Dark nights and lonely days (Part one)

(A forewarning, the next two entries are an interconnected long rant that is way too personal. I almost didn’t publish it but then I realized that I really don’t hide anything from any of the readers here anyways, and I needed to get it off my chest. I also have put these in chronological order so as to better understand them)

Thursday, June 8, 2007

Where to begin? Over the last few days I have become a mute, befriended the Cretans, and battled heartlessly against technology. I suppose it began Wednesday night. Elise, Allison, and I wandered the streets talking of NPR and waterfront fiestas for hours. Though we never found a satisfactory bar, it was seemingly a good night. That is, until we went to Alfalfa. At approximately three in the morning, we united with a tiny legion of drunken and high guys from the program.
I suppose, there was nothing outwardly wrong with this encounter. They smiled. We laughed. They commented on life, we pounded fists, they did the ¨¨we’re wasted thing¨, and we parted ways. Underneath this thin veneer of civility, my mind was racing.
I realize now I hate my mind. I’m either caught up in situations so much I loose connection with who I am. When I wander the streets of Sevilla, sometimes I forget I am a corporeal entity and nearly bump into passer-byers. I feels as if I´m a silent observer floating above situations so much so, that at times I loose touch with my sense of self. I have this odd out-of-body experiences daily.
Other times, I completely become self absorbed, garnering the , rapidly analyzing ever inflection, and most importantly making fast paced theories. I am completely immersed in my relationship, my corporeal existence, and posture, I become – in effect – the hands-on director and unwilling actor of my life. Hands-on because I´m completely focused on what the next course of action should be. Unwilling, because my body moves slower and less adeptly than my mind envisions.
In any case, the entire day I was half in a out of body mood. At the moment we ran into the boys, my body analyized absolutely everything about the situation. It felt of tension. I´m not sure why, my theories pointed to me. I have always been uneasy around guys in general. At he beginning of my time here, this crew were typical drinking buddies of mine. I had run away from their friendship for long walks through the city and NPR. I say run away, because I typically refuse to get too close to guys – straight, gay, or otherwise. You have to live or grow up with me, to have any semblense of me opening up. It’s a defence mechanism I´ve known about for a long time, but it made me so angry at that instant.
In any case, I went to bed that night berating myself for the messes I put myself in. This inner monologue, took its hold the next day with almost disasterous results.

Part two

Friday, June 9, 2007
I suppose, going to be in a grumpy mood leads to angry and hate filled dreams which forces one to wake up with a general loathing of life itself. At least, this was my observation on Thursday.
I was going to go to ¨los hippies¨ or the festival of corpus cristi that morning but because of my hate, all I did was lay in bed for hours. Eventually, I forced myself to get up and get dressed. To try to cheer myself up, I attempted to wander the city however it was devoid of people. Being a festival-holy day in Spain, means absolutely all stores or places of interest are closed. I eventually found a tiny café and silently ordered churros y chocolate (which can be vaguely described as a blend of benet´s and hot chocolate). The chocolate didn´t cheer me up, but it did put me in a middle-of-the-road mood.
When I ventured outside, the sun and humidity nearly killed me. I stumbled back to my sailboat on the roof and attempted to work the air conditioner to no avail. I was really tired at this conjecture and despite (or perhaps because of) the 95 degree heat… I passed out on my bed.
When I awoke hours later it was late in the afternoon. I gathered my laptop and ventured to the clam bar… (Its actually called Republica but at night its completely white walls just look sooo pearly). In any case, I proceeded to write, write, write and read, read, read for the entire day. It helped alleviate some of my ills but later that day I was to have an almost-break down.
I went back to my place, silently ordered dinner on the way, and studied for a test the following day. Those who have lived with me (and perhaps others too) are accustomed to the fact that I talk to myself. Its strange, sometimes I worry I´m going schizophrenic because when I´m alone for too long, I literally do talk to myself and argue and laugh and have a time as if it was with another person.
The entire day talking to myself, had put me on edge. Around 11:00 Me and I started arguing and by midnight our dialogue had reached alto to crescendo at a realization. The only conversations I had had all day had been with myself. This might have not bothered me but Me and I at this point in one of the worst fights we’ve ever been in. We brought up the silliness from the night before. We attacked our past actions and in the end, we had to escape each other. We nearly brought each other to tears. We had thrown things across the room. I needed to get out for air. For something.
I dropped by a random bar named Plateau lined with Marilyn Monroe posters and tea kettles. I, unused to real comprehensible conversation, had extreme issues asking for a cup of tea. Two dark haired beauties sitting next to me interceded and ordered me a pot of red tea (decaffeinated, thank you very much). Both were Cretan students living in Sevilla for the next few months. The boy, Alexandre, a dark haired, pragmatic and serious mathematician, who constantly avoided homework in order to practice Spanish. The girl, Eftihia, a dance teacher in training who had come to Sevilla to train in flamenco and Argentinean tango. We talked for hours. They were convinced I couldn’t speak Spanish to English became our lingua franca.
As we proceeded to leave the bar at 1:30 we were harassed by a bouncy sprite of a Hungarian and her blonde German art form of a boyfriend. They bought us beers and we sat down, once again conversing in English. We talked for at least an hour about everything from the varying international methods of trash collection to the politics of the EU. Afterwards we retreated to an indy rock bar around the corner that conspicuously resembled the black cat. It was exactly what I needed.
Though that night I had severe insomnia and only slept for an hour, it was a fair trade of for what could have been a very lonely day indeed.

The writing on the walls....

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Sevilla, as I have thus described, is a strange place indeed. To add to its list of oddities, is the curious nature of its graffiti. The stuff is everywhere. Its leaves no surface untouched – glass windows of buses, park benches, historic monuments, and resturaunts of the well-to-do.
While the standard abstract calligraphy of the street occasionally surfaces in Sevilla, more often than not the lingua of the alleyways is nothing more than pure genius. This (oftentimes multi-lingual) script calls for political and social movements, offers advice, attacks modern tourism, and speaks of love. These commentaries about existence and life itself have become my daily horoscopes. Every new one I find, are my inspiration, warning, or contemplation for the day. “Never trust a hippie”, I avoid the street markets where x-hippies sell their wares, opting for commercial venues instead. “I have died only for the salvation of tourists?” The churches in Sevilla are now more filled with tourists than sevillanos… social commentary at its finest. And on and on and on.
You all know me well, I am a theorist above all other things. And I have a theory for this. Sevilla is a city built on a rich multilayered history. True. Baroque – that art period defined by glorification, ostentation, and sharp contrasts between dark and light – is one such history. Another past is that of Moors, who brought with them the art of Arabic calligraphy which in itself was a highly spiritual process. Another, those medieval priests rewriting the Bible on carefully illuminated manuscripts. More recent? With Franco persecution and with the European Union modern changes. These sevillano graffitists are undoubtedly the forbearers of mind boggling labyrinth of history. Bitter now, with no work for calligraphists or illuminated manuscripts, they inscribe on the city itself, which they blame for their fate.
What do they write? Drawing from their baroque past it is undoubtedly highly contrasting and emotional – one artist writes a deep black HardxCore one day and a yellow ode to love the next. Why not of religion if they are born out of monks and mullahs? In Spain, the language of politics and social causes and individuality has replaced religion completely. Indeed, religion itself is a social movement, part of the politics of modern life, by attacking the tourist attraction that city cathedrals have become.

You doubt me I suspect, however I have a bit of photographic evidence to back it up. Conspicuously during siesta as other sevillanos were napping or lounging at cafeterias, I transcribed a few notations of these everyday epiphanies with the lens of my camera. The following is a tiny sampling of my photographic evidence; hopefully I will accumulate more as my stay here continues.




“Precariously she burns me hot, precariously she is going to burn.”



“Never trust a hippie”



“Jose is the color of my dreams”



“Have you died only for the salvation of tourists?”


Others with no picture as of yet:
“Stop speculation of old homes”
“Vote or die” (Wasn’t this also a chant of the American Revolution?”)
"I have no home"

A rant. Its my time.

Am I missing out? This weekend a slew of los Americanos are venturing into Portugal to the picture paradise known as Lagos. I, joining a miniscule minority of misfits, am opting out. The cost of the trip is tremendous (180 euro! or more than 200 dollars) though it provides 2 meals, room and board, 2 free drinks, and access to a beach party.

Though I still have class Friday, it’s a long weekend for most Sevillanos. Lola (my senora) is going to the beach with her amigas (she seems to party a lot for an older lady) and her son is staying with family I presume. She said she’ll leave me enough money for 4 days worth of lunch and dinner at restaurants. Probably around 50 euros I’m guessing… So I suppose I will finally get to explore some restaurants I’ve been wanting to try without destroying my budget.

So what am I to do? I have Sevilla to myself, quite literally. I guess, I plan to find one person I know to go out with at night. During the day, I want to write and read until my hands go numb and my eyes dissolve into my frontal lobe. Grotesque no? Torturous no? I’m working around ideas for a story to write… Nothing so grandiose as THE Story that some of you old middle school friends might remember from long ago. However, a story nonetheless.

I do half wish I would have made arrangements to travel. There is a free day trip to the beaches of Cadiz on Sunday but… it sounds kinda tiring and boorish to me. I suppose I’ll figure out something to do. All the Americanos just go to such boring places. Lagos. A beach. Beautiful. Woo hoopidie Doo. Why not Ibiza?! Or Basque Country?! Or Andorra?! At least consider a Parador (Spainish palace, convent, castle, etc.) for godsakes. I found out there are student rates for Paradores in Portugal and Spain starting at only 20 euros including a complementary breakfast. Hostels cost 20 euros. Two meals cost 20 euros. All the boring-everyday-humdrum necessities of life costs somewhere around 20 euros. Why not jump on something exciting and different?!

P.S. I´ll definately add something interesting beyond rants soon. I still have yet to mention my grafitti observations.

Typical week.

June 3, 2007-06-03

So what of my life lately? The day is filled with class, naps, and escapades in the city. Typically my escapades amount to nothing more than café con leche at a nearby cafeteria (interestingly cafeteria means coffee bar. It kind of makes sense if you think of it café- teria. I’unno its one of those fun new language things I’ve been learning since I’ve been here where we have a completely different meaning ascribed to it). Truly there has been not much more to life than that.
My life is turning into a clear routine.
Step One: A casual purchase of the daily booze at the grocery store. This typically consists of rum, beer, or wine. Note that all the above are comparably cheaper in Spain than in America.

Step Two: I return home for dinner at 10:00. Enough said. Dinner usually precludes and/or postludes a fifteen minute discussin about random musings with my Lola (my Senora) and her son.

Step Three: Alemeda de Hercules. I have a fondness for this area of town known as the Alemeda de Hercules. A grandiose rectangular outdoor courtyard lined with Alemeda trees filled to the brim with indy record shops, jazz clubs, music venues, and artsy cafes. At approximately the stroke of midnight, hundreds of college kids, scene types, high schoolers, and rockers bring booze, smokes, and rolling paper and sit on the ground or near to bars.

Step Four (optional): Stay at Alemeda all night or head to Alfalfa - the area where the Euro study abroad kids, some locals, and a few Americans tend to chill. Do a few chupitos (shots) go home.




Yes yes. This is my routine, My only complaint is its SO hard to meet Sevillanos. My Spanish IS improving but slowly and my conversational Spanish isn’t where I would want it to be right now. Sevillanos are extremely friendly and willing to make small talk. However, a lengthy discussion or an invite to hang out later is difficult. Most people in Sevilla live and die in Sevilla. Their friends are friends since they were young and so becoming friends with random foreigners doesn’t make sense.

I’ve been trying to think of a remedy to this over the weekend. I think my solution is to meet gay kids. There are tons of gay guys and girls in Alemeda. From what I can tell they are just as dramatic, super friendly, and bitchy as gays in D.C. In other words, they make friends and loose friends fast. Furthermore, apparently much of the gay population in Sevilla is of rural origin or other parts of Spain or Europe. They themselves don’t have the cemented relationships other Sevillanos have. So perhaps, they are my outlet for more Spainyard friends. There are quite a few gay bars and gay people in general in the Alemeda de Hercules area and even more bars towards the river on the otherside of town.

Anyways, that’s all for now. This weekend I went to the beach and got the worst sunburns of my life even though I used SPF 35 and reapplied it multiple times. It hurts super bad and at least one part of my skin is purple and nearly pealing.

Oh and to Amy and Z. My mom was SOOO happy y’all visited; she sent me a really excited e-mail. So anyone in town I’m sure is welcome to visit with my mom, she’d be thrilled. Ok that’s all loves. Sorry this post is so rambly and shitty, my sunburns are killing me and I desperately need to lie down.

-Adam

P.S. Z if you’re reading this… beware! All they eat in Spain is pork. In fact, this relates to anthropology a bit. People tend to have more words for things that relate to their climate/food/lifestyle etc. There are a billion and a half words for different cuts of pork. Its really hard to keep it straight, so before you leave you might want to learn all the words so when you order food you won’t freak out and die. Some of it deceptively tastes like chicken or lamb. Today I had a meatball that was indescribable. I couldn’t tell if it was beef or pork. So just beware.