i found myself in a bit of a jam after a few days in lima. it sounds like a strange concept, but i had about a week to kill before starting my ¨real¨ travels. without sufficient time to go north to ecuador or south towards bolivia due to the upcoming arrival of ali and my brother and his girlfriend in lima, i was stuck with very few options. i didn´t want to stray too far from lima but needed to get out of the city, so i headed south for huacachina, a desert oasis surrounded by massive sand dunes and located just outside of ica.
the bus ride to ica was amazing. i was the only gringo out of about fifty people (with the exception of an israeli couple in front of me) and we got to watch two really great movies: mission impossible 1 and 2. another thing that you guys should know about south american buses is that they love to show outdated american action movies that are either improperly dubbed or bootlegs that were shot with a video camera inside the theater. fortunately, mi:1 had bad dubbing and mi:2 was shot with a shaky camera, so i got the best of both worlds.
as we finally made our way out of the smog cloud that suffocates lima and its surroundings, the effects of the august earthquake began to appear. at first, there were a few small homes that looked like they had been hit with mortar shells, with debris and rocks scattered around the properties and collapsed roofs. soon, entire towns (the hardest hit were chincha and pisco) began to surface with similar characteristics. it looked like the footage that they show on tv when a bomb goes off in the middle east- all of the buildings were completely destroyed and coated in dust, graffiti was present either asking for prayers or the renunciation of god and the only buildings that were restored were the minimarkets, bars and restaurants that serve tourists. in addition, most households have been temporarily moved into huge red coleman tents, which are also caked in dust and have few sources of ventilation to assist in circulating the dry desert air. it was really sad to see, but i am glad that i had the chance to witness it. i have decided that if i have money left at the end of this trip most of it will go towards getting these villages back on their feet.
i had been told by a couple of british girls that to get to huacachina, you just hop off the bus in ica and take a cab for a couple of kilometers until you arrive at a lagoon surrounded by sand. after a bit of bargaining, i found an adequate ride. as we began the trip to huacachina, the driver asked me if i was in a hurry because he needed to make a couple of stops. i told him that it was okay so long as we headed in the right direction since it was a station wagon and i was the only passenger. before i knew it, we had stopped at a streetside stand (where he grabbed a bunch of unlabeled cigarettes) and picked up a few of his drinking buddies, who were all located in different spots and had their own bottles of homemade booze. the 5 kilometer ride took about 30 minutes and was absolutely hilarious- i learned more slang than i thought possible and was informed about the failed relationships and penchants for hookers that these guys had. after turning down several offers to go out drinking with them (i was still pretty sick at this point), the cab driver finally took me to huacachina.
huacachina is a strange place. it was built in the 1920s as a retreat for lima´s elite class and is basically a tiny man-made lagoon that is located in the middle of a range of sand dunes. the lagoon is surrounded by a few hostels, hotels, restaurants, convenience stores and junk peddlers and nothing else. a typical day involves eating a massive and cheap breakfast ($2 for crepes with fresh local fruit, bread, eggs, fresh squeezed juice, coffee, tea and a yogurt parfait type thing), hiking the dunes before midday (it gets ridiculously hot there), swimming in the pool and sunbathing, going on dune buggy rides and sandboarding down the dunes (sandboards are basically heavy planks of plywood with no edges or flex and velcro bindings), some more relaxation time by the pool or in shaded hammocks or tee-pees, a great home-cooked meal for dinner and then some more hiking, carreteando and sandboarding on the dunes.
for halloween, the only difference that i made to this routine was the incorporation of locally made chocolate. earlier in the week i had befriended a pair of canadian girls and two guys from washington state. we found a local shop that made its own chocolate, rounded up all of the israelis and italians at the hostel and headed for the top of the highest dune, where we had a chocolate feast and a midnight dance party courtesy of a dinky pair of speakers and someone´s ipod. while it certainly did not compare to last year´s festivities in boulder, it was still worthy of being labeled a halloween celebration.
i spent another day in huacachina before making my way back to lima. unexpectedly, the cab ride to the bus station from huacachina was equally as bizarre as the one that i took at the beginning of my stay. after agreeing upon the price (taxis do not have meters here and are notorious for ripping off gringos), the driver went on this rant about how the ride was going to be more expensive because of his assumption that i had more money than him. after trying to explain the concept of cost of living and how with 4 soles (about $1.33) he could get in ica what would cost significantly more in the u.s. (he didn´t follow me on these ideas) we finally reached a new agreement- if we could change the subject and have a different conversation i would give him 5 soles instead of the 3 that we had agreed upon. his idea of this was to explain his exploits with hookers (a bit of a common theme with taxi drivers here) and how i should give my guitar to his friend (who he had picked up and was sitting in the trunk). upon reaching the bus station i tossed him 4 soles and thanked him for the wonderful conversation. he just winked at me and sped off. it was the perfect ending for my stay in such a strange place.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
riding in buses, oh fantastic memories!
well amigos the time has come to jumpstart this blog thing again. i am currently in lima, peru (for the second stint in the past week or so) awaiting the arrival of ali, my brother and serena, his girlfriend. the city is big, smelly and a bit rundown and , for these reasons alone, i am enjoying it immensely.
my travels in south america started on a bit of a sour note. after a week of not really being able to hold down any food (thanks morocco), i boarded the plane with a twisted stomach and the uneasiness that comes with traveling while sick. fortunately, the flight went by very quickly thanks to the hilarious stories of the woman next to me, who described herself as a ¨worse version of celine dion who gave up her dreams of becoming a pop star to raise a family with a recovering alcoholic in a small hicktown in canada that is probably not even on googlemaps¨. she had a lot of funny stories about being on tour and in the studio in the 80s, as well as partying with the members of fleetwood mac and journey. eventually i asked her why she was heading down to peru, to which she replied, ¨to fit amputees with prostethic limbs¨(an obvious activity for a former pop star wannabe and cocaine addict).
i spent my first day in lima in bed, still feeling pretty shitty. eventually, i got up and looked out the window to see if anything was going on. i discovered a line of combis (small buses that look like a cross between old toyota previa mini-vans and the terribly described ¨special ed¨buses from elementary school) honking their horns with people pouring out from the windows and doorways, holding on for dear life. it was time to see the city.
as many of you know, riding public transportation in south america is an adventure in itself. while living in santiago two years ago, i was a passenger on at least three buses that were involved in substantial collisions during my daily commute to school. one such crash was of a large enough magnitude to cause me to rush off of the bus and barf on the sidewalk due to the sudden impact and halt (note: this incident followed a long night of dancing and pisco consumption, so it was not entirely the bus' doing).
i decided to try my luck with the peruvian buses. boarding the combis is a process worthy of a deeper sociological study. basically, buses dart in every direction possible while honking their horns to attract the attention of potential customers. once someone on the sidewalk expresses interest in catching a ride, a horde of buses fights for the space in front of the person to pick him/her up (note: the buses are not state-run and the drivers and workers do not receive a fixed salary, so the more passengers a combi picks up, the more its employees earn). often times, the bus is still in motion when you board it, so there is a small man that stands halfway in the doorway and halfway outside the bus to physically pick you up and place you on the stairwell of the bus. to exit the bus, you are sometimes assisted by the small man, who gives you a bit of a one-armed shove out of the doorway. as i learned on my first ride, it is essential to spot your landing prior to the push because there always exists the potential of being led into a moving car or into a hole. also, the bus rarely comes to a complete halt, so there is a high chance that the velocity from the bus will carry you past your desired landing spot.
my favorite aspect of the combis in lima is that regardless of where your destination is, the combi goes there. by this i mean that the small man working the door (whose other primary duty is to continually shout the route of the combi for hours on end in a nasal, indistinguishable battlecry) will usually tell you that the combi goes where you want to go without the least bit of hesitation, making it seem as though he is telling the truth. however, it soon becomes apparent that he is lying through his teeth when you end up on the opposite side of town where no other combis pass, requiring you to either walk or hail a taxi.
all of this makes for a great way to pass an afternoon and to get a feel for the city. i just hope that one of these days i get to where i´m trying to go.
my travels in south america started on a bit of a sour note. after a week of not really being able to hold down any food (thanks morocco), i boarded the plane with a twisted stomach and the uneasiness that comes with traveling while sick. fortunately, the flight went by very quickly thanks to the hilarious stories of the woman next to me, who described herself as a ¨worse version of celine dion who gave up her dreams of becoming a pop star to raise a family with a recovering alcoholic in a small hicktown in canada that is probably not even on googlemaps¨. she had a lot of funny stories about being on tour and in the studio in the 80s, as well as partying with the members of fleetwood mac and journey. eventually i asked her why she was heading down to peru, to which she replied, ¨to fit amputees with prostethic limbs¨(an obvious activity for a former pop star wannabe and cocaine addict).
i spent my first day in lima in bed, still feeling pretty shitty. eventually, i got up and looked out the window to see if anything was going on. i discovered a line of combis (small buses that look like a cross between old toyota previa mini-vans and the terribly described ¨special ed¨buses from elementary school) honking their horns with people pouring out from the windows and doorways, holding on for dear life. it was time to see the city.
as many of you know, riding public transportation in south america is an adventure in itself. while living in santiago two years ago, i was a passenger on at least three buses that were involved in substantial collisions during my daily commute to school. one such crash was of a large enough magnitude to cause me to rush off of the bus and barf on the sidewalk due to the sudden impact and halt (note: this incident followed a long night of dancing and pisco consumption, so it was not entirely the bus' doing).
i decided to try my luck with the peruvian buses. boarding the combis is a process worthy of a deeper sociological study. basically, buses dart in every direction possible while honking their horns to attract the attention of potential customers. once someone on the sidewalk expresses interest in catching a ride, a horde of buses fights for the space in front of the person to pick him/her up (note: the buses are not state-run and the drivers and workers do not receive a fixed salary, so the more passengers a combi picks up, the more its employees earn). often times, the bus is still in motion when you board it, so there is a small man that stands halfway in the doorway and halfway outside the bus to physically pick you up and place you on the stairwell of the bus. to exit the bus, you are sometimes assisted by the small man, who gives you a bit of a one-armed shove out of the doorway. as i learned on my first ride, it is essential to spot your landing prior to the push because there always exists the potential of being led into a moving car or into a hole. also, the bus rarely comes to a complete halt, so there is a high chance that the velocity from the bus will carry you past your desired landing spot.
my favorite aspect of the combis in lima is that regardless of where your destination is, the combi goes there. by this i mean that the small man working the door (whose other primary duty is to continually shout the route of the combi for hours on end in a nasal, indistinguishable battlecry) will usually tell you that the combi goes where you want to go without the least bit of hesitation, making it seem as though he is telling the truth. however, it soon becomes apparent that he is lying through his teeth when you end up on the opposite side of town where no other combis pass, requiring you to either walk or hail a taxi.
all of this makes for a great way to pass an afternoon and to get a feel for the city. i just hope that one of these days i get to where i´m trying to go.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
an asymmetrical island of dry land floating in a sea of mud
damon and i decided to ditch the big city and take a bus up north from barcelona to san sebastian. we were tired of dealing with crowds and getting worked over by hostel prices, so we figured a few days of camping and hanging out at the beach would be the perfect remedy. as we arrived at the campground things started to get a little weird. it seems that most campsites here have a few plots of land for pitching tents and then a ton of cabins, along with bathrooms, laundry facilities, a supermarket and a bar. basically, it´s like being at a really nice summer camp. regardless, we figured it would be more fun than staying in a hostel in the sleepy beach town, so we set up our site and then took the bus down to the beach.
the beach was really awesome and soft, but after about 30 minutes of lounging the clouds started to roll in. and they never went away. basically, it rained steadily for about 48 hours, alternating between a light drizzle and torrential downpours. when we got back to the campground our little plot had been conquered by thick mud and water was pooling up directly under my side of the tent. it was not very pretty and i began to have visions of the first time that i went camping in chile and forgot to put the rainfly on my tent, waking up in a couple inches of water. things were getting pretty nasty.
as the rain began to fall even harder, damon came up with the brilliant idea of digging large trenches around our tent to keep the water from flowing underneath. using a small dagger we took turns chopping up the thick, root-filled terrain, getting completely soaked and caked in mud in the process.
digging trenches was hard work, so after a while we grabbed our dinner materials and took shelter under an awning to stay dry and devise a plan of action. in the process, we met a pair of really interesting dutch med students who were on a surf holiday, even though neither of them really knew how to surf. we also met a pretty crazy dude who is midway through an epic journey- london to morocco on a longboard to raise money and awareness for testicular cancer. after telling them about our tent situation, charlie, the english longboarder, mentioned that he had a little gardening shovel that we could use to dig deeper holes. when asked why he had a little shovel with him, he replied ¨me mum gave it to me in case i have to take a shit on the side of the road and bury it¨.
after reinforcing the trenches (which were all completely filled with water when we returned) we headed to the bar down the street to meet up with our new acquaintances. once inside, we settled in and began to talk about a number of random topics, such as the differences between the amount of vacation days that people get in different countries, how canceled american tv shows end up making it to other countries (no one had a clue, but we came up with some theories that could potentially be correct), and what each of us did as a profession or aspired to do. as one of the med students finished up her turn, damon asked her what area of medicine she specialized in. she took one glance at damon and charlie, who were each smoking cigarettes, and replied with a look of disgust, "pulmonologist". it was really funny.
the rain continued throughout the night but we miraculously woke up completely dry. our trenches had performed perfectly, basically leaving an island of dry land underneath our tent which was surrounded in thick, heavy mud. after a quick look at the sky (dark, ominous clouds for as far as the eye could see) damon and i decided that our dreams of relaxing on the beach were done for. we booked a bus to madrid and spent the day hanging out in town with charlie and waiting around at the bus station. no gordo rules for this entry, but if you decide to go camping during the rainy season you might want to bring along a little garden shovel.
the beach was really awesome and soft, but after about 30 minutes of lounging the clouds started to roll in. and they never went away. basically, it rained steadily for about 48 hours, alternating between a light drizzle and torrential downpours. when we got back to the campground our little plot had been conquered by thick mud and water was pooling up directly under my side of the tent. it was not very pretty and i began to have visions of the first time that i went camping in chile and forgot to put the rainfly on my tent, waking up in a couple inches of water. things were getting pretty nasty.
as the rain began to fall even harder, damon came up with the brilliant idea of digging large trenches around our tent to keep the water from flowing underneath. using a small dagger we took turns chopping up the thick, root-filled terrain, getting completely soaked and caked in mud in the process.
digging trenches was hard work, so after a while we grabbed our dinner materials and took shelter under an awning to stay dry and devise a plan of action. in the process, we met a pair of really interesting dutch med students who were on a surf holiday, even though neither of them really knew how to surf. we also met a pretty crazy dude who is midway through an epic journey- london to morocco on a longboard to raise money and awareness for testicular cancer. after telling them about our tent situation, charlie, the english longboarder, mentioned that he had a little gardening shovel that we could use to dig deeper holes. when asked why he had a little shovel with him, he replied ¨me mum gave it to me in case i have to take a shit on the side of the road and bury it¨.
after reinforcing the trenches (which were all completely filled with water when we returned) we headed to the bar down the street to meet up with our new acquaintances. once inside, we settled in and began to talk about a number of random topics, such as the differences between the amount of vacation days that people get in different countries, how canceled american tv shows end up making it to other countries (no one had a clue, but we came up with some theories that could potentially be correct), and what each of us did as a profession or aspired to do. as one of the med students finished up her turn, damon asked her what area of medicine she specialized in. she took one glance at damon and charlie, who were each smoking cigarettes, and replied with a look of disgust, "pulmonologist". it was really funny.
the rain continued throughout the night but we miraculously woke up completely dry. our trenches had performed perfectly, basically leaving an island of dry land underneath our tent which was surrounded in thick, heavy mud. after a quick look at the sky (dark, ominous clouds for as far as the eye could see) damon and i decided that our dreams of relaxing on the beach were done for. we booked a bus to madrid and spent the day hanging out in town with charlie and waiting around at the bus station. no gordo rules for this entry, but if you decide to go camping during the rainy season you might want to bring along a little garden shovel.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
a quick one act play based entirely on actual events
location: under an awning at the san sebastian bus station
narrator:
the rain has been falling for days now. after polishing off a late dinner of lentils, garbanzo beans and roasted red peppers damon walks away from the bench, leaving gordo alone to deal with the old, salty man. the old, salty man looks deeply into gordo's eyes and mutters...
old, drunk, salty, bleary eyed, houndstooth covered man:
puta la madre....your friend is never coming back.......he's a fucking asshole......now can i have some of what's in that bottle? (pointing to the water bottle in gordo's hands, completely unaware that it is filled with tap water)
narrator: damon returns and the old, salty man slinks away in defeat. he later reappears to ask if any corn or tomatoes are to be found.
narrator:
the rain has been falling for days now. after polishing off a late dinner of lentils, garbanzo beans and roasted red peppers damon walks away from the bench, leaving gordo alone to deal with the old, salty man. the old, salty man looks deeply into gordo's eyes and mutters...
old, drunk, salty, bleary eyed, houndstooth covered man:
puta la madre....your friend is never coming back.......he's a fucking asshole......now can i have some of what's in that bottle? (pointing to the water bottle in gordo's hands, completely unaware that it is filled with tap water)
narrator: damon returns and the old, salty man slinks away in defeat. he later reappears to ask if any corn or tomatoes are to be found.
rizer shizer and gringo shmingo
throughout the beginning of the trip damon has consistently uttered the saying "rizer shizer". the literal translation from german is "travel shit" and the saying was adopted by damon and dale during their travels to refer to any instance when a country or culture gets the best of someone while traveling. arriving at the hostel in paris late at night to discover that it was overbooked is an example of rizer shizer. being forced to repeat french words by an english speaking goon in order to use a computer is another prime example. damon and i experienced quite a few instances of rizer shizer within paris and during our first few days in spain. however, it was not until the second night of the merce festival that damon and i created the term "gringo shmingo".
whereas rizer shizer refers to when an external factor gets the best of someone while traveling, gringo shmingo is used to describe when someone gets the best of him/herself while traveling. basically, it's when you fuck yourself over for being a stupid gringo.
this term came into existence as damon and i were walking back to our hostel from another concert at plaza catalunya. while the night before was one of the highlights of the trip thus far, the second night of merce found us distraught and audibly questioning our decisionmaking processes after a brief sting operation by the barcelona police. the short version of the story is that damon and i were caught selling beer at the concert by undercover cops and had the remainder of the beer and our backpacks confiscated. the long version is definitely a bit more interesting, so if you have a few minutes you might want to read on.
after witnessing a clan of sketchy indians make a killing selling beer outside of plaze catalunya during the first night of the merce fest, damon and i devised a plan. the dollar has been at an all time low during our trip and we decided that we could sell beer and use the profit to compensate for the high prices of everything. content to make just enough to cover our bus fare to bilbao (about 40 euros each), we decided to buy ten 6 packs of ixtapa beer. if we could get 10 euros for each 6 pack we would hit our goal and head north the next day.
the first sign that our plan might be flawed was that the grocery store was almost completely sold out of beer. during the previous day nearly two aisles were filled with all different types of beer. on the night of the incident only one stack of maybe forty 6 packs remained. feeling uneasy, i bought eight 6 packs and a few bags of ice. i figured the worst case scenario would entail breaking even and sharing the remaining beers with gretchen and her friends.
a few hours later, after damon and i had rigged up a makeshift cooler out of a plastic trashcan, we loaded our bags and set out for the plaza. we were both a little nervous and i vaguely remember telling damon that if anything happened with the cops i would stick to speaking english and adhere to the ignorant gringo act. we laughed it off and met up with gretch and her friends.
selling beer was not nearly as easy as we had envisioned. most people either brought their own beer or were still recovering from the night before. after a half hour we were still without a sale and the beer was starting to get warm. damon and i agreed to initiate a new strategy‐ a beer for 1 euro until we broke even, followed by laughing off the entire operation and enjoying the leftovers with friends.
the customers finally started to trickle in. first a guy bought 3 for him and his friends. than a couple of singles followed by a big sale‐ a 6 pack to a single dude. pretty soon a crowd of interested buyers began to gather. and then things got ugly.
after explaining to a confused spaniard that we were selling beer, a large man wearing a dark safari vest walked up to us and presented his police badge. my heart sank. we were fucked. time for gringo mode. another undercover officer appeared and the two of them escorted damon and i away from the plaza and towards a set of police cars. the whole time the guy in the vest was saying, in spanish, that what we did was illegal and that we would have to pay a fine of 300 euros each. "una multa de tres zero zero...vale?" i stuck to speaking english and kept repeating that we didn't have 300 euros and that we were only selling the beer so that we could raise enough money to leave barcelona for good (not a complete lie).
when we arrived to the police cars the undercover officers took our backpacks and beer and added them to a giant stack of hundreds of previously confiscated beers. after reminding us of tres zero zero one more time they walked away. damon and i each thought of running away but the real cops had my passport. after a few minutes of waiting patiently for our destiny i approached the uniformed cop and asked for my passport in english to keep up the act of not knowing spanish. he handed it back and stared blankly at me. i asked him if we could go and was met with another blank stare. finally i asked if we could go, in spanish, to which he replied "goodbye".
as damon and i walked back in defeat we realized how much worse things could have gone. a 300 euro fine would have made it almost impossible for us to head down to morocco, and a night in jail surely would have been much worse. gordo rule #2: don't hustle unless you are legitimately struggling.
whereas rizer shizer refers to when an external factor gets the best of someone while traveling, gringo shmingo is used to describe when someone gets the best of him/herself while traveling. basically, it's when you fuck yourself over for being a stupid gringo.
this term came into existence as damon and i were walking back to our hostel from another concert at plaza catalunya. while the night before was one of the highlights of the trip thus far, the second night of merce found us distraught and audibly questioning our decisionmaking processes after a brief sting operation by the barcelona police. the short version of the story is that damon and i were caught selling beer at the concert by undercover cops and had the remainder of the beer and our backpacks confiscated. the long version is definitely a bit more interesting, so if you have a few minutes you might want to read on.
after witnessing a clan of sketchy indians make a killing selling beer outside of plaze catalunya during the first night of the merce fest, damon and i devised a plan. the dollar has been at an all time low during our trip and we decided that we could sell beer and use the profit to compensate for the high prices of everything. content to make just enough to cover our bus fare to bilbao (about 40 euros each), we decided to buy ten 6 packs of ixtapa beer. if we could get 10 euros for each 6 pack we would hit our goal and head north the next day.
the first sign that our plan might be flawed was that the grocery store was almost completely sold out of beer. during the previous day nearly two aisles were filled with all different types of beer. on the night of the incident only one stack of maybe forty 6 packs remained. feeling uneasy, i bought eight 6 packs and a few bags of ice. i figured the worst case scenario would entail breaking even and sharing the remaining beers with gretchen and her friends.
a few hours later, after damon and i had rigged up a makeshift cooler out of a plastic trashcan, we loaded our bags and set out for the plaza. we were both a little nervous and i vaguely remember telling damon that if anything happened with the cops i would stick to speaking english and adhere to the ignorant gringo act. we laughed it off and met up with gretch and her friends.
selling beer was not nearly as easy as we had envisioned. most people either brought their own beer or were still recovering from the night before. after a half hour we were still without a sale and the beer was starting to get warm. damon and i agreed to initiate a new strategy‐ a beer for 1 euro until we broke even, followed by laughing off the entire operation and enjoying the leftovers with friends.
the customers finally started to trickle in. first a guy bought 3 for him and his friends. than a couple of singles followed by a big sale‐ a 6 pack to a single dude. pretty soon a crowd of interested buyers began to gather. and then things got ugly.
after explaining to a confused spaniard that we were selling beer, a large man wearing a dark safari vest walked up to us and presented his police badge. my heart sank. we were fucked. time for gringo mode. another undercover officer appeared and the two of them escorted damon and i away from the plaza and towards a set of police cars. the whole time the guy in the vest was saying, in spanish, that what we did was illegal and that we would have to pay a fine of 300 euros each. "una multa de tres zero zero...vale?" i stuck to speaking english and kept repeating that we didn't have 300 euros and that we were only selling the beer so that we could raise enough money to leave barcelona for good (not a complete lie).
when we arrived to the police cars the undercover officers took our backpacks and beer and added them to a giant stack of hundreds of previously confiscated beers. after reminding us of tres zero zero one more time they walked away. damon and i each thought of running away but the real cops had my passport. after a few minutes of waiting patiently for our destiny i approached the uniformed cop and asked for my passport in english to keep up the act of not knowing spanish. he handed it back and stared blankly at me. i asked him if we could go and was met with another blank stare. finally i asked if we could go, in spanish, to which he replied "goodbye".
as damon and i walked back in defeat we realized how much worse things could have gone. a 300 euro fine would have made it almost impossible for us to head down to morocco, and a night in jail surely would have been much worse. gordo rule #2: don't hustle unless you are legitimately struggling.
merce festival
after a few days in paris damon and i headed back to barcelona for the merce festival, the city's largest celebration that serves as a final farewell to summer. as i have noticed with all large festivals, an electric sensation can be felt while walking the grounds for the first time. the merce festival was no exception. everywhere that we went crews were working around the clock to set up massive stages in nearly every open space in the city. things were shaping up to be really awesome.
the first indication that good times were to be had occurred as damon and i made the walk through plaza catalunya, down las ramblas, and towards gretch's apartment. the streets were even more jampacked with people than normal, and as we approached the juame metro stop the crowd became too thick to penetrate. we finally made our way down a side street only to discover that we were walking in the middle of a parade and headed towards a procession of 20 foot people dressed in colonial costumes.
seeking refuge on the sidewalk, my heart skipped a beat after feeling a loud explosion nearby. i had recently read an article in the local paper about an anti spain al qaeda statement and immediately assumed the worst. however, the explosions were merely coming from the line of firebreathing dragons that followed the 20 foot people. how could i have been so foolish to mistake pyrotechnics for terrorism? damon and i exchanged sighs of relief and made our way to gretchen's, pausing in a plaza to watch a mass of people sing and a fireworks display above an old church. it was all really awesome.
after meeting up with gretchen and a few of her program buddies we headed to the beach at barceloneta for the real fireworks show. the fireworks were definitely a bit of a let down and did not come close to besting any of the fourth of july celebrations that i have witnessed. if nothing else, everyone reading this should hold their heads up just a little bit higher in acknowledgement of america's superior ability to blow things up. god bless the good ol' u.s. of a.
from the beach we headed back towards plaza catalunya for a concert. when we arrived there were already thousands of people filling the plaza, but unlike concerts in the u.s., there was no battle for personal space. everyone seemed to be a lot more laid back and a lot of people even had their backs turned towards the stage. going to a concert to have fun and not worry about getting up front to take pictures of the performers? if only that idea made its way across the atlantic.
we hung out for a while towards the back of the plaza while dancing, trying to locate sketchy indians who were selling cold beverages, and people watching. during the encore break gretchen and i each looked at one another and must have been thinking the exact same thing because she grabbed my hand and started charging towards the front of the stage. within two minutes we had our hands on the metal gates that served as the only barrier between the stage and the crowd. never in my life have i witnessed someone split a crowd of nearly 25,000 people with such determination and ease. gretchen was truly on point that nite.
a few songs later and the concert was over. the band, who played a blend of pop and reggae, took a few bows and then it was time to go home. damon and i volunteered to walk gretchen back to her place and suddenly we were off on a falafel hunt. i will not go into details, but the hunt did not exactly end on a good note. someone knocked over the tip jar, causing the man behind me who happened to be holding a giant set of foam dice to role a 1 and say, "you're friend just rolled this. she lost the game." i nodded my head and gently smiled to keep from going red. yo sé. yo sé. all in all a stellar night and an experience that i hope i will not soon forget.
the first indication that good times were to be had occurred as damon and i made the walk through plaza catalunya, down las ramblas, and towards gretch's apartment. the streets were even more jampacked with people than normal, and as we approached the juame metro stop the crowd became too thick to penetrate. we finally made our way down a side street only to discover that we were walking in the middle of a parade and headed towards a procession of 20 foot people dressed in colonial costumes.
seeking refuge on the sidewalk, my heart skipped a beat after feeling a loud explosion nearby. i had recently read an article in the local paper about an anti spain al qaeda statement and immediately assumed the worst. however, the explosions were merely coming from the line of firebreathing dragons that followed the 20 foot people. how could i have been so foolish to mistake pyrotechnics for terrorism? damon and i exchanged sighs of relief and made our way to gretchen's, pausing in a plaza to watch a mass of people sing and a fireworks display above an old church. it was all really awesome.
after meeting up with gretchen and a few of her program buddies we headed to the beach at barceloneta for the real fireworks show. the fireworks were definitely a bit of a let down and did not come close to besting any of the fourth of july celebrations that i have witnessed. if nothing else, everyone reading this should hold their heads up just a little bit higher in acknowledgement of america's superior ability to blow things up. god bless the good ol' u.s. of a.
from the beach we headed back towards plaza catalunya for a concert. when we arrived there were already thousands of people filling the plaza, but unlike concerts in the u.s., there was no battle for personal space. everyone seemed to be a lot more laid back and a lot of people even had their backs turned towards the stage. going to a concert to have fun and not worry about getting up front to take pictures of the performers? if only that idea made its way across the atlantic.
we hung out for a while towards the back of the plaza while dancing, trying to locate sketchy indians who were selling cold beverages, and people watching. during the encore break gretchen and i each looked at one another and must have been thinking the exact same thing because she grabbed my hand and started charging towards the front of the stage. within two minutes we had our hands on the metal gates that served as the only barrier between the stage and the crowd. never in my life have i witnessed someone split a crowd of nearly 25,000 people with such determination and ease. gretchen was truly on point that nite.
a few songs later and the concert was over. the band, who played a blend of pop and reggae, took a few bows and then it was time to go home. damon and i volunteered to walk gretchen back to her place and suddenly we were off on a falafel hunt. i will not go into details, but the hunt did not exactly end on a good note. someone knocked over the tip jar, causing the man behind me who happened to be holding a giant set of foam dice to role a 1 and say, "you're friend just rolled this. she lost the game." i nodded my head and gently smiled to keep from going red. yo sé. yo sé. all in all a stellar night and an experience that i hope i will not soon forget.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
always take the stairs
despite a brief misunderstanding with german security forces (apparently everything must be put in a little plastic bin before going through the x-ray machine, including a guitar that does not fit in the little box), the rest of my journey went without a hitch. i arrived at plaza catalunya to find damon, gretchen and hundreds of pigeons waiting patiently for me. it was quite a welcome and it was really nice to see each of them after spending the previous month in solitary confinement at home. after a quick picnic lunch of baguettes, cheese and beer damon and i parted ways with gretch and began the voyage to paris.
before i begin to regale you with tales of paris i must first make a confession. my motives for visiting paris were not exactly pure. i considered our trip to be a revenge mission. you see, nearly 30 years ago my parents visited paris on their honeymoon and were basically shat on by all parisians for not knowing how to speak french (note: my mom could speak a bit of canadien french, but apparently this enraged the parisians even more than when my folks tried to communicate with the locals in english). my game plan for revenge was quite simple- i would stay in paris just long enough to urinate on the eiffel tower (paris' alleged heart and soul) and, if time permitted, eat a few fresh baguettes. naturally, this mission would take exactly 3 nights and 2 days and be executed without speaking a single word in french.
despite my best effort, i regret to inform you that my operation was somewhat of a failure. besides not relieving myself on the famed tour du eiffel, i actually left paris with a smile on my face and somewhat of a desire to learn the french language. the city was really beautiful and had everything a person like myself could ask for: bicycles galore and cheap bread and wine. if only the women were a little better looking i would have stayed forever.
nonetheless, the trip got off to a rocky start. we arrived at our hostel at midnight to learn that it was overbooked and "climbed" (a parisian's term for walking up the slightest of hills) our way to a different hostel. after a poor night's rest which may or may not have been due to the existence of bed bugs, damon and i awoke determined to get the best of paris. we set out with no game plan but to wander until we could wander no more. we covered most of central paris and walked for a while along the majestic seine river. it was rather glorious. however, after a failed attempt to eat crepes and locate the alleged music and arts scene of the 11th district, as well as an incident in which i was forced to repeat french words by an english speaking parisian in order to use a computer at an internet cafe, damon and i made our way back to the hostel feeling a bit downtrodden.
our saving grace came in the form of a large set of stairs a few blocks away from the hostel. earlier in the day we had seen photos taken from atop a hill in which one could see the entire city. after consulting our trusty map, we decided that the vantage point must have been the hill located behind our hostel. upon ascending the stairs we discovered a huge old cathedral (the sacre coeur) and a lookout point with the best view of paris. damon and i sat up there for quite a while during the sunset, feeling nothing but the satisfaction that can come from outwitting one's opponent. paris and its people had tried to make our visit as miserable as possible, but somehow we still felt like we were on top. gordo lesson #1: always take the stairs.
before i begin to regale you with tales of paris i must first make a confession. my motives for visiting paris were not exactly pure. i considered our trip to be a revenge mission. you see, nearly 30 years ago my parents visited paris on their honeymoon and were basically shat on by all parisians for not knowing how to speak french (note: my mom could speak a bit of canadien french, but apparently this enraged the parisians even more than when my folks tried to communicate with the locals in english). my game plan for revenge was quite simple- i would stay in paris just long enough to urinate on the eiffel tower (paris' alleged heart and soul) and, if time permitted, eat a few fresh baguettes. naturally, this mission would take exactly 3 nights and 2 days and be executed without speaking a single word in french.
despite my best effort, i regret to inform you that my operation was somewhat of a failure. besides not relieving myself on the famed tour du eiffel, i actually left paris with a smile on my face and somewhat of a desire to learn the french language. the city was really beautiful and had everything a person like myself could ask for: bicycles galore and cheap bread and wine. if only the women were a little better looking i would have stayed forever.
nonetheless, the trip got off to a rocky start. we arrived at our hostel at midnight to learn that it was overbooked and "climbed" (a parisian's term for walking up the slightest of hills) our way to a different hostel. after a poor night's rest which may or may not have been due to the existence of bed bugs, damon and i awoke determined to get the best of paris. we set out with no game plan but to wander until we could wander no more. we covered most of central paris and walked for a while along the majestic seine river. it was rather glorious. however, after a failed attempt to eat crepes and locate the alleged music and arts scene of the 11th district, as well as an incident in which i was forced to repeat french words by an english speaking parisian in order to use a computer at an internet cafe, damon and i made our way back to the hostel feeling a bit downtrodden.
our saving grace came in the form of a large set of stairs a few blocks away from the hostel. earlier in the day we had seen photos taken from atop a hill in which one could see the entire city. after consulting our trusty map, we decided that the vantage point must have been the hill located behind our hostel. upon ascending the stairs we discovered a huge old cathedral (the sacre coeur) and a lookout point with the best view of paris. damon and i sat up there for quite a while during the sunset, feeling nothing but the satisfaction that can come from outwitting one's opponent. paris and its people had tried to make our visit as miserable as possible, but somehow we still felt like we were on top. gordo lesson #1: always take the stairs.
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