Questions for Jesus

If the Eastbound doves burn the flag, and the southbound hounds trample it in the mud, who’s to say which is luckier?

If the girl writes home and says that she’s the type who doesn’t go for them, and they think they just want to fuck her, who calls them all back?

Can a dump-truck take a day’s vacation?

When the door slams in the face of the man who let you down, and you still can’t get the stain out, do you yell at the stain?

Do you?

Huh?

Are your guitar strings overdue?

You know, the only thing better than seeing a live band that really does it for you, is seeing one who sucks. And mind you, the difference of appreciation is slight.

A Fish In An Aquarium

I’ve been wanting to pen an entry about the closing days, hours, minutos of my European excursion for quite sometime, though, between customs procedure, freedom fry saucing, automobiling, and other more general forms of not walking, my time has been somewhat limited.

The Sunday of my departure from Katherine, Spain, Europe, vacation, lightheartedness, etc etc started early. Rising at 8 in the AM for coffee and yogurt, I dashed down to the local bus station for my 10 o’clock depature. (On Sundays the trains run later in the day, the earliest Madrid arrival time not early enough for my flight). To Amsterdam.

At 7:45 I made my way past the small man who accosted me asking “are you Swedish?” with a glimour of wonder in his eye, and to whom I responded, “maybe, I’m American” and onto my flight towards Grasstown EU. A beautiful night flight over Paris had even the Parisians themselves glued to the windows.

Upon arrival, giddy as a fourteen year old school girl finding a shoebox stuffed cache of brother broken Barbie heads, I and my newly acquired accomplice Matt, a 20 year old student from the Midwest, made our way to the coffee shop -- Dyyyying for a cup!

After what seemed like three months of smoking and staring at the 24 hr EuroSport coverage on LCD flat panel I told my first five minute friends that I must take their leave, citing my preference of loneliness to fogged, dogged accompaniment.

I wandered in the Northern Euro cold, for which I was amply unprepared, for more than an hour then ducked into one of the few open bars. Beer, Beer, so then I left and I bought a slice off a streetside vender who moments before was witnessed forced to fotograph a group of disgusting Americans with ranch slathered slices held high. I, along with the Spanish pizza seller, was disgusted. So back to the airport for 6 hours of fetal position linoleum tile sleeping.

In short, Amsterdam is a great place, if you and all your friends are completely without Spirit, intellect, class, or anything more on their minds than herbs.

Look for more postings in the near future as my adventuring has not ended yet and likely never will. I now live in downtown Charleston, South Carolina and I’m sure to have some interesting experiences. If not, I can always spin them into abstruse yarns, referencing spontaneously created flash fiction outlines.

Whoever you people are, maintain that anonymity --It’s all you’ve got!!!!

Guest Book

If you have yet to make a single comment, devouring my prose like a cloaked coldwar rogue would a munich bus schedule, make one now. Tell me what you have enjoyed, loathed. Or simply use the space for your own pretentious rant, unrelated with my topic. Just put your name cowards.

If {impasse} Then Push{ingles} Capiche?

Last night at around 1130 pm I rolled into Madrid after a long sleepless trainride. Snoring assholes have been the bain of my exsistance for the past few weeks and this train, while mostly empty, contained just enough of these to make them unavoidable, even upon switiching coches.
Well known to and reccommended by most any and all travelers in Spain in Cat´s Hostel in Madrid. So, a short hike from the Atocha train station brought me there. (I say I´m backpacking Europe, though I´ve had to make special effort to actually walk long distances with the thing on my back. At first I was taking cabs do to my unfamliarity with the areas. Now I just take off walking towards the lights and honking cars.) The place is great, more like a night club or bar with beds upstairs. Tons of Americans sure, but also everyone else. After checking in and throwing my stuf in my dorm I made my way down to the bar which was dark, crowded, and serving up liter cups of beer for 2 euros 50. Kids everywhere, spilling out into the street, a regular Spanish Wednesday night. I made friends with a group: a student from Chile studying economics and two German solo travellers. After typical conversation....the weakness of the dollar versus the fate of the Euro, German philosophy and its creation of an enlightened if unhappy people and so forth....we made our was down to the basement -the internet room slash nightclub looking area. as we four gentlement tired of each other slightly, and one of the german´s libido kicked up, he crossed the room and asked two birds in the corner to join us. Now these guys are all students here, only one speaking Spanish fluently, the others a sort of slow textbook castillano that I can actually understand. So as the girls walked over we all looked at each other and took a quick worried survey of the linguistic abilities between us, figuring them to be native spanish speakers. Nay, .....Italian birds. Born and raised in Florence. I couldn´t get over their nationality much the same as they couldnt get over mine, though my fascination was returned with disdain. I´m used to this by now. The Chilean bloke struck up a conversation with one of the birds though she spoke less Spanish than Italian or even English. He´s a smart dude, so that helped, but what´s more is how similar Italian and Spanish are. He would speak his native tounge and she hers and they rolled through what was to me a Romantic Recitative from an abscure Florentein opera, to them...small talk. But the really interesting point, the thing which my German national, English conversing comrade of the evening told me to expect, the entire reason for this story, is that when the two Romance speakers arrive at an impasse -the ommission or addition of a terminal vowell usually- it was always quickly, mechanically resolved with -you guessed it- English. The language of finance, engineering, and computer programming......"alright...what´s the noun....whats the verb....ok got it".....but not a language of love. English has great use all over the world for this purpose, which is kindof cool, but its sort of like using sissors to complete a puzzle instead of sense, trial, and corrected error. So guys...the odds are stacked quite against you with European broads. Sorry.

Rift

It’s true, you really never slash always are alone in this world. After leaving Sevilla to escape my three frat roommates I now find myself in a four person dorm at a hostal with three other solo travelers. All of them also talk similarly to each other and different from me; they are all Japanese. Obviously, I consider this a huge step up from my previous situation but it is still a shame that I feel the need to apologize for or run from my Americanism. It’s not that people ask for apology, but if I myself am dodging Americans left and right, pretending to be French in more than one instance to avoid sorority girls and the like, how can I expect the world likes these people. I think that the states are full of competent, intelligent, worldly folks –I’ve made my friends out of them- but it certainly seems like many of our worst examples are roving the streets of Europe looking for their next fix. Sadly, I find it tough to differentiate myself, in action as well as the way I am perceived. I am one, no matter what I do. In fact, the worst example of Americans I’ve seen are those who try so hard to deny there nationality, going to far as to develop this disgusting euro-world accent that sounds like a mix between French, Cockney, and a slight case of Cerebral Palsy. Faceless, cultural nomads in a series of lands in which everyone’s nationality is strong, they are truly lost. Believe it or not, this is what America is lacking. I don’t mean to say that we need to buy more novelty flags –that’s more supportive of Chinese industry anyhow. There is something missing, something beyond, or perhaps before politics. The French and the Spaniards know this. Forget the government for ten minutes a day and think about your country. The dirt, the air, the trees, the rivers, the trees, the food, the cities, the trees, hell –the people. After a while I think we will all be able to find common ground on one or two things. Who cares what G____ B____ does? The baker bakes the bread, the druggist sells the drugs, the cars go round and round and we all have a party on Friday night! It’s the people (sprung from and shaped by the land) that matter, the government is only a very, very small group of people, and all that concrete and red carpet they stand on has severed their ties with the dirt. This is internationally universal. So, stupid antiwar hippies, get a hobby; compared to what you consider a decent lifestyle, no president, representative, or minister will ever been pleasing…so why think about it? I thought you guys were all about love and crap? Fervent pro war southern accent faking Carhartted fratters, …… I dunno….take a long walk by yourself maybe. Regardless life is way to short for a lot of the crap we Americans take so seriously for no reason other than boredom ……the surest sign of a lack of creativity, which can be cultivated!!

I’m not here to blast Americans because I’ve achieved some new wave euro view or something. In fact, everyday I think of more and more reasons why the states are awesome. But there is a serious divide between us and the rest of the world……but it’s nothing a slowly sipped espresso and milk over light, non-political small talk can’t fix.

Shredddddd!!!!!

After a good nights sleep interrupted only for a few hours by the group of awful drunken America fratters with which I shared a room I decided at the drop of a hat (such luxury is afforded only to us hapless solo wanderers) to board a train to Granada, a place fervently recommended by any and all with which I’ve spoken. To the east and in the mountains it promises to be a much more attractive lay of land than bland sniffles ridden Sevilla. I’m still reeling from my car rental trip to the south and had thought I might spend more time in Sevilla to recover, but my time here is somehow already running short and I don’t feel that I’ve done nearly enough traveling. Sevilla is a great place to meet people that speak English and want to drink and ruin themselves everynight, then talk it over the next waking afternoon -mere hours from a repeat. Sound familiar?

But I don’t want to sound like I have nothing good to say about the city or the people whom I’ve met. Like them or not, you meet people in need of a beer or a meal at the same time and you go together, chat, make friends even, then go your separate ways. Some people I’ve met, -self proclaimed “professional backpackers”- have been traveling in excess of one or even two years. Sasha, an American with such a track record and with whom I dined last night spoke of a worry that her skin had become too tough to goodbyes, a necessity I suppose for the cultural nomad.

My Spanish has gotten pretty good actually. Not conversational really, especially considering the speed with which they (or any of us for that matter) rattle off familiarisms. Still, I have no trouble ordering food, knowing what I’m ordering, asking directions and other common tasks. I’ve even gotten past the backjerked head response to my awful pronunciation that plagued me upon arrival. I’m even at times mistaken for a better speaker than I am. I nod and smile often.

Now I’m pulling into the Granada station in mere minutes and I can see the snow-capped mountains to the south. Perhaps some snow skiing is a possibility. The beach, I discovered in the south, is not.

Thanks for reading folks, more jokes next time. Perhaps more in the direction of Dan Brown and his ferociously pseudo-mystery devouring ever obedient flock.

Addendum:

The above was of course written on the train during my approach. Now I am in Granada and I am in love with this city. Now I’m not so afraid to say it….Sevilla sucks.

A lesson in patience: I mentioned in a previous blog that patience was I virtue that I was quickly learning on my journeys, well a good example manifested itself today. I’ve been itching to play guitar…I’ve gone in and out of a few shops…played some guits….dragged myself away. I had a piece of shit guitar in my hand in Morocco that I’m now quite glad the dude didn’t take my asshole lowball offer for. Today, after checking into the coolest hostal I’ve yet stayed in….and the cheapest, I went for a walk. Not but two doors down from me was a music store….not a music store…a guitar store….not a guitar store…..a luthier’s shop with guitars handmade by him. I now have a sweet guitar/another bag to carry. Tomorrow I will hit the street corners armed with a few Shins, Dead, and Dylan ballads to try to pay for the thing. I am happy.

Gibraltar Jump

Whew, I thought I might never see decent internet again. In the deeper and coastal south of Spain where I’ve been for the past four days there is an internet “café” on every corner: a room with three or four sooped-up Coleco-Visions and as many VOIP babbling locals. If you’re lucky, which you almost certainly won’t be, one of the machines will be available and you can navigate its lent twisted, grease covered mouse towards an email check.

My new friend, and already merely a memory Piers and I rented a car and drove to the south and to Cadiz just in time for Thursday night Carnival. Cadiz is a great city, possibly my favourite in Espana so far. All the locals and plenty of travelers crowd to the center of town where different fixed and roving groups of entertainers draw attentive crowds with silly, light-hearted song and dance routines. We met some dudes from Holland, drank some booze, roamed the safe, forgiving streets of Cadiz until the early morning, when we went to a bar. Just before sunrise we hit the sack in an awesome hostal that’s basically small apartments complete with bedrooms, kitchen, and living room, all for fifty euros. Really would be a great place for a future holiday with some friends.

In the morning, after Piers surfed a bit and I read on the beach we headed further south through a few even smaller towns, surfers paradise really, though the cold and lack of gear kept me, and even Piers for the most part, out of the water. Eventually we hit Tarifa, a beautiful town on the very south-western end of Spain, directly opposite Africa and Tangier, and followed along to coast afterwards to Algeciras a wretched port town opposite the bay from Gibraltar –the rock/British province. Upon arrival and dusk (now is a good time to point out that the first line about Algeciras in my guide book says to “keep your wits about you”….why wouldn’t I? When don’t I? Why so especially here? Thanks for nothing once more Lonely Planet) we took lodging in the first building we could find that wasn’t part of the port infrastructure or one of the aforementioned cafes: The Hostal Marrakech, known for its opium den living room and fundamentalist dressed Muslim crew. They did not like us, this much was clear, but all we needed was a bed and an ice cold shower, both of which the Hostal Marrakech was prepared to provide.

The next morning we bought tickets for a crossing to Morocco, drove back up the coast to Tarifa, and boarded a twin hulled speed ship for a beautiful 30 minute crossing to Tangier, my 5^th country and 3^rd continent. Yeah, it’s a bit freaky. Yeah, everyone does look at you, especially when you’re a six foot three blonde Yankee. But for the most part I’m here to tell you that the Moroccans are wonderful people. Most anyone with which I made eye contact shouted “Hel-lo…..Wel-come” with a smile. We ate traditional Morrocan food and bought as little cheap tourist shit as they would let us get away without. The real fun came when returned to the port for our return ship to Spain which was cancelled do to inclement weather and a would-be three boat loads of commuters were forced onto one boat which took us to Ageciras over the course of three hours. I stood on the top of the ship and watched the lights of Africa fade away and of Spain grow brighter while the rest slept in the ship, it looked like Jonestown inside, I alone on top felt like a giddy child.

Following a complimentary bus ride back to Tarifa we were able to take lodgings at about five this morning. The beautiful ride up the coats brought us back to Sevilla, my sort of operations base. Piers and I parted, and I’m once again on my own, though I’m back at the hostal where we met and am covered up once again in people with which to talk, spin yarns.

I’m tired, very tired, and this is a boring blog, unable even with full rest and enthusiasm to do reality justice. Go to Morocco. Couscous. Yum.

Concerned about culture shock upon my return. Why don’t we have trains?

DOWN WITH ROADSIDE BILLBOARDS FOR GODSSAKE!

Dear Diary

Hello all! Im writing you from Beautiful and warm Sevilla, Andalucia. Now for some facts: I spent the last two nights at a hostal that seems very popular with the Brits, Americans and Aussies so I've had plenty of people to gab with. Yesterday was a holiday here in in the south of Spain. And not holiday in the get drunk in the streets sense, holiday in the everything is closed sense. So that was kindof shitty but it allowed me to relax, recover, and read. I ended up last night with a big group of hostalers; a couple from Canada, a trio from Jersey, and a few other random loners like myself. All really great folks and all looking to make friends. We walked around all evening to a few different restaurants (tapas are super cheap, and the people here seem to eat constantly) then eventually to a flamenco club were some spainish chicks danced to guitars and clapping. It was cool, in its own way. But for a fan of pseudo electronic space rockjam, it was lacking a bit of depth, though dense with emotion. I miss my guitar painfully.
This morning I pack up my stuff, left the hostal and walked about 100 meters to a different, cheaper one. It costs much less and I have a private room, which is nice considering the british chick I stayed with vomited in the sink and the other dude saws logs all night. But thats hostal life I guess. Everything is back hopping in Sevilla today and I have spent most of the day walking around taking in the sights. Sevilla is like a really tiny paris in that it revolves around multiple centers and isnt neccesarily a grid. So I just walk untill my dogs start barking, take a rest in a park or on a bridge, then turn around, completely lost, and try to find my way back again. There's musicians in the street here. And I mean musicians. Classical quartets playing mozart for whatever you'll throw in the case, I spent an hour just sitting right next to a group listening, twas nice.
Tommorow I, the canadian couple, and an aussie dude named Piers are going to hire (in American: rent) a car and drive to the coast to go surfing. Hoepfully I will catch a big enough wave that I can ride it all the way to Africa. (Screw you guys and your fear) Its 65 and sunny today yet everyone is pretending its winter -wrapped in peacoats and scarves like regular parsians or londoners. Gotta wear all those clothes sometime huh? Me, tshirt and jeans. I reek of the States. Anyways, I find this style of blog to be painfuly boring, no?

If you've been to the south of spain and have a recomendation for me as far as where I need to go let me know, theres alot of cool stuff only a 10 euro train ride away and I cant decide!

Enjoy your backyards... these people are jealous of them.