Amelia Ray's Journal

Europe, Summer 2009

2009-09-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

I've spent most of the summer travelling around Europe. Wonderful stories, people, and food. Here is a brief version through pictures (click on photos to open larger versions).
Slovakia
After a morning of hunting wild boar in Slovakia, Peter (the hunter) and I (the binoculars expert) went to the local krcma, or pub, to celebrate our catch (mushrooms and cherries). There we happened upon The Bear.

My favourite restaurant in Bratislava, Verne Café, serves great traditional food at low prices. There is also an assortment of non-traditional food, like warm Camembert.

But I'm always up for making goulash at home, too!

Austria
I was quite impressed with the variety of signs I saw in Graz.

Slovenia
Slovenia also had impressive street art and food. And who's that ridin'? Could it be...John the Tattooator and the book of the Seven Seals?

Italy
Finding affordable housing is a problem, even in Genova

In Treviso there's an ice cream parlour called "Lickland".

In Viareggio, Bar "H" is now called Bar "Obama", bikes are as sweet as candy, and surf'n'turf means beef and clams!

And at the biennale in Venice, the Singapore pavillion had a wonderful exhibition on remakes of classic films

POLAND
Knights in Warsaw had long moustaches which they twirled whilst pondering the sky at dusk.

Life in Zakopane looks hard, but there's plenty of meat (and lard appetizers) to make it worthwhile! Oh, and puppies for sale by the baskets!

I met the biggest pizza I've ever seen in Lodz

The Icelandic Adventure: Part II

2008-12-29T04:55:00.000-08:00

It's amazing to note how much longer the days have become since the solstice. We still haven't had any direct sunlight (the sun hides behind the mountains), but it seems to rise sooner than before. The weekend before Christmas we visited the nearest neighbour who was nice enough to let us photograph his sheep. He even pointed out a ram of his who descended from Gunnar Gunnarsson's ram. Of course, a ram with such prized lineage was too proud to have his photo taken.

On the 23rd, we made our weekly trip to town. Traditionally, this was the day of the big Christmas fish market, and we were quite looking forward to finding the entire town smelling like fermented shark (which tastes and smells like ammonia). To our dismay, there was no fish to be found! The fish in the fish section of the supermarket was just as frozen as it normally is, and neither of the two restaurants in town were serving fish. Hmph!

Our Christmas feast consisted of baked lamb and potatoes, salad, pickled herring, and Icelandic mozzarella. Little did we know the lamb had been cured before we bought it (note: mysterious cooked colour!). It was too salty to eat for Christmas, but the next day Sami used it to make a great stew with potatoes and vegetables. We won't even mention the Icelandic mozzarella...

After lunch, we went to mass with the rest of the village. The minister greeted us when we arrived, and gave us programs for the service. Even though we had no idea what she was saying (aside from repeated words like "Guð", "Jesú Krist", "Amen" and "Betlehem", we could follow the sounds in the program pretty well, and enjoyed singing along to "Good King Wenceslas" and "Silent Night" (in Icelandic, of course).

A couple of days ago we took a walk to the church and back, stopping here and there to look at frozen waterfalls, take pictures of ice formations in the ground, and throw rocks into streams, only to watch them bounce back. We even met a few ponies who were nonplussed by our empty pockets. We'll have to carry sugarcubes next time.

The Icelandic Adventure begins!

2008-12-12T16:37:00.000-08:00

The wind is fiercely blowing the snow around outside. Everything is covered in white. The metal cord beats gently against the flagpole, sounding like bells on reindeer in the distance. Downstairs the staff are preparing a Christmas feast, and the entire house smells of ham, fowl and pastries. This is the beginning of our winter residency in Skriðuklaustur, Iceland.

Sami and I are here in the eastern part of the island for one month working on various art and music projects. We thought we would be completely isolated with only a groundskeeper and a weekly chauffeur to take us to the grocery store. Turns out Skriðuklaustur, apart from being a farmhouse-cum-museum dedicated to the late Gunnar Gunnarsson (one of Iceland's most famous authors who donated the house to the state in 1948), is a popular restaurant/cultural center that holds several private events throughout the year. This will be the last weekend before the center closes for the holidays, though, so as of Monday, Sami and I really will be living The Shining experience. [Note: Later today I went downstairs to empty the garbage, and found two twin girls in matching fuschia turtlenecks sitting on a sofa, and slurping hot chocolate!!!]

It took us two days to arrive from Reykjavík by bus. The first was a six-hour trip along the northwest part of the island. We drove through a snowstorm, then marvelled at the pink sky as the sun tried in vain to rise above the horizon. The passenger busses also serve as postal vehicles, and a few times we pulled up at outposts seemingly in the middle of nowhere to deliver large packages. That day we rode to Akureyri where some very nice couchsurfers hosted us. We had just enough time for a tour of the city, a stretch at a café, Thai dinner, and a night's sleep before once again heading to the bus station. The next day (Tuesday), we rode to Egilsstaðir where the director of Skriðuklaustur came to pick us up and take us grocery shopping. After we stocked up on dried fish and skyr, we begged for a trip to the liquor store. The liquor stores in Iceland are all government-owned and they are only open from 11am until 6pm. In true monopolistic fashion, the prices in the liquor stores could drive one not to drink. Moreover, drinks are outrageously expensive in bars (2 pints of beer + 2 shots of Brennivín = 25€), and grocery stores and convenient marts are only allowed to sell light beer (no wine, no peach brandy).

We discovered all of this in Reykjavik when we tried to buy some wine at the corner store to take to a birthday party. That was last Friday, way back when the kroner was still weak and we lived like kings in a land of paupers! We strode regally to the corner market and demanded two bottles of the finest red to be brought up tout-de-suite from the cellar. The cashier, who, clearly, had never laid eyes upon blood-red velvet capes and gold-encrusted scepters such as ours before, gave us that "You're not from around here, are you?" look as he slowly explained the mysterious workings of this realm's libationary restrictions. No matter how slowly he spoke we still had great difficulty understanding how these Vikings with such a great reputation for spending countless hours in their cups coped with such archaic regulations. We grabbed a couple of bottles of malt (which turned out to be soda, not beer) and headed for the party, where, my beauties, it was further explained that beer - that most cherished refreshment since eons past - beer - not only great for drinking, but also for cooking cabbage and sausage - beer had been illegal until 1989!!!

Nevertheless, we had a nice few days with friends in Reykjavik, visiting the Maritime Museum, the Kolaportið (indoor flea market), enjoying Belgian waffles and cappuccino at Mokka Kafi, and dining on lobster and whale meat skewers at the Sea Baron, a small sailor's diner in the harbour. We even managed a trip to the geothermal baths of the Blue Lagoon.

We flew to Reykjavik from Amsterdam. Our train to Schipol airport was delayed for almost an hour. When I went to the ticket counter to ask the number of a taxi, the cashier explained that all of the westbound trains had been delayed because an injured swan was stuck on the tracks. "They are waiting for the animal people," she said. I envisioned a tempeh-eating train conductor wearing a PETA T-shirt, jamming the brake valve into the "Emergency" position, and saying "Woah, there, Casey! That's a swan out there!" Only in Holland.

We had a wonderful time in Amsterdam, visiting with friends and family. The city seemed sadder than I remembered it, but it could have been the weather (though rain and snow were perfect excuses to make frequent pitstops at Indonesian restaurants and pickled herring stands). The best find was Café Bern, a popular, charming fondue restaurant on Nieuwmarkt. The worst part of going out was discovering that, although smoking indoors is illegal, some places will allow it if a smoking cover charge (of one to two euros per person) is paid. Presumably the money goes towards payment of the fine should inspectors come around. Sort of like paying for the speeding ticket before you actually start the engine.

The wind is still fiercely blowing the snow around outside, though the dinner guests have all gone. We're warm inside thanks to the government. The kroner seems to be rising by the minute, but for now we're safe. We shouldn't have to go to the grocery store again for at least another two days.

Banska Stiavnica to Poznan

2008-09-16T03:51:00.000-07:00

The train conductor on the way to Banska Stiavnica was a real treat. All of the commuter passengers knew him, and he walked around telling jokes and stories. He called me "Señora", and was nice enough to ask someone to help me carry my luggage from the train "to the asphalt", as he called it. While I waited for Bartek to come pick me up at the station, I enjoyed the first delicacy of smalltown Slovakia: a sixty-cent pint of beer.

Bartek arrived and drove me to a house in the country. Next to a castle. A BIG castle. The next couple of days spent with Margaret and Bartek were truly heavenly. Wonderful food, wine, music scenery, people...too amazing to describe with words. I will definitely be returning to this part of the world for a visit soon!

I played a very fun show at Klopacka - the crowd was hilarious, and the Borovicka was overflowing! On Sunday I relaxed and was introduced to the standup comedy of Russell Peters.

On Monday I took a caught the commuter train at a quarter to six in the morning with Dusan, the same conductor from before. There will soon be a Slovakian Grand Prix train festival, and Dusan was walking around handing out brochures for the festival, saying, "Souvenir! Souvenir!" When he gave me a brochure, I gave him one of my flyers. He was so happy he had me autograph it for him. Then when the train arrived in Hronska Dubrava Dusan stood with me on the platform chatting with me until my next train arrived.

Four trains and fourteen hours later I arrived in Olsztyn, Poland. My friend Teo picked me up and drove me around for a little sightseeing. After dinner we went to Alchemia Music Pub and Teo arranged for me to play a concert on Tuesday evening. The next morning was absolutely gorgeous, so I went for a run around the lake. Olsztyn is a very beautiful town, full of trees, water and, of course, old buildings. I ran past the beautiful, but abandoned (at least on one side) Factory Owner's House, which was built in the second half of the 19th century. I visited the Muzeum Warmii i Mazur where Copernicus used to live and saw remnants of his astronomical clock. And for lunch, I had Zurek w jajkiem, traditional Polish sour soup at Świeże Zupy (ul. św. Barbary 1).

On Wednesday I took the bus to Warsaw. Marcin picked me up at the bus station and we headed to the venue for dinner and soundcheck. As I was only in town for the evening, the taxi ride to Barakuda served as my tour of Warsaw - thank goodness it wasn't a short ride! I saw the river, the park, and the present from the Soviet Union. Ela Dębska opened the show, and she was great! A beautiful voice, and loads of energy. Everyone was disappointed I wasn't spending more time in Warsaw, but I promised them another visit.

On Thursday I went to Gdansk. I had plans to visit Malbork Castle, located about 30 minutes outside of Gdansk, but as soon as I saw Gdansk, I knew I would need all of my time there to explore the city. Ninety percent of the old town was destroyed during WWII, but what is left (and has been restored) is quite charming. The first night Sami and I dined on goose at the Gdanska resturant, and the next day we went crazy at the market and had a cold food banquet. That night we went to St. John's cathedral to hear a lecture on digital music issues by DJ Spooky, which was part of the Festival Kultur Świata.

On Saturday visited most of the city's monuments, like the historical museum, the armoury, and the big and small mills. We stopped for red borscht, zurek, sole and kielbasa at Riviera Literacka, a nice little restaurant next to St. Mary's. The food was cheap and cheerful! Then we climbed the 400 steps to the top of St. Mary's cathedral and had a breathtaking view of the city. Afterwards we headed to Balsam Cafe to try warm beer with honey, which is delicious way to induce sleep. Balsam Cafe wins the "Cutest Waiters in Town" award - there seems to be no shortage of stylish young lads there!

I enjoyed playing Kafe Delfin that night - the crowd was very attentive and I really liked the jumbotron!

The next morning I caught the train to Poznan, the last stop on the tour. I had a nice train ride with four siblings from the States who were researching their family origins in Poland. I ran into them at the restaurant where I was having dinner, and they even came to my concert! I hope they found lots of information about their family.

Natasza, Basia, Piotr, Bogusz and everyone else at Klub ZAK made it a memorable tour's end, and I hope to return to play in Poznan next year. Actually, I wouldn't mind visiting all of these places again, but then when would I have time to visit Estonia? One life is not enough!

Bratislava, 03-05 Sep 2008

2008-09-09T03:09:00.000-07:00

I had fun playing at Café Carina on Tuesday; the place was packed - apprently the listing had appeared in a couple of newspapers. On Wednesday morning I went to the Leopold Museum to see the Klimt/Schiele exhibition, and to Westbahnstraase to see the world photo exhibition. Getting around in Vienna is pretty easy: you can buy a 24-hour subway ticket for 5.70 euros. I don't know if you're supposed to use it on busses and trams, too, but I did. I travelled for three days there, and I never saw a conductor.

In the afternoon, I took the Twin City Liner to Bratislava. The trip along the Danube takes about 75 minutes, and it is beautiful! I arrived in Bratislava with just enough time to race to the soundcheck at Hlava XXII. I had a lot of fun playing there. Before the show I met a couple from Groote Eyelandt who were travelling around Europe. Thanks to the tricks RyanAir likes to play to raise their profits (e.g. giving "Vienna/Bratislava" as the name of an airport), Shane and Lee missed their flight to Dublin, and had to stay in Bratislava for the night. They were great fun, and I hope to visit them when I travel to Australia. Thanks, Ryan Air!

After the show, Lubo (a couchsurfer) drove us back to his house in the middle of the forest somewhere. He is from Bratislava, but he lives just across the border in Austria in a picturesque neighbourhood, next to a church that is probably 900 years old. We ate a great midnight snack of prosciutto, two different kinds of cheese and sundried tomatoes while we sat around discussing pop culture and politics.

The next day I was Super Tourist. In the morning, I rode the trams aimlessly for a couple of hours in all different sorts of directions, getting a feel for the city. I ended up at the Slovakian Technical Museum - a neat collection of old cars, trains, bicycles, irons, washing machines, advertisements.... The most impressive items were the snowploughs used to remove the snow from the train tracks, and a convertible limousine. They had some really creepy mannequins posing as models there, though. I don't think they've been dusted since the '60's.

My next stop was the Slovak National Gallery. There was one other browser in the museum besides me, and no fewer than 30 employees. The employees follow you around the museum, directing you where to go next. I tried to skip uninteresting sections of the museum, but there would always be a CURATOR there saying things like, "Slovakian baroque art, 17th, 18th century, please, yes, this way!" And you couldn't advance to the next section until you'd seen everything in the previous one.

There were lots of fun things to see, though. I enjoyed the gothic art alot, and the series of funny busts by Frantisek Xaver Messerschmidt. Oddly, there were several paintings credited to "Italian Painter", "Netherlands Painter", and so on, as if the artist was anonymous, but not anonymous enough not to leave some nationalistic trait in their work. The Best Title Award of this group of paintings goes to "Portait of a Lady in Cheesy Clothes." That painter was Spanish.

Bodyguards started following me while I was browsing the temporary exhibitionin the modern part of the museum. I thought the museum was just being overly-protective of their art, but then I saw a bunch of cameras flashing and heard reporters interviewing someone in the hallway. I later found out it was the president of Portugal, Aníbal Cavaco Silva, enjoying a state visit to Bratislava.

After the museum I walked up to the hrad, or castle. The view of the town from the castle was quite nice, but the castle is being remodelled at the moment, so we weren't allowed inside.

I tried some yummy Bryndzove halusky (typical Slovak dish) before playing a concert in the bar of the Downtown Backpacker's Hostel that night, and made lots of new friends. The next morning I found Bistro Saigon and had pho soup for breakfast before taking the train to Banska Stivanica...

Austria

2008-09-02T05:30:00.000-07:00

The Power of Language

I was a couple of bucks short on cab fare, but as the cabbie told me he was from Iran, I laid some smooth phrases on him in Farsi. Next thing I know, he pulls up to my place and tells me not to worry about what the meter says I owe him.

I had just come from Tunnel Bar, where Albert was wooing the crowd with his amazing magic tricks (cards and coins). We went to tunnel hoping to catch the Monday night jazz jam session, but we'd arrived too late. On a tip I got from Rob and Anna, I'd arranged to go to a heuriger named Zawodsky for wine and snacks, and Albert was the only couchsurfer brave enough to make the journey with me. Zawodsky is a local favourite, but not many tourists are willing to make the trek there (about a 25-minute walk uphill from Oberdöbling - the nearest subway station). It was worth it - we sampled eight different delicious wines (the pinot grigio - or grauburgunder - was unmistakably divine) and shared baked chicken, pork roast, stuffing, sauerkraut, pastrami, cheese and a pickle for under 30 bucks.

It was all a nice bookend to my first evening in Vienna. I hadn't done much, really. In the morning I'd spent just enough time at Naschmarkt (the big, lovely, overpriced mall-like market in the center of town) to realise I'd paid way too much for breakfast. I made the mistake of going there hungry after doing my morning exercises. The plan was to buy some fruit for the day, but when I passed the first stuffed, marinated veggie stand, the apples and grapes took a backseat. Apparently "10 dag/1.20" means "1.20 per 10 ounces (or whatever the equivalent might be)" instead of "10 pieces for 1.20". OK, I didn't really think I could get 10 stuffed eggplants for 1.20 euros, but I had no idea that one (1) stuffed eggplant, one (1) stuffed artichoke, one (1) stuffed zucchini, two (2) stuffed peperoncino, one (1) spicy artichoke, two (2) marinated prawns, one (1) small loaf of bread, and three scoops of dill yoghurt would cost me 17 euros. I was too ashamed too question the price, since I'd spent five minutes hand-selecting my individual pieces of stufftnessesses, and there was also a bit of a language barrier. Farsi, sure. German, huh?

I ate half of the overpriced breakfast, stuck my tail between my legs, and went back into the market to buy apples and grapes. I would have been better off buying everything at the supermarket across the street, but then I would have felt wise, what with another seventeen euros floating around in my pocket, and wouldn't have been able to savour the feeling that every day in life teaches you new lessons.

I'd arrived in Vienna the night before in a fast car driven by Gabriel - a guy who taught me a lot about techno and punk music. My couchsurfing friend in Klagenfurt, Uli, found him on a rideshare website. He was a very nice guy - he even came to one of my concerts in Klagenfurt - and by the time he dropped me off in front of my friend Rob's apartment in Vienna, I had become a fan of The Streets, the Busters and Toten Hosen.

Before I caught the disco train to Vienna, I was hanging out with my friend Rob in Klagenfurt. We've known each other since New York 2000. He's an amazing musician with a heavy choice of instrument (Hammond organ). We both played in the festival at Klagenfurt (he got me the job), and on Sunday, he cooked an improvised Bulgarian meal for his girlfriend and I. I won't reveal too many secrets, but it involved ground turkey, cumin, pumpkin oil and cinnamon noodles.

I arrived in Klagenfurt early Friday morning on a train from Berlin. On the train I met a crazy sweaty guy who translates poetry either into or out of French, English, Russian and German. I was sitting in the bike compartment because I wanted to practise guitar undisturbed, but then he came round wanting to use the space to recite poetry out loud. After some discussion, he moved to a nearby compartment to read his Dylan Thomas, but not before asking me to mail some of my lyrics to his boarding home address so he could translate them.

Uli (a couchsurfer) picked me up from the Klagenfurt train station at 12:30 in the morning, and the next day, Rob and Anna picked me up to take me to lunch. We had fried chicken salad, a huge baked potato (with real bacon slices on top of it!) and cheese and mint dumplings at Augustin. Then they dropped me off at my "hotel". The city of Klagenfurt had paid for my lodging in a Slovenian youth hostel just outside of the city center. It wasn't so bad - I could walk to my stage in just under 20 minutes, and it was quiet. Before I left for my gig on Friday, I had a coffee on the bench in front of the hostel with one of my neighbours. He didn't speak English, so we had a strange conversation in Dutch, Polish and German. He told me his work history, where he was from (which I couldn't pronounce, much less type), and then he asked if I had any bourbon. It was a conversation we would repeat for the next two days. I sort of felt bad for him, but I figured if he was the sort of guy who was asking someone he'd just met who barely shared a common language with him for bourbon, he probably was the sort of person who shouldn't be drinking. Like maybe his ex-wife or doctor had shamed him into asking only strangers for a drink.

I played the two shows in Klagenfurt with a bass player named Chris Wendt. He's a great player, and a nice guy who also plays with a band called New Shoes Jazz Quartet. These guys put on a great show. During the festival, I also had a chance to see Rob perform with his Hammond meets Art Blakey project, and Los Mosquitos Calimeros, the Carinthian Gypsy Kings.

On Saturday, Uli and I went to the market where I tried a wonderful leberknödel suppe (liverball soup). The broth alone was enough to replace miso soup as my second favourite soup. Afterwards, we went to the lake Wörthersee. I love swimming, but I'm no fan of deep water (in July I swam to the deep end of a pool and back for the first time in my life). I waded into the lake and started swimming with all the other little duckies. I knew I wouldn't swim out as far as they did, but I didn't know the lake would get so deep so quickly! I stopped swimming and tried to stand up, only to realise I couldn't touch the bottom. I started flailing about in the water, flapping my arms like a silly goose. Then I noticed some man sitting on the dock staring at me like I was hopeless, so I pulled it together, and doggie-paddled back to shore. In fact, I didn't stop paddling until my knees hit the rocks. I wanted to be certain I could stand up before I stopped swimming.

After not drowning, Uli took me to Gipfelhaus Magdalensberg - a nice family-owned restaurant with an amazing view of the mountains bordering Slovenia and of the valley below. Here we had bretteljause - a plate of cold meats, patés, cheese and a hard-boiled egg. See the lovely photo!

Tonight I play Cafe Carina here in Vienna, and tomorrow I'm off to Bratislava. More news to come!

Senegal (13/05/08-20/05/08)

2008-05-21T05:39:00.001-07:00

I'm pretty sure I booked a direct flight to Dakar from Madrid, but when I double-checked my flight info, I noticed the plane was making a stop in the Canary Islands. We weren't allowed to leave the boarding area once we landed in Las Palmas, but, luckily we only had to wait for 45 minutes before re-boarding the plane. On the second leg of the trip I sat next to a Korean man named Jae Kwan. After living in the Canary Islands for seven years, working on a Korean boat, he spoke almost no Spanish. With what little broken English he could muster, we managed to fill out his embarkation card and chat for a bit. He was a mechanical engineer, and was going to Dakar to work on a boat for three days. He told me stories about working in Samoa ("Samoans, BIG!") and Hawaii ("America, BIG!"), which I tried my best to understand. After dinner, we both nodded off to sleep.

While I was delighted to find the Yoff/Dakar airport is named after Léopold Sédar Senghor, I found passport control to be less than welcoming. They wouldn't admit me unless I could supply them with an address for my stay in Senegal. Luckily Sami was outside the airport, so I left my passport with the police, and went to find her. She didn't know the address of the apartment where we were staying so she told me to tell them I'd be staying at Hotel Lumumba in Yoff. I went back in, wrote "Hotel Lumumba, Yoff" on the embarkation card, and received my passport. Some Spaniards were having difficulty understanding the police demands for a local address, so I took them aside and told them to write "Hotel Lumumba, Yoff" on their embarkation cards, too.

I'd already exited the airport once, so I was prepared for the swarm of taxi drivers and moneychangers who stand outside waiting to pounce upon new arrivals like flies on a piece of horse poop. Sami had a taxi driver waiting for us, but it took us ten minutes and a phone call to find him. Luckily I only had a piece of carry-on luggage, so we were able to make as swift a getaway as possible, and it was much better than having to negotiate prices with a taxi driver. There are no set taxi rates in Dakar. You negotiate the price you're willing to pay with the taxi driver before you get in.

First impressions: it was dark, dusty, wild, loud, alive and noisy. We found our taxi and headed off to Yoff village. The autoroute is new, I was told, but it's full of potholes and half of it is still sand. The cars bounce along like rickety jalopies, and that's because most of them are: no taillights, broken mirrors and windshields, sometimes no headlights, doors only open from the inside, and gasoil leaks. Cars and trucks share the road with horse-drawn carts, and people are always jaywalking across the highway.

We made it to our apartment, a nice, quiet spot with a sea view. The next morning, Sami took me to a local breakfast spot: a fly-infested tent on the side of the road (Rte. de la Cimetière, somehwere between Via Via and the horse parking lot) where a beautiful woman named Mamafat serves sandwiches. Mamafat is probably in her early thirties, and possesses a simple kind of mysterious beauty similar to the kind Whitney Houston once had. Way back when she was saving all of her love for us. With the help of a young girl who always has a baby strapped to her back, she feeds the male workers of the village. She has marinated beef and onion sandwiches (my favorite), spaghetti sandwiches, tuna sandwiches, lentil sandwiches...she cuts open a piece of baguette and fills it with whatever fillings you want. She serves the sandwiches wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. Her assistant serves Touba coffee (natural, mild, yummy coffee), and a delightful something called thé frais. I'm not sure what kind of tea leaves they are, but when she mixes the tea with powdered milk and sugar, it takes on a salmon colour. I had breakfast there everyday during my stay for about 750 CFA (1.15 euro). When I bid goodbye to her yesterday morning, I think I detected a tear in her eye. She could have just been batting away a fly, though.

After breakfast, Sami and I caught a cab to Trait d'Union where the exhibition was being held. While she and Sylvia, a German artist who was exhibiting in Yoff with Sami, finished setting up the show, I took a walk along the beach. I managed to walk for five minutes before meeting a young man who lured me to his "café". It was little more than a covered cabana made of sticks and a sheet. I sat down while he went to get tea. While I was waiting, another young man approached me and gave me a brief history of the fishing village. I don't remember everything he said, but I'm certain it ended with, "...anytime, you come to my family, everything is free for you!" After almost half an hour, the first guy came back with a cup of coffee instead of tea. He took a sip, then handed it to me and ran down to the ocean to clean out the teapot. I was pretty sure by this point I wasn't going to drink anything that took him half an hour to find, so I made like I had to be somewhere, thanked them both, and walked back to the gallery.

Afidi, the woman who owns the office-cum-gallery, took Sami and I shopping for vernissage provisions. We drove to a bakery in Ngor, a nearby town, and then stopped to get gas. While the car was being fuelled, all sorts of vendors approached the car windows, trying to sell us t-shirts, shoes, sunglasses, etc. We drove across the street to the market to load up on beer, water, napkins, fruit and vegetables. We we went back outside, we noticed we had a flat tire. A security guard was there, already changing the tire with the "help" of two Bayefall. These guys are supposed to be Sufi mystics, but most of them just wander around town in blue outfits begging for money for their leader (whose picture they wear on large lanyards around their necks). Once the tire was changed, and Afidi had worked things out with the security guard, we got back in the car. The Bayefall reached into the car, stroking our arms, trying to get us to give them money. Afidi made some wise comment in French, and we drove back to the gallery for a successful opening.

Thursday we headed to Dakar for my first time. The busses are as rickety as the cars, only bigger. It's quite a nice ride, though. People board the bus, sit down, then pass their money to other people, who pass it to the ticket salesman, who hands the ticket back to whoever gave him the money, and they pass the ticket back to the original person. Imagine trying to give your money to someone on the bus in the States to buy your ticket for you! I also noticed that the highway doesn't really have lanes. People just pass whenever they feel like it, some people drive on the shoulder (sand) - somehow it all makes sense. Dakar is a zoo! From the bus we walked through the marketplace where people shout, follow you, try to get your attention in a mixture of languages so you'll buy phone cards, food, souvenirs, toothpaste - pure madness. We went to the Novotel to use the bathroom then went outside for lunch. In front of the Novotel there's a tent where a woman cooks up the plate of the day. We had not-so-good Tchebou Djen (fish and rice) for 500 CFA, then headed off to see some of the Biennale.

Friday the village awoke to no running water. It arrived at some point during the afternoon, but by that point, we had already taken the boat to Gorée (cost of return 15-minute boat ride = 5000 CFA). On the boat we met Sonia and another woman who told us to visit their jewellery shops on the island. When we landed some guy tried to tell us we had to first visit the tourist information point before visiting the island. Luckily, Sami was hip to his game, and told him we were there to visit the Biennale exhibitions. He tried to tell us the exhibitions were over, but we had a catalogue to prove him wrong. Sami told me that one way they try to suck money from tourists is by having them pay a tourists fee to the visitor center to a guide who may or may not accompany on your island stay. We wandered off alone on the island. We stopped to visit Bobo, a nice rasta who has his own café on the island, located, as luck would have it, right next to the shop of one of the jewellery-selling women who accosted us on the boat. We told her we'd visit her later. Sami bought my CD for Bobo, and we listened to it while eating lunch, provided by a woman named Aby who has a restaurant in the same enclave where Bobo has his tea shop. She made us mafé (beef in peanut sauce) and fried fish. After spending time there we walked up to the top part of the island to the permanent artists spaces. Lots of artists live in caves underground on the island and exhibit their work aboveground among the defunct cannons. This island was one of the major points of departure for slave ships. One of the artists we met, Mousa, sleeps in a tent on a ledge. When he unzips his tent first thing in the morning, the only thing he can see is the sea. But I bet he doesn't wander home drunk too often. He showed us his home underneath ground, and after walking around for two minutes I can understand why he doesn't sleep there - it's stifling hot!

After we walked around the artist commune (and dodged some more vendors), we made our way to the island historical museum. We learned that of the roughly nine million (documented) slaves shipped to the Americas, only 4.5% were sent to the States. The majority of them went to the West Indies, with South America following close behind. So I only had a 4.5% chance of being born in the States as opposed to Haiti or Brazil. One of the most impressive characters we ran across in the museum was Ayouba Souleyman Diallo (1700-1773). Wikipedia paints him out to be a rather harmless figure, but the four lines underneath his picture in the museum summed up his life as such: "Owned slaves in Africa until he was captured and sold into slavery himself. Freed by British, returned to Africa to resume life as slaveholder."

When we left the museum we happened upon Sonia, who tried to get us to come buy some jewellery from her, or in her words, "Only LOOK!", but we told her we were still touring the island, and would come back later. Apparently, while we had been touring the island, we'd missed a weight-throwing competition, and we arrived at the dock just in time for the presentation of prizes. The athletes were all larger than life: they must have been at least seven feet tall and eight miles wide. There was a German woman, a French woman, an American guy, and two guys from Italy. A group of schoolchildren had been brought over to the island to watch the competition, and they were all wearing shirts from the event. After the prizes were handed out some Senegalese pop star sang to the crowd, and all the children went wild, dancing. After they were finished, we went back to Bobo's for one more glass of tea. Then we rushed back to the dock to lose ourselves in the herd of children in the hopes that Sonia and her cronies wouldn't spot us.

We took the boat back to Dakar with the screaming schoolchildren and the Amazon weight-throwers. On the way, I spotted Jae Kwan's Korean boat. At the dock, we headed to the dock artisan shop. Who should we find waiting for us there, but Sonia?! She didn't seem very pleased that we'd left the island without even visiting her shop. In fact, she scolded us and walked away. After poking around the shop for awhile we went to L'Imperiale for a drink to decide what to do next. We picked a couple of restaurants/clubs that we thought would be nice, but after wandering around and not finding them, we decided to go Indigo (26 Rue Félix Faure, Dakar). They had great Vietnamese and Senegalese food. I ordered chicken, but I'm pretty sure they served me pigeon. It was tasty, nonetheless.

On Saturday we went to the Yoff food market and walked to Almadies to find some barber friend of Sami's named Artur. We didn't find him, but we found his house. Then we had a great Vietnamese lunch at Hong Kong II and, later, joined Sylvia for dinner at Fatouh Kim in Almadies. The food there wasn't so good, but it was abundant, and the sea view was great. I spent most of the time feeding a demanding stray cat the gristle from my lamb chops.

Sunday I headed to the island of Ngor with Afidi and her two sons. To get to Ngor you have to take a skiff from Yoff (return trip = 500 CFA). The trip takes about two and a half minutes, but once you see the sailors scooping water out of the inside of the boat with children's sandcastle buckets and ride along with water splashing into the boat at every wave, it can feel like 15 minutes. However, once you arrive at Ngor, life is different. There's still a few peddlers begging you to buy their wares, but it's much more peaceful than the mainland. There are always two grills going to supply you with cheap, good food while you sit on the beach, and if you feel the need to sit at a table while you eat, you can always go to one of the beach restaurants. There are two beaches - a little one, and a big one. I prefer the little one, because the guy who rents out the beachmats will watch your stuff while you're swimming, and the price for everything is two-thirds the price it is on the big beach. Most of the tourists go to the big beach, which is another reason not to go there.

Monday was another day spent at Ngor. Learned the food on the beach was a third the price of the food in the restaurants. We saw a young man swim to Yoff and back to Ngor in under twelve minutes. I asked him if he did that everyday, and he replied, "Why, yes! I'm a swimmer!" The boat back was overloaded, but no one seemed to care, and we made it without sinking. The lifejackets are only obligatory when you leave Yoff and are unnecessary, as it seems everyone on the boat could either swim the 200 meters to shore or would be too afraid to swim, even in the shallowest of waters (like me).

On Tuesday, Sami and I visited the fish market. The fisherman come in from the sea, the horse-drawn carriages go to meet them in the sea to take the fish, and then the women take the rest of the fish to sell right there on the beach. Some people come to buy the fish they will eat that day; others to buy enough fish to sell in different parts of town during the day. It's a pretty overwhelming experience - the smell of fish in the air, people yelling, holding up still-breathing carp and then throwing them down on the sand to scale them and wrap them up in newspaper. After having some millet beignets (and, of course, after I went to visit Mamafat one last time) we took one last trip to Dakar. We saw some more of the Biennale exhibitions before lunching Chez Loutchas (101, rue Moussé Diop, Dakar)). This place is ridiculous. It reminds me of those roadside stops in El Paso and Amarillo where if you can eat a 1-lb. steak, your meal is free. They give you enough food for two very large, very hungry people. Sometimes they even serve it in the skillet in which it was cooked. The electricity went out while we there, so we had to move to a table closer to the window, but I think we would have waddled out exhausted out of that place even without the added heat factor. After lunch we managed to take in a couple more exhibitions before I had to catch the plane back to Madrid.

What I saw: Gangs of goats terrorising highway traffic. Cute sheep learning how to walk. A huge pelican. Cute stray cats and dogs who are afraid of people. Beautiful people who are either afraid of people or try to get them to hand out cash on demand. A lot of trash. Happy Children. Happy adults.

Senegal = Safety third. Cleanliness fourth. Community first. Happiness first, too.

Romania (02/04/08-07/04/08)

2008-04-04T10:34:00.001-07:00

After three weeks of hemming and hawing, I decided early Wednesday morning to head to Romania. Sami and I tried to change the tickets after she fractured her hand in Berlin, but the change cost more than the original tickets were worth, so, after much drunken prompting by my friend, Dana, I decided to go alone.

Dana's girlfriend, Carla, had given me a "Learn Romanian" book, which I'd only cracked open on Tuesday (waiting in "line" at the Ministry of the Interior). The grammar and some of the vocabulary was similar enough to most of the other languages I've learned, but the vowel sounds seemed a bit difficult. Luckily, I sat next to a Romanian woman on the plane (who turned out to be my neighbour) who coached me through the various ways to pronounce "a's" and "i's". She was also fluent in English, French and Italian. She made a list of foods I absolutely had to try, and told me three times to "be careful with luggage".

When we landed in Bucharest, I headed for the bus into town. I boarded the bus, and tried to pay, but the driver just kept saying, "Da, da", and ushering me onto the bus. I looked at some Spanish men, waiting to get on, and they told me, "Don't be a fool! He's letting you on for free! Get on the bus!" So I did. It was the beginning of a holiday full of free bus rides.

I sat next to some students from Boston (who had also been on the plane with me from Madrid), and we compared pronunciation notes and travel plans. I was planning on taking a 1 a.m. bus to Constanta on the Black Sea. It was Sami's idea, and as I didn't know diddely-squat about Romania, it sounded like a good one to me. There were going to stay in Bucharest for a couple of days, and then head to Constanta to catch a bus to Varna, in Bulgaria. That sounded like a good idea, too.

While we were riding into town, we noticed that two of the three lanes of traffic on either side of the median had been blocked off, and that cops were standing on every corner. "NATO," I said. At least there would probably be fewer pickpockets on the streets.

I disembarked at Piata Romana because it looked like the first place we saw with some nightlife. I changed some cash, and looked for a place to eat. I saw a rather hip, young man walking down the street, so I decided to follow him. But when I saw him enter a place called "Mon Amour" I kept walking. Everyone in there was eating ice cream and french fries, and the dance music was too loud. I found a Turkish fast food joint, and little else. I walked back to the corner where I'd left hipster boy. That's when I saw the bright neon "Benihana's" sign beckoning me.

I can't remember the last time I went to Benihana's. My mother used to take me there every year for my birthday for their Japanese goodness. Now, there I was, standing in downtown Bucharest in front of the first Benihana's I'd seen in over two years, at 10:30 at night, the day before my birthday.

I had to go in.

But something stood in my way. Something much bigger than you or I. It was NATO. To access the Benihana's, you had to go through the Howard Johnson hotel. And the hotel entrance was swarming with policeman and black cars. NATO. I walked over to see if the Benihana's had a separate entrance, but I couldn't even get close enough. There were traffic cops in the street because every two minutes, some diplomat would be rushed from the airport to the Howard Johnson in three black cars with police escorts. I decided Benihana's was out of the question. I also decided I'd been standing on the same street corner long enough to arouse police suspicion, and that if I didn't make a move quickly, some cop would come over, question me, open my guitar case, and spill my underwear all over the streets of Bucharest.

So I joined hipster boy in Mon Amour (Str. Mihai Eminescu, nr. 17, Sector 1). I found an empty table, sat down, and ordered a beer. I considered eating there, but I didn't really want my first Romania meal to be a burger with fries. So I just settled back to enjoy the beer and watch the football match on TV. I noticed people were staring at me. Not the sort of the-saloon-goes-quiet-and-the-piano-player-folds-up-and-the-dog-goes-outside kind of staring. Just a curious stare. One man actually leaned way over in his seat to get a glimpse, nay, a good long look at me. It was the beginning of a holiday full of staring. I ignored them, drank my beer, and eventually they decided I was somewhat normal. When I'd almost finished my glass, the waiter came over and refilled it for me (with the beer I had left in the bottle). "What service!" I thought.

When I finished my beer, I went out in search of food. I walked in what I thought was the direction of the train station. Bucharest reminds me of Las Vegas: neon lights, casinos, and sex clubs. After about 20 minutes of walking, I found the only open restaurant (that wasn't serving only burgers, fries, or doner), Pita Pita (B-dul Corneliu Coposu, nr. 1A Piata Unirii). I ordered a gyro. I asked the waiter if I was close to the train station, and he told me I was about 20 minutes away. But he said it wouldn't be a problem to take a cab.

It was about 12:30, and the train left at 1:30 in the morning. Before I finished eating, the cashier came over and told me, "We have a driver. He could take you the train station, but you must give him something." "How much?" I asked. "20 lei." "No problem." I finished eating and paid. The cashier said, "The driver doesn't speak English, so is there anything you want to tell him?" "Just take me to Gare du Nord."

As most of the tunnels were closed because of NATO, we had to take the scenic route. We passed by the palace, and through some gritty neighbourhoods. Once you leave the main downtown boulevards, Bucharest starts to looke more like the Ninth Ward than Vegas. Dilapidated houses and tons of stray dogs and cats. We drove along, trying to communicate in signs and monosyllabic words, listening to the radio (all about NATO).

We arrived at the train station, but the driver didn't have change for 50 lei. Luckily, I was able to pay him in euros. I'd read somewhere that you have to pay to enter the train station if you don't have a ticket. So I ignored all of the people saying, "Bona sera, excuse me!" and walked straight to the ticket booth. I asked for a ticket to Constanta. The next train wasn't leaving until 7am. The clerk told me the place to board the trains was in another building (which is probably where you have to pay the 3 lei entrance fee), behind the McDonald's (which is prominently mentioned in everything I'd read about Gare du Nord).

"Do you have a place to stay in town?"
"No."

She assumed I was going to spend the night in the train station. I only had six hours to kill, and with all those sex clubs I'd seen around town, I was sure I could spend them in some bar.

"Be careful with your luggage," she whispered.
"Multumesc," I said, and walked out to find a cab.

I hopped in the first cab I saw, and said, "Discotheque! Bere (beer)!" "Da, da!" said the driver. "Dancing?" "Yes!" He took me right back to Piata Romana. "Aici!" he said, pointing to one of the bright sex club neon signs. Maybe it's my short hair, but I couldn't figure out why he would think a young woman would want to go to a seedy sex club at one in the morning. "Nu! Nu!" I shouted. "Bere! Nu sex club!" "Da!" he said, and stopped the cab about ten meters away in front of an "Irish" pub. There were a bunch of young Romanian hipsters smoking outside. I paid him, and went in.

I went up the stairs, and left my guitar and jacket at the coat check. I found the bar, ordered my first birthday whiskey, and sat down at an empty table.
Things to note:
1) They had 2 DJs
2) They were playing Nelly's (not Furtado) hit
3) (almost) Everyone was dancing
4) The VIP setions were full
5) The people at the VIP sections had bottles of liquor on their table

After Nelly, the DJs switched to Rob Base, Black Box, Duffy, and some dirty version of "Everybody Dance Now" I'd never heard before. I settled in for a good night of people-watching. I assessed the crowd. Right behind me were two couples, dancing and drinking champagne. The prize of the night, though, was Mr. Salmon Sweater. I never once saw him sit down. He was a good dancer, but something was awkward. The rhythm was right, but the moves didn't go together. The upper part of his body was all David Hasselhof, and the lower part was all Michael Jackson. Still he was mesmerising. His girlfriend thought so, too.

I wanted to talk to someone, maybe even dance, but I wasn't sure how to work my way into the VIP couples group, and I knew Mr. Hasselhof wasn't up for talking. I spotted a group of women partying by themselves, and decided to approach them.

"Hello! It's my birthday!"

That was all it took. Moments later, we were all toasting, introducing ourselves, and dancing. They were four lawyers, and through a mixture of English, French, and Spanish, we danced the night away.

After we left "The Downtown", we walked to a cafe. We begged the waiters to let me play guitar, and I gave an impromtu concert. I bet some guy we'd picked up at the bar one of my CDs that I wouln't lose my guitar before my trip was over. Then I caught a cab back to the train station.

I found my seat on the train, and went to sleep. When I woke up, I looked out of the window to find horse-drawn carriages, vineyards, and a ton of garbage. I was sharing my cabin with a man named Bone, who lives in the north of Romania. He's a captain on a ship, and spend most of his time sailing across the world. For the next hour and a half, he told me all about his country, and the best places to visit/stay in Constanta. He even gave me a banana for breakfast.

We arrived, said our goodbyes, and, on his recommendation, I set out to find the hotel/restaurant La Protap. I said, "Nu multumesc" to all the taxi drivers, and headed to the bus stop. I found the first bus driver I saw, and asked "Unde este La Protap?" He didn't know, but he managed to find out. "Stand here, and wait for bus 100" he said. I waited for two minutes, while he boarded his bus (number 100), and drove over to pick me up. "Three stops", he said. I gave him the 1 lei fare, and boarded the bus. This was the first and only time I paid for a bus ride during my trip. There are two front doors on the buses in Constanta - one to access the driver's booth, and another to access the seats. If the driver doesn't open their door, there's no way to pay them.

We drove along, and I had my first look at Constanta. More West Vegas than downtown - lots of brown buildings in need of paint jobs, tons of cash exchange places (so many, you can't distinguish them from the other stores), and tired people walking. After the second stop, I stood up. "Nu! Nu!" said a woman with a baby sitting in front of me. Apparently, she'd been paying attention the entire time. "Unu mai" and she motioned for me to sit down. When we'd gone a little further, she pointed out of the window to La Protap. "Aici". I thanked her, and disembarked.

I waltzed into La Protap (B-dil 1 Decembrie 1918, Nr. 12) - the hotel is called Hotel Balada NEJ, and La Protap is the restaurant - to find there were no rooms available. But the smells of roasting meat coming from the restaurant were too hard to resist. The receptionist booked me a room at another hotel, but I decided to have lunch there. "I'll be in the restaurant, so if there are any cancellations, please come tell me!"

The entire place is decked out like a hunting lodge. I ordered the hunter's cold cut plate - wild boar, deer and bear - and a cabbage salad. Happy palate. After eating, I went back into the lobby. "I'm still here!" "Good. I have room for you." I booked a room for one night (165 lei = 42 euros), and went to take a nap.

I awoke in one of the comfiest hotel rooms ever. I had two beds, a balcony, cable TV, a boot horn and a bathtub! I took a bath, and watched some TV. Then I had to figure out what to do for dinner. I'd been in Romania almost 24 hours, and I hadn't eaten anything on my suggested list. So I went out in search of ciorba de burta, or tripe soup.

Neighbourhood restaurants are few and far between there. Most of the restaurants are in the tourist part of town, which I was trying to avoid. After walking around for half an hour, I asked a man on the street where I could find soup. He sent me to a fast food colony near the sea. I walked past the fast food places and found a restaurant called Tineretului. The place looked rather empty, but the waitresses debated over whether or not to serve me. Good cop waitress won, and showed me to a table. They didn't have a menu - they only served one plate. There was one other person eating in my section. I approached him and asked if I could look at his food. He was very frightened and confused, but the stuff on his plate looked good, so I ordered one, too.

There was a band playing in the restaurant: two singers, a keyboard player, and a karaoke machine. I noticed there was another section in the back of the restaurant that was full of sharply-dressed women and men. The band started in with some toe-tapping Romanian hits, and I nodded my head along.

The food came - stewed meat and polenta, covered in a fried egg and fresh, grated cheese. It was delicious! The bass and keyboard players in the band went to sit down at a table, leaving the two women to sing along with the karaoke machine. During song breaks, one woman sang Celine Dion and Whitney Houston hits a capella. She didn't speak English, so she just made up the words. She had a nice voice. The other singer was an Abba fan. I can't stand Abba, but as they were the only songs they sang in English, I sang along from my table. This excited them to no end. They sang four more Abba songs, prefacing each one with "Especial, for you!" while pointing to me.

At some point during the meal, a rather charming five-year old girl came up to me with some brown roses. "100 lei," she said, which was five times the price of my dinner. I was pretty sure she meant 1 lei, so I tried to find the freshest looking brown rose to buy. I picked one, and she repeated, "100 lei!" I reached in my pocket and pulled out one lei. "Nu! Nu! 100 lei" she said, stonefaced. I laughed and tried to explain I wasn't about to pay 40 euro for a brown rose. She just took her flower and walked out of the restaurant, unaccompanied. Shortly thereafter, the waitress came up to me with the bill. "It's over," she said. I don't know if I was being kicked out because I'd offended the five-year old girl, or because of the mafia party they were having in the back of the restaurant. Either way, I paid my bill, waved goodbye to the band, and headed to the Ibis hotel to bowl.

The hotel had a room downstairs with three bowling lanes. I had the entire place to myself. Everyone else was in the billiard room. I asked the attendant where people go to party on a Thursday night. He said, "This is it!" So I bowled about five games while he brought me free birthday drinks.

The next day I went on a walking tour of Constanta. I walked around downtown, went to the stadium to watch the rugby team practice, walked around the lake, then to the beach. It was quiet and peaceful. The hillside was full of garbage and tents where people live. I considered swimming, but the water was freezing, and I didn't want to be arrested in Romania for skinny-dipping in the middle of the afternoon. I found a restaurant Bone recommended near the port (On Plonge, Port Tomis), and had a wonderful lunch: ciorba de burta and scrumbie la gratar, or grilled herring. Then I went to the National History and Archaeology Musuem. The archaeological exhibition on the first floor was translated into French, German and English. There were tons of Roman artifcats. The second floor hosted the untranslated historical exhibition. I tried to learn as much as I could, but my Romanian isn't that good. If anyone knows anything about Ioan Roman, let me know.

After leaving the museum, I walked back to the hotel to take a nap, but not before buying some hot buns from the bakery and some mititei (small, skinless, grilled sausages). I had a mellow evening watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" reruns.

On Saturday, I took the train to Mangalia, a nearby town. I walked from the train station to the center of town, and realised I was only 11km away from Bulgaria! I considered taking a cab there, or even walking, but I'd left my passport at the hotel. So I found a flea market, and bought a fishing pole, twine, hooks, a pocket knife, and bait. I headed out to the ocean to fish. I found a nice spot on the rocks and was soon joined by two ten-year old boys who didn't know how to use their cast reel. They kept getting it tangled up in something. I showed them how to use the pole, and we fished until they got bored. We didn't catch anything, but we had a fun time. After they left, I gave my fishing supplies to another group of boys who were hiding in the rocks smoking and drinking beer.

Them, in broken English: "Why?"
Me, in broken Romanian: "I can't take it with me on the plane."
Them: No plane here. Go to Bucarest."
Me: "I live in Spain."
Them: "Oh, yes, then! Plane in Bucarest."
Me: "Um......this is a present for you."
Them: "Present?!"
Me: "Yes!"
Them: "Thank you! Thank you!"

I walked around until I found an internet cafe/restaurant/bar (Lavrion). I made friends with the bartender, and later, the owner. They kept me happy with free food and beer, and let me sample their homemade palinca, or plum liquor. Don't try this stuff without a chaperone. It's very good, but VERY strong. After sipping on one tiny shot glass for half an hour, I practically had to be escorted to the bus stop right in front of the bar. I fell asleep at the bus stop, missing my bus back to Constanta. Luckily, another one came along in ten minutes.

When I got back to Constanta, I headed to the hotel restaurant for a final birthday blowout meal. I ordered a bottle of wine and the meat special: deer in blackberry sauce, pork in cream and mushroom sauce, and stag in gravy. Two hours later I went to my room to dream about the deer in blackberry sauce. One week later I was still dreaming about deer in blackberry sauce...

On Sunday I took the train back to Bucharest. Midway during the trip I went to the restaurant car for food. The restaurant car is identical to all the other cars, except there's a guy with a cooler and boxes of potato chips and sandwiches. I bought some chips and an iced tea, and went back to my seat. I noticed there were four empty seats directly behind mine, so I stretched out there to enjoy my lunch. A short while later, an elderly man wearing a leather beret came up to the seat. He became very nervous upon seeing me, and started wringing his hands and looking out of the window, his brow furrowed. I don't know if one of the two seats I was occupying was his, but he didn't say anything. After a full minute, he managed to slide into the seats facing mine and sit down. He stared at me for about fifteen minutes, before deciding I was harmless. Then he settled off to sleep.

I had nine hours to kill in Bucharest before catching my flight, so I decided to take a bus tour of the town. I hopped on busses, picked a person to follow, and got off the bus whenever they got off the bus. I saw a large part of the town this way. It was pretty depressing. The buildings are in poor condition, and most everyone looks very sad. I accidentally rode one bus to the end of the line. There was NOTHING around, save for an overpass and a forest. The driver was nice enough to let me stay on the bus while he rested, and then we drove back into town.

For some reason, after riding the bus for free during my entire stay in Romania, I decided to try to buy a bus ticket to the airport from a kiosk. The ticket was seven lei, and I only had five lei left. i told the woman at the kiosk I would go change some euros and come back to buy a ticket. But it was raining quite hard, and, for once, I didn't see a cash exchange place around. So, one last time, I boarded a bus without paying. Aside from the power outage at the airport while I was going through security, the rest of the trip was pretty uneventful. I arrived in Madrid early Monday morning, went home, and dreamt of deer in blackberry sauce.

Take a number. Or two.

2008-04-01T02:40:00.001-07:00

Today is International Fun at Work Day. That might explain why I spent a hellish 30 minutes at the Ministry of the Interior, trying to pick up my new Spanish ID card.

It didn't start off entirely bad - coming out of the Metro I met a young man trying to find his way to the same building where I was headed, so we walked there together. His name was John, he was from Venezuela, and he had been a finalist for Latin American Idol. We talked about music, living in Madrid, and learning English. We arrived at the building to find two long lines of people. We took our places in the proper line and waited. About five minutes later I discovered that he didn't have an appointment (I did), so I went to the front of the line, and was admitted into the building immediately.

Once inside and past security, I went to the vacant information desk. Above the desk were signs dictating which floor to go to depending on what service you required. I headed to the first floor waiting room, only to find that everyone there already had a number given to them by someone at the information desk at the entrance. Back downstairs to find not one person, but two now manning the info desk. I asked for a number.

"What's your nationality?" asked a freshly-permed, middle-aged woman in brown trousers.
"I'm from the U.S."
"You're not supposed to be here." I'm used to that. The Spanish, even more than the Dutch, I believe, love telling you you're in the wrong place on the wrong day at the wrong address in the wrong town on the wrong planet, and that nothing is ever, ever possible.
"But I have an appointment."
"This isn't the building for Americans."
"But I have an appointment." I showed her my paper.
"Oh," she sighed. "First floor."

She gave me a number, and I headed back to the first floor. The marquee was flashing numbers 171, 425 and 426. I looked at my number. The printed number was "131", but written above it in pen was "T. C. 23." There was a Chaos Manager in a yellow traffic-directing vest standing in the waiting room. I approached him.

"What number do I have?"
"Can't you read?"
"Not in Spanish."
"Well, that's a serious problem." He took my ticket. "You've got number 23," he said, pointing to the handwritten number. "Now you need to find the person who has number 22, and sit next to them."
"So the numbers flashing on the marquee aren't valid?"
"No. It's broken."

I considered asking him why they didn't disconnect the marquee to make it stop flashing crazy numbers, but I figured he probably wasn't qualified to be privy to that sort of information. I found Number 22 and sat down next to him. There were about fifteen people ahead of us, sitting calmly, staring blankly at their blue slips of paper with two numbers on them. They all seemed to understand the marquee was broken. I pulled out my Learn Romanian in Ten Days book, put on my headphones, and prepared to wait obediently, too.

That's when it happened. About fifteen more people entered the room. They all went to the Chaos Manager with the same question: "What number do I have?" He continued telling people to reference the handwritten number on their blue slip. Not once did he bother to mention the broken marquee. His power supplanted that of the marquee. It was an unspoken assumption. A general truth.

Someone approached me.
"What number do you have?"
"23."
"Me, too."

There were duplicates of every number. People started standing up and raising their voices.
"I was here first. I'm the first Number 21!"
"What's the printed number on the bottom mean?"
"Why do you have number 19, if you arrived after I did?"
And so on.

It was then I realized that the printed numbers on the bottom of the blue slips were all different. Number 22 (handwritten) was Number 130 (printed). Number 23 (handwritten me) was Number 131 (printed) and so on. Even the blue slips with duplicate handwritten numbers had consecutive printed numbers on them. I decided to take action, addressing the first three rows.

"So, it looks like everyone has a different printed number, right? And everyone is seated in order of the printed number, right?"
Everyone frantically checked their printed numbers and compared them with the people sitting next to them.

"Yes," they all answered.
"So, let's say we go with those numbers, forgetting about the handwritten duplicate numbers, and the broken marquee?"
"OK."

Easy enough, I thought. But new people kept coming, throwing monkey wrenches into our diplomatic attempt at order.
"Chaos Manager said I have number 22!"
"You can't have Number 22! I was here before you!"

Chaos Manager said, "Everyone sit down according to the handwritten number on your blue slip!"
"But there are duplicate handwritten numbers!" I said.
"No, there aren't!"

Eight people stood up to show him their duplicate numbers.

"Well, I don't know why there are duplicates," he said. "That's not my problem. That's the problem of the people downstairs who gave you the number. I suggest you go downstairs and have it fixed."
"You want all of us to go downstairs?" asked a tall Polish man with frantic eyes.
"Yes," replied Chaos Manager. "It certainly isn't my problem!"

We all looked at Chaos Manager, then at each other, and silently decided to ignore him. Meanwhile, people had been completely ignoring both numbering systems and heading down the hallway whenever a vacant spot arose. Number 22 confided in me, "I'm just going down the hall next. I don't care what number I have. I suggest you do the same."

He had a good point. So after he picked up his ID card, and walked out, I stood up and walked to the first available desk I saw.
"Give me your number," said the woman sitting there. I gave her my useless blue slip which, just a moment before, had seemed so important. She threw it in the trash without even looking at it. I gave her my papers, she found my card, and gave it to me. That was it. On my way out, I whispered to Number 24, "Go NOW!"

Out in the lobby, I found Magnaperm in Brown Trousers.
"You know, there's a serious problem with those numbers you're giving out. It's pure confusion up there, what with all the duplicate numbers."
"There are no duplicate numbers," she said.
I stared at her, imagining how it would feel to light her perm on fire. I smiled and left.

I don't know what happened to John, but I think he was safer standing in line outside.

Anyway, I'm now officially a Spanish resident. I can't wait until 2013 when I get to renew my ID card. Maybe the marquee will be working by then.

Berlin

2008-03-31T13:34:00.000-07:00

A nice cab ride to the airport on Friday morning, and four hours later I was in Berlin. First stop: the hot dog stand right outside of the airport for a sausage with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, sweet relish and fried onions. Second stop: Haus Schwarzenberg. I played here alot while I was in Berlin three years ago. I even appeared in Martin Jabs's documentary about the place, Schwarzenberg. Lindy has a wonderful store there, and Lisa has a great studio space where she illustrates books. I hung out with them for awhile, waiting for Sami to arrive, and then we headed to Lindy's apartment to unload.

We met Ari at the Maribel López Gallery to see the Elín Hansdóttir exhibition, "Path". The drinks were free, but we had to stand outside in the cold, as the interactive part of the exhibition involved entering the gallery one person at a time. We were growing tired of waiting, and when someone came out and described the exhibition as "pure, white pleasure", we hightailed it to dinner.

We joined the gang at Altes Europa (Gipsstraße, 11) for some hot German food. Nothing like wild boar meatballs and potato soup with fish and horseradish to help warm a cool evening. After dinner we went to AB ProjectBerlin (Torstr. 96) to check out the Eduardo Esquivel. They did not have free beer there.

On Saturday we lunched at Thai Hoang (Kastanienallee, 38). In spite of the name, it's a Vietnamese restaurant. After two years without access to pho soup, I was more than ready. They served it with red chile peppers, instead of green ones. It was amazing! After lunch I headed to Lindy's store to pick up some trousers and a purple dress/shirt/jacket. This was to be the outfit for the concert the following day. Saturday night was spent at Krüger (Lychenerstr. 27). Tandem Schools describes the place as "A unique mix of a bike shop and connected bar. Nice people, fantastic staff, moderate prices. Warning: This place is addictive." I'd say that's about right. They serve a mean gin and tonic, and the ladies' bathroom is quite a sight. I tried to take a video of it, but it was really too dark. It looks more like a living room than a bathroom: an armchair, plants, funny posters, candles, an ashtray, magazines, and a life-size cutout of Mr. Clean. I did manage to take a picture of the weird slot machine thing standing outside the bathroom, though.

On Sunday I went to the flea market on Moritzplatz. Loads of treasured vinyl, trashy novels, houseware from the East, and singing Hare Krishnas. After that, Sami and I went to Tempelhof, the airport in the middle of town that might be torn down soon. It's a must-visit for airport lovers. One of the smallest airports in the world, it has exactly one baggage claim. The entire hall is slightly bigger than The Fillmore, and you can see the planes parked right outside of the security gate.

Then we rushed to dinner at Clärchens Ballhaus (Auguststr. 24). This famous ballroom/restaurant has been open since 1913. Every night has a different dancing theme. Sunday's was waltzing. We watched some expert 1-2-3ers while munching on huge, delicious salads and Berber duck. After that we headed to Café Zapata for the concert. I didn't think I had been there before, but once we arrived, I realised my friend Andi (who made it back into town just in time for the show!) had taken me there three years ago. It's in a wonderful squatter-type building with art galleries, cafés and jazz clubs on different floors. Out back there's a nice park with random installations and pre-'89 leftover goodies. The club was packed with loud, drunken pubcrawlers, but they clapped a lot. The people who wanted to hear had to sit in the front, though. It was a decent show, and I was invited back with the band in the Summer.

The next morning Sami and I left for the airport a little too late. We arrived just as boarding was closing. Knowing this, I stopped at the hot dog stand one more time for another one with sauerkraut and fried onions. After buying tickets for the next flight to Madrid, we took the train back into town to walk around a bit. Then back to the airport (one more with sauerkraut and fried onions), and back to Madrid.

Granada

2008-03-24T05:46:00.000-07:00

After seven straight days of mixing the new album, I took a break and headed for Granada last Wednesday to visit with Heather and Mateo. I had planned to arrive on Monday, and make us a nice St. Patrick's Day dinner with the corned beef in a can I'd bought during a recent trip to France, but work delayed my trip by two days, so the meal wasn't so timely. Someone smelled like beans on the bus ride to Granada, so I decided to make corned beef tacos. Heather met me when I arrived in town, and we bought cabbage, cheese, tortillas, beans...all the fixin's. Mateo couldn't quite wrap his head around the concept of our improvised Irish-Mexican lunch, but he didn't complain.

It was Holy Week, so during lunch, a procession passed on the street below. It was quiet one, without a band, but over the course of the next two days, we would certainly see enough of those.

That evening, Mateo took us on a wonderful beer crawl. We started off in Plaza Larga, and ended up in a flamenco bar being serenaded (and harassed) by singers. In between, we stopped off at a couple of interesting places, most notably La Fragua - a bar that lets you choose your tapas. We had some lomo (pork) with alioli, carne en salsa, and ham and tomato.

We also went to La Castañeda (one of my favorite places in Granada) for a couple of Calicasas. These are special wine cocktails they make there. I'm not sure what's in them aside from red wine, vermouth, and black pepper (somewhere, I'm sure). They're awfully tasty, though! And strong.

The next day, on our way to Ladrillo Dos, we turned a corner and were greeted with two white hoods, rushing down the street to join the rest of their group in the procession. Mateo told us that Ladrillo Dos served the best fish tapas in town, and he wasn't wrong! With every drink we ordered, the waiter brought out the most amazing plates of fried sardines, octopus, swordfish, and cod. We made it through four or five plates before we had to surrender. I'm sure we could have eaten more if we didn't have to order a drink every time we wanted a new plate.

After that we went to Abaco (Alamo Del Marques, 5) for tea. It's a trendy little place that serves about twenty different kinds of tea and some nice desserts. It's also one of the only teashops that also serves alcohol. The seating is upstairs, and from the terrace on the third level, there is a great view of the Alhambra and the cathedral. Some chillout time in the tea room, then we headed for the Arab baths at Aljibe (San Miguel Alta, 41). The hottest pools weren't very hot, but the atmosphere was nice. And the 30-minute massage wasn't too shabby, either.

After leaving Aljibe, Heather and I headed back to Mateo's place. We had plans of going to bed early so we could make it to the Alhambra before eight a.m. the next morning (that's when they give out tickets to people without reservations). The way home was blocked by a huge procession (with a band) featuring Jesus and Maria, so we decided to stop off at la Castañeda for more calicasas. We ordered some salmon, trout and ham tapas (all with avocado!), quickly ridding our body of whatever healthy feeling it had after two hours in the baths. Then we continued on our way home. Once again, we were stopped by Maria, so we tried to climb a hill and approach the house from a different street, but the Jesus part of the procession blocked that route. So we went back to Maria and slipped in with the band, slowly creeping our way home.

At home we found the 19º certamen Campeón de Campeones de la Jota Navarra on television. Jota is a particular style of Spanish singing, and this contest took place last year in Tafalla. The highlight of the show was Maria Herrera, a young singer with great promise. We stayed up so late watching the competition that our hopes of going to the Alhambra the following morning were dashed.

The next day Heather and I headed back to Madrid, but not before sampling some last-minute tapas in Granada. Two beers bought us hugh plates of seafood cocktail and more lomo with alioli. Granada is truly the place for food-lovers.

Oh, and the bus back to Madrid stopped near a senior residence called "Concepción". In the plot of land next door, two farmers were grazing their sheep.

The End. (Thanks to Heather for the pictures)

Hello

2008-03-05T17:55:00.000-08:00

1) Is there anybody out there?

2) How are you?

3) Just nod if you can hear me.

4) I love you. Won't you tell me your name?

5) Is it me you're looking for?

6) You fool! I love you!

7) I say, "Goodbye."

8) It's me.

9) All you boys and girls.

10) Mr. Jupiter.

11)St. Peter.

If you've read this far, you've found it. If you can name all...10 songs and artists, I'll mail you a free CD.

-Amelia