Meg SUCKS!

This is basic and quick update because Meg is a pain in the ass. I'm home. End of story. I've been enjoying my downtime, avoiding getting a job, trying to get into University of Chicago (requires so many forms my head hasn't stopped spinning), and overall just having a good time with my friends and... myself. Something I have noticed about myself is that when I have all the time in the world I waste every second of it. In contrast, when I have little to no time, I get everything done that I need to accomplish and even make time for the things I want to do most. So for the next couple of days/weeks/months/WHO THE HELL KNOWS, don't expect too many updates. That comment is mainly aimed at Meg as she is always on my case about updates updates updates. Well you know what, how about I JUST SHUT THE WHOLE THING DOWN!?! Then you couldn't live vicariously through me, what would you do then, huh? HUH!?! Yeah, that's what I thought.

I Read Cosmo!

A few weeks ago I received an invitation from Chris and Ares to join them on a ski trip in Andorra, the tiny country seated between France and Spain in the Pyrenees. How could I turn down such a temptation? We had tried to make the trip two weeks ago, but the weather did not allow for it, so we delayed our plans for this weekend in the hope of better weather. Our waiting paid off, as the sky could not have been bluer nor the sun brighter.

I returned from Seville on Wednesday night, had a nice rest and then next day I met Chris at Tibidabo Station, walking distance from Ares’ house. When I got there I noticed he was sitting patiently, reading a book. I sent him a message to his phone that read, “I’m watching you”. And then I hid behind the newspaper booth, staring out one side with my right eye and a grin from ear to ear. We had a good laugh and then started our walk over to Ares’ where we would load up the car and be on our way.

During the little trek Chris informed me that a friend of his from class would be joining us. Her name was Michael-Ann, and if you know anything about the suffix “Ann” I’m sure you can figure out that she is of southern birth. Chris described her as a “southern bell”, and with these words my stomach turned over creating nausea and dizziness. Needless to say, I was a bit concerned over meeting a southern girl as most of my experiences with those encounters have gone off very poorly. In other words, they usually think I’m an asshole and want nothing to do with me; I call it a dark sense of humour, they call me something anti-Semitic.

I’m realizing right now that I have talked about this weekend experience solely referencing our little Michael-Ann and so I will describe the detestable encounter in a very short manner. We met her at a subway station on the Green line and the moment the car door opened the air inside was filled with the aroma of red, white and blue, well, the red white and blue of Louisiana, that is. “Hola, Como estas?” was regurgitated with a thick southern accent. The words were dripping with the white, sheltered, catholic, daddy’s girl speech impediment. I knew we weren’t going to get along.

Sure enough, I could not have been more right. Anytime I opened my mouth to add something to a conversation she would contest it with conservative propaganda. She would criticize everything I said, attacking me as a person and taking any of my own responses personally as offensive behaviour and then give me no opportunity to explain my statements for the weak-minded state of her obedient and submissive psyche.

During one conversation over dinner someone asked “don’t you find it interesting that the majority of the United States Senators are Republican, and then majority of the Governors are Republican and the President is Republican?” A question only meant to use the weight of the majority as false evidence against any claim of injustice a liberal, such as myself could make. I responded with an equally insulting question, “don’t you think it’s odd that in studies graphing the average IQ of a state versus it’s Democratic/Republican leaning found that the majority you claim to be in control of our government is the same majority that loses in a contest of intelligence?” Needless to say, Michael-Ann didn’t like that one. I’m not sure if she even looked at me again the rest of the trip, with the exception of two minutes later when I received an opportunity to explain myself.

“I read” I said. “You claim to bleed red, white and blue and you seem to think that because I am a liberal that I am against my own country. I read ‘The Nation’ and ‘The Economist’ and any English paper I can get my hands on. I read the news online whenever I can. I take in as much information as humanly possible about the state of our world and I draw my own conclusions. Where do you get your news from?”

“I READ COSMO!” was her reply.

Now that I’m done reporting my distaste for all those that believe anything and everything they are told, allow me to tell you how wonderful my weekend was. Andorra was absolutely gorgeous. The first day we woke up at a bright and early 8:30. After showering, dressing, eating and getting all of our gear, we were on the hill at the crack of noon. We took the Funicamp (or gondola) up from town a good 20-minute ride. When we reached the top it was snowing. Not just snowing, a white out. There were times when you could not see your hand a few inches in front of your face, making “follow-the-leader” rather difficult.

After a few hours the clouds cleared and the sun brighter than I had seen it before. I could feel it burning through my SPF30 and became mildly concerned. We skied all day; we needed to. Chris had been skiing in Alaska many times, but had not been on two planks in over three years. Michael-Ann, on the other hand, has a cabin in Jackson-hole, Wyoming, but never uses it because “[her] parents always rent it out”. The two of them had much ground to cover as Ares skies a few times a year and so she and I can hold our own with our respective equipment.

I had to put on the charm with Michael-Ann, otherwise she wouldn’t even talk to me, and that just makes everything unpleasant. “You’re doing GREAT!” I would say after she completed a turn. “You’re really catching on quick!” Anyone who knows me would have dropped to the floor laughing. There are few things in this world that could get me that excited and I’m sorry to say they are all inappropriate to mention here.

The second day was even better than the first. We got up and on the hill by 12:30, and the sun was out from the moment we stepped onto the snow. As the day went on we all seemed to get hotter and hotter. With every lift we took someone was taking off a layer of clothes. I stripped down to a t-shirt and the shell from my coat, and even that was too much at times. While waiting in the lift line I would take off my gloves and unzip my jacket to keep from sweating. Some runs I would take some snow up in my hands a toss a bit down my shirt as well.

When it was time for lunch, I didn’t want to stop. Chris went in first while Ares, Michael-Ann and I did two runs on our own. Then Michael-Ann and Ares joined him while I went out on my own. I took advantage of not having any company; I hopped the ski-area boundary line (don’t tell my mother) and started to hike up the ridge. I walked up about 20 to 25 minutes, took a seat, strapped on my poor excuse for a rental and had the greatest first tracks of my life.

'Bebe' - 'Scoozy' in Spanish

I'm sure everyone has by now seen the movie Euro-Trip staring three no-names and that cute girl from 'Harriett the Spy'. Do you remember the train ride they take where the four travelers get a cabin and they are joined by some creepy Italian guy? Sleazy, obnoxious and speaks only one word "Scoozy". Well, I met his Spanish equal.

This last week I spent in the South of spain. My original intentions were to make it all the way to Algeciras and then cross the strait into Morocco. That didn't work out, however, because the ferry crossing was deemed too expensive for out wee-little pocket purses. So, I decided to spend a few days in Sevilla, the capital city of Andalusia, and then a couple more in Malaga, the birthplace of Picasso. Honestly, how terrible is it when you can't cross over into Africa and are forced to spend an entire week in the South of Spain?

Well, I woke up this morning bright and early at 5:30am. I had not yet finished sleeping, and my train back to Barcelona didn't leave for another 3 hours, so I passed back out. After a few more hours rest, I got up, showered, packed my bag, and boarded my train at the station.

The car was at first very empty but it filled up about half-way with late-comers just minutes before the scheduled departure time. I didn't have anyone sitting next to me, and no one across either. I considered myself lucky as all I was interested in was finishing the latest mystery in the world of Sherlock Holmes, "The Mystery of the Second Stain". The very first stop of the train introduces two new faces to our car, a father and son pair. They take their seats directly across the isle from me and proceed to inform me of how sufferable they are.

The father had a very loud and annoying voice and was always bellowing "bebe! BEBE!" the meaning of which I am still not fully aware. He slapped his armrest with the palm of his hand, with each impact the cabin seemed to shake. He hassled the nice lady distributing headphones for the video, a dubbed version of "Timeline" and later "The Village".

Finally, the woman seated infront of him had had enough, if it were only too soon. A good 5 hours into the trip she stands up and addresses him. From my understanding she called him a "foolish child" and "obnoxious" and asked that he be quiet. Of course, he refused and demanded that she turn around and return to her book. The two argued for about 15 minutes with a few luls in the horrid display of maturity. Just when I thought one of them was going to throw a punch, the lady leaves only to return shortly with the conductor. Now, the three of them are all arguing. The cabin is filled with insults and accusations, until the conductor forces the father back into his seat (at this point he decided standing up would give him a more intimidating appearance). The conductor, with his finger pointed not 2 inches from the father's nose, started giving orders.

Not wanting to take the hint, the father stood up again belowing with anger and forced the conductor to leave the car so their arguement could be carried out in the absence of an audience. They wander in and out of the cabin, yelling and carrying on. A few times throughout the trip the father had made some lude comments and then looked to me for agreement or accknowledgement of his words. I tried not to seem associated with him at all along the trip, and at this moment, with the conductor, a strange woman and this irritatingly sleazy father figure, he signaled to me as if I would offer him support. I threw my hands up and made everyone aware very quickly that I had nothing to do with this irritating character.

Finally he was escorted out of the cabin, his son chasing after him. The rest of the ride went smoothly and, to my dismay, Mr. Holmes managed to find his man yet again. Honestly, does this guy ever make a mistake?

ps. I'm well aware of the grammatical errors within this little entry and they will be corrected at a later date. In the words of Wolf Blitzer "There's no time for accuracy in the world of NEWS"

pss. Yes, I know he didn't actually say that, but for those familiar with the reporting during the first Gulf War, this should be at least mildly amusing.

Mojo Rojo & Other Great Spanish Stories

A few days ago Chris asked me if i would like to join him and Ares and possibly another kid named Derek, of Mississippi, on a trip down to Taragona, a city roughly 1 hour to the south of Barcelona. We were to have lunch with one of Ares's good friends' family on their peach farm. A once in a life-time opportunity for an American boy traveling through Europe to be invited into the home of a Spanish family to eat their food and celebrate their traditions. How could I turn down such an offer?

We met at Barcelona Saints station to board our train to Taragona. We had only 5 minutes to purchase our tickets, make our way to the gate, and board the train. I have a Eurail pass and so the purchasing of tickets in unnecessary for me, but, I wasn't exactly going to be leaving without them and by the looks of the line, today was surely progressing like yesterday. Luckily, Ares saw a familiar face at the front of the line and managed to jump in with her friend to buy all the necessary tickets. We bolted to the gate while I was seeing images of my favorite childhood movie, Home Alone, flashing before my eyes, and after fighting tooth and nail to get seats onboard the car, we were finally able to get comfortable. Finding seats together is a senseless goal and so we just grab any seats we can find.

When we arrived at Taragona station we were picked up by Alef, a very good friend of Ares, in his Blue VW Golf. Rather than describing to you the intricacies of that conversation I will fastforward a bit. No one ever accused me of being concise.

Arriving at the peach farm we noticed a decaying house where all the family had gathered. I thought there were many people when we first showed up, but with every passing minute even more apeared. By the time I had finished my Whiskey and Coke there were roughly 16 people consisting of 1 family, 2 friends, and 3 Americans. The first course, ONIONS! They call them something completely different, and eat them differently at that. While the name currently slips my mind (maybe it's chive or scallions), the straight onions that you usually find in cream cheese or in a salad, are cooked over an open flame by the bushel. Wait, now I remember, they're called Colsots. Then the sprouts are layed out on the table and to eat them, you grab the very bottom and top of the plant and pull apart. The inside of the vegitable is revealed and after dipping it in their special sauce, consume. Many pictures were taken as this whole event was quite the experience.

The next course were various forms of sausages along with bread and with a garlic, onion, and butter spread, followed by artichokes. And boy do I love artichokes. The amusing thing is that many of the people around the table didn't care for the hearts, a fact that astonished me. But I made the most by helping them consume their least favorite parts.

Dessert consisted of homemade brownies, cookies, coffee, and of course, more whiskey. Now, while I'm convinced this entire entry has been very poorly written and is probably in need of some editing (it's early and I did not get home until late last night), I must leave it as it lies right now as I'm going to lunch with another Spanish family. These really are full day meals. It used to boggle my mind how someone could eat for hours and hours, a cloud obstructing my thought which has recently been lifted.

6000 Stairs Without A Slinky

I had heard a great deal about a beautiful monastery perched atop a mountain that seems to stand alone among nothing but flat lands. The mountain is Montserrat, among being the only mountain in the world formed from sediment; it also houses a 1000 year old monastery and Europe's oldest music school. Chris and I thought this would be a good use of a beautiful Friday and decided to make a day trip of the mountain.

We set a agreed to meet at the usual place, El Banco de Espana, at 9:00am. In I rolled at 9:15 and we were off to the train station to buy our tickets. Low and behold, we miss the first train by 3 minutes and are forced to wait another hour before the next is scheduled to depart. I, feeling like an ass, apologized and, well, continued to feel like an ass. We decided to kill the time by exploring a market Chris had seen on a previous excursion to the area. While it was no where near as interesting as the one off Las Ramblas, it still holds its own against Seattle's. I'm sorry, for some reason Sea-town doesn't stand a chance against the markets of European coastal cities. I found a little grocery store, bought myself a jar of neutella and a loaf a bread, and called it breakfast, lunch and a potential dinner. All of this for 2,50. When you're doing Europe on a budget, some of your values go out the window. For more on that, read February 5's entry.

After successfully draining the day of 35 minutes, we head back to the train station and with 15 minutes to spare, decide to sit down for a cup of coffee. We start talking, get into a deep and rather heated political and philosophical discussion, and low and behold, manage to miss our train again by 3 minutes. Rather than making another excursion we head back upstairs to the cafe to continue our chat. Rather than going into any more details on this, I'll tell you that we finally made the third train leaving from Plaza de Espana and were well on our way to Montserrat.

While pulling into the station I realized why it is that this mountain is so heavily emphasized in my travel book. It really is nothing less than a marvel to look at. After taking a few pictures from the base of the mountain, we pilled into the cable car, and at that opportune moment, Chris decides to tell me he's afraid of heights. He hyperventilates his way to the top, I laugh and yet try to gauge the true severity of the issue at the same time, and we safely arrive at our destination.

Chris and I then made our way to the Basilica, the monastery's church, where the boy's choir is scheduled to sing at 1pm. Seeing as it was 10 minutes to, we very quickly skirted up the stairs and down the roads and after filing into the cathedral, found seats up at the front where apparently only Catholics are supposed to sit. Whoops. Actually "Oy vey" would be more apropriate. Because the choir rarely performs outside of Montserrat, it really was a rare treat to hear them sing.

Now, here's where the real story begins, at least the amusing part. We decided we could not come to Montserrat and not climb one of the peaks. Looking at our watches we assessed that we had roughly 3 hours to be back down at the bottom of the mountain for the last and final train back to Barcelona. Considering the trail was gauged as having a 1.5 hour time commitment, we saw this as an attainable goal. We climbed all the way to the top where the tram was which we were supposed to take down, but we decided to continue on up the hill to the absolute peak, it was the only way we would be satisfied. Along the way we came across what seemed to be the ruins of a rather large dwelling. A two-story house fixed with stoves and running water, and a view unequal to any I had ever seen. Chris and I then agreed that we would return here before leaving Spain for good and spend the night.

We made our way through and out the other side of the house and ran along a path that seemed to wind around the mountain's peak. The next 15 minutes of trail was no more a trail that a poorly worn, dried-out, creek bed, and required full use of our hands as well as our feet. We climbed to the very top of the peak, took some photos, had a good yell, looked at our watch, and had another gasp. With only 25 minutes to make it all the way back down to the very bottom of the mountain from a place that took us over 2 hours to reach, we realized there was a very good chance we would be spending our promised night upon Montserrat that very evening. This would not be a problem had either of us been prepared to do so.

At nothing less than a full out sprint we bolted back down the mountain to the top of the tram, a place that required 1 and a half hours of our time to reach. The building was closed and locked, and there was no car to be seen within. Then my eyes fell on a sign posted on the outside wall of the building that read "Last ride at 16:45". Taking a second glance at my watch I reassured myself that it was indeed 16:50 and we were most definitely going to be spending the night. Because we had no time to reverse our ascent and taking the stairs just along the tram's tracks would be trespassing, we decided to descend the mountain just next to the tracks as it was direct and relatively easy terrain. After about 50ft, we see the tram arrive at the station and Chris and I run around to see if we can catch a ride. The woman inside informs us that we may not ride on the tram because it is the last of the day and only she is allowed to board the car. I asked if it were possible for us to use the stairs and she said it was fine, so long as we stayed clear of the tram as it passed.

We exchanged "thank you"s and headed down the hill... full speed. I cannot tell you how much my legs hurt. The woman, as she passed, said "if you are going this speed now, tomorrow: death". Indeed, she could not have been more right. 6000 steps and many blisters later, we were pushing open a gray door that read "Authorized Personnel Only" and found ourselves back at the monastery. But the ends justifies the means as we safely arrived in quite literally the "knick of time" to catch the cable car to the bottom. And just our luck, the train was late.

I Can't Help You

Have I got a story for you today, but telling it requires a bit of background, as with any story.

Chris's international program was poised to take a trip this weekend to the Costa Brava, near Girona in the Northern part of Spain, roughly a 1 1/2 hour train ride from Barcelona. Thinking it would be fun to have some other friends come along on the trip, he had a little conversation with the director of his program. She thought it was a wonderful program, however she stated it was necessary that we find our own source of transportation as we would not be allowed on the bus with the rest of the group. Train was one option, but the one that seemed best which presented itself late Friday afternoon was to take a ride in Juan Miguel's car as he would be traveling there on his own. Juan Mi had no problem taking me and Denail as long as Ares came with aswell, seeing as he had never actually met either one of us. So the plan stood that we would split the gas with Juan Mi, meet the group in Cadaques, spend the night on the floor in Chris's hotel room and tag along with the group to visit Figueres and the Dali Museum.

So Daniel, Ares and I met at Plaza de Espana on Saturday and then hopped a train to a small northern village where we met Juan Miguel and piled into his car. 3 hours later we were sitting in a cafe on the Costa Brava, and with the passing of another 2 we found the group and made ourselves comfortable in the hotel room. After the night's festivities (seeing a live band for an hour in one of the local bars and then playing some very pathetic games of Speed and Egyptian Rat Screw) we passed out on the cold tile hotel room floor.

Sunday morning we woke up, dressed, and proceeded downstairs to eat breakfast. Daniel, thinking it would be polite to address the acting program director (the real director was detained from the trip at the last minute and another American woman filled in), greeted her with a "goodmorning" and asked if it were ok if we joined them for breakfast. Her response was, "well, you paid for your room, didn't you?" At that moment she realized that we were friends of Chris's who were tagging along for the excursion. When Chris was carrying his tray to claim a table she told him "We need to talk". So he sat down really quickly thinking they could work something out speedily as he could tell something was wrong.

The next thing I know, this woman is telling us that we cannot ride in Juan Miguel's car to Figueres and we may not ride with the rest of the group on the bus. We are to be deserted in a small tourist town on the Costa Brava, a full hour's drive from the next town. There is no train, and the only bus stop has no times listed. It's Sunday, in Winter, you can imagine every shop is closed along with most of the hotels. The entire village is shut down and our assumed ride is being revoked by someone who does not possess that right and we are left completely stranded.

Daniel and I walked to the bus stop to check to times, and as I just stated, there were no times posted, and so we started to walk back to the hotel. On our way back we ran into the dreadful woman again and Daniel made one final plea. "May we please at least get a ride to the next town? We don't know what time the bus comes, there are no times listed, there are no taxis in this town, nothing is open, it's freezing outside, and we don't even know how to ask for help". That poor excuse for a pathetic piece of human excrament actually said "I'm sorry, I can't help you. You're smart, I'm sure you'll figure something out".

OH MY GOD! We are in another country, we don't speak the language, we went on this trip based on the premiss that we had garanteed transportation and she is depriving us of all our assumed necessities. To a final mousey request for help she says "I'm sorry"? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME!?

We waited at the bus stop for a little bit and then Daniel had the idea to try and hitch hike. Daniel is the type of person who gets one thought in his mind and then follows it through, without fail. The first car that drove by was a two-door jeep. It was small, rickety and I honestly would have prefered to walk than ride in that thing, but Daniel stuck out his thumb. As the car drove by the driver pointed at he car shaking his head as if it say "In this thing? Are you kidding me?" Another car drove by, Daniel stuck out his thumb, the driver stopped and we jumped into this car of a nice South American family. They drove us to the next town from where we were able to catch a bus to Figueres.

After arriving in Figueres we saw the Dali Museum and met up again with Chris and Ares, as well as Mariana. We ate lunch, said goodbye and hopped the train to Barcelona, but not before another pass badmouthing that boneless twit. THE END

Neverland Found

I just got back from a movie with Ariadna and Victor, her boyfriend. The movie theatre is 25 minutes from the apartment, we had to be there in 10 minutes and I hadn't eaten anything since 2pm. I had to eat quickly and her mom kept saying to me "Mas rapido Aaron, rapido rapido. Necessitas correr!" So when I had to bound down 6 flights of stairs to get to the metro station after devouring a pound of potatoes and eggs, I wasn't exactly what one might call a "happy camper". The worst part is, after all that hustling by the time I finally got to the theatre it was 10:20 and we almost missed the movie. That would have made my day just dandy.

But we made it, with time to spare. Of course, we showed up with no idea what we wanted to see or even what was playing, so long as whatever we decided to watch would be presented in English. As long as I can understand the flick, I don't particularly care. I thought it would be nice enough to hear English at a normal speed and considered the quality of the production a secondary issue.

We agreed on "Finding Neverland", which in Spanish is "Descuverando Jamas Nunca", which really means "Discovering Never Again", or something like that. Just in the title I realized what kind of deeper connotations every word potentially has should the speaker or writer choose to utilize them. The movie contained large amounts of "loaded" sentences and the author was clearly particular about each individual word he used in order to convey a very specific thought, or to create a certain emotion. Naturally it was interesting to see the Spanish translation to a precise and metaphorical English sentence. The feeling is lost and the words lose their meaning.

More about the movie, however, it was amazing. What a great film for all ages, creeds and religions. I highly recommend it. Now I have to see "Million Dollar Baby" and "Downfall". Hopefully I can find them in English somewhere, but who knows. For this weekend I'm going back up to the Costa Brava with some friends and then perhaps I will travel a bit more about Spain the following week only to return to Andora to go snowboarding in the Pyranies that weekend. We shall see, which is really all I can ever say and should probably be assumed. Nothing is ever written in stone, at least not in my book. When I write in my book, I employ a pencil in my write hand and keep a very large eraser in my left.