The sun is in and out of the clouds this morning. The day is warmer than it has been. Tonight will be cold, but I’ll be under my down comforter with the dog beside me keeping me even warmer. Today is an errand and an early dump day. Gracie gets to come.
Earlier I turned on the TV to watch the news. It was NECN, New England Cable Network News. An on-site reporter was in a small town where a town meeting had become raucous and subsequently shut down when banning cigarette sales was being discussed. “It’s not about tobacco — it’s about control” and “Smoke ’em if you got them” were some of the cries from the protesters. “This is about freedom; it’s my body and it’s my choice to smoke.” The reporter commented that all the outbursts caused the meeting to be adjourned. “They had a went to postponement.” That is not a typo. That is the reporter speaking off the cuff and outside the common rules of English grammar.
A totally new topic follows.
In Columbia I went to the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá which is inside an enormous salt mine. The mine was amazing, huge and almost eerie with blue lights shining off its walls and on the statues and altar. I noticed the salt was blackish, not at all the free-flowing white of Morton’s. I asked my guide, whom I had hired in Bogotá car and all, how the salt gets to be white. Before I knew it, I was being driven down a highway into a huge salt factory. The guide went in then came out and had me follow him. Inside the main office I got a yellow hard hat to wear and a tour of the whole factory. The man leading us spoke English and was a boss in the factory. We went all over, climbing up metal stairs and around huge machines. I learned the journey of salt from the mine to the table. The factory boss gave me a huge chunk of blackish salt as a memento. I still have it stored always in my refrigerator. I have two outstanding memories of that factory. One is walking from one side of the factory to another on a metal walkway looking down at a huge machine. The other is the taste of salt which filled my mouth during the whole tour. The air was permeated with it. I’ll never forget that taste.
In Morocco I hired a car and driver to take me into the Atlas Mountains. The driver asked if he could bring a friend. I didn’t care so the three of us left for a whole day trip. On the way back we stopped at a small factory which made olive oil as the two men wanted to buy the fresh oil. I walked around and saw the whole process of making olive oil. The men working there just nodded as I walked by them. The air was filled with the aroma of the newly pressed olives. It was not an aroma I knew but rather one redolent of many aromas.
I mention these two adventures as they were unplanned, spurn of the moment. They were serendipitous.