Wes Leslie

Today we took a trip to Segovia. I, running behind schedule (I decided to end my electronic vow of silence, meaning lots of emails to write and read now), wolfed down bad toast and Metroed to Moncloa, where the group met up with our bus. I got on, and soon passed out for the scenic ride.

Arriving there, our tour guide was a cheesy white lady from Ohio, who spoke American-good Spanish to us. Apparently she’s a professor at Georgetown. Whoopdeedoo.

She led us around to different touristy sites, including old churches, more old churches, and the actually impressive aqueduct. Still, I was having bad Israel flashbacks during this trip–lots of time spent on a bus, a knowledgeable tour guide I grew bored of, too many churches, too many tourists, too many Americans taking stupid pictures. In fact, some of them were recording video of the boring tour guide! What the hell could they need that for? If it was boring the first time, I can’t imagine a recording being much better. We had a twenty minute break for coffee, and two of the girls invited me to go to a little cafe with them. After I walked in, I realized I’d rather be wandering the streets by myself, trying to find where locals actually live. So I took off to do that, finding a tiny little shop where an old woman sold fresh breads and little items. I bought a baguette and muched and wandered.

Meeting up with the group, we went to another church, and as they all studied the 16th century architecture, I checked out the old-school 80’s keyboard set up there. I looked at the older man next to it and asked, “Do you play for the church?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “This is for a wedding this afternoon.” We had a long talk about music, weddings, the church, even touching on gay marriage, and how dos hombres can’t get married at that church.

The highlight of the Segovia trip came after this church, when we were given a generous two and a half hour lunch break. A group of us headed off in some direction, and when I found a park I decided to sit down and write for a while, at which point everyone else ditched me. I wrote on a bench, then moved to another bench where I sat and talked with an old man. We fed the birds there and he told me about his life. He says he’s barely left the province he lives in, and hasn’t traveled outside of Spain. It was a really nice encounter. After he left, I wrote more, and talked to an Italian trip chaperone who sat next to me. He was with a group of cute Italian girls who came for a week of intensive Spanish.

After they left, I stretched out on the bench and took a great nap. When I woke up, I went back toward where I had seen a Turkish place, which is really a euphemism for “delicious falafel available here.” It was great. From my seat, I ate a tasty lunch, looking out the window to see the Roman aqueduct. History and deliciousness, hand in hand. Walking back to meet the group, I wrote down this observation about my language:

I noticed I’ve been doing the same thing some of my foreign CouchSurfers did when they spoke a language that’s not their native. That is to minimize consonants, thinking it’ll somehow make me sound like a local. In reality, it just means people have a hard time understanding me, and it sounds like I’m mumbling. I don’t sound American, per se, but I do sound like a foreigner. (Also, doing Wikipedia research, I learned that Segovia is sister cities with Marysville, Ohio, and Tucson, Arizona. Bahaha!)

I slept again during the bus ride back. I’m always tired here–it’s either mono, the fact that the school cafeteria’s vegetarian dish for me is canned peppers and canned asparagus, or maybe that I’m out ‘til 4 every night, then up early the next day. Can’t pinpoint it.

Back at the dorms, Deandra wanted a haircut. Her hair is already short, but she wanted the sides buzzed. While I gave yet another bad-ass haircut (cutting it shorter than she asked, because it wouldn’t have been noticeable any other way), Gordon rolled us a huge hash spliff, and we smoked on the roof and drank red wine with soda.

Crawling back through someone’s window on the way to my room, I ended up hanging out with a girl from our group for a long time, talking to her about the program, people, loves. She said she had things with two of the six guys in our group. I went through a group photo and tried to pick out which one-third it could be.

Then I went into my room, locked the doors, turned off the lights, and shut the blinds. I opened a GarageBand file and imported Four Tet’s “Unspoken,” and then hit record, turning off the display brightness and putting on sunglasses and headphones so I could literally see nothing, just eternal darkness. I freestyled over the nine minute song, with nothing to distract my flow. I overdubbed strange vocals, too, and then passed out.

I had a meeting with Doc Marten at 9 AM to choose my classes. I smacked my alarm clock off and slept through it. Around 10:30, I realized my error when I woke up feeling a little too refreshed. I called him, and we set up another meeting for 12. I got ready and walked to school, where I saw that I’m in the ópera group. That’s the middle of the three groups, following the test we took yesterday. So, not on the fluent side (with a lot of the native Mexicans in our program), but not on the short-bus side either. Fine by me! Then I had my meeting, where Doc Marten convinced me to take the Spanish literature course in addition to the Latin American literature course I already had (“That’s like going to Australia to learn Chinese! Well, not quite…but you know what I am getting at.”)

My rationale for the courses I chose was that taking the other would free up my afternoons on Fridays, so I could take off to visit friends in other cities. But, looks like I’ll be either taking off later on Fridays, or, more likely, not doing as many weekend jaunts as I want to.

From there I went to meet up with Elena, and we checked out a flat. I liked it a lot, but they wouldn’t be happy without a living room, so she wasn’t interested. I realized at this point that we probably would not be living together. After that, we saw her friends walking around and stopped for a beer at a little bar with them, then continued to her studio where she and five or six other artists/architects work out of. It’s a great space, and everyone there is really talented. Her friend Carmen made us a nice vegetarian salad with twirly pasta, lettuce, tomato and mushroom. Sure beats the Chaminade experience, that’s for sure. I called some apartments to check out for myself, and had an appointment to see one in an hour and a half. I hung out at their workspace and wrote for an hour, then said bye to Elena and walked to the apartment. I called the guy when outside of his place, and apparently he had left. Hm. I plopped down and pulled out all the bits of paper with phone numbers for apartments that I’ve been collecting, and started calling them. One lady said to come right away, so I headed there. I got lost along the way–she said diez nueve, I thought, so I headed toward 10-9, or 109. And I was in the thirties, so I had a ways to go. The farther I walked, the more unhappy I became with the location. It was so far from the centro! I got to the end of the block, and hit 103. There was no 109. So I called back, and sure enough the address was diecinueve, or 19. I backtracked nine long blocks until I hit the right address.

I was buzzed into the place, and took the stairs up a flight to the apartment. There a mother met me with her son, who was probably about four years old.

“Hi, I’m Mayra,” she told me, leading me in. “Here’s the room you’ll be staying in. We’re still cleaning it out.” And the room, a tiny box with a wardrobe, small bed, and small window, had colorful plastic toys scattered throughout it. The held a toy and watched me watching the room.

“This was his room,” she said, pointing at the boy. “But now I’m unemployed, so we need to rent it. He’ll be staying in the other bedroom with my husband and I.”

I didn’t know what to say. It was a sad situation, but she wasn’t being dramatic about it all, or trying to make me feel bad for her or anything. She just accepted what was happening, knowing that the best solution would be to rent out the room.

After thanking her and leaving, I walked back to the dorms, thinking about it all along the way. It might make me feel weird to be there, displacing her son like that. But, I am helping them by taking the room, as they need the money, and I know I’ll be a responsible renter. Plus, this will force me to practice my Spanish, as they don’t speak any English. I called her about twenty minutes into the walk to say I’d take the place. It is a strange setup, but I’m excited and unsure how everything’s going to work. Will we eat dinner together? Will their parenting bother me like the family I lived with in Mexico, who would chase the boys around the house with belts and whip them because they forgot to flush? I wonder if I’ll be able to concentrate to write, or if I’ll even talk to the family much.

DJ

It is nighttime, and I am outside my barn. All of my Chinese are sleeping in neat little rows, legs folded, backs straight. I only need to kill a few of them for eggs, and contemplate how to do it so I don’t wake up the rest. Then I remember–someone told me if you whack them on the head with a spoon, they’ll die immediately. I do this to the first girl, and then to Jordon, and then to three or four more. But they don’t die, just wake up, confused. Now that they’re up, I can’t smother them if I need to. I take my spoon and smack the first girl on either ear really hard. I do the same to Jordon, and blood begins pouring out of their ears. “Whoa,” the girl says. “My ears feel so weird.” “Yeah,” Jordon says. “What’s this song called again? I really like it.” He has no idea he is dying.

###

I am with friends and I meet two guys from Paris. They skateboard around SF with us, and it’s just like the Skate video game. I keep trying crazy tricks and don’t get hurt because I’m dreaming.

###

I want to have wild dreams, and think that wearing my yarmulke while I sleep will help. I put it on and crawl into bed, and begin to have horrible, dark visions.

###

My family is outside of a comedy club. The headliner is finishing his act, and we haven’t been inside yet. My dad asks me to talk to Tommy T and see if he can get the performer to tell jokes a little longer. “Fine, we’ll even pay for an extra hour,” my dad says, desperate to keep the comedian around. We walk around a newly developed downtown waiting for Grammy and Gramps. When they show up in their new van, I am squatting in the back seat of their old Mercedes, trying to go to the bathroom in the slot in the seat. Grammy hobbles over and begins a conversation, and I am covering up my torso with newspapers so it looks like I’m reading. I begin laughing because I don’t think she knows what’s going on. Clint asks what’s so funny, and Grammy says, “I walked in on him going to the bathroom, and now he’s embarrassed.” And once I realized that she knew what I was doing, I did become embarrassed.

###

            This morning’s placement exam went about as well as I could have asked, considering last night…But while it’s true I was out late, one could argue that I was essentially “studying,” what with chilling with madrileños and learning new phrases, speaking only Spanish with them all. After I finished the exam, I fell asleep in the classroom waiting for everyone else to finish. I had the following dream.

DJ

            I’m at my house, super high. I’m eating with my family and Muriel. They forget her name, and my mom and dad begin ping-ponging back and forth different names that they think are hers, including those of some exes. I bury my head in my hands, stoned out of my mind, thinking that this can’t really be happening. I hear our house phone ringing and stand to go pick it up, but it’s not in its cradle. As the ringing continues, annoying us all, I’m more desperately looking for the phone. I look down and realize I’ve been holding the receiver the whole time. I glance up and my dad is watching me and bursts out laughing. My brother leans over to him and asks, “Don’t you think Wes has been acting strange today?”

            Later that afternoon, we went on a historic bus tour of Madrid. The engine’s soft purring, the comfy seats…I got a really nice overview of the inside of my eyelids, you could say. Besides, I prefer exploring on my own anyway.

            After dinner, our group was going to go out to some place called Kapital, a disco/club. I’d never seen the girls in this form before–complimenting each other, trying to dress up real sexy-like, catty comments behind backs, bitch moves like stealing each others’ clothes, borrowing jewelery, in-depth conversations about how to store money in your bosoms properly. It was a strange and unfortunate sight. It was difficult once we got to the metro, because I understand how Metro systems work, but I didn’t like telling everyone what to do, so we kept walking around in circles and taking the wrong trains.

            Earlier, I’d asked Gordon if he would pay fifteen euros to get in, which is what I heard it costs. “Yeah, no way,” he told me. I didn’t want to be the only one who didn’t go. So we got there, and sure enough it’s 15 euros. Diandra immediately threw her arms up and said, “Fuck that. No way I’m going in.” I stood back to see what the group would do. Everyone else showed their IDs and went into the little lobby room to pay. Apparently, the group had a long discussion about it, with different members claiming they wouldn’t pay the 15 euros at different points. In the end, Diandra, Nathan, Hannah and I were the only ones who didn’t go in. (And even some of them might have regretted not going once they found out you get a free drink inside. Whoopie.) We checked out a plaza nearby, which was not as bumping as the Malasaña ones, so we Metroed to Malasaña to meet up with some of my friends from there.

            We got to the wrong plaza, but it was lots of fun, for me anyway. Tons of people, chatting, drinking, the usual. After the plaza, we walked to an all-night pizza joint at Sol, where you can get 3 hot, fresh slices (squares) for 5 euros. And at 3 AM, that’s always a great idea. I passed out for the ride home, but we took a taxi back to Chaminade. Not sure who paid for it though–not me!

            Stress/antistress.

            Stress: I opened up my songs for the CD I’ve been mixing for months. I’m still unhappy with how it sounds, and can’t work on it anymore without feeling an anxiety attack coming on. Actually, I’m starting to sweat now just thinking about it. Time to hire someone to do the work for me, and also to change the subject.

            Antistress: I opened up the essay I’ve been working on about America, and it surprised me with how much it flows logically, with concrete details and moments of hilarity, drama and “dorm-room philosiphizing,” as I heard someone describe Tao Lin’s writing.

            I ate with the Americans in the cafeteria this morning, telling them that “the next time you see me, I hope to have less sperm, and more roommates,” referring to my first trip to the fertility clinic and then to check out apartments with Elena and the other roommate, whose name always escapes me. I metroed over to the clinic, arriving 45 minutes before my appointment. If the language barrier wasn’t a thing, you know I would have made a joke about how I’m always coming early.

            The clinic was on a quiet street, with one small sign designating what the place was. I waited in the lobby and read my Spanish GQ before a nice lady called for me, taking me to an office upstairs to explain the “collection” process. It’s a little different in Spain, as the laws are strict regarding anonymity of donors–even if both the donor and recipient want to contact one another, the law doesn’t allow it. Also, I didn’t want to appear to be jerking off into a cup solely for the money (and I didn’t know how much I’d be making), but fortunately that question was answered by the nice semen lady. I get 50 euros per squirt, and they want me once a week. This is some seriously sweet moolah, as Uncle Rico would say. The lady asked if I’d like to provide my first sample today. “Nothing would please me more,” I told her.

            We headed through the offices and to a laboratory area, where she gave me a sterilized cup that I might deflower. She then led me into the, uh, collection room. It was just a regular bathroom, plus a rack of nudie magazines and a DVD player for the unimaginative donors. The magazines were filled with stills from porno shoots, with both the enveloper and the envelopee giving the camera sexy looks. I’m not a fan of porn where the viewer is addressed, though. It makes me self-conscious. Plus, how can they be really enjoying themselves if they’re putting on a show for the camera? The bathroom sorely lacked gay porn, but I thought I might be disqualified if I revealed that’s what would do it for me, so I just tried to focus on the guys in the stills.

            I got carried away and ended up having a lot of fun in there, forgetting that I needed to collect my specimen until the moment of ecstasy was almost upon me, so to speak. At the last second, I grabbed the cup and deposited my fifty euros worth of work. They say to find a job you love, and do that for the rest of your life, right? Well, my job is of the hand variety.

            After dropping off the cup, I scheduled next week’s psychological exam and specimen collection numero dos, then walked out of the clinic, smiling. I’m getting paid to jerk off! From there I walked down through the gay neighborhood, grabbed a falafel, and then hung out and waited for Elena to call with news of the apartment. I guess they were offered a two bedroom, but I’m hoping they go with me. Celina and Ana haven’t written me back since I dropped the bomb letting them down, and I’d hate to end up by myself in some lame dorm.

            I walked back to school and played my banjo for a while. I’ve been writing some very dark, very good songs lately. If only I could record them…Realizing I might not be able to live with any of my ladies, I have started looking for a room in a pre-existing apartment. There’s lotsa decent stuff out there. After dinner, I asked if anyone would want to go to my plaza with me. To hang out, sure, but also for me to try to find flatmates. But, it seems that nobody has as much fun wandering around and meeting people as I do, since they all decided to stay in. I went anyway, deciding to forgo my banjo since I’d be breaking the Big 3 again (drunk, alone, nighttime). I joke about it, but I really should start to be more cautious. Either find friends or bite the bullet and pay for a taxi when I’m stumbling back at 4 AM, as I’m too cheap and just walk the 30 minute stretch. (Not going out or not drinking aren’t options, of course.)

            I went to the plaza, meeting some fun people. I hung out with a really great duo for a long time. A straight girl and a bi/gayish dude who was the most shameless flirt–with me, with his friend, with our hashish dealer. The dealer and his girlfriend were cracked-out, strange people. They sat down with us and started naming off different drugs. When he found out I speak English, he said “Cocaine?” while jamming his fingers up his nose, in case I didn’t get it. We drank and smoked, and they taught me new phrases. When it was close to 1:30, I said I was gonna take off for the last metro, but they said that they’d drive me home. I stuck around, in spite of having my Spanish placement exam at 9 the next morning. An hour and a half later, we were finally leaving the plaza to find the guy’s brother, who has the car. He was supposed to be at a nearby bar.

            “Well won’t he be drunk?” I asked them.

            “Don’t worry–he drives home drunk all the time. He’s good at it,” they said, which really did little to make me feel good about the situation. So we walked to Gran Via, stopping along the way so I could buy a big package of spongey cakes with a chocolate center. I wasn’t seeing any bar, just this cheesy “ultracool” Heineken club. And that’s exactly where they headed. There, the bouncer checked out my bag, and said I’d have to throw away my food if I wanted to enter. My friends talked to him for a while, and they came up with a compromise, whereby I could leave my food at the coat check. Then we were inside a little entry, waiting in a movie-theater-style queue.

            “What is this?” I asked.

            “It’s the line to pay.”

            “You have to pay to get in? You know, I don’t want to go…”

            “I, I will pay for you,” my friend said.

            “Naw, it’s alright. I don’t even like clubs. Really.” The bouncer, douche extraordinare, kept yelling at me for standing in the line without moving up to pay, because I couldn’t decide if I wanted to go into the shithole.

            Plus, the fact that I couldn’t bring my chocolate sponge cakes and that they charge for entry left a bad taste in my mouth, so I took off from there. I ended up walking all the way back to campus, a 30 minute stroll. I need a bike so I can stop doing that, as I acknowledge that it is not the best idea. I crashed, setting my alarm for 7:45. That’s more than 3.5 hours of sleep!

            I took a Tuesday Shabbat today, meaning that I felt terribly hungover and wasn’t very productive. I did, at least, talk to a few sperm banks about becoming a donor. I’m not sure if this one bank was just euphemistic, or if the attitude on donation is really different here. I feel like in the States, the emphasis is more on the financial reward–the Craigslist ads are always focused on the money you get from jerking it. I emailed one place here asking if I need a work permit. Their response was, and here I quote the email, “Donation is a generous act of solidarity. It´s not a job, so there is no need for a work visa, and it will be financially rewarded according to law currently in force.” Perhaps I’ll say that I’m a sensitive guy and I don’t know if I can handle the emotional baggage of becoming an unknown father…unless they pay me handsomely.

Random Observations I Keep Expecting To Nicely Fit Into This Journal Naturally

1) Gordon, Hannah and I are a dynamic trio. We’re on the same wavelength a lot of the time, which makes things easy. We come from a shared background of having been vegan for at least a year at some point in the past (although I’m the only actual veg left out of us). We’re pretty much over this by now, but for the first couple times we hung out, it seemed that we were trying to one-up each other by sounding like we had rebellious pasts. Stories of “what we used to be like,” tales of dumpster diving, talking about old piercings, sexual stuff…

2)  I haven’t seen many couples in Spain where both parties are incredibly sexy. It’s strange. I’ve seen lots of beautiful women, and they’re invariably with some baggy-shirted schmo. Or a great-smelling cleaned-up gentleman will be with a woman, and I’m hoping he’s getting community service or something. I’m really unsure how to account for this unfortunate phenomenon. If it’s true, I won’t be able to hook up with anyone nearly as good looking as myself (though perhaps the men/women I do meet are saying the same thing, and are delusional in thinking that they are in fact the sexy half of our being).

            At dinner tonight, I got a call from Elena, my beautiful madrileña I met a few nights ago at the Plaza. And? She’s interested in living with me! We’re going apartment hunting tomorrow, and I guess there’s a place they’re interested in near Lavapies/Embajadores. I hear that Lavapies is sketch at night, but we’ll see. It’d be hard to shank me if I’m just crusin’ past on a bike. Since I haven’t been talking about this too much in my journal, here’s a recap: I’ve been spending muchos euros making calls, and lots of time wandering around and writing down numbers to call. And it’s been hard to find anything that would fit the girls’ qualifications: big rooms, a big living room (there are very few apartments with a living room, big or small, here), maybe a balcony, a central location, and cheap rent…It just wasn’t going to happen. So, I just gotta do what’s right for me, and I think that it’s to live with Spaniards.

            I was tired when we got back last night. It appears that I fell asleep while typing. To continue last night: I was back from the apartment hunt just in time for lunch, and then took my authentic siesta. After that, I checked out another apartment, which is a bit smaller, but in Moncloa, has a nice living room, and a reasonable rent. After that, I cruised around that area and checked out a cool old-school pipe store.

            Then I think I cruised back to school and did the Internet thing/hung out for dinner. One guy in our group was explaining how he always has at least 17 notifications on his Facebook, whereas I have zero, or less frequently, one. The secret is to not respond to anyone, as responding is just fuel for the Facebook fire.

            I talked to a few girls from our group, and they helped me come to terms with the fact that maybe I should start looking for a place without my CouchSurfing girls. Sure, it’d be nice, but it’s a tough search, plus they don’t speak real Castillian. I called Elena, the girl from last night, and told her I want to live with her. That would sure be fun, and she likes the idea, too. She was at my favorite plaza, and I found a group of Americans who wanted to venture. We all got ready and met in the lobby.

            My essentials for the night were: a water bottle, camera, flash, melodica, Moleskine notebook, big jug of wine, and, most importantly, banjo. I don’t know, I just had a feeling that it’d be well-received. So our group (7 of us, I think) took off and headed to Plaza de San Ildefonso on metro. A couple of the people had seen me meeting the locals before, and were saying things like, “Tyler can make friends with anybody. He’s so outgoing.” The pressure was on. As soon as we walked out of the metro station, I saw two cute girls standing around. I went straight up to them and started talking to ‘em. I asked for three English words, and then incorporated them into a freestyle rap with banjo. They loved it. So did the Americans.

            We walked to the plaza, which was still bumping even though Elena (hopefully my roommate) and her friends left. Our group sat down in a circle, and I soon ditched them to jam with a group of musicians I saw. I hung with that group for a long time and had fun. I saw Cristina, my hilarious beer-toting Chinese friend. Two cute guys who weren’t a part of the group were listening, and we started talking. Damn, one was super hot. No making exchangings of number for telephone, of which I am regretful.

            A cute girl walked up and asked to play my banjo. I gave it to her, as I always do. But then the police had to show up and tell us to leave. Our group huddled and decided mob over to Plaza de Dos de Mayo. There, we met more great people, drank more and jammed. The initial cute girl who wanted my banjo is really attractive, but maybe super young. Her family has been hosting a German girl who was also around last night, and also super good-looking. Beautiful giiirls.

            In short, the night was just as great as every other late-night plaza session. Not sure how much the Americans were interacting with the locals, but I can’t really be responsible for that. I mean, I took them to the coolest, most local spot that I’ve found, with young people who have only been super nice to me. And I think they had a good time.

            Woke up to go see an apartment. The guy whose apartment it was acted sort of nervous, maybe gay, kept calling me by my name, and was very concerned that we don’t forget to pay him, as he supposedly redesigned the place and it cost him a lot. The apartment was very juvenile, though, and I wanted something more…urban. Less dorm sesh.

            From there, I headed to La Latina to see a super beautiful place with a super beautiful real estate agent. But, she wants 6 months advance, one month to the company, the first two months rent, and another month for some reason. So, we’d have to scrape together an impossible ten thousand euro, basically. I wandered La Latina, looking for other places. Couldn’t find any. Back at Chaminade, we have been iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
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            I was finally home and done writing around 6 AM. I set my alarm for 9 and passed out. I remember my alarm going off, sort of. I smacked it and fell back asleep, as expected. But, for some strange reason, I woke up at 9:30. Why couldn’t that have happened yesterday when I wanted to see the apartment? I didn’t shower, just threw on my same clothes and headed out, feeling pretty decent for three hours of sleep. Apparently the madrileños sometimes don’t go to bed at all after a great night, but go home, shower, change their clothes, and then head out to class or work.

            I metroed to La Latina and followed the crowds from there. And all the vendors were peddling stupid crap! Cheap Chinese imports, touristy t-shirts, old cell phone chargers, that kind of stuff. Suffice to say, I was disillusioned. This wasn’t a flea market–it was an outdoor Dollar Tree. Still, I wandered, spending more time peoplewatching. Finally, after streets of crap, I found a plaza close to Puerta de Toledo (Plaza Campillo del Mundo Nuevo) that had all the old stuff. Pipes, radios, hats, pins, books, records. The relief I felt when I found this gem was overwhelming. Still, I was beating myself up about my boom box, as I wouldn’t be able to find one as awesome as my old (now blown-up) one. But, miracles happen. I discovered a radio super similar to my old one, just a little older looking, and a cream color instead of black. The lady at the booth, talking a mile a minute, told me that it was her old one, and that it works perfectly. If I wanted to buy it, she promised that her booth would be in the same place next week, and I could return it if it didn’t work perfectly.

            After picking that up for 12 euros (plus a few tapes), I wandered more, discovering a couple streets nearby overflowing with great antique stores. One has mostly old American stuff from the 40’s and 50’s, and felt like taking a step back in time. I antiqued myself out, and started walking toward La Latina to check out that area. Then it turned into another apartment hunt, as the roommates are growing scared. I didn’t find much. I did call one guy and ask about his apartment in La Latina. He sounded confused. I told him the street, and he said, “Oh. Well, that’s not La Latina, but anyway…” I keep forgetting how close everything is in the center of Madrid, and I’d actually walked to Plaza Mayor.

            From there, of course, it was just a quick jaunt to Maoz, and I hadn’t eaten anything since a bag of chips at 4 AM, so I felt obligated to stop by. I repeated my speech about Maoz being the best restaurant in the world, listing off for the cashier all the Maoz that I’ve sampled in two continents. I mean, it’s unbeatable: the Maoz pequeño for 3,80 euros with unlimited salad bar is as substantial a meal as you want it to be! God, I love that place.

            From there, I realized I should siesta so I don’t crash for the night around 5 PM. Headed back on the metro, and slept a solid hour and a half.

            After I woke, I spent some time looking for apartments online. It’s funny that I’ve been having such amazing times here meeting lots of people, actually experiencing Madrid, but the only time I see most of the CSU students is when I’m using my computer in the lobby. Some lame girl made a snide comment about how much time it seems like I’m spending on the Internet. If she only knew…I don’t doubt for a second that I’ve met ten times as many locals, rode more unique Metro lines, and improved my Spanish infinitesimally more than she has since she’s been here. But, that’s her life, right?

            I talked for a while with Hannah. We decided to grab some dinner, and Gordon came along. We walked to Moncloa and got falafel at a Turkish place, which was different from the Israeli type, but still good. I guess I like falafel a lot.

            “Want to walk?” I asked them.

            “Sure,” they said. So we walked, through Moncloa and to Malasaña. There, we arrived at Plaza Dos de Mayo, which was not what I was expecting. Apparently, the plaza that I’ve been frequenting isn’t Plaza Dos de Mayo at all, but Plaza de San Ildefonso. Still, we grabbed the budget tinto de verano and wandered the streets, taking swigs. Eventually, we did wander to the right plaza, and I immediately felt at home. We sat down in a little circle, and a few minutes later I wandered to a cute group of girls and started talking to them. Soon enough, all of us had joined them, and we had a great time chilling and talking. It was fun to see Gordon and Hannah doing what I’d been doing every night since I’ve been here, as they’ve been spending a lot of time with the American group, and haven’t encountered their fair share of the fine madrileños yet. Not to mention speaking Spanish with actual locals! I eventually asked two of the girls if they’d want to live with me, and they might be interested! I’d love that.

            The girls had to get to bed (jobs/studying to do in the morning), so we all stood and swapped numbers and cheek kisses. I love them cheek kisses. Gordon and Hannah were about ready to take off too, and we were leaving the plaza when I randomly started talking to another group, this time of three guys. They were fun students, and we sat down with them and chatted for another hour or so. Also, we saw Cristina, the china who Kira and I saw last time we were at the plaza with Daniel and the other guy we met. Not sure if she remembered us, but she sure is funny and sociable. Around 1:45 we readied ourselves to go, and grabbed a taxi back to Chaminades. During the ride, I told the two what I’ve been thinking (and have previously written here). That would be the fact that I, and now Gordon and Hannah too, are fucking doing it. I could tell they felt great about having met locals, and having used their Spanish for long conversations. Hannah told me she was really impressed with my ability to fearlessly strike up conversation with everyone. I explained that I can’t really do it that well in San Francisco, but when I’m traveling, for some reason I have no shame. There’s nothing to lose, and so much to gain by being outgoing. It’s ridiculous how many great people I’ve met in such a short about of time.

Dream Journal (DJ)    I dreamt in Spanish last night. I was walking around a neighborhood I’d never seen before on a quiet afternoon. I asked somebody if young people typically work in these types of places (I think it was a movie theater). “Yes,” the guy told me. “And only four days a week. When they’re not working, they go to places like that,” and he pointed toward some neon sign. “What is it?” I asked. It was a club where the young madrileños go to meet one another for sex. Oh, Europe is so progressive.

DJ

            It was 4 AM and I was talking on the phone with Jimmy Kelly. I told him that it was so strange that it never really gets dark here. I walked outside of my house with some friends, and looked up. There I saw a huge space shuttle slowly floating down to land. “Mom, come here, quick!” I called out. My mom, in the kitchen, dried her hands and hurried out. By that point, the shuttle was starting to duck behind the trees, but she caught enough of it. “Fuck! Fuck! Oh God, this is so exciting. Wish I had remembered that it was going to fly over us on its way to land, though. I could have told Rita.”

DJ      

            I walked into my apartment with my roommates (Kira and another girl). We were talking and arranging our stuff when my dad came in with Anita. They were wearing terry cotton bath robes. My mom was right behind them, asking, “So, was it a good working vacation?” Anita grinned and said, “Oh yeah, it was a good working vacation,” while thrusting shamelessly. My dad laughed and made the same kind of joke. A lot of my friends showed up, and we decided to take pictures as if we’re in a band. I pulled out my camera, and Jhameel wanted to stand near the front of the group.

            “Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked.

            “Yeah, why not?”

            “Well, I want to make sure that I can actually put these pictures on Facebook, and sometimes you’re weird about that stuff.” He assured me it was fine, and I readied my camera. I’d put in sepia film, and when I looked through the viewfinder, we all looked sepia, and our clothes were those of the cheesy “old time” photobooths where you can dress up at the fair and hold fake rifles and the ladies have big dresses and fans. I tried to wind the film, but the winder was stuck. Realizing the roll must be out, I replaced it, but it still didn’t work.

###

            After today’s walking tour of our campus, we all returned to our dorm, Chaminades, for lunch. I sat with a Spaniard, and we had a nice little conversation. Then his friends showed up and they blasted off in quick Spanish. I had a real hard time keeping up with them, picking up snippets here and there. Something about recycling and environmentalism, I think, and probably something fútbol related. It sounded like they were making up nicknames for people in the cafeteria, including some of the Americans. Then one guy leaned to another and whispered something that I assumed was about me. I hate that feeling of being the outsider, knowing for sure that they must be talking shit about me because I can’t keep up with their foreign tongues. They did avoid looking me in the eye during all of lunch, too, which didn’t help my paranoid suspicions. Feeling uncomfortable with the group, I downed a glass of water and stood to leave. The table fell silent–they must have been talking about me in that moment. They all looked down, and one meekly said, “Hasta luego.”

DJ (siesta today)

            I went to a strange movie theater in Madrid. It was empty, like the Metreon, and I had this perpetual fear that I’d see Jhameel and Lynn walk out of one of the theaters and be embarrassed to admit they’ve been in Madrid but haven’t contacted me. Jared and I went into one theater, which was fully carpeted–the floor, walls, and steps that you sit on to watch the movies. I thought it was hilarious. We went around the corner from the entrance and saw more seats rising all the ways up to the ceiling. I climbed them, then freaked out when I realized that there was no exit at the top. I couldn’t see much, and had to remove my sunglasses to make out the steps back down.

            At the bottom, I decided to go find a bathroom. Spotting the place, I pushed open the door to reveal a busy bathroom full of all types of people–men, women, children, disabled, elderly, gay, straight, black, white, Gypsy, you name it, all coinciding in this bathroom harmoniously. “How beautiful,” I thought.

            I waited for a free urinal, then walked up to it and unzipped. “I think two’s too many for this, don’t you think?” I heard. I looked down and saw that a tiny midget was using the urinal! “Ah, of course,” I said, scooting over to use another one.

            Once finished, I zipped up and looked at the guy next to me, nodding at him. “How’s it going?” he asked me. He looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman mixed with a bass. “It’s good,” I said. “I’m just…well, I’m not exactly sure where I am,” I admitted. He smiled, and I realized it was in fact Philip Seymour Hoffman. “You’re in another dimension,” he laughed, trying to spook me with goofy hand-gestures. I smiled and realized that he meant I’m in a dream.

            I started to panic, now conscious I was dreaming. His face started to take on more and more of the fish qualities, growing more contorted and strange. “No,” I told myself. “This is just a dream. I can do whatever I want. Anything. Okay, okay, think of something unique, that I could only do in a dream.”

            I looked at Philip and asked, seductively, “Do you want to dance?” Next thing I knew, we were ballroom dancing around this tiny, cramped movie theater bathroom. After a few seconds, I started laughing uncontrollably. “Alright, this is enough,” I thought. “I’ve danced with Philip Seymour Hoffman. What more do I want? Time to wake up.” And then the vision disappeared, and I was lying still with my eyes closed, but couldn’t awaken or move. I was paralyzed. Without resisting this state, I accepted my being, listened to my strange breathing, and successfully woke up soon after that.

            I readied myself for my first real-life apartment hunt. I started with a place near La Latina. It was a four roomer, and an old man answered, smoking a Camel. He didn’t speak a word of English, but was very hospitable, and he thought I might be German, which always flatters me. His place was super cute–a tiny kitchen, two bathrooms, an outdoor shed with the washing machine (and it looked like we could climb on top of it and drink), and four rooms. Two were really nice sizes, with full-wall storage. Super 70’s. The other two were smaller, and I quickly realized that I lied to my potential roommates. There was no way that I’d actually be fine with taking the smaller room and giving them the bigger two. Not when the bigger two have big built-in desks where I can write and stare out my window and draw inspiration. I was ready to sign off with this guy, but realized I should look around a little more. Plus, I had an appointment in twenty minutes.

            The next place was even farther away, and I navigated narrow streets to find it. I turned onto its street and saw a group of young madrileñas sitting on a stoop on the other side of the street. They were cute, and I’ve become something of a master with turning bad ice breakers into great conversations, but I had a piso to look at. I walked up to the door, veinteseis, and saw the concierge. “Hello. I’m here for to see one apartment,” I told him. “¿One apartment? No there are for to rent now.” “¿Huh? No this is the…oh. I am looking for veintetres, not veinteseis. ¡Until later!” I powerwalked out of there and realized that the number I was looking for was back on the opposite side. You know, where the cute girls were sitting! We chatted a bit, and I joked that the apartment better be ugly so they don’t want it and I can have it. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened. Only I didn’t want it, as it was very ugly and barren and cold (but not in a good cool breezy way in this overbearing Madrid heat). We all left there, and I ended up walking with a couple of the girls up through a park (Parque del Oeste?), chatting with them.

            I was feeling pretty discouraged, especially since I’d been spending lots of time and money (Metro, phone calls) to search for a damn place to live. And I’m not sure that there even are places with rooms big/central/cheap enough for us three. On a whim, I hopped off at Moncloa, determined to find some good pisos there. It’s where the college kids live, it’s close to both school and downtown, and it’s bumpin’, or so I hear. I wandered, jotting down numbers, sometimes calling right on the spot. And, talking to one lady on the phone, I admitted that I was standing right in front of the place. Suddenly the phone disconnected, and I turned around to see an adorable old couple right behind me, the woman clutching a cell phone. She smiled, and they took me up to their place. Also cute, also something I could live in if I didn’t have the super crappy little room. I wish I weren’t in charge of making this decision, because I feel a little bad for deciding now that I want a big room, but I do need to be up-front now. Sad that our trio’s honeymoon is coming to an end already, and we haven’t even met each other yet!  

            Other things: one girl from the program got an apartment yesterday. The location is nice, but it’s overpriced. When I grimaced about the price, she said, “Yeah, but it’s way cheaper than what I’d be paying if I were back in San Francisco,” though I don’t think that that logic works really. But, it has wifi, which most apartments don’t. You just go to wifi cafes and stuff. For this reason, I’m thinking about writing a book based on this trip and this journal, and I’ll call it The Year Without Porn, as I won’t have any access to the dirty images if I’m only surfing the web in public.

            After cruising around a little more, I stopped at a Turkish place for falafel, which was alright. I had a big ole beer too, and watched a fútbol game on their TV (Madrid versus something Italian). Then, Chris texted and invited me to trivia night at a bar. I walked there, realizing that this city is totally bikeable. I do regret not bringing my bike lights or lock, as they woulda been easy to pack and are pricy to buy here. Also, I should have packed more collared shirts, more “cool” shorts, and the hard copies of those pictures that I scanned and put on Facebook. I did download them onto my desktop at least.

            The bar, JJ Books, was crowded and lively. I found Chris and some new friends he’d just met. We formed a team and threw in a few euros for the jackpot, then played a trivia game. It was all in English, and the bartender would read off questions in four categories (tonight they were Fictional Animals, Mathematics, Famous Spaniards, and Rivers), and you’d confer with your group and write down answers on the sheet provided. The game was tough but fun, and we felt pretty good about our team, joking that all we wanted was to not come in last place.

            After all the questions, each group switched answer sheets and corrected another team’s scorecard. Then the bartended collected them, counted up, and read off all the teams, starting with the lowest score. As he progressed, we kept waiting for our name to be called. “And now, the top 3,” he said. We looked at one another like, Hm! We didn’t do bad at all! And then the top two…and we weren’t the second. We won!, I thought. But then the bartended said, “And there’s a three-way tie for first. And we need a tiebreaker.”

            The tiebreaker was this: through how many countries (or countries’ waters) does the equator pass? Our partner was quite the geography buff, and drew out a detailed map of the world. I pointed at where I thought Ghana might be, trying to help, but it was the wrong coast. “Don’t forget the waters,” I told him. “Oh yeah,” he said, adding five, so his total was fourteen. Turns out, the answer was fourteen, and we won! We got the jackpot, some thirty-two euros, and split it up. Nice. From there, I metroed back, started to write a sad email to the girls telling them that I feel entitled to one of the big rooms, and decided to wait it out before I hit send. And now a few hours of rest before another day of apartment hunting.