transmission spain: baqueira
7:26 a.m.above the clouds looks a lot different than 7:26 a.m. below the clouds.
Yep, two six hour flights with an entire row to myself, a jet-lagged whirlwind afternoon in Barcelona where we walked up and down La Rambla—the main shopping thoroughfare filled with street artists and pickpockets, and here I am up in Baqueira, a tiny town in the Pyrenees near the Spain/France border.
La Rambla.
Sagrada Familia by Gaudi—as seen from the "nightmare" side.
Zac and Pierre at the Aero Puerto.
Please appreciate the glory of this guy's "German tourist" outfit: socks with sandals, pants under shorts, a vest for camera and cigarettes.Nearly perfect.
Anyway, we drove about five hours Northwest from the city to our mountain destination on Sunday, and when I wasn’t desperately trying to stay awake like that old cartoon with the bulldog who uses toothpicks to keep his eyes open, I was taking in the dusty countryside out the window—all rolling fields, old brick barns, and orchards laid barren for the winter.
The moon rose at dusk, and in the darkness we wound our way up a steep canyon with sheer cliffs falling away to the right. How far down it was to the water was only revealed when, every now and then, a metallic moonlit river popped out of the blackness hundreds of feet below.
Zac, spinning 900 degrees over a view of the highest mountain in the Pyrenees.
Eric, bottoms up with his first glass of caña, or "tap beer."
Anyway, Spain so far? Just fine. It’s easy-style over here. People sleep till 10, and no restaurants serve dinner before 8 p.m. Plus, every meal is a three hour affair. Good livin’ if you ask me.
of spain and bulls
Off to Spain for two weeks tomorrow morning…can’t wait. Above is an Osborne bull or "toro de osborn"—a 14-meter-high silhouetted image of a bull and the unofficial national symbol of Spain. In honor of my trip and of the legacy of the Spanish bull forced to die like a beast in a ring, I leave you with this Bukowski poem.
side of the sun the bulls are grand as the side of the sun and although they kill them for the stale crowds, it is the bull that burns the fire, and although there are cowardly bulls as there are cowardly matadors and cowardly men, generally the bull stands pure and dies pure untouched by symbols or cliques or false loves, and when they drag him out nothing has died something has passed and the eventual stench is the world.
thawing out
It was spring today, did you feel it? Not just sunshine, but real warmth. A breeze instead of a wind, and on the air, something almost fresh. Something thawing out, something stirring—I'm not sure what. Time for adventure I think. Oh, looking for something to listen to? Play this: John Phillips, "Someone's Sleeping." It was made for warm livable evenings like this.
Leaving Las Vegas
For the most part the city of Las Vegas is irrelevant to my life, that is except once a year when I come here for the SIA tradeshow. It’s fine, I don’t really mind it. But after 47 or 48 hours the ready button pops and it’s time to get the fuck out.
So ... about this year’s trip? Reconnected with my little Transworld family—Nick, Annie, Muzzey, et cetera—and went with the flow. About eight cab rides a day. Lots of old friends, lots of “what have you been up to”s? A three hour sushi dinner. Wandering though an empty shopping mall in Ceasar’s Palace at 2 a.m. enthralled by the Roman sculpture and ceiling murals. An award’s show. Coffee three times daily. Sore feet. Not enough fresh air.
Nick and Ben, two hours into the three hour meal.
Anyway, saw Draplin, saw Schiff, saw Bridges, saw Kelly, saw George, saw Mikey, saw Tina, saw Jessica and Brian, saw Bobby, saw Carboy, saw Huffman, saw Cartwright, saw Cody and Kim, and so on and so forth. But finally, when you’ve been socializing non-stop for two days straight under greasy, florescent lights with about zero alone time and also consuming more than average amounts of booze and less than average amounts of water and vegetables, you sit down for a second on the bed to rest and suddenly you don’t like anything anymore, everything seems dull and dirty and chore-like. And that’s when it’s time to go.
Huffman and Catwright—on to the next dance party.