Summer 2011 Update

Note: It's September and I find myself at my childhood home in San Diego for my annual 'visit' of my hometown.    Before I launch into a series of general-interest blogs, I thought I'd give a quick personal update on my travels.  So to explain how I moved from Spain to Argentina to the States, let's start the story three months ago, back in May when I was still living in San Sebastián...

Leaving The Basque Country...

I was getting restless in San Sebastián. After two years of a relatively settled life in Spain I was itching to get back on the road. At night I lay in bed awake, craving more certainty, adventure, and danger.

My closest buddies in San Sebastián

My life was moving in the opposite direction. I was making good friends in the Basque Country, starting to put down roots. My Spanish reached a level near fluency, and now the next step was Basque. And as my writing career continued to develop I began focus more and more and Spain, and I worried about getting pigeonholed. I wrote a guidebook on the Basque Country, opening up even more reasons for me to stay put.

Yet my soul respects no frontiers. Two years after my wanderings through Asia, I felt an irrepressible urge to pack my things in a backpack and go with the wind. I turned long weekends into freewheeling hitchhiking jaunts across Spain, doing whatever I could to hone my vagabonding skills. With my thumb out along the roads of Navarra and Aragon, I felt an inner peace and contentment I had almost forgotten.

With Friends in San Sebastián - Santo Tomás

Summer came quickly and the year was suddenly over. My lease expired on my apartment on May 31^st and I had no plans henceforth. With no job and no apartment I knew I would have to get creative if I wanted to keep up the momentum. But what to do? Where to go?

The answer was clear in my heart: I wanted to sail. I'd talked to a few people who had worked as a deckhand – the entry-level position of seafaring – and heard stories of adventure and good pay, up to 2500€ a month with living expenses covered. I was sold - that was over triple what I made as an English teacher. I packed up my life in the Basque Country and booked a flight to Palma de Mallorca, with only a vague notion of how to make it happen.

Practicality has never been my forte. For one, I had very little money. San Sebastián is an exceedingly expensive city and my scholarship paid very little. Much of what I'd managed to save had been invested into writing my guidebook, leaving almost nothing for summertime adventures.

Moreover, over half of my savings would have to be invested in to a sailing certification called the STCW 95, a near requisite for sailors. But it was a “near” requisite, and I was determined to hold off on procuring the expensive piece of paper until I had both my feet on Majorcan soil. If I could become a sailor without dropping over half my net worth, by god I would save the silver.

Previous Sailing Experience

But there was an even larger challenge before me – my painful, glaring, complete and embarrassing lack of sailing experience. I've made some bold moves before, but this bordered on stupidity. Though I'd always harbored dreams of sailing the world, they'd remained just that – dreams. I'd failed to bring them from abstraction to reality. In fact, the only picture I have of me sailing sits upon my father's office desk - a ten-year old Marko piloting a dinghy across a lake, white knuckles gripping the helm, life jacket raising above my ears, and my mouth wide open. Screaming in terror.

In short, this would be a journey of personal growth. There would be obstacles to overcome, but after wrapping up my first guidebook I felt confident and ready for another challenge. Excited, anxious, unqualified and unprepared, I departed the Basque Country and flew to Palma de Mallorca

#11 - Carnival in Cadiz Pt. 1 - The First Night

Note: It's a long post...but, hey, it was a long night.  Part Two is coming soon...Enjoy!

***

It’s 9:30 Saturday night and I’m drinking a calimocho in front of the El Puerto de Santa Maria train station and watching the trains whisk thousands of people around the bay to Cádiz.

Carnival has begun. 

I’d arrived the night before.  It had taken me about 18 hours to travel halfway across the Iberian Peninsula from Arévalo to Cádiz.  I was staying with a fellow English teacher and CouchSurfer, Taylor, and rolling deep with eight other graduates of UCLA, including my good friend Zubin. 

The night before had been silent.  Bars were empty, the streets clean, and the sky over southern Spain was uncharacteristically stormy.  Everyone was sleeping, resting and preparing for the 10-days of Carnival which lay ahead. 

And now I am having my first drink of the night and realizing what mayhem I have signed up for.  When I posted my last blog, I wrote that I knew Carnival was “more than just a party,” implying that it still retained some religious significance.  It seems I was mistaken. 

The local police are well aware of what’s in store and have adopted the most sensible policy – staying clear of the onrush.  They only ask that no one brings glass bottles on the train. 

I feel drastically unprepared for this.  I should have taken a siesta this afternoon.  My costume is decent, but most groups of friends have coordinated their outfits.  I am dressed in a loose pants and a shirt covered in Hindi excerpts from the Bhagavad Gita, trying to pass off as an Indian.  Derek, another local English teacher, is dressed as a detective.  Zubin is wearing street clothes with a 2€ plastic mask on his face.  And Taylor, our CouchSurfing host, is wearing a ski jacket and holding a Mexican wrestling mask under his arm.  For better or for worse, the four of us have banded together for the night. 

We are better prepared in other areas, though.  We foresaw that buying drinks in Carnival would be either extremely difficult or prohibitively expensive, so we have pre-purchased some rum and cokes and brought everything along in plastic bottles.

We enter the station and see the rest of our group: about ten other English teachers from across Andalusia and Alicante.  We take a few pictures while we’re all together.  It would be a miracle if our group surived intact once we arrive in Cadiz.

Everyone is buying round trip tickets on the train.  The first train comes back at 4:30 AM.  The train arrives and we all rush onboard.  There is barely any room to stand.  The train swells as more people board at each stop.  The Spaniards are chanting songs together and we are all smiling and laughing. 

Anticipation is rising with the number of passengers.  Now we are all pressed against each other chest to chest.  I’m standing next to two Spaniards, one dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte and the other as the Pope.  They are chain-smoking doobies of chocolate (hashish) and have effectively hot-boxed the entire train.  It is as packed as a Bombay local train at rush hour, and if they’d opened the doors we would have hung out the side of the train as well. 

I make a joke that the only place with any space remaining is in the bathroom.  We all laugh, but then a group of girls goes into the toilet and never comes back. 

We finally arrive at the station.  Ya esta! Ya esta! they shout.  Everyone is spilling out of the train when suddenly I hear a loud THUD! and a girl behind me starts screaming loudly.  I turn and find Napoleon Bonaparte lying on his back with his eyes rolled back in his head and his tongue flopped off to the side.  I think he is having a seizure and pull out my pen to wedge between his teeth.

One of the American girls behind me yells Someone call 911! and her friend screams They don’t have 911 in Spain!  They don’t HAVE 911 in Spain!  They don’t HAVE it!  Meanwhile, the Pope drags Napoleon off the train and down onto the platform. 

Then Napoleon is back on his feet, dazed but smiling.  The Pope tells me that the chocolate had gone to his head.  I smile and hand Napoleon back his hat.  Within minutes the doobie-smoking-dictator is ready to re-attempt conquering the night. 

So am I.  We gather in the vestibule of the train station and make a futile attempt to reassemble our massive posse.  A girl says that I don’t look Indian enough.  She rubs a little lipstick on her finger and smears a makeshift bindi across my forehead. 

I’m taking notes on all this when Taylor sidles up to me and says, “Hey man…Um, I’m gonna put on my costume.  Can you watch my things?”  I nod my head and continue scribbling in my notepad. 

I hear a collective gasp sweep across the entire train station and from the corner of my eyes I see the crowd start backing away from me.  I put away my notepad and look up.  It’s just Taylor and me alone in the middle of a gigantic circle of onlookers.  Taylor is finally in his costume. 

When taciturn Taylor told me that he was going to put on his costume, I didn’t realize that it would entail taking off all his clothes.  Yet there he is, standing next to me in the freezing cold wearing nothing but some teeny undies and a Mexican wrestling mask.  The Spanish are terrified of being perceived as ‘ridiculo’ – walking around in whitey-tighties is just not done.

Therefore Taylor is an instant hit.  Todo del mundo is yelling Joder!  Mira a este tio!  Taylor really looks like a wrestler.  In fact, he is Taylor no more – he has transformed into El Luchador. 

People are a-pointing and cameras a-flashing, but we have to get a-going.  I run into the circle, break through the ‘Madre mia!’s, pull the rock-star away off the red carpet and sweep him out of the station. 

It’s no use.  We’ve only advanced fifty meters and once again he is surrounded by onlookers.  He is turning every head with in a 50-foot radius.  Que cajones tienes, tio! they shout, ¿No tienes frio?  I see that El Luchador and his incessant photo-shoots are preventing us from going anywhere. 

But it doesn’t matter.  Our buddy is the most famous guy in Carnival and we all leech off his parvenu status.  We’re like Turtle from the early seasons of Entourage as we walk down the street introducing ourselves as friends of El Luchador. 

We push him through the crowd and he parts the sea of people like Moses.  Everyone is just turning their heads and stepping out of his path.  They’ve never seen anything like it. 

We’re at the edge of a main plaza now.  It is the size of a football field and it’s overflowing with people, pouring groups of costumed Carnivalers down side streets and into cafés and bars.  I put my hands on my friends’ shoulders and let out a deep breath of satisfaction. 

We made it. 

“Jesus, guys.  It’s only 10 PM,” I say, “We’ve got over six hours left to go.  Bust out that rum and let’s mix ourselves some Cuba Libres.”  We reach into our goodie bag and pull out the supplies: two bottles of Coke, a few cups and…what the hell?

Our bottles of rum had vanished.

***

Disaster.  We must have picked up the wrong bag when we’d gotten off the train.  That chaos with Napoleon had thrown us off.  No matter.  We push through the crowd and search for a liquor store. 

Everything is closed.  The bars have barricaded their doors and are selling cañas of cerveza and bocadillos – the fuel of Carnival.  No liquor stores in sight.  We’ve lost all the rest of our group and now its only me, Zubin, Derek and El Luchador.  We find a store and someone goes inside to buy more rum.  I hang outside and watch the crowd pass by. 

The Spanish have gone all-out with their outfits.  America has Halloween, Spain has Carnival.  Cadiz is a swirling menagerie of costumes: Cowboys and Indians, Cleopatras and Marc Antonys, Noah with his entire ark in tow, pirates, sumos, gansters, and cops. 

Yet for all the diversity there remained a sizeable number of repeated costumes.  It was as if everyone had shopped at the same exact shop.  Aside from the inexplicable popularity of the ‘chicken suit,’ there was an army of Smurfs, 100 Ali Babas trailed by 4,000 thieves, 300 Musketeers and more Dukes and Marquis than I could Count. 

It was pure bacchanality.  Everyone laughing and strolling the streets with drink in hand – one enormous bottellon.   The only thing in America that comes close is Mardi Gras in New Orleans, which – being a former colony of catholic France – is where the largest American celebration of Carnival has survived. 

My friends come back outside with the rum and we fill up our glasses.  Derek offers me a bag of lemons and I reach inside and snatch one up.  “Hey!” he says, “Don’t be so cocksure with my lemons!  And let’s put all the rum inside one bag so we don’t lose it again.”  Good plan.  Navigating a crowd this thick was nearly impossible – losing our rum and having to retreat to the liquor store again was the last thing we wanted to do. 

“Vale.  ¿Listos? ¿A donde vamos?”  Someone suggests we go to Plaza de something-or-rather and we plunge back into the seething tangle of alleyways. 

We approach a plaza even larger than the previous.  We have to link arms to stay together through the crowd.  Trying to find a lost comrade would have been futile.  I remember seeing some drunk American girl with her finger in one ear and her phone in the other, yelling,

“Where are you guys?!?  I’m lost!  Do you see a…a sign or…or a building or something?  I see…What?  I said, I see a big church with a stage in front of it!  There are a lot of people dressed like Arabs dancing on the stage!  Where are you...?” 

Egads!  People dressed like Arabs, singing and dancing?  What on earth could she be talking about? Then I saw it: Ahhhh!  The famous “Chirigotas!”  (Click here for video).

Above the crowd of people and floating Mexican sombreros I could see the Chirigotas, the singing groups of Gaditanos (people from Cadiz) that make Cadiz’s Carnival celebrations famous around the world.  They supposedly write humorous and witty songs about current events, but between the noise, the distance and their Andalusian accents, I couldn’t understand a word. 

In the midst of the crowd we run into some of Derek and Tyler’s friends: a girl and a guy both wrapped in pink, blue and orange boas and trying to pass off as chickens.  We are introduced and we move forward towards the stage.  The proximity doesn’t help - we still can’t understand the Chirigotas’ songs. 

It’s time for another drink.  We call for another round – but the bag has disappeared again!

Our spirits sink and we begin to think the night is doomed to fail. Not only did the bag contain the alcohol, but most of El Luchador’s clothes.

No looking back.  Time to move forward.   

We break away from the crowd and cut down a side street.  A half dozen girls line either side of the street, squatting against the wall and pissing in plain sight, sin vergüenza.  I look down at the wet ground and notice how disgusting the streets are.  A grey sludge coats the cobbled streets – a mixture of booze, piss, rain and god-knows-what-else. 

The music is far away now and I notice the almost relentless sound of glass bottles smashing against the ground.  I can feel glass grinding and cracking under the soles of my soiled shoes as we walk back to the liquor store. 

We pool together some money and get more rum – one bottle this time, not too.  No more risks.  Fill the cups up and carry nothing in our hands.  Leave nothing to chance. 

Taylor must be feeling antsy.  He has stripped down once again and he is attempting to fit his 6-foot-6 frame into a miniature car – one of those coin-operated rides that wiggle back and forth and bring toddlers endless joy. 

Seeing El Luchador squeeze into that car brings me and the thirty other spectators two minutes of pure joy.  Everyone is snapping photos as he wiggles into the cockpit, squeezing one leg at a time, his head bent under the roof and his crotch resting on the steering wheel. 

As he is squeezing out of the car I am almost knocked over by a team of guys unloading tons of ice from a lorry.  Some girl runs past me with her hands in the air, crying and screaming “I don’t give a f***!” over and over again while her boyfriend trails behind her pleading and apologizing. 

The four of us need to have a pow-pow.  We pull El Luchador away from another photo-shoot and huddle together.  We need a game plan.  Ok, boys, what do we want to do?  Um…have fun?...And talk to girls?  Bueno.  Where is that happening?  Plaza de España?  ¡Vamanos!

It’s past midnight now, which means it’s Valentine’s Day.  It doesn’t resemble it in the slightest.  People everywhere are making out – pirates with chickens, D’Artangian with Cleopatra.  Pure concupiscence here, not a shred of romance to be found. 

I am reminded of a statistic I read, something about how Spaniards have more public sex than any country in Europe.  Spaniards typically live at home until they are married (at 30-plus), so they hook up in the only place they can get some privacy – in public.

We stop for a moment while someone goes for a leak.  Our friend dressed like a big orange chicken slips and falls in a planter full of brown sludge – the physical embodiment of Carnival at its grimiest.  He’s trying to smile and rationalize his misfortune as he wipes the Carnival Juice off his pants.  “It’s probably just rainwater…it rained a lot today…it’s probably just rainwater…”

…yeah, man, sure it is.  We are nodding our heads sympathetically when Zubin returns from peeing, and now we are ready to move once again. 

My notepad from this point on is filled with indecipherable scribble.  The crowd is at its peak and it is too crowded to write.  I pull out my camera but the screen is totally smashed in.  It’s destroyed.  My spirits are too high to care.  All my mental images are in portrait style now.  Vertical glimpses of Carnival squeezed between two buildings: one-part party-goers, two-parts brightly painted walls and balconies. 

Derek goes off to pee in a bar.  He never comes back.  The two chickens try to find a down-low place for her to do the same.  They also disappear.  I try calling them but I run out of minutes mid-call.  Curse Vodafone!  All three of our friends are lost forever.  Just me, Zubin and El Luchador remain. 

Its about 2:30 AM when we arrive in Plaza de España.  It’s taken us over two hours to get here and thus far we’ve lost 2.25 litres of rum, 11 friends, Taylor’s shirt, his wrestling mask, and my camera.  But we are finally here.  After so much anticipation our sudden arrival begs the inevitable question:

“Now what?”  We’re three dudes standing in a circle, slowly sipping our drinks and scoping the scene.

“Talk to girls.” 

“Right.” 

Silence… 

“I thought this was the square where cute girls came up and talked to us.”

“No.  That one is Plaza de…”  Taylor’s voice trails off.

“Vale.  Let’s go there.”

And we’re off again.  This conversation is repeated as we bounce from plaza to plaza.  The crowd doesn’t thin a bit.  We are all trapped in Cadiz until the first train departs at 4:45.  It’s a marathon party – full contrast to the 100-meter dash we run as we race against last call in American bars. 

The clock strikes 4 and we mob to the train station.  RENFE employees open the gates to the station and we flood into the vestibule, down the platform and onto the train.  45 minutes till ETD.  Zubin and I are sitting across from two guys from Jerez de la Frontera and they start telling us about their annual feria in May.  I try to keep my eyes open and pay attention…

…we must come to Jerez to see the festival.  Something about flamenco guitarists with girls dancing.  Even horses dancing – horses!  On their hind-legs, dancing to the music!  Yes, it’s unbelievable but it’s true.  We simply must see it for ourselves.  Yes of course, we can stay with them, in their home with their family and their mothers will cook us the traditional Andalusian food, something muy tipico de Jerez.  Have we tried Sherry wine, the grape that originates in Jerez?  Why yes, there are some manchitas of it on my shirt as we speak.  Yes, yes, we will come to the festival and drink sherry wine together, yes, yes, yes, por supesto, por supuesto, tio…

…I wake up thirty minutes later with one of them kicking me in the leg.  It’s your stop!  El Puerto de Santa Maria!  Get off!  Hurry, hurry! 

I grab the boys and we slip off the train, grab a cab and then we are back home and getting into bed as the sun rises over Cadiz and closes out the first night of Carnival.  

# 5: A Clean, Well-Lighted Train Station

Arévalo’s train station sits atop a hill a half-mile from town, alone and tragic like one of Hemmingway’s short stories.  I was sitting by myself in the one-room brick station reading A Clean, Well-Lighted Place when an elderly man opened the door.  He walked inside past the ticket counter and sat directly beside me.  I glanced at the other three empty benches, then closed my book and greeted him respectfully. 

“Buenas noches,” he replied.  He was leaning forward in his chair with his hands upon his cane.  He sat there for a minute stroking his thick gray moustache in silence.  His brown tweed jacked was pulled taut by his paunch and his gray sweater was sprinkled with breadcrumbs.  His deep breaths smelt of anis. I opened my book and continued reading. 

What he said to me next I cannot recall, as our subsequent conversation was so peculiar that it overshadowed whatever small talk we may have had. 

“I am alone,” he said.   “My wife is dead.”  I offered my condolences but he brushed them aside and cut right to the chase. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.

“Not at the moment.”

“Then you are alone as well.”  He sighed and tapped his finger against his cane.  “Why don’t you have a Spanish girlfriend?”

“I just arrived three weeks ago.” 

“Ah, I see.”  The Old Man paused and stared at his feet.  He looked me in the eyes. 

“Have you follado a Spanish girl yet?” he asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.  I begged his pardon and he repeated and clarified the one question I had never expected a 75-year-old stranger to ask me.

I tried to evade his question.  He persisted.  The Old Man turned, leaned towards me, and continued in an excited whisper.

“Spanish girls go all night, don’t they?  Come on, tell me!  How many have you had?”

I reduced my Spanish proficiency and pretended not to understand. 

The door opened again and a girl about my age walked inside.  The Old Man straightened up and smiled, then followed her eagerly with his eyes as she walked past.  When she leaned against the counter to buy her ticket The Old Man couldn’t control himself anymore.  He elbowed me, pointed at her, began tracing the contours of her body with his wrinkled hands and longingly caressing the empty air.  He winked at me. 

She took her ticket and sat down across from us to wait for her train.  I slid away from The Old Man and hoped the presence of a third person would end this awkward scene.  I opened my book and continued reading: 

‘What did he fear?  It was a nothing that he knew too well.  It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too.  It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order.  Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada, nada pues nada y nada y pues nada.  Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada...’

The Old Man bumped me with the handle of his cane to get my attention.  I threw him an exasperated look.  He was holding his cane with the heel in the air.  His slid his right hand down the cane about a foot from the end and pointed his left hand toward my crotch. 

“How big are you?” he whispered.  His mouth was slightly ajar and his eyes were open wider than ever.  He slid his hand an inch closer towards the end of the cane.  “¿Asi?"

I looked at him closely and noticed again the breadcrumbs that covered his chest, probably remnants of his last solitary meal.  No wife to brush off his crumbs, no reason to look in the mirror.  I opened my mouth to say something but I pitied him too much to get angry. 

I stood up and said good-bye.  “Mi tren viene ahora.  Cuidate.”

“Where are you going? Your train doesn’t leave for another 17 minutes!” he called after me as I walked outside into the cold.  I crossed the tracks and saw his black silhouette staring at me from the waiting room of the station. 

It was a cold, dark night and I could see my breath as clearly as the constellations above me.  I have eight months left in this town, I thought.  Lord, please spare me from such a fate. 

The light of my train appeared in the distance.  I tucked Hemmingway into my backpack as the train passed the factories, slowed, and stopped at the platform.  I swung onto the train and sped away from Arévalo. 

And so began my double life. 

#4: Mensaje de: Vodafone

Before we travel anywhere else, I want to take you back to the first few weeks I spent in Arévalo and retrace my steps to where I am today. 

The old section of Arévalo may revolve around the main church, but the new part of town is centered around the bus station.  Arévalo is a minor stop on a major highway that connects Madrid to northwest Spain.  Every day ten buses pause here for a ten-minute pit-stop on their daily shuttle between the capitol and the university town of Salamanca. 

On the eve of my third weekend in Arévalo I spent an hour in a café studying Spanish and watching the buses pass by.   A Salamanca-bound bus pulled up across the street.  A few students got out to smoke and five cute girls came into my café and ordered coffees.  They circled around a table and sipped their drinks, smoking, laughing, and discussing their plans for the weekend, unaware that they had just doubled the number of available women in the town. 

I had no plans for the weekend.  There was only one other English teacher in town and the social life of Arévalo left something to be desired.  I had tried to make plans with some other English teachers in distant parts of Spain but nothing had materialized.  I was beginning to realize that traveling in Europe would require more advanced planning than backpacking in Asia.  

My cell phone vibrated and my heart jumped at the prospect of a message from one of my dozen friends in Spain.  I was so excited I almost threw my phone across the room as I pulled it out of my pocket.  The message read:

Mensaje de: Vodafone

Texto: 20% de saldo extra si recargas 20 euro o mas hasta…

Great.  The only person that sends me text messages is my service provider.  I put my phone away. I watched the girls finish their coffees, pay, and walk off chattering to each other until they were back on the bus on the highway on the way to Salamanca to apartments to classes to engagements to friends to life to anywhere but here.  Gone. 

I was alone again and surrounded by old men drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.  I slid a coin across the bar to the waiter, grabbed my coat and left.

It could be worse, I thought as I walked outside and turned towards the park.  When you don’t get what you wish, at least you get an experience.  Maybe the slow rural life is just what I need after a year and a half of restless wandering.  I had been repeating this to myself for the last three weeks but on that day my mind refused to accept self-delusion. 

Such rationalizations had worked in the beginning.  Maybe I had just been too disoriented to know where I was.

Disorientation is the best word to describe my arrival in Arévalo.  I was greeted at the bus station by the head of the local high-school, immediately taken to my host family’s house, and dropped off in the heart of España Profunda. 

I remember that first week of total immersion in as an incomprehensible blur of Spanish punctuated by the occasional familiar word.  I kept my nose buried in a pocket dictionary and survived by a combination of sign language and grunting noises.  I was introduced to the local kids my age and dragged around to the bars like some dumbstruck caveman.  I understood practically nothing that was said to me.

After a week I started to make sense of the world around me.  I got my own apartment with three Spaniards and unpacked my backpack for the first time since graduation 18 months earlier.  On my second weekend I called up the local boys and went out to a barbeque and back out on the town again.  We went to the same bar, the same disco and saw the same people.  I realized my biggest problem was not the lack of people (after all, 7,000 people is quite a lot).  It was the lack of young people.  My town was entirely comprised of newly-weds and nearly-deads.  Everyone between ages of eighteen and thirty had moved to bigger towns for university, work, or excitement.  Everyone, that is, except me.  

Boredom appeared and began to follow me like a shadow.  I threw myself into books.  Each day I studied and practiced Spanish for hours and hours until my head hurt.  I was determined to use my free time to learn to play an instrument.  I picked up a Spanish guitar and I haven’t put it down since. 

I went to work four days a week and accustomed myself to having a schedule after a year of traveling.  I got to know my students and picked up a few hours of tutoring to supplement my meager paycheck.  I started going to the gym.  My schedule slowly filled up and I finally felt busy.

Then two of my roommates suddenly moved out at left me with Jesús, the quietest of them all.  One of them took a job in another town and the second couldn’t stand the boredom and loneliness of Arévalo.  I was left alone in an empty apartment with Jesús.

I found this Jesús a little less interesting than his namesake.  He could not turn water into wine nor hold a conversation for more than two sentences.  And because our electricity bills were now split by only two of us, he imposed a nightly black-out upon our apartment.  I searched the sky for bombers but I heard no air-raid siren. Without my other two roommates for entertainment, boredom finally caught up with me. 

I had to get out of Arévalo.  I turned a short trip to nearby Ávila into a long weekend and hung out with the other teachers from my program.  I spent two nights going out with a mixed crew of Americans, Germans, French and Spaniards.  With 60,000 residents, Ávila seemed like New York City compared to Arévalo. 

Then, a week later, as I wandered around town, I was facing the prospect of another weekend in Arévalo.  I walked to the edge of town and watched the buses and cars heading north to Salamanca.  I stood before a road sign of possibilities – Ávila – 47 km, Salamanca 110 km, Segovia 117...

I had to escape but I knew not where to go. At age 23, movement of any kind is progress.  My town was stagnating and I could not afford to let it slow me down.  I had to find a way to maintain my momentum.

Then my cell phone buzzed.  A text message from my friends in Ávila.  Would you like to come to Ávila tonight?  I put my phone away, ran to my apartment, packed my bags, and jumped on the first train south.

#1 Hola from Spain!

Hello everybody!  Welcome to my new blog, Un Idea Peregrina. 

You may have followed my travels through Asia last year on my blog, Celestial Navigation, or maybe this is your first time reading my work.  In any case, welcome to all. 

It has been a while since I have seen most of you, as I have spent the better part of the last two years working and traveling in India and Asia.  Now I live in a small town in Spain where I am teaching English and learning Spanish.

I left for Asia one year ago today.  I had a one-way ticket, a small backpack and a head full of crazy dreams, and I spent seven months chasing these dreams from Singapore through all of South East Asia, China, and Eurasia to St. Petersburg Russia.

Now, one year later, I’m trying to continue the adventures.  I’ve got big plans for the future but small-town life in Spain is not turning out how I expected.  When I accepted the offer to teach Spanish in a 7,000-person pueblo I figured it would be a nice, quiet place to learn Spanish and take a stab at writing my first book. 

I envisioned this idyllic little town where all the men spent the days lounging in the shade and draining wine skins while beautiful girls danced to flamenco music in the streets.  Thrown in a couple of bulls and matadors and you can imagine this Spanish Eden I had in my head. 

Life has dealt me a different hand.  I’m not saying the village is bad; it’s actually quite beautiful and peaceful.  Too peaceful. I’m going to go nuts if I stay in such a small town every weekend.  So I am forced to lead a double-life: part-time English teacher during the week and full-time adventurer on the weekends. 

So far my adventures have gone well.  I have traveled across Spain in my free time but I have many more plans in my head.  Maybe too many plans...  First I want to travel to…well, I am getting ahead of myself.  Perhaps I should explain the title of my blog before we go any further… 

But I am rambling, and it’s five o’clock - time to take my daily paseo.  What’s that?  You don’t know what a paseo is?  Don’t worry.  Come with me, I’ll explain the rest along the way…