First, a man takes a drink. Then the drink takes a drink. Finally the drink takes the man."--AA refrain

We order some tostas and a couple cañas (6 oz draft beers).

The tostas are topped with a tender cut of red meat, grape jelly and leafy greens.

Toast, flank, and purple preserves.

We're nestled into the corner of this tiny, crowded bar, trying not to look like assholes.

We have this haggard curvature to our bodies.

We sink back into the walls like our eyes in their sockets.

If the walls weren't there, we'd either be lying on the ground or standing up like two human-sized bananas.

This is Wayne Bindle Bender's last day of his two-week stint in Madrid, Spain.

It's 3:30 pm and we are two drinks away from becoming irrelevant.

The plan is to burn off some free radicals and enjoy the tradition that is the relaxed nonchalance of Sunday in La Latina.

After that we'll go back to my flat, he'll pack and we'll commiserate one last time before he wakes up and jumps the transatlantic pond back to the land of 24-hour freedom and long-distance wars.

The only healthy thing we have done since he arrived is laugh.

We just returned from a six-day trip in Andalusia where we indulged excessively in everything and Wayne imparted some AA philosophy:

"First, a man takes a drink..."

Wayne and I take our first drink.

We finish our tostas, move on to a terrace, and order another caña.

"Madrid," Wayne says, "has made me believe in humanity again."

The TNB camera comes out and starts filming.

But he's immediately flustered and unable to expound.

"'Cause they know how to get their humanity on."

Wayne has been using Dr. Dre's phrase of "get (insert whatever it is you are doing) on" to excessive levels, so much so that it has become contagious.

When we were in Andalusia, we got everything on that we could.

"...got our drink on..." (everywhere)
"...got our dance on..." (Tarifa)
"...got our eat on..."  (Cadiz, Tarifa, Malaga, Cordoba)
"...got our vacation on..." (Andalusia)
"...got our sleep on..." (rarely)
"...got our Moor on..." (Tangiers)
"...got our Babel on..." (everywhere)
"...got our three dog night on..." (Tarifa)
"...got our ad infinitum on..." (still getting this on)

He also uses the word broads instead of girls/females/ladies/women.

And, somehow, he pulled off turning "goddammit" into a noun.

"Can you pass the...gahdammit?"
"So once we get on the gahdammit, keep your eyes out for the Moors--we don't anyone getting a Baghdad bowtie."
"So I'm kissing this broad, trying to figure out how to get the gahdammit off of her..."
"When we get back to the gahdammit, let's smoke a cigar."

Beyond that, he spoke in a very well-informed and articulate manner.

He looks around the terrace area.

"My gahd--how can any town have so many beautiful women in it?" he asks.

It's Madrid, where all the internal migration occurs. I wouldn't call it New York, but it is as close as they get to it.

"And their hands, damn these broads have big hands," he says.

How so?

"Just look at 'em - they're enormous. You don't see hands like that in the US."

I hadn't noticed it before and since I haven't seen female American
hands on a regular basis in almost four years, I couldn't really see it.

I'm a chin man, I say.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Well, some men like legs or breasts or asses or even feet--and I'm
not saying I don't like those parts--but more than anything I like a
solid, well-defined jaw.

"I've never heard of such a thing."

It's better than being a hand man.

"I didn't say I was a hand man, just that they have big hands."

We meet up with Wes and Jeremy, two other solid pilgrims in a world full of passengers.

We get our eat and observation on.

"What's that broad's shirt say?" Wayne asks.

"Teenage Deleted".

Wes, Wayne, Jeremy and I find an open table and order some drinks.

Sunday La Latina is in full-tilt and it's around 6 pm.

Wayne takes a sip from his cana and says, "The drink takes the drink."

Jeremy and Wade inquire as to what that means exactly.

He explains:

"First, a man takes a drink and all is well and good. He probably enjoys the drink and no one gets hurt. Now the moment he decides to order another drink, it's not actually him ordering it, but the drink that's inside him. You see, the drink inside the man has swirled around in his gully and made him feel all warm and cosy. So when he decides to have another drink, it's actually the drink that's telling him 'I want another one to keep feeling like this'. If he listens and obliges, the drink inside of him as actually made the choice for him. Hence, the drink takes a drink."

Wes and Jeremy nod, seeming to understand.

We continue speaking in vague generalizations, blanket statements and odd non-sequiturs.

After the drink has officially started to take a drink, Wes suggests that we go over to the Retiro park to enjoy the other part of the Sunday tradition: the beautiful chaos of the drum circles.

On our way, Wayne makes me take some photos of things that you can't see in the states.

www.lazybeggers.com

A building under construction that looks like the building it will one day look like.

Madrid's central Post Office

Puerta de Alcalá - the old entrance into the city

Spain (or Ireland's?) never-ending fascination with naming pubs after famous dead people.

Our destination is the famous drum circle where all the hippies and dregs end up, desperately clutching onto the last few hours of sunlight before Monday's oblivion.

Monument to Alfonso XII

The drum circle is full of Spanish hippies, African immigrants and the occasional amazed or confused tourist.

And this:

A drink that took a man a while ago.

To our right is a German tourist with a backpack that is the unfortunate victim of loving the beat but being unable to demonstrate it.

We sit around the steps to the monument and breathe in the bohemia.

Wes suggests that we buy some beers from a Moor selling them straight out of the trash can.

In a flash, we all have beers in our hands.

It's 8 pm, the sunlight is beginning to wane.

Wayne and I sip our drinks.

Technically speaking, the drinks have now taken the men.

Before we become irrelevant, we climb the 10 stairs of the monument to get more of an aerial view of the scene.

And Wayne, being Wayne, says something that only Wayne can say, in the way that only Wayne can say it.

But this time, for some reason, it means more.

I had a great time too Wayne; I'll see you in the light of a different day.

+++++++++++++

Sometimes you are left in a sizable vacuum when someone leaves and Wayne's visit was one of those; Kip's still recovering. Wayne and Kip made a pact to get their health on after he left so that they could start contributing to the greater good for as long as their bodies will allow them to.

Other somewhat humorous videos of Wade can be found here (Later that night, after the drinks had taken the men, waiting for a table at Alfredo's Burger Restaurant), here (Wayne and I walking Carolyn home after being out all night--pay special attention to Wayne's right hand which appears to be glued to Carolyn's bra strap),  here (Wayne extracting a very early morning beer in Tarifa from a vending machine and making random commentary part 1), here (Wayne extracting a very early morning beer in Tarifa from a vending machine and making salacious commentary part 2).These didn't make the cut because they didn't fit into the format of the Sunday La Latina bedlam.

TAGS: AA refrain, Baghdad bowtie, get your Dr. Dre on, goddammit, pilgrims, Sunday in La Latina, Teenage Deleted, the Moors, Wayne Bindle Bender

KIP TOBIN's real name is Stephen Christopher Tobin, but no one really calls him that, not even his mom. His favorite letter is i, which is also one his least favorite words. His favorite words tend to include euphonious consonants like Ls and Rs and Ss, such as surly luscious allure. He no longer lives in Spain but in middle America, where he's sort of wondering whether the ship is indeed sinking or not. He writes fiction and nonfiction, but he will not tweet. If asked, he will tell you that S. Gautauma pretty much summed 'er all up when he said, "All things are transient. Work out your own salvation." He's constantly in that latter process, all the while trying to roll the perfect Spanish R. You can email Kip directly at dasein47@yahoo.com. For personal reasons stemming from excessive usage, he no longer is a part of the social networking revolution. The revolution, he thinks, will not be televised but rather streamed, and he hopes he's not watching it. He wishes everyone good luck whenever he can. Good luck.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 21st, 2007 at 6:27 pm and is filed under Health & Lifestyle, Humor, Interviews, Memoir, Nonfiction, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.