Pictures, "that summer feeling"

18 July 2012, 1733 hrs., Madrid

This is much easier to just keep piling pictures on, but I guess I ought to add on some text too. As usual there is other writing that I have withheld since I don't know how I will always feel after I have shared some of my thoughts or experiences. In the beginning, uh, not of time, but of my time here posting whatever, I was in a novelty phase of the different cultural experience and I felt a very safe distance between what I would say here and the way it was perceived. I didn't feel overexposed when I basically said that I faked knowledge of soccer while talking to an attractive and impressionable Argentine lass in a hostal or whatever, and you could say I felt like Clark Gable in "Gone With the Wind" and thought "I don't give a damn," because I didn't. Now I have resumed my normal writing character, which is that I am reluctant to be seen, in some ways. This post may prove to contradict that. As time has passed, some of the novelty has worn off, and I have assimilated and started to experience Spain and Madrid in a normalized way, the observations I have here suddenly feel more exposed, and naked, possibly because I'm currently naked. WHOA! Not currently naked, but what a great joke! Bet you didn't see that coming! You may say, strange that you intentionally post that stuff to the freaking Internet, the dumping ground of all human psychological detritus (has a beautiful ring to it, does it not?). Therefore, it is with a complicated impulse that I resume the Peaches En Regalia.

Today it is officially too hot to do much other than sit in the Batcave/oven here (two of my nicknames for the dorm room) with the persianas especially low, only a crack of light slithering through onto my desk. If I were a smoker, I'd be having a cigarette but I hate smoking, if that makes sense. If the lighting in the room had a fashion sense, it would be a black turtleneck, a little too tight. Picture the paranoid love scenes between Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway (although I am certainly alone, and would lie if I weren't) while Max Von Sydow is lurking somewhere nearby in "Three Days of the Condor" and you're close to the 70's sepia tone and feel of the room. Days like this make me imagine how the 70's must of have been, when it was blazing hot inside, when all the fabric was probably irritating, everything seemed poorly lit, and people were always smoking inside. That's my impression since I was born in 1980, and I'm not really concerned with accuracy. The screen lights up some of the room and I'm dressed similar to Martin Sheen in the opening scene of "Apocalypse Now," minus the blood, hangover, and 5:00 shadow (my 5:00 shadow only appears every three days).

Even though it is hot as Hades I'm confronted with what is a typical end of the summer feeling, as in the Doors song about summer almost being gone but not quite, but possibly more the Jonathan Richman song which has the same title, minus "the end of." (If you go to the link, be careful, this song gets to me every time I hear it). Sentimental, perhaps, and dangerously near breaking the aforementioned Quiroga/Poe (who on second though probably stole it from someone else too) rule about waiting till the cloud of melancholy is lifted before you put anything to paper. I am uncharacteristically not sure of the origins this time, but probably just the universal sense of loss that can always accompany memorable and important times in life.

PERHAPS one facet of that could be attributed to experiencing such a blessing of a trip, and growing, and learning, and not being able to share it with my departed younger brother, who looked up to me and honored me in a way I doubt to feel as proud of again in my life. He sometimes didn't show it at all or had a very funny way of showing it, but I know he respected me and admired me deeply. I know he would want to know what I had been doing and seeing, even as he probably didn't give a crap about Borges or the Alhambra (although he was an admirer of Charles Bukowksi). He didn't know that Isabel was actually from Castilla and I labelled a caption "of Aragón," and the subject would have bored him. He would of simply been proud of me for being here and excited to listen to me, prima facie, without needing to hear about historical nuances that informed the current culture or national character of Spain.

I will also add that the above paragraph was extremely difficult to write. Because of that, it stays intact!

Last night, coming back from Segovia in Castilla-León on the bus, I had a very funny conversation with a friend here about tattoos (I am hesitant to include names for some reason) and PERSON X was telling me that THEIR brother wanted to get a preposterous tattoo of a joker that said "laugh" and a deck of cards falling down their arm. As great as it would have been if this came to pass since the idea was so lame, it didn't. THIS ANDROGYNOUS PERSON mentioned that THEY were able to convince said brother that the family coat of arms was a better choice, and if I remember rightly the young man now sports of a coat of arms, fittingly, on his left arm. I was quickly reminded and then recounted that my brother's one tattoo (unless there was one especially hidden) was a maybe 1.5 inch tall Goofy head on his left left inner thigh, which I have to say is hilarious and quite practical placement. Unless you are wearing a Speedo, in various stages of dress/undress, or frolicking in the nude, (perhaps after a fireworks display on July 4, during the 7th inning stretch, or while marching for breast cancer awareness) no one will know of your Goofy affectation. It made me laugh and remember him, not with an event or moment but through emblematic evidence of his personality, which was indeed goofy, funny, and inventive.

This one is getting a little heavy with the links but if you have seven or so minutes, this is my personal favorite Goofy cartoon of all time.

Despite the above context I would imagine other participants are less sentimental about the swan song of this particular program. I know some are all business and ready to get the F out of Dodge and back to the land where my fathers died/that beautiful nation with limitless possibilities forged on a mighty continent. (Paraphrased, stolen from mustache enthusiast and fellow sickly individual Teddy Roosevelt). Anyone else reading this who has been through what I have in Madrid might find that laughable, especially if they have been dissatisfied with the program- as many have- but I don't know how to justify it (not that I need to) other than to say that my temperament makes that statement (end of summer, etc.) make more sense.

I saw a lady in the street today who has a massive dog that kind of looks like her, or at least has a similar haircut, who I see many mornings, and for some reason I thought that one of the next days I see her will surely be the last I ever see her. I have never spoken to her, but unless there is some extraordinary coincidence, the rest of my life and hers will pass unheralded as an institute. Not to mention the dog. He'll go to Dog Heaven or HELL without me trying to reject his physical affection as an allergic asthmatic person who doesn't really care for dogs anyway. (Apologies to those with dogs in the land of the Pilgrim's pride, but I do not miss the current ubiquitous dog presence/worship happening in the USA and absent here). Now- big deal. A lady I compared to a DOG will pass into obscurity! So freaking what. I would say that it matters and informs my current mood because it illustrates the nature of transience. Everything that we do in life is that way at its core and that does not make it meaningless, it just makes it bittersweet. I had a similar musing after being in Valencia, as will be seen when I post some of the other retroactive jazz.

Today I am also supposed to design a lesson for a presentation tomorrow, and I am really struggling with the desire to do it, I'll be honest. There is a decent amount of unrest in the ranks, as many of the group feel hoodwinked by the nature of the program and have spent a lot of their own money and sacrificed greatly to be here. Two people have had purses or wallets stolen, which means there are 1/7 Vegas odds thus far that something could have been stolen from you. Since the thefts (let the word "thefts" echo for dramatic effect) I usually wear my backpack (a cheaply made free issue from the Sierra Club to advertise my self-important environmentalism and love of Birkenstocks) like a baby backpack, whatever those are called, where the parent has the child harnessed to the their torso. This feels good, in one way, since there is usually a lot of sweat from my midsection afterward. Here I am lacking exercise even though I walk everywhere. I do yoga in the room, which is nice since it is like Bikram temperatures in here, but I like yoga better with an instructor and I forgot my Vishnu statue (humor). I can't run because of my hip (still a nagging problem and a source of anxiety, exacerbated by constant walking) and of course I haven't been near a bike in the last month. So, the baby backpack is a form of "exercise" as I am sweating down the street with it on. It's a poor substitute, but something. Today even though it is especially hot (maybe 40 something C? Not checking) I had a masochistic impulse to play tennis, which would have had the effect of sweating gallons in about 10 minutes. Luckily I neither have access to a court or anyone to play with, so the impulse passed.

To conclude this entry, I will also mention that I read in the BIBLE (a precedent here that such a thing goes mentioned!) today from Romans 12:9-18 and was reassured that holding fast to goodness and truth through hurt and suffering, whether it be your own as a result of direct experience or a more pervasive and insidious negativity, is a way to surmount and celebrate any circumstance. This is a commandment as a Christian that we have, even as it superficially sounds pie in the sky or Pollyanna-like, (I don't know who that is) to offer praise in all circumstances and to live peaceably with all. So, not everything here is as it was "supposed" to be, perhaps easier for me to say because no calamity befell me personally, but my hope is that I am still able to benefit and grow from this experience, and to be blessed through it and hopefully to bless others. Also, I am confident that everyone in the group knows their craft well enough to extract benefits and value from what we have done.

Now, so much for being reticent to share deeper thoughts. There they are! I will post some pictures, and soon there will be more text which already exists to accompany and contextualize them. In addition to that some REAL cultural information about what I am learning OUGHT to be included.

Until next time, same bat time, same bat channel!

Alcalá de Henares, Community of Madrid

Plaza de Cervantes

And again

Calle Mayor, Alcalá

Cervantes' house

From left, Sancho Panza, me, and Don Quijote. Just three guys enjoying the sunshine.

Interior of Cervantes' house

There we are again, laughing it up. Sancho looks mad

Mercado display in Alcalá

Different display

Same market

Guests and fish stink by the third day

The oldest theater in Europe

Paparazzi

McGazpacho

Andorran interloper in Alcalá

Cervantes, not really embalmed inside

Universidad de Alcalá

Universidad de Alcalá

Inside la Universidad de Alcalá

The room where the Cervantes Prize, the most prestigious literary award in the Spanish-speaking world, is given

Octavio Paz, Gabriel García Márquez, Carlos Fuentes, Jorge Luis Borges, Adolfo Bioy Casares, etc., may have sat here?

Los estimados profesores, some

Take 2

Back in Madrid, turtles in their natural habitat at the Atocha train station

Somewhere in Castilla-La Mancha, on the way to Valencia at some 300 km/hr

 Valencia, Valencian Community

Northern train station of Valencia, where I did not arrive

Sun starting to set

Plaza de Toros en Valencia

The July lineup for the Plaza de Toros

The shady seats, in a good way

The sunburn section, for the plebeians

Catalán street sign, otherwise known as Calle Xátiva

Feria de Julio action in the background

Only archbishops allowed

Plaza Mayor in Valencia

Valenican magician

Ensuing marionette show, Valencia

La noria monumental, looming in the distance

There she is

Psychotic rat scaring children

Waiting for the noria

 Me and two other teachers hard at work perfecting our craft aboard the noria monumental (the narrator makes a malapropism and calls it a feria) in Valencia