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.”

Ronda

My favorite day in Spain to date happened in Ronda. It's not far away, exotic, or particularly well-known, but it was still my favorite day. That same weekend one of those companies -- the ones that make sure study abroad students have fun -- sent hundreds to Morocco to ride camels and camp in the Sahara. Ronda, by comparison, was a quiet little getaway, a hour away by bus. Two friends came and left that afternoon, and then I was all alone in a charming town. You don't fall into Ronda; it is a place certain kinds of people seek out.



Wandering the city with a big bag of olives, I came across the plaza de toros, and was told by an old man I look like a young Hemingway. I do not know enough about Hemingway yet, but I know he wrote about Spain and liked the bulls, so I probably should learn a little more. Passing the man and the bulls, I came abruptly to the cliffs that overlook the sierras around Ronda. Olive farms stretched out below, defined by tiny roads and lit by small fires. The white buildings slid out onto the edges. The famous bridge that defines Ronda -- fit for a Lord of the Rings film -- sat where the two tallest cliffs came together, blending into the rock.


After walking down those cliffs into the canyon below, the stream turned into a lovely waterfall. Without any park laws, or fences, or general restrictions whatsoever, you are vulnerable to your own stupidity. You can climb ladders or wade your way through rapids or hang off a cliff as your please. Stupid or not, friends and I crept up to the edge of the waterfall and it was a gorgeous day, a gorgeous scene, and the water was cold and fresh on our feet and faces.




At one particular bypass looking out on the bridge, a gorgeous girl from Melbourne asked me to take her photo. I noted her accent, commented on it, talked with her awhile, hiked a bit, talked with her awhile longer, and a few hours later at dusk we met for a drink. Fast forward a few days, after taking a few chances, and I woke up to her smiling sleepily in Granada. Travel romance is probably the truest sort of romance: open and fearless and urgent. This all was never the plan, but that's freedom I suppose, and when no one in the world knows where you are, you certainly have nowhere in the world to be. I digress; all this happened later, and there will be more stories around that I'm certain. The sun fell away in Ronda that night and I sat happily on my porch, listening to the little stream below, reflecting on why it pays to choose the simple things.

Carnaval

I go back and forth on Cádiz, and its third largest Carnaval celebration in the world. It is a ridiculous spectacle to say the least, and it puts to shame a few of my epic halloween extravaganzas on Sixth Street back in Austin. A million people line the narrow streets in costume, strange alcoholic concoctions  in hand, shoulder to shoulder in the shadows of old churches. Those not too drunk were in good spirits, kissing boyfriends and girlfriends and strangers and taking photographs they might regret tomorrow. I won a costume contest, myself. It was all a pretty good time, I guess.



A wise woman told me once we all have our course to run. For some those last longer than others and for some those courses never end. This woman once asked a man on the first date if he had in fact run his course, and I thought it such a perfect, direct question: one that could solve the world's problems. I do not know if my course is over, or if I'm ready for something else, but I do think I am changing. I hate to death the phrase, "I'm too old for this," but after walking soggy streets soaked in piss, even I was leaning that way. I liked Carnaval, but I didn't love it, and I find my actions these days to be much more deliberate.

I paced my evening well. There was a cute Dutch guide, responsible for getting everyone there and back alive, and while 55 people fell into drunken slumbers, her and I talked the hour back to Seville. I got off the bus without any regrets, the first stars fading away on the horizon, but I very well could look at tomorrow's wretched costume with a few. 

Rollin' Back

It has indeed become clear, after a fair amount of introspection, that my mind works differently than most people. These thoughts are put to the test in extreme environments, and the truth really does come out. Take now, for instance; at some point the honeymoon stage of a new place ends, the sights and sounds all become something normal, you are surprised one day by life's plainness, and you begin to look backwards instead of forwards. That sounds like something to write about.

I am very fortunate because when I do look back some very special people have equipped me with some very special memories. I remember beers on my front porch off speedway and silly video games late into the night. I remember walks up to Mount Bonnell when life needed some thought, looking out on the river and the lights and those flickering radio towers. I remember long 100 mile rides -- a distance I now realize would take me from Seville to Portugal -- sunburned and exhausted, and the BBQ meals that always followed. We did not need much those days, and man, you lose sight of those moments until they have been gone a long time.

I said something rather simple to a girl recently -- some random thought about her life -- and she called me profound. In my mind that read as sarcastic, and perhaps condescending, but it wasn't meant that way at all. Conversations these days lead to bland stares and mushy heads, like an endless stream of online videos. It's a terrible thing to be away from your people. It's a curious fact of life that those thousands of miles away feel closer than those sitting next to you in a circle.

This past friday I stayed in bed with a book rather than join a group in the streets. The next day the internet went out, and I was fascinated by reactions throughout our residencia. Everyone looked lost, wandering the halls in a way that reminded me of that day back in Alice Springs, Aborigines stumbling drunk in the park. I am sure I am viewed as strange, or old, or other things I cannot imagine, but I do not much care these days because I just do what feels right. I woke up healthy and alive the next day and had another nice cool run.

Every once in a while when I lay in bed, I put down my book and look up at the walls. There is an Australian flag, a Texas flag, and the flag of Andalusia waving softly with the breeze -- my makeshift version of interior decorating. It's times like this I sit back and drift off to some great things that happened once that really, truly, profoundly matter. 

Short and Sweet

I spent a fair amount of time today during my visit to the ancient Roman city of Italica, distracted away from the amphitheater, baths, mosaic tiles, and roads that occupied people's attention almost 2,000 years ago. I didn't spend much time thinking about how far that empire stretched to build something like this so far from Italy. All this because hoards of American 19 year olds, traveling in packs and armed with cameras, had better things to do. Everyone needs their moment to vent, and everyone hates their own country abroad, but sadly, I have understood for awhile now why Americans around the world are viewed as they are.

There are probably a billion places something important happened, and brown little markers where somebody died. Throughout history these places have been defiled and burned and wrecked by both intentional acts and straight negligence. When I watched a group of girls ignore a sign, side step a fence, crawl on a boulder, and pretend to be gladiators, I put my head behind my hands and thought some things never change. I probably thought it more symbolic than it actually was.

A friend and I stood out of the way, watching the panoramic view while trying to erase the little ants. I could not help but feel we all miss the point. As we get on an airplane in a few month's time, there will be photographs and small souvenirs and temporary friendships that say, "yes, it all happened," but we will all be the same people we were when that first plane took off.

For Those Who Stay

The three hour bus ride from Seville to Granada was lulled along by English voices, some of them louder than others. The road outside grew more and more rugged, hills giving way to small mountains, the temperature dropping the higher we went. It would have been easy to get caught up in talk of life back home, and dietary cravings, and the sensational hookups of young people here, but I kept my headphones in and kept my thoughts to myself. I looked out on perfectly aligned olive trees irrigating the horizon, and small white pueblos crawling up hillsides, and I felt happy to be in Spain. The soundtrack was a familiar tune from my newfound obsession with Mumford and Sons.

and the time we were given will be left for the world,
the flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by the plague,
so let the memories be good for those who stay

Those small hills eventually turned into the Sierra Nevadas, and the highest peak of the Iberian Peninsula. It was a clear day, and the snowy peaks sent sunlight down the mountain until the snow disappeared and turned to rock and the rock turned into the city of Granada. You hear surprisingly little about Granada around Spain -- it is one of its hidden gems -- but it did not take me long to grow attached. Some places have red flashing lights and bright beacons lighting up the sky and you just cannot explain why to anyone; Granada is one of these places to me.


If Granada is something of a forgotten place now, it was everything in its heyday. Until Isabel and Ferdinand arrived in 1492, it was the final Muslim stronghold, the definitive point or Moorish legacy. That peculiar race, the Moors, more a mix of people than a set national identity, had spread Islam across the peninsula for centuries. These were some of Islam's best moments, supporting equal rights, religious tolerance, libraries, universities, and supreme engineering feats, all lost in the perception of today's radical Middle East. Many argue the Renaissance was made possible by Muslim influence in the south, and this period of international greatness is no better felt than in Granada.



The Alhambra is a palace, or series of palaces and gardens, originally started in the 1000s and added onto century after century through Muslim an Christian kingdoms. It is the number one most visited spot in Spain -- more than the Sagrada Familia or the cathedral in Seville -- bringing in annually around four million tourists. Every year, mostly in summer months, these people walk its steep inclines, gaze upon its Arabic fountains, and look out on Granada from the tallest tower like people have done for centuries.

A man in a bar once told me Granada is a city you go to fall in love, and it does seem like the place to do that. Though when we call a city romantic, I'm still not sure what that means, because to me every sort of place is begging for a love story and I always make them up in my mind. Perhaps by romantic we mean timeless, and Granada does strike me as that. Most places it's difficult to see yourself along the diluted path of history -- we have to build parking lots and skyscrapers and bowling alleys -- but in Granada it could be any year and the view has not much changed.







The Royal Chapel sits down the road from the Alhambra, past old Arabic shops full of tourism paraphernalia. The remains of Ferdinand and Isabel are inside, provided you pay the fee. These two figures ruled half the world, for better or for worse, and decided to call it quits in Granada. Living in Spain, it is hard not to imagine these figures in life. They did a lot, and brought a very fragmented country together, while sending out the expedition would change the course of everything. They were the personification of Spain before Spain went south.

The monument to these people is -- in the true nature of Catholicism -- an extravagant gaudy relic that shows the king and queen dead and still with lions asleep at their feet and angels around their bed. I often wonder what people think about in that reclined position when they know they are soon going to die. I imagine in the old days, watched by a most unforgiving God, they would be thinking about that God's judgement. I personally think memories alone are meant to carry us in those last moments of life. As king and queen, looking at a very big life, I am sure there was plenty to think about.


The bus ride back was one of those rides you don't want to end, and I did as people do and drifted off to sleep thinking about all that shit that just happened. I will probably never have servants or live in a royal palace, but I don't much want those things. Our measure of success varies, and that's fine; one person is discovering America while another invents the boat that takes him there. I live in Spain while someone I know explores a dark corner in South America. It's all this crap that takes us, step by step, slowly, unrelentingly, from the world in 1492 until now.