tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87883232905576210162024-03-08T04:40:45.944-05:00Welcome to The Whiskey DregsResearch on the dregs of society and other happenings. We all have feelings too.Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-79728290860823737992008-06-30T09:12:00.002-04:002008-06-30T09:15:30.882-04:00The Whiskey Dregs Have Moved to WordpressThis Blogger account will be used for something else new and exciting.<br /><br />Please go to whiskeydregs.wordpress.comCarlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-60032812964225102962008-03-04T21:15:00.000-05:002008-03-04T21:16:21.289-05:00One Sweet Crush“This song’s about getting your head chopped off,” yelled the vocalist for Thy Will Be Done before plummeting into a song called, “Guillotine Dream”. I wondered how he could know of such things. The guitars roared as the vocalist began to bang his head so hard that I thought it was possible for the skull to come right off the stump of his neck.<br /><br />It was a Sunday night jamboree at the Knitting Factory. Five Heavy Metal bands in the heart of downtown New York converging upon the community of Chinatown with their brand of aural communication. What is this music and who are these people?<br /><br />My writing desk was a wooden shelf, which ran along the wall across from the bar. I had to brush aside flyers in order to write anything. Distorted guitars screamed high pitched tones, which were manufactured for the purpose of awakening its audience to a new level of human strife. I was there with my friend Joe who knows all about these things. He invited me in the first place.<br /><br />When we arrived our tickets were given to a man with a scruffy beard and eyeglasses. The two of us were thirsty so we went to the bar where men sporting tattoos communed. Girls with jet black hair and bright smiles stood alongside them but it was mostly a boy's club. Later on in the night, Joe and I went outside to smoke a cigarette when a cab driver pulled up to the curb and asked if it was a gay bar.<br /><br />Near the entrance of the Knitting Factory were vendors who sold T-Shirts, banners, magazines, and CDs while fans crowded around the tables. One of the tables had a sign, which read, "Give us your drugs,” so I presumed that one could also barter with these salesmen for a brand new CD. I had my eye on T-Shirt with a design of a shark showing off its impressive collection of sharp teeth. The shirt’s slogan read, “Chum Fiesta.”<br /><br />A man yelled, “Joe” and beckoned my friend over to the bar where he sat. The man’s name is John and he performs lead vocals for a hardcore band in which every member save one is named John. It was difficult to see how this man could be in a band named Turmoil when he shook my hand and said, “Nice to meet you.” After that it was a conversation about mortgages and old friends. John is an affable type; looks you squarely in the eye when he talks and is at times at least gregarious if not more pleasant. Somehow the name of the band doesn’t imply until you see them perform. It is then that one may begin to learn all of their tricks.<br /><br />With beers in hand, we walked through a corridor toward the space where the stage was. As I entered, I was knocked back by the dank smell of a locker room. It was as suffocating as a humid summer night in the Everglades except this was human sweat and the only alligators there were the ones with the furious fists slamming into the air. They seemed to be maniacs set loose into a boxing ring from an insane asylum. When the bell dinged it was their go to box invisible entities which harassed them from somewhere near the ceiling… or so it seemed. In spite of all this thrashing, these men, as well as some women were pleased to be hassled by the raging sonic force of Thy Will Be Done. Their gritted smiles said so.<br /><br />Turmoil began their set after Thy Will Be Done finished. Suddenly, John took the persona of the band’s heavy message. All five of them banged their heads at a steady pace with the music and then it lurched into speed as the room exploded with ferocity. The wallflowers drew closer to the stage and John wreaked havoc upon the microphone. I couldn’t understand the lyrics but I understood what he meant.<br /><br />Turmoil’s set was full of incredible and rancorous drones. This intestine pulverizing music was composed by a band whose lead singer appeared to be one of the happiest people I’ve met in some time. Suddenly the room became a chum fiesta as human tornadoes dared to make victims of all those who stood along the unseen sideline where a circle formed to allow re-entry the ones wishing to beat the air once again.<br /><br />This was John’s outlet. As people grind through the train systems to get to work, John is taking notes and interpreting our misfortunes. The deadly bombardment and aural crushing is the sound of a quintet dynamo explaining to its audience an alliance of understanding. This audience listens but unfortunately they don’t catch. The stage proved to be too small for him. He jumped down into the pit with every one else and slammed into a group of people in front of me falling over onto the floor. He stood back up and was back in action. He later recalled the story to Joe and me and said, “I expected someone to catch me but no one did. Oh well.”<br /><br />I nearly became a victim of the audience’s emotional discharge during Turmoil’s set. I kneeled in the mosh pit to take some pictures. One of these fleshy hurricanes wore a blue bandana and a white tank top. His arms, built like tree trunks began to flail about remiss of any who could be struck. After some careful maneuvering I was able to avoid any combat.<br /><br />The key to understanding the music of this band is that they aren’t trying to put people into a dark place where dreadful thoughts could manifest. Instead, they revive people by forcing them to confront and not repress their emotions. I observed explosion after explosion of thunderous release when these fans confronted their aggression and afterwards there was applause.<br /><br />The breadth of psychoanalysis misses one thing: A relation to the client. It is easy to dispute, however unlikely to truly garner the exclamation point required to truly cure the patient. A release of all bonds for one evening can treat one’s desperate plea for help.<br /><br />Although I do not consider myself a fan of this music, there is an appreciation for what these bands are trying to achieve. It is not monetary success. Many of these unsung heroes like John often have to support themselves by holding regular jobs just like the rest of us. They deliver their feelings to an audience who shares the same experience daily. The ones who listen call back to the band’s cause. The truth is that these bands will be a footnote in the history of Rock and Roll, however the mark that is left on their fans runs the highway of human understanding.<br /><br />At the end of the show, smiles and overenthusiastic “Thank yous” were a sign of success. It’ll have to hold these fans over until the next morning when they must sluggishly return to their 9 to 5s and do it all over again.<br /><br />As for me, I found myself smiling and charged with electricity returning to the cold night feeling warm and awake. After being in the ring, Joe went home with joy and a wounded knuckle. The injury was chump change for the exhilaration of temporary relief. I left without becoming a casualty yet gained a new respect for a music I hardly listen to.Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-55054013190088876552008-01-04T08:45:00.000-05:002008-01-04T09:28:24.856-05:00The Last Day in Barcelona: Day 5<div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151621015901924866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R348BP5FbgI/AAAAAAAAHDw/pDI_GRqYueQ/s320/DSC_0778.jpg" border="0" /> Lost in the triumph of Barcelona without a passport. It's not as bad as you think but then again, I didn't lose mine. Mike and I had a good run of the city and of course on the last full day there, his passport had disappeared somewhere deep in the labyrinth of Barcelona's transit system.<br /><br />Gus, Joe and Miguel slept while Mike and I panicked. My job was to secure a room for the night at Kabul, in the middle-of-everything Las Ramblas. Placa Reial next door to the nightclub, Jamboree - better known by Miguel as "Donde esta Jamboree?!!?"<br /><br />I told Mike to retrace his steps and see what his fortune could bring while I reserved our room.<br /><br />Kabul is a hostel that most people imagine - loud music, young drifters leaning against pool tables and a machine that dispenses tickets for a euro in exchange for Amstel beer. The man behind the counter was an older Middle Eastern looking man who promised me a good room and handed me the keys. I walked to the room, opened the door and felt the sensation of being in a horror movie. The room smelled as if an arsenal of assholes were used to wipe the floor while its master - a guy in his early 20's - slept in one of the bunks. Bottles of alcohol jut from the floor like dark towers of disaster. The guy immediately got up, apologized and disappeared into the hallway while I stood there trying to kick my jaw up from the floor.<br /><br />Mike entered the room and was smashed with disbelief as well. Partly because of the condition of the room but mostly because the passport was indeed missing. I had refused to stay in that room and imagined having to explain to the rest of the boys of my failure.<br /><br />The man was back behind the counter. I complained politely because I was unsure what these savages were capable of. He was frustrated with me - the American expecting the best conditions from a hostel. "This is a hostel," he said. "Sometimes there's condoms left on the beds. Sometimes there's shit. Sometimes there's puke all over the place."<br /><br />"OK," I told him. "But you have to understand that I'm not staying in there. Is there anything else possible?"<br /><br />The man checked the computer and said, "Yes, there's an eight bed dorm on the fourth floor. Go look at it and see if this will be fine."<br /><br />I picked up my 50 pound bag and climbed up four flights of stairs, hungover, tired and disillusioned. The previous room was that bad.<br /><br />The room on the fourth floor was a garden in comparison. Although it didn't smell great, it certainly didn't smell like ass either. The sheets were clean. The beds were made and I was able to relax. I walked back to the first floor and told the man that it was a done deal. "I'll take the room."<br /><br />Mike and I unloaded our bags and went to a restaurant that was on Las Ramblas.<br /><br />Joe called and I tried to explain to him what had happened but the frustration caused by the traumatic memory hung in my throat like flem. "I'll just tell you when I see you," I told him.<br /><br />The rest of the boys arrived. I handed them the keys and they dropped off their belongings in Kabul while Mike and I continued eating our breakfast. We were about finished when Gus, Joe and Miguel came back. Mike and I asked the waiter if he had any advice about what to do with the passport situation and he advised us to go to the police station. We didn't want to waste anymore time so the two of us left while Gus, Joe and Miguel placed their orders.<br /><br />Once at the police station, we realized that we didn't know how to say, "I lost my passport" in Spanish. Mike did the best he could with my phrasebook. The cop told Mike to fill out some paperwork and come back.<br /><br />We waited a long while for anything to happen. The cop took a cigarette break, chatted on his cell and then returned to tell us that someone else would be help. We waited some more... and then some more. I took advantage and bought Malena some gifts because I was missing her a lot of a lot. I felt closer holding something that I got for her knowing that she would wear or read or look at it when I gave it to her.<br /><br />Finally someone gave Mike the official paperwork for him to take to the American embassy in Madrid. We decided that it would have to wait until we got there which wouldn't be until Friday.<br /><br />I told the boys earlier not to wait up for us and they didn't. They had their breakfast and off they went to do their own tour. Mike and I were pretty much agreed on every site that we had wanted to see during the whole trip so I looked forward to exploring more of Barcelona with him.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R346GP5FbaI/AAAAAAAAHDA/6pWMi62aSqU/s1600-h/DSC_0745.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151618902778015138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R346GP5FbaI/AAAAAAAAHDA/6pWMi62aSqU/s320/DSC_0745.jpg" border="0" /></a>We walked around the Barri Gotic. Nothing special to report on that unless you were there. More beauty. In spite of this, I started to feel dizzy. My body attempted to ditch me before I had the chance to check out the Parc de Guell where Gaudi's masterpiece park was so we hopped on a train and headed toward it.<br /><br />Once off the train, we began our search. Apparently, the park wasn't as close to the train station as it had appeared on the map. We asked a man on the street and he said that it was on top of the mountain. "On top of the mountain???" Yes. All of these years my friends have said that I can't go to Barcelona without going to Parc de Guell and yet no one ever mentioned that it's a gut straining walk to the top. The huge hills really took a lot of the spotty energy I had left.<br /></div><div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R346Vv5FbbI/AAAAAAAAHDI/giQyU1Uz2qU/s1600-h/DSC_0753.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151619169065987506" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R346Vv5FbbI/AAAAAAAAHDI/giQyU1Uz2qU/s320/DSC_0753.jpg" border="0" /></a>I was inspired by a group of five elderly people who walked and talked as if it was a casual Sunday stroll. Thankfully, there was an escalator about 200 feet from the entrance that we went on after that insane climb (note: must quit smoking before I go to San Francisco).<br /><br />We entered the park. The entrance didn't look like anything special and some of the boulders were covered with graffiti. It was impressive to see that the tallest building within view was <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R347HP5FbdI/AAAAAAAAHDY/JBl88ml-9pc/s1600-h/DSC_0775.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151620019469512146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R347HP5FbdI/AAAAAAAAHDY/JBl88ml-9pc/s320/DSC_0775.jpg" border="0" /></a>Gaudi's Sagrada Familia. This is an old tradition - churches must be the tallest buildings in town. Coming from New York where the skyscrapers represent America's true religion, it was impressive to see this continue in a city that values its modernism as well as its classicism. </div><br /><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R346tf5FbcI/AAAAAAAAHDQ/B8BLUcvvT7o/s1600-h/DSC_0758.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151619577087880642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R346tf5FbcI/AAAAAAAAHDQ/B8BLUcvvT7o/s320/DSC_0758.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div>But then there was a real beauty of a sight. I mean true "Welcome to Barcelona" stuff. A house that was directly in front of the park was covered with anarchic imagery and maxims but the real showstopper was the huge sign, which said, "Why call it tourist season if you can't shoot them?" </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R348m_5FbiI/AAAAAAAAHEA/6Mem8efHums/s1600-h/DSC_0780.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151621664441986594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R348m_5FbiI/AAAAAAAAHEA/6Mem8efHums/s320/DSC_0780.jpg" border="0" /></a>Mike and I continued to walk up the pathway, which led to three crosses on top of the mountain. Mike and I went up the spiral staircase and holy shit... I must note here that the view from Parc de Guell is really fucking insane especially from that peak. The clouds rolled in from the coast over the peak of another mountain miles away. Once it swept through a giant antennae was revealed from the top.<br /><br />We on a stone and just enjoyed the view. There was a guy trying to read his book. I felt bad because we had begun to get a little loud - well, loud in Barcelona but normal in America. But he wasn't disturbed, in fact he started a conversation with us and mentioned that he was from Michigan and had been living in Barcelona since September. I would have loved to move to Barcelona just like that guy. He did it alone and wanted to use it as a launchpad to see the rest of Europe.<br /><br />After Mike and I were full on an eye feast of mountains and the entire city of Barcelona, we left to find Gaudi's section that the park is famous for. Guell is the last name of one of Gaudi's friends who was an influential rich guy who lived in Barcelona. Gaudi was originally from Taragona, which is south of the Catalonian city but met him doing something. Can't remember what.<br /><br />OK, no matter how many pictures you see of Gaudi's work in Parc de Guell, no matter how many people tell you how beautiful it is, it's nothing compared to what you see when there. Amazing. I won't say much because it won't mean anything and showing pictures just doesn't do justice You must see it for yourself. I believe that the architecture, statues and space design was an extension of Gaudi's mind. Anthony Bourdain, the famous chef, once said that you can tell a lot about a person from what they cook for you but I think that it's especially intense when you enter a park created by a master architect. You might as well ride a roller coaster through his gray matter. Pretty special.<br /><br />I was really tired by the time we left. The night slowly drew while it shaded the day light of its glow. I felt that it was time to check up on Joe and see what the rest of them were up to. Joe picked up when I called and said that he was out to dinner with Gus at some excellent yet really inexpensive place. Miguel was somewhere out and about. Not sure what he did.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R349df5FbjI/AAAAAAAAHEI/ArYXswkqwuU/s1600-h/DSC_0812.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151622600744857138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R349df5FbjI/AAAAAAAAHEI/ArYXswkqwuU/s320/DSC_0812.jpg" border="0" /></a>Mike and I journeyed back to the train station. We were hungry, tired and for the first time, I decided that it would be really smart of me to take a 15 minute nap. I looked forward to it.<br /><br />Once out of the station near the hostel, we trotted to Placa Reiel. Just dragged our feet, man. Really hurt something awful. We stumbled up the stairs. I braced myself against the banister. I could hear music playing in the main <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34-Jv5FbkI/AAAAAAAAHEQ/O4bx-Ylktfo/s1600-h/DSC_0813.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151623360954068546" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34-Jv5FbkI/AAAAAAAAHEQ/O4bx-Ylktfo/s320/DSC_0813.jpg" border="0" /></a>room of Kabul and when I walked in, there the Boys were - drinking beer. The energy cracked through my body and I became revitalized like fucking Popeye. I grabbed my euro, shoved it into the Amstel beer machine, got my ticket, walked with vigor to the bar, "Here you go," to the bartender, he poured me a cup, I walked back with more vigor and drank it down with my brothers.<br /><br />At 8:00, they began serving dinner, which wasn't too bad. I had a very un-Spanish dish of curry chicken that was damn good but who cares about that. Anyway, Mike, Miguel and Joe met up with Eva and Nudia for dinner while Gus and I hit the Barri Gotic bar scene.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34-dP5FblI/AAAAAAAAHEY/FVvPv21Rqbk/s1600-h/DSC_0814.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151623695961517650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34-dP5FblI/AAAAAAAAHEY/FVvPv21Rqbk/s320/DSC_0814.jpg" border="0" /></a>First place Gus and I went to was some Jazz joint. It was the Euro version and it was OK. Heard better in NYC - speaking of which we also met two guys who live in Astoria. One of them lives the next block over from Malena, my girlfriend. Nice guys. Drunk and we were on our way there as well. We exchanged numbers and said that we'd call in each other once back in the States. It's January and I still haven't called them. They will always be a blip on a blog.<br /><br />Next, Gus and I scoped out this other bar that was more my style. Dark, dingy and New Wave music rattled out of the speakers. The bartender was from Chile just like Gus. He didn't know how to make a Jager Bomb that Gus had requested so Gus instructed him how to do it. I thought that I'd had one before but no. Those suckers were good so we had another... and another. It was cool to hang with Gus. This was our trip from 10 years ago (like I mentioned before) and we had made it after all that time. I mention it again because it was still pretty fucking unbelievable for me.<br /><br />K called me and said that she and A wanted to meet with us. We met up and went to a really tiny bar. Sat down and talked for a bit and then met up with Joe, Miguel and Mike. They were at some bar not too far away. Joe and Miguel saw some girl walk out of a bar and they decided that would be their alcohol reserve (aka bar to hang in). The bar was a lot of fun, however the poor service from aka "hot girl" was absolute shit. She talked down to Joe and tried to make him look like an ass. Joe went outside, chit-chatted with some random guy and vented about the bitch behind the bar. The "random guy" turned out to be the owner. He said that Barcelenos aren't fond of tourists. He also suggested Valencia as a place to go. We were only sort of certain we'd go there the day before. Joe and I wanted to check out Dali's museum in Figuera. The idea of the trip was to plan as we went along. </div><div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34-xP5FbmI/AAAAAAAAHEg/v3ezbQ3ORB8/s1600-h/DSC_0818.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151624039558901346" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34-xP5FbmI/AAAAAAAAHEg/v3ezbQ3ORB8/s320/DSC_0818.jpg" border="0" /></a>So we all danced, had fun, drank a little and celebrated our stay in Barcelona. But then a guy came along and tried to spoil our fun. The fucker went through all of our stuff. Joe told him, "fuck you" but the guy didn't understand English so he told Miguel to translate. It didn't make a difference. As we left, I saw him wearing a similar hat as mine. The thing was that if it really belonged to him, it would have been the first time I saw anyone in Barcelona with a similar hat other than Joe - and we're American. I said, "Where did you get that hat?" He shrugged his shoulders and gave me back my hat. Guy tried to steal it right before my eyes. He'd take more but that's for Day 6 if you want to know what else he took.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34_Fv5FbnI/AAAAAAAAHEo/BVMpXmK9YT8/s1600-h/DSC_0831.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151624391746219634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R34_Fv5FbnI/AAAAAAAAHEo/BVMpXmK9YT8/s320/DSC_0831.jpg" border="0" /></a>Eva offered me some weed but I declined, however one of us did not. I won't mention his name but it starts with a 'G' and ends with an 'S'. He took a toke or two, got really sick and went home with the little prize that Eva gave him - a little nugget of mary juana. In G's words, here's what really happened: "Wrong!! I didn't just go back to the hostel, I crawled back after taking a hit of that super Spanish grass that fucked me up instantly. They should put a warning label on that shit."<br /><br />The bar closed up at about 2-230 AM. Places in Barcelona close really early. Thankfully, K and A offered their place for us to continue the party. Eva and Nudia had to work the next day so they left. I really enjoyed talking to them and I was happy to see them that night.<br /><br />And then there were six...</div><div> </div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35AUf5FbsI/AAAAAAAAHFQ/cv53KXX42Uw/s1600-h/DSC_0903.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151625744660917954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35AUf5FbsI/AAAAAAAAHFQ/cv53KXX42Uw/s200/DSC_0903.jpg" border="0" /></a>We got to K and A's and I was floored by the size of the place and they only paid five hundred Euros for a whole week. We made some drinks and then walked upstairs to their terrace which overlooked a plaza. We had a lot of fun, took silly pictures but then it was time for us to go. The sun was slowly peeking from the horizon. We went back downstairs and said our verbal <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35AUP5FbrI/AAAAAAAAHFI/a0XJ2Xjj_4E/s1600-h/DSC_0883.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151625740365950642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35AUP5FbrI/AAAAAAAAHFI/a0XJ2Xjj_4E/s200/DSC_0883.jpg" border="0" /></a>goodbyes. Miguel sat down on their couch, turned on the TV and began flipping the channels. I yelled, "Miguel, come on dude... Let's go. We have to leave. They're trying to get some sleep." He just laughed in my face and continued clicking until he finally listened and got up to say goodbye.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35ATP5FbpI/AAAAAAAAHE4/f2Nl-IH9VcU/s1600-h/DSC_0849.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151625723186081426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35ATP5FbpI/AAAAAAAAHE4/f2Nl-IH9VcU/s200/DSC_0849.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div>Mike, Miguel and I stood in line to say farewell to the girls. I gave a kiss on A's cheek and then went to kiss K who went for my lips. I turned my head so that she would kiss my cheek instead. She failed in her drunken attempt. Then it was Mike's turn. He went for the kiss on the cheek and she tried to kiss him on the mouth but she failed. Second time. Then Miguel. <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35ATf5FbqI/AAAAAAAAHFA/5c82Ehgc2s0/s1600-h/DSC_0854.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151625727481048738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35ATf5FbqI/AAAAAAAAHFA/5c82Ehgc2s0/s200/DSC_0854.jpg" border="0" /></a>He went for the kiss on the lips and she did too. I said, "All right, Mike, let's get out of here." We headed out and tried to collect Joe who was talking with A. I saw him and knew that there would be only two guys walking home. </div><div><br />So there we were. Mike and I again walking down Las Ramblas while our two comrades did whatever they did (more about that on Day 6... A LOT more). Good night, Barcelona. Sweet urban crawl in the Iberian Peninsula.<br /><br />Then Day 6 happened and I learned all that had really happened the night before but I'll save that for the next post. Good stuff.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151627046036008658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R35BgP5FbtI/AAAAAAAAHFY/ryvDmhpGXjc/s320/DSC_0904.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-63028132285451487252008-01-02T16:04:00.000-05:002008-01-02T16:05:46.244-05:00Switching blogsHey, all. So I have moved all of my posts over to WordPress. I've had too much trouble with Blogger. <br /><br />If you want to go look, you can go here:<br /><br /><a href="http://whiskeydregs.wordpress.com/">http://whiskeydregs.wordpress.com</a>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-24804342349372056102007-12-19T18:43:00.001-05:002007-12-20T09:55:31.020-05:002004: The Year We Almost Changed America<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R2mt7f5FbGI/AAAAAAAAG5I/E-IWeK2f5yM/s1600-h/March+11+2004+022.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145835286932319330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R2mt7f5FbGI/AAAAAAAAG5I/E-IWeK2f5yM/s320/March+11+2004+022.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Brooklyn, NY</div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">A</span>pproximately twenty-five people filled the space in a small room to watch a storm of images from an 8MM movie camera. The footage was shot in the 70’s and fertilized the imagination of anyone who watched the projector screen. In the opening shot, a man with long hair, a mustache and in nothing but a pair of jeans tightened the screws and bolts of a farm tractor. In another shot, little girls wore dresses and bore little girl grainy smiles while they played together. In yet another shot, men and women plowed the field and planted seeds. These scenes were edited together for a documentary made by two of those little girls who eventually grew up and moved to Brooklyn.</div><div><br />I was invited by one of the filmmakers to attend the screening of the documentary. For now, her name is N. She whispered to me, “That’s my dad,” when the man fixing the tractor appeared. “That’s S,” she said, pointing to a blonde little girl who danced in circles. S had also grown up and was sitting on the other side of the room, whispering to three other people. S probably explained to them what N had told me. S pointed at the projector screen on the wall where the image of a blonde woman stood and smiled into the camera. </div><div><br />These girls were the daughters of parents who had founded a commune somewhere back West in America. The parents were fraught by the society that bred them into a turbulent era of America. These were 60’s kids who were filled with ideas and revolution in the style of Gandhi’s protests of the 1920’s as well as the words of Thoreau and Whitman. “To hell with America,” they said and off they went to establish a new America, which they would propagate with seeds for a better world with soul mates they found on the way. Hundreds of other Americans did the same in the late 60’s and 70’s. N and S was part of these parent's hope and extension of their ideals.</div><div><br />The people who attended the screening had begun to shift in their seats. This was old Dumbo party days when anyone who stepped a foot in that district expected a good time. N and S had organized a few events at that space before to raise money for their film. I tagged along with a friend of mine to one of these events and that’s how I met N and S. I offered to work the door that first night and collect the money for entrance. They didn’t know me from anyone else, however they trusted me enough to safeguard donations for their documentary. </div><div><br />This was early in 2004 – the year that I felt that change was the closest it had come since the 60’s. Protests were a weekly ritual. If you didn’t go, you didn’t care. The people of New York were excited at the possibility getting rid of Bush and ending the war. Parties, exclusively for revelers, became fundraisers for organizations who wanted to fight the administration. Billionaires for Bush, a satiric group of individuals who acted like conservative Americans, performed all over the city, calling New Yorkers to vote for Bush and support the rich Americans. This confused many of our city's citizens. Were they for Bush or against him? That was the inside joke. </div><div><br />Another group called Green Dragon (named after the tavern that the Sons of Liberty routinely met at in Boston) dressed as the Sons of Liberty and paddled a boat across the Hudson River during the Republican National Convention. We always became excited whenever someone we knew was reported in the media. It was common for a group of people who were just hanging out to protest at impulse. People gathered and thought of creative ways to protest. Pirate radio stations, independent media, documentaries flourished as the turn for a new media became necessary to spread the rumor of pending change.</div><div><br />Friends of mine were under surveillance by the city government. Sometimes the police would be present at protest destinations before the protesters. This became more prevalent as the date of the RNC came closer. C.L.A.W or Corporate Lawyers Against the War even showed up. There was another group of protesters that served as the legal team for the demonstrations to ensure that the rights of the people were respected. They were distinguished by their orange vests and were usually found walking alongside the marchers and negotiating with the NYPD.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>People of all colors, races, age groups, veterans of World War II, Korea and Vietnam turned out to protest against the war and Bush’s administration. I had the same smile on my faces as hundreds others when I saw the size of the masses that had gathered. People wanted change and the gap of the 60’s and 2004 had dwindled to only a handful of years between because the age of change is always young.</div><div><br />I once witnessed hundreds of people gather in Washington Square where a march had ended. Police in riot gear had begun to surround the demonstrators and warned them to move and if they didn’t, they would be arrested. People shouted that they were on public property, which was answered by the deployment of more vans to put people in if they misbehaved. Unaware to the police, hundreds more protesters continued to march into Washington Square. The entrances were blocked by the police and the dissenters were forced to surround them. The protesters in the park, who were nervous before, felt empowered and charged at the NYPD. Rocks, bottles and anything else that could be thrown were hurled at the police. There was more shouting. More screaming. “This is our city! This is our city!” The cops had no choice but to disperse and allow the people to stay. </div><br /><div>The documentary ultimately ended with the conclusion of the commune. N’s parent’s moved around the country in the 80’s and eventually divorced. I don’t know if N and S ever distributed their documentary or if it was ever finished. I lost touch with them about six months after the original screening. Regardless of the reflection of 2004 in the mirror of the 60's, the war continues and Bush is still in office.</div><br /><div>I read once that time is not a linear entity. It is a flat realm that can be accessed through the archive of memory and although the world is currently chaotic, the change we hope for is always coming.</div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw4brXn2YV0EDp8FowLUGnDVSw-3qyNdgyoa-f-cAGwme4fnrB2UgFt33BqCE2_x71x_qMahES3MxUuwOSY4g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-43875377340019855452007-12-18T23:05:00.000-05:002007-12-19T00:00:17.494-05:00Sexdrenalin and Rockets Red Glare<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R2igi_5FbFI/AAAAAAAAG4Y/OO2VACYC9-s/s1600-h/DSC_0030.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145539097397652562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R2igi_5FbFI/AAAAAAAAG4Y/OO2VACYC9-s/s320/DSC_0030.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">Burst open the bright blue sky with neon lights<br />As scared soldiers scurry beneath you skirt<br />Bring in the dirty money<br />Bring in the dirty freedom<br />America, America, America.<br />You shining disco ball of sexual repression and fever.<br /><br />When you were born,<br />Your ragged mango flavored sex was nothing but a sore spot.<br />Sore, sore, sore.<br />Every single sperm feeding off of your citrus juices.<br /><br />My love, my clean burning fire<br />America, America, America<br />You freak.<br />You degenerate.<br />You liar.<br /><br />America, I've seen you in the bathrooms doing blow<br />Screaming, "Dying rebel! The bloody rim!"<br />America, I've heard you squeal from the bedrooms of lovers<br />Who broke from you.<br />Who said they were gay.<br />Who said they were straight.<br /><br />I've heard the bulldog dildos shoving into squeemish vaginas.<br />I've seen the barking of little girls in dungeons across the country.<br />America, you drove me wild<br />All those nights, asking, "Why, why, why?"<br />That's the nature of you.<br /><br />You are the green-bellied fiend.<br />You are the anti-love machine.<br />You are the cure for love.<br />Your solution for extreme emotions is blissful complacency.<br />This is your gift to the world.<br />You great shepherd.<br />Tend to your flock.<br /><br />The rebels want to stuff a stick of dynamite into your twat<br />Boom boom boom<br />The jazz drummer kicks the bass drum.<br />Shooting machine gun fire.<br />Drum sticks for weapons.<br />Weapons for instruments.<br />And your great song is a tale of war.<br />And your war is my tale of sorrow.<br />And your war is your war against me.</div>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-34455003931698475672007-12-06T18:50:00.000-05:002007-12-07T00:24:14.740-05:00One Sight For Man. One Giant Bar Leap For Mankind: DAY 4 of 10<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1i-0SyUQuI/AAAAAAAAGWw/vveKosEWkro/s1600-h/DSC_0537.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141068780248777442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1i-0SyUQuI/AAAAAAAAGWw/vveKosEWkro/s320/DSC_0537.jpg" border="0" /></a>A new day in Barcelona. Why do we have to grow old? Why do we have to die? With so much to see and live, why does it have to ever end?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We sat outside waiting for the waitress to return with the menus so that we could eat breakfast. Pigeons gathered around the tables looking for crumbs. The Cathedral of Barcelona stood in the background casting it's large shadow over us. I could see the old Roman wall that the builders of the cathedral set the foundation on. It was warm enough to take off our coats. There was a lot of people walking around for a Monday morning.<br /><br /><br />The waitress returned and handed us the menus. Coffee was in order as well as a bocadillo, a Spanish sandwich that is distinguished by a loaf of bread cut crosswise instead of the traditional American sandwich, which instead requires slices of bread.<br /><br /><br />The pigeons got too close for Joe's comfort. He picked up a chair to, I guess, swing at them. The Spaniards looked horrified by his aggressive reaction while the rest of our group yelled for him to put it down. He placed the chair back on the ground and walked away to wait for us to finish.<br /><br /><br />Gray clouds had begun to roll in. We finished our breakfast, gathered our belongings and left. Mike, Gus and I were low on funds so we went to different banks to withdraw money for the day's activities. Our only goal was to go on one of the bus tours that are offered in Barcelona. These double decker buses are an excellent way to become acquainted with the sections of the city that was outside of Las Ramblas.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jOkyyUQ5I/AAAAAAAAGZ0/spSgKXy6GHs/s1600-h/DSC_0585.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141086106146849682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jOkyyUQ5I/AAAAAAAAGZ0/spSgKXy6GHs/s320/DSC_0585.jpg" border="0" /></a>We walked along the walls of the cathedral and into a huge plaza - the same as the one we were in the day before. The center of attraction of this plaza was the cathedral. On the opposite side of it were stores and restaurants. One of the walls above a store displayed a large Picasso mural, which is easily recognizable due to pre-historic inspired style that he often employed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1i_aSyUQvI/AAAAAAAAGXM/TMOpKnZpvMI/s1600-h/DSC_0564.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141069433083806450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1i_aSyUQvI/AAAAAAAAGXM/TMOpKnZpvMI/s320/DSC_0564.jpg" border="0" /></a>The cathedral was in the process of renovation and a huge red sign covered the front of it exposing only the steeple. Miguel didn't want to go inside so he waited for us on the steps while the rest of us entered. The inside was exactly what I always imagined it to look like. We had the option to purchase one of the red candles and place it on a set of shelves with tens of candles placed on top. The reddish glow casted an eerie hue on the gray stone.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1i_yyyUQwI/AAAAAAAAGXU/G6ARyw_crDs/s1600-h/DSC_0561.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141069853990601474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1i_yyyUQwI/AAAAAAAAGXU/G6ARyw_crDs/s320/DSC_0561.jpg" border="0" /></a>Joe and I entered a smaller section of the cathedral containing an altar, several benches and a tomb on the ground. The inscription on the tomb read that the body was interned somewhere around 1080. An effigy of the Virgin Mary stood behind the altar. It was a magnificint view. I said to Joe that this is how you convert people to Catholicism. I was so astounded that I wanted to pray but then I realized that this was a worship of art, of man's craftsmanship and his interpretation of faith. Nevertheless, it was a gorgeous view.<br /></div><br /><div>Christ... 1080?!?!? Those were Holy Roman Empire days. The Empire that King Charlemagne, better known as Charles the Great, forged. The country of Spain was known as Hispana back then. The Aztecs were just beginning their reign in Mezzo America, unaware of the perilous future that awaited them. Cortez and his band of conquistadors... That was no time near the conquest of Latin America. </div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jA_iyUQyI/AAAAAAAAGYc/6iTLuJvCVs8/s1600-h/DSC_0591.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141071172545561378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jA_iyUQyI/AAAAAAAAGYc/6iTLuJvCVs8/s320/DSC_0591.jpg" border="0" /></a>Anyway, we all seperated around this time. I walked around and gawked at everything I saw. The large metal pipes where I was able to hear a soft solemn tune. In the center of the cathedral was a section where the choir once sat. The acoustics of this building were made so that God could hear every one sing. What must have it been like when there were hundreds of medieval attendees. People standing against the walls. The silence and then the thunder of the choir and the roar of the organ as people must have weeped at the miracle of faith that I imagined would have swelled in their hearts. </div><br /><div>I read once that mass was based on a Roman rite reserved for the emperor. When Constantine converted to Christianity, people were allowed to participate in this ritual that eventually became the basis for the Church of Jesus Christ. I can't imagine another religion in the Western world that must have been as successful at conversion as Christianity and when you stand in one of these cathedrals, it really isn't difficult to surmise an explanation - an easy one.</div><div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jBWiyUQzI/AAAAAAAAGYo/1d--ZjeBt3c/s1600-h/DSC_0595.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141071567682552626" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jBWiyUQzI/AAAAAAAAGYo/1d--ZjeBt3c/s320/DSC_0595.jpg" border="0" /></a>I continued walking around the building and exited into a garden where there was a pond with a couple of swans swimming in it. The swans's black and white feathers, the gray stones and green leaves from small trees amalgamated to paint the modest color of worship while the artwork contained inside the cathedral rose like a becon for any celestial being to locate with ease - if one does exist.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jNaCyUQ0I/AAAAAAAAGZE/VWlh2Cb_LTI/s1600-h/DSC_0581.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141084821951628098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jNaCyUQ0I/AAAAAAAAGZE/VWlh2Cb_LTI/s320/DSC_0581.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was probably time to go. I exited feeling an inner peace. I was thoughtful of the world of Barcelona. The patron saint of the city lay beneath the altar and I envied her for the bones that aged deep in the heart of beauty. I'm an idealist. I respond to miracles with sentiment and heartfelt wonder.<br /></div><br /><div>Miguel, Joe and Mike were on the steps. We sat there waiting for Gus to come out. I looked about the plaza, the church tower. I couldn't believe that I was actually there and recalling it now, it is still difficult to imagine. Gus left the cathedral and told us that there were steps that led to the roof. He took some beautiful pictures of it which, wouldn't matter for reasons that will be explained in a later blog. </div><br /><div>We walked through a cobble stoned street. There was a crew of workers installing Christmas decorations above the street. There was a small gallery that had sign that read, "Dali". Joe and I walked through the passageway where some of his installations and sculptures sat. Dali is one of my very favorite painters and yet I was unimpressed because of my experience at the cathedral and yet, here was a man who sculpted and painted with his faith in God guiding his hands. His madness creasing the clay into these surreal shapes. The truth of reality displayed once more. It was 15 euros to get inside. Joe and I were convinced that we would go to Figueras in the coming days to visit the Dali museum, which we never happened as you will later learn.</div><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jN2SyUQ1I/AAAAAAAAGZQ/dCm_FZJNCAs/s1600-h/DSC_0606.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141085307282932562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jN2SyUQ1I/AAAAAAAAGZQ/dCm_FZJNCAs/s320/DSC_0606.jpg" border="0" /></a>The Placa de Catalunya wasn't far. This is where one of the bus stops was for the tour bus. We crossed into it and were suprised by the hundreds of pigeons that had gathered there. A woman selling snacks threw some bread crumbs on the ground, which captured the attention of those pigeons. They flew in front of our faces in the direction of the woman.<br /><br /><br /><div>We walked toward a bar called Jules Verne. It was an Irish bar with cherry oak wood floors and walls. Miguel didn't want to go inside. The rest of <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jOCiyUQ2I/AAAAAAAAGZY/CQeW6SSKouE/s1600-h/DSC_0614.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141085517736330082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jOCiyUQ2I/AAAAAAAAGZY/CQeW6SSKouE/s200/DSC_0614.jpg" border="0" /></a>us ordered our beers and walked up to the second floor to enjoy them and relax. Miguel eventually relented and joined us.<br /><br />After this short breather, we left. As I walked out, I looked back to the table where we sat. I thought about the sentimental ache that I would feel the next time I return sometime in the distant future, perhaps when I'm an old man and think of the fun of that day. The bond that the five of us shared, which was growing thicker every day. It was good to see Gus in Barcelona with me. We had planned this trip 10 years before and talked about it loosely througout the years. It was a silly place to be sentimental in about feelings I'll have in the future but that's what I was thinking.<br /></div></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141087854198539170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jQKiyUQ6I/AAAAAAAAGaQ/Z8-p5W9QQBw/s320/DSC_0646.jpg" border="0" />The bus pulled into the stop at Placa Catalunya and the five of us got in and walked to the upper deck. The deck was mostly empty. We sat down and plugged in the headphones that were given to us with our tickets as the bus drove away.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jRnSyUQ-I/AAAAAAAAGaw/FyOjE3BuDWo/s1600-h/DSC_0635.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141089447631406050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jRnSyUQ-I/AAAAAAAAGaw/FyOjE3BuDWo/s320/DSC_0635.jpg" border="0" /></a>We saw Gaudi's famous apartment building, the The bus began to drive up the road that led to summit of Mont Juic. The name of the mountain translates to Mountain of the Jews. I never did find out why but my imagination dug through the possibilities when I considered the Spanish Inquisition and the oppressoin and murder of thousands of Jews. I didn't want to know why because the reason may have tainted the feeling that I had about Spain. In the back of my mind, though, lurked this dark era of Spanish historytrain station and some other beautiful monuments. I barely paid attention to the audio guide. Miguel and Joe used the opportunity to close their eyes for a bit and rest while Mike, Gus and I made jokes and laughed.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jQiSyUQ7I/AAAAAAAAGaY/9XYIzUtXgiQ/s1600-h/DSC_0651.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141088262220432306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jQiSyUQ7I/AAAAAAAAGaY/9XYIzUtXgiQ/s320/DSC_0651.jpg" border="0" /></a>As the bus drove higher up the mountain, we noticed a small village to the left of us. We instantly exited the bus at the stop on the opposite side of the street. The village was high enough that we were able to view almost all of Barcelona from the side of the mountain. As beautiful as the city was below, the dreariness of it stood out from that height. I assume that it was due to the Gothic, Romantic and Post-Romantic style of the city's architecture. The modern buildings, like many we saw in other cities of Spain, conformed to Barcelona's original appearance; looking only like updated versions of the buildings.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jQ6SyUQ8I/AAAAAAAAGag/BIwCxYWgNBs/s1600-h/DSC_0670.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141088674537292738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jQ6SyUQ8I/AAAAAAAAGag/BIwCxYWgNBs/s320/DSC_0670.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jRSSyUQ9I/AAAAAAAAGao/8S1NrfjBQ-4/s1600-h/DSC_0672.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141089086854153170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jRSSyUQ9I/AAAAAAAAGao/8S1NrfjBQ-4/s320/DSC_0672.jpg" border="0" /></a>It turns out that the village, Poble Espanyol, wasn't so old. Once you pass through the gate, we realized that the buildings fairly new, although the architecture looked like that of Andulusian villages in the South. This was Epcot Center but in Spain. According to the flyer that we received, the village was built for Barcelona's 1929 International Exhibition. It is home to many restaurants and shops. In spite of this, one can tell that this was built for beauty. The white-washed buildings neatly lined along the small streets.<br /></div><div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jSUCyUQ_I/AAAAAAAAGa4/fdKD9kbXaiA/s1600-h/DSC_0675.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141090216430552050" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jSUCyUQ_I/AAAAAAAAGa4/fdKD9kbXaiA/s320/DSC_0675.jpg" border="0" /></a>Gus and Miguel were hungry and walked into a restaurant to eat while Joe, Mike and I walked into Placa Mayor. Joe wanted some pictures taken of him so he walked to a pavilion to pose while Mike took pictures of him. I decided to venture on my own. I walked down the small streets. They were mostly empty. Some of the shops were open with only one employee inside each store. </div></div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jWLyyURFI/AAAAAAAAGbo/Hi1KwgRzewU/s1600-h/DSC_0705.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141094472743142482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jWLyyURFI/AAAAAAAAGbo/Hi1KwgRzewU/s320/DSC_0705.jpg" border="0" /></a>I walked to the back where a tall structure stood overlooking the mountain. The sun was setting and the warm colors had begun to gather on the horizon, slowly shedding onto the Catalonian landscape. I found myself completely alone and enjoying every minute of it. After a while of walking and absorbing the scenery, I headed back in the direction of Plaza Mayor. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jT0SyURCI/AAAAAAAAGbQ/8KAagQVsvDY/s1600-h/DSC_0710.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141091869992961058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jT0SyURCI/AAAAAAAAGbQ/8KAagQVsvDY/s320/DSC_0710.jpg" border="0" /></a>Miguel, Gus and Mike were walking toward me. I asked where Joe was but no one knew. We had built up an appetite and decided on dinner. A small restaurant was open near the entrance. We took our seats outside while Gus called his girlfriend. The waiter gave us the menus. He explained that there were only three paella dishes available. </div><br />Joe called and wanted to meet up with us. There was a misunderstanding of where we were but he eventually located the restaurant. The food arrived and it was disappointing. Lackluster paella accompanied with sangria that was too sweet. Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves and the view. Gus returned from his phone call. Joe grabbed one of the crawfish that was on my plate and shoved it into his mouth, gritting his teeth onto the shell. There wasn't much meat inside anyway.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jT5iyURDI/AAAAAAAAGbY/2g5vYnIvYtM/s1600-h/DSC_0722.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141091960187274290" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jT5iyURDI/AAAAAAAAGbY/2g5vYnIvYtM/s320/DSC_0722.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was time to go back to the hostel and change so we walked over to the bus stop. It was getting pretty cold out by this time. The bus finally came. We loaded on. Gus, Mike and I went on top while Joe and Miguel stayed in the lower deck. The bus went along the mountain's road. We passed by the Miro museum, the Olympic stadium and headed back down the mountain. </div><br />We were back near the port where we went the first night. This was the foot of Las Ramblas where a tall statue of Christopher Columbus stood. I was getting energy back as the electronic vibrations of a live city flushed through my system draining my weariness. Night time again and the thirst for the party was strong.<br /><br /><div>I believe we went found the train station, went home, changed and came back out but I'm not sure. I remember protesting the idea of going back but... I can't be sure. Either way, we were to meet Eva and Nudia again for some dinner and drinks.</div><div></div><div>BACK TO THE PLACA REIAL</div><div></div><br /><div>Drinky, drinky, drinky and food, food, food. The girls met up with us and we walked to Placa Reial. We went to a bar that was on the corner of the plaza. They told us the lower floor was closed. I excused myself and went to the bathroom but when I came out, no one from my party was around. I exited and walked around the block. I called Gus and Joe - no answer. Finally, I got through to Gus and the bartender decided to open up the basement for us to eat and drink in. </div><div></div><div>Down I went. Deep down into the archaic structure where this bar inhabited. Every one was there, drinking, laughing. They ordered some food. I didn't order any food because I ate something before I arrived. Hunger stops for no one and I never resist the temptation to eat some food especially in Spain where everything was tasty.</div><br /><div>Eva and Nudia were warming up to us and I could tell that they were enjoying our company. We talked about music and Spain. Got to know each other. Gus had issues ordering his drink. He requested his usual Baccardi and Coke but when said this, the waiter looked at him as if he had spoken Martian. "Baccardi and Coke," Gus repeated but nothing registered.<br /></div><div>The waiter said that they don't have it and offered two types of rum that they carried. "That's the one!!!" Gus exclaimed over and over. </div><div></div><div>The waiter said, "Oooh, Ba-kah-dee!"</div><div></div><div>"Yes, yes, that one," said Gus. In Spain, they don't have Bacardi. They have Ba-kah-dee. Whatever...<br /></div><div>Joe had trouble too. They don't have vodka either. They have vahd-kah. Let's see them try to get away with that in the States.<br /></div><div>Damn exhaustion had begun to rear its nasty cuerpo and possess my body. I was tired. No rest but it was like I said the entire trip: You have to rely on your 7th wind. I hadn't even had my second, which means I had six more to go through. I knew I'd be all right. I ordered my vahd-kah and Red Bull.</div><div></div><br /><div>Mike said something about "pollo", which means "chicken" in Spanish. Eva and I laughed because what he actually said was "bollo," which means "pussy." </div><div><br />"Si. Me Gusta bollo," Mike said. Bollo this and bollo that. Eva would look at me and roll her eyes and laugh. No matter how many times we corrected him, it was still all about bollo, bollo, bollo. One could hear a Freudian slip but you couldn't be too sure.</div><div></div><div></div><div>Gus went upstairs and never returned. He called Joe and told him that he had to go back. "Not feeling well," he said. Back to the hostel, he went.<br /></div><div>After dinner, we walked down the street where Soul was. The place we had gone to the night before. A man came out of a bar and yelled to Mike. </div><div></div><div>He said to Mike, "Hey, I remember you from the bar crawl." Mike had no idea who this guy was. He continued, "You were the guy who was making out with every one." ' It was funny that this guy remembered him. He could have said anything to entice into the bar but this was his method. Mike was flabbergasted. He really had no clue who this guy was. Regardless, the guy was spot on. Mikey, Mikey, Mike....<br /></div><div>Past that bar, past Soul, past another street. Destination compute - the Grungy Bar. Entrance - Euros for drinks. Good company. Broken Spanish. Communication indeed. Nevermind language barriers. Round of shots and drinks for all.<br /></div><div>This new bar was excellent. Good music and it was grungy, like I said before - just like New York. Home Sweet Home. A guy sitting next to me barked at the waitress for some drinks. When she didn't hear him, he leaned over the bar and poured himself more beer from the draft. The bartender had black hair and a piercing on her lip. I started talking to the guy. He was Argentinian from the city of Buenos Aires. He grew up in the Cantabria region of Spain. I pointed out the great wines that the region is known for. He wanted to practice his English and I wanted to practice my Spanish. We had a good conversation. He would ask me a question in English and I would respond in Spanish. Good times.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jT_CyUREI/AAAAAAAAGbg/H6x_WxpwKRo/s1600-h/DSC_0729.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141092054676554818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1jT_CyUREI/AAAAAAAAGbg/H6x_WxpwKRo/s320/DSC_0729.jpg" border="0" /></a>Joe and I talked about Spain and how great of a time we were having. Eva and Nudia had brought a friend along named Danny. He spoke fluent English. The guy was top shelf. Real decent dude. Joe really dug him because Danny was very much into hard core music. I talked with Eva for a bit about things that I can't remember. Nudia really opened up and became a really fun person to hang out with.<br /><br />I asked one of the other bartenders for another drink. I gave him a twenty. I waited, waited and waited but no change for me. I was furious because we had received only bad service everywhere we went and now we were robbed and I had it with all of them. I yelled to him, "Criminales! Criminales!" I looked at my Argentinian friend and asked him, "How do you say, "you're all criminals"?" and he said, "usted es todos los criminales." So I yelled, "usted es todos los criminales!"<br /></div><div>Nudia was upset and she sternly told the guy to give me back the money. The bartender continued with his lie that he gave me back my change. He said that Joe took it, which I denied before Joe said anything. The bartender must have been pretty nervous over these angry Americans. He saw what we did in Iraq and who knows what we'd do to this establishment. He responded by giving us all shots and a round of drinks. In the end, it was worth it regardless how dishonest this fucker was.</div><div></div><br /><div>After we were lathered properly with liquor and other spirits, it was time to go. Miguel was going to get his way and so Jamboree here we come. The club wasn't so far. It was back on the corner of Placa Reial, next door to Kabul (the hostel). We missed Gus but we knew that the man needed to rest off his ailment.</div><div></div><div>The entrance to Jamboree was ten euros. Eva talked the guy into giving us a discount but I still somehow paid the ten euros. We had to walk downstairs for the main action. The speakers filled the room with the sounds of breakbeats from Hip Hop tunes. The place reminded Mike and I of Pianos, a bar on Ludlow Street in the Lower East Side of New York. A place I once loved and have become annoyed with. </div><div></div><br /><div>Joe and I were impressed at how they were able to manage a sound system that actually sounded good given the acoustics down there. Old bricks and arcs everywhere but somehow they set up the speakers just right to get the most of this otherwise difficult setup. </div><div></div><div>I hung out there for about 45 minutes. Mike and I became bored with the place. I was going to leave but Joe said to take Mike along because he was tired and also wanted to go back to the hostel. </div><div></div><br /><div>Mike and I left Miguel who was dancing with Eva and Joe who was doing his whiteboy dance (his words and not mine) while holding a drink. </div><div></div><div>We took a cab back to the hostel. When we walked in, Gus was awake. Mike and I sang him a song and possibly awoke every one else in the hostel that was sleeping. Goodnight for now. Joe and Miguel would later wake us up when they returned. They stumbled about the room and talked loudly. I didn't mind. I was glad to see them.<br /></div><div>PROLOGUE</div><br /><div>According to Joe, this is what happened while we slept. In Joe's words:</div><br /><div></div><div>"I continued to get my drunken dance on, while Miguel got down with "The Miggy Dance" which he moved onto some girl's ass within about 10 minutes. I couldn't see her face, so I relocated...and upon seeing her, wondered if Miguel had seen her face either. Her and her friend were from Long Island City. Ridiculous. her friend was a black girl, about 8 feet tall, and even more unattractive. I started to pass out at some the bar while Miggy Smalls ordered some other drinks, he had mercy, and "allowed" us to leave...but we couldn't go back to the hostel until we ate. </div><div></div><div>We hunted down food, unsuccessfully for a while, until we found some convenience store...that oddly, also sold samosas. Miggy never had samosas before...they were damned good. We tried to get into a cab, but the guy wouldn't let us in with food. Mr. Hyde [Miguel] didn't say a word, but kicked the front passenger side door in disgust as the guy rolled the window back up. We moved to the next cab, who took us home, while we ate Miggy's grapes (which he bought with the samosas...) and listened to the Ghostbusters Themesong and other crazy tunes while the cabbie asked us "whether NYC is really like they show it on the TV" as we drove back to the hostel. </div><div></div><div>that's it."</div></div>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-76103610318489630002007-12-03T19:31:00.000-05:002007-12-04T11:55:38.298-05:00This is Spain! DAY 3 OF 10<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1TdEVXAkzI/AAAAAAAAGNk/hDy0dLd6lnw/s1600-R/DSC_0356.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139976141259445042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1TdEVXAkzI/AAAAAAAAGNk/zoU0xdULpeM/s200/DSC_0356.JPG" border="0" /></a>Just so that we're clear, let me say that Spain wasn't all debauchery. This is day 3 and I tried to sleep through a semi-decent hangover.<br /><br />Joe woke us up and said, "I'll be in the city. Call me later." Off he went down the chutes and ladders of Barcelona's superb transit system. Where he would pop up? I had no clue. Either way, his exit was my call to arise. I had a whole city to see.<br /><br />It did us no good to try and wake up Miguel as the man was near death and in a drunken coma. The poor bastard really overdid it the night before with the boozing and he needed some time to sleep it off. I left him my cell phone on a piece paper that contained the numbers for Joe's and Gus's cell phones. Mike, Gus and I departed for the Sagrada Familia - a cathedral designed by Antoni Gaudi, the famed Spanish architect.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V1n1XAk0I/AAAAAAAAGOE/LWGmOVDN4sg/s1600-h/DSC_0343.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140143876912223042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V1n1XAk0I/AAAAAAAAGOE/LWGmOVDN4sg/s200/DSC_0343.jpg" border="0" /></a>We found our way to the exit for Sagrada Familia with ease. It was almost impossible to get lost down that labrynth of tunnels. I saw the cathedral for the first time and it was just like it looked in the pictures - construction cranes and all. The beauty of it was overpowering. One can see the newer section, which was much cleaner than the older one, which looked old and weathered like much of the Gothic district. I prefer the dirtier side because it gives the building authenticity and stoicism and yet it is so unique with its design. The boys and I needed food first and so we found our way to KFC. Yes, that KFC. The one with the fried chicken and Colonel Sanders.<br /><br />I sat down with my food, took a bite and was squirted in the eye by some unknown burning liquid. The worst chicken sandwich of my life. But that is where it ends with the American junkfood and thank God.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V2klXAk1I/AAAAAAAAGO4/GNGrkqK4fq0/s1600-h/DSC_0324.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140144920589275986" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V2klXAk1I/AAAAAAAAGO4/GNGrkqK4fq0/s200/DSC_0324.jpg" border="0" /></a>Back on the street, the crowds were filling along Las Ramblas and looking at the goods that were provided by several street vendors. It was like a flew market back here in the States. The sky was a deep blue and without any clouds. I stood back and admired the Sagrada Familia standing there amongst all of these buildings. It is true today as it was hundreds of years ago that the tallest building in the city was a cathedral.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V3GFXAk2I/AAAAAAAAGPE/di3UTNjysDw/s1600-h/DSC_0384.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140145496114893666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V3GFXAk2I/AAAAAAAAGPE/di3UTNjysDw/s200/DSC_0384.jpg" border="0" /></a>The closer we got to the building the more beautiful it became as I was able to admire the intricate artwork festooned on the fascade. I clicked away like a madman with my camera.<br /><br /><br />It was five euros to get in. I would have paid thirty if they would have asked. A huge crucifix greeted us at the entrance and there, in all of His glory and piety was Jesus Christ with the biggest set of balls I've ever seen. They were so big that Gus mentioned that it would be a good idea to take a picture of them. When I showed the picture to Mike, he exclaimed, "Jesus! I thought that was his head." They were huge. I said that it was fitting for Jesus to have a huge set like those. If He's the son of God then he better be packing an elephant trunk to show the world that he means business.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V4RFXAk4I/AAAAAAAAGPs/HXnQiLJ2Sy4/s1600-h/DSC_0349.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140146784605082498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V4RFXAk4I/AAAAAAAAGPs/HXnQiLJ2Sy4/s200/DSC_0349.jpg" border="0" /></a>Once inside, I realized that there was no way that this building would be finished by 2010 as it was mentioned in the book I had carried with me. Construction began in 1882 and was followed by a series of changes by its architect who had tried to perfect its design. Unfortunately, Antoni Gaudi was killed in 1926 in some strange accient. A tram ran him over and he died in pauper's hospital three days later. His friends wanted to move him into a more proper hospital but he said that he wanted to die amongst <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V301XAk3I/AAAAAAAAGPg/24U0efqZqOg/s1600-h/DSC_0350.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140146299273778034" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V301XAk3I/AAAAAAAAGPg/24U0efqZqOg/s200/DSC_0350.jpg" border="0" /></a>the poor where he belongs. In 1938, anarchists destroyed his last blueprint, forever erasing Gaudi's final master plan. [I later learned that the new projection date of completion is estimated to be 2026.]<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V41VXAk5I/AAAAAAAAGQM/Q9IPbE_z8IA/s1600-h/DSC_0363.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140147407375340434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V41VXAk5I/AAAAAAAAGQM/Q9IPbE_z8IA/s200/DSC_0363.jpg" border="0" /></a>As of today, the stairs are incomplete and no seats anywhere. Huge arcs led to where I imagined the altar will eventually be. Even in this primordial interior, one can imagine the beauty of the final design.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5H1XAk7I/AAAAAAAAGQc/N1zRShbUjww/s1600-h/DSC_0367.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140147725202920370" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5H1XAk7I/AAAAAAAAGQc/N1zRShbUjww/s200/DSC_0367.jpg" border="0" /></a>What is it about the Meditarranean, the jamon, the beauty of the Sierra Nevada or the Pyranees or the open plains of Spain that produced such wonderous artists such as Gaudi, Miro, Dali, Picasso or even Garcia-Lorca? What I think it is that these men understood life. If one would consider for a moment the complex and surreal evolution of our species, it may not be so difficult to understand how this art became what it has become. Giving birth, dying, murder, conquering the seas, <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5ClXAk6I/AAAAAAAAGQU/qoL9VbsxaL8/s1600-h/DSC_0361.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140147635008607138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5ClXAk6I/AAAAAAAAGQU/qoL9VbsxaL8/s200/DSC_0361.jpg" border="0" /></a>religion... all of this is in the work of such artists. From Gaudi's ocean inspired cathedral with its barnacle looking decorations to Dali's Perception of Time. It's all there.<br /><br /><br />I stood inside the belly of this artist's imagination admiring with a blank mind of things I may never understand. The detail. The crafstmanship... What an impressive resume one must have to just etch the designs into the stone.<br /><br />There was an elevator that takes people all the way to the top but the line was too long. We don't do lines and this wouldn't be an exception. We'd eventually find an even more amazing view later on during the trip.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5eVXAk8I/AAAAAAAAGQk/FclhE1mm_W4/s1600-h/DSC_0370.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140148111749977026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5eVXAk8I/AAAAAAAAGQk/FclhE1mm_W4/s200/DSC_0370.jpg" border="0" /></a>Joe called and wanted to meet with us. We told him to meet us at the cathedral and tried our best to describe the location but it was useless.<br /><br />"I'm at the cathedral," Joe said.<br /><br />"Can you see the artwork on the streets?" Gus asked.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5e1XAk9I/AAAAAAAAGQs/MXeVT80qRZ0/s1600-h/DSC_0380.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140148120339911634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V5e1XAk9I/AAAAAAAAGQs/MXeVT80qRZ0/s200/DSC_0380.jpg" border="0" /></a>"I'm on the steps," Joe replied.<br /><br />Well, we figured the steps of <em>this </em>cathedral but when we walked out we realized that there was no steps for this one. Joe was at a different location.<br />We agreed on a place to meet, which was where we Gus and Joe had departed from the night before. It was an easy train ride there. We found Joe sitting at Las Ramblas with a smile on his face and listening to his iPod. Just relaxing as if he was a native.<br /><br />Joe was hungry and required food in a hurry so we went to the equivelant of a TGIFridays with Spanish food. We sat down and he ordered some pasta while we enjoyed some sangria. I had begun to feel worried about the state of Miguel. Was he dead? We tried calling him but no answer. Either way, it was time to move on.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V9UFXAk-I/AAAAAAAAGRM/S11YInXa11c/s1600-h/DSC_0451.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140152333702829026" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V9UFXAk-I/AAAAAAAAGRM/S11YInXa11c/s200/DSC_0451.jpg" border="0" /></a>No matter where we walked, we usually ended up in the same place. Temple was to the right of us, again and we continued up the street and into the plaza from the night before. The memory Joe riding on Mike's back and toppling over and the Internationals jumping on them returned as I looked upon these official buildings.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V9iFXAk_I/AAAAAAAAGRU/2HVq0B_8QB0/s1600-h/DSC_0458.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140152574220997618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V9iFXAk_I/AAAAAAAAGRU/2HVq0B_8QB0/s200/DSC_0458.jpg" border="0" /></a>A group of clowns were trying to gain entrance into one of the buildings but the security guard just looked at them and smiled. They were crying and drying their eyes. I could tell that they were performing a satire. Their camoflaged clothing and military style marching that they performed indicated a silly and yet effective form of protest. I wasn't sure if this was about the Catalonian state being oppressed by the government of Spain or if it was just a coincidence. The clowns threw flowers on the ground and when they realized that they would not be granted entrance, they about faced and marched toward the other building but once there, they were rejected as well. Instead, they joined the guard and stood at the entrance not allowing anyone in - including cats as they said. I disregarded my fear of clowns and saw this as a clever performance.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V-O1XAlAI/AAAAAAAAGRw/Y2xSqgHZ8Pc/s1600-h/DSC_0440.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140153343020143618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V-O1XAlAI/AAAAAAAAGRw/Y2xSqgHZ8Pc/s200/DSC_0440.jpg" border="0" /></a>Gus, Joe, Mike and I decided to traverse down a street that we had not yet been on. A smoothie stand had set up shop and I saw it as an opportunity to catch up on my very much needed vitamins. My strawberry smoothie was refreshing. I walked after the boys who were turning onto another street.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V--lXAlBI/AAAAAAAAGR8/Z6dY_N9KVH4/s1600-h/DSC_0464.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140154163358897170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V--lXAlBI/AAAAAAAAGR8/Z6dY_N9KVH4/s200/DSC_0464.jpg" border="0" /></a>Joe had gone to mass that morning at this beautiful cathedral. He said that many people told him, "No, no, no" throughout the day and a few of the "nos" was at the cathedral. He walked in and they told him to quietly walk to the front but he went to far and almost ended up at the altar. So they told him, "No, no, no" and he found a seat. He took a couple of pictures and they told him, "No, no, no." The cathedral was in view from that little street and we walked toward it but instead of being in front of the building, we were in some other plaza. A couple sat on the steps of some great gray building of gothic architecture. It was just the two of them and I marvelled at the simplicity of the view.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V_6lXAlEI/AAAAAAAAGSo/CsRXMveD1MQ/s1600-h/DSC_0476.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140155194151048258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1V_6lXAlEI/AAAAAAAAGSo/CsRXMveD1MQ/s200/DSC_0476.jpg" border="0" /></a>There was an entrance to another building with huge arcs that we had to walk through. Inside, was an elegant fountain in a small man made pond. There were religious symbols everywhere. Some new. Some old. I walked up the steps and <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WALFXAlGI/AAAAAAAAGS4/xnFpjVH7Qns/s1600-h/DSC_0481.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140155477618889826" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WALFXAlGI/AAAAAAAAGS4/xnFpjVH7Qns/s200/DSC_0481.jpg" border="0" /></a>saw another floor that had the entrance locked. That place was really fucking old whatever it was. We walked out of that building and saw the corner of the cathedral. There was a man playing a bass guitar in a jamband style. I saw two girls sitting on some steps drinking wine. The four of sat down on some other steps and took it all in.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WAK1XAlFI/AAAAAAAAGSw/-gMk4mFRixY/s1600-h/DSC_0497.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140155473323922514" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WAK1XAlFI/AAAAAAAAGSw/-gMk4mFRixY/s200/DSC_0497.jpg" border="0" /></a>The acoustics in this small plaza were amazing and every one seemed to great a sweet contrast to the old gray buildings. I could hear the reverberations of footsteps going from this way and that. It was peaceful.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WA3FXAlHI/AAAAAAAAGTY/-wk5r2EXg-k/s1600-h/DSC_0507.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140156233533133938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WA3FXAlHI/AAAAAAAAGTY/-wk5r2EXg-k/s200/DSC_0507.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was time to go and see how Miguel was doing. We called again but no answer. I was really worried. We passed in front of the cathedral that Joe was in earlier. He explained to us the dance that he saw take place in front of it. Tens of people gathered to watch, according to him but now it was mostly empty besides the passer-bys such as ourselves.<br /><br /><br />We found the train station and down we went back to Badalona. All the way to Badalona.<br /><br /><br />Went back to the hostel and if you’d believe it, Miguel was still alive. He wore his patented blue pea coat and black Fidel cap. He looked up at us, smiled and handed back my phone.<br /><br />“You slept the whole fucking day,” I yelled to him. The poor bastard slept away day 2 of Barcelona but he still had time to redeem himself.<br /><br />All we did for the next couple of hours was relax, listen to music and walk the facility. I went outside and heard the familiar sound of squeaking of sneakers and a thumping thing on a court. The building next to ours was some kind of rec center. I stood on top of a platform and peered through one of the windows and saw men wearing basketball uniforms shooting hoops. All the way out there in Catalonia were men playing this very American sport. There were very few people in the stands and I thought to myself that this is what the stands must look like during a soccer match between grade D teams in America.<br /><br />After the needed session of relaxation, it was time to disappear into the city once more. Joe’s uncle had been dating a Spanish woman for some time and mentioned to Joe about meeting up with her niece to get some real Barcelona experience. Not like that. We needed some locals to show us the real thing. Miguel spoke with her earlier and told her something in Spanish that literally translated to, “Every one has to clean themselves before going out,” but in that context of Spanish it really meant more like cleaning a cat than cleaning human bodies.<br /><br />Miguel and Joe left before to meet up with Eva and her friend Nudia somewhere in Las Ramblas. Gus, Mike and I met up with them just a few moments later at some bar right off the street. The girls took us to a tapas bar. We had to stand in the hallway while all the wait staff and customer walked through us. I was tired and didn’t have the stamina to put up with this.<br /><br />We finally received our orders – patatas bravas, jamon and something else that was pretty tatsty but the customers kept trudging in and out. Passing through us as if we were polluted air. I saw a fat couple about to enter the restaurant. Joe heard me say, “Oh Jesus Christ.” At risk to sound like a jerk, I have to admit that there really was no place else for me to go if they were going to pass through that hall. It was either I leave the restaurant or they didn’t enter, which is exactly what happened. They left.<br /><br />The waiter teased us a few times with a table that was supposedly empty and each time disappointing us while we held plates of food in the air. Finally a table had become available. It was all ready three plates of tapas too late but it was better than nothing. Miguel and I ordered a liter of sangria for ourselves. I had to squeeze a seat at the end of the table between another table, which sat two girls about our age. I had to say, “excuse me” too many times just to sit.<br /><br />I could sense that Eva and Nudia felt awkward. They had never met us before and I’m sure they felt that it was their duty to entertain us for the night. I speak very broken Spanish and Joe doesn’t speak a lick and Mike’s was very formal and often confused certain words but otherwise did very well. Gus and Miguel had no trouble. I also wasn’t sure what to think of them at first though they seemed nice enough.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WB6lXAlII/AAAAAAAAGTk/IVBD7v_do6c/s1600-h/DSC_0521.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140157393174303874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WB6lXAlII/AAAAAAAAGTk/IVBD7v_do6c/s200/DSC_0521.jpg" border="0" /></a>I asked the girls next to our table if they could take a picture of us. We began talking with them. Their names were K and A and were from Canada. K was a DJ and A was a graphic designer. They wanted to meet with us later and have a drink. It was their first night in Barcelona.<br /><br />Eva and Nudia had to work the next day and so they left our company. The boys and I had no desire to be there any longer and so we left too. We walked the streets and ended up on Plaza Reial. Right there on the corner was the hostel we originally wanted called Kabul and it was right next to fucking Jamboree. Unbelievable. It really did exist. We decided to stay in Barcelona an extra night and we all agreed to stay in Kabul. So, instead of leaving on Tuesday from Barcelona, we would leave on Wednesday.<br /><br />I received a text from an unknown number. Turned out that it was from K. They wanted to meet up with us for a drink. We told them where to go. “Meet us by the fountain at the Plaza Reial.<br /><br />The Plaza was also a beautiful sight but I had read that this is where trouble goes when it’s no longer safe to continue its activity on Las Ramblas. Fortunately there was people everywhere as well as a pair of police cars on temporary patrol of that area.<br /><br />We decided earlier that no one could say, “You’ve been jamoned!” except for Mike because no one else could make it sound funny. If any of us besides Mike said it then we had to buy a round for every one else. Man, I couldn’t stop saying it before then and I needed my fix. I begged Mike over and over, “Please say it, man. Please fucking say it or I will explode.”<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WCh1XAlKI/AAAAAAAAGT0/MrohtI9yRTY/s1600-h/DSC_0528.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140158067484169378" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WCh1XAlKI/AAAAAAAAGT0/MrohtI9yRTY/s200/DSC_0528.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Mike said, “What do you guys think? Should I say it?” Of course every one said no but I had it. I said, “Ok, I’m about to buy all of you a drink. You’ve been jamoned!” And away went forty euros at the next bar, which was called Soul. Expensive drinks but damned good service and the music wasn’t bad either. Latin and American Jazz. There was a huge projector screen with interviews and performances with Jazz greats. I even saw Dizzy Gillespie's face appear on it.<br /><br />I wanted to get a pack of cigarettes but the machine was between the doorway of the bar. I walked in between and took the opportunity to call Malena and see how she was doing. I put some money in the machine but nothing happened. The bouncer walked in from outside and pressed a button, which released my cigarettes. I thanked him and walked outside to better hear Malena. She was feeling sad and I wanted to comfort her. After we finished talking, I walked back inside when the bartender yelled over to me from the doorway and pointed to the bouncer who had my wallet in his hands. I fucking forgot my wallet on top of the cigarette machine. All of the stories I heard about pickpocketers and thieves lurking in the barrens of Spain and there was this good man who had considered the quality of my trip. I gave him a few euros after he refused a drink. He deserved it.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WCOlXAlJI/AAAAAAAAGTs/Y5BoWOtICEA/s1600-h/DSC_0526.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140157736771687570" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WCOlXAlJI/AAAAAAAAGTs/Y5BoWOtICEA/s200/DSC_0526.jpg" border="0" /></a>I had a good time talking with my friends and our new Canadian companions. A told Joe a story about how things went a little "debauched" (her words) back in Germany. She told him that she and some friends went back to their apartment. Got fucked up and fooled around. She didn’t divulge more than that but he got the picture.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WC51XAlLI/AAAAAAAAGT8/cj-YUq5NW7I/s1600-h/DSC_0527.jpg"></a><br />K and A seemed nice but I was feeling pretty beat from all of the walking and drinking and so it was time to call it a night and try to sleep away the trip. I hailed a cab and off I went back to Badalona.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140158857758151874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1WDP1XAlMI/AAAAAAAAGUE/psnkSyz34pk/s200/DSC_0527.jpg" border="0" /><br />THIS IS THE END OF DAY 3 OF 10.Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-78797649230165487832007-12-01T07:23:00.001-05:002007-12-02T16:10:05.388-05:00Good Evening, Barcelona: DAY 2 OF 10[i apologize for any structural errors. Blogger is having issues with my blog]<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lj9FXAkSI/AAAAAAAAGDA/XSqFqcjgI0s/s1600-R/DSC_0313.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139420763333366050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lj9FXAkSI/AAAAAAAAGDA/9jwbgAa8CWI/s320/DSC_0313.jpg" border="0" /></a> "The Reality of America Fades And We Awake Into The Dream That is Barcelona" - My thoughts after we got off the Metro and poured into Las Ramblas. </p><p>The night catches wind;<br />So this is when the story<br />Really begins.<br /><br />Fade In:<br /><br />We took a nap right after we arrived in Badalona where our hostal was. Badalona is a neighborhood just outside of Barcelona. The buildings looked modern and the streets were wide enough for cars pass through indicating that the construction here dates to at least the invention of the automobile. The metro station was just across the street on a square. The area is drab and dreary even in the daylight.<br /><br />All five of us took turns taking showers in the one bathroom hostal but we did good time. I slept for an hour, which was enough for me. This is our first night in Barcelona and we were preparing to teach our bodies a lesson for feeling exhausted. It was a lesson that would continue for the whole trip.<br /><br />The receptionist was a girl with dreaded hair and <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lh2lXAkQI/AAAAAAAAGCY/B9IbxYoc3Mg/s1600-R/DSC_0071.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139418452640960770" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lh2lXAkQI/AAAAAAAAGCY/EHCEYmJinms/s320/DSC_0071.jpg" border="0" /></a>in her early twenties. I'm not sure where she was from but she was nice. My friends and I gathered for a picture and handed her the camera. Our first night in Spain and the healthiest we would look for the remainder of the trip.<br /><br />We took the Metro and headed into the heart of the city. Miguel had been to Barcelona before and he more or less knew where to go. He told us that we'd really like the area that we were going to. Our destination was the center of Las Ramblas. The train ride was long but if you're from New York then you're used to such things.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139418946562199826" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LiTVXAkRI/AAAAAAAAGCk/7a7Fg7H8dVM/s320/DSC_0298.jpg" border="0" />Here's what I noticed about Barcelona's transit system. The train stations are clean. Not cleaner but clean as compared to New York in which the subways look like sewers complete with its world famous rat population. You won't find any garbage down in the Metro. There's an LED sign that tells you how much time it will take for the next train to arrive and it almost always arrives promptly. When the train stops at the destination, you press a little green button for the door to open then you get inside. The trains are also clean. The people on them don't talk. They read their newspapers or stare out of windows. But we Americans... you can hear us coming. We're loud, boisterous and silly. We made loud jokes and laughed plenty on the way to Barcelona. The Barcelenos stared at the ugly Americans. I didn't want to be that but there are some things you can't help. I was too damn excited.<br /><br />EXIT STATION<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Llv1XAkTI/AAAAAAAAGDg/v-Q_jIiAkFM/s1600-R/DSC_0101.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139422734723354930" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Llv1XAkTI/AAAAAAAAGDg/H9t4km71cig/s320/DSC_0101.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />While walking up the stairs, I was able to hear the sounds of the city. I could feel the cool air and see the lights shining from above. I took my first breath when we exited the station and onto Las Ramblas. Jesus Christ, the city was beautiful. There were smaller streets that ran between old buildings. There were people everywhere. Street performers. Elegant lights illuminating the artwork that was Barcelona. I stood in awe over the dream that I had for at least 10 years before. All of those fantasies of what this Spanish city must look like. Breathe like. Smell like. This was it.<br /><br />A kid in his early twenties walked over to us. Barcelenos don't stand at awe over their city like we did and so we stuck out... again. The kid was blonde, had dreadlocks and spoke with an Australian accent.<br /><br />The Aussie said, "15 euros for a bar crawl. You boys will really like it. You get to visit three bars and one club. You get a free beer at the first place and a shot at the other three. If you want I can take you there now. It starts at 9:30". He pointed down a street where he said the first bar was. "Temple", he said it was called.<br /><br />"No thanks. We'll find it," we told him. We were still unsure but we wanted to meet Internationals like ourselves and this was the way but we had to eat first before making a decision like that.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lma1XAkUI/AAAAAAAAGEA/rnjBOnr2XHo/s1600-R/DSC_0091.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139423473457729858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lma1XAkUI/AAAAAAAAGEA/MCPYKX8M3As/s320/DSC_0091.jpg" border="0" /></a>This was the Gothic district of Barcelona or Barri Gotic. It's called this because of the style of archictecture of the buildings. I remember reading about this when I was in college. I had taken a couple of art history courses and the professor was passionate about the Gothic style. I remember seeing the pictures. Towering gray buildings. Stainglass windows. It was nice to look at then through the world of 2D but here it was presented to me. This area was also the original Barcino that the Romans had founded. It was a lot smaller back then and was reserved for war weary soldiers who wanted to make a new life for themselves. Funny how that tradition continues today when I recall the trip and fantasize about moving there and away from this achievement weary life.<br /><br />One of the things I've always wanted to do was touch one of these buildings. They were erected long before Columbus went on his overseas trip. We entered one of the streets. We looked for paella, of course. I rubbed my hand against the face of one of the buildings. I wondered who else had done this and how many years have people walked down these blocks and wanted a sense of time.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LpOlXAkYI/AAAAAAAAGE8/i4beq40p4wI/s1600-R/DSC_0109.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139426561539215746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LpOlXAkYI/AAAAAAAAGE8/anRehJEapRs/s320/DSC_0109.jpg" border="0" /></a>During our search for food, we entered a court where people had gathered to watch a band play. The stage was in front of this old cathedral. We didn't stay long but it was nice to hear some music. I wish we could have stayed but we were hungry and we had a bar crawl to consider.<br /><br />My first meal was a falafel and not paella. I went all the way to Spain to eat a really bad falafel; sauce dripped on the Barcino streets and tomatoes marked my tracks like bedcrumbs. Joe had eaten at the same place when we passed through the street earlier. Gus had eaten at the pizzaria next door. Joe said that the man who served his falafel had cut his fingernail with the same knife used to prepare the meal. He looked up at Joe, I guess to see if there would be any debate but Joey... what could he say? So this mess of a "cook" continued making the falafel. This was also Joe's first experience with the bad service we would continue to have in Barcelona.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LmwFXAkVI/AAAAAAAAGEM/2uI11HgMRVo/s1600-R/DSC_0077.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139423838529950034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LmwFXAkVI/AAAAAAAAGEM/Fw-lGMRcBs4/s320/DSC_0077.jpg" border="0" /></a>Temple was on the same street where we got our food. It was a quick walk. We peered through the windows of the bar and noticed that it was packed in with all sorts of people. We still debated though. Fifteen euros didn't seem like a lot but it was our first night in Barcelona. Should we really commit to this or should we explore? Joe sat down across the street while Miguel, Mike, Gus and I conferred. After a short debate, it was decided: Bar crawl.<br /><br />"I need you guys to step back right here," said the Englishman at the door. "It's fifteen euros, mates. You're going to have a great time, boys. You know the story all ready?"<br /><br />The man procured a pad of paper and wrote something about "entrance for 5 guys" or something like that and handed it to Gus. I thought to myself, <em>let's bail. We're not obligated here.</em> The air gathered and made the street into a wind tunnel as it began to blow. Whatever was to go on in there would be better than what was happening outside.<br /><br />The Englishman said, "Walk up those stairs and to the back. You'll see a gentleman there. Give him your money and he'll stamp your wrist. Make sure you have your money ready, ok mates?"<br /><br />We hesitantly walked in. We hoped that it would be worth it.<br /><br />The place was an Irish bar. First we ate falafel and then now we were going inside an Irish bar in Spain. Just like we would do in New York except we would have done this on a weekday. That's midtown talk. Nevertheless, we walked up the staircase where an Indonesian looking kid sat at a table handing out stamps taking people's money. We gave him the fifteen euros and he gave us drink tickets. </p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139427360403132818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lp9FXAkZI/AAAAAAAAGFE/a3HCL-bU-a4/s320/DSC_0126.jpg" border="0" /> The place was packed. We stood against a column and tried to manuver our beers down our throats as people repeatedly bumped into us on their way to the back. Gus observed some seats that were unocuppied. It wasn't in the middle of everything but at least we could drink in peace.<br /><br />We walked to the rear of the bar and took our seats. Those first few moments were quiet. Peaceful. I'm sure all of us were reflecting and taking it all in. The beer was decent so I kept my mouth shut. We wanted more drinks but the bar was frothing with bodies and it was impossible to order anything. Joe told me to get the attention of this waitress that we noticed serve the tables nearby. I tried to get her attention but she was talking to some people. She looked at me once and continued talking. Finally, she looked to me again and I asked if we could have some service at our table. She seemed irritated by my presence.<br /><br />"What do you want?" she asked.<br /><br />"I'll have a Franziskaner. My friends want some drinks too if you can come by and take our requests," I told her.<br /><br />She must have misunderstood what I said because she replied, "Well, I'm right here. Give me your order."<br /><br />Joe walked by and sternly told her, "I'll have a vodka and club soda. No tonic." He played the part of the asshole but this was the only way this bitch would respond. She turned tail and fetched our drinks.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LoTlXAkXI/AAAAAAAAGEg/Lo3kFVnQ06s/s1600-R/DSC_0123.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139425547926933874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LoTlXAkXI/AAAAAAAAGEg/7X5qhzriYcM/s320/DSC_0123.jpg" border="0" /></a>She returned with our drinks in surprisingly good time. Mike, Gus and Miguel made their requests. Mike began speaking Spanish to her.<br /><br />The waitress looked at Mike and said, "I speak English". She was annoyed at Mike's presumption but how was he suppose to know? But Mike continued to talk sweetly with her. He mentioned something about liking the song that played over the speakers.<br /><br />"That's my iPod," she said proudly. </p><p>She wasn't from Spain at all. She was from Romania and a big fan of Depeche Mode. After that, we had no problems with her.<br /><br />I went to the bathroom and some girls asked me to get some toilet paper for them. Two were Australian and one was American from Boston. I walked in but there were too many people waiting in line for the toilet. They yelled at the guy pissing in the toilet to give them some toilet paper.<br /><br />"In a minute, love," the Brit told them.<br /><br />I said, "Well, looks like you girls are taken care of. I'll just do my business here if you don't mind."<br /><br />I could hear them laughing outside the bathroom. My first interaction with Internationals was inside the men's bathroom. I walked out and asked if they needed anything else.<br /><br />"Some more toilet paper? Some drinks perhaps? Would you like something to eat?" I said mockingly to the girls and their English friend.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LqklXAkaI/AAAAAAAAGFg/roNl_GceXn4/s1600-R/DSC_0136.jpg"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LrC1XAkbI/AAAAAAAAGFs/xRJlqB8wmz0/s1600-R/DSC_0139.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139428558699008434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LrC1XAkbI/AAAAAAAAGFs/TdAq3cG6nq0/s320/DSC_0139.jpg" border="0" /></a> We were alerted by the people working the bar crawl that it was time to go to the next joint. The boys and I were feeling something good from the drinks bubbling love juices from inside our gullets. I didn't realize how many people were on the bar crawl with us. People from all over the world gathering to play in the streets and bars of Barcelona bursting into the city streets with laughter and fun ringing loudly from our throats.<br /><br /><br />The next place... well, I<br />don't remember what the next place was called<br />but I do remember that it was red inside and good ol' Rock and Roll played out of the speakers <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LsqFXAkdI/AAAAAAAAGGU/97OguHde2kM/s1600-R/21_814_7d61930df0.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139430332520501714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LsqFXAkdI/AAAAAAAAGGU/wa5TsMiMUE4/s320/21_814_7d61930df0.jpg" border="0" /></a>and sweated down the walls. Headphones hung on hooks from the ceilings over the bars which lined the walls of either side. We entered another doorway into the main area. There was a booth to the right of us that had prepared shots for all of the bar crawlers. I looked down at the shots to pick the mightiest one but it was impossible to tell from that height. The drink needed to be in my veins in order to correctly guage its strength so I drank it and it was pretty good.<br /><br />The boys and I gathered at the end of the only bar in that room and ordered some drinks. I quickly downed my vodka and tonic. The room was filling with stragglers from the crawl. I really enjoyed the music in that place. I don't remember what they played but I know that it was good.<br /><br />"You guys want to see a trick?" I heard in an English accent. Gus, Miguel and I turned to the smiling Englishman with chin length dark hair. He did a lot of tricks that were really impressive but the one that I lost my shit over was when he told me to pick a coin out of the five he had in his hand. I made my pick and then he slid the coins into my palm.<br /><br />"Now feel the coins," he said.<br /><br />I felt the coins and replied, "All right, there's five."<br /><br />He revealed a coin from his hand that looked similar to the one that I picked. He told me to open my palm and I couldn't believe that I saw four. I was flabbergasted and a bit disturbed. How the hell did he do that? I thought that the bastard made a deal with the devil for that trick. He sniffled and I said to myself, "did he make a deal with the devil for some coke?" Brilliant. My goal for the night was to find out how the hell he did that and what the deal was made for. His soul? Cocaine? I needed to know. This foreshadowed something that would happen on this trip when the five of us would lose one.<br /><br />We gave him some money and he went off to another group to perform his Satanic trickery. Joe was witness to it but was unimpressed. He couldn't come up with an explanation but he tends to be more rational than me. I'm looking for miracles all of the time and rarely find them. I'll even take the devil's work.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LxhFXAkfI/AAAAAAAAGG8/sqkTyxGdCoU/s1600-R/DSC_0145.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139435675459817970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1LxhFXAkfI/AAAAAAAAGG8/yxtIMg29RgU/s320/DSC_0145.jpg" border="0" /></a>I walked towards the front to guage the nature of this bar when I was pulled over to the side by a flock of English broads.<br /><br />One of them asked, "Where are you from?"<br /><br />Just like in the States, people know all they need to know about you once you say New York. I never once told anyone that I was from America while being there. I definitely said that I was an American but I tried to distinguish what part American I was. It seems that even in Europe, New York is seperate from the U.S. and the better portion of America if I may add.<br /><br />I chatted for a bit with the English girls but had a hard time understanding them. They talked sloppily and all at the same time. It was like trying to listen to the three fates in a bar while holding a glass of the hard stuff in your hand. Good luck.<br /><br />As we walked out to join the rest of the bar crawl on the street, Joe heard the Misfits play. I didn't recognize it at all but it was good to hear something like that being played all the way out here.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Ltb1XAkeI/AAAAAAAAGGw/rdLvg6GRoDo/s1600-R/DSC_0208.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139431187218993634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Ltb1XAkeI/AAAAAAAAGGw/SczGhWgUYnU/s320/DSC_0208.jpg" border="0" /></a>I noticed more bar crawlers than before and by this time, every one was feeling properly sloshed - including me. Mike had made a friend earlier named Sequoia de California, which must translate from Cherokee and Spanish to Sparrow of California. Real cute. Anyway, so this was Mike's new buddy and not a bad one to be friends with. She worked with the bar crawl crew and her job was to keep every one in line. Sequoia said that she'd been living in Barcelona for about 6 months and didn't speak a lick of Spanish. Perhaps she should have reconsidered her last name as it might throw people off ;-)<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139436203740795394" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1Lx_1XAkgI/AAAAAAAAGHE/Zwejjz93etc/s320/DSC_0140.jpg" border="0" />We thrashed through the narrow streets. Once in a while, I'd see Miguel on Joe or Gus's back racing past me like a jockey on his caballo. Miguel would slap the "caballo's" ass to go faster and faster. Every one was in a jovial mood. I stared at the sky and just listened to the laughter. The stars were up there somewhere. I couldn't see them but who needs stars when you're in Barcelona. That's New York talk.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L0bVXAkiI/AAAAAAAAGIA/PoL7VF9sn3g/s1600-R/DSC_0172.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139438875210453538" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L0bVXAkiI/AAAAAAAAGIA/c2aIZV5K04Q/s200/DSC_0172.jpg" border="0" /></a>The group gathered at a plaza and stopped. The plaza was surrounded by large and old government looking buildings that carried Catalonian, Spanish and European Union flags. Joe jumped on Mike's back but proved too much weight for Mike and he fell. Suddenly one of the English girls from before jumped on top of <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L0qFXAkjI/AAAAAAAAGII/GLZHiQPKndY/s1600-R/DSC_0173.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139439128613524018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L0qFXAkjI/AAAAAAAAGII/tjs-XSYpt6M/s200/DSC_0173.jpg" border="0" /></a>both of them and then another random guy jumped on all three of them. Poor Mike was crushed<br />but still managed to laugh off the pressure.<br /><br />We walked into the third bar that looked considerably older than the first two. "Down the stairs!" someone said and we followed the voice down down down. Christ, the place was an old basement with a bar lining across the entire back wall. There were seats between the columns. I was feeling really drunk by this point and <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L1sFXAklI/AAAAAAAAGIY/tCA6vG2pu5E/s1600-R/DSC_0174.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139440262484890194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L1sFXAklI/AAAAAAAAGIY/Ho_6mgjQwyU/s200/DSC_0174.jpg" border="0" /></a>was a bit concerned about the shot I had just taken. I was going to bite the big one if I didn't slow down. I grabbed my drink and walked to a table that was underneath the staircase. Joe came by first with a huge goblet of what appeared to be vodka.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139443784358072962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L45FXAkoI/AAAAAAAAGJY/K1u4cYKqUHk/s320/DSC_0184.jpg" border="0" /> "Fuck no," I said. "You're sharing that with me. You can't drink all that by yourself." Who the hell was I to talk? I couldn't drink more than three sips from that damned thing. I wanted to watch over the boys and make sure that no one overdid it with the drinks because the last thing I wanted to do was escort someone home who couldn't handle their drink but there I was, shakey and careless sippng someone else's drink. Barthelona!<br />A girl with a supersoaker walked by and said, "do you want a shot?"<br /><br />"Sure," I responded. She squirted the back of my throat twice with the worst vodka I'd ever had since I was unemployed and relied on cheap vodka.<br /><br />"Want another?" she asked.<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But that's it. No more." I said before she squirt squirt into my mouth.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L2zVXAknI/AAAAAAAAGI8/BJhwfyMPf9g/s1600-R/DSC_0185.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139441486550569586" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L2zVXAknI/AAAAAAAAGI8/KGt-sCuIoKg/s320/DSC_0185.jpg" border="0" /></a>Gus came by with his giant goblet and I told him, "What the hell is the matter with you? You can't drink that all. Give me some," as I drank one sip but this time only one because... well, you know.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L6dFXAkpI/AAAAAAAAGJ0/5SqmfmMTAL8/s1600-R/DSC_0202.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139445502344991378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L6dFXAkpI/AAAAAAAAGJ0/-YyxT_2gPxs/s320/DSC_0202.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The girl went around and poisoned all of my friends with her cheap ass vodka until Miguel grabbed the gun from her and tried to squirt some into her mouth.<br /><br />"No, no, no." she said. "I can't. I'm at work."<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L68FXAkqI/AAAAAAAAGJ8/ZA9BSqNsIn0/s1600-R/DSC_0204.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139446034920936098" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L68FXAkqI/AAAAAAAAGJ8/B-wWL4E4MnU/s320/DSC_0204.jpg" border="0" /></a> "C'mon," Miguel protested. She finally relented and reluctantly took her shot that Miguel squirted from the super soaker. Just then, her boss walked by and told her to get back to work. Miguel felt terrible.<br /><br />Things almost got messy for me back in that bar. I was about two drinks overdue for a departure from there and thankfully it was time to go. So up we went through those elusive stairs. The steps moving from beneath my feet and the hand rails proving to be as slippery as snakes. It's the truth.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L76VXAkrI/AAAAAAAAGKE/SfgZcS5QIfY/s1600-R/DSC_0224.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139447104367792818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1L76VXAkrI/AAAAAAAAGKE/po1AbdpbNmo/s320/DSC_0224.jpg" border="0" /></a>Through the narrow streets of the Barri Gotic we went again. I had begun singing the "Star Spangled Banner" to Joe when I saw Miguel run past us with Gus. I thought it was a fitting moment. The bar crawl had made stops that were on the way to the port and this time we were going to get right up to the Meditarranean's steps, which was kissed by the beach. It was a longer walk than before but I needed time to sweat out the alcohol in my system. I stumbled across a major street. I looked both ways before crossing but all of the lights seemed to come from everywhere.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MCfFXAksI/AAAAAAAAGKg/l0yFbBhE_eg/s1600-R/DSC_0259.jpg"></a>Before we entered the next bar, I could hear "Sweet Home Alabama," sung by someone with a Spanish accent. A cover band was on a small stage ripping guitars and playing music that I loved. Mike danced with Sequoia and Gus and I walked to the terrace. We talked to a group of English girls. We were talking to anyone by this time. I wanted to know every one's story. Why were the here? What were they looking for? What's next for them? Anytime someone takes a trip like this, it changes them.<br /><br />Anyway, the girls were fairly uninteresting. I went inside to grab my last drink of the night because I had had enough of the alcohol. I'd rely on pure adrenalin to keep me up through the night. I grabbed my drink and walked to the dance floor and moved around for a bit.<br /><br />I don't remember where Joe or Miguel or Mike was but somehow we all gathered outside. I remember grabbing Miguel to leave. We were getting messy.<br /><br />This is where things get blurry....<br /><br />Ok, I do remember going to a club but the club kind of sucked. It was the last place of the tour. I don't remember where the club was but I do remember a guy constantly telling me to smoke in this small room and NOW I remember... I was in this small room smoking a cigarette when one of the English girls that I met before walked up to me.<br /><br />"Do you want a [unintelligible]?" she asked.<br /><br />"Say what?" I said.<br /><br />"Do you want a THREESOME." she repeated.<br /><br />"I'd love one but my girlfriend isn't here." I told her.<br /><br />"Have you ever done anything like that before?" She asked.<br /><br />I said, "Well, yeah but I'm not going to do something like that if she's not here."<br /><br />She asked me, "Do you think she'd want to if she was here?" Like it would matter anyway because my girlfriend wasn't there. Yes, it's true. I was a good boy. I told her no but I did ask...<br /><br />"How about my friends though? There's three that I know that would love to have some fun with you." I told her.<br /><br />"No, I really want it to be with you and another girl." she said.<br /><br />"Well, thanks but I can't." I told her. I wish I had something more exciting to report but I don't.<br /><br />The club pretty much sucked. Gus and I pulled every one together and left the place. Miguel threw something at the bartender. We found out later it was because she threw something at him. I don't remember the whole story and don't want to make anything up. If I choose to write a book about this, I promise to come up with something good that happened there. We waited on Mike to finish making out with some girl that he was dancing with and off we went.<br /><br />We left that club. Joe later said that he had to help Miguel out of there.<br /><br />I remember walking up a spiral platform that exited onto the city streets and Gus pulling Mikey up from the ground floor while Joe pissed off the side. Mike told us that one of the English girls that I met earlier in the night jerked his [expletive] and told him to meet her in the bathroom, which he never did.<br /><br />RIPROARING THROUGH THE BARRI GOTIC AGAIN<br /><br />It was just the five of us left who walked through those cobble stoned streets; crying from laughter. Our first night and we did it big but it was not yet over.<br /><br />Miguel pushed Gus into a gate that covered a storefront. Miguel fell into the gate as well. Suddenly, I heard the gate lift open and a big burly Spaniard came out and pushed Gus and yelled all sorts of things at him. We yelled back. It was amazing that this man would even confront Gus seeing that there were four other men behind him. A man with glasses peered out of the store.<br /><br />Miguel came back and walked away from the confrontation, waving his hands and telling the man, "Comida, comida, comida."<br /><br />The man yelled back, "NO! NO COMIDA!" It was really funny that in the heat of all of this that Miguel would tell him in Spanish, "Come on, let's get some food," and the man replied, "No! No food." And the way Miguel walked away from the situation as if he all ready assumed the man would come. Did he expect the angry burly Spaniard to say, "Ok, you got me. Let's go get some food." Jamon! (Remember that Mike's new thing was "You've been Jamoned" every time something bad happened... think blooper televison show).<br /><br />I laughed all the way to Las Ramblas. Miguel had begun urging us to check out a club called Jamboree. It was an incredible place according to him. Gus and Joe were tired and decided to return to the hostal. I wanted to go with them but Miguel was very determined to find it and needed companions. I thought to myself, <em>what the hell? I'm in Barcelona.</em><br /><br />Miguel grabbed Joe by his coat and said, "Come on, man. Don't go. Come with us."<br /><br />Joe became annoyed and told him, "Get your hands off of my coat. Seriously." Miguel let go and our group of five split. Two went home and the three went searching for Jamboree.<br /><br />Miguel asked every one, "Donde esta Jamboree?" Over and over... "Donde esta Jamboree?" No one knew where this club was and I started to suspect that it didn't exist but help would come soon in the form of two young girls.<br /><br />Miguel becomes Mister Hyde when he drinks. I love Mister Hyde. Miguel is great too but Mister Hyde is classic. So, Mister Hyde found these two girls, grabbed one of them and asked, "Donde esta Jamboree?"<br /><br />One of them grabbed Miguel back and said, "Venga acqui." I started to think that something was awry. Miguel grabbed one of the girls and kissed her neck. She pushed him off of her and then grabbed him again and said, "Venga, venga."<br /><br />Mike looked at me and said, "C'mon. It's Ok." I knew that it wasn't Ok. We had to go. It was time to leave. There was no fucking Jamboree and these girls were taking us to some dark alley to rob, rape and kill us or sell their bodies to us and when they find out that we aren't willing to pay then, "matales!" or "corta sus cabezas!" You can't tell what these Spaniards are up to. They used to do the running of the heretics and kill them afterwards.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MD9FXAktI/AAAAAAAAGLA/xDmmAPIkdnM/s1600-R/DSC_0288.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139455947705455314" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MD9FXAktI/AAAAAAAAGLA/nECNkMYxQMU/s200/DSC_0288.jpg" border="0" /></a>One of the girls yelled at me, "Por que? Por que?" <em>Por que because you're taking us somewhere we shouldn't be.</em><br /><br />Mike and his girl started to walk further ahead from us and disappeared behind into another street. Miguel laughed while the<br />girl he was with continued dragging him by the arm.<br /><br />"C'mon guys. We have to get the fuck out of here. Seriously. Let's <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MEIlXAkvI/AAAAAAAAGLQ/Mcf1MQhamt0/s1600-R/DSC_0290.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139456145273950962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MEIlXAkvI/AAAAAAAAGLQ/7luwWc-RgRM/s200/DSC_0290.jpg" border="0" /></a>go," I continued.<br /><br />"Por que? Por que?" said the girl with the furrowed face while Miguel looked at me and laughed.<br /><br />I was really concerned now. I couldn't see Mikey anymore and had no idea what was happening to him. Miguel grabbed his girl as she pushed him off again and said, "Venga, venga por acqui."<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MEOVXAkwI/AAAAAAAAGLY/tS76P6oheG4/s1600-R/DSC_0291.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139456244058198786" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R1MEOVXAkwI/AAAAAAAAGLY/Q_-DmKzjXNU/s200/DSC_0291.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>I saw Mike walk toward us from the street he disappeared into. He laughed and told us that we should go. Miguel asked why and Mike told him that the girls were prost <div>itutes.</div><br /><div>"Ooooooooooooooh..."<br /></div><div>"Yeah, let's get out of here," said Mike. Jamboree. Jamboree. Jamoboree. The search was on again but I was annoyed and wanted to go back. We asked one more guy who leaned against the entrance of the Metro.<br /><br />"Donde esta Jamboree?" we asked for the last time.<br /><br />"Cierra a la seis en la manana," the man told us. <em>Closes at six in the morning. </em>It was all ready 5:30 AM and we had no idea where this place was. Time to go back.<br /><br />We boarded the train and went to bed. Such is the end of the first day in Barcelona. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep but only for a few hours because there was much more to see and do the next day.<br /><br />THIS WAS DAY TWO OF TEN.</div>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-77865489902469441402007-11-29T08:46:00.000-05:002007-12-02T15:14:57.271-05:00I'm back from Spain, baby! November 16 DAY 1 OF 10<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07Mz9sR8OI/AAAAAAAAF-M/vjF9FlkBK2Y/s1600-h/DSC_0931.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138269417981997282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07Mz9sR8OI/AAAAAAAAF-M/vjF9FlkBK2Y/s320/DSC_0931.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div><div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Pull the emergency break and throw the gear into drive. This Volkswaagen is driving from Barcelona to Valencia and there is nothing anyone can do about it. We're driving and we're going to get lost. We're going to stop in a little village and ask for directions from its only occupant - an old lady with a cane. We're going to step in manure crossing through an old field. We're going to take pictures next to a centuries old farmhouse; dilapidated and ruined but perfectly beautiful. We're going to track in manure and smell shit for the rest of the ride. All this happens later so let me start at the beginning. </span></div><div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07K0NsR8KI/AAAAAAAAF9w/THpVZZ8LVVU/s1600-h/DSC_0004.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138267223253708962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07K0NsR8KI/AAAAAAAAF9w/THpVZZ8LVVU/s320/DSC_0004.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We said goodbye to the airport and friends in the early evening of November 16th. We'd see them again in Barcelona. Joe and Gus took a different flight. Iberia would go over the Atlantic. Face the same turbulance as we faced over Nova Scotia. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07LxNsR8MI/AAAAAAAAF98/Rd6-egg4W8E/s1600-h/DSC_0021.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138268271225729218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07LxNsR8MI/AAAAAAAAF98/Rd6-egg4W8E/s320/DSC_0021.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Miguel, Mike and I sat comfortably. Served excellent food from Lufthansa's world class chef (if you can believe that), drank a few glasses of wine, blared my portable speakers until - "Can you please lower that," came from the flight attendant. He was polite about it. Here come the ugly Americans, Europa and we're bringing Blue Steel and the rest of his cohorts like Hannibal leading his troops over the Pyranees. We're coming to make love to your tierra and dance in the darkness of your Gothic districts. We're coming to plant kisses on your steeples and drain the life out of our bodies. We're coming to transfuse our blood with your blue waters. On the plane, we chased the horizon looking for that Spanish morning but only seeing the glow somewhere way off where the sun is just beginning to rise.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Pit stop in Franfurt. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Get out of the plane. Stretch your legs and get on the next flight to Barcelona!" The flight left about 530 in the morning. The darkness was still lurking through the German sky. The Germans... they still give me an eerie feeling. It's especially eerie when you see the police officers in their uniforms wearing eagle crests. I handed them my passport, walked through the metal detectors. I tried to speak the little German I knew but it was useless. "Danke" I would say and they would reply, "you're welcome". </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Board the plane and go go go. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Our plane was mostly empty. The boys and I were able to stretch across the seats comfortably. When the plane took off it was all dark out. Miguel and I said something to each other when I was blinded by light beaming through the windows. I was afraid but this wasn't a Nazi attack. I turned around and saw the sun pouring in like a flood - it was rising and what a sunrise. The clouds were perfectly compacted and the sun lay on top of them and showing off its brightness.<br /></span></div><div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07MW9sR8NI/AAAAAAAAF-E/MvYJ-UhKF8w/s1600-h/DSC_0055.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138268919765790930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/R07MW9sR8NI/AAAAAAAAF-E/MvYJ-UhKF8w/s320/DSC_0055.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I had hoped to sleep a little but who can sleep on a sunrise like that? Soon enough we'd meet the Spanish coast and it's blue Meditteranean waters. Port Lligat, the Pyranees, the little villages tucked along the beaches. White rooftops and tiny little people waking up as our man-made bird flew above them. What was sunrise for the Spaniards should have been sunset for us. Our bodies felt the time as late and not early. America was long gone and thank God. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">This is the end of Day 1 of 9. There will be a new blog each day dedicated to one day from this fantastic adventure. </span></div></div></div>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-88861488073890748752007-11-13T10:13:00.000-05:002007-11-13T11:16:23.386-05:00A Writer Goes to SpainI'm beginning my winter (anything below 60 degrees is winter) with a trip to Spain. This may not be the best time to go to Spain because the temperature is about the same as it is here. I'm choosing to do so anyway.<br /><br />This motley crue of thieves and degenerates that I'm going with intends on having a good time. A little bit of a car ride. A little bit of paella and a little bit of the Rioja.<br /><br />The truth about this trip is that it may be more mundane than anything. I anticipate that my big moment will be waking up before every one else, going down the street to a cafe then sitting down and writing about how nice it is to wake up early before every one else, walk down the street to a cafe and write down about how nice it is to wake up early before every one else...<br /><br />Yes, that's right. I'm going to Spain to write down about how nice it is to wake up before every one else and talk to my journal.<br /><br />Any of you writers know that experience makes a diverse pallet to paint your stories with. If you know me, you know that I'm writing a book called The Whiskey Dregs. It is yet to pass the 80 page marker. I go through all of the notes in my head and ask the same question over and over: Well, who cares about this story?<br /><br />The story takes place in New Orleans and it's about the dregs of society having a great time. So far, what I have is a book about having fun. The thing you should be doing instead of sitting home on a Friday night reading about other people having fun. So what's the point? This is what goes through my head. It's a book for the same guys that buy porn mags.<br /><br />Scenario:<br /><br />Man in his 40's. Grease stained shirt. Eye glasses. You know, your typical cassanova. The love child women drop down to their knees for. That guy. He walks down the street. He's alone and it's Friday night. He's looking for love but there's no one available. The neon lights from his favorite store casts a familiar glow onto the puddle of water. The smell of fresh rain abounds the streets and he knows this the signal for the uni-mate ceremony that he performs for occasions such as this.<br /><br />The pink neon glow refelcts from his glasses as he pushes them up. He tucks his shirt in, looks both ways and opens the door. The man is now inside perusing the fine undergarments with holes in places a crotch should be. He looks over the black gadgets that look like man's penis. He beams at the sight of a Jenna Jameson vibrating vagina. This is his wonderland. This is his swingset. But this is not what he wants.<br /><br />Within a few minutes, the man is over by the counter.<br /><br />"Hello, Habib," he tells the man who is guarding the mags and dirty books.<br /><br />"Hello," Habib tells the man. He doesn't remember this customer's face and it's a generic smile: "Hi, how are you? Shut the fuck up. Buy my shit," that's all it means.<br /><br />So this perv. This dirty birdie, he points to the shelf behind Habib and he asks, "Habib, give me a copy of [such and such] magazine and what's that book over there? The Whiskey Dregs? I'll have that too."<br /><br /><br /><br />Folks, I'm telling you. I'm writing a book for porn kings and billy goats and people who frequent methadone clinics and go through 12 step programs. I'm writing pulp nonsense that is spliced together with my wisdom - or whatever it is I've learned from living in the sub-basement of New York for so many years. Now all I'm concerned about is:<br /><br />New Orleans or Spain?Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-21688329432791818652007-09-26T11:04:00.000-04:002007-09-26T11:09:31.595-04:00Dear CivilizationDear Civilization,<br /><br />I'm making a complaint. I've been part of civilization for 28 years and I've noticed that you haven't lived up to what "civilized" means. According to Webster's Dictionary:<br /><br />Main Entry:<br />civilized<br />Function:<br />adjective<br /><br />: characteristic of a state of <a class="formulaic" href="http://mw1.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/civilization">civilization</a> <civilized>; especially : characterized by taste, refinement, or restraint<br /><br />It's come to my attention that as a part of this loose organization of peoples that you have strayed off course of what it means to be civilized. I understand that there have been many sacrifices made to ensure the preservence of states, religions, dogmas, ideals, pride, constitutions, liberties and all of those other things but in the process, we have become no more civilized than the native people of conquered lands, Visigoths, Vandals, Saxons, Ostrogoths or the Franks of which the Roman Empire used as heels until their eventual collapse.<br /><br />It seems in order to become civilized we've had to plunder, steal, kill, pursue, rape and pillage each other into submission until a state is weakened enough to invite them into an empire without much prodding. In fact, they may even ask for it. "If you join us, we'll make sure nothing happens to you." This is called extortion and people go to prison for that. Governments for the people, by the people are immune to punishment. Go figure!<br /><br />I like democracy. I've always believed that it is the method to band people together and create consensus to achieve personal liberties and strive for a state run by it's people for the people. Most countries like to show how generous they are to mankind. They'll show you a magic trick to wow you of their compassion meanwhile in the other hand, which is behind their back, there is a little person with their mouths taped shut and their hands and feet bound together. Other countries are more show-y of their force. Burma, Russia, North Korea and China are way into peace. So much that protesters and disidents in their countries disappear in order to thwart a revolution. Peaceful or otherwise.<br /><br />Dear Civilization, I'd like to bring up a story to you:<br />A long time ago, there was a newborn country that fought for independence so that they could pursue capitalist ventures without a monarchist hand to guide their economy from far away. This independence inspired people from all over the world to revolt against their oppressors. Haiti, France, India, China, the Bolivarian revolution of South America, Central America, Cuba and on and on and on and on. Then in forementioned country, corporations realized that politicians can be bought off. The guise of a one world economy is the path to peace and brotherly relations with one another. Peace, Love Unity and Respect. Wars have been fought and people have been murdered or disappeared, global warming, slavery, oppression has become the guiding hand for constitutions exploiting freedom and the pursuit of happiness.<br /><br />Blah blah blah...<br /><br />Dear Civilization... *sigh* false false false.<br /><br />Disgruntled member,<br /><br />CarlosCarlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-4828470669896364572007-09-21T22:21:00.000-04:002007-09-22T09:41:38.873-04:00Washington Square: Winter 2007A black man happily mumbles obscenities to himself while the other people awkwardly move away from him.<br /><br />"Shit! Fuck! Whore!" he yells while wearing a dumb grin. I've seen this man before. It was two months ago while on an aimless walk through New York. My thoughts, like steam, rose to the very top of my mind. The brain cells that carried memory were bespeckeled with goosebumps. The day was glossed over by the throes of anxiety. My bladder was past full and I hurriedly walked to the stinkhouse bathroom that was on the edge of Fourth Street.<br /><br />I saw the man in front of me. The same one that just yelled, "Finnish cocksucker." I sensed his bad news or maybe it was his arms shaking as if joining in on the Saint Vitus Dance. As now and as he did back then, his muttering and strange squeels escaped his languid mouth. His skin was etched with blisters and scars while the flesh on his bones hung like threaded beef. Seeing something like this converts your innocence into fine steel adulthood. I wanted someone to put him out to pasture with other strange horses to gallop with.<br /><br />Of course, the paths we took would intersect with the bevy of urinals that formed like Stonehenge inside that shit-stink bathroom. I stepped in front of one urinal. He took the one on the opposite side. I heard a groan of relief come out of him, which I agreed with. I'd been walking around with a full bladder for at least a half hour but lacked the depravity to let out such a noise.<br /><br />There was a man for every urinal and I noticed the man's shoulders next to me tense up. Every one knew the token looney had entered. It was difficult to miss the trail of vibrations ending leading straight to him. Some sort of primitive mechanism developed by living beside saber tooth tigers in ancient days caught on to sensations which manifested.<br /><br />"Jame's Brown is dead," the looney declared. "White people: Elvis is second to James Brown. No one could do a split like him. He died at 73. It's a crime to die at that age."<br /><br />I all ready sensed the conspiracy theory he attempted to offer in that sick brain of his. The one in which the white man assasinated the leg-splitting great.<br /><br />"Happy New Year's, New York!"<br /><br />The man beside me looked around the bathroom. He was panicked. I'm sure he was a tourist but lacked the skin to experience the New York fantasies he had set out to see. I bet he thought he could take it on. Because of our sick friend, I became part of the tourist's story without intending it. Christ, I just came in to piss.<br /><br />The looney left the bathrooms without causing much more disturbance. He apologized to the garbage can he just ran into and went on his way.<br /><br />I walked to the train station and found this man again slobbering and yelling out silly things. Absurd sentences. Laughing to himself. Perhaps it is the optomist in me that thinks he's really happy. There's all those characters in his head the he speaks to. I wish I had that kind of imagination to draw real and breathing characters to talk to.<br /><br />The man was like a stow away bird unable to fly out of Home Depot. They flutter and panic until they discover a unique method of survival. They build nests from sawdust and branches of plants that are on sale for $9.99, which might be stronger than the ones in the outside world made by free birds.<br /><br />There is a way to adapt to strange scenes. This looney knows his sick mind better than any shrink. He's built a nest out of cultural comforts in the pseudo woods of New York City. Built it from newspapers, cups, boxes. Our sawdust from capitalist feats; the things we know longer need.Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-81750454587451681232007-09-12T09:36:00.000-04:002007-09-13T08:52:39.130-04:00In Search of Peace: The Night of 9/11/2007 (a photographic exploration)<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/Rufsa3Sy8YI/AAAAAAAAADs/_wJKiDarOEA/s1600-h/DSC_0161.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109312248538657154" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/Rufsa3Sy8YI/AAAAAAAAADs/_wJKiDarOEA/s320/DSC_0161.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">I</span> am sitting in the White Horse Tavern somewhere deep in Lower Manhattan sipping a three dollar glass of Yuengling and waiting for an order of rubbery chicken fingers to arrive. This is the kind of place in which you never say hello or goodbye to the bartender. "Thank you" is out of the question. Ten bucks for a whole meal - tip included.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugQ9nSy8gI/AAAAAAAAAEo/bCUXH9kAQRc/s1600-h/DSC_0072.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109352427957711362" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugQ9nSy8gI/AAAAAAAAAEo/bCUXH9kAQRc/s320/DSC_0072.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><p>The pictures of firefighters on the wall and union stickers everywhere suggest a haven for the blue collared man but instead there's a few scattered suits too lonely in their big jobs and big homes to sit in front of the TV on a night like this one. A teddy bear is pinned to a wall. A man alone scans the drunks hoping to make eye contact with a fellow to talk to. On the bear's shirt, it says, "Somebody in New York Loves You" but it's hard to believe in a bar named after a scotch.</p><br />The rubber chicken meal arrives, overcooked and crusty with ash. If I ask for a different batch it will come out exactly the same but with a token of revenge riding in the mustard while the scheming cook glances around the corner waiting for me to dip my chicken finger into the mustard. This day is a solemn one but it isn't sacred. Giuliani told the citizens of New York to get back to work on 9/12 and that was exactly what we did. Plates of revenge and all. People went back to work.<br /><br /><p>It's six years today and life moves on but according to a poll recently released, most of us still think of 9/11 and often. Here in the heart of the Financial District, there isn't a reminder of imploding buildings, planes, tears or death anywhere even though Ground Zero is a 1/4 of a mile away. Both TVs are tuned to baseball games. Mets losing on one and Giambi running the bases after a Yankee home run on the other. A woman is yelling to a co-worker about unfair treatment at her job while the poor muck stares blankly at the wall and drinking the conversation into the toilet.<br /></p><br /><p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugMT3Sy8bI/AAAAAAAAAEE/6OTJpk2dMwQ/s1600-h/DSC_0028.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109347312651661746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugMT3Sy8bI/AAAAAAAAAEE/6OTJpk2dMwQ/s320/DSC_0028.JPG" border="0" /></a>My camera's memory card is full with photos from tonight. Pictures from 9/11 have left indelible scars in our minds. It's difficult to believe that six years have all ready passed. I can still recall every minute of that day; pieced together like a photo album. Recently, I watched a documentary about a picture of a man who jumped out of the North tower. A couple of journalists tried to construct this man's life from that photograph. Although the results proved inconclusive, the search for the identity of the man was as arduous and poignant as the search for the Titanic. The search itself was an exploration of every one who lost their life that day. Pictures are important and I wanted to come to Lower Manhattan and photograph the night six years later. </p><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugaEXSy8lI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/RuwCyBWcscA/s1600-h/DSC_0093.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109362439526478418" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugaEXSy8lI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/RuwCyBWcscA/s320/DSC_0093.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My first stop, of course, was the invisible shadow that used to be the Twin Towers. It's sits like a magnetic imprint in the universe. The impact zone of Ground Zero tears through Manhattan like a black hole tears through the fabric of the universe. The gravitational pull of the tragedy pulls you closer toward the footprints of the Twin Towers. And the joy, like light to a black hole is sucked into the sink of the fallen towers. The gravity comes in a hierarchy of degrees of emotion. One can feel the solemnity and reverence of the site so much that multitudes of people are silent as they approach the basin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugPBnSy8eI/AAAAAAAAAEY/pusMxGEBpvc/s1600-h/DSC_0169.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109350297653932514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugPBnSy8eI/AAAAAAAAAEY/pusMxGEBpvc/s320/DSC_0169.JPG" border="0" /></a>There was a post-apocalyptic peace that at times was unsettling. I walked down these Dutch paved streets and snapped photos from many locations in the Financial District, which show the tribute lights behind Manhattan landmarks. This area has been a major financial center for at least three centuries. Crowning the modern capitalist democracy is the pride of Wall Street - The New York Stock Exchange. I had a difficult time taking photos of this without a political slant. My goal was to achieve a look of peace and not a foreboding picture illustrating private feelings. Regardless, it can be viewed as hopeful. One can only imagine.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109351547489415666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugQKXSy8fI/AAAAAAAAAEg/_rqRCPNOan8/s320/DSC_0189.JPG" border="0" /><br />George Washington went to mass at the original Trinity Church. This one was built in the mid 1800's to replace the flawed design of the second incarnation. There is a famous photo of a flaming tower behind the church from 9/11. It didn't come out in this photo but there were white birds that were attracted to the blue lights. They flew higher and higher in circular motions. I couldn't help but think of the debris that fell out of the buildings. How much they looked the same.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugRv3Sy8hI/AAAAAAAAAEw/JtLZXSfHngk/s1600-h/DSC_0131.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109353291246137874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugRv3Sy8hI/AAAAAAAAAEw/JtLZXSfHngk/s320/DSC_0131.JPG" border="0" /></a>In October of 2001, people were allowed to walk south past Canal Street again. On some Saturday that year, I ventured toward the World Trade Center and saw this parking garage (pictured on left) with cars still left in their lots covered in soot and debris. I always assumed that the owners never came back to claim their cars. Tonight, the roof was used to place the tens of little lights that create the illusion of two ghostly towers which paint two smaller moons in the sky.<br /><br />There are only two days every year in which the name of the date represents a moment of rememberance in American history: The Fourth of July and 9/11. Down the street from Ground zero is Fraunces Tavern where The Sons of Liberty held secret meetings prior to the outbreak of Revolutionary War. It is also the same place where Washington famously bid farewell to his commanders before becoming president. The first capital of the United States of America was on 26 Broadway. George Washington's presidency was inaugurated at Federal Hall, which is on the same block as the New York Stock Exchange. A half mile south is where immigrants came through after being processed at Ellis Island. New York once boasted one of the best harbors in the world and that was right down the street. Somewhere intertwined is the history of the Twin Towers and the Revolutionary War. The histories are linked. The disaster is linked. They are actually one and the same.</p>The world has been affected by the history of New York. Everything from art to revolution has inspired movements around the world. This is the only place in America where a mayor can run for president and have a good chance to win (I hope he doesn't though) and that's because this city has that much influence in all areas of society. To govern it is to govern a capital of the world as New York is often referred as.<br /><br />When the towers collapsed, it collapsed like a star and like a collapsing star it sucks in all the light. The echo of that act has resounded all over the world. It has plagued world affairs for six years. What I wanted tonight was to find a semblence of peace somewhere in the center of the world's affairs. At the pit of this tragedy, are restaurants with people smiling and laughing. More people are moving into this neighborhood than ever. The soot has been cleaned up and there are sites of construction everywhere. Kids are being born. People are dying. It is life as usual with people coping.<br /><br />The Yankees won the game 9-2. The Mets lost. The woman eventually closed her yapping mouth and her co-worker relieved himself in the bathroom. I close my journal to take the W train back home. I give the bartender money for my drink. He nods and takes my money. No "thank you". No "goodbye".<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugS-3Sy8iI/AAAAAAAAAE4/l6ykuuwgEck/s1600-h/DSC_0141.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109354648455803426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugS-3Sy8iI/AAAAAAAAAE4/l6ykuuwgEck/s320/DSC_0141.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugUWnSy8jI/AAAAAAAAAFA/fXUFTZ4GGUY/s1600-h/DSC_0111.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109356155989324338" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugUWnSy8jI/AAAAAAAAAFA/fXUFTZ4GGUY/s320/DSC_0111.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugU3HSy8kI/AAAAAAAAAFI/_u7l1al99HI/s1600-h/DSC_0151.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109356714335072834" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XX0okxjKPdE/RugU3HSy8kI/AAAAAAAAAFI/_u7l1al99HI/s320/DSC_0151.JPG" border="0" /></a></div>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-72135827163405687002007-09-05T08:43:00.000-04:002007-09-05T08:44:09.928-04:00Our Survival Depends on CompassionThe through-string which binds us all is compassion. Think of it like this:<br /><br />Without compassion, our species would have never survived the Savannah out there in Africa. Our bodies have not developed a special armor to repel attacks from wild animals such as the saber tooth tiger. If you can imagine what the African landscape contained way back when then it isn't difficult to surmise the development of the human mind to become this vast center of information processing. This includes defense mechanisms and any other survival traits - qualities which are imperative to the survival of the human species. <br /><br />Our existance includes emotional and physical needs that are tended to by our will to survive. In our fragile physical state, we are susceptible to extinction, however the human mind has developed in a way to combat the evolutionary strife and survive in a vicious climate. <br /><br />In order for our race to survive we must depend on each other as we have for the last 'x' thousands of years. Without this we are doomed to extinction. The simple key for our longevity is compassion. Again, without each other we can not survive as individuals, therefore every one must care for the other in order to survive. This has been written into a mulitude of dogmas all across the world. It is ingrained within all of us the moral basis to continue. For what purpose, one can only speculate. There are many theories from around the world as to what it means to strive toward existance. <br /><br />Care for others as we care for ourselves - A simple rule that pertains to every religion, race and creed. <br /><br />Plain and simple: We must all depend on each other to survive. There is no such thing as existance within individuality; Only as a group.Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-13659938129387147062007-08-30T11:57:00.001-04:002007-08-30T11:59:59.119-04:00Bleed Me the Death River<p>Moaning in the bullet-riddled square; clenching a handkerchef in my jaws. The square fades in and then back out as if blindness eclipse my eyes but it isn't that either. The red pool is still too vivid. Red, red, red like flags waving in the Revolution.<p><br />I see shoes scattered throughout the street and their owners have no time left to care. Too many fairy tale characters strewn about - one shoe on and one shoe off. Eyes open; playing dead, secretly stashing their souls away behind their eyelids for protection from mites. Irenic.<p><br />The temerity of those bullets striking meat! The thump-thump sound! The gasp! The fall! The dark red crude. The taste of cherries in your mouth. The flies congregating near entry wounds. I am dying at last but not until I've finished bleeding. Not until the light in my eyes become dull. Not until the tears on my cheeks dry. I will take my time. <p><br />I hear moaning in Tiananmen Square. Moaning in Baghdad. Moaning in Boston. Moaning in New Delhi. Moaning, longing, seething, dying, crying, fucking in the world's affairs. The Atlantic Ocean is pistol blood red. The sunset is Christ blood red. We paint the skies and waters with our struggles. We paint with our essence as cavemen painted cave ceilings with spit and coal. We paint the eyes of albinos. The leaves of lettuce. The backs of fish. The hide of deer. We paint the world with suffering. We paint everything with the blood of our children. We are Mars's fury.<p><br />We are the red disciples who come two and two into Noah's boat. The Noah - he the Charon of the living world crossing over the patrimonial bloody river. The boundless terrirtory of red waters boiling at the Earth's crust. No one to claim the wealth of white essence. No wine to supplement the suffering. Disease infests the manifest. <p><br />My blood is no longer mine. It belongs to the sewer and the mud. I clear out. The scene is severed and my transition... <p><br />complete</p>Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8788323290557621016.post-1902972909465474972007-08-29T10:18:00.000-04:002007-08-30T11:25:33.088-04:00Six Years and We’re Still FallingYou fall out of the sky with nothing to cover the drag like a parachute or an umbrella. You have 10 seconds of freefall. The gasp of the wind whistles in your ears. Not even gravity can believe you jumped from the 106th floor. Not even steel and concrete can believe that it was penetrated by an invasive airplane. Not even an elevator shaft could believe that it could drink liquid fire and breathe out smoke. Not even the clear sky could believe that it could give birth to 200 bodies. Not even the ground could believe that it could swallow them all.<br /><br />It almost felt like flying. Your clothes were gliders. Your heart the engine but your arms –they're still arms. They can't flap so they grab at clouds thousands of feet above you. The ledges of the building are relatively close but you couldn't grab onto them even if you had been closer. Like baby birds falling out of the nest the mother bird can't even save and just like them you hoped for a miracle but the only one that came was the end of your life; the cessation of body and spirit from this suicidal world.<br /><br />Ten seconds of falling doesn't change who you are. What you smell like. It doesn't change your dirty shirt or clean underwear. You still have a sore toe and the pain hasn't gone away. It's just less important. You were still human when you kissed the sidewalk. You were still like me. While you were falling, I was at home blinking my eyes open for the first time as a hardened man who grew from the boy that came to New York with the intention of seeing what more life could give.<br /><br />I sunk deep into the middle of disbelief<br />The panic sunset;<br />My calloused memory;<br />Too dense to be surprised.<br />The good morning sadness<br />The last breath of a falling star<br />The turmoil of millions since<br /><br />It's been six years and we're all still falling.Carlos Detreshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17760714180813534855noreply@blogger.com5