Drink Life to the Lees

Unnecessary Personal Update #3: I'm Almost Out of Peanut Butter

2011-05-28T14:08:00.007-06:00

Before we came to Barcelona, the counselors and instructors showed us a graph. A long, curvy line showed us the ups and downs we could expect while spending almost a year studying abroad. The excitement of arrival, the frustration of having to shop, get around, and find an apartment in another language and culture, the thrill of actually accomplishing those tasks, the unavoidable homesickness, etc. I glanced at it at the time but shuffled it back into the ream of documents we'd been given. 'Don't tell me how I'll feel,' I probably thought, 'I'll tell you, when it happens.' And through all the good times I've had here in Barcelona, I haven't thought much about that graph.

But during the not-so-good times, the days when the entire city seemed to be an implacable force motivated only to bedevil me... I thought about that graph. The damned prophet that had seen all of it coming. Yes, there have been ups and downs this year. But even in the midst of my own peevishness I knew what a graph like that really meant: the city is always the same; YOU'RE what changes. "... there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." I certainly can't argue against the Bard and a line graph.

Among the mountains and valleys (or perhaps, the hills and ditches), I've come back to my familiar refrain: what have I learned? I think the most important thing I've learned is that I love to travel and I don't like just living somewhere. Barcelona's got a lot to offer, but for the past year it's been the place where I do grocery shopping, where I have class and homework, where I have bills to pay. It's been many other things, but that laundry list (god, I forgot laundry!) is wrapped up in it somewhere, too. The other places- Paris, Vienna, Copenhagen, many others- were fun. They were 'Best of' albums. New food, new languages, new old buildings- constant stimulation. I love that stuff. I'm a junkie. But when I stepped off the plane back in Barcelona I wasn't coming home to a 'Best of'. It may not be fair to Barcelona, but I've studied the history of Catalunya- trust me, nothing is.

This particular entry is probably a little one-sided, and I hope it's obvious that I've had an incredible, life-altering time here that I wouldn't trade away. I don't think I'll really know how much it's all meant to me for another year or two- that's the way it happened with Madrid, anyway. But right now, in this moment, what does all of this mean? It means that with only a few more days until I'm back home, I'm excited. My own personal line graph is taking a decidedly upward turn. I don't know if that was predicted in the first graph, and I don't care. It's time to go.

Besides, I'm almost out of peanut butter.

Pastis

2011-05-28T05:14:00.010-06:00

The entrance was a small window and a door lit by a string of lights. I walked in and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting; it was darker in the bar than it had been out in the street. A bar eventually resolved around me but it took me a moment to recognize it as such. It was a room not much bigger than the living room of my apartment, which also wasn’t spacious by any standard. There were two tables with three chairs each, and a short row of stools along the bar. I sat down on one of them and waited for the bartender, a fat man wearing a red sweater, to notice me.

The bartender appeared to be as much a part of the décor as anything else. The limited wall space wasn’t dominated by a giant mirror or row after row of bottles with colorful labels and syrupy liquids. Instead the space was packed with signs, notes, and comics written in French, Spanish, German, a few in English. More than a few of them were handmade, written in careless handwriting. There were also portraits- some photos, some hand-drawn based on the photos- of French singers. I recognized Edith Piaf, but none of the others. About a hundred paper cranes of various sizes hung inexplicably from the ceiling. They seemed to be flocking around the bar’s centerpiece, which also hung from the ceiling: a life-size dark figure of a woman done in papier-mache. It could have been a witch on a broomstick, I wasn’t sure. What was certain was that her legs spread out behind her and her dress hung loosely and indecently from them. It was bizarre and reckless. It fit in perfectly.

I ordered glass of wine. When I paid with a twenty euro note he flung it back to me, asking if I had anything smaller. When I told him it was all I had he grumbled, picked up the bill, and shuffled toward the back to make change. I couldn’t help but feel that I’d already failed some kind of test. I’d lived in the city for a year, more than a tourist but less than a local and in a lot of ways I still had no idea where I fit in. This place was small, meant only for specific clientele. Somehow I’d just proven that I wasn’t in the club.

I sipped my wine and paged through a newspaper sitting on the bar. There was a guitarist setting up on a small area that had apparently been designated as a stage. The bar had seating for fewer than a dozen people, yet valuable space had been given up as a stage. I listened to the guitarist tune and practice while I scanned articles in Catalan and Castellano and looked around from time to time. There was another patron in the bar, a man seated at one of the tables. He was silent and didn’t move much. A glance at a time, I took in his ratty gray-black hair and his stained and distressed clothing. I assumed he was one of the city’s many homeless who’d begged enough money for some wine or a beer and was killing time in the bar until it closed. Me, the bartender, the guitarist, and the other silent patron were the only people in the bar for a while.

And then a few people started trickling in. Some were friends of the guitarist and they gathered around him. Some just sat as I did, quietly with their drinks in front of them. The dim light and confined atmosphere had cast a sort of quieting, intimate spell, which was broken when a group of three girls burst in, looked around the tiny bar, and began giggling to themselves. They sat at the other open table and began speaking loudly. I felt a familiar embarrassment as I listened to them squawk in American English. The bartender had reluctantly tottered over to them and was shaking his head, informing them that he didn’t have whatever drink they were ordering. Eventually he brought them a few bottles of beer and went back behind the bar, leaned against the rail and tucked his chin into his chest with his eyes closed.

The guitarist was beginning in earnest now and I listened to him sing in lilting, lyrical Spanish. Spanish poetry is a lot like Spanish food: it’s composed of simple parts and on the surface it seems uncomplicated. But if you sit down and take it in, really pay attention to it, it can be sublime. In the middle of the second song my friends entered. The stood quietly in the back while he finished and only then did we greet each other, exchanging kisses on both cheeks and speaking in Spanish. My friends ordered and sat down quietly. We whispered briefly to one another if a line or a word struck us. The other American girls had long since finished their beers and left, and I could tell the bartender noted the difference between the two kinds of Americans he had seen so far tonight. Perhaps it was my imagination, or the fact that the glasses of wine I’d had so far at Bar Pastis were not the first of the night, but the bartender looked my way for a moment and seemed to give me a nod. I still wasn’t part of the club, but because of my friends I had been forgiven.

We drank and whispered and listened to music. When the guitarist began one of his last songs of the night the quiet man with matted hair and dirty clothes started singing with him. He stood up and joined him on the stage, and the two sung beautifully together. They sung about the flat plains, open sky, and the deep red setting sun of La Mancha, but they could have been singing about the plains of my own home. Afterward the guitarist thanked him and the man sat back down.

At the end of the night I was drunk and happy, and the end of the Rambla didn’t seem quite as sad as it had when I’d arrived. It didn’t even seem as ugly. I suddenly noticed the stretch of water extending from the port. I looked up at Christopher Columbus atop his ornate totem as he pointed far out into the sea, toward the horizon. The Rambla itself stretched upward into the city, devoid of tourists and human statues. It almost seemed like the wide, tree-lined avenue it might have been many years ago.

The Old and the New

2011-03-12T07:59:00.007-06:00

With only a little more than a handful of weeks left in Barcelona, I’ve been thinking a lot about the fine line I’ll approach and cross come June. I’ll be leaving someplace ‘different’ and going home, but in many ways I’ll be leaving a home to go someplace ‘different’- different than I remember it, different than it used to be, different than I used to be. I don’t know how many things have changed in that town that never seems to change, but I know they have. I also have no idea how much I’ve changed, and I probably won’t know until much later after I return. Until then I’m here in Barcelona, thinking about the old and the new.

Which was probably the best part of having Rick and Joy visit all last week: exploring a place I’ve only just gotten to know with two people I’ve known forever. It was a non-stop week that was part show-and-tell, part exploration and re-exploration, and part marathon. Much of the week seemed so natural that sometimes I forgot we were in Spain at all, and others I forgot that Rick and Joy haven’t been here the whole time. “Just waiting for the metro in Plaza España with Rick and Joy, just another Wednesday afternoon.” We saw so many impressive, memorable, and stupefyingly beautiful things that it will take a few weeks to sort through everything, to prove that it really all happened. Fresh off the plane at nine in the morning, we took to the streets and started seeing Barcelona. We wandered from site to site, cathedral to cathedral, and café to café con leche. By the end of the day we couldn’t believe how much we’d seen, and by the end of the week we flat-out refused to believe it.

“No, that wasn’t the first day, it couldn’t have been. Really? Well then what did we do Wednesday? Oh yeah…”

My favorite times, as usual, were the meals. We ate well, and we ate often. Three people eating a three-course menu each can cover a lot of culinary ground. Sometimes we ate new things (rabbit, pan de coca, patatas bravas), but many times we just ate sometime we already knew done exceptionally well (roasted pork leg, stew, tuna). There was satisfaction, and there was happiness, but at the end of the meal, as we all sat back in that wine-purple haze, there was something else for me: affirmation. I’ve been talking to my friends about Spain for a long time, but now I could watch people I know and whose opinions I trust lean back and say, “Yes, this is good.” I knew it all along, but it’s still good to hear someone else say it.

When Did That Happen?

2011-02-11T12:58:00.003-06:00

7:56, just before the alarm. I set down the clock and rolled back over to look at the ceiling and wake up for next four minutes. A few morning sounds filtered in through my window, which opened up into the interior of the building. I listened to the indistinguishable morning conversations of my neighbors, birdsong from the cages hanging in other windows, and echoes of the noise from the street. It was relatively quiet, but I knew that soon the sounds of jackhammers and construction would invade through the walls. When I’d first moved in I would bolt upright in bed at the sound of it, cursing to myself and suggesting that the construction workers’ mothers were promiscuous and, perhaps, canine. Lately, though, I was already awake and getting ready by the time the work started. Today was no different; the first groans of construction were beginning as I got out of bed.

I awoke fully and dressed. I looked briefly in the mirror and, not for the first time, failed to recognize myself. I had lost weight; my own jawline was a stranger to me. I hadn’t gotten a haircut since arriving in Barcelona, and now my hair was longer than it had been in years. I patted it down with my hand and combed it forward with my fingers. It would come down over my eyes soon. After that I wouldn’t even see myself in the mirror, let alone have any idea who was looking back. I shrugged and the mop-headed mirror-me shrugged back.

My bag was already packed for the gym so I grabbed it and headed out the door. The morning was still cool from the night before but already, early in February, the sun was getting stronger and I knew it would be another warm, clear day by the afternoon. I walked the handful of blocks to the gym, joining the joggers and the dog walkers and the bent-forward elderly people that always seemed to be shuffling down the streets and in and out of the bakeries. The bakeries were the only businesses open at this hour, their well-lit display windows filled with almost fetishized works of art in the form of cakes, pastries, and breads. Look but don’t touch, I reminded myself. I had to remind myself again on the way home. Maybe I’d stop in for a coffee and a pastry this weekend.

I stopped at the small convenient store across the street from my building and bought some fruit to go with breakfast. The cashier told me the price and my shoulders slumped.

“I’m a little short.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he laughed. “You’re in here often enough. Don’t worry about it.”

Back home, I was showered and eating breakfast when the doorbell rang. It was the landlord, coming around the collect the rent. He was a short, older man who always smiled when we saw him in the stairwell and greeted us with an enthusiastic “Buenos días.” The first couple of times I’d met him I was still nervous about my Spanish so I had left the room, and even pretended not to be home once. This morning, however, while my roommate counted out the rent money, the landlord and I talked about the roadwork they were doing down the street, and how fast they were moving, and how it really did leave the street looking better and more open. When he left I made some coffee and a bocadillo to bring to school, and headed out into the rest of my day, which was already getting warmer.

‘When did that happen?’, I thought. When did I start to feel comfortable in this large, strange city?

365 and I Didn´t Waste A One

2010-12-31T09:52:00.003-06:00

Originally I was going to write a humble, what-I’ve-learned sort of review of 2010’s major events for me. That’s kind of my thing, anyway. But then I started listing what’s happened this year and I decided to throw the humility crap out the window. I’ll just say it: this year was awesome. I’d be doing it a disservice if I tried to play it down.

1. U of I- My second semester of U of I was filled with interesting classes, new friends, and a lot of fun. My classes were varied and I learned so much that I still carry with me. (I can have a basic conversation in French, I can draw and label a cross section of a brain- to a certain extent, I learned about force and momentum and electromagnetism and a bunch of other things I’d never have learned about in an English class.) I got all A’s and made the Dean’s List again. I spent a lot of time applying, writing, and interviewing for the study abroad program that allowed me to be in Barcelona right now. I survived Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day, even if I did pass out by 8 o’clock that night.

2. Lost 50+ lbs.- I’ve done some cool stuff, but this one still impresses me. (Did I mention I’m throwing humility out the window?) Seriously, though, it’s had a profound effect on my life. For a year now I’ve been exercising regularly and eating much better. It’s changed the way I think about what I can do, what I should do, and why I should do it.

3. Brody Christopher- My nephew! To be fair, Keri did most of the work on this one, and I just get to do all the fun uncle stuff. The kid laughs at everything, which I’m pretty sure means he’ll do just fine in life. I can’t wait to get back to the U.S. and hang out with the little guy. (But I do keep having dreams where I’m holding him and he keeps shrinking until he’s just in the palm of my hand and I have to be really careful. Strange, no?)

4. Barcelona- Frankly, the year could have ended in August and it would have been enough for me; Barcelona has been another thing entirely. It’s allowed me to travel to many beautiful places and meet a lot of wonderful people. I’ve gotten to know Barcelona pretty well, too, and Barcelona is a difficult city to know.

5. Next year- Next year I’m looking forward to showing my best friends and my mom around Barcelona, packing up and going home, and continuing/restarting my life there. I want to pay off my old debts and get myself an apartment. It’s obvious that this year has been one of major changes, and they don’t stop at midnight tonight; they’ll carry into next year. (Okay, so maybe there was a “what I’ve learned” element after all. I just can’t help myself.)

The Other Side of the Window

2010-12-22T08:29:00.007-06:00

My motives for going to Copenhagen in December were simple: to see an old friend and to get a hint of actual winter, the snow and the cold I was missing while I was in Barcelona. The sun was setting when I left Barcelona, and by the time I took my first deep breath of winter air in Copenhagen I was entering a world that had already been dark for hours. My friend Jeppe (pronounced something like “Yeb”; I’m sorry to say my pronunciation of Danish didn’t improve much over the weekend) offered to give me a place to sleep and show me around while I was in Copenhagen. I had arrived in the evening, and our first and only stop that night would be a small party at his friend’s flat. I dropped my bag off at Jeppe’s place and we set out towards the party.

The streets were cold and quiet but places like the metro and some of the bars we passed revealed that, even though the streets weren’t flooded with people, there was a lively layer of activity beneath the surface. After all, it was still Saturday night. Along the way Jeppe and I caught up on the last couple of years (I had met him when I went to Dublin in 2009 but hadn’t seen him since). We talked about the fact that I’d met the party’s hostess in Dublin, but I wouldn’t know anyone else there. Jeppe explained that usually the Danes can be stand-offish or tight-lipped around new people, but after a few drinks it wouldn’t matter. Between us swung a bag containing a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of Coke, so I knew that at least those few drinks wouldn’t be a problem.

I had to smile when I walked in and saw a deck of cards arranged in a circle around a bottle in the middle of the table; this was a card game I knew, and I was able to join in right away. We sat around the table, drawing cards in turn and translating the rules from Danish to English for my sake. It wasn’t long before I was taking a shot of schnapps homemade by Emilie’s grandmother and even getting in on a joke or two. The room was lit by a small lamp and a couple of candles on the windowsill, and some great music was playing in the background. It was hard not to feel comfortable and the game, the party, and the bottle of Jack Daniels ran out all too soon.

The next day Jeppe and I put our hangovers in check, bundled up, and took a tour of the city. Copenhagen came across to me as a clean, beautiful, compact city. Five minutes walking was enough to pass by which the Danish parliament, the city’s theatre, and a 400 year old church tower. In the shopping district there was a Sunday afternoon bustle of Christmas shoppers, food kiosks, and musicians playing Christmas songs. Jeppe explained brief histories of some of the buildings and we talked about Denmark’s government and compared it to other countries in Europe and the United States. Denmark was frequently rated as one of the “happiest” place to live (if there can be such a measure) and it was interesting to talk about why that might be. Along the waterfront there was an even line of buildings. Jeppe laughed at me for getting such a kick out of the “square buildings”, but I thought they typified what I was getting to know of the place: level, even, and ideal.

In the afternoon we walked through Christiana, which was a different kind of ideal from the buildings of Copenhagen’s downtown. Christiana is an area of Copenhagen considered in most ways to be independent Denmark. Rules regarding drugs and alcohol are muted if not entirely set aside, and every surface of the ramshackle, thrown-together buildings is painted either by street art or random tagging. From the descriptions I’d heard before and the motley appearance of the “town” I was expecting a sort of lawless, shabby commune. Instead I walked through an indoor Christmas market packed with stalls and families shopping around. I sat and enjoyed Danish ebleskiver (a kind of fried dough served with strawberry jam and powdered sugar) and watched the crowd shopping, eating, and greeting each other as they passed. Everyone from the very old to the very young was enjoying the market. Christiana is probably many things, but at that moment it was a family destination on a Sunday afternoon.

That night Jeppe and I ate dinner at his flat and he played some more great music, introducing me to some of his favorite Danish bands. I bought two CD’s while I was in Copenhagen (one of which I’m listening to right now) and I’m definitely going to keep an ear out for more Danish bands. After spending all day walking around in the snow and the cold, a hot meal and some good music was exactly what we needed.

A blanket of snow has an almost magical way of reducing the world into something pure and understandable. The landscape becomes, literally, as simple as black and white: the black of still and finger-like tree limbs, the gray-white of the afternoon sky, the black of the street, the white of the snow on either side. The snow makes the world quiet, too. Traffic, footsteps, conversations… there are a thousand little sounds that are noticeable only in their absence when the snow swallows them up. In this world, the only real color comes from the warm, tawny glow of the windows facing the street. When I’m walking down those winter streets- whether I’m in my hometown or far away- I always have the same naïve image of what lies on the other side of those windows: warmth, good food, pleasant company… the feeling of a home. In Danish, I was taught, the word for this feeling is hygge (if you think you know how to pronounce it, you’re wrong).

I had originally thought that I was going to Copenhagen to see snow and ice and real winter. What I found out was that real winter was the feeling that comes with the cold and darkness, the hygge of being inside with friends or family. Whether it’s in a small party, a Christmas market in an unlikely setting, or just a night listening to some tunes, I’m glad to know that many times the other side of the window is just as warm and comfortable as I imagine it.

That Final Night... Again

2010-11-23T04:44:00.006-06:00

When I was planning and thinking about Barcelona, I had no doubt that I would return, at least once, to Madrid. Anyone who reads or has read some of the entries in this blog from a few years ago will know that going to Madrid was a big part of my life, even if it was encapsulated in two months’ time. This is the entry from my personal journal the day that I left Madrid:

The universe has a funny way of trying to make sense of itself. Or maybe it’s not that; maybe it’s just mocking our attempts to make sense of it. Either way, as I lie here tonight, I have to smile.

I’m lying here in this room for the last time, and things are very much as they were the first night I spent here, two months ago. The shelves are empty, I’m lying on a bed with no sheets (I took them off to clean them and they’re still not dry), and I’m staring at the orange square of light cast through the window from the street. It’s as if careful measures have been taken to ensure that, on this final night, I see that the only thing that’s really changed is me.

Those thoughts comforted me, and I had the feeling that the image put a nice little bow on the whole experience. Even though I knew I would return to Madrid, that night seemed final. I must have forgotten my own realization: the universe does indeed mock our attempts to make sense of it.

After I had gotten more or less settled in Barcelona, I contacted Cheli, whose apartment I had stayed in three years ago, and told her I was thinking about coming to Madrid soon.

“You’re welcome to stay with me for a weekend!” she wrote back. “You’re old room is open.”

I couldn’t believe it. After three years, I would be staying in that same room. I was so excited that I booked a plane ticket for the following weekend. I pulled out old maps and started looking through my pictures and writing from my time in Madrid. Looking at the dates I realized something else: I would be arriving in Madrid on exactly the same date- November 12- that I had left it three years ago. I hadn’t even thought about it when I had booked the flight, but now it almost seemed like I could not have booked any other day.

When I stepped out of the Metro stop at Vinateros, it was for the first time and for the hundred and first time. I’d spent a lot of time walking the streets of that neighborhood, and every step seemed to come rushing back to me. The memories were so strong that, when I crossed a street or saw a restaurant, it wasn’t as if I was doing those things again, rather I was doing them simultaneously. My mind had a parallel memory for every step I took.

Along with the memories of images and sounds, though, came the same desire to explore. I went to the places I loved three years ago. Puerta de Sol is still a beautiful public space with great food, which can be inexpensive if you know where to find it. Weren’t there benches, though?

A new public market had opened up two years ago, so I went to see that. The Mercado de San Miguel is a fresh food market surrounded by sleek glass windows. It has a group of tables in the center where you’re invited to eat the delicious tapas they serve in the various stalls. I had lunch there the first day, and went again on the second.

El Retiro still made me feel like I had stepped out of the city for a little while. I had forgotten how much fun people-watching could be in that park. Families, joggers, students- everyone had a different way of enjoying the space, and there was plenty of room for all of it.

The Prado Museum had a Renoir exhibit and a new wing, so I saw those. Coffee, a pastry, and the museum made the cold Madrid morning a little warmer.

Around Moratalaz, the barrio where I had lived, I had a drink at the same bars and walked the same streets. The night before I left I couldn’t help making the comparison again. I was, after all, in the same bed, in the same room, staring at the same patch of orange light. When I left Madrid three years ago I had a more focused sense of what I wanted to do than I had when I arrived, but I had something more important than that: I had the confidence to actually do it. And now I was back, finishing school, seeing Europe… I was doing the things I said I’d do three years ago. That night didn't tie my experience off in a little package; it actually left the story open to continue, as it always does.

Oktoberfest

2010-10-01T11:21:00.003-06:00

A pasture with cows, unending acres of corn, a small town in the distance. They were familiar to me, a different arrangement of the sights I knew from my home town. As I looked out the window I could almost convince myself that I was driving down Route 102. But I wasn’t. In fact, I was technically farther from home than I’d ever been. I was in Germany, on a train between Memmingen and Augsburg.

It was just past seven in the evening when Maggie, Alex and I arrived in Augsburg. Back in Barcelona, we commented, the sun would still be an hour away from setting. Here, though, we stepped out of the train station into the last few minutes of sunlight. It was getting colder, too, which only increased the strange-yet-familiar sensation we’d had ever since we’d arrive in Germany. We looked at maps and tram schedules and compared them to the directions to the hostel. The signs held the unlikely and, in some cases, impossible combinations of letters and symbols that make up German. These were not ‘strange-yet-familiar’; they were entirely strange. Very different from English, far from Spanish. Even Catalan would have been a reprieve. Still, we matched letter to letter, got some help from a local, and were checked into our hostel before it started to rain.

“Can you recommend a place where we can get some good food?” we asked the clerk behind the desk.

He set down his beer and raised his eyebrows. “German food?” We nodded. We were in Germany, after all. He smiled approvingly and said, “Konafonflanen.” We stopped nodding. He showed us on a map where the restaurant was. “It’s off this street, downstairs,” he continued. “Good food, and they brew their own beer.”

I had heard a K and an F. Maybe two F’s. My friends and I looked at each other in a kind of shared, imperceptible shrug. “Right,” I said. “Thanks, we’ll go there.” We took to the streets of Augsburg again.

The empty streets of Augsburg, it should be said. We had just come from a city that couldn’t imagine eating dinner before ten, and now we were the only ones out in a town that seemed to have rolled up the sidewalk at eight. With so little traffic- pedestrian or automobile- we soon found the street we were looking for, and not far down the block was a warm, yellow glow coming the bottom of a stairway. The sign read, “Konig Von Flandern”.

“I knew I heard an F.” We went inside.

The restaurant was split into several dining rooms, all covered in wood and warm light. They were also all filled wall-to-wall with people who appeared to be locals: old men, a few couples on dates, a few families. We looked around for some indication of what we should do. We had only recently accustomed ourselves to the do-it-yourself system of Spanish restaurants and bars. (Specifically: seat yourself, get the waiter’s attention yourself, order, and remind the waiter you ordered yourself.) Eventually, out of a lack of options, we found an empty table and sat down. If it was the wrong thing to do, we were sure someone would tell us.

A busy waitress stopped by and did not, as we’d feared, berate us in angry German. Instead she took our order. When we all ordered the same beer she blew us a dramatic kiss. “Thank you,” she said. “You are easy!”

While she was getting the beer, we looked at the menu… the way a second-grader might look at Hamlet.

“Hmm… I think this means ‘sausage’.”

“I think a lot of these mean ‘sausage’.”

“What’s Schwienshaxe?”

So when the waitress returned with the beer (delicious, much-needed beer) we did the only thing we knew, the thing that had gotten us here in the first place: we asked, “What do you recommend?”

“Oh, do you want an English menu?”

“No, that’s okay. Just what do you think we should get?” Slightly amused, she suggested a platter for two- which could easily feed three. I misunderstood when she mentioned a platter for two and tried to order another plate in addition.

“No,” she laughed, “trust me. This is enough for three.” She stuck out here hand and I shook it. “Trust me, I promise.”

After that I got the feeling that our enthusiasm and open-mindedness had made us a pet project of hers. She apologized that the meal would take longer than she thought and brought a basket of bread and a strange looking spread to go with it. “Very Bavarian,” she promised. I’m still not sure what we were eating (some sort of lard with nuts? Bits of meat?) but it was delicious. When we ordered another round, we suggested that we might like something, well, bigger. She smiled again, as if she knew just the thing. “How about…” She quickly looked around the dining room before snatching a ceramic mug from in front of someone at a nearby table. “How about a mug like this? Oktoberfest beer. We brew it here.” She brought out a dark beer that was even better than the first. And that’s not the mention the free shots of vodka. By the time the meal came, we were in high spirits.

And what a meal it was. A platter with four or five different kinds of meat over potato noodles, along with plenty of sauerkraut. We spent the next half hour trying everything out, pairing this sausage with this mustard, this bit of pork with sauerkraut, and pairing all of it with the Oktoberfest brew. I had wanted a good, representative meal in every country I visited, and this, four or five hours off the plane, was Germany.

* * *

The next morning, after a short train ride from Augsburg to Munich, we kicked off Oktoberfest… drearily. We arrived at eight in the morning and waited in the cold, steadily increasing rain for the doors of the Paulaner tent (where we were meeting the other half of our group) to open at nine. When the doors finally did open, the entire mass of people surged forward, and forward again. A few waves of people were let in.

And then the surging stopped. We stood in the rain, trying not to count the minutes. Hundreds of people were gathered outside the doors, holding their umbrellas over their heads in what we dubbed “Umbrella City”. The critical flaw of Umbrella City, however, is umbrella run-off. Standing in the wrong place at the wrong time was worse than actually being in the rain.

After more than an hour, spirits were low. Those who were in the tent would be crazy to leave it in this weather, and those of us outside were starting to feel crazy for waiting. A couple of us were starting to think that it might be better to leave Oktoberfest, hit up a few bars in Munich, and get out of the weather. We were starting to think it, but none of us wanted to be the one to say it. Maggie was the last to hold out, but even she was wavering.

“We’ll set a limit on it,” she said. “If we haven’t moved in another hour, we’ll go.” I agreed, and settled in for another hour until we could go find a bar.

After a moment, frustrated, one of us said, “We haven’t even moved an inch in an hour!” And then something miraculous happened: we moved an inch. Just an inch, but it was enough to renew our excitement. Soon we moved another inch, and then we found ourselves part of a mass of people heading toward the door. The door!

We entered into an explosion of people, people who had been exploding in song and cheers for more than an hour. We found our friends sitting with a lederhosen-and-dirndl-clad group of locals, made some new friends, and settled in have our first liter of strong, Paulaner beer.

The next 8 hours and four liters literally blurred together. It all seems to be one long memory punctuated by drinking songs, (“Ein prooooosit, ein prooooosit…”), laughter, and cheers. At one point I stood on the bench with everyone else in the room, lifting my enormous mug to a song I didn’t understand. I made eye contact with someone else at another table, and we nodded knowingly and slammed our glasses together. Christian, a guy from Germany who I’d just met that morning, put his arm around me and said, “This is a very special moment at Oktoberfest. Everybody is drunk, everybody is friends.” We were all very much both.

Fungal Insanity Ants and Me

2010-04-22T22:24:00.004-06:00

A while ago, as part of the internet’s Attention Deficit Education, I watched a short video about a kind of fungus that infects the brains of ants in the jungle. The fungus grows in the ant’s brain, eventually driving him crazy and forcing him to climb upward. When the ant reaches the very top limb of a tree his head basically explodes, releasing fungal spores which spread in all the directions of the wind. The spores infect other ants and, as with all things in nature, the cycle continues. After I got over the initial “Holy crap,” level of astonishment, I started wondering what it must be like to be driven upward by some mysterious internal force. At first I could hardly believe that a creature's brain could be affected in such a specific way. But I was forced to revise my opinion tonight not long after I walked out of my apartment. I was reminded, in fact, that that feeling was something with which I am very familiar.

It started because I had nothing to do. I moved from room to room in my apartment, but there was nothing urgent in any of them, nothing that required any thought or attention on my part. I turned on the television but it didn’t take long to realize that the television didn’t require any thought or attention, either. Like all of the rooms of the apartment, it was doing just fine without me. With the television off I just stood in the middle of the room for a moment, coming to the realization that the apartment was empty- even with me in it. Rather than dwell on that fact, I threw a few school things in a bag and left.

I didn’t really have an intended destination. I had put my books in my bag to create the semblance of purpose, but my studies didn’t require my attention any more than anything else did. If you put forth a minimal effort and get B’s, you do more; if you put forth a minimal effort and get A’s… well, you carry your books around and pretend you’ll do more. Even without an explicit destination, however, I knew where I was going: Starbuck’s. That light jazz-world-ethnic soundtrack is like a siren’s song to the bored. The mermaid, she called to me.

But after walking three blocks and arriving at the womb of earth-tones and cushions, I walked past it without even slowing down. It wasn’t a decision so much of a lack of a decision; I was already walking, and I just didn’t stop. I walked a few more blocks toward another coffeehouse. Passed it. I walked to the university campus. I walked through the university campus, with all of its quiet, well-worn niches carved out specifically for study. Passed it. At this point some conscious part of my mind- silent up until this point- started to wonder just where it was being carried, and why it hadn’t been informed.

I walked a few more blocks to a neighborhood I’d never visited before. I slowed down and spotted yet another coffeehouse (this is a university town, after all). This one was, of course, a clone of the others I had passed, though a slightly more interestingly decorated clone. I went in, ordered a coffee, and I sit here now, writing this and drinking my coffee. It wasn’t the décor that had drawn me across town, though. It wasn’t anything about the coffee shop at all, in fact. It was the fact that I had never been here before, and that fact somehow made it worth it.

Now, it is important- though probably unnecessary- to mention that my head did not explode upon my arrival, releasing spores into a new part of town. This makes me rather more fortunate than the ant. But we shouldn’t feel too badly for him. Most ants without the benefit of a fungus-driven madness never reach the heights achieved by our crazed little friend. Just before his the two hemispheres of his brain very suddenly parted ways, that ant had a better view than he or any ant he knew had ever seen. Who knows? At that point he might have even been crazy enough to enjoy it, if for only a moment.

Opium

2010-01-11T15:26:00.004-06:00

“Hey, how’s it going?” I looked up from my book at the person who had matched my stride as we crossed the quad. A glance was all it took: pale skin, a crop of red hair that seemed pale, too, and a suit with a tie under his jacket. He was looking at me with the vague empty look reserved for politeness between strangers. This guy wasn’t a classmate or an acquaintance. This guy was workin’ for the Lord. I returned to my book.

“What are you reading?” asked Red.

I could have ignored him. It might have been more proper and mature to ask him to please leave me be, thank you very much. But I didn’t; after all, I was working for a higher power too, and it seemed wrong to let this opportunity slip by. “Hemingway.” I flashed him the cover. “The Snows of Kilamanjaro.”

“Wow. Is it intense?”

I snorted without looking up from my book. “Intense? No, I don’t think so. Good, though.”

“Do you like to read?” Red’s legs were longer than mine and he was outpacing me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him advancing and returning to my side like a yo-yo.

“Ya know,” I said, “it would sure seem that way, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, actually,” said Red, getting to the meat and potatoes of the whole thing, “I’m a missionary from my church.”

Somewhere in my mind I had been waiting for him to say that. I looked up from the book and leveled what I imagined was a cynical gaze. I dropped my voice an octave and said, “No kidding.”
My sarcasm, unfortunately, was lost on Red. He still had that same polite, vacuous look. “Yeah, and I wanted to talk to you about a different book, the Book of Mormon. Have you heard of it?”

I didn’t look up. “Yep.”

“Really? Have you read it?”

“Nope. Thought I’d give Hemingway a fair shot, first.”

“Oh, well, I could tell you some reasons you might be interested in reading it.”

“I think we’re jumping to gun here.” I looked up for a longer moment this time. “Maybe you should read this book. Maybe there’s a lot to learn here, too.”

“Yeah? I think I might have read some it, actually.”

I smiled. “I’m sorry, what did you say you’re name was?”

“My name’s Nick,” he smiled back. His smile had the same plastic quality that his eyes had.
“What’s yours, man?” Man. Nick was making a friend.

“Ernest,” I said, “and I don’t think you have read this, Nick.”

“Well, I think--”

“Cause you asked me if it was ‘intense’, and I don’t think you would have asked me that if you had ever read the book.” We were at a crosswalk now, and it didn’t look like Nick would be crossing with me. The light changed. “Time’s up, Nick. Maybe next time you try reading more than one book.”

I had tried to make it clear that I didn’t want to be followed and good ol’ Nick, to his credit, had at least gotten that message. A few steps later I had that familiar pleasure/guilt creeping up inside that comes from being rude to a complete stranger. Shouldn’t I have been big enough not to have deviled him like that?

I shrugged mentally and returned, once again, to The Snows of Kilamanjaro. Hemingway, with expert timing, had his characters talking about the opium of the people:

“Listen,” said Mr. Frazer, “why should the people be operated on without an anesthetic?”

“I do not understand.”

“Why are not all of the opiums of the people good? What do you want to do with them?”

“They should be rescued from ignorance.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Education is an opium of the people. You ought to know that. You’ve had a little.”

Maybe that’s what it came down to: Red had his opium, and I had mine. Next time perhaps he’ll leave me to it.

No Vice, No Virtue

2009-10-21T19:52:00.003-06:00

I didn’t have to slide the envelope across the desk like some sort of sleazy movie villain. Liz simply strode across the room, planted a soft kiss on my cheek, and glided her hand over the envelope as she walked back towards the door, picking it up in a movement so fluid that I wasn’t sure it had happened at all. I’m not one to get easily distracted by a kiss from a woman, but I ought to give Liz her due; she was a professional, after all.

Before she left she turned back to me. “Suppose he’s not interested?” she asked coyly.

I smiled. “Not likely.”

Liz smiled back. “No, it’s not. But some guys … some guys are funny. Suppose he’s not interested?”

“If our boy Harold is able to withstand the full force of your … ample … persuasions, then both you and he are free to part.” Her piercing gaze lingered. “And of course,” I continued, “you will keep the money.” Liz nodded and turned to leave again.

“And Liz,” I called, “do me a favor, would you?”

Her eyebrows raised provocatively in an expression I knew she must have practiced in the mirror. “No,” I said, “not that. Not right now, anyway. What I want is this: if Harold does resist, and you have to leave, remind him- before you go- that he’s going to wish he had said yes. That after you deny all the pleasures the world has to offer you’re left with an ugly place indeed.”

She chuckled and said, “That’s a little deep for someone like me to be saying, don’t you think?”

“You may fool most people with that ‘simple working girl’ act, but I know you better, Liz. You’ll do just fine.”

The door closed behind her and I didn’t bother to think about the right and wrong of what I had just done, or whether Harold would take the bait, or even Liz, whose perfume still lingered around me. All of those things were already done and gone. I turned back to my work, or what I called my work when people were watching. I made phone calls, replied to some emails, and at five o’clock I locked up my office and met Harold Dunmoore for a drink.

Correction: I was having a drink, Harold would have a Sprite. As Harold hung his jacket the back of the barchair he slid a small envelope into the pocket of my own. Another well-practiced move. He ordered his Sprite.

“Jesus, Harry,” I said, “you could at least order a beer. I’d be happy to pay for it. Be worth any amount to see your smiling face.”

Harold shook his head without smiling. Harold never drank. Harold never smiled. “I don’t want a beer. I want what I ordered. And please don’t call me ‘Harry’.” And Harold never liked anyone calling him “Harry”.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll back off. For now.” Sometimes it was fun to toy with Harold, but I was doing enough of that behind the scenes; no need to rub his face in anything tonight. “You were half an hour late tonight, Harold. Not like you. Long day?”

Harold took a sip of his soda. “There was an error in one of the reports filed today. It took a while to track down.” By his tone I knew that he had been the one to finally solve whatever problem there had been, and he was proud.

“Well, no one better than you to track down an inconsistency.” He shot me a look, his eyes narrower and his face paler than usual. We were both silent as the bartender took my class away and put another Manhattan in its place. “Fine,” I said, “you don’t want to talk about what you do. Fine. Good idea.”

“You’re drunk,” Harold said condescendingly.

I couldn’t hold in the laughter. “Damn it, Harold, you’re a piece of work. You really are. Drunk from one drink. If you’d ever had a sip of liquor in your life you’d know how alcohol works, godammit. You’d know that I wasn’t drunk, and that I’m just telling you to keep a clear eye on things. You wish I was drunk so you could write me off, but it’s just not true, Harold. It’s just not true. Face it.”

His voice was a whisper and his eyes darted from me to other random points in the room as he spoke. “I am a Senior Account Manager at that firm and that is my only job. Everything else, that stuff on the side … that’s mainly you. That’s your thing. The money-”

“We don’t talk about that. That word doesn’t pass between us. Ever.” Now it was my turn to lower my voice and be serious. “I’m sorry I made the comment in the first place, Harold.” I softened my tone a bit. “But I worry about you sometimes. Nothing makes you tick. Makes me think you’re out of touch.”

Harold got up and put his long coat on with a flourish. “I’m in touch.”

The next morning came with rain and very little sun. I took a cab to work and wondered how Harold had fared the night before. Liz could be very persuasive. Harold could be a total prick when he wanted to be, too. I watched the rain on the window and thought.

There were a lot of reasons I had set up that little rendezvous. From a business perspective, I didn’t mind having something on Harold. For a normal person it might not be that big a deal- even if a guy were married. But for Harold, a night with a whore would be the end of the world. It would hold him in place more than the threat of being fired or going to jail ever would. There was an obvious benefit to Harold, too, which I didn’t mind. A little fun would do him some good, once he realized it didn’t kill him. Most of all, though, it was the fact that I didn’t understand Harold. I made my business out of knowing people, in a way. I could talk to a person for a few minutes and see what drove them, what held them back, and what hurt them. It made me good at what I do, and I trusted it. But Harold … I just didn’t get Harold.

The sky was darker now and the rain picked up.

I’d seen holy-rollers and born-agains reject all things pleasurable in the name of Jesus or God or whatever. I’d even seen drug-addicts kick the junk for their wives or their kids. It does happen. But Harold didn’t have any of those things. He didn’t care about God or heaven or anything like that, and he never came close to having a wife, as far as I knew. Something else made him the way he was, and I just didn’t get it. No vices, no virtues. Just Harold.

But one night with Liz was all it would take for me to understand him. We’d meet at the bar downstairs tonight and he’d have a stupid grin on his face, or he’d avoid making eye contact. Worst case would probably be if he was really mad about the whole thing, but he’d let something slip and I’d know a little more than I did before.

I wasn’t in my office long before Mark Schroeder’s long frame came in through door. He looked tired and upset. “Morning, Mark,” I said.

He didn’t greet me or even pause. “Were you with her last night?”

“With who?” My mind was already working, but I didn’t let it show.

“With Elizabeth What’s-her-name. Where you with her last night?”

“You mean Liz?” Mark nodded. “No, I wasn’t. Jesus, Mark, what’s this about?”

“She’s dead, James. They found her this morning behind the Regent-Claire Hotel. I need to know that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“She-” I started. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“James, as your attorney I’m going to need-”

“As my attorney you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, whatever pays you enough to hold onto wife number three. You think she’ll be around long if you can’t afford her little necessities?” I snapped. It was overkill but I needed to control something.

Mark shut up and took a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. I’m just trying to do my job. They found an envelope full of money on her, so it wasn’t a mugging or anything. I just need to know whether that money will come back to you at all. You and Elizabeth-”

“Yeah, me and Liz,” I said quietly. “That money won’t come back to me.” I thought for a moment, and Mark had the good sense to stay quiet. “I was at the Harvester’s Club last night. Played poker. A lot of people saw me. We’re clear.”

Mark nodded. “Good.”

He was halfway down the hall before I shouted after him. He came back and stood in the doorway. “How did she die?” I asked.

“Stabbed. Three times. That’s all I know.” He left. I picked up the phone and dialed. No answer. Harold wasn’t at work.

I got out of the cab in front of Harold’s apartment and told the driver to wait. I searched the list for his name and rang the bell. I had never been to Harold’s place before. He didn’t even know I knew where he lived. I made a business of knowing people, though, and at least I knew where he lived.

Harold didn’t answer, so I rang all of the bells. One of them buzzed me in and I went straight to Harold’s apartment. The door was partly opened and the only light came from the hallway; the inside of the place was dark. I walked in carefully and there was Harold, sitting on the floor in the entryway. He was wearing his shoes and his jacket. It looked like he had been about to leave but just stopped. Now he was just sitting, staring. He didn’t move when I opened the door a bit and stepped in.

“Harold?” he nodded. “Harold, what happened?”

“You sent her, didn’t you? I couldn’t quite figure it at first, but you probably sent her, didn’t you?” His voice was steady, but just above a whisper.

“Harold, I… what happened?”

“Why did you send her? Why? That filthy whore …”

Harold was gone. I nodded absently at him before I stepped into the hallway where he couldn’t hear me. I made a call to a guy I don’t like calling. I came back to Harold after I hung up. “Harold.” No response. “Harold, I’m going to go soon, and a friend of mine is going to come and pick you up, alright? He’ll take care of you.” Harold just sat staring at the wall; he wasn’t going anywhere.

Back in the cab I thought about the things I had done over the last couple of days. I had no illusions about being the good guy, but none of this felt right even for me. I felt responsible for what happened to Liz, and getting rid of Harold wouldn’t make it less true but it might help. And I wanted to get rid of Harold anyway. I make a business of knowing people. But Harold wasn’t person. No vices, no virtues.

Honesty

2009-09-08T22:09:00.010-06:00

The most honest feeling in the world is hot sunlight burning away the night before and illuminating a hangover. At that moment, you are feeling nothing else; there are no thoughts lingering in the back of your mind, no distractions from the edge of your senses, and no predictions whatsoever for the future. At that moment you have no mind, no senses, and no future. You sit in that harsh sunlight for a moment, part of you hoping that it will burn you out of existence.

That’s what I was doing on the steps of Vanessa’s apartment building. Half of my face was molded into the cement step while the other half was letting the sun do its work. Neither was helping, so I pushed myself up and moved into the shade, which was a painful move and far too ambitious for my condition. A half-smoked cigarette sat by my left foot; I knew it was mine because I could still taste it in my mouth.

I went to breakfast.

The diner’s vinyl booth wasn’t much of an upgrade from the cement stoop, but I didn’t care. I scanned the table for an ashtray and remembered that I hadn’t seen an ashtray in a restaurant for years, not even in a shithole like this. Some forward-thinking law or other had gotten them all removed.

“If you call that progress,” I muttered to no one.

“What’s that?” A scrawny waitress, too old to be cute anymore but still just too young to be called old, had sidled up next to the booth.

“I was bemoaning the decline of civilized society in the name of progress.” She gave the blank stare I deserved and I continued, “And I was saying that I’d love two eggs over easy and some wheat toast, no butter.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, black as hell. And water.”

She went away and came back with my drinks. “Any chance this coffee’s any good?”

She snorted. “Always tastes like shit when I drink it. I drink it anyway.”

“Yeah,” I said, “me too. Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the ambience.” She didn’t bother with a stare this time, she just walked away.

It was true, though, about the ambience. Who wanted to be hungover in a nice restaurant? A diner was perfect: it was unadorned, ugly, and never changing. You could criss-cross the country and eat at the same place everywhere you went, as long as you found a diner. A diner was honest.

Honest. There was that word again. Why did I keep thinking things were honest? Did somebody lie to me? Did Vanessa lie to me? That wasn’t it; I wouldn’t care if Vanessa lied to me. I probably lied to her. Damn, that was it.

I went over to her place and woke her up at about three the night before. I was drunk and angry about having been kicked out of a bar, and I went over to her place… well, I didn’t remember why. Maybe it was for something sordid and deviant. Maybe her place was more comfortable. Maybe it was something else.

Right when I came in I should have turned right around. It was trap, and sitting in the booth drinking bad coffee I could see that clearly. She said I woke her up but she was dressed and the TV was on. She was waiting for me. Yep, I should have turned right around.

“You can’t just barge in whenever you want,” she said. She had straight dark brown hair that was flat against her head and shoulders. It barely moved even as she shook her head at me, stumbling in. “What the hell, David?” The long, pale features of her face were turned to me angrily.

“I know it’s late, darling, but this is the only place I want to be,” is what I wanted to say, and very probably what I should have said. What came out was, “I dunno… tough.” I sat down on the couch via the coffee table.

The anger had all but disappeared and was replaced with a kind of curiosity. She was trying to see through me, somehow. “What is it with you?”

Now, I don’t recall the entire diatribe word-for-word, but I know it was something like, “We’ve gone to dinner twice, I’ve been to your place a few times, you spent the night here most of last week. But you don’t call me- ever- and we don’t talk. You just sit across the table or the sofa or the bed and don’t say anything. It was mysterious at first, but now… I don’t get it! What is it you want?”

I know it went like that because it was true. We didn’t talk and I had never really tried. We chatted sometimes, of course, about the food or the movie or whatever was in the area, but it was nothing substantial. I didn’t know what I was doing with Vanessa. I just liked being there, and every molecule in my body was aligning itself, like iron filings under a magnet, against the idea of telling her that.

And that’s when l lied to her: “It was… I just… a booty call. All I wanted,” I mumbled. I don’t think I could pinpoint anger or shock or grief in her expression, but they were all there. The look was enough to get me out of the apartment. Apparently I had only made it as far as the steps.

* * *

I think this is the second post I've made that starts off with a hangover. I don't know why, but whenever I sit down to write something just by stream-of-consciousness a hangover always seems like such a great place to start. What do you think?

Sol, At Night

2007-10-26T17:48:00.002-06:00

On kind of a spur of the moment decision I went to see a movie tonight. It was a British comedy called, “Death at a Funeral.” It was a funny movie, and it was good to get out and do something different.

Seeing a movie in Spain differs very little from seeing one in the States- or anywhere, I imagine. The only major difference was probably the assigned seats. Come now, we wouldn’t want people sitting where ever they wanted, willy-nilly. (Note: what’s Spanish for “willy-nilly”?) No matter where you are, though, Friday night movie crowds are good people. They’re not worried about anything, they have the weekend ahead of them, and they all at least have some sense of fun- otherwise, what’s the point of going to see a movie? They’re likely out with a partner or a group of friends, enough to put anybody in a good mood.

I waited with my ticket in the lobby among my fellow movie-goers and the smell of popcorn. I had arrived far too early, proving once again that moving to another country doesn’t automatically change anything about you. I was almost half an hour early, as usual, and immediately (but not for the first time) realized how ludicrous that is. I pretended to read the movie fliers and posters that were scattered in the small lobby while waiting for the screen to change from, “Un Funeral de Muerte: ESPERE” to “Un Funeral de Muerte: PASE.” When it did I made my way up to the theatre.

I was directed to my seat by an usher. It was in the furthest upper left-hand corner of the theatre. When I had purchased my ticket, the ticket vendor had asked something in rapid Spanish which sounded to me like, “Esta [something] bien?” Is [something] okay? Yes, I had said. Whatever was all right, as long as I could see the screen. Looking at my seat, I now knew that the vendor had in fact said, “Ah, ticket for one. Will the loneliest seat in the house be okay?” Oh yes, limited human contact, please. Put me in a corner somewhere, if you can.

As I said, the movie was very funny. Classic British slapstick combined with agile dialogue. And hearing British people cuss, for me, is fantastic. Allen Tudyk had the best part, and the whole theatre- myself included, from my corner- laughed pretty much the whole time he was onscreen.

So far, a successful night out. Found the theatre, bought the ticket, enjoyed the movie. But the problem was that I had gone to see the movie alone, which usually isn’t a problem until you’re leaving the movie theatre. When everyone is packed into the theatre, sitting in the dark and staring in the same direction, everyone may as well all be alone. Nobody’s talking, all just watching- we’re all alone but doing to the same thing together. Great. But afterward you want to talk about the movie. Favorite parts, where you laughed the most, good quotes. When you’ve gone to the movie by yourself … well, you just put your hands in your pockets and head up down the street. If you’re lucky maybe you can blog about it when you get home.

And head up the street I did. I walked up the Calle de Doctor Corteza, passed the Plaza de Jacinto Benavente, and then up Calle de Carretas towards Sol. Sol is, I believe, in the exact center of Madrid- indeed, the exact center of Spain. It is where the Calle Gran Via and the Calle Mayor, running parallel to each other, bend in closely and almost meet creating a great open area filled with expensive shops, restaurants, and kiosks catering to visiting tourists and upper-class madrileños alike. This being a Friday night it was heavily trafficked by window-shoppers, people arriving in Madrid and looking for their hostels, and people just out for a walk in the crisp autumn air.

I had come to Sol with the intention of heading down into the Metro right away and going home, but I found my pace was becoming slower and slower as I watched everyone around me. Couples, families, groups of friends- they were all suddenly fascinating to watch as they went about their shopping and walking. I strolled along the edge of the open space for a while, watching the people and checking out the movies, handbags, and jewelry being sold streetside by the moros.

Moro means “Moor,” and is used in Spain to refer to just about anyone from Africa. A lot of them make their living selling bootlegged movies and designer-imitation goods on the street and in the Metro. Although the term moro isn’t always used in a positive light, I don’t think there’s anything inherently racist about it so I’m going to use it here. If I hear differently, of course, I’ll change it.

What the vendors do is lay out their goods flat on a square of cloth with cords tied to each corner and joined in the center. When the cops come wandering along, the moros just pick up the cords in the center and all of their movies (as an example) are gathered into a nice little bag which they can throw over their shoulder as they take off running. What was great about tonight was the fact that there were so many vendors out to sell to the weekend crowd that when a couple of police cars pulled up, I turned around to see about two dozen black men running at me with white bags over their shoulders! They cut through the crowd and took off down a side street like a school of fish that knew exactly where it was going. Within ten minutes the cops had moved on and business resumed.

The parade of nightlife had continued without interruption and I took up a position leaning against a lamppost to watch it all go by. Very European. I suddenly found myself wishing that I smoked. Leaning against a lamppost doing nothing, you must appear very strange, or at least very bored. Put a cigarette in your mouth and suddenly you’re doing something, taking a smoke break in this busy world. Well, I don’t smoke and never much cared for the habit so I had to suffice myself with putting my hands in my pockets and pretending to be invisible.

This was surprisingly easy. After a few minutes I felt like I was invisible. People would pass me on either side and pay me no mind, and I sat there like Emerson’s transparent eyeball, just watching. Once a man walked up to me with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a suitcase in tow. In Spanish accented heavily by another language (French?) he asked if I knew where a certain street was. I told him no, that I didn’t know the area very well. Maybe he should look at the map over there. I was very pleased with the completeness of my response, but I don’t think the man understood anything past, “No.”

He gave me a look that displayed disdain and understanding at once. “How dare you lean so casually against a lamppost if you’re not a local!” he seemed to say. “But since I’m a nice guy I’m trying very hard to forgive you.” Gee, thanks.

He headed back into the sea of people. I really did wish I could have helped him. I even thought about walking the ten steps and consulting the map for him, but by the time that thought entered my head it was too late. I was once again the invisible observer, sworn never to interfere. Besides, I was now watching his blue suitcase disappear along the Gran Via west past Sol.

I had been standing there I-don’t-know-how-long. I was starting to feel cold, but I liked the cold so I stayed a little longer. I watched the couples, the families, the friends … the couples, the families, the friends … and as I did so another feeling started to creep up. I was no long the impassive observer: I was lonely.

It wasn’t a total loneliness, or anything so depressing. I was simply feeling that empty space where someone should have been sharing the whole thing with me. The feeling had really been there the whole night- and probably most of my time here in Spain. Every breathtaking sight or impressive building, every crazy random Spanish event (like the drummers in El Retiro), every joke untold or meal unshared- they all lacked someone sitting next to me to whom I could say, “Hey, isn’t that something?” It was all a tree falling in the woods.

Now, it must be said that I’ve been a very good traveling companion to myself. I get along with me, I like all the same food as me, and besides which I think I’m a riot. But there are times when it would be nice to be able to turn to someone and say, “Man, that part where Allen Tudyk was ass-naked on the roof was hilarious!”

Guess you had to be there.

Candlepower

2007-03-02T02:17:00.002-06:00

Candlepower- intensity expressed in candles

Time passes differently in this reading room, I think to myself. Minutes turn into hours like the wax of the candle turns from a solid into a liquid, running quickly together and building up. I barely noticed when the sunset, and am only just now aware that I had lit the candle at all, let alone that it was my sole source of illumination. I lean over it carefully to blow out the flame that sits on a short nub of wax.

Two things happen in that instant. The light in the room blinks out, of course, as the flame is extinguished. Also, as I stand there in the dark with my face above the candle, the last tendrils of smoke drift upward and into my nostrils. Instantly, decades of birthdays flash through my mind, a blur.

I’m a child, standing up on a chair at the kitchen table, eyeing the cake my mom has decorated to look like a clown. I’ve just blown out the candles and everyone around the table- all family- is clapping.

I’m slightly older, this time my friends surround the table, watching me and the cake. This cake isn’t decorated by my mother; it was bought from the grocery store and is covered in cartoon characters. I’ve just blown out the candles again, but I’m not thinking about the cake- I’m thinking about presents.

I’m a teenager, and I’m angry that I’m forced to spend my birthday with my family. I refused to blow out the candles and am relieved when my little cousin jumps up and blows them out for me. Everyone around the table is laughing now, and I didn’t have to make myself look like an idiot, I’m thinking. Win-win.

“I know we said we weren’t going to do anything special for your birthday. And you’re right,” says Annie, “we can’t afford it.” She has her back to me, but I know that she’s smiling and it’s the brightest thing in our drab first apartment. “But I picked up these on the way home from work. Happy birthday!”

She turns around with a cheap bottle of wine in one hand and a cupcake with a lit candle in the other. I blow it out, letting that familiar scent fill my nostrils. I notice that the cupcake has a picture of a clown in the frosting and I decide, inexplicably, that it’s been too long since I last spoke to my parents.

More candles, but this time they’re not mine. I’m holding my little boy up to the table and he’s just blown out five candles, spitting all over the cake in the process. Annie’s laughing hysterically, turning the lights back on. I set him down and suggest that, since it’s his birthday and all, he should have some extra frosting. I wink at him as I scrape the top bit of frosting off the cake and put it on his piece.

And I’m standing over the endtable next to the sofa in the reading room. How long have I been standing here in the dark? Why is my face wet?

Man, I think to myself, time passes differently in this reading room.