I just unearthed this from an old hard drive. Hope you like it!
Europe Journal
“This one” made his first trip to Europe in July, 1998. The following is an account of the excitement, boredom, debauchery, and general hijinks that ensued.
Departure Day: Bring On The Gimp
The trip began at 3:30 on Sunday, July 5 after a fine night of ten hours sleep, which was nice to look back on with fondness later in the week. Anyway, seeing that I had tickets in coach, and I stand 6’6”, priority number one before departure was to formulate a ruse that would get my long legs into business class. Luckily, my old friend Marty is in the prosthetics business and was able to produce a pair of nearly new, tricep-gripping crutches that provided both maximum comfort and sympathy. Armed with this prop and a really cumbersome-looking knee brace slit for comfort and then covered with an ace bandage, I was ready to be bumped up, so to speak. My buddy Brad gave me a ride to the airport and then, in the spirit of true overkill, wheeled me up to the check-in counter. (He suggested I that I think about my recently deceased grandfather to keep from laughing). After failing to get satisfaction from my first encounter with SwissAir powers that be, I bravely turned down an offer of a wheel chair ride all the way to the very distant gate and hobbled on my way. In retrospect, I definitely played the cripple far more convincingly than necessary as I was fully sweating by the time I got to the gate. I’m sure the shoeshine guy felt bad for me, though.
Step number two found me selling my misfortune to those at the gate area, who were kind enough to answer my plea with a search for the price to upgrade. In the meantime, an elderly woman rose with a concerned look on her face and suggested that I get the front row in coach, as the request had worked for her recently. I thanked her for the idea while feeling guilty about dragging innocent bystanders into this. I mean, I may beat the system now and then, but I would never wish unnecessary movement on the elderly. Anyway, after bluffing the gate agent about being willing to part with $500 for an upgrade, he offered through a chuckle that “It’s going to be a lot more than that”. Indeed, $1,700 more than that. This left me wondering what the odds were of someone that looked like Jesus walking by so he could touch my knee and let me bail out of this plan with dignity while really freaking some people out. Ultimately, I was moved on board of the plane and basically shuffled to the side until it was known what seats were available. (Note to those interested: the only people that matter in this scheme are the flight attendants on board.) Alas there proved to be several openings in business class and the game was on, so to speak. I was seated next to a middle-aged Nigerian man in the shipping business, (I mean literally building ships), and I must say his smile didn’t quite match mine and as we sipped on the champagne that was served before the plane even taxied away.
Business class offered up a big, fat seat complete with a “personal media screen” that offered several features including the computer tracking of the plane’s progress from various angles and showed maps of the ground being covered as well. There was legroom aplenty, and the woman from the gate area now sitting across the aisle was happy for me. Proving one can’t have everything, however, I didn’t get laid on the flight. Seriously, though, the system that offered a dozen current movies to choose from was out of order, so I was reduced to playing umpteen backgammon games against the inept computer. (I suspect it’s programmed to lose so that the customer enjoys their flight that much more.) The flight was a smooth one, but I must admit that as the hours wore on I was wondering about the trade-off of having my right leg bound so the left one could have ample space. Anyway, we were served a nice meal and then I hopped to the “air phone” to let Brad know that the scam did indeed work. While trying to get the thing to work, I was informed that my meal was getting cold. Meal? But monsieur, I’ve already dined! Hardly! I returned to my lap of luxury to find a huge serving of beef tenderloin, along with a healthy portion of salmon and various side dishes. Never a fan of fish, I swapped with the ever-helpful lady across the aisle and had more beef than Ron Jeremy. The absurdity of trading food ala a school cafeteria in a several thousand-dollar airline seat was not lost on me.
Foreign Soil, Royal Treatment
The flight ended in the Zurich mid-morning after the sky never became fully dark to the North on the whole journey, which I found to be interesting. After waiting for my connection, I boarded a small van along with a couple of families with young children, thus ducking a cattle-car ride with the able-bodied masses. This plane was smaller and offered little option for the crew but to put me on an aisle in coach that had a bit of extra room for my leg and also for the drink cart to go by. I was finishing up my prematurely served Coke Light when Bebete slipped into the window seat. She happened to be a twenty-two year-old Austrian with blonde hair and stunningly blue eyes. For this, I can fly coach. Anyway, we chatted amicably and I found that I can also make European women laugh, which was nice. This unlikely Deep Purple fan was a bit on the bland side, however, so I wasn’t heartbroken when she turned down my offer to join me for a Phish show in Barcelona. After seeing lots of snow-capped Alps and no baseball fields, I found myself in Barcelona, wondering what the etiquette was for removing a faux knee support amidst fellow passengers.
I kept the prop on as I claimed my bags and struck up a conversation with an Austrian in his twenties and his Spanish friend in an effort to gain assistance with currency exchange and directions. I pointed out the lovely blonde Bebete to my new-found pal, but he was unimpressed because he was tired of bland Austrian women. My goal at this point was to catch a train to Marseilles and forsake a redundant rental car because my party in France would have two of them. After the Austrian patiently waited for me to fumble my way through the currency line it became apparent from the American girl, (hot), in the info booth that we were going different directions. I made an effort to talk him into going to the the Phish shows as well and then bid farewell, heading to the train, fully loaded down with bags, one of which now held my, (thankfully), somewhat collapsible crutches.
I found assistance from a Spaniard just back from London to help with the seemingly complicated train token purchase and then was seated in the knee-brace removal seat. At this point I was frazzled from the newness of all this and well past the good top-shelf alcohol buzz I had garnered from my plane rides. I also hadn’t slept in sixteen hours, so it was bedtime. These factors left me caring little about what the hell the people on the train thought about my miraculously cured leg, so I had that going for me. The Metro through the graffiti-covered tenements was something other than inviting, but it deposited me to the highly confusing main depot that would start my trip north to France.
After visiting the deserted information booth and wandering trying to figure things out myself, I was assisted by two young chaps from N.C. who had a handle on how to get to France. This entailed taking a number, bakery-style and waiting to buy a ticket. In the meantime, a fresh finger wound I suffered at the hands of a pair of scissors back in the States the day before decided to defy its bandage. As luck would have it, I didn’t end up needing to find the stitching kind of doctor on this trip, but things were touch and go for a while. I was also lucky enough to get a good-natured clerk that spoke English and, after a lengthy wait, I was almost on easy street. My destination appeared on the big board, but of course it was the only one without a track number showing. I surmised that it was one of three and was proven correct, but not before much anxiety and hand-wringing. This nervousness had me racing from one platform to the other, conveniently increasing my heart rate to challenge my new makeshift finger bandage. I finally darted onto the proper train, which proved to be unnecessary because the train sat for five more minutes. This elicited yet another laugh at the “Stupid American” from the peanut gallery, which I would learn to find amusing as the trip unfolded.
Riding the Euro-Rail
The train was basically subway-style with a restroom and I was not looking forward to this type of ride for the eight hours to France. Luckily it would prove to be merely one part of a three-legged trip. Anyway, this journey afforded a fine view of the countryside and sometimes of the freeway that I wished I had chosen to travel because this train thing seemed to be more hassle than the savings was worth. I was joined in my seat by a jovial blue-collar Spanish man at one point and this made me really regret forgetting my Spanish-English book. That would’ve been a wonderfully rewarding way to pass the time as he could’ve explained the odd forty-foot high trees planted orchard-style that were so prevalent. It was fun to communicate without words, though, in it’s own way. Towards the end of this leg, I was joined by two young French toughs smoking rolled cigarettes in a no-smoking car, smelling foul, talking loudly, and eyeing my Rolex a bit too closely. Alas, I emerged unscathed, but definitely annoyed.
Before the second train boarding, I had been up around twenty-four hours. This was just the occasion for some responsible drug use for an attitude adjustment. I repaired to a dingy restroom in this ancient depot and ingested a bit of a stimulant that shall remain nameless. It was just the ticket and I thank God for it, even though I’m agnostic. Anyway, we had a brief layover during which I attempted to purchase Marlboros, (because I wanted them), and a Coke, (because the order would be comprehended). As I was low-browing the price requested, my suspicion of gouging was confirmed by a young man at my side from California . He pointed out that I was about to pay nine dollars for the two items. I decided to go without and pissed the Frenchy behind the counter off in the process. C’est la vie! I managed to bum a smoke from a fellow in another shop with Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ By The Dock of the Bay” in the background, which was nice.
The next train was what one would hope for. The old-style locomotive featured individual compartments like a stage coach and had a walkway on one side that ran the length of the car. This allowed for stunning views of the western end of the French Riviera in perfect weather and this now wide-awake tourist was liking the idea. I struck up a convo with a cat in the French Foreign Legion who was really cool but never did fully explain what his job entailed. Part of the problem was he was half deaf, apparently he rode this train a lot because the decibel level in the ample tunnels must match a jet engine. Anyway, we sucked down cigs, (his), and water, (mine), and babbled about a variety of subjects. He was not pleased when I asked him how France could hate America after we saved their asses, but he didn’t hit me. He suggested that perhaps it’s because we are basically Europe’s children and we should show more respect for the horse that brought us, so to speak.
Unfortunately, the time on this leg of the trip whizzed by and I found myself barely making a connection onto the train that went into Marseilles. This meant that I was one of the last passengers to board and it left me in the middle of the packed smoking car with paltry ventilation. Obviously, I was in the mood for something other than cramped conditions at this point, but I put my nose in some magazines and soon found deep concentration and complimentary cigarette smoke. This was a ride that was long and certainly felt like it. I reached Marseilles around eleven and lugged my bags around as I interrogated the police regarding the locale of my friends from Atlanta’s hotel. After being laughed at again, I got taken for a ride in a cab. Literally and figuratively. I probably should’ve insisted on an English-speaking cabby, but the one I got seemed to know where we were going. The hotel ended up being out in the suburbs and the francs on the meter piled up. I was taken to the center of the town in search of, but nobody seemed to know where the joint was. We ended up being escorted to the relatively remote location by a cop, so I don’t think the driver was ripping me off on purpose. I was just glad to utilize some of the limited French I had retained, i.e., “mon dieu” for “my God”, and “mal vous”: “you bad”. Apparently it helped, because I got a discount on the final fare, although it was still quite steep. Luckily I was gravy-training off of the Mike and Mike, crashing on the floor of their room, so the sting of the cab price wasn’t so bad.
The party I was to meet was not in the house, but, remarkably enough, the dude at the desk gave me a key to the room anyway even thought I wasn’t listed as a guest. I soon was happily dozing on the floor after a draining day of travel---around twenty-seven hours, I believe. A pain in the ass, but an adventure and certainly better than sitting around the house in the U.S.A. The two Mike’s rolled in a couple of hours later and were somewhat surprised by my presence, but glad to see me.
When the “Leaders” are Lost…
The first day with no real thinking involved began with our party of seven, (the two Mike B’s, Peter Pak and his girl Angela, and Dr. & Mrs. Mike Sharon), dining not far from where my cab had asked for directions hours early. We got our first taste of indifferent French table service and agreed that the tipping system is the way to go after all. The French are apparently not hung up on having water with their meals, which I have a hard time understanding. Anyway, I took my first dump in a pay toilet---two francs for access to the can right there in the town square. From there we assumed a car-traveling order that would prevail for the duration: Mike Sharon driving the two couples with the three bachelors in the Passat following them. This was fine with us because we didn’t have to think, just turn around second a lot.
We were quite patient with the arrangement, indeed never really losing our temper because the three of us get along well and were laughing too much to get pissed off. I’d be interested to know what the mood was in the other car, but I didn’t see a lot of smiles besides Peter’s grin of embarrassment. He’s a very low-key, nice fellow who seemed to just roll with the punches. Angela was a go-getter, and apparently the navigator without the proper equipment. She also spoke the best French. Mike S. and his wife Amy made a curious pair because they didn’t appear to like each other very much. I thought they might be Muslim because Amy always walked at least two steps behind her husband at all times. I never saw them display any affection at all---not exactly the life of the party, these two. Amy had great legs, though.
Today’s sojourn found us twisting through the countryside looking for a winery tour. We did find a bunch of grape plants, but there wasn’t exactly a tour---merely a “danger” sign that might’ve said something about land mines. It was a nice day, though, as it was the entire trip---sunny with low humidity and a nice breeze. It was decided that we would head to the harbor in Marseilles after we made it back on the freeway thanks to some DOT workers that opened a weird gate for our convenience. We ended up killing a little time drinking “compression”, i.e. draft beer, and then caught a ferry over to an island with some spectacular views of the rocky terrain leading to the Mediterranean. More beers were drunk and money was lost to Mike S., who was bet that he couldn’t swim across a small bay in the chilly water. He did it with ease, thus relieving me of many a franc, but at least he picked up the tab. We made it back to the town before dark and proceeded to drink heavily and smoke Cuban cigars, (courtesy of Peter). It was quite a party for a Monday night because supporters of the two football teams set to play a World Cup ’98 semifinal on Tuesday were on full-blown benders. The Dutch were the coolest, but the Brazilians didn’t suck, either. They partied with each other as well, which was cool to see. The night didn’t go into ridiculous hours for our bunch, though, as we made it back to the hotel around one, with bigger doings on the horizon.
Spectacles Like No Other
This Monday night was not my favorite for sleeping, as I had little bruises on my hips from the night before, and a second stint on the floor proved to be quite uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I had a great time Tuesday and this fact proved to be a recurring theme over the course of the trip: sleep is overrated. I never caught up on sleep the entire time, but had a blast anyway---perhaps it’s all in one’s outlook. Anyway, speaking of mindset, these wacky Europeans have a different one on the beach, thank God. Our party of seven hit a beach somewhere east of Marseilles after still more difficulty with navigation. This directional problem contributed to our barreling through what resembled an asphalt bobsled chute that served numerous residences with gated driveways. No amusement park ride beat the feeling I got out of this little jaunt, I must say. We never did figure out if we were going the correct way on this decidedly one-way street and thankfully we never had to try it in reverse.
After a somewhat challenging walk over and around the rocky shoreline, the two Mike’s and I, (the others took the street), found ourselves on a beach as God intended. Not nice, smooth sand, mind you; the important stuff---topless babes! They were everywhere, and they reminded me of the strip club/steak analogy, actually. It was a lot like not eating for two days and then having a Filet Mignon presented to you, but you can’t touch it. Women looking so fine, and, assuming they would want me anyway, (a broad assumption?), I can’t speak their frickin’ language! I swear if my little French teacher my Junior year in high school had displayed photos of these beaches, I would’ve paid attention to his lessons! But, I digress. We proceeded to try to act normal dining beachside and then I participated in an international juggling clinic. I showed a few French the behind the back catch, etc., and they showed me some shifty hand moves that I never did figure out. After kicking “la balloon”, (a soccer ball), around for a while, we took off for showers before hitting the World Cup semi-final between Holland and Brazil.
The party rolled into a campground that charged 20ff for a shower, but somehow Mike and I ducked this charge without even trying. I was happy to have packed a hand towel to dab away sweat at the Phish shows because it came in handy here as well. With a fresh feeling we headed towards what on any other trip would’ve been the highlight---the second biggest soccer game in the world.
There had been speculation over the past few weeks regarding the fate of the sixth ticket that Peter was holding for the game. At first it was assumed that either I got this coveted ducat , or I was going to be on the outside looking in. As it turned out, there were many tickets to be had off the street and the question became whether I would get to sit with my pals or not. Alas, Amy, who basically hates soccer, used the ticket instead of, God forbid, hanging by herself for three hours. Everything turned out fine, though, as I obtained a billet outside for 1800ff, ($300), and found myself twenty-two rows back, directly behind the goal at which the penalty kicks would ultimately be directed. Sure, I paid a ton for the ticket, but I doubt ten years from now I’m going to have memories about what that $300 could’ve bought me. At this point I ingested a generous amount of a hallucinogenic that shall remain nameless to add a bit more flair to one of the most festive occasions on earth.
I found the game to be most entertaining, to say the least, even though I missed a goal by the celebrated Brazilian Ronaldo coming right at us to start the second half. Luckily Holland scored and made the electricity in the air soar for the rest of the game. I was on the edge of my seat amidst an assortment of fans that resembled the United Nations and high-fiving all of them when it became clear that the game-deciding penalty kicks would be coming right at us. The South Americans won, and the emotion and sheer spectacle as the Brazil team made it’s way to the main cheering section after the game cannot be overstated---truly amazing. The crazy thing was that it would’ve been even better if Holland had won, because I was on their side of the stadium, and they look like me, for whatever that’s worth! My walk out of the stadium and back to the meeting place was quite daunting and long, but I finally found the two Mike’s after their worrisome half-hour wait and we were on our way to St. Tropez.
This leg of the trip went pretty well as we zipped through the bright moonlight on a perfectly cool night in the South of France. We missed the exit, but nobody bitched about it because we were in full adventure mode and more-or-less on the right track, for once. We got a laugh out of the road to the resort because it appeared to be an old-fashioned video game because there was no yellow line in the middle of the road and broken white ones on the side. We found the hotel easily enough, taking for granted the non-existent traffic along the way. After the clerk from the ultra-plush $400 a night hotel did everything but perform fallatio on us, I found myself on a hideaway bed that was a just reward after two nights on the floor. I was a bit bummed that I would have to leave this good life tomorrow for Barcelona to catch the Phish shows, but I still slept well, to be sure.
Playground Of The Rich and Famous
The next day started with me deciding to eat my tickets for that night’s Phish show and stay in the lap of luxury an extra day. I enjoyed hitting the hot tub on the private terrace before downing a very French breakfast poolside with the rest of the party. We then headed into the village of shops and amazingly beautiful, high-profile women. I managed to lose the party in pursuit of a splendid mademoiselle and, ultimately, “tobacs”, the elusive cigarettes that everybody in Europe smokes but only selected stores in France sell. I got a joke for my act out of this smoking thing that goes as follows: “everybody in Europe smokes. I mean, my buddy and I got in an elevator, he pushes the button for the third floor and nothing happens. It turns out he’d pushed the button for the third lighter on the elevator!” But seriously, folks, I wandered around this playground for the rich, checking out the twenty million dollar yachts and such until finding Mike1 and deciding to go play golf.
After overcoming the horrible directions to the golf course, (greens fees included with the room), we made it for our tee time a bit late. Luckily we had allowed time for the fuck-up because we’d learned that this is a good policy for moronic Americans in Europe. We managed a set of rental clubs with bad grips, but this mattered little because the course was nothing short of amazing. In nearly perfect condition, it was in the midst of stunning mountain peaks, trees and vegetation novel to this American. To sum it up, basically every hole was the “T.V. hole”. There were lots of greens in the foreground with a mountain twenty miles away in the background. This, coupled with “yardages” in metres, made distances pretty hard to judge. I didn’t play particularly well, but it mattered little because life was hard to bitch about anything at this point, especially because we were the only people out there due to the soccer game. We raced out of there beating the darkness, but in serious jeopardy of missing the first half of the France-Croatia semi-final game. After narrowly avoiding putting the wrong gas in the rental car, we made tracks back to the hotel listening to the game on French radio, (put la balloon in cage!). We hurried through our grooming processes at the hotel and then donned our finest, albeit severely wrinkled, cosmo clothes.
We found a pizza restaurant that somehow wasn’t as packed as the others and had a seat for the rest of the game and food and drink. France won and we found ourselves in the midst of a bonus “party central”, and this didn’t suck. After failing to hit on a couple of women, (something I may regret until the day I die), we tried to fulfill our obligation to meet the others at another bar. Alas, we had waited too long and they were gone, so the two musketeers pressed on to the avenue by the yachts to celebrate with the natives. It was a party much more creative than when the Braves won the World Series, and the French hadn’t even won the tournament yet! Anyway, we saddled up to the Café Paris on the waterfront and, after much hand-wringing, found ourselves following a bottle of champagne Mike bought to a table of two Dutch babes. Let’s just say wild, swapping sex soon followed and leave it at that. We got back at what would soon be considered a ridiculously early 3:00 a.m. after a mighty fine day. I can’t say I missed out by failing to make the Phish show in Spain, that’s for sure.
Don’t Believe The Florist When He Tells You That The Roses Are Free
This travel day began with a half-hour wait in the parking lot for everyone to get their shit together, which is definitely the down-side of traveling in a group. We were also treated to a traffic jam heading away from the town, which I’m sure is de riguer. Anyway, the group traveled to Marseilles’s airport so Mike and I could get a car to Barcelona while the others went north to Geneva for a wedding. We were lucky to obtain a little diesel Citroen with a multi-colored interior, no a/c but good gas mileage. The trip to Barcelona was just over four hours because we did about 150 km/h most of the way. This put us in town with an hour and a half to find a hotel and get to the show. Unfortunately, we had no map and assumed that we could “wing it” by simply finding any hotel, getting a room and directions to the show.
Let’s put it this way: Barcelona is a big city. A big city with a lot of traffic. A big city with huge areas that can be driven in for a couple hours without seeing one hotel. A big city in which seemingly nobody can speak English or standard Spanish. Suffice it to say, we two idiots almost lost our patience and found ourselves at the airport for directions later rather than sooner. At this point we were more than happy to take the closest hotel and call it a night because we were a tad bit exhausted. After overcoming counting off .3 km as actually a full 3 km, we finally found the nearest hotel, a sold-out sloppy-looking four star. We eventually settled for a bizarre motel a few miles west of the airport and called it a night because the only flight Mike could find out was early the next morning. This was by far the worst day of the trip, but I was optimistic about the next day, so it was all good.
The Most Beautiful Girls In The World
After a few hours of sleep, we were off to the airport around six-thirty. This was fine with me because I was all about getting into town before the traffic cranked up. I made it to the pension the Phish message board group had rented at which I was entitled to stay in for the past two nights with relative ease. I tried to park the car in a bizarre garage that required that I leave my car locked in an elevator contraption that I was not familiar with. This was a problem because nobody around spoke English to put my mind at ease about the method in question, so I reconsidered and got my car back and continued my odyssey. The next garage was very American, so I left it there, despite the fact that it would cost more to lodge the car overnight than my body. It turned out that the high price was due to the fact that the garage was right around the corner from a remarkable thirteenth century cathedral, which drew many a tourist and made for a fine landmark when I needed the Citroen the next day. I was now near enough hotels to find some English and get to las pension spartan with relative ease. I finally met my online Phish-fan friend at the room and he was nice enough to have left me the long double bed all this time. It was now around eight-thirty a.m., which called for a few blasts of a stimulant other than caffeine to get this Barcelona experience off on the right foot.
I found myself to be merely one block away from the famous La Ramblas, a pedestrian boulevard with countless café dining areas, newsstands, and vendor booths. There were also jugglers, magicians, live human statues and jesters. Most peculiar was the number of bird vendors along this stretch. There had to be twenty different places, each with probably one hundred pet birds for sale. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I’m on vacation, I want to share it with a new-found feathered friend!?! Perhaps a city ordinance stated that bird vending was limited to Las Ramblas or something, I don’t know. If any of you go visit this place someday, please ask and get back to me.
Anyway, I wandered over to the aquarium at the harbor a few blocks away, among other places, and then noticed that the attractive women were starting their days. I hung out chatting up fellow Phish fans from the States, getting filled in on what I missed the rest of the tour and so forth. It certainly was nice to have identifiable English-speaking people around, that’s for sure. I toured the previously-mentioned cathedral, and it was nothing short of epic. The architectural feat of those from the 13th century was truly mind-boggling. Later I roused my roommate, who turned out to be a pretty boring dork, but at least he wasn’t stupid. We walked about while I raved about the level of gorgeous members of the opposite sex in this town. At one point I posed the rhetorical question: “How could the girl-watching get any better?” The only good line he uttered the whole time I was around him followed: “Let’s go to the beach.”
We walked about a mile past a huge paved park and a lot of cool-looking apartment buildings before finding a wonderful, large, American-style beach with nice sand, unlike the rocks of the South of France that I’d recently seen. There was a bar right by the beach that had to be the original use for the telephoto lens and we snagged a table closest to the sunbathing Goddesses and proceeded to toast each and every one of them.
This place was, no lie, ten times better than St. Tropez. If there are better-looking women in the world, I’d sure like to know where. Unfortunately, my side-kick was something other than Casanova and, seeing that I need all the help I can get, I was merely a spectator to all this, not a participant. At least I’m now motivated to learn Spanish. The afternoon became early evening and we walked over to ‘92’s Olympic Park and the Ritz-Carlton, (which we’ll visit later), to catch a cab back to Las Ramblas because we had a big night ahead of us and wanted to conserve energy.
Phish, a few thousand miles from home..
A cab took the two of us to the concert venue a bit across town in plenty of time to socialize around the warehouse-type building. It was fun to chat up a bunch of maniacal Phish fans, especially the blue-eyed blonde ones. Anyway, the show started for the assembled 1,000 or so about half an hour late. This kind of sucked because they had a curfew this night so the club could convert into a huge discotheque , so we wanted to get things started. The first set was brief and plagued by sound problems that lingered into the second set, but thankfully things worked out and the boys delivered a stellar 24th shoe that I’ve seen. The crowd was wonderfully attentive except a pair of geeks right behind me who I had to tell to shut up. Seriously, why in the fuck would you come all the way to Spain to see a show if you’re going to talk? Unbelievable! Speaking of unbelievable, this would describe what the little square piece of paper was that enhanced this little scene. After the show I floated social-butterfly style through the drained post-concert crowd and forgot that I might run into my roommate. Sure enough, the dork is floating around, wearing sunglasses, of all things! I chatted this “me!, me!, me!”, type-guy up as long as I could stand and then made my get-away for the center of town on foot.
I wandered and found myself on the beach by the Ritz soon enough. The journey there was pretty fun, as the locals were out partying in the numerous nightspots and I saw a “gang” of guys on mopeds get cited for having no helmets. Everybody in Europe seems to have a two-wheeler, which is logical for sure. Things get shady because they tend to whip in between cars on the broken white lines at break-neck speeds, but, hell, it must work for them. Anyway, I wandered down to the full-moonlit beach and had a smoke or two to go with my profound thoughts. I then headed back by the hotel to take a cab to Las Ramblas, but was sidetracked by a guy I mistook for English, but was actually Russian, from Moscow. He was very cool and we spoke for quite awhile about football, (very emphatic about the Cup needing to stay in Europe), and traffic, because he drove here as well, but never got lost. He stressed that if you can drive in Moscow, anywhere else is child’s play. Luckily I aimlessly followed him down to the most amazing party spot I’ve ever seen.
Picture if you will…a quarter-mile long building with an outdoor corridor running through the middle. On one side is dance floor after dance floor featuring every imaginable style of music, (until you’ve seen a bunch of Spanish dance to “Surfin’ U.S.A., you haven’t lived), and a smattering of ice cream and snack shops in between. On the other side are twenty café-style restaurant/bars, side by side, that are serving to a full house of all ages at three in the morning. Throw in the most beautiful women in the world dressed to the nines everywhere you look and you’re just about with me.
I lost my Russian friend as we passed the first disco and I bid farewell and u-turned into it. Now, I may not be able to speak Spanish, but I certainly was kicking out a communiqué that all these women could understand on this dance floor. This tie-dyed freak was not exactly wanting for dance partners as a result! Unfortunately, it was somewhat humid and the clubs were packed, so my profusely sweating person was soon drenched and, as we all know, this is simply bad form. I was reduced to dancing on the other side of the windows to these places with other passerby, a method that proved acceptable. Given my psychological state I found myself hitting on every girl that looked at me twice, but I was unable to find one that admitted to knowing English. C’est la vie. Around three, I had had enough of seeing these unattainable women, and the party in general, so I decided to get a cab. We edged towards Las Ramblas through others just pulling in to start partying---and it’s three! I also noticed a group of beautiful girls dressed for clubbing, heels and the whole bit, riding their Vespas with helmets on! Not something you see every day.
Got back near my pension and the party was still in full swing there. I finally found some English-speaking Spanish people, along with a bunch of people that were at the Phish show, so, les bons temps rollez! When the sun came up, it occurred to me to head back to the room to bid farewell to my roomie and get my stuff together for my trip to the airport. He tried to sell me a story about meeting Trey, (the guitar player), in an elevator apparently to make me regret ditching him, but his story didn’t hold up even under a half-hearted cross-examination. I was cordial to him, though, as I finally caught the best view of him---walking the other directions with his bags! I still had time to kill before my early afternoon flight, so I headed to pay my last respects to the best beach in the world. Against all odds, there were sugary senioritas out there at nine a.m.! When these people sleep, I have no idea. Finally left for the airport with a vow to return sooner rather than later.
Negatives Turned Into Positives
Made the flight with ease while simply carrying the crutches, the braces and bandage in my backpack, because it was only a short flight to Paris. A problem arose, however, so the plane was delayed fifty minutes, which would prove to be just enough time for me to miss my connection. This appeared to a bad bounce as I waited an hour in the re-ticketing line and then obtained a nearby hotel room for the night, courtesy of Air France. I was looking forward to getting a lot of sleep before my flight the next morning, but I discovered that the World Cup consolation game was being staged that night right up the train tracks in Gay Parie, so what the hell! I got a brief nap in and hit the rails to the ancient stadium that’s name now escapes me in the district that does likewise. I scored a ticket for a relatively paltry 800ff and was in another epic match that another billion people were probably watching on television. It was quite an entertaining show, even though the stakes were essentially nil. At least I got to party with the wonderful Dutch one more time. For some reason I was tired after the match, so I resisted the City of Light’s very obvious temptations and got back to the hotel for some hard-core shut-eye.
The knee-brace made an encore and the crutches were returned to their appropriate length for this day’s eight-hour flight back. I had learned my lesson this time and took it easy with the full-scale crutch walk until I got to the gate. Unfortunately business class was packed to the gills and they weren’t even mentioning first class, so I settled for the front row coach. This proved to be an even better bounce than I could’ve dreamed due to the presence of Isabella, a lovely brunette from Barcelona who was on her way to Atlanta for six weeks to immerse herself in the culture. Tour guide? I can do that! The down side of this was that a nice enough French guy with bad breath was between us, and that made my sales pitch difficult to get over. I did give her my number, however, so I can expect to never hear from her.*
The crutches allowed me to duck a very lengthy line at immigration in the ATL, which was nice. The luggage cart debuted as a new prop and was good to lean on to keep the ruse going after I’d folded up the crutches and put them in the bag. My new roommate Brad met me at the exit to the parking lot, which was nice, and celebrated the miracle of healing with me once I got in his car for the ride home and the France-Brazil final on T.V.
In retrospect, I’d say I needed more time across the pond with less people with me from America. One other person would be sufficient because when there are more than that, I tended to hang with them and not converse with others, which is pretty much kills the whole concept of learning about other cultures. A good trip in so many ways and even the bad parts taught me lessons on how to make it better next time, which will hopefully be sooner rather than later.
* Indeed, Isabella never called.
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