The Streets of Seville at Night

It was an interesting day on the streets of Seville, dedicated to the national huelga, or strike. 80% of businesses were closed, most transportation was shut down, and people hovered around major shopping centers and outside government buildings protesting reforms. In Greece they are throwing stones at riot police. That was a long ways from the peaceful chanting in the distance. A helicopter flew by overhead making its rounds and police on horseback trotted down streets and no one was very aggressive.

Things were more hectic for me that morning. After falling asleep early, I woke up around 3am to the sound of a roommate stumbling home drunk, struggling with his pants, before throwing himself into bed. An hour later I heard water hitting the floor outside our bedroom -- only it wasn't water, but piss. The whole outside corridor of our residency was covered, and, remembering days long gone back in the bars, I got the hell out. At my age Charles Dickens was publishing the Pickwick Papers, my father was marrying my mother, and Lionel Messi was leading scorer for the best soccer team in the world; I'm already much too old for this.

By 5am I was on the road for an early run, before the sun even hinted it was coming. I ran down Avenida de la Constitución normally packed with tourists and those strange face-painted entertainers, past the old churches and darkened cathedral. I ran past the Plaza de España where the Andalusian Parliament sits. Then I continued further than I'd ever gone, down streets I'd never seen before, losing all sense of orientation. I kept going: past the football stadium for Betis; through a park and underneath the bridge only seen from high places; along a highway, into the port by docks and cranes; over a few gates with spiky tops locked until the day; finally along the river again, which I grew desperate to find. 90 minutes later I passed the Gold Tower and the Plaza de Armas, and walked up quietly to my door.



My roommate slept on in a tired sleep, making a few quiet cries for help in his dreams. I showered, packed my things, and left for breakfast around 7am, thinking about the paradox that forever seems sprawled out between two beds, and that nothing is as powerful as seeing the physical manifestation of the many things you never want to be.

Northern Spain

A new friend and I hiked up the small neighborhoods of San Sebastian one afternoon, arriving at the top and looking out at the pinnacle view of the city. Here the coast of Spain turns abruptly north and the Iberian Peninsula meshes into the side of France. Below, surfers in wetsuits made the most out of small waves, and the children of Basque and French and Spanish ran up to the water until it came at them, retreating then to the arms of their parents. Along la Concha, a brisk breeze blew in from the Pyrenees, and a statue of Jesus looked down from the hill.



He was a good guy, that ex-member of the Australian navy: one of those people you immediately like. He and his girlfriend were traveling Australia to England taking the scenic route, and while his girlfriend went off to a fashion museum, him and I did what men do and hiked a big hill to the top. Good couples know how to be together, and also know how to separate, and they both knew they needed some space (how can you not after so many miles) so we all did what we did. My brief stint in Northern Spain was defined not by the place and the view but by the people, and as we all went out for a beer later that night, I thought how great it is to feel that way when I travel alone to all these places. Americans in Seville and people everywhere are obsessed with the idea of being alone. "Don't you get lonely," I sometimes get asked, and I smile because if anything I wish I were alone more often.


A Philippine man named Albert worked in the hostel and cooked fresh hot paella for us all if we bought the ingredients: a barter deal of sorts always worth making. He told us one night about his family -- three kids and a wife -- living in both the Philippines and Dubai. He expects to see them all within the next three years when there is enough saved to bring them to Spain. It's strange for me to talk of plans and dreams in years and not weeks, but the developing world does not have that luxury. That is a first-world irregularity.

Albert and I and the two Australians went out again on my last night, and drank a few more beers and danced around a latin club. I had a silly few hours with a Basque girl, winding up on the beach and then back at her house with scary wall photos that remind you of the house of Carrie's mother in Stephen King's famous novel. A few hour's later I watched the coast to Santander, and then the mountains of Northern Spain. Somewhere on that ride I read a poem that hit me hard against all this chaotic movement.

What
Can be made with just one push: this work of wanting
More than the actual. To watch yourself
Move in and out of all that truth
And beauty - to be in debt is to remain awake.

Lisboa: In Photos

When the Book Chooses You

I look at photographs a lot because they help me remember what has happened. There are many things photographs don't say, but they usually spark some little thing in my mind, some thought or emotion. This happened recently, looking at a picture in Florida, myself on the balcony, one leg out lazily in front, nursing Jan Morris's book on Spain. The book was great at the time, even though it's out of print, and it helped me imagine all the things that would soon be true.

I unintentionally took a similar photo one afternoon on the beach in Cádiz. I sat in the same position, watching seagulls stumble around and float with the wind, and Jan Morris's Spain wasn't in my hands but all around me. I felt it in between my toes and buzzing around my head and I saw it in the wooden boats off in the distance. Sometimes books really do that cliche thing and come to life.

Standing at the Door

In three days I turn 23, which those who have ever worked in bars realize has absolutely no importance. This is true for every birthday across every landmark year; no one actually cares about your birthday. People would do better to call it what it is, and just go drink themselves into oblivion. I digress, and this is not how I plan to spend the 8th of March, 2012. One of the beauties of age is that you realize you can spend a day -- any day -- how you wish, and not give a damn what anybody else wants to do.

For many years I was surrounded by older and wiser people, so no matter what age I turned I always managed to feel young. This year the tables have turned, and most of the people I'm around are under legal drinking age back home. In Spain they are armed with alcoholic beverages in public for the first time, and shit gets crazy. For whatever reason, standing atop the Rock of Gibraltar last week, this number feels greater than last year's number, but there's not much we can do about that.



I spent years battling the age dilemma, trying to convince every new acquaintance I in fact, wasn't actually just 21. At 19 on a flight to Austin, I sat next to a beautiful public relations representative for Matthew McConaughey, and things were going so well until she discovered I was seven years younger. This along with a few other experiences shocked me, but all we know is what we know, who we know, and what we were like way back then, so it's natural these images kill it all before it begins. I still adamantly oppose the age card, because its our experiences, our mistakes, and our risks that make us who we are. It's not difficult to say that a 20 year old on his worst day can be a better husband than a 40 year old on his best. It all is indeed relative, and I find with time those stuck on age tend to be those least satisfied with their own.

The beauty of birthdays is strictly personal; it's a nice landmark to gauge ourselves. I certainly look back at a period of my life called 22, and see something I made good. Three continents and an Ironman is no small feat, and I hope 23 just gets better. These landmarks allow us space for an honest talk that examines what have we done and what haven't we done and why the fuck haven't we done it yet and who the hell is going to help us when we are all alone. When we go on and on with excuses year after year, we should not be surprised to wake up one day, questioning where all the time went, wondering how we became that 40 year old we never wanted to be.

I know a lot of people -- too many people -- who feel a little lost and out of time. Paulo Coelho can sometimes be great with words, and he says this in his own perfect way:

"Can a person remain his whole life in this situation?

He can be pushed by life, but resist and remain there, always complaining – and his suffering will be useless, will teach him nothing.

Yes, a person can stand for the rest of his days facing one of the many doors he should go through, but he must understand that he has only truly lived up to that point. He may continue to breathe, walk, sleep and eat – but with less and less pleasure, because he is already spiritually dead and does not know it.

Until one day when, as well as his spiritual death, physical death appears; at that moment God will ask: “what did you do with your life?” We must all answer this question, and woe betide those who answer: “I remained standing at the door.”