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

My Mother's Teashop

My Mother owns a teashop. She runs it with her smart and lovely English friend. It is perfectly situated in the only place outside of England appropriate for such a quaint little building, here in the wood and pasture town my father lovingly calls, The Shire. From their house I drive uphill by The Academy - the two-hundred-and-eight-year-old town high school that's made up of five or six free standing buildings arranged around a quad on the hilltop overlooking miles of forested rolling hills. The hills light on fire with the bright oranges yellows and reds of autumn every year.

The Return...

THERE AND BACK. The hero's journey. Gilgamesh, Odysseus, Jesus. So I gave it a shot. Set out with questions and realized pretty early on that the answers weren't out there waiting for me. Instead I found new questions and different answers than I was looking for. Walking across the land with a backpack and a staff gave me a new perspective to have a look through. Many people and many places. Most all of them beautiful. One thing I learned: You can't do it just once.

ID:4 and a bit of Orgullo

SATURDAY wake-up to the light taps of clanking in the kitchen, metal fork on thick glassware filled with something thick being mixed. That's fine cause it's about time to rise anyway. Walk through narrow sunfilled hall and enter la cocina to find Natalia facing away. Only one thing could be happening. It's the day of the last Aussie barbie, and Natalia's prepping her Blue Ribbon Guapamole.

Fuencarral Styleyes

First Weekend in July...

Last weekend in Madrid. Been out of my place since the end of June, living like a king on a couch in Tribunal with glorious hosts, gregarious gatherings, and gradual preparations. Right now I'm on the couch with my computer in my lap and my bags semi-packed around the room as the sideways evening glow fills the room and a languid breeze carries me back to the weekend that began the summer...

FRIDAY: Darkness fell, I don't know when or why. Somehow it was night and time to go meet my oldest Madridleña friend for to commence festivities.

SlowSummerMadrid

I'M TRYING HARD not to take it for granted.

Yet as I wake to look out the window at what feels like the 100th immaculately blue, sun-filled sky, I find myself having to make a conscious effort to appreciate every second of this. My efforts are, of course, stifled by both virtue of my residence here and the heat that accompanies the unfiltered sun. Sleeping sin A/C is not really sleeping, and waking up is more like rising to your feet after climbing a mountain. And anything becomes commonplace when it's a daily occurrence.

Nonetheless, this is what summers are dreamt of being like. The deep, clear cerulean blue affirms life above the streets and trees and has everyone smiling. Or sleeping in the shade.

End of a Month and More

This day has my last round of classes. In the morning I finished with two young women of advanced levels with 90 minutes of speaking and listening. I had read an article recently about the life ideas of Thomas Jefferson. I read this aloud to them, asking them to take note of the lives he touched, his favorite things, political beliefs, personal advice, major contradictions, and overall lasting impression. In the end all they retained included his love for peas and walks. When asked about impressions, one remarked about his slave-master Hyde to his "All men are created equal" Jekyll, while the other was struck by his command to avoid idleness and the reminder that, "it is wonderful how much may be done when we are always doing." That was the impression left on me as well.

Just a Tuesday

MIDNIGHT on a Tuesday and not a second thought. It began with a text message, received late after turning on the mobile only after 7pm. --Barbacoa at the Aussies at 5, bring whomever--. Or stay in and neglect to pack in favor of reading. Right. So head out for vino and start walking. Fruit with Rosé and Tinto de Verano gave way to kebab creations, later expertly cooked on the barbie by the Aussies while summers past and future be recounted on the terrace. Food and drink in the fading light with talk of parties and beaches and life unattached over Purple Rain and Queen's greatest. Follow up with cigarettes and more wine until the sky goes black and one observes the beginning of tomorrow. Yes we all have work, but words don't hover on labor's immediacy. Instead plans are solidified for the next barbie afternoon, and reluctant goodbyes watch us out the door and onto the street. Plazas active, terrazas full, and calles channeling the nocturnal set that sees this night no differently to a Friday. It's what happens when the sun sets after 11pm on the city of night. Your watch brings inappropriate guilt and for a moment thoughts of a life led responsibly creep up until you remember that it's June, and there are no excuses. The only word is Yes. So stop in your tracks and take a look around, and notice that everything you see affirms the daily, and nightly, seizure of life itself.

Madrid is the city, living is the job.
and it starts again in 5 hours. excellent.

Boxes, Bags, Time On My Hands

July draws near. It brings with it many changes, including the end of employment. As such, it's time to get out of this landlocked sunbake and head for shores. That means the end of housing and it's these combined ends that will shape the coming months. No income. No shelter.

Sunnyday Stilo - young ladies, old men

Gentle Roughness in Spanish June

Tuesday in the center of the month and I'm reclined across the loveseat on my terrace. The rain comes straight down from the leaden sky although the tree limbs are blown about roughly by the wind. The bellowing thunder is intermingling with the roaring traffic below in such a way as to create some kind of harmony. It soothes me while Kurt Vonnegut fills my mind with the image of a human being sneezing into soap flakes. He recently told me the meaning of life: to be the eyes and ears of the universe.

Friday Nightmoves

TWO: THIRTY ANTE MERIDIAN and the doors are closed or closing. Iron gates like rolled-up rugs suspended over doorways clank down along the street, mechanically echoing the sound of night's end. Having walked for thirty minutes in a circle around dark and empty La Latina streets behind a rose-seller leading us to a non-existent all-night bar, we consider. Sit for a moment on the stairs of the same small plaza we started out from and drink another 1e beer bought from the Chinese foreign legion. La Solea--she whines--let's go to La Solea, ya vamos. 'Twas dead not two hours prior, but it's open and still serving. One more before giving up on a Friday night. Sure.