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:

--------------------------------------------------------------------

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...

---------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

Stormy Sleep

Last night a storm blew through the campsite.

Everywhere was the sound of flapping nylon tarps and zipping.

Flashes of sheet lightning momentarily took blue and green snapshots of shadows mid sprint.

Spectacular forks of light like intricate glowing cracks in the cloud above seared themselves into being as a united gasp escaped the lips of those lucky enought to be looking up.

Lone street lights and headlamps illuminated slanted sheets of raincurtains angling into trees and sandy ground. The smell of earth and wet branches rose like smoke from below.

As I ran past one tiny shelter I heard from within muffled moans and the unmistakable high-pitched barely-voiced inhale. A couple, possessed by the spirit of reckless weather, were riding the rhythm of the storm as the wind wolf whistled along.

The night was whispering to each in turn their secret messages.

From afar.

Driven abreeze they now shook loose in rhyming clarity... to wrap the receiver in farflung dreams beneath the chaotic canopy.

I tossed and turned all night as the tent repeatedly claimed to give up cruel world! or tear unshackled from my aluminum stakes. While the moon... a shapeless hidden glow... struggled across the embattled sky, gusts of wind charged my tent from every angle in turn. Like the hands of a clock slowly stalking its center. The chiming bells were periodic cracks of rolling thunder that seemed to rattle your organs from the inside out.

But my shelter held its ground, and I slept dry within.

Something about being at the mercy of unbridled nature has always appealed to me. Testing my fortitude against the onslought of the elements.

Perhaps I see the forces as beautiful mirror images of the wild parts of myself and humanity that are equally halting in their mystery to me.

Or perhaps I just like a good party.

Either way I enjoyed my little storm last night.

The House that Dali Built

Two Dali museums down, one more to go.
The first was in Figueres, the Teatro Museo... an extremely popular museum. The holy bible of traveling (aka guidebook) hath so-seriously-you-guys declared it top most visited museum in Spain, or something along those lines.
I don´t know about all that, but the big crowd did somehow force my experience. Hard to get lost in an art piece and be jostled at the same time.
I was lucky... I walked into the room of his tomb just at the right moment. I was the only person there. It was a nice touch.
The Teatro Museo was first created by Dali... constructed on the ruins of a burned theater in his hometown (the actual site of his first art exhibition at age 14). The Mayor of Figueres asked Dali to donate a painting to the town. The artist refused, instead promising a museum of his design. And there it was.
As you can imagine the whole building is a surrealist experience down to every minute detail.

The real winner though was Casa de Dali which I visited today.
This was Dali and Gala´s (his wife and muse) home and studio. They lived here until Gala´s death.
This place is so wild, shit! I want a house like this someday... seriously.
Three separate fishing huts strung together... it grew and evolved over years, the universe of Dali in a physical labyrinth. To enter it is to enter a shrine.
Due to the size, the number of visitors are strictly limited... adding to the aura.
In fact, you´re supposed to call ahead and reserve tickets. Solo to the rescue... if you´re alone, sometimes it works in your favor.
Something about the intimacy of the whole experience... hushed and holy... was riveting. Be it the mirror positioned just ye, so the artist could see the light of dawn from his bed; or Gala´s private room designed by her lover... the acoustics of which created a dreamlike echo, completely confusing and enhancing for any ear-eye coordination.
In this house, a hall was not just a hall: completely white... blank except for a tiny birdcage, it could have been an artpiece... but it wasn´t... it was his home.
Very moving day for me.
After that I took a walk by and then a swim in the Mediterranean.
In case you were wondering, yes nude beaches exist in Spain (stop reading if nudity makes you queasy):
no, they aren´t marked, a regular beach becomes a nude beach when someone takes their pants off, but they do tend to be remoter... yes I saw a lot of tits, pussy, and dick today... no they weren´t all pleasant to look at... yes that means flabby, saggy, hairy, etc. But one or two weren´t bad. I might try it tomorrow.
Instead of getting nude today... I jumped off a cliff and then I jumped off another higher cliff. Nothing too high, about 30ft maybe I just saw some kids jumping and surviving so I gave it a try. Fun stuff.
The past two nights, I have been extremely lax about finding places to sleep. Both places I found after 9pm. Instead of paying too much for a hostel, I just figure I can grab a midnight bus and sleep on it... since it doesn´t really matter where I go. As long as I keep moving.
In other news... I am happy to announce I have bought a plane ticket back to the States and will begin my season of money making in Montana this time: Mountain Sky Guest Ranch. At least until October and then it´ll be the road again.
Cheers.

Dali Stop

I just hopped off my train to Barcelona because I was about to pass not one but three Salvador Dali museums. So I´m here now in Figueres the place of his birth and death.

Pics, tips, and freedom fries

Starting with the photos this time:













Church in Dublin



















Same Church: I couldn't go in cause they were filming The Tudors (whatever that is)

Dublin Castle














Ivy Building

I'll have a ... a ... Jamesons?














Irish Harbor














Irish Sea


















Amazing day at the beach: I think at this point I had 3 hours till my plane left.

Irish Fishermen















Boats














The Golden Gates of Versailles Palace


















The Ceiling of the Royal Family Chapel


















Now that's a bed




































The Famous Hall of Mirrors: Testament to Extravagance














I would kinda like a fireplace that burned whole trees though


















Fountain in the Gardens














The Palace from the Gardens


















Yin and Lauren














Me and my favorite god... you guessed it: Dionysus (aka Bacchus)














Lunch / Yin's face















Eiffel Tower Sunset

***************************************************************
And Now the Post

First of all. I'm going to Barcelona tomorrow!!!
Second of all, a few thoughts on stereotypes:

Its no secret that Americans have certain stereotypes about the French in general and the Parisans in specific. You know its coming, but I'll get to Freedom Fries and Freedom Toast in a minute.

Before my trip I was warned several times that the French in Paris were assholes... especially if you were lacking in French fluency (or something along those lines).
At the risk of jinxing myself, I will state for the record that I have experienced nothing but kindness and patience in my interactions.

Here are a few examples:

My first night in Paris came at the end of a very long journey. I had finally reached Mathieu's apartment where I was supposed to crash. Due to the lost bag and lost taxi incidents, I was slightly late... only four hours. It was three a.m. I was mapless, dead on my feet, dying for a cigarette, and staring at a locked apartment building. I needed a phone.
Three city blocks later I concluded that coin payphones were as plentiful as freakin unicorns in Paris.
Any shop selling phonecards had closed long ago.
In desperation I wondered if it would be worth yelling at windows in the above apartments until the right one opened.
I decided against that.
Instead I was politely approached by a slightly intoxicated Frenchman asking for a cig.
Hmm, it seemed I wasn't the only one in this city with nothing but a habit.
I started to ask where all the telephone booths hung out at this time of night... but I only got as far as "telefono." He had pulled out his cell and was asking for the number.
That single gesture probably saved me another two hours of searching.
Mathieu whom I had never met (we had a mutual friend), had been waiting up with his friends. He graciously invited me into his home and handed me a smoke.
And that was my Paris first impression.

Another time I saw a young French guy chase down an Asian tourist in the subway because the back of his bag was unzipped. After frantically rumaging to make sure everything was there, the flustered tourist could barely squeak a "merci."

Of course the responsiblity for harmonious cross cultural interactions must be shared. Sometimes you have to help too:

In response to my "parle vous anglais?" bombshell...
I can clearly read the "oh shit... and I was having a good day" expression flash across the information desk lady's face.
She eyes me warily.
Luckily here's where I shine.

If I may offer a few free tips:
First, before you begin firing questions, greet the individual in French. This step must not be underestimated... many cultures (even ours) value politeness and the establishment of a relationship.
Second, establish two things as soon as possible: you are neither distressed nor rushed.
In the absence of words you must communicate through other means: body language and facial expressions.
In practice, adopt a non challenging relaxed stance, make eye contact (minus that intense crazy guy stare)... and smile for the love of god! Act like you are having the best day of your life.
Now... having said that, it gets a little tricky when you are, in fact very rushed, extremely distressed, and consequently having the worst day of your life. Lie, baby lie. Acting cool can be better than blowing your top: better service and it clears your head.
Practice makes perfect.
Third, use whatever means to communicate. This often ends up being amusing for everyone in line. I have used drawing, acting, singing, dancing... anything. Try using words in different languages. Try having a good time doing it. If it seems funny or awkard thats because it is, so laugh.
In this case after a little miming with some Spanish thrown in, the young lady took a liking to me (thats the smiling for ya), and walked me to the appropriate ticket counter. Which ended up being the wrong ticket counter but hey... at least it was in the vicinity.
Plan on repeating the entire process several times before success. That way you can be pleasantly surprised instead of devastated (if your the prone to devastation type).

I just had an ominous feeling that after such a self-righteous post... I must have doomed myself. Next post: Nate in Paris jail after beating store clerk with flip flop.

Lets hope not.

This post is too long for me to go into Freedom Fries, so I'll just say that I suspect the US government (or at least the current administration) to be behind a media driven smear campaign against the French culture. Imagine what a pain it would be if some Frenchies did things opposite from your way and fared much better. I mean wouldn't that prove you... gasp... wrong?
I'm referring to France's health care, educational, and work vacation systems which are decidedly left of our left... and better.
Mainly though, I feel like anti-French jabs really heated up in the US after France took a stand against the Iraq War.
I'm no expert on this so feel free to add your thoughts in the comments. Just tossin it out there. Discuss.