More great words I'll find it hard to use

Today's word is equally fantastic:

logorrhea \law-guh-REE-uh\, noun:

1. Pathologically incoherent, repetitious speech.
2. Incessant or compulsive talkativeness; wearisome volubility.

Mr. King, who possesses an enviable superabundance of imagination, suffers from a less enviable logorrhea.
-- Michele Slung, "Scare Tactics.", New York Times, May 10, 1981

Logorrhea is derived from Greek logos, "word" + rhein, "to flow."

And today's technology equivalent (taken from the Samtionary):

blogorrhea \blaw-guh-REE-uh\, noun:

1. Writing more on your blog than even your mom really cares to read; turning your blog into an unsightly emo diary.
2. Feeling such an intense urge to share the minute details of your life that your egocentric dispatches spill into Twitter, where they become even easier and more compelling to produce.

I really didn't need to know that at 5:38pm on September 13th Ivanka Trump had "just left the US open..."; that was total blogorrhea.
-- Sam Jewler, to nobody in particular. September 17, 2009.

Blogorrhea is derived from Techie blog, "web-log" + rhein, "to flow."

Vocabulary gluttony

Twitter has been acting disobedient lately, and by that I mean it won't upload anything I write on it -- thereby forsaking one of its two reasons for existence. So I'm back here, where it's a bit more lonely but at least I can write as many words as I want.

I just want to share with the world the glory of dictionary.com's Word of the Day. When I got today's Word of the Day message in my inbox I took a glance at the word and immediately blew it off as urbandictionary.com's Word of the Day, which is generally far less interesting. But I took a double take and immediately realized I was staring at my newest word to be used way too much in daily conversation. So without further ado, dictionary.com's September 14th Word of the Day:

crap⋅u⋅lous

–adjective

1.	given to or characterized by gross excess in drinking or eating.

2.	suffering from or due to such excess.

Apparently that is actually a word. A quick search revealed that it indeed carries some legitimacy -- the New York Times has printed it 115 times since 1851. That's almost once a year!

One such printing is in a book review from 1985 in which the author refers to her youth thusly: "In the desert years of long ago, when I was a deluded young would-be writer tangled up in my own crapulous ambition...." Funny how the struggles of a young writer can be made to sound so romantic.

In related news, it's good to know this exists:

Between a Stone and a Hard History

I've embarked upon Howard Zinn's classic 700-page tome A People's History of the United States as pleasure reading -- now that school's started my progress in it will go about as far over the course of the semester as it did in a week of August. The book is enlightening in the way that it's showing me whole new ways to be cynical, ashamed and -- OK -- occasionally hopeful about our country.

One section that strikes me in particular is the beginnings of the movement for women's rights, which first appeared as repressed rumblings in the mid-1800's with Amelia Bloomer's new style of dress meant to liberate women's abilities by freeing their physical movements. By the 1820's, women -- whom Zinn calls "the intimately oppressed" -- had been introduced to factory work by the beckoning of capitalism and its infinitely churning profit motives. Twenty years later they were starting to organize and gather en masse to protest for better wages and working conditions. And between 1840 and 1870 women's literacy doubled.

But all of this improvement didn't just happen by the magical workings of unseen natural forces. It happened thanks to the efforts of people like Lucy Stone, a feisty female and original Oberlin activist. The first known American woman to use her birth name after marriage, Stone is said to have delivered a speech that moved Susan B. Anthony to take up the fight for women's rights.



Stone developed her inspirational oratory skills at Oberlin in the 1840's, despite the fact that the school's rhetoric class only permitted men to debate publicly. At one point Stone and fellow student activist Antoinette Brown convinced the head of the department to let them debate each other in public. The session was hailed as "exceptionally brilliant," but the Ladies' Board, a group of faculty wives, raised so much protest that they were never able to repeat the performance.

When it came time for Stone to graduate she was approached and asked to write the commencement address. The only catch -- it would have to be read by a man. Stone appealed for the right to present her own writing, but it was no hope. Once again, even the Ladies' Board stood in her way. Being a strong, self-respecting person, Stone refused to write the address, saying she would do nothing to acknowledge "the rectitude of the principle which takes away from women their equal rights, and denies to them the privilege of being co-laborers with men in any sphere to which their ability makes them adequate; and that no word or deed of mine should ever look towards the support of such a principle, or even to its toleration."

Her spirit was infectious; several others who had been asked to write essays for graduation boycotted with her. During her time at Oberlin Lucy Stone was a whirlwind of radical activism. When she wasn't working three jobs she was active in the peace society, in antislavery work, teaching colored students and setting up a debate club for girls which was held secretly in nearby woods.

Stone can be an inspiration to every Oberlin student who is proud of their school's activist history but not totally aware of the specifics of it. History moves forward when strong, courageous people swim against the tide of backward movements. Small acts of justified defiance and activism do have meaning -- Oberlin initiatives we see today like SEED House and student groups tutoring at public schools and volunteering with Murray Ridge make real differences in people's lives. Those are projects students undertook in the face of uncertainty and fear about what might be impossible or infeasible. And they're making the world a better place.

My Blog Hiatus

I know it's been a really long time since I posted here. I had what was certainly one of the best summers of my life, yet there's very little record of it here or in any journal of mine. Why was it such a good summer? I got published several times by New York Magazine -- once in paper and three times on the website, saw great concerts, had delicious food and beer; speaking of that I turned 21 and had most of my best friends come up for an unforgettable party. I lived on my own for a month and learned to love cooking for myself and going to my interesting, dynamic ten to six. I felt like an adult! Few things are as pleasing as when you feel yourself maturing, even when it's a false sensation. Isn't that feeling part of what underage drinking and smoking are all about?

So in a nutshell that was the glory of my summer. Why didn't I write about it here? Well the first day I got home from my internship at the Magazine, I sat down at my computer and wrote breathlessly about my thrilling first day on the job -- a day that in retrospect was pretty mundane. I was on cloud nine at the time.

The next morning my boss emailed me: "Sam, please come see me." I normally don't assume I'm in trouble in this kind of situation, but I got the sense that I was this time. I scurried eagerly to her desk, and entered the cubicle to the sight of my blog page up on her screen.

"Is this yours?" she asked.

"Yeah...," I said, not sure whether to expect praise or admonishment.

"You have to take it down immediately," she said. My post had made brief mention of the stories I was helping with; the magazine couldn't afford to let that information leak. "Several editors told me to tell you."

How several editors came across my blog post in one morning I'll never know, but the experience brought me to this shockingly obvious conclusion: anyone -- no, everyone can read what I write on this blog. Something about the scolding and my internet epiphany spooked me so bad I couldn't consider coming back to this open diary for the rest of the summer. It was something more insidious than writer's block, something like... writer's trepidation. That doesn't sound quite as good though, does it.

The Roots: Selflessly Perfect

I just got back from the most awesome -- in the dictionary sense of the word -- concert of my life.

The Roots rocked the house at the Highline Ballroom, and it was mostly thanks to their brilliant selflessness. Some of the premier jazz talent in New York City (read: in the world) took the stage with ?uestlove and Black Thought and set the crowd in motion with its fervent swing.

A few highlights stick out in my mind:

The stage boasted at least 20 different musicians over the course of the show, with maestros switching in at every instrument -- keyboard, keyboard 2, bass, guitar, guitar 2, drums, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, and mic. There were frequently at least 10 people on the stage at once.

For the last half of the show, three people (including ?uestlove of course) were simultaneously jamming on the one drum set -- seamlessly.

Finally the show came to a beautiful, perfectly climactic end... and then the keyboardist went into a Michael Jackson song -- the buoyant I Want You Back. Having expected to be done, legendary drummer ?uestlove gave him an exasperated look before diving into the beat with the kind of gusto only a recently deceased immortal can inspire.

Halfway through the instrumental ecstasy, the guitarist realized something was missing and jumped boldly to the mic, bringing the song fully to life.

The song came to its natural close, and the keyboardist stood up for one tantalizing moment -- then hit the cool opening notes of I'll Be There. ?uestlove looked at him in tired wonderment; then sure enough, right on time he came back in. Someone we hadn't seen ran on stage from the back and started singing with authority. On the chorus he turned the show democratic, pointing the mic out to the delirious crowd.

"I'll be there... I'll be there!!!"

"Where there is love, I'll be there..."

Too soon, the song came to its epic, glorious end. ?uestlove played the end like it was really, really the end. And it was.

Except for the insatiably generous energy of the keyboardist. No sooner had the song come to its climactic end than he set off into Rock With You. ?uestlove rolled his eyes in disbelief, waited a few beats and joined in. The house went crazy.

Last night Alison and I discovered a new NYU dining hall. This one allows the diner to collect unlimited amounts of food. Being the glutton that I am, I didn't realize I was full until I found myself halfway through my third plate of food, my innards bursting with dull, painful agony. At that point I decided the rest of my food would be more useful to others than it would be to me.

So I brought the rest of my tofu teriyaki to Tariq. It was my second time bringing him food. I felt determined to please him, after watching my first food delivery crash and burn. Once again Tariq was talking to some friendly people I'd never seen before when I plopped down next to him and eagerly put the styrafoam container in his lap.

"What did you bring me this time?" he excitedly drawled.

"I got you some tofu; it's good," I said. I gave him the fork I'd taken from the dining hall.

His simple response made me feel truly appreciated: "Man... you cool. And he brought a fork!"

Then, "Ay, you got a dollar?"

I wasn't sure how aghast to be. "Man, I just gave you some food and now you're gonna ask me for money?" I not-really-jokingly jibed him.

"Yeah man!" he volleyed back.

"What are you getting with this money?" I asked.

"Some beer, man!"

Then I realized I was squabbling over a dollar with a homeless man who'd accepted me at some level just minutes after first laying eyes on me. He'd opened my eyes to another social dimension of this park that I otherwise would have blinded myself to.

Still, there was something that bothered me. Tariq turned back to the people he'd been chatting with when I arrived. Sitting on his other side, I could see how it would be a bit awkward for him to talk to all of us at once. But I suddenly felt passé, like I was the exciting new guy but not anymore. Like Tariq has been living on the streets for decades, and he's seen my type come and go -- the open-minded, middle class white guy who feels cool, urban and gritty for hanging out with relatively happy homeless guys. Tariq directed a story at the others about some rich girls who had summoned him excitedly to the street one night and bequeathed him a trunkful of leftover, gourmet catered food. It sounded grand. I stood up, bid him farewell and walked home.

I got to the park late tonight, about 10 minutes before its midnight closing. I scanned the crowd of new characters huddled around the music, finally feeling at home again when Tariq emerged and cheerfully greeted me.

Tonight was less idyllic than other nights have been. There was another "nut", according to Tariq, but he was a lot less appealing to me than Steve or Harv. In very little time, I found myself breaking up a fight between him and an exasperated regular.

A police van rolled up to disperse our crowd just as the two men's tempers subsided. The nut asked a fellow hobo for a sip of his drink, and was turned down. All I remember is what rang out into the dark, empty night as I walked away from the smattering of stragglers.

"No one ever gives me anything, and you wonder why I fuckin' do heroin! Look at my arm!"

I wrote the following as the latter half of a post about my first day on the job at New York magazine. The next day I was told by my superior said she had received complaints from editors that I was giving away our story topics on my blog. So I had to take the post down. Anyway here's the part I was allowed to keep up. It's a moot topic because I never did get to do what I fantasize about below, but hey, maybe one day I will.


On Thursday, assuming I get press access, the real show starts. I'll be the only person from New York mag at the 2009 NBA Draft, and I plan not to let this rare opportunity juke me out. I'm reading Hunter S. Thompson's famous piece on the crazed depravity of the Kentucky Derby for inspiration.

Both spectacles have a certain tantalizing aspect to them. As Thompson observed in The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, the crowd is replete with "thousands of raving, stumbling drunks, getting angrier and angrier as they lose more and more money." No matter how drunk you get you're still going home with empty pockets. And what's the best that can happen for a fan at the NBA Draft? Your team picks a player who might pan out in the NBA, and now you have to wait four months for the season to start. Or you might stand around bitching and moaning because your team picked the wrong guy.

I expect the Draft to be somewhat more sober than Thompson's Kentucky Derby. Even boring, maybe. But somehow or other, the same zest that carries basketball fan(atic)s from across the country to a ceremony which uses no ball or hoop -- there's something in there.

"I don't know their life story, I don't know their personal shit, but I know how they treat me. They treat me good. Now that's some shit to write about."


Steve gesticulates at nobody. Every now and then he lets out a fleeting, sing-song yelp or a melodic whistle -- his form of participation in the homeless people's singalong which brings life to Washington Square Park every night.

"I've known Steve for a while. He's a nut. You know there's the village drunk, the town fool -- Steve's the nut," says Tariq. Tariq has been around for many years. His gray, wizened dreadlocks and upbeat spirit attest to that. "Everyone says there's something wrong with him, and there is. But I've noticed there's one thing he always does. He always wants to share with people. You know, he comes up to people with a drink, he offers you the straw -- people can't accept that shit! People don't understand him 'cause they don't know him. And I get it! People have their fears. But he's completely harmless. I've never once heard of him yelling or cursing, getting in fights, nothin'."

"He's so well put-together," I say, marveling at his tidy goatee and matching, fitting outfit.

"Oh you like his uniform?" Tariq says. "He wears that thing every day. But it's the strangest thing -- I've never smelled his body odor. Hey Steve! Come over here, I want you to meet my new friends!"

Steve looks over, his feathered hat whipping around with his attentive glare. He steps a few feet towards us and abruptly launches something at me as if it had just bitten him. "Yuhwahmuhshuht?" he earnestly offers as I bend down to pick it up.

"No thank you," I awkwardly stammer, taken aback despite Tariq's unforgettable warning. I hand the t-shirt back to him and he throws it right back in my face.

"Thanks, but it's your shirt!" I insist.

This time he accepts, clutching the rag to his chest, where he already holds an armful of folders overflowing with haphazard messes of paper. He jabbers incomprehensibly for a bit with an explanatory look in his eyes. Words mix seamlessly with flatulent bursts of air shoved through his pursed lips. I back away, cautious of his raining spittle. But there is none. Steve walks away, urgently gesticulating.

On my last evening in Córdoba I got to see a corrida de toros -- a bullfight. I'd wanted to experience the 300 year old relic of Spanish tradition since I'd come to Spain, but could never gather the moral self-assurance to act on my curiosity. I felt wrong giving financial support to a sport -- or is it an art? -- that cheers on the bloody death of innocent, disadvantaged animals.

Toreros, asesinos -- bullfighters, murderers -- was graffitied
in several places on the outside of the ring.

But, as is usually the case, my curiosity got the better of me. Not only is bullfighting an integral part of Spanish culture, but I realized that for me at least, the very fact that it would be hard for me to watch was the reason I needed to see it. A few months before Federico García Lorca's 1936 execution, he wrote one of his famous plays La casa de Bernarda Alba, in which the domineering title character proclaims, "Y no quiero llantos. La muerte hay que mirarla cara a cara." -- "And I don't want to hear any crying. Death must be confronted face to face."

Death is a natural part of life, I figured. If I can eat animals daily, I should be able to stomach watching them die from hundreds of feet away.

That evening I walked to the bullring with my friends Josh, Mary and Fatima.


We had paid 10 euros and little thought to the spectacle we'd soon see and probably never forget. Of course we knew that bulls would die in front of us, but I don't think any of us had wanted to imagine what that might actually look like.

In the modern bullfight, the man-bull interaction is divided into three main phases. In the beginning, the bull gallops out into the ring, each one of the six beasts bigger and more aggressive than the last. A few men stand around using pink capes to attract the bull's attention, then run away like the physically puny species we are when it charges at them. (Contrary to popular belief, it's the movement of the cape -- not the color of it -- that gets the bull to charge.) Eventually the bull gets annoyed by this fruitless game, and rams the closest horse. Unfortunately (for the bull) the horse is well-protected by some kind of thick padding, and is mounted by a man who proceeds to jab his spear into the area behind the bull's head.

Notice that the horse is blindfolded.

But the nape of the bull's neck hasn't been tenderized nearly enough yet. In phase two, three of the men leave behind their pink capes and pick up a pair of colorful knives. As the bull charges each one, he jumps aside at the last second and drives both knives into the same spot on the bull's back. This picture (not taken by me) shows the result:


Now, with the bull panting and bleeding, he is weak enough for a single man to go cara a cara with him. This third phase of the bullfight is the most renowned. The color red takes center stage, as the torero's red cape tantalizes the bull over and over again until one final charge, when the bull's exasperated sprint comes up with nothing but air and a sword driven down to the hilt in its back.

Of the four bulls we watched die, the majority tended to react to this fatal blow by walking around in a daze for a few moments, then slowly retreating from the men to die on its own. It would become obviously exhausted and start spitting up blood.


When it neared the very end of its life it would let out a few heartwrending groans and sit down, with an almost docile air. Finally, and mercifully, it would keel over onto its side:


The torero with the red cape then kneels over the bull and takes it out of its misery by repeatedly stabbing it in the same, softened bloody spot. After the bull's body stops its macabre writhing the torero slices off an ear as a kind of trophy for a fight well done. And the crowd goes wild.

The brutality of time

Today I left Córdoba, abruptly abandoning the most blissful four months I will ever live. The last few days have been a tropical storm of unabated joy and anxious anticipation of the day we could never imagine coming.

Last Thursday I went to the opening night of Córdoba's renowned week-long festival, Feria.


The sudden midnight illumination of the fairground's Mezquita-inspired facade was magical;


but a rare cold, driving rain stole the night. I can count the number of rainy days I've seen in Andalucía on one hand, but the timing of the weather that night was entirely appropriate for the circumstances. (Maybe there's a reason the Spanish word 'tiempo' means both "time" and "weather.") The low-key night ended somberly, as my friend Matt was to leave Córdoba early the next morning.

Two days later I went on an unforgetable hike through the hills of Córdoba with my friends Mary, Mareva, Amanda and my new Spanish friend Ricardo.


The pinnacle of the day was when Richy and I reached the summit of a prohibitively steep hill which we probably shouldn't have tried to scale.


A few minutes later, we came across an old, 1930's country house that must have been bombed out during the Spanish Civil War.


These days, Nature lives there.


This fantastical experience, too, would soon become that fantastical experience.



After countless hours of hiking the group's patience began to wear thin. We walked back to Richy's house and took a dip in his pool to cleanse our bodies of the dusty, sweaty itch that one inevitably feels after a day of walking through the maleza -- undergrowth -- of the countryside.

(This word maleza is incredibly telling in light of the passage I recently read in Lorca's Bodas de Sangre, in which a farmer talks about his lifelong "battle against the weeds, the thistles, and the rocks that come from who knows where." The interesting thing is that the word belleza -- "beauty" -- comes from bella -- "beautiful." If mal means "bad", shouldn't maleza translate to something like "badness", instead of "undergrowth"?)

It was the second time I had been to Richy's house, in Córdoba's El Brillante ("The Brilliant") neighborhood overlooking the city.


The swim that day was deeply therapeutic, like writing this post has been for me tonight. There is much more to come...

Today I opened my bottom drawer to get out a pair of jeans. The drawer opened with unusual ease. My jeans are in my suitcase.

Another time, not at a drunken 6:30am, I'll go into further detail about why it is that Spain will always have a place in my heart. Right now I'm overdosed on merriment, my shoes are dusty and I've got little more than this song running through my head:




This song is a techno-ized version of the song traditionally played by the bands that flow through the streets of any given Andalucían city during the religiously decadent week of Semana Santa.

I recently started reading Bodas de Sangre -- Blood Weddings, a play written in 1985 by the tragic Andalucían poet Federico García Lorca. I only just started the second act, but up until now in Lorca's fatalistic plot the leading female character is en route to the wedding where she is supposed to get married to a man for whom she has a sadly curt, forced love. She has just had a distressing conversation with her married ex-boyfriend -- distressing due to the conspicuously mutual attraction that spikes their exchange.



I bring up this book because, though it takes place in and is informed by my current home region of Andalucía, I have found few cultural references that I could really relate to. That was until today, when I took a day trip out to the campo -- the countryside -- and read the following passage in Bodas de Sangre:

Padre: Yo quiero que tengan muchos. Esta tierra necesita brazos que no sean pagados. Hay que sostener una batalla con las malas hierbas, con los cardos, con los pedruscos que salen no se sabe dónde. Y estos brazos tienen que ser de los dueños, que castiguen y que dominen, que hagan brotar las simientes. Se necesitan muchos hijos.

Father (talking to his supposedly soon to be sister-in-law): I hope you have a lot [of grandchildren]. This land needs arms that don't ask for pay. It's the only way to keep up the battle against the weeds, the thistles, and the rocks that come from who knows where. And those arms have to be those of the family's, have to punish and dominate the land, have to make the seeds sprout. Yes, the life demands many children.

Climbing the hills around the tiny pueblo of Espiel, nothing was more beautifully displayed than the dominance of nature and its intractable forces. We began our trek walking up a paved road:


which soon gave way to an overgrown dirt path:


which promptly disappeared, as we treaded through knee high grasses rarely touched by human skin:


Why do people love to explore nature, anyway? It often seems to me that what draws us is that aura of innocent virginity found on any given mountain, field or forest. It's an organic peace that simply can't be found in the urban jungle.

But at the same time, nature wouldn't be itself without its infinite, unsentimental brutality of growth. What do I mean by that? To take a less romantic view of the world, there is no manmade structure or living being that natural forces will hesitate to tear down and swallow up.

Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
Stones to stones:


and die we must:



It's not always easy to remember when you live in a city, but I really believe that humans are just one of many species inhabiting this earth. And we should try to act accordingly. Nature is beautiful, but it is not charitable. It is giving, but it is indomitable.

Much of my reasoning comes from a powerful book I read a few months ago, called The World Without Us. Written by Alan Weisman, it uses history, architectural and natural science, and scary pollution statistics to paint a picture of what might happen to the earth if humans were to suddenly vanish. The third chapter, called The City Without Us, talks about New York City after the disappearance of humans. Particularly astonishing is how vulnerable its massive bridges are to the relentless waves of nature's forces:

The bridges are under a constant guerrilla assault by nature. Its arsenal and troops may seem ludicrously puny against steel-plated armor, but to ignore endless, ubiquitous bird droppings that can snag and sprout airborne seeds, and simultaneously dissolve paint, would be fatal. Del Tufo [Manager of the George Washington Bridge] is up against a primitive but unrelenting foe whose ultimate strength is its ability to outlast its adversary, and he accepts as a fact that ultimately nature must win....

Every connection is vulnerable. Rust that forms between two steel plates bolted together exerts forces so extreme that either the plates bend or rivets pop....

Three times in the past 100,000 years, glaciers have scraped New York clean.

So what of the man vs. nature dichotomy? What's going on in man and nature's relationship?

It's complicated.

Lenny Kravitz comes to Córdoba, and inspires his fans all over again

Do you remember when we were in elementary school and Lenny Kravitz came out with his airy, fantastical hit ''Fly Away''?

''I want to get away, I wanna flyyyy awayyyy, yeaahhh yeahhh yeaaahhh!''

Yeah, you remember that one.

He was pretty cool; at least I thought so. When's the last time you thought about him? Yeah, I don't know either.

Well, in an inexplicably random collision of times and spaces from two very different eras of my life, Lenny Kravitz came to play a concert in Córdoba this past Sunday night. I was unwilling to pay the 40 euro entry fee, but I had heard it was possible to see or at least enjoy the outdoor concert from outside the venue, so I went and met my friend Mareva there. I didn't regret it.

Indeed, it was difficult to see much of Lenny that night. Crowds of equally frugal Spaniards hovered around areas where the tarp covering the chain-link fence had been ripped, eager to match the sight with the music. Mareva and I mostly hung out across the street, where we could sit and chill while still reaping the full effect of the massive concert speakers. On occasion, when Lenny went into a sweet solo (his ''Stairway of Heaven'' cover comes to mind) or a song we liked, we would walk up to the fence. I soon realized how easy it was to scale the 15-foot fence and perch myself on the top. It also would have been easy to drop down on the other side, but I didn't think it right to ditch Mareva. How gentlemanly of me, right?

This was my view from atop the fence:



Even from the outside looking in I loved the concert, and I gained a newfound respect for Lenny Kravitz and his rock star stage presence. He negotiated the awkward foreign-crowd dynamic as best he could, offering a ''¡buenas noches!'' and ''¿que tal?'' here and there, and taking in stride the dead silence that followed his impassioned ''Can you hear me?!''

But as much as I liked the concert enough to revive Kravitz's presence in my iTunes library, my newfound admiration for the Spanish people was the big souvenir I took away from this amazing night. I have never in my life seen such an energetic, enthusiastic, responsive and grateful crowd as the one I saw that night. You know how usually at concerts people put their arms up and wave them for like half a song, or just when they get really excited, and then put them down again soon after? Not this crowd. It was moving and cheering all night, and when it came near to the end they compelled Lenny Kravitz to come back for not one, but two encores! (I've never seen that either.) Between his last song and the encores, half the crowd would wave both arms back and forth towards the stage, as if bowing to the man. The people who weren't physically praising him were doing the Spanish encore clap -- a lively, Flamenco-based beat of thirds. CLAPclapclapCLAPclapclapCLAPclapclap.

In this picture you can strain to see part of the pulsating wave of appreciative arms (look near the big flush of light at the left of the stage; now imagine that over the entire crowd you saw in the picture above):



But my appreciation of Spanish youth was not to end quite yet. It being a relatively small venue and still too early to go home, Mareva and I decided to hang around to see if we could see Lenny leaving the stadium to board his tour bus.

About an hour and a half or two hours later, it was us and about 10 other Spaniards our age. Most of the other band members had come out, stopping with varying degrees of begrudgery to pose with eager, camera wielding fans. The exit gate was mostly blocked by a large truck that was backed up in it. It was a constant race to guess which side of the truck Lenny would come out on. Suddenly a man walked out of the gate on our side of the truck, and the Spaniards around us went berserk. Apparently it was a famous Spanish actor who grew up in Córdoba. Oops, didn't recognize him. And an actor he was. And by actor, I mean decoy. The bus had pulled up perpendicular with the front of the truck so that its front door was on our side of the truck and its back door on the other side. All of a sudden there was a commotion on the other side of the truck -- Lenny was coming out on that side. As the ten of us moved toward the narrow stretch inbetween bus and truck to get to Lenny's side, a security guard suddenly apparated, clogging the space before us and pushing us back. Some of the more fanatical fans were really upset; I found myself more amused at their reactions and impressed at the seamless execution of Lenny's team.

The saga continued. Lenny proceeded to sit tantalizingly on his bus for at least a half hour, inviting the mostly unsatistfied fans to mill around bugging his driver, knocking on the tinted windows, and watching the most desperate fans do generally ridiculous things. One girl started pushing all the buttons and turning all the knobs she could find on the outside of the bus, in some sardonic attempt to open its door. One girl walked around the bus wailing in heavily accented English unbelievable things which the rest of us just stood around laughing goodnaturedly at, such as, ''Lenny!!! I need you! I will lose my job without you! Please, Lenny, help me!!!'' She seemed to be in her own world. All of this was funny, and probably could have been found anywhere.

But what it evolved into was uniquely Spanish. The teenage Spaniards started singing traditional Spanish songs in front of the driver's window, the climax coming when they began to dance the traditional Andalucían sevillanas dance. Turn up your volume and enjoy:





After this, Lenny must have told his bus driver he'd do autographs, because the driver opened the door and started taking pieces of paper from people. I happily took advantage of what my Spanish companions' cultural exclamation had reaped, and got in on the autograph party. Though we couldn't see him behind the bus' cockpit curtain, I can only imagine that Lenny was a little bit tickled by his fans' enthusiasm. The bus driver wasn't too happy, but what can ya do?



Yes, the Spanish people are a happy one, even in desperate times. Last night my host mom and I were watching a TV show which features musical performances from Spanish music stars of the 70's and 80's. At the end of one song, the band's singer took the microphone and told the audience, essentially, ''I know everyone is going through hard times right now. But when you hear my music I want you to dance and forget about your troubles.''

Amen to that.

More on smoking in Spain

If any of my limited readership is still coming back to this lonely, peat-covered blog after my last post, you may not be after this one. So without further ado, we return to the topic of... cigarettes!

A few days ago I was hanging out in a cafe with some friends, rehearsing a presentation we would give to our Spanish Constitution class full of Spaniards the next day. Now nearly every cafe and bar in Spain worth its weight in beer has a handy cigarette machine in the corner. Patrons of all ages are welcome to come up, pop in a few euros and walk away, cig-in-mouth like a rock star.

So on this particular afternoon I happened to notice a man walk up to the machine with his five year old son leading the way. The man bent over and put a few coins in his son's hand as if to say, ''I know how you love using the cigarette machine! Have a blast!'' The little boy waddled giddily up to the machine and pushed the coins down the slot. Then he reached up, finger searching for the right tobacco insignia-adorned button. Losing his patience, the father grabbed the boy's hand and led it to the flavor he wanted. Push. Pop. Addiction.

In which the topic of cigarettes leads to some seriously dark thoughts -- be warned before reading.

I was at the gym yesterday, talking to a Spaniard who had come over to help me finish off a set on the bench press. I told him that I loved la vida aquí -- the life here -- in part because people are so friendly, amable. I've never once had a stranger come over to help me push out the final few reps of a set in the United States, but here it's happened three times in as many months.

As we got to talking, it turned out that my new friend was a doctor at a nearby hospital, and had grown up here in Córdoba. As I've noticed that every Spaniard and their mother smokes cigarettes, I asked him if the habit was popular even among doctors. His response was telling, though unspecific -- ''si, casi la mayoría'', he said -- ''yeah, almost the majority of them.''

And yet in terms of European life expectancy rates, Spain (79.78 year avg to the U.S.' 78.06) is right there at 19th with the leaders: Italy (a Mediterranean companion), France (another country heavy on the smoking), Switzerland (yeah, we know about your health care system) and Sweden (ditto on the system; the leader in Europe, at 80.63, only 8th worldwide).

I know the two or three people who will ever read this are curious to know which country heads the list. That would be Macau, a southeastern province-city of China which officially loses its semi-autonomy to the Big Red in 2049. Why? Macau was both the first and last Chinese city to be colonized by a European country. Portugal originally settled there in the 16th century, but in 1999 agreed to officially bequeath Macau to the people of Macau, with the stipulation that fifty years later it would be swallowed up by China. How did we get here again? Oh yeah, Macau's average life expectancy -- 84.38 years -- leads the world. I wonder how popular tobacco is there.

I hate to end this on a down note, but it must be noted that Swaziland has the worst average life expectancy in the world, and is the only country in which one is not expected to live past forty. Their average is 39.6. A tiny former colony of the UK in southeastern Africa, Swaziland also, not coincidentally, has the highest rate of AIDS in the world. In 2004, a study found that 38.8% of pregnant women tested positive for the merciless disease. Please, someone throw them a frickin' bone.

Of the forty countries between 155th and 195th at the bottom of the life expectancy rankings, thirty eight are in Africa. That stretch runs the hellish gamut from Madagascar, at an average of 59.4 years, down to the inferno of misery that Swaziland must be. The notable non-African outlyer is Afghanistan, 188th on the list with an average life expectancy of 43.8 years.

This global tragedy reminds me of a strangely lucid dream I had last night, in which an anonymous, legless, wheelchair-bound man was pleading with his family members to undergo some kind of fantastical operation which would give him legs at the cost of a few inches of height from each of them. With little pretense of remorse, the fully endowed humans stood around the desperate man as the fireplace lit the room with flickers of a dim, frigid glow. I can still hear his tearful wails as they faded away into the night.

Religion, Culture and History -- Put on Your Hardhat

I searched long and hard for a picture to lead off this post, one that could capture the essence of Barcelona, or even just the essence of its crowning architectural achievement. But the Sagrada Familia is too big to be confined in one photo without melding into obscurity its cacophony of meaningful details. I'd been to the architecturally exuberant cathedral twice already, but I'd never taken the time to notice its most subtle features. That's the trouble with the 150-year work-in-progress -- the approaching viewer finds himself so overwhelmed by the grand scale of the building, then by the stark creativity of its facades, that he's liable to stroll, jaw slacked in awe, right by some of its most expressive details.

For instance, try taking your eyes off the climactic scenes of the storybook Passion façade,

or dropping your gaze from this neck-cranking view,

to attempt reading some holy ramblings in a language -- Catalan -- you've probably never seen:


This time around, what I realized upon closer inspection was that Gaudí may be recognized most for his flamboyance, but that his workmanlike commitment and pious devotion give meaning to his shapes and colors. Tidbits of mystique abound in his masterpiece cathedral. For example, in the picture above, if you zoom in on the two highlighted phrases above the door on the right, you read, ''Que es la veritat?'' and ''Jesús d Natzaret, rei dels Jueus'' -- Catalan for ''What is the truth?'' and ''Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews''. The latter phrase seems strange to find at a church; what follows may give it some context.

Yet more obscure was a Catalan poem engraved on one of the main entrance doors. The door opposite it featured the same poem engraved backwards, and accompanied by an abstraction of symbols that seemed Dali-like in their apparent randomness.

Notice the end of the poem written in backwards Catalan, at the top of the picture. This is an excerpt of a stirring poem written by famous Catalan poet Salvador Espriu. In Catalan, it goes:

De vegades és necessari i forçós
que un home mori per un poble,
però mai no ha de morir tot un poble
per un home sol:
recorda sempre això, Sepharad.

Fortunately I was able to find a Spanish translation online. Notice the similarities in word and sentence structure:

A veces es necesario y forzoso
que un hombre muera por un pueblo,
pero jamás ha de morir
todo un pueblo por un hombre solo:
recuerda siempre esto, Sepharad.

In English that translates to:

Sometimes it's necessary
That a man die for his people,
Though a people has never died
For a man alone:
Always remember this, Sepharad.

Who is Sepharad? I wondered the same. It turns out that Sefarad was the name assumed by the Jewish diaspora in Spain -- known to us as the Sephardics. In fact the man who is arguably the most famous and impactful Sephardic Jew, Maimonides, was born right here in Córdoba. I walk by a commemorative statue of the twelfth-century philosopher, doctor, and rabbi almost every day. Spain has seen great religious diversity over the last two thousand years, but recent studies show that only 1.7% of its present-day population identifies with a religion other than Catholicism (77.3%) or atheism/agnosticism (18.9%).

I'm intrigued, and continue translating the poem:

You must secure the bridges of dialogue
and try to understand and respect
the diverse opinions of your children.
That the rain falls little by little over your fields
and the air passes like an extended hand,
smooth and gentle over the vast countryside.
That Sepharad lives forever
in order and in peace, in work,
in the difficult and deserved
freedom.


Passing through either of the Sagrada Familia's gloriously cluttered façades, one suddenly finds oneself in an airy, spacious temple of tranquility.


The organic shapes of Gaudí's tree-inspired pillars soar overhead, with the carpentry camp at their feet the necessary reminder that this holy monument was indeed built by man.


There's something about the stained glass windows in the Sagrada Familia -- perhaps it's their youth -- which gives their colors an exuberant clarity unlike any I've seen before. My camera can't hope to do it justice, but here's a taste:


But, like most cultural icons in Spain, the Sagrada Familia isn't all beauty and sacrament. Gaudí's legacy has left a trail of political baggage. The pride of Catalunya, a region of Spain with sentiments of separatism, and a man known by some as 'God's Architect', he is a polarizing figure for much of Spain. I had read a lot about the existence of 'many Spains' -- that the country is a simmering pot of regional differences trying to turn the page on a polemical twentieth century history which lurks in its collective subconscious. In the Sagrada Familia's basement museum I found definitive proof of this dynamic.

I was reading the Spanish section of a sign explaining that many of Gaudí's sketches and models are no longer available since being destroyed when his office caught on fire. Strange, I thought, I wonder how that happened? I looked over to the English translation to make sure I had understood everything, and my heart jumped. There I saw the same sentence in English, but with a little extra information: all of Gaudi's works were destroyed ''when his office was set on fire during the Civil War.'' I looked back to the Spanish to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Nope. The Catalan translation also conspicuously lacked the decisive detail.

How sensitive must this society be about its own history, that it avoids discussing such undisputable details? The Civil War happened in the 1930's -- surely we're past the era of ''it's too soon''. We've all been told in elementary school that it's important to learn history so we don't repeat the mistakes of the past. Is Spain sabotaging its future generations by turning away from the lessons of its painful past? Or is this forced ignorance necessary to maintain peace in such a fragmented country?

I met two German girls in Lisbon who told me that their school system was very forthright when it came to teaching the history of World War II. The Spaniards have taken the opposite approach by dancing around controversial issues the way their flamenco dancers dance tantalizingly around each other, staring down each other's souls. This dance, though outwardly beautiful, is one of willful ignorance and self-containment. Can it ever be productive to ignore history?

Flashes of Granada

Granada is a city I will never forget. Granada is the Spanish word for ¨pomegranate¨, and like the luscious fruit itself this Andalucian treasure is healthy, delicious food for the soul.

The first site we visited was Lalhambra, (¨the red palace¨ in Arabic), most succinctly described as Andalucia´s answer to Versailles. But while Versailles boasts beauty by way of grandiose expanse, Lalhambra offers majesty and sensory seduction.


Built 700 years ago by the culturally and technologically sophisticated Moors, the Alhambra (Lalhambra is how the Spaniards say it) is truly best experienced using all five senses. Well, the lemon trees were off-limits to tourists -- so I didn´t get to taste anything. But you get the point. By the midpoint of the tour I had shed my shoes and socks, eagerly soaking up sensations with all four limbs.




Every now and then we would come upon a fountain. The agua fresco -- cool, fresh water -- provided an oasis for the senses.



The courtyard shown above was, as it appears, the very picture of serenity. The great thing about the place was that it had a few areas such as this which were cordoned off from visitors, visible only from windows. One can imagine how crowds of tourists would sully this virgin view.



On a wall near the entrance of Lalhambra was mounted una poema by Jorge Luis Borges, which he wrote in 1976 -- entitled, Alhambra:

Grata la voz del agua
A quien abrumaron negras arenas
Grato a la mano concava
El mármol circular de la columna
Gratos los finos laberintos del agua
Entre los limoneros
Grata la música del zéjel
Grato el amor y grata la plegaria
Dirigida a un dios que esta solo
Grato el jazmín.

Vano el alfanje
Ante las largas lanzas de los muchos
Vano ser el mejor
Grato sentir o presentir, rey doliente
Que tus dulzuras son adioses
Que tu será negada la llave
Que la cruz del infiel borrara la luna
Que la tarde que miras es la última.


Pleasant is the voice of water
To he who was overwhelmed by dark sands
Pleasant to the cupped hand
The circular marble of the column
Pleasant are the subtle mazes of the water
Between the lemon trees
Pleasant is the music of the zéjel
Pleasant is love and prayer
Directed toward a god that is alone
Pleasant is jasmine.

Vain is the sword
Before the long spears of the multitudes
In vain to overcome
Pleasant to feel or to realize, mourning king
That your joys are goodbyes
That the key will be denied you
That the cross of the infidel will erase the moon
That the evening you see is your last.

I'M STILL ALIVE

OK, so it's been a little while. I gotta say I've been pretty intimidated from writing on this blog. There's just so much going on every day of my life here -- so many ebullient emotions, fresh experiences and flowering friendships -- it's all become a backlog of memories which can't possibly be transcribed in full.

Since I find it unfeasible to keep a complete travelblogue, I think I'll just post memories here and there, along with the non-private entries I write in the little notebook I carry around with me in my butt pocket. And multimedia!

Por ejemplo: There's a song I can't stop listening to, and it goes like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcCmfQwqZdU. It's called "Volando Voy", which means "I Go Flying." As you listen to the song, close your eyes and picture yourself in the backseat of a car, scrunched inbetween your two American amigos, with two Spanish women in the front seat, laughing and talking, all of us contributing our Spanish sounds of merriment to the soaring chorus of the song. As we wind up the nighttime mountainside, abuzz with anticipation, we can't help but wonder if we're in a dream.

Volando voy, volando vengo
Volando voy, volando vengo
Por el camino yo me entretengo
Por el camino yo me entretengo

Enamorado de la vida
aunque a veces duela
enamorado de la vida
aunque a veces duela
si tengo frio
busco candela
si tengo frio
busco candela...

Señoras y señores, sepan ustedes...
Señoras y señores, sepan ustedes...
Que la flor de la noche
es pa quien la merece
que la flor de la noche
es pa quien la merece...

volando voy...
volando voy...


I go flying, I come flying
I go flying, I come flying
Along the path, I enjoy myself
Along the path, I enjoy myself

Enamored with life,
Although at times it hurts
Enamored with life,
Although at times it hurts

When I'm cold
I seek a fire
When I'm cold
I seek a fire

Ladies and gentlemen, know this...
Ladies and gentlemen, know this...
That the flower of the night
Is for he who deserves it
That the flower of the night
Is for he who deserves it...

I go flying...
I go flying...

Circular inspiration

Yesterday we went on our final excursion, an hour and a half drive to the delightfully circular Guachimontones Pyramids in Teuchitlan, Jalisco. The picture here shows the main pyramid, but the area includes several other, smaller ones. They date back to 200 B.C. and 400 A.D.

Excavations have uncovered objects ranging from sculptures depicting religious ceremonies to human skulls left over from sacrificial rituals. After browsing through the site's small museum we got to spend two hours exploring this surreal indigenous sanctuary in the scorching heat of a January afternoon in Mexico. I passed some of my time sitting in the shade under a tree, writing in my handy little notebook:

I'm sitting solitary in a spot of shade at los piramides. The same wind that brushes through my hair carries the pure scent of dry nature alive, and buoys small birds as they flitter unpredicatbly through the static blue sky. Wispy, thin strands of mummified foliage hang draped over and through the leafless branches of the tree ahead of me. I wonder if there's any life in that tree.

Below the hill spreads a small town, a pueblo with two Mexican steeples poking out from the mire, and a lake whose horizon brushes with the imagination.

Every now and then, an electronic voice echoes artificially across the land from somewhere in the village: ''veinte! veinte! veinte pesos!'' What human has the right to singlehandedly fracture the tranquility of nature? Give me only the cooing, the vibrating staccato chirps of the birds above. The sounds of wind gently playing in leaves. The uneven ground crunching beneath my feet. Render me an animal in nature.

Life's a beach?

Yesterday I returned ''home'' to Guadalajara after a three-night getaway to Puerto Vallarta with ten Oberlin friends. Our twenty-five person group had fragmented over the weekend, with the eleven of us going to the renowned party city on the Pacific shore, and eight others going to Barra de Navidad -- a relatively quiet beach town 1/30th the size of Puerto. Our group had put fiesta over siesta, and to a certain extent we got what we'd come for.

The day before we took off, a few friends and I went to a local bookstore to copy down useful information from a guidebook on Puerto Vallarta. Even we were scandalized to read the opening line of the section on Clubs & Nightlife: something to the effect of ''In Puerto Vallerta at night, teenagers and 20-somethings like to get trashed and dance on tables.'' Seriously. It turned out that the reality was not so spectacular -- vacationing's low season sent exports of primarily middle aged American turisticos, partiers past their prime. At a loss for the crowd of international teens so often in season there, our group turned within -- and I think we really bonded.

On Friday we went to Boca de Tomatlan, the beach pictured above (not my picture). ''Boca'' means ''mouth'' in Spanish, and indeed the beach was a picturesque sandbar nestled in the curve of a vast, n-shaped, lush green mountainside. We spent several hours frolicking in the water with a deflated volleyball and lounging in the sun. At some point I saw a trio of young Mexican boys around age ten approach Carey, one of the girls in our group. They handed her what appeared to be a stiff, life-size iguana with a short string tied around it. In awe she turned it around in her hands, as our group of gringos quickly descended upon the spectacle. We soon learned that it was in fact a real iguana, scared shitless into a state of live rigor mortis not long after the boys had found it somewhere in the nearby forest. Soon it came my turn to hold the precious creature, whose ribs and organs I could feel through its finely scaled, majestic skin. After passing it around a bit more, the ringleader of the Mexican niño dropped it callously on the ground and planted a stake in its makeshift leash.

A few minutes later young Dr. Doolittle and his friends approached my friend Jose and me and challenged us to a game of beach fútbol. Now I'm no soccer player but I often find myself a restless reserve of kinetic energy, and this was one of those times. About 45 minutes later I was starting to grow weary of beating up on the little munchkins when goalie Jose split the crotch of his bathing suit going for the ball. The kids collapsed, erupting in laughter. The game was over, and it was about time to head back to the hotel.

More about the Puerto trip later, but events happened today that I have to write about. Today I was fortunate enough to witness a startling, stupendous human moment. After school today I was sitting on a bench in a plaza, resting my legs and catching some shade with my friend Sarah. At some point a haggard, hunched over man approached us. His forehead peeled dried blood, and bits of food peppered the stubble around his mouth. He leaned over us, saying he needed help and just wanted two pesos. Two pesos is a pittance -- no more than fifteen cents -- and yet for some reason I hesitated, then rejected him. I told him we were students and didn't have money. I guess I just wanted him out of my face, and my revulsion at his appearance blocked any charitable impulse I may have felt. Disgustedly, he said ''I don't think I can believe that,'' and hobbled away to the next bench.

Less than an hour later, we were walking back to the bus stop to go home, when we witnessed a scene of human holiness. A homeless man dressed as a street clown, with a dirty face and a set of juggling props strapped to his back, walked past another homeless man who kneeled helplessly in the middle of the sidewalk, his legs folded under his enervated body like two flaccid tentacles. The circus-less clown walked a few steps past the supplicant man, then decisively turned back and bent down, dropping a handful of change into his previously empty tin dish.

That miraculous moment will stick with me for the rest of my life. But will I learn from it? I used to give change to homeless people on the street. When did I become so callous? What right do I have to drop down in a semi-destitute country, eat its delicacies, learn its language and leave a month later without giving something back? Every morning on my bus to school I see an old, toothless man walking inbetween cars at the same red light, peddling cheap packs of gum for five pesos each. How does he survive? How does he wake up before dawn every morning and raise the courage to hobble smiling through rush hour traffic after a full life of labor? Almost every day I see a grungy man or woman selling some piddling product with one or two toddlers in tow, because they have nowhere to leave their youngsters while they scrap for pesos all day. Seeing a five year old with a head full of greasy, disheveled hair and unattainable dreams is one of the most heartbreaking things I've encountered on this earth. But what can I do about it?

Arts, but no craft

Yesterday we went on a day-long group excursion. First we went to the Governor's Palace, where we saw Jose Orozco's breathtaking mural. When I get back to the States I'll upload my pictures of it, but in the meantime this one from the web will have to do. It may not look all that impressive, but at 75-100 feet in height, this section shows no more than a third of the entire mural, which stretched from the floor up across the ceiling and two walls. Off the screen on the right was a caricatured scene which so accurately portrayed the political climate two years before World War II that it seemed to predict the war itself.

Next we went to a town called Tlaquepaque, which our tour guide claimed to be the preeminent crafts center in all of Latin America. Hyperbole, I'm sure, but the marketplace did offer artistic works of all shapes, sizes, colors, and cultural origins. Thanks in part to the peso's forgiving exchange rate, I came away with treasures from the mundane to the dazzling. They included:

• a wooden pig sporting a radiant hide of tiny, colored beads in complementary shades of blue, green, orange, white, and more. It's covered with a perplexing number of Jewish stars -- one for each eye and one beaming rainbow rays across its back. The little boys tending the table where I bought it seemed more indigenous than Jewish....
• a large clay jar molded as a cowboy sitting with his head hunched between his knees. All you can see of his head is his sombrero, which is the lid of the jar. Sounds expensive right? Forty pesos! That's $3.50!
• now for the mundane -- a small, homemade, shoulderstrap bag with Winnie the Pooh on it. It appears to be made of a brownish suede, and I now use it as a convenient camera carrying case. Oh god... alliteration overload.

Later that evening the group bus dropped us off back at the school. From there I got on bus 51A, the one I thought I was supposed to take back home. But as the bus chugged joltingly along, I felt like I didn't recognize many of the landmarks along the way. So I got off the bus and began to walk. Calling my host mom for help and asking random strangers for directions, I arrived back at home at least an hour later after realizing I had been on the right bus after all. My epic journey had been tiring and personally embarrassing, but ultimately edifying, as I now have a slightly better sense of the area's geography.

Later that night I went to a nearby club with American friends Alison and Ray. From the outside the club looks anything but modest; its super-modern style and suave architectural curves cry out ''classy.'' And its all-English name ''Mood: the Next Heaven'' rolls out a proverbial welcome mat for devotees to American pop culture. The ecstatic beat of club chic imported from the north prodded our spirits as we waited outside in the warm night. After a minute I walked up to the line attendant and asked if we could go in. Another employee promptly walked over, noticed our accents, and asked where we were from. ''America!'' Alison proclaimed. The second man smiled knowingly, scribbled on a bit of paper, ripped it off the pad and handed it to me. ''You can enter for free,'' he said, ''enjoy your night.''

Four beers later I'm getting antsy. I want to test the female waters and I want to test my Spanish skills. I see two Mexican chicas sitting at a nearby table. The empty sofa cube next to them silently begs my ass to plop down on it. After twenty minutes of building up my courage (or ''building up fear'') as Ray retorted, I went and sat down with them.

I could converse only with the girl next to me, as the music's near-deafening decibel level banished the second one from our sphere of communication. I spoke and understood pretty decently, though my amateurish Spanish prevented me from saying all that I wanted to. After a few minutes I got up and went back to my group of friends, feeling somewhat accomplished. Soon after, I returned to the girl and asked her for one dance. She ever-so-sweetly rejected my request.

Vowing not to end my night on such a sour note, I danced halfheartedly with my friends in a middle school-style circle, scanning the crowd for another lady-target. Soon I observed a relatively attractive female my age dancing with a female companion -- a common ritual that, when performed in America, signifies an invitation for males to approach. When I asked her to dance, she blushed and turned to giggle at her friend -- also usually a good sign for the male participant. But 'twas not to be. After dancing awkwardly with her side to me for a minute she ran off with her friend. Angered, perplexed and defeated, I too returned to my friends. It was time to go home.

First night out

So I'm about to go out on the town with Alison, perhaps also with Pepe and his friends. I met Pepe at the park today. I had gone to the park on a run, and when I finally reached it I saw a bunch of guys running up and down a basketball court. Of course it turned out they were just playing futbol there for lack of a proper field.

But there was one solitary person shooting a basketball on the next court. At first I was hesitant to approach him, but when I saw he was wearing an ''I ♥ New York'' shirt I knew I couldn't go wrong. We chatted for a bit, me understanding about half of what he said. He seemed to be somewhat of an Americaphile. He had worked and studied in Connecticut and he enjoyed not only basketball, but also football! American football! Anyway to make a long story short, I beat him in a close game of one on one, we chatted a bit more, exchanged phone numbers, and went along our separate ways.

Today we had our first session of class. It was four hours long, with one 15 minute break. Profesor Jesús is affable and challenging, certainly a good combination. At times I feel like I might be too good for this class level, but then I realize I can barely understand conversations with actual Mexicans, and °poof° goes the inflated ego.

Language-learning is exhausting. I almost fell asleep several times at the end of class, and I took a nice long nap when I got home. Now it's time to hit the streets.