Something Wicked This Way Went

The National Express bus deposited us unceremoniously at the entrance to Stanstead airport, an hour or so out of London. This regional airport is home to RyanAir, the budget airline of choice for countless backpackers and those trying desperately to cash in on life insurance policies. Ryanair, whose motto Fly for Less with Less that Flies doesn't exactly inspire confidence, has an interesting business model. They actually just give the seats away, perhaps hoping their progressive socialist approach will save the company's shareholders money while flying, thus negating the need for any actual profits. Since it takes more than Monopoly money to run an airline, the company has come up with some incredibly creative synergistic strategies to help cut operational costs. For example, in the back pocket of every seat is a standard barf bag; one that doubles as a 35mm film drop-off envelope. No shit. I took it with me to prove to everyone that this item actually exists, though it's tempting to vomit into it after a rough night and mail it to Kodak. I'm curious to see what they develop, perhaps the reconstructed remains of the fried fish that necessitated the bag in the first place. Despite all this, RyanAir managed to get us to our destination, Seville, with only a bit of turbulance.


This was my second time in Seville, my first visit having been just a few months earlier. Our plane landed late in the evening and after a brief wait we caught the airport bus to the center of town. I got extremely lost the last time I was in Seville, where the narrow, winding, street plan was undoubtedly engineered by a toddler with an etch-a-sketch. Luckily I remember quite a bit from my last experience and we quickly made our way towards the massive cathedral which dominates the old quarter and where many of the hostels are located. After examining a few without much enthusiasm we finally settled on a clean and quiet little place tucked in one of the many alleyways off the main shopping grid.
Several travelers had told us about a bar with a free flamenco show so organized our belongings and headed out to look for it. The air was cool, crisp, and delightful. Seville is spectacular at night, and the seasonal holiday lights adorning the buildings and trees (not present on my last visit) only added to the majestic grandeur of the city. The stunningly classic architecture is a wonder to behold at any time of year, but lit with a thousand lights it transceded its normal beauty to become a vision ripped from an angelic dream. Occaisionally checking a compass, we walked the curving streets looking for this place. Finally, after about forty minutes, we saw something we recognized?our hostel. Somehow in all the twists and turns we had walked in a giant circle. Frustrated, but not about to give up, we gave it another whirl. With the help of a local woman we eventually found the place; its single entry a signless, nondescript red door in an alley wall. Elated to be there we sat down for the show. We expected beautiful Andalusian women, glinting castinets, vigorous and rhythmic dance. Instead, an old man took the stage. With a Spanish guitar strumming in the background he bellowed some deep, throaty, Spanish songs. It was an auditory nightmare. You could visibly see the crowd revulse. I imagine a similar sounds would eminate from a man pinned underneath a Greyhound bus. We took in a few more songs then headed back home.

Our second day had a completely different feel but was no less interesting. Xander and I crossed to the western side of the river, away from the old quarter and into a more modern Seville. I had never explored this part of Seville before and it is shockingly different. Strange, modern, and incongruous buildings formed an unlikely skyline. Now here was the strange part - it all looked like it had been recently abandoned. Cars were definitely passing by on the streets but as we walked down wide pedestrian boulevards - in the middle of the day - we were alone. The walkway, though modern in appearance, was cracked and buckled. Dead plants hung limply from artistic metal tubing which ran overhead. Fountains in this large median were flowing but looked dirty and unkempt. We walked a good mile along this Path of the Modern Day Damned before it dead-ended at a decrepit train station. Two arcing metal struts at least 100 feet high crossed from opposity corners, making a giant X in the sky that held aloft a torn and sagging sunscreen. A lot of effort went in to building whatever we had encountered but now it looked nothing more than a future lost, a shell that was once full. We never found out the cause of the decay or even the reason for the construction itself, but one thing was certain, something wicked this way went.

Am I Stoned or is That a Picasso?

Seville faded into the distance and the long train ride to Barcelona was nearly over. I had passed the time by speaking with a Spanish woman I met on the train. Since my Spanish was about as good as her English we sputtered, coughed, and otherwise choked our way through a conversation. A primitive communication system was developed using various hand signals, exaggerated facial expressions, and good old pencil and paper. It was amazing. With time and a little patience we were both able to convey issues that were of deep cultural import, such as "Choo-choo go Barcelona now". I'm still not positive but she was either a school teacher or the Mayor of Madrid. I arrived safely and quickly took stock of the place.


Barcelona was a wonderful city. Its beautiful seaport, open air markets, and twisty gothic quarter are magnificent. The pedestrian walk called Las Ramblas was lined with a variety of living "statues". Men and women dressed as Native Americans, Roman guards, God, the Devil, Michael Jackson, and the like, all standing perfectly still, as if their non-paraplegic frozen musculature was worthy of monetary gain. Las Ramblas also contained a very impressive array of flower shops, jewelry stands, and several open-air pet shops selling exotic animals such as baby emu and odd little chickens (no joke). If you follow the throng of people you flow right down to the water's edge where a massive spire is topped with a statue of Christopher Columbus pointing towards the New World, as if to say, "Hey, I see some people over there we can massacre!" I visited the Segrada Familia, the Gaudi cathedral that has been under construction for a little over 100 years and looks far from being finished. Unfortunately it is heavily scaffolded at the moment which removes quite a bit of the majesty. Undaunted by the construction I climbed the spiral staircase hundreds of feet up the dizzying tower so I could see what it was like to vomit from the top of a Barcelona church; same as anywhere else, I suppose. The Park Guell (another Gaudi creation) was more of highlight in my opinion with cool architecture that looked like it was lifted straight out of a Dr. Seuss book.
Later, I met up with a couple of fun girls (whose names will be withheld to protect the guilty) and we tooled around a bit. Apparently, Barcelona is stocked with giant bricks of hash (note to family members: just add the word "browns" whenever I say hash and you'll feel fine again). The girls got a hold of some, we smoked up in their room without inhaling, then went over to the Picasso museum, because, honestly, where else would you go at that point? The gallery included a lot of his early work, including lesser known paintings of giant bags of Fritos and Hostess cupcakes. Come to think of it I may have just been stoned.

There's a Hand Down My Pants and it isn't Mine

For some, having a beautiful Spanish girl?s hand down their pants might seem like a dream come true. Unfortunately it was rush hour on the metro and we were far from alone. Oh yeah, and she was trying for my wallet. It was extremely subtle and quite unnoticeable with the jostling crowd but a buddy of mine saw it happen and alerted me. Luckily I don?t carry a wallet and had nothing in my pockets but some lint. So Madrid became the first city I?ve even been pseudo-robbed in.


Being in Madrid, I decided to take in a bullfight. Despite the fact that I was supposed to be disgusted by this barbarous event I found myself actually enjoying it. Now let me be clear here: I don?t like the idea of killing a bull for sport, it?s definitely cruel, and I will probably never see one again, but it was a thrilling cultural experience and exactly the kind of thing I came to Europe to see. Thousands of locals packed the stadium on a rainy afternoon to see the fight. A vibrant crowd filled the air with energy. The fluid, graceful, movements of the matadors in their traditional garb was exciting. People passed around platters of tapas (little snacks) to everyone in the vicinity as they cheered and jeered the spectacle. It was a little slice of life that was decidedly unique in an increasingly homogenized Europe. I feel I can say this with at least a modicum of authority since, in seven cities, I have yet to be more than ten minutes from a Starbucks.
It seems the only other thing to do in Madrid is get drunk. There are an awful lot of bars and people are still loudly roaming the streets at three in the morning. I met a bunch of interesting people again at the hostels and we roamed around the usual sites but Madrid didn?t really do it for me. I?m not much of a drinker and some soggy weather didn?t improve my outlook. The real highlight was the Palace of Something I Can?t Remember Right Now. I also went to the Prado museum, home to hundreds of impressive paintings from guys that died a long time ago. Discarding Madrid like a soiled sock, I headed off to Seville.
Seville was the Spain of my dreams. Narrow cobblestone streets, colorful buildings, incredible architecture, beautiful plazas, amazing gardens, up to 50% off on life insurance. Wow. Unfortunately due to a series of scheduling snafus I ended staying for only about 6 hours. I still covered a pretty good chunk of the sites on a gorgeous day. It was here, in Seville, that I experienced probably my first moment of pure synergistic perfection in this world. For one reason or another it appeared that everyone in Seville was getting married on the same day. For some reason there were literally dozens of couples wandering around in tuxedos and wedding dresses having their pictures taken by photographers. The sun was hanging low in the sky as I walked through an arch into a pedestrian plaza behind a truly stunning cathedral. The plaza was rectangular, surrounded by colorful buildings and bordered by low trees that were full of brilliant, ripe oranges. In the center was a fountain with ducks. The spire of the cathedral could be seen over the edge of the buildings and everything glowed with the reddish hue of a setting sun. Several brides and grooms mulled around the plaza, striking poses. It was at this moment that the cathedral bells started ringing, a brilliant echoing sound that reverberated off the walls and touched the very soul. My eyes immediately welled up with tears. It was, for me, a perfect moment. And I will leave you with that.