Campsite Summer Nights

Shout out to my long lost Aussie childhood buddy, Adam Jenson.

My two Italian friends and me... drinking Mate (an Argentinian drink similar to tea but different from anything else you have ever tried) and whiskey under the stars.

A few random videos

Throughout my recent walking, and waiting, I started playing with the video function on my camera... doing short interviews.

Here are a few.

Sorry about the second one, I accidentally hit nightview, but I pass some old drunk spaniards that you can just barely see.

Oh where oh where to sleep

The past few days have been somewhere between a whirlwind and a clusterfuck.

I left Figueres a day later than I planned.

On the day I planned, I got to the bus terminal to get my big pack out of the locker.
Bus terminal closed.

A short beg routine later, I am let in and thankfully retrieve my things.

But its just started.

Nate misread the arrivals for the departure trains and got himself stuck with no hostel for a night.

The first night search is on.

So help myself to a little 2km hike to the campsite where I sleep on the ground for 5 euros.

Have been making a habit of counting pennies lately.

Next day I make it to Barcelona and then grab a second train to Valencia.

True to form every single hostel in the city is completely full.

Unbeknownst (sp?) to me, the city was in the middle of a huge Formula 1 rally or race or something.

After hiking all over the city looking for a Pension or a bar with a room ... a hostel worker finally rescues me and finds me a room.

Granted it was the equivalent of 45 bucks, a bit steep, but I really didn't want to sleep in the park with my passport and creditcards on me (shoulda left them in the locker).

That night was hot, very hot... humid room, no fan, no breeze... I had to sweat it out, using a damp towel to cool off, periodically throughout the night.

Next day was a search for housing.

Everything was full.

I finally found a campsite 30km out of the city where I am now. Had to hike across the city for the bus to get here.

The campsite wouldn't give me the cheap price for no tent, but I met an Aussie Kiwi pair of rubbers... car camping across europe.

They offered to let me camp on their site further up the road, so tomorrow that's where I'm heading. They're going to La Tomatina as well.

I'm recruiting guys to help me get up the greased pole.

Tradition demands the festival doesn't start until someone gets the leg of ham at the top.

I want it.

But I have to get past the Spaniards that try to pull tourists down.

We'll see how that goes.

This was their drunk finger puppet.

Two other Aussie fellas I met and their tounges ... and the drunk fingerpuppet.

Interview with a drunk fingerpuppet.











The Bull fighting arena in Valencia.





















This is what I wanted to see.


















This was all they had in August. Yeah, this.

Dali Pictures

Teatro Museo

Gold painted figures threaten to jump.

Gala´s rowboat and umbrella sit attop a giant column of car tires in the center of the museum´s main courtyard.










The Persian Queen atop a steamy vine filled car with water dripping from the roof.

The shocking nature of Surrealism´s use of the impossible.

At last, the blank canvas gives up and just as you expected promptly craps itself.

Who ate all the ice cream?













This was painted on a large ceiling.
Dali from below: see the upside down drawers?

Tristan and Isolde

Which image do you see?

I really like this one.

Dali also designed and created Jewelry. This is the Corset Ring... so you, Brittany

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Casa de Dali

Dali´s house from across the bay.








Quiet Reader in the Garden












Dali´s bedroom through a mirror.

There was random stuff like this all over his house.












The Canaray Room.

Fishnet draped slanted walls, this space was very tight. Unfortunately it was roped off. The statue at the top made it hard to fight the temptation to run for it and see what was up there.












The Pigeon Roost

Below the winding staircase was the model´s room where people could relax after posing in the studio.










Lip couch by the pool












Dining Room, complete with Winged Rhinoceros Head








One of Dali´s unfinished pieces left in his studio.








The Beggar and the Michelin Man.

Giant rowboat carcass

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Randoms

Kids cliff diving. I jumped from the point where the blond boy is. The water is on the other side of the closer rocks.













Inside the Church at Cadaques








Tiny alley in Cadaques










The Amazing Pirate Dog







Sunrise over the campsite












Ah... the Mediterranean Sea

Preparing for the leap

Where´s nude Waldo?

Some little piece of architecture in Paris.

The I-Know-Where-I-Am Dance

Ever do the I-Know-Where-I-Am Dance?

I did it last night.
Got myself completely helplessly lost at 5 in the morning.
Well not completely... the character I was with said he knew where he was...
then he kept changing his mind.
And then he left.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.
Unable to meet my friends, I parked it at a local waterhole to chat with the bartenders and see how they mix up a cocktail in Spain.
Between making the cheapest beer last the longest, I actually got some new tricks.
Whoever gets lucky enough to try my next Mojito... prepare to be astounded.
Matt and Diana... that´s you.
Also tried a beer mixed with Fanta limon... surprisingly good, but I won´t make you guys try that.

Anyway, my new friend starts talking to me about Dali... asking some of the most interesting questions I have heard in a while.

"Tell me what is your writing... use two words please"

He told me:

"That which you create must come from your universe, brought into existence for you and no one else... it talkes balls, sensivity, abandon, violence, thought."

He had a face that was weather worn, making it impossible to guess his age.
White scruff sprouted under sun beaten cheeks.
He had features carved by countless experiences.
They spoke a language all their own, complete with well worn expressions of deep thought.

When one bar closed, we migrated to another.
Winding down back allies, covering distance.
I tried to keep a bearing, but eventually had to give up.

Lean and sturdy, he walked with a purpose ...equally stopped with a purpose to point out a fountain made by Dali or a mural made by someone else, asking what it resembled to my eye.

He wouldn´t tell me his nationality because it carried a meaning that wasn´t his.
I can relate to that.

He regretfully accepted my email, apologizing for he did not operate in cyberspace... he mourned friends unknown to me... lost to time, and distance. I could see it behind his eyes.
I knew I would not see him again.
He taught me a slight of hand game... we played for cheap beers.

And then he disappeared into the night.
I chose a direction and started walking.

Figueres is a busy tourist town by day, and a deserted ghost town by night.
I didn´t see a soul.
Flip flops echoing on cobbled streets and bouncing up into the night off shuttered windows.
I followed my shadow.
And then suddenly I knew where I was.

I broke out my dance in the middle of the empty square.
A little booty shake, jump kick spin and groove.
I even gave myself an encore performance.
Then walked to bed.

It was a good night.

On Distance

This is from an email I wrote a few weeks ago while I was in Paris:

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The other day as I hunched over my computer obsessively trying to focus... a beautiful day passing unnoticed outside, I overheard this Australian girl bawling into her webcam beside me.
It was a little distracting as you can imagine,
more like impossible to ignore.
It was her birthday.
Apparently right before I had gotten there she had fought it out with the internet guy to get a computer that had skype so she could call her friends and family.
Now as she tried to tell her parents what a good time she was having, the tears wouldn't stop.

Unable to concentrate, I was secretly listening in.
After her parents came her friend, after her friend came her boyfriend.
And after the quivering goodbye to her boyfriend...
came the shortest, most heart breaking sigh I have heard in a long time.

Then she gathered herself... stepped outside into the sun and carried on.

I know that sigh...

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As I´m sure many of you do as well.

My life has given me many new faces... but also many goodbyes in turn.
They never do get easier, but you learn to take it in stride.
Lament the separation.
Celebrate the memories.
Hope for the next meeting.

My parents say goodbye to Isaac my brother today. He returns to the US for another year of school.

I dedicate today´s post to connections of love, of friendship, and of family which stubbornly fly in the face of pan-global distances and pan-state differences alike.

May they remain to be renewed.

Avast!

I just drank an expresso and whisky... that was mostly whisky.
It made me feel better if that tells you anything about how I am feeling right now.
Where´s a decent Bloody Mary when you need one.
Which, for those of you who don´t know, is probably my favorite drink to make.
I consider it Bartender Jazz. Improvisation is key.
Each one is different and each one is a work of art. The right mix of citrus tang and spice, a good one will knock the back of your throat out... kiss your lips with fire, and have you on your feet in 2 minutes flat.
I especially like them garnished with fresh peppers or pickled asparagus.
God I´m fienden for a rightous red one.
On my way to see if Spain can make a bloody... but figured I would write my hangover first.
From what I remember last night... I had a good time.
I met these guys from Edinburgh and the UK a few days ago. They just walked from the Atlantic Ocean. Took em 48 days.
Ballers.
They kept me outta at least one fight last night and somehow managed me back to my tent.
Good lads. They remind me of the old days, fellas... runnin around causing mayhem.
Anyhow, I was going to write about Cadaques.
This town, or rather the campsite here. Sometimes reminds me of Tortugo, the hidden pirate city in Pirates of the Caribean. Tattoos, dreadlocks, earings and plenty of swaggering. Albeit somewhat touristy, at drunken moments aided by the lack of language it´s easy to enter an imagined world where gypsy pirates meet and drink.
The main street of the town wrapps around a cliffed seafront. Whitwashed walls emit glowing rectangles of light from rock to chapel-like silhouettes.
My first night here, the seas were high and the main road was drenched by crashing waves.
Wind seems to be a standard fixture... and the lack of any today has definately left a void.
Like many seaside towns this one has many faces. A comic doing impressions, the light and the sea seem to emit emotions. One cannot describe the scenery as anything other than brooding or playful... laid back or ravenous.