Like this:

Arenal along the Rio Guadalquivir in Seville.

Bride at Sagunto.

Pillar from one of the original gateways to Valencia where you can still see the marks left by Napolean’s cannonballs.

Franz!

The old and the new.

Blast! A father helping his son with a Valencian rite of passage.

At the Mezclata in Valencia.

The old and the new.

Bad food.

Exquisite food.

Katie and Guillermo looking lovely.

Si!

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“Scythian Empires” – Andrew Bird

Where was I?

Ah, Valencia, when the computer gods looked unkindly upon my laptop and handed it a most unfortunate fate: “Obsolescence,” the computer guy broke it to me in bad English. My dear readers, I will spare you the mundane and difficult details. Suffice to say credit and good friends eventually saved the day. I now communicate to you through a brand new technological device, tethered once again — for better or worse — to the modern world. Sorry for the delay.

Anyway, a ludicrously long bus trip brought me from Malaga to Valencia mid February. In Alicante the cops stopped us, boarded the bus and hauled off two African immigrants to unknown fates. The bus driver told us they found hash but I saw no sign of that and it seemed obvious they had only committed the far worse crime of entering Europe illegally in search of a better life. As I watched their fearful faces from inside a safe window I couldn’t help but think about my situation as one of the fortunate few, traveling not for escape but for exploration. There I was searching for a piece of my history and there they were fleeing theirs. What had they been through to come all the way here only to be plucked off a bus, humiliated and hauled away? I don’t pretend to have any answers to the problems of immigration in Europe, but I think of them when I start to gripe about going through the rigamarole of traveling logistics.

At 2 a.m. the bus driver brought us barreling into Valencia at breakneck speeds to make up for the delay. As I rose to the next floor on the escalator at the station I immediately recognized the voice of my old friend Katie speaking in Spanish on the other side of the stairs. You just don’t forget the voice of someone you’ve known for 20 years no matter how little you see each other. Katie and I met in fourth grade, and though she rolls her eyes every time I tell this story, I’ll say it again: When my family moved back to South Dakota she was the first kid who was nice to me (we played footsie in class). She’s been a dear friend ever since.

She is living with her fiancé Guillermo who is Argentine and has been living and working in Valencia for about five years. I had never met him and was eager to see if this hombre passed muster enough to marry someone I basically consider a sister. My first impression was good, but it was not until the next morning when he served me strong coffee and played a classic David Bowie DVD did I decide he was in.

That day we took a bus ride to Sagunto, an ancient Roman castle ruin outside Valencia. We looked toward the valley and sea from atop the crumbling walls and imagined what it would have been like during the Siege of Saguntum to see Hannibal arrive with his army and war elephants to conquer Sagunto. From there he would cross — with elephants — the Pyrenees and Alps all the way to the heart of the Roman Empire. Que cojones!

We ate well in Valencia, usually cooking big dinners ourselves — Mussels Valenciana; fresh mandarin, jámon, bleu cheese, toasted walnut and arugala salad; old-fashioned hearty meatball pasta; jámon, fish and fresh fruit plates and on and on we went with candlelit dinners, red wine and a spinning record player. One of the best foods I ate, though, were caracoles, or snails. When Katie worked late Guillermo would show me around the city and we would always stop in this classic little Spanish restaurant (now run by Chinese) where we would swill beers and suck down spicy snail after spicy snail. You wouldn’t believe it to see the things slithering around on the ground but they be good. Guillermo speaks even less English than I speak Spanish, but we got by just fine speaking profoundly (with profound hand gestures if nothing else) about every topic under the warm Valencian sun. Funny how you can understand such complex things with such simple words. We took a ton of photos and talked a lot of history, ultimately and unwittingly taking the very same photo near an original gateway to Valencia where you can still see the marks left by Napolean’s cannonballs.

On a perfectly random Tuesday after Katie and Guillermo finished work we walked to the city center and the gargantuan Ciudad de las Artes y Ciencias. The occasion…Franz Ferdinand…for free. The immensity and strangeness of the architecture at this place is beyond adjectives. Impressive, absolutely. Cold, excessive and inaccessible, completely. The main buildings look like giant spaceships that were made to look like insects…from the future. Guillermo put it best when he said they looked like spaceships that someone never got around to finishing and now simply sit idly in the city waiting for the unreachable beyond. A whole lotta nada, we all agreed. But who cares when you’re seeing Franz Ferdinand for free!?! We met some generous concert goers and together we all rocked properly out, particularly when they sang “It’s always better on holiday. That’s why we only work when we need the money.” And speaking of work, behind and above the sea of reveling concertgoers workers welded away on yet another section of the “City,” showering the night sky with sparks from surreal heights. Franz was fantastic, or “Franztastic” as one sign read: tight as a drum and catchy as hell. I was really impressed by their live performance. And of course, it was my first live MTV event, completing a crucial rite of passage.

We also caught the first day of Las Fallas, Valencia’s infamous March festival of parade floats and fireworks, fireworks and fireworks. All year long people make extravagant, giant floats they parade through the streets only to set on fire during the last week. They begin the opening day with the Mezclata, which basically means the entire city gathers in the main plaza to drink in anticipation of about five minutes of thundering fireworks after which they go home as the smoke slowly clears and the cacophony of blasts subsides.

And so ended my last day in the city of fire, oranges and paella. Katie, Guillermo and I enjoyed another wonderful meal together and I encouraged them to come to Montana to collect on my debt from their supreme graciousness. I sincerely hope they do. It is inspiring to be in the company of such love and I’ll never forget my time in Valencia. So, Kat and G: Felicidades amigos! You’re both beautiful people and I am so happy for your new lives together. Thank you for everything. Hasta pronto, espero…

Madrid, Otra Vez

Boarded a bus back to Madrid en route to Portugal. Found myself in the wonderful company of Lucia and her supreme friends again. On a random weekday we went to the Thyssen Museum, an incredible collection equally incredibly owned by one very dedicated (and rich) Madrilenian woman. Degas, more Picasso, and most importantly my first Van Gogh. My God, those beautiful globs of bright paint!

After a whirlwind tour there we spent the rest of the afternoon indulging in tapas and cervezas. Lucia, Carlos — a great guy even though he doesn’t like rock and roll — and his crazy ex-girlfriend Laura and I hopped from tapas bar to tapas bar on a proper tour of the capitol. Laura was constant entertainment stealing everything she could get her sticky fingers on from everywhere we went: sandwiches, straws, ashtrays, and a cocktail glass she promptly smashed on the street not long after having a random lady take a picture of her bra stuffed with napkins she, yes, stole from the bar. She was a train wreck by the end of it (early evening) and though it was tough to watch I couldn’t stop from staring in dumbfounded amazement.

My favorite story about her is one she told me about when she hooked up with a guy from Ohio. I asked how she met him and she simply said “I was walking down the street and saw him. He was really fit.” Can you imagine the luck (good or bad, I do not know) of this Ohian dude just walking down the street on one of his first days in Madrid? Apparently he was a fencer and came to Spain thinking he could just saunter into an arena and start fighting bulls. Classic. There’s a script there for anyone willing to try.

Before all was said and done that day I chimed in on a lively conversation at Lucia’s where everybody was telling stories about mean things they’d done in their past like kicking somebody’s doll or some such silly stories. In bad Spanish I told them that I killed somebody, which quickly brought the conversation and night to a close. Tough crowd.

Went to the Prado Museum on my last day, followed by another great meal with Lucia and her mom followed by another great meal with Lucia and her friends. The quality of company and graciousness of Lucia and her friends cannot by overstated and I thank them all from the bottom of my corazón. Muchisimo gracias, amigas y amigos!

Drove by night to Ecija, a gorgeous little village outside Seville. Stayed with another new friend, Mar, before catching an early morning bus to Lagos, Portugal. I felt the world get quieter the minute I crossed the border. So different these two cultures sharing Iberia. As it goes in Europe, there is not exactly an outpouring of mutual love between these two neighbors. They both wielded over vast empires at one time or another but those days are long gone. Now they both strive to keep their cultures and identities whole while simultaneously trying to be part of a Europe that is in many ways another world away. This is just a humble tourist’s opinion, and though they may not admit it, I think they’re good for each other. More on that later, I suppose.

As I left Spain the noise was still humming in my ears: the laughter and firey conversations at the smoke-filled bars and always flamenco and the feverish clapping of hands calling me to return. Hasta pronto, España…

Miscellaneous along the way

-A frustrating day spent walking all over Valencia in the rain trying to buy a computer but thwarted at every attempt. And when my friend and I went to seek solace in suds and snails, I literally threw my hands up in the air bitching about it and promptly knocked the tray of beers the waiter was delivering all over the table, covering my stuff in beer and shards of glass. “It is not your day,” my friend said to me. No, it wasn’t, but every dog has those days.

-The realization that sometimes no matter how hard you try to control things the less in control of them you are.

-Remembering who you were and are in the company of an old friend.

-A hilarious Spanish TV show called Muchachada. This clip is Spanish, but I’ll set it up for you: It’s called “They Call Me the Rabbit” and he’s interviewing for a job in the opening scene. “It’s because I’m a rabbit, isn’t it?”

-In Ecija. a drunken man lurching over the counter at a bar whispering slurred, sweet nothings to a giant piece of cured meat.

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