Weird, Wild Stuff

So, I've come to the end of my non-trip. Crazily and scarily enough, I would have been in Valencia when that train derailed had I not suffered through the seventh circle of hell and left.

So, I've been enjoying Alicante - a wonderful resort-type town with plenty of interesting restaurants, culture, and of course, insanely beautiful women. I'm not exaggerating either. Even the policewomen and the girl cleaning the trash off the streets were gorgeous. My hotel is right near the water, so every day I walk down to the beach, around the water, enjoy lunch at an outdoor cafe and read in the shade of a nearby park. And the people here never sleep. Two nights ago I was walking around town about 11:30 at night, and the old Spaniards were all sitting in this promenade, dressed up in their Sunday best (it was Monday). The women, pristinely coiffed and painted, fanned themselves and chatted while their husbands, some in polyester suits from their youth, others in more contemporary "senior" fashions, sounded as if they were discussing world politics, or more importantly, the World Cup.

One thing I've noticed here too - I don't think Americans by and large are more unhealthy than our European counterparts. We're just fatter. We eat larger portions, eat too quick, don't exercise enough, and we don't smoke nearly as much as Europeans do. But, thin doesn't always mean healthy. The majority of the people here have guts or poochy stomachs. And McDonald's and Burger King are always packed. Plus, these people walk everywhere. The food has been a good mix of international flavor. I've eaten at German, Turkish, Spanish, French, Italian, and American restaurants, all mixed with the local tastes. That mostly means adding fish from the Mediterranean. I've found a new way to fix a tuna sandwich, by the way.

So, the other night, I'm enjoying my evening stroll around town, enjoying the glow of the sunset on the buildings, the smell of the fresh flowers, the sound of the several water fountains around town, and the sound of Spaniards partying into the wee hours. I come to a street about two blocks away from my hotel and there are these two girls standing out in front of this large red door with a neon sign above it. It was a restaurant and house community, so I didn't think too much of it. As I walked past, the black girl said to me in English, "Good evening."
I smiled, nodded and said, "Hello."
"Hey, where are you from?" she asked.
Curse my friendly nature (which is bizarre 'cause I hate people) I stopped and said, "America".
She grabbed my hand, rotated to my side, locking arms with me, "I love America. It's a great country."
"And where are you from?"
"Jamaica."
"What on earth are you doing here?" I asked.
She starts to walk toward the big red door, pulling me along with her. "Come inside for a drink and we can talk in there."
I planted my feet and she tugged on my arm, like trying to get a dog to obey the yank of its collar. "Thank you, but sorry, I've to meet some friends for some late night shenanigans. Maybe next time," I said and walked away. And maybe if my affinity for plump, Jamaican prostitutes changes, too.
Never a dull moment, folks. Never a dull moment.

Where Am I? And What am I Doing Here?

After a stellar conference that went better than I had anticipated (which ended with a farewell dinner in a town about an hour north of Alicante called Altea, and we went to the Old Town, which looked as if it were cut right from a 16th century town complete with a cathedral in the town square, and ate at this AMAZING restaurant on the terrace which looked down upon the Mediterranean and we ate cheese and gazpacho, salad (with very sweet tomatoes and I actually ate one), fresh tuna wrapped in bacon (see, Americans aren't the only ones who like to wrap food in bacon) and some of the most tender pork chops I've ever had in my life, topped off with a cinnamon ice cream treat (apparently they have over 100 kinds of ice cream here, it's a Fat Kid's dream come true)) anyway, I started off on Saturday to take the train to Valencia to purchase my Eurail pass because for some unexplained reason, they don't sell the Eurail in Alicante. So, I arrived in Valencia, sweaty and excited, and got to the window.
"We don't sell Eurail passes on the weekend," the Spanish brute said to me through the ticket window.
"What do you mean you don't sell them on the weekend?" I switched to English to give myself every advantage I might need.
"Only Monday to Friday you can purchase U-ray-eel pass."
"Ok, fine. Can I buy a ticket to Lyon, France then."
"No."
"So, I can't leave Spain, is that what you're telling me?"
"No U-ray-eel pass you may purchase on Saturday or Sunday, only Monday to Friday."
"Forget about the Eurail pass. Just get me into France."
"It is impossible. No international ticket to be purchased. You have to purchase on Monday."
"So, you're telling me that I can't get out of Spain until Monday?"
"Si."
"I'm stuck here until Monday."
"Si."
Under my breath, "That wasn't a question."
"You can go to border of Spain and Francia."
"But I'd still be in Spain."
"Well, of course."
"Right."
Unbelievable. So, I set off to find a hotel. I went to the office of tourism and told the guy that I wanted a decent hotel but not too expensive. He showed me one that was about 33 US dollars, so I went there. I had to pay cash up front and it was only until I was at the door to go into the floor where my room was that I noticed the sign:
"Hostal Lyon". I was in fact in Lyon - but a HOSTAL? I opened the door to my room. Prisoners get more room than this. The floor was hard tile, like a supermarket floor. No toilet, no shower (those of course are communal) and worst of all, no air conditioning. I was already soaked from walking with my two bags in the 90+ degree weather. I laid down on the bed, which was nothing more than an inch thick foam pad on a shaky steel bed frame that felt like it was going to snap every time I shifted. The more I tried to cool down, the more stuffy the room became. I was in a veritable oven. The light buzzed loud and I almost expected bugs to start getting zapped. I couldn't take it anymore, so I splashed tepid water from the sink in my cell to try and cool myself down, changed clothes and headed out to explore the city.
Now, you know it's awful when you walk out into 90+ weather and you cool off. Anyway, I found a Burger King (I know, ultimate sin, but it was cool and had big drinks). I felt like Dr. Freeze from "Batman" going back to his frozen cave and getting back to center. I was one with the Eskimo. But I had to leave at some point. So I found a park bench and sat and watched life in Valencia. The architecture is very renaissance and the main buildings (government, museums, theaters) are quite pristine. Once the sun started to set, which was actually quite spectacular because it painted the building in a pink and purple hue, I ventured off to see the city. It wasn't long before I came to a bull-fighting theater and saw lights and heard cheering. I saw a couple walk in with no tickets. So, I asked the guy at the door how much. It was free. I started to get a slight tingle - I was going to see a bull fight. Of course, I was a little concerned that I might not ever want to eat a steak again, but it was a chance I was willing to take.
I walked up the steps to the arena and stepped out in the night of the arena. It was a perfect circle that looked like a coliseum from "Gladiator". I looked down to the dirt floor where the fight was supposed to be - and there was a complete orchestra set up playing magnificently. Apparently, I had just wandered into some sort of regional music competition that was open to the public. No bulls getting slashed and stabbed. No matador and red cloak. Just heat, steam, expectations, decent classical music, and one very sweaty, disappointed American.
I couldn't sleep in the 7th circle of hell known as my room. It kept getting hotter and hotter and the cars, people, trash trucks, and animals on the street all sounded as if they were in bed with me - it was my very own somnambulistic orgy. And I was ready for my straight jacket.
I woke to sheets soaked with my sweat, an aching back, a throbbing headache, and a decision to come back to Alicante. I had checked my schedules now to see that getting to Lyon would be difficult in time, and Geneva was now impossible.
So, here I am, back in Alicante, in my nice hotel where I stayed for the conference. It's a nice resort town with plenty of restaurants and thousands of tourists (which I hate, but at least it's lively). And, on a good ol' fashion twist of fate, I found an international book store. Inside I found a small selection of French books. I found a book called "Un Garcon de France" by Pascal Sevran. This is a book that I have been searching for since Melanie told me about it years ago. See, silver lining, no matter how thin, or charcoal colored it may be, is always there.
Oh well, there are far worse places to be stuck.