would i lie to you?

not about the important things, friends.

exhibit a:

http://i195.photobucket.com/albums/z55/donniebrusco/riogrande.jpg

yes, that’s my eye and earlobe in the corner.

please, no more applause.

ricky nelson, i salute you

enough of the brain problems, back to the fun.

we went back to the temple bar again the last night.  we’d gone to see casa mila (la pedrera) late in the afternoon and hadn’t accomplished much else that day.  because, as i explained to cs, that we had a problem.  we couldn’t leave our hovel because the sun was out there.  despite all this and our well-laid plans to go to bed early for our early flights, cs declared that it we had to go out that night.  it was our last night.  no fighting that logic.

we met up with the hilarious irish girl we’d seen the previous two nights and her cohorts.  she’d gathered some boys from roscommon and they asked us to join their group.  they twisted our arms by buying us a couple of pints of fat frogs and then two baby guinness shots.  i have since determined they were evil plants from the planet of teaching responsibility through reverse psychology.  just when i thought i was doomed to sink into an irish hole of drunk, maurizio showed up!  huzzah!  david was not with him.  boo!

maurizio came because he thought david might show- they have a very informal friendship and just meet up there sometimes.  he and cs bonded about italy, amongst other things, i’m sure, while i pined and wished for my imaginary boyfriend* to show.  alas, he never did.  to buoy my spirits, maurizio told cs a secret: david thought i was cute and tried to call me the previous night.  unfortunately, he only had my office number and not my blackberry.  curs-ed fates!

we all went off to find a disco and with maurizio’s guidance, found one on las ramblas, relieving us of a long cab ride to porto olympico and an 18 euro cover.  he couldn’t join us because he had serious research work to do in the morning.  we bid him a warm adieu and followed the irish upstairs.  of course there were many swirling, twirling lights on the dance floor, so cs and i hung at the bar.  it was hot.  i turn my head for one second and when i look back, cs is talking to three fine looking, but barely post adolescent, boys: jose uno, jose dos and alex.  and they were from?  tenerife.  seriously. we had to fly 2247 km (1,396 miles for those of you on the SI system) to find natives of tenerife.  it was no hoax.  they showed me their papers.

though they were all cute, and cs had her weary eyes on jose uno, we realized we didn’t want to be there.  we didn’t want another drink.  we were tired of sweating and breathing in the musty air.  we were tired period.  we decided to head home. 

on the way, we passed the slightly unhinged israeli girl we’d ditched on the way to the disco (mostly at the irish’s urging.  but they were right.  she was kind of crazy.  and very intense).  she was talking to a nigerian man selling trinkets on las ramblas.  we trudged up to our hole for the final time so i could pass out for a few hours and cs could shower in time for her flight to roma.

i left the next day and had smooth, uneventful flights home.  on a lark, i checked my email.  god is good, folks, because i had an email from the catalan waiting.  he wanted to know if i was going back to the bar that night- he’d run into maurizio who told him he’d seen us the night before and he wanted to see me (sniffle).   he wrote that he’d wanted to spend the night with me the other night and tried to follow us to the disco (sob).

unfortunately, i was now back at home, 6169 km away (hysterics).

i wrote him back and told him all this.  he said he was leaving on holiday that day, but would be on messenger at 22h on 2nd september.

sigh.  a girl has to have dreams, i guess.

so now, i’ve decided my immediate life goal is to emulate ricky nelson and have a man in every port.  this trip was a good start towards that end.

 oh, and BMW came over the day after i got home.  a girl has to eat.  more than once a month, too. 

*he’s an actual person of course, just not my boyfriend.  not yet, people, not yet. mwahaha mwahaha (curling imaginary** handlebar mustache). 

** the mustache is not real.  not since we went to el corte ingles, anyway.  zing!

homage to catalan(ia)

y’all, life was rough on saturday.  we got up around noon and decided to suck it up get some fucking french toast.  really, tortilla and cafe, but it helped sober us up.  it was time to sight see.

we wandered over to the picasso museum and surveyed its massive line and opted for the gift shop instead.  it was way too hot to stand there and since i’d already been, cs thought we should do some more wandering and head towards sagrada familia.  what i didn’t know until that moment is that ‘wandering’ means ‘buy lots of bags’ where cs lewis comes from, which is viriginia beach in case you were wondering (holla saltdogs and navy seals).  our long, scenic and scorching hot walk was broken by the comic relief of calling home to talk to cs lewis’s mother, ma weber.  she’s a lovely woman, and quite fun to party with, but she’s out of her mind.  i literally spit water all over the sidewalk listening to just cs’s half of the conversation.  which reminds me, if you have the means, hop on down to club web in vb, it’s a great experience.  book ahead, though, that place fills up.  especially when there’s a steel drum band scheduled for the weekend.

i digress.  in an unbelievable turn of events, there was no line to get into the cathedral, so we gladly pay the 8 euro to go inside.  i was pleased to see cs was as blown away as i am by this sublime monument and we took our time soaking in the beauty and divinity.  it truly is amazing.  i was also impressed by how much had been done in the ten years since i was first blessed by the sight of it.  putting it into context, it was started in 1883, so that much progress in a single decade was remarkable.  i can’t wait to attend a sunday service there one day, and have hope and faith i will have the opportunity in my lifetime.

we walked back by heading down calle mallorca towards casa mila or la pedrera, where the line equalled that of picassos museum.  knowing we had time tomorrow, we opted to come back and enjoy a stroll down la passeig de gracia. 

we hooked a left at plaza catalunya and headed back to the hostel, where my duty as the “official arbiter of cs’s spending habits on souvenirs” was put to its strongest test yet.

we relaxed, showered, and headed to bar gaudi for dinner, which is located two doors from our hostel.  knowing cs and me, going somewhere so close is shocking, absolutely shocking, but it’s true. 

the reason this is relevant is because the guy that stands outside and solicits patrons had been trying to get us to eat there for the last 36 hours.  he was pleased to lead us to a table where we enjoyed an amazing dinner, as well as the company of our waiter, tomate (i’ll explain later) who was quite taken with my face and language abilities.  i was too taken with my artichokes from the oven to notice, so his asking me out later went totally unnoticed.  i’m spastic, yes, but i blame this stupidity on these artichokes.  i was seriously picturing me in a wedding dress and las alcochofas in a tux and cummerbun.

leaving, we told the guy outside that it was great and i said “si podria casarme con las alcochofas, lo hare.”  it took me at least a half hour to put the subjunctive for that together correctly.  instead of applause at my proper tenses, he said “que bueno.  me llamo alcochofa.  do you want to be married and live here or in new york.”  he then told us he got off at two.

we smiled and wandered off for another pub crawl, which ended you’llneverguesswhere: the temple bar.  the scene of last night’s crime.  or the inception and planning of the crime, anyway.  we didn’t return in the hopes of meeting up with johhny b good’s stag do, so we weren’t disappointed to not see them there.  in short order, cs was chatting up a pack of scots and i was talking to maurizio (a venetian phd student in town to study) and david (tall, dark, handsome, catalan).  love. at. first. sight.

we were contentedly talking to our prospective prospects when the next thing i know, plan b is back and dressed like a school boy.  following closely behind was the rest of the crew in identical ensembles, replete with johnny in full harry potter costumes.  hilarious.  i didn’t see rio grande at first, which was fine, because david was a piece of pixie dust combined with a dream and i was happy as a clam where i was.  eventually, cs got folded into the stag do once again, but i resisted, excepting a brief interaction with justin timberlake junior (where was that guy last night???).  i finally noticed rio, who was squarely ignoring me (boo! bad form!).  we made eye contact later, i waved, he mouthed that he was really drunk and that was pretty much that.

after a few more hours of this, cs’s new paramour had talked her into going to port olympic and the disco baja beach with the whole do.  when they were throwing us out at last call, she was in the street yelling past the bouncer, “come on, come on, we’re going to the disco.”  i asked david if he and maurizio would come with and he said he’d love to, but we had to wait until m came back from los aseos.  i waved off cs lewis and waited.  when m came back, david disappeared.  I was like “what the? i thought you guys were coming with?”  m said yes, they would come.  i told him where we were going and to meet us there since i had to go out to cs before she popped an anuerysm.  they had my card and email, so we were insured.

 i got into one of the cabs and headed down to port olympic with the rest.  once there, i realized i’d been before and we didn’t have to pay the 18 euro cover to get in.  all we had to do was go downstairs to the beach level and grab an outside table at the disco, no cover at all.  only darren had the sense to listen to me and we scored a large table right by the doors to wait for the rest to figure it out.  eventually, herbs, jt jr, johnny, rio and plan b caught on and came to sit down.  we ordered a round, which i paid for (what the?) and still rio did not acknowledge me.  not a thanks, nothing.  i really didn’t want to be there, and was already cursing my seperation from david, so when they got up to go to the strip club down the way and asked me to join them, i begged off.  i was ready for home.  i found cs inside (still didn’t pay) and she was still chatting up the same guy.  i told her i was off and would see her later.

i got into a cab upstairs when i realized i had exactly 8 euro to my name and no idea how far i was from las ramblas, which means i had no idea how far i was going to have to trudge home.  the cabbie agreed to take me as far as the 8 would get me, which was exactly to my street, thank you jesus, st. george and the traffic-less streets of late night barcelona.

cs got home later with the guy (tim, i believe), who’d been chatting her up the whole time and planting soft, tongueless kisses on her all night.  when she asked what his hesitation was he replied “because i have a girlfriend.”  zunh.  i mean, zunh?

apparently, he kept chatting her up after that, took her home, and then asked if he could come up.  what the?  is this pretty woman?  what the fuck?

anyway, i was gutted about losing david and maurizio, but pretty annoyed by rio as well.  i didn’t go there to see him, and didn’t expect him to chat me up (though he did look disturbingly hot in his uniform) or not go home with a different girl, but some manners, please. 

luckily, david has my email.  fingers crossed.  i’ve already constructed a whirlwind trans-atlantic IM-based romance in my mind and i don’t mind telling you it’s fantastico. sigh.

a motorway for rabbits

 cs lewis and i spent much of our first three days lounging beside the resort pool or on one of the beaches.  tenerife has black sand beaches, with a finer grain than those of hawaii, and a remarkable natural beauty and varied climate, which is marred and scarred by the endless strips of english snackbars and souvenir stands.  i guess this is inevitable in tropical isles that are developed, but it is disconcerting nontheless.

desiring to see more than ads for 1 Euro happy hours and packs of english families clutching the comforts of home and dragging them the thousand miles to this beautiful spot off the coast of africa, we decided to take an island tour.  no, not the most “authentic” of experiences, but a diversion and a chance to learn about the actual island itself was a welcome change of pace.

we boarded a bus full of the usual “excursion” suspects, with a wonderful and incredibly funny guide named pieter, who hailed from holland.  i won’t give you the digital version of your grandparents strapping you down for a slide-by-slide narrative of a trip to boca raton, but i will mentions assorted factoids and anecdotes (forgive me, my sweets).

long story short: tenerife was formed by volcanic activity eons ago, the island was once populated by prisoners from north africa, was taken over by the spaniards when eight of the ten kings were captured and the remaining two suicided, became a giant banana plantation, and then the tourism began. 

we got to see the dragon trees, los gigantes (or, as i like to call them: the cliffs of insanity!), the oldest town on the island (ovataro), puerto de la cruz and the black madonna of las candalarias.

we had brits, germans, russians and a nice wee french madamioselle on the bus and pieter impressed and shamed us by speaking all fluently and with flawless accents.  i think that cs and i were the only ones to get his humor, or maybe it only worked in english, but this dude was hilarious.  cs and i were hysterical at nearly everything he said, not to mention our own ridiculous jokes (alright!) so we giggled the day away.  i’m pretty sure that pieter thought we were high and/or drunk, but it was like that the whole trip.  i must send a quick shout out to maya rudolph’s whitney houston impression for a good fifty percent of the laughs.  or cs’s version of it.  either way, it was amazing. 

eh, i just decided not to go into the whole day.  i’m sure everyone’s grateful.  i need to fully recover my senses in order to report on barcelona, alcochofa y tomate, rio grande and the catalan boy que deseé poner en mi bolsillo….

the canary islands contain neither canaries nor spaniards. discuss.

it´s true.  to be honest, i have seen three or four spaniards.  no canaries and no seagulls, though, not a one.

we left girona for england del sur yesterday at four in the morning on the most uncomfortable flight ever (damn your low prices, ryan air!!).  the seats don´t recline and they don´t stop selling you things.  loudly.

anyway, here we are.  it´s british after british after scottish after british.  the only spaniard i´ve talked to was the cleaning lady.  i´m so grateful to cs lewis and her nanny for treating me with the free place, but i think we learned a valuable lesson here, which is: if you want to go to spain, don´t go anywhere in the southern third. 

 we went for a great spanish dinner last night, which sadly, shocked me. 

then we went for a walk and on to legends scottish bar where we enjoyed karaoke and ¨cabaret¨by an elton john/tom jones impersonator.  basically, it was all out of that scene in the first office christmas special when david brent goes to the bar in sussex or whatever and plays the dating game dressed as austin powers.  once again, i got down on my knees and thanked god that he made me so easily amused.

 we´ve decided to find an irish bar tonight, even if it means taking a cab.  if we´re going to be surrounded by pasty english speakers, we prefer to be amongst those that have always shown us the most kindness (read: are most likely to make out with us.  i keed.  i keed.)

actually, we´re hoping to find a pub.  all these british joints have too much of a propensity for ¨¨talent¨¨, hosts, karaoke, schtick.  we´d just like to drink with some fun people with bad house music in the background.

 fingers crossed, people, fingers crossed.

regifting as guerilla warfare

So, I get a package from my stepmonster the other day, ostensibly for Christmas.  Of course this set me off on a expletive filled rant and presented me with a moral dilemma: To open or not to open.

Exposition:  My family is that in name only, with notable exceptions- my sister Laura, my Aunt Teresa, my Uncle Bob.  Let me qualify that by writing my remaining, living family.  Having relationships with that family is seriously unhealthy, so I broke off all contact over a year and a half ago and it was the smartest move I’ve made in a long time.   Present day: I haven’t really heard from them, save occasional forwards from my stepmonster.  I tried telling hotmail that her missives are most definitely junk mail, but alas, they keep putting them in my inbox.  Damn you, Microsoft! 

So, now, I get this box.  Do I send it back, or do I open it?  If I resolve to open it, what do I do with the contents?  Do I need to feel guilty?  Send a thank you note?  Last night, while out with some friends, I took a straw poll and nearly unanimous consensus was that I should:

1) Not return the box

2) Open it and see what’s inside

3) Donate whatever was sent

4) Send no acknowledgment

Trusting my friends to be the smart and morally upstanding citizens that they are, I took their advice. When my roommate and I returned home, drunk and content, we opened the box.  She read the card (I refused based on the knowledge that it would just piss me off, whatever it read). 

The contents:

- One plush Cat in the Hat*

- One plush generic dog

- One bookmark branded Chronicles of Narnia

- One book A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote (with a CD!)

- One 2007 calendar of vintage posters

- And, the piece de resistance, a quilted, yellow, floral toiletries case. 

I know! Every one of them screams my name.  They’re just so me.  Now, Sylvia has a penchant for buying gifts for myself and Laura that bear absolutely no semblance to the world we live in or the people that we are.  Like once Laura got a papier mache tissuebox cover.  seriously.  and I got a giants tee shirt “[i] could wear to the games” that was a men’s triple extra large.  Now, I’m a bit chubby, but let’s not get hysterical.But these, these are clearly all regifts.  There’s no theme, no cohesion, not even a passive aggressive purpose.  Not in the gifts themselves, anyway.  I think the package was meant to manipulate me via guilt.  It’s her best weapon and it worked for a long time.

Now, I have no problem with re-gifting, in theory.  If you receive a well-intentioned gift that is perfect for someone you know, but not really your cup of tea, it is perfectly fine to rewrap it and give it someone who would get some joy or use out of it; it really is the thought that counts.  Anyway, since it’s obviously such a lame attempt to provoke me, I needn’t give it another thought and wouldn’t have had to had I just opened it in the first place.  It’s completely meaningless.  Another Christmas mystery solved.  I’ll give the gifts to charity and everyone wins.  But I’m keeping the calendar.  I mean, I need one, and it’s actually not hideous. 

That is all netizens.  Zombie films are clamoring for my attention.  ‘Tis the season and all that…. d

* OK, I do love Dr. Seuss.  But I don’t like plush.  Not since I was eight.  I still read the books, though.  Shut up.  They’re really good.