendly and smelled of whiskey.  She flittered busily around the room handing out small bowls, ladling up the squash soup and speaking French like a native.  Her helpers, two young French women, passed out hors d’oeuvres and glasses of wine.  After standing around for what seemed like hours, we managed to find seats on the sofa.  By that time I felt almost claustrophobic and awkward. The squash soup was delicious as was the wine.  Since it was a warm night, the windows were open. We were told to keep our conversations down so as not to disturb the neighbors. There had been some complaints about her gatherings. Suddenly, small white stools appeared seemingly out of thin air and everyone sat down. Madam L appeared from the kitchen once more to introduce the special guests, an author who had written several books. He read a few pages to our applause and answered questions about his books.  Glancing down at her watch, my sister suggested we take our leave as the trains would be shutting down soon and we didn’t want to get stuck walking through Paris that late. We couldn’t locate Madam L. to say our goodbyes.  
 I left my email address and for a few years received emails from her telling everyone on her email list who the guests would be, how much it costs, and where the soiree was being held. It wasn’t until I became a recipient of spam along with others judging by their hostile responses that I blocked her emails.

Posted on

Paris in August Part Three

My sister and I anxiously waited in the lobby of Unk’s hotel. We would finally get to meet our cousin, Lynette (not her real name). Unk had returned upstairs to his room and said he’d be back down shortly.  The lobby was filled with crowds of men and women, dressed in business suits and a few tourists dressed in shorts, tee shirts and sunglasses. Enter Lynette with her manager/boyfriend. How did I know it was she?  In her mid thirties, Lynette is tall, over 6 ft., statuesque, and possessing an aura of “I know who I am.” She wore no make-up; short dark curls framed her smooth, heart-shaped face. She wore a short black mini skirt and a turquoise tee shirt.  On her long shapely legs, she wore black flats. Her manager, Lorenzo, 5’4, was an olive complexion, medium built Italian, his curly black hair sprinkled with gray as was his scruffy beard and mustache. He looked to be in his forties.  Hesitant, we walked over to them. Just as we reached them, Unk suddenly appeared and dispelled any doubt.  We hugged; Lynette introduced us to her companion. Unk and Lynette caught up on the last time they’d met.  Laughing, he said “Last time I was here, she walked me all over Paris.”  Lynette turned to Sis and me.  “And how are we related?” Unk explained. Sis elaborated giving examples from our youth spent visiting Lynette’s family, our first cousins. “We knew you mother….” That question was asked several times during our short visit. I got the feeling she didn’t believe us.
Lynette had come to the City of Lights a few years earlier. She’d graduated from a prestigious college in the East with a degree in Sociology and had come to Paris for vacation. She fell in love with the place and returned shortly after. She auditioned for a gig at a nightclub, was hired, and thus began her career as an entertainer.  A popular singer in Paris, Lynette had been on TV and had worked in several nightclubs around the city.  As we walked towards the exit of the hotel, Lorenzo told us the plans they had for her career. We agreed to meet at our hotel that evening, and they would take us to a Senegalese restaurant near Montmartre.
Around seven that evening, we met them in the lobby. The five of us squeezed into Lorenzo’s small Fiat and we headed towards Montmartre.  Before we were halfway up the steep hill, it became evident that the car would not make it. It began to stall.  He quickly pulled over to the curb, and told us we would have to walk the rest of the way. As it was a clear, mild, lovely evening, we didn’t mind.  The restaurant was dimly lit, a few people stood at the bar.  I followed the group as the waiter led us up narrow stairs to the second floor where several tables covered with white tablecloths were spread across the room. Because it was early evening, we were the only dinner guests. The brightly lit walls were peach with alternating brown and beige wainscoting; small abstract prints hung between the lights. In the background the soft rhythmic sounds of West African music enhanced the atmosphere. The food was delicious – rice and stew, pepper soup, fried fish and Banana Manadazi (Banana Fritters) for dessert. We enjoyed a lively conversation that ranged from life in Paris, to Lynette’s career, to explaining again how we were related.
Soon it was time to leave.  We made our way back down the narrow stairs to the first floor. The downstairs was packed, the bar was crowded as were the small tables with people talking, laughing drinking and smoking.  It reminded me of the cafes in New York’s Greenwich Village. Over the noise I heard someone reciting a poem. I would have loved to linger in this exotic atmosphere but it was getting late. One thing, however, held up our departure. Outside it was raining. Not a gentle rain but an angry storm. Lorenzo, his tee shirt pulled up over his head, told us to wait inside and he would go down to get the car. He soon returned, we jumped in and just as we reached our hotel, the rain stopped.  It had been a memorable day.

Posted on

Paris in August Part Two

Unk invited my sister and me to the Foliere’s Begere for dinner and a show. He picked us up in a taxi and dressed in our finery, we rode across the city, now bathed in bright lights, for an evening of fun.  My uncle who is known for his frugality, especially when it comes to his nieces, was particularly generous that evening treating us to a seven course dinner, a stylish show, and to top it off, a bottle of champagne. The evening ended on a high note.
The next day, Sis and I decided to explore the nearby neighborhood including Place Pigalle. Coming out of our hotel, one of the first things we noticed was the gentlemen’s club right across from us.  Down the narrow block, apartment buildings and small hotels like ours were intermingled among these clubs.  Throughout the day and far into the night, women, heavily made-up, scantily clad and wearing high-heeled shoes stood in the doorways of the clubs, – young, old, shapely, and shapeless, blonds, brunettes, and redheads. They called out to male passersby, trying to entice them to enter the clubs to fulfill their fantasies.  Other tourists walked up and down the street. Some glanced curiously into the dark interiors, some stared straight ahead as they scurried past. Apartment dwellers hurried to their doors, punched in a code that allowed them to enter the buildings.
Short blocks and narrow sidewalks, fruit stands sandwiched between the buildings, gargantuan wooden doors, and streets filled with people impressed upon my memory.  Sis and I found a bakery where we bought fresh baked baguettes, and a cafeteria where we planned to eat lunch. Strolling along Place Pigalle we passed the sex shops, the pharmacy specializing in sexual enhancing products for men, the Monoplex, a department store, shops where tourist could purchase souvenirs and the ubiquitous cafes where patrons sat at small tables to drink wine or beer and watch the never-ending stream of humanity.  At the far end of Place Pigalle stood the famous Moulin Rouge.  We explored the massive lobby, reading the advertisements and noting the upcoming shows. It was closed but would open in the evening.
We rode the bus up a steep hill to Montmartre where we gazed down at the city below. We visited the Sacre-Coeur Basilica and watched artists paint lovely scenes of the cityscape. I didn’t notice the sign that read “no photographs” until I’d snapped a photo.  Finally we hiked back down to Place Pigalle.
Imagine our surprise when we bumped into our uncle strolling down Pigalle with a sheepish grin on his face.  He said that he, like us, was just exploring the area.  He said he had arranged for us to come to his hotel the next day where we would meet our cousin who had relocated to Paris and was now a “celebrity” there. Coincidentally we ran into him several times during our stay “exploring the area.”  I think he spent more time exploring the area around our hotel than he did his.

Posted on

Paris in August

When one thinks of Paris, France, one thinks of all the famous places to visit, like the Le Louvre, the Eifel Tower, the Palace of Versailles, the Sacre-Coeur Basilica, and other things like French wine and romance.  I looked forward to my vacation in Paris with my sister and my uncle. While this was our first trip to this celebrated city, my uncle had been in Paris during World War II and again years later and was eager to return.  
I booked reservations online choosing the hotel based on the quaint photos of the newly renovated hotel posted on the Internet – inexpensive, gorgeous looking interior, rich colors, off the beaten path, lovely spiral staircase.  My uncle, on the other hand, was booked into a well-known hotel not far from the Eifel Tower- located on the other side of town.  Our hotel was three-star, his five-star.  We met up at the airport and engaged a taxi.  The driver was none too thrilled as he jammed our luggage into the boot of his small cab. My sister and I were dropped off first at our hotel; the driver took Uncle to his.  I paid little attention to the area as we hauled our luggage out of the car and into the small lobby. The woman behind the desk spoke little English. As I had when I went to Spain, I had learned a few French words and phrases before coming, enough to make our check-in a bit easier. 
We rode the elevator up to our room and were surprised at how small it was. We could barely get our suitcases inside. A couple of steps from the door were twin beds with little room in between.  A couple of steps from the beds was a tiny bathroom. The largest thing in the room was the floor to ceiling window that looked out onto the narrow street below.  From the window we could just barely see Place Pigalle, an infamous area known for its sex shops and prostitutes.  When I chose the hotel, I didn’t know this.   About the only thing I recognized from the photos posted on the Internet was the spiral staircase with its rod iron decorated scrolled railings. However, suffering from jetlag, we retired early.
The next day after the complimentary breakfast, which consisted of a fresh baguette, strong coffee or tea and orange juice served in their quaint dining room, we decided to visit Uncle at his hotel located on the other side of town.  At the desk we asked the concierge for directions.  The Metro station was just up the block from our hotel. We purchased ten tickets for 61 French francs or ff (the Euro was not widely popular) to last at least a week. While most passengers use tickets, others jump over, crawl under, or pair up to avoid the charge, a freebee on the city, I guess. Paris has an efficient train system that carries riders all over the city.  Trains run from 5:30 AM until 1AM when the ground beneath the city streets cease to rumble like earthquake tremors. It is the heartbeat of the city.
About 35 minutes later, my sister and I arrived at Unk’s luxurious hotel.  The huge lobby contained a piano bar, a café, gift shop, and a seating area with plush couches and chairs.  Businessmen and tourists filled the lobby.  As soon as we entered Unk’s room, we marveled at its size and all the amenities he had access to.  From his window we saw the Eifel Tower and much of the city. The weather was fantastic; we were in good spirits and looked forward this new adventure. During the next two weeks, we would take in a few tourist attractions, meet a distant cousin who had become a popular singer, spend an evening at the Follies Beg ere, and have a unique experience at the home of a woman who made her living hosting parties or soirees for artists, tourists and newcomers to Paris.  

Posted on

Misadventures in Costa del Sol, Spain – Part Three

My two-week vacation had come to an end. This was my last day at the resort and I had to be out by noon. My friends had gone home the day before.  My plane though, wasn’t scheduled to leave until the next day.  Knowing this, I telephoned around to hostels to find a place to spend the night.   Finally I found a place and made a reservation.   I checked out of the hotel, took the bus into Malagua. With my luggage, I wandered the streets of the city trying to locate the address asking everyone I met (in my halting Spanish) for directions.  After several wrong turns I found it. I checked into the small hotel, took the ancient elevator up to the third floor and stood before the old wooden door hesitant to insert the key. I felt as if I’d stepped back in time.  It reminded me of the tenement buildings in Harlem where I grew up except this hallway was much smaller.  Slowly, I opened the door to my room and stepped in.  I was greeted by a sea of brown – brown walls, brown carpet, brown doors – one leading to a closet, the other to the tiny bathroom, a single bed with a faded bedspread.  The forty-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling cast ominous shadows on the wall.  On a small table sat a 14 inch TV screen, with programs in Spanish, mostly featuring bull fights. The only window looked out onto an alley – quite a comedown from the luxurious apartments at the resort with large color TV’s that featured international programs.  Nonetheless, it would do for one night.
I wandered through the Lara, an interesting maze of streets, and as I was getting hungry, I decided to find a place to eat. From a guidebook I’d borrowed from my local library and copied pages, I thought about having one of Spain’s famous dishes “Malaguena.” The problem, my funds were quite low.  I could either dine out my last day in Spain, eating at one of the outdoor restaurants, or save the money to pay my hotel bill and take a taxi to the airport the next day. I decided I’d eat out.  When the waiter delivered the huge dish of fried fish, I savored the wonderful taste. But when I began to look closely at what I was eating, I saw what looked like eyeballs staring up at me – octopus or squid tentacles, I think. Despite the delicious flavors, I couldn’t finish my meal knowing I was eating octopus.
I returned to my lonely room, tried to read in the dim light until I finally fell asleep listening to voices murmuring nearby and the elevator as it rattled up and down its shaft.  The next day, I returned to my exploration of the Lara. As my checkout time from the hostel approached I felt my anxiety rise, I was deep into the Lara and lost.  Walking quickly down one street after another, I finally found one that led to the boulevard and to my hostel. I paid the hostel bill with my credit card, took a taxi to the airport, and sat around for hours waiting for my plane to take me home.  It had been a wonderful adventure; however, I was ready to put it behind me.