Winter on the West Coast

Of course it's 70 degrees on a Sunday.  Why shouldn't it be?  Why shouldn't the sky be cloudless except for the whispy high ones?  It's only January.  And the seats in the sand in front of Perry's are all full so I just find a slab of concrete ledge that looks comfortable to the North and take off my shirt and lay my tired head down.  There's an old man blowing on an old trumpet at the other edge, and as I close my eyes his Louis Armstrong strokes come to prominence and that smile creeps to my lips because well, amidst all the stress and anxiety, the uncertainty, the calamity of all things life for me at present, it's still just a beach calamity with the sun tickling my chest and Louis playing soundtrack.  The tight coldness knotted up inside melts away like an ice cream cone on a summer's day.  Oh, love I have for LA.

Barcelona: Stark Financial Realizations and Other Generalities

By the time another train's come picked us up, and we've gotten off at the closest stop on the map to the old, fabled Tibidabo, Mike's in better spirits.  We all are.  A twenty minute wait and a ten minute train ride, alone with one's thoughts and music, is all a man needs often times.  Time to sort out emotions, grab hold to the reality of present situations, and bring perspective back to an even keel.  There's a tram not far from the train station that goes straight up the mountain to the top where the old amusement park and that Spanish church lay, but as we all well know, trams up mountains cost money and that's one such precious resource we didn't feel like wasting away on a trek that could easily be done on foot.  Next to a dirt trail with old railroad-tie-sized wooden steps leading up into the Catalan woods, there's a sign with an arrow pointing up and to the right, and with yellow letters it tells us that the trail heads to Tibidabo.

"A little hike'll be nice, right?" I say as I see Grant eyeing the tram with all it's fancy bells and whistles.

"Let's do it," he nods, and we romp off over the railroad ties at a soft incline.  "I wonder how far up there it is..."

The answer is far.  Much farther than I'd imagined anyways, and in all honesty, it's not the prettiest of days.  The sky's overcast and with a high light grey and low clouds hanging puffy below, not white as in the sunlight, but with that same grey monotone.  It's muggy hot though, and the lack of sunlight isn't necessarily a bad thing as we step-by-step up the mountain through the trees.  A cool breeze treats us as the trail crosses an empty, paved road and becomes another not too far up the way.  The hike's already turned into something a bit longer than any of us had expected, and from the road there's to be seen a giant television needle sticking up and dominating the treeline.  Towering above us with it's hive of satellite dishes humming at it's middle, pointing out in all directions.  The path's wider now and it wraps along the side of the range, ambling ever so slightly upward, and around the next ridge is a much prettier sight.  Well.  In some respects, because there she is.  The Sagrat Cor.  The great church of Tibidabo perched on a peak farther down the range.  It seems still so distant, but at least it's within eye-shot now.  We take a pause on a bench by the path.  And by the bench, an old fire hydrant water spout to fill our bottles with.  All around berries are busy growing wild and black and Grant tries a few.  So too do I, and they're bitter, then sweet.  We wonder aloud about the coming night and the future mischief we'll no doubt find for ourselves.  And in my mind I'm beginning to realize it's rare to be times expected.  We're just floating in the Spanish mountain breeze with not enough cash between us to stick to set plans.  But it's a young man's game to dream the big life.  The everything, and we play it like a game of hearts, with passion, with cunning, with hopes and desires, with tired eyes and gazes stretching towards Tibidabo.

In the moody weather there's a streak of medieval questing that cuts through my thoughts as the place gleams in the bright grey like some gloomy treasure awaits for us there.    Something worth the trek to pull us up by the tank tops and brings us so close so that the speck of church on the mountainside becomes this great, white-stone monstrosity of looming Christianity.  To crane our necks up when standing before it just barely holds it's entirety in, all the way to the tip-top to Jesus with his outstretched arms.  Mike lights a candle inside at the foot of one enormous window of stained glass.  It's a place with deafening silence, with high ceilings and a thickness in the air so that you really feel the breaths coming in and going out.

[stop]

The sun's shining through the cloud cover when we walk out, shining down the mountain onto the old-time-y amusement park and all the rides we can't ride because we don't have any money, not me and Max anyways.  There is a bar though, by the entrance.

"We need something hydrating after that hike, whew," and Mike orders four beers from a lady with a fake mustache and black and white striped attire.  "I guess me and Grant got these ones, aye fellas?"

"Owe-board!" says Max with a swish of the fingers.

"Yup.  Thanks guys."  I add the beers to our totals on the iPhone.

"When's your money coming in?"

"Soon.  I hope.  I emailed my Mom two days ago.  She told me she'd put some in, so hopefully by tomorrow," I explain, but it's more pleading than explaining.  Being broke sucks.  Acceptance comes soon enough, mostly because one has no other choice.  Accept it.  It's the present.  Broke, presently.  At the top of Spanish mountains overlooking Barcelona.  The main streets cut through the city like a concrete and stone and tile mouse maze flowering off the Mediterranean.  The park's a small thing with a handful of rides that look awfully rickety in the wind up here.  Maybe it's just the faded paint though.  The childishly bright colors.  They've been truckin' on for a good hundred years, why stop now.  The old rollercoaster and the carousel, the pendulum swing that swings you to the very top, the heavy red prop planes hanging from a giant mobile and gliding out past the ledge; all truckin'.  Still, the planes look daring, and everyone's quite trusting in the ancient metal work.  And why shouldn't they.  I just wouldn't pay to get on.  Hell, I can't anyway.  The view's a treat when the thing comes around, out over the lower tree-tops.  Just trees stretching into city stretching into sea, suspended in the air.  I'll sit here with my beer and close my eyes and I'm there.  In the cockpit, at the fake wheel.  Maybe a pilot's helmet.  At the very least, some of those pilot headphones.  And maybe that rickety old plane rips off the metal mobile and glides down over the city and right out to sea.  What a view that would be, and I see it all.  I see it for free.  Sitting at a table by the bar with a beer in hand and nightshades pulled over my eyes for a second while we squabble pithy over life's methods and moneys and the manner of our perseverance through this torrid foreign affair.  The end's in sight, but it's still far off across a desolate, west-European plain of adventure.  It's all we can do to just take in everything because that's what precious and worth remembering.  The life being lived through this tired body.  The humid sweat, the cool breeze, the cool brews, the speeding clouds and the warm sun.  The world pacing below, and this carnival around us.

Barcelona: M5s and 5 EUR grams

It's been a couple days now.  A couple days in Barcelona.  A couple days in San Cugat with Irene and her lovely family.  A couple days without weed.  A few too many.  And we're going to Paris soon.  Who knows if we'll even be able to get any there.  Should we ask Irene?  Why not.  "Who's going to ask her?" asks Max.

"Well, you're the ambassador, Max," says Grant.

"He's got a point," says I.

"Dammit guys! Okay, I'll do it."  And so the next day when her parents are away, and Irene is helping us map out roughly our adventures through the city, Max slides in to say, "Oh, by the way love, you wouldn't know where we could get some weed around here do you?"

She laughs short at the affront, but she takes it in stride with a smile and a bat of the eye.  "Actually," she says, "my older brother sells weed.  He lives just a couple of blocks away.  Shall I call him for you?"

Personally, I'm caught unawares.  Really? Isn't your father a prison guard?  But whatever, who cares.  "Yes, please," I say.

"Really?" asks Max.  "That's just the sweetest thing."

"Yes," she says matter-of fact-ly, smiling because she certainly feels us all in the palm of her hand.  She calls her brother and tells us he'll be over shortly.

"How much is it?" asks Grant.  She asks her brother in Spanish, and in English tell us that it's five euros a gram and asks us how much we want.

"Five euros a gram, huh," torts Max, but the seriousness in his voice isn't reflected on his face, or on any of ours.  There's a child-like wonder in all of us, like kids at the toy store and all the toys are half off.  It's no longer a question of if we're getting something, but rather how much or how many somethings should we decide to get.  The prospects are tantalizing, but our wallets are light.

"How's about ten?" suggests Grant.  "It's a good round number.  And we're not going to see prices like this anywhere else.  We might as well stock up."

"Sold!" I say.

"Sounds good.  That should hold us through Paris," says Max.  "Ten grams it is, Irene.  You little bundle of awesome."

She tells her brother.  "He'll be over soon," she says, "Look out for the red M5"

"He drives a red M5?  Baller."  At least he's subtle.  We're all waiting on the balcony and he comes flying down the street and pulls half-way up the apartment driveway before getting out.  There's a gaudy pair of sunglasses over his eyes.  They're on his head when he comes inside.

"What's up guys!  Where you all from?" he greets us.

"California," we say.

"Oh!  California Girls!  I love California," he says.  "And this is for you."  He hands us a package of tinfoil about the size of a football and we open it up to find our ten grams of weed, like in some giant baked potato wrap that we can't wait to eat.  Irene's brother hangs around for a while to ask us about Los Angeles and movie stars before jetting off to other businesses, leaving us to decide on how exactly we were going to transport all this weed in our bags.

"It'll all fit in my bag, I think."  I'm quite confident.  We wrap it back up in the tinfoil and squish it down, and it squeezes into the bottom of my pack comfortably, wrapped in clothes and towels.  And by this time, we're already high.  The weed's not great (it's brown and light and still on the stem sometimes), but hey, what we didn't have in quality, we certainly made up for in quantity, and it gets us there.  And we're going.

Milk, Kings of Leon

I hadn't heard that song in a long time.  Hadn't really listened to it anyway.  And then I'm driving home, alone, high off a spliff and a glass of champagne and one of wine under my belt.  Not glowing, not drunk, just humming along when the song comes on, and immediately my thoughts fly to her.  It's so silly strange how that comes too be.  Some slow song about a girl that I used to listen to way back when I used to be in love.  That's all it takes for the memories to flood back.  Sitting in cars on young nights, smoking bowls, not spliffs, and watching the planes take off from LAX.  Talking about nothing for hours until we'd pass out in our own seats.  Secrets from Mammoth.  Sneaking into her room when her parents were asleep.  And then I think to myself how long ago that was.  She's not that girl anymore, and I'm not that boy either.  We've grown.  We've changed.  There's been a country between us.  But the thing is, we're not altogether different, I don't think.  She still has problems drinking milk.

Barcelona: Hope in Humanity

Irene meets us on the sidewalk in front of a nice-looking brick apartment building.  There's a park across the street with play structures in the sand.  "Hi guys!"  She's a tiny one, but there's something Spanish sultry about her too.  


Maybe it's her brown curly locks or her brown piercing eyes or her sharp chin or her slender neck.  Or maybe it's her magnificent breasts.  Maybe, because my word they're a alluring pair, they are.  And she held them with such a back arch that implied the acutest back dimples just above her tailbone.  Maybe that's it, but that's nothing new.  It's the way she speaks to us that's entirely foreign, but strangely familiar and intriguing.  The way she chooses her words and the inflections she puts on them.  It's the way she lisps her tongue between her teeth ever so lightly on the s's.  Like flint-rock falling by dry summer brush, it is.  It lights a fire inside me.  Never have I heard a Spanish accent so sensual and appealing.  It's not like a Mexican accent or anything Latin.  To me, it's much more beautiful, and it's not just the vessel.  Not the ship, but the wind in the sails that stokes the flames.  Flames that are somewhat extinguished when she brings us in to meet her parents and tells us she's seventeen.


"Seventeen?!" exclaims Max.  "I was thinking my age; twenty-two or twenty-three by the look of you. You European girls, you get me every time!"


"Maybe I'm just so much more mature," Irene says with a pursed smile.  Maybe.  And  in a lot of ways, maybe so.  She is exquisite.  And her parent's are the loveliest things.  "My mother wants to improve her English," she says as she introduces us.  "So don't feel obliged to speak Spanish.  Just speak English, she loves it."  Whew.  That's dandy because I don't know a lick of Spanish.  And Mike, Max, and Grant's Spanish is just a little bit better than my French,. which still isn't very good at all.  


Irene's mother greets us as just the happiest mother would, full of bubbly enthusiasm and smiles and rather well-spoken English.  Here and there she finds pause on something she can't translate and the game turns to word-guessing Yahtzee.  She's instantly lovable and when she ask, we tell her our stories, of what we've done and where we've been and the precious diamonds in between, and she hangs to every word, only breaking to make some night-time tea for us all.  So animated she is at our every tremendous fall and triumph, face alight or filled with ghastly awe and she already never wants us to leave.  We tell her we never want to leave either, and as Irene shows us to the two spare rooms and introduces us to the kitty named Baby and the gecko and the one month old puppy, I know a part of me feels this legitimate because that part is that part we know of ourselves the least.  The restless soul, not always restless though because as my eyes close in yet another bed that is not my own, a filling warmth soothes comfort to the core, and I can't help by wonder how we're managing so swell-ly and with such championing hospitality.


[time to sell shit]


We wake up late the next morning and Irene 's already gone off to work.  She's a camp counselor of sorts and she works at the beach and she works a lot.  It's a lazy day (I think we're afforded one) and by the time we're out of the house it's way past noon.  Irene's mother takes us for a leisurely stroll through San Cugat, past the old stone monastery and down the skinny stone shop streets.  She points out her favorite sandwich place and her favorite sausage place and her favorite bakery.  She tells us a lot of the shops are closed right now for siesta and she goes no, stretching the bounds of her English and she's having a ball.  She loves us like a mother would and looks upon us with warm eyes squinted from always smiling.  When we tell her our plans for making dinner, she's overjoyed.  The look on her face says she's bouncing up and down and clapping her hands, but she isn't.  She's too composed for that as she says she'll show us how to make some authentic Catalan food tonight and we can make dinner tomorrow.  Why that sounds just grand.  We can hold off the inevitable chicken pasta dinner for another night.


[time to bike]



Irene's back from the beach before dinner and joins in on the preparation festivities.  Her mother's got us working like line cooks at the table and we love it.  Grant slices tomatoes in half.  Max and I squeeze and rub the tomato halves over slices of toasted bread, and Mike adds olive oil and salt and pepper as a final touch, just like she showed us.  In the meantime the two girls, Irene's mother and her offspring are in the kitchen cooking up other Catalan entrees.

"It's not ready yet!" Irene would shout at us, smiling, when we'd sneak in for a peak, and she'd shoo us out to the living room to watch Spanish action movies with her father.  The production value is reminiscent of old 90's action flicks back in the States staring Chuck Norris or Sylvester Stallone or some other middle-aged meat-head.  The dialogue's lost on us though, which isn't necessarily a bad thing and only adds to the intrigue of a plot-line impossible to fathom.  A stand-off on a bridge in the jungle.  Serious faces.  Guns.  Betrayal.  Explosions.  A prisoner exchange gone horribly wrong.  It's all fascinating.  Like when we're high back home and accidentally flip to Telemundo or Univision.  Usually I flip right by.  Unless I'm high, in which case, it's not necessarily easy to be hasty on the channel changer.  I get sucked in every now and again, especially when I'm not trying to watch anything in particular, and it's always fascinating.

More fascinating still is the meal prepared by the mother daughter duo and set before us presently at the table.   Irene's mother goes on explaining the two dishes, the spicy tomato soup and the queer pan-sized potato omelet-looking thing.  "This is a traditional Catalan dinner," she says to us excitedly.  "Oh! And look at all the, em, the tomato bread you made!"

The plate of bread slices is double stacked about a foot high.  We laugh, "maybe we overdid it a little with the tomatoes."

"Nonsense!" she says.  "Let's eat!"  And we all take our seats and dig in.

"Oh my goodness," says I.  "Whatever this egg and potato thing is, it's delicious.  What's it called again?"

"Tortilla de patatas" says Irene.

"And the bread, what's that called?  I love it."

"Pa amb tomàquet," she says, and we all take turns trying to say it with the right accent.

"Well, it's amazing, all of it," chimes Grant.  "Thank you."  Max and Mike nod, chewing feverishly in agreement.

The talk turns from food to culture, and Irene's father joins in, asking us questions about our lives in California, and what we do and how we go about doing it.  He's enraptured by our lifestyle.  He scoffs at the amount of money we shell out for public school.  They all do.  "But this is crazy," says Irene.  "School should be available to everyone, I think, not just those who can afford it.  I only have to pay for books really when I go to university next year.  And with tuition it's only maybe two thousand euros a year.  How much do you pay?"

"Ugh.  Like twelve grand," I tell her.

"What is this grand?"

"Thousand.  Twelve thousand a year just about."

"Crazy!  But that is so much for education!"  Irene's whole family is in disbelief.

"You're telling me," says Mike, "I still have a couple more classes next semester before I finish."

"Ouch."

"And you like Obama?  You voted for him?" pries Irene's father.

"I did," I say.

"So did I.   I think we all did."

Papa looks at us wisely.  "He seems to be a good man, Obama.  Much better than Bush, whew!  What an idiot!"  That taboo about no politics at the dinner table is maybe just an American thing, I suppose, because we talk at length.  About everything from politics to economy, especially after they learn Mike and I were Business Economics majors back at Santa Cruz.  So refreshing it is to have an articulate discussion that doesn't degrade into anger and ruffled feathers.  Maybe it's a Spanish thing to keep one's composure through intelligent talk.  So we tell them everything we can about life in the States, about the great differences between regions, the reason we tell everyone we're from California, not the US.  "Europeans don't like Americans," I say.  "But everyone likes you if you're from California."

"That's because California is cooler," says Irene.

"True.  And most Americans kind of suck, generally anyways.  It's not particularly hard to figure why our moniker's so negative.  As a nation we're proud, stupid, greedy, and mostly close-minded.  If someone doesn't agree with our ideas, we think they're stupid.  We only speak English, and we think your stupid if you're English isn't as good as ours, even in foreign countries where we don't know the language. "

"Yes, but you guys are not like this."

"I certainly hope not," Grant slides in between spoonfuls of tomato soup.

"Dude, dip the bread in there.  It's epic."  And he does.

Mama and Papa take turns telling us about life in Catalonia.  Papa works at a prison and Mama keeps the house.  When we ask them if they were excited about Spain's World Cup win, they tell us of the deep hatred between Spain and Catalonia.  It's mixed feelings because many of the players for the national team play for FC Barca.  Most people living in Barcelona are Catalan they say, and long ago there was a war and Spain conquered Catalonia, and Barcelona has despised it's Spanish rule ever since.  The language is even different, and that's why many signs in the city have Catalan translations, along with the English ones.  It's a culture that may be slipping, but refuses to be forgotten.  Irene's family is one that keeps it alive, and through their hospitality and warmth they pass it on to us.  We feel like family now.  And yeah, the awesome food helps.  After dinner we play with the gecko as Baby looks on silently from the corner, and Irene tells us all her favorite movies, new and old.  She's made a list and the titles slip out in seducing Spanish.  "The Dreamers," she asks us, "have you seen it?  It is by my favorite director, Bernardo Bertolucci.  You must see it, it's so good and beautiful."  No, you are.  I've never seen it, but I will now.  I want to watch it immediately.

Coffee and Cigarettes

God, I hope I'm still too young to fail.  But my, how the work's taken it's toll.  There's more hairs falling, pulled out by my fingers, more now than ever.  I find myself always far-sighted, looking back, trying to put the past into words.  Words of meaning, something more than just the half-crazed slaving away of print on paper.  Not so much of a desperate plea to give them direction, but rather point myself, my thoughts down a plausible path.  Because I hate standing still and waiting to decide.  I'm lost at an impasse.  A Parisian intersection with twelve choices jutting out in all directions.

Always looking back.  Always being pulled forward.  Nothing's holding me in the now anymore.  I miss being in love.  That feeling of, well, it was mostly pain I suppose because I was always so wretched with it.  So inopportune and optimistic, I was.  But it was that feeling, that longing to hold that was my anchor.  It's gone now and I'm drifting out to sea.

Amsterdam: Why I Love Holland

Holland.  Again.  The reunion tour.  I’ve missed this place.  We arrive at night this time, not the early morning.  It’s a different experience, definitely.  There’s a hustle and bustle that was markedly absent that first Sunday morning way back when.  Mike’s stoked.  “Dude.  This place is sick.  Awesome.”

“Well, where d’you wanna go, first-timer?” I ask.

“To weed!”

“To spliffs!” Max and Grant chime in.  And we walk into the night in a familiar city.  Past the Soup Kitchen, down the skinny crooked alleyways all lit neon and inviting. 

We roll into a pipe-shop and ask the guy where the best coffee shop is.  You know the kind.  “There’s a few just down the street that are really nice,” he tells us.  “Where are you guys from?”

“California mang.”

“California!  Awesome!  Go to the one on the far side of the canal.  It’s really cool.”

“Sweet.  Thanks bud.”  And we take a minute to show Mike the mushrooms in the fridge that aren’t really mushrooms because they’re truffles, which aren’t illegal like mushrooms are because they’re grown underground.

“Ha!  That’s epic!”  He exclaims.  “I already love this fucking place!  Fuck Paris.”

For real.  We all march down the street and across the canal like little wind-up toy soldiers on a roll.  Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot with the spring of impending highness in our step.  I should know the name of the place, but well, my short-term ain’t what it used to be.  It’s dark and trance-y and all the seats and tables are spread out and low to the ground.  We set our things down by an old, broken-in couch and a split log table.

“Ah, minimalist techno,” Max is so observant.

Mike’s already in awe, “Say what…”  We go up to the counter, also made of split wood, and browse over a menu.  The guy behind it takes stock of us.  He’s a chiller. 

“Where you guys from?” he asks.

“California.”  And suddenly there’s a sparkle in his eyes.  It never gets old.

“Oh, so you guys like the good stuff, eh?”

“The best,” says Max.

“But we’re also broke,” I add.

“Yeah, how’s Sangria?” asks Grant.  He’s making moves.  It’s the cheapest gram on the menu, 9 EUR. 

“Oh, man.  You guys don’t want the Sangria,” says the man in comfortable English.  “Trust me, it’s shit.  You want the Pirate’s Plunder.  It’s only a buck more, but it’s dank.  No White Widow (14 EUR), mind you, but still dank.”

“Dankity dank?” I ask.

“Yeah, bro.  The pocket saver.”

Max is sold, “Sick.  We’ll take three grams please.  Grant,” he says, “Brian and I are gonna have to owe you.”  But he’s all for it, bless his mustached soul.

“Do we even have papers?”

“Don’t need ‘em Mikey-poo,” Max says fingering a few king-sized ones from the tissue box on the counter.  There’s a small wooden charm box beside it full of pre-cut crutches. 

“Hot damn, Holland is cooler than America,” says Mike.

“I know right?” Because in a lot of respects it really is.  Especially as we all plop down on the couch and Grant rolls up a fat one.  And our Dutch friend behind the counter wasn’t fooling, because when we pick up our bags to leave, we’re hiiigh.  High as funk.  We thank him and slide out onto the street.  Katinka said we’d be staying at a friend’s house this time.  Bigger.   And closer too, by the canals.  It’d be a little walk, but not too far.  Grant had the coordinates on his phone and we take off.  High.  High as a kite, with the wind blowing in every direction.  

[stop]

At some point, that wind went blowing us astray because after an hour, we're still looking for the place.  By canals, over bridges.  The addresses are all mixed up, it seems.  These silly Dutch sailors, making everything so hard to find.  An old lady sees us, slowly deteriorating under our packs, and asks in grandmotherly, concerned English, "Are you guys lost?"  Lost like lost puppies, and faces like them too.  And high.  And why are you the kindest, sweetest lady ever?  We tell her where we're going, and she tells us where to go.  Over a bridge.  Across a canal.  And to Katinka's door.  

"I've missed you guys!" she smiles, and we miss her too.  It's a two-floor flat with a sprawling floor-plan, and vinyl covers and big canvases on the walls and wooden wheel coffee tables.  A place for young men to stretch and laugh and eat and drink and smoke.  And dance and play music loud.  A place to be Dutch kings for two nights.

Paris: The Train situation

It’s Thursday and it’s as good a day as any to high-tail out of this damned town.   Don’t get me wrong.  Irene and Marie-Chiara are both exquisite.  They may be this city’s saving grace.  Maybe.  Dolls, the both of them.  In that old classic gangster definition of the term.  An absolute treat and such splendid hosts.  And when I think of French girls from now on, I know their faces will always be the first to flash.  Their bodies as well because oh, a French woman is a desirous masterpiece.  But I think we’ve grown weary of France.  Tired of feeling stupid and inadequate and wrong all the time when one has to talk to a stranger.  It chips away at the esteem, it’s humbling and self-realizing.  After a while it turns to something you miss being without, exerting so much effort simply to communicate.  It’s been a while now, a week, so we’ve had enough I imagine.  We’re all relieved really, and there’s a tickle of excitement because we’re headed back to Amsterdam.  Katinka’s waiting for us.

“Good-bye, my friends.  You were wonderful, all of you.  So much fun.  If you are, you know, ever in Paris again… well, you can stay here of course.”  Marie is always so gracious (Irene’s out running errands on her bike when we leave).  I think it’s the accent.

“No, you were wonderful, Marie.  Thank you so much,” says Grant.

“Yes, thank you!  Merci!  Merci beaucoup!” Max is smitten.  I think we all are. 

“Bissous!” she says, and she comes up to each of us for a quick peck on both cheek and we follow suit in return. 

“Merci beaucoup!” I say.  “Au ‘voir!” and we’re out the door and down the stairs with our packs on once again.  To the metro stop at Alesia and over the turnstiles, quick style (because we’re all too used to it by now) and a bit awkwardly (because we’ve been romping around sans backpacks for the last week).   To Gare du Nord.  I sneak a bag a gummy worms and an orange juice from the Relay express store while the counterman’s ringing someone up and we board the first train north.  To Antwerp.  To Amsterdam via Belgium.  We’ve all still got two days on our EuRail passes.  That’s more than we figured we’d have this close to the end.  Truly.  But some of the conductors are nice (not in France), and many times they’ll suffice with a simple flip of the ticket book without thought to stamping it.  A free day we’d call it, and we got a couple of those.  In America it’s called a free lunch I believe, and those aren’t supposed to exist.  It’s bullshit really.  People who don’t believe in a free lunch just aren’t trying hard enough.  They are the lazy and the afraid.  They are people of etiquette but not always of virtue.  Or maybe they just don’t think of it, not the good and the bad, just the perception.  They think of how others see them.  They think of safety in the herd.  They crutch themselves on money and that is their goal.  Status and comfort and safety.  Funny, to strive for something so relative.  Something that means so many things to so many different people.  But to some that’s the end game, the definition of that which is fed to them, and they are fed no free lunch.  They wouldn’t dare be caught looking for one.   

Me, I don’t care.   Money’s no crutch, it’s just a currency, and when one’s out of currency everything one needs becomes free.  It’s just a matter of going about and making it so.  Knowing the ins and outs of the society you’re in.  Knowing the interactions.  Knowing the mannerisms.  Knowing what’s to be expected and blending in.  Following suit.  That’s when one finds the humanity in our checks and balances.  The nonchalance.  The charisma.  The whatever.  The limits of politeness.  The cunning of charm and manipulation.  The id of perception and status quo.  And then free lunch is just something for the taking, something to be thankful for.  It’s no walk in the park though.  It’s daring and brash and requires more than a handful of quietly desperate confidence.  And steel jaw and cool eyes.  And when the conductor comes around I flip him my ticket-book and a look like I’ve seen his kind already today.  It’s that vague, flustered recollection.  But alas, he’s French and he brandishes his stamp and grabs my book to inspect it.  Stamp.  Slut.  No free lunch today, I suppose.  No simple nod of understanding.  But I don’t need it, not today.  I’ve had enough (especially in Germany and Switzerland).  And hell, if it were always free one wouldn’t relish it so, wouldn’t hold those who offer one in such high regard.  Like I do.  

Barcelona: Razz MaTazz, Spanish Girls, Catalyan Girls

We're going out tonight, no stopping us.  To Razz MaTazz on free Wednesdays.  It can't go wrong save for having to find our way off the metro.  Past tall, gated parks, up narrow Catalyan streets to a warehouse-looking place near the light-rail.  We didn't take it there, but we'd take it back most definitely.  There's a line behind red velvet rope.  It moves fast though, as the bouncers shoo us in.  And no wonder because when we get inside, the place is huge, and still not full, but far from empty.  Give that two hours.  The bar's packed so that one can't take another step without scooting by someone.  There was more air in the middle on the dancefloor because there the ceiling's vaulted up past a second-story ringed balcony, and the spirit can dance wild because friends are around.  The floor stays cool as the heat rises.  Maybe I think the girls dancing on the backings of couches are hotter than we may be, and no matter what we say, the ones on the floor stop dancing with us when it's in English, not Spanish.  Even the pair of young drunk vixens who dance with us only for a little, but stuck around to grind hard on each other and make out and kiss Spanish boys that grabbed them.  It was okay though.  


We were drunk and they were playing the Strokes, which dances well on a beer drunk such as this one.  Four boys in a Spanish night club dancing west-coast American, with goofy moves and laughing faces.  And before we leave we're all sweating and empty handed and the sun squints our eyes on the outside and I secretly wish Irene had come to dance with us,  even if for no other reason than to have her there.  But also, of course, there was that Catalyan beauty whose fire was very much alive in her brown eyes and her young body of a woman.  And every time she talked and asked a question with that accent and the tilt of her brown curls and high soft cheekbones, at those times I wanted to step closer and closer to her to hear it clearly as she decides to talk quieter.  Maybe to lure me in.  I wish.  I love that Catalyan girl.  I love her because she's pretty and she likes to watch old movies more than I do.  And she's casually European.  Reluctantly Spanish.  But it's all relative, she wasn't there.  

Munich: Beerhalls and Bratwurst

HOFBRAUHAUS.  I love this place, everything about it.  The old vaulted cellar-looking ceilings.  The long, solid wood tables.  The huge gas lanterns hanging from the dark rafters.  They're enormous and we walk right below them, down the main aisle to find some free seats.  It seemingly goes on forever, the end's obscured long before by frolicking drunk Germans singing loudly and laughing and making merry, as is their pleasant disposition.  The lanterns follow it all the way down, big enough to cage a fat toucan bird, those things are.  Fat and joyous seem to be the theme of the night because about half-way down there's a trumpet player, a German (or French) Horn player, and a tuba player and they're all on the heavier-set side of things.  Playing here, I'm not really too surprised.  The place smells rich of savory sausage and potatoes and all things imaginable that sit in the stomach for a while and stretch the waist band.


And the sweet aroma of hops and fresh beer hangs thick in the cellar air, and it's embalming and clings to the pores in a cozy embrace.  What a place.  The beerhall that ll beerhalls strive to be.  The godfather.  The ancient Olympus, persevering and stumbling through the centuries to hold us in it's belly now and present us a romping good feast.


Three young, doe-eyed German girls eye us as we pass and make room at their table, beckoning.  They're a few tables away from the band.  It's lovely and we're subdued by their pretty Bavarian faces, but as soon as we sit down one of them asks in a soft, alluring German accent (they already know we're American just by the look of us, I guess), "Hey there... could you buy us some beers?"  Eff.  "They won't serve us," she says puppy-dogging.


"Why not?" I ask.


"Ha, well, we're not quite old enough..." one of them says with a side-smile.


"Isn't the drinking age eighteen?"  Grant's putting the dots together.


"Yeah..."


"Well, how old are you gals?"  asks Max.


"Sixteen."


"Sixteen."


"Seventeen."


"Sixteen and a half."


We all look at each other, our eyes in a team meeting that says, "Really?  REALLY?  Okay, why the fuck not.  Oh, and is eighteen also the age of consent?"  One can never be sure in a foreign land.  Still, sixteen is young, even sixteen and a half and seventeen really, so I breathe a little sigh of relief when the waiter refuses to serve us beers at the girls' table.  We bid the girls adieu and snag another one nearby as a family leaves.  We're ready for some fucking beers.  And bratwurst!  And the Hofbrauhaus does not disappoint.


[hungry, I'll be back]


Nothing's so satisfying to a grumbling, travel-starved stomach than good old-fashioned German beerhall food.  There's something dubiously American-feeling about a heavy-set plate of buttery potatoes and plump, grilled bratwurst.  A plate almost too big to shove down my gullet, but I do, bite by precious savory bite.  A liter of hardy Hofbrauhaus draft lends a helping hand.  To someone such as I, of whom (especially these days) hunger seemingly always holds in a leering embrace, the taste of prepared food and the splash of beer from the tap, why, those are a pair of life's grandest pleasures.  So I eat slow and take the beer at sips so to prolong the feeling for as long as possible.


"You still working on that, kiddo?" Grant asks over a polished plate.  Max is finished too.


"Mmm.  Hmm.  You jealous?"  I say mulling thoughtfully over one of a handful of savory bites I have left.
"There's no rush, right?  We're sleeping in that train station tonight no matter what."


"Ah fack, that's right.  Another liter of beer sounds like the call then.  Could you spot me, Grant?  Add it to the owe-board."


"Oh, I got this guys.  You want another one too, Bri-guy?"  Thank goodness for Grant, but I see something cheaper and I don't particularly like to owe people money unless I absolutely have to.


"I'm all right actually," I say.  "A couple beers just opened up over there."  I point with my nose and eye a group of fairly well-to-do's at the next table over.  The good thing about eating in a beerhall is that pretty much everyone orders beer.  And here, beer only comes by the side-handled liter.  Lucky for me, well-to-do-ers can sometimes be pansies when it comes to drinking beer, and the next table over was no exception.  Their meal concluded pleasantly enough and three of the clear mugs still had around a third of a liter left in them.  And when they got up and departed, why, I just slithered over and very discreetly emptied the rest of the beer into my goblet before the busser came to clear table.  It all fit in with just a little room over the light head (I have a decent beer pour).


"Really, dude?"


"Yup.  That just happened," I say with an air of prowess.


"Bro, that's how people get sick."


I feign a moment's pause, "Eh, I think I'll take my chances," I say.  "Besides... what doesn't kill me's just going to make me stronger right?  And I've got an immune system like the Iron Curtain."


"What?  Ok, but-"


But I cut Max off.  "AND, well, they looked pretty healthy to me," with a glance at the now clean table next to us.  There's a sly grin on my face because it's funny to me that something so trivial could evoke such polarizing responses.  It's not a matter of good or bad.  I think it'd be difficult for such an action to define a man and by such thinking be fruitless as well to level judgement against a man by it.

Quote of the Day: I Love Fire

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark.  In the hopeless swamps of the not quite, the not yet, and the not at all, do not let the hero in your soul perish and leave only frustration for the life you deserved, but never have been able to reach.  The world you desire can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours."


~ Ayn Rand

Together as One

It's a brand new year.  A time to be optimistic and confident and resolute.  A fresh start, a clean slate.  Or something like that supposedly.  But the things I'm supposed to be feeling and the things that have got me tingling and are holding sway aren't the same.  It's not a look towards the future, running forward with open arms.  It's a sharp focused glance back as someone, who knows who, is pulling me along by the arm through the present

[time for solitaire]