9/19/2010 (Marrakesh, Morocco)
Preview of coming “attractions”: Today we visited a tannery, rode camels, bought a carpet, and got full (and I mean full) body massages… But that’s for the Marrakesh installment. I will set the scene, however. We are staying at the Royal Mirage (a Sheraton hotel in an earlier incarnation) and it is a study in contrasts. The lobbies, pool/patio, 6 restaurants, and stores are spectacular! The carpets are old and stained and the bedspreads are suspicious….it’s clear that vacuuming and sweeping are more symbolic than actual. I’ve discovered that Americans are overly focused on hygiene.

Back to Malaga, at least mentally. The road to Malaga took us through the Sierra Nevadas of the Andalucia region–impressive peaks of green and gray leading to a coastline dotted with villages of white washed, red-roofed houses. Since most businesses and restaurants in Spain shut down at 2:00, it’s impossible to get anything to eat before 6:00. Mike and I have established a couple of traditions since we arrived. We like to make sure that we’re walking around outside during the hottest part of the day and we try to schedule being hungry when no food is available. True to form, we arrived in Malaga at our ultra-modern hotel about 4:00. It was difficult to take pictures that really convey the sense that Jane Jetson designed the furniture in the lobby but I’ll send one or two the next time we upload photos. The Hotel Barcelo’s location (in a train station) with unlovely surrounding neighborhoods persuaded us to eat Italian food in the mall–good actually. (I have to admit that I’m ready to eat something other than Spanish food although Moroccan food may not be it…).

The next day we found the beautiful old town of Malaga and enjoyed sitting out a rainstorm in the Dos Gatos bocadillo before going to the Picasso museum. (One of us was really excited about this and the other was a good sport.) A 16th century building houses 200+ paintings, drawings, and sculptures, all of which were donated by Picasso’s daughter and her son. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take pictures. In each of the salons there was a quote by or about Picasso that revealed the character of the artist and the reality of the times in which he lived. His work, his subjects, and his words were powerful forces in the development of modern art. I loved it all.

After our museum visit Mike and I strolled through a lovely city park and went and looked at a Spanish galleon (a reproduction of the type that went across the Atlantic but built about 200 years ago). The marina wasn’t lovely and, in fact, the beaches on the Costa del Sol are gray pebbles, not the beautiful white sand beaches of the Costa Brava further east (near Barcelona). Malaga and surrounding towns are pretty densely populated and many British people have retired here or bought vacation homes/apartments here. We met a couple from Northern Ireland who has a house near Malaga and mentioned that they come here several times a year. Still, Malaga has the airport we flew from so it was worth seeing for a day or two.

One thing I will always hold against Malaga is the fall I took on the way back to the Hotel Barcelo. There is literally no street in Spain that isn’t uneven and dangerous. So I’ve been very careful, watching my steps and wearing the sensible (old lady) walking sandals I brought instead of the cute, chic shoes I got in Porto. So landing on my knees and hands on a side street pissed me off almost as much as it hurt. No injuries that won’t fade eventually–I’m sure I’ll still be bruised when I see you. I did decide to get a massage when possible because my back was so jarred.

Before I close–a few words about our flights here. We did the usual stand in lines until we got to our alleged gate in the (huge) Malaga airport. There was no indication (anywhere) that our plane would depart from the gate. When I asked someone, he told me that we were at the right gate–probably. Later Mike talked to a woman who said that if we were told the plane to Casablanca would leave from this gate, then it would–usually. So Spanish–it cracked me up. The layover in Casablanca was long and we had planned to leave the airport for a few hours or at least take care of money exchange, find a restaurant, shop, etc. It’s different in an Arabic country… After going through customs we were shunted off to the waiting area for the next flight (we were not allowed to leave). So…we spent 4 hours in a smallish departure area with supercilious, chain-smoking French people, unable to exchange money and told to “attende” (listen) if we wanted to know when our plane left.

French is the language everyone speaks here–French and “hello, I will be happy to overcharge you…” We leave for Madrid tomorrow and by then I will have the distance and perspective needed to write about Morocco…

Au revoir

What Malaga did to me

9/17/2010 (Malaga, Spain)

After a couple of days in Granada without Wi-Fi, it’s nice to be in this ultra-modern Hotel Barcello in Malaga. The halls of the hotel are so sterile, they feel like a prison in outer space. When you walk down the narrow corridors, the lights above the doors of the room come on as you walk past. Our “key” is a card that you pass in front of the door–like a barcode but with a strong “open sesame” feel. It turns out that this very quiet hotel was built in a multi-block, one building structure that includes a large shopping mall (complete with McDonalds–they’re everywhere), a food court and all of the chain stores of Spain (Zara, Cortefeil, Negra/Blanca to name a few), and (believe it or not) a high speed train station. So when we found the car rental return at the train station (we were exhausted from our trip from Granada) I looked up to see that the hotel unbeknown to Mike, was in the same building. He really has done a great job with our accommodations.

These travelogues are turning into a 3 layered presentation. The pictures are from Sevilla and Granada; the narrative will be about Granada, except layer 3 which tells you where we are as I write this.

Ah, Granada–it had the best tapas, the fanciest hotel, the most incredible view, and the snottiest people (at the front desk). On our last night there I left my (absolute favorite light-weight) sweatshirt on the terrace. A simple task to get it back, no? No! I spent most of our last morning there getting the brush off to all inquiries. Both Mike and I felt that no effort was made to locate it–none, nada, nothing. To a person, everyone at the front desk had perfected an air of, first, disbelief that you would ask such a stupid question (may I have a wake-up call for example); second they would answer you in rapid fire, impatient Spanish complete with eye rolling and gritted teeth at los stupidos, and, finally, reluctantly deign to pull out a map or speak a little English when they realized you weren’t going away.

We had tickets for the Alhambra (supposedly the most beautiful example of Islamic art and architecture in the world). We got tickets for 7PM so we could see what the guide book promised to be one of the most spectacular sunsets on the planet. I’m sure it was thoroughly enjoyed by the people who were walking up the long hill to the Alhambra after we (and all of the other 7:00 people) were kicked out of the place at 8:00. Walking down the long hill we were fortunate to come upon and wander through the Arabic section and get an idea of what we might be able to buy in Morocco (for a lot less hopefully). After that we had sangria on a nearby plaza and then took a cab back to the Hotel Carmen. We ate on the terrace again–excellent–unable to completely finish a bottle of excellent Penedes vino tinto.

A few words about prices in Spain. A McDonald’s hambuger is about $5.40 (and no, we haven’t eaten there), coffee con leche (I take it with milk because it’s so strong–basically espresso) is usually 1.5 Euros (about $1.95), still water runs about 1.20 Euros, and a decent class of house wine is 2-2.5 Euros, the same price as sparkling water. Pastellerias (selling pastries and sandwiches) and Heladerias (ice cream) are everywhere. At Boccarillas you can get sandwiches, tapas, wine, and coffee as well as desserts and ice cream (in case you haven’t had anything sweet for a block or two).

We finished our Granada tour by taking an unplanned, hour and 45 minute driving tour in and around the city and through all of the construction and traffic jams. I felt like Granada, not content with stealing my sudadera (sweatshirt) was hanging onto us and wouldn’t let go. On the other hand, my Spanish improved of necessity and I now know how to say (quite fluently), “There is no one on the terrace and I lost my sudadera on the terrace last night.” I can also say, “where is the road (any road) that will get me to Malaga?” and “My God, please help get me out of Granada.” (Dios mios, ayudame caminar de Granad, por favor.”

We leave tomorrow for Marrakesh where friendly sales people follow you down streets aggressively hawking their wares. As long as they don’t roll their eyes and sigh with exasperation, I’m good with it. Next installment: the Picasso museum, the Malaga marina and a Spanish galleon, and falling on my knees and hands on a (bumpy) side street in Malaga. Who says I don’t know how to have a good time?

Adios!

9/15/2010 (Granada, Spain)

Today is September 15th, the Feast of the Virgin, and all day vendors have been selling flowers for pilgrims to take to the Basilica–perhaps the one church we haven´t seen in Granada. Tonight we see the Alhambra–reputedly the most beautiful example of Moorish art in the world. We will be there at sunset, which may be even more spectacular than the view of Granada from the terrace rooftop of our hotel. In addition to many churches, cathedrals, remains of Moorish castles and fortresses, Granada has the best tapas in the world. That’s what they claim and I believe it. Last night we enjoyed 2 outstanding tapas: little sirloins in a whiskey cream sauce and something called ¨Spain-3 ways. These included tomatoes and jamon (similar to Serrano ham or prosciutto) marinated in olive oil and spices, fried olives, and spicy potato wedges in some kind of mustard sauce. Unbelievable. You´re supposed to be able to travel through the neighborhoods tasting specialty tapas in each neighborhood. That would be great if I were a skinny little Spanish woman (hardly anyone is overweight here and I suspect the ones that are came from another country): Of course, the diet is pretty much out the window. I can only hope that walking 5-6 miles a day can help me maintain.

Just in case you thought I was finished talking about food, I need to describe the breakfast included in the price of the hotel. This hotel is very nice, with a swimming pool and terrace restaurant (where we ate last night) as well as a pub (live music–we may go there tonight), a bar and a restaurant with a bigger menu. Back to breakfast–clearly an effort to appeal to the tastes of foreigners from across Europe and America. Besides every kind of bread, including the palest bagels I´ve ever seen, they had a wide variety of meats, cheeses, and fruits (some of which I could not identify). There were also eggs and ¨bacon, desserts, cereal, something that looked like chunks of tofu and several pastes (or patés). Before you hit the buffet line you are given a pot of coffee and a pot of steamed milk as well as glass of fresh orange juice.

Because we´re slow learners we found ourselves trekking around in the heat again while the stores closed around us. I think it´s because we wake up late (9:00) and don´t get outside until 10ish. Tomorrow I´m getting an early wake-up call so I can walk around a little before we get into our rental car (an Audi wagon) and head to Malaga, via the coast. Looking forward to seeing the Mediterranean.

We´re in the heart of the shopping district where everything is expensive and designed to entice tourists. So far I haven´t bought anything–not even shoes!

I’m typing this in the back of a convenience store and I can´t check my spelling on this message because according to the Spanish program, every word is misspelled. Also, I promise to be funny in the next email (as if).

Adios!

9/13/2010
Last night in Sevilla, the waiter asked me if I wanted a menu in Francais or Ingles. I think the combination of chic sandals and limp American hair (it’s very humid here) confused him….All of my smugness about adjusting to the tempo of Spanish life disappeared when we couldn’t sleep last night. I think it was after 4:00 when we finally crashed, and of course we overslept, waking up at 11:00.

Before I forget–a quick recap of Porto. It really is a pretty city although not very clean and (unfortunately) has a lot of gang tags on the ancient stone and buildings. We didn’t see any gangs but we did see skateboarders (they’re here in Sevilla also)–a scourge, imported from America probably. We got quite a bit of exercise walking down to the river Douro and back to the hotel. On our last night we ate at Avo Maria, a restaurant along the river. We had a table in a little alcove by a balcony, where we could look at the river and the diners below us. Our dinner of mixed grilled fish and a local blended red wine was wonderful. I wish I had taken a picture of the fish on the platter as it was so colorful and appealing–which is why we ate first and thought later.

I don’t know if we’re going to see Flamenco dancing–Mike is down the street hopefully finding out if you can see Flamenco dancing without taking out a second mortgage. It’s about $70 a person to see it–that’s with dinner. If you don’t eat dinner, you still have to buy drinks… I guess every place has something like this–in Ireland it was $75 to watch jousting and eat meat with your hands–we didn’t do that either.

Adios!

At the Avo Maria restaurant

The Douro River

9/12/2010 (Sevilla, Spain)

Not sure who wants to get these updates, so send me a “please stop” and I’ll take you off the list. Second disclaimer: Mike’s laptop (which I’m now glad we took) has a stiff keyboard–especially the space bar. So some of myemils may lok lik this… depending on how late it is and how many vino blancos or tintos I’ve had. I can now ask for wine in Portuguese, Spanish, German (we flew Air Berlin to Majorca and then Sevilla), French, and English. I think they understand French in Morocco or I will have to learn whatever language they speak.

Sevilla is amazing–a very European city with tremendous history, gorgeous architecture, and lots of tourists. We’re staying in an apartemento in the heart of all the action. It’s a cute place with a bathroom so tiny, I’m sure I could fit it into a broom closet. The style is very modern and clean; we’re on the 3rd floor overlooking an ancient stone street lined with apartments and shops with garage door fronts that close up between 2 and 6 when everyone goes home to take a nap–a civilized custom that we should immediately adopt. At 6 everything opens up again and around 9:30 people start thinking about dinner. I have to admit that this is an easy tempo to fall into.

We crazy Americans didn’t get going until later in the morning so we managed to be looking for an open market during siesta time–we have the Spanish equivalent of 7/11 down the street so we were able to pick up wine (vino, vine, vinho…etc.) there and a ham and cheese sandwich (jamon y queso) which is just that: Serrano ham and cheese on bread–nothing crazy like a condiment or tomato. Were’ resting before going out to shop a little (maybe)–we’re looking for a cord that will allow us to upload some pictures onto the computer. We’re also planning on having some dinner (much later–it’s only 8:00) and watching flamenco dancing. The nightclubs and bars seem to be open all night.

Flashback: last night after two flights (both fine) we took a cab (and were ripped off but that’s another story) and arrived at our apartment after 10:00 and found out we were in trouble with the receptionist who had emailed us that she wouldn’t be available after 10. Unfortunately, she emailed us while we were on the way… Luckily she left us a note on the door of the lobby/reception/place that directed us to our place and a pissed off 20-something. We dragged our way too heavy luggage up 3 flights (Nora offered to help one landing before our door (no gracias). After looking around we rallied and strolled down the street to an intersection where no fewer than 6 restaurants (all in a row) had their tables, chairs and misters out on the street. It’s kind of hard to tell here what’s street and what’s sidewalk. The rule seems to be if you can drive on it, it’s a road… We ordered olives, bread, shrimp, and tortilla des patatas (that’s a potato omelet). The waiter complimented me on my Spanish accent and I’ve been insufferable ever since. Never mind that he couldn’t understand me when I asked for olives–clearly his problem… On the way back we found that there’s an ice cream (helados) place a half black from our place. Another sign, don’t you think? Mike had something caramel and I re-lived Barcelona in 2008 with the banana split helado. I don’t even like bananas that much and I hate banana flavored stuff, but there’s something about this helado.

Today we toured the Alcazar–Peter the Cruel’s 14th century Mudejar palace. It’s a magnificent combination of Moorish and Spanish art and architecture–exquisite tile work, gorgeous Renaissance paintings, lush gardens, and huge tapestries (some of maps that showed the 4 continents and their general lack of knowledge). After a Sangria (not as good as my sister’s recipe) and cerveza break, we visited the Sevilla cathedral and Giralda tower–the cathedral is the largest Gothic church in the world and the architects wanted people to think they (the architects/designers) were mad (crazy) to design and build it. The tower was built by the Moors in the 1100s and made even higher by Catholic royalty in 1568 (those folks were small so this tower might have involved a little compensation if you know what I mean…). After that we wandered around the shopping district affirming (store by store) that everything was, in fact, closed, found the little market and came back here to relax, get out of the heat, and get ready for a late night. We are here until Tuesday when we pick up a car and drive around Andalucia on our way to Granada and the Alhambra–supposed to be the most beautiful example of Islamic art in the world–so beautiful that the Catholics couldn’t bear to burn it down when they conquered the Moors and kicked them out of Granada.

I know you’re all wondering (will this ever end?) about Porto but Mike and I need to get going so that may have to wait (forever). Suffice it to say, I bought a pair of black and white flats (on sale–saved 30 Euros) and a pair of black sandals with ankle straps and zippers up the heels) that will help me pass for French or Italian (until I speak).

News flash from Mike: if you get a ticket in Spain you have to pay the cop on the spot (hopefully they take credit cards). Mike is reading about Spain as I write this and has occasional tidbits of information to share. He’s supposed to be figuring out how to get to the Flamenco place.

Adios!

street café in Sevilla

Sevilla Cathedral

Alcazar interior

Alcazar interior

shoe chic

9/10/2010 (Fatima and Oporto, Portugal)

 Made it to Portugal–no delays although 6.5 hours over the Atlantic (after a 6 hour layover in Philly) was intense. On the first flight, our plane was only about 1/3 full-can´t remember the last time that happened.  Another minor miracle is that we noticed the exit leading to Fatima and spent an hour or so there.  We loved it–not having been to Rome or Israel, it was exciting for Mike and I to be near the site of real miracles.  It´s a bizarre mix of spirituality and commercialism.  We went into the church and looked at the burial places of the two children who died so young (with the 3rd one still alive at nearly 90) and then bought rosaries at a tourist shop. So we basically had the complete experience.

 Porto is beautiful– architecture reminiscent of the Monterrey area and the locals are very nice. The deep blue sky. so much like home, is the backdrop for every photo op. Our room is spacious, on the 14th floor with a balcony and a huge view of the city.  The streets all lead downhill to the Doura River and into the bay.  Last night we ate at the hotel (after wandering around the port and not being able to decide on a restaurant).  It was great and reasonable.  This morning we had a breakfast buffet like the one in Madrid.  You can kind of tell where people are from by what they eat.  The Spanish and Portuguese have the meats, fruits, and cheeses.  The Americans are eating eggs and cereal, and the French have a roll, a croissant, another roll, a muffin, and a roll.  There´s a bakery on every street here with a shoe store on either side.  I have to say the food is great–better than Spain, so far.  I´ve been looking at everyone’s feet and Continue reading →

They have the right idea in Lake Charles, LA.  Their small, annual parade is about kids and dogs and maybe about Mardi Gras.  Lots of dogs.  The costumed dog spectators may have outnumbered the official, costumed parade dogs.  When I asked one woman if everyone brings their dogs to see the parade, she said, “Of course!”  Everyone was having a wonderful time hanging out along the banks of Lake Charles and waiting for the show to start.    A jeep heralded the approach of the parade but there had been a lot of doggy action near us before it even started—dogs visiting and owners admiring.  No one seem worried about children petting dogs, which was a good thing because most of the time the parade route was blocked with children showering affection upon the proud canines.  Clearly these dogs knew they were in a parade, and, except for one tiny Yorkie who shook so much his owner picked him up and carried him, they exhibited behavior one would wish to see in every parade participant.  Heads were held high, costumes and jewelry worn with effortless grace.  There was virtually no barking and the occasional forays into the crowd for additional petting bothered no one.  Drooling was overlooked in the heat and humidity.  I can’t remember being at a parade where people were so happy—oohing, ahhing, chuckling, and being very mellow about the antics of children and dogs.  After the 20 minute parade was over, everyone hung out and continued to enjoy the doggy atmosphere. A good time was clearly had by all.

I miss my dog.

Of all the things to miss when away from home for 2 months, I miss my dog, the eponymous Fiona of this website. I anticipated this reaction before I left and everyone to whom I expressed my anxiety missed the point and told me how happy Fiona would be while staying with my dear friends Sally and Bob. Of course she will be happy there; it’s dog heaven at their house where Bob actually braised beef tips for her and Sally caters to her every whim. Sally and Bob often take care of Fiona when we are out of town and even host her for sleepovers when we’re not away. When Sally or Bob visit us, Fiona displays an embarrassing desire to leave with them that includes following them anxiously to the door and barking hysterically when it is clear she is stuck with us. Sally claims that Fiona just likes to go for a ride, but I don’t know if that’s true, so I’m going to make my case and you decide.

Here’s the difference between Sally and me. I have had a dog for much of my life and Sally, well, she’s really never had a dog so she treats Fiona like a little person, an intelligent little person. This seems to be very effective and requires long explanations from Sally while Fiona cocks her head and clearly pays close attention. Sally takes Fiona to visit friends, to church, to places of business, and to the homes of other people. We take Fiona to the back yard. When Sally has people over or takes Fiona on a visit, she explains (to the dog) what will happen and describes her expectations for Fiona’s behavior. We say “no!” a lot. It was Sally who bought a car seat for Fiona (although we use it, too) and accurately pointed out that a 9 lb. dog becomes a 9 lb. projectile when one slams on the brakes.

Our style of training also differs. When Fiona was very young, about 10 weeks old, I took her to dog training at PetSmart. This is perhaps the only smart thing I’ve done with regards to my dog because she was socialized early and as a result loves other dogs. She didn’t learn anything during the first class and spent the entire time jumping on her hind legs, clearly thrilled about the other 9 dogs. After 2 classes, the very nice trainer (Chris) called and suggested that Fiona start the class over with a smaller group (4 dogs); we wouldn’t be charged….

Mike and I found it hysterical that our dog was “held back.” At the end of the class, Chris suggested that Fiona repeat the beginning class before moving on to Intermediate. I guess I don’t need to mention that she didn’t receive a diploma, just a certificate of participation. Let me paint a picture of what it was like to work with Fiona. There is a thing (an idea, a concept, a dream) called “loose leash walking.” The idea is that the dog will walk before you without pulling on the leash. Chris instructed us to stop and make the dog sit every time she strained on the leash. After 15 minutes Fiona and I had progressed about a foot and a half. This is because Fiona has ADHD and is easily distracted, by everything. Do you know how many things there are to sniff at PetSmart? Besides the other dogs and the aisles filled with tantalizing and frequently smelly products, there were the random pieces of paper on the floor, which commanded all of her attention. I’m not kidding. Even Chris with her puppy crack (Pupperoni) couldn’t get the little girl to focus.

Enter Sally.

While Mike and I traveled across country in Fall 2012, Sally took Fiona to another puppy class where, apparently, she was the star pupil or at least earned a diploma this time. Mike thinks I’m crazy but I think the difference comes down to the way Sally interacts with Fiona. It’s not unusual to hear Sally talking to Fiona in a reasonable and measured tone. “Fiona, I”m taking you to County Schools tomorrow to see some people for Valentine’s Day. You’ll be wearing your red sweater and everyone is going to love seeing you. We’re walking there to bring Valentine cookies and I need you to be on your best behavior, no barking or whining.” And it works. Every time.

At a very basic level, Sally “gets” Fiona. She (Sally) thinks about what it must be like to weigh 9 lbs., although she usually weighs closer to 10 after a sojourn at Sally and Bob’s House of Treats. Anyway, Sally understands that the “heel” command is threatening to Fiona because no one has her back. (When Fiona walks in front of you, she tilts her ears back so she knows–at all times–what you’re up to behind her.) Sally also understood that Fiona was bored with the routines at the class she took her to last spring. It was a field events class or something (I can’t remember) and Fiona checked out half way through going through a tube. If this sounds a little like parents who attribute their children’s inattention/misbehavior in class to poor teaching, boredom, and not being challenged, I can’t help that. Our dog is gifted.

Tonight Fiona and Sally start their new class–an intermediate good citizen dog class–I kid you not. Fiona may have to do some remediation in heeling but I have no doubt Sally is up to the task. As always, they will have a great time together and I’m so fortunate to have friends who love Fiona and take such great care of her. I often say if were a better person, I would give Fiona to Sally. I say it but I don’t do it.

And I’m happy (really I am) that Fiona is so happy and well cared for. Still–I miss her. And in some ways, this surprises me because Fiona is not the perfect dog. The perfect dog was Molly, our 14 year old lab who died 4 months before I bid on Fiona at an auction (I couldn’t help it–she kept looking at me). Molly was a dog’s dog–loyal, affectionate, attentive, and low maintenance. Fiona is a person in the body of an adorable little dog; she is headstrong, persnickety, and smarter than anyone at our house. When I call her (“Fiona, come!”), I can see her considering it. Is it worth it? she wonders; will there be a treat or is this a ruse? Fiona is a picky eater who demands variety. Of course whatever I’m eating has her interest. Fiona does not like to walk in the rain or strong winds. She insists on a minimum of 10 minutes of slowly meandering and sniffing at the beginning of any outing. She enjoys doing the “worm” on the pavement, clearly channeling her inner aerobics instructor. Fiona’s outraged barking follows any person who leaves the house without taking her. In fact, outraged barking is her response to anyone walking or driving by the house and neighbor cats or squirrels cavorting in the yard. Hysterical, frothing at the mouth barking is her reaction to the mailman, UPS truck, and FedEx. What can I say? She’s complicated.

So back to the beginning of this overlong paean to the little girl, the baby dog, the pupska, Miss Fi. I miss her little warm body at the foot of my bed and the cursory lick she gives me when I come home. I miss the grateful licking that follows my providing a wonderful meal or helping her stop doing that choking thing. I miss the way she suffers my affection when I can’t sleep and waits for me to nod off before she returns to her blanket at the end of the bed. I miss the way she prefers my husband, jumping off my lap the minute he shows up and throwing me a triumphant and possessive look when she works her way between us and claims Mike. I miss the way she objects to people hugging (maybe it’s too California for her). Most of all I miss her willingness to hang out and just be.

Little dog

The Contemplative Fiona

You talkin’ to me?

Got a bone and a sweater for my birthday

Guarding the bones buried under the tree skirt

Breakfast was acceptable

The Worm

Kicking back in the carseat

Favorite toy–the hedgehog

Halloween: Angry Tinkerbelle

Not leaving without Fi

Not napping, just thinking

Baby Fiona

Molly, the perfect dog