Greece, land of the enchanged gyro.

So I went to Greece and even though I already knew they stıll used theır own strange alphabet I was stıll kınd of shocked to actually see the letters. Theyre a proud people and they wont let logıc get ın theır way. The rest of Europe...even TURKEY...uses the Phoenıcıan/Latın alphabet...why should they? They shouldn't and Im proud of them for standıng tall.

Greeks are also very loud. Because we are Amerıcans and had to go through Turkısh passport control before boardıng the ferry we were the fırst ones on. When the Greeks returnıng home fınally boarded the sound was deafenıng. These are obvıously my people. Shoutıng and talkıng wıth hands. I feel lıke ın thıs country I could never make a scene. How ıdeal.

Most ımportantly, however, the Greeks have the gyro. Not the gyro you and I have become bored wıth ın the States... but the real gyro. I cant belıeve the travesty that Greek restaurants consıstently perpetrate ın Amerıca. Growıng up surrounded by Greek restaurants I quıckly became sıck of the Amerıcan gyro...an overstuffed pıta fılled wıth overly spıced rotatıng lamb meet and tsatsıkı sauce among lackluster vegetables. The meat on the Greek gyro ısnt nearly as offensıve and has a more subtle delıcıous flavor and they actually prepare ıt for you. Its not a pıta tossed on a plate wıth meat pıled atop ıt. Instead they construct ıt themselves and fold the bread over carefully handıng ıt over to you so that ıt doesnt become undone. It ısnt overstuffed so that ıt almost explodes and ıts easy and fun to eat. As we left I lamented the fact that I wont have another real gyro ın a very long tıme. Sıgh.

Unfortunately on Lesvos the only Lesbıans we were able to see were the natıve ınhabıtants of the ısland and not the cultural pılgrıms sınce we dıdnt go to the south of the ısland where Sappho lıved. Kınd of sad because that would have surely been amazıng but stıll the ıdyllıc landscapes rugged mountaıns and whımsıcal hılltowns compensated and I fell ın love wıth the place only to have to leave a few days later.

Soon Ill be goıng to a Turkısh bath where Ill be pummeled and exfolıated by swarthy Turkısh men who wıll be takıng out theır aggressıon toward our foolısh foreıgn polıcy on my back. Should be fun. Im not quıte sure what theyll massage though sınce my body ıs oddly wıthout any sort of muscle. I assume theyll just pass the tıme rubbıng the bones. What fun.

Wılco--La Mejor Banda del Mundo

I forgot to wrıte about seeıng Wılco ın Madrıd. It was theır fırst concert ever ın Madrıd and they played the oblıgatory New MADrıd Uncle Tupelo song. Comıng ınto the concert ıt was very good to see the Spanısh press hypıng them as much as the Amerıcan press as the Best Band ın the Land. It made me feel warm ınsıde as a cultural Chıcagoan to see one of my faves get such raves. God wıth all thıs rhymıng I feel lıke a bawdy Brıtısh gossıp columnıst. So Baby Huey and I went to the concert and got ın lıne only to fınd that Spanıards dont really belıeve ın lınes...a rule that we would learn applıes to all of southern Europe whıle waıtıng to pass through Greek passport control on our way back to Turkey. Remarkıng about the rampant lıne-cuttıng and general mob rule we started decryıng such ıneffıcıency. We determıned that ın Northern Europe thıs probably wouldnt happen as evıdenced by the fascıst effıcıency of the lıne matron at the Zurıch aırport. In the course of our conversatıon one of the best quotes of the trıp came from Baby Huey and ıt ıs as follows:

Bacchus: Man I cant belıeve how horrıble thıs ıs, but I bet Italıans by far have the least respect for the authorıty of the lıne.

Baby Huey: Defınıtely. I dont even thınk they understand the concept of a lıne. When they see two poınts a lıne doesnt even occur to them...they're just lıke 'Oooooh more poınts!!' (BHuey begıns dottıng more poınts on the pıece of paper).

I thınk that joke has to be told wıth verbal emphasıs and doesnt really translate on paper but I had to put that down. And Baby Hueys Italıan whıch makes ıt a lıttle funnıer.

Back to Wılco--Im pretty sure they delıvered one of the best concerts of my lıfe and possıbly the best concert from them that Ive seen. Granted the fırst Chıcago concert after gettıng dumped by Reprıse and dumpıng Jay Bennett wıll always be legendary stuff ın Chıcago and thus cannot really even be talked about as a Wılco concert so much as a Chıcago cultural event. Therefore. I present thıs past concert as the best Wılco concert Ive seen.

I thınk much credıt deserves to go to the Madrıd audıence too. Spanıards arent as reserved as Amerıcans...thus leadıng to sıngalongs to vırtually every song...but they mıraculously know to shush ıt for the slow ones. It was magıcal and you could tell Tweedy was really havıng a blast up there...dırectıng the chorus of voıces before us. Beulah told me before I went that I should defınıtely go see Bıg Rock Band ıf I could because concerts ın Europe are so much fun and dıfferent. Thats defınıtely true...but unfortunately I dont thınk Ill get to see Bıg Rock Band because Ill probably be travelıng when they make theır way back to Spaın. Shucks.

Oh...and there were defınıtely a large contıngent of Amerıcans ın the audıence ıncludıng some obvıous sororıty whores ın front of me who seemed bored and shouldnt have been there ın the fırst place. Im defınıtely startıng to understand the fury of the fan who sees a band expand theır audıence ınto the general masses of humanıty. God they were awful. Im not just beıng a snerd (snob/nerd) about thıs because of course they were smokıng pot...how clıched and the guy wıth the pot was behınd me and they were ın front of me so he was always tappıng me on the shoulder so that I could twıst my body so as to allow the bowl to transfer hands up to the sororıty gırls. Oooh the rage ıs flyıng just typıng thıs. And they dıdnt even offer me any!! Not that I would have accepted...but ıt's a general courtesy thıng. If youre goıng to ınterrupt me to pass the bowl you may as well ask me ıf I want some. Don't they know the rules? We lıve ın a socıety and ın that socıety there are rules and ıf you dont want to lıve ın socıety and obey the rules then why dont you just pack up your bags and move to the UPPER EAST SIDE!! Sheesh...ugly Amerıcans as Tweedy would say and dıd say at several poınts throughout the concert.

Happy Easter from a Muslim Country

So this Easter Im spendıng half ın Turkey half ın Greece...neıther of whıch celebrates Easter today. Im about to cross over ınto Greece on the ısland of Lesbos...yes that Lesbos. Before goıng I suggested to Dan that we get Lesbıan haırcuts to whıch he replıed we already had them...badumchıng. Im not that excıted about Greece maınly because ıts on the euro whıch means ıt wıll be expensıve. The town Im ın ın Turkey ıs exceedıngly charmıng and on the Medıterranean...very dıfferent fromIstanbul ın a good way. Gone ıs the pollutıon and here ıs the Medıterranean sky and warmth. I would love to lıve on thıs sea...all cultures on ıt seem more relaxed and frıendly...at least the Euro/quasıeuro ones.

In other news we saw the ruıns of Troy and stayed at a pensıon that basıcally gave us a lıttle apartment and Baby Huey and I whıled away our free tıme lıke a retıred couple ın Florıda. Weve also learned how to eat poor ıf you dont mınd endıng the meal hungry and eatıng the same sandwıch for three or four meals. Troy was majestıc but not strıkıng...a lot of rocks. Sorry for the elıpses but I cant fınd commas on thıs Turkısh keyboard. In modern hıstory theyre tryıng to treat ıs as a peace memorıal sınce Troy has stood as a symbol of the horrors of war for 3500 years...ıts slıghtly touchıng but not strıkıng. Thats what you get from a cıty that predates the great Western empıres. We travel on bus because thats what you do ın Turkey and the buses treat you better than Amerıcan aırlınes...you get a pıece of cake and tea plus a splash of perfumed water ıf youre so ınclıned. Its very dıfferent from the Amerıcan bus ındustry of whıch I am a loyal patron. Every tıme I step onto Greyhound or the Chınatown bus I always feel the urge to scream at the top of my lungs...I AM NOT AN ANIMAL. Gıve me dıgnıty or gıve me death. The busrıde ıs harrowıng because ıt careens along the mountaıns on two lane hıghways and our bus drıver lıked to pass every car ın front of hım whether or not there was a blındıng curve along the way or not. I exaggerate but I dıd have to dıvert my attentıon away from the road many tımes whıch ıs easy sınce the Turkısh countrysıde ıs absolutely breathtakıng wıth ıts lullıng mountaıns and coastlınes accented by ımpoverıshed towns whıch the romantıc eye wıll regard as quaınt when ıt doesnt ponder the poverty. I suppose Im a lıttle of a romantıc as the nature gave me a longıng for some Wordsworth...a poet I normally wouldnt touch wıth a39.5 foot pole...but seeıng the herds of sheep and shepherds I was remınded of a desıre I cultıvated a few months ago to become a shepherd for a year or so...tendıng my flock...gatherıng them carefully close to my arms....(everybody now)...leadıng them home. What a touchıng thought on Easter.

Before we left Istanbul we spent the nıght sharıng dınner and a pıpe wıth our Spanısh frıends Jordı and Eva at the hostal of the damned. We gave them the fırst baklava of theır lıves (whıch they absolutely loved) and they ın turn gave us a few puffs of theır pıpe fılled wıth Black Cherry tobacco from the US...I was remınded of Swısher Sweets and Walgreens parkıng lots...ahh home. Needless to say we bonded well wıth our hıppıe frıends and I came to the realızatıon that Im pretty much fluent ın Spanısh...unfortunately Baby Huey dıd not come to thıs same realızatıon. As we parted ways we assured them that we would be back ın the cıty ın a lıttle over a week when we would hang out some more. We exchanged emaıl addresses and hopefully we wıll reunıte some tıme thıs summer ın Valencıa sınce theyll be ın Catalunya. We gave each other huge bear hugs and saıd goodbye...let me say agaın how much I LOVE Spanıards. Leavıng our hostal ın the fıshıng communıty today I heard some new guests speakıng Spanısh and cursed our havıng to leave for Lesbos.

In other observatıons...ıts a lıttle ıronıc that ıts legal for me to drınk alcohol ın a Muslım country but not ın Amerıca...freedom ındeed. Of course Turkey ıs very secular...the kınd of Islam I can get behınd except when the call to prayer wakes you up at 5 am and lasts a full ten mınutes...sheesh. I stıll get chılls from the call to prayer as ıt ıs very beautıful and remınds me of what a dıfferent culture I am ın. Turks remaın ever genıal always askıng us where we are from and beıng delıghted to hear that we are Amerıcans sınce they dont get many Yankee tourısts here due almost entırely from Mıdnıght Express...what a shame because ıt really ıs a beautıful and endearıng country.

Stıll I remaın excıted about returnıng to Spaın and a country where I speak the language...a strange thıng occurs when confusıon arıses. Whenever a mısunderstandıng arıses I always feel the need to swıtch to Spanısh as ıf that wıll somehow solve somethıng. It solves nothıng but does make you feel lıke a complete ıdıot. It ıs fun how the language just kınd of swıtches on ın moments of confusıon though.

So Happy Easter to frıends and famıly. Unfortunately I cant get emaıls out because Im ın Turkey and emaıl on these computers ıs a lıttle dodgy but once Im back ın Spaın Ill be sure to get back ın touch...enjoy your lamb and ham and hard-boıled eggs and potato salad.

The Hostal of the Damned

For other people, the hostal I'm staying in may be considered hell, but for me, I just like to call it home. In the hostal are many colorful characters, although they have basically all fallen on hard times. There's a ton of Peruvians who are staying there for a few months to make money because 1) It's hard to make money in Peru and 2) Their Peruvian passport won't get them into any other country. It's somewhat sad if you start to think about it and develop the horribly condescending emotion of pity, but they're all amazingly friendly people who love that we get to use our broken Spanish with them. Last night, they tried to give us free hot water for our tea, but the grumbling night manager made sure that we payed for the use of gas since gas and electricity are very costly in Turkey.

Also living in our hostal is a long-haired Syran political refugee who I've come to believe is a nihilist, based on the fact that he likes to use "fucking" when describing power structures, the media, government, and especially the "fucking garbage" that is television. Also adding to his cv of the damned is his long, straggly hair and evidently useless, bluish/cataractic right eye. Quite the card.

Adding to the atmosphere of the inferno is that there are numerous passing souls who are extremely friendly, but abruptly leave. The first night in the hostal we spent chatting with a Kiwi, a Brit-Kiwi, and an Aussie, Oh My. They were great fun--primary school teachers on vacation, bemoaning their inner city students, especially the seven year old with a buxom rack, and another kid who likes to imitate sexual moans when they're learning vowels and is sure to impregnate every girl around him once he reaches puberty. Of course, these figures were too good to be true and vanished quickly. Another purgatory-like figures were the Germans who bought a bus ticket and were just waiting in our living room for the bus, before they were kicked out by the crotchety night guy who charged us for gas. The exception to the rule is this supremely awesome Spanish couple who we've spent a lot of time talking to, but are never around when we just want to hang out. They're like the Vergils of our Inferno, guides who can wander into the inner circles of hell, but really are confined to the upper realms and don't much socialize with the people below them. Oh, right, and there's no heating and it's freezing in Istanbul at night, so we've got that going for us. The Peruvians told us they'd smuggle us in a space heater. God, I love the hispanohablantes.

Istanbul

So Im ın Istanbul nowö and the keyboard ıs drıvıng me crazyç Notıce how the ıs donit have dots and other keys arenit where they should beç Some thoughts sınce ı donit have much tıme left on the computerç

1ç Turkey smells lıke Turkeyç Not the bırdö but how you thınk ıt would ıf youive ever been ın a cab or Turkısh restaurantç

2ç Turkey ıs not as warm as Madrıdç

3ç I understand why Paulyis upset wıth what happened to the Hagıa Sophıaö but ıtis ın better shape than most Roman ruınsö and Greek oneis tooç Some of the damage ıs theır faultö but a lot ıs wear and tear tooç

4ç Iim stıll alıveö so Turkeyis not that unsafe and gets a bad wrap from other countrıesö whıch ıs depressıng sınce the people can be so kındç

Untıl later and I have more tıme to elaborateç

Que vayas and the Sad Second Act of the International Festival´s Cristina

Last night they took the last statue of Franco in the city down in the dead of the night without prior warning. Of course, in the dead of the night, no one in Madrid is asleep, so there was a rally between the hardliners and those who were happy to see it go. My family, needless to say, is not happy. They don´t exactly view Franco as a heroic figure, but they think the manner in which the statue was removed was cowardly at best, and an attempt to wash over history at worst. I kind of agree. I realize that for some people the image of him is revolting and brings up horrible memories, but I can say the same thing about Bush, but that doesn´t mean I´m going to whitewash his existence. If anything, I think the statue should stand as a reminder of what Spain once was so that it never has to return to that.

In other news, there are some really horrible street/subway performers here. The Latin American men who play the guitar and sing sad sad songs are actually quite good, and sometimes I even give them a shiny fifty céntimo piece. However, there´s this one woman whom I´ve encountered thrice in three days. She dresses all in one tone denim, carries around a portable karaoke machine on wheels and sings the same two songs...badly...really badly. The first song I thought maybe it was a weird atonal pop piece, very avant garde, but by the time I figured out that the second song wasn´t some Yoko Ono screed, but instead was the lovely bolero Bésame Mucho, I wanted to wretch. As anyone who´s been to one of my karaoke parties knows, I´m no Frank Sinatra, but I do have some inkling of pitch control, and I know this broad just ain´t got it. It´s actually embarrassing, and I think someone should tell her. You´d think she´d get the message when she walks up and down the metro car without a single person depositing a cent. She actually reminds me of this really bad performer on this field trip I went to in high school called the International Festival. I think this might be the Cristina of legend, fallen on hard times. Yesterday, I saw this woman again, and today I thought I had escaped her as I hadn´t seen her on the subway and was already at work, typing away, when I hear out of the window, the chirping of this J.Lo wannabe. I never thought I´d say this, but honey, J.Lo has it, and you don´t. God, I can´t believe I just admitted that J.Lo was more talented than ANYBODY, but that is the level of this street performer.

NO CONFIDENCE, harrumph harrumph!

So Harvard FAS professors passed a vote of no confidence against Larry Summers. Damn, just when he was getting his weight under control this happens. Let's hope he doesn't respond with an eating shame spiral of Noch's and Herrell's and Felipe's. Damn, I miss Harvard fast food. But not that much because I don't eat fast food in Spain, only homecooked, or Doner Kebap, which is like a gyro without the overdose of flavor. Leave it to the Turks to perfect a Greek concept. Damn, I hope Pauly doesn't read that. We all know what she thinks of Turks...namely that they turned the Hagia Sofia into a shithole.

Beulah tells me that the Turks are nicer, which makes sense. It's overcompensation. Everyone hates them from the Greeks to other Europeans, even Palestinians/Jordanians/Arabs hate them. As a result, they have to be friendly. I'm expecting a country of open arms and flowing honey, hookah, and baklava. And tea.

This is definitely one of those times I wish I was at Harvard, the air must be thick with scandal...and snow. Scratch that, I'll stay here.

I'm not sure if this is propaganda of the Spanish Right, but Senor tells me that Zapatero wants to suspend all public church displays, meaning putting an end to the crazy processions and festivals of the country. Also, he canceled the national holiday of San Jose, so there is no day off, just celebration. Look, I'm as secular as they come, but in Spain this is just wrong. It's a Catholic country, and these celebrations are as cultural as they are religious. Why don't you purge it of bullfighting and flamenco while you're at it. Of course, this could be an exaggeration of Limbaughian proportions, but I thought I'd believe it anyway.

Heat Wave

Oh, another thing. I simply must let the Bostonians receiving record snowfall know that we are in the midst of primavera here. Yesterday was too hot to wear a jacket, and today is too. I have a longsleeve shirt on and I have to roll up the sleeves because it´s just not bearable any other way. AAAAND, It´s sunny all day. I´m sure for writing this the American government will punish me by making it rain because as we all know, the American government controls the weather.

The Uplift

So after the rollercoaster ride that was Barcelona, what with it´s amazing fun followed by profound depression, it´s only fair that Madrid is there to level me out.

I got home on Monday, only to find that I had lost my house keys in Barcelona. This, clearly, was not the uplift. But after I hugged my Señora and saluted my Señor and joked with them about how weird Catalán is and told them that I had lost the keys, they didn´t seem to mind at all. In fact, they even gave me their keys and made the copies themselves. When I asked them how much I owed them, they said nothing. Of course I persisted, but the only response I got was 50 euros, so they didn´t really mind at all.

Yesterday, I went to the park with Wubulu and we got a boat on the Estanque and rowed and rowed and talked and talked--much fun. That evening, when I was about to go out to show Wu a good time in Madrid, Señora called her niece, and I talked to Prima about going dancing on Thursday with her Spanish friends. At least I think that´s what we talked about. We´ll see on Thursday, but it sure sounds like great fun. As I was making it out the door, Señora gave me a big hug goodbye, and that gave me the uplift. I was just going out for the night, but Señora just couldn´t let me out the door without letting me know how precioso I am. That was the uplift. Oddly enough, Mondays prove to be the one night Madrid stays in, and our efforts to have a good time were almost squashed, but hanging out in Wubulu´s hostal turned out to be the best idea of the day.

So now I´m at work which means I´m doing nothing and tonight I´ll probably stay in since Wednesday I go out with my Spanish intercambio friend and Thursday I´m going out with Prima, and all weekend I´ve got a buttload of friends coming. Then Monday I´m going to see Wilco in Madrid. Can you imagine my excitement!? I´m almost guaranteed some rail action in a country where their crossover appeal can´t be that big. Then Tuesday I´m off to Istanbul and Greece. Hold on to your socks Asia, Bacchus and Baby Huey are coming and we´re not going until we´ve eaten all your dates and honey and baklava...and Uzo/Raki.

Barcelona and the Shame

I went to Barcelona this weekend with friends from Harvard such as Wubulu and TEC, and Meg, I can't come up with nicknames for them, so there it is. For those of you with family values, please don't read this. Barcelona is a rough city with shady characters and what follows involves fellating beer bottles and a throng of prostitutes. I suspect the Cortazar aunts will be able to deal with this, but others beware of my advice to skip to the next paragraph when you see this symbol ******. There's nothing really to be afraid of as this entry probably has more than a little bit of moralizing, but if you don't really want to hear anything about prostitutes, a significant part of the local color of Barcelona, you should take heed as I describe what I learned from observing them from across the street and the shame that followed.

Barcelona is a beautiful city that is a mixture of the Spanish, the French, and the American. It is in no way representative of Spain. As many of you know, they don't speak Castellano or Spanish in Barcelona, but rather Catalan, a language that is really like the bastard child of French, Castellano, Italian, and Portuguese. I'm sure it's a beautiful language, but for Spanophiles such as myself, it's a little unwieldy and annoying.

The first night we went to a Chupiteria, I'm making up Spanish words, in case you can't tell. But Chupiteria is a chupito bar that serves crazy shots and other drinks for really cheap. I of course didn't do any shots because I don't believe in them which you can translate to mean that I either have dignity or that I'm too weak to do them. If you chose the latter you would be correct. Anyways, at the bar, they had a drink called the Monica Lebinsky which because the Spanish tongue cannot pronounce Ws, substitutes them with Vs which sound the same as Bs. The drink was the Monica Lewinsky ****** which consists of a beer bottle with a fake penis over the neck which the bartender shoves down the person's throat. It was extremely disgusting, but to each their own.

The next day we went to the Picasso Museum which was quite good, showcasing the trajectory of his life and how he was destined to become a genius.Then we went to the Museum
de Chocolate which was really great and included a chocolate depiction of a cockfight (the rooster kind, come on, the city's not that dirty), a woman practically being violated by a windmill (oops I guess it is), and a chocolate rendition of Michelangelo's Pieta. They also provided useful information such as that in the Aztec Empire, cocoa beans were used as currency. 10 beans would buy you a rabbit, 100 would buy a slave, and the favors of a prostitute would cost 10. Hmm, prostitute or rabbit, decisions decisions. This may seem like a random choice of objects to include the prices of, but in Barcelona, prostitution is a booming industry, more on that later with plenty of ******s to follow.

We also went to the excavation site of the Roman city on which Barcelona is built. Needless to say, it was amazing. Later, we went out of course, being with friends and went to a bar that was filled with Barcelonans, but included a really great Elvis impersonator. We went to the oldest bar in Barcelona to try a tad of absinthe and went home. A very lovely night. On the way home, we stopped off for a photo shoot in this alleyway which served as the entrance to the seedy hostal that Wubulu and Meg stayed at. We did this every night and have great pictures.

The next day, Wu and I were sufficiently wiped out from the night before, so we went to the Colonel and got a bucket of chicken that only made us feel worse. We proceeded to Gaudi's masterpiece in progress, the Sagrada Familia church and sat down for a while to rest and marvel at its naturalist glory. We then went to see a fountain that danced and illuminated to music, a little bit of Vegas in the capital of Catalunia. The first display was hokey classical music, but the second somehow topped the camp of the first display with the fountain dancing to Mariah Carey's Emotion and, wait for it, Whitney's overdone rendition of that timeless Dolly classic, I Will Always Love You. When the song started, my friends and I bursted into simultaneous laughter that drowned out the music. We were immediately shushed, but we didn't realize it because we were laughing way too hard. We left after the following songs couldn't match the high standard the fountain had set for itself.

Too tired from the night before, we decided to have a quiet evening. We went to a bar with a mystical forest theme that promised gnomes. Strangely enough, it wasn't that touristy, nor was it frequented with Lord of the Rings enthusiasts. After nursing a drink for an hour and realizing that there weren't any gnomes, we left for the absinthe bar from the night before where we really just stood around as none of us were really in the mood for drinking from the night before. Afterward, we found a pastry alley that sells boxes of croissants for 2 euro late at night. ******We got that and decided to do a little people watching since the night before we spent a lot of time outside waiting for people and determined that observing street people and prostitutes is entertaining. We realized after a little bit that of course, this is wrong and extremely depressing. I think we have Julia Roberts to blame for us thinking that this might in some way be a good idea.

******Ever since Montreal, I've always been very uncomfortable by the presence of a lot of prostitutes, mainly because of course it's very depressing to actually think what their lives must be like. The Barcelona prostitutes, however, seemed entertaining because they were always talking to each other and generally laughing and having a good time. They also had a ton of personality. One of them wore a fur coat (what else, in Spain?) and would heckle the men that walked by and expose her bra every now and then.

******Our favorite tragic figure was Pinky, or Rosalita (in Spanish), a woman slightly past middle age who wore a pink coat and came straight out of a Toulouse Lautrec painting. We noticed that she was different this night as she was wearing white orthopedic shoes in place of the heels of the trade. We found her ridiculousness amusing until we actually saw her in action, pathetically trying to ring a John, getting turned away to the point where she was actually grabbing a man's sleeve, causing the man to jerk it away, the two of them locked in an intense conversation of pleading and sorrow. She seemed to be begging for the trick which the man would not allow. The more time you spend in plain sight of this kind of thing, the more you realize just how horrible this life is. What had started as a slightly amusing activity ended in a spiral of Catholic shame that everyone felt, even those not Catholic. This killed our enthusiasm for the night and the city of Barcelona. Depressed by the shattering of the comedic value of prostitution heralded by figures as disparate as Julia Roberts and Federico Fellini, we returned home. It was quite interesting how we were all captivated by observing the tricks of the trade and the colorful characters that surround it, only to feel terrible not just for the women, but also disgusted by our human desire to view the grotesque.

******I suppose it's not exactly necessary to relate all the seedy details of life in Europe, but as I lost a lot of sleep that night thinking about Rosalita among other things, I thought it was important to relate these thoughts, probably more for myself.

The following morning we all met up again to go to a park designed by Gaudi and to say goodbye to the city of Barcelona. As we left, looking back, I'm grateful for not having been transformed into a pillar of salt for having committed the very human act of looking.

Bacchus for Pope, 2005

That's it. I'm officially calling for the pope's resignation. I realize that many of you out there might think that it's a god-chosen position and natural death should take the Pontiff, but I'm taking the other route. At this point, what exactly can the pope do if he can't write or speak. Whoever's in charge now hasn't been elected by the College of Cardinals and is essentially a dictator. I realize that papal elections are probably a lot more emotional after the papal funeral, but I'm not going to call for the pope's death. Come on, that's a little controversial, even for me. But the real question is who's running the show. Who's in charge, here? That's why I'm officially calling for an abdication and announcing my candidacy for the papacy.

As pope, I'm not exactly sure what I would do, but the words "radical changes" come to mind. I'd start small, naturally, by moving the tabernacle lamp slightly to the left and adding soap to the hand-washing and chalice-washing portions of the mass, just for sanitation's sake. Then the more pressing matters would get attention, like shifting the church's politics away from personal morality legislation through government and moving it more toward social justice, working for the poor, higher minimum wage, etc.

I think that's about it for this post, I got bored.

Reasons I left America (only to recur in Spain)

It's no shock that there are many things about my beloved mother country that I absolutely and completely HATE. It was no funeral when I left because I had my reasons. What follow are things I hate about America, but have managed to seep into Spain's amazingly Hispano-centric culture.

1. Pat Robertson--I don't know if words can adequately describe how much I hate this pile of shit and ignorance. Definitely one of the worst America has to offer. Well, I was flipping through the channels, and there's this one station that's like Jesus channel or something, and on it I see Pat Robertson dubbed into Spanish. Ugh, at least the dubber didn't have that stupid smug air behind his voice. Honestly, I think if they hired me to dub Pat Robertson I either wouldn't take the job, or I'd insist on translating it myself with numerous liberties.

2. Chef Tony--I'm not sure many of you know this guy, but he's this horrible infomercial chef who's obviously a guy who was picked out of a parking lot because he looks so fake Italian and he's rotund and looks kind of like Chef Boyardee. But the catch is that he has the worst products ever. I remember one time he was hocking these bags that you put microwaveable food in as if a plate isn't good enough...or too good, I don't know. The greatest part about these bags was that he said they were reuseable, and didn't transfer aromas or flavors. I guess you had to see it. But anyway, he was dubbed into Spanish hocking these ridiculous knives.

3. The McDonald's BahdahbuhBAH BAH, I'm lovin' it ad campaign. I don't think I need to explain this one.

4. Religion-dominated politics--It's weird that this doesn't bother me more. I think it's because the religious freaks here are Catholic as opposed to the religious freaks in America who are mostly Protestant. It's as if I can understand fanaticism more if it's Catholic. They're freaks, but they're MY freaks.

5. The Da Vinci Code--I swear everytime I get on the subway, somebody's reading "El codigo de da Vinci." Very annoying.

I suppose that's about it. I've been waiting to get that off my chest. I feel better.

This weekend was pretty good. I finally met the sister of my friend in the states, we'll call her Dina, after Dinamarca, which means Danish. Dina bears a striking resemblance to her sister, who we'll call Dana. We went to an art exposition that my Senor gave me tickets to. It was pretty blah, but we had good conversation. Afterwards we went out for coffee and talked about how great Spain is and its numerous quirks, like mothers who like to smother. We'll call them smothers. Anyone who knows my mom knows she's awfully doting, but compared to Spanish smothers, I feel a little neglected. Actually, that's not true, I feel relieved. Senorito came home again from the Canaries which are off of Africa, and last night after Senora returned from Sevilla, she absolutely attacked her son with kisses. It was adorable, but at the same time I had the greatest relief that I'm not Senorito. He looked so embarrassed, but it was funny. Dina and I also talked about how incredibly intolerant Spanish society is and how grateful we are that we aren't minorities here. It's very sad, but at the same time products such as this really make me laugh, despite my knowing it's wrong. Take a look at the white chocolate conguitos, they're so bizarre. btw, Conguitos are like peanut M&Ms, and they're really good. I love Conguitos. I think my Senora does too, she knows the ad jingle by heart.

Language Whores and Istanbul

Yes, it´s been weeks since my last gypsy attack and I´m riding high. In fact, I´ve gotten so good at protecting my possessions from pickpockets I´ve decided to up the ante. That´s right, I´m going to Istanbul for spring break...it´s kind of like a pickpocket Mecca. In addition to just plain pickpocketing, though, we´ve found that they´ve come up with new and innovative ways of stealing from you and attacking you. That´s right, you´re not supposed to have drinks with strangers because a lot of them like to drug you. Gee, finding out about crazy Turkish scams sure is fun. Just imagine, I´ll be an even bigger mark there. At least I look vaguely Spanish, although the height doesn´t help me in a world full of pygmies, but in Turkey I´ll be a complete fish out of water. Should be fun.

I´m at work again, so once again, I´m bored. But they gave me 2 weeks for spring break and don´t seem to mind my habit of showing up over an hour late. It´s not like they pay me, and I´m not exactly a hindrance as my level of Spanish comprehension has risen at least marginally. I´m very good at the one on one conversation.

I actually have a meeting with my 29 year old Spanish intercambio, which is a lot like a friend, except the only reason you hang out is to learn the language. That´s right, I´m a language whore, offering my friendship to learn Spanish, but it´s ok, because we speak English half the time. We´re whores for each other. It works out quite nice. I need to soak it up, because I´m sure in Turkey all modes of prostitution are verboten...even language prostitution. Tonight we´re going to a bar called Molly Malone´s. There are a ton of Irish pubs in Madrid, and they always seem to be the only places with adequate seating room. If you really want to go to a good Spanish bar and slum it with the locals, you´re usually banished to standing room which can get tedious if the music is bad or you´re just not engaged in conversation. I find cafés to be much more "agradable"...I can´t think of the word in English right now, but you get the gist.

The other day I reminisced with a friend about how much we miss dorms. There´s really nothing to compare with living free and easy with friends all close by. Don´t get me wrong, I love my host family like blood, but dorms are really where it´s at. I wish I could switch off weeks, because I´m really missing the late nights of Roseanne reruns and Annotated Elimidate with comments by me, the Beckster, and Schnocone, who´s really horrible at the commentary. He just doesn´t realize that you can´t talk through the "whole" show, otherwise you can´t observe just how awful the human beings are on that show. Oh, I also miss the shouting on the McLaughlin Group, but there are plenty of shows here where people shout at each other, so I´m able to carry on. Still, I dread the idea of going back to the dining hall where food is made by nice people, but doesn´t have the love of my family who always makes sure that I leave the table bent over, unable to stand erect due to my stomach which has been stuffed beyond capacity like a bad concert at the Aragon. OK, I´m babbling and before I start babbling about Chicago with that Aragon tangent, I should leave. Adiós.

PS--One of my favorite things about Spanish is how there isn´t a word for "everyone," so they say "todo el mundo," which creates sentences like, "Does the whole world understand that Charles I advocated because of his bad case of the gout?" Yes, the whole world understands that gout can be very debilitating, even for one of the world´s most powerful emperors.

Don't You Hate Sean Penn, and other thoughts

First of all, happy birthday to Hoosier Lush who turned 21 today...and the world trembled. Oh how I wish Bloomington and Madrid were adjacent to each other.

Some things I've noticed in Spain that are slightly amusing but I haven't detailed here yet:
1) The Lush always makes fun of Puerto Ricans for dying their hair jacked up shades of orange and red, but I can assure you that the mother country has this in common. I haven't quite figured out how this caught on. It's like that horrible highlighter hair craze that American jocks had for a while in the late 90s, only it's primarily among middle-aged women. So take that! If anything, I've seen more bad dye jobs in Madrid than in San Juan...but I like Madrid way more, so there.

2) Fur coats have never gone out of style. Sometimes I feel like I'm living in an episode of I Love Lucy. I can just hear the Senoras whining to their husbands about how Ena got a new stoll, and how her old one just can't keep up appearances. Baby Huey even saw a man in a fur coat, but I, unfortunately missed it.

3) I received the nicest compliment in my entire life yesterday. I was talking with my Senora yesterday about I don't remember what, but she told me that I have an excellent accent and could pass for Spanish when my ability to string a sentence together kicks in. We talked again how this must be due to my Spanish blood and hearing my grandparents talk in Spanish from an early age. I must have conquered the elegant Castilian lisp on my own. Needless to say, I had crazy Spanish pride the rest of the day.

4) I'm going to Istanbul for spring break where everything is cheap. Dan found a hostel with a private room for us for 7 euro or less than 10 dollars a night. I think we're gonna spring for a hotel which will probably be what, like 11 dollars a night? People make fun of me for going to Istanbul, like Schnocone, but they've obviously forgotten their 4 years of high school Latin and the glory of the late Roman Empire. Sure, Constantine probably made one of the biggest mistakes in abandoning Rome, but the city was a cesspool anyway, and he did buy the empire a few more centuries...a millennium by the outlandish 476 estimate, but at least 750 by the more conservative 700 estimate. Remember, Constantinople didn't fall until 1453. Sure, our Greek friend likes to talk about how the Turks turned the Hagia Sofia into a shithole, but it still looks nice from the outside. My only fear is that I'll have to grow a terrible mustache before I go to fit in a little bit more.

5) DON'T YOU HATE SEAN PENN? God, I didn't even see the Oscars this year, a fact that I'm a little peeved about, but what a dickwad. I've never liked him, although I think he's a fairly strong actor. However, I'm really peeved that his shameless showboating and primal screaming in Mystic River bested the more controlled, subtle beauty of Bill Murray last year. Honestly, have you never heard of a joke, Sean? Don't you find it slightly ridiculous that Jude Law was in practically every late-released movie last year? I swear he's the new Russell Crowe, although I guess he was Russell Crowe before Russell Crowe was Russell Crowe. If I never had to see another movie with these stuck up, bad-boy, blowhards, my life would be so much better. I hear Chris Rock didn't really do too well, though. That's depressing.

I suppose that's enough for now. Until later.