First of all, the most wonderful (albeit mistakenly timed) wishes for a New Year, Millenium, etc.

If this is the first message you've recived from us, it's because Laura and I (Robert Glick and Laura Carmichael, just in case it's not clear, or you've forgotten us) have done another recent administrative workday, and are attempting to get the address of everyone we want to stay in touch with actually ON the list. On that note, and in accordance with my New Year's resolution of trying to improve my gift giving technique, please send me your birthday info too (feel free to leave out the year...). It is noted by us that we must have at some moment officially entered the next generational decade, because so many of our friends have e-mail address at actual companies, with recognizable names...when did this happen?

As many of you know, l- and I went to Spain for new year's and winter break. I was slightly afraid of going, mostly because I had so many loose ends here in A’dam (more on that later.) But it was glorious. We arrived on Dec 26 and it was 65 degrees out, the sun was shining. Mind you, we hadn't seen that particular meteorological(?) Spectacle in quite some time; the sun, that is. And there were mountains which looked lots like California. And there were palm trees and orange trees and big cactus plants. The clouds were high in the sky, there was ocean (though the Spanards woold quicly correct me and say "sea" not ocean).

Needless to say, we were pleased.

We succeeded fairly well in avoiding the CNN paranoia, the commentary, the hype, the wheel, the ball, the prepackaged millennium fervor. We had, in my estimation, a perfect time, exceeding all my expectations and hopes, part of a fabulous little holiday.

Barcelona is a wonderful city. It's big and lively. People have strange schedules there. They seem to wake up at about 9 in the evening and go out until 6, and then they start over and they sleep all weekend to prepare for the next Monday. You can tell the tourists by who's eating before 9. One night, we left a bar (la pipa, the pipe club) at 2 or so and people were just coming in, or they were leaving to go to a disco. I didn't feel old. No, not i.

One word on global marketing as it relates to Barcelona toy stores: te-le-tub-bies.

At some time we were able to hook up with a'dam friends of ours. We rented a car(the Citroen jumpy, a lovely diesel van, which had a there song made up in its honor along the way) and left Barcelona in search of the perfect new year's. We had agreed we didn't want to be in a big city on new years, although in Barcelona it sounded potentially very cool. The celebration was to be headed by a performance group, la fura del baus(the bull's fury, and I’m sure I’m spelling it wrong), who are sort of a combination of circus, srl, and crash worship. (if you know 2 of those, you get a gold star, and if you know all three, you're stranger than i.)

But we decided to make for smaller parts. We spent the first day at an old monastery, Montserrat, where a bunch of religious things happened a long time, including something about the black Madonna, an icon that was hidden in a cave for a long time and turned black. I think I could be tried for heresy with that mundane explanation, but so be it. We took a big funicular up a big mountain, and it was breathtaking; surely if monasteries had originally known they would become tourist attractions(this one is surrounded by two hotels and a slew of tour buses), they would have positioned themselves on even higher and more remote mountains. And it was good.

L's version of Montserrat:

Montserssat is an incredible old monastery in the mountains, founded 1025, and home to the famed statue of the Black Virgin (patron saint of Barcelona). The mountains themselves are a sight to see, the rock is a mix of limestone, pebbles and sand that was once under the sea and is now serrated and jagged, with weird pillars, shaped by wind, rain and frost. The monastery was built here because a vision of the Virgin was seen in the rocks. In spite of the influx of tourists, about 80 monks still reside in the monastery. The Black Virgin, la Moreneta, is now the main sight; she was allegedly made by St Luke and brought to the monastery by St. Peter, and hidden in the Santa Cueva (holy cave) at the time of the Moorish invasions, then found by shepherds in the 9th century. She may be black because of smoke, but also the kind of wood she is carved out of is apparently very dark anyway.

Who read the guidebooks along the way? Who reads the pamphlets from the information desks? Who is the secret geek?

Later we made it to Gerona, a medium sized town 100km north of Barcelona. A small, old medieval town, full of tiny winding streets and passages and an old town wall you can walk on. You can almost smell the chamberpots, the streets are that thin. In any case, it was a perfect place for New Year's-- a small city that is over 2000 years old, where you can walk down a street that is on top of where a Roman highway once was, and you can see buildings where a thriving medieval Jewish community once was (Gerona was a center for Cabalistic writing and study, the mystic Nachmanadies was here). So we had a nice dinner, and then according to tradition, everyone gathers at the plaza of the (900yr old) cathedral at midnight, a bunch of grapes in hand. At each tolling of the church bell (in Spain, at least, they count up, not down), you eat one grape, which represents one wish. You had better prepare your wishes in advance because the bells don't toll any slower just because you have shoved 9 or 10 grapes in your mouth. At midnight, firebreathers and firethrowers and stiltwalkers and fireworks all erupted, loud music, a rolling machine spitting sparks which was y2k, another machine representing time, all spitting sparks and flames and bottlerockets. Champagne was flying everywhere and it smelled like lighter fluid. Youngsters and old people alike were dancing to this loud industrial music.

Then we found a club and shook our bon-bons. Of course, I don't have a bon-bon, but I faked it, and it was good. There was no Prince, no Will Smith, but lots of Spanish pop (everyone in the club singing the words: "bailar bialar" is in every song, and re-mixes of American 70s music, like Gloria gainer and the soundtrack to Grease). It was a homey little club, people were friendly.

We went back to the hotel with our friends at 3:30 am, checked in with CNN, seeing if the people in the States who were stockpiling weapons, cheeze whiz, and beanie babies were disappointed. CNN seemed pretty desperate, and were interviewing Billy Graham. We signed out at that point.

In recovery, we headed to the Sea the next day. The Spanish Mediterranean coast is covered in tourist traps, but there are lots of nice places too, especially in the off season. The further north you go, the more isolated things are. I had, for a long time, wanted to go to Cadaquez, which is where Dali spent his summers. It is a small fishing village, somewhat developed by tourism these days, but still Mediterranean white and manageable. The bay is clear and the rocks are strange, almost petrified wood, which stick straight out of the ocean. We found a hotel in neighboring Port Lligat, which is an even smaller fishing village 1km away, right next to the Casa Dali where Dali painted quite a bit (and made wierd installations), and had a love nest for Gala. What was his funky house is now a museum. Port Lligat is brilliant. It is quiet and the hotel's balconies look out onto the bay. The color of the water and sky and mountains drifts through pinks and purples and a dark blue I can only describe and dark periwinkle. Olive trees abound, set in terraces of stacked stones in the sides of the hills. So we stayed there, drank water from the mini-bar, sat in the sun, dipped our croissants into our cafe con leche, and rested.

One thing: in Catalonia, this region of Spain, Spanish is the second language; all locals speak Catalan, which is sort of like old French (cheese is "formatge"). So my Spanish, although useful, wasn't as useful as I’d like, because most of the signs and menus were in Catalan. But Spanish works, and our friends we were traveling with are from Argentina, so we were fairly taken care of in the communication department, and thus very lazy.

In any case, 3 lovely days walking in Port Lligat; if ever I can buy a second house, it will be there. Or even a first house.

Then back to Barcelona, where we continued to look at all the wonderful Gaudi architecture, the Miro museum (excellent Klee/Tanguy exhibit), and the contemporary museum, which, to my delight, had a Christian Boltanski piece and a Martha Rosler retrospective. And lots of great food, plenty of vegie tapas for me, although in Catalonia, anchovies seem to be considered a vegetable. Hmmm.

The flight from Barcelona to Brussels was brilliant; drifty, gauzy clouds, the Pyranees full of snow, a light mist over all the quaint villages in southern France. And then the flight from Brussels back to a'dam was depressing; pure cloud, no view, and too many gameboys.

It's been 4 and a half months now, and we're starting to get a sense of what we can and cannot do in Amsterdam. I, like any other immigrant, have been in bureaucratic purgatory. After much wrangling and gnashing of teeth, and in true Kanko fashion, I have been granted a permit to work on a contract basis, but I still can't get a tax id number, so I cant' get paid. Go figure. The writing is slow, and I have to say I’ve learned so much about structuring my life. As most of you know, I decided three years ago to work in computers so that I could write, hopefully taking 6 months on and 6 months off, and this was my first six months off. What I didn't realize was that this particular six months was fraught with moving and readjustment stresses. I had this naive belief that I would have 6 full months to write. Not so. However, I live and learn, and I’m extremely happy with the progress I am making on the novel, although, as usual, it's not as much as I’d like. I keep trying to find a way to take six more months off, but it seems unlikely. As such, the job market calls.

Amsterdam is still here. It's lovely and not too cold. We had a perfect Jewish Christmas, dim sum and a James Bond movie. It was such a bad movie, and so good. I loved it. Riding the old clunker bike is such a pleasure, except for the other day when my shopping bag hit a spoke and a liter and a half of soy sauce exploded all over me. That was a drag.

In other news, I am proud to say that darts, which has been on bbc1 nonstop for the last week, is nowhere near as seductive as snooker. And I think snooker season is over, so I’m safe from the television for the time being.

One more word on television: remember the real world, which was MTV putting six people in a fabulous flat somewhere for six months and watching their dramatic lives unfold? In the Netherlands, there's something called big brother, where the TV station puts 12 people in a horrible, prefab apartment in the middle of nowhere and doesn't let them leave for six months. And every 2 weeks or so, the general public votes on who on the show is least popular. The cast gets smaller by one each week, and the last person(the most popular around) gets a lot of money.

Designing my web site has told me a lot about myself. For example, I wanted to make everything so complicated and interesting that I could never finish it. So now I’m trying a slightly different approach; I’m starting with it being simple and functional, and I’ll make things complicated one by one. More info on the website later, but the person who sends me the best domain name gets a free olieball and some great Dutch chocolate.

Okay. Love to all, and to all a good night.

R-