a reflection incomplete

So, here I am. Nearly the end of my time in Europe. I figured a final blog of sort should probably be written. But, about what? I’ve gone on a few other vacations which I never blogged about. It’s odd how the romanticism of Europe fades. I’ve become jaded I suppose. When I first arrived here everything was so spectacular and unbelievable. But as time went on the sure vagabond and romantic stupification faded and writing about them became harder…Places I’ve gone to and never written about: Barcelona, Andalusia, The Basque Country, and Paris. All were amazingly awesome, all will forever hold places in my heart, but, for whatever reason, writing ten page blogs about them could have never happened. I went to them and they were beautiful and interesting and very different from Madrid. The Basque country is one of the most beautiful places on earth. Small rolling green hills which were covered in green trees and fresh wild grass dominated the landscape. The ocean coast and beaches were of a spectacular beauty I have not seen on the beaches of the west coast USA. Plus, they were nude beaches…unfortunately the topless women were all old. Barcelona is a city of grand urban culture. Hip modern artists and musicians make Barcelona their home and the feel of it is, if one can compare a foreign city to something back home, like Seattle or Portland. And the architecture of Gaudi is unlike any architecture the world has ever seen and will never be seen again. Andalusia is the home of all images of traditional Spain. Flamenco music, sangrias, and bullfights were all born here. All the city streets are lined with orange trees which the government harvests and uses to make wine and candles and all sorts of other orange related products. And Paris, oh sweet Paris. Paris will forever hold a special place in my heart. What an unbelievably romantic city. I went with a friend I met way too late into my stay here. Here name is Christah and she is fellow lover of content moments and knows how to bask blissfully in the silence of awe. Paris is known as the most romantic city in the world, and as the world has changed I’m sure this is less true than it used to be, but still, Paris contains so many quiet corners of beauty that are much harder to find in a city like Madrid. Oh, and…The Eiffel Tower. I really thought this would be a place I went to just to say I’ve been there. But, the Eiffel Tower is amazing, and a huge pork boarders it’s southern front and spending an evening with a bottle of champagne (imagine that, champagne is affordable in France), staring in gawking awe of the golden hue of the industrial wonder that is the Tower is one of the finest evenings I’ve had to date in Europe.
I realize that was a very fast overview of some of the most famous areas in Western Europe. Take me out for a drink, buy me dinner, or met me for coffee when I return and I’ll tell you much more about all of them.

I was told before I left I would not return the same person. That this experience abroad would forever change the person I was. And, I suppose I’m not the best person to make this call, but, I believe this is undoubltedly true. I do not feel like the same person. I do not feel like the naïve wanderer I was when I got here. Something innocent within me has died. I don’t know if this is good thing, though I imagine it happens to every human at some point in their life. But, I feel surer of myself for it. More certain of the person I am, who I want to be, what I want to do with my life. I feel the understanding of what matters in life is far more apparent to me.
Allow me to explain that last one. I was certain upon leaving The States for Spain that I would discover all I hated about America. That seeing how Europe was ran and how the “most intelligent” society in the world lived would forever taint my views of my country. But, this could not be further from the truth. The exact opposite has happened. I have found I am so amazingly proud to be American. To be an ex-mormon from a potato farm in Idaho. This is my heritage. This is who I am. This is where I come from, and I wouldn’t change any of it for all the jamon in spain.
Here, I’ve met so many other Americans who have abandoned their homes in the united states certain of the grandeur of European life and here looking for a better life. They call themselves “ex-patriots.” Really they do. I’ve heard them refer to themselves as thus time and time again. And, I hate them. I can say this, because I haven’t met a single one I thought was a good human being. They are facadical. Attempting so incredibly hard to prove their worth, their intelligence, their superiority over others by living an exciting life abroad. Many have been living abroad for many years, some ten years plus. But, the sad truth I’ve discovered after hours of conversations with a handful of them, is that they are simply always on the run from themselves. In San Sebastian (an important city of the Basque country) I got into a debate with a girl from San Diego, I have already forgotten her name. She (and she is not even remotely the first person I’ve heard to make this argument) said that Americans are ignorant and refuse to leave their comfort zone and that America is a country on the downfall and the government is the most evil on the planet. She said that it’s refreshing to live in the most intelligent society on the planet. This aggravated me very much. I asked her to define intelligence for me, and she simply defined it as education. And, while I will make absolutely no debate for the fact that Europeans are hands down more educated than Americans, I too indeed wish that the United States had an education system like Europe, this is far from the definition of intelligence for me. I didn’t know how to articulate intelligence with an accurate sentence but I was able to defend my case like this…I have not had a single conversation here that I haven’t had in The States. We are all humans, we all have the same brains and interpret information in the exact same manner. The most intelligent conversations I’ve had in The States with my good friends are on the exact par with the amazingly intelligent conversations I’ve had here…some of those are with friends who have never gone to a university a single day in their lives. Europeans are no more intelligent than Americans. This is complete and utter bullshit, a neat thing for ex-patriots to believe in order to feel they are doing something of grand importance with their life. I spoke with my father about this and he gave me that one sentence definition of intelligence that I wish I had that night: “Intelligence is the wise use of knowledge.” I find this to be profoundly true.
Now, I’m not saying living abroad is a bad thing and all people should stay in their homes. Clearly, I’m not. Living abroad has been the best experience of my life. The most fullfiling and thought provoking thing I have ever done. And, in many many many ways I am very sad to go home. I wish I could stay in Europe for another year, or two. But, I am so proud of my country…not my government, nor our poor excuse for education and health care and career driven lives. But, our culture, the people who compose it, the beauty of our nature, our sense of humor I love so much. I am proud to be American, and I am very excited to return to my country.

There are other random thoughts of mine that have changed since coming here. Before leaving I was annoyed that most Americans make no effort to learn a foreign language. And in a lot of ways I still am annoyed by this. I wish we as Americans would put a larger effort into studying a foreign tongue. But, what I’ve discovered is based upon the sheer massive size of the United States learning a foreign language is so much harder for us. Europe is tiny. A European can get into their car and drive six hours and be in a completely different country with completely different language and whole different world of culture. Do this in the states and if you even leave your state, you are in another state with, more or less, the exact same culture and undoubtedly the same language. In Europe, at least in the cities, all day every day you hear a slew of different languages. In Spain I hear French, German, Arabic, Japanese (or some oriental tongue, I really don’t have a reference to distinguish them) and with a little less frequency, Italian. Europe is a nation without borders. Citizens of the EU are free to travel to other countries for short periods of time (I believe a few weeks) without any need for visas. Another reason for Europeans knowing a foreign language is because of their school systems. For me to travel abroad it cost…well…it cost a lot of money. But, for Europeans it costs the same amount of money as their home universities…which cost all of 700 euro for an entire year of school. Europeans just have such a larger opportunity to learn a new language in comparison to the citizens of The United States. Now does this excuse the apathy of wanting to learn a new language…not exactly, not at all…but, it’s much harder to learn a new language when you never have an opportunity to practice it.

These final weeks in Madrid I have been wandering the city seeing the places I’ve been a hundred times before recalling the memories of utter joy that were once felt there. But, now it’s a feeling of sadness. Those people I was with, the friends I’ve made, (the girl I feel for), are gone. They have returned to their home states, most of which are from the east coast and who I will undoubtedly never see again. It is hard. It is very hard. The midnight rose is a hotel in Madrid of utter beauty which at night they light with purple and orange lights and I stood there late one evening with a good friend feeling the healing power of light and the warmth and comfort of a trusted individual. Today I ate dinner in the same plaza and I felt nothing but pain. It’s sad, I know. I accept the fact that I knew this all would end. This alternative reality that I have been living in for the past five months was entered knowing it was temporary. But it does not make it any easier. How I miss the people I’ve met here. This is undoubtedly the hardest part of leaving. I will miss the Spanish lifestyle. The slow lunches eaten in plazas under the cool Spanish spring air, the beer sipped for lunch, the ability to smoke anywhere I like. But, Yelim, Eric, Christah, David, and a few others are what really hurts. I loved all of these people very much, and they have all helped to shape my mind in a new and unexpected direction.

To you my friends, allow us to raise our glasses one symbolic final time. Salud.

Anyway, that’s all I can think to write for now. Maybe more will come. I’m off to Switzerland the day after tomorrow to stay with my grand uncle before returning home to the states. I’m sure more thoughts will come to me once removed from Madrid.

Huzza!
Jake.

A link to good photos.

i've been really sucking at blogging. so im cheating. here's a link to my friend Christah's blog. she's a phtorgapher who takes excellent pictures. Lots of visual spain to be had.

http://hijacomunista.blogspot.com

huzza!
jake.

A writer on writing

My life in Madrid for the past month has been incredibly exciting for me, and for others it may not be so exciting, but I’ll write of what I’ve been doing. My friend, Cody Harris, and I have decided to make a movie. Cody is an aspiring film maker who as work on several projects. Some were his own, which he wrote, produced, directed, edited…did the whole thing. He’s also worked with other film makers doing editing work and camera work. He’s no novice.
Before I left Boise, Cody and I were at the Tenth Street Station drinking gin and tonics talking about a story I had been working on. And then the conversation shifted to the latest film Cody had been working on. I had made the comment that he needed a better script, that all stories must have a point, must have a thesis, must have some truth of life that must be exposed. He started telling me of new ideas he had for other short films and when he told me about one, which had already titled, “A Place Called Bliss,” I got very excited because I knew it was a story I could write. A story I wanted to write. He had gotten the idea from a news article he had read somewhere over the years about a girl from London whose car broke down in some back assed town in the western united states. Cody had thought it would make a good story and though Bliss, Idaho would be the perfect city to set it in. And I agreed.
Cody had a rough outline of how he thought the story would go. He had ideas for a good and artistic ending. But, he needed all things in the middle that got the characters from point A to point B. We spent the rest of the night talking non stop about how we could make the movie. What kind of problems the characters were facing. What the characters’ flaws were. We both became incredibly excited and had agreed that when I would return from Madrid we would shoot the movie.
This is where my past month in Madrid begins. I did not work on the movie much when I first arrived in Spain, and the things I did work on were ultimately cut by myself. But, for the past month “A Place Called Bliss,” has consumed my life. It is all I could think about, and all I’ve wanted to do.
I wrote the first draft by hand. I always prefer to write first drafts by hand. Every day after class for two weeks, I’d go to a new part of Madrid that I hadn’t really explored, find a nice café with a nice shaded terrace and work. I’d order café con leche and waters, and smoke cigarettes and write in the beautiful city of Madrid. The weather was perfect for those two weeks too. Every day the sun shone and there was seldom a wind to blow my pages and interrupt my work. Typically, I’d write one scene, or one important exchange of dialogue, which would take me an hour or two, though in movie time it is probably four minutes, and then I’d pay for my café, load up my things and walk around Madrid for a while. It was a very romantic way to live. My soul would be filled with the feeling of beauty that overtakes me when I’m writing something I feel is good, and I’d walk through the narrow streets with tall building of architectural design that I still can only describe as “European.” I’d sit on benches in plazas with fountains and watch children play, old men bicker, young lovers love, and think constantly how all of this related to how Elle and James (the main characters of APCB) were existing in that uncertain and uncompleted moment. Eventually, after wandering through many barrios, I’d find another café where the terrace tables were level and there was a tree shading the terrace perfectly, and I’d sit, order a café and write another passage of dialogue. I did this for two weeks. Everyday after class. It was wonderful, and my soul was fulfilled in a way that only a fellow writer can understand. The creation of people and emotions that do not exist and feeling them as if I were there, as if I were saying the lines of dialogue myself, is a physically draining and emotionally enlightening experience.

the forgotten poet apologizes twice,
repeats,

“I do not exist to the outside world.”

Later repeats,

I am charged to discover
truth and beauty
alone

This was a really cool way to see more or Madrid as well, and to meet new people. While writing at a doner kebab restaurant (a very popular style of food here…very cheap…) I met Houssan. Houssan was from Iraq. He was very kind to me and, as it seems I always write, he did not speak much English so we talked the best we could in Spanish. Houssan had welcomed me to Spain, told me of schools he knew where I could learn Spanish cheap. I told him I was already paying way too much to learn Spanish at a university. Clearly, with him being from Iraq, the topic of the war arose. I asked him why he left Iraq, and he told it was because of the war. He told me his home was too dangerous to live in anymore, and that he heard Madrid had a good Arabic community (which it does). So he moved here. At this point, I said something which seemed very natural, but afterward left me slightly confused. I told him I was sorry for the war. As though it was a decision I had made. As though I had lead troops in battle and killed his countrymen. He quickly told me it wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t his fault. It was politics and our governments. Which is true…but…I don’t know. I felt bad. He’s an actual human being, the faceless ghost that the citizens of a country at war choose to imagine does not exist. He is Iraqi. He is my country’s enemy. He is not my enemy, nor am I his enemy. I don’t know. I guess it’s still a big thing I’m trying to understand fully. But, I am sorry. I am sorry he had to leave his home, which he said as soon as his country is safe to live in, he will return to it. I am sorry for something that is not my fault, but I still feel somehow responsible for…

Then, there was my afternoon I spent in Chueca. Chueca is the gay district of Madrid. And I knew this before I chose a café there. And I had been there more than many times, and never had any sort of idea that it was the gay community. But, a funny occurrence arose. I was writing in a very small and posh café, which did not have a terrace, but it was early in the morning and still chilly, because I had decide to skip class that day in order to work, so I didn’t mind sitting inside. I was working away when I heard the man behind me speaking English to the waiter. He was tyring to ask for food. So I leaned my head back and helped him, only to find out the café didn’t serve meals, only pastries. This sparked an hour long conversation with my one time friend (whose name has already left me so we’ll call him….chris). Chris was a forty year old man from Greece. He was gay and very well kept and if I was an old gay guy I would def. be interested in him. The start of our conversation went like this:

“So, how’s Madrid for you, what are you doing here,” asked chris.
“I’m a student studying Spanish…I love this country.”
“Have you met any boys?”
“Boys?”
“You aren’t…” he looked me up and down with a perplexed look, “You aren’t gay?”
“haha, No. I’m not gay. I just like this area of town.”
“Are you sure?”
“yeah, I’m sure.”

Later he apologized to me for thinking I was gay. I said it was nothing, I could care less. And he saw I wasn’t offended in the slightest by it, he told me I looked gay, and if I was gay I’d be bringing in all sorts of boys. It was a nice compliment, and based upon my fairly Spanish girlless existence in Madrid, Spanish boys don’t sound too….jk. I guess I look gay. But, I became aware of that fact after ward and while walking through Chueca I did notice more men looking at me than usual…or was it all in my sick head?
Chris and I talked mostly about Greece. He was from Athens, and he told me oodles of information about it. I asked if I were to travel there, where should I go. And in my notebook he wrote me pages and pages of information about cool historical places and what have you.
At the end of our conversation, when we both said we had to get going (he because he had to meet some friends, and I because for an hour I was half talking to Chris and half thinking of where I left my characters in the story), the waiter, who was a young and strong young lad, fashionable and wore a mullet, brought each of our checks over. The waiter said, “veo que vosotros habeis conocido.” (I see you two have meet each other) And then he looked at me stroked my face with his hand and said, “Eres guapo.” (you’re hot). Then he looked to the old man and told him he was hot too, but he didn’t stoke Chris’s face. Chris tried to tell the waiter I wasn’t gay, but he didn’t know how. I didn’t know the words either so I said, “no me gustan chicos…me gustan chicas. Pero, si me gustan chicos…tu eres guapo!.” (I don’t like boys, I like girls, but if I liked boys….you are hot!). Which made him feel better I think, cause he looked worried as though he may have offended me by touching my face.

After two weeks of writing I sent Cody what I had written so far…after about eight hours of typing it into word…scripts are a pain in the ass…you constantly have to change format…center align this. Right align that. Make this is bold…anyway, it was a long and arduous process. Cody liked what I had written. He was excited and told me the way Elle had played out was exactly how he had imagined it in his head time and time again. He was enthousiastic about what was on the page so far. Which, as a writer, is always a very exciting thing to hear. You get so involved with your writing, and your story, that while writing it you are certain it is great, you are certain you are doing great things. But, afterward, once it settles, and you spend eight hours rereading it and typing it into the computer, you start to think it’s shit. You start to think it’s complete crap and you’ve wasted all your time. I was very relived when I got the positive feedback from Cody…even Lindsey, Cody’s wife sent me an email telling me she thought it was good and was very excited for the long process of making the film play out.
Originally, Cody and I had talked about making a short film, around thirty minutes long. But, the script was already at an hour worth of movie time. I told Cody I had ideas on how to trim it down, but really I was lying to him. I had no idea what so over. I knew more had to be added…but…in the end I knew I could have, I just needed to think about how to do it. But, Cody, with umpf and gust, decided, “let’s go for it, let’s make a full length film.” Which made me a whole lot happier, because it is way more exciting, and I knew adding more would be far easier than cutting the script in half.

Anyway, that’s how the first two weeks of writing the script went. Traveling around, writing it all by hand, finding moments of perfect solitude to work and refind some creativity that I haven’t been tapping often enough while in Spain…not that other parts of my brain haven’t been challenged constantly. The second two weeks are far less romantic and are border line unhealthy. I’ve spent a lot of time in my room working. Sitting with my pink walls and my photos of puppies as my ashtray overflows and empty water bottles and dried cups of tea accumulate into one disgusting mess. This is the part of writing that separates (how to say this without sounding completely arrogant?)…well…want to be writers and writers who will write good things, not saying will be great or ever publish anything grand, just writers who will write whole and complete stories (which generally are the only stories that get published).
After the first draft my secondary main character was highly underdeveloped. I spent a week developing a story for him. Figuring out what his problem was, how would it play out with Elle, how to get his story into the frame I had already created. It wasn’t easy. Intact, one night I had a near breakdown certain it was impossible and if I was going to do it I would need atleast a month to figure it out. But, that’s how I work. I panic. I obsess. And I get back to work for it. By the end of that night I had it figured out. I knew how to work James in. I knew his problem, I knew how it tied in with Elle. And in the next four of five days, I had a new draft ready for Cody, which was damn close to being a completed story.
I’m not sure which is my favorite part of writing, the first draft stage, or the revision stage. I love them both for separate reasons. The first draft stage is always very romantic. It’s falling in love with people you create. It’s writing something completely new, that when you start writing it you have no idea where it is going. But, as each line unfolds you discover that on some subconscious level, your writing is being directed. This happens to me often I’ll write a few lines, read back over them, and see they are going in a direction I had no intention of taking it. And then I just play follow the leader and keep going. I know some writers who I do not believe write like this. They think out every scene before hand, they know exactly what to say. But, I am not like this. I cannot lie in bed and think of every line of dialogue I want. The only way my writing comes out is to write and see where it goes. Which, often leaves me with many errors and holes and underdeveloped things. But, I have the ability of revision, and I can fix all those problems…
So revision. The second stage of writing. This is where I find all those holes and I fix them. For me, writing a story, whether it be a short story or a screenplay, is like putting together a puzzle. I know the whole picture. I know where the characters begin, I know where they end. And I know I have to hole here, a space there…a piece in this hand, a piece in that hand. Revision is simply finding out how to get all of these pieces together in order to have a complete picture, a complete draft. And I love this process. It’s so fun. Because, by the time I reach this point, I know my characters. I know how they think. I know how they would react to any scenario. So putting all the pieces together “is like a mind puzzle, it’s an awesome mind puzzle” (can anyone name where I quoted that from?).

So here I am now. The draft is close. It’s damn close. I know it is. Not to say it’s perfect. I know it isn’t. But, I have just about taken it as far as I know how. I’ve tried a new process of revision that I’ve never tried before. And, trust me, I don’t like it. I’m mass letting people read it. I’m getting all the input I can get from people. I’ve let people I’ve talked to twice in my life read it. And I’m collecting all the feedback and considering it all fully. I’m still assuming I have more authority over writing than that girl I met on the bus and had a conversation with, but I still considered fully if the first kiss did come too soon, and whether or not I should write a cheesy line of dialogue to precede it. I chose not to.

Anyway, that’s what my life has been for the past month. I’m working. I’m working hard on something I have to believe is going to be good.

Cody has started a website at www.aplacecalledbliss.com. As of right now, there isn’t much on it, but we are going to be slowly adding things as new developments come. Storyboards, script pages, blog section, and what not…I’m not really sure. Cody is the brains of the operation. I’m just the poet with the heart.

Huzza!
Jake.

cultural differences part one

I clearly took a month off from writing on the blog. Not intentionally, I suppose I just didn’t have anything to say. Life in Madrid has become as routing as any other life. I wake up in the morning, I eat breakfast, I got to class till one in the afternoon, I come home, and then sometimes I go to a museum or park or walk in the center…sometimes friends come with me, sometimes not. In the evenings on weekdays I study (a little from text books…really I study all day long), eat dinner with my family and then go to bed. On the weekends there’s always something to do. Point being, life here is routine, so I haven’t really been inspired to write blogs. However, by known I’ve complied a load of observations and culture differences that might be interesting to some. So I’ll do my best to keep some updates going on cultural differences that I find interesting.

The meal schedule in Spain is completely illogical. Truly, it is. It’s not based on the principle that food is consumed for energy. Breakfast everyday is the same. And it’s very light. Toast with marmalade and a café con leche is the standard Spanish breakfast. Each morning I eat a little more. I have a bowl of cornflakes as well. I quit drinking the coffee about a month and a half ago, because I realized my host mom, Merche, has been giving me decaf. Now I have chocolate milk. The milk too, that’s something different. The milk here is super pasteurized and doesn’t need to be refrigerated and lasts for five months unopened. It tastes very different, not fresh at all, with a slight hint of vanilla. Anyway, being a huge milk drinker back home, I just don’t dig the milk. That’s why I add “Coca Coa,” it’s like nesquick. And the Spanish are crazy for it. People order it at the cafes.
Lunch every day is at 2:00 PM and it is huge. And after eating a tiny and very nutrient lacking breakfast, sometimes lunch seems really far away. It’s the largest meal of the day. At every café you can find the menu del dia. It comes with three or four courses and a glass of wine or beer. The first course (Primeros) is traditionally salad, soup, or pallea. The second (segundos) is a meat dish (the Spanish eat a lot of meat…and I’ll get to Ham) with potatoes, and usually not vegetables. The Spanish do not eat a lot of vegetables. And the final course (postre) is a dessert. Usually ice cream, flan, or a fruit. I don’t eat lunch with my family so I’m on my own to find it.

K, Jamon. Ham. The Spanish are fucking crazy for Ham! Every restaurant has cured ham hanging from the walls…Cured ham is pig leg left to age for five years. So whole pig legs faded to brown line the walls of restraunts. I eat some pig product atleast nine times a week. Lomo, chorizo, jamon (both york and iberecia), beicon, bacon, a whole world of sausages, and any other part you can imagine. Cured jamon is the most famous style. It’s like eating raw flesh. It’s chewy and when you bit into it, you have to pull it away from your mouth and it just keeps stretching. They put it on tapas, bocadillas, pulgas. They put it into soups and bake it into pastries. And they just eat it plan. Strips of flesh on a plate. My professor, Sarah, put it best: The Spanish are compulsive consumers of Jamon.

Dinner. Typically the Spanish eat a very healthy sized dinner. But, they eat it at nine PM. This is the meal that kills me the most. Now, I have no problem waiting so late for dinner. But, eating so much so late is just irrational. It literally keeps me up at night because I have way too much energy. Each night Merche cooks us a bastante bien meal. She isn’t a world class cook. But every night is like having moms home cooking. But only Spanish cuisine. Every meal we have an appetizer of soup, salad, corquetas, and bread with chorizo, salami, or melted cheese. We eat a lot of seafood. Fish, of many nature, and shrimp mainly. There’s a lot of pasta happening. Usually potatoes. And sometimes dessert of flan, leche frita, or fruit. Oh, and every meal, and I mean every single meal you ever eat, is served with a basket of bread. But artisan bread, delicious bread. Most Spaniards never eat American style bread.

Olive oil and salt are served with all meals. The only places that have pepper are touristy places. The Spanish hate spices. Nothing is spicy. When the waiter tells you the dish is spicy, it is so incredible not spicy. They don’t normally eat mustard for this reason as well. I’ve only seen one fruteria that sold Jalapeños. And good luck trying to find anything spicier.
Most of the dinners are fried, as well. They aren’t fried in the sense of fried chicken, but just sautéed in frying oil. It’s a sound I’ve become accustomed to in my home, the sound of boiling oil. But, I’m told this is new Spanish thing. It’s not traditional.


Let’s talk Spanish fashion. Well, one element of Spanish fashion. Mullets are so in right now!!! The hippest actors, the most handsome models, top selling musicians, they all have mullets. Which, of course, means you see mullets in the streets everyday. Mullets of all nature too. Sleek moused mullets. Frizzy unkempt mullets. Mullets on men. Mullets on women. Mullets on children. Mullets with designer perms. But, my favorite mullet so far, is the Rastafarian Mullet. I saw one that was beyond belief. The top of this guys head was shaved very low, and in the back he had dreadlocks that rivaled Bob Marley’s for thickness and filth. Some men, even have the Jedi Padawan cut. Shaved head with one long braid that starts behind their ear…or even worse, the Rat Tail version of the Jedi Padawan. People shave lightning bolts and side steps into their mullets as well. I’m not making this up. This is real.

huzza!
jake.

Semana Santa

This week was Easter; everyone knows this. In Spain, though, there is no Easter there is Semana Santa, or holy week. An entire week of Easter. There is no school. People don’t have to go to work and even in the capital city nearly all the stores are closed Thursday through Sunday. There are huge parades in the streets every day, especially in the south of Spain. So, naturally, on the holiest Catholic holiday of Spain, I left to an Islamic country to spend Semana Santa. Everyone leaves the country or goes to Andalusia anyway.
This trip was very different in the sense of I really didn’t have great adventures and meet incredible interesting people who willingly spent afternoons with me. I was nearly alone the entire time. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. On the first day of the trip, at the train station, the friends I was supposed to be traveling with, for personal reasons, decided to go their personal ways. Leaving me alone with ten days till I had to be back in Madrid. So, I set out alone into the very foreign country that is Morocco.
My first night was spent in Tangier, which I briefly wrote about in my first blog. Tanger, in other parts of Morocco is known as Danger. The city is full of criminals who pose as friends and confidants but would really do anything to steal from you…which, after traveling through a lot of Morocco, doesn’t seem to far off from an apt description of all Moroccan cities.
That night I was at the beach. Morocco is a filthy country. They have poor public sanitation services and litter is a very large issue (at least to a westerner). The beach was lined with rusted bikes and car tires and god knows what else washed in from the ocean. It had empty beer bottles and broken glass and plastic bags imbedded in the sand. It smelled as though the sewage line of the city dumped directly into the bay, which was a concave and even at night in the far distance one can see the rising mountains of spain. But here, I was invited to sit with a local who was all alone watching the ocean at night. He didn’t speak English and only a bit of Spanish, but we talked as best as we could. I could tell he was bothered. He was quiet and often dropped his head into his hands. He spoke softly as only the loneliest and most solemn humans do. He told me he was a sewer. That was his trade. He made jackets and pants and shirts. But, there was no work for him in morocco. None to be had at all. He was desperate for money and could not support himself. He kept saying, “En Espana mucho trabajo.” He wanted to do as many other Moroccans have done and immigrate to Spain where one can live and support themselves. He joked that he would swim the distance that night for a better life.
This is a problem throughout Morocco. Poor living standards and the lack of work. He was not the only person I met who told me this. But, his sincerity and his broken manner touched me in a way that all heartbreaking stories do. Also, he was the only one who told me this and did not ask me to give him money. He simply wanted an ear and a friend, someone to understand his so frustrating situation. I have no idea how he can ever hope improve his life. Short of moving to Europe. But, it is difficult to do this legally.
I spent the next two nights in the cities of Casablanca and Rabat, which is the capital. Both, of which passed fairly unspectacular. I seeked other travelers who spoke English that I might be able to join for the evenings, but could never find any. So I wondered and saw what I could. In Morocco, every city has a flea market. But, they aren’t markets in the sense of obscurity and neat odds and ends like Rastro in Madrid or The Saturday Market in Portland. In Moroccan markets venders sell basic living needs. There are stands with huge potato sacks full of fresh spices. Some have eggs and butchered lambs hanging on racks. Some are carpets laid on the ground with stacks of shirts and pants and bras and underwear piled on. There are electronic stands which sell lamps and light bulbs. The markets are where people go to shop. Like Wal-Mart in the states. Except nothing like Wal-Mart.
A huge reason these two cities were so unspectacular for me was because I was alone. And not that I can’t find friends alone, I’ve done it time and time again. But, because Morocco is a terrible country to be alone in. Thousands, at the very very least, of people make their living off of begging tourists for money. Children, adults, old men and women, approach you on the street and simply ask you for money. I would say no or go away (I even learned it in French…one of the two national languages) and still the beggars would walk along side you, stride for stride, telling you their sorry tale trying to get pity money from you. Also, there are the people with stores that sale traditional Moroccan goods. Who will approach you very kindly asking you where you are from, and where ever you are from, the vender will have family living there or somewhere near by. “Oh, you are an American! I have a cousin who lives in Sacramento.” Then they will tell you nice things about Morocco, and you will be thinking they are just friendly people, but then they shift and tell you they have a store and they will make you a “student price,” on a fine carpet.
Seems harmless though, right? But, this happens literally ever ten steps. It’s endless, ceaseless. I’d want to go for a walk and see the city, but I’d return to my hostal after half an hour because I’d be worn out from being hassled non stop. This is a problem for all tourists, but, when you are alone, they feel much more comfortable in approaching a single person than a group of four or five. On my last night in Morocco, after eating dinner, I was walking along the ocean boardwalk (not really a boardwalk…just don’t know a better term), and a drunk homeless man with ratted hair and soiled clothes grabbed me by my arm and started dancing with me. I pulled my arm away and he grabbed it again…and again. Finally I got away from him and continued walking when another man, well dressed, walked up beside me and told me he was starving and needed to eat and I told him to leave me alone and I kept walking and he kept on pace with me continuing to beg. After six days of this happening every time I went outside, I had had enough. I went back to my Hostal, and locked myself in my room for the rest of the night. It was only Nine O’clock.

Because I was alone and unable to meet any English speakers, I essentially observed all day long. There were two major things I found curious. The first, I’ll present as a joke, but I mean it in all seriousness: For a country that homosexuality is punishable by death, the men of Morocco sure are gay. I found this very interesting coming with my western (esp. Idaho) mindset. The men are very close, and I mean in proximity. They kiss each other when they meet, and while hanging out they touch each other often (and I mean in the sense of boyfriend pushing hair out of his lovers face). They speak in a very high town which sound to me an awful lot like whining. And physically, the men of morocco are very feminine. They have very sleek and narrow faces, narrow shoulders. I suppose the encounters are this way because of the lack of men and woman submersion. The men hang out with men. The woman hang out with woman. And because of this the men become very close to their friends. Which, as I saw in Chawen, isn’t a bad thing. The friends appear to be very close and loving and trusting. But their means of showing it are very different from western civilization.
Secondly: When thinking of Islamic cultures often the idea of the belittling of women comes to mind. They don’t have the same rights and are hidden by veils and kept within homes to raise the children. But, undoubtedly, the women rule the show in morocco. On many occasions I saw the men cower to the women. Men fear women and their biologically enhanced rage (joke). On the bus from merekech to Errachidad a woman along side of the road waved down the bus, why I have no idea, but she stood in the doorway and started talking to the driver. The driver, at first, spoke loudly and I’m assuming she didn’t have money for the bus and he was trying to kick her off. But, then the woman started yelling and the bus driver literally sunk in his seat and leaned away from her. He lowered his voice and the when he tried to speak the woman spoke louder and he was silenced. In the end, the women left two packages on the bus and we left without her. I have no idea what it was all about.
A second incidence of the woman power, though I saw many (really many) was in Tanger. I saw a marital dispute. I walked up while the woman was screaming at the husband and talking a child from his arms. The man fell to his knees and starting pleading with her. He cried and shouted and gave the universal look of “please forgive me.” A group gathered around them in the busy street and he continued to beg and then the wife turned and started yelling at him more and lowered his butt to rest on his heels as he listened to her yell at him. It was quite bizarre. And with these two instances I’m certain that even though the men run the politics in Morocco, the women rule the real world.

I’ve discovered I love backpacking through countries. The train system in Morocco is awesome. Not in a “it’s super convenient” sort of way. Trains are constantly late, they go very slow, and don’t really connect that much of the country. But, they have compartments which enable comfortable sleeping and it’s a wonderful way to see much of the country. I started in the north which is lush and green, and on the trains (and buses) I saw the land shift from rich mountain regions to dry planes and eventually to vacant Sahara desert.
It was fun to ride a train or bus anywhere from five to thirteen hours (of my eight days in morocco 47 hours were spent on buses and trains), and get off the vehicle with a heavy pack. My legs would be weak and my body tired from sitting still for so long, and the last thing I’d want to do is hump a pack for a few hours trying to find the center of the city and a good priced hostal. But, once you get walking for a bit with the heavy pack it begins to feel very good. Your body is well rested, and you can walk quickly and seeing the new cities this way is very cool…again, minus the beggars.

My main goal was to make it to the Sahara desert which proved to be very difficult. Just traveling there took much longer than I had expected. I took an eleven hour train to Merekech from Tanger. Then a thirteen hour hour bus ride to Errachidad, which was incredibly cramped--my knees where smashed into the seat in front of me, the aisles were full of people standing, and the bus itself was incredibly dirty. The bus broke down as well. We stopped along side the road in the middle of nowhere. I sat far from the main group in a field eating an orange and a local man came up to me and starting talking to me in English. He too told me about the poor living in Morocco and how he couldn’t find a job. Then he asked where I was from. I lied and said England. Then, he repeated himself and his questions. And then he repeated them again. He was definitely drugged and out of his head. I asked him if he was on the bus and he said no. I have absolutely no idea how the hell he got out into the middle of nowhere, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to him any longer. When I stood up to walk back towards the group, he asked if he could have my phone number in Europe so when he moved there he could call me. I told him, again, I wasn’t European and I couldn’t help him in EU. Then he just asked for money. I gave him a cigarette.
The scenery changed completely on the last hours of the ride to Errachidad. Trees became scarce and the dead grass ground turned to red clay earth. The buildings we passed too were all red. At the time I didn’t realize why all the buildings were read, I just thought the cities where themed. But, after reaching the Sahara in the daylight, and seeing the red sand which composed it’s gigantic dunes, I realized the buildings were all made from the only material available in the desert…sand stone. Which made me think about how man can survive on whatever resources are available to him. Like the Eskimos in there ice igloos or the Indians in their wooden and buffalo hide homes. A very power sentiment to me, it was. The adaptability of man.
Once in Errachidad I had my first encounters with the Southern Berbers who I have so much distrust against. But, at the same time have so much respect for. Their culture, like so much of Morocco, I find beautiful. In quiet moments there was always friendly conversations with the Berbers of the south. Their religion and culture teaches them to be very open and accepting people. They accept the differences in all humans and want to find the good in all people. Which, after spending the prior three days alone, was very welcome to have friendly conversations. But, they are the sketchiest and seediest businessmen on the planet and I am certain they would make the best used car salesmen in the world. They tell you exactly what you want to hear no matter how much of a lie they are telling you. It is really a soulless way to do business. I covet honesty. I just want the truth. I can deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.
Isma, whose family (again a Berber family, which has nothing to do with blood but a communal living) set up guided trips to the Sahara, met me once I got off the bus. We went back to his families’ hotel where we talked business. The planned trip seemed great and they spoke wonderfully of their services. I genuinely trusted them like I trust the Berbers in Chefchaouen (but there is no place in Morocco like Chawen). Business in Morocco never has set prices. It’s a country where one must haggle, because the Berbers want all the money they can get out of you. I knew the price for a guided trip was 300-600 Durhams (about 45-80 dollars) a night, which included everything one needs. I told them I knew the price and then I was told to write on a piece of paper what I could afford and that they understood I was a student and would make it happen. I wrote down 450 drhm, and they looked me and said they could not take me for that price. I wrote another and they said they couldn’t do that either. Finally they told me since I was alone they would have to charge me 600 drhm. I said fine, okay. I just want to go and we had been haggling for far too long. I was slightly annoyed by the dishonesty already, and when I gave them 1200 Drhm for two nights in the desert, they told me we had agreed on 60 euro which is about 660 dhrm. And they wanted more money. Clearly, I tried to plead my case, but when I started talking they just starting talking faster and louder. I couldn’t possibly get a word in. It was soooo shaddy. I gave them the extra 120. Then, they asked me about the money for the taxi to get to the desert. We were still two hours from the dunes and no buses traveled any further. However, in our haggling on what I was paying for we had agreed that the taxi ride out there was included in the price. Which, of course, now it wasn’t. Again, I tried to call their bullshit, which turned out completely useless and ended up having to pay 100 dhrm for the two hour cab ride.
Along with me four Spanish girls from the Basque country had paid for the services of the Berbers. They were very nice girls and the five of us plus the diver and our guide crammed into a four door sedan and headed for the dunes. The wind became very strong on the drive. Sand drifted across the road and looked exactly like snow drifting in the wind in Idaho. It was very beautiful. To reach the Dunes, we turned off the main road and drove directly on the sand. At points, the wind would gust so heavily that the nothing could be seen. Only red sand tossed in front of us to the point of near blackout. The path to the hotel stationed in the desert was market by red posts planted in the sand. When the strong winds would pick up and eventually die, all in the car would search desperately for the posts, which sometimes would be 300 ft away.
Clearly, with the terrible weather it wasn’t possible to head out to the desert that afternoon like we had discussed, which I would have been okay with; however once at the hotel I was shown I room where I could sleep that night and then asked if I wanted to pay for a half board or full board. I told the keeper I had already paid for lodging and food and my expenses were covered. I was wrong. I had paid for the tent and food in the desert not the food and room in the hotel. I don’t think I can write now how angry I was. I’m over it and dealing like this are just part of traveling in Morocco. But, imagine how angry I was. I refused to pay, confronted my guide and told him I wanted a full refund for the services I paid for and would not be receiving. In the kindest manner, he empathized with me and told me it wasn’t possible to refund me because we had already reserved a spot in the tents and reserved a camel. And the bad weather was a part of Morocco. I told him he needed to pay for all my expenses at the hotel with the money I had given him. And he responded, so very kindly, about how that wasn’t possible and listed a line of bullshit and ended up telling me they would make me a very good price to stay in the hotel and for the food. Which, to their worthless credit and feeble word, they did make me a good deal. 100 dhrm for a night stay and three meals (dinner that night, breakfast the next morning and breakfast on the day I returned from the desert). Which, all of that normally would cost 500 drhm, because the hotel was nice and the food, as bitterly as I ate it, was wonderful.

And that’s the last I’ll bitch about Morocco. I’ve accepted that’s jut how Morocco works. It’s just a huge pain in the ass, and I have a huge humanistic problem with being lied to and manipulated oh so many times. Because, despite this blog and my focus on the negative, it really is wonderful country.

That night the winds did not stop until nearly midnight. I, the four Basque Girls, and Isma, sat on comfortable couches which lined the large main room where all the guests sat and talked. We had good conversations and told parts of our life stories and made jokes and laughed a lot. Once the winds died we finally went outside and sat on the patio of the hotel. The camels groaned like distressed lions (I had no idea camels were so loud and angry) and the towering dunes shown in the moonlight. The desert at night is still very bright. At midnight one could see the distant horizon still and the stars shown in multitudes high above. I talked mostly with Mireia (who was renamed Fatima by the Berbers, and that is really what I think her name is). We talked a lot about the cultural differences of America and Spain. They were surprised to find out America wasn’t the finest place on earth to live, and I was surprised they thought it was. I told them how expensive college and health care was for us. She goes to a good university in San Sebastiani and pays 700 euro a year…health care is free for all citizens. Of course this is the difference in the amount of taxes the citizens pay, but when you look at what you pay in taxes versus what you pay for university and health care, the more financially wise decision is apparent…socialism is a very good system in my opinion.

The next morning after breakfast of toast with honey, olives, orange juice, and coffee it was time for me to finally head out into the desert. The girls had only paid for one night in the desert and would not be coming with me. And, I found out that morning that my “guide” isma, was not a guide at all just a chauffer, and Omar, would be taking me to the desert. I was very glad to hear this because I had had just about all I could handle of his family and their crooked dealings just would not sit easily with me. I mounted my camel that morning and we set off into the sand dunes which from the hotel were only mountains in the distance. I did not ride the camel long. Maybe fifteen minutes before I had an incredible ugre to climb down from him and feel the stain of hiking in the sand and the hot sun reflecting up on me. Plus, camels are not very pleasant to ride. One sits on the front half of the hump and the vertebrae of the animal digs into ones crotchal area. I told Omar this, and he gave a command to the camel in Arabic, and the camel slowly lowered its front legs to its knees and then his back legs to their knees and then the whole body to the sand. I climbed off, stretched large, and even in the early morning, around ten AM, the sun was hot on my skin. I began to walk and omar said, “es major sin zapatos.” So, I took off my shoes, which never returned to my feet until the next day after returning to the hotel and talking a shower.
The sand of the Sahara is not like the sand of any beech I have felt. It is like silk, in every sense imaginable. There are no course grains in it and every step in the desert is like stepping onto 100 layers of silk tapestries. Also, the sand is red. Red like the color of fading brick. For miles it was the only dominant color aside from the brilliant blue of such clean skies. Along the walk Omar would point out trails of small insects in the deserts. We would track them to their ends and find dung beetles hidden in the shade of desert shrubs, which are a sickly green fading into brown and very scarce. He showed me a distinctive trail which looked like none of the others. The center of the trail looked as though it was of a snake which moved directly without slithering, and on either side the small indentations of tiny feet. We followed the trail, which stopped in the middle of a dune, and Omar said, “Mira (look)” and he plunged his hand into the sand and he came back out with a lizard in his hand. The lizard was the same red of the sand and buried underneath it for protection from predators and the scorching sun. Along the side of the lizard were six black marks spaced evenly apart with about a half inch in between each, which Omar explained to me marked the years of the lizard.
We continued walking and I wish I had more to say but really there is not much. This is the power of the desert. It is vacancy, utter desolation, which, for me, was the same state of my mind and I was able to forget entirely about the berbers who had annoyed me so much and the hectic days which had preceded my arrival. Mostly I admired the dunes, which some were as large as the “small” mountains of southwestern Idaho.
It only took two and a half hours to reach our camp, which was in a basin of the dunes. We climbed a final series of hills and in the flat valley I could see camps set up of tents built from high center poles and lower edge poles wrapped entirely in the woven blankets of the berbers. There was a well there as well. When I asked at the hotel where they got there water, I was told, “It may not look like it, but there is lots of water in the desert, just far beneath the ground.” This well was nothing more than a dug out hole with a plastic lined interior and a simple plastic cover with a bucket tied to a rope that was dipped into the earth.
Once arriving, Omar cleared our tent of sand the best he could and then went into the kitchen (there was a separate tent for cooking), and with a propane stove with a single burner made berber tea. I watched him make the tea of ingredients I was not familiar with, save for sugar and mint, but there was also two other roots and a flower which he added. Then he began to make lunch which was a typical Moroccan course, infact it what I ate for three meals straight, but I can’t recall the name now….
Sorry, I suck.
But it was delicious. It is made of chicken placed in the center of a pan. Around it is stacked carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. Garlic and other seasonings are added and then water and oil are poured over the top. A coned cover with a ventilation hole is placed over the pan and the entire thing sits and cooks for a few hours until the chicken is ready.
After lunch I sat and wrote simple five word poems in the sand. I took short naps and was relieved when a slight breeze would pick up and cool the sweat on my forehead. I heard the strangest bird who song was like a creaking door.
Once my food had settled I went hiking in the dunes. There was a gigantic dune with a very steep face that back dropped the camp. I tried to climb it and after a half hour of starting and climbing thirty seconds before utter exhaustion; stopping and resting; and then climbing again; I decided I would never make it to the top. So I turned back and walked towards the smaller dunes which piled one ontop of the other. I climbed them for nearly an hour. A steep incline and then a level plateau and then another steep incline and the segue to another dune. It was truly wonderful. The sky in the desert is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is the deepest blue and when I wrote about it in my journal I realized it was the same color of my blue Bic pen. The simplicity of the desert is the best part about it. There are only three colors to be seen. The red of the sand, the blue of the sky, and the earthly green of the desert shrubs. These are the only colors to be seen. But, depending on how the sun is striking the sand, at what angle, where the shadows of the dunes fall, and if you are facing the sun or not, there is an endless amazement of new combinations of light and colors to be seen. Sometimes, when the sun would hide behind the dunes, the distant dunes looked white, or a very light yellow. But definitely not red as they truly are.
When I nearly reached the summit of the original dune I was trying to climb, I came across a wonder of nature. Two dunes came nearly together but were separated by, what I can best describe as, a pit. It was like a cone, as though the two dunes had been hallowed out at their point of meeting. The hole was very deep and the edges very steep. If one was to fall in…well…getting out would be possible, but very very difficult.
The tops of the highest dunes were amazing themselves too. Not for their vistas, were I could see dunes rolling into each other for miles and miles and could see nothing else but dunes, but for their simple peaks. The dunes come to a perfect triangular point on their tops, which run for however long the dune itself is. They are formed by the wind and at their highest point the blows over them and then descends down the other side, forming this long running peaks.
From the top I sat and looked. And I wish there was more to say, but like I said earlier, there was hardly a thought in my mind while in the desert. I just observed. Like a simple beast or primitive main without cognitive abilities. I was simply awed by the spectacle I was taking in. Which, now, it seems like maybe the birds and foxes of the world are truly the more evolved specie (heretical to say, I know, but it was just so blissful in the desert).

And that sums up to the best of my ability my experience in the desert. I did not write about the night in the desert, but it was nearly the same as the day, except without light. I hiked more after dinner, wrote more poems, both in the sand and in my notebook, and sat with the stillness of mind that does not come over take me often enough.

The next day might as well mark the end of my time in Morocco. I spent the next 24 hours either waiting for a bus or train, or sitting on a bus or train, until I arrived back to the north of morocco, in Tanger, where I stayed one night, which, after coming from the desert and escaping the mayhem of a cities in a third world country, I hid in my room and went to bed early to catch the morning ferry back to Spain and my home in Madrid.

Chaouen

The story of Chefchaouen is hard to tell. It may have begun in the beeches of Southern Spain, where I watched the sun set behind dark rain clouds, and I ran along the coast barefoot, singing songs to myself and the dark, and I let the cold Atlantic ocean wash up to my ankles. Or, it may have begun before that, when I was in Seville and thinking that Spain is Spain and though Seville is nothing like Madrid it is at the same time exactly like Madrid. Or, it may have begun once actually in Morocco, after taking a ferry across the Gibraltar straight and standing on a vessel for my first time which was tossed with the torpid seas and rose and crashed and if I was not holding on to something or sitting securely, I was tossed like drunkard from side to side, which took me to Tangier where locals make livings by swindling tourists into giving them too much money for too easy of tasks and where I was prompted to pay 800 Durham for a taxi ride which, if I spoke Arabic, I would have gotten for 60. But, I didn’t take the cab, I like to think I have more common sense than that. But, for sake of narration, and finding a starting point for three days which have completely altered my mind and my thoughts of what it means to be alive and what it means to be human, this narration, will begin half way through the three hour bus ride from Tangier to Chefchaouen, Morocco, Africa.
The Bus itself was not an old bus. It was fairly modern but judging the actually year it was created was difficult because it was just so dirty. When choosing my seat it came down to which one did not have a layer of dust, or which one did not have a pool of stale water at the foot. And I do not mean this in a western sense of, “it was so disgusting,” but, it’s Morocco, wear things are dirty, and the importances of life are slightly different. The bus was entirely full of individuals heading south from Tangier, the doorway to Africa the locals call it, into the Rif mountains. Some of the peoples were conservative and traditional Muslims. Women where the head shalls and men wore the Gelops (I’m not certain how to spell it, but the white frocks). Others, wore old jeans and faded shirts. And a few, dressed modernly, very European in fashion. Looking out the window was a beautiful spectical. Along the roads were small villages with houses made of concrete and possibly slabs of plastic lashed together to form walls all lining dirt roads which lead into the mountains. The Rif mountains themselves are some of the most beautiful nature I have ever seen. They are not like mountains in the western US with green foliage and trees and shrubs forming an undefined façade. But, they are massive rock formations, very similar to what I’ve seen in Spain, except that they were the most lush green I have ever seen. Even in February. They had a vibrant glow to them in these winter months. And the land around them seemed unspoiled. The southern road from Tangier to Chefchaouen was nearly naked. If life was seen out the windows, it was a rancher herding sheep to another part of the land or possibly a car broken down along the side of the road.
At the first stop I was not sure if I was already in Chefchaouen, so I turned to the man behind me and asked, “esta Chefchaouen?” However, he did not speak Spanish and I did not pronounce the city name correct so he looked at me with utter confusion and I asked if he spoke Spanish or English. He said no, and he called forward on the bus, to where a girl, about my age, dressed in peacoat and scarf—a general European style, stood in the aisle reaching above to the luggage rack, and asked her, in Arabic, if she spoke English or Spanish. She spoke both.
Her name was Siham Ferfess. She asked me where I was going and I told her Chefchaouen, to which she responded, “Chaouen. Locals call it Chaouen.” She told me that was where she was headed, for that is where her parents lived and where she grew up, and that I should sit with her and she’d make sure I made it there safely. So I did. And I had a wonderful conversation with her. I must have sounded like the silliest uneducated foreigner, because I’d ask her basic questions about the muslim religion, or about the gov’t of Morocco, and she’d look back at me with a look of, “really, you don’t know that?” But, she was very kind and after a snicker or two she’d answer all my questions honestly. One thing I recall very well was our discussion of flying carpets in ancient Arabic cultures. She fully believed in them. Obviously, with my western rational mind I asked how, and essentially she defended them as such, “How did Christ heal the blind?”
“It was a miracle, a gift from god, I guess,” I responded.
“Flying carpets and magic were also a gift from god.”
And, to me, it made total sense. If I am going to allow and accept the ideas of Christ as a miracle worker it would be entirely hypocritical of me to say that flying carpets could not have existed. We talked more about Islamic religion and how most Muslims are middle ground Muslims. Like Siham herself. In the united States, I had the stereotypical view of all msulims wearing the head scarves and the robes and having huge burly beards. But, this is not true, as Siham explained to me, and as my own investigations proved to disprove. The muslim religion is no different, aside from theology (and really they do have a lot in common), in the sense of christanity. Most Muslims are “normal” people, who dress “normal,” listen to pop music, goes to movies. They are western in many ways that we are western. And the stereotypical Islamic individual I had in my head proved to be very false.
The bus ride seemed over far too quickly. I enjoyed my time with Siham and the discussions we had. And the seemingly close connection we seemed to make fairly promptly. Two minds, very far apart in orgin, which both lust and analyze the views of the other. Her stop came before mine, and she said she was taking the 3pm bus back to Tangier on Sunday. I said I was taking the Six am one. To which we she said, maybe I’ll see you at ten, and then we kissed (European kisses one on both check…not doing this when I get home will be odd…I even do it with my American friends) and she said, “Welcome to Chaouen,” as she walked away.
The next stop was the city center stop. The only road in Chaouen. When I got off I was immediately greeted by two men, one wearing a leather jacket and one wearing a gelop and holding an umbrella. Abdul, the man in the leather jacket, approached me and asked which hotel I was staying at. I told him I did not have one yet. He told me his family had on in the old part of town and I could see it if I liked, and that unlike Tangier, no one in Chaouen was going to force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. He would take me there if I like and if I did not like the room I could freely go about my way.
The walk to the old part of town was a very foreign walk. Mohamed, the old man in the gelop, held the umbrella over my head the entire way. We walked along a dirt road passed old brick building with poor masonry work and some with ceilings and walls that were collapsing. We passed a stretch of modern white brick building with restaurants and tourist souvenir shops that Abdul told me was the “new part of town.” But the buildings were old and dirty and I was surprised to hear the term “new” and curious to know what the “old” part of town looked like. I was uneasy to trust Abdul, having just come from the criminals in Tangier, but he seemed honest, I can’t explain why, but I even with my doubts, I seemed to trust him. Along the walk he said he could tell I didn’t trust him, and that was okay, but that I’d discover soon enough he was a good man. He said that good and bad people existed everywhere, and good people attracted other good people. He told me, if I like, he’d take me to have a cup of tea once I checked into the hotel and show me around the town.
The old part of town was quite amazing. Tiny narrow streets paved with rock…but the rock was simply implanted into the clay earth. There was not cement bonding them. Just deep into the earth. The buildings too where brick and cement. And the masonary work on these buildings was even worse. The stacked bricks were uneven and potruted at different lengths and intervals. Everything was painted a light blue which mirrored the sky and white. Everything. Along the packed streets small vendors sold their wares. Some huts had house products like soap and air fresheners. Some sold clothes—modern and traditional. Some sold cigarettes and sodas and candy bars. Some sold bread and meats. And there were even some people sitting in chairs on a corner, not in a store at all, selling things like olives and bread and necklaces they had grown or made themselves. Children ran through the crowded streets, unsupervised, and played and laughed. Along the walls were drinking fountains, with mold and moss growing inside of them, where local children were drinking or local woman were filling buckets of water to clean their homes. The roads were not made for cars. Not in any fashion. There were no cars in the old part of town. The roads were steep and turned ended with no predictable patters. Sometimes a series of long stairs, painted blue, would appear, and sometimes the rock paved path would cease and one would have to walk through mud for twenty feet until the path started again. The streets were noisy and people called out in Arabic and spoke to the neighbors or the shopkeepers across the way.
We reached the hotel, Hotel Bab Lain. I saw my room, which could not be considered clean under any western view. The room smelled of sewage leaking from the bathroom. And the floors and walls looked filthy. And the shower was nothing more than a head protruding from the wall next to the toilet. Not tub or special area. You stood next to the toilet, soaked the toilet and the mirror and the sink when you showered…if you showered. There was no soap or toilet paper or towels offered in the room. But, I was eager to get along with the adventure and knew Abdul was waiting for me downstairs. So I took the room, paid six euro a night for it, and before heading down I had a moment where I asked myself I trusted Abdul, if I really wanted to follow him to god knows where, in a country that I knew shit about, other than Tangier is a place where people get fucked for trusting another human too quickly. But, the bus ride went well, and I had no other options for an in to the city. So I went downstairs and left with Abdul.
He led me through a labyrinth of city streets to what he called his families home. Walking into the home I knew I was in a completely different world. Abdul’s family, was a family of Berbers, and I quickly discovered family was used in a different sense. They were a communal family that lived in a traditional manner. They were all brothers, but not from the same mother. Their craft was weaving. They made blankets, carpets, sweaters, gelops, scarves, and many other traditional items of the Berber legacy.
They brought me into the house, which had two main rooms down stairs and a terrace upstairs. The walls of the room were lined with thousands of neatly folded blankets and carpets. On the walls ceiling they had hung their art over every square inch, which was later explained to me that was also tradition…in the mountains where there village was the blankets were used to insulate their homes. If a small section of wall was exposed it too was painted the same blue of Chaouen.
Once entering the room, they invited me to sit on one of the two long benches which lined the walls and was covered with one of their pieces. We began to talk and an old man named Abdulo, wearing a blue gelop (which at this point I still found very foreign and strange), told me about their family history. They were Berbers, decedents of the first tribes to inhabit northern Morocco, who have a great deal to do with Spanish history, and that his Berber tribe, there are 50 tribes still living traditionally in northern Africa, lived 30km from Chaouen and had a village in the mountains. They were self sustaining in the village. Each family had livestock and grew their own grains and vegetables. And each family depended heavily upon the other families in the village. He, lived in Chaouen, where he ran the store I was sitting in. At this point a man came in with a tray of tea and they asked if I would like one. Of course I said yes. It was wonderful tea, called Berber tea. It was made from some mix of roots and flowers that I had never heard of and after the tea was boiled they placed a handful of fresh mint into each glass and poured the tea on top of the mint. When ever my glass was empty, the same man who brought me my first glass took it away, went up to the terrace, and returned with a fresh glass of tea. This was his role in the commune. He cleaned the house and prepared tea for guests. Abdul told me they were very welcoming people, as I could already see, and that they had friends from all over the world. He showed me guest book travelers wrote comments in about their stay in, what I have started calling, “the Berber house.” He said to me, “if you are happy, than I am happy.”
After a while of conversation, he told Anis, another member of the family, who dressed very modernly in a brown sweater with a brown undershirt with brown corduroy jeans, began to remove blankets from the stacks and lay them out on the floor. Abdulo explained them to me. He told me that for many generations the Berbers did not have a written language and they used images to tell stories. He explained to me what the images on the blankets meant. Some where the tattoo of his tribe. Some where images of rivers and mountains where his tribe lived. Some of the blankets where traded with a Berber tribe from the Sahara and he explained to me the rolling images were representative of the sand dunes of the desert. Before I knew it, I was telling him which blankets I liked and which ones I didn’t like by saying, “Ishma” for I didn’t like it, and “Halla” for I did like it. The stack disappeared and three rugs laid before me and on a piece of paper Abdula wrote the price of each one. I had no intention of buying anything when I went in, but I was so fascinated with the hospitality, the communal living, the history of each other rugs that I genuinely wanted one. The price he wrote was very high. Which, I didn’t not have a problem with, the craftsmanship was very high, and I’m certain if sold in the states the rugs would bring a much higher price. But, I simply could not afford it. The process started all over with cheaper blankets and rugs and a fresh cup of Berber Tea and in the end I purchased rug and a blanket.
And that was the sale. That is why they escorted me from the bus and took me to a hotel and served me tea and told me their history. But, not entirely. After I had paid and my goods were all packed they invited me to come to the backroom and relax with them. I spent the entire evening there. And it was amazing. A group of guys my age from Barcelona came to visit the Berbers and we sat in the back room and made jokes and drank tea and watched television. A man from croatia came in who spoke English and he and i talked for a few hours and this summer I am going to go and stay with him. Members of the commune would get up at random points to do their work. Which, surprisingly to me, they never ever seemed upset about. Anis would rise and display blankets and then fold them up with precision and restack them along the walls. Yussef, the “house made” would clean the table of sunflower shells and empty water bottles and return with a wash rag and wipe the table down. Abdulo would get up and sell blankets. Everyone had a role. And everyone was very pleased to do their share of the work.
I learned a valuable lesson about tradition that night when meeting a younger Berber named Abdul (yes, there were three). He was 28 and weaver in the commune. He wore a traditional gelop, but underneath it he wore modern clothes and if I saw him in the streets I would be certain he was American. But he was not. He very much believed in the practices of his family and was very happy with his lifestyle. He asked me to tell him American jokes and told me the ones he knew. WE talked about pop culture and music. But, he was wearing a Gelop, right? This is tradition, and something we do not have in the united states. We are far too young of a nation. Before when looking at a traditional Arabic outfit I would have a distant feeling. A feeling of them being foreign and absolutely unrelatable to me. But this is false false false. They were what they were because they are proud of who they are. But, they are people IDENTICAL to me. The conversations were fluid and easy and relaxed. I can’t express fully how profound this discovery was to me. I came this far to discover nothing really. There is no grand difference, sure there are idealistic differences, but at the core humans are humans. Period.
The night passed well and I sat content. At points anis or abdul or Yussef would turn to me and ask, “are you happy?”
“Yes, I am very happy,” I would respond. “Then we are happy.”
And they meant it. They truly did. Being hospitable. Welcoming people into their homes truly made them happy. I know this. Because after I bought what I bought they no longer tried to sell me anything. I was their guest and they were proud to have me.
Later, Anis explained to me that they saw all people as equals. Which, is a fundamental belief of the Islamic religion. Muslims do believe their god is the one true god, like any other religion, but written in their Koran, it tells them to love and respect all people of all religions. And this is something they truly uphold. Anis also explained to me that they respected Americans more than any other nationality. Which, to me, made no sense, but be it what it was, I was very very very happy to have such friendly people being so friendly to me.
That night I rose at one point and said I was hungry and I was going to go and find some dinner. Everyone around me made a motion for me to sit. The young Abdul said, “tanquillo.” In Chaouen there is never a rush to do anything. It is the most relaxing environment on the planet. Abdul said that I could join them for dinner, I just needed to pitch in on the food, which I was more than glad to do. I paid them 20 Durhams, Two Euro and had one of the best meals of my life…partly because of the experience.
After I gave one fellow whose roll it was to shop and prepare the meals, I don’t recall his name, unfortunately, my money we sat longer and after an hour or so the food was brought down. It was a stewish concoction. With Chicken, tomato, rice, cilantro, and cheese. It was prepared and served in a large iron skillet. The Skillet was place on the coffee table of the back room and bread was broken and past around the table. We all gathered around the table and we did not have forks or knives or plates. We simply took the bread and dipped it directly into the iron skillet and ate in that manner. It was awesome. An experience like no other. A water bottle was placed on the table as well and when thirsty you took a drink directly from it. In Chaouen it is truly communal living. Everything for everyone and nothing for yourself.
After dinner I put my pack of cigarettes on the table and Anis poured me a rum and coke. The rum was a gift from another traveler who had poured the liquor into an empty water bottle for them. My cigarettes were open to everyone and we smoked and drank and again and again they’d ask me, “are you happy? Then we are happy.”
That night, when I was ready to return home, it was raining heavily out. And Yussef followed me to my hotel holding an umbrella over my head ensuring me that I would not get wet.

And that’s day one.

Day two began wonderfully and ended wonderfully. I started the day writing in my journal while eating breakfast, toast with marmalade, café con leche, and freshly squeezed orange juice, in the dinning room of the hotel. Afterward I went to the main tourist attraction of Chaouen. At one point in history, long ago, the entire water supply of Chaouen was sourced from the streams that flow down the mountain and were channeled throughout the city. Now, at the base of the mountain where the river meets the valley, there are two huts made that were/are used for cleaning clothes. The huts channel water off the river and the water flows directly through the houses and through a series of wash basins with wooden rivets used to scrub clothes, rugs, and whatever house hold items need cleaned. I had to hike through the city, up steep streets, still through narrow streets with many ends and beginnings, until I happened upon the area. There is a lovely waterfall there as well and the lush green Rif mountains surrounded the area. Woman were in the huts scrubbing their clothes with natural soap along the rivets of the flowing river.
At this location there is a trail that leads up into the mountains which I, of course, had to hike up. The trail at first was paved like the rest of the city, rocks embedded deep into the clay, and had a short stone wall with mud for mortar that ran along side it. The trail did not last long and soon I was hiking on a muddy trail. It rose steeply and soon I was high above the entire city and could see the blue and whites of Chaouen, and the steep incline of the city built within a gorge very clearly. I stopped at a place where two mountains met and formed a passageway that lead deep into the wilderness. The two mountains nearly formed a passageway or a gate, which looked so inviting. I hike up the narrow trail between the two mountains as far as I could. But, it had been raining and the mud and stone was very slick and I reached a point where it became too steep to go any further. Here, I stopped and wrote more. And I sat high and again was awed by the beauty of the Rif mountains and the lush green hills of Africa. The city was so high up that clouds formed above the houses. Not fog, actually clouds. It was bizarre. I could see lines of clouds sporadically throughout the valley. I wish I would have taken a picture from my perch before the more clouds rolled in, but I did not, and while I was writing, a cold breeze blew through and in moments I was in a white haze of clouds and could no longer see through the mountain gateway which I had sat admiring for some time before. I knew that if it began to ran it would be dangerous climbing down so I packed up my things and began the hike down.
Once back on the trail and headed for the city, I crossed a group of five boys, my age, sitting on the rock wall that lined the paved trail. Their names were, Houssam, Larbi, Mohamed, Omar, and Khalil. They were playing guitar. I did not initially try to stop but nodded at them as I passed and once my back was to them one, Houssam) shouted out, “Guetentag.” I turned and told them I was American and not German and then asked, with a series of hand motions if I could join them and listen to them play guitar. They were more than welcoming and I sat at the end of the line and listened to Larbi play traditional Moroccan songs on a nylon string guitar. The music was wonderful, and had American pop elements of verse and chorus and hook, but used different chords and transitions I was not accustomed to. While Larbi played, the other boys all sang the words to the songs together. It was awesome. The rain had just started at this point, and the air was so fresh and clean and crisp and the view of the valley mixed with the beautiful songs was nearly overwhelming. I was very happy. I sat and smoked cigarettes and I began to beat rhythms with my hands upon my legs.
After a some time of all the boys singing songs to Larbi’s playing, Khalil rose and began to take pictures with his cellphone. At this point Houssam said, “Friend, come.” And he pated with his hand the open space next to him. I sat next to him and he looked me in the eye and smiled. I was certain of his honesty, and after the prior evening I was nearly certain of all in the city.
Larbi quit playing after some time and they gestured the guitar towards me, in the manner of asking, “do you play.” I took the guitar and began to strum the songs I know and then Larbi said with very poor English, “sing in English.” I told them I don’t sing well in Spanish and Houssam understood and told me it didn’t matter. So, I sat, again in the beautiful setting of nearly pristine Africa, high in the mountains on a rock wall in the freshening rain, and began to sing the songs I knew. It was transcendent to say the very least. A beautiful feeling and I had no self awareness. It was me and the guitar and new friends. After each song they’d pat me on the back and clap their hands. It was fucking bizarre. They were very kind and very sincere people.
They invited me to have coffee with them afterward. I followed them back down the mountain and Houssam and I spoke in Spanish. Though, Spanish is hard enough for me already, but an Arabic fellow speaking Spanish with an accent so bizarre, made I nearly impossible for me to understand. But, like the berbers the night before. He had so much patience. When I would say, “no entiendo,” he would stop and think of a new way to explain it and speak slower and clearer until I understood. It was awesome. He had no frustration what so ever. And our conversation was pleasant. It was basic getting to know you stuff. All five of the guys worked one day a week in Tangier at a VW plant as electricians. One day a week is all they needed to live happily in Chaouen. I repeat, in Chaouen, there is only simplicity, and never a rush or worry.
The café was splendid. We sat under the covered terrace and the rain began to fall very hard. And, all five of us sat in silence and watched it. And after a awhile Khalil simply said, “es bonita.” True words had never been spoken.
I asked Houssam to order me something good to eat and he did and soon I had a Moroccan salad which was sliced onions, peppers, tomatoes, with cilantro that I scooped onto a piece of bread. And for my main course I had kebabs of steak and chicken. We drank Berber tea and when I asked how to say mint in Arabic, Houssam rose and went inside the café and returned with a sprig of mint and said, “Nah Nah,” (def. not the correct spelling), and handed me the mint. Later, Larbi took out the guitar again and he played songs and no one sang and we all listened to the guitar and watched the rain.
I explained to them about Sahim, and how I needed to call her but my mobile didn’t work in chaouen and asked how I could call her. They told me I could easily buy a sim card for my mobile in the city. I rose as though I would go and do it then, and all of them, just like the Berbers, motioned for me to sit down and Khalil looked at me and said, “tranquillo.” Like I said, there is never a rush in Chaouen.
We played more songs on the guitar. And Larbi played old American pop songs by the beatles and the eagles and asked me to sing them. So I quietly sang hotel California and let it be. And the others hummed and mimicked the English words to the songs they knew but did not understand.
Around five a melodic and hypnotic prayer rang throughout the city. It was the daily prayer that one elder of the city gave into a microphone which was connected to old speakers that stood ontop of a building. Larbi quit playing the guitar. The people in the streets and cafes quit talking. The entire city went silent and for a few minutes we all listened to the prayer. It was beautiful. The voice of the man reminded me of something dying unnaturally. He wailed and the prayer had a very melodic ring to it that one could not ignore, that entered into the body and filled me with a feeling of grand spirituality. It was very much unlike anything I had ever experienced.
Afterward Houssam began to talk about religion with me. He asked what faith I belong to, and when I told him none, he did not understand. The same thing happened with the berbers the night before. Not having a religion is very odd to them, and nearly uncomprehendable. The American agnostic is more rare than I had thought…even in spain nearly everyone still claims to be catholic, whether they go to church or not. Houssam told me there is only one god and one day I would want to get in touch with him. It was really quite funny to me. Because they way he handled talking to me about religion reminded me so much of how the Christians of my childhood would talk about faith with me. But I tried to explain to him that I had my own spirituality and that what I had seen of the Islamic religion I liked very much and that they seemed to be the nicest people I had ever met. This satisfied him and the conversation died and we all went back to watching the rain.
After some time Houssam asked me if I still needed the card for my phone and I said yes. He and Khalil rose and so I rose as well, and once again, all five of them motioned for me to sit and once again I was told, “tranquillo.” Larbi looked at me and smiled and he pulled out the guitar and he began to play hotel California for a second time. I smiled and told the others thank and I watched them depart in the rain.
When they returned they handed me the card and I began to pull out my wallet and all five, in unison again, said “no no no no.” They refused to let me pay. I insisted and they said no and I could see, that just like the Berbers, it made them endlessly happy to make me happy. I thanked them as sincere as I could, which was incredibly sincere and accepted the gift. Then, when the check came, Omar grabbed it immidetely and handed the waiter a 100 durhams and when I said I needed to get change to pay my share they again told me no. I did not try to fit with them. I accepted the gift humbly. And was absolutely dumfounded with what had just happened. They had to have known I had much more money then them. An American studying in Spain on vacation in Africa. And them, five boys who lived together and worked one day a week. They knew, and yet it did not matter to them at all.
After the café they were headed back to Tangier. Of course, they invited me with them. When I told them I wanted to stay in Chaouen they actually nearly begged me to come. Not beg in the sense of pleading, but just a sincere desire to continue hanging out. But, I was not ready to leave Chaouen and I was already certain I would be returning and I told them I would return soon, which made them very happy. I walked with them down to the main road where they were to catch a cab and we all got together and took a photo. One on my camera, and one on Khalil’s phone. We exchanged numbers and email addresses and I am certain I will see them again.
That evening I went back to the berber house, drank more tea, stood on the terrace in the rain, and had a wonderful dinner of mashed potatoes seasoned with salt and cumin and olive oil substituted for milk. When I told them in the states we use milk they all concurred that olive oil tasted better. We ate with our hands from the dish in the center of the room. I told them the story of houssam and friends and showed them the picture. Anis looked at it and said he could tell that they were good people and that I found them because good people find good people. That night when I went to leave it was still raining and Yussef followed me out the front door with an umbrella and I told him I wanted to walk in the rain and he smiled and we shook hands and I walked back to the hotel in the cool African rain.

I met Sahim at the bus station the next morning. And we had a wonderful ride back to tangier together. I had a million questions to ask her about the muslims, the berbers, the lifestyles, and the utter friendliness of all I encountered. When I told her that after I parted from Houssam and his friends I still had my wallet and passport and nothing was missing she confusedly asked, “you expected them to steal from you.” And in a subtle western mindset I had expected them to steal from me. No one is that friendly without expecting something in return, right? But no, people in the world that friendly do exist. And they exist in a small village in morocco.
I asked her about the lack of woman in the streets. And she explained to me the culture of the muslims and that the woman were in the homes doing house work and raising families and that they were truly happy doing it and one day she wanted to do it as well. We talked more about her life. She is the only girl studying engineering in her entire university, which many of her friends do not agree with. She speak four languages and two of them, English and Spanish, she taught herself via the internet. And she spoke each very well. We debated briefly over the rationality of having Islamic woman cover their bodies. She said it was logical because it came them pure. And I said it was illogical because sex is a basic human instinct and hiding it is illogical. We did not come to an agreement but we both clearly understood the different mindsets of being raised in such foreign environments and we both respected the other very much. AT times we quite talking and simply watched the beautiful countryside out the window of the bus. We became close and our legs were intertwined and we relaxed into each others bodies and took very lazy naps.
The bus ride ended far too soon and I would have been glad to stay on it all the way across the Gibraltar straight and all the way back to Madrid. But, clearly, that isn’t how things work. Once off the bus she offered to take me to the port and when we got to the line of taxis we both wanted to walk some more so we continued walking, both with luggage towards the port. At one point when we passed another line of taxis and she asked if I wanted to keep walking, she said to me in Spanish, “Quiero ser contigo.” Which, because of her accent and my terrible Spanish, I didn’t understand and had to ask her three times to repeat herself, which completely ruined a very romantic sentiment.
Eventually we made it to the port and we said goodbye, temporarily, and she invited me back to morocco anytime, which I will undoubtedly take her up on.
Once out to sea, standing on the observation deck, I let the strong winds blow into my hair. And I leaned back into the winds which supported my weight and nearly toppled me forward. And I let the salty ocean mist collide with and sting into my face. And I contemplated, from the highest mast head, my time spent in Africa.

huzza!
jake.

feria de san blas

disclaimer. this turned out epic. In word it is 12 pages double spaced. longer than any essay i've had to write for college in quite awhile. it's not really all that coherent. So, if you dare, dive into the mind of jake. take it in sessions if you are really intersted. Otherwise, i enjoyed writing for only myself.


I’m way past due for an online journal entry, aka, a blog. But, it’s been a few weeks of transition. A few weeks of finding my place in Madrid. Of finding what it means to survive in a city of six million were you never see a familiar face in the streets even when you take the same train every day at the same time. But, I assure you I am finding it, and even may jump the gun and say have found it. While, it isn’t as I had imagined, it’s certainly not with Spanish friends, the language barrier sees to that, but currently it is with other foreigners like myself. Others who have run to Madrid from their home countries all for the sake of finding whatever is to be found when removed from a comfort zone, removed from familiar culture. Some of them are world travelers. My friend Lindy has spent the past two years moving from country to country. She’s as much of a vagabond as they come. She embraces the fact that she’s spent many winter nights sleeping in the streets and finding dinner in the dumpster. Embraces the fact that friends are the highest form of love and that one can never expect more than a good conversation and a shared solitude in the warm sun. Of the group, I believe I’m the only first timer. Most are experienced travelers. Been to many places, used to existing on the outside. It’s a very accepting culture. One that recognizes the individual worth of all peoples. All peoples have talents hopes dreams even when they are the simplest forms.
My intention of this blog is to write about the Feria de Sans Blas, and the effect bullfights have had on my mind, that I went to this weekend in Valdemorrila, a very small pueblo (village or small town) 40km north of Madrid. The experience was phenomenal and it was hands down the best three days I’ve spent in Spain to date. But my mind is wondering and I’ll get there eventually. First though I feel I must give some thoughts on Madrid to fully understand the grandeur of my fin de semana en Valdemorrila.
Madrid is a city of jaded individuals. It’s comparable to that of New York City, or I’m told, seeing how I’ve never been. But I imagine all huge cities must be this way. When every face you see is a face of a stranger. When one cannot leave the house and go anywhere outside of their barrio (neighborhood) and possibly recognize anyone. In this circumstance one always has a feeling of insignificance and irrelevance. Whether they realize it or not. Locals I imagine do not. In order to feel like one matter in a city of strangers one must rely on one self. One must put credence, and too often in Madrid it is an overwhelming belief of self, in order to feel like they do matter. When I go to cafes, and not just me, it’s locals as well, the camereras (bartenders or waiter, there is no distinction between the two, verbally anyway) are short. They spit out, “digame” which roughly means “talk to me.” It’s short and curt and they expect a short and curt response. Do not try to be polite in Madrid, you’ll only piss people off. And, being an American who is learning Spanish pissing people off is what I do often. Though it’s occurring less as my knowledge of the language grows. But still, this is a city with an influxed ideal of self worth. But, that’s okay. That’s how it exists. That how the people here survive the feelings of insignificance. And it’s becoming very beautiful to me.
In order to survive in Madrid one must have a niche. All people have them. It occurs in the barrios. Do not expect to come to Madrid and make friends with the camerero on a first visit. Do not expect to go to Sol or Plaza Mayor or Chueca and befriend anyone. These are the cosmopolitan areas. These are the areas where self worth swells the highest. But in your barrio, the place you dwell and shop and spend a few hours in the plazas you’ll begin to be accepted. It’s happening for me. It’s how the locals survive. When walking down the calle (street) at six pm and looking through the windows of store fronts I see the same faces in the same bars each night. It’s really beautiful. The bars and cafes and restaurants—there is hardly a difference in any of them, bars are places for families, not like in the states—are filled with friends who joke and laugh with the staff and joke and laugh with each other. I frequent a café called Obador where I like the café and the pasterillas (pastries, which are nothing like American pastries, super sweet things here hardly exist) and the camerara talked with an old couple at the bar and they laughed together. And tonight must have been my seventh time going there and for the first time one camerera spoke English to me. She’s waited on me many times allowed me to look foolish and now she speaks English! This is Madrid in a nutshell. Once accepted, once becoming a part of a community, then one can really begin to feel like they are at home. I’m glad I’m settling. The first month, as noted in one blog, was very hard. But my niche and settling has begun. Even in Madrid, a city far from my ideals of what makes humanity humane.
So Madrid, gave me a sour taste for Spain initially. Culture shock my grand uncle Maurice would call it. And he’s right, definitely culture shock. But (now we are getting there), Valdemorilla has shown me a side of Spain I love. I absolutely love. The Spain of Hemingway romances. It was a weekend where I lived as though I was a character from a Kerouac novel, or under the ideals of Thoreau and Whitman and Emerson. It was a weekend that reminded me of who I am. What I love. And if I could live like this eternally I’d be a very happy man. But, realistically it does not seem plausible. Even Lindy, the closest person I’ve ever met to existing like a beatnik in true from has to have a job for a year at a time. She has had many hardships and scary instances and times of desperate poverty. Which, all are romantic. All are life. All are a part of an accepted existence. One, I am not sure I could give up my schooling for. But, one day would love to try.
Feria Sans Blas. The week long festival of the patron saint of Valdemorilla, whose population is nearly 8,000. Where to begin? Chronologically? Grouping events? Or just pick a moment and write? That seems good.
I feel in “love” with my first Spanish woman. Obviously lover here is used as about as loosely as it can be. But, my lord, what a beautiful and kind woman. When I first exited the bus west of the city center on the outskirts, not sure of where to go, or where I was, I walked north towards the buildings, it seemed logical. I found a hostel near a very old inglesia (catholic church…well, church, but all churches are catholic here…nearly). I walked into the hostel expecting the same struggles I deal with in Madrid but found such a warm welcoming. My Spanish beauty smiled immediately and stood up from the bar where she was reading book and said “beinvenidos,” and I requested a room. The hostel was owned and operated by one family, who were sitting across the room gathered at a table eating dinner and drinking wine. Quickly the girl, whose name I never learned, realized I didn’t speak Spanish too well and she began to speak to me in English, though her English is on a par with my Spanish. We talked briefly, but warmly, and she escorted me to my room and opened the door and asked if she could do anything else. I removed the few non essential items from my bag, a pair of underwear, a change of socks, and school text book, and went back down to the bar. I ordered a glass of wine and when the daughter, my Spanish queen (haha), went to pour me a glass from the bottle behind the bar, her father shouted from the table and she put the bottle back on the backbar and walked over to the table and took the bottle the family was drinking from. She told me it was a better wine and the father wanted me to have some. It was so awesome. The act that is. The wine was good too. And then her and I sat and talked for an hour, her in English, I in Spanish (we both seized the opportunity to practice a foreign tongue). It was a simple conversation, but it was so pleasant. They had two bulldogs and one had a cone one its head and bandage on its leg. And she told me he was too fat and his knee was giving out and he had to have an operation. We both laughed at the fat thing sitting crumpled upon itself looking helplessly around the room. She told me about the fiesta and what was occurring and the events that would take place. At point in our conversation she would say excuse me, and turn from the bar and yell, I mean really yell (“mama!”) to her family across the room about me and what I just told her about myself and they would laugh or nod their heads, and she would turn back and tell me what they had said. Then I left, went and explored. But, when I returned, every time, the family, be it the brother the sister or either of the two parents, I was always greeted with, “Que tal?” and they expected, no were generally interested in a response. It was great. Absolutely great.
Now what? Hmmm…let’s continue with the niceties of the peoples in Valdemorilla. The streets of the small pueblo were lined with booths and vendors selling all sorts of random things. Children’s toys. Hand made leather bags and wallets and bracelets. T-shirts. Spanish souvenirs. Tons of food, comparable to food at the state carnival, only Spanish. And walking along the calle and looking at merchandise the proprietor would nearly always asked “de donde eres?” (where are you from). Which in Madrid is unheard of, people don’t care. And we’d tell them we were from the states (here the we is lindy and I, and I’ll have to take a whole section to write about the awesome time I had with her) and people were receptive to it. Again, unlike Madrid.
Another example (I have two more I’ll type though I could go on and on) of incredibly friendliness of the Spanish: We were at a café, El Fronton (which has amazingly huge and delicious plates for super cheap) and I wanted a wineskin (you know those leather bags that you put wine in and are commonly passed around at a bullfight…and yes they were passed around at the bullfights) and I didn’t know the word for one and I didn’t know where to buy one. So I asked our camerero as best I could where I could get one. It took some creativity, “Sabes donde yo puedo comprar un…uh…bolso para vino…” and then some hand actions, and then, “son de piel.” Eventually we got there. He began to draw me a map before throwing it away and grabbing me by the arm and saying, “Vienes (you come).” He led me out the store down the street and to a store which sold them. He picked one out for me said, “esta bein?” and smiling and saying he’d see me back at the café. It was so incredibly nice. I loved it. Really really did. I tipped him five euro, which is unheard of here…tips aren’t common in Spain, and five percent is a huge tip.
Finally, at the end of our adventure while lindy and I were waiting for the bus back to Madrid, a man approached us and said, “tienes fuego (do you have a light)?” we started talking to him and, obviously, he asked where we were from and why we had come to such a small and untouristic destination (valdemorillo has no grand historical relevance, just a small village). We told him we had come for the bullfights and he immediately assumed, as we were American, we had found the event grotesque. But once we told him how much we enjoyed it, how much fun we had, a whole line of dialogue was opened. Angel, the Spaniard, was an older retired man. And his thing, as all retired peoples have a thing, was he traveled city to city during the bullfighting season and ran with the bulls (I was unaware that there are fifty pueblos in Spain that have a running, valdemorillo included…I’ll get there…). He said he runs 120 times a year. The runnings usually occur during the pueblos ferias (festivals celebrating patron saints) and they usually have three or four during the week. And he runs at many. He told us the basics, what was expected, how well the best runners could do. Nobody runs start to finish in one go…the best runners (yes there’s a whole league of people who travel and run at all the cities) can run 150-200 meters at a time (they release one or two or three bulls at a time, each being set off with a loud firework shot into the air, and there is about five sessions to try and make it all the way to the plaza). Anyway, point being, cool man very friendly. We exchanged numbers with him, and he told me to call him in the middle of march, for that is when the season truly begins, valdemorilla begins very early, and we are going to give us information on all the runnings in all the cities, and, hopefully, we are going to meet him in some pueblo, somewhere, and run with him and then go to the fights with him. It was a very cool experience and one I’m very glad occurred.
K, lets give credence to the romantic side of the weekend with Lindy. And not romantic like boy girl kissy kissy…tiene un novio, so there was none of that. But, romantic in the sense of Whitman and Snyder. Romantic in the sense of aimless wonderings which fill the soul with such joyous pleasure of the simplicity man seems to forget. Lindy and I did nothing spectacular in the sense of my other adventures here. It wasn’t possible, there’s nothing grand to see in Voldemorillo. The basis of our weekend was drinking wine, which costs all of two dollars for entire day!, and walking and enjoying nothing but observations and awesome conversations. At one point, after desayunar (breakfast), I asked her what she wanted to do, and she said let’s go nap in the park. Which is one of the best times I had in the pueblo. We laid down between the shadows of the tree in the sun whose rays were warming and mixed perfectly with the wine in our bellies. There was a light breeze which swayed the grass gently and on blew onto my face like the feeling of soft felt embracing my skin. We fell asleep in the sun and occasionally one would stir and then the other would stir and we’d both know the other was awake, and someone would ask a quiet question and the other would respond and when the conversation had settled and had been finished we would close our eyes without any transition and fall back asleep until one would stir and repeat the whole process. We laid in the park for four hours. With no anxiety or desire to anything but simply exist. At points I’d pull out my journal and write a poem or make an entry and she’d wonder and pick a flower and investigate the trees, and then we’d return lie back down and enjoy the solitude which each of us has learned to embrace in our lives, learned to fully love, and also, embrace the perfect shared solitude. The understanding of silence and allowing ones self to feel the emotion the world creates if one is willing to perceive it.
On the last night we were there we snuck onto a roof of building under construction. We watched the stars and she told me tales of her travels and her life of wondering. And I shared stories of my domestic life, which the morals one pulls from each are the exact same but the experiences are different. We drank more wine and smoked cigarettes and could see the lights and rooftops of the entire pueblo. We played harmonica, though neither really know how, and the songs from each sounded perfectly sorrowful and full of the beauty of solitude. After leaving the roof we headed back to the park and we stopped at a frutaria, and I bought an orange and she bought some pickles. And we sat in same place and talked more, and smoked more, and drank more, and I ate the finest orange I’ve ever ever had. Oh god, to live like this always would be the pinnacle of my existence. To be so happy with so little. For one weekend I was Japhy Ryder, I was a dharma bum, and I did not need anything more than shared solitude with another who understands it so finely and an orange and some wine and tobacco.
Now what? There was the church, where I accidentally walked in on a funeral and did not know it was a funeral until the grand doors to rear were swung open and line of pallbearers walked forward and picked up the casket hidden from my view and the funeral line that proceeded past me while I knelt and prayed hoping they wouldn’t think I was a complete asshole for crashing their funeral, hoping they’d think I was a devote catholic weary from travel finding sanctuary in the chapel, which isn’t entirely false, but certainly not based upon the catholic notions. There was the church itself constructed long ago of solely stone and mortar, and the ground too was paved with old granite stone. And there was its high arched roof which hung omnisciently 100 meters above our heads and the fine paintings from artists that hung on the walls. There was the pastors voice who spoke through a microphone and his voice through the speakers echoed off the walls and returned and reverberated in such a manner that I could not tell where the voice was coming from, it only seemed to come from up high, from god himself and the feeling the huge church and the pastors voice like god’s, which was a feeling of punity and irrelevance, which to me was amazing a feeling which inspired self–reliance and the recognition that when I die I will die and be forgotten within a few generations, granting I do have children and they have children. And the only solution to this is to live each day and moment and enjoy all the world has to offer. There was the graveyard the meditation on death that one must go through in order to fully understand a bullfight. And the Spanish views of death which are far from Americans. Death is not ignored. The dead are buried in sarcophaguses above the ground where the dead’s bones rest right in front of you, not hidden deep within the ground. Death here is something accepted, as far as I can tell. And I went to the catacombs of a monastery where all the kings of spain are buried with the usac group a few weeks ago. Most of them were very uneasy being so close to the dead. Knowing their bodies lay hidden but their caskets fully visible. This is a difference of Spain. Death is something confronted, feared still, but confronted, which is the true meaning of a bullfight. The bull symbolized death and the matador man kind. The even is not a barbaric one. It is not cruel. It is no more cruel than in nature when mother bear eats her cubs, or when I pack of dogs gang up on another dog. Cruelty is a notion created by man, for man, based upon their own insecurities and the feeling of uneasiness created by a bullfight. A Bullfight is man striking back at mortality. For one afternoon a group of mortals come to feel vicariously immortal through the bravery (if the fight is good) of the matador. Bullfights are rich in tradition which still exist to this day. They are far from cruel, if one is willing to realize that man is an animal of nature just like the bull and that we have the ability to separate ourselves from nature as though we are not apart of it. Carlos Fuentes said of bullfights, “Spain rips off the mask of our puritanical hypocrisy in relation to nature.” The bull is our brother, the spainards know this. When a bull is killed cowardly they boo the matador and comment on the unjustness of the death of the bull. These events are not for the simple minded. Sure, simple minded people do attend, but they do not understand the brilliance of what they are seeing. A bullfight, when truly amazing, leave all who witnessed it sure of the inner power, sure that they are alive, that they do matter, that their life is no apology, but a feat and triumphant victory. Man is an animal, which has evolved, to its place of power but still recognizes its utter weakness. Through bullfights, for one afternoon, everyone feels alive.
I guess I really have nothing more to say of a bullfight. It’s pointless to try and explain the stages, I read them before I went, I read Hemingway’s memoir on them, and still I could not comprehend them until I saw them. And if Hemingway can’t make me understand than I cannot make you all understand either. It’s a very complicated event. With three stages, and any one of the stages that does not go perfectly can ruin the rest of the fight. I saw it happen nearly every time. Hemingway said one in ever twenty fights you see will be mundane and will not give an individual a true understanding of what bullfight can be, or should be. And this proved to be true. I saw eighteen fights total. One was unbelievably brilliant. Unbelievably. I had witnessed fourteen fights before seeing a brilliant fight. And I had a notion of what a bullfight could be from the prior fourteen. I had a glimpse into the feeling of immortality, into the artistic genius of matadors. But once seeing Daniel Loque fight, I was overwhelmed with a feeling indescribable. It was powerful, beautiful. Bullfighting is an art. It truly is. And it takes an artist, with inherit artistic talent to create the event as art. There are many good bullfighters who are not artists, who are athletes. And these fights are the ones that become mundane. But bullfighting is an art, if you see a bullfight with an open mind, you will understand how true this statement is.
I will give slight homage to Daniel Loque. He is seventeen, incredibly young for a matador, and he faced the bravest bull I had seen that night. The way to judge a bull is not by how fierce he is while entering the ring, but by how well he handles the first wound he receives. If when first picked the bull fights back he is brave. This bull immediately went after the banderillos and showed amazing bravery throughout the entire fight. And do not kid yourself, that bullfights are a science and a simple minded event where a man calmly tricks a bull. Matadors and members of the cuadrillo die every year. They are facing a very dangerous animal. The matadors have great fear. I saw them sweat with anxiety, I saw them run from the bull, I saw them hurt the bull cheaply out of fear. There is a very real danger in bullfighting, and the best matadors are the bravest ones. Or the ones who are able to control their fear the most. Daniel was ambitiously, possibly naively brave. He worked so close to the bull he was covered in the bull’s blood, which is not that common. He hypnotized the bull with his muleta (the scarlet cape), and he did not allow the picadors or banderillos to hurt the bull in the way other matadors do. He wanted the bull strong. He wanted the bull healthy. And this is precisely how he faced the bull. And, he showed no fear. His proximity to the bull was outstanding, his calm and collective presence is unbelievable considering the circumstances. He killed the bull very soon too. Long before the other matadors would have. He did not tire the bull to the point of exhaustion. He killed the bull when the bull was very likely to do much damage to him. Witnessing all of this was unlike anything I have ever seen. And I will look for Daniel to fight in las ventas (the Madrid plaza de toros) while I’m here. I will travel to see him again. He was truly an artist who has no fear. However, of characters such as himself, Hemingway says there are many. Many young and ambitious matadors will fight brilliantly for a season, and maybe two, until they receive their first coranado (gorging) and then they have fear, and then they work far from the bull. But, I’m glad to have seen him with his youth and his bravery intact.

Huzza!
Jake.