"Can I accept that I am worth looking for? Do I believe that there is a real desire in God to simply be with me?

Here lies the core of my spiritual struggle: the struggle against self-rejection, self-contempt, and self-loathing.  It is a very fierce battle because the world and its demons conspire to make me think about myself as worthless, useless, and negligible.  Many consumerist economies stay afloat by manipulating the low self esteem of their consumers and by creating spiritual expectations through material means.  As long as I am kept "small," I can easily be seduced to buy things, meet people, or go places that promise a radical change in self-concept even though they are totally incapable of bringing it about.  But every time I allow myself to be thus manipulated or seduced, I will have still more reasons for putting myself down and seeing myself as the unwanted child."

                                                                                                                    -Henri Nouwen

"The greatest disaster of the spiritual life is to be immersed in unreality"

                                                                                                                   -Thomas Merton

So I was right about a couple of things. The first is that I’m embarrassed. If I weren’t me, I might think that I’m “off my rocker”. And I’ll always allow for the possibility that I am, but I still think that I’m not.

Today two of my roommates mentioned my blog to me. One asked me if I was “falling” last night, because of how furiously I was typing, and the said that they weren’t sure what to say because saying that it was “good” had already been labeled “bullshit”. Another friend told me that it was “honest, and good, but not great”. A third encouraged me to write more of what I’ll regret because that stuff’s her favorite; my dad said that, “for at least half the days, or more, my string should not pull on you, because my love for you has done the pulling that day, and you were with me and I did hold you and I did sing to you because I will love you for always and like you forever and my baby you'll always be”, which I think is maybe the most beautiful thing. Of course everything I write will be heard differently in different ears. And none of the sounds are wrong. But it is important that this is understood; honesty is the stag of my pursuit. I’m not on a mission to make known my emotions or thoughts. Not honesty in the details of life, but Honesty of life. As experience speaks to me about learning to love, fear, travel, share, hide, cry, and hold hope, then I’ll speak back in and through the only medium that I  can—and that’s this. I can’t sing in the shower or play the guitar in the dark or capture lights on paper, but my fingers can reach all of the keys without getting too far away from my heart.

Last night I said something that was true, even though it may not be today. I go to history class, I play fart-tennis, and I’ll say the DUMBEST thing if it means girls will laugh—the strings and hooks and hearts were true, because I felt them, but I’m not the dude who had all those chains around himself when he was warning Scrooge.  They were there last night, when a lot collided with a lot, and I knew that if I was feeling this thing, then someone else had probably felt it as well. And if would be so shortsighted as to write it on the internet, then maybe that person and I could tug twice on our strings to say “I know”.  

Hooks

I’ve said that I write for an outlet, as a means to release the brewing pressures and fusions of my insides. But that’s not really the case. Maybe it’s more often about attention or affirmation or the hope that people will read something that ive written, and that they’ll be able to feel like there’s someone else who knows. Maybe it’s because I know that hair dies and skin sags but text, even if never read, will be there. But this is of the “outlet” variety, an attempt to evade crying on someone’s shoulder because of my weak legs, or saying things that I mean but will be unable to substantiate through action. This is the option that isn’t the option for the more brave.

There are things that I write late at night with wine and The National playing and the lights off, and those things should be reread in the morning. The things that I write on those nights, on tonights, should be left in a journal or emailed to an X girlfriend. But I won’t. And I’m not sure why. Tomorrow I will be embarrassed. People will say that they loved my post or bullshit about my honesty and I won’t believe them. I know that it will be read selfishly and with scrutiny—you’ll decide whether you “liked” or “didn’t like” what you read…you’ll evaluate the grammar and the content and you’ll create hypotheses regarding my motives and authenticity. I hate that I know that which will happen and I equally hate that I do the same. Why when I read can I not leave the text to “just be”. Why do I sift it through preconceived notions and calculations? And already, as I reread what’s already been written I cringe and clinch. I affirm the things about me that I argue are untrue. I overestimate the richness of my own feelings, I shout for approval, and even my claims of brokenness stem from a pride in my own awareness of my own depravity. It would be better if I would make self-deprecating jokes while telling sensational stories, but some things are too big for stories and jokes and must instead just be told.  

Tonight I looked through a computer screen at my mom and dad, my sister, her son, and her pregnant belly, my little brother, who I thought was 8, but is actually 17, and my best friend, who is so intimately my friend that he’s also my family’s. The pixelated and fragmented screen, freezing and jumping, showed one of the worlds that I love, all connected and eating my favorite dessert around my kitchen table. I read messages and emails from other worlds too. I was loved by the friends who are getting married and by the family that reads my letters and by the guy who suggested that book and by the buddy who wrote me a note and by the girl that made jokes in class and by the teacher that said something I did was “good” and by the hosts who made meals and provided couches and by the author of this book or of that one and by the fog that connected the ocean to the mountains, making it seem as if both sprang from the middle, one falling and the other rising, and by the hail that fell on my arms while I walked, and by my dog, and by a song, and I wish that I could forget all of it. I wish that none of it were a part of me. Taking me.

A woman in a book tells her husband that it’s “a shame that life is so precious. It makes us worry so much”. And that’s where I am. The love of The Beauty cannot be withheld and yet we’re damned for it. Our guts are strings, hooked to people, places, and moments in strongly bound knots. We go to this school before that school and hold hands with this girl and then that one and love this person and then that one and all of these outreaching hooks, stemming from ourselves and remaining taught until they reach The Beauty, pull away from their origin and destination with equal force. Loving The Beauty means damning the beauty. It means seeing life in my sister’s belly before I lay my hand on it, and merely thinking of my brother when he gets home from dates, and saying “thanks” and “it’s so much fun” to my parents instead of doing dishes or watching black and white movies in the early morning. It means that the plans and futures of the people I’m with now will one day be far stretching hooks and strings to old memories. What I’m trying to say is that there’s too much. I neglect The Beauty because The Beauty is in everyone and everywhere and I can’t reel all the strings at once. I mean that I can’t live a long life because time means more beauty and more beauty means knowing that I’m not loving this beauty or that beauty as much as I need to—and I already have too many strings.

I hate this post. There isn’t background or explanation. It’s ambiguous and my minute skill with my supposed craft leaves it appearing to be an attempt at something abstract. It’s not. I mean to be simple. I went on a 4 day walk this spring break and I lustily gathered the burdens, hopes, and secrets of the new friends who walked with me. Tonight I got home to the friends who went elsewhere and I had to be by myself so that I wouldn’t say mean things. I knew I would say mean things because I was overwhelmed with a terrifying amount feeling for them. We’ll all say goodbye in 2 months. Another goodbye. Another transition and tearing and stretching.  

I don’t have the capacity to send the amount of letters I want to send and I don’t have the memory to keep all the fog and sunsets. Over and over again I lose the things that I love. In Spain I’ve lost all that isn’t here, in Northwest Spain I’ve lost all that isn’t there, and then when I return to some of what I love in America I’ll have lost all that is here. No wonder we’re all crazy. What a disaster it is that everyone we love isn’t in the same place, at the same time. I know that this is true of everyone, and yet I don’t suspect that any of this is “landing”. If I try to explain I’ll just repeat, and if I don’t share then I’m a liar, and so Ill wrap it up: I think that I’m terrified all of the time. I call lying in bed “sleeping” because a reel of The Beauty plays through my mind and I want to slam my head through the window for each portion of The Beauty in my life that goes seemingly unacknowledged. I want to curl up in my sister’s stomach and tell her baby that I’ll “love it forever” and “like it for always”. I want to tattoo, with the longest needles, the outline of my hand onto my back for once leaving the same red outline on my brother’s. I want to tell the people from Field Day in elementary school, the MCC fair in middle school, youth group in high school, college, kamp (no typo), the road trip, Spain, sports teams, DUI class, family and strangers that I love them--and not when I’m saying goodbye to them, but on ordinary Tuesdays and in the middle of conversations about chewing gum and sports.

I love The Beauty, and I suppose that living is synonymous with The Beauty, but being so incapable of dealing with it, having desire exceed my abilities of execution by this great a margin is a difficult daily failure to swallow. Tomorrow someone that I love won’t have any proof.   

THE POST THAT IS NOT AS EXCITING AS THE LAST

In one of my classes we were asked to write a one page reflection on our mini-field-trip to the train station. I've posted about benevolent millionaires and near death experiences, but that isn't the Spain I know. Events are making the timeline, but moments are making the time:

Valencia’s Practical Aesthetic

Beyond City Hall and The Post Office, at the end of La Calle Avinguda del Marques de Satelo, after the bouncing neon vested operator of the jackhammer, to the right of the sand-brown, brick arena of La Plaza de Toros de Valencia, through the fence of deep-green iron spires which are planted in the top of a shattered-white-tile-wall, over the row of slanted white parking lines, coal black cobblestones, and lanes of modern asphalt, between the circle-topped, symmetrically rippled,  black cylinders that line the drop-off lane, beyond the two light-towers of recurring tile and iron, and resting upon the dark square-foot tiles is La Estacion del Nord.

With my legs stretched and crossed one over the other, sitting on the same dark tiles as the station, leaning against one of the rippled posts, no longer aware of the car-horns, jackhammer, or rolling wheels, I began to dig through layers. I didn’t want the text to show me seeing, but to show what I’ve seen. And first there were the layers: Socks under boots that are over jeans which disappear into sweaters that are beneath coats but surrounding shirts that are capped by scarves. Or: The grandfather who is staring at the earth and shuffling an inch at a time, positioned further up my horizon than the two smoking divas whose heels click as they stomp towards the street, but not as far as the teen-girl sitting thin legged and awkward in her boyfriend’s lap, at first reluctant to kiss him, but relenting as he whispers what for them is a “something” but for us a “nothing”. The couple embraces and leans against the large oak door at the center of La Estacion. Flashes of strollers, backpacks, suitcases, briefcases, bags, hats, canes, smoke, jackets, and flesh walk between us, cutting the story like the pages of a flip-book.   

A Flaming Horned Bull hit me in the Chest

Now

I can’t look back. Knowing where it is and how quickly it’s moving from “is” to “will be” would offer temporary comfort, but looking back will cost me cobblestones. And cobblestones are what I need. The multi-colored, uneven, ancient stones used to pave the narrow streets of Segorbe are too slow in passing beneath my leather Dockers.

Dockers--the first poor decision of the day. Down the hill which the village rests on, along the tracks cutting through the orange groves, across the WELL-PAVED streets of Valencia, thirteen hours in the past and back in the Study Center I made a mistake. To the left of my bed there are three pairs of shoes: Nike Shocks, Dockers, and Sanuk’s. Sanuk’s are for the beach, Nike’s are for running, and Dockers are for aesthetics. I’m running, had known that I would be running, and yet I’m in Dockers.

Before Now

Dan was a little bit ahead of me in our attempt to flee.  

Dan is tall and Dan is good. Dan’s always carrying extra bags and slapping people on the back and eating one piece of bread when he probably wants two. In fact, I’m not even sure if Dan thinks bad things about people.

I sneak rolls into my pockets and people who disagree with me are stupid. We’re basically twins.

He jumped up the yellow wall, grabbed one of the iron bars protecting the window, and pulled himself to safety. It was athletic, brave, and impressive. I also saw the window, but because it was over four and a half feet in the air, and because this running was my first running in at least a year, I knew that I couldn’t reach it.  I made two mental notes as I scurried past my safe friend:

1)      Always take Dan’s rolls because things even out.

2)      Tomorrow, curse God one more time than normal for making my little brother taller than me.

Shortly after the second mental note, and feeling the thick pack of Marlboro Reds pressed against my leg with each desperate stride, I seamlessly returned to begging The Big Guy for faster moving cobblestones. I guess it should be more difficult to transition from cursing to begging, but in addition to a life full of practice, this was the second time in only a few hours that begging had superseded contemplation and reflection. He was more patient the first time.

Before, Before Now

The first time I had been leaning against one of the barriers, which kept the Crazies in and the Reasonables out, talking to Coop, when we heard the bells and hooves. It wasn't jolly St. Nick. True to my policy, I ran without looking—but I could tell from the women’s faces as they stood on their balconies, the increase in foreign yelling, and the million other things that I’m sure the adrenaline pumped brain is aware of, that danger was near. There was a barrier directly ahead, which also functioned as a ladder, but it was full and the time it would take to climb may have been too great. I cut left and up the hill along a side-walk sized street. I stumbled. My right foot, probably because it was in a pretty shoe, caught on a stone that was a little higher than the others. I pitched forward until my face was a foot from the ground. I knew that I would fall and be killed, but was pleasantly surprised by the recovery of a right leg that understood the situation. As I regained balance I broke my chief rule and turned around. Coop and the enemy were too close to each other, and more importantly, far too close to me.

Coop looks like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, is named Coop, and is never serious.

Typical conversation with Coop:

“Coop, what time is it?”                                                                                                                                       

“What time isn’t it?”

“Really though, I need to know for some really super important reason”

“What reasons wouldn’t be really super important, Wilson?”

“Coop”

“Yeah”

Coop was about seven to ten feet behind me and he was terrified. Or more accurately, he was serious. And seeing Coop serious was scarier than the flaming ton of demon only a yard behind him. But we made it. We reached the top of the street, stepped through a barrier with vertical bars too closely planted for our pursuer to skewer us, and slapped its hind as it ran by. We were, and I mean this in the Im-a-middle-school-girl-and-a-guy-who-can-drive-just-asked-me-on-a-date way, freaking out.

As Coop and I had been running I had been begging. I can’t speculate as to the thoughts of God, but I imagine that the first time I asked not to be killed, The Big Guy was less than impressed. Thinking something like, “I made animals without horns, why are you in the street with one that has them?” (I recognize the possibility that someone will be offended that my “God voice” asks questions. If so, please stop reading my blog...notice I said “reading”, and not “please stop clicking on the ads in my blog/viewing my blog 37 times a day).

Anyway.

Now

The stones aren’t moving quickly enough, the nice athletic people are safe, I’m as serious as Coop, and now it’s just me and The Bull.

The Fiestas de San Anton, which is the proper name of the festival, is really three barricaded streets and two bulls. The first bull, which ran rampant for an hour is the one pictured above. The bull is obviously large and scary, but is nonetheless a calf compared the second. I couldn't find pictures of the second, which I believe to be rather indicative of its temperament and girth. This second bull, which I've creatively named Toro Grande, was released at 1am. 

Toro Grande is behind me.

I’ve been taught to show, not tell. I’ve also been taught to write, not emote. I’ll try to hold tightly to those lessons now, especially considering the situation I was in. But know that the next 5 seconds of time occurred over the span of hours. And know that I had feeling from my heart to the tips of the hair on my arms. And know that the true fear has only landed in the following days. In the moment I was beyond fear. There was only what I must do. I didn’t consider the gravity of anything. I only did everything that my body could, and then I got lucky.

My first escape option is ten yards ahead on the left. This option is an iron fence, about five feet tall, and sitting a foot outside of the walls that over-lap its edges. Runners can enter from either side of the fence and slide between the fence and wall until they reach the nook made by a restaurant’s entryway. My other option is to keep running until I reach another intersection of three streets. The bull is fast, but apparently struggles with turns on the cobblestone. There is also the possibility that in the more crowded intersection, a new target would be chosen. But I’m not sure how close Toro Grande is, and despite my adrenaline, I know that I’m losing my kick. I cut left towards the fence, see that it’s full, and realize that my decision to get behind the fence has left me without options. The fence is about ten feet long, and though I didn’t stop to try and slide in the first entry, the mere end of sprinting is akin to stepping off of one of those speed-walking ramps at the airport. I still can’t look back, but I know that he’s closing. I also know that because his goal is to spear me, there is no need for him to slow as he approaches walls and iron. Still travelling at a high speed, I grab the last of the iron fence to swing myself between the fence and the wall.

But my swinging body is stopped too early. I slam into the wall of humanity that is spewing from the fence's edges. There is no room. My vision is narrow, but I catch a glimpse of Toro Grande. He’s at the far side of the street, which is the size of a normal American sidewalk; because he’s arching his charge into me-squaring me up, but obviously still running. I turn to the guy I’ve run into. It’s Ben, a guy from Iowa who’s in our program. His eyes are large, mouth slightly open, and he’s helpless. I turn back. The bull’s head is lowered and about three feet from me. With it down, his head is as high as my knees. I’ve seen how he hits. Earlier he tried to attack through a barrier. I know about the lower-his-head-so-that-he-can-upper-cut-into-my-ribs thing. I know he’s going to hit me. It’s too late to cut left because his horns are too wide. I obviously can’t drop to the ground. Even though that might earn me one miss, he could then stab and stab and stomp and stab. I already tried right, to no avail. Nowhere to go. 

My upper back is against the smooth, earth-toned wall. His head, which is now close to being between my legs, rises towards my stomach with his left horn leading. In case you’ve forgotten, the horns are on fire, he’s a bull, and he’s been running. I do what’s natural. I push in the opposite direction of the attack, jumping up against the wall. But I know that I'm already against the wall. There is no going further backwards. But there is a little “up” available. I don’t think to do it, but in my effort to push away, I grab the base of his left horn, which is now near my naval, and push. Of course my “pushing” does nothing, but Toro Grande messes up. I sometimes forget that animals mess-up at being animals. Flying squirrels fall, cheetahs trip, and bulls buck their heads too early. Toro Grande’s left horn misses the piercing angle and the tip of his horn, surrounded by flames, slides up into my jacket. I can smell the burning. I wonder if the horn is inside my chest. I think that it should be hurting more than it is. I know that my life is about to pour out following the exiting horn. I don’t notice the pressure of my back against the wall. I don’t know yet, that the bull’s horn is blunt against my chest, pinning me between the hardened hair and even wall. Toro Grande steps back and inexplicably continues running down the street.

As slowly as things were happening during the collision, they’re now moving equally as fast. Hands are all over me, pulling me into the nook. Brown faces at first concerned, and then relieved. I slide my hand under my jacket and shirt to feel my chest. The skin is still hot, there’s a cut, and pressure like I was punched, but no puncture. Nothing.

“Estoy bien. Estoy bien. Estoy bien. Estoy bien. Estoy bien”, is all that I can/know to say. Someone pulls me up to what is now a crowd of brown-faced smiles and pats on the back. A man with a vest on is starts yelling at my face and gesturing towards his arm-band. I understand that he’s a medic of sorts. I again try to assure him, but he puts his finger over his mouth. I silencio. He takes my pulse, and holds his hand to my back and chest as I breathe deeply—which was hard, but only because of the moment. When he finishes he smiles and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, as if to say “close call”. The brown faces continue with the back slaps and earnest smiles. I don’t get it. I don’t understand what just happened. I don’t comprehend how significant the moment was. I don’t know how often I’ll revisit that flash.

I still smoke cigarettes and flirt with girls and take two rolls and get upset about losing a two euro coin. I also proved nothing to myself. I didn’t step out in front of the bull to save a baby, I was fleeing. I put myself in a bull pen. I also wasn’t even hurt. My chest was swollen the next day, and there was a paper-cut below me nipple, but otherwise nothing but a story. My jacket, which is my only jacket, is burned—but that’s just cool. So far the only difference for me is that I’m thankful. I still get in bad moods and complain about stuff, but when I think about it, about Toro Grande, I can’t help but be authentically thankful. And though it shouldn’t take a flaming bull horn to the chest to be glad that we’re alive, sometimes it just does.

We were in Segorbe until morning and we watched the sunrise; first against the backs of the mountains, then against the tan houses higher on the hill, and finally on the cobblestones of the street. 

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.

Personal Essay Mumbo Jumbo

I stepped out onto our cabin’s porch with my sister. We couldn’t see as many stars as you’d think, but the silence of the rural Alabama land was loud. Maybe it was better that way. We’re able to see a lot. The internet and TV show us a lot of stuff. I can Google “starry night sky”, but I can’t search for "silence".

I tucked my hands into my dad’s old fleece. The fleece over the sweatshirt over the long-sleeve shirt over the undershirt. The silence, a new noise, pulled me through everything to an uncomfortable proximity of my God.

“Can you imagine living like they used to? Wondering where out there the others are?” She asked.

After she went inside to her son and husband I sat in a rocker and pulled a cigarette. Under the density of the new noise I was too close to my fuck-ups and thankfulness‘.  I hadn’t been there in a while. Sometimes I can go some time without going there. It’s taxing. And usually it’s then that I get ideas about things I can do. These things I can do are normally things that would help everything, and they’re always things that don’t sound particularly swell--decisions that are both small and big, but make me.

When I’m riding in the car past old grey-wooded barns, in bed looking at ceiling plaster, or even writing--that’s when I dream about doing all those things I won’t. I think about telling the next Her that she's important, talking to the person I‘ll pass, or writing my Grandma a letter about how she makes me laugh.

But my insides can only so often, and for only so long, dwell on what I want to but won’t. And whether it was my insides for their own sake, or Him, my minuscule muse of Cognitive Control feverishly steered me away. He’s usually hiding or drunk or something. But this time, thankfully, he gave me a small shout. And he and I ended up back on the porch. Away from the cold my Mom and Dad slept in one room, my Sister’s family in another, and my little brother watched Sportscenter in a third.

I’ve had people close to me say that they felt like they knew me until they stayed with me at my house. I’ve also had people close to me ask which of me I am.  What do they expect? I think it’s hard to act the same when there are places like this cabin, where because of their personal interests‘, people don’t know how truly normal I am. People who gloss over my egregious errors and hug me for my resiliency amidst consequences I alone have earned. And somehow I’m supposed to modify so that I make sense to both the people at this cabin, and the outsiders who know the truth?

But tonight’s one of the few not dedicated to how frustrating I am. Tonight’s about the miracle of the blind. It’s about the blessing of bias, and that despite all the great stuff we humans have cut out of life, we still have families. And yeah, I know about the 50% divorce rate. But everyone, regardless of blood, tries for family. And in family we’re on someone’s side and they’re on ours. Tonight the holes my eyes burn in the plaster will be more shallow because of four seconds of country quiet. A member of my life’s cast could share in total astonishment with a member of my family as they hear one another’s impressions of who I am. Thank you God that the two parties would leave the interaction believing the other to be mad, and that one of them would scratch my head, tell me they love me, and remind me that they prayed for my infant heart--because God, it’s still so small.