Stories from a city Saturday

Rather than go straight narration for my first day alone in Tel Aviv, here are three brief stories and many photos I garnered from my walking around.
A brief explanation beforehand: I live in Nof Yam, a small section of Herziliya Pituach, itself the seaside portion of the city Herziliya. On the whole, the city is a convenient adjunct to the Tel Aviv area, with beach access and a reasonable restaurant/night scene. It's no Tel Aviv, of course, but the city is 15-20 minutes away when there's no traffic, as was the case yesterday.
Ok, now the stories.

The Many Faceless


On Berkowitz St., right behind the art complex in Tel Aviv center (where the Museum, Performing Arts Center, and Opera House sit side by side), stand the faceless statues. A group of two, a group of three, and then one on his own, at the vertex of the sidewalk. The statues stand on plain brown metal pillars. Their faces are blank, their hands are in their pockets or behind their backs, and their clothes are drab. They don't suggest silence and conformity; they insist on it.
There are many ways to interpret what a set of art like this might mean. We are forever doomed to search for meaning, and the easiest one, considering the statues' location and their silence, is to say that these people stand for the faceless, nameless people who stayed silent during the Holocaust, allowing the Jews and the gays and the gypsies and everyone else to go straight to the camps, straight to their doom.
A person with a broader understanding of history might expand on this. This could just as easily be a symbol for all the privileged Western European Jews who shunned their provincial Eastern coreligionists in the early 20th century, during the pogroms. It could be a broader statement on our tendency to allow genocide to occur everywhere, from Darfur to Armenia. Those from a different political orientation might say it marks the Jews' mistreatment of the Palestinians since Israel has been established. The further complication that the statues stand near a Japanese and Swiss flag, among others, leads to more potentialities.


These are all fine suggestions, and perhaps one or more is correct. But I prefer to rise above the allegorical leanings of those possible explanations, and beyond the strict political interpretations.


As I see it, these faceless statues stand for all of us. They stand for all the times we have not taken a chance, have not followed through on an opportunity. The times we let love slip through our grasps because the situation wasn't quite right, the times we let a friendship go away because of a silly slip or a persistent pride, the times we misspoke or misunderstood and lost something that could have been preserved. The times we try to fit in because it's easier or because we're afraid, the times we allow someone else to suffer because that's easier then stepping in and supporting him.
Each time something like this happens, we lose our face. We lose who we are, we lose our essence. We become one of the masses, someone just like everybody else. Our hands are in our pockets because we don't know what to do with them. We wash our faces of the problem and watch as it passes us by, and then we say, "But what could I do?" and move on.

We're all faceless. Nobody can avoid losing their face in their lifetime. To be human is to be faceless.

And yet, as humans striving to be more, doomed to search for meaning, we seek to recover. We endlessly search for our faces, for our essence, for the I that I and only I can be. Not always are we aware of this search, and awareness doesn't really aid in the finding. And we'll never recover our face; not completely, not in this life. Still, we seek.
So these statues serve to remind us that we are all the same, all stripped of our essence by our own actions and failures. Still we stand there, hands in our pockets, wondering how to get it all back. And the world moves on.

My Sarona

Just south of Kaplan St., a major road in the center of Tel Aviv, sounds a peaceful song of dissonance. West of three skyscrapers that form the Azirelli Center, a commercial and business landmark along the Ayalon freeway, are three blocks of two story beige mud-brick houses. They are surrounded by green grass and trees in full summer glory, with open squares for couples to sit together in, or for young children to run about in. There are benches and tables to sit at, with maps of the city serving as the table designs.

A few signposts in English explain that this was once home of a winery or wine refinery, but otherwise whatever indications there are for the name of this region are in Hebrew. Fortunately, a look at the map explains that this is Hakirya, and a search on the internet eventually leads to a wikipedia article on Sarona. Once a settlement for Templers (who, per wikipedia, appear to be Christians who don't believe Christ was the son of God but just a really good guy), the area was preserved even after the Templers were kicked out around WWII and Israeli independence; apparently the Templers, founded in Germany, had ties to the Third Reich. Positive ties.

In the eternal irony of history, that settlement now offers an oasis within the largest and most modern city in the only Jewish nation (Brooklyn has yet to declare its independence, as far as I know). Everywhere in Tel Aviv there are exciting juxtapositions between cold, intimidating modernity and comforting, outdated history. Hakirya can envelop the visitor so that he forgets that there is a big road meters away, or that the skyline surrounding is full of towers. When walking in it, it's unclear whether the area is an Arab village, a college student enclave, or just a general area of escape. Its serenity and beauty shines, however, by remaining simple and calling back to all the things that are lost or soon will be lost. It's the sort of place all the best cities need, and Tel Aviv has it in abundance.

A City of Mélanges

One of the new teachers in our school, who is married to an Israeli and has been here before, made the point that in Israel, you see more variety in car brands. Along with Honda, the occasional Ford, and Toyota, you get Peugeot, Fiat, Citron, Smart Cars, and a bunch of others I can't recall. (He also made the point that all his friends who visit him here, male or female, ask about how Israeli women's breast sizes are so large. Also an interesting observation.)

Similarly, walking in Tel Aviv will lead you to a bunch of different languages. Hebrew and Arabic, Russian and English, sure, of course. I also stumbled across a French language shul off of Trumpeldor St. Mishkin's Place, a Russian restaurant on Ben Yehuda, had the menu written in English and Russian, but then said they spoke Spanish and French there. Italian signs popped up. The grocery store sold things in Ukranian. Cafes boasting Yemenite, Ethiopian, or Libyan cuisine are not uncommon. Even within languages there were a variety; I heard all sorts of different English accents, for example. And not to return to it too much, but the one book I've read that brings up Tel Aviv in the action is The Savage Detectives, a book written by a Chilean, where the action in Tel Aviv revolves around Mexicans and Mexican Jews.

Take my dining experience last night as an example. I wanted to make it all the way to Neve Tzedek, hearing that they would have some artsy cafes open even on Shabbat. I thought I might be able to avoid eating a major dinner. My stomach asserted otherwise, and still a little north of the district, I decided I would eat soon.
After some dithering on Ben Yehuda, as I pondered walking to my car to make sure blue and white curbs did indeed mean free, tow-safe parking, I decided to turn back south towards Neve Tzedek. And then after doubling back through a dilapidated housing complex, I stopped at a restaurant that boasted of a "True Eastern Cuisine", in Russian, while displaying the menu in English.
A man of dark skin sat at an outside table, alone. I walked inside and said, "Shalom" to the man behind the counter, also of olive color with a neat gray haircut. "Yes, please," he said. "Filafel," I said.
He went to work and prepared the pita for me, asking me whether I wanted this or that ingredient to be included. His family - a mother with two girls - sat at a table on the raised dining area to my right, and the younger girl kept coming to him, saying "Abba, abba". He made my pita, fielded her questions, and kept an eye on the TV, where the Jamaican 100-meter Olympic Champ wrapped himself up in a Jamaican flag.
I returned outside and saw a girl about my age sitting with the man at their table. She was American, judging by her accent in English, and chatting up the man while smoking a cigarette. They were strangers to each other, I think, and she the initiator for their conversation. I took notes on my day in my notebook as I ate, also glancing over at them occasionally. Meanwhile I watched Mishkin's Place across the street from us, wondering if the old couple and the waitress who served them were actually Russian, like they looked, or if I just thought that based on the circumstances.
Once finished with my fine falafel, I went inside to put my dishes away. I had already asked the restaurant owner where Neve Tzedek was - to our south, as I thought - and I thanked him on my way out.
The girl, noticing my English, perhaps decided I would be a better conversational partner. "I like your shirt," she said of my notorious designer, skeleton design white T. "Thank you," I said without missing a beat, perhaps coldly in turning away her conversational parry, as I headed south.


On the way to Neve Tzedek I found the Russian Embassy, or so I believe, which explains the slightly higher frequency of Russian signs on Ben Yehuda. From there I walked about 15 minutes to get into the Neve Tzedek region, at which point I settled on the closest, most advertised cafe I could find.
Unclear on whether it was a cafe or a restaurant, and how to order, I went inside to the bar. There, a girl my age in light brown dreadlocks gave me an English menu. She spoke good, British-accented English, though she spoke Hebrew as well, leading me to believe she was Israeli. She gave me the menu, I ordered tea and a Fanta, and once she confirmed I wanted it for here and not takeaway, she sent me to a table.

I sat at a table outside and took a few more notes. A waitress brought me a glass of hot water, a glass with ice in it, a 350 ml glass bottle of orange Fanta, and a tray with various tea options. I took a Japanese green and let it soak, and I finished my notes.
Next to me were two guys in their early 30s comparing arm tattoos. They spoke in English, but both were clearly not native speakers, and at times they would elide into another language, which I didn't hear too well but I would guess was Hebrew. It reminded me of Friday night on the beach in Herziliya with teachers, where one of them spoke with a girl who offered us free massages (working for tips) in a mix of Hebrew and English, easily flitting back and forth between the two.
I pulled out my book, Murakami's Norwegian Wood, and immersed myself in his Tokyo and careless sex. At the same time, the guys continued on the debate of forearm versus biceps,
and a couple sat at another table (later that night, in Herziliya with other teachers, I found out from our waitress that yesterday was a "love holiday", akin to Valentine's Day). I couldn't hear what they spoke in, but very little would have surprised me.

A Few Stray Cats
Tel Aviv, or maybe broader Israel, is known for having a lot of stray cats around. Here were a few I saw.

The first one, outside the tranquil and most righteously named Dan Family Park, near the art complex.

This one thought he could hide from me. Not from my lens, at least. Also, note the wheel of the car at the right of the picture.

You noted the wheel, right? Good. That's the car this cat is under.

This cat was actually afraid of my lens, and quick enough to hide from it. So, another faceless creature with which to end the post.

What do you mean, we're not moving and it has to do with Russia?

Last night I joined a few other teachers to celebrate someone's birthday. They got me at 7 or so, and in a two car caravan we drove to Neve Tzedek, a hip artsy neighborhood in Tel Aviv. We had left late and anticipated Thursday night traffic, and so were nervous about the 12-person reservation at the restaurant. Still, we figured the 20 minutes of typical driving would maybe double.
Well it took us 20 minutes...to get through a set of lights on the border of the city. And another 20 minutes or so before that. And a few more sets of 20. In sum, it took us an hour and a half. (Don't check my math, since it's only implied and math tutoring starts Monday).
That's all well and good, but there was an unusual disturbance: as we drove down the beach road in Tel Aviv, deciding that would be the most direct route to Neve Tzedek (and scenic, taking us by the Old port area that is newly revitalized, and near Jaffa, the original settlement in the area), we continued to drag ass. Not our fault, of course, as there were hordes of cars dragging ass in front of us. Well, maybe partly our fault, because our driver, the kindly Kevin, would allow cars from side streets to go in front of us, a grand gesture completely foreign to Israeli driving mores, where you as soon let a guy go in front of you as you slow down entering a roundabout, or never. But the few cars we let go in front of us slowed us down minimally, so really, it wasn't our fault.
As we neared the U.S. Embassy, situated across from the beach and next to Mike's Place, an American sports bar, we saw a bunch of people on the side of the road. They were making noise and carrying signs and flags, the flags white with a red cross, and then four smaller crosses in the corners. As the people passed by us and we by the people, we started reading the signs.
In English, Russian, and Georgian, they were signs protesting the war. Specifically, they were Georgians (or Georgian Jews, I suppose, or even Georgian Israelis) demanding that the Russians leave, that the Americans intervene, that Medvedev become president (alluding to the likelihood that Putin is still behind everything), and that we acknowledge that Putin=Hitler (or Gitler; Russian and probably Georgian turn H sounds to G). Of course, listening to the radio station Reka ("The River", a Russian station in Israel), I heard that the same comparisons were being made in Moscow, about Saakshivilii. Seems to me that, using the ol' transitivity rule, that Saakshivilii=Putin, and that we might be dealing with a huge case of schizophrenia, and somebody get Borges on the phone.

On a serious tangent, this war is atrocious if not surprising. I am no better informed than anybody about this (Friday night, when my internet was still balky about certain websites, I got a gchat request from a friend for perspective on the war between Russia and Georgia. "Oh, there's a war now?" I said). I harbor distrust for both governments involved, as well as for the U.S. administration as they heavyhandedly try to make their impact. Also, the behavior here from Russia and the U.S. over the general principle is somewhat contrary to their stances over Kosovo (in that case the U.S. supported the autonomy of a breakaway ethnicity, Russia opposed; here it's the reverse, roughly speaking), suggesting that realpolitik > principles.
I have talked to someone in Moscow who, when not disgusted with politics and people in general, reports great anger at Saakshivilii, and the U.S. for supporting him, which suggests that Russia is getting one side of the story. Seeing that Condoleeza Rice isn't meeting with Russia and that McCain is making bold remarks about Georgia on his mind suggests that another side is playing there. Israel holds an interesting place in this as many immigrants here are from Russia and Georgia. For example, when talking about the Israeli wrestling team, people often point out that they're all Georgians or Russians.
Which brings me to the other personal touch I have with this. When I wrestled at CSKA, I became friendly with a few Ossetians, both South and North I believe, and some Georgians. I remember an owl-eyed kid named Bekah, who left because he had to serve in the Georgian army, and Ossetski Lev, a wide-grinning fellow whose full name was Ludwig. There was a Muslim kid from Georgia who insisted he wasn't Georgian. That area, the Caucauses, is a mix of a ton of nationalities (and a pair of religions: Islam and Russian Orthodox), and at times their differences erupt - Dagestan isn't the safest place, Chechnya had its war day, etc.
As was pointed out to me in a lecture by an American professor at Tel Aviv University when talking about the Middle East, the decline of empires and rise of self-rule makes it difficult to assess who deserves rule, and everybody wants a piece. That is to say, during the Soviet Union, Georgia and Ossetia and all these other nations and nationalities were subsumed in part of the larger country. They were equal in their misery, so to speak. Now, with unclear national boundaries and the supposed freedom to choose where they stand, these countries and peoples are obviously struggling. So while I don't have enough knowledge or facts on this situation, and I think that both sides are in the wrong here and assessments are hard to make, the war is inevitable. And inevitably crappy.

Just like Tel Aviv traffic, which finally receded after we passed the protest. We finally made it to the restaurant, where our table was still reserved, and had a jolly evening. Though the puff pastry stuffed with liver, onions, and pear sauce was a bad choice. Seriously, I blame the pear sauce.

The traffic's abatement was temporary, however: the ride home took about 40 minutes. That, at least, was the double time period.

So the nature of traffic is pretty bad here, though of course it's pretty bad in New York, or Sao Paolo, or Moscow. What about inevitable things particular to Israel?

Security
Everybody wonders about whether it's safe here. "Don't get blown up" I heard not a few times, or "Don't blow us up!" which was a bit of a confused sentiment. The news says bad things happen all the time, that ceasefires are temporary, illusory agreements, and that the whole country is in danger.
Which it is, probably, to some degree. But day to day life is pretty safe, beyond the threat of Israeli drivers. Arab minorities and Jewish majorities live together in peace, from what I've noticed to date, and the existential threat felt on the geopolitical level doesn't really enter into your thoughts. Especially when lounging on the beach is involved.

There are a couple notable exceptions, though. Security becomes a natural part of life, to a higher degree than it would be in the U.S. or Europe.

When we drive to school, we have to pass through a gate to enter and to leave. A security sticker affixed to our car allows us in. Nothing too fancy, but an added check.

There's a different check when you go to park at the mall. As you descend into the underground parking lot, a queue forms at the entrance. One car at a time enters the parking lot, after a security guard gives the ok. The guard gives the ok only after checking your trunk to "make sure" nothing fishy is going on. I'm told there's very little that they do to check, just a quick eyeball. Also, sometimes they'll ask you if you're carrying a gun on you. Your word is bond there, unless you're visibly packing.

Related to these security concerns is the national predilection to overreact. For example, in between Herziliya Pituach (the beach part of the city Herziliya that I more or less live in) and Herziliya proper is a set of train tracks. Since I have consciously tried to go into Herziliya, starting last weekend on foot, I have not once crossed these train tracks without having to stop and wait for a train to go by.

A high frequency of trains going through Herziliya? Maybe. But more significant is that the gates come down at least a full 90 seconds before the train is in sight. Apparently, once in recent times a car waiting for the train to pass got rear ended straight onto the tracks, and those in the car were subsequently killed by the oncoming train. So now, the 90 seconds of wait time is a mandatory facet, with an attendant who sits in a booth with a cell phone, ready to call the train if there's any sort of problem. And once the train at last passes, they raise the gates and the traffic flushes through the tracks.

This same sort of reactionary philosophy (and really, with a country full of Jewish parents, what would you expect?) is apparently why they're so restrictive about swimming space these days at the beach; a few weeks ago, a couple people drowned due to storms deep in the Mediterranean or something. So now we get to know our neighbors and their tighty-whitey "swim suits" a little too well. (As an addendum, I was told yesterday that there are people who water the grass in their tighty-whiteys around here, or even ride a bike around. Mmm.)


Weekends
Today is Friday, which is of course the start of the Shabbat, at sundown. In Israel, it's the weekend. A little inconvenient when we work on an American work week, except that Sunday, a work day in this country, is a free day for us. Empty beach, public transportation, and I assume less crowded streets in Tel Aviv.
So, this is my weekend to explore Tel Aviv. Pictures, stories, and amusement will be here soon, I hope. Oh, and school starts Monday. Hmm...


But before you go, some pictures from the beach I live five minutes from! Yeah.

The old mosque next to our beach, known as Sidnya Ali. Once a place where the Phoenician raiders would store their loot. History is everywhere here, eh?

Walking down to the sunset and the water. It was very nice to swim at this time. What else would it be?

No questions, no words.

Initial Impressions In Irreverent Israeli Indents

So if you'll recall the post "This Place Kinda Souks...", you'll see that I already established the freedom on my blog to talk about places and experiences outside of Europe. You will further find on the heading above these words a change in Blog title. It was necessary, and it was time.


Having spent about 5 and a half days in Israel, I've already come up on a batch of things to do and tales to tell. Mainly, they're related to these foreign concepts of "having a job" and "working with others." Foreign for me, that is, and probably familiar to you. So while I may marvel at waking up to an alarm clock set before 9 in the morning, or talking with more than five different people over the span of a day, you won't find it so interesting.

Instead, I'll talk about Hebrew, by way of French. You see, the first time I went to Montreal was in the fall of '05. I was fresh off the first excitement of traveling from that summer in Eastern Europe, and the prospects of exploring thrilled me. I got in my recently purchased Honda Civic and drove the 4+ hours across the border and into Quebec.

All was well and good, except that I failed to appreciate the fact that the official language in Montreal and Quebec isn't English. Of course, I knew French was the official language. I just didn't think about what that meant: that all the signs would be in French, and that most of the people would speak French. Most spoke English too, but somehow that didn't matter. I went into shell shock, called home with fear in my voice, and only calmed down when I met somebody in a sports bar who had at some point wrestled at Duke. And I still left the city Saturday night instead of Sunday afternoon.

While everyone, or almost everyone, speaks English in Israel, they do it as a second language. In fact, in English and Russian I have the #2 and #4 languages covered in the country (with Arabic a co #2), and so I shouldn't have any trouble with language barriers. In theory.

In practice, many signs and reading materials are only in Hebrew, a language I can sort of guess at from 8 years of Hebrew school; by guess at, I mean I know the letters but am hamstrung by the lack of vowel signs that we used in my youth, so if I know how a word sounds already, I can "read" it. Not much help.

Also, people speak Hebrew first, which leads to the always mildly humiliating even if completely understandable moment when you have to ask if they speak English. I have learned how to say I don't speak Hebrew, though I can only write it in transliterated English: Ani lo medeber ivrit. This helps, but only a little.

Then there's my cell phone, a nice piece of work that completely befuddled me for a day and a half with its eternal Hebrew-language options, until I finally compared with another new teacher's phone, already switched into English, to take care of the change. Which still left a Hebrew-language display of whatever network I'm on. And if I try to make certain phone calls, I get Hebrew on the other end telling me that this won't do. I think. And I'm not sure what company my cell phone is with, or what everything costs, and so on.

But enough of that. In the week I've been here, I've also encountered Tel Aviv (well, not really, but it's close by); Jerusalem (great for the 4+ hours we were there, except for the commodified Western Wall, but I'll save those thoughts for a future Jerusalem visit/post); work; and the weather - very nice though not any hotter than a hot Boston summer day. The difference is that there's no variation or thunderstorms; it's 90 degrees Fahrenheit and sunny every day, at least so far. I was hoping it'd be miserably hot, if just because that portends for a nicer October. But we'll see.

The coolest, most worthwhile thing I've encountered so far? The beach. And so, without further ado...

Down on the Beach
To get to the beach, I exit my 3rd floor apartment, walk down the stairs, and turn left. Immediately, I hit the main beach road, Golda Meir St. I walk about 20 meters and turn right on Yigal Yadin, the street that runs to the beach. It's a small asphalt road, leading to a parking lot and the Mediterranean. There's a slight uphill and right hand turn at the end of the street, and while the steady stash of crashing waves is audible as you walk, there is almost no sea to see. The most impressive visual feature on the approach is an old, unused mosque that overlooks the landscape.
Then you get over the crest and go down to the sea, and well...

Mind you I haven't taken my camera to the beach yet. Once I do, this picture will be much better. Yeah.

On the left is a tall, sandy brown bluff, the sort of overlook that would serve as a great setting for a movie finale, where the two antagonists throw down, until one crashes to the beach below. On the right the mosque's tower is still visible as I descend. The sea is now visible, the mighty Mediterranean.
The beach itself is small, with no more than twenty meters space from the edge of the sand to the water. There are five gazebos in a line at our beach, providing shade for those who foolishly decide a year or two increase in life span is worth more than a nice tan. A lifeguard's tower aspires to the bluffs on the right, though it comes nowhere close to their height or majesty.
So looking out at the sea is rightfully beautiful, but so is looking away from it. Those cliffs reveal layers of sand and stone, like something out of a Magic School Bus book, teaching about sedimentary rocks. There is the mosque, there are large buildings further to the south, and a little bit to the north there's some sort of housing structure built into the cliff. Add in sunny skies with littered clouds and a few assorted hang gliders, and it's all something to see.

There are a few intriguing differences about the beach here, compared to other beaches I've been to. First of all, a few judgments based on two hours or so: this is the closest I've ever lived to a beach, and this is the best beach I've ever been to. I'm not a typical beachgoer, but this was really pleasant. The water, for example, is clear and warm, so that there's no need to plunge in and adjust to the temperature. I waded out to the strong waves (there were many surfers out there today) and soaked in the splashes with nary a shudder. Actually, there were some whistle-induced flinches, but I'll get to that.

Also, while everybody says this, it bears repeating that this is indeed the land of milk and honey. That is; the people here are beautiful. Yes, I include the males; though I'm not checking them out particularly, they strike me as handsome dudes. Or almost as handsome as me, anyway.

Israelis, we were warned, tend to be more permissive about standards for acceptable clothing. Actually, there wasn't anything crazy from most of the guys there, dressed in long bathing shorts, and the women were in bathing suits, same as anywhere. But whether from European or Russian influences, there were a few men, mostly middle-aged or up, in thongs and the like. One old guy was in just tightie-whiteys, which became quite transparent as he bathed. Mmm.

Needless to say, when in Rome, so I hiked my spandex up just a little bit. Mmm.

The way the beach and swimming works is also a little strange. For one, the already limited beach space is restricted by barbed wire fences a few meters away from the cliffs. "Danger, Landslide" read one of the two types of signs posted along the beach. The other one says "No Swimming Allowed". Whether due to fear of undertows, crazy tides, or jellyfish, the authorities rule out much of the coastline around our beach from swimming. Black flags are posted periodically along the shore, marking not the band or anarchy but no swim zones. Each beach I stopped at today (that is, two of them) had an area marked out by red flags where one could swim. And black flags stretching farther out were the absolute boundaries.

To enforce these rules, the lifeguards blew whistles. Once their subjects' attention was earned, the lifeguards would gesture. If necessary, they'd get on the speaker system and announce their concerns. Since I don't really get the rules yet, and can't understand Hebrew, I was frightened every time I heard the whistle blow, until finally I realized they weren't going to arrest me for walking along the surf. I think.

So those were the limits to the beach trip. Considering the cleanliness, warmth, and company that the beach provided, those limits are trivial. And maybe if I sneak over there at night, the limits and company will be gone, and I'll be free to frolic in the sand and surf as I please. Which is to say, if I ever become a full-fledged nudist, Israel will have played its part. And on that note, I'm signing off.

I plan to post frequently if not regularly. And I am now experimenting with posting these "notes" on facebook. Ugh, I know, but I like readers, or the potential of having readers. So welcome!

An Experience, A Life

The following conversation would be typical for me if I actually talked to people:

"Where have you been?"

"I was in Spain for two months."

"Oh, awesome! What were you doing there?"

"Not much. Bumming around, teaching English, traveling."

"Where were you in Spain?"

"Madrid, mostly."

"So, what's it like to live in Spain?"

And...STOP dialogue!

Ok, so maybe that dialogue never happens. But it's not hard to imagine. I lived in Madrid for a span of 56 days, nearly two months, and while I only spent about 40 of those days in the city, that should be enough time to get to know Madrid. To get a feel for a city. An understanding.

So I have an understanding. I can say what it's like to live in Madrid. But with qualifications; I know what it's like to live in Madrid when you speak almost no Spanish, don't have to worry about money because of what you've earned or been given previously, teach English for kicks, live in the central strip of the city (from my metro stop, Arguelles, as the NW point until Lavapies in the SW, Retiro and the Paseos in the SE, and the northern part of the paseos in the NE, with excursions to Vincente Calderon further south and the University further North), and associate mostly with expats of one type or another.

What's it like? It's nice. I enjoyed it, and got what I wanted out of the experience - a little spare cash, a little "work" experience, plenty of artistic inspiration, time spent with Ben, a few new acquaintances, a base of Spanish, stories to tell. But what I got out of it is different from what others get out of it.

For example, when you catalog the visitors to Madrid, especially the American ones, there are four main types.

Tourist - Self-explanatory. Usually older, because it takes us time to age out of the desire to be hip, as well as the self-awareness to avoid doing touristy things. Also, fanny packs make more sense on the other side of 35. Seeks out bullfights if they have time.

Student Abroad - College juniors, hungry to live abroad and take easy classes. They mostly go to bars with one another and relish in the late nights that are common to Madrid, enjoy their time terribly much, especially when they speak on the phone to their parents and on facebook posts to their friends. Falls in love with bullfights. When they return to the states, they are forever changed, doomed to a life of reminiscing over their fantastic semester in Madrid.

Expat - Artistic inclinations, most likely in his/her 20's and post-graduate stage, eager to shed their nationality and embrace either Spain itself or an identity of internationalism, which is to say, no identity at all. The type of people who set up literature clubs or fastidiously avoid American fast food places. A desire to perfect Spanish, so as to blend in all the better. No bullfights.

People who don't give a... - They're in Madrid for an indefinite amount of time. They speak good enough Spanish, but aren't practicing at home or anything. They might have a Spanish lover/significant other. If they want to get a good beer, they go to an Irish pub. They watch football, American football, whenever they get a chance. At this point, they're too lazy to travel. They don't care about bullfights, but will go if they get a free ticket.

So those are the four categories. They're not hard and fast; you'll see people drift from 3 to 4, 2 to 3, and so forth. 2 has condescension for 1 though they're quite close in nature, while 3 condescends to 2 except when they have social interaction that might lead to pleasing rewards. 3 used to be the Hemingway-type, which of course means yes to bullfights. And there are drifters - I'd characterize myself as an advanced 2, with hints of both 4 and 1. In Moscow I was more a 3 type (which may have been why I didn't observe the dichotomy of Americans in the city. I met something like 2 of them).

All these people come away with their own experience of Madrid. Some find it exotic, others peaceful, others a great party city. A way to specify this phenomenon: when I came to Madrid for 3-4 days in 2006, I came away with two big things about the city: the night life was crazy, and the siesta was very interesting. This based on living in a hostel where everybody went out a lot and where we ate dinner late. The short story I wrote out of that experience is a fairly cynical piece on alienation.

Now I see Madrid as follows: a busy, modern city that still has a good grasp on an easygoing life. The siesta is mostly a non-factor; the night life is utterly inessential if that's not what you're into (as I am not). The day does unfold at a slower, later pace; dinner will not come before 8 unless you force it, and if you plan to go out, there's no need to leave the apartment before 9:30. Going out without any intentions of staying up late leaves you at home at 2:30. Everybody smokes in bars. The food is very good, especially the gazpachos and the croquetas. Flamenco is really cool, though it's not quite a part of every day culture. And no, I didn't go to a bull fight, mostly out of disinterest, but also lack of time.

Madrid is a cool place. It's big enough that chances are, you'll find the opportunity to do the things you like to do, or run into people who can help you out in that search. The pace and the size allow for the quiet and the freedom that make it feel small. As Jordan Baker said, large parties are so intimate.

So that's my time in Madrid. On the one hand, I'd be comfortable returning to Madrid, because it is a cool city. On the other hand, I can check it off on my list of places to live in. I don't need to go back there, but I wouldn't mind it if the situation set up right.

And this blog is out, until I get to Israel in August. To my 6 readers, thanks for your time. Enjoy the summer. And L'Chaim, I guess.

Galloping around Galicia, by car, train, plane, and rock show

Any journey that begins with just barely catching your train is surely destined to be a good one. So it was for Ben and I, as we dilly-dallied in his apartment until 1:35, in advance of our 2:20 train to Santiago. Now, 40 minutes would probably be sufficient for a trip from Arguelles, our metro stop, to Chamartin, where our train prepared to depart. But then we had to walk to the metro station, just in time to miss the 4 train heading east.
A series of decisions made in trying circumstances - such characterizes the vital moments of our lives. In such a moment, Ben made the call to ride the 3 south two stops and from there catch the speedy 10 heading north, rather than take the tedious 6 five stops to catch the 10 at a higher point. We hopped on the 3, switched efficiently at Plaza de España to catch the 10, and our prospects looked good. We arrived at the metro station at about 2:10.
This meant a five minute walk had to be made with all due haste to ensure our spot on the train. We hustled, hesitated at one crucial juncture before selecting the proper route, and indeed made the train. We were the last ones admitted, scanning our bags through the metal detectors quickly before getting on the first coach of the train. By the time we reached our seats on the other side of the train, the engine had started and the journey had begun. Not quite getting on the train to Lausanne two years ago as it was moving, but still.

And so our five day journey to Galicia began. The train ride was a peaceful, wearying 7 hour trek across green plains and hills. Ben taught me 6 to 12, a card game resembling rummy, which I subsequently taught him. A little girl in a pink sweatshirt danced up and down our coach, and Bourne Ultimatum and Stardust played on the tv. It was most tranquil.

Our arrival in Santiago de Compostela was largely without incident, beyond the fact that at 9:30, it was quite bright out. Galicia is the Northwest province of Spain, which leads to later nights and earlier mornings, sun wise. Also, the weather is similar to England; the sky perpetually wavers between picturesque blue and white, and more ominous gray. In the morning it is always foggy, and while we were there it was usually gorgeous in the afternoon.

We only spent about 15 hours in Santiago, but they were good hours. Santiago is somewhat of a touristy city, a northern relative to Granada in many ways. The center is old, gothic, and can twist a visitor around just as much as Granada. The major difference is that here the attraction is the Cathedral, a beautiful behemoth that is visible from just about anywhere, always offering a reference point for you to find your way from. Outside the center, just like Granada, is a modern city with a famed university. The surrounding landscape is also quite impressive, full of lush green hills. Don't believe me? Well...

Mutton Chop caressing beneath the grand cathedral

There's a Ferris Wheel somewhere out there? Can you see it? If not, drink more tea.

A view of Galicia from the Cathedral Square. Artsy, no?

Now the story resumes on Friday, around noon, but with a key detail from the day before. As we got out of the train at Santiago, we knew we had only a short time there before we would embark for Villagarcia de Arousa, a small beach town that was holding the Festival Do Norte, where we would interview Broken Social Scene and then watch them play. Looking ahead, we asked about the cost of a train ticket to VdA. Two to three euros. Sounds pretty good.
However, we were also concerned by a different issue: we had nowhere to stay at VdA. Naturally, the town of 35,619 inhabitants had limited place to stay, and the festivalgoers had already inquired into the low-cost places. So while sleeping outside or on the beach were options, and we were reasonably certain that we'd find a place if we looked hard enough, the situation was not ideal.
In such a state we were open to suggestions. Fate smiled on us in the form of Avis and Europa Car signs; why not rent a car and just sleep in it?
So Friday, we got to the train station early enough to check with car rental companies before making a decision. As it turns out, the company we didn't see at first, National, offered the best deal. It was within our cost threshold, and so, sold! (err, rented) We had our very own Citroen C2 for two days and 780 Km. The roads would be our playground, now!
As Ben doesn't know how to drive manual, and wouldn't let me attempt to teach him (an event with a 50% likelihood of leading to good times and disaster), I assumed the driver's seat for the next two days. Ben took shotgun and navigated, and we were out of the city and back on the open roads. Well, first we had to pay a 13 euro parking ticket, but oh well. And then there was a toll or two. But we were driving through the toll, at least!
We arrived in Villagarcia, which smelt only a little like the ocean. Our primary mission in the afternoon was to arrange and hold an interview with BSS, as I mentioned. This all went swimmingly, as you can read about on 30music (pt. 1 here, pt. 2 here). In fact, I'm going to leave out all mention of the concert and the band and the manliness of Evan Cranley (in the flesh; the legend will play a part later in this adventure) and leave that for the 'zine. It's called cross-promotion.

With a staggering 8 hours between the end of our interview with the band and their scheduled show time (a fact they were unaware of, in all likelihood), we took off for a few more coastal cities. We drove about an hour to get to O Grove, a town known for its seafood, the region's general specialty. We walked along the beach and then played some tunes by the waterfront, to the delight or dismay of fishermen working late hours.

The rocks at O Grove. O Grove rocks.

We began our return towards VdA at 9:00, stopping in Cambados, home of famous vineyards for Albariño wine, a white. Naturally, I ordered Ribeiro instead, another famous Galician white. Sometimes I can be a jerk. In other news, Ben had octopus, which was fun.

Again, I exclude the following section of our trip, which was at the concert. It was great; read about it elsewhere. Needless to say, we grew as friends and had a great time, and when 4:30 in the morning rolled around, we were quite eager to pass out in our car.

The Citroen C2 is a rather small car. It's a two door with a back seat, but the recline action on the front two chairs isn't great. Additionally, it's a narrow, if boxy car. So we rejiggered everything as best as we could, Ben settled into the back seat, and I reclined in the shotgun seat. Sleep was far from there, but we tried.

My intermittent rest, sans dreaming, was at last halted by two tour buses who decided to pull in front of us in the parking lot of the Fexdega, where the concert had taken place. Loud speaking in an unknown language - it could have been Spanish, it could have been the local language (Gallego), it could have been something else - was enough to get me out of bed, so I walked around the car and mused on what to do. It was also enough to cause Ben to stir, so I told him I wanted to go to the mall to use the facilities and stock up on my survival kit.

Of course, Saturday wasn't just Saturday: it was the day of Galician literature, a holiday. That's a great holiday, and I want to learn about 2008's honoree, Xose Maria Alvarez Blazquez, but it sure is frustrating to not be able to take care of business and buy food until noon. In fact, we couldn't wait that long - I read Borges and took down some notes on the trip to date, but I needed to get out of there. So at 11 we took off for the North coast

That was another one of our crucial decisions, to do the village hopping we had planned on doing Monday on Saturday instead, and in a mere two hours, we were driving on the AC 862 along the northern coast of Galicia. We decided to go to Ribadeo, because, well, it was the last city in Galicia.

On the way, Ben remembered a student's suggestion: we should go check out San Andreas de Teixido, a small town known to house Celtic ruins. We saw a sign for it, and knowing nothing more than that sentence, we decided to take the turn.

In case I haven't made it clear, we knew very little about San Andreas de Teixido. We knew even less about the road we were driving on. This latter fact held true even as we drove on it. Because, well, we couldn't see anything:

So it appears that to get to the Celtic ruins, you have to drive through the abyss. Wild horses and cattle guard the road. To get a clearer picture of our condition, Ben and I got out of the car and ascended to the peak of the abyss. From there we couldn't see anything, but we could at least make our presence felt:

We drove a little farther, descending a tiny bit on the mountain. We could then see a little bit to either side of us. On one side of the road were giants who would not allow us to pass without us consenting to a glorious battle to the death. Needless to say, I heeded to the call and proved myself victorious, while Ben documented the moment:


As our reward, we found a beautiful hike on the other side of the road. Passing through mud and, uhh, "mud", we found the edge of a forest and a stunning vista of the ocean below. It was all a cruel hoax though, because without magic, death-defying efforts, or a rope, there was no reaching the ocean. Tantalized, we stopped short and returned back to our car

All the same, it's a pretty view, isn't it?

It was only after another ten minutes of driving, one more stop for a nice viewpoint, and a cow toll that we reached the town itself. The town was small and quiet, with roads only made for walking upon. We descended into a small square next to the chapel, and while Ben paused to plan, I laid down on a wall. 20 minutes later I woke up to see him returning from the ruins. So that was that.

Our next choice was easier: there was no way I was driving back through the abyss, if such a thing were metaphysically possible, so we continued on another road that spit us back out on the AC 862 (or its sister, the AC 566) a little bit farther West. So we had to drive on ground already covered, but we made it into Ortigueira with no problems in the late afternoon, around 5 pm. The perfect time for a Cruzcampo Light or some sun-aided napping. We parked near the port, where Spanish families and wedding parties walked along or sat in the cafes. I did some scouting and acquired a survival pack (ham and cheese empanadas, a pack of Ham-flavored chips (they're pretty good, though having a mid-sized bag of them in one pop is a bit much) and a chocolate-filled pastry). Then I found a grassy knoll and a bench. I ate and read Borges and watched a little boy get yelled at his mother for kicking a soda can, and then break into tears when his older brother stole the can and threw it away. Culture is usually universal.

That eternal bug to keep going impelled us to drive East during sunset, and we ended up in Viveiro, another 30 minutes down the road. This is another small city, though it got in our guide book. We arrived, drove around for a suitable spot to pack up for the night, and then hunted out for dinner. Ben aptly described our eatery as the Spanish equivalent to "Fuddruckers", from high-school clientele to cheap and large burgers. We supped sufficiently and returned to our parking lot/sleeping quarters del dia. There was a couple in the car next to us using their car for a different sort of sleeping, so we backed up to the other side of the lot and shacked up. I got the back seat this time, which was probably an improvement, though not a sizable one.


Sunday morning market woke us up this time. The clinking of pipes beneath white tarp roofs to our right, specifically. It was just before 9, which means our span of sleep extended nearly ten hours, though we both knew better than to say we slept that long. We were about an hour away from A Coruña, and the foggy, rainy road awaited us. I did the driving while Ben discovered that one of the advantages to sleeping in the car is that your bed moves with you.

Everything went well - I found the way to the city easily, we dropped off the car, found a hostel, and settled in to get real sleep. More importantly, we encountered Don Rent. Naturally, Don Rent is a place you can rent cars from. One might call him the Don of rental cars. In fact, he went so far as to call himself that, except in a foreign language (English, duh). Not only did this lead to a string of general Don jokes - including our ultimate disappointment with Don Croissant, a pastry shop in A Coruña closed on Tuesdays - but a second life to our string of Evan Cranley jokes (from Broken Social Scene). As you can imagine, by A Coruña we were travel drunk.
A statue that looked like the legend himself. It was also on Albert Camus street, which is alienatingly cool.

Beyond the Don Manly jokes, the only two big things to discuss about A Coruña (a very nice city, by the way, a good synthesis of old and new, big city and laidback comfort) are the beach and the tower of Hercules. Of the latter: the story goes that Hercules built the tower with his own bare hands, as a testament to his defeat over Geryon. In the very least, the tower dates back to the second century B.C.E., though it got refurbished a little bit in th 17th or 18th century, C.E.

In any case, the tower is a premium tourist attraction in A Coruña. It is not, however, a World Heritage Site. No UNESCO super-protection, no prestige and all that. In the Praza do Maria Pita, the center square, there is a big sign in four languages (Gallego, Spanish, English, French) that implores visitors to "embrace the tower of Hercules. By your embraces we will achieve our goal," of WHS status. So, always amenable to helping out, I did my best:



And then, for my tongue in cheek, as well as dashing good looks, I received punishment befitting Hercules. Invisible peoples lashed me with invisible ropes to the nearby sundial, Rosa de los Vientos, and well, it wasn't good:

There's only one solution to all that straining: the beach.

The beach, Playa del Orzan, was fairly dirty and fairly vacant when we settled onto it. It was only about 20-22° out and a Monday afternoon, so understandable. The sand was fairly rocky and uncomfortable, yet for most of the beach, there were very few good skipping stones. The sun was not as strong as in Morocco, for example, but still capable of doing damage. And the water on the beach was clear, with decent waves and almost no seaweed (it looked worth on other beaches in the city). Also, the water was fairly cold, but not so cold as to deny the irrepressible joy that one gets from submerging himself in the water and feeling its purity, of allowing that purity, that triumph to wash over oneself in salty, liquid form.

How would I know? Well:


A good one to end on for Galicia. And though the time stamp might say this is May 21st, I finished this post from the States. Which means all that's left is a wrap-up post. It'll be up sometime. Maybe.

This place kinda Souks...

So my brother Mark brings up a fair point that I shall address before writing this actual post. The post is about a trip to Morocco. As all Geography Bee champs and 7th graders know, Morocco is most certainly not in Europe. The title of this blog is "A Short Man in Europe". A contradiction seems ripe to emerge. But I'm also lazy, unwilling to change the title of this blog, and unwilling to risk losing the few readers I have by starting a new one. So while the title remains Short Man in Europe, rest assured that I allow myself to write about Africa, and then Israel next year, and wherever else I might go, all under this heading. At least for the time being.


Stepping off the plane in Marrakesh is the window to the most shocking part of spending time in Morocco: the first day. The airport is a 1-story mud-brick building, and I exit the plane on a portable stairway and walk to the terminal (This always makes me feel like a rock star). Even late in the evening it is hot outside. The sun sets over the caked red building in a brighter orange.

Then I catch a cab. Though the website for the hostel I plan to stay at suggests 50-60 dirhams should get me to the center, I can't get the guy lower than 100. He speaks little English (Arabic then French are the one two), but enough to explain that his name is Mohammed and that he welcomes me to Agadir. For 100 dirhams he should welcome me, anyway.

The ride is interesting as well: the streets are filled with bikers. Not bicyclists (though there are some), and not quite motorcycle riders, but people on motorized bikes, equipped with unused pedals and a motor that lets them go about 30 mph pretty comfortably. They are endemic, they cut and weave between cars and lanes of traffic, and they always seem to be in the way at the wrong moment.


This is more visible once you enter the Djemma. That is the center in Marrakesh, where I got out of the cab to look for that hostel. Even where a clear plaza opens up, with rows of tables to eat at in the center of it and various performers on the outside, the bikers keep coming, threatening pedestrians and other bikers. I saw one biker about my age hit the bike of a kid, then glare and scold at the kid as he backed up and then pulled away. The poor kid wasn't at fault, but had no idea what to do, his hat drooping on his head as he went the other way.

Once you turn out of the Djemma and into the side roads, the fun begins. Carrying a suitcase and a guitar on my back made me more conspicuous, but I imagine my skin was enough to distinguish me. Everyone comes to you, friendly and willing to lend a hand, but with the implicit intention of receiving money for their help.

In the narrow alleys of the souk, the approach is a simple one; peg down your nationality, then work from there. "Francais? English?" the cries begin from one vendor. "Español?" a boy at the next kiosk adds as you keep walking. Another throws out "Polski!" If they get a response, or even eye contact, they push in for the kill; if they get neither, they keep pushing anyway. Interestingly enough, with my Mediterranean features and monstrous mutton chops, I was widely thought to be Italian by the Moroccan masses. Sometimes I tried to fake it too, but il mio italiano is a bit rusty. It makes sense though, considering Tony Danza is the celebrity I get compared to most after Ben Stiller. And I'm not sure if either of those comparisons are flattering.

Once I found the hotel I wanted (an old man who guided me and then expected money - I had nothing but 100s, and didn't feel like giving him that much or asking for change, so I refused. "Shit," he muttered as he walked away), I received a price for the night -150 dirhams. (7.2 dirhams to the dollar, roughly). I didn't feel like arguing. Five minutes later, a Welshman named Paul whom I later befriended got a room for 100 dirhams, and pointed out that last time he stayed here it was 90. Clearly, I'm one savvy customer.


Anyway, once I got through that indoctrination period, with help from Paul (a BBC reporter and a charming traveler), Morocco became another place. A new and interesting place, but not a shocking and exotic and impossible place as it seemed in the first few hours.

At this point I'm going to break off the straight narration, because my Moroccan tale is not one that needs to be told to any great degree, not right now at least. I spent time in Marrakesh, in a bus, and in Agadir, along the coast of the Atlantic. I enjoyed Morocco. There are a few more bits I could mention - e.g. how I played "Happiness is a Warm Gun" for two Moroccan dudes at the Agadir bus station and then actually conversed with one of them in Spanish; how a man at that same bus station came up to me and asked for some music, and then specifically for Europe's "Final Countdown," which lead to some impromptu acapella and beat making action - but I'd rather get to a how to. So without further ado:

How to Handle the Souks:


The souk is the Moroccan market. Similar to a flea market in the states, or the Tushinskaya market in Moscow, or the Rastro in Madrid. What makes Morocco's a little bit different, besides the salesmanship of the vendors mentioned above, is that they occur under a roof but outdoors, in a sort of mud-brick artificial cave system. Marrakesh's is especially difficult to navigate.

But once that particularity is out of the way, we get to the heart of the Souk, or of any of these other markets: bargaining. As you might guess from the taxi and hostel situations above, I'm not very good at bargaining. Furthermore, I hate bargaining. I find it mostly loathsome, and irritating.

At the same time, I present you a few bargaining strategies. Heed them at your own risk:

I'm sorry, I don't speak the language:
If you pretend to not understand Arabic, English, or French (only one of those is difficult for me), you can't be persuaded to take a price you don't want to accept. Then you work through a series of hand symbols and calculator buttons. At the very least, this makes you just as difficult to deal with as them.
A variation on this I saw work is as follows: imagine you can speak with the vendor, but a companion cannot (or is better at pretending they cannot). Begin the negotiations. At each iteration, look at your companion and relay the message to them in a language the vendor does not understand. Wait for his/her invariably negative response and counter, and then offer it to the vendor. This way, the vendor has to please two people, and the pressure is taken off you to bargain. An alternative to this variation is to allow your companion to do the calculator button pushing.

Just Walk Away, Walk Away:
My sister reported fondness for this method on her recent China trip. Begin negotiating, reach an impasse, and walk away. In almost all cases, the vendor wants the sale more than you want the product. Presumably, that vendor will lower the price to a more acceptable level as you walk away. Now, I don't know from experience, but a guy I know, he did this and got it on!

Sunglasses, I mean. For really cheap.

Time is on your side:
Assuming you have patience (I usually don't) and a good chunk of time to spend at the souk, feel free to go back and forth with any given vendor over a number of different products. A little deception helps; show interest in an undesirable product and then switch to the one you'd like to buy with a guise of "I'll settle for this" written on your face and in your pidgin Italian.
Say you want a pair of sneakers, for example. And you want a nice, shiny color to match your eclectic selection. Show interest in the plain black nikes, but then switch to the red striped adidases, before finally landing on the third try of a yellow with green and red stripes pair of asics. That's how you ball.


Accept your fate and move on:
Because we all know that whatever purchases I made I did poorly on (I made three purchases at the souk in Agadir and "bargained" off 60 dirhams, and then bargained another 30 dirhams or so at another store, i.e. chump change), let me let you in on my real strategy: resignation. As the Welshman Paul explained, "Everything here is a bargain. And they're much better than us at it." So maybe you're a cold-hearted, indifferent stud of a trader, and prepared to play the game with hopes of success. But if you're like me, you're going to pay a little bit more than other people will. It's still Morocco, it's still cheap, and the experience is worth the effort. Don't go overboard, though, because it might wear your nerves down a bit.

And that's all I got.


Oh, uh, wait a second, what's this thing doing here? Jeez. Umm...the following picture will be posted, but I warn those of you who don't like strange pictures, Prince-esque poses, and a salacious pursing of the lips should probably turn away. Yes, get away while you can! Run! (See, now you'll definitely look. Enjoy...)

Quest for a Quest, or Quixote's Questions Queried by us all

Somebody, maybe Kundera, said that everyone who would read fiction would become a Quixote of sorts, allowing themselves to enter an imagined world and live in that new place, separated from (if familiar to) their own. This willing self-deception is a scant degree away from Alonso Quixano's madness that drives him to be the famous knight in Cervantes's famous story. Nowhere is a reader's quixotic nature more prevalent than in reading Don Quixote itself. At least, that's how it worked for me.

I first tried to read Quixote in 2004, while I was a sophomore in college. Over my initial years at university, a hunger to read all the classics overtook me. (This hunger stretched to music sophomore year, when I finally ordered a couple of Beatles records. Rubber Soul almost kept me from going deeper, but then Revolver confirmed the efforts and opened the door to everything else. But I digress...) I tried some John-Jacques Rousseau, because the "Noble Savage" appealed to my existentialist/nihilistic freshman self (his tedious prose did not). I read Faust, which was interesting in any case, if not great. It was much better than Sorrows of Young Werther, which I didn't get to until a couple years later. I took up the Bible, making it to the legal graveyard that is Deuteronomy, or Numbers, I forget which. In any case, Quixote loomed on the horizon, and by the time I finally bought a big, fairly cheap edition, with the Charles Jarvis translation and an introduction by E.C. Riley, I was excited to try.

Over the end of a school year and the summer, I made it about 100 pages. I was just about at the first interpolated episode of romance that Cervantes horns into the story, and for the most part I was entertained. This wasn't the usual muck of a Paradise Lost or Iliad, with fascinating material but mind-numbing verse. The book wasn't great yet, but I could sense Cervantes's sense of humor, and indeed those first episodes are the most memorable for Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, of fighting with the coachman and of charging at the windmills. I had a sense that this was worthwhile.

Things happened and I got a little distracted from reading Quixote. But along with those things was a conversation I had with one of my older brother's friends. "Read the abridged version," he told me, "you'll get just as much out of it." I have always had a need for "the real thing", phony as that might be, so the idea of reading an abridged version didn't ring right. But 800+ pages still loomed, and there was school and wrestling to keep busy with, and so somehow I didn't continue reading the book, and didn't pick up an abridged version either. My first attempt had failed like so many battles against sheep.

Near the end of 2005, I found somewhere on a blog, probably associated with Bookslut, the idea of reading 50 books in a year, and of some sort of livejournal community to go with it. I didn't really get the whole community thing, though I started my own livejournal to note brief impressions on the books I would read. I plunged into the effort in 2006, and would have easily passed the mark if not for that inconvenient trip to Russia, where I had to read in my second language for 2 and a half months. I tallied 4 more books on my list, but fell 9 short of the ultimate goal, something I rue to this day...

In response, in 2007 I smashed the number, getting to 55. And there was quality in that number, too: I graded 9 of the books as A's, and 16 as A-'s (grade inflation, I know, but humor me). Some of those books were long too, though none matched up to Quixote (I did read Anna Karenina in 2006, for class. But that's a much lighter read, thanks to Tolstoy's elegance).

Ahh, but here's the rub of all this - it would appear I'm just reading for the sake of reading, for the chance to finish and say, "I've read 55 books, I've read Quixote, etc!" A pretty hollow justification, even if you accept the elitist intellectual climbing desires behind it.

There's no denying the satisfaction in finishing a book though, and being able to say, "Yeah, I've read that." It doesn't have to be boasting, necessarily, but a confident assertion that you've covered some ground, in your own way. And really, that's how you have to approach much of the creative arts - read, listen, watch, look at as much as you can, especially the higher esteemed stuff, and sift through until you get to the stuff that hits you in the chakra, the stuff that really counts. I can't claim to like everything, or most of the things even, that I see in art museums, but then there's the one or two paintings that speak to me, whether Kokoschka's Two Nudes or Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights. There's an essential filtering process in the discovery of good art, and that includes rejoicing at the greatness, respecting that which doesn't hit you, and rejecting that which strikes you as wrong, or overly praised.

But there's no point in going through this process if you don't like art, for example. Sure, you give it a chance, and nothing comes of it, why bother. Perhaps the most exceptional example of South Indian verse will strike me as something essential, but if I have to filter through all the rest of it to find that essence, and if I don't like South Indian verse, the effort might not be worth it. Though the discovery of essence is almost always worth it. (I have no thoughts about South Indian verse, of course, either positive or negative).

That's how it is for me with reading. I love reading, and immersing myself into a good new book, into burying myself in the author's world. That's a big part of my desire to write - to share in that process from the other side.

When I read, my favorite moment is almost always the first few pages after the halfway mark in a book. By then, either one of two things occur to me. If the author has earned my trust, then I savor the pleasure ensured to me in the second half of the book, as well as the knowledge that soon I'll be done with the book, and be able to possess it intellectually as a complete entity (or in Kafka's case, an entity that was almost complete and still better than everybody else). If the author hasn't earned my trust, at least I'm halfway done with the book. Or as with Edith Wharton, my perception of the quality can be totally flipped to the good.

In this love of reading, including both the journey and the destination, I see something of a duality inherent in almost anything, between the intellectual and the sensual. There's the same sort of mental satisfaction that accompanies the physical joys to all sorts of acts, from sports to food to sex (not that I'd know...) to friendship. There's the satisfaction of the act itself, but also the thrill of doing the right thing, of doing what you "want" to do, or "should" do. It's a thrill to be with another person because you enjoy their company, but also because at the time, that's right. (This idea doesn't quite reach everywhere - I had a hard time thinking how I get intellectual satisfaction from eating a peanut butter sandwich, except for the frequency with which I do it at home, which makes me unusual, which I like. And also the nostalgic ties to childhood and other lost innocences, I suppose, but then we'd get too psychological).

So to return to Quixote, I took another shot at it in 2007, I believe. While at home I got about 70 pages deep, starting at the beginning again, and then put it off for more pressing books. And somewhere between those two efforts there may have been another attempt at the behemoth, with similarly scant results.

When I set my plans to go to Madrid, at last, I decided that this would be the perfect time to read Quixote to the end, at last. I would accept no failure, and would push through the droughts that kept me from completion in the past. And then I'd find out if it was worth the effort.

On the interminable plane ride to Madrid, via Paris, where I could not sleep and where my ears got blocked up terribly, affected further by a cold I caught from my sister just before leaving, which also left my voice in tattered shape for a week in Madrid, I returned to the same 100 pages I had already read, more or less. I went through them fairly quickly, but I had reached that height before, and it was no promise of further success.

Upon first arriving in Madrid, I stayed with Ben, the 3rd person in an apartment that is cozy for 2, and so didn't really have the comfort to read as I might like. Then I had to settle into a new apartment with a landlady I couldn't quite understand. So no progress. But the perhaps most fitting inspiration impelled me to forge to places heretofore unknown to me: my trip to Andalusia with Ben.

Quixote mostly takes place in between Andalusia and Madrid, meaning we were only going through the setting for the epic. But going through meant a long bus ride with nothing to think about, and that meant a lot of reading time. Not only did I read a lot (240 pages, as mentioned on this blog), but I also read some great stuff. My bookmark features the notes "p.132, p. 147", moments where I not only really liked what I was reading but actually laughed out loud, which I don't do often while reading. The former features Sancho Panza and Don Quixote vomiting on one another, the latter about Sancho telling a story to his master that leads to great arguments. Stupid physical and dialog humor, perhaps, but also really great for something over 400 years old.

That was the big hump for me, though I didn't get to the halfway point. Over the better part of 3 more weeks, I chipped away at the story, before bed or on weekends when I had more free time, or even on the metro when I went to classes on the outskirts of the city. And at last, in the final week of April, with much jollity and sadness, I finished Don Quixote.

See, the end of a great book is bittersweet. There's that satisfaction of completing that I mentioned, but also the sad fact that there's no more to read. This was especially the case with Bolaño's Savage Detectives, a work that I've recommended to people of 4 different nationalities and just about everybody I meet. There the blurry brilliance of the first half slowly enfolds the inevitable heaviness and sadness of life through the second half of the book, in a way that transcends its initial brilliance for an excessive beauty.

Here, things were neater - Quixano recovered his mind, got sick, and died. The end. But even though we knew he was deceived, crazy, we wanted Quixote to be vindicated, to emerge triumphant. A foolish, quixotic hope, but inherent in my reading of the book. I can't really add much or anything to what has been said everywhere on Quixote and all that attends it. But it took me in with it, and showed its worth and its essence, while being a fantastic journey as well. That it took four years and as many tries may be part of the natural process. Hasta lo'o, you other Quixotes.