Last Saturday in Spain

Last weekend, after having realized there weren’t Saturday buses to Cuenca from Ciudad Real, Tello, Tim, Cris, and I decided we still wanted to make the most of the day and go somewhere. Left to Cris’ Spaniard expertise (she’s a local), we decided to road trip it to the Castle de Calatrava.  A forty-five minute jaunt, south of Ciudad Real, her father offered to drive the four of us (not trusting Cris’ driving skills, apparently). We left Ciudad Real around two in the afternoon. The sun was high in the blue sky. With the five of us packed in the SUV we were on the road. The terrain isn’t too different from the North Dakota landscapes I’d grown accustomed to—mostly flat, some rolling hills, but for the most part, plains.  The real difference lies in the hundreds of olive trees, which line the Spanish terrain. We arrived at the castle around three in the afternoon, which meant we’d be waiting for over an hour for the castle to open its doors back up to the public. Somewhere in the cold castle I imagined the guy who ran the place, taking his siesta, like the rest of the Spanish population during that time of day.  We sat on top of boulders and ate our lunch overlooking the valley to our right and the castle atop the hill to our left. Cowbells rang just over the far hilltop. Something about the castle and the wide open horizon made me think we could get away from the modern world, away from Facebook, cell phones, alarm clocks, and anxiety about things like which car should I buy? Or which style of shower curtain hooks would look best? 

I looked at the two, one-liter bottles of water, “How long do you think we could make it with this water? I mean if we were to start walking. Do you think we could figure out how to purify more water, how to find food to eat?” Could we make down to Morocco, over to Portugal, or up to France?”

Tim looked at me perplexed and I could tell he had just realized I was serious—or that a part of me believed it anyway.  “Not far.” He laughed, “are you serious?” “People do that don’t they?” I said. And they do—people from all over the world come to Spain, France, and Portugal to walk the Camino de Compostella, known to the English world as the “Way of St. James.” They attach a seashell to their backpacking backpacks and walk for miles, weeks, sometimes months

“Well what if we had the gear? Would you guys ever want to do it? Just start walking? We can do that, right?"  I asked again.
           

“I think people have the illusion that they can do that.”

Castilla de Calatrava

When he said that, I didn’t want to believe him, but a lot of me did. Maybe I was no different, just entertaining the illusion. And what was I hoping to gain from it all anyway? A lot people talk about how they want to move to New York City, or Paris, but do they really? Or are they just attracted to the idea of it all—the fantasy.  Do they imagine the sweaty subway cars, and the shoving to enter one?  Would I get bored five hours into the walk, or would I learn something about myself?

People who walk the Camino all seem to have a purpose for their walk.  In fact, upon completing the walk, they’re asked, “Why they did it?” 

Maybe that’s what I’m after.

We finished our lunch and I took out the Frisbee. It was hot enough to take off my light jacket, even atop the hill. We played Frisbee on the edge of gully, the stone castle behind us, and the sound of cowbells—still clanging in the distance.

Cris demonstrating what the Spanish make up
for in soccer, they lack in frisbee. 

The RAIN

I’m writing and I’m living in Spain,

And I’m saying things like,

I am so happy, and

Me voy al sobre.

And me voy a tomar una siesta.

I’m riding my bicycle in Spain

And it’s raining and it’s cold,

And I’m saying this is crazy.

I can’t believe I bike everywhere in the rain.

I don’t have fenders on my bicycle.

The thighs of my jeans are soaked,

I can see the water coming off my tires

And spinning splashes at me.

I keep riding.

I have to get to the University on time.

I have to get to my language lessons on time.

I have to get to the train station on time.

I have to get to the airport on time.

But wait,

I’m at the train station,

And I see a sign that says,

Tiempo no existe, no tengas prisa.

And I smile. And I laugh.

I keep walking but then I realize,

I’m in Spain and time doesn’t exist.

So I stop. 

And I go back to look at the sign.

My camera is packed deep in my bag,

But I take the time to unpack it.

I put the lens on. 

I zoom in on the sign.

I snap a picture. 

And I smile.

And I make it to the airport on time.

And I board the plane, and people

Aren’t speaking in Spanish anymore.

Italian now.  
And I listen.

And I love it. 

I love this time I have.

And like a dream, I think it doesn’t exist.

But the rain reminds me that it does.

España

El Cielo Espanola

Hay sonidos de español en todos los lugares.

Las sonidos son Dulces por las orejas.

Y mis orejas se comen las palabras

como se tienen un apetite grandísimo.

En los nublados la lluvia tiene agua mas rico.

Las sillas son españolas, y las sabanas

Y las estrellas. 

¿Pero quien soy yo?

Siento como un americano despedido.

Despedido en un mundo de las nublados

que cantan canciones de la noche.

Las lagrimas de los nublados no son lleno de vinagre, pero al contrario.

Son frio cuando tienes calor,

Y caliente cuando tienes frio.

Esto es porque yo soy en el momento

de una empieza fresco.

Una empieza que no voy a olvidar.

  

The Spanish Sky

There are Spanish sounds everywhere.

The sounds are Candy for the ears.

And my ears eat the words

like they have an enormous appetite.

The rain in the clouds is richer.

The seat cushions are spanish,

and the blankets, and the stars.

But who am I?

I feel like a lost American.

Lost in a world of the clouds

that sing songs of the night.

The tears of the clouds aren’t made of

vinager, but the contrary.

They are cold when you are hot

and hot when you’re chilled.

That is because I am in the momento

Of a fresh start.

A beginning that I am not going to forget.

The Avett Brothers

I'm loving music these days, a few particular bands especially. First, and at the top of the list are the Avett Brothers. I've been jamming to these guys ever since I got home from work in the early hours of the morning this past week, and lucked out to a live dvd of them on Palladia. I have two favorite songs by them at the moment, "I and Love and You," and "Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Reason." The first is probably my favorite mostly because it's about Brooklyn; a place I imagine myself living someday, and also because one of my good friends just moved there. It's a fresh a hard to define style of music which I enjoy. Any music that is difficult to define is playing well. I feel like most good things in life are hard to define. How do you define happiness? How do you know when you have it? I read somewhere that the beautiful thing about being happy, is while you're happy you don't think you'll ever be unhappy. I like that idea. To be truly happy and embrace it, you have to let go of the fear of being unhappy.

"Ahh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in. Are you aware the shape I'm in. My hands they shake, my head it spins. Ahh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in.

Three words that became hard to say: I and Love and You."

Check them out if you get the chance.

http://www.myspace.com/theavettbrothers/music/albums/i-and-love-and-you-13742581

Yo no soy yo.

"It was his choice to become a dog." He said.

"But why is that a bad thing? He couldn't find work doing anything other than being a dog. He had to feed his family. I don't think he's necessarily unhappy. He said walking on four legs is no different than walking on two."

"Right, but he didn't have a relationship with his family. He only saw his wife in passing. He lived with the dogs, and she with the people. I would argue that you need to sustain those healthy relationships to be happy."

Cora jumped in the conversation. "I think what's important is that he is aware he is making the choice to become a dog--it needs to be a conscious choice."


He thought about the play they had read in his spanish literary course. The discussion replayed in his mind. His neck ached and his eyelids were heavy. He was tired.

The lunch lady looked up. "We have one hot plate left. Turkey, mash-potatoes, green beans and gravy. It's right there."

"Hmm.. what else do you have." He looked at the white dry erase board with the short list of the days meals.

Soups: Chili and Chicken Tortilla

"We got some chili left I think... Yeah we got some chili and a bread bowl if you want that."

"Yeah, I'll have a bread bowl."

Before he could tell her what kind, she grabbed the ladle and poured the chili into a bread bowl. He thanked her. She was on the phone and he waited to pay for the chili. There was a light rain that tapped on the windows. The sky was gray and the trees scarce of the larger portion of their leaves. The bread bowl grew soggier every minute and he continued eating. He had nothing to drink.

He let the rain hit his glasses and walked as though it were not raining at all. He entered the library and was heading to his spot, but slowed as the titles of books caught his eyes. He stopped. Advanced Mass Spectrometry. He thought about a story he had read about a useless museum. It was a thin hard cover book with a brown front and a white back. The title was white and bold, surrounded by a red box. He had planned on reading a page or two. A stamp appeared on the inside cover indicating it had not been checked out for eleven years. No surprise there. He thought.

He read the first couple lines, than put the book down. He sat in the corner of the library on the top floor with his feet up on a chair across from him. The radiator ticked and he stared out the window at the rain.

Where Have All the Words Gone?

Where have all the words gone? I ask myself. Like crickets, have they hidden from the racket? Or like cockroaches scittering away from the light. It has been over a year since I have written in here last, and I wonder--Why?

So much has changed I feel as though I have to get reaquainted with my reader. It is during this reaquaintance period that one must ask themselves what is important to mention. I dont' want this to become a brief encounter with an old friend one hasn't seen in seven months. I don't want this to become 'small talk'. Why do we even do it--small talk? The conversation where neither party is listening which promises it to be had again in agony in another 5 months. Perhaps it's good. It keeps us in touch with old friends one might say. But why? I've heard in other countries the typical question to ask an old friend one hasn't seen in awhile is what they had for lunch. This cuts through the small talk and right down to what is real. What we eat--who we are. There was a period in my life when I refused to have small talk. Instead, I asked people questions like, What gets you out bed every morning? What did you have for breakfast? Do you prefer mornings or evenings? Many didn't understand my off-the-wall tactics and felt uncomfortable.

I'm back to the small talk. Things are good. Keepin' busy. Goin' to school. I'm an eternal student. What about you? I normally check out for several minutes, wondering about where I should be going. Perhaps that is my problem. I'm not listening. I need to be interested. I need to show that I'm interested.

In case you were wondering; today I went for lunch with my mom at the Olive Garden. Normally I'd give you a speech about how I'm opposed to these large corporate chain restaurants, but I enjoyed it. I had the gorgonzola medallions over fettucini. It was delicious. My girlfriend Kelsey is in Portland presenting at a conference. She'll be living in Ames Iowa and I'll be in Bismarck for much of the summer. We will be contemplating weekend trists in Minneapolis or E-fares to reunite. I have a lot to say, but don't want this first entry to feel like the last week of school lunch.

-Shawn

The Running... Part 3

After the half marathon the miles started to increase. Beau came over to our house around midnight. Sitting in the kitchen we exchanged smiles delaying the inevitable. I laced up my new Asics, threw on my winter hat, running gloves, a North Face fleece with a light-weight jacket over the top. I took in a deep breath. “Ready?”

“Aghh.” Brent smiled, as he clapped his hands. “Let’s do it.”

Beau started laughing. “We’re nuts.”

Walking outside I felt the cut of the cold against my skin. I inhaled and could taste the pure cold air in my lungs. It tasted good. We walked down the driveway and past the house, waiting for each other to start it up. Brent started off. The beep of my watch sounded and the run had begun. I always felt his pace was too quick. I thought of our course and how far we would have to go before returning to the spot we were leaving—16 miles. But my legs felt good—light.

The night was dark. Street lamps formed shadows of our figures against the pavement. Running north on third street we passed the homes and dogs’ barks that we had become accustomed to over the past few months. The first couple miles were the most challenging—finding that groove. The streets were mostly bare, other than the occasional car or two. We ran on the side of the street. “How far to the Capital?” I always needed to set up small checkpoints.

"Just under three." Beau replied.

“Three miles then water." Said Brent. “Ahhh! This is good. Water every few miles—something to look forward to."

" Just think about how good that Snickers is gonna sound around mile ten.”

When we arrived at the capitol building it felt as though our bodies had been transported. The water was still in the corner of the building awaiting our arrival, I grabbed the bottles and we shared the glory.

“What full do you guys wanna do?” I tossed a bottle in the garbage can, and we started back up.

“I don’t know, but how bout running 10 more miles after this.” Said Beau.

Brent smirked at the thought of it. “Wow. Can you imagine. Nuts dude--nuts."

"I can’t wait till we get to that Snickers.” A snickers commercial started playing in my head.
“The Grandma’s would be sweet. But we’d have to sign up soon.”

“Well lets narrow em’ down. We got the Grandma’s in June—that might be a little tough to get in to though—you gotta sign up early.” Beau created a list of the options we’d been contemplating. “Minneapolis—but that’s not till September.”

“I still like Bismarck, cus everyone could come cheer us on.” Said Brent.

I laughed. “They’ll just be asking us why we’re going so slow.”

“Good point. Fargo?”

“The Bayou, the bushwackin’ bayou. I’m tellin’ you. What would be better than running a marathon, and then telling your buddies about how you were attacked by an alligator at mile twenty-three.”

“Settled.”

We dipped on the dark black path rounding Pebble Creek golf course—it was pitch black other than a handful of stars. Beau tripped up on the side of the path, and I saw his ankle roll. “Holy shit man—you alright?” We stopped for second. “I’m fine.” Beau started back up.

"Sure you’re ok, that looked like it hurt man.”

“It’s cool.” Beau reassured us.

“Well that’s good, cus… I’m pretty sure we woulda just left you out here.” Said Brent.

“No, but really what would we have done?” I asked.

We all agreed that breaking an ankle in the middle of nowhere would suck, and figuring out what to do afterwards wouldn’t be any better. We decided not break any ankles and continued on. Rounding the corner to the bank where we stashed the goods we all began to appreciate the guy who invented the snickers. “The carmel, the nuts, the nougat.” I was stoked. “You can’t go wrong with nuts and carmel.” Brent was equally stoked, and Beau laughed at us, but agreed.

Delicious.

Waking our legs up after the brief euphoric sensation, we headed up a small incline up Century Avenue. We passed Smith Barney, and around Lowes and Pet Smart. “You know you can take your pet into Pet Smart with you.” Brent said.

“That’s awesome.” Beau sounded thrilled at the idea.

“Yeah it is.” I added.

We winded around Tyler Parkway and over the Interstate. We coasted around Tom O’leary, and down Washington. The branches overhead created monsters on the street below. Once we got to Shaunberg, we knew hit the homestretch. We could feel the magnet effect as we picked up our pace. Striding out the last steps we found ourselves outside my house—where we started. High fives.