NEW BLOG

Eh, I have a new blog. It's documenting my bike trip across the USA this summer. Go look at it, please: awalkinthepuddinforsacrag.blogspot.com

Ailene! Of course you do. You're lopsided.

I haven’t spotted anyone wearing my coat, yet. I still have nineteen hours to find it.

Yesterday, I walked around with Irene. We ate churros con chocolate. Churros taste like elephant ears, and they look like… churros. You dip ‘em in what they call hot chocolate and what we call hot chocolate pudding.

We walked to a park by the bus station and slid on the slide. The slide was a dragon. You could slide down the tail or the mouth.

We walked to the MirO park to look at MirO’s Giant Red Yellow Blue Green sculpture. I wanted to touch it, but it was surrounded by a shallow pond. So we took our shoes and socks off and rolled up our pants and waded out into the slimy water. The sculpture felt like a… sculpture: magical.

I walked her home and went home for dinner. My senora made spaghetti with a Gouda-based alfredo sauce, and she put two slices of bacon on top. She gave me two fried eggs on a separate plate. I had banana yogurt for dessert.

After dinner, the two of us watched Gran Hermano. She loves reality shows. I don’t, so, eventually, I went to my room to read.

I went to the bathroom, just now, and the TV was on. My senora had fallen asleep while playing her Nintendo DS. I heard Tetris.

Today, I’m going to pack, buy some plane oranges and Mars Bars, eat one last kebab, shave, write a postcard, shower, and go to the airport.

It’s three a.m. I’m leaving for the airport around 10 p.m. I’ll arrive in Michigan about 10 p.m the next day. There’s much more to write about: my love for the escalators, my senora’s classy toilet paper, my new found respect for bar soap… Also, I haven’t shared some stories, so that I can tell them in person: Carnival, Fira de Abril, parts of Ireland, undercover police… You’ll have to ask me.

Brave Potatoes, thanks for reading. This time Wednesday, I’ll be at the all-you-can-eat personal pan pizza day at Pizza Hut. Frank’s Red Hot.

Exams

Monday, April 19, 2010

It’s the final countdown.

My last week in Spain, and I’ve had two new experiences: The other day, I accidentally flicked some toothpaste in my eye. That hurts more than ranch in the eye or Russian dressing in the eye. Hours later, I sprayed the same eye with cologne. That hurts more than toothpaste in the eye. Now, that particular eye is very well-groomed.


Tuesday, April 20, 2010

I got up for my exam, this morning. My senora gave me Nutella for breakfast for the first time. She really knows the way to my heart.

After breakfast, on my way to the metro, I saw a beautiful female. We looked at each other. And I was thinking, “Oh, hey, girl.” And she was thinking, “Oh, hey.” And I was thinking, “If you get on that train, I’m going to get your number.” And she was thinking, “I wonder if I have a pen and paper, so that I can give you my number.” And I was thinking, “I can make a mean spaghetti.” And she was thinking, “I hope he knows how to make good spaghetti.” Then we stopped looking at each other.

We both walked coolly and casually towards the metro station. We walked to the escalator and stood on the steps. Then, we heard our metro arrive. We both casually hurried a little, walking up the escalator steps. Then, we heard the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the closing metro doors. So we sprinted. She coolly slipped into the first open door. I, still sprinting, coolly slipped into the next open door and accidentally bashed my head against the low doorway. My smooth entrance included an “AH, JEEZ THAT HURT.”

Things were going well.

She was laughing. Some Mormons Elders entered my car at the next stop. I struck up a conversation. Nice guys. But it was a distraction, and the girl bounced at sometime unknown.

I look like an American

Four guys in a car pulled to the side of the road and started yelling in Spanish, “Amigo, amigo, wait, wait.”

So I did. It was mid-afternoon, and I had time to wait.

The front passenger asked, “Do you know Italian?” And he was, certainly, speaking Spanish with an Italian accent, with the wave-like, up-and-down, pronunciation of the words. ArRIVeDERci.

“No.”

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“A little.”

“Me too. We need help. Wait, please. We’ll pull over.”

I waited and they pulled over and only the spokesmen of the car got out to talk with me.

He started, “We’re looking for the airport. We’re businessmen, and we’re looking for the airport. Are you a tourist?” He said all this very slowly and repeated the words that he thought were important like “aERoPUERto” and “tuRISto.”

I said I was a student from the United States. Obviously. I wore my backpack and a Hope sweatshirt. About no Europeans wear clothes with words on them unless it’s “Springfield” or “Gucci” or something like that. But I told him anyway.

He continued in English and spoke quickly, “Very good. We were here for a computer conference. You know conference? We were here for a computer conference, and now it’s over, and we’re looking for the airport. We work for Apple. You know Apple? It’s from California.”

I nodded. All of these things could have been true. There was a conference center right up the road.

“Good.” And he shook my hand. “We need to find the airport because we have computers with us and we don’t want to take the bus. We have four computers. This is too many. We would like to give you one. For free. You like the Apple computers? We have too many computers. We can’t bring them all to Italy. They are in the car. Come, I’ll show you.”

HA. “That’s alright.”

“You don’t like the Apple computers?”

“No. They aren’t for me.”

“We have iPhones. You like iPhones? We have five iPhones. Too many. We give you two for free. You want to see? Come to the car. Let me show you.”

I did want to see, dammit. Maybe, just to see if they existed. But a walk to the car didn’t seem like it was worth my curiosity. It was a good fifteen feet away.

“You don’t like iPhone?”

I did not. And he shook my hand and walked away.

Roommate Surprise

I arrived home from Spring Break to find that my senora had moved me into a new room. Yass, yass. It was exciting.

My old room was tiny. I had a desk, a bed, and a closet. I could sit on my bed and work at my desk then grab a sweatshirt out of the closet without changing position. When I first arrived here, my senoras son wanted to measure me to make sure the bed would fit, but I told them it wasn’t important. My feet are used to hanging off the bed. The size of the room didn’t bother me. The window bothered me. It was small and didn’t let in much light because it was facing another building.

On days in which I had particularly smelly, nacho feet or rambunctious, egg gas, I’d open my minuscule window to try to dissipate the WMD’s with a cool breeze, some fresh air. But none would come. Instead, I’d be welcomed with the aroma of the Kebab restaurant down-below. So my habitat would smell like nacho, rotten egg, lamb sandwiches.

When my senora told me about the room swap, I started to loudly express my euphoria, but then, she quieted me. She said there were people sleeping. I thought it was her grandson and daughter. But the next morning, while I was eating my bowl of Copos Integral, two dudes come out of the room and sat down for brekkers. Surprise.

They were from Luxembourg. They were on a week-long high school trip and my senora was housing them, too. I laughed: two high schoolers living in that tiny-ass rotten lamb sandwich room. You’d have to go in there with a hazmat suit and a torch.
They were nice kids. They tried hard to keep up a good conversation at the dinner table, even though they weren’t very good at English or Spanish, and they didn’t play their techno too loud.

This week, my senora’s got a couple of French girls in that room. No, they’re sixteen. And they don’t hold up a conversation like the Luxembourgers. They seem kind of snobby. That might be a product of the language barrier, though. I like ‘em well enough. They don’t eat much. More for me.

My new room is real classy. I have a huge closet where I can spread out the little clothes I brought to Spain. Each shirt has its own shelf. The window is huge. It looks towards the mountain, and I can, actually, see the mountain.

Primavera Sangreterra

Things I did on the Ireland trip in chronological order:

Talked to some American kids on the bus to the Girona airport. They were loud, and they were freaked out by my deductive reasoning, that they, too, were going to Dublin. It did not make me proud to be American.

Started a conversation with an American girl on the plane. She was knitting. Ock knits. Ock is way cooler.

Got to the Dublin airport at about one in the mooorning, and decided to spend the night rather than look for a hostel. Ended up chatting for most of the night with a Spanish girl that studied in Belfast. She was headed home for spring break.

Took a bus into Dublin at six-thirty AM. Had a hot chocolate in McDonalds and read the Dublinish paper. The McDonalds had waterless urinals and high-tech hand dryers.

Found my hostel, but it was too early to check-in. Went to the Guinness factory. Met some dude that talked too much and spent too much money on hotels. Then some Italian guys offered me a cigarette and I pretended to smoke it so that I could enjoy some conversation. Do real smokers know when people are pretending to smoke cigarettes? Their most coherent sentence was – We like drink. They were on spring break, too.

Went back to the hostel. Bought a bed from some Nevada kids that booked an extra one on accident. Explored a little. Went to bed. Talked literature with a Slovakian kid in my room. Fell asleep.

Woke up. Met some nice American girls that said I snored. Ate the free breakfast. Off-brand Nutella. Met an Austrian dude that was headed to Belfast. He had room in the car, but he was boring. Made a sack lunch. Had a free walking tour of the city that cost four euros in tips. Explored the city. Checked-in again at the hostel. Met Willy. Talked to Willy. Willy was at least fifty-years-old. He was from Galway and was staying the night in the Dublin hostel after visiting some friends. He hadn’t tried peanut butter before, so I offered him some of mine. I asked – Is it good, Willy? And he said – Oh, ’tis, ’tis. Quite lovely. Willy’s motto was – It’s nice to be nice.

Walked to the docks. Came back. Read. Found the Nevada kids drinking. They offered me a beer, the first of many offered by them and received by me. Went out with the Nevada kids. Danced with a girl from Iowa. Got pizza. Went back to hostel and caked on the American girls that know I snore. Went to bed.

Woke up. Had hangover. Guinness is mean in the morning. It also produces copious rotten egg gas. Ate. Made a sack lunch. Bounced for Cork. It was a long walk to the outskirts of the city of Dublin. Made a sign from a paper bag that I found on the road. It read: Cork. Stood by the highway with my thumb up. Got a lift (“ride” is not to be used in Ireland) to a better spot. Stood. Got a lift with a Pakistani dude to Portlaoise. We talked about war and friendship and whatnot.

It was late. Took a bus to Limerick. Got lost in Limerick. Looked for a hostel in Limerick. Asked for directions at a gas station. Asked for directions at a halfway house. Asked for directions at a college. There are no hostels in Limerick.

Found the Railway Hotel. Met a lady and her daughter. Asked them for directions to a cheaper hotel. They led the way and explained that I should be careful at night in Limerick. She told me that her and her daughter had been living in hotels for the last few weeks because they moved out of the husband’s house. So their hotel judgment was to be trusted. They brought me to the Boutique Hotel. It was more expensive than the Railway Hotel. The concierge told me that the Railway Hotel was where men bring whores. I stayed at the Boutique Hotel. I would have probably gotten lost on the way back to the Railway, and I didn’t have a whore, anyway.

Ate breakfast, full Irish breakfast: over-easy egg, halved tomato, toast with black current jam, brown bread, good bacon, home fries, black pudding and white pudding. Black pudding is sausage with blood in it. Not bad. Explored the city. Took a bus to Cork. Met a nice university student on the bus, ginger. She was an English literature student, and we had a wonderful chat. She let me use her cellphone to call my couchsurfing host in Cork. Then she showed me around a little in Cork.

Met up with Anders, the couchsurfing host. He moved there with his girlfriend, Tineska, from Sweden. They moved to Cork two months ago, and both of them started their first job the day I arrived. We chatted. We met Tineska as she got back from her job. We went to a health food store, then to their apartment, then ate couscous. They’re vegans. Went to bed.

Woke up. Explored the city. Went to Blarney. Kissed stone. Went back and met up with the Swedish couple. We ate spaghetti and went to a pub. Listened to live Irish music. The best part was when the band stopped, not because it was bad but because, in the interludes, old, drunken, Irish men sang slow Celtic songs and the whole bar gets quiet. Went to bed.

Woke up. Bounced for Tulley Cross. Walked to a gas station on the outskirts of the city of Cork. Tineska told me that hitchhiking works better if you ask for lifts at gas stations. It’s true. Got a lift from a Polish dude to Mallow. Forgot my hitchhiking hat in his car. My ears were cold for the rest of the trip.

Got a lift with a private investigator and his son to Limerick. They loved America. The guy gave me a ride because I was American. He even asked me my nationality before he confirmed my seat. He thought I was Canadian, at first. They talked about how much they loved America and how much they hated Ireland. They go to Disney world every year. The PA had tattoos of Disney characters.

Got a lift with some university students to Galway. They dropped me off in a poorly-located location. Walked for an hour before I got to a good hitchhiking spot.

Got a lift to Moycullen from a construction worker.

Got a lift to Clifden from an English lady. It was hailing and no one was at my gas station so I had my thumb up. She pulled over. She was a journalist and a self-professed hippy. She lived and wrote and raised ponies in Connemara (the region that Clifden and Tulley Cross are in). Talking to her was nice. She told me stories about Connemara. And we talked about journalism and how far it has come, how far civilization has come. She’d see something of the modern world and slap me on the shoulder and say things like – Robert, could you explain telephone lines to Henry VIII… or cars to Queen Elizabeth… or the internet? By golly Robert, could you explain the internet?

She talked to me as we entered Connemara. It’s the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen.

Got a ride to Tully Cross from the government appointed physician from Letterfrack. He was headed to Letterfrack but he drove the extra three miles to Tulley Cross anyway. He was very Irish. He was cheery and helpful and told me about all the places where my lads should bring me when I meet them in Tulley Cross. And he pointed out a rainbow to me.

Arrived in Tulley Cross. Portice studies there. It’s a study abroad program through Aquinas. They send a group of students and teachers to this spot in rural Ireland every year to study Irishness.

The town: nine cottages, a bar, a hotel, a church, a few houses, and a closed-down bar. At the hotel, I inquired where the students live. They live in the cottages. The students were in class. I found Ellen and Molly, two Aquinas people not in class. Chilled with them. Met with Portice. Ate. Watched a movie. Went to bed.

The following days were what made Ireland wonderful for me. The snowy mountains outside the kitchen window, the lakes, the friendliness, the tacos, the Irish air, the sheep, the weather, the broken cottage heater, the long walks to the grocery store, the garlic cheese fries, the peat. The simplicity. The following days:

Woke up. Ate. Went to the beach. Came back. Did stuff. Went to pub. Drank Guinness. Came back. Went to bed.

Woke up. Went to Kylemore Abby. Walked back. Made dinner: spaghetti with tomato sauce that looked like garbage but tasked like tomato sauce. Ate. Went to Irish house party. Drank Bulmers, hard cider. Met some Irishmen. Watched an Irish comedian on TV. Went to bed.

Woke up. Played cards. Ate. Went to futbol game. Drank cider. Went to disco. Danced. Drank Guinness. Undrank Guinnness. Chilled. Almost didn’t go to bed to climb a hill with some crazies to watch the sunrise. Went to bed.

That was all I needed. Connemara is where it’s at.

Woke up. Happy Easter. Got a lift to Clifden from the parents of an Aquinas student. Megan, an Aquinas student, was my travel companion. We got a lift to Galway from a nice Polish couple. The two of us went to McDonalds to eat Cadbury crème egg McFlurries. Ate one and a half more to see if I liked em. I did. We chilled and then went to a hostel and then Megan left for Dublin.

Woke up. Explored city. Met with Emily, another Aquinas student that was headed the same direction that I was headed. We took a bus to Dublin then watched Kick Ass then went to a pub then went to bed.

Woke up. There was an Argentinean feller that sat down with me at breakfast. He wanted to play futbol in the U.S. He was already 25. He wanted to go to a top ten soccer school. I kept telling him to look into D2 schools. I don’t think he understood. Damn.

Some Barcelona girls were staying in our room. They gave us their shampoo. The one that didn’t speak English kept smiling and looking at me. She was okay-looking and wanted to chill, but I decided I’d rather look at Dublin.

Explored the city a little more. Bought a new wooly hat. Bus ride to the airport. Plane ride to Girona.

The Barcelona girls waited for the bus to Barcelona with me. We chatted but then the one that didn’t speak English started smoking and got a lot uglier and the bus came and the girls sat down in an empty seat at the front of the bus with an empty seat across from it and then looked at me and looked at the seat and smiled and I smiled and walked to the back of the bus and sat down and read.

Bus ride. Metro ride. Walk. Hola to the senora. Went to bed.

People say that they wouldn’t like to travel alone. But that’s not traveling alone, eh?

Esmeraldo el Relector de EspArrago

I haven’t done anything overtly groundbreaking this week… or last week. It’s that crunch time in school before spring break.

My art class went to Sagrada Familia. It’s a big Gaudi church that was started more than 100 years ago. It’s projected to be finished in 2030. The outside is nice on two sides, and the inside isn’t finished. The whole project reminds me of a large scale 649 Bingham. It’ll be nice when it’s done.

My art class, also, went to the Joan MirO Museum, Fundacio Joan MirO. He was into minimalism. He also liked the idea of painting for the sake of painting, because it’s fun. He had a fly beard.

Last weekend, I decided to walk to Parc Guell to do my homework. So I got lost. But I discovered the biggest escalator that I’ve seen, yet. It led to some sort of hospital, a crazy person hospital I surmised. That’s where I ate my lunch.

I, eventually, ascertained my whereabouts and began walking in the direction of my destination. I, accidentally, arrived in the park to the north of my destination. It’s easy to get mixed up because they put all their parks on top of hills. You can’t see ’em until you climb the hill. Also, I’m horrible with directions.

This is how I discovered where the gypsies live, the other side of the hill. They have a lot of dogs. But I avoided the neighborhood.

I chatted with an elderly gypsy man that was picking wild asparagus. He sat down and smoked a pipe, and I ate a lollipop that my senora gave me for Tres Reyes. It was a smiley face Christmas tree with M&M’s for bulbs. We chilled, and he explained all the different things that you can pick around the city. At least, that’s what I figured he was saying. He was speaking in Catalan.

After some time, I said good-bye and headed for Parc Guell which I could see from my vantage point on the ground in the Gypsy park.

That’s it for the weekend. But for a different topic…

I brought a couple packages of razors with me to Barcelona to do my shaving, Wal-Mart razors. I forgot my good razor thing at Hope. Wal-Mart razors really portray my true shaving ability. So, every so often, for the first month or so, I’d come to class with my faced chopped to hell. Hence, I stopped shaving for 43 days. I could almost hide things in my beard.

The other day I got ‘er cut by an Argentinean barber. He cut my hair, too. And he washed my hair. What service! I couldn't help chuckle while he washed my hair because I don't, often, have other people wash my hair. The chuckling probably made it weird for both of us.

He thought I was German because I refused to respond to him in English.