It is six days since last we spoke, and in the interim, Catherine and I have visited Granada, Cordoba, and Sevilla. We were joined last night by Catherine's friend from boarding school Beth, who serendipitiously married a dude from my first year college dorm (Robert). During a conversation at a UVA reunion nearing 18 years ago, they mentioned their friend (Catherine) and the rest is history.
Catherine and Beth meeting in Sevilla was always part of Catherine's extended travel plan, and would have come at the end of a period of solo wandering had my inamorata not looked at the relative inactivity of my life and suggested I join her. This added 12 days to my trip, which was to have begun Tuesday next in Portugal. Beth is part of the reason for this trip, as her husband celebrated his 60th birthday a few days ago, and the Portugal portion is dedicated to celebrating that event. We'll be joined there by still another couple in our little circle (Pam, Paul). Because I did not want to get in the middle of the lingerie pillow fights or whatever it is that boarding school girls of a certain age do, I opted to strike out on my own for a few days before rendezvousing with the larger group in Porto. Looking around at the map of Spain, I settled on Salamanca, as I had never been there before, and I enjoy saying the word “Salamanca", especially fast. The efficient Spanish rail system seemed to want to route me back to Madrid, whereas a lux motorbus could get me there directly, with only a handful of intemediate stops. Game on. Here was the view just before shove off this morning (Saturday 19 April.)
It is a really nice vehicle with internet, which my tablet seems to work fine with but my phone is rejecting. Good thing I'm not typing this on the phone. I am however, typing it on a bus that is bumping along, using a program that does not point out my mistakes, so please forgive them.
The bus is maybe a third full, but there there are several stops to go, so the glory of no one sitting next to me may not last. There is an older gentleman two rows behind me snoring LIKE YOU READ ABOUT, and his wife is just sitting next to him silently knitting. Now that is love. The bus station at 0730 was pretty full of what appeared to be people who had likely not been to bed. It is Holy Week, and Spain takes this stuff seriously, if by seriously you mean cramming a million extra people into the city to watch deleriously boring religious processions, followed by all night partying and merry-making. More on this later.
As I make my way through this adventure, I pull out my trusty cellphone on occasion and add to a list (now thirteen items long) of phrases that key me to topics I want to expand in this literary slice of heaven. I think covering them all this time would lead to a tome of unreadable length, and so I'll press on with a few and maybe come back to things in a few days when I bus from Salamanca to Porto to meet the others.
The Alpaca Haircut
As is my custom here, I'm gonna go full old man right now, and level a sharp criticism at the mass of young men in this country LOUSY with very attractive people, for their incredibly poor coiffeur choices. Here is one of them:
Well, that's not really one of them, but it is pretty much how their hair looks. I'd been wandering about Madrid for a few days, and it struck me that (in very characteristic teenager fashion), the young men of the city had en masse adopted this ridiculous haircut in which the sides and back were shorn to the bone, leaving a disheveled mop on top for them to almost constantly run their hands through like they were in a photo shoot. I did a little research, and found that I was not the only one who had noticed this regrettable trend.
Here are some selections from the wild:
and
You get the point. Or maybe you don't. These silly haircuts ARE EVERYWHERE! You'll see a group of five or six guys standing around doing what dudes do, and every one of them will have some version of this horror.
Shoes (cont.)
When last we were together, my unfortunate decision to eschew waterproof shoes for this trip was validated, and I was befouling the Spanish atmosphere with dank and stinky shoes and socks. I determined to rectify this situation, and I have, with the purchase of several additional pairs of socks (the others will be burned) and these lovely new wheels:
The keen of eye will note the presence of white soles on these babies, something I have heretofor avoided. Never fear, these babies are for walking, and not for wearing with a suit and tie like an idiotic MAGA stooge, punchdrunk with self-importance and bad style.
Nose Rings
We've discussed this before, but I do not care for nose rings. I get that there seems no logical difference between bejeweling one's ears and one's nose, but that's where I come down on this. I suppose one main important difference to me is that when I am talking with someone wearing earings, I am able to concentrate on eye contact, which is what I think we're supposed to do when communicating with each other. But when I am presented with a communicant with a nose ring (doesn't matter if it is a little stud in the side or the full on, tie a rope through it and lead her to the north pasture bull ring), I am simply unable to concentrate. Yes, this is a “ME" problem. But I don't think I'm alone.
What I find particularly disquieting here is that not only are nose rings worn promiscuously by the ladies (multiple nose rings seem all the rage now), but a shockingly large percentage of the Alpaca herd are also lanced.
Holy Week
I was--through my own ignorance and sloth, completely unprepared for being in Spain during the run-up to Easter. To her credit, Catherine mentioned Holy Week a few times in her planning, but the plain truth of the matter is that she is so incomparably good at trip planning, that I pay less attention than I might, because it always turns out great. Her angle was one of regret that she hadn't paid MORE attention to what was scheduled where as she layed out the chronology so that we could see MORE, and after a week of this I am glad we were off cycle. Last night in Sevilla was ridiculous, as close to a New Years Eve in Times Square or a Broad Street when the Eagles win the Super Bowl as you can get. The reason for the crowds are these processions through the streets in which large, gaudily arrayed floats are conveyed by squads of meaty toughs (apparently the floats are REALLY HEAVY) with marching bands playing minor key dirges as they walk, really slowly, through the city. There are also LOADS of sorta scary looking characters in white and/or black robes with what can only be called “Klan-like" headgear.
The first time we encountered this spectacle, I was a little into it. The crowds were manageable and the action was contained in a small part of Granada. Last night in Sevilla however, was bedlam. I left the ladies after dinner to proceed to my little apartment for the night proximate to the bus station, and between me and my bed was a mob scene that seemed to move as I did, confounding my every shortcut and longcut, turning a 13 minute walk into a 45 minute slog. Everyone was in good cheer (what with it being the weekend celebrating the central point of the religion and all), but I find that as I get older, I have less and less tolerance for crowds.
Cash, Cards?
If the UN has any purpose, it ought to be to convene a great international agreement to decide if we're gonna use cash or cards, and if we're gonna use both, have a few rules for the game. Here's my wank: ATM's these days seem to want to spit out money is larger denominations than cash accepting businesses seem to want to accept. In the US, I am constantly provided with fifty dollar bills when I do my monthly ATM hit, a unit of issue that gets side-eye (at least) from most vendors at home and at most, is simply not accepted. Yes, I know that on most ATM's you can select denominations, and mostly I do. But you cannot always. Over here, I got some Euros out and four of the notes were 50’s, in a country where a twenty will get you side-eye from a barrista. One of the reasons I got the cash was past experiences wherein plastic was not accepted. I'm finding this to be far less the case now, and even the much-maligned fraternity of cab drivers all seem to have the little card readers to pay by card. Interestingly enough, I found Germany to be horrible in accepting cards last summer.
Intentionality
Long-standing and attentive readers will remember that one way in which I have attempted to reconcile a world that seems spinning out of control is to exert greater levels of control over things that are within my grasp. Diet, exercise, and personal appearance are the three areas I set out to get in ship shape, and up until this trip, I had been doing great with all three. I am however, eating like a man with two stomachs, and while I'm doing a good deal of walking, I feel like three weeks without hitting the treadmill is a huge setback.
On the day after the election, I decided that I would not look at my approaching retirement as a chance to re-engage my COVID era sloth, but as a time to be intentional. Shower every day. Shave every day. Put a collared shirt and pants on every day. And I have been really good about all of these things. But coming here to Spain and watching men of my age and older, I see a certain style, an approach, that seems worth replicating, at least on a limited scale. These cats stroll through town like they own it, arm and arm with their inamorta, in a jacket and tie. All the time. Yes, I get that a lot of people are dressed up for all the Holy Week festivities, but I'm not talking about those dudes. I'm talking about the ones for whom the thought of heading into town without a coat and tie is not entertained. They are not “dressed up", they are dressed. This is who they are and what they do. So I think when I return to Easton, I am going to have one day each week in which I will spend the day in a jacket and tie. I will go to the Amish Market in a jacket and tie. I will see Sarah for a haircut in a jacket and tie. I will lunch with the codgers in a jacket and tie. I will meekly enter Lowes on some errand I've been sent on in a jacket and tie. I won't receive any self-credit for a jacket and tie on Sundays, as this really just represents the table stakes of grown-ass-mannery. But in case anyone wonders why this dude is rolling around Easton in a jacket and tie, the answer is--because I can.