carnaval de cádiz or how to smell like piss without trying

This Saturday, I made my first trip outside the increasingly familiar granadino grounds to the west coast of Spain: Cadiz. Every year, they have a carnival there (no bearded women or funnel cakes, unfortunately) wherein people dress up and set the night on fire with copious of amounts of alcohol, and from the smell of it, other mind altering substances. Though really, I had a hard time discerning the difference between the Carnaval and a typical weekend for the average Spaniard, just a little more pantyhose and lipstick.

A little background on Cadiz and the Carnaval before I continue: Cadiz is the oldest city in Spain, and possibly the oldest in southern Europe. Its carnival is the second largest in the country, as well. It is also a four and a half hour bus ride away from Granada, which meant (for me), that its reputation better be worth the potential blood clots I could receive while packed into a plush corner like a wad of tobacco in a baseball player's mouth.

For my costume, I was really unsure what I wanted to do until nearly the last minute. I couldn't find anything at the chinos (Chinese stores that are almost always open and almost always have things you don't need) that didn't make me look like packaging for the latest cavity-causer at the grocery store. Ultimately, I decided to be Madonna circa 1980s again, as for better or for worse, I only had to buy lace gloves and beads. I used the remainder of the arm-length gloves I cut to make my bow, and donned red lipstick and black nail polish as I tried to channel "Like a Virgin" to look Like a Bad Ass, but I don't know if it worked. Here's a closeup:

Upon arriving, we had approximately three hours before it was considered appropos to begin consumption of alcohol, though I, the hopelessly responsible individual, decided I didn't want to drink very much as the risk of being separated from the group was high, and given the nature of the others and the size of an unfamiliar city, I knew that if I did get separated sober I would most likely crumple and cry; I couldn't fathom how I would respond if slightly inebriated. (It should be mentioned that the student group who went seemed to promote the opposite, as there were raffles for handles of rum and vodka the entire way. I would have been happy with a t-shirt or visor.) That changed within half an hour. Drunker than my uncle Ted who likes to wear womens clothing and gyrate to Rod Stewart at family reunions. So, we walked around for a bit and took in the city, put our feet in the Atlantic Ocean, and took pictures of some of the more eccentric costumes. For Spaniards, though, the word eccentric typically connotes excessive display of supersized genitalia on mammals. I wasn't able to capture this in time, but a father was walking around with a missile-sized penis on a cart as he was dressed himself like a gorilla and was holding his little daughter's hand.

At any rate, it was beginning to get darker out and my legs, guarded only by the roping of fishnet tights were beginning to look glow-in-the dark and had goosebumps so numerous it appeared the holy bible was written in Braille on my calves. For that reason, and perhaps to the annoyance of some, I chose to linger a bit too long in front of the cheese section of the heated grocery store while contemplating my cheap dinner. We decided to eat before the festivities really began, and took our baguettes and other foodstuffs to the street. I felt incredibly urban. Which made me feel really cool. But then I remembered I was on my period still, so not that cool.

We finished the modest meals and then headed close to the Cathedral, where there was live music being performed by dwarves and copious amounts of drinking and bottle spilling. Don't try and tell me that the Spanish are still highly Catholic. Although, depending on your stance on alcoholism and obsession with little boys, maybe they are. I digress. I felt a little bit overwhelmed given the size and nature of the crowd (cue memories of first day of big middle school where the hallways seemed to be rife with predators of the Serengheti, and I was a helpless wildebeest with a gimp leg), but I tried to shrug it off and laugh. Danced a little bit, drank a little bit of my pre-packed beer, and talked some with other Spaniards. More and more people crammed into the plaza, and I could hear more and more bottles breaking. I think that this really is an event where, if you are sober and/or bleeding from a southern orifice (like I was), you should do your best to not come. I know I can be equally obnoxious when drinking, but I swear to god, after the third German in a row sprayed me with spittle while they attempted to speak English to me, I wanted to call it a day. It seemed like every other minute I was being poked and prodded with various trident accessories and beer fireworks landed conveniently on my face. I didn't know I had signed up to be in the Splash Zone of Sea World. Ugh. Meanwhile, my company was growing more and more downy cheeked and exaggerated in their movements, and soon I was swallowed by a group of birdish black and white Natalie Portmans. And you guessed it, separated from the group.

Interior walls began crumbling and adrenaline began pounding, and I began punching wildly at my phone. The others had already begun calling me, but given the noise of the crowd, it was impossible to hear them when they told me where they were and asked where I was. Finally, I found a familiar face (though not someone from the group, and surprisingly enough it was the German named Nicolai who didn't spit as he spoke), and he dealt with my trembling self and helped me wind around the streets to find the others. And then they were there, sitting and expressing regret as they had been pushed into a corner by a stampede of Bart Simpsons. I quickly forgave them, but only after they pitched in to buy me chicken shawarma.

As I tore into the food as if I were a lion and it were a wildebeest (how quickly the tables do turn), there were several drunks who stopped and stared at me and wouldn't budge. Increasingly aware of my own bleeding and cold state, I stopped chewing and stared at them hard (only my friends know this scowl, they call it the Medusa) until they left. Granted, if one of them resembled my Javier I would have been more kind, but as it is becoming more and more obvious, I tend to attract Javier's cousin, slightly inbred with a dash of Asperger's syndrome.

After most of the others sobered up and began to realize we STILL had three hours before we could board the bus, they also began to realize how effing cold it was outside. Proceeded to cram ourselves into a salsa bar for warmth, and that was where I began to talk with a group of middleaged gays. We got on quite well after they immediately congratulated me on my stellar Madonna costume, though particularly bonded after discussing Barack Obama's attractiveness at some length. I felt a bit pretentious at the time, but I noticed one of them was dressed as a person who runs with bulls (red bandana, white everything else), and so I asked them if they had read "The Sun Also Rises." Of course, they told me. Hemingway is an institution in Spain. So we talked books for a bit and they taught me a few steps in salsa (something I desperately need to practice as I still resemble the Tin Man when making movements), but they were all incredibly nice and a much preferred way to spend my remaining hours at Cadiz.

Quickly, 4:00 a.m. approached and it was time to return to Granada. The busride home was a potpourri of smells and sights, as several times we had to stop for puke breaks. I felt as if I had bathed in a sewer and dried myself using a soiled piece of toilet paper, though my only comfort was that a) I had made it on the bus and would soon return to my immaculate bedroom and b) I was not Charlie Sheen. Exhausted after spending a third of a day on a bus and the rest in a whirlwind of alcohol and latex, I soon crashed onto my bed and dreamed of better times.

Here are some of the photos I took:

    

nights and days

Saturday


After a brief 16 hour nap, I decided to greet Granada with my roommate. We wandered through the Albayzin, where she purchased me a cup of Egyptian tea, she herself ordering fresh squeezed orange juice. From Valencia. Though, despite how fragrant they were, she made sure to do a quick inspection for maggots, as the last time she ordered fresh squeezed anything it came with fresh squeezed maggot bits. I had a bit of an internal discourse with myself for a moment, wondering if maggots in oranges make them more organic, and therefore more fresh, or vice versa. At any rate, the only thing floating in my tea was a bit of mint that had managed to pass the strainer.

Onward. Her name is Loren, and she is part Brit, part Basque. She is an atheist, enjoys street music from the UK, and smokes quite a bit but is, strangely enough, in favor of smoking bans. When Bellarmine's smoking ban took place I was surprised not to see the scornful eyes of smokers turn red and emit blood like those of angry horned toads. But I digress. It was pleasant to see a person who has a vice and recognizes that they are not things that should be catered to. Though I must admit, it is kind of comforting coming home and vaguely smelling tobacco from behind her door (don't worry, mom, she's opened a window).

Later that night, after I reciprocated her purchase of an eccentric and exotic treat with frozen carbohydrates and cheese, we went to several bars together. We left at around 11:30, which, in the few weeks leading up to my own departure, was around the time I'd be REMing and dreaming most likely of Benjamin Bratt. I have to admit, with some of the prices, they are almost goading you on to become an alcoholic. Certain places like La Chupiteria (in English this equates to The Sucking Place, but doesn't it sound so much more pretty in Spanish? You could say some of the most vile things to someone in Spanish and they would still smile at it...maybe that's why I enjoy it so) charge only 1 euro per shot, and there is a list of over 100 shots ranging in strength from which you should try. And with each shot you purchase, you receive a coupon. If you save enough of these coupons, you're eligible for prizes like graphic shirts and sun visors. And cirrhosis. I had some blue concoction that turned slightly green when the alcohol was added. I don't know what it was. It was just number 43, and I like that number. At any rate, we soon left that bar as it tends to be armed with Jersey Shore extras at all times, and went to a few others. One was called Playmovil and it was Lego-themed. I found it ironic that so many macho men went to a place like this, puffing their biceps and downing beers, while under the flashing lights of tiny plastic toys. The last place was just a hop across the street, and was also where I had the pleasure of telling a Moroccan man that just because his Moroccan girlfriend wasn't physically at the bar did not mean that he wasn't physically bound to her. But maybe that just makes me a prude and no fun. Either way, he must have had halitosis. Moroccan maiden can have him and his litterbox for a mouth.

Sunday


This day was a rather uneventful one. Thanks, god.

Monday


That day, I trekked around the city some more, taking in the sights and sounds, and making the path from apartment to international building to school a certain amount of times so that I can soon start charging others for rides on my back. It's all pretty close together. I wandered to the Albayzin, to the Gran Via and then finally to the Federico Garcia Lorca Park, where I read some pretentious literature for a bit until I decided I would rather eat yet another pizza than another short story by Nabokov. The pizza was a great choice. Later that evening, I pondered over going or not going to the free salsa lessons at a nearby pub as if I were contemplating the just war theory. Regardless, I found a safe middle ground and decided that if I did not leave the apartment that could be far more dangerous than actually leaving. Walls get small really quickly, sometimes. And so I left, tights getting wet in mud and construction grime, arriving at the 10 pm session. The later, cooler one. Or so I told myself.

I quickly made an ass out of myself by saying that I had never heard of the Czech Republic to a Czech girl (when the truth was that the music was too loud...I thought she said she was from Checker's, in which case I was about to talk about how much I enjoy their seasoned french fries). I'm sure she thought I was stupid, but so be it. Another girl named Isabel approached me (I think I have inherited the comforting, smiley face like my mother). We didn't have much in common and she blushed every time she spoke, almost as if it were some kind of rosy morse code. But I wasn't cruel. We're all in the same boat, anyway. Turns out she's studying at the same faculty as me. It also turns out she's studied in Russia before and has spent an extensive amount of time at the Peterhoff Palace and St. Basil's Cathedral. It also turns out I burned her turquoise blouse to a crisp when I breathed fire from my incredulity. I've got Anastasia on DVD, so it's more or less the same, anyway.

Soon after, I mosied over to the dance area. Quickly began to stab my feet into the ground as if I were fighting a rogue army of fire ants, and apparently was so entertaining that a group of Colombians came over and tried to teach me how to properly salsa. While I never acquired that ability, despite their constant reassurance that I was doing well, I did come out of it with cocaine and coffee. Kidding (mom!). They all seemed rather nice, and we actually had a lot in common. Their names are Nicolas (good teeth, knows how to rumba), Miguel (he's petite and has dreadlocks), and Juan (or as he calls himself, Gordo) and are all studying Fine Arts. They hate Shakira and don't think that the two most popular Gabriel Garcia Marquez books are his best. Go figure. I much prefer Kelly Clarkson's underground EP, too. Regardless, they seemed very friendly and vastly more interesting than some of the other people there (re: bros wearing sweatpants and double-collard shirts, fist pumping to anything with a semblance of a beat). They're all bilingual with the exeption of Gordo, so the pact (we will see if I ever see them again, though I think numbers were exchanged) is for me to help them with their English and for them to help me with my Spanish, as it turns out Colombian Spanish is one of the cleanest dialects of them all.

That's all for now.

flight notes

it occurred to me after waking from a completely unfulfilling "nap" (it consisted of me forming a 'z' knocked helplessly on its side between two seats, head perched on a mini-pillow ((also mini is its comfort, though i will most likely steal it anyway)) when the flight attendant's voice told me that the Captain Has Turned On The Fasten Seatbelt Button (heart plummeted accordingly, much like the plane did in my mind) that i wasn't afraid anymore. shit will happen, sure, but at the moment, i much prefer looking at the stars than the abyss that grates its watery teeth below me.

they're both the same hue, yet thanks to estrogen or optimism (i can't say which at the moment), i am attracted to bright and shiny things. though come to think of it, that could make me more like a barracuda, in which case neither estrogen nor optimism apply.

from where did this optimism/estrogen/scaliness come? i would have to say that it was while on the plane, reading a recent e-book purchase of la luna azul, of barnes and noble español acclaim. it's cheesy and a mystery (what a surprise!), but most importantly, i can understand almost every single word. lots of times i consider my doubts to be similar to saddlebags: somewhat unavoidable yet treatable, though potentially devastating to the meek or shallow individual. when i realized that i understood nearly every phrase and preposition of the book, and realized that arguably the most difficult part of my journey (transplanting my sorry ass across an oceans sans shark bites or chafing) was already well underway, i decided then and there that the rest will fall into place accordingly. i say this now, though if my baggage is lost i will weep as if i've just lost a child.

at any rate, today's agenda consists of arriving, clearing customs, retrieving my bags and making my way to the iberia terminal. which i, thanks to copious amounts of cyber sleuthing and e-mail hounding, know is terminal 4 and that there is a shuttle that runs every five minutes. then, i arrive in granada, amble about with slitty eyes and dehydrated skin, hail a taxi, and see what kind of mess i have gotten myself into. hopefully the apartment will be clean; if not, the pilfered pillow may be of substantial service. hopefully the roommates are nice, too. i've had bad experiences with those and college housing. two cutters and a girl who wanted to move to new zealand with her shoeless boyfriend to sell tea bags. in each case, gag. i suppose that so long as they practice good hygiene and do not speak to me in the morning (as it takes a few hours for the icy sludge that is my morning demeanor to melt away), everything should be, for all intense and porpoises, fine. (though i must say i am sufficiently disappointed with my arrival pastry. it was thrust at my face with cold indifference from a male flight attendant named jamie, and was about as hard as a prehistoric triceratops turd, most likely with a flavor to match. well, bienvenidos to you too, jamie.)

so yes, today's doubts are slipping away slowly with each mile i travel, though doubtless i know they will soon return. in the meantime, though, i'm enjoying my suddenly lighter, more youthful mind and figure.

pre-trip scribble

I write this with approximately two and a half weeks until my departure. Sitting to my left I have a to-do list with bullets so seemingly ceaseless that I wonder if I am on my way to transcribing Moby Dick from the written word into Braille. We will have to see. That would be an awfully tedious task, however equally as tedious (albeit necessary) is the act of crossing out the aforementioned "to-do's."

The list consists primarily of rather mundane tasks, such as making photocopies of potentially important documents, purchasing and assembling a binder to house said documents, packing precisely 4-6 cardigans in my luggage like a savvy traveler (as opposed to the overly cautious traveler's 5-7!!), and other trivial things that I will bore neither you nor myself with mentioning. There's already Tylenol PM for that. Or a Larry King special. Thank god he's not on air anymore.

At any rate, on to more pressing things. I'm equal parts nervous as I am excited. At night, when I'm not dreaming of Granada and the fateful (and free, thanks to Andalucian law) tapas that will enter my belly, I dream of crashing cars, burning homes, tidal waves, and missing teeth. Those, according to the google god to which I pray multiple times a day, are all indicative of stress. Which I, the self-diagnosed hypochondriac, surely must have. All jokes aside, I probably have a mood disorder. All jokes aside again, unnecessary amounts of stress and an ungodly desire to always be in control are two things on which I need to work, and two things that will hopefully be serviced upon my five month stay in Spain. Courses are tentative, subsequent moods and emotions are tentative, housing is surprisingly planned but depending on how scratchy my rented sheets are may be tentative as well, and frankly, all future experiences are tentative. All throughout life (I say this as if I've half the age of an old Galapagos tortoise) I have despised ambiguity (its power on the human thought process, I suppose, is what I envy most about it) as well as the thought that most things are and should be both grey and elastic (though I am more or less a relativist), so hopefully my bones won't break upon my shift from a rigid, plan-based world to that of the formless fluidity that is la vida Español. Again, we will have to see.

Ultimately, I know that everything will be all right. Everything will always be all right, and well, it will have to be anyway because (pardon the melodramatics) death rights all things. After all, it's what people have in the back of their mind when they say "After all." On another note, I also know that I am unnecessarily nervous when I mention that death, as opposed to a taxi cab or a glass or three of sangria, is what will make everything OK. Silly, silly girl. Anyhow, the to-do list still antagonizes me with its dark blue bullets piercing at my rods and cones. Time to shut the planner. An itinerary is based on time, anyway, and what the hell do people really know about that? People try to reassure me by saying that I've got a lot of it yet also that I have so little, and frankly I find the concept of simultaneously having a lot and a little of the same thing quite confusing, so I'm going to ignore both sides of the coin and take my own advice. Which is, tentatively, to stop trying to quantify time but rather to simply start enjoying it. Could this be, dare I say it, progress?