Greetings from "el país de los Pirineos," a lovely country or principality or whichever you'd like to call it, including punishing cycling terrain, lovely mountains, cool, temperate weather, and a population which seems to be about 97% male. That's fine, but it seems that there are basically zero women here. Very different than other parts of Spain (I know it isn't Spain, it's a principality, whatever that even means).
This time the logged material is preposterous and it will surely demand quite the interest or the attention of someone who is heavily invested in retroactive material. For that reason, and due to the hour, I will make the introduction sparse. Here in Andorra it is wonderful to be away from cities, and like I said it is beautiful. Pictures will eventually appear as well. Today I did a minor hike and some exploring (happened upon a 13th century Roman church with original artwork) in the sweet black Mini Cooper that is a manual diesel, which me and my friend I met in Barcelona rented.We had an excellent meal where the waiter let us take the bottle of wine home, an affable Asturian who has been in Andorra for 48 years and proudly announced that he doesn't know Catalan.
Be prepared for some verbosity. I am wondering how it will feel to be back home, as that time is fast approaching. We shall see. I am in need of ZZZ so the editing is cursory. This is a free service, with no copy editing staff.
15 July 2012, 2350 hrs.,
Madrid
Good evening to those faithful ones still keeping abreast of
this, as I realized the other day that it is possible to see your page views, unfortunately,
which is a way to check your readership. I didn’t really feel the need to check
it but it tells you what has been going on whenever you go in to edit or post
something. Like any other publication I see that my readership (or the number
of people that go to a page of text and don’t read it) has fallen off, thanks
to the competition of the Internet, video games, gymnasiums, and water
parks….So I’ll have to make this more of an Internet like publication with
imbedded links that distract you more.
Sunday night, and like the universal Sunday night feeling
that you may know, I’m thinking about what has happened on the weekend and just
seeing how the time in Madrid is basically already over. It’s not really a
feeling of sadness but just the usual feeling that you can have when you take
stock of the ephemeral nature of life, and that everything you do passes to
something else. In a way I felt good getting back to this dorm room, medieval
as it is, after only being away for two days. That might sound funny as I
complain about how hot it is and the fact that I am usually at the end of a
dark hallway by myself. On Saturday I went to Alcalá de Henares (the birthplace
of Cervantes) and that night I went to Valencia. There was a carnival there for
the Feria de Julio, or however it’s said in Valencian (which is really Catalán
unless you are in Valencia), and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the Dead
Can Dance song “The Carnival Is Over,” an apt rumination on the idea of anonymity amongst mirth, that after
celebrations everyone has to go back to facing reality and their own experience
and their own fear or reckoning with actual conscious existence. (I think it’s
also just about carnival folk, who aren’t like us regular folk, as Homer
Simpson said). Perhaps that is why we seek such diversion- not really in an
actual carnival, (unless you’re a weirdo or a child) but filling time with
goals or causes or pleasure or intellectualizing the way we might just be
parlaying those moments when we are forced to feel and be confronted with
mortality. But the experience of one weekend can be like that- so much happens,
or seems to happen in your mind’s eye and you remember what is going on and
then before you can really assimilate what changes you’re going through, you’ve
changed. Maybe it is better that way so we aren’t paralyzed by the specter (not
in the “Dr. No” sense of the word) of whatever infinitesimal levels of growth we
experience, whatever they are, and whatever we lose in the process. There’s no
way, if you’re supposedly intended to quantify the changes we go through (I
don’t think that you are- lest you end up in the loony bin or carry such
sensitivity that you’re unable to get in the game and carry on with the whole
tale supposedly told by an idiot full of sound and fury, etc.). If you do start
to analyze how you have grown and where you came from and how you are
constantly being shaped on a daily basis into a more aware and conscious human
being too much, than nothing actually happens to you and you watch the world
around you without participating. That is no fun. So get on the carnival ride
and don’t stand on the sidelines!
Speaking of carnival rides, metaphorical or otherwise, this
carnival also had the world’s scariest Mickey Mouse, because it looked like a
homemade costume, and there were no sleeves. The guy’s eyes were clearly
visible and he looked like he had Raymond Burr’s eyes in “Rear Window.” Mickey
had human arms with ample dark hair, plus some Mafia-like jewelry. As if that
were not enough, his job was to the torment passengers on a lame roller coaster
with no hills that went in circles with Disney characters (some from the Little
Mermaid, a smattering of the canon with Donald and Pluto, maybe a dollop of
Aladdin) all over it. He chose to hit people on the ride (he especially seemed
to target a Muslim woman in a burka) with a Styrofoam noodle. The next round he
got this mist smelling salt dispenser thing and sprayed people (including
children) in the face. I have to say I found it hysterical, but then when he
noticed my mirth he turned, albeit briefly, to look at me through the mask with
the Raymond Burr eyes and it wasn’t as funny. I think there is always something
evil, and a thin veil of sadism in a theme park- especially at an outdoor
makeshift carnival. I’m not saying there is a parallel to “Eyes Wide Shut,” but
on one level, it isn’t that different than clandestine celebrations of the
body. (The etymology of the word of course relates to carnality). Masks create
opportunities for darker desires to be explored without the sense of shame, or
something. Look at Halloween. I am not going to elaborate but my adult
Halloween observances have almost always included opportunities for some kind
of lurid adventure, and sometimes for outright danger or the possibility of an
encounter with the Fuzz. It isn’t necessarily me personally, but the atmosphere
and the permissive restlessness that maybe is easier to achieve when you’re
wearing something that is possibly demented or ridiculous. And I don’t mean
egging houses or pulling Michael Fay stunts. Let your imagination run wild,
then think of a 5 year old’s birthday party at McDonald’s. It’s somewhere
between those two extremes. I honestly stopped “observing” All Hallow’s Eve
around 2008.
(American citizen Michael Fay put bologna on cars in
Singapore and was corporeally punished, sometime in the early 90’s, and the great
cartoon show “Animaniacs” made a song about it. This is how I learned that
putting bologna on cars can take the paint off. Really makes you want to eat
it, knowing that it can also be used for paint thinner. Aside sponsored by
Oscar Mayer.)
It is a windy night here in the medieval style dorm room.
When it is windy, which is always very welcome since it is the only way that
air really circulates in here, you hear doors slam due to whatever physics
principle that causes doors to slam when windows are also open. There are never
any lights on in the hallway, so coming back here is like entering a dungeon in
a way, and the acoustics are like an abattoir. Once I actually ran smack into
the wall going to brush my teeth. There are no people on this hall, minus me
and a guy that smokes a stupid hookah, and a Brazilian guy who is friendly.
Because he is friendly, he has to stop and speak to me every time he passes.
That’s okay. Some people are like that. He’s a nice guy and we basically only
talk about Spanish (he is here to practice/learn) or Brazilian music. So it
isn’t like I have to make small talk about the birds we both hear out the
window, which has happened with others. They are birds. I’m satisfied not
knowing what kind they are.
As I was earlier speaking of teeth, I just brushed them with
my index finger like Richard Dreyfuss in “What About Bob?” because it appears
that I am about to be on my third purchased toothbrush in Spain. I didn’t bring
my original one somehow, I left the first generation in Sevilla, then the second
replacement was thrown away because the cleaning people throw everything away
on the bathroom counter once a week, as I learned, which included my mouthwash,
toothbrush, and toothpaste. This last casualty is one I just realized, since I
went to Valencia yesterday and evidently left my toothbrush at the Purple Nest.
I will devote some space to the Purple Nest and Valencia soon. I have a
tradition of leaving a toothbrush behind it appears.
Errors and omissions:
a.)
I was informed that Picasso’s “Guernica” is at
the Reina Sofía, where I am going tomorrow morning, and not at the Prado. I am
still confident that it was essentially a commandment that it be brought back
after Franco kicked the bucket and it was safe to have art in Spain. Actually,
it was at the Prado, at Picasso’s
request- he wanted it to be there as soon as democracy returned to Spain. That
said, the Reina Sofía was essentially built around Guernica, and it is
basically a temple to cubism, modernism and postmodernism and post-whatever
else has followed. (Dadaism, Mamaism, etc.)
b.)
Isabel
la la Católica was from Castilla, not Aragón. The marriage to Fernando
(of Aragón) was the cause of the unification of two powerful kingdoms and led
to all other 1492 related events such as Colombus’ first voyage and kicking out
Muslims and Jews. No one told me this but I realized I had mislabeled a caption.
I apologize to anyone who tried to casually slip in “Isabel of Aragón” at a
cocktail party and got laughed out of the room. Joke’s on you!
c.)
Yes, my characterizations of the people in the
class are real. I’m not trying to make fun of anybody, but it is impossible to
not make light of them, since we have some characters. There is a difference. I
don’t have anything against anyone but naturally I like some people better than
others because I am a human being with a heartbeat.
d.)
Re: c. Everything in this happened- at least to me. I hate to quote Henry
Miller, stealing from “Tropic of Capricorn,” (despite my lack of brothel
experience) with that disclaimer but it is the truth. I knew I would eventually
wince at things I had mentioned, or especially any observations I have made, since
they are public and I am not always the best at being public, for fear of
feeling/being misrepresented. Whatever.
e.)
Yes, it is possible to misrepresent yourself.
Ponder that.
f.)
On with the show!
The other night (I think it was Tuesday) I went with my
friends Lucas and Jessica (I’m really here at summer camp making friends! Yay!)
to see the Spain-France basketball game, which meant that Tony Parker and Pau
Gasol, as well as his brother, what’s his name, were playing amongst some other
NBA players. It was one more example of an experience that you can have in the
USA but with that slight difference that allows you to know that you’re in a
foreign country. First off, it felt like a 90’s NBA game vibe, especially
because all the songs played during timeouts were ones you’d hear back in the
NBA on NBC heyday- “Pump Up The Jams” and the like, “Everybody Dance Now,” that
song that swings and has no lyrics other than “Hey!”- I think it’s called the
“Rock and Roll Song.” It is unfortunate that space in my brain is occupied by
that knowledge. I had the thought that Ahmad Rashad should be courtside. The
announcer was clearly trying to sound like Marv Albert in Spanish, and he would
say “Yyyyyyy-Espanyaaa!” whenever something good happened, like the patented
Albert “yes!” with “Espana” tacked on. Spain dominated the game. At times they
were up by maybe 20 points. It was a friendly and each quarter was 10 minutes,
which was fine because naturally it started fairly late. This is Spain. Nothing
starts early.
There was a giveaway every timeout, it felt like, where a
person would be in the center circle and have to match a graphic basketball
with a graphic rim…hard to describe, and not at all compelling to watch,
especially since the PA announcer coached the person on where to stand and what
to do to help them win. Everyone won except one hapless guy. Most of the prizes
were cheesy shirts or jerseys, although the last was a year’s worth of free San
Miguel beer (which tastes like carbonated water with empty calories). The place
erupted when it was announced, and the girl who won looked like she was about
18 (which here means that you can get free beer for a year). It was fun, but a
subdued game.
The next night I went to a flamenco show in the shadow of
the Royal Palace, (you could see someone watching TV with the window open in an
office behind the stage) which was great but a modern take on flamenco and perhaps
not really as emotional as “real” flamenco. I was freezing cold the entire
show, and a little hungry since the group went for tapas beforehand, and all I
ate was a plate of Iberian ham, chorizo, etc., and a plate of manchego cheese. Here comes some serious
SEXIST and CHAUVINIST (I know it is impossible to make any observations about
genders as a man but I was born a man and I’d like to make some observations
based on a limited frame of experience in a limited time) comments but I notice
that since everyone else in the group is a woman except one guy, they don’t
necessarily require as much food so when the group goes out for tapas, no one
seems to need more food (some don’t even eat, it must be said.) This isn’t true
with everyone. Here is my theory- women are more cooperative than men, (CHAUVINISM
concession! Gets ‘em every time!) austerity is the prevailing attitude, and
those that feel differently (who exist) are willing to go with the flow. That
said, it could give me a chance to say, “You eat like a bird,” which clearly
worked well for Norman Bates! ADAGIO RIM SHOT, TROMBONE GLISSANDO THROUGH
WHA-WHA PEDAL LIKE ON “BITCHES BREW” and CHAUVINISM curtain.
Hunger and cold aside, the musicianship was fantastic. There
were two classical guitarists, usually doubling each other on the same parts,
but in different keys, a violinist, and a percussionist. The percussionist just
had a cajón (box thing you can sit on and play), a djembe (a djembe), a snare,
and one crash and one cymbal that looked like a ride that I don’t think he ever
hit. It was mostly djembe and cajón dominated, with occasional snare unison
hits that would match what the dancers were doing or the castanets. Many of the
dancers (usually the females) would occasionally brandish castanets or fans as
part of the dance, for musical and visual effect. There were also several
people clapping, along with the principle vocalists, who were two women
(usually seated) who were notably older than the other members of the cast.
Most of the music is in 6/8 time with an almost Celtic feel, lots of triplet
figures speeding up on each other and then hesitating before toppling the
figure that was just stretched out. (All varieties of triplets were represented
with a central reel-like figure moving through most of the time). In other
words, the percussive effects included everything I just described plus the
dance steps, which were often composed to stop on similar triplet figures. It
was all triplets all over the place, which asymmetrical accents in the middle
of the phrases, and with many very difficult technical passages, especially for
the violinist. Now, not knowing much about flamenco, this may be normal, but it
felt especially ornate and composed.
Dance is something I know even less about, so let’s get to
that! The dancing was a bunch of people dancing what looked like flamenco
dancing, (deep) along with a few very sweet scenes that were personifications
of courtship or broken hearts. The language of the fan as a visual
representation of the female’s reception to courtship was included, as the
flamenco is from another era in which “it wasn’t always as easy to make contact
with the opposite camp.” Some improvisational moments also took place, as the
women would tell the male dancers how handsome they were (for some reason the
men never said much, since the two main women did most of the protagonist
work), different cast members uttered an “Olé,” or “a bailar,” etc. At times it
felt unscripted but there would always be a moment where the dancer’s move,
after the stalling with seductive glances, etc. cued the musicians to go back
to the score.
I would make the comparison with Astor Piazzola, who I just
so happen to be listening to right now. The original genre (tango) that he is
drawing from is not as complicated as the modernist version. That seems to be
the case with this flamenco show. It was the high culture version. Still, I
thought it was great, and was glad to have seen it.
18 July 2012, 0002
hrs., Madrid
I just got back from lovely Segovia in Castilla-León, and
against all logical concerns I am going to log an entry. (Great pun!
Log/logical! ) My neck has been bleeding on and off today, like a circus
attraction, or something, because I cut myself shaving the other day when I was
late for the ballet (never thought that I’d say that!) and shaving in the
shower without a mirror. It’s so dry here that I find myself bleeding from time
to time. Perhaps I could make a Samuel Beckett-like comment on this but really
it is just because it is very dry, and bleeding is easy:
“Summertime….
and the bleedinzzz ea-sy…
Blood is jumpin’
and the Band-Aid is nigh…”
(Ira Gershwin)
Luckily they don’t throw my stuff away that’s in the shower
so I still have shampoo and a razor. Segovia was much better than I expected it
to be, but firstly I’m going to touch on some old business. Last night I went
out to dinner with my friend Enrique from Alicante, who was passing through
Madrid to stay with another friend, Mariano, because he (ENR.) is moving to the
French Basque Country since employment options in Spain are paltry/nonexistent.
There have been a lot of demonstrations in the last weeks, including miners,
government employees, and an organization called 15M which is sort of an Occupy
Wall Street offshoot. In other words, they have no real purpose or goals, in my
humble opinion. (I’d like to be rich too, but I’m not). Yesterday I finally
went to the Reina Sofía (where Guernica indeed is) and it took forever to get
back to the north end of town since the government employees’ demonstration had
blocked the subway line. We took the bus, and unfortunately someone in the group
got their wallet jacked, which is the second time this has happened to a
teacher here. (The other assailant struck at a smoothie joint called “Juicy
Avenue.”) Since I went to bed at 3AM today was a little rough- miraculously I
woke up without an alarm clock at 7:30, which means I got all of 4.5 hours
sleep, just 3.5 less than I usually feel like I need as a minimum. I didn’t
come to Spain to sleep, and the culture here does everything to prevent sleep
at all costs, but still…this is too much. I usually like to take advantage of
situations and travel, and go with the “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” mantra. That
said, I don’t want to die yet because I’m not sleeping enough, which happened
to a Chinaman during the European Cup.
There is a lot to catch up on, if I am following the
traditional narrative structure and actually recounting events and not breaking
with the experience of time in the real world as we’ll experience here in the
written one.
Allow for some associations then:
Last night…”authentic” Spanish immersion, which means that
there was constant profanity and slang, ruddy faced barman mumbling about the
government while making a gin and tonic with 70% gin and juniper berries in the
drink. This is quickly going back to prose! I practiced more Spanish last night
than I have in about a week since during the classes we mostly have to listen
to teachers talk. Some of the time it’s boring as crap and sometimes I find it
interesting and useful. So it is still school, which is perennially fatuous to
those that actually want to learn. You can’t win all the time and sometimes you
have to just be patient with what is going on, or to decide to change your
attitude. Some of the people in the class are occasionally very upset about it
and persistently bash the program. For me, I can use a good amount of it but
not all of it. The structure is a little disorganized and some of the material
is repetitive.
Yawn! Back to the evening. For dinner we had about 47 pounds
more of food than we needed. Here the nomenclature is puzzling to me, still,
because una ración is usually a larger serving of tapas, and the price can be
calculated per person and they make the entire serving bigger, as sharing is
normal/common/no one is afraid of germs, or, they have a set ración (serving) and
it can be monstrous or tiny. So for me, it is easy to not order enough or order
enough to feed five people, which is what happened last night. We got
calamares, gambas al ajillo, and huevos rotos con jamón, which was a mountain
of over easy fried eggs and Iberian ham, covering patatas bravas. The gambas
(shrimp scampi persuasion done in garlic/white wine) was excellent. It was a
nice meal since I was starving (as always) and even though it served 5 the 3 of
us handled it deftly. In addition to that we had a lot of bread and beers.
Surprisingly, water was omitted! Oh wait, water is never included here.
After
that since it was only 12:30 on a Monday we went to an Irish bar where Mariano
knew the ruddy barman, who reminded me of a Mafioso in a way- lots of gold on
and exposed chest hair, continual cigarettes with plenty of gesticulation
accompanying his complaints about taxes and business. Nice guy though- when he
made us gin and tonics (my first liquor drink in Spain actually, minus an Irish
coffee here in the cafeteria once) he put juniper berries in the drink after
making sure it was GIN HEAVY. So, a different night than hanging with the other
program folk, since English was absent completely. A part of me wishes I had
opted for the family option, but I picked the dorm because I didn’t want to be
isolated from the other participants. The walls of the place had Irish writer’s
names all over it. I didn’t look for anyone else but Seamus Haney, Oscar Wilde,
and W.B. Yeats were all near us. IS IT CHANCE THAT YEATS’ NAME WAS directly
ABOVE MY STOOL? NOOOO. I took a picture of it: “Yeats.” You’ve seen it since I
posted it before I ended up posting this.
I mentioned it and no one really cared- but why would they
since these aren’t poets who wrote in Spanish. Poetry in translation isn’t
worthless- I enjoy Rimbaud or Baudelaire and I don’t know a lick of French- but
it is drastically different than in its native tongue.
So, I’m going to just table the discussion on the Purple
Nest, or make it brief. The Purple Nest is a hostal and it was a lot more
active than hostals I saw in Andalucía, because it wasn’t as empty or as hot
outside. People were dancing and whatever. The end. It made me think of the
fact that I have a mortgage for some reason.
Paris, France 2313
hrs., 21 July 2012
Resisting the temptation to greet those seeing this in
French, even though I am already painfully aware of my French limitations. I
got here, France, but not Paris, at about 6:00. I need to start with a screed
lambasting Ryan Air. If you’re ever travelling within Europe you will see these
fares from them that are quite cheap, but they tack on fees for everything
else, and you have to check in online. I checked in online but failed to
realize that you also have to specify that you’re checking a bag (their carryon
requirements are more stringent than the standard ones as well), and if you
don’t, get ready for this- they charge you 100 EUROS to check a bag. I had one
small suitcase and my Sierra Club backpack with my laptop in it- they allow ONE
bag with everything in it, and nothing else. Someone else had the same
experience and BLEW UP at the customer service counter. I was mad but there was
nothing I could do- my other choice was to not leave Madrid, where I still had
nowhere to sleep anyway, or leave my stuff in an airport locker like in “Get
Shorty” and save maybe five Euros total by the time I get back to Madrid. Just
getting there was hard since I went to bed last night at 3 and then slept till
9. In the morning I went to the post office because there was no way I was
going to be able to keep accruing “realia” (real materials that are helpful to
use in a Spanish classroom, like tickets, receipts, menus, newspapers, arrest
warrants, etc.) and be able to fit everything in my suitcase, much less check it
with the Nazis at Ryan Air. So, I spent 50 Euros sending it back to the RVA and
then I STILL got stuck with the 100 Euros violation. Getting out of Madrid I
was a little worried because I thought I was later than I was, which was good
because if I had shown up at the normal time I would have missed my flight. You
can take the Metro but when you get to the airport stop you have to pay 3 Euros
to successfully exit the terminal. It was funny because the normal Metro ticket
is not valid for this so people are just banging into the turnstiles, confused.
So, I got to the airport, and had to get my Visa checked as non-EU citizen,
which took awhile, and then I was told I needed to basically match the price of
my flight to check a bag. I had to wait at least a half hour in a different
line with two people working to PAY THE 100 EUROS when I still DIDN’T EVEN
EXPECT TO MAKE THE FLIGHT THAT MY EFFING BAG WAS ALREADY ON. After that I butted
in front of the original Visa check in line to get my boarding pass, went through
security (which I have to say was pretty loose, but I got to keep my shoes on)
and then made it to the gate. Perhaps because it was the flight to Paris, the
time trial stage was on and American Dave Zabriskie (sp?)was in 4th or 5th
as he usually starts the time trial well, and then falls down the table as the
day continues. I felt slightly better as I remembered that tomorrow I would see
the real Tour riding into the Champs-Elysees, as a sit astride Joan of Arc and
her golden horn. No, I’ll probably be near Joan but I doubt they let you climb
up her to see the finish.
Here is a great observation: Paris is quite different than
Madrid. I do see that it is a beautiful city but the vibe is completely
different. I forgot to include this fact in my Ryan Air screed- they don’t
really fly into Paris. They flight into Beauvais, which is a town about 50 km
north of Paris. Once you land you have to take a 15 Euro bus into the actual
city of Paris. I have learned my lesson coming to Paris- fly into De Gaulle (pronounced
“Koala”) and pay for an airline that allows more than the shirt on your back.
Once I actually got here I navigated the Metro and made it
my hostal, at the Belleville stop if that means anything to anyone. I know some
people like to feel good about hearing details like that and having it
resonate, so that’s for you! The hostal is called the Loft Hostal and it is in
a neighborhood with a zillion Asian places. The man in charge, or who seems to
be in charge, is a surly British guy who looks like and plays Jarvis Cocker
from time to time. He seems to really like the New Wave of his homeland- I have
heard the Manic Street Preachers, Robyn Hitchcock, Ian Dury, and even Julian
Cope.
Tonight when I got here I was very hungry. All I had today
was a very good baguette with Iberian ham at the airport and coffee, plus some
water. In other words, barely anything. So when I got here and got settled I
went to this Vietnamese/Thai place right around the corner. It was interesting,
since there was a table of people with their hair coifed upward, some of whom
had unnaturally orange skin, and their shirts strategically unbuttoned speaking
with British accents, or speaking French. The only other people in there were a
couple. The man looked like Leonardo De Vinci, except his glasses were diamond
shaped, almost like Phil Spector but clear instead of purple. He was bald with
long hair like the Leonardo we all know and cherish. They seemed to notice me
for some reason and were muttering stuff in French about me and looking in my
direction, like I was a Dodo bird- probably because I was wondering how I was
going to be able to order and know what the heck was going on, and I’m sure my
body language was a little awkward. Since it was very hot inside (although it
is noticeably cool here and feels a million times more tolerable than Madrid),
I took it to go. I can read a menu since my experience cooking allows for French
vocabulary based on food, but I cannot construct a sentence. I cannot say “I
want____.” Anyway so this couple- the woman asked me if I was Dutch, and then
she said something in what maybe was Dutch, and then she quickly switched to
French. Then it became ridiculous because I had to explain to them that I was
American and could not say a word of French, of course, and that I didn’t know
Dutch or whatever language she might have been speaking. You would think that
would have ended the conversation but they persisted, asking what I was going
to do in Paris. Since I don’t really know I just said to go to the Louvre and
the woman exclaimed, “Postmodernism!” I nodded with a thumbs up to
postmodernism, even though the Louvre is more classical I thought, and then I
just smiled and hoped for it to end. It didn’t. Then they asked what state I
was from- it’s amazing that I could understand their questions, and of course
when I said Virginia they were perplexed completely. I mentioned that it is
close to DC and the woman lit up again with “Obama!” I said, yes, he is the
president, but we aren’t really neighbors.
Then it came time to pay which was also funny. The Thai
woman working had zero English as well so there was very little communication
at all there. I wanted to pay with a debit card and she told me that there was
a 15 Euro minimum, so I offered to buy a beer as well by making the universal (but
possibly just American) symbol for a brewski, which is similar to a “hang
loose” greeting shared amongst surfers worldwide. Universal, it is not, because
I think she thought I was saying that I was drunk and therefore couldn’t
understand the 15 Euro minimum. Somehow this got me off the hook and my card
was charged, but I also didn’t get a beer.
So with this I introduce my French persona: Silent,
obsequious, gesticulating, and linguistically hobbled. I feel a like a child
who cannot express itself in any way. When I get lost (which is easy here) I
have no way of asking where the crap I am. My favorite was when I wanted to ask
a man who was standing at a doorway. He refused to LOOK at me and just went to
the other side of the doorway three times. I took three steps to advance toward
him each time, like a dog with hurt feelings, and each time he went to the
other side of the threshold. I then forced eye contact with him and said a
sarcastic “merci” before I walked off. It took a lot to not say more. That is
the only classical French behavior I have experienced firsthand- although I
have seen plenty of people be very rude to one another. During the Tour a woman
tried to rip a guy’s shirt off since he was leaning in for a picture. I also
saw some guy spit in a woman’s face in the subway for some reason. Gay Pareee,
indeed.
Ok I am in a common area in the hostal and people keep
asking me what I’m doing writing and a few times I’ve inadvertently made it
sound like I’m a professional (professional badass, maybe) due to the language
barrier and the acoustics. The acoustics are bad. They need a carpet. Still it
seems impossible that I will get anything done in this room. There is an
American sucka trying to mack on these two girls more interested in their cell
phones in this room by comparing Amsterdam to London. Not sure how it’s going.
His opening line was to ask for advice on writing a post card, because he’s
sending some to his sister in California. Not bad, shows you care about your
sister. But I don’t know how it’s going since they have reverted to their
native tongue (Spanish) and he’s pretending to write the post card now while
he’s actually wondering what they’re saying and trying to look cool. The music
here is some French rap type thing. Not my favorite. Put on some Serge
Gainsbourg! Or play music that isn’t French.
Back to the Asian restaurant. This couple were muttering
about me, next to the table of characters who looked like they were going to
one of those preposterous fashion shows where people wear clothes that no real
human being ever wears. Back inside there and the place has red pastiche coming
out but you’re not sure where, it’s possible the carpet and the walls but the
wood of the tables bleeds a little red, those big Asian style backed chairs
that are extreme right angles with ornate possibly Buddhist designs on them. It
was my first Parisian restaurant, and the word “brasserie” was absent and there
were no bow tied waiters or even Gallic people, for that matter. But it was
still nice to be here.
25 July 2012, Beauvais,
France, 1605 hours
On the incipient departure from Paris in the airport not
near Paris, after immediately brandishing the laptop a man with bad breath came
up to me in broken English and told me that he was going to Barcelona and
needed to print his Ryan Air boarding pass. I took pity on him since I just got
screwed by them, but I couldn’t help because he somehow didn’t know the last 4
digits of the bank card he used to book or the e-mail address he used.
I haven’t done any writing here since I have been without my
old oven desk that I enjoyed in Madrid. If you have ever stayed in a hostal you
know that the idea of privacy is fairly impossible and every time you seek
privacy you might have to go into a dark room and find stuff while people are
asleep or dressing. I am in a room of very responsible people who all go to bed
at a decent hour and don’t come in drunk, which is great. There was a guy from
Hong Kong who is probably in his 50s that wears a Tour de France green jersey
and rides a low rider bicycle. He also has a GPS strapped to his arm and seems
to permanently have Nascar shades on. My room was right next to the “courtyard”
which meant that most days during breakfast I would smell cigarette smoke. I
cannot wait to return to a place where smoking near someone else is considered
rude. Here it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a traichiotomy or are an infant-
smoking near someone is just normal and happens. I also think the tobacco
smells differently, and worse.
Being France, this airport is quite nice and there are
flowers outside and a nice café inside, which includes a patisserie and the
usual French scene. The waiters are wearing jackets and we are in an airport.
They have some interesting looking Belgian beers on tap but I am sitting here
with a 3.80 Perrier. Paris was great, and overall beautiful. I see how it has
captivated so many people and why people fall in love with Paris. But allow me
to list the places I went which were closed:
1.) Pére Lachaise Cemetery, home of the mortal remains of Jim
Morrison and Oscar Wilde, amongst others (closes at 6)
2.) Au Passage: Restaurant in the 3rd arr. that I had
read about with advice from Bon Appetit to “show up after 2:30 when it isn’t
completely mobbed.” They stop serving at 2 (This is not Spain, where lunch is
quite late)
3.) Breiz Café: Culinary supply shop, open Wednesday-Sunday
4.) Picasso Museum: Closed till 2013
I didn’t see the Cinemateque, Napoleon’s tomb, the Musee
d’Orsay, Victor Hugo’s house, or many other places that you’re supposed to see.
But I feel strangely satisfied even though I am ready to be back in Spain where
everything is open all the time and the people aren’t fighting as much. I loved
the Monmartre neighborhood even though it was mobbed with tourists.
I did a quick tour of the Louvre today which was absolutely
mobbed, but worth it. I got there about 9AM and they open at 9AM so it wasn’t
terrible till about 10. There were tons of Asians (some wearing cowboy hats) taking
pictures of every detail possible. It is interesting in a place like that
because the normal etiquette of avoiding your own immortalization by waiting
for pictures to occur doesn’t really apply. If you did that you’d be paralyzed
half the time. I was probably in about ten Asian pictures today (other people
were taking pictures, but the stereotype has some truth). It is basically 7 or
8 museums in one so it can take awhile to see it all. In the beginning I got a
little bogged down with the sculpture wing of the Middle Ages and Napoleon
III’s personal collection, which of course was gaudy and enormous. The big guns
are the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo- which of course caused me to have the
Television song “Venus de Milo” in my head for a moment. I didn’t see any of
the Durer or any other German or Dutch masters- but I did see the grand tours
of cycling and European painting’s nations, Italy, Spain, and France. There was
actually a Goya lithograph thing which was interesting since I just saw tons of
Goya at the Prado a few days ago. It was a nice last day and here I am at the
airport incredibly early. I’m looking forward to going back to Spain, even if I
am going to Cataluna and not the nationalized Spain. Paris was fun but I wish I
had known some people there since it was a challenge for me with no French,
even though “everyone” knows English. I don’t think that everyone does know
English, especially in Belleville which is mostly immigrants, and since I am
not British I prefer to not just barge in a place and loudly speak in English.
The British are there like mad- which I guess makes sense since I’d always
heard that the British were envious of the French. From what I saw I would say
that they are, in some ways.
Ok I smell a cigarette again inside, as usual, (I don’t know
which is worse for that, France or Spain) so I am going to go ahead and get
through the security portal to the other side.
Or as a man laying in P-L cemetery said, I will now
break on through to the other side.
With that I will make another allusion from a familiar
artist and leave you with the song I was thinking of as I left- “Give Paris One More Chance,” which adequately describes my experience. I sense the magic of
the place even as it was a little unattainable this time. I will be back to
seize it and continue my literary exploits in the shadow of alcoholic or
suicidal ghosts.
The home of (somebody) and Chevalier must have done something right
to get passion this way!
26 July 2012, Madrid,
Barajas Airport, 1941 hrs.
Another airport lounge, this time a modernist labyrinth
known as Terminal 4 or “T4” of the Madrid Barajas airport. I made one of my
gravest errors of the trip thus far yesterday when I was under the false
impression that I booked my trip to Barcelona on the same day that I booked my
return to Madrid. I would have missed the flight anyway, since I had to check a
bag due to a lethal wine bottle opener that I had in my suitcase. I bought it
in Madrid in the La Latina neighborhood as I enjoyed a farewell botellón next to an obnoxious and unruly
dog that smelled bad. (It was what I’d call an adult botellón, with one bottle for four people). Well, it would have
been my last night, but today was my last night and I will have another last
night on August 7. I’m sure this is riveting to read. Suffice it to say that
after going through security, thinking I had missed my flight, then thinking
there was another flight, then recovering my luggage, then contemplating buying
a BUS ticket which would have been brutal, then walking in circles and circles
because this airport is built like a casino, with no clocks or exits- AFTER all
of that, I realized that the flight was for July 26, 2012, which is why I am
here now. It was a relief to realize it, and since I’m in Spain I didn’t have
to worry about things shutting down on me and leaving me stranded. Like a dog
returning to his vomit, which is a little severe of an image, I went back to my
old Metro stop, the Plaza de Castilla where I knew there was a McDizzle with
their WiFi gratis. I took advantage of it by booking a hostal, to which I
proceeded and slept like a baby. I stayed one night at the Hostal One Centro on
Calle Carmen, very near Puerta del Sol (again, a reference for those in the
know that want to pat themselves on the back for their worldliness). I ate the
words I had uttered a few days before when I mentioned I wouldn’t see Sol again
for some time. They had churros con chocolate for breakfast today, which of
course have zero nutritional value, but it was still satisfying. What can I say,
if I’m defecting than I’m an Iberian and not a Gaul (and all of me is not
divided into three parts).
All I did today was go to the T-M Museum with a Philadelphian
lass who I met in the hostal. She actually disappeared and we never said
goodbye but it was nice to have some company. I also finally ate some pulpo a la gallega and to keep in check
with my Madrid persona, got some sunburn and drank two Estrella Galicias at
lunch. The waiter was a really nice guy from Extremadura, and he included this
digestif that looked like Ecto Cooler but tasted like it had St. Germain in it,
even though I have no idea what it was. After that I found a great deal on some
shoes. I had been coveting these slippers that I really like in context but may
look lame when I am back in the USA. Traveling will do that- all sense of
proportion or perspective is lost. Next thing you know you buy a llama coat
jacket in Peru or come back from New Zealand with a Maori tattoo on your face. Assimilation
is almost inevitable on some level. Also, only I can get sunburn going to a
museum.
The museum was actually great- lots of big names, including
the Dutch masters who painted there in the Lower Countries as they say, during
the time that it was the Hapsburg Dominion of Spain. There were more Goyas,
Zurburán, Murillo, one Dalí (title), some Monet (blind), some Manet
(syphilitic), along with some cubists and their followers. There were lots of
American artists whose names I cannot recall, and an Edward Hopper exhibit I
didn’t feel like paying to see. I did use my ID or “carnet” that they issued
from the program to save a few Euros. What’s funny is that I probably spent
about as much time there as I did at the Louvre. It was not mobbed. I like
Spain for that reason. Not mobbed. Paris had everything crowded beyond belief.
It took forever to do anything.
Anyway I am here getting jipped (in the land of the
gypsies!) because I ordered a vino tinto which was a Ribera even though they
have a promotion labeled in English as the “Iberian Whim” which includes a
glass of Rioja and one tapa of Jamón Ibérico. I am an idiot because that costs
50 cents (EURO cents) more than this one glass. You can’t win them all. Still,
one of my favorite- let’s call it my favorite- part of flying is before you’re
on the plane, (being on the plane sucks except that you’re going somewhere)
when you’ve successfully taken your shoes and ripped your belt off like Joe
Buck in “Midnight Cowboy” and destroyed your carry-on bashing everything
through security, trying to prevent the impatient guy behind you from passively
supplanting your position- tonight there were many Asians with cowboy hats on again
and confused in front of me- and you’re on the right, privileged side of the
security barrier, in the Forbidden City of the duty free shops and
Vegas-version examples of the place or country that you are in (see: Iberian
Whim). People move slower, they aren’t barking at each other, they typically
aren’t disoriented and frantic, and they are basking in the sense of inclusion
and comfort that an airport allows. Since I spent some much time here last
night I will say that it is quite soothing in here- last night when I was on
the bus meaninglessly between terminal 1 and 4 I noticed a PR stunt which was
basically a commercial for the terminal I was going to, on the way, and it
praised the use of wood and natural light in the space. If my phone weren’t
dead I would take a picture. It isn’t that different than a casino or a horse
track. Everyone is watching the big board, stacking odds on their plane and
biding their time. There are more shops here than you’d ever need, in case you
packed nothing and you needed to buy clothes for your trip, and you also wanted
to dress like James Bond. Burburry of London, Prada, Zara, etc. are all
represented. There is an Audi station wagon about 100 yards away from me. I am
inside.
James Bond would only go to Burburry but you get the point.
Five days ago you couldn’t have told me that I would be glad
to be back in Madrid, but I really was. Perhaps it was just the comfort of
being in a place where I speak the language and know the geography, but it felt
much more pleasant and like I belonged.
Ok, I need to take a non-Iberian Whim and actually get to my
gate a tiempo. Next transmission will
be via Cataluña.
30 July 30, 2012 La
Massana, Principality of Andorra
The next transmission is not from Cataluña, but Catalán is
everywhere here. It smells like Blacksburg VA, because it smells strongly of
cow dung.
Dean Moriarity, the famous character in Jack Kerouac’s novel
“On the Road” mused that driving was an ecstasy and that it was an American
ecstasy brought about through Manifest Destiny, Indian extermination, and the
Eisenhower interstate system. Ok, he did not, and there weren’t any interstates
when that book was written, but I could not help but muse upon what is perhaps
(only perhaps) an American birthright and pleasure of the highway, of large
expanses opening up before you and the empowerment of piloting your machine
over hill and valley and into spaces where there seems to be nothing, then a
tiny dot of people, a town, a man walking on the side staring at you, unknown
rivers and tiny streams, abandoned service roads and shells of homes and
factories, farms living and dead. After many weeks here on this great continent
called “Europe” where I have navigated what feels like hundreds of subways,
buses, connectors, long and medium distance trains, cercanías trains, trams, cabs, shuttles, interconnectors, terminal
buses, planes, you name it, I finally felt alive again in travel, alone, away
from the smell and behavior of other people and the confusion of going through
turnstiles with no signs or made up directions or watching your pockets for
thieves or whatever- I finally was in a car, driving it, deciding my speed and
direction, flying through the gears (a nice diesel manual trans Mini Cooper),
not even sure what 100 km./hr. really means in speed, just driving and free. I
don’t know if that is “American,” but it felt wonderful. There were no
schedules and no weight and size requirements for my luggage, no intercom came
on when I was asleep, no one was banging into me or fighting in plain public
view, no drunk people next to me, no flatulence or rattling of tracks and
squeals of wheels under electricity, strong industrial metal smells with
cigarettes. All of that was gone and there was just the road, and a machine
that I could control! It was lovely.
Barcelona, on the other hand, was not my favorite place
since I was pick-pocketed by a thief from “Turkeybelgium” within the first
hour. I can’t believe I fell for it- such a simple ploy. Here’s how it
happened. I was walking on La Rambla (an interesting slice of life but not my
favorite part and not the nicest part of the city, which would be Parc Guell),
searching for my hostal, when this guy came up to me and claimed in neither
English or Spanish that he was admiring my clothes, belt (which I knew was a
lie since I got the only belt I brought by finding it left behind by a former
roommate in Nags Head and giving it a new home on my waist ever since). He
poked at the belt so I swatted his hand away a few times and then he stayed
with me, and at that point I should have either socked him in the face/stomach
or just gotten away from him quickly. As he jabbed at me and I was distracted,
he claimed that he was from Turleybelgium, which of course created confusion
(they don’t share a border), and what probably was happening was that he was
going for the pocket with the other hand. I felt nothing. The only thing he got
was a cell phone- which means that the picture component of this will probably
die off soon. I have to say that the Turkeybelgian was a master of his craft. Of
course, in Barcelona, the cops watch things happen all of the time and do very
little, so even if I screamed out right away I doubt anything would happen.
Aside from that, I didn’t notice till later.
Because of that I was a bit annoyed with the vibe of the
place from day one. They are also very aggressive with the hustle, putting
flowers in your face if you’re in the company of a woman or constantly hawking
cafes to sit in, night clubs, melted mojitos on the beach, you name it. It gets
old. I was offered an illegal substance each day too. My favorite was when I
was up earlier on Sunday morning before going to the Sagrada Familia Cathedral,
and a guy offered me opium. He wanted to commiserate with me about a guy who
had the audacity to bum a cigarette, and when he had my attention he offered me
opium. “Hey, I’m out early on a Sunday, probably on my way to a church, but do
you happen to know where I could score some opium?”
The company was good in Barcelona, which is partly why I
didn’t do any writing, since I met a friend there who has been in Lisbon all
summer. It was great to be with someone familiar and to make old jokes and to
be myself and be understood and not feel as abandoned by the seriousness and
paranoia of so many people in a city on edge due to theft. Of course I had
every right, in a way, to be cynical beyond belief, but I refused to and
instead just made jokes about Turkeybelgium, a country that makes great beer
and rugs! We also met two German femmes (frauleins) that seemed to want
to spend a lot of time with us, so that was nice. (Today there was a
non-tearful farewell, but it was nice to see that people can still feel
something and trust each other to be gentle and decent, at least when they are
not Turkeybelgian).
Since it is more fun to talk about ridiculous information,
let me advise what not to do in Barcelona:
1.)
Stay too close to La Rambla, a den of thieves
and hookers, drug dealers, and drunk people.
2.)
Go to the Forum, up the beach north of
Barceloneta, which looks like an oceanic complex designed by the Soviets around
1974. It is a concrete cradle of the Mediterranean, sitting in the shadow of
this giant factory and construction site that looks like a nuclear power plant.
On the coast itself they have a man made jetty of rocks that they built to
buffer to killer Mediterranean surf (probably 1.5 feet, with serious on shore
wind and white caps), as well as a concrete deck and a wooden deck. There are
kiddie pools (which we saw someone throw up in) and swimming areas, along with
a machine that pulls you on a wakeboard if you want to. I didn’t get in.
Ok this is a continuation but
still number 2. A group of four (I am going to continue avoiding proper names,
nothing personal), including the frauleins, who suggested the Forum, went the
same day as the opium offer and the Sagrada Familia. We were all exhausted
since we had been up till about 4 the night before merrymaking in the scary and
deserted Parc Guell, and had gotten up earlier to find opium and go to the
cathedral without waiting in line all day. (I can recommend the Sagrada Familia
on opium!) So we wanted to sleep, basically. It took forever to get there and
then you had to walk down to the bastardized Soviet seaside. My friend said F
it I’ll meet you all in Barceloneta later, so it was just me and the frauleins.
All of us did nothing but sleep. What was funny was that I was so tired that I
fell asleep on the concrete jungle beach, with no towel, since I forgot it, under
a straw roof with concrete beams, using Richard Wright’s “Native Son” as a
pillow. (I finished the Thomas Pynchon novel “Inherent Vice” and left in the
Paris hostal, imparting some American culture in the City of Lights by leaving
one of our greatest fiction voices behind, and taking Mr. Wright along for my
eventual re-“assimilation” to Garland Avenue). This nap was like sleeping in a
parking garage, as the acoustics allowed for the screaming children in the
vomit/kiddie pool to be amplified all over the complex. THEN, to make matters
more ridiculous (I actually woke up laughing which brought to mind Kafka
reading his own material, since it was really quite grim overall), a massive
Peruvian festival was starting up on the hillside (if you can call it that
since everything was paved) above, so suddenly Inca flutes started bouncing
around the Forum, mixing with the children’s screams and cries in the water. There
was trash blowing by so occasionally a candy bar wrapper would trickle by in
the stones, pausing with the ebb of the wind or possibly deciding to land on
you. It was great and the polar opposite of the beach- rendered as an insect
lying near light, dancing trash on cracked stones and underneath cement and
straws, smogged with Inca flutes and children’s mirth. NOT because of the
frauleins, but otherwise, I couldn’t help but have the famous Hunter Thompson
thought: “If the Nazis had won the war…”
To any wealthy industrialists/philanthropists in the
audience: The ocean does not need improvement. It doesn’t need a ferris wheel
nearby, a guy selling cotton candy, or even a lifeguard half the time. (Ok,
it’s probably smart to have a lifeguard, and based on my personal history I
would never want to deprive anyone of the opportunity for that type of job). The
ocean is majestic alone. When man tries to doctor it up, it always ends up
feeling like Atlantic City. Once they got rid of the horse that jumped off the
edge of the pier, that place went downhill. Let that be a lesson to PETA.
Moment of strange national pride alert: In the hostal (which
was managed by a very nice British couple who couldn’t help making the place
feel like England, as I immediately felt like I was paler and that dust and
pipe smoke was nearby) my patience was tested because my cooking was criticized,
a few times, even though I am sorry to inform anyone reading this but I am an
adept cook and know what I am doing. It is a very common technique that you
include some of the pasta water, heavily salted, when you make any kind of
sauce with pasta. The Christopher character on “The Sopranos” has verified
this, which vindicates it as a viable Italian technique, not unlike the moment
Michael Corleone learned how to make red sauce in “The Godfather.” In hostals,
pasta is very common since your cooking is limited- you don’t want to buy any
ingredients that you have to leave behind or not use, and it is cheap and
filling. Some Dutch guy made about the 50000th Big Mac joke I have
heard in Europe, and I had no choice but to retaliate. I don’t ask you where
your wooden shoes are. I didn’t ask the Germans to show me their lederhosen
(actually, I should have! Whoa!). No, to clarify, I didn’t blow up at the guy, I
just left the room after a few barbs related to my love of Big Macs (only 36
grams of fat as I learned from Wesley Willis), but I just cannot abide the idea
that the United States is the only country that is fair game to criticize. What
does Holland even do? Make Heineken, a beer that a friend of mine in college
used to call “monkey ass juice?” SIT DOWN HOLLAND YOU AIN’T GOT JACK.
So that is settled. Other than the Clockwork Orange “total
football” technique and Franz Beckenbauer, there is nothing there. Oh, they
have tulips.
Here in Andorra the one person we have spoken to was
insanely nice, but she was also in the tourism office. She loaded us up with
tons of literature and maps on the region. Our plan is to just get out of
cities- which I applaud as I have been in Madrid, Valencia, Alicante, Granada,
Sevilla, Segovia (tiny city), Toledo (tinier), Paris, and Barcelona. I wanted
to see some green, and as I write this I am looking out the window of our lame
two star hotel (The Hotel Font) with no phone or WiFi at the looming Pyrenees. In
the third century, during the 2nd Punic War, Hannibal crossed them
with elephants but we are going by Mini Cooper! (Which seems easier). The
border control consisted of slowing down and waving. Our next plan is to head
west via French Basque country, then dip back into Spain and el País Vasco
there, staying in San Sebastian. There is surf there so that should be a nice
way to end the trip. We have the Mini, which as I keep mentioning is an
absolute delight to drive, so we can take day trips nearby wherever we stay. We
are eschewing the culture of constant public transport and saying, give me
freedom and some keys. At first I loved the lack of a car, or what it meant,
and wanted to say let’s get rid of the car forever, but that attitude has
changed. I do think that we should have better transportation options in the
USA though, since everyone knows that in general our public transportation is
deplorable. Taking the Ave train (or “the A train to Harlem,” a joke I have
made for myself, with no laughter) in Spain is fantastic as well and should not
be included in my castigation of Dutch contributions to the world (which are
few). Driving here is also great because the rule is to basically not stop no
matter what, and when you get to a traffic circle, people just go. Somehow it
works and no one seems to get hit.
So with that I will say that I need to eat and there is no
kitchen here. I hope it is like Spain and that the place doesn’t shut down till
later. In Barcelona I never went to Ferrán Adriá’s place that is raved about,
as I am basically on the penny pinching end of the trip and my companion here
is as well. We are not at vagabond status (I at least refuse to be since I
don’t have that level of discipline), but the idea of going to a world renowned
Barcelona restaurant isn’t really practical.
For now I am going out to enjoy the cow essence of the
country of the Pyrenees, whose existence as a principality dates back to a few
boring treaties and agreements from the 13th century. The “legend”
states that the founding of Andorra dates back to Charlemagne and the 9th
century. The French have co-lordship of Andorra which has changed a few times,
but was restored the last time under Napoleon.
None of that will affect what I do here, but it is nice to
mention. I think this hotel is really a one star. That second star was certainly hard fought.
