Every two or three years, I’m invited to visit with librarians in my county library system. Learning about different genres is part of the in-library training program, and I’m always grateful for their interest.

Not so much for the time it always takes me to prepare. I loved Suzanne’s blog this week about not being able to say no. Me too, particularly when I’m asked to do something three or four months in the future. My chickens came home to roost this week when all my “yes, of course I wills’” came in one week. I agreed to critique first chapters for my local chapter and give a program on those critiques last Saturday, judge a contest with entries due next week and a two-hour program at the library.

The library will be easy, I thought, especially since my friend and critique partner Carolyn McSparren would be there. Well, no. I like to be prepared. And so my adventures on the internet which are becoming legend, at least in my mind, gobbled up hour after hour after hour. I wanted to include a history of romance, including epic romantic poetry (I thought it would impress librarians), and, as usual, one thing led to another. I had studied epic poems in college but that was a long time ago, so off to the internet to renew my acquaintance. Beowulf, the Song of Roland, Iliad and  Odyssey.

Big, big, big mistake. I found a site with about three hundred pages on the subject and I started reading, and reading and . . .

Well you get the picture.

The information ended up with about four paragraphs in my presentation after a day long journey among fictional heroes of epic poetry.

Then it was off to the RWA website. While I was RWA president we commissioned a wide-ranging survey of romance readers. They had started the surveys before my term and I’m delighted to see they continue to do so. It’s great information. For instance:

–Seventy five million people read at least one romance in 2008, and that number seems consistent through this year..

– 8,240 new romance titles were released in 2010,

– Romance fiction sales are estimated at $1.368 billion for 2011

– Romance fiction generated $1.358 billion in 2010, while religion/inspiration, $759 million; Mystery, $682 million; science fiction/fantasy, $559 million, and classic literary fiction, $455 million.

One of the most interesting statistics (I do love statistics), is the number of readers who acquired/bought romances in digital e-book formats. In 2010, twenty-nine percent of romances titles were purchased in digital form. I imagine that this number has nearly doubled today.

The swiftness with which digital e-books developed has taken everyone by surprise, including publishers and libraries. The librarians said they are trying to figure out how to embrace e-books. One problem, one said, is that publishers are limiting the number of loans that can be made on one e-book while a hardback can be loaned innumerable times. Negotiations are going on.

I finished by explaining why readers really like romance. We’re storytellers. We write about people readers like and hopefully love. We give pleasure and hope and often laughter. We promise that justice will prevail and you will have a smile when you turn that last page. Along the way you might shed a tear or so or be caught up in non-stop action, but that satisfaction of a world set right will always be there.

I hope I made a few believers in those two hours. Some of the attendees had obviously read very few – if any — romances. Others were avid fans. At the end of our session, each attendee (there were about forty from different branches) had to read a romance.  I hope I piqued their interest.

All in all, an afternoon well spent. But when, oh when, will I get back to writing my book?

 I need ammunition for my next visit.  Please tell me why YOU like romances,

At long last.

I mentioned several months ago that I would soon have four of my out-of-print novels available in e-book form from Amazon. I waited and waited and waited and, finally, today, they are available for Kindles and tablets.

And at a bargain basement price of $2.99 each.

I have other electronic books available through Amazon, but these four are among my first single title books and include my all-time favorite, Island of Dreams.

It’s a book I couldn’t sell today. For one thing, it’s longer than most, and publishers seem to like shorter books these days. It spans two generations and takes place during a period that publishers deem unpopular or unmarketable. The hero is a German spy.

But when it was submitted to several publishers, Harper/Collins bought it without hesitation. The publisher was just beginning a new paperback line and was looking for romances. The editor (the wonderful Carolyn Marino) was more a hardback-minded editor, and she loved “Island.”

The salesmen not so much. The cover was horrible. They thought selling paperbacks was beneath them after years of selling “big” books.  The sales were dismal.

But the reviews were universally great and an English publisher picked it up in hardcover for library distribution. Then Harper decided to publish it again several years later with a new cover. It did well this time.

But today’s marketing departments would scream “No!” if a similar manuscript was forwarded to them.  And they have the power. It broke all the rules. Perhaps that’s why I love it so much. I didn’t know then what I couldn’t sell.    Another reason it’s my favorite book is my very deep affection for Jekyll Island, the setting for the book. A lot of local history and lore is interwoven in the story, and I hope I was able to bring to life a lifestyle and magic of a truly unique place and time.

Three other books are also available on Kindle for the first time. All were published by Bantam and are dear to me.   “Rainbow” is a story of the Underground Railroad prior to the Civil War. I read many diaries of people actually involved in the courageous journeys to freedom and I became enthralled with them. “Lawless” was my first mainstream western. It’s a story of a hardened gunman for hire who meets his match in a determined school teacher who takes in the west’s rejects: soiled doves, alcoholic ex sheriffs, orphans and assorted misfit animals. Her town is always bemoaning the fact that she does not conform to their standards of behavior. What to do about Willow is a common topic of town meetings.

The third is “Lightning,” which pits an English blockade runner, whose best friend is a monkey names Socrates, against a fiery Yankee spy out to avenge her brother’s death during the Civil War. There’s nothing quite so problematic as obtaining success and then discovering success is the worse thing possible.

If any interests you, I hope you’ll skip over to Amazon. My friends in those books will be most pleased to have you visit with them.

I had high hopes for this past week. It was all planned. I have a contract, a story I really love, characters that are endearing, and a dog that, wow, is really going to be fun. More than one dog, in fact. It’s a pack of misfit mutts.

 I had it all mapped out. I really did.   Kept the whole week clean.  Free from distrations. So Monday morning I woke up at 6:30 a.m. as planned. Took Aussie #1 (Kate) for a three quarter mile walk. At 7 a.m. I took dog #2 (Allie) for her walk. Great morning. Great exercise for me. Great happiness for said dogs.

Then everything went, well, off track. 

 Allie and I were finishing our walk when she lunged at something huddled against the curb in the street. I pulled Allie back, saw a fur ball try unsuccessfully to move, and thought it was a squirrel hit by a car. I couldn’t see clearly because Allie really, really wanted to go closer and I didn’t think that was a particularly good idea.

I took Allie home some six houses away, rounded up some towels and a big box and set forth. The fur ball wasn’t a squirrel at all but a rabbit that had obviously been hit by a car. No way I could leave it lying in the street on what was going to be a very hot day. I picked her up, settled her on a towel in a box and drove to a neighbor whom I knew shared the same love for animals as I.   I thought she might know who to call.   We spent about thirty minutes calling one vet after another before finding one who had expertise in rabbits and who would look at him. Problem was he was located some twenty miles away. No problem. My friend and I drove to the vet, left the rabbit in caring hands.

 A little more than half a day gone. I went home, turned on the dishwasher which I meant to do earlier. Didn’t work. I looked inside and saw three inches of cold, nasty water.   Spent another hour trying to find a plumber. Finally found one who could come on Wednesday.

 On to the computer. I have three chapters written but I’m not happy with synopsis. The problem: did Green Berets use military dogs? I spent three hours researching military dogs and how various Army, Air Force, Marines and Seals use them. Discovered the moving story of a Seal who handled a military dog. The Seal was killed, and his family was finally able to adopt the dog.

I go out to get the mail. Another neighbor makes a bee line towards me. She says that the two Shih Tzus who reside in the yard next to her had escaped and were running down the middle of our street. We go after the wayward dogs (I have a real fondness for Shih Tzus) and finally see them in someone’s yard.  Being practiced in such matters,  I know chasing does no good but that dogs love cars.   I open the car door and they running and jump inside. We take them home, make sure the fence gate is closed tight.

 It’s late. Progress on the book on a scale of one to ten: one point one.

 Oh well, Tuesday will be better. I wake up early, take dogs for walk. No injured rabbits or squirrels or runaway dogs. The phone rings when I get home. The neighborhood handyman is on the line. I’d asked him weeks earlier if he could fix a window in my attic. Squirrels had eaten through the window sill and there was a huge hole. I hadn’t heard or seen any of the little critters, but obviously a big hole from outside to inside is not a good thing.

 He can come this morning if I’m going to be home. We will discuss what can be done. So much for my perfect writing day. It’s consumed with the handyman who, though a good craftsman, believes in taking things slowly. We spend the day discussing how to get squirrels out without getting more in before closing off the opening. He describes in detail how he has designed a wire cone that will do just that. Then he described in detail how he will fix the window. Some of the work today. Some tomorrow. Some next week. If it doesn’t rain.

I go upstairs to work. Can’t concentrate with the sawing and loud music beneath. I give up and make lunch. The dishwasher guy calls. He can come between 8 a.m. and noon the next day. Wednesday. Great, I reply, even though I know I won’t be able to concentrate on the poor book because I can’t hear the doorbell from my office. I suggest he call just prior to coming,, and he says he’ll try. That’s the magic word. Try.

 My mail arrives with a big stuffed envelop. Manuscripts. I forgot that I’d agreed to judge a writing contest. I add those entries to the pile of first chapters I’m critiquing for my local group.

 The door bell rings. My handyman wants to show me his work thus far. And he wants to tell me he has to leave but will be back in the morning. He leaves his equipment (a lot of it) in my front yard.

 I try again on the synopsis. More research. I really love the internet. One clue leads to another to another to another. I print off pertinent information. Soon I have nearly one hundred pages of stuff that might, or might not, be useful.   Did you know that you can’t try out for Delta Force until you’re 25 and have at least four years in Special Forces? Or that they are controlled by one man in Washington and not the army? That Delta Force members are called “operators” rather than soldiers? Have I told you that I tend to get overly involved in research?

 Wednesday. I’m waiting for the dishwasher repairman. I’m trying to figure out why more young people don’t want to become repair folks. They are in great demand and make a very, very nice income. The independents, like my handyman, can set his own schedule and proceed at his own pace. They are always welcomed warmly. At least at my house.

 The dishwasher repairman comes. He spends an hour dismantling my dishwasher. Finally finds a small piece of plastic tie that somehow dropped in the machine and plugged the draining device.

 He leaves. The handyman returns. His brother stops for a visit. We have a family discussion. I get a phone call from the vet in the next county. The rabbit survived. It will soon be released in a pasture near the vet’s office. I call my friend and give her the good news.

 Now it’s Thursday. Still no meaningful progress on the book. So much for my wonderful week of writing. Critique group tomorrow (Friday). I have to have something. I work furiously on the synopsis. Still haven’t decided whether I want my hero to be a Ranger, Green Beret, Seal or a member of Delta Services. None really suit him. He’s a throwaway kid who joins the army because there’s nothing else. I want him to be the best he can be but not a superman. More research required..

 It’s midnight Thursday. Finished synopsis. I have the first three chapters but will have to make  changes. 

 Friday. Huge argument in critique group. We disagree on who my hero should be, but he’s MY hero and I’m going to make him what I want him to be. Then it’s home. Oh yeah, I’m having a Kentucky Derby Party Saturday with all the family invited. I haven’t done anything. No food. No cleaning. I’m sure I’m going to get a lot of writing done today.

Ah well, there’s always another day.

When preparing for our trip to Spain, I was particularly intrigued by a mention of city named Ronda, mainly because of its connection to Hemingway. He lived there on and off, and it is said to have been the setting for For Whom The Bell Tolls.

Ronda is with is just an hour north of the magnificent Costa del Sol, the sun coast which I loved. But it’s a different world.

It sits on a plateau of a large rock outcropping and straddles a deep gorge, El Tajo which is 360 feet deep and 200 feet wide. Because of the cliffs, Ronda was one of the last Moorish cities to fall during the Reconquest of Spain by the Spanish kings. ‘Tis said that in 1485, the Spanish looked up the cliffs to Ronda and decided not to attack the city but instead cut off the water supply. Once the garrison protecting the water was taken, the city fell in seven days.

Its many stories include tales of bandits who roamed the valley below for centuries, including the last one. The city has a Bandolero Museum (we didn’t have time to go). It features Bandit lore and paraphernalia from the time Ronda was the romantic home of 19^th Century banditos. Think Jesse James. The people of Ronda have a fondness for this Spanish wild west past, and our guide told us their descendants live in the area.

It also has a more recent bloody past. In the 20^th Century it had the unenviable reputation as being the place nationalists threw Republicans into the gorge and vice versa. It was a particularly brutal time when family members often fighting each other. After Franco won, he systematically killed any Republicans still left in Spain. Bitter memories remain.

 This is just a little of the history of Ronda. Its story is rich, as is that of most Spanish cities. The city was settled by the Celts, won by the Romans, then the Moors and finally the Spanish kings, and the lingering influence of the last three is a beguiling mixture. There are still examples of the walls and bridges built by Romans and Moors and they are in excellent condition. The Arab baths are located in the old Jewish Quarter. Remnants of a bridge built by Romans are still there.    There’s still the Moorish Quarter, along with the new sprawling Mercadillo quarter.

Like so many churches in Spain, Ronda’s celebrated Santa Maria Church is built on the site of a former mosque and an earlier temple to Julius Caesar and is a mixture of Morrish, Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque influences. You can get easily confused in Spain.

The views in Ronda were the most spectacular I experienced in Spain. Since my camera’s battery died at this point, I’m going to send you to a photo website of Ronda,

http://digitaljournal.com/article/322910.   If you have a problem, go to

Digitaljournal, go to travel, and type Ronda in the seach box.   It’s worth the effort.

 The photos are magnificent and if you are ever thinking about going to Spain or just want to know more about it, I hope you will visit the site. It will give you a feel for this city and this fascinating country in general.

To Spaniards, Ronda’s claim to fame is more for being the birthplace of modern bullfighting rather than the magnificent gorge. Ronda’s bull ring(and museum is Spain’s best – superior to Seville’s. Built in 1785, the area includes some 5,000 seats and 136 Tuscan columns. The ring was closed on the day we visited the town and, being an animal lover, I had little interest in going inside, but it was certainly a handsome building on the outside.

My attitude, though, is certainly is in a minority in Spain.

Nearly everywhere you go in the region, you see bull fighting posters, photos, costumes. And, of course, bull souvenirs. The latter includes wooden bulls, bottle opener bulls, painting of bulls, bullfighter capes, etc. You also see bulls in fields. We even visited a breeding stable in the area that raises horses for bullfights.

I can never quite express the glory of this city and the views it offers. If you ever visit Spain, you shouldn’t miss this wonderful town. I plan to go back when possible and spend more time exploring. The problem with a tour is there’s never enough time, and this was particularly true in Ronda.

Since I have no photos, I thought I would leave with two photos of very contented dogs now their person is back. 

Happy nap

The first is Kate, the second her twin, Allie.

Content NowKate: All is Well With the World

I’m taking a brief intermission on reports of the Spanish trip. I’ve been obsessed with gardening since my return from Spain, and I wanted to share some of the fruits of that obsession.

Rock Garden Coming to Life

They say in Tennessee not to plant until April 15^th. That’s because our March is usually cold and April weather is uncertain. But I arrived back in Memphis to an unusually warm March, and my perennials were already creeping up through the ground. Even worse, my favorite garden store had hanging baskets on sale for $3.74. I couldn’t resist and once I started, I couldn’t stop. It didn’t help that everywhere I turned there was a plant sale (every civic group, it seems, has one), and my car automatically turned into every one of them.

The Frog Garden

And then my favorite plant sale occurred last Saturday at the Memphis Botanical Gardens. I love it, because Master Gardeners and garden stores from throughout Memphis gather to explain and sell their treasures. Craftspeople are also present to sell fairy houses and painted mushrooms and garden creatures. I have a frog garden which that requires additions each year.

One plant led to another. Some need shade. Some need sun. Annuals are colorful; perennials . . . well, I’ve fallen in love with perennials, especially those that bloom much of the year.

I still find my fascination with plants odd. My dad was an avid gardener who had a green thumb. I had a black one. Every time I tried to nurture a plant, it promptly died. I lost interest. But then about eight years ago, I tired of looking at a yard that was, well, rather blah. One corner caught the rain water from the home above and remained a big mud puddle. I decided that maybe a garden might help a bit. I hired someone to build a little rock garden, planted some Crape-myrtles and every year planted some impatiens. Now I’ve added Fushia, Hosta, Lily of the Valley, Bleeding Hearts, and Woodland Phlox, all plants that like shade. 

It worked. The mud patch disappeared. The crape myrtles grew and are truly lovely through the summer.

Area in progress

Then I adopted two abandoned Aussies who had wanderlust. They would dig holes to go and try to find sheep to herd. I would fill the holes in, and a day later they were gone again. I started planting roses at every new hole. I finally won. They gave up.

But then having an obsessive personality, a few rose bushes and my rock garden wasn’t enough. The rest of the yard looked orphaned. I added a few planters and started on a side area.

My interest in gardening was magnified last year when I went to France and visited Monet’s garden. My efforts had always been rather unimaginative. Reds with reds, pinks with pinks, etc. But Monet’s garden, which remains true to his original plan, was a wonderland mixture of colors and plants. I discovered there is no such thing as a clash of flowers.

The Pansy Pot

My proudest accomplishment this year was nurturing two desert roses through the winter. I dug them up late last fall and they hibernated in my garage during the winter. I fully expected them to die since they were cold and without frequent watering. Four weeks ago I took them out and placed them in the sun. They’re thriving! Green shoots, and I see the first new buds of their magnificent blooms. Happiness!!!

I’ve added Fuchsias, Hosta, Lily of the Valley, Bleeding Hearts, and Woodland Phlox, all plants that like shade, to the rock garden. And now I’m working on the sunny side of the pool. I’ll keep you updated through the spring.

A Little Bit of Everything

And I’ll take you back to Spain next week.

Granada has always been an alluring name to me. Perhaps it was the song. “Granada,” which I’ve always loved, or perhaps its role in the life of El Cid, one of my favorite film heroes. Just the sound of the city sounds romantic and mysterious.

Little did I know how much more awaited me.

The most famous view from Alhambra

I started to get an idea when our program director (i.e, guide, guardian, friend, font of all Spanish history wisdom) told us that Washington Irving is at least partly responsible for the survival of what has become a UNESCO World Heritage Site as well as the most visited attraction in Spain.

And what is Alhambra? I’d heard the name, but I had no idea of the scale and beauty and wonder of Alhambra, a palace and fortress complex hovering over Granada since the mid-1300′s. It was constructed during the mid-14th century by the Moorish rulers on a site once held by the Romans.

One of the original outer walls of the Alhambra..

While held by the Moors, the fortress was capable of containing an army of forty thousand men. It was the royal abode of the Moorish kings, where, wrote Washington Irving, “surrounded with the splendors and refinements of Asiatic luxury, they made their last stand for empire in Spain.”

It was occupied by the Moors for approximately 150 years before the re-conquest by the Catholic monarchs in 1492. And when that happened, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Castile could turn their efforts from war with the Moors to other things. One of the “other” things was financially supporting Christopher Columbus’s voyage to the New World.

One of many tiles in and on buildings

And where did Washington Irving come in to the picture? The author of “The Headless Horseman” was in Spain writing a history of Christopher Columbus when he heard of the Alhambra, then deserted for a century by its royal owners because of repeated shocks from earthquakes. Then accounts differ slightly. But the one I like is the one told by our guide and by Washington Irving himself in “Nights At Alhambra.”

According to our guide’s account, the writer took up residence in Alhambra with a bunch of gypsies and thieves and vagrants and fell under its spell.   He was befriended by a Spaniard whose family had lived in Granada for generations and knew Alhambra well.    Throughout the author’s stay, he filled notebooks and journals with descriptions and observations although he did not believe his writing would do Alhambra justice.   He wrote, “How unworthy is my scribbling of the place.” After leaving Alhambra, he continued to travel through Spain until he was appointed as secretary of legation at the United States Embassy in London (1829).    His account of his stay at Alhambra, according to this story, stirred international interest in the fortress/castle, and the Spanish government — and the world — took interest in the derelict. Restoration followed as did its recognition as a World Heritage Site. Today, it is the most visited site in Spain, and it is in remarkably wonderful shape.

All because of an American writer. I love it.

And I loved Alhambra.   Its size and beauty and condition defiy description.  I certainly agree with Washington Irving on that point.     I loved the fact that the Moors in the mid-1300′s, according to Washington Irving, developed a series of aqueducts that circulated water throughout the palace, “supplying its baths and fish pools, sparkling in jets within its halls, or murmuring in channels along the marble pavements. When it has paid its tribute to the royal pile, and visited its gardens and parterres, it flows down the long avenue leading to the city, tingling in rills, gushing in fountains and maintaining a perpetual verdue in those groves that embower and beautify the whole hill of Alhambra.”

I was also fascinated with the harem’s quarters. You can see the women’s quarters placed beneath a balcony well shielded from sight. It is still grated and latticed. The best apartment, according to our guide, always went to the wife who was the oldest son’s mother. If the oldest son died, then the mother of the next oldest would move into the best apartment. Thus, she explained, the heirs often suffered early and mysterious deaths.

Alhambra is huge and beautiful, and the mixture of Moorish and Christian architecture fascinating.    Islanic style is elegant yet simple.  No statues.   No gold.   But the workmanship in design, in the  tiles decorating walls, and the wood carving is breathtaking.    There are pools everywhere.   The gardens are vast, and I only wish it had been spring and summer. I can’t even imagine their beauty then.

There are also, according to Washington Irving’ , ghosts and myths and romance.   He cited one example witnesssed by an invalid soldier, who had charge of the Alhambra to show it to strangers.  One evening, as he was passing through the Court of Lions, he saw four Moors richly dressed, with gilded weapons.   They were walking to and fro, with solemn pace, but paused and beckoned to him.  The old soldier, however, took to flight and never again entered Alhambra.   It was believed the Moors intended to reveal the place where their treasures lay buried.    Ycu You can read more of Irving’s account of his days in Alhambra by going to http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/i/irving/washington/i72a/part3.html

 If you have trouble, you can just Google Washington Irving.Alhambra and you will come to it. It’s lovely writing and describes Alhambra far better than I.

And it’s free.   You can travel from your home.

A do apologize for not having more photos.  For some reason, the blogging site has decided not to cooperate.   I hope to have more later.   I might add I stayed up to four a.m. trying to include them and therefore take no responsibility for the content within this blog.

Sorry to be late today but I do have an excuse.

Only a small part of the Royal Palace in Madrid

 I attended my favorite event of the year, the Celtic Women Concert, in Memphis last night.

Since I first saw them on PBS, I’ve attended their concert here every year. I always treasure every second. It’s always such a lovely, positive event with great music, including an incredible fiddler, who dances across the stage with such joy that you can’t help but smile. I must admit I also love the very loud Irish drums and the lone bagpiper who always plays, of course, Amazing Grace. And the concert always ends very late because the audience just won’t let them go.

Another view of the Royal Palace

What can I say? I love, love, love Celtic music.

 My niece went with me and we preceded the concert with dinner at an oyster house. It has the best charbroiled oysters in or outside of New Orleans. We had a plateful, then a spinach salad with fried oysters. It was a grand evening.

So here I am, late again.

And now it’s time to blog about Madrid, our first stop in Spain, and our first glance of a Spanish palace.    Spain is full of them.   We saw three of them: one in Madrid, another at Alhambra and the third, the grandest of all, at El Escorial.

The one in Madrid was only a block from our hotel.   It’s the Palacio Real or, in English,  the Royal Palace.  The Grandiose 18^th century neoclassical pile is still used for state occasions. We didn’t have time to go inside, but we did visit the Cathedral next door and it was one of the most beautiful of all the cathedrals I’ve seen in France and England and Germany. I thought it remarkable that it was not considered one of the “best things to do in Madrid.” It says a lot about the city of Madrid that there are so many wonderful things to see, including the Prado Museum and magnificent parks and squares.

But the exterior of the Royal Palace is awe-inspiring.  It is the official residence of the Spanish Royal family but it used only for state ceremonies.   King Juan Carlos and the Royal Family chose to live in a more modest palace on the outskirts of Madried.

A Madrid Boulevard

Like so many notable historical palaces and Cathdrals  in Spain, its origins are a mixture of  Moorish and Spanish history.  The palace is on the site of a 9th century fortress, constructed as an outpost by Muhammad I of Cordoba.   After Madrid fell to Alfonso VI of Castile, in 1085, the edifice was only rarely used by Spanish kings until Philip II moved his court to Madrid in 1561.   (I love the fusion of the two great cultures throughout Spain.  It was my major impression of the country).    

The current palace was built from 1738 to 1755 and was occupied by Charles III in 1764.   The palace has 135,000 square feet and 2,800 rooms, the largest in Europe.   

 I would love to have seen the interior, but the one bad thing about a tour is you never have enough time to see everything.

A tribute to Cervantes and his Don Quivote

Anothing fascinating sight was the tribute to Miguel de Cervantes, the writer of the world famous story of Don Quixote de la Mancha.   ”Tis obvious that Don Quixote, and his creator, are very popular throughout Spain.  (I even had my photo taken with the former at one of the stops along out journey.  Photo later.)     The Plaza de Espana is dedicated to his memory.  It became a popular meeting place in the 1950s and now attracts visitors from throughout the world.

The second fascinating visit was to the Templo de Debod, an authentic Egyptian temple built in the 2nd century BC .   The temple was erected at the village of Debod, near the sared temple island of Philae.   Dedicated to the Gods Amon and Isis, it was a gift to Spain from the Egyptian government after Spanish engineers helped the Egyptian government move many historical monuments to safe areas before the construction of dams that would have flooded them.  

 An Eygptian Temple is only one of Madrid’s surprises.   It’s lovely and lively and friendly.    I loved the Tapas — and Pizza — and all the sidewalk entertainers.    One of these days I would like to return and spend more time there. 

Next week, I’ll have photos on Alhambra which is truly remarkable.

On the eighth day of our Spanish adventure, we were diverted from Spain for a day in Tangier, Morocco. One and a half hours by ferry, and we were transported into a different culture.

I had many adventures during our day in Tangier, probably the most exotic was riding a camel. Yes, Moi. I was the only ‘durn’ fool among our happy band of eighteen tourists to take up the insistent offers of camel handlers. I quickly understood why. Lynn had much more sense.

Up, up and away. Yep, that's me!

But I could never resist a challenge, and I kinda wanted to say, when I’m a hundred years old, that I rode a camel. Don’t ask why. It’s just been on my bucket list. (I have an odd – and long — bucket list). I’ve been checking off items particularly fast during the past eighteen months.

But I digress. As I said they saw me coming. Before I could say a word, I’d handed my camera to a traveling companion who vowed to take many photos (she did) and I was in the saddle. Well, sort of.

Holding on for dear life

I must admit it was a pretty old camel. It was also a pretty short camel, as camels go. But the moment I stepped onto its back, I knew I’d made a very, very bad mistake.

Did I say my balance is not the best. The camel’s back side rose and I slid forward, then its front rose and I nearly slid off its back. There were no stirrups. No saddle horn. No anything to hang onto except a thin, raggedly piece of rope that led from the front of the very unsubstantial saddle and another that led from the back as I slid back and forth as the camel walked around a circle.

Meanwhile, I think Lynn was laughing hysterically. Probably even Lonzo as well. But she went ahead and paid the fee. She turned her back, and the camel handler charged me again. And tried to sell me a .50 camel for five dollars.

Pat of Arabia

I said no, but it was only the beginning of my being sized up as the world’s biggest mark. Ahem, or maybe the champion turkey. For some reason, every child beggar, independent merchant, street vendor saw me coming. I had a parade following me. No one else. Just me.

Maybe because I paid a child five dollars for the .50 wood camel. Or maybe because I was carrying a teapot under my arm. Or maybe I just had that kind of face that screamed, ‘cheat me.’

We had been warned, of course, ahead of time. We were expected to bargaiin. But I wasn’t quite prepared for the crowd of young and younger and old and older vendors that simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. Maybe from others. Not from me.

But then one person’s con is another’s treasure, and I willtreasure the few items, including the overpriced camel, I bought. I was almost tempted into buying a “tree of life” carpet although I already have wall to wall carpet. Yep, they’re really that good.

I almost bought it!

But that was only a part of our visit. The city of Tangier is beautiful, a mixture of French and Arabic architecture with a touch of English as well. At one time, the city was

The narrow, winding streets of Morocco

cities, it is built around squares, but what makes Morocco different is the way religions have lived peacefully together. Synagogues sit next to mosques that sit next to Christian churches. One very impressive piece of Moroccan history is the fact that during World War II, it was one of the few countries that protected its Jewish population. In fact, it went farther, and took in escaping Jews from other countries and gave them Moroccan citizenship, then refused to turn over any of its citizens.

To this day, the religions still live together peacefully and Morocco has a large Jewish population. I love it.

It was also, according to the Moroccan guide, a hotbed of spies during World War II. For a writer and lover of romantic suspense, this is like manna from heaven. I could well picture shadowy figures in trench coats darting in and out of the narrow streets.

Morocco also has another claim to fame. It claims that it was the first country to recognize the new and independent country of America. Of course, we heard that in several other countries as well, but I really want to believe Morocco was the first.

But the camel and history was only the beginning. We went to the street market where Berbers sold spectacularly beautiful produce. I tried to get a photo, but Berbers apparently are very shy and feel their soul will be stolen by a camera. I shot one photo when a woman’s face was covered.

Berber woman shields face while selling vegetables

Then we went to the city market and tasted olives. I never knew how many different type of olives exist. Hot, mild, flavored, with and without pits. They come straight from the olive trees that cover Morocco, Spain and Portugal. They are very, very tasty. There are also bins and bins of fresh vegetables and spices. Fresh meat hang everywhere. It is killed in the morning and by the day’s end is almost entirely sold, according to our guide.

The city market

Lunch followed. We had a table on the top floor of a centuries-old private home. A musician strummed an instrument while course after course was delivered to our table, accompanied, of course, by plentiful wine. I couldn’t even begin to describe the dishes, except toward the end a huge platter of chicken and vegetables.

Then a visit to a carpet store. Lynn had told the program director in no uncertain terms that she did NOT want to go to a carpet factory, but there we were, drinking a sweet drink, while super salesmen spied — you guessed it — me. I was able to escape only with a teapot which I bargained down to half the stated price but was probably worth half that. Nonetheless, I had my trophy.

A feast awaits us in centuries-old home

Then back to the ferry to cross the Straits of Gibraltar to Spain. I really think I saw young and old vendors swimming in my wake, shoving fans and wood camels at me. And a carpet.

I loved Tangier. Even the old camel.

Lynn at the spectacular Alhambra

Lynn and I arrived back home Monday from two weeks in Spain and Portugal, or at least I did. Lynn stayed with me Monday night (or we collapsed together) and then she had another long trip Tuesday to San Diego.. To say it was an exhausting trip back is an understatement. I tried to add up the hours spent in airports and in the air and finally gave up because of three time changes but it was something close to twenty hours, and this was after getting up at 3 a.m. Sunday morning. Our journey took us from Lisbon to Paris to Chicago to Memphis. Unfortunately we had really poor connections (meaning short) and we had to race across two of the worst airports in the world: Charles DeGaulle in Paris and Chicago’s O’Hare, and neither of us are good at racing. We had one hour in Paris to change terminals, go through inspection for the second time that morning and find our way without benefit of signs. We were saved only by the intervention of a very kind Air France woman who obviously thought we were ready to expire right in front of her if she didn’t help. I’m only grateful that neither of us had a camera in hand.

But now we’re back. I have the remnants of a very bad cold that started in the middle of last week. And since Lynn didn’t post yesterday, I assume she, like me, is still getting over both colds and exhaustion. It was fifteen days of constant moving. I shudder to think how many miles we walked each day. But the tip was worth every second of discomfort. It was magnificent.

Alhambra: it's most photographed pool

Some quick impressions of Spain: It’s a beautiful country with rugged mountains, rolling plains and sun-kissed beaches. It’s heavily wooded, particularly with olive and cork trees, but there’s also a wide range of other trees. Villages and cities are almost entirely white, and like most of Europe are built around public squares. But the most startling fact, at least to me, is the way so many 13the and 14^th century great mosques were turned into cathedrals and include striking reminders of the two very different cultures in one huge building.

Christopher Columbus is everywhere. The country’s pride in sending him to find the New World is obvious in many, many cities, and the guides mention 1492 over and over again. In addition to Columbus’s search, financed by Queen Isabelle, it was a year of change in Spain as the Christian kings solidified their power after hundreds of years of strife with the Moors.

Next week, I’ll introduce you to one of Spain’s most outstanding examples of this confluence of history: Alhambra. Abover are two photos to whet your appetite.

And now for a brief commercial. One of my favorite books, Rainbow, has just been released in electronic format by Kindle. It’s only $2.99. It’s a story of the Underground Railroad in the south. Romantic Times gave it a four plus rating, calling it a “beautiful, tender story of love and home, of tragedy and the ultimate triumph over injustice. Most of all, this is a story of man’s humanity to man. But Rainbow is also a brilliantly crafted romance centering on a captivating tale of danger, desire and a game of double disguise. (It’s Zorro and The Scarlet Pimpernel all rolled into one)”.

Three other of my early books – including my Island of Dreams – will be in Kindle’s electronic library next week. More about them later.

Like Suzanne, I only watched part of the Oscars this year, mainly because I’d seen only one of the films that were in the running for the major awards.  With so many choices on television these days and a corresponding shortage of time, I usually wait until I can see it on television.   If everyone really, really likes a film, well, then I’ll watch it sooner. When it reaches Netflix.

But I did watch the ending of the Awards, partly because I really, really wanted  The Help. to win.    Being from the south, I had a special appreciation for the film, and it was the only one of two I watched last year. It was one of those films that entertained while tugging at the conscience. And heart.

When The Artist took most of the Academy honors,  my curiosity got the best of me. Just how could a black and white silent film generate so much recognition in a film world that usually rewards spectacular special effects and complex themes?

It just so happened my niece from the Carolinas was visiting her sister here for the week and wanted to go. Not only did they want to see the film, but they wanted to see it in a boutique theater. Okay, I’ve never been to a boutique theater. How could I not go? It was a winner in three categories: time with my nieces, quenching my curiosity and a theater with wine and large rocking chairs.

With a glass of wine in hand and a huge, stuffed leather chair under and around me, I nearly went to sleep during the first third of the film. So did the others in the party, they admitted later. But the film picked up then, and I was riveted. The only talk — and color — came in the last thirty seconds. I must admit the French winner of the Best Actor Award, Jean Dijardin, was very, very good. So was his leading lady Berenice Bejo, also of France.

My brother, who also attended with us, called it a combination of A Star Is Born and Dancing in the Rain. Kinda. Problem is that leaves out the dog. And in my humble opinion, Uggie, the Jack Russell Terrier, was THE star of the film. He was so good, in fact, that I took it upon myself to look up his resume. Uggie was rescued from a dog pound and won several dog talent shows. He was featured in Water for Elephants before being cast as “the dog” in The Artist.”

In my humble opinon,  Uggie was cheated. He should have won best acting award. I was outraged when he wasn’t even in the closing scene. Someone really missed a circular story. I grumbled about it all the way out of the theater, and even after I mumbled my dissatisfaction. No self-respecting writer should left it Uggie out of the climax.

I certainly understood why one of the producers took Uggie up on the stage when they won the best film award. Without the dog, the movie would be, well, without much of its charm and, bless me, I would say this even if I wasn’t a lover of all things canine. Uggie alone was well worth the price of admission.   Alas,  no Oscar for him.

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Lynn and I are off to Spain on Sunday. This time we’ll be flying together, She’s flying into Memphis tonight, and then on Sunday we catch a plane from Memphis to Atlanta, and then to Madrid, on Sunday.

Among our stops are Madrid, Toledo, Cordoba. Torremolinos, Granada, Morocco, Malaga, Seville, Ronda, and Lisbon, Portugal. Magical names. Historical names.   Romantic names.   Names full of images.    Ronda is one of the oldest cities in Spain – nicknamed the “Dream City.” It sits on a promontory overlooking El Tajo, a spectacular 360-foot-deep river gorge. El Tajo was the place from which Fascists were thrown to their deaths during the Spanish Civil War in For Whom the Bells tolls – one of my favorite books.

Another site in Rondo is the Palace of Mondragon, where Moorish kings and later King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella took up residence.

And then there’s Seville, fabled to have been settled by Hercules. Two of Rome’s greatest emperors, Trajan and Hadrian, were born in Seville, and the city was occupied by Moors from AD711 until 1249; many of its monuments date to that time. The city is known for its fiestas, bougainvillea, strolling musicians and gypsies. It is also renowned as the birthplace of flamenco and Don Juan. What more can a writer want?.

That’s just a small taste of our trip. Lynn and I will have many, many photos and tales on our return. In the meantime, I’ll be absent from Storybroads for the next two weeks.