Talking Sandwiches--A Day in the Life: Hollywood

So I was in kind of a hurry the last couple of times I wrote, and I fear I may have left out some of the juicy stuff.

I’m in Hollywood right now, hanging out with my Bro and trying not to tie up his phone line too much. See, I’m trying my hand at the job market here in L.A., but it seems there’s no such thing as classifieds in the newspapers these days. So I’m doing a lot of looking online, and he’s raised eyebrows at me more than once today alone. Sorry, Bro.

But anyway, I think I have to backtrack a little to Pamplona and the bulls and all that. The thing is that I didn’t actually see any running of any bulls, which is probably a good part of the reason that the experience was such a pleasant one. I think that if I had witnessed anybody getting mangled I probably wouldn’t feel so happy about the whole thing.

But I was there for the opening festivities, and, like I said, the Aussies made it an incredibly exciting experience. I don’t know what it is about those people. It’s as though being an adventurer comes along with Australian citizenship or something. All the Aussies I met abroad were traveling for 6 months or more (some with surfboards under their arms). When I told them that I would be gone for roughly 5 weeks, most of them asked me questions along the lines of, “Why even bother?” They’ve explained to me that Australia is such an isolated country, and it’s so expensive to leave, that they’re gone for long periods of time in order to make it worth the trip.

So I already told about the smelly bus ride (as in, I was smelly because of the caked on eggs and various beverages), and I already told that I visited beaucoup monuments during my stay in Paris, which was brief but pleasant. I could tell you about my stay with my old pal Renee in the Hamptons, but that was just soooooo mellow that I fear I could lull anybody into a pleasant, dreamy siesta just by talking about it.

I’ll just say that Renee’s house is The Cutest and she was The Most Gracious and Entertaining Hostess and the other friends she had staying (a friend of hers from kindergarten and two Swedes) with her for the weekend provided excellent conversation and the whole thing was wonderfully refreshing. Wonderfully relaxing after the whirlwind travels. That is despite the fact that her septic tank burst (or something like that—I’m pretty ignorant about plumbing) while I was there and she spent about 7 hours dealing with getting it pumped by an Emergency Septic Tank Pumping Company. I actually welcomed the waiting-at-home-for-the-guy-to-come-and-do-his-thing thing. That was part of what made the stay so relaxing.

So that leaves me with Hollywood. Oh, but first lemme just advise all readers to avoid Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris like the plague. I arrived 3 ½ hours early and STILL I was running to catch my plane. Nightmare. Part of the thing was that the security inspectors were moving sooooo sloooooowly. I kept getting frustrated while I was watching them from the line because it seemed that they were just chit-chatting with all the passengers; it was like they were flirting or something because they had these smirks on their faces and all the passengers were smiling all goofily while they talked. ‘What IS this?,’ I thought. But when I got to my guy, I realized the people were smiling and laughing because the inspectors’ accents were so strong (accentuated by the fact that they were speaking through smirks for whatever reason) that it was nearly impossible to decipher what they were asking. Example:

Inspector: What do you do to leave?
Me: What?
Inspector: What do you do for to leave?

(I’m thinking well, I packed my bag and checked out of my hostel and then took the Metro to the RER train to the airport shuttle and now I’m here. But I know that’s not what he means. I just can’t figure out what he DOES mean. I answer just to answer something…)

Me: Well, I packed my bag and checked out of my hostel and then took the Metro…
Inspector: To leave!!! What do you do for to leave???!!!!!
Me: Oh, you mean what do I do for a living?
Inspector: Yes, for to leave.
Me: I’m a student. (I lie to make it less complicated)
Inspector: And who pack your bag?

And on and on. But the funny thing was that, at first, the way he asked questions was so unassuming that it almost seemed as though he was just making pleasant conversation, and that he was really interested in my trip, which is the other reason I think all the passengers were smiling. Because he said, “Where did you go on your holiday?” and I thought he was just passing time while he did the official business of checking my passport. So I said, “Well, I was in Italy and then I went down to Malta, oh and then I was in Barcelona and Pamplona and then I came up here to Paris.’ I was about to pull out my pictures and tell him the story of Sea Malta when he started in with the “What do you do for to leave?” business. The whole thing was just kind of goofy but cute somehow.

Not cute enough to overshadow the rest of the de Gaulle nightmare, though, so be warned.

And Hollywood.

It’s only my first day, but I’m just returning to old stomping grounds anyway, so I feel at home. Except that I think there’s a limit to how much one can feel at home in Hollywood. There is definitely an anonymity about the place. And yes, everyone here is trying to make it. And yes, the smog is yucky poo poo. And yes it’s dirty and somehow sad. But something has me drawn here, so we’ll see what happens.

The best thing that happened to me today was that a human sandwich spoke to me. There was this sign twirler dressed like a big sandwich standing on the street corner outside of Subway. When I walked by, he spoke. It seemed to me that that sort of thing shouldn’t be allowed—like talking sandwiches are scarier than they could ever be effective promotional agents, but that’s just me:

Sandwich: Helloooooooo.
Me: laughter
Sandwich: I know why you’re laughing.
Me: A talking sandwich is pretty funny.
Sandwich: Do you want something to drink?

Silliness. I had just had something to drink, so I walked away without answering, but now I’m curious. I mean, did the sandwich have beverages tucked between his folds of lettuce? Was he giving away free drink coupons with subway sandwich purchases?

Maybe I’ll go by tomorrow to kill to boredom that will inevitably come while I wait for responses to my employment queries.

Bottom lines are that I’m back on American soil and safe and mostly happy save for the sad that has come with the end of my fantastic voyage. I’m currently looking into jobs with travel opportunities. The travel bug dies hard like Malta mosquitoes, it seems.

Love to you all.

French for Peep Show

Well, forget the cello. The cello was cool, but the Running of the Bulls was *****SUPER COOL*****

I mean really super duper amazing...the biggest party and the best time of my life.

I can't write many details right now because

1) I'm in Paris and have slightly more interesting things to do (I just had to get online to book a hostel in New York) and

2) As the parenthetical comments in #1 imply, I'll be home soon enough anyway and can talk about it in-person.

That's right...I'll be back as of Sunday, just 5 short weeks later.

Yes, this is a big time bummer. But I don't have any money left, and the bills and students loans I have back home are looming menacingly overhead. I figure it would be a bit nicer to go traveling again when I can get those things under control and not be worrying about it.

But Pamplona...let me just say a bit about this. It was inSANE!!!! Sooooo many people. Sooooo much fun. Has anybody seen photos of the big square where they kick off the festival every year? You know, the sea-of-red-handkerchiefs-and-near-rabid-with-enthusiasm-Spaniards? Well, I happened upon that square quite by accident and found myself in the heart of the madness. And it was a very invigorating sort of madness. And of course there were the people jumping off that monument (mostly tourists, mostly Aussie tourists at that--the Aussies are ridiculously crazy and great!) and the Sangria a-flowin' and sleeping by the bank of a little river for a half hour total in two nights and the 14 hour busride from Barcelona to Paris afterward (three days, yes three days without a shower covered in the champagne and sangria and beer and eggs that landed on me during the celebrations).

Paris has been quite calm, relatively.

I'm staying in a cute little hostel in the Montmartre area of the city.

Montmartre is French for "peep show."

Just kidding, but there are a TON of peepshows around, though the area is nice otherwise. I saw about 600 monuments yesterday and am about to head out for Round 2 today. Paris is beautiful and ugly at the same time. Kind of like every major city...it's got its attractions mixed with the comfortable littering tendencies of the locals. I can't think of a place I'd rather be at this moment...except maybe Pamplona :)

I leave tomorrow and will be in New York until Sunday, then back to L.A.

:(

Barcelona & the Best Night Ever

Okay, I just had to make one amendment to my last entry...

It wasn´t the peeling out that finally put things in Malta over the top.

It was the Mormons.

Mormons on Malta!!!!!



But Barcelona, My Oh My!

I arrived yesterday and have decided it is the most beautiful city I´ve ever seen.

Yesterday I saw a Dali exhibit, which gave me a little peek into the brain of certainly one of the most imaginative and eccentric figures of the 20th Century. You know, he had a real knack for depicting avant garde uses for human genitals in drawings. Just kidding. I mean, he did, but the exhibit was much more than that.

Today I went to a garden designed by Gaudi, the famous architect. Another imaginative fellow. There were a house and a few structures in the park that felt like something out of Smurf Village. Well anyway it was dreamy and wonderful.

But last night, I experienced the best moment of my trip thus far.

I was walking through this little alleyway that passes by a really big, really amazing church, and there was a small opening where a solo cellist was playing (with a portable CD player nearby, playing a single piano as accomaniment). The night was perfect (cool and a little cloudy), and the music floated out from the cello, danced mournfully through the air, and approached me with a vivid sort of incredible sort of wondrous sort of hesitance that was haunting and inviting at the same time.

I decided to sit down for a while.

And my reward for staying came in the form of ¨Ave Maria,¨about six songs later. That song gets me EVERY SINGLE time, but most especially last night, alone in a little alleyway on a perfect night in Barcelona, Spain. I decided that that moment alone--even if it would have been the *only* memorable moment during the entire trip--was worth the journey.

There are truly amazing street performers here. Street performing seems less of a way for people to subsist than a venue for really talented people to showcase that talent and make a decent living. The charcoal and pencil portraits the artists do here, in an hour´s time, represent the kind of work they would be paid REALLY GOOD money to produce in the States. And I´ve heard all kinds of brilliant musicians playing all kinds of instruments. It´s difficult to retain the will to continue walking most of the time with all the entertainment to be experienced on the way.

And guess where I´ll be heading the day after tomorrow!!

Guess!!

Guess, I said!!!!

Well, I won´t give it all away (since it seems you reFUSE to guess), but I´ll just say that it has a little something to do with trampling, a little something to do with red, and a lot to do with ludicrous, idiot tourists looking for an adrenaline rush.

I´ve yet to decide if I´ll be running :)

The Most Valiant of Knights in a Sea of Slime

Godforsaken Island!!!


Yes, yes, the island fever has set in.

I think what finally broke me was the shudders that run up and down my spine each time I hear the sound of a car peeling out. And this is a sound I hear quite often here, at least 10 times/day. Where are they all going? I mean, what's the big hurry?! I think the sound of a car peeling out is my least favorite sound in the whole world.

I'm oh so happy to be leaving for Spain (Barcelona) tomorrow.

But my last few days here have been really, really wonderful and full of the kind of solitude I had hoped to find when I left for Europe without a travel plan. The exception to my solitude came in the form of Nick (whom I hadn't seen much at all during my time here) and a German fellow by the name of Martin who was staying in Nick's guesthouse.

On Nick's last night here, the three of us went to a little bar and then headed down to Paceville (Fuego, specifically)because Martin had been there on Friday and learned that they play real Salsa and Merengue from 3-5 in the morning or so. Well, that didn't exactly turn out to be true on a Monday night, but the three of us were having a good time, Nick dancing sprightly with the goofy, slightly opened-mouth smile he wears when he's very drunk. At something like 4 o'clock in the morning, it began to seem to me that the entire dancefloor was covered with men--horny, eager, squinty-eyed men who seemed not to have seen a female in years of something like solitary confinement. So, lucky for me, Nick and Martin were hovering nearby and were quick to intercede when they sensed I was uncomfortable. At one point they nearly fought with a man who decided that 15 seconds was enough time spent dancing with a woman before it was okay to grab her ass. They were the most valiant of knights in a sea of slime.

After Fuego we decided to take a sunrise skinny dip (my first ever) in the Mediterranean. Wonderful. Martin laughed (well not really, though I sensed he was laughing internally) at me in my prudish Americaness (demonstrated by my unwillingness to remove clothing until actually in the water), but for goodness sakes, the sun was already up, and people were walking their dogs on the nearby strand. Plus, Malta is a pretty conservative, and I'm pretty sure we were breaking the law, so best to be subtle about it, no?

Today I learned that Saad (from the guesthouse) was detained for an hour and a half by the police yesterday because "he resembled a man who was wanted for stabbing a Maltese woman last week." See, if you talk to the Maltese, they will tell you that the only problems with crime here come from the Arab population. And to the Maltese, all Arabs are the same. The Arab population here suffers a kind of racism that I think could be rivaled by the United States maybe 60 years ago or so. Terrible. Saad said he eventually saw a photo of the wanted man in question, and that the only resemblance the two of them bore was their shared black hair and dark eyes. Again, terrible. But at least they didn't beat him like he said they were beating some of the other men (all Arab, of course) being held while he was there. More of the terrible.

I'll be heading to the beach one last time this afternoon. There is an oh-so-groovy little cabana near the local rock beach, where the owner (a curly-haired old hippy with eyes that travel in two different directions) plays music just wonderful to frolic in the water and bathe in the sun to...Bob Marley, Pink Floyd, Radiohead, Grateful Dead, U2. Yesterday, I felt spontaneous tears spring forth upon hearing Marley's live version of "No Woman, No Cry." That song ALWAYS gets me, but I don't think it ever made me cry before. Where would we be on this earth without the comfort, the joy, the inspiration, and the sometimes heart-wrenching effects of music?

I'm waxing a little dreamy right now. I'm having one of those moments where I just feel incredibly fortunate to be alive.

And I'm really looking forward to Spain; I feel her reaching her fingers invitingly in my direction.