Porto Sketches, xii (last impression).

yes, the perfect situation to be in when no one answers the door. phoneless and broke. back in the plaza at tasos' friend's bar somebody had their nokia charger with them and when i finally got the greek on the line around 4:30 he was just getting to the beach. i could take the many metro/bus trip to meet him there or sit tight till...<< later, malaka. >> i had no urge to search out nor be at a beach so i hung up and sat on the bar terrace to think.

Porto Sketches, xi.

by the time i woke on monday the routine was standard and i was out the door and down at a café before 11. the previous night's burning bellyache was gone but to make sure it would stay gone i went down and got some plum and pastry from the old women hawkers in the market.

most of what id seen outside of wine places had been closed the previous day so a lot of the morning was revisiting the open and bustling locales. i spent almost an hour in "europe's most beautiful bookshop", mostly sitting on the floor reading about olive oil production and then dodging other tourists and their camera viewfinders trained on the grand central staircase and stained glass ceiling. i went back by the central train station and other sites i’d seen the first day in the same morning sun, combing every street, alley and square to burn their image firmly in my mind.

Porto Sketches, x.

then the only sounds in the air came from our sandals dragging along the shiny paving stones of the wide pedestrian shopping street down we strolled and our voices bouncing off the storefront windows. there was no one else in the avenue designed to accomodate hundreds, but i didnt feel out of step. i spoke at length with the brighter blond about the camino de santiago, which she had also done a portion of, and then we turned and were at another street, similar to the indoor outdoor passage where babak and i had encountered the subterranean sleeping compartment bar the other night. again the entrance was odd, but this time there was no one. instead it was more like a university building, with a plastered bulletin board and reclanguar spiral staircase with frosted glass windows in the middle of every door leading off. we passed across and inside where there was, reassuringly, a bar. polished mahogany in fact, and smart staff in all black behind. some words i now forget were spoke and then we went upstairs where a few university-cool looking kids were hunched on short cubes in a cluster while 3 young guys prepared instruments on a stage. the lights were low to match the music playing, and the graphic printed walls were different colors mixed with grey. in the adjacent room a short girl with short dark hair and big dark eyes polished glasses behind a bar and i asked for a wine.

Porto Sketches, ix.

on sunday i woke as normal - with bright sun sluicing through slats onto my face and no one in the room but tasos across from me, lying dead to the world as he was to remain for the next several hours. i got up and ready and headed back into the city for some kind of morning ritual. i skipped the poveiros praça and went straight into the center, to find comfort in the 50 cent coffees that were one of the few constants of the days.

Porto Sketches, viii.

later on, we’re descending from the circus that is tasos and his 'hood and babak is venting.

<< are these guys actually enrolled in university? did we just experience the product of greek and portugese education? the credit ratings are all starting to make sense... >>

up from aliados - the central avenue thus far used as the point of origin - on the other side we come into a series of squares and terraces where the night clearly begins, and after careful selection, actually find a bright aluminum table open and sit outside a grand, fin de siglo bar with mirrors, columns, where wide trays covered in bottles and glasses are carried hurriedly by waistcoated waiters leaning and breezing across the floor. thinking it standard practice, i signal one with my upraised hand, and receive a knowing wink that tells me he'll be right over.

Porto Sketches, vii.

at 19:30 i was in just one of those old man bars, waiting for tasos and babak who were upstairs cleaning up and getting ready for the night. in a few they came down to join me and spend the next two hours watching the US blow nearly every opportunity they had to take control of the second round game against ghana. in the end it was terrible but we were in portugal and tasos was waiting outside the bar with his friend and a joint so i let the past pass and with babak by my side, stepped out into the dark.

Porto Sketches, vi.

a woman with an indistinguishable european accent wearing a black cape and zorro hat welcomed us in the ante room. babs and i chatted with some other spanish and english speaking tourists until cape and hat took us into the cellar. once inside, the white brick vaulted ceiling reflected the only bit of light coming from sparse electric bulbs, and the hundreds of oak barrels big and small and the wood brick/dirt floor absorbed all sound. we were struck at once with the gravity and tranquility of the scene. it was like your first cathedral, stepping in from the street and losing your voice. but instead of stained glass and towering ceiling, it was dark and dank and low, and smelled something like an ancient forest cabin. a mix of dirt and wood and old. the air was cool. we strolled slowly down a massive aisle flanked on both sides by thousands of liters of young and old port wine. there was no echo. whispers here and there stood out but most kept quiet and observant.

Porto Sketches, v.

as we scaled the sloping city up from the riverside we found shelter from the bright midday sun in the alleyways where old women sat in their doorways wearing aprons and sighing. one of them watched us as we came up and when we paused outside a door she spoke to us in strange words that we both nonetheless understood to mean "go ahead boys, they wont bite in there." inside we found the narrowest bar imaginable, where people had to stand up off their stool to let you pass behind them, either for porto's dirtiest toilet or to climb the little ladder at the back for the dining "room" mezzanine above the bar. everything was stone like the inside of a fireplace except the wooden bartop, along which sat one old man and several old women. the woman behind the counter came up and through the gaps in her teeth asked us what we'd have. i went for green wine while babs took a café com leite. then i watched her pour a shot of something strange and yellow into a glass for one of the matrons sitting beside us and i asked for one too. babak made 3. then we drank and tried to keep from twisting our faces at the toxic burn. i inhaled some of the fumes and felt the sacks in my lungs shrivel. it was excellent.

Porto Sketches, iv.

in the morning babs and i both woke while sun shot through the shutter cracks as beams along the walls and floors. early yet, 9:30 perhaps and tasos still asleep. on the street babak looked bad - weeping and gnashing of teeth. well not teeth but his eyes were not well. the solution tasos had provided was nasal spray. i feared the lad wouldnt be able to see, and though i stressed as his pale eyeballs and red sockets poured streams of liquid agony, he assured me it would all turn out.

Porto Sketches, iii.

then it was night and we were back in the berry liqueur flat and back at the sauce. then i got the call and my best london lad babak was in town. i sprang down to the street and walked, walking as i did all 5 days with legs flexed and foot muscles tense, grabbing at the stones beneath my shoes and propelling my body forward with determined purpose. every hill was a new joy as i shot through air like gravity was a toy. when i say this was a walker's city i bloody well mean it. so i get babs and take him to a bar for immediate post-flight relief. large, cheap, shitty portugese beer. perfect. then were back with the boys and girls and we hit a restaurant where we sat on the back patio and ate killer burgers. the best ive had outside the states. wine, meat, table, cigarettes and hash. hash is in porto like tobacco in spain. everywhere found and everywhere permitted (except inside restaurant dining rooms).

then we were in the center and tasos and his boys led us to a street, nay an aisle of bars.

Porto Sketches, ii.

in the morning i showered and realized tasos would sleep late again and took off on my own. more walking, but this time in busy center streets further in from the river - famous fin de siglo pedestrian boulevards with shops, covered markets and art nouveau cafes. i bought fruit from hawkers in an old station/market and pastries from old women in sidewalk booths. café after café as they were 50cents a pop. i couldn’t get enough. 8 zinc bar, small spoon, 1.5oz black espressos for 4 euros if you felt so inclined. i was like a provincial peasant in paris. but way more fun.

Porto Sketches, i.

i arrived at a bombsite.

i landed in first daylight, thursday morning. the metro is 8 years old, its amazing. grand futuristic cars gliding along silently, wide glass doors and clean, airy platforms and stations. wardens periodically checking to make sure you validated your pass, which you did not do, and telling you the fine you’ve incurred is a cool 95 euros. but they know you’re a young american idiot so they walk you off the train at your station and hold your hand at the validation kiosk, and say <be careful next time.>

Notes from the Underground...a glimpse

On the metro, midday. I was riding homeward. Not quite five minutes on I pulled myself from reflections on the place I'd been to the place I was. The car was full - it was lunch hour - of every sort of folk. Having left the barrio Salamanca there were townhouse ladies aplenty. Teenagers with notebooks and playing on their phones. And pink faced seniors saying things like "trousers" and "simply lovely".

Lying in Madrid

The city sings - sings me out of sleep. Sleeping on Cam's couch. Oh shit, forgot that, I did. Fact, I woke and asked the old question: where tf am I? But then I recalled and it was all good. Guten. Guten tag. Yes, today is good. Gorgeous + good. A new respiration, a new vitamin D injection, a new rendition. But it's a bit sad. Not substantially, but a bit. For la gente in the street haven't any idea. I can see in their faces as they pass the Italian café window. They don't know what they have, what lies prostrate in front of them. This - this GLORY. It's the newness. The newness in the mould of the normal. But ho + hark, children: it's Saturday, mid-April (Shit, already???) and we are alive and open gulleted to take take take it all down, in, swill, swig, swirl, twirl, loop de loop, DANCE!



....By the way, today's a day calls for a woman!

Never According to Plan

This is a winter of shit. Natives will use words like strange or weird. Liars. Caught up and so they believe themselves. But it's shit. Today is nice, but we wont let that stop us. Can't let the guard down against this crap. A wonderful time for a visit, you might say. My sister will agree.

Some memories you carry, some carry you

The past follows me, but completely of its own accord and in its own preferred method. Some of the best parts dwindle and darken in the distance, just as some of the worst prick like thorns still stuck in my side. Sometimes friends come angelic and return to me lost parcels of my accumulated lifewealth. Sometimes a song, scent, or sight brings back not without pain things I would loved to have held onto tighter. Amid the vast aggregation from a thus-far short trip, I can see myself a nucleus (ha!) pushed in directions by what which I have lived. Some bear down from above. But then as many and to be sure more lift up, way up, like waxen wings bearing a load heavy as love.

I got a new set of wings myself, just recently, and I'll let you, o Reader, imagine how high they take me.

My life, in an Eve

I walked home tonight. Clouds were out but the sky was dry, so I could see the beautiful moon. La luna. It's funny, we have all these different names, but the moon knows no language. It's just there, and to it, we are here. We may even be living on its moon. The same moon I was on in high school, looking up from a blanket in a field one night in spring. The same moon as in college, amid buildings and frigid winds, I avoided my homework and the authorities. The same moon I looked at 24 hours ago, out from under portici. In Bologna, the buildings go out over the sidewalks, covered by porticoes. The city is known for them. It bored itself into my heart forever because of, among a great deal more, them.

Football, or the Value of a Day

The font has shriveled to but a trickle. Words flow far less frequently, and with no clear stream of thought. Days go by without writing nor reading a single word save a sign or a signature.

These times of unproductivity/inactivity leave me vexed and feeling pitiful. And time seems to pass faster, creating the dual sensations of lengthy dry spells and loss of life moments. Youth receding in the wake. Reflecting upon this, I realize it started with the commencement of the holiday. Eagerness for end of work time and start of party time - time that on its own flies lightningfast, time that leaves no time for whatever else. Reflecting further, I recall this same feeling hit same time last annum. Connections and implications, indicating in my contemplations. Something about the value of the day...

This time round this all happens to coincide with the nasty feeling of discomfort. The novelty is beyond long gone, and restless unease produces a nasty flair to temper. Situations I continually come into leave me with feelings of spite and malicious intent. I have a few drinks and say I'm leaving this place.

A friend thinks that's not right. Says this seems to make a good fit for me, and I need to focus on that which doesn't drive me toward thoughts of departation. A story then, and a focus on the good things...

Sweet Snippits of Old and a Cup with a Spoon

The sun bore down on the sidewalks and streets with the white hot light that it burns in winter to fool the eye into believing it's warm while the wind numbs your ears and makes your nose run freely. It reflected off the tarmac and stone, both wet from the melting of the last night's snowfall. White shine and glare and cloud, blue and cold breeze, and city. I stood in the middle of it wondering how best to spend the idle time between classes, the middle of the city in the middle of the country in the middle of the day.

Weekend in the mountains...Asturias, Spain

Not sure when or why exactly, but over the course of the day I decided that the best way to ensure my preparedness for the following morning would be to sleep at the house of those who'd arranged the whole trip. A good enough presumption, except that it was Friday, and nothing really occludes the festivities. So I threw some clothes in a bag and had a few drinks. Time miraculously flew and I was just able to throw the last of my weekend accessories in before heading out to the center with some of the boys to celebrate the weekend. It was between 2 and 3am that I made it to Natalia's flat to yell her name from the street because my phone was dead. But I made it to her couch and considered my plan successful as I lay my head on the pillow to sleep.

Friday Madrid... Midnight Repast

When I walked in the door the men at the entrance to the dining room turned with prepared expressions that dissolved as they recognized my face. I stepped down from the entrance and they put their arms on my shoulders smiling and told me my friends were sitting in the back. Three tables had been put together--a decent banquet board for the small restaurant on Cava Alta which seems to remain invisible to all but a few discerning denizens--and two open bottles were just being set down among wide crystal bowls on slender stems.

FIESTA: Al Fin

WAKE UP. TOM WAKE UP. Erik shakes me out of REM and before the blood even begins to flow he's telling me we have to leave. His lips are blue. He's shaking. "I'm freezing, man. I can't stay here anymore." Without a word I rise and pack my things, feeling the cold myself now penetrate my jacket to the bone. We're luckier than we know to be dry, but it doesn't occur to us breathing fog on the riverbank at dawn in late September northern Spain.

FIESTA: Nightfall

I WOKE to the sound of shrieks. I opened my eyes abruptly and in the purple gold city lights I watched a young child and his father diverted by a bouncing rubber ball. Erik was still on the bench. He saw me as I tried to feign uninterrupted sleep and walked over to expose my charade. With the blanket now folded in the pack we made for the center again, to load up on small cups of hot black coffee before the scheduled rendezvous. We sat for a while in Café Ibiza neither of us saying very much, shedding the grog and quaffing our thrift with narrow slits of eyes watching grumbling old people watching boisterous young people watching televised football. I put the small spoon from Erik's saucer in my pocket and we paid and went out into the night.

FIESTA: Wine-induced Sensory Forfeiture Blues

Outside the cathedral, amid thousands of bodies moving in all directions or none at all, we found Paula and her two friends standing in the sun. Erik introduced and I passed the tinto. We stood for a while conversing in the usual chat and looking around at the people sea in which we were situated. A call was made and we began to move, heading toward a narrow outlet at the northwest corner of the plaza. The road had been neglected at points and it was clear along patched cobbles between pale stone buildings both vacant and occupied that the city had fallen to hard times before. This, however, was anything but. Music oscillated as we shuffled like a hundred penguins down the street past bars where light disappeared behind swaying walls of bodies holding clear plastic liter-sized cups.

FIESTA 3

According to our festival program, a large portion of the events were set to go down at the Ayuntamiento plaza. We walked eastward along the main thruway of the center, a narrow street paved with pale stone bricks that's walled in by archways and colonnades and is overshadowed by the outward jutting balconies of the old apartments above the street, enclosed with glass and painted wood here in the northern half of Spain. We passed the cathedral whose towers never stopped arresting me and then a cross street we'd walked down several times already in the dark, without ever seeing the vista it pointed to.

The brown and black mountains rising like waves in the impossible distance nearly drew us out of the town, like sirens calling to forget indulgence of the flesh and blood. Nearly.

FIESTA 2: Pre-storm Calm

OUTSIDE in the main plaza full of green trees, small soft grass lawns, and anchored in the center by one of Spain's ubiquitous horseman effigy-topped plinths surrounded by a gentle pool, the number of people had begun to rise. We headed to the western edge, where we came in much earlier in the morning, to check the opening time of the tourism office. Behind the bandshell where bundled bodies slept and were slowly waking in the morning light, the closed glass doors bore the hour 10:00 in small off-white stencil. So, down the stone ramp and back into the city to see what might have been missed in the dark.

FIESTA: Food, Wine, and Barbarism in Logroño, La Rioja

ONE

It was on the floor of a large salon in Tribunal when, amid small glasses of silver tequila and jovial summer accounts, I remembered that I had a few minutes to gather my things at the place I where was crashing in the quiet, musty barrio of Lista and walk to catch the coach set to pull out of Avenida de America at 01:00 with or without me sitting in the seat I'd paid for.

Dry Well No More

A week is through and the bounce is back.

No easy start to the first week of work in almost three months. As can be imagined, one slips with comfort and ease into a routine consisting of leisurely activity, contemplation, and reflection. Eating well and visiting every city, town, and country fitting the dual-pronged bill of accessibility and affordability does much to relieve the mind of the burdensom memory of work. Complete monopoly over intellectual property. And so the first few days of classes and their preparations went along like a rusted locomotive.

One from the Archives: Camino Journal (Day3)

LEARNING FROM THE MISTAKES OF OTHERS BEFORE ME.

Yesterday it rained. A lot. The storm came in so hard and fast toward the shore that the very sea itself vanished in the torrent. As we walked under the heavy skies toward the city streets from one of Donostia’s promontories, shrieks behind us and the flashes of people running past made us turn to watch the white wall of storm come hurling in from the sea to erase everything it passed.

Volver

THE SUN ALIGHTS on green leaves and grass across the street in front of the plaza set in and shaded where I sit in the back in a café that shall not be named. The morning is about to end and people outside are walking in every direction. But I have finally stopped moving.

48 hours ago roughly a bus carried me eastward across dry, thirsty plains of sun-baked earth and sparse pale green vegetation. Earlier that bright Saturday morning I had left Lisbon - that sunny city by the sea where red roofs collide