Valencia (and Fallas)

Only just a month ago, Jessie, Adi, Matty, I decided to make our epic excursion to Valencia to catch the very end of the Fallas celebration.

What is Fallas, you ask?

It's like this:


And like this:


Fallas is thought to have begun in the middle ages when artisans would burn broken artifacts and spare pieces of wood to celebrate the Spring Equinox. These days, the celebration resembles, at face value, something similar to Burning Man. Though, it takes place IN Valencia - in the core of the city, on the street corners and in the plazas. Different groups spend all year raising money and constructing large, ornate figures often depicting scenes of political and social satire.

Like so:



Then, on the final night of the celebration (which exists in some form for two weeks) they burn them. All.

So, we set a date, we bought our train tickets, and we prepared for the all the juicy goodness we were expecting. We planned to arrive on the second to final night to see the most important of all the fireworks displays (also the largest). We waited in anticipation of Matt's arrival at the Atocha train station... He had just gotten out of class and was running a little late. We had some problems procuring our tickets, but just in the nick of time we had them in our hands as well as a call from Matt saying he'd arrived at the station.

And we waited. And waited.

Two minutes to board the train, where the hell is Matt? We haven't even gone through luggage control....

And then the train was gone, just upon our realization that Matt was at a different station - due to a series of unfortunate communications.

And after many problems (y mas dinero) we had new tickets for the following day. We would make it to Valencia yet.

And so we did. And after a short metro ride into the center of the city, we emerged from the tunnels and into a bustling city. The streets we're packed with tourists and locals alike, some easily discerned from others. Besides the police, not a car could be seen. And besides the people, the streets were littered with booths and street vendors. We breathed it all in deeply. We were in the center of something special, an age-long tradition, deep in a culture riddled with pride. In the purest form of the word, 'Magnificence' is the only way to say what we saw.

We wandered aimlessly through town. We were hungry. We'd been told before-hand that when in Valencia, do as the Valencianos do - and more specifically eat what they eat. That is, Paella. We walked through a narrow street, strewn with restaurants and littered with outdoor eating areas. Like vultures, we hovered and waited for an empty table. Thirty minutes pass, there's our table.

Twenty minutes pass, our waiter tells us that they are no longer making Paella. We are starving and not in the mood to go back into vulture mode, so we order some pasta and wait.

Thirty minutes pass. No food. Though the Spanish couple that sat down at the table across from us just after we took our seats already has a delicious looking Paella.

Ten more minutes and we have our pasta. Not only does it look like it came out of a box, it tastes worse. We weren't happy. And if you want the rest of that story, you'll have to ask me someday.

Vacancy is impossible at a time like this. Anyhow, we had decided long ago that we would be sleeping on the beach. You can't get a better waterfront view than that! We decided we should check out the beach scene before the festivities began that evening. And so we made our long journey to the beach.

And I'm serious. Long. The beach is way, way outside of the city. A few miles at least. It's outrageous.

I'll take this opportunity to tell you about Valencia. I was disappointed. I really expected to like it more. And though I loved the vibe of the city, I loved the people (for the most part) - I hated the city itself. I've never been in a city with so many beautiful things that has no cohesiveness whatsoever. The city itself is really not that big. The center of the city is like any center of any city. Surrounding the city is a narrow park, which sounds cool - but it's really lame. Each section of the park has something different. But, it's like any park - or any narrow park. There are a couple fountains, some ponds here and there... there's some trees?? Somewhere in this park there is a row of magnificent buildings. I mean MAGNIFICENT. The architecture is interesting and futuristic, kind of spacey! Very cool. Alone, they are wonderful. But the are all sitting next to each other in a neat little line, just outside the center. Just... sitting there. And so, you can see them all in fifteen minutes if you run. Outside this park area there is a party of the city that, like other cities, is just you know - the outside part of the city. The part that no one really likes, but a lot of people live because it's cheaper. There's some restaurants. Some apartment buildings. Nothing interesting.

But it's VALENCIA! The beach must be incredible.

No.

Okay, the beach was wonderful, but after you make a fucking trek to get there... it's a ghost town. The waterfront is littered with abandoned buildings and sketchy restaurants. Where's the expensive hotels?!? - oh wait... there's one. That's the lamest beach hotel I've ever seen.... Where's the cool buildings?! - they're all back in that god damn park, three miles away.

Still though. The beach itself was... I mean... breathtaking. Absolutely. The sand was fine and sparkly; the Mediterranean was deep blue and spectacular (as always). We put some distance between us and the industrial area (yes, it's by the beach), and picked a spot before we headed back into town. It's not necessarily legal to sleep on the beach, but then we didn't really have a choice - and then again what's an adventure worth without skirting the edges of laws?

We made it back into town with plenty of time before the burning of the Fallas. We found a killer kebab joint and got some incredible, tasty action (said kebab place would become a staple location throughout our stay).

We drank and drank and parked ourselves in front of the second biggest Fallas that would be burned. And we waited. We were front front row. Eventually, people in uniform drew a barrier with yellow plastic tape - the 'blast radius' if you will - aka don't go past this unless you want your shit fucked up.

We waited there for two hours... and then these kids who thought they knew what was up, walked right past us, knocked down the barrier, and stepped all over the beautiful flowers we had just been admiring. We were not amused. We pushed our way back to the front and exchanged some nasty words with our fellow onlookers (who tried to keep us from getting in front of them). Jessie, drunkenly, yelled something that resembled Spanish (resembled is a key word in this instance) at a girl our age, who was suddenly frightened and stepped off.

We were back in front. And just in time.

The cheers swept through the crowd, first a low hum and into a loud roar. Chants began. People jumped up and down. I looked around. I saw faces in wonder, faces in anger (from the excitement of it all), faces in bedazzlement. Men with axes began chopping small holes in the Falla. Men with tubs of liquid walked around the Falla, spreading the substance evenly - and not in a conservative fashion. Men with torches surrounded the Falla. They held their torches high to the crowd. Thousands of people were packed into the plaza, stretching down the streets leading out of it. And when it began, the cheers shook the ground and shook my bones.

A series of fireworks were lit around the falla. A single fuse was lit on each side, burning slowly, shooting fireworks into the air at every moment. I've seen fireworks. But not like this. Not like this. The fireworks were just about our heads - giant explosions of all colors of all sizes. When the fireworks stopped, I looked back to the Falla. The fuse was now lighting small explosives around and inside the Falla.

And it began slowly. And it continued exponentially. When it all went up, there was not a way in hell to make sense of the madness. I couldn't think at all. Between the roar of the crowd and the rage of the fire - there was no room to hear a single thought. I held my camera to my eye and, out of instinct, click click clicked. I took at least a hundred photos. I hadn't even noticed the people fleeing the parameter. And I'm surprised to this day that I didn't notice the my hair singing. I removed my camera from my face. The back draft was a torrent of wind. All I could see was red, red light. And all I could feel was what it must feel like before spontaneous combustion.

I thought my face would melt off.

I ran. By the time I was at a safe distance, I turned back to what used to be a masterpiece, now laying in ashes, smoldering. I looked around. I saw faces in pain. I saw faces in shock (from the excitement of it all). I saw faces that were frazzled beyond belief.

Like so:


And then it subsided - into laughter.

And in only moments, the plaza was empty. Firefighters ceased spraying the surrounding buildings, and moved on. We moved on to the large Falla, the next plaza. And then we did it all again.

Three nights on the beach. I got a tan. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

love you,
jon

Ketchup

Sorry sorry, stop flaming me. In the next week look forward to the following updates:

Valencia
Bacchus
Toledo
General updates on Madrid

love you too,
jon

¿Que tal Madrid?

Horrible, unorganized update because I'm lame:

Not much has changed since my last update, hence the lack of updates. Regardless, life is zipping right along. However, updates:

Teaching English

Teaching English is an obvious and perfect solution to the job problem. The pay is excellent and I meet all the requirements (with slight fudging of certain details). It's my Holy Grail. Susana is my only English student at the moment. She is a real estate lawyer who works between Madrid and Huelva. During the week when she is in Madrid, I join her during her lunch break for conversation classes. I love my time with her, she always brings good stories back from Huelva (Southern Spain) - there have been many times I've been brought to tears (good ones) by the outrageous aspects of some of her stories. She is sweet and fun, and I'd probably do the classes even if I wasn't getting paid, though the pay is a certain perk. Unfortunately, she is in Huelva quite often, so I am searching everyday for new classes. Nothing has come my way yet, but hope is not lost.

Exploring Madrid

I've been spending a lot of time walking around lately and I've covered a lot of ground! I've found a sense of orientation and navigating my way through the city has become simple. I spend most of my time within the center of the city, sharing time between the various districts. Most of my time is spent in Chueca, the district I live within. Much time is also spent in Malasaña, which draws huge crowds at night to their seemingly endless number of bars, clubs, and popular plazas. Plaza Dos de Mayo is a very popular hangout spot, packed practically ever night and filled with flea markets during the weekend. Kids play futbol and old, drunk men hit on your girlfriend - it's quite exciting. I rarely leave the center of the city, there's not much to do or see out there, but the metro makes moving around really simple.

1€ Wednesdays

On Wednesdays, I visit a bar in Malasaña called '100 Montaditos.' On wednesdays, everything on the menu is 1€ - bottles or pints of beer, wine or wine with sparkling water, salads, or any of their 100 sandwiches. As you can imagine, it's a popular place. It usually takes a few minutes to weave through the crowd of people drinking to the crowd of people who are waiting to order, but there's no way to resist a cheap, delicious drunken stupor. My favorite sandwich has shrimp, salmon, and cream cheese. oh yum. So, wednesday becomes a bit of a weekly holiday. You wake up and think "Oh shit one euro wednesday! fuck yes!" It's a perfect way to break the week in half and get through to the weekend (kind of like CAM).

Chueca

Gay. So gay. Gay like you don't even know. It's wonderful in a lot of ways. It's also a little uncomfortable at times (much to amusement of my lady friends[and gay friends]). Chueca has an incredible energy. The weekend crowds clutter into the relatively small district for shopping and some of the best restaurants in the area. Chueca Plaza, though relatively small, is packed at night with people loitering, drinking, smoking and walking in and out of the surrounding bars. Also a lot of gay people. I'd like to spend more time in this plaza, but last time I went there I couldn't get 20 minutes into a conversation without some man sitting next to me and trying to talk to me (not easy). Don't get me wrong, I love Chueca and I'm getting used to the invitations from creepy old men - but sometimes it's a bit much. Like that one time it was a bit much - that time I'm not going to write about on the internet that you'll have to ask me about someday.

Museums

I've visited a few museums in town. I went to a contemporary museum called Caixa Forum which is owned and operated by a bank. I saw a lot of recent work from all around the world, including a number of fascinating video pieces. There was a large exhibit of modern Chinese art as well as a small exhibition demoing a Spanish artists techniques which he uses to create crazy stalagmite paint/sculpture craziness (I'm serious, that's the best I can explain it). I also recently visited the Prado to see the Francis Bacon exhibit. I've never been a huge fan of Francis Bacon, but it was incredible to see some of his works up close. There was a staggering number of his most famous paintings, which was quite exciting. I tripped out on some of his triptychs for a while. Like woah. Bacon has nothing on my most recent museum experience in which Mr. Chee and I went to the Reina Sofia to see their permanent collection. We weaved through contemporary art movements and spent most of our time searching for the Picasso and Dali. We saw some incredible Picasso... but I was most excited for the Dali. And oh man... I had no idea that 'The Grand Masturbator" was in this museum until I spied it from across the room and B-lined. Oh goddddddddd. So good. I also got to see some really great Miro and Man Ray. hollaaaaaaa.

Lolina's Vintage Cafe

Coffee and internet at Lolina's is a staple routine in my daily diet. The day feels empty without it. The closest thing to coffee + vintage decor + 50's music = hot.

Drinkin
We have settled on our favorite cheap wine. After much deliberation and at least 20 varieties of wine under 3€ we have determined the winner:

LA MANCHA. Yes, it just so happens that my very first bottle of wine in Spain ended up being my favorite cheap bottle. She rings in at 1€ - not shabby at all. And the taste is actually good, which is more than I can say for most of the bottles we've consumed, some of which were frankly, undrinkable.

The Dia (BEST FUCKING GROCERY STORE EVER) now carries vodka and gin for under 4 euros per 750mL. So, um, yeah....

Sophia
I try to spend a little time everyday with my love. She is doing well. The wood glue I used to reattach her bridge is holding up well, which I wasn't expecting. She's beginning to hold her tune, which is nice. And hey I'm getting a little better, hooray! I cut up a bunch of packs of American Spirit and mod podged them to her sides. I'm planning on covering the back in cigarette warning labels, and maybe the front in Metro tickets.

And a picture:

Thoughts on scars

Now that the cat is (mostly) out of the bag about my tattoo, I wanted to write a little bit about the thoughts I had while I was under the needle.

Nestled in the bed with my shirt off and sweat pouring down my body, I held my breath each time the artist pressed his needle to my skin out of fear that I might move, or gasp, and cause an error. I lightly closed my eyes and tried as much as I could to 'go to my happy place.' The artist held me down and my skin tight as he carefully traced the image I provided for him, which he modified slightly. I could feel the tiny bits of skin under the needle grinding in between my rib cage. It shook my whole body. I held onto my happy place as much as I could, but half an hour in it became increasingly difficult to grasp. For an instant, my mind slipped and suddenly the mechanical sound of the needle transformed it into some sort of horrible torture device. The white, white light of the, very clean, tattoo parlor transformed it into a lab. Curled on the table in a position slightly resembling a fetus, I transformed into a victim.

"What the hell am I doing?" The question echoed in my mind until I calmed it, and gave it an answer. The answer was quite simple: You are permanently scarring yourself. When you get out of this bed you will be forever branded with an image that carries meaning for you. You will walk around with this scar and it will define some part of your life; it will serve as a sort of symbol. In the near future, you will be reminded of what you are doing and why. In the distant future, you will stare longingly at it like an old photograph reminding you of what you've done.

And then a number of neurons fired, connecting 'me in the now' to 'me then.' And another question was answered.

"What the hell am I doing?" I screamed as I collapsed in tears three months earlier on the stairs leading out of my bedroom. My two closest friends surrounded me and told me that I was going to be okay, that I was doing what I needed to do, that it would be good for me. I cried during my sendoff at the airport as my father told me the same thing. I cried in the security line as one of my very best friends cried on my shoulder and, again, told me the same thing. I kissed her cheek and told her "Maybe. Maybe not." And just like that I was walking passed the security check and into a metal detector. I didn't look back. I was on my way to France; off my continent for the first time in my life.

Time passed and the question hung over my head. I told a friend before I left that I felt as if I was balancing a single word on a needle's edge, directly over my head: Fail. Confidence is something I lacked upon my arrival, and time never brought it to me. And just as quickly as I arrived, I was departing; homeward bound for a family stuck in a hospital.

And the question stuck. And then more questions. And they stuck. And I couldn't get them out. And I slowly drifted into a deep, deep hole that I would later meticulously crawl out of. And, even then, the questions stuck. "What just happened?" and, still, "What am I doing?"

Oh, but it was so simple all along! Jon, you are throwing yourself off the bridge! You aren't expecting a soft landing, but you're at least hoping you'll make it out alive. And when you do make it out alive you'll surely be injured. And you'll, hopefully, recover. And then along with the scar your jump left, you'll have a story, and perhaps a better understanding of the bridge, the air, the water, and the rocks you hit on your way down.

Even though all of the proper thoughts and information were there all along... I just didn't get it. And just a week before I left to Spain, my brain finally made the connection. All hopes and expectations were, at last, dashed and I was ready to be on my way. Ready to throw myself to my knees before fate, begging for mercy.

And even if I fail. At least I'll have a story.

love,
Jon






PS Now that it is fully healed.... it looks incredible.

Sophia

When Jessie found her, she was laying in a dumpster. Her body was broken and weathered. She was falling apart, she was sad. But, she was not entirely defeated. Her neck stood strong and proud.

We've spent the last week nurturing Sophia back to good health. She has scars, but she sings once more! And so beautifully! Some wood glue to hold her bridge in place. Some duct tape for her cracks and splits. Some shiny new brass strings. She is truly beautiful. A guitar that screams wisdom.

She was born in Valencia. I am unsure of her exact age. Her body does not shine, it is coarse and dull. Her tuning pins are bent and unstable. Her frets are rusted. But me and her, we have plans man! I'm going to cover her with newspaper clippings and business cards. I will coat her in modge podge and give her a shine that suits her! Someday, I will paint her fret boards like a rainbow - she will be fit for Chueca!

After much struggle, I managed to string her last night. Two of the tuning pins don't hold the string properly if you twist them away from the bridge (as your supposed to!) so I had to tune them backwards. She is quite the Frankenstein! But I love her. She sounds so, so beautiful.

This is short, I know! But I will update more soon! And with pictures!!!

love jon jon

Update: Cheap Wine

In my ongoing search for the cheapest wine ever, I have an update. After finding a bottle for 1€, we quickly found two bottles @ 0,81€ each!!! Oh my. Devour:


(From left to right: €0,81|€0,81|€1)


Quick rules about what fits into my search:
1. Must be 750mL-1L and in a glass bottle (not that 'box wine' shit!)
2. Price must be for one bottle (not that buy two get one free shit!)
3. Bottle must contain a cork!!! (no twist off... and no weird plastic cork things)

Yes, that is all.

Bienvenidos a Madrid

And so I am!

I arrived on the 24th on January around noon. I caught a lucky break in Seattle when I arrived at the airport. My flight was cancelled. So, instead of the treacherous thirty hour journey I was planning on (including a ten hour overnight layover in London [AND an airport transfer by bus]) I left nine hours later, cutting my flying time to 20 hours!

All of my flights were early - the wind was with me.

Arriving in Madrid, I nervously walked to the customs/immigration control gate. Wondering if I was going to get lip (in Spanish) for not having a return flight pre-booked, I handed my passport to the stern looking man. After several minutes studying the various pages of my passport, and paying special attention to my expired visa for France, the man stamped my passport and looked past me, expecting the next in line. I walked no more than twenty feet before a customs officer starting yelling at me in Spanish. Clumsily, I spat out "¿habla ingles?" The man rolled his eyes and pointed towards where I should walk. Jon would not be declaring that carton of soft pack American Spirits sitting neatly in his rolling carry-on.

I made my way across the, surprisingly, giant airport and into the baggage claim department. My flight was over half an hour early, so I stood in the smoking cubicle (thing?) and watched the luggage belt with empty eyes. As comfortable as the flights were, with mostly empty cabins, I'm not one for long flights. I wonder if anyone is.

I watched and waited until, finally, the luggage began to roll out. One by one. Quite slowly. And then, the Great Luggage Drought of 2K9.

I stood with my fellow passengers for ten, twenty, thirty more minutes. Nothing. And then! No wait... that is the luggage for a different flight on our belt. A man I recognized from the flight began muttering to me in Spanish and, after my clumsy response, then in English. He too had no idea where his bags were. As the clock told me that just over an hour had passed, I walked to the Iberia help desk. Luggage was stuck in London.

I got a phone number and a claim number and continued through the airport to the arrivals gate where a pretty girl named Jessie was waiting with a warm embrace.

We hopped on the metro and headed to Chueca, the gay district of Madrid, where I would be staying in a flat with Jessie and Adrienne. And also this middle aged lady who doesn't speak a word of English, whom I suspect is a prostitute.

The city has a special sort of energy about it. There is a sense of well being in the air. In Madrid, people walk slowly, carelessly. There are smiles and laughs in all directions. Cute old men stumbling by with a cane and a half snarl. Children playing in the plazas. Business suits absorbed in themselves, urgent and alone. The city feels dirty, but it is one of the cleanest I've ever seen. The roads and sidewalks sparkle; the walls are plastered with event posters and graffiti. There is hardly a wall I've seen so far that does not have some sort of mess on it. Open markets and butcher shops mingle with the shoes and scarves, the dresses and bows, the denim and hand bags on sale for the end of winter. There is no definite smell. There is majesty in the buildings, something proud and solid. Though the tourists and immigrants mix just as well with the Spanish, there is an exact sense of culture. Madrid is wisdom and youth.

On the evening of my arrival, I was invited by Kastin and his husband for a dinner at their flat. A delicious potato soup, fish, gelato, and magnificent Spanish wine. Later in the evening I had the good fortune of meeting a number of other people that are quickly becoming friends. Jen, from Vancouver, WA, who is dating Miguel, who was a foreign exchange student at Prairie High School but is originally from Madrid, as well as Eva, lifelong friend of Miguel. Also joining us for dinner was Ismael, a close friend of Pablo's and Kastin's, who has an intense passion for language. Hours and hours passed, and after numerous comments about how tired I looked, I called it a night and headed home.

I have adopted a morning routine. Waking up around 10A to head to Lolina's cafe. Two euros will get you cafe con leche and pan y tomate, covered in olive oil and spices. This is where we go for internet access. The atmosphere is comfortable and the ladies that run the place are beautiful, with warm smiles. They are patient with my accent as I order.

Spain has not initiated a smoking ban. This is a giant surprise for me! As all of the European countries fall in line, one by one (including Amsterdam, mind you!), Spain stands strong. I am told it is because the Spanish would certainly not follow it; there is a way of life here that is rarely disrupted. And so, everywhere you go, everyone is smoking all the time. I guess it's going to be harder to quit than I thought.

Every day has been wonderful. Everyone is being very helpful and patient with me. There is a high demand for English teachers here, so it seems that I will likely find work doing that, though I'm hoping to find some sort of technical work as well.

Last night was beautiful. Euromania. One euro Wednesday at a local bar in Chueca. Beers (or wine) and sandwiches for one euro each. The place was packed, but we managed to find some room at the bar. We drank and drank, talked, and smoked and smoked. At the end of the night, clearly under the influence of foreign substances, I walked arm in arm with Jessie and Ady, down the streets, back to the flat. We laughed uncontrollably all the way home, and in return we got smiles from the passersby, with an occasional glare of jealousy.

Things are going very well. Stay tuned for more updates (and pictures!!!).

love love love you
jon jon jon

PS! Tortilla. It is a thick patty of potatoes, eggs, and onion (sometimes with cheese). It might be the most delicious thing ever. I'm going to learn how to make it. Anyone want to go tortilla crazy??

Alright, so...

There's this post I've been working on for the last three months, that I'm sure now will never see the light of day. It's far too long, and far too personal.

Sorry guys!

But I'll still give you the rundown.

The post was called Adaptation. It was my attempt at putting to words exactly what I've been going through for the last six months. It's been quite the adventure. More and more it is feeling like my purpose these days is to hold as tightly as I can to my sanity. I lost it before France. I completely lost it. And as I'm sure those that are still reading already know, I was entirely unstable and unproductive during my stay there.

I'm grappling with the world "failure;" I'm trying to stay on top of that. Failure is defined through so many lenses, and I suppose when it comes down to it I certainly consider myself having failed, in all aspects, in France. Not to say that I don't treasure that experience and hold it closely to my heart. It was incredibly valuable.

Lately, I've asked myself why it is that I strategically place myself into situations of adverse odds. How is it that I can bring myself to go through with something that I know has every ingredient necessary to make a clusterfuck of my mind? I've determined that, in a way, I am intentionally scarring myself. Not really taking the knife to my own skin, but maybe throwing myself off of the airplane because it seems like a valuable way to spend my life, even if the parachute never goes off in time. It's certainly a simple way to look at things, but that's all I have for now.

I'm tearing myself to shreds, but every scar will tell a story. For someone like me, my stories are all I have. And I'm okay with that.

The last three months have been no less scarring than the months that preceded them. The difference is the level of comfort I have felt. Though the first month or so was near hell for me, I eventually found ways to be comfortable under the knife. This has led me to where I am now. I really think that I am at an absolute zero of a level. Neither basic, nor acidic. Not whole, but not splintered. Not ready to go, but not ready to stay.

As I prepare to embark on the next adventure, I fully realize that it can go either way and I am ready for those consequences.

In three days, I will be on my way to Madrid. If the cards are right, I'll be okay.

expect more soon,
no really!,
love,
jon

Sorry

Sorry for the hiatus.

I think I'll start writing again soon.

Still love you all k?
<3 jon

The French Connection and late night hitch hikers

NOTE: I apologize in advance. It seems my English is slowly deteriorating.

It was just about a couple weeks ago, when the advice of a new friend rang in my ear "You should make a couchsurfing account."

Couchsurfing.

I know I'm late to this party, but if you don't have an account yet, I highly reccomend it. I set up my account some time ago, and on this day I decided to add all of my details, photos, interests, and dreams. The website is a collection of people that share a few key passions: people, places, and ideas. Upon completion of my profile, I browsed through other couchsurfers in my city, and found many!

A particular profile caught my eye, and I decided to send a message to ask if they could show me around town. It was a profile of two young women, best friends, also fairly new to Aix. These women would later come to be called "The French Connection."

We set a date and a time for a meet-up, Thursday, October 9th, 8PM. The day approached with great anticipation, and it was 8:14 when the buzzer to the flat rang through the halls. I ran down the stairs to meet them, Babou and Momo*. I was instantly comfortable, I think it was their smiles. Babou speaks excellent english and Momo speaks very good english, so it was not hard for me at all to communicate, which is more of relief these days than I ever thought it would be.

We went to a bar on the Cours Mirabou, the Belle Epoch. The cool people in town that know what's happening, call it the BE. [;)] We had an amazing range of conversation! They were very curious about America and Americans and US law. We talked about the Bible and everything that makes it excellent outside of religion. We talked about stories from our lives and where we came from and what we liked about our new city. The girls even paid for my drink before they took me to the next bar.

I was truly touched by how I was instantly befriended by these two strangers. These two wonderful strangers, of whom I've grown very fond in this past week. They are both intelligent and fun, and they both have a special spark in their eyes that electrifies their smiles. The two of them together remind me of something I've been missing, a connection between good friends that feeds and feeds off of each other creating a special chemical in one's mind, which spreads through the body and effects even the way one moves, they way one speaks, the way one radiates. It's really quite a simple connection, a common one even, but the lack of that connection has done something terrible to me. It wasn't until this week that I realized the absolute deficiency of this fundamental chemical. It saddens me a little to realize this, makes me long for home, but at this realization, coupled with the fact that I know I cannot go home right now, it creates a certain resolve. And I feel this resolve is filling my sails with wind.

The following day Coline and I made our way over to Arles to see the Minitel Rose concert. You can read more about the concert over at Cheetah Love (the new music blog Keegan and I made). We carpooled with a gentlemen after he got out of school. The drive is just about an hour or so, maybe a little more. We arrived three hours before the start of the show and made our way around town. The town is much much smaller than Aix en Provence, which is a pretty small city... but Arles is beautiful nonetheless. It is an old Roman city which later became a French city which later became the home of Van Gogh for a couple of his most productive years. In the north of the city there is a giant Roman coliseum, still very well preserved! It was an incredible thing to see with my own eyes. I had no idea of this part of the city's history before I came, and when I saw this monolith, my jaw dropped. It was as if all those photos I had looked at my entire life, the image I had formed of what a coliseum would look like, jumped right out of my mind and manifested itself in front of me. Cool.

We drank some, and had some pizza before we made our way to the concert. The concert was great, and we went on our way as soon as the show ended, and the band failed to produce an encore for us. Before coming, I had tried to reach out to some people on the couchsurfing website to find a place to stay, but with no luck. And now it was a quarter past midnight and we had no where to stay. Anticipating this, we had scoped out a couple places to lay down a blanket in the city, the best of which proving to be a covered area on a playground. This was a backup plan however. We expected to meet someone at the show who had driven from Marseille to see the band. We made a sign "Aix/Marseille" and walked around asking. Repeatedly people told us to go stand by the freeway. Two very nice gentlemen stopped and talked to us for a while, urging us to go to the freeway entrance, and giving us directions.

It was 2AM when we found ourselves standing just before the freeway entrance. Horror stories flashed in my mind, and I slowly realized what I had talked myself into. However, with Coline at my side, I was not really afraid. And we didn't give up. And this fancy looking car stopped after just twenty minutes. In it was a middle aged man in a business suit, and, as it happened he lived in Aix! It was all but perfect luck. On the ride home he told us that he had never picked up hitch hikers before, and never thought he would, but tonight he was afraid he would fall asleep, and he liked how we smiled.

As I said earlier, it took just over an hour to drive between Aix and Arles, but when your driver has a fast car and doesn't mind pressing the peddle down a little, the distance seems to disappear. At an average speed of 155km/hr... the voyage is little more than half an hour. Before we knew it, we were safe at home in our own warm bed. Wonderful.

Babou and Momo call themselves the French Connection, I'm not sure why, but I'm sure that it fits them like a glove. I went out with them again tonight. It was 8P when I met them, but I learned that Momo would have to leave soon for a party. Momo's twin sister however, would stay, her name is Sushi*. The girls also reminded me that they were getting a couch surfer at midnight this evening! A girl from Sweden. I decided that I would stay with Babou and Sushi, and later we would meet up with Momo at the bustop to meet the girl.

We went back to Babou's flat and passed the time with Queen and the RHCP. They taught me how to make crepes. We talked about film and music. And we danced to Kasabian. I showed Babou the sprinkler and how to close the fridge (dance style). She taught me how to clean windows and the table.

The night continued, and we met the Swedish girl. She is very, very sweet and I believe you spell her name like this: Casja. She speaks near perfect English, and talked about many things. I think I am very interested in visiting Sweden now, and I think I may give it an advantageous priority.

This night was incredible. We went to the BE and then to a dance club. We danced the night away. And when I found myself at home I was filled with that chemical I'd felt a lack of. Though temporary, it was so great to catch a glimpse of it.

At this point, it is tuesday. Right now, I am sitting in a classroom with Babou and Casja, it is Art and Archeology of the Antiquities. It seems interesting, but my attention span is short for lectures in general, and lectures in French especially. Today, I am happy.

To close, I highly recommend Woody Allen's new film "Vicky Christina Barcelona." See it if you have a chance. Don't forget about me, someday I'll be home.

i dream of that fire in my body,
i love you all,
kisses,
jon

*Babou, Momo, Sushi... these are all nicknames. But they are the best kind of nicknames. I'm slowly working on getting the girls to call me Hawkeye Jon... ;-)