|A glimpse of the city. Note the mountains en el fond|
The flight to Frankfurt was unquestionably the longest goddamn eight hours of my life, though I would like to commend non-U.S. based airlines for giving away wine like breath mints. I also had the fortune to sit next to someone who abruptly turned to me three hours into the flight to show me pornographic German music videos. Read in German accent: "You hear of Rammstein?" "No..." "Oh you're missing out! They're the most famous German band! Want to see?" "Um, okay." "This song's called...pussy."
I and two others battled the Metro in Madrid, bused across the country, and arrived to our hostel shortly after midnight. We promptly dropped our bags, deodorized ourselves thoroughly, and went exploring. We ended up in an Irish pub where everyone was American and the bartender didn't even try speaking Spanish with us. (In our defense, it was the only place open.) Today, in the sunlight, we meandered through winding streets uphill, no plan, no time limit, no goal except to feel and be alive, and sit in Tapas bars in the afternoon.
We encountered a man tonight who stopped in the middle of the street in search of the moon. I trust those who stop to see the moon. I love not seeing English words anywhere, but men with dreadlocks everywhere. Already I can the feel this life without scheduled restaurant hours seeping into me. And bleu cheese is abundant. Thank god.