| barcelona travel journal 1: dec. 16th 08 - loco turista blanco |
[Dec. 23rd, 2008|05:08 am] |
I just returned from a five day trip to Barcelona. Here are some words to match the pictures I've posted. I filled a whole moleskin of writing while I was in the greatest city on earth. I had a pretty hilarious time while I was there and there are a couple of nifty stories to come out of it. Here is my first installment about my rambling fear of air travel, first impressions of Spain, hostels and my hate for clubs. Enjoy!
Also, while I was away, one of my shitty short stories got put out onto a great art site:
http://www.kingshit.org
What's thirty thousand feet above jagged rock, weighs over sixty tonnes and supposedly reliable? Not Jesus, that's for sure. Welcome to my personal fucking hell. Strapped into this crazed travel invention somewhere over the Pyrenees, I'm going to die in an' airplane. Whose silly idea was it to create these winged chariots of death? I bet it was DaVinci. I don't trust a man who painted such an ugly, hairless woman. I don't know much about the Pyrenees, but I do know that they're 30,000 feet below me and if we were to take a dive, you couldn't salvage one drop of this ink.
A note on timing: I barely made all of my connections. If you're like me, and somewhat untraveled, plan everything down to the last minute. I missed the early afternoon train to Beauvais and had to rush out of the train, into a cab and into the airport where I was hassled about with my luggage. I had to pay them ten Euros on my snapped in half nearly maxed out credit card and I had five minutes to devour an airport baguette (as I had not eaten all day) and jump in the plane. While the train ride through the French countryside was rather nice, I am a fool who should plan such things more diligently. Here I am. Shakes on a plane.
Turbulence, the loathsome bane of my existence, has come to grab the plane and toss its steel salad. I'm looking out the window across the lap of the eighty year old woman and that turns out to be a horrible idea. The wing is trembling. My center of gravity is out the window along with any shadow of decency and there's these smiling airline stewardesses walking around. I think one of them is a model on the cover of Ryan Air calendar they're trying to sell me. They're all coked out of their skulls. Or something. Maybe they're genuinely happy. I don't know. I wonder if they fuck a lot. Probably not. Maybe. Fuck. I hate turbulence.
Chet Baker. I like Chet Baker. I am going to die listening to Chet Baker...and the sounds of about one hundred screaming passengers, the downward whistle of the vessel and someone in the future making a joke about how ironic it was that I died in a plane crash. I think the Russians call that harmony.
Had I not boarded this clusterfuck of machinery, I would not be in Spain right now looking down over mountains so sharp God uses them to cut baguettes. Its better that I grew the cojones to walk through customs. Or so I'm telling myself. If somehow I make it back to Canada via a cruise ship and spawn some misanthropic rug rats, at least I can tell my kids that when I was 22 I went to Spain and saw the ocean or something like that. Won't matter because I'm sure the little hooligans will hate me because of my insufferable puns and bad taste in music. Though, if they grow up thinking that Joe Strummer is bad, and then fuck 'em, they can live with their mother. I haven't decided if this will be after my third or fourth divorce. I make cruel jokes when I'm scared shitless.
My lips are chapped and I think I'm developing an ear infection. Measuring now, I think I've been on over ten flights. Let's do the math. The first flight I ever took was one alone from Toronto to Edmonton up to Yellowknife to visit my aunt and uncle during the summer. At that time, I remember being excited. Ah the undeveloped insecurities of youth. I think I was most troubled with the fact that I had a paunchy belly and sweat stains and therefore the female race I had developed primal longings for paid me very little mind. I just wanted to hold hands. There's four flights round trip, add a round trip bush plane trip in the middle of Temagami (I am so Canadian) and we have six. Throw in four roundtrip Christmas flights to the whitest and coldest north and you've got ten. After that, I turned 19 or so and that's when all the fun little things that make soon to be neurotics anxious come to the surface. I went to Vancouver and Yellowknife last winter and I hated being on board those planes every last second from take off to touch down. The flight to France was my first Atlantic crossing and the thoughts of gliding over crashing waves and such put me in the fits. Here I am now, years distant from that time in grade four or five when I aspired to be an aeronautical engineer. My pregnant teacher told me I was destined for great things...and I had prayed to Canadian Jesus to be employed by Boeing, making planes more dangerous than they are now, armed to the fuselage with Hellfire missiles, vertical takeoff and landing capabilities and hollow pointed tracer bullets.
Being and dying on a 737 and the seatbelt sign is on. There's an announcement in Spanish and I suddenly realize how fucked I'm going to be for conversation on the streets of Barcelona. I assume that since we're over mountains, we're going to be experiencing more windy fun in the near future. Let the heart palpitations begin. Thank G. for Chet Baker. The seatbelt sign flicks off but that blasted no smoking sign remains on: perpetually. Jesus.
Of all the places to ban smoking. Airports and airplanes. There is absolutely NOTHING I want more at this juncture in time. A sweet stick of the Marlboro desperado's finest toasted and cured would set me straight. Hell, I'd even smoke a mentholated fag if the laws were in my favour. Though, dearest non smokers who might never get to read this, as a conscientious guy who huffs paint thinner, I get all the ramifications and reasons towards this forward thinking rule. This is a gigantic steel coffin and it would fill up rather quickly if I started hacking back to my heart's content. It would probably have some effect on the cabin pressure, but I'm no scientist. Yet.
Speaking of sexually ambiguous silver haired Spaniards coming to talk to me, I find myself staring at this bizarre man with the puffy face of an alcoholic and a twisty moustache. It seemed I was his little ray of light and he asked me something in Spanish. I replied "Losiento" which for the rest of you North American beauties translates into Sorry. "No Hablos Espanola!" Upside down question mark. He pats me on the shoulder and keeps walking. That's right, muchacho. I will not be your little culo this evening. Maybe Dad was right. Everyone in Europe is trying to fuck you or con you. Or both. O Canada, our home and normal land.
I can't explain why I'm so compelled to write when flying. Nothing in the planet scares me more. I think it's the whole gun to the head aspect of the journey. There's a coin toss where you could end up in a smattering of messy molecules on the tarmac. If I was stuck on an airplane for the rest of my life, I could imagine writing the bigger and more fear induced sequel to War and Peace. Perhaps this is precisely what I need, fear to induce the writing. There's a certain sense of urgency here. These might be my last words.
This closeness with death perhaps makes me realize this even further. TURBULENCE. And perhaps what I need is a daily brush with fender benders, turbulence, gunfights and things of that nature. It would at least make my doomsday gospel a little more viable and honest. There is a duty free cart of cologne and expensive trash less than five feet in front of me. I want to steal some Dior and use it as a pick up line.
"Buenos Noches Senorita!"
Present the bottle and lean in for a kiss. You know there's some sick part of myself that is longing for a good, heavy handed and resounding five across the eye. My grizzly left cheek yearns for a decent slap from a respectable young princess and I don't even know it.
Surprise. Nobody bought anything from the cologne cart. The cons are everywhere. Sadness and misery. At least I got to pick my own seat. Aisle, right next to the rear exit. In case of wing damage, book it to the back and jam yourself tightly between the wall and a sandwich cart. Whoever heard of a plane crashing ass first? Hence the term: nosedive. At eye level with me is a picture of a faceless brunette man crawling into the room filled with smoke and fire. It also says that during an emergency landing I'm not allowed to wear my glasses, earrings or high heels. Forget my specs, what about my fucking Manolo Blahniks?
We're approaching our descent. It's about the time we should be landing. The seat I picked is also beside an old French woman. She's lived some years, enough of them that I think she's eighty seven. I have a feeling that if we were in one of those supremely irrevocably "fucked" moments, I could grab her hand; look her in the eye and latch on to that moment of peace she'd be at. It would be the opposite of sitting beside an early thirty something who still had shit to do with their lives. They would scream:
"I never went to Moscow"
"I've never worn quilted leather."
"I'm the second coming and I'VE GOT SHIT ALL TO SHOW FOR IT!"
Could you imagine? In those moments of absolute hysteria, I turn to the elderly. They've been through some hell. They've buried their friends, lovers and enemies. And if they've had some fun, then they can probably die smirking. I mean no one really plans on being 100, but those people happen after forty years of safe choices and tight shoelaces. And those centurions? How many times have they been to a Stones concert, been out all night drinking or had a one night stand with the only intention of procreating a happy memory? Lord. This is why I love the normal ones with ugly scars, varicose veins and vast lengths of wrinkled flesh. This French woman beside me ordered a little bottle of wine earlier and knocked it back like a champ. She's Zen and the art of living carefree and I think if this sucker goes down, I picked a choice woman to sit beside. The seatbelt sign flicks on and it begins. Most crashes happen during takeoff and...Here we are...landing. This is my first time in Spain. Excuse the crude, but that is fucked up. A year ago I was in Yellowknife. This is something else.
Another notch on the ever expanding list of things that make my lips curl, no headphones or music devices are allowed for landing. So, I can't smoke and I can't listen to Chet. The silence that breaks to the sound of the wheels dropping and the flaps slowing you down and the blast of wind passing by. Doesn't matter how long you've been flying, it all comes down to this landing. I'm as calm as a Buddhist on fire. The point where he realizes he's proven nothing and the powers will carry on and this is just a big mistake. They've killed the lights, I can see the landing lights flashing on the wing in the fog. Survival rate decreases, cabin tilts and drag increases. Don't stall, you fuckers.
We're about a thousand feet up. My ears pop. My imagination is running wild predicting a crash before it happens. Touchdown. We've done it. And people...start clapping. That's the first I've ever seen. I guess I wasn't the only one to think we were in for it.
I'm in Reus, Spain. Ola, fuckers. Turista Blanco is here for five days.
***
I'm on a bus to Barcelona and it has really dawned on me how screwed I am. Turns out, that slightly bizarre plane man just thought it was rad I had a beard and thought I was one of them. A bearded man equals a good man in this country. We struck up an incredibly disjointed but amicable conversation with me. I don't speak any Spanish. Believe it or not, they speak Spanish over here in tiger country. We kept pointing to this rebus guide of basic phrases I brought along. He got a lot of pleasing answers from me but there was a complete loss on my end. All I found out was that his name was Junta (like the military kind) and that Barcelona was a pretty place for Navidad. Which I assume means Christmas. We hopped on the bus and split for Barcelona. On the ride there you're crossing over giant hills and through little Spanish towns which look beautiful from a distance. They pop out of the giant swaths of Spanish forest, little beacons of yellow clay and funny signs. The bus ride from Reus to Barcelona is about 100km and it winds along the Mediterranean which at some points you could pick out behind the hills. Beautiful.
Barcelona. There are palm trees. I've never seen palm trees up close before. The guy who I earlier assumed wanted a taste of my Canadian flesh points me in the "right direction". So do five other people. I'm lost as fuck, I don't speak the language and I've only been here ten minutes. I have no idea where I am and after walking in circles through what seems to be a seedy area with a red flag sticking out of my ass that says ROB ME BLIND, I hail a cab.
The driver speaks about five words of English and twenty words of French and with my ten words of Spanish we launch into a conversation of Spanglishaise. There are several false starts that end in obvious disappointment for the both of us. This world is lonely and we want to connect if not only for five minutes. Wah wah wah. I have reason to believe we're kindred spirits just by the way he talks. He's also got a beard, and as a new member of the beard club, I think it's rather important that we groomaphobes should stick together. He turns on the radio to break the silence and the Police come on. We both hum along to the verse and then both start loudly singing the chorus: TURN ON THE RED LIIIIGHT!! TURN ON THE RED LIIIGHT! It was pretty hilarious.
Speaking of red lights, we hit one and he turns down the music. He reaches into the seat in front of him and pulls out a guitar. He mentions something about music being the international language. Kind of hokey, but how can you be eloquent when your audience is someone who is essentially deaf and so spiteful of international politics? He starts playing some classical Spanish guitar and then...starts driving as he does. If I wasn't so caught up in the sheer magic of the moment, I might be more scared than I was on the airplane. But this guy can SHRED! The power of rock shall guide us through. We end up at the hostel, which as it turns out, was embarrassingly close.
I buzz upstairs and I'm greeted by a rather cheery fellow. There's some trouble with my booking, but you don't care about that and neither do I. I'm told there is a hostel party that night and would I like to come? Fuck yeah. Colour me delighted. I've just got off an airborne death vessel and a beer would be fantastic right about now. I settle into my room and meet three American girls who are also studying abroad. Har har har. Studying a broad. Never ceases to crack the infant in me up. After some non intrusive conversation, some dude with glasses and a moustache pokes his head in:
"Who's coming to the party?"
The guy later introduces himself to me as Tomas from Argentina. He's studying violin in Barcelona and also does most of the partying at hostel Sant Jiordi. A note on hostels: the middle of the line hostels work like this I imagine. There are the night people who work the front desk and peak your interest about a swell party. Then there is the dangling party ringer who walks around the hostel and beefs the event up trying to convince everyone and more importantly their Euros to tag along. He or she corrals the young folk into going out and getting fucked up like it's an obligation to the country they're visiting. He organizes the kids into awkward bumbling herds who try very quickly to get to know each other in an uncomfortably short period of time. I think they get as many people as they can out to certain clubs which in turn pay them a nominal fee for the amount of people they end up bringing. In exchange, the hostel goers get a glass of champagne or a shot of something and free admission. It is then the hostel's responsibility to encourage its inhabitants to imbibe as much alcohol as possible so you get sedated into paying whatever accessory fees and other luxuries (linens, internet, massages, phones, food, you name it) you wouldn't normally pay for in a normal state of mind. It is truly creepy how they go out of their way to encourage you get as drunk as possible just so they can take advantage of you. Sickos. I heard this conversation play out before we left.
"What do you mean you're not going out tonight?"
"I'm exhausted. Been walking all day."
"Oh, don't say that, take a power nap."
"No really, I'm tired"
"You're not tired, that's just your mind playing tricks on you. C'mon take a nap, think about it and meet us back here at 11."
"Okay, I'll think about it."
Not only did the boy think about it, but he went out and looked like death warmed over the following morning. They badger you into submission and you find yourself hours later prone on the top of some greasy bar as some gap toothed Bertha then inhales body shots of Sambuca off you while toying with your chest hair. And you HATE Sambuca! I'm reminded of my first job as a movie theatre employee.
"Are you sure you don't want to upsize to a Star Wars mega deal?"
"Yeah, I'm fine; I'll just take the candy and the drink."
"You know you're saving a whole thirty five percent? More bang for your buck?"
"Nah...I'm fine, really."
"C'mon...are you-"
"WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! I JUST WANT MY MALTESERS AND A DIET SPRITE!"
"Dude, relax. I was only trying to do YOU a solid. Thirty five percent! C'mon! It's a deal I'd definitely consider."
After painful deliberation:
"Fine. I'll take the novelty cup with Yoda's head too."
They always bite. And that little freckled ginger working concession? He gets employee of the month and ends up nailing the prom queen and makes serious cheddar in management. You're still ten dollars poorer. Life's a bitch, eh?
Back to the hostel, Tomas organizes myself, two guys from Asia and a bunch of British frat boys at the front desk. Me in a Fucked Up T-shirt and ripped jeans. Sore thumb deluxe. Oh boy. In an effort to stave off boredom, I start to chat with Leo from Hong Kong. He's studying Turkish women in Istanbul and is incredibly nervous about speaking English. He doesn't seem to think so, but I'm of the belief that his English is fucking impeccable for a guy who just learned it three months ago. He's been dropping multisyllabic bombs left and right. We end up at the sister hostel and there's a rager in progress. People sitting on couches drinking beer and watching Robbie Williams sing at Live 8. Tomas suggests we go buy some beer. I think this is a splendid idea and split with the five British chaps, who are unquestionably chaps as they are British. These boys are from Hyde Park which is inside of London and they're all studying engineering. They're also all incredibly nice. And I usually have a bone to pick with them colonialist swine. They could have had their own show. They were the funniest most idiosyncratic group of Londoners I had ever met. The one liners flying around were killing me.
"Oi bruv, Andreus, I'd love to get with your muvva!"
"Roight, now! she's only half out of the grave. Be easy, boy."
"Pipe down, Andrew, you're Irish."
"C'mon now Jordan, I think you've gone and hurt my feelings bruv. Think it was a bit cheek playin the race card, innit."
"Oh c'mon bruv, I didn't mean to cut you so deep. I quite like your Irish muvva."
Adorable. Three of us get one euro forties of San Miguel and the Irish boy gets a huge bottle of Sunny D.
"This Canadian's gonna think there's summat wrong with me. They're all out on the piss and I'm drinkin Sunny D."
"Nah, dude, you're keeping it healthy. I respect that."
"Healthy and its good bait for the school children. But I wouldn't know anything about that-"
He chuckles and flashes a dark glare.
"I usually use candy myself."
The humour of the United Kingdom knows no bounds. He actually had to quit drinking and smoking as it turns out he has epilepsy. On the upside, he's loaded and gets a whole bunch of free stuff in England. The downside is "I get some really cool fits". I end up quoting some Borat and I'm their new best friend. Pop culture: saving social situations since the days of the bard. We return to the other hostel and drink and I end up standing on a balcony of five South Americans who don't speak English smoking my fool head off (big ups for that line, Kurt Vonnegut). Off to the club. Thankfully, there were some members of the opposite sex from the other hostel coming with us. Unfortunately, I'm afraid of all women and what was more unfortunate than that, these women loved to sing ABBA and Julie fucking Andrews.
"OH MAY GAWD, CHARLENE! EVERYONE MUST HATE US!" one says after a cacophonous unified squeal of Dancing Queen.
Well ladies, I won't speak for everyone, but you're partly right. One Canadian hates you. Bitterly.
Enter the club. Now over the past couple of years of being a twenty something, this special societal construct known as the club has evolved into a common place for my generation. I think it's here to stay until my mid thirties. I know that a cross section of my friends and frenemies will want to go there on many different occasions in the future and get all kinds of drunk, dance like fools and possibly pick up some STD of the month. Though unfortunately, as a burgeoning recluse and a world class hater of humankind, I will never understand the places. When I enter the "club", I am filled with raging scepticism and a violent urge to smoke. Thank god Spain is the last bastion of indoor smoking in the world. The place was lit up with blue tinted lights and to give them their due; the DJ did really know his hip-hop. Great tracks from Public Enemy, Jay-Z (early), Biggie, Wu-Tang, Blackstar, Gangstarr and a whole bunch of stuff I hadn't heard since time, yo!
I am so unapologetic in my whiteness.
We were handed glasses of free champagne and for champagne, it wasn't bad. I knocked it back and picked up one of the two beers I would go on to sip angrily that night. Ah the lack of smoking ban. The black cilia in my lungs became off-note harps for cupids made of nicotine to play in this heaven of black tar. I smoked my last cigarette from France and ask Tomas where I can get some more. He directs me downstairs to a thing of wonder.
I remember the first time I fell in love. I was in Junior Kindergarten and there were three other boys: Claudio, Marco and Nicholas Heffernan (the first of three best friends I had growing up named Nicholas, Heffernan, Bright and Marian respectively). As transgressive as I may get at various points in my life, it was not the boys I fell in love with. Her name was Candace and she would be the first and last ginger that I would ever fancy. Ah...puppy love.
Sixteen years later and my heart is beating just like it did on the gravel playground of St. Clare's Catholic School. I'm standing face to face with a cigarette vending machine. The clouds part, the trumpets sound and a choir of angels belt out Latin hymnals. Here before me is a lodestar of debaucherous resplendence. And I'm reminded that I hate the fact that I love to smoke. I honestly do. I wish I didn't swoon at the romantic act of lighting up and killing myself softly, but I love it to bits. I don't think it's incredibly cool nor do I do it to perpetuate the tortured writer persona. I love the taste of tobacco leaves and that moment in the crash and bang of living and dying where I can lean back, inhale and enjoy it. I know that it's horrible for my health and the health of others (I try my best to be a conscientious smoker where applicable). Trust me. I buy the packs that tell me they're going to kill me. That's my business. Stay out of it. Next to falling head over heels for brunettes with baggage, cooking anything and writing until my fingers go numb: I love to smoke. Some people eat puffer fish, some people drive on the highway; some go to brothels and get spanked, others play checkers by candlelight with a fine Chianti. Everyone's got a thing, a vice, a call to action. Me? I've got my Marlboro Reds and I love the little suicide twigs to bits. I pay three Euros for these suckers and light up.
I digress. I'm in Barcelona, remember? Don't you hate it when people say I digest and then digress even further into some god-awful joke? It’s not funny. It's not even a good pun and I'm of the belief that the pun is still one of the highest forms of humour. It makes you sound like a silly bastard. So I'm in this club pretending how to know how to dance (which I don't) and pretending to have a good time (which I'm not). I've got this stupid little dance routine which if you know me and you've been to one of these idiotic places, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. I assume that other people find it funny, predominantly because I'm short. Short people plus jerky bizarre actions equals comedy. Time and time again: trust me on this one. The routine is as follows:
1. Move feet from side to side.
2. Shake waist, but not too much.
3. Move rest of body in unison with waist/feet.
4. Occasionally throw up gang signs for a tribe you're not part of.
5. Throw one hand up in the shape of a gun.
6. Pump a fist.
7. Repeat steps one through six.
I look like a dummy wearing the skin of an idiot. At least I'm fitting in and mildly self aware. I have my scruples, doncha know.
Hours in and I conclude that the Spanish are very happy people. On the TV screens, they're playing episodes of America's Next Top Model and on the loudspeakers Frank Sinatra/Biggie Smalls comes on. Some dude comes up and starts talking to me:
"Nos hablos, dude."
"Oh English?"
"That's my thing, yeah."
"Fuck yeah dude! Where in the States are you from?"
"I'm from New York," I say, seeing if he'll bite.
"Oh yeah from whereabouts? NYC?"
"No a little place called Toronto, a couple hundred miles north."
He looks confused for a second and then starts laughing.
"Oh I feel you man, I'm from Mexico City. I get that shit all the time. Name's Miguel."
So we talk for a bit. Like most of the people I've met so far, he's both amicable and comedic. He just finished law school and he's visiting Spain for the hell of it.
"Man...I love Spanish women. I love their ASSES. You like their ASSES?"
"Sure. Who doesn't like ASSES?"
I love playing along. Some reggae tune comes on and he goes nuts.
"I fucking love this track! You know how to do reggaeton?"
"The fuck is reggaeton?"
He starts doing this weird limbo dance and I start mimicking him, poorly. This was probably one of the funniest events on my trip.
"Hey you wanna go pick up some BITCHES?"
"Yeah with nice ASSES?"
This was merely an act of futility I wanted to have fun with. I live for the captions. Going into a Spanish club trying to pick up women. Hilarious. That's like the deaf trying to pick up the blind with good looks and charm. So I go up to a couple of girls way out of my league at the bar and start talking to them because what the hell do I have to lose. Not my reputation which already lies in tatters at the base of the toilet I last puked in. He tells them in Spanish that I'm Canadian and I flash them a thumbs up. Yes. I'm a thumbs up guy. Thoroughly unimpressed with yours truly, one of them gives Miguel a number and I get a smile. He ends up leaving and I'm basically killing time until the hostel people decide to leave so I go around snapping pictures of people pretending to be a party photographer. The Spanish love it. They band together in photos and smile and cheers their drinks and boy oh boy. When I'm bored stiff, I look for irony and comedy in all the wrong places.
I bump into the Brits and a couple of the Aussies and we head back to the hostel, promising to add each other on facebook, while one guy points out the obvious.
"You're never going to see each other again. Why bother?"
I don't know their excuse, but for me Facebook is an overwhelming data bank of character sketches and personal traits. You could write a Proust-esque epic surrounding all the friends you acquire. That's why I accept all the adds. You're all going to be part of some disgusting piece of bad literature that will never get published (because of my poor plots, purple prose and general horridness, rather than for reasons of delusional/misanthropic vanity). We end up back at the hostel.
Lovers quarrel, old men hack phlegm and I pass out. God sneezes, blesses himself and the black comedy called life continues. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
joelbrown's journal
