What a Boxing Day

Right. It's December 27th, and I'm back in the office. Christmas break? I've got to say it was a little too short. Of course, my life is right on scale with those little inflatable bouncy rooms that everyone seems to be renting for their kids' birthday parties these days.

After a nice paella with Fran's family on Christmas afternoon, I picked up a few things at casa Tomas Trenor, then headed back to my apartment, threw a few more things in a bag, then jumped on a metro to meet a couple of friends for a Christmas evening drink. I wasn't feeling too comfortable with my packing situation; surely it would be a minor miracle to get everything stuffed into two bags and a backpack, but I figured I would calm myself down a bit with a couple of pints in town.

I'd already hung out with Jose Miguel, but was on the hook for seeing his sister Gemma. Fortunately, Gemma, another friend Maria and I managed to have a few pints at Sherlock Holmes pub, which is a few minutes walk from Finnegan's (which was closed for Christmas).

In the past few years, my Christmas night has been spent with Lynne and Fran, usually watching a movie and being lazy around the house. This year was a bit different, since I only stayed with them on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. Thus, they were free to lounge around by themselves without me plunking about.

Pints with Gemma and Maria was just the ticket. You never know who will be out and about on Christmas night, but the crowd was small in Sherlock Holmes, and festive. I was flattered that both Gemma and Maria complemented me on my Spanish; I was a regular chatterbox. We cut the evening short, however, as both of them had to work on the 26th.
This actually suited me fine, as I managed to finish most of my creative packing before midnight.

Boxing Day morning came all too quickly, and I ran about the apartment trying to clean up as best I could: this was my final day in the Alboraya apartment. I wasn't too motivated, but was short on time. Dang, isn't that the story of my life right now?

Lynne, Fran, and Daniel were to come by around 10 to bid farewells, collect the keys, and put me in a taxi to the airport. Around 10.45 without their arrival, I was getting antsy, smoking a pocketful of ciggy outside on the street. With the long lines in airports these days, even smaller sized airports, I wanted to be sure I had sufficient time to check in and all that. I was already concerned that the "your luggage is too damn heavy" police would give me trouble at the airport, and I'd be forced to either pay extra for transport, or worse, discard items that I wanted to take with me to Germany. OK, the book 501 Spanish Verbs may not seem like the most needed item for an American living in Germany, but it's a close friend to me.

At 11am, I saw Fran's car pull around the corner. Fran and I said a quick goodbye, then he left to attend a mass in memory of his father, who passed away several years ago. Lynne and Daniel stayed with me to inspect the apartment; Lynne would have to bat clean-up here, getting a few leftovers back to her place, returning the keys to the casera, etc. I'm very thankful for her help.

From there, we trudged down the street to a little café next to a taxi stand, and had one last cortado before I headed for the airport. As usual, I don't like goodbyes, nor do I like having all my stuff in various hotels around Europe. But, I needed to get to the airport. A big hug from sis helped, and Daniel, who wasn't feeling very friendly, finally came around and gave me a little hug and kiss of his own. I missed them before I even got in the cab.

I chatted with the cab driver on the way to the airport, and was flattered for the umpteenth time when he said he was impressed with my ability in Spanish. We talked about red meat, overweight Americans, and Mozart (only in Valencia, eh?) en route, and got to the airport about an hour and a half before my flight was to leave.

Check-in was a breeze, so I had time for another café and some smokes, then took the prop-job to Madrid, where I discovered that my ticket was too restricted to allow for any schedule changes in the flight to Frankfurt. Thus, I had about five hours to kill in Terminal 4 of Barajas.

I sat down at an empty bank of seats, and just sort of reflected a moment, then opened up a book my sister gave me to read, The Labyrinth. It was pretty engrossing, and I absolutely love to read, so I was actually pretty content. From time to time, I ate a couple of Christmas cookies from the tray that Lynne had prepared for me. I had almost left them behind on the account of lack of space factor, but am so very glad that I didn't. My sister still has a touch for whipping up toll house, decorated cookies, truffas, and I was set. In short, I made the most of my Boxing Day, though I would have gladly preferred to be somewhere other than the airport.

Our flight left on time from Frankfurt around 8pm, and we landed 2 and half hours later. My luggage arrived, I grabbed a cab, and 50 euros later was walking in the front door of my hotel, saying hello to my buddy Herr Fuhr, who's been watching out for me during my stay. We exchanged pleasantries (I really thought I'd turn 40 or 50 years old before using the word pleasantries), then I headed upstairs to catch a bit of sleep.

It's a grey day here on the 27th, and I'm catching up on all the emails from the past week. Fortunately a lot of people are out on holiday, so it's quiet. However, it is -1 degree right now. That's fucking cold. No snow at the moment, but it could come at any time. Can't wait til I can get an apartment and figure out how to use public transportation. Trudging three blocks through the slush to the U-Bahn stop just sounds neat.

thanks for all the updates, well wishes, and festive greetings.

keep the faith
bryan

Weihnachten, Noche Buena y la noche antes

It´s kind of a neat feeling to be back in Valencia for a few days after an action packed December in Germany and the UK. Being Christmas, it's not particularly quiet, what with shoppers rushing about in the streets and such. However, though I´ve been in the streets a bit myself, I´ve not been one of the shoppers.

Only with the slightest bit of guilt to I find myself on Christmas morning having no gifts to give anyone. OK, I actually feel a bit more guilty, but the truth of the matter is that I prefer to give a gift attached to some sentiment rather than simply buying another object for someone just to say it was a Christmas gift. Well, I´ve not been able to do any kind of shopping over the past month whatsoever. And I refuse to buy something in the bloody airport.

My nephew is just starting to understand how things work, and fortunately, he's too excited with his new firetruck with hook and ladder and working lights to be upset because he doesn't have a present from me today. (He'll be getting something from Uncle B in good time, maybe in time for King's Day, which, in fact, is the more celebrated holiday in Spain.)

I'm simply glad to be spending the holiday with Lynne, Fran, and Daniel. I've continued my tradition (8 years and counting), and this year the added positive was that I also have friends and routines from my own experience here during 2006. I arrived on Wednesday evening, saw my sister briefly on Thursday, and finally saw F and D on Friday evening; I was using the free time to see folks who were going to be out of town for their Christmas holidays.

Obviously this included several trips to the pub. Duh.

I can't stop liking pubs, and have fond memories of the Dub and the Monk in Dallas with their Christmas decorations and hot drinks. The recent week in Colchester involved several moments of pub time, and again, it was nice to see the decorations and the festive atmosphere.

Finnegan's is certainly no different. Over the course of the past few days, I´ve shared some great moments with friends, old regulars, colleagues from Casa Americana, and have met several other new friends. Personally, I´m glad to have spent the time getting into the Christmas spirit as opposed to fighting crowds trying to find some gift for someone.

Saturday afternoon, I went in to wish everyone a great holiday. The bar closes on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, which is extremely nice for the employees. However, there was one employee there that I was particularly interested in talking to. I´ve been trying for months to get up enough nerve to talk to her a bit more, and of course, about the time I get my confidence, I up and move out of the country. (pause while I try to work through the deja vu I´m feeling at present moment)

At any rate, with the help of a couple of pints of Guinness, along with a 6-2 victory by Arsenal over Blackburn, I was ready to talk at 6pm when she finished work. Unfortunately, she was leaving for her hometown in a few hours, and had to rush home to finish preparing for the trip.

Instead of letting her walk out of the bar, I grabbed my jacket and said, "I´m coming along," and together we walked to the metro stop 10 minutes away at Colon. As usual, I couldn't get off the small talk for the first five minutes, and it didn't help that there was some sort of demonstration going on in a street that we were crossing, creating further traffic to a busy shopping evening.

Thank goodness I finally came to my senses as we were getting closer to the metro stop. With a bit of an effort, I conveyed what I wanted to say, somewhat tactfully, I might add. I certainly don't deserve any points for waiting until the last possible moment to let someone know that I would really like to go out with them, and the irony is that just when I´m really able to say that in Spanish with a straight face, I don't actually live in Spain.

However, I told her. She´s a nice girl, and pretty much the only girl in Spain that I felt like telling that to. I was willing to break the rule about dating someone that works in your pub, simply because this girl is that cool, even based on the few times that we´ve actually hung out. I think I did score some points with her for flattery, not to mention surprise, and because the conversation ended with the traditional two besos at the metro stop with the agreement that we´ll see one another in 2007 in either Germany or Spain, who knows. At least I know a really cool girl in Spain who seems to like me at least a little bit. And being friends is most important, particularly in the situation where you´re bouncing all over the world right now like I seem to be.

I left the metro stop and walked back to Finnegan´s to finish my pint and start another, feeling very good about things. I spent the rest of the evening wishing friends and strangers Merry Christmas, and was fortunate that my buddy Jose Miguel had time to come out for a drink or two. That ultimately turned into some tapas in Barrio del Carmen, and we had a good time mucking about.

I work up Christmas eve morning feeling a slight ping in the head, but with a lingering smile (I talked to a pretty girl last night!). The choir was having a concert in a town close to Valencia, and I was glad to have the chance to see my choir friends perform. It was pretty cold inside the church, but the choir sang really well, and as they performed their final number, I realized that I needed to have the experience to help set the Christmas mood.

We ate in a restaurant in El Palmar that I´ve been to several times before, and it was nice to be recognized by some of the staff. Good fideua, nice wine, and a carajillo, and I was ready for a nap. Instead, however, it was bake as many Christmas cookies as possible before heading to Xuso and Mireya´s for Noche Buena.
Lynne and I powered through, with the creative help from Daniel. It´s always a nervous moment working with baking products around a four year old, but he did really well. I was rolling truffa balls as fast as I could, and Lynne was doing about 15 things at once. Hot stove, warm oven, chocolate and egg beaters; any of these could turn into problems very quickly, especially with the little one racing around the house pretty psyched up for the coming days.

It all paid off, though, because by 9.30, we were sitting at X and M´s, hanging out for Christmas Eve dinner. The kids all played, the craic was good, and just about all you could expect from the night before Christmas.

I even watched a bit of It´s a Wonderful Life before drifting off to sleep.

So it's the 25th, and I´m signing off, cos' I´d rather have another coffee then continue to type.

Feliz navidad, Schöne Weihnachten, and Happy Christmas.
Please have a safe and happy season, and a peaceful new year.


bryan

A dream of Festivus

OK, so I spent about 12 hours a day working in Colchester last week, trying frantically to get things going in a project. I've worked with that group before, but it was my first time in the facility. A good group of folks, and quite the experience.

It was nice trading comments with their general manager about football; he supports West Ham and kept trying to tell me that Arsenal wasn't a football club. Of course, he didn't have solid ground to stand on, as WH are struggling at the moment. They've got a new coach as of midweek, and it'll be a surprise if they can truly recover form. Then again, Arsenal had to claw a point out of their game yesterday against Portsmouth by coming from 2 goals down. I'm truly hoping that Arsenal find a way to return to their own form very quickly.

The workweek was extremely busy, but I did manage to have a few pints with some of my new colleagues, as well as my old managing director. Friday night, two of the guys from Dallas and I went to a Spanish restaurant for tapas. I was most impressed. I had been earlier in the week with a couple of clients, and had little trouble getting excited about a return trip. The family apparently comes from Andalucia, and they're very very nice, particularly our cute waitress, Estrella, from Friday night.

After several pitchers of sangria, the three of us had chupitos, then headed down the highstreet to the Hippodrome, a popular Colchester disco. They weren't quite open, so we had a pint next door in another pub full of Christmas partiers, meaning that most people were fairly well oiled, having begun their festivities several hours earlier in the afternoon.

Around 10.30, we queued up outside the disco, then got chatted up by a rather drunk local girl who was responsible for her office's party. She was trying to tell us that we were too old to be going clubbing, but of course, she was in line to go to the same queue. Eventually, however, her group tired of waiting, so they left before we actually got inside.

Once inside, the three of us grabbed pints, and watched the scene. As discos go, I prefer those from Spain, but with the holiday season in gear, it was nice to see the little Santa's helpers outfits being worn. Ultimately, I was reminded of the club scene from the film Trainspotting, though I was hoping that I wouldn't be clocked by any lager louts in the restroom.

After a couple of hours and a few more pints, we headed to another pub in time for two more shots (note to self - will I ever really learn?), another beer, and a suggestion that we go to an after hours place for a last drink.

Well, we trooped over to the next place only to find it closed to new customers. Not too surprising, considering the time (about 2am), but a bit annoying that the employee at the other pub had suggested the place to us. How come she didn't know the hours they'd be open?

At 2.30am, we were standing out in the street, and it was raining a fair amount. Furthermore, everyone else was outside trying to get a taxi, of which there are very few in the town of Colchester. Finally, thank goodness, we managed a taxi, and got back to our business hotel.

Two of us had to catch early taxis to our airports. I was leaving from Heathrow, and my American boss was leaving from Gatwick. Both airports are almost two hours away from Colchester. As my flight was leaving around 9.50, I needed to leave around 5.30 to get to the airport in time for check-in and lots of security checks.

After a night on the town, the mind sometimes makes some interesting choices. Rather than trying to catch a quick nap before the early start, I elected to have a couple more pints in the hotel bar with the night duty desk clerk. Fun as that was, my intake finally reached it's limit. I headed to my room to pack up, but made the mistake of sitting down on the bed, "only for a minute."

At 5.30, my phone rang with news that my taxi was waiting. I frantically threw my gear in my bag, hoped I wasn't forgetting anything, ran downstairs, paid the hotel bill, and rode to Heathrow, fading in and out of consciousness.

We arrived at Heathrow, I bid farewell to my taxi guy, then walked inside to the Lufthansa check-in desk to find hundreds of people already queued up. I hadn't looked in the mirror in what seemed like days, and I kept noticing a smell that I feared was coming from my person. On top of that, my mouth tasted like I'd just cleaned the floor with my tongue, and I sort of wanted a quiet safe haven.

Eventually, I got checked in, took care of business, went through three security checks, and still smelled bad. We boarded our flight on time, but then got to sit on the airplane for an hour before take off. Many passengers suddenly realized that they were going to miss their connections in Frankfurt, so everyone was a bit tense. I was glad that I'd be home soon enough, and particularly glad of the opportunity to shower.

Obviously the plane arrived an hour late, but I collected my bag, walked outside to the taxi stand, and was back at my hotel around 2pm. Oliver, the manager, was there to greet me, and made me a nice espresso while I logged on to check emails. I had a quick chat with my sister, who told me about their busy week in Valencia, then went upstairs for a bit of nap.

I wasn't feeling very hungry, but I was very tired on all fronts. Busy work week, no sleep from the previous night, and then a return to a German speaking environment. I already know that it's going to be very stressful in the coming months, and I find myself needing a bit of time to think about things a bit.

The project I'm working on has as first deadline of January 1, and it's going to be tough to get everything ready. There has not been much time for a lot of carol singing, etc. Christmas is a week away, and I've done no shopping, and don't think I'm going to have much time to shop anyway. I'm not too worried, actually, but would like a bit of Christmas spirit. I was in Colchester when the Weiterstadt team held their Christmas party, and Colchester has their party later this week, which I will miss also. That said, there are little Christmas markets in Germany, and I might run down the street to explore the one in Darmstadt a little later this afternoon. I might even find a few gifts.

This morning, my phone rang at 5.30am once again, but this time it was Chris calling to see if I had any grievances. Festivus was held at Goliad last night! Yet another party I had to miss, but I was glad to at least be included via telephone. My only grievance might have been that it's not always great when someone forgets to check the difference in time zones, but I was so out of it on the phone that I couldn't even think to say anything. I could hardly hear anything except for loads of people who seemed to have had several glasses of punch each all talking at once.
Thanks for the call, McKee. I wish I had been more alert. Maybe I'll call you in a couple of hours and return the cheer.

So it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm sitting in the hotel bar having a Kaffee. The weather is certainly chilly, and I'm starting to get in the Christmas spirit. I will work Monday and Tuesday in Germany, then return to Valencia for a quick visit, one that I'm really looking forward to.

With a little luck, one more shower will remove the last of the smell (did I step in something or what!!!???), and I'll get all my expense reports completed and approved. More on the joys of submitting expense reports in pounds, euros, and dollars later.

For now, I need to work on my feats of strength.

keep the faith
bryan
Atlanta hotel Darmstadt

suggested soundtrack:
Wham! - Last Christmas (ok, just joking)
Take That - Patience (ok, just joking again)
Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit

A word about coffee, café, and Kaffee

As an American who consumes enough coffee to deserve his own coffee plantation, I feel the need to comment on the various levels of coffee I've had the pleasure, or disgust, of consuming over recent months.

We all know that I was on the frequent flyer plan at Starbuck's, which had it's perks. As much as I enjoyed playing for the Pogue Mahones (Starbucks football team), I was pretty thrilled to leave a Starbuck's environment and find myself in a land where EVERY café is espresso. Fenomenal.

Cortados and café con leches in Espania. Hmmm. The prices are always reasonable (ie. they don't charge an extra 1.95 for hot milk), and the quality is almost always above average. Sure, it is possible to have the rare bad cortado, but since it doesn't cost all that much, it's not that big of a deal. Besides, as you'll see below, I'm not so pretentious as to be unable to take this in stride.

Take Germany for example, where espresso is consumed a bit less. The drip coffee isn't nearly as good as espresso, but still drinkable. At my office, there are Kaffee pots everywhere, and loads of mugs about. It reminds me a little of Cafe Brazil coffee, if I need to offer a comparison to a Dallas location.

Though I haven't spent too much time I Frankfurt just yet, there do seem to be quite a lot of little cafe houses around, and I'm quite sure that many of them are espresso bars. I'll certainly know more in a few weeks.

Now, after a few days in England, I can comment that the coffee experience in England is simply different. In the workplace, you can spend 20p for a little plastic cup of coffee or tea that is far from delicious. Drinkable, yes, (says the guy who drinks just about anything), but a delightful experience, I think not.
However, it's the experience that makes the reward. Three guys standing around the vending machine in the canteen drinking some hot liquid out of a little plastic cup that looks like what I used to submit a urine sample to my doctor when I was a child. It's a hard visiual to get out of the head, and the warmth of the cup itself doesn't help matters.

Coffee in restaurants and bars really isn't that much better, though you normally get served with a proper cup or mug.

No complaints from me, really, it's just that I notice the differences. Of course, if that's the kind of remark you'd expect from someone who just slipped out at lunch to have a quick pint in the pub, then snarfed a plate of chips and sausage roll on the way back to the office, eh?

there you have it

keep the faith
bryan

So much for a quiet week at work

OK, so I managed to have two quiet days in the office before the "ka-pow! let's get zany!!" show started. No, it's not just that I've already sat through a two hour staff meeting which was conducted partly in German and party in English (er, 90% German, 10% English), it's that I go to England to another of our repair sites all next week.

No real problem as far as I'm concerned, but I just signed a contract to work in Germany, and suddenly I'm not spending any time in the German office. However, my project involves both the UK and the German site, so I knew I would be involved in some fashion. Didn't realize that I'd be sleeping in some hotel in Colchester the week before Christmas, though...

Speaking of England, let's briefly talk Arsenal football. 0-0 draw with Porto got them through to the final 16 in Champs League, which won't resume until February 2007. Good. That will give me time to get things organized and give the club time to start playing better.

Arsenal are away at Chelsea this Sunday, and play right about the time I'll be riding through the countryside on the train from Liverpool Street Station. Just my luck that I didn't think to arrange my flight a bit better so as to see the match, but oh well.

Now, I don't want to start passing commentary on Germany, the people or the culture, but a few things have struck me in the five days that I've been here.
Taxi's are more expensive here than in Spain. Hopefully I'll solve this problem soon by organizing my own transportation. Oh wait, I'm going to be out of town the next couple of weeks...

Doner kebaps are spicier in Alemania. Incredible. Doner Kebaps are almost the only late night food available in Spain, and in recent weeks, I had to consume my fair share. Not the most healthy thing for you, but I'd argue that they're certainly more healthy than Taco Hell or even IHoP, particularly my type of IHoP excursion.

While kepab places in Spain are usually tasty, they're also usually run by non-Spanish. The place in Meliana was predominately Rumanian (??), but most I've seen are Turkish or Indian. In my experience in Spain, all of the kepab houses spoke Spanish and English.

Imagine my surprise in Darmstadt (where everyone seems to speak quite a bit of English), then, when I encountered a kepab house where they didn't speak English (and certainly not Spanish). I struggled to get the right thing ordered (probably didn't help that I kept using Spanish words), but the result was excellent. Here, they put a bit of super spicy crushed pepper on everything, and I now know where I can satisfy my hot fix for comida picante.

I'm suffering from a bit of a cold at moment, but certainly felt better after chowing through a couple of spicy kebaps.

The language barrier will be a problem for me, mainly because I feel like such a dolt for knowing so little German. Almost everyone speaks a fair amount of English, which is impressive. There are small, humorous mistakes made from time to time. My office companion has a habit of using "BE" any time he needs to use a conjugation of the verb "to be". Thus, I might hear, "This be where you can drink coffee."

In my hotel, I had to request laundry service, and the cute St. Pauli girl working at the front desk said, "Sure, no problem. Where is your luggage?" This question confused me enough that I started immediately babbling in Spanish, English, and a few German words I created, which ultimately confused the matter enough that the employee had to get a colleague to help. At least I'm getting my clothes clean.

This evening, I'm headed into Frankfurt to check out the sights, and hopefully get an idea as to where I might find a decent apartment (within budget).

Hopefully a few pils will help my cold, and I can always have another kepab.

Let's go Arsenal! We need a lot of fortunate luck to win at Chelsea Sunday, but I believe. It's called keeping the faith.

Tschüs!
Bryan

soundtrack:
Robbie Williams live in Leeds. (don't know if this is available on CD or not, but I saw the vid last night on German music channel)
Juli - Dieses Leben (ok, I don't know much about German rock music, but the lead singer of this rock band looks really cute in a red and black striped sweater. And that is certainly reason enough to buy an album...)

Not quite normal service resumed

I've been fortunate enough to catch several Arsenal matches in recent weeks, though it's been a bit unnerving as two of those matches were losses. There's almost nothing worse than getting fired up to watch your team play, then see them crash out in the most ridiculous ways. I mean come on, if you take a zillion shots in a match, hit the woodwork about 14 times, how can you possibly lose 1-0 off of a corner kick?

Ah well, welcome to Arsenal football.

I watched the Arsenal-Tottenham match Saturday afternoon at Finnegan's along with two new found English Arsenal fans. The three of us chucked it up over pints for the duration of the game, and then for the rest of the afternoon, which turned into quite the stretch. Fortunately, Arsenal won convincingly 3-0, which made me feel a whole lot better.

While the afternoon was fun, I couldn't help thinking of the same fixture earlier in the year that Chris and I went to. I certainly would have preferred to be at emirates stadium with him saying fun things to the Tottenham fans. Same old Tottenham, always cheating. (At this point, I'll skip over the dubious penalty that was awarded Arsenal in the first half)

It was nice spending my final afternoon in Valencia in Finnegans watching a bit of football. It's not that I won't be back there soon, but when I return, I won't actually be a resident. Trying to gear up for the Sunday move to Germany was not all that easy.

But, it's now a done deal. I'm in Weiterstadt, sitting at my desk, typing on my laptop, suffering from a cold.

Welcome to Germany.

Updates about the move, the new culture, and how pretty the girls are will come later. Right now, I've got to get myself settled into an apartment, decipher the transportation schedules, and get acquainted with the German keyboard. This keyboard thing is kind of interesting, because it's very very different from both the English and the Spanish keyboard. Since I've been a typist for many years, I rarely pay attention to the keys, save for my experiences in Spain toggling between the different layouts. However, unlike the German keyboard, the Spanish keyboard merely has a few extra symbols and accents.

Welcome to Germany.

The German keyboard actually moves the alphabet around, and while this wouldn't necessarily be that big of a deal, the Y character is where the Z character is in German keyboards. Those of you that remember the spelling of my name probably better understand my predicament.

At any rate, the chapter is starting, and I've already been to my first biergarten to watch a champs league match, ironically, Barcelona and Werder Bremen.

It's a good way to begin the experience.

prost
brZan

One last thing. C'mon Arsenal. Beat Porto tonight.

cambios, intercambios, y mas...

So after a few weeks struggle, I finally find myself putting pen to paper again. No need to ask forgiveness; I've just been busy.

After many months of planning and preparation, my grandfather and step-grandmother completed an emotionally and physically exhausting move to consolidate a large home in North Carolina and a large home in Dallas into a small home in Dallas. I have to imagine that it's got to be very difficult to leave your home after so many years, so many memories. Alas, as you get older, downsizing to a smaller habitat in which you can better manage your independence is sometimes necessary.

No sooner had Daddy Monk and Twila settled into their new north Dallas habitat, my grandmother from Dallas announced her intent to follow suit. After many years in the same house near Preston and Royal, she will be moving to an apartment in the nearby area in order to be closer to her friends, have less headaches involving maintaining a house that is starting to need more and more repairs.

I've spent a lot of time reflecting on these significant changes over the past few weeks. As a grandchild, I don't particularly like the idea that my grandparents no longer live in their houses that I'm familiar with, particularly my Grandmommy. I've only known her one house in my lifetime.

True, the happy memories of going over the hills and through the woods to grandparents house will remain happy memories. My own selfishness aside, though, I wonder how my grandparents are dealing with their changes...leaving their homes after so many years.

In my own life, despite my tendency to bounce around a bit, I make my own attchments, mostly mental, to people, places, and every once in a while, to things. Take the past nine months, for example. I have lived in Meliana with Lynne, Fran, and Daniel. Let it be said that their place is perfectly suited for three, and as we moved through 2006, the house got smaller, and I got bigger. Though I didn't really want to be there, preferring my own independence, I LIKED being there, feeling the attachment of family and a sense of home.

Unfortunately, circumstances throughout summer and fall made things incredibly difficult. Difficult for me to leave, and frustrating for everyone that I continued to stay. Ultimately, with a great rush of relief, Lynne and Fran secured some immediate short term solution for me, and by the first of November, I was living in Alboraya in an apartment of my own.

For the first week in my new place, I dealt with the guilt and frustrations of having overstayed my welcome with Lynne and Fran. It was never my intent, yet I somehow couldn't avoid it. I should have found a better way instead of imposing on family way too long. For that, I am truly sorry.

As I pushed through the guilt, I also dealt with the new environment, one away from family that I'm close to. Sure, it is more quiet, but part of that is because there's no stereo in the flat. No pizza and movie nights, no wake up hugs from a nephew, no terrace top smokes. All of these are good memories from casa de Tomas Trenor.

How funny that I become attached to situations like these.

How funny that I think about these memories while sitting in a conference room in Weiterstadt, Germany.

On top of the moves and changes I've already made this year, it appears I'm not quite through. I'm a couple of weeks away from a work visa, and with that comes a return to the chaos, excitement, and challenge of program management, this time with the new twist of the job being in Deutschland.

October really was a pensive month for me. I really like Spain, and I'm sorry to be leaving just when I'm starting to feel settled with friends, the language, and a new apartment. But, the opportunity to have employement in a capacity that suits me better...how can I pass that up, especially when it's somewhat tailored to my needs?

I'm certainly excited about this opportunity, and it's finally hitting me as I sit in some crap office park in suburban Franfurt. This will be where I live for the next six months as I do the project I've been hired to do.

I've got tons of decisions to make in the coming days and weeks, but I'm rising to the challenge. Hell, I might be toodling around Bavaria in a VW blaring Alphaville before the end of the year. I feel that I'm off to a relatively good start after meeting some new colleagues. Everyone seems most friendly and eager to help me settle, even when I've slipped into spanish once or twice, not counting the time I said joder in the taxi on the way from the airport; the cab driver covered 35 km in about 8 minutes.

It's hard to leave, but I've got to go. Fortunately, the attachment I've made with Spain is in place, and will remain in place. I think it's a good thing that I feel so sad to leave Valencia. It shows me how much I've enjoyed this experience.

keep the faith
bryan
Feldstrasse 16
Weiterstadt

soundtrack
Alphaville - Forever Young
Madness - Our House
38 Special - Hold On Loosely (But Don't Let Go)
Bouncing Souls - True Believer
Mighty Mighty Bosstones - The Impression That I Get
Joe Jackson - Steppin' Out

...too much life running through my veins...

30 days ago, I put up my last post, thinking I'd have a pretty busy month ahead of me with football (Arsenal!), apartment hunting, spanish class, and private english classes. For the most part, I was right, though it certainly didn't happen as I expected. The last two weeks of September were almost unbearably slow. All of my private classes went on hiatus for some reason or other, and I suddenly found myself with a ton of idle time.

I'm sure the wise person would have taken advantage of the opportunity and found adequate housing, but due to some unusual circumstances, my situation was a bit more complicated, nevermind it's a bit difficult to rent apartments in Valencia in the first place. I spent a bit too much time lounging around the pub in hopes that the ideal sitio would drop into my lap.

OK, so that plan didn't work so well, but I did meet some interesting characters, including one man from Doncaster who had a habit of telling me each time he saw me (five or six times) that his favorite movie was Green Street Hooligans. GSH is a pretty good film, I must say; it's about West Ham United football club, stars Frodo Baggins, and is a bit on the violent side. However, no matter what conservation topic we happened to be on, this guy (usually five pints in) would start in again, "Green Street Hooligans" is the BEST movie EVER! (As a side note - I rather enjoyed meeting Ian, and appreciate the fact that he sat with me to watch Arsenal vs. Manchester United, a heart attack inducing match that happens no less than twice a year. As those of you who are passionate about certain teams know, sometimes it's nice to watch a match with an impartial spectator, particularly if you're sitting there trying not to break your beer glass, not hit anybody, and see your team scrape a last minute victory. I was fortunate that we won that day, so didn't even mind hearing the words, "Man, I LOVE Green Street Hooligans!" one more time. Alas, Ian's experience teaching school in Valencia didn't work out, so he chucked back to England almost as quickly as he came. All the best, mate.)

Arsenal football helped me through the slow period of September. After the win over ManU, they have managed to win every match since.

The last days of September picked up, and I got back into Spanish classes a few hours a week, then found a steady intercambio who wants to meet regularly. Neither of these helped keep my cashflow in balance, but at least my spanish is improving.

Out of the blue, a guy I met in early summer rang me up and asked me to play on his football team. After many months on the sidelines, I finally got a chance to return to the pitch, sporting a green jersey sponsored by Paiporta Construcciones, S.A. Cool. Thankfully, I held my own on the field; I haven't forgotten how to play the game.

As October began, I was nearing panic mode. I had no apartment and only limited classes at the center. I've more than overstayed my welcome with Lynne and Fran, so was particularly concerned about the apartment bit. Furthermore, a lack of classes means a lack of income, and that can start to suck in a hurry. Thus, I was a bit down.

I have continued to sing in the choir in Alboraya, and we did have a concert to look forward to early in the month. The choir had been invited to the town of Pont de Suert, and we arranged to stay in a nearby hotel & spa, all located in the Pyrenees Mountains during the holiday weekend Oct 6-9.

Las Saturday, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Instead of watching Euro 2008 qualifiers in some bar, I was sitting in a woolen mill listening to a woman speaking in Catalan to our choir about how wool is made. In a few hours, I'd be singing a concert; songs to be sung in valenciano, catalan, gaego, italian, and castellano. I have to struggle enough with castellano, the other languages I'm just about hopeless with, but I'm doing it up, anyway. "Wow, I can't believe I'm here," I laughed to myself.

This alone was enough to boggle the mind, but to add to the zany action, less than 48 hours before, I'd received a call from my old company - they had a job with my name on it. What had merely been a quiet discussion in August was suddenly becoming reality. Me, working in my profession again. In Europe. In Germany. Almost immediately.

Holy shit.

So here in October 2006, my mind is going a million miles per hour. It's a triple ride on the super "hopeyoudidn'teatafootlongchilidogforlunchaswe'regonnafuckyouup" roller coaster at Coney Island. Two days ago, I was standing next to Jacobo and Jose Luis trying to find out what happened to my music as we sang "Te Quiero," and today I'm trying to find out the climate in someplace called Weiterstadt.

More details to come soon, but meanwhile, ¿como se dice Keep the Faith in aleman?

bryan
10/10/06

for more information about the hotel in the Pyrenees, visit www.caldesdeboi.com

suggested soundtrack for this post:
Robbie Williams greatest hits
Rock Against Bush compilation vol.2

Quince dias despues

So it’s September 11, and I’ve been back in Spain for almost two weeks, rather a busy two weeks at that. Or, at least a busy week and a half…

I started looking at my return from an August in Texas as a new start in Spain: an opportunity to hit the ground running after a pretty decent six months.

Flying out of Dallas on a Monday evening was a pretty good idea, as I enjoyed a very empty flight to Houston, then at 10pm, found myself on an even less crowded flight to Paris. I was sitting at the back of the plane, and almost everyone had a row to themselves. Those of you who have flown international legs know what a rare treat that can be. As luck would have it, just as the final passengers were boarding, a very pretty girl took her seat right next to me, and we started chatting. We had a nice discussion about her nervousness at take-off, and also the fact that she was going back to Europe to teach English in her hometown, somewhere in the Czech republic.

Before you go thinking, “Attaboy, Bry, way to go!” I’ll explain that, once airborne, “Betty” (who, strangely enough, looked a little like a blonde Betty Rubble) moved to another seat so we’d both have room to stretch out and be more comfortable on the long flight.

She promised to come back and visit (she moved to the seat directly in front of me) a bit later, but about ten minutes after we were in the air, some American guy who apparently had been working on her pretty good in the airport lounge came over and sat with her for most of the rest of the flight.

So, like always, I plugged in the headphones and watched movies for the next several hours by myself, thinking that it might be a good idea to visit Prague sometime soon.

We landed in Paris CDG ten hours later, and really the only thing I found cool was the temperature outside, a nice 18 degrees C. I had to muck around for a few hours, and ended up buying, and reading an entire James Patterson novel. Funny, his bestsellers always seem to serve merely as a four hour distraction for me. I realized halfway through that I had read it before, but I powered on through and finished it by the time we boarded our flight for Valencia.

Our flight was a few minutes late arriving in Valencia, but due to an extremely ridiculous moment of stupidity I’d had the night before in Houston, I had blown all three of my chances trying to remember my PIN number for my Spanish mobile. Thus, I was unable to call anyone to tell them I’d be arriving late. Furthermore, I was going to have to dig up my paperwork on my phone to find the secondary access code so I could get my phone working again. Thankfully they offer such a code for nimrods such as myself.

Lynne was double parked in front of the airport when I exited, and by 11pm, we were back at home.

I got my phone working again, and the text messages started pouring in, playing catch up after three weeks stateside. One message was from Gemma, a girl I’d assisted with a project earlier in June. Her brother urgently needed English practice, and could I start as soon as possible? Cool, I hadn’t been back in town half an hour, and was already back in business.

My first day back in Spain, despite the continued Mediterranean heat. My Spanish clunked back into my head, and I was greatly relieved to find that I hadn’t completely forgotten everything I’d learned in the past months. I met several folks I was acquainted with in the street, at the gym, and in the market, and everyone seemed happy to see me, and I, them. Even the Romanian girl who works in the doner kebab place said hello to me, which was a first. (note – I think that it’s possible that the Romanian mafia operates out of my local kebab shop. Kind of scary, and kind of intriguing. Good kebabs, though)

On my second day back, I met Lynne for a lunch of sushi at an Asian restaurant near her work, which was pretty tasty. I was already in good spirits as I was settling myself back in town, but didn’t pass up an opportunity to have a second carajillo at lunch before heading into city center. I had made the decision to continue with Spanish classes, recognizing the benefit of my six week course in summer. However, I was also embarrassed about seeing my instructors; I did not feel that I had done well on my final examination. In fact, I really think I’d totally screwed my exam.

Alas, all the more reason to enroll in more classes, right? As I rounded the corner of the academy, I was delighted to run into Lourdes, my cool Spanish instructor with the Irish accent, talking to Svenia, one of my German classmates from July. We all had a quick smoke, then headed upstairs to the school, where Lourdes, and the two other instructors that I know proceeded to give me a bit of a hard time about everything…all in good fun. I was sweating, and as the three cute, intimidating girls (fucking lovely, eh? I’m intimidated by my Spanish teachers) continued to joke with me, I started blushing, too. Lourdes and Ines decided to play a bit of matchmaking, and made a huge deal about the fact that the third instructor, Rebecca, didn’t have a boyfriend, and maybe the two of us should hang out, and suddenly she was blushing, also.

The whole incident would have been much much more fun had it not been about 45 degrees C in the room. For the quick conversion, 45 degrees C is about a million degrees Fahrenheit. My black shirt was completely drenched, and starting to stain. Exactly the way I didn’t want things to go.

I somehow managed to escape the girls, agreeing to meet Ines in two weeks for classes (after she returned from her holiday). I collected my certifica, and found that my score was “notable,”, which was an absolute shock. Maybe I know more Spanish than I thought…

Svenia had waited for me during all of this, so I treated her to a drink at a café across the plaza. I had a few minutes before I was to meet Gemma’s brother at Finnegan’s, a few doors down. It turns out that Svenia is teaching German in a school in Valencia for the semester. Pretty cool. Hopefully I can see her again.

As we were finishing our drinks, I glanced over to Finnegan’s and realized that the bar hadn’t opened, yet, and it was 6pm, the time I’d agreed to meet Jose Miguel. I saw a guy standing outside, so ran over and introduced myself, then went back to pay the tab at the other place, bid Svenia hasta luego (Chuss!), then start class with JM.
I always chuckle when a student tries to speak only in Spanish, but I listened and conversed in Spanish with Jose Miguel for about fifteen minutes as he explained why he needed classes. We walked around the barrio a little looking for an alternate venue, but as we circled back, found Finnegan’s open for business, so grabbed a table outside. It turns out that this guy throws back pints like I do, so things went well.

Three hours later, we called it a night, and agreed to meet the following afternoon. He had a job interview with an English speaking company in about five days time, and wanted to meet as much as possible until then.

Friday, September 1st, was my third day back. I spent the morning translating some documents for two colleagues of Gemma’s who were going to give a presentation in another week. I met JM for a couple of beers in the afternoon, then went to the grand opening of a little natural store that my friend Cristina was starting – the kind of place that sells natural stuff. In fact, her store looks a whole lot like the little section at Whole Foods on Greenville where they stock all the supplements and non-food items, like loofas and soaps and shit. Cristina is actually selling a bit of organic food, but only a little.

During these three days, I really only experienced a bit of jet lag (it’s harder, actually, going from Europe to the States), but those three days had been pretty busy. So, I was tired on Saturday morning when I met JM for a bocadillo and beer in Meliana. A bit later, he went off to spend the weekend with his girlfriend, and I went with Lynne, Fran, and Daniel to Concha’s for lunch.

That night, we met Xuso, Mireya, and the kids for a later dinner before watching a local parade of Cristianos and Moros that went through all the streets of Meliana at midnight.

Sunday, I caught up on some rest, anticipating another busy week on the way.

August in Spain, as I’ve mentioned before, is a very quiet month. Many places are closed, and those that remain open tend to open for only a few hours. Finnegan’s, for example, opened around 7pm every afternoon during August, unlike their normal opening hours, which are 10am or 11am during the rest of the year.

My lunchtime routine frequently involves Finnegan’s, so I was glad we were back in September. Monday, the 4th, the first day back in the “laborales” timetable was my first opportunity to get back into my own routine. Clyde was glad to see me, and after comparing our vacation notes, he whipped me up a superfucking fry-up, which I had been looking forward to. You just can’t go wrong with a fry-up (in spite of what your doctor might say), and it helped keep me from being a slobbering drunk at 5.30pm that afternoon when I had to meet my two girls to go over their presentation.

I metroed out to the meeting point at the Polytechnic, then couldn’t find Maryland, who was waiting for me. We talked on the phone three times in 30 minutes as I walked around campus like a moron while she waited for me with the car. I only know one place on the campus (ok, after that stunt, I’m pretty well in the know with the entire layout) but for the life of me couldn’t find it, couldn’t read the damn campus map, and couldn’t find anyone about to ask. She’s a bit on the cute side, but when I eventually found her, I was a dripping, sweaty mess, and she wasn’t all that thrilled to have been kept waiting.

We drove to the second girl’s house, which ironically was right next to a metro stop that I know very well, and spent the next hour and a half going over their project, which they were to present in Jordan the following Monday. At 8pm, we wrapped it up, and Maryland drove me back to Finnegan’s, where I was to meet Jose Miguel for another class.

As I sat waiting for JM, his sister Gemma showed up to have a drink with another friend. We exchanged greetings and agreed to meet soon, and then JM arrived. After briefly greeting his sister, he joined me in the corner, and we proceeded to drink five pints each over the next two hours. I tried to calculate in my head the day’s total consumption (three hour lunch at Finnegan’s, beer at Maria’s, etc), and finally came up with a vague number called…a LOT.

Home in a Taxi to find Lynne waiting with dinner – a fry up. She was like, where have you been, and I was like, er having class with JM. I can’t be the only TEFL instructor that uses his local pub as a classroom and an office, can I? But, I realized that perhaps we’d overdone it a tad. I somehow made it through dinner, though I had to leave one of the sausages for another day.

I had planned to meet with Jose Miguel the next afternoon, but he texted me to say that he was hung over and unable to meet. Besides, his interview was the next day, and he needed to get a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t feeling super duper, myself, but I would have certainly gone had he wanted to. Anything for the sake of education, eh? In the end, I was glad for the night off.

I spent Wednesday doing a last bit of translating for the Jordan bound girls, then met another possible student in the afternoon. Maria and I had granizados for about an hour, agreed to meet on Friday for class, then I headed next door to Finnegan’s. (coincidence…not even close. It’s just conveniently located for class, work, or heavy drinking)

While I was watching a little of the Scotland Euro qualifier and talking a bit with the staff, I met an English-American guy who was currently living in Latvia. He was cheering on Scotland, as they were playing Lithuania, the neighboring country to Latvia. Apparently he had some work mates from there that he had bet money with. Well, one thing led to another, and suddenly I was four pints in and trying to remember what time I’d said I’d be home. Latvian Steve and I continued to talk (he’s a Chelsea fan) about football and whatnot, then Lynne called to see if I could pick up some Dippas on the way home. (note- Dippas are basically Tostitos, but made by Doritos). Sure, no problem, I said. Another pint and two shots of VODKA later, and I said, enough. I told Steve I had to go home, then weaved down calle de la Paz to El Corte Ingles to buy chips and ciggy, then boarded the metro for home. Joder.

I told myself on Thursday that I would not have any beer that day, only to find myself sipping a Mahou at Maria’s house as we finished up their presentation. The girls were to leave for Jordan on Saturday, and this was our last night to prepare and make sure their English was up to snuff.
At 8pm, I wished them both well, then met Lynne for a quick dinner (sandwich and, er, a beer) before choir practice. It was really nice to see everyone from the choir again, but even nicer to finally get to bed at midnight.

My workweek finished with a two and a half hour conversation class on Friday evening, and I was pretty tired when I got home. After a movie and a pizza, I was asleep.

I really haven’t done much since then. Saturday was slow, and Sunday was slower. A couple of movies (yes, Pablo, I have now seen “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”…good stuff), several coffees, and that’s about it.

So today it’s Monday, 911. The five year anniversary. School started today in Spain, but Daniel didn’t go because he had a fever yesterday. After a morning workout, I really didn’t do all that much, choosing to be a bit lazy. True, life is a bit slower at the moment, but that doesn’t mean that I get that many chances to sit around doing nothing. Today, I just didn’t feel like doing much.

I got to thinking about the events from five years back, then got a bit irked as I thought about the movies that have recently been made in Hollywood…I think there are two or three. I think I now might have some idea how someone my grandfather’s age felt when the first movie about World War II was made, or even how they felt years later when Saving Private Ryan came out. It’s probably the same way some Vietnam vets felt when Platoon or Hamburger Hill was released. When I was seeing those films, I was like, “wow, really powerful film,” and perhaps that wasn’t the same reaction from vets. Maybe they were saying, “Bad deal. Really bad idea to throw the cinematic drama into this.” Or maybe not. I just know that I don’t see myself running to see any movie about 911 anytime soon.

On that particular morning five years ago, I was waiting for my latte at Travis Walk when one of the baristas said, “ohmygod, something has happened in New York.” Ten really shitty hours later after the story had unfolded, Chris, Bennett, and I went to the patio of the Old Monk and sat outside to avoid the CNN, Foxnews, etc. OK, so Bennett wasn’t old enough to sit inside, either, but that’s another cosa. We really didn’t want to sit inside with the television media, anyway.

So after dinner this evening, I skipped the documentaries showing on tv and came upstairs to write. I’ll remember the past without the aid of repeated video footage of first one, then a second tower collapsing in Manhattan. Freddy Mecury sang it, and I saw the same theme last week when I watched Moulin Rouge! The show must go on.

One of the best things about my life right now is that I can better avoid the media. It’s difficult to get CNN, FOX, or whatever broadcast in English. You can do it, but you have to make an effort. I choose not to make that effort, for the most part.

On the other hand, the Spanish media gets going themselves, and it can be a bit much.
However, since I’m still learning Spanish, I can sort of tune out whenever I want.

This is not to say that I’m trying to live under a rock, but I do like the ability to sort of control my knowledge intake.

I wish that I could use better personal restraint with the media relating to European football. Something in me just gets pretty wound up this time of year when the leagues start.

I’ll keep the soccer moment brief, then let you go.

Arsenal. Serious questions must be asked. We’re three games in, and they’ve earned two points. They haven’t won a game yet. Not good. I’ve always been fairly positive about this stuff (that doom and gloom shit I do is more for show…though I do like to brood), but somewhere in Dallas I’ve got a friend who has probably just filled a 30 gallon trash sack with shredded coasters. Be strong, Steve, be strong. (you, too Elizabeth….this has to be particularly fun for you).

All I can say is that Champs league kicks off Tuesday, and Arsenal play Hamburg Wednesday. They go to Man U on Sunday. It stands to be an emotional week. Get those coasters ready.

keep the faith
bryan
c/ Tomas Trenor
09/11/06

How I spent my summer vacation...without all the details

I can´t even begin to describe how emotional I have felt during the past three and a half weeks. I was a bit nervous about a visit to Texas in August, wondering how it would feel to see family and friends after a six month break. Finally the day came where I found myself first riding in a taxi to the Valencia airport at 5 in the morning, then trying to wait out a really long layover in Paris, then eventually landing in Houston and clearing customs, and finally rolling into Dallas, where my parents and Uncle Bob met me at the baggage claim. Yes, I was glad to be back in town, but how long would that feeling last, I wondered? Two days, maybe a week?

As it turned out, I can’t think of any place that I rather would have gone for a my summer vacation. OK, maybe Dallas itself wasn’t the best location. Dallas still seems like a lost city that doesn’t know how to find it’s identity. Irving is still a shithole, and Frisco is still thousands of miles away from the Old Monk. I won’t even mention Plano. But, as I drove around the city, visiting my parents house, seeing friends, going to dinner, it felt really good to go back to my hometown, though, as Joe Jackson sings, “I know it will never be the same.”

I hummed that song to myself early Saturday morning after my arrival late the night before. I woke up way early, thanks to jet lag, and by 10am or so, had already done a bunch of shopping, bought a cell phone, purchased some new soccer gear, and then decided to work out my jet lag over a few pints in the Old Monk. Talk about a homecoming: Miriana gave me a big welcome, then Riley and Mike greeted me, and I found myself repeatedly saying, “I’m really glad to be here.”

That was the start of three very rushed weeks, and now, the day after I’ve returned to Spain, it’s just an incredible blur, albeit a blur with many great moments. Thanks to everyone who was able to come out for a beer, maybe two. It meant a lot just to see everyone, even for such a short time. Yes, I missed seeing some of you, and I am truly sorry, but look forward to the next opportunity. I realize that everyone’s life continues to be busy as mine is, so I’m very glad (not to mention surprised) that I got to spend as much time as I did with so many people.

How nice it was to muck around in some of my favorite haunts and see familiar faces, and even meet a couple of new friends. I particularly owe a big thanks to the Old Monk and Idlerich for hosting much of my time, but the Dub and Trinity Hall certainly deserve nods, as well.

During the last couple of days of my trip, I was still saying, “I am glad to be here,” which, to be honest, was a bit of a surprise. It’s a really strange place to be, that place where you’re having a really good time but about to go home, anyway. Thus, it seemed fitting to me to close out my time in Dallas having a few pints at the Monk, just like when I arrived. I find the finality of finishing your glass, snuffing the cig, shaking hands, giving hugs, saying farewell, and hopefully remembering to pay the tab sort of works well for me.

So, I arrived back in Valencia last night, and woke up this morning in a bit of a fog, but with a huge smile on my face. You see, I’m glad to be back here, too. Round two of the Bryan takes on Europe show is starting right about now, and I’m off to a pretty good start. I’ve somehow managed to remember a little Spanish, though I had one conversation today that went ok even though I didn’t completely know what we were talking about. The tobacco salesman greeted me with a smile, and in the grocery store I saw several people I know who all said how glad they were that I was back in town. It’s good to be back.

Since this little piece seems more like liner notes of a CD than anything else, I’ll take the opportunity to thank: JPS for selling ciggy (I was getting really tired of reds), Air France for showing cool movies on the plane (and for friendly attractive staff), Greenhill school for having girls field hockey practice on a Friday afternoon, FSC, Fullers, Stella, that gay guy who threw peppermints at us while walking down the hall at Terrilli’s, Doc Marten, margaritas in general, the compliment of being described as Dicky Barrett (I may actually wear boots, shorts and a tie around Valencia sometime), and finally, a special thank you to little Goliad.

Thanks again for such a nice August

keep the faith
bryan
30/8/06
casa de tomas trenor

...and the heat goes on.

"After 6 months in Spain, you're probably having good days and bad days with the language. Six months from now, you'll notice an even bigger difference...and you'll get better."

My friend Rafa made this remark to me last Friday night while we were eating at a Pakistani restaurant.

Rafa pretty much hit it on the head with his comment, and I spent most of the weekend thinking, recapping the past six months.

Without a doubt, my Spanish is much much better, and it continues to improve. Sure, I still have frequent moments where I get totally lost, confused, and unable to speak, but being lost, confused, and speechless is something I experienced just as much in the US for my first 35 years, too. A change in culture and language is simply a change is culture and language.

True, I've been frustrated on two levels, regarding the first six months here in Spain. First, I expected to be comprehending the language quite a bit better, but I've realized that it's a slow process. I'm comforted knowing that every day, I notice an improvement (though it’s accompanied by random days of brain implosion and complete inability to understand fuck all.)

Most frustrating for me, though, is my lack of speech. Contrary to popular myth, I'm rather quiet, and prefer to listen instead of speaking. Sure, I have had many moments where I've gabbed incessantly throughout my life, most notably in the past five to eight years. Since my arrival in Spain, I tend to be a bit more reluctant to speak. I'm careful not to say, "afraid to speak", here, though I have to believe that in a cultural immersion, there is a subconscious bit where you don't speak as much, lest someone you're talking to starts talking about racism in western Europe or some topic that's beyond your scope of language expression.

When I started Spanish classes a month ago, I panicked on the first day of school, as all of my classmates seemed to have an advanced ability at conversation and expression in Spanish. Four weeks later, I've realized that their ability in the language isn't really that much better, but their desire to express is.

To some extent, I'm envious of those that like to speak so much. In college (and in high school and junior high), it was rare for me to open up in discussions, and God forbid we had to do an oral report. Funny, though, that in my career over the past ten years, I had almost no problem opening my gob and spewing all kinds of statements, both bullshit and sensible.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a chance to get to talk to a classmate about her experience in Spain. This girl is German, and is one of he nicest persons I've ever met in my life. She's only nineteen, but exhibits a maturity of someone who has had many different experiences in life, experiences that she not only has learned from, but has also appreciated.

We were at a disco on the waterfront in the middle of the night, conversing in both Spanish and English, and I discovered that underneath all the poise
and charm, she was just as nervous about the experience when she arrived in Spain as I was. She was equally intimidated about her ability with the language, meeting people, etc.

Months later, of course, she was (and remains) on top of her game. I was most intimidated when I first met her. Sure, she's cute, and happy, and smart, but she made the effort in the new culture, and has been rewarded with an excellent experience; her efforts really paid off. I learned a great deal from her during our three weeks in class together. She returns to Germany in fall to begin university, but I look forward to seeing her again one day.

She made the effort.

I believe I've made the effort to integrate myself in Spain, but I frequently think I should be doing more. One of my initial personal goals was to take advantage of every opportunity. Sometimes I don't do that. I don't beat myself up too much about it, but I do remind myself of my goal.

Here is where I struggle. I don’t like to speak just to speak. I prefer to have something to say. However, in a culture where I need to learn and master a language, I need to speak as much as possible. My teacher put it best today when she told us to practice, practice, and practice more. Practicing is much more beneficial than memorization.

The people in my class that speak the best practice a ton, especially en casa. Me? I can't seem to get in a regular habit of conversing at home with my brother in law in Spanish, even though it's a golden opportunity. Hopefully one day soon, we'll just start speaking in Spanish. Knowing how ironic my life is, probably when we're in the EEUU in August.

Several people have complimented me on my speaking ability, and that’s a big boost. No doubt confidence has it's place in learning a language. My goal for the second half of this year is to use this confidence to my advantage and just speak more. Easy to write, hard to do. But, for every day that I have that's total crap, it seems as if the following day I find myself having an incredible experience that, in blunt terms, is just fucking cool.

I'm looking forward to a few weeks stateside, catching up with friends, seeing the neighbourhood, and preparing myself for the next stint in Spain. It's just getting better and better.

keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan's
07/24/06

Burned Streets

On top of the World Cup, new Spanish verb tenses (pluscuamperfecto???!!!), the heat, and my mother’s broken ankle, I’ve been thinking about the Arcadia and the block of Lower Greenville that burned down a few weeks back in Dallas.

In summer of 1988, about 18 years ago, I dragged Chris McKee down to the Arcadia to see a “Monsters of Rock” show, which included a pretty heavy line up of Three on a Hill, Shallow Reign, and a group which would eventually become Course of Empire. I was really into Shallow Reign at the time, and Chris went along because he likes live shows.

The concert was great, we yucked it up (bryan’s way of saying he wasn’t old enough to drink, though Chris was), and I bought a red shirt with the Shallow Reign logo. I proceeded to wear that shirt with great frequency over the next few years. It was red at the advice of Chris, who had commented that “everyone else had black or white.” Ten years later, Mitch asked me if the shirt was brand new (as it appeared to be). Maybe it was the brand of t-shirt, maybe the band (who collapsed in a cloud of cocaine by 1990), or perhaps it was the venue.

What made the shirt last? I’m saying the venue, the Arcadia. The Arcadia was the type of place where you could go to an eclectic show with a khaki-wearing friend and stand in a crowd of alternativos all clad in black.

That monsters of rock show wasn’t my first visit to the Arcadia, but certainly one of the more memorable ones. I’d seen several Three on a Hill shows in the venue already, and also a band known briefly as Havana 3AM, who featured non other than Paul Simonon, the former bassist of the Clash.

To a great extent, I was more happy at the Arcadia than at any other venue in Dallas.

That same summer, I had the chance to see Erasure play one of their campy shows. It turned out to be a significant bonding moment between my sister and me. I had asked a rather popular girl from my high school (I had just graduated) to attend the show, and she had accepted. However, two hours before the show started, the girl blew me off. I was so upset that I almost didn’t go to the concert. My sister had tickets, too, and was going with some other friends. She told me to come on, anyway. In the end, we stood curb side waiting to enter the Arcadia for the show, sharing a bottle of MadDog 20/20. Now if that’s not about the cutest big sister-little brother story you’ve ever heard…

For sure (whoops, sorry about the Valley Girl reference), I saw every show I could at the Arcadia. The Alarm played an excellent show there (my first opportunity to be able to look directly into Mike Peters’ eyes from 10 feet away), TOAH, and a handful of Course of Empire shows. This was early, early CÖE; their guitarist wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol there, either. We both lacked three more years before we would be legal.

I caught the odd show there over the next several years when I was home from college. By 1993, though, it was no longer a venue for live shows, but instead had been converted to a disco. I never was that heavy into the club scene, but in 92-93, my favorite bar, the London Tavern, was right next door, so I’d make the odd appearance in the disco periodically, mostly to see if I knew any of the Arcadia dancers (those girls that get to dance on the platforms high above the floor).

As the decade progressed, I moved away from the club scene and onto the pub scene. The London Tavern closed (and relocated to Addison, where I rediscovered it years later when playing soccer at Inwood).

Though I was spending most of the time at the Dubliner, and later the Monk, I still kept abreast of the places in the vicinity of the Arcadia, particularly Nuevo Leon, an excellent Mexican restaurant.

It’s no shock to anyone that I’m a huge fan of Mexican food, and I’ve always found N.L. to be super tasty. I found plenty of opportunities to eat there once I moved to Little Goliad, which was 4 minutes staggering distance away.

One brilliant occasion, I walked down to N.L. to meet Pablo and some folks for dinner, but arrived a bit early. Tom Lambert showed bit early, too, and he and I seized the opportunity to have five or six margaritas each as we waited for everyone else. I can’t remember all that much about the rest of the evening, but Tom and I had an excellent time.

Since then, I’ve enjoyed their margaritas (frozen or rocks) regularly. My last visit was about a year ago with Paula, my Colombian friend who was helping me learn Spanish. We rocked out to frozen margaritas and drew diagrams (including one of my brain) and wrote Spanish phrases on the table cloth for several hours. And we got home safely.

Now, as that block of my home town no longer exists, I have only the memories to hold on to. It’s a bit of a new experience for me, finding that physical places from my past have disappeared. However, I’m not the first one to have these feelings, and I certainly won’t be the last.

keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan’s 11/7/06

Motion's Got the World in Love

So it’s July 11th. In a flash of a month, the World Cup has finished. I managed to jot down a few thoughts after the first week of the tournament, but couldn’t find time to get them posted. Three weeks later, it feels more like three months. Why? I’ve been a bit preoccupied.

Two weeks ago, I enrolled in intensive Spanish classes, and since June 26th, I’ve spent my mornings in a little language school just off La Plaza de la Reina. Classes are from 9.30-1.30, then I have to teach at Casa Americana in the evenings. The sudden change in my schedule has caught me by surprise, but I’ve adjusted finally, and have even managed to stay current on visits to the gym, too.

Babylon Idomas is the name of the school, and I’m glad I’m in there. On my initial interview, I had a brief conversation with an instructor who ultimately put me in a advanced intermediate level, level 4 out of 6. The first week was particularly tough, as I was a bit intimidated by my classmates and my teacher. Everyone seemed to know quite a bit more than me. There’s a Dutch girl, two German girls, a Russian guy, and a Swedish guy. There was an American girl who tended to complain about Spain at every opportunity, so I was kind of glad when she didn’t return for the second week.

In my first class, we jumped right in to subjuntivo, which has driven many non-native Spanish speakers crazy. I wouldn’t consider Sr. Subjuntivo to be my friend, but I’ve been more or less able to hold my own. After the first week, I felt much less intimidated around my classmates. True, they all seem to be able to speak better than me, but I discovered that most have just finished an Erasmus experience, so have had a bit more exposure to Spanish than I have.

I’ve given an oral report on Punk (hazlo tú mismo…DIY) and learn something cool every day, even when my ability to comprehend sometimes just up and takes a break without my permission. (This, er, actually happens more than I care to admit. There’s nothing quite like just standing there, everything seemingly going ok, when suddenly, you don’t have the slightest idea what anyone is saying.)

Last Friday, I discovered that one of my teachers, Lourdes, was born in Sevilla, but raised in Ireland. She speaks exactly like Andrea Corr, and that alone is enough to keep me blushing throughout class (not that she speaks Spanish with an Irish accent). She happens to resemble Ms. Corr, also, which has helped my attendance.

The experience is just what I need at this stage of my time in Spain. No, I probably don’t deserve points for timing, as I finish my classes at the end of July, then head to the US for a few weeks during August. However, there was no other time for me to take classes.

The feeling of having a full day over the past couple of weeks has really been great. On several occasions, I’ve left the house at 8am, and returned around midnight. It’s nice to know that I haven’t gotten completely complacent with 20 hour work weeks over the past four months. I can still get up and get things done.

Now, it’s hot as shit in Valencia, and there’s simply no polite way to put it. The heat can be so awful that you find yourself wanting to say every bad word you’ve ever learned in your life all at once…to your mother. (not that one would be so foolish)

Seriously, it becomes increasingly difficult not to burst into tears when you find yourself, on a crowded metro, soaked to the skin with sweat, five stops away from your destination. I’ve long since abandoned the idea of trying to keep neat, fresh and tidy on the way to class. I’m just going to be a sweaty bastard, and everyone can just deal with it.

I had taken to dressing in very little around the house, until my sister quietly pointed out that Daniel kept trying to go around without a shirt on. Now, I leave the sans shirt trick for times on the terrace. We’re still working on a solution to when I wear a towel to and from the shower. Sometimes, I stop off in the kitchen to make a coffee, and one day, my nephew saw me, stripped off, then put a small towel around himself and said, “Somos iguales!” Um, we might need to change that trend.

I’ve been amazed at the effect the heat has on others in Valencia. Most folks seem to look fresher than I do, but it’s not as if they like the heat any better. Last weekend, the Pope came to Valencia, and I had to wonder just who thought that one and a half days out in the incredible heat listening to the Pope would be a good idea. Yet, one million people came for the event.

In college, Pablo once told me of a nightmare he’d had where all the Catholics got herded onto a cattle car of a train. Last Friday on the metro, I lived this nightmare, but knew I was the only smiling protestant on the train.

A visit from the Pope is significant, and I respected the matter greatly. That said, I wasn’t too keen on a hot, sweaty city becoming more crowded with a bunch of visitors. For most of last week, the city prepared for a two day shutdown. Security was at a high level, and many areas were blocked off. It was most unfortunate, then, when Valencia experienced a tragic accident on the metro five days before the Pope arrived. 40 plus people were killed, and exactly the kind of thing that adds a lot of tension to a pretty tense situation already.

But that was last week. Monday, the metros were running again, the Pope’s visit was more or less a success, and the streets, the city, are more or less back to normal. And we will always remember the victims of the metro accident.

July in Valencia tends to be a pretty slow time, as everyone suffers through the heat and prepares for their August vacations. I’m one of those individuals who is sweating things out for a few more weeks until August 4th, when I head to Dallas for three weeks. I won’t miss the incredible heat in Valencia, but believe that it’s likely just as hot in Dallas.

Despite the heat, August is always a cool month for me, because club soccer resumes. Yep, we’re four weeks away from the return of Premiership, Bundesliga, Serie A, La Liga, and Ligue 1.

So now for the soccer moment.

Chris emailed me a couple of weeks back and said, “what am I going to do after the World Cup…until August?” Exactly.

Football is football, and it’s a necessity. After group stage in World Cup, I became dismayed. The games weren’t shaping up to be all that great, and almost all my teams weren’t performing well. Since the final has already been won (congrats to Italia), I can now pass some commentary, particularly on the knock-out stages.

The US? They shouldn’t have even come to the tournament, as far as I’m concerned. Their play lacked heart, feeling, and technique. Before you go thinking I’m anti-American, let me say that England didn’t play any better, and they were fortunate to get out of the first round, themselves. Quite disappointing, really.

Other teams fared better, but still got knocked out before the quarters. Spain, Ecuador, Holland, and Mexico all really impressed me, particularly Spain and Mexico.

I pulled for France in the final, and knew at the first penalty that they would lose to Italy. I had hoped to see Germany-France, and believe that the Germany-Italy semi-final was one of the best, if not the best matches of the tournament. In the end for Germany, though, it wasn’t meant to be.

France played a bit better towards the end of the Cup, but after Zidane was sent off, which was after Henry, Ribery, and Viera had been subbed, I didn’t see how France could find victory.

In a word, Germany 2006 was boring.

Sure, I watched as many games as I could, and did manage to see most of the knock out matches (after group stage). And I kept watching, even when the games were boring.

I’ve spoken with others about this, and they’ve said similar things: the cup just wasn’t all that exciting.

On a more positive note, every one of the players from Arsenal performed very well at this tournament. Hell, even some of their ex-players, too.

To answer Chris’ question from early on, we’re going to remember how well these Arsenal players did in Germany from now until opening day of Premiership. That’s what we’re going to do between the World Cup and August 15th.

See you in August

keep the faith
bryan
11/7/06
Finnegan’s

Er…girlfriends? Loads of them are about. They just all have other boyfriends.

World in Motion

I’ve always liked the fact that I was born in an even year – 1970. It makes it easy to remember my age, for one thing. I especially like noting it as a World Cup year. True, I remember nothing of the World Cup Final in 1970; I didn’t even know what a World Cup was until 1978, but I learned quickly.

1982 was a significant year as I was in England during the tournament, which was being held in Spain. Everywhere we travelled, people were talking about the Word Cup, particularly since England was playing so well (they lost in one of the early knock out rounds). I watched several matches that year via television at bed and breakfasts that my family was staying in. The whole experience of football in Europe left a pretty big impression, as I was able to see that this game was not simply a sport that kids nine and ten years old played, as it was in the US. I asked for a Subbuteo soccer game that Christmas just like the ones I’d seen all the kids in the UK playing with, and of course the first team I got was England. Every time I heard the name Peter Shilton, I would stop and remember, “Wow, he’s the best English goal keeper ever!”

1986 was a bit more sketchy for me, though I was certainly aware that Mexico was the host. I saw several matches, but owe my distraction during the tournament that I had just had hip surgery, and was beginning a six month stint on crutches. It was more important to be pissy and difficult and complain that I wasn’t able to do anything as opposed to following an international soccer tournament.

Italia 1990. My sister was actually in Italy that summer for a couple of weeks, though by complete coincidence. I was fortunate to get a couple of little pennants and things that she brought back as souvenirs, though. It was a big event for the US, as they qualified for the first time in years (four decades, actually). Sure, they went home after 3 games, but that certainly didn’t come as a surprise. New Order released a song that summer, “Love’s Got the World in Motion,” which has gone down as one of my favorite NO songs ever, not so much because the song was that great, but because it was about the greatest sport. Besides, they had a Subbuteo mix. England lost in penalities in one of the knock out stages, and I seem to remember Peter Shilton, who was now 40 years old, guessed the correct side for the penalty, but was too slow to make the save. Nate K and myself (and a few others) cooked out at my house for the final, drank loads of beer, and danced around the backyard to that song. I can remember the events of England’s exit that year, but I can’t remember where my parents were that summer. Huh.

1994 USA. While I’m unfortunate to have missed the matches that were played in Dallas, I was delighted that at least the tournament got some local attention. Pablo has the better stories from those few weeks, but Tim and I made some pretty good stories ourselves. We covered our apartment in just about every sign and flag available from a local sports bar where Tim’s girlfriend worked. Plenty of beer coasters and posters, too. We even made a soccer ball out of Christmas lights on our living room wall. It looked pretty cool, though it kind of looked more like a donut than a soccer ball. No matter. Quite a festive year.

France 1998 was also pretty special for me. I was living in Boston onsite at a customer’s facility, reporting to a boss several thousand miles away in Texas. This made it easier to break away from the office to watch matches, and I saw almost all of them on the screens at an Irish bar I liked.
England played well that year, as Michael Owen and David Beckham were starting to reach their stride. I was devastated, however, when England lost on penalties to Argentina. The manager of the Irish bar begged me not to destroy the establishment (he thought I was a hooligan, for some reason), and of course I didn’t even think of trashing the place. In fact, I went back to watch the final between France and Brazil, where France won in fantastic fashion.

When 2002 Korea/Japan came around, I prepared myself for 30 days of matches. I made it a personal goal to see every match, and somehow I managed the task at the great expense of my performance at work. I watched most of the matches at Little Goliad on a 13 inch tv, but caught a few matches at the Dubliner, and a couple at the Monk, including England’s loss to Brazil, who went on to win the whole tournament. Had England not lost to Brazil (i.e., had David Seaman not fucked up and instead actually saved Ronaldinho’s free kick,) I think England would have gone on to win the whole thing. Alas, I could speculate forever…

The problem I’ve also had is the lack of coverage for WC qualifiers and the actual World Cup in the States. Yes, the Spanish stations broadcast every match, which is fine if you understand Spanish. ESPN and ABC tend to provide a little bit of coverage, but favor the US strongly. Since the US usually exits in the first or second round, the stateside coverage drops off rapidly after the second week of the tournament. Pay for view is OK, but unless you’re Lori McKee, you pay full price for matches shown on Setanta, usually $20 a pop. (Lori caught the football bug after Euro 2002, and made frequent trips to the Dub on match days, though she never quite had to pay as much as I did)

I didn’t miss any of England’s qualifiers for 2006 (come to think of it, I didn’t miss any of their qualifiers for 2002, either). It’s nice to have the Dubliner for many reasons, but WC qualifiers mark some of my most favorite times at that bar. See how fun it can be to go to the Dub at 9am to watch 6 hours of football and drink pints? By the start of the second match, you suddenly are talking with other patrons, who likely have been doing exactly as you have. The end result is that everyone has a great great time, only you can’t recall much about it the following week. Once, during a qualifier for 2002 I met a Dutch girl that left a huge impression on me (oh, is that what they call it?). I searched for months for that girl whose name I couldn’t remember, and come on, how many Dutch girls whose name began with an S were working as waitresses in Dallas, anyway?

I looked forward to Alemania 2006 with great anticipation. I’d be in the same continent during the World Cup, for one thing. Also, Spain doesn’t have much interest in other sports like baseball and basketball (which occupy the airwaves in the US during summer), so I wouldn’t have to jockey with other bar patrons about watching a game on television. Now, I am forever grateful to Gabe for telling the staff at the Monk that “unless Bryan comes in and asks for a soccer game to be put on, do NOT switch from baseball or basketball,” but would he have done the same for me during the NBA finals this year? I don’t know, but was kind of glad not to have to find out. It was a simply a non issue for me here. It seems that EVERY bar in Europe is tuned to the match during the World Cup, period.

Alas, I failed to realize a couple of things until right before the tournament started this year. First, Spain pulled a broadcast trick, and showed MOST matches on commercial television, but not all. Several matches were on Canal plus, a satellite channel, and one that we don’t have at Lynne and Fran’s. Fortunately, Finnegan’s (as well as many other places around Valencia) was showing all matches.

Solving the problem of where to watch matches was relatively easy in comparison to my second problem. In Spain, I work in the evenings, now. That’s precisely when the majority of the matches were being held. Thus, I’ve really had to plan my time carefully, and that hasn’t prevented me from missing several matches. Take the opener between Germany and Costa Rica for example. 4-2 was the result, and quite the match. I was sitting in a stuffy classroom with two scientists discussing their upcoming trip to London. Just another Friday afternoon English conversation class.

I did get home in time for Ecuador-Poland, and noticed right off the bat that the Ecuadorian team apparently has been hitting the weight room. A lot. Those guys were buff, buff, buff. And they play well, too.

On the first Saturday of the event, June 10, I planned to watch England play Paraguay from Finnegan’s. I had a class until 2pm, but then hustled over to the bar and arrived about 20 minutes before 3pm, when the game was to begin. Finnegan’s was packed with rowdy English fans. It was a hot day, and the viewing screens aren’t tops. The projector screen (the biggest in the bar) is pretty washed out (worse than Trinity Hall), so unless you stand directly in front of it, you can’t see much. Since I arrived late, I was closer to the outside of the bar than to the inside.

I’d been in this situation countless times before, so like always, I fought for space, wished I hadn’t brought my backpack, and ordered two (gasp!) Coronitas. I needed a lighter beer to help me through the heat, and I also wanted a bottle in my hand just in case someone got frisky. (ergo the statement I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. McKee, do I get a prize for using the word “lobotomy” in a story?)

The game commenced, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t see all that well. Since I was standing near the entrance, I was constantly jostled as people kept ordering beers (Do you take pounds here?) In the end, I was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of fans. At halftime, I decided to head home for a quieter, hopefully cooler place. England were up 1-0, and the game wasn’t all that great, anyway. I vowed to arrive earlier for the next match.

A few hours later, I was feeling more comfortable as I watched Sweden play Trinidad and Tobago, and then a buddy called me asking to meet for beers and a night out later that evening. Sounded good to me.

I found Victor at the metro stop in town, right next to a Calatrava bridge, and we walked a few blocks to meet a few other guys at a pub. Victor is a military officer, as were his four friends. I was to be the gancho, which amused me, as I never have, and never will be that type of guy. Though military, these guys are great, and really funny. I followed along in Spanish as much as I could, with Victor and Juan helping to translate when I got lost. After a pint in a pub, we changed locations and had a couple of drinks at a cocktail lounge, then arrived at a disco close to 1am, which was a bit early, actually. Soon, I realized why we got there so early, as the place quickly filled to capacity within 30 minutes.

Drinks at the discos are expensive (so is cover charge, for that matter), but I switched to Jack and Coke hoping I wouldn’t repeat my last bad experience with Jack Daniels, which was about 10 years ago. The scene at the disco was incredible, partly because I’m not known for hitting the club scene. I was enjoying the scenery, if you will, and through the course of the evening discovered that my five new friends are even more shy than I am. I explained that I thought I’d be a bit worthless as the gancho because of this, not least of all because approaching pretty girls on a dance floor isn’t a concept that I’m familiar with, even after a few drinks.

The music got better (it was a bit more Spanish rock than electronica), the girls got prettier, and the place got more full. After an unsuccessful attempt to chat up some girls, Victor and Juan decided to change locations, and we headed to another disco. After all, it was only 4am.

The evening caught up with us, and we left after two drinks. I caught a taxi home, and got to bed as the sun was coming up.

Football? Oh yeah. I did see some of Argentina-Ivory Cost at St Patrick’s, the pub where we’d begun our evening.

That Sunday was pretty lazy, and I did keep any eye on the scores, though I didn’t watch any match all the way through. I was feeling a little let down, since very few of the games had been all that exciting anyway. Thus far, however, Germany, Ecuador, Argentina, Holland, and Ivory Coast had impressed me.

Monday, June 12th. I caught most of Japan-Australia, but left for school before the end, and missed the exciting Aussie victory. I got to school, but my student never showed up (unexcused absence, which means I get paid anyway). Thus, I missed the drumming that the US took from the Czechs.

Obviously a football crazy country follows World Cup very closely. It’s nice to open the daily paper in Spain to loads of coverage about all of the teams. At 3pm that Tuesday afternoon, the country stopped to watch Spain’s first match of the tournament. We were not let down as Spain won 3-0 in quite a convincing style. Sure, there were two more games to play, but the nation was encouraged after the victory.

Of course I had to work on Thursday during England-T&T, but I dropped by Finnegan’s and caught the replay of the last 15 minutes, during which England won. I was glad to see England had two wins, but was far from impressed.

Friday evening, we had our end of school year dinner for the Casa Americana staff and students. I congratulated the Argentinean girl (who’s bar was catering the dinner) on the day’s match: Argentina 6, Serbia diddly squat. Argentina was definitely meeting expectations of being a strong team. Most of the discussion during dinner was about how well Spain was playing and what their chances were against some monster team like Argentina or Brazil.

On Saturday, I was a bit surprised to see Ghana show strongly against the Czech Republic, and concluded that the US would most likely take the early bus home from the tournament. After watching another poor display by the US against Italy, I was convinced that the US wouldn’t get out of round one. In both matches, they never appeared to perform at all. The group, however, was going to be crazy since Ghana, Italy, and the Czechs all still showed capability of advancing.

Spain celebrates Father’s day in March, so I almost forgot to call my dad on June 18th. Football wise, Australia played hard against Brazil, but couldn’t get a result. France was showing the same complacency of England, which was not encouraging. Argentina, Germany, and Ecuador looked like tough opponents during the knock out stages.

I was antsy about my class on Monday evening, not because of my student, but because of the match between Spain and Tunisia. It was my luck that this student showed up, and I had to remind him that his nation was playing football that evening. Of all five people in Spain who had no interest in the World Cup, one was my student. In the end (with a couple of hints from me), he elected to end class early, which enabled me to get home for the second half of the match.

I arrived home to find Lynne and Fran both watching the match. Somehow they’d both caught the spirit of the World Cup. Spain came from a goal behind to win 3-1, and I was particularly pleased to see young Cesc Fabregas from Arsenal play such an important role in both victories of Spain.

Lucky for me that my late class on Tuesday cancelled, and I decided to have a quiet beer in a bar in Alboraia for the Sweden-England match. Both teams had already advanced to the next round, so the objective was to determine who would top the group. I wanted to watch a good football match, and I pretty much did. A 2-2 draw was a fair result, as Sweden played hard to get themselves back in the match as England considered their complacency.

Wednesday was the first day of summer. It’s already hot as crap in Spain, so big whoop. I had lunch with Stephanie and Rafa at Finnegan’s, then stayed on to watch Mexico –Portugal. Mexico was needing a good result and some luck in order to advance. A few people showed up to watch the match, including one Portuguese and a group of Mexicans. We discovered the Portuguese when he stood up to cheer the early goal against Mexico. The Mexican group was friendly, and by halftime, we were all enjoying pints together. An Irish guy who didn’t speak much Spanish showed up, and suddenly I discovered that all of the Mexicans spoke English, and so did the guy from Portugal. I continued to speak in Spanish with everyone, except the Irishman.

I sort of got caught up in the moment, and kept ordering pints, believing I could sober up by 8pm for my class. It didn’t help when my student called at 6pm to cancel. Yes, it saved me from embarrassing myself in class, but pretty well ensured that I’d be done for later, particularly since the Irish guy and I were drinking at such a frantic pace.

Our little group decided to change venues for the late match (Argentina-Holland), and we trekked over to St. Patrick’s. I tried to hide the fact that I had the hiccups, but when I staggered and almost fell into the street in front of a taxi cab, I think everyone knew that I was fucked. Sure, the Irish wasn’t any better than I was, but the Portuguese and the Mexicans were several steps closer to sobriety.

I skipped a round at St. Patrick’s, and managed to have a conversation with a French guy who had shown up at some point. We talked about Daft Punk and a few other groups. The match was headed for a draw, but I marvelled at how the Dutch fans were quite a bit less overwhelming than the English fans from the other week, even in their bright orange. The Dutch girls tend to be really cute, but I didn’t score any points with them when I stood up in front of a group of them trying to watch the game. I was trying to say my goodbyes to my own little group, but I wasn’t faring all that well. Somehow, I managed to bid everyone adios, staggered outside, got a cab, and got home around 11.15pm. 9 hours of pints. Ouch.

I woke up at 4am partially clothed and with the lights on, not to mention the beginnings of a headache. I still got to the gym by early afternoon, but was regretting the amount I’d consumed during the previous evening. Fortunately, my student never showed that evening (another paid unexcused absence). This gave me time to quietly learn that Ghana beat US, officially ending their World Cup. I also discovered with great sadness that the Arcadia theatre had burned down in Dallas. I didn’t completely learn my lesson from the night before too well, because I went for a few more beers with my intercambio Paola, but was home in bed fairly early.

Spain won their third match with their reserves that Friday afternoon of June 23. I welcomed that quiet Friday evening at home, and the quick chat with Tim was really cool. Finding out that my mom broke her ankle wasn’t as cool, especially since she wasn’t doing anything like practicing a bicycle kick or anything…

Yesterday, Germany eliminated Sweden, and Argentina eliminated Mexico. I wanted Mexico to advance, but they lost to a strong squad. Perhaps the best match of the tournament so far, in my opinion. Heavy drama, strong play, and an absolutely brilliant goal to win the match. However, Mexico deserves to be proud of their showing in Germany.

It’s now Sunday noon, June 25th, and I’m lounging on the terrace probably getting a sunburn. England plays this afternoon, and I won’t be surprised if Ecuador surprise the world. Veremos.


keep the faith
bryan at c/ Tomas Trenor
June 25, 2006