The Fattest Prostitute

I'm supposed to be in Europe for seven months but I've budgeted as if I were leaving yesterday.
and
I don't have any skills and I can't speak Spanish.
therefore
For lunch I had four cookies from the vending machine.
therefore
I clicked the "Allow ads" button on my blog.
therefore
The Devil has my soul.
and
I'm a fat prostitute.
and
I wrote a short and insignificant post so that I could post links all over the internet.
therefore
At the end of the month I'll receive a check for nineteen cents.
therefore
I will have earned less than one euro.

1st recap

Sam, (my roommate in Spain), and I shuffled into our fourth floor room in the Parisian hostel. The girl whose thong had been hanging on the chair earlier was now asleep. Weird to see underwear before you see a person. She woke up and startled us with an Australian accent. (I say startled because it was 4am and because it will always be funny when Asians speak a foreign language that isn’t Eastern. I’ve commented on that before, and though it’s never wise to alienate a billion people, I imagine I will again.) Joe told Sam and me that she can always tell where the Americans are because they’re the loudest and drunkest in the room. Great right? But we moved from nationalities to personalities, discussing her return home, the people waiting for her there, and her thong.

The Louvre turned out to be a little bit bigger than the glass pyramid part that I’d seen in movies. One thing that struck me was that everything--the ground, ceiling, building, walls, and exhibits were all art. The Louvre was an experience which was thankfully more than a drive-by of the Mona. The other thing I realized is that I’m really ignorant. The works of the ages may as well have been wall-paper. It’s embarrassing to admit, and you know I love to play The Cultured Guy, but I can’t name 5 pieces on display in the Louvre. Can you?

Notre Dame pushed me over. The food, the travel, the school, the relationships—all about me. Notre Dame—not about me. At first I tried. I tried to disqualify the magnificence by bemoaning the gold cast Mary, the TV’s, the camera flashes, or the number of hungry bellies that could have been fed instead of fake bellies carved—but I sat down. I sat in one of the many wooden folding chairs and I breathed for the first time in 16 days. Everything has been new and selfish and scary and fast: Who am I when I’m not in America? Not at my church or school, not with my family or friends? Why does the whole continent smell like poop? How do you say peanut-butter? But I sat in the wooden chair, listened to priest-dudes sing that song that’s only “OhhhhohOhhhOHHHohhh”, and my insides were pushed over. My heart that kept me from sleep, beating like a bird’s even when I lay, was finally in rhythm. I considered the possibility that some of the workers who built The Dame, and some of the contributors to its construction—I measured the chance that maybe The Dame is an acknowledgement of Greater. Maybe it wasn’t just a couple dudes trying not to die, but a lot of dudes who knew that the absolute greatest that they humans could offer should be to God and not themselves.

Notre Dame is Greater in construction and aesthetics than the athletic fields of the same era.

But regardless of right or wrong, acknowledging our tendency to over and under spiritualize, and admitting that it may have been a reflection of what I needed--the moment and the place struck me as Holy.   

The Fondue place had two long wooden tables, matching benches along the sides, and walls painted with penned graffiti. The small room was loud, hot from the boiling pots, and wonderfully cramped. The long meal of jockeying prongs, drinking wine from baby-bottles, and story swapping was in my opinion the wealthiest moment of the trip.

I’m tired of writing and self-conscious of the quality. Our culture is narcissistic to begin with, especially that of the youth, and writing a blog that chronologically accounts the mundane of my life is frustrating. I want to keep those who are interested aware of my goings-on, but I also want to create. I guess I’ll do this when I have the fortitude. The trip has been new. At one time high school was new, then college, and now this. 60 of us live in a building together—10 to an apartment. I live with girls. No one knows me, though they think they do, and I know no one, though I think that I may, and we have no choice but to continue to act as if the friends and relationships of two weeks can replace those of years and lifetimes. But we’ll get there. This is new, but if it weren’t new it would be old, and old is why I left. 

Images of First Weeks

I can't format pictures and text. Just remember that there are things that you can't do either. 

                                            The aquarium in Valencia.

The arch in Paris. Apparently celebrating French combat. (Insert joke about French combat)

 This is the Plaza de Cerranos, but they spell it correctly. It's across the street from our apt building. No big deal.

 The city of Arts and Sciences. Same architect as 9/11 monument. Space buildings.

                                                                             same

 Fon Du place in Paris. Wine in baby bottles. Two long tables that everyone in the restaurant sits at together. The Americans were loud. 

That place from that movie about that Dan Brown book. I didn't find Jesus' kid or a cup of significance. Did find small Greek wieners and about a billion boobs. But jokes aside, it was great. And i mean great in the "oceans, mountains, space" sort of way, not in the Frosted Flakes way. More to come, especially from Paris.  

Two Day Day

Day one was two days. I flew out of Orlando at 3:30, stopped in Atlanta for my last sweet tea, and then boarded my flight for Madrid. Despite beer being free on the flight I was only able to sleep for about an hour. I watched The American, which makes sense, and The Social Network. Once my flight landed in Madrid I spent an eternity and a half looking for my flight’s check-in before being advised that I would have more luck in the correct terminal. I was the last person to board the Valencia bound flight. (I ate sushi in the airport because it was the only thing I recognized on the menu. This would be my last meal for a long time. Had I known, I would have opted for anything other than the small circles of nothing).

From the Valencia airport I paid probably 5 times the appropriate price for a cab ride to my hostel in downtown. The hostel, fittingly named “Youth Hostel”, is a few hundred yards from the popular Plaza de La Virgen. Everything looks as it does in the books: narrow streets of stone, old buildings with wrought-iron-fenced balconies, earth tones, pigeon-poop-covered statues of revolutionary heroes, and leather skinned abuelos.

(I wish I could grow a beard. I think scraggily beards, smoke-stained teeth, and sun-squinted eyes are the preferred look here. I can squint my eyes, and I can smoke, but my pathetic beard would get me carded in a country that gives cerveza to toddlers…so I guess I’ll just squint the hell  outta my eyes?)

Anyway, after four hours of siesta I woke up to what I thought was the murder of a muchacha. The hostel rooms are split into three sets of bunks with a bathroom. The actual rooms are a few inches larger than the space the bunks take up, and all of the bunks in my room are full—so it’s tight quarters. But back to the “murder”: After a thought or two regarding my defensive plan of action, (I opted for the fetal position), I realized that though the noise was loud, in Spanish, and desperate, it signified a completely different experience. The young lady below me was apparently in the midst of a very satisfactory sexual experience. It’s a difficult topic to write about publicly, but suffice it say, in those moments she alerted the entire hostel to the prowess of her lover. I looked around our cubby-sized room to see if anyone else was as appalled as I.

They weren’t. (Asleep, reading, and on the computer.)

Once they left I grabbed my computer bag (I think my computer bag weighs as much as my suitcase) and went wandering for food. I walked and I walked.

“Oh there’s a nice looking café with tables outside and bearded squinty-eyed patrons, I think I’ll give it a go.” I walk in, bumble about as if I’ve never in my life had a thought or experience, grow increasingly intimidated by the language barrier and leave. Strolling further, I repeated the processes. My right shoulder, the one carrying the bag, kept banging into my knee while my left shoulder marked the highest point of my body. My stomach gurgled and I wondered if anyone wouldn’t assume that the passed out American is “just a drunk America”. Eventually I settled on a café called “Café de Virgen”, which translates in English to “Tourist Trap”. I ordered paella, the only Spanish food I’ve had before, and sat alone in the plaza. I don’t mind being alone. Really. I get to think more clearly and I have a perfect record of not pissing other people off. But apparently solitude during meal time is a Spanish sin. The waitress asked multiple times “when will your friends be here”, and after a few bites of paella a middle-aged man sat at my table and asked where my girlfriends were. He told me my paella was “the worst shit of all time”, that he couldn’t watch me eat “cow shit” in his country, and that I must come to dinner with him and his friends. I was relieved to hear English, and he seemed normal enough, but I did wonder how far we would walk before he raped and mugged me. But, as is well documented, I’m a sucker for adventure and so I agreed.

Alex Montana was the name of the man who played host to me the rest of the evening. Alex is a multi-millionaire who owns a large contracting company, a couple discos, and has spent a few years in jail because of his apathetic attitude regarding taxes. He has one son by his first wife, a Swede he met in Minneapolis Minnesota, he likes to party, and he often reminded me of his mantra: “If you don’t have money you are nothing. Money means power and power means women.”  Alex’s son Jacob, named so because of his mother’s wish, a woman who Alex described as Jewish in blood and action, is 19 years-old. Alex figured this meant that I was practically his son as well. Last night I was “hijo de Alex”. My “dad” was opinionated, braggadocios, and I think very lonely.  (He was also telling the truth. I checked him out on the net and he’s everything he said he was.)

We went to a swanky Italian restaurant where he ordered drinks and food for our table. We were with his lawyer, a drunken employee of his, and The Lawyer’s three friends. Alex was drunk but highly functioning. Unlike his friend The Drunken Employee who could barely walk. Apparently he was so drunk because his wife had recently left him and was taking everything. The Drunken Employee didn’t speak English but had been taught the phrase, “fuck that bitch”, which he repeated regularly. Alberto left shortly after the first round.  In a break in conversation Alex explained each of the three woman and one man’s professions. The attractive woman to his left, who often provided him with services outside of legal advice, was his lawyer. The man to her left and across the table from me was described as a “person reader”, the woman to his left at the end of the table as a secretary, and the woman next to me as an economist. All were single and at least 35.

I asked what a “person reader” does, and Alex told me to look the other man in the eyes. Everyone was silent for a moment as this dude and I looked at each other. He told Alex some stuff in Spanish as we glared and Alex translated as the first spoke. He said I had “powerful eyes” and that “I can do whatever I want”. They all congratulated me on my “reading”.  I laughed, thinking that anyone could be told this and believing the whole thing to be a joke.  Alex grabbed my arm and sternly told me not to laugh. He said the gentleman would be offended.

At a table of lawyers, economists, and millionaires the soothsayer was taken highly seriously.

Alex continued translating, dedicating more thought to the changing of the words from one language to another than to the content of the speech. The People Reader, without changing tone, began to say some weirdly flattering yet overtly homosexual things about my physique and aura. I wasn’t that bothered. Just as I appreciate the affection of girls I have no interest in, similarly was my feeling about The Gay People Reader’s overtures. But Alex was outraged and snapped in Spanish at The Gay People Reader. A few moments later Alex made The Economist to my right so angry that she and The Gay People Reader left. Alex elucidated to me that The Economist works for the Mayor of Valencia, a woman who Alex knows to be highly corrupt. He ended his explanation with, “but fuck her, she has no money.” On our way out, while Alex was paying the bill, I was able to apologize to the The Gay People Reader and The Economist for whatever Alex had said. They understood and were actually fairly appreciative.

I told Alex that I was tired and ready to head home for some rest, and he said “okay”. But as I was walking away he called me back and drunkenly pleaded that I go with him to a club that his friend owns. He said, “Tonight you are my son, eh? I have nowhere to go but to sleep. Of course you pay for nothing. Just be my friend tonight, eh?” I thought about the couple in my room at the hostel, my lust for a story, the lonely millionaire, put my arm around his shoulder, and dropped one of my five Spanish words-“Vamos!”

We walked the short distance to a posh rave disco. Alex really is some kind of a big-shot. The owner came out and greeted both of us warmly. All of our drinks were free and the owner asked me to choose songs for the DJ to play. (Most music here is whatever is popular in the states).

But then Alex reached his tipping point. It began with, “hijo, I am drunk”. Oh shit. “Mi Padre” started going up to girls as asking them what they thought of me and if they’d sleep with me. The “yes’s”, though rare, were much more of a problem than the “no’s”. As he made his rounds the pudgy pimply girls came up and asked "for make photo please?". I think I took like a million pictures...which means that a million times i saw their disappointing looks as they realized that however cute they thought I was, it didn't appear so on camera. I shouldn't care that the gordos false bragging is ruined, but it would get to anyone after ten pictures. While Alex was off on the mission of attaining company for his hijo, two girls asked me if he was really my dad. I of course said “no”, and that I didn’t even know who he was. We spoke a little English and even less Spanish. The girls were sweet and asked if I wanted to escape with them. I definitely wanted out of there but I couldn’t just leave my dad. So I told Alex thanks. And by “I told Alex thanks”, I mean there was a drawn out semi-emotional scene in which Alex said he wished I really was his son, and begged me to take his watch. (Even though he’d already told me how many thousands euros it was worth, but not out of kindness. I honestly think he’s the type of guy who could have me tracked down and killed.)

The two girls were sweet and average looking, but most importantly one of them knew some English. We sat on a bench and jabbered about big ideas with small words until clouds reflected the rising of the far-away sol. As we became friends their ages dropped, as I suspected, from 22 to 19. They said that it is true that America is not well liked in their country, but that everyone wishes to be in America. From what I gathered last night, there are many here who wish more of their people cared more about work and money. Yeah, pretty ironic.We said “adios”, and are now Facebook friends.

When I got back to the hostel I leaned against the outer wall and Skyped with a friend. Then I walked into the locked sliding-glass door which was supposed to let me inside to my bed. I tried sliding, jumping, and knocking, then walked the door-less perimeter. I climbed the decently high wall of an old building without a roof. I could see my window, and knew that I could knock loud enough to wake the fuckers up. (Get it? It’s like a double meaning. The fuckers who fuck? Okay). But the wall was really high, my bag was heavy, and I’m a pansy.  I resolved to find a disco open until morning and wished that I had taken a muchacha up on her “yes” to my father’s question. “A roof would be nice—at any cost”, I thought. But I guess God decided he’d rather I not be a fucker. And so he sent the hostel manager outside to tell me that it was my lucky day.

Could the first night be the most interesting? I don’t know, but challenge accepted.

PS-One night of avoiding: gypsies, communists, gays, girls, and jail, down--many to go.