MADRID, SPAIN-

“Passport?” At 3 am I jolt upright in bed. “Where’s my passport?” In 12 hours I’m to get on a plane on an international flight back to the US–to move back after living her for six years–and at that instant a something massive and visceral smacks me awake. I hadn’t seen my passport in a few days. Inés wakes up, asks what’s wrong, says she’ll always lucky at finding things and that she’ll help me look for it. From 3 to 4 am we search all three pieces of luggage and every corner, shelf and nook throughout the apartment. Nowhere. It’s gone. A numbness covers me, because as I think about when I last saw it and where it should be, I can only deduce that I most likely threw it away, inadvertently. Because this final move consisted of giving away, disposing of or recycling all the surplus, I conclude that I either tossed it in the trash, gave it to a friend in some heap of a donation, or it went in the paper recycling bin along with hundreds of other papers that didn’t make the cut.

That’s right, I threw away my passport and realize it 13 hours before my flight.

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MADRID, SPAIN

Dear I-

In the several week run up to my exit here from your beautiful country, many people, including yourself, have asked me what I will miss about Spain. The main reaction of those who find out I’m leaving resembles this: “You been here how long - six years? Shit man. That’s a long time. Damn.” Most follow with “Why are you leaving?”.

These reactions naturally force you to consider the reality of your exit. These final days have been flashing before me like a movie reel, unable to to see one frame and appreciate it. As I type these words, I can already feel the credits starting to roll.

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GALICIA, SPAIN-

I awake at 7 am, mostly from unwieldy nervousness. Before I have time to pause and consider what is to come, I strap on my 20 pound backpack, leave the pilgrim’s shelter in Sarría and ascend a firm incline for about 45 minutes into a Tolkien dream sequence.

Once inside, the misty mountain top has no visible exit; white pulpy air hangs still upon all scenery within a 100-foot diameter.

The path levels out, my head soaking in frosty sweat; I feel like am in the heart of a chilly other world, alone.

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MADRID, SPAIN-

Two months ago over a hundred cows were set up one night in Spain capital. Just like that. One day the corners are simple, everyday Spanish-capital corners and the next, every other one is adorned with a myriad  of fiberglass cows painted every sort of design and color imaginable.

This naturally makes the tourists smile and sparkle and snap their photos standing next to these fake plastic  cows.

They clearly don’t read or care about the sign at the bottom of each cow that lists the artists’ name, the title of the piece and the little label that reads in capital letters: PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE COW.

Most of them touch the cow.

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DAYTON, OH-

Two Christmases ago I sat through DeNiro’s “The Good Shepherd” and watched a sluggish two-hour story put on cruise control until it eventually died, silently, from its own boredom around three hours long.

In knee-jittering, nicotine-withdrawal anxiety, I eagerly nibbled on my nails like nachos waiting for an assassination, unexpected death, gun or fist fight and, around the 2:50 minute mark, I resorted to settling for an argument with the actors throwing things at each that would’ve sufficed as a climax.

But nothing came at the end other than collective sighs by the audience as the credits rolled. I walked out of the theater and saw the billboard poster for the movie.

Larry King, CNN’s famed interviewer, exclaimed “Best spy movie ever!”

Larry King is a jack ass as a movie critic, and his movie critic quote (MCQ) inclusion in this poster was the first time I really noticed how different films are being packaged in the poster format in the internet age.

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MIDWEST, USA-

Dear L:

Before I left Madrid this past June, you had sent me a correspondence which had this as its final paragraph:

Please write. Write sometime and tell me things about your crazy country, full of enormous highways, tall cities, weird people, strange drinks (like Dr.Pepper, the most disgusting drink ever made after cicuta, I guess), blonde girls, cute dogs, creepy perfect neighbourhoods [sic], great writers, great musicians, great…and a long etcetera of lights and shadows of that hard to understand country you come from.

That’s quite poetic L, right there at the end with the lights and shadows etceterrata. You must be something of a writer yourself and-being Spanish-you write quite well in English. I know because I try to write in Spanish and it is widely considered to be the final and most difficult faculty to master in any second language.

Tomorrow I return to your country.

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MIDDLEBURY, VT-

Aquí hay dos historias: una que ya sabes y otra que no.

La que ya sabes cuenta lo que pasó primero, anoche, en un bar que se llama Dos Hermanos. Ya sabes la historia porque a lo mejor has vivido una experiencia parecida o si no, la has visto u oído alguna vez: Empieza con una cerveza y termina con demasiadas. El protagonista se llama Raúl y la noche previa fue su cumpleaños. De hecho, él, como yo entre otros, estuvimos en la historia que no te he contado haciendo lo que ya sabes.

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COLUMBUS, OH

There are two kinds of people in my world:

Those who think Tom Waits is some sort of musical demigod and those who think he’s black.

This is not to imply they (or I) might be racist, just uninformed or unacquired.

Maybe they are afraid of his voice?

He does sound a little like Louis Armstrong’s nightmarish great grandfather might’ve sounded after a lifetime of pounding coffin nails and guzzling sour mash. (more…)

MADRID, SPAIN

When I lived in Segovia, Spain in 1993 on a study abroad program, I saw my first bullfight.

I was 20 and full of post-teen angst and mid-college confusion, sympathetic to all underdogs in the world, including bulls.

I remember being nauseated by the spectacle: a bull charges into the ring and after 20 minutes is dragged out, punctured, bloodied and lifeless.

Fat Spanish men gnaw on wet cigars and yell vulgarities or praises, depending on the bull and bullfighter.

The bulls rarely stand a chance of surviving a bullfight.

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MADRID, SPAIN

A few weeks ago weeks I was walking down Gran Vía and stumbled across a pre-screening for the final episode of the third season of a Spanish series (inspired by an original Columbian one). (more…)

MADRID

The message read Feliz Navidad Guapisimo!

Spaniards toss around the word guapo/a as if it were a definite article, but the extra oomph given to any noun with -isimo/a is not to be taken lightly and should be considered serious flirtation.

The number had no name attached to it, but I assumed it was from a girl, as most men don’t call other men guapisimo unless they’re gay or being facetious. (more…)

MADRID, ESPAÑA

In contemplating this post (possibly the first all-video post on TNB?) I looked into the history of the handshake and why humans have come to do it.

While it may be of (trivial) interest to note that Sir Walter Raleigh is accredited with bringing about the modern handshake (along with tobacco and thus the cigarette, the bastard) and also that it was initially used to reveal no weapons were being held and hence it was a show of trust and so on and so forth, I realized that I am not Wikipedia, that Wikipedia itself is probably only 80% accurate and that if you, dear reader, wish to know more about the handshake, reading it via my vapid digital prose (or non-plagiarized copying from Wiki) is probably not going to wow or educate you anymore than the pertinent text of Wikipedia itself.

So, JGreen and I developed this unique greeting which has been called the Viking S (more…)

MADRID, SPAIN (with remote editing from BROOKVILLE, OHIO)

My cat has bathroom issues.

This is my fault. I live alone, more or less, and tend to leave the door open. Whenever I go in there, El Lío follows. If I take a shower, he sits idly on the shelf under the sink and watches my blurry profile soap and rinse through the translucent shower curtain. If I stand to relieve myself, he perches himself on the shelf and watches the stream enter the toilet, like it’s a liquid string (which I guess, in a way, it is). If I sit down, he jumps into the bathtub and stares at me intently with black-bubbled pupils, wanting to play a game of finger hide-and-seek-attack .

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Islas Filipinas, Madrid, Spain, Iberia, Southwestern Europe

DAY 1

After exchanging the obligatory pleasantries, I sat down across from him at his desk.

I explained to the man that I hadn’t been to a dentist since I moved here, over four years ago. I assured him that I flossed pretty regularly and had a pretty good diet and that, apart from the fact that I was in the bitter two-week psychological throes of quitting smoking, that nothing really alarmed me bucal-wise or was noteworthy. (more…)

MADRID-

The subway train slows into the station and smooths to a soft, comfortable stop.

It’s the fourth stop on my five-stop ride.

There are no seats available and I find myself standing directly opposite the set of entrance/exit doors.

Doors open, several people exit.

In the wake of their exit stands a rugged-looking hombre in his early 40s, holding a tall-boy of Mahoua Classica in one hand–the Madrileña king of beers–and a cigarette in the other. His dark green trenchcoat is bedraggled and frayed; his well-worn jeans end to reveal a pair of once-white tennis shoes that look like they were soaked for days in asparagus-alimented piss.

At his feet lies an old typewriter. (more…)