it's impossible to take the blame

I do not like to generalize people as a whole. We are all individuals, yet there are some traits that bind us together as a group. Whether that group is Republicans, Blacks, Europeans, female drivers...there is some running joke, true or not, believable or not, that characterizes us and places us in that group. To not be outdone, the Spanish have their own group and one characterization is their inability to drive, follow rules and most of all their self righteousness.

As most of my 2 readers know, I am quite long winded. I like to describe in detail a setting before I get into the story thus prolonging the punchline in the end. But still I have to attempt to paint a mural for you to give you some idea of Spanish life.

Driving here is no different than driving in America. We have flashing yellow lights at crosswalks. We have street lights but i am finding them to be only really used in large intersections in highly populated towns. But mostly the Spanish use what I call roundabouts. These roundabouts are like little pinwheels if you were to study a street map. They are used in place of traffic lights. The rules are simple: you yield the right away to your left, follow thru the roundabout until you get your exit and exit right. If there are two lanes, the inner lane is reserved for motorists who will ultimately exit to the left direction (like making a left at a standard 4 way intersection) or if they are doing a U-turn to head in the direction they came from originally. The outer lane is reserved for those exiting to the right (like making a standard right turn at an intersection) or continuing straight thru the intersection heading in the direction they entered the roundabout.

I will give you a moment to work it out. If not here is a visual:
http://www.azdot.gov/CCPartnerships/Roundabouts/Roundabouts_1.asp

But what i am finding living in a semi rural area, there are many one lane roads feeding into these roundabouts which are two laned roundabouts. The fact you go from one lane to two is not the problem. The goal of the roundabouts are to add some ease to traffic and alleviate buildups if you keep traffic flowing. The inner lane, as said before, services those who may want to deviate from their northrn approach and head west. The problem comes when people use these advantageous spaces for personal gain.

Some impatient drivers will use the roundabouts as passing tools. sure there may be 500 cars ahead of you, but they find some comfort in not having one more car then they could help in front of them. 499 is so much more relieving than to have 500 in front of you when you have to get to the cafe for your afternoon latte. There are so many issues with using the roundabouts as a passing lane, but the one that puzzles me is being cut off. sure the inside lane has all the advantages of beating the outside lane to the rapidly coming exit. So the inner lane driver, guns his vehicle to get in front of you while you follow the rules and head on the much longer outside lane. If this makes no sense to you, imagine running track...would you prefer the inside lane or the outside lane. how many people do you see jogging around a track staying to the outside? anyhow, there are more times than i wish that I have been cut off by the over zealous driver who just cannot seem to stare at the minor dent in my hatchback.

When these fuckers go Evil Knievel on you, it does nothing but raise panic and fear. My male bravado can do nothing but want to get all street race on them but playing chicken with my car and family inside is not a way to go out. Still what is right is right. Just because others don't follow the rules don't mean you have to. We will always have people who will get away with things and feel it is their right to do so. This problem is multiplied tenfold when motos or motrocycles decide to enter the frey. Its amazing how a cyclist thinks he ownes the road when riding in an open air death trap. One would expect them to be extra careful, but no, they seemingly dare you to hit them even if they are disobeying the road. from what i can gather, the Spanish allow this to happen. Surely it is arrogant of me not to be a defensive driver no matter if i am driving a tank or a smart car. Still, if i am riding my bycycle i am goign to be extra careful as not to cause harm to myself. That is just my opinion.

So now onto the story. I thank you for bearing with me to paint this picture. But it was mostly to give you background into how the Spanish treat their driving and cars. i am sure most Americans can agree we love our cars. We have memorable movies and television shows where you can't remember the name of the movie, but we know which car Baretta had or the rebel flag atop the General Lee. I have seen on more occasions i care to remember, the bumper car effect when the driver uses the car in front and to the rear to assist parallel parking his car.

Nor will you find used car lots like Carmax anywhere in sight. This country has no tolerance for cars and treat them as such. sure you are going to find some sweet rides here but most of them are driven down from France or the UK.

So I am sure yo know since we have been here we have had one car totalled and another ding a few times. Admitedly one ding on the new car was my fault trying to manuver in a parking garage and the corner of a wall won, hands down. Car is fine, just my pride is bruised. Carme backed into our parking spot in our garage for our apartment building and went too far and the bike we keep in the rear of our parking space puckered the hatchback. But my experience last week told me a lot of the Spanish mentality.

I was driving out to the soccer fields one day and was behind an old beat up van. Behind me was a family who's son plays soccer with Alex. I was alone and just enjoying some tunes when the van in front of me suddenly stopped a few yards shy of the stop sign. I was puzzled why he stopped short. I was still a good 20 yards from him when all of a sudden I see his white lights light up and he began accelerating towards me. i freaked and laid on the horn while bracing for the impact. It was not a great impact but enough to wake anyone sleeping in the car. i let off the horn as he began to roll forward and reached for my parking brake to inspect the damage. Just then I realized he was rolling forward but still in reverse. He accelerated again and backed into me but this time with less impact. I laid on the horn again until he rolled off my car and took his car out of reverse. he slowly rolled forward and pulled off the side of the road. He did not exit his car, but now I can see he is looking out of his side view mirror. Something he was doing probably already rather than his rear view mirror. I pulled the parking brake and walked around the front of the car to look: not one scratch. I realized my car was too low and he hit me in a good spot and square with his higher bumper. I was furious still and yelled at him asking what was he doing. He responded and told me to get out the way he was trying to park.

Let's take a moment here...

His intentions were to parallel park on the side of the road to our left. Not once did he put on a signal, also I had left him plenty of room to turn his wheel. but instead I guess in his mind I had not and to "pay me back" he decided to bulldoze me off the street. I so wanted to walk over and lay some road rage on him to give him a taste of American street justice. But I figured i should not and retreated to my car in a huff. The family behind me were amused. they had surprised looks on their faces and smiles. I wonder if they thought it was comical how blatantly horrible the other driver was and how he justified his gross actions with apathy and ignorance. Or were they laughing that I took so much care in a car. Or maybe my Spanish sucked and I said something like "get off the table you stupid cat". Who knows. but it is every man, woman and car for themselves in the mean streets of Spain

my (not so) typical day...

When I opened my eyes this morning, I felt a bit inspired to write a little this morning. As I searched in my mind for something worthy of writing, I felt that I had nothing really entertaining to say. I would imagine this is called writer's block. But I find if I just start typing, even if it is meaningless and dull, it helps to work out all the cobwebs in my right brain and get me flowing again. This is if my left side is functioning properly enough to help me formulate words and sentences into ideas. So I figured I would do a little writing exercise and tell you about my typical day here in Tossa de mar. Still you will find that today is not a typical day and is filled with one of my favorite local characters here in my small spit of a town.

The day starts with the usual sounds of activity on the streets. The trash men are doing their daily runs, banging large receptacles and the heavy trash trucks whining and whirring to lift the trash collection units, strategically placed to be accessible by all. Unfortunately, I happen to live equal distance from 2 trash bins so depending on which way the cool autumn sea breeze is blowing determines which one receives my daily offerings to the trash Gods.

Next to each receptacle are the color coded bins for recycling. I find pleasure in loading my plastics in the yellow, glass in the green (lots of wine bottles here) and paper in the blue. I find it quite refreshing that a small and secluded town like mine is well on its way to doing its little part in making our planet green.

I arise from bed when Carme reaches over to raise the full length shade which allows the invasive and penetrating sunlight to flood our sanctuary. The shades do more than block out the waking morning sun; it insulates sounds during the night of the local boys, bored out of their minds, setting off firecrackers to stimulate their growing testosterone levels. Or drown out the noises of the Barcelona residents who own or rent an apartment in our building who have nothing else to do but have dinner parties lasting until sunrise on their balconies. Carme is a light sleeper so if there is lack of space here as compared to our previous home in America, we make up for it by locking down our house and shades like the scene in Star Wards Empire Strikes Back when the Rebels closed the gate on the planet Hoth despite Luke still being out there. Still you won't hear me cry out like Chewbacca as I have grown very accustomed to the pitch black interior of the room, barely lit but the clock radio on Carme's nightstand.

So like a ton of bricks, I am hit with drowning morning light and Carme signals the start of the day and slowly rolling out of bed doing a system check like I were a computer system, seeing if each critical part of me is function at minimal performance levels. Ankles: check but sore, knees: check but no sudden movements laterally, lower back: check, but bend at the knees, eyes: check but find your glasses since your memory is old and you might have forgotten to pick up a pair of those incredibly large shoes and trip over one, thus causing damage to your ankles, knees and lower back. Once my full boot up process is completed while sitting on the edge of the bed, I commence lift off and race to the bathroom to empty an over active bladder. That body part is always in constant check as it is making it difficult to empty that bladder without causing a mess.

Now I begin my usual bathroom rituals which I will spare you the details for your own sanity. But during this process, I am in constant contact with my son to make sure he is progressing thru his morning rituals of not cleaning his room, not brushing his teeth, not combing his hair, not...well you get the picture. And finally the moment comes for us to be off to school, sometimes walking proudly hand in hand for the first few meters (that's right I am on meters not feet or yards anymore, that is so old school). Once we get a few meters from the front door of our apartment building, we begin passing the local high school to get to Alex's elementary school building. Even though the older kids being school at 8:30am, Alex still doesn't want to look like a little kid in case any older kids is looking out the window at the people passing by taking their children to school.

On any given day, I am greeted by a few random calls from the 3 story high school from the kids. Seems that most of them know me either from the soccer team or by association with the many soccer players I have coached so far in the past 2 years. A few of the familiar faces are from the local kids who have come to me for computer repair. Since I have offered those good prices and the time to teach them how to use their computers, I have built a sort of trust with them. I feel like I have gained some respect and trust with the younger generation that will only grow in time, surely. Soon as we pass within sight of the building, Alex grabs my hand again, reassuring me he loves me while maintaining the coolness he so desperately wants to hold onto.

We come to the last corner, 5 minutes into our walk and only about 3 city blocks away from our home and Alex raises on his tippy-toes in my direction with lips puckered, gesturing a kiss before he sprints off the last block to the gate doors of his school's courtyard. I bend over, carefully remembering the status of my lower back and plant a warm kiss on his cheek and run the top of his head with my hand. This serves two main purposes, the rub that is. One to reassure him how much I love him and adore his young and brilliant personality, but to balance myself from falling over in case of a system failure any of the major points of balance for my old body.

As Alex disappears from sight, into crowd of anxious parents and restless kids (who I am sure did not want to rise from bed this morning but can't wait to enter class and have another day of spitballs, teasing and name calling with their peers) I hear Alex's name being yelled out in acceptance from other kids. He is one of them and loved by his motley crew of snot nosed peers so I feel proud and head in the opposite direction to begin my day's work.

I wait for the local police officer to stop traffic and proceed to walk across the crosswalk. There can be one of 5 different persons here on any occasion and they always speak to me in some capacity. There is just enough conversation to last the 30 or more odd steps from one side walk to the other and casually pass the frozen crossing guard. I pass the occasional parent trying to hurry their little one off to school trying not to be late while their children resist any sense of urgency and are more intrigued by anything else shiny or new on their usual route to school. I am greeted with head nods and hellos from familiar faces as I pass on my way to my small little shop.
As I cross the bridge the looms over the dry river bed, I wonder when we can expect heavy western rains that seem to fill and bring water when the mountains cannot soak it all in. The river bed seems to be dry 80% of the year, but serves its purpose well to prevent flooding to affect the local business and the school along this main artery toward the beach. Once over the bridge, it's a left turn as I head up Ramblas Pau Casal toward my shop. The usual groups of mothers who have just dropped off their kids are heading to the cafe that is next to my shop. Sometimes if I am lucky I can reach the coffee shop before them so I can enjoy my usual iced coffee with mil. If I hesitate and decide to open my shop first, I might have to wait a good hour until the crowd of 20 or more female regulars and a few of their spouses all congregate to speak of local gossip. Like magic, they take their usual seating arrangements like clockwork, ever so often peering into my shop thru the large plate glass window, maybe to curiously see what I could be doing this fine morning or maybe to make me the topic of their conversation.
The local maintenance men began a project this week in installing new gas or electrical lines along the street where my business is located. Systematically, the 3 man crew has been digging a foot wide trench by first removing some of the concrete tiles that make up the 10ft wide sidewalk. I make notice at the ease of how it would be to repair the sidewalk or any underground piping instead of tearing up a complete sidewalk like in the states. This month long feat seems to throw my day off a bit as I am faced with the constant pounding of the jackhammer to break up the concrete tiles and the heavy machinery to dig deep into the rich clay soil. Still I settle into my comfy chair, which has worn away a considerable size of the vinyl floor from me sliding back and forth from my work bench to my main desk facing entering customers. One day I will get the floor fixed but I think for now it shows a little character showing how I multitask at the expense of the semi real looking flooring.
Since beginning my little computer repair shop, I brought over a few principles form America which are lacking here in Spain, namely customer service. In time, my Spanish has improved but my level of service is strange but accepted here. I spend most of my time trying to build trust and good relationship with the locals. Seems that the locals are quite weary of the first local shop here, despite the two boys who run and own it being locals or connected in some way with the locals by marriage, association or by relation, I learned that most residents did not relish in their quality of work or the fairness of their prices. And not knowing who is connected to whom is it incestuously or not, I made it a rule to treat everyone like they were related to me.
Being so nice and pleasant has its costs. I seem to attract some of the more colorful characters in town. Most of these residents usually have not need for my computer services but seemingly have exhausted their welcome from other local shops who might try to gently handle these regular visitors to their shops. One such visitor, sadly I do not know his real name, but I call him "Pues Venga" (poo WESS bin GAH). Let me explain…

In Spanish, when you are having a conversation with someone and you are exiting or ending the conversation, you might say something like "venga" which literally translate to "it goes, he goes or she goes". That is the verbal clue that you are leaving the conversation. Pues venga means literally "well it goes". In learning the language and the subtle nuances, I picked up on this phrase, pues venga, and worked to remember it to exit a conversation I was following or grew tired of having with undesirables.

One such day, this gentleman in question walked into my store. He is taller than I, his grey hair telling his age, his hair style reminding me of the characters from the 50's like on the television program "Mad Men". As he cautiously approached my desk to answer a question, I noticed he stuttered and stammered thru his attempt to present me with his needs. I do not like to make light of others' shortcomings but I noticed he was, how does one say politely, mentally handicapped. to what extent, I am unsure of this deficit but it is quite noticeable.

I have a hard enough time speaking Spanish with the many different Spaniards who migrated from other areas and dialects of Spain to come to Cataluña during the 60's and 70's to find work and prosperity here, thus planting roots to raise family where their kids identify themselves with being Catalan and the parents holding true to their past local heritage and customs as well as the different dialects of the Spanish language. Speaking with one Spaniard is not the same experience compared to another Spaniard. The way Catalans speak Spanish will slightly differ in rhythm and flow than another person from other regions of Spain. So with each new person I meet, I am faced with at least 3 or 4 extensive conversations to get accustomed to their abilities to speak a fast as humanly possible without moving their lips.

Sometimes I have no fighting chance. I rely heavily on common sense and intelligent with a splash of luck to figure out the nature of their questions or conversation. If a person walks into my shop and rattles off a rapid fire array of bullet like words while pointing at my laptop, and I am lucky enough to comprehend a few key words from their speech, I can feel safe to rule out they are asking if I am hungry or not. But this gentleman now before me is slurring, repeating and stammering thru his question. I have a little tape recorder in my head that records the conversation and rapidly plays it back to me several times in my head, affording me the opportunity to decipher what they are asking. Since he has to work twice as hard to get these words clearly out his head, off his tongue and carry thru the humid morning air to my ears and into my processing center. His question was if I had blank CDs for sale. I quickly pointed him to my small shelf of stock I did keep on hand, clearly pointing out the price tag that I had hastily taped in front of the neatly stacked cake boxes of 25 and 50 unit types for sale. He then asked the price and I turned after staring at him for one second longer to figure out if his glasses were decoration or indeed used by him and recites the price. He took a step back saying it was too expensive and I stood in silence with him for an uncomfortable 10 seconds. My mind, working at the speed of light, working to analyze this brief conversation and standing at ready to decipher his next possible comment or question. He stood before me, with a blank look in his eyes, nervously cupping one hand in the other with a slight hunch in his posture, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for me to speak as I waited for him to speak. Was he waiting for me to lower my price or offer him other solutions?

So I broke the silence asking him if he was in need of 25 or maybe just one single disc. I know it sounds odd, but many times people have walked in asking for just one CD. I do not carry single CD wrapped in plastic. If anything, you will get a package of 5 at a minimum. H reeled a little bit and stood in silence as he thought. I figured this might take a while so I sat back down at my desk to wait for his next chess move. Instead of continuing on this path, he decided to ask me where I was from. Now I am reeling from the switching of gears and thought I would play along. We carried on for a few more minutes about my shoe size, English, Obama, etc. Finally after a few moments which felt like an hour or so, he mentioned back to the CDs that lay still on the shelf calling his name, I decided I needed to move this conversation to a close and get back to my reading of the morning news via the internet. So I responded with "pues venga" hoping this will signal an end to a conversation that was going no where...but he held fast, feet firmly rooted into my fake vinyl flooring.

His conversation went on to include more items about the weather, how many people were in Tossa with the travel season upon us and about his dog that passed away a few decades again. I sat there thinking to myself about how it will pay off in the future if I am to be patient and converse with this poor chap. If word got out that I was being rude to a local person, especially with some obvious diminished mental capacity, my run at a life here was over. So when another break in the conversation came, I decided to use the "pues venga" card again and he trumped me with another question about CDs in general, successfully ignoring my silent and tortured please for him to stop wasting my time and leave.

He continued on for another few hours...maybe minutes...and I weathered the storm as gracefully as I could until all of a sudden, he said "pues venga" and quickly exited my shop, no CDs in hand. I realized that was 30 minutes of my life I will never get back ever. I also learned that "pues venga" doesn't work when I am not leaving and I want someone else to leave. Maybe I will give him the shop and go home for the day.

I know I began this blog speaking of my average daily routine and got off track with my new friend Pues Venga which I call him now because I fear having another conversation with him to find his name it might be another hour of life I will be owed in some cosmic way for my patience. But the point to the matter that this man has truly created space in my busy day to grace with his presence regularly. Today alone I have seen him 3 times grace my door way.

The first thing this morning was for him was truly uneventful, but when is it ever? I noticed the top of his Dick van Dyke hairstyle peeking from the corner of my doorway. It took me a second to place the strange sight I was seeing of a man's head bobbing sideways into my door as if he were hovering above the ground horizontally a split second before flying past like Superman. Funny how the brain takes in an image but it might take a split second for the rest of you to fall in line with what you are seeing. I am not sure how long he was standing out of view and just bending at an awkward angle from the waist to catch a glimpse of me in my shop, steady working on my blog, until I was overcome with a sense of someone watching me and I looked up to meet his eyes. As soon as the connection was made, he proceeded to enter my shop. I could not stifle a small giggle roaring from my inner bowels until it barely ruptured into a giddy and awkward smile. I laughed at the new adventure with my new side kick that was so rude not to bring bagels and cream cheese if he is going to come and have a sit down with me every morning.
Luckily, he came in and out like a tornado with no early warning system and went randomly where he wanted and left when he felt the need. Usually I am blessed to attract the attentions of the natives here so should I complain? But as soon as I felt the creative juices begin to flow and drip from my fingertips, a familiar nervous sounding footstep entered my shop. This time, he was quick, direct and to the point. He asked me if I had a Euro.

Ok let’s take a step back here. Like in the movies or television, my whole reality came to a screeching halt. I stepped out of my own skin to step back and take a perspective on this new achievement in our relationship. I literally stood a few feet away from myself and seeing both Pues Venga and myself in a freeze frame of sorts. I was not taken aback that I have manifested my daydreaming to this level of Technicolor and detail. I was now seeing the whole interior of the shop in full panoramic view. I could even rewind and forward and play again the scene like a disputed call during a National Football League playoff game, now inspecting anything part of the transaction that I may have blacked out on. I was just floored he felt comfortable enough to ask me for money. Surely I don’t think he will drink it away on some cheap wine or go score some baking soda from the wannabe drug dealers, but just the comfort in asking me for money was blowing my mind!
I, as confidently as he asked, told him I was not going to give him a euro. He stood there a moment, looking puzzled, hurt and trying to figure what he could do now as he obviously did not have a Plan B unless his plan b was to enforce Plan A. He slowly sulked out of the office, not saying a word and seeing some unfamiliar impatience in my face. Surely I could have given him a euro but what would that cost me in the long run? Still I made not of the proverbial tail between his legs as he exited my shop, he reluctantly walked out, making sure to turn ever so often to see if my facial expression had changed.

The morning progressed without further incident as I settled in to more blogging. But 1pm comes quickly. Siesta begins normally around 1pm each day and lasts until 3 or 4pm. During this time, I will head to the school to retrieve Alex for his 2 hour break. Again we walk hand in hand until we are in close proximity of the High School and onto home. There I offer him one of his 3 normal selections, pasta, toasted bread and jelly or hotdogs. We often include a quick Xbox 360 video game or a quick midday cartoon to enjoy together. Carme sits in the retreating autumn sun to firm up her now fading tan on her freckled face while reading yet another new book by Patricia Cornwell.

A few minutes before 3pm, we all exit the house and Carme usually takes Alex off to school while I head in a slightly different to my shop. Like every morning, the same groups of ladies, after leaving their children back at school after lunch break, congregates back at the next door café. Again, the conversations are updated, rumors confirmed and new rumors introduced. I settle again in my chair and begin to finish off my blog. The pounding of the work crew forces me to close my door after I lower my awning to block out the afternoon sun that not only lights my shop but causes it to come to near sauna like temperatures in the summer. But who’s perfectly done grey hair do I see peering into my closed front door. He steps to my closed door and using his hand to block out the sun, he presses his nose to my window to see if I am in my shop. The glaring afternoon sun causes this effect that momentarily blocks out the ability to effortlessly peer into my shop. I sit slack jawed, able to see him make a fool of himself like the countless cop shows with the two way mirrors in the interrogation rooms. My mind wanders thinking if he spends hours doing his hair. White people’s hair has always been a mystery to me. Especially that Ray Liotta in "The Godfather" type look.
Suddenly he realizes I am sitting here staring at him. He seems taken aback but nervously smiles and waves and I nervously wave back. He then turns and shyly wanders off to his next victim. I am proud to say nearing 5pm today, he is nowhere to be seen but I may be speaking too soon.

5pm here in Spain is an event all to itself. The local groups of ladies have long since completed their update processing and have gone back to their respective worlds to put their ears to the ground. But a few minutes before 5pm, they are back, this time with a change in venue to the school’s courtyard. Usually Carme will walk the block and half from her office to get Alex and halfway walk him back to my office where I escort him to soccer or tennis practice, depending on the day of the week it is.

I head toward the school, along with many other parents, all of us looking like we just parked in some remote parking lot and heading to the coliseum to catch the concert about to start any minute or some back country church revival. Same familiar faces, different day, we use the opportunity to use this moment, right before the large double green metal doors allow us into the courtyard, to catch a person we have to do rapid business with. Most times people only nod to me and say hello but occasionally someone might walk up to me to ask me if I am the guy that fixes computers, careful to not do it too loudly in case the competitors were within in earshot.

While I stand outside the courtyard, I wait patiently for Alex to emerge with the biggest smile on his face. Usually I am not the one to come for him so it is an extra treat for us both when I come to get him in the evenings. Today is soccer practice so he would come to me anyhow so I can cart him off by car to the field on the outside of town. Once I have passed those brief 30 minutes with him, making sure he is properly dressed out for the weather and a few words with the parents of the team, it is back to my shop to reopen for my last push on the day.

Most people work until 7pm so I keep my doors open until 8pm to accommodate their needs. As the sun slowly does a nose dive behind the high school and pine trees in front of t, I wind down my day, answer my emails and take a little time to myself to reflect on where I am and where I have to be for the coming tomorrow. At 8pm, I turn the lock on my door after killing every visible light in my office, pull down the grate that protects my all glass store front, and say my goodbyes to the usual group of hens who are congregated around one table sharing in the late day edition of the gossip. I hear then all wish me a well night by name and their cackling and laughing fades away as I walk to my apartment building.

You would never know there was life in my building when entering the hallway. 3 stories with 2 apartments on each floor, the hallway is silent and dark and I press the automatic light which stays on long enough for me to reach the first floor, find my keys and enter in safely into my tiny apartment. The apartment is warm with artificial lights, Carme doing her best to get dinner in Alex and homework done. She finishes work at 7pm like most Spaniards and suffers thru the daily task of providing a good balanced dinner. Sometimes I am greeted by Alex, Carme or both with warm hugs as I shut the door to another day of Spanish 101 with the outside world.

Eventually, with Alex asleep and Carme and I mentally exhausted from the day, we retire to bed. The last thing I hear is the familiar whining of the shades being lowered to the floor, coming to a crash if one is not careful but not enough to startle me from my now settling sleep. All sounds from the outside world are muffled and we both fall off into dream land.

an herbal surprise

One aspect to learning a culture is to intertwine oneself into the culture to see how the people feel in general about topics we Americans may take for granted. I feel it safe to say that the whole Palestine v. Israel conflict has shed a new light on itself after talking with the people and seeing how the media portrays the situation. The ideal of kids leaving the home, marriage, having kids out of wedlock (esp. in such a predominately catholic state) all seemed to be refreshing and puzzling at the same time. But the one subject that really blows my mind is the general feeling towards drugs and alcohol. The general impression for the both are not in any way related or grouped together, forgive me for misleading you with my last statement. We will treat them in separate and different lights.

Alcohol, the drink of the Gods, is seemingly adored and coveted here on the same level as water being a necessity for survival. Not one Spanish home is without at least one bottle of red wine, especially in the home of the older generation. Spain is a very big wine producing country importing from France and Italy but exporting their varieties as well. From the drier and arid south to the mountainous and humid north to the saturated lands of the Atlantic Ocean, the types are just as wide and varied as in America. But of course, the Spaniards think Americans are far off the mark when it comes to wine production , as told to me by my father in law who is an expert on wine drinking...not wine tasting, but drinking. Mind you he is my litmus test when it comes to most things Spanish or Catalan.

I still remember how I felt and internally reacted when I had lunch with this pillar of the grave vine, and he ordered a bottle of wine. He insisted I drink some with him since he could not possibly drink the whole thing by himself (which he later made a liar out of himself as his eyes drew a tear when he finished the last swig of the magic elixir). I was just floored that the ordering of a bottle of wine was so fluid and almost expected for a midday meal. This was no McDonald's but still, my mind went back to days of having lunches and my coworkers and I laughed about ordering a rare midday margarita. And speaking of McDonalds, there is beer on the menu.

For just about every meal, I see wine as a selection for your drinking palette. Now I won't stretch the truth and claim to have seen the local drunks enjoying a Merlot over their corn flakes. But I notice it is not uncommon to see the locals taking in an alcoholic beverage in many of the sidewalk cafes in our town or others. Beer is pretty common while wine is saved more so by the glass or the whole bottle for a meal either during lunch or dinner. I still cannot say I have grown accustomed to wine, even though my father pushes it on me like a neighborhood crack dealer while still claiming he cannot finis the whole bottle by himself.

Drugs on the other hand carry pretty much the same social stigma to a point. I have gotten pretty chummy with a few of the local police officers. One in particular works night pretty much as the coast guard does. He told me I would not believe the amount of drugs being smuggled into small coastal towns like our in the dead of cloudy or moonless nights. I also heard from one of my soccer team kids (and I am not sure how much weight I can put on this statement) but Tossa is one of the largest drug spots in Spain. I am not sure to what extent or which drugs are coming thru our shores while my family lay motionless in deep sleep.

The overall social feelings pretty much run the same for heroin and cocaine. LSD is pretty much not spoken of but I am sure there are some kinds of ecstasy floating around in the neighboring town, Lloret, due to the influx of young people who come to dance the night away in what seems like hundreds of nightclubs. The billboards alone seem to rival that of Times Square, advertising the many local and national DJs who travel to play their brand of hypnotic trance and electronic music. But on drug seems to have a somewhat dissimilar take than what I am used to in America.

Sorry, I have to backtrack. Tobacco is sold in controlled and licensed stores where alcohol is sold almost anywhere! This is "bass-ackwards" to this Virginia boy whose ABC stores seemed to shelf the only option for your weekend barbecue, nightly binges or holiday festivities. What's a President's Day without Tanguray? Where, outside Ukrops, you can find cigarettes in any corner store. Still hey have tobacco vending machines in most restaurants and bars, a throwback to the way America used to be.

Marijuana is seen as a recreational drug, like in the states. But I think we handle it a bit differently back home. Sure, in any tobacco store, you can find rolling paper on display, but that doesn't necessarily mean you smoke pot, since many here still like to roll their own cigarettes. Just because tier is glue on the shelf doesn't mean you don't sniff it, now does it? But I was surprised to see a shop here in Tossa selling pretty much anything you need to complete you weed smoking needs. The guy who owns and runs it is a local figure, looking more like the popular image of Jesus Christ with his thin pale frame, long brown hair and goatee. On any day you will find him in his usual "hippy" clothing, blasting his Bob Marley CDs just loud enough to catch your attention when passing his door. He is a nice fellow but I have not spent much time getting to know him. In his store front window, he has all types of gear and paraphernalia like bongs, pipes, as well as T-shirts with great weed smoking slogans on them. I am just too nervous to enter.

With popular movies like the Cheech and Chong sagas, to half Baked and Friday's trilogy, we Americans find humor in Mary Jane. We seem to be accepting of those actors and singers who openly talk about or allude to the fact that they puff, puff, give. The Chronic was a hell of an album that no one can seem to take in if fully toasted. Still we debate or the mere use of medicinal marijuana to ease the ill of out cancer patients going thru chemotherapy. We let Dave Chappell entertain us with his lifestyles but cannot allow the sick to ease their ills to a tolerable point.

I soon had a call to visit a client in their office and from her balcony, I saw on an adjacent rooftop from her office balcony, several marijuana plants growing. We shared a laugh at how his other potted plants were doing so poorly in the Spanish summer heat, but his pot pots were flourishing like no one's business. I made note to talk to my police friends and I learned that it is legal for you to have 2 potted plants per adult per house. My eyes glared and I did the simple math to come up with 4 possible variations next early spring to begin my journey in the culture I am so eagerly learning about.

I am nothing of a pothead. I admit I have enjoyed the spoils and labor of other farmers who have so loving taken the time, care and patience with one of the ugliest plants I have ever seen. Still my mind wonders how the first humans discovered the spoils of this potent plant. I would imagine the first cavemen pyromaniac to just walk around aimlessly in the woods, setting things on fire and inadvertently causing a chain reaction which would have him inventing the munchies a few minutes once he inhaled the sweet aroma of its smoke. Or some caveman, well rooted in the doghouse for ticking off his cave woman counterpart, coming across this strange and aromatic plant to use as a way back into the heart of the woman he loved. Only to return to his tribe to find she is shacked up with someone new so in defiance and anger he sets it on fire. Pretty soon nothing else matters in his world and he has all but forgotten the heartache he felt before and her sister is looking much better than ever before. But unfortunately he is too relaxed to get up and do anything about it. But I think this caveman did invent Doritos in the process.

Still the general social feeling to marijuana is not so accepted as in America. Surely, back home, we do not want our doctors to take a few puffs in the lounge before doing a surgery, or our airline pilots to get a quick taste before landing on a snowy runway while low on fuel. Just like we see potheads to be spacey and a little too relaxed and lost, Spaniards in general also see these potheads to be the same way but there is a distinctive difference in the toleration. Where we might laugh and make movies about the subject, The Spanish seem to be a bit more polarized in such a recreational drug. It is truly a matter of the have and the have not. I often enjoy Carme "warning" me on the people who are known pot users and yes, I do not see any cure for disease or Nobel Peace prize coming anytime soon from them, but she is also letting me know who I need to be friends with inadvertently. Armed with this knowledge and now a new set of Spanish vocabulary, I began my personal quest for some bud.

So I got a catalog from the local Bohemian shop and my eyes grew and moth watered at the many varieties of seeds being offered. They ranged from the not so pricey to the "taking out a loan to afford them" kind. My eyes were fixated on the ones in the middle range with the average amount of THC in them. Again I am no lightweight but I am definitely not a heavyweight and will stay in the welterweight division with no plans on bulking up in the future. So far this quest to become my own farmer by next spring as led me into a whole new set of vocabulary and meeting new, spacey and forgetful people who, luckily, seem to tolerate my language skills all the more than a sober person would. I am sure I will document my adventures after the first frost so stay tuned. I am just a little bit sad it took me two years to find out this wonderful herbal surprise!

to answer a few questions...

I have now become the portal to everything Spain for my American friends and family. I now carry the honor of being the virtual Wikipedia for those who don't have the drive and the time to get a library card or catch the web cast of Spain on the National Geographic web site. I feel like I am the modern day Marco Polo, set to bring back paper from the new world. Ok I am going overboard but why not. I am not getting a big head about this, mind you. Many of our family members have done their bid in the US military and traveled to many far off places...they just usually had to fire a weapon once or twice in their abbreviated stay.

Funny thing, as Americans, we don't know much about Spain. Ask the average citizen, and they could find Spain on a map. Ask the not so average citizen and they will point to Mexico. My favorite response to my puzzled face was, "isn't the name 'Mexico' Spanish for Spain?” And it is not all Spain's fault. Living many years of the last century under a dictator that aligned himself with Hitler and Mussolini was more than enough to keep Spain out of the United Nations until 1955 and off the world stage for a considerable amount of time.
Whenever I “add a new friend” on FB, hook up with a chum on yahoo I am hit with the standard questions during the catching up phase. These questions have become routine and I thought it would be beneficial if I compile a list for future reference in case there is yet another "friend" from Facebook who I mistakenly forgot about 20 years after I received my diploma who asks me, "what time is it there?” Forgive my lack of remembering you sat next to me in homeroom, there has been a lot of years of alcohol, drugs and therapy.

So I am going to take the time to put out the top few things about Spain. Rather let's call it:

The top few myths to dispel and or things you did not know about Spain.

1. We are 6 hours ahead of ET, most of the year. Daylight Saving Time is a whole other ball game. In the fall, we fall back before ET falls back (if I remember correctly right before Halloween), thus we are 5 hours ahead. In the spring, we spring ahead a few weeks after the US does so...so again we are 5 hours apart. But outside of the collective 3 or 4 weeks in total, it is safe to assume we are 6 hours ahead for the other 50 odd weeks.

We see the sunrise before you do so if there is anything flaky about the sun (less intensity, excessive flaring, etc) I will call you and give you a 6 hour head start to make your "end of the world is near" signs. While you are waking up and making your morning commutes, (for my east cost homies) I am having lunch. While you are coming home from work, I am already in bed asleep.

2. Siestas are midday breaks, not necessarily time to go home and take a nap. It does last normally 2 or more hours and I have been tempted to nap thru those hours. I may be wrong but when the Spanish left their imprint on Latin and South America, during the midday, the field workers would call that siesta, the hottest time of the day where the sun's rays were the most intense. Instead of sweating thru it, the work day was halted until mid-afternoon and they continued to work after siesta until last light of the day.

The cool thing about here in this part of Spain, at the height of the summer, the sun done not set until near 10pm!!!! Believe that, homie! But the normal work day does not end here until 7 or 8pm, dinner not until 9 or 10, Sangria on the beach before sundown, party until sunrise. That sounds about right.

3. Food. There are no tacos in Spain. Well they might be, but remember...TACOS ARE MEXICAN CUISINE. Just like Pork Pies are not normally associated with the US, they are English. Speaking the same language does not mean you eat the same food.

4. Bull fighting still exists, but PETA is working hard! The bull is the national animal and the symbol of Spain. When driving to near Madrid, we encountered several tall and massive billboard like cutouts erected on hill tops that sort of loom there like some mythical creature watching over the land. Imagine an eagle on top of Mt. Rushmore of the same size.

5. Spain has a royal family, like the UK and Monaco. The king before last was overthrown before WWII by the military general Franco and ruled by him until 1975. During his life, he allowed the crown prince to attend the university here in Spain under protection while the King died in exile. Upon Franco's death, thinking no one could run it better as a dictator, he soft-heartedly gave control of his beloved country back to the royal family and thus Spain became a democracy soon after 1975. And the King is a pimp, too. Not like in selling of females on street corners, like Magic Don Juan. But during a meeting of the heads of states for Spanish speaking nations, he candidly, in front of live and international broadcast, told the President of Columbia to shut up when Chavez went on one of his long winded rants. It was priceless!

6. Everyone in Spain is not Spanish. The country is more like a collection geographically rather than culturally. There are many different people and regions here. Like we have 50 states and Georgia is way different than California, it is much like this in Spain. There are the Galician, Basque and Catalans to name a few, each region historically having their own language. Franco wanted to stamp this out by telling the world that they were all dialects of separatists and rained down on them in hellfire if they bucked the system. I live in the region called Cataluña. Here their first language is Catalan and it is off the chain! It is a romance language all on its own. I think I read somewhere it is the 8th most popular language that no one knows about. This is the reason why I am taking so long to learn anything because most people speak Spanish as a second language.

7. We drive on the right side of the road.

Missing:Alex's Bike

I have finally calmed a bit so I can tell this story. Before, I was a bit livid and unsettled but now that I seem to have calmed to the point of not having homicidal thoughts, I can write with my usual random and stray thoughts rather than a dark, focused and angry humor. So if I seem to go off point and fly off the path of true enlightenment…well that is normal.

So we have been without a car for a while. That is not such a big deal unless we want to leave this tiny little cove. Our apartment, Alex’s school, my shop, Carme’s office: all in a 5 block radius. Tossa encompasses maybe a 6 square block as a point of reference.

The only issues without having a car is leaving the neighborhood or school district sized pueblo (ha ha) or going to soccer games. Sure the home field was within walking distance (hence the 6th block) but sometimes having a car saved on time. Normally we have to borrow a family member’s car if we knew time was of essence, but in case of a pinch, we would all ride our bikes.

Bikes have their definite benefits. I don’t need to go into that rant but there is a bit of caution involved, also. One would think that in this small and peaceful town, that like old times in America, where bike locks were unheard of, Carme still warned us to make sure the bikes were locked wherever we went. This is where the drama begins.

So one Monday, Alex had practice; Carme borrowed her mother’s car and needed to be in a town 30 minutes away preventing her from taking Alex to practice. The plan, the one I thought I had worked out with Carme and in turn she relayed to her father, was as follows:

I mentioned I would take Alex to practice by bike, Alex would be picked up by his grandfather and retrieve the bike from the field and spend the night with his grandparents as usual on Monday night. Well all good plans have variables you can’t plan and assume will work out on their own.

Thus I closed my shop and Alex and I rode our bikes to practice. Now I have ridden my bike to practice many of times alone. I was careful to lock it since I am there from 8:30 to 11 at night. But here we are, pulling up on overcast Monday afternoon, with what I thought as a well thought out plan. I left his bike there, unlocked, with the thought that when his grandfather came to pick him up, as he usually did since he enjoyed the act of boasting about his strong and able grandson who was flourishing on the local soccer team, would in turn retrieve his bike and place it in the car. I left the bike unlocked since Alex has lost his key to his lock and I could not fully rely on a 7 year old to not lose my key. But no other bikes were locked at that time. OK, I let my guard down.

A few miscommunications and my father in law did not get the bike. So there is sat. Last seen the Monday at 5:30 when I rode off in the then light rain which turned heavy in a matter of a few pedals of the bike as I slowly peddled back to my shop to reopen for business.

Sad to say it was not until Friday that we realized the bike was not in anyone’s possession. How we came about this knowledge after 4 days is sad and comical. Carme and Alex did not regularly ride their bikes since moving to the new apartment in closer proximity to the school. All the while, I assumed his bike was with his grandfather, stored in his garage. Until today, when we all decided to go for a bike ride on this beautiful sunny Labor day holiday (Spain’s version that is). After a few minutes of confusion and a few phone calls, Carme walked to my shop with a teary eyed Alex and laid the news on me as we finally realized the bike was gone. I then realized the bike was never picked up from the field. Reality sunk in and Alex tears began to flow harder.

Just at that moment, I was hit with my memory of losing a bike. I remember receiving this bike for Xmas when I was about 13. We just moved into a new house from our townhouse apartment to the other side of Hampton. Since we now had a garage, I could easily store a bike. Before I did not have the luxury of having a bike and my parents thought it was useless to buy me one before then since my whole world revolved around the townhouse/apartment complex called Queens Terrace (which in truth, I think was bigger than where I live now).

Since entering into my puberty and longing for a bit of freedom, this bike made my life a world easier to explore than before. No more walking to a friend’s house or to venture further than my aching feet would allow me to go normally. Now I could feel the wind and the only limits to my exploration were just getting lost.
I remember this one cold windy day my mother asked me to go ride my bike to the pharmacy. Finally my freedom had come at a cost. While my father lazily napped, my mother needed an able and willing body to run an errand. I was not too bothered by her asking but it took me into a neighborhood with not too good of a reputation. It was to a strip mall at the corner of Mercury and Queens. Like all strip malls that start off clean and fresh, they slowly and deliberately turn into dismal places with broken parking lots and randomly and dim lit lamps which scared the likes of most shoppers after sundown. Still I ventured off while my mother lies in wait for some medical relief.

One thing I had never thought of, or not sure if I was too lazy to purchase, was a bike lock. As I peddled down Lewis Rd, I wondered what I would do to secure my bike outside of the pharmacy. And when I say pharmacy, I mean the big kind where they sold everything under the sun. And my goal, the pharmacy counter, was way in the back of the store, perfectly placed so chances are, you would pass an aisle, something catches your eye and you ultimately spend more time and money in this one stop shop.

I propped up my bike on its kickstand and did not know it would be soon me and my new love would be separated. I ran thru the store, resisting the urge to look at the latest magazines and comic books as I passed thru aisle 4. I get to the counter and there are 2 people ahead of me. I anxiously watch as the pharmacist goes to answer the phone and wish he hadn’t and come to help settle this long line so I can get back to the keeping an eye on my bike.

Sitting impatiently in line, I could not take it and decided to run back out and check on my bike again, thus losing my place in line as I sailed back up aisle 4 avoiding the spoils of the other aisles. When I got there I was relieved to see that my bike sat there. My freedom. My liberator. I ducked back in. Darn aisle 4 is blocked by some kid who lost his way after high school and got stuck working in this joint who is stocking the chocolate cover pralines, so I brae aisle 5. Ooooooo, look at this cool new mechanical pencil I could use in class and never have to sharpen ---wait, the pharmacy.

Now I make it to the back of this football field sized shopping land, precursor to the Target stores adored by my wife and mother alike. The line is even longer. I run back out this time hoping drop out boy is in aisle 4 so I can knock him over for fun, but with me running they might think I stole something so hit the brakes a bit. Whew bike is still here. Smartly I made a mental note of the people in line: brown old coat, big red hair, hot mom with snotty nosed son, old man with glasses and so on. This time I waited outside along side my bike, peering in to see if I could count the people entering and leaving and figured after a few minutes beside my bike, my odds were increasing to get a short line and that extra pharmacy tech ill come off his break thus taking in twice the number of prescriptions. So I dart back in.

This time I lucked out and there was no one in line and a smiling pharmacy tech coming back fresh from a cigarette break ready to take my mother’s prescription. Still it seemed like taking my information and letting me know it will be 15 minutes and they would call my name over the loudspeaker that rivaled any major early warning or air raid siren systems. I rush back outside to stroke and shine my shiny new bike.

So I wait outside in the now colder day as the sun was setting. But time was slipping and I was wondering how much time had actually passed. I tried cracking the door to see if they had called my name. Something told me not to go. I could have been the faint voice of my bike calling out to me, who knows. I take the chance and run to the back. Luckily they told me they did indeed call, pull out the prescription and I paid and proudly walked out the store. I was close to exiting and completing my mission when a bad feeling hit me. It was like in a movie, I will not lie, as my worst fears were realized. I can still remember that horrible sick taste when I saw …actually did not see my bike waiting for me.

Adrenaline quickly set in as I scanned the horizon of busted cars and half broken parking lot light lamps for a glimpse of someone riding off with my bike. I ran around the corner of the building and still saw nothing, I ran a little bt more past the other buildings to see if there was a police officer or someone who could lay eye witness and help me get my bike back. What was I to do? Here is this scrawny, zit faced kid with tears in his eyes frantically looking for my stolen freedom. My stolen liberty.

Soon I realized all hope was lost and I had plenty of time to walk home now. What took me all of 15 minutes to ride my bike was now hitting the hour mark and the now set sun did not make it easier. I was not dressed for this long walk of shame. The only good thing was it was too dark and too cold for my friends to witness me going now at a much slower speed than normal and not strapped to my dynamo 10-speed.
Finally I rounded the last curve and noticed the street lights coming on. I laughed to myself about having to normally be home before the street lights came on and I was moving at too slow a pace, toes were too frozen and pride too bruised to make the last sprint in this marathon. I walked into the front door clumsily as my now bitterly numb fingers try to manage my house keys. My mom is angrily waiting for me. I think it was a mix of pain and worry over me but she still had not worked out that non yelling thing in this life time by then or ever. Seemingly her pain melted when she saw the tears I so long tried to hold back. Now I was seeing my own son’s tears and it hurt me to know I had a hand in his hurt.

Sure pain does build character if applied or survived just right. But as a parent, I try to prepare and nurture my son thru these moments. But every parent hates to see their kid cry. It only fuels my need to right the wrong.

So like that long walk of shame some 30 plus years ago, every passing bike was now catching my attention here in Tossa. And also like 30 plus years ago, what would I actually do if I saw someone riding by on the bike. Mind you this is a bike you could by anywhere at one of the local chains in the larger cities, but when Alex got it for his birthday in Nov, I had not seen one bike like this at the local school bike lock up. So I spent the whole day, just eyeballing each passing bike. Finally I resigned myself to just close the shop, go home and get over it, the bike was gone.

That afternoon, we all decided to head out to the local café within view of the playground so Alex could forget a little and have some fun with his friends. As we were walking the block, crossing into the second block, I spot this familiar bike. This local kid was struggling with this bike, trying to balance and stop with one foot. My mind raced into action. I called out to Carme and she spotted it but the look in her eye was that of defeat. I quickly raced over to the boy who was still struggling with this bike a bit too large for him. I then noticed his younger brother was trailing behind him handling his appropriately sized bike better than his larger sibling. I also noticed his father jogging gingerly behind the boys, yelling out for them to wait for him, The boys with the bike that looked like Alex’s had now rounded a curve and still wearing out the soles of his left shoe since he obviously could not work those hand brakes.

What was even more discouraging, this kid has practice on Mondays and I remember seeing his family always walking to practice, even the last Monday. My mind raced and I filled with anger. Just then the father passed and I tried to get his attention and I yelled out, “sir, the bicycle…” and before I could say another word…he responded with, “it’s mine”, turned his head and ran around the corner to follow his son.

Draw your own conclusions…would love to hear what you think.

Having "THE TALK" with my 7 year old

There are just some things in life you wish to avoid. I, on the other hand, have been waiting for moments like this.

Being a father, and not having the father figure in my life that I always wanted and like the one I am trying to be (which is not a cut to my step father but still a bitter signal to my biological one). My stepfather tried only how he knew how. Coming from long line of emotionally shut off fathers of past generations, still he provided for us, kept a roof over our heads and learned from his mistakes. I have learned that not everyone can be prepared to be a father if they have no life experiences to draw off of, nor does everyone with life experience have the fortitude to be a father. Being a "good" father is a matter of perspective. My step father, who will be referred to as my father from here on out, as he is the only one I ever really knew as a father figure and had day to day contact with since age 3, kept me out of trouble, in school and pushing to be a good man even to this day by being an example of a man who went to work everyday, did not lay his hands on my mother and brought home the bacon. For that I love him dearly for and find it so much more rewarding to come full circle from being the man and child we once were, to two men we are today.

We all know life is full of wonders and surprise. Growing as a young man into a man, were some trying and confusing times. My mother did her best to provide for me, but I am firmly convinced there are many stresses placed on single motherhood to raise a boy to a man. So if you see a single mother, let her know you feel her struggle and give her a hand or just applaud her. Mind you my father and I had a tedious, at best, relationship until I became a man. From that point on, the emotional walls fell and he is more open and forth giving then ever before. But before that point in time, there was a noticeable distance and lack of conversation between he and I. My mother did her best to fill in what a growing boy needs. I did not seek her advice on matters of the heart, life and love. But she did her best to contain my growing nature with her brand of tough love and humor.

When it came time for me to hit puberty and my tall and thin frame began to fill out, she knew the time was coming for "the talk" and she was none to happy about it. I think it first hit her when my uncle Jimmy came to visit once when we lived in Hampton. Jimmy was away most times from the maternal side of my family due mostly to his military career taking him to Japan and so forth. I idolized him since he was the least accessible one of my uncles and more mysterious. Not being close to my dad, I only had my uncles as male figures to hang out with. Well Jimmy came to visit and told a joke which I remember well. Somehow I seem to remember select times in my life for one reason or another but my mother says she does not remember this. The joke goes as follows:
man 1 (to man 2):"you know they you are what you eat..."
man 2 (to man 1):"I find that hard to believe."
man 1:"Why do you say that?"
man 2:"Because if it were true, i would be wearing high heels and stockings!"

Thinking I was too young to understand this joke, the family was surprised to see me chuckle politely under my breath. Now at the age of 11 or 12, I don't recall how or where I learned of the act of cunnilingus and had certainly never tried it at that point. Still remember my mother gasping at the sight of me trying to stifle a laughter since i could not exit the room fast enough or get far enough away to laugh as loud as I wanted to laugh. Right then and there, a light bulb went off in my mother's head. It was time for THE BOOK.

My mother came into my room one day an put this large green paperback in my hands and told me to read it. As quickly as she walked into the room, she had exited. I was face to face with this 200+ paged 500lb gorilla full of diagrams and artfully drawn pictures. It was called "The Child's Body". She had also gotten the"The Woman's Body" and "The Man's Body" books also. Maybe it was to make for light reading for my parents or for me to explore deeper in this wonderful world of puberty once I finished my book. I found it exhilarating that I no longer had to sneak into my father's closet to read penthouse forum for my sex education. OK, maybe that is how I had become well versed in the ideas of oral sex, as well as other aspects of sexual intercourse, to be able to understand the jokes of my raunchy youngest uncle. Still reading the book seemed a bit cold to me since my mother and I had a daily and very interactive dialogue most days and I was not at the age of hiding my upcoming teenage antics from her as of yet. Still i could tell she was horrified in that her little boy, her first born, was growing from a child into a teen and eventually a man. Her own mortality came to bear as she realized she was not the young fresh eyed Carolina girl anymore and despite all attempts, those premature grey hairs were real and not some magical sprouting of blond hairs!

I remember learning the technical names of parts of the sexual anatomy, which were unfamiliar to me as I knew them, by what I call, the playground names. Yes I was way past being curious at this age and had began my quest to research this funny feeling I got around girls in the flesh. I was way past my time having learned any slang way of talking about sex via the Penthouse Forum. Mind you this was the 80´s, Price was singing about pretending to be married so they could do it all night and a girl named Darling Nikki and all the wonderful things she did with a magazine. I remember my heart pounding as I heard the complete version of Lady Cab Driver on the radio one day in 1983 (if you never heard it then it is quite the spectacle for an 11 year old!). So you can say it was perfect timing for a young boy who was exploding (no pun intended) with curiosity.

So why did this all come up with my son? Here in Spain, after many extra curricular sports activities, the kids have facilities to take showers. From as young as most can remember, the concept of gang showers are normal. I remember being afraid of entering the 7th grade at Eaton Middle school knowing it was full frontal assault. No longer were we kids, but we were experiencing the sight of other boys. I mean I knew what I had, just did not realize what I had came in many shapes and sizes. Also what had came in natural and trimmed, so to speak. If you still don't get it, circumcised or not. I remember my mother pushing pamphlets in my face about being circumcised or not before I was faced with possibly being ridiculed or teased at shower time thus affecting me in the long run. I don't remember if I was already nervous or if the constant Watchtower like pamphlets my mother was pushing on me due to her fear of facing the fact I was hitting puberty head on. Still I had no human contact to help me understand how society would see me as obviously not being Jewish.

I know there is much debate over this issue and it is not my place to get in what is best, but at birth it is the choice of the parents for their little boys. And when I found out I was to become a father of a boy, I had a few months to internally work thru those debate points. If you are reading this, you know I don't pull punches, but I, being uncircumcised at that point in my life, did not want to inflict the same discomforts in my life. some men live their whol loves uncut but I had thought it was best to take care of this decision at birth. I remember all the anxiety I had over being "different" than most American boys and seeing it in the shower (but not being teased about it since I could unsheathe my sword and the other boys and future girlfriends were none the wiser). Still I wanted to prevent some of the embarrasment for my son, dpesite there being no reason for anxiety but try telling that to a 7 year old who is afraid of the dark.

So I have been coaching here 2 years after coaching 11 years in America. In America we did not have access to showers after games like we do here but then again I have always coached girl teams so I would not have the access that I do have now, nor would I necessarily want it. but the boys are pretty open and seemingly unashamed. So I seem to walk in the dressing room and the boys are proudly walking about in the small space naked and unafraid. It is not rare I can find a boy on my team in stages of undress since they walk around shamelessly in the locker room. To my surprise, most of the boys are uncircumcised. Mind you, in this small town, the boys have spent all of their lives playing together and going to school. I am sure they literally grew up seeing one another in a shower or two so at age 17, most of them were comfortable and well aware of each other.

So one day after a game, my son exited without even changing from his soccer clothes, gym bag in tow. I asked him if he took a shower and he looked down in a shameful way. something was bothering him but he was not up for discussing it in open air, even in English. Carme told me this was the 4th straight time recently he has skipped the shower counting last week's away game where he changed his clothes and was still the last one out of the dressing room, and the 2 nights after practice. So later that day we got home and I did my face to face, heart to heart to get to the bottom of it.

From what i can gather, he is a bit embarrassed taking a shower with the other boys. being that he circumcised and the other boys are not. He never fully confirmed, but fatherly ituition let me figure it all out. So we sat and talked about boys, how they are different and how they are the same. He relaxed and found humor in the whole discussion about his penis. i would have never imagined that his being circumcised would be an issue where I was trying to forsee that anxiety and have him "timmed". but then I had no idea i would be raising him in this european society. Where i had to do some research and confidence building to defend for myself when I was becoming sexually active and again, based on pamphlet readings. I wonder when my son comes of age and starts to explore on his own will he have the reverse situation, explaining what a circumcision is and wonder how his girlfriend, who is weired out by his aerodynamic status is so freaked out if she swears on being a virgin. how many penises has she seen to compare to his or deem his to be odd.

Maybe I am over thinking this but still, I am a father. And there are no classes to prepare you for this situation. Still havin a daughter, I am sure there are situations I would have to face but hopefulky my wife would not be so squeemish in handling these areas. Still I chuckle to myself as I avoided taking a shower after an adult game I played the first year I was here. Even though I had a 2 minute drive to my apartment, those shameful feelings of gang showers of the 7th grade came over me and I realize, I have no room to talk. But that is partly what being a father to a young boy is about. To help him thru life, right? o as i say, not as i foolishly did is my motto.

escaping with my life...

Who says soccer is not a dangerous sport. And what I am learning and remembering about boys aged 16 to 18 kids that the coursing of testosterone thru their forming bodies can lead to some explosive results (no pun intended).

Just like any soccer league in the world, there are always rivals and long histories between teams that may date back to before most of these kids were born. Our main rivals are Llloret de mar, seeing as they are the nearest town to us and easiest to get to from our hidden and secluded location in the hills. But this story is not about our beef with them, al be it their boys are friends and sometimes school mates of our boys. But this story takes place with our team and the team from Maçanet (mas suh net).

Maçanet is a small town, larger than Tossa, situated more inland than we are. It is not a long drive away but still I could tell by the tension in the boys, it is not a warm place to visit. I have visited Maçanet many times before as a family friend's daughter lives there and had her communion for her daughter there as well as Alex playing there with his team on many occasions. but this visit was different.

As we are in the second half of the season so if we had one game at home, this half we are playing away in their domain. The first half of the season saw Maçanet entering out domain for a Sunday afternoon game. The game started well and we were soon down. As the match went on, the ref was losing control and the boys were getting a bit physical. The game was nearing the end and we were down 1-2 and attacking with all our might. After a few choice fouls and some time wasting from Maçanet, my boys were getting a bit frustrated and it was showing. Finally in the closing minutes a melee ensued and it got ugly.

Rafa was handling the ball on the right side, the far end of the field from the benches, and closer to the seats for most spectators wishing to sit in the warm sun rather on our side near the dressing rooms and benches where the temp difference could be 5 or 10 degrees with a wind. Rafa got fouled extra hard and I could tel, despite being able to see clearly from that distance and having so many players blocking my view, by the way the crowd reacted. Sure the crowd is a bit biased but I noticed a good number of Maçanetians reacting to other calls in the refs were making toward calls in our favor.

So my wife explained to me during this foul, Rafa was knocked to the ground and Maçanet we over anxious to clear the ball and in turn kick Rafa in his head or near it. since tempers were running high, Rafa, normally the laid back and unconfrentational one, bounced to his feet and started a shoving match. Then all hell broke loose as the benches cleared. Two players had been ejected earlier in the first half due to hard fouls and had already showered and were in the seated crowd on the opposite side of the field waiting for the end of the game. They joined in with fighting crowd and I had to make a 100 yard dash to break up anything before it got too messy.

Unfortunately Alex was there watching this and his normal anxiety exploded seeing his father out there tossing little Catalan boys left and right.

After the smoke cleared, Carme was much more worried about me and wanted us not to attend the return leg of our competition. She tried to convey to me the fury in one boys eyes and the things he said. She even talked about how the Maçanet parents egged on their boys to fight showing little to no home training. Even a parent or two were instigating the melee to a much higher level. in the end, one more Maçanet boy and Rafa were shown a red card thus ejecting them from the game and 3 more future ones. Still we lost the game as the ref blew the whistle right then and the game was over.

So we have had to wait several months to play this return leg. Maçanet sits right under us in the standings and forfeiting this game would mean dropping form 6th place to 7th out of fear of another fight. I talked with Jesús about having the police present but he shrugged it off as nothing. and they say America is violent.

so now we are at the return leg. we enter the town of Maçanet and there is little fanfare. The field is not the best condition as it is made of dirt and no grass or artificial turf like ours. That means a lot of slipping and sliding and poor quality football. I think that is the one reason we find it hard to win with them as they practice on this and we expect a little bit more as we practice on turf. As we made our way to the field from the bus, we walked past some pretty quiet and intimidating looking players. they stood there in their street clothes glaring at us. Of course I was salivating and remembering faces so I knew which boys I wanted to toss first if a fight broke out again.

Once in the dressing room, I scoped out the field and the surrounding area looking for a quick exit like I was the chief of security for Obama. The bus had dropped us off a full 500 yards away from the dressing rooms and we walked the march of death past a few areas that were of concern for me. I did however brighten up seeing a accessible road near the opening to the dressing rooms that we cold make a good get away. but still my first concern was to win the game. It would be horrendous to lose and then get mobbed by the local towns folk, some drunk parents included. I am only one man, however twice as big as most here but I worried more for the safety of my boys and some knife being pulled on any of us.

So we went for warm ups, and then the game began. and it was not without incident. The other team did all they could do while the single ref had his back turned. Joel threatened the goal many times and spent the remaining time fending off threats in his ear. but ferry was getting the bulk of the threats. I noticed his player who was marking him had pushed and shoved him several times and Ferry just smiled and walked away. On one occasion, the player ever took a full swing with his foot into Ferry's knees as Ferry walked away. Mind you this all happened behind the ref's back and without it being a part of a play. So we called out to Ferry to switch sides with Sebastian and I kept my eye on number 10 from their side. He was moving up my list as boys I was looking forward to finding in a mass fight.

Soon Maçanet was up one goal and celebrating as if it was the world cup! have never seen so much energy being expended at the expense of a lucky goal. No organization, no skill, just a lucky bounce. Anyone knows a lucky bounce can happen anytime but on a dirt field, which I am sure they plant some crop here in the off season, anything can happen, the field becomes the 3rd team, the variable. Still my boys, been all well trained and shit, bounced back. with an excellent build up and the keeper being out of place, Joel finished off an excellent opportunity, not wasting this chance like he mistakenly did before. Soon after it was 2-1 after Sebastian mad ethem pay for not handling a ball in their box well. Then the whistle came and it was half time. we headed to the dressing room with our spirits high. After all th adversity faced with th cheap shots and intimidation, our boys kept their heads. still I took note that the coach of Maçanet was standing near the entrance of the dressing room and not allowing stray boys into the area who did not belong.

Jesús was also called over by the single ref and they had a conversation. I was not involved into that conversation until he entered the dressing room telling us to get packed, we are leaving. The ref decided that the growing crowd of parnets and kids were not looking promising for us and he had indeed noticed a lot of fouls from the other team and overheard some of the treats. he did not say anything earlier, hoping the Maçanet coach could keep things under wraps, but with us winning and being a much better team, it was going to get messy if we won after what happened in Tossa. So I went out to talk to our parents and got one to bring the bus to a closer location near the door of the dressing rooms instead of where we were dropped off.

After some time, the crowd in Maçanet grew weary of waiting for the second half and all began to congregate around the dressing rooms. The coach of Maçanet promptly locked the door and called the police for some added eyes. I was the only person standing outside the locked door with anything on that represented Tossa. I felt like if the growing crowd would burst I was first on their list, so adrenaline and anxiety filled in my body so much I cold taste blood!!!

Then a familiar face hit me, it was the boy who was ejected from the first game that was so rabid then, and equally so now. Let me explain if someone is nuts or not. if you punch them in the face today and even if retaliation was committed on his part or not, come back 6 months later and he is equally fired up without provocation, he is nuts. normal people tend to get over it or may harbor some inner feelings, but if it seems like you blinked and 6 months passed and he is 2 times pissed, that person has some issues and anger management problems. Sure I am still pissed at a few local bullies growing up but I am not going to hide behind a tree and whip their asses today. Also I had heard this kid and another were kicked off the team a few months ago, seemingly they had a long history of violence and run ins with other teams. Now, free of the team and in this public place, they were here and ready to vent. And he was as rabid as the day of the last encounter Carme describe she witnessed.

The coach from the other team was now outside and doing a bit of control. No one was doing anything but the growing crowd became a concern until the police arrived. Now armed with police presence, the coach decided to flex a bit against the rabid ex player. The player screamed back he every right to be here as anyone else. But we could all see more parents add to the crowd and do nothing to help the situation. I was starting to see the nature of this area and not digging it one bit. Still I was the only noticeable person from Tossa and I was ready to swing at the first person to sneak up on me.

Soon, the boys were ready to exit the dressing room and without incident, the boys were safely loaded on the bus. The rabid blond decided to walk past the bus and I stepped in his direction to let him know I was not playing if he tried to enter the bus. He was walking into a hornet's nest and I was the Queen bee...wait that did not sound right but you know what I am trying to say. he promptly said he was leaving the area and I watched him and his posse walk past the bus and leave the area. The police officer escorted us out of city limits and we were soon off to our town, smiling and sighing some relief.

Seems that they are planning to play the second half of the game in a neutral location with a closed gate. reminds me of a joke...went to a fight and a hockey game broke out. Still I do look forward to tossing teenage boys around like rag dolls.

Trying to figure out how I feel...

Near the end of February, many places around the world celebrate Carnival season. Carnival comes in all forms but for the most part, it is a celebration filled with intensely decorated floats, dancers, loud music and beautiful costumes. Spain is no different and each city seemingly has it's parade of colorful processions to fill even the narrowest of streets. But depending on the town will directly affect the grandness of the displays for your eyes' enjoyment.

Point in case is the parade in Tossa compared to the one in say...Barcelona. Of course with more of a base of citizens, there is more competition, more creative and grander ideas. Several groups enter for a chance at winning an award or something but i am not quite sure.

This year, not to be taken off guard, I decided to capture pictures, being this is my second time experiencing tossa's precession and parked myself in a grand location. There are 3 main roads in and out of Tossa and we live on one of them. I cannot tell you what we give up in noise agitation for the ability to be ear civilization and avoiding parking on smaller narrower streets. i sorta feel like I live on Broadway rather than off, but in Tossa that is not saying much. Still we live right on the cusp of nothing but residential area, so if we do get a drunken tourist, they quickly realize that the fading ambient night lights of local businesses are behind them and there is nothing more than ...well nothingness that lies ahead on this slightly inclined passage way to ...well ...no where! Sadly, in front of my apartment they seem to realize this, debate loudly just below my open window allowing , not only the cool and refreshing night air on a warm summer's night, but their incomprehensible babble of how small this town is and there was nothing to do. hey I have something for you to do, turn around, go back to where you came from and drink some more!

Still my luck does seem to present itself on certain occasions throughout the year. Being that this is one of the main arteries thru the town, we enjoy seeing local bike races (think Lance Armstrong) and other parades past my window seal. I pretty much have a nice view without leaving my balcony. The road also slightly curves away from our window so we can see a procession heading toward us and then past us, giving us a somewhat more complete view than just standing roadside. And since this is February we are speaking about, Carme and Alex, with blankets in tow, decided to stay put and out of the winds to enjoy the music and sights from an elevated position. The only thing to bother your view are the Magnolia trees with their large waxy leaves that never fall but don't allow much of a view of the opposite side of the street.

I, on the other hand, decided to perch myself in a prime spot, just after the bend in the road, in the median, to catch the procession head on and then slightly turning away from me to pass, giving me good chances at taking photos. I am no where near the level talents of my friend Stephanie Tu (well she is Kit's wife, so I guess I inherited her as a friend) when it comes to photography, so I just had to wing it with my Lumix lens handy dandy camera.

Just as I took up my spot, I hear the thumping of music coming around the corner and the parade had begun.

I will not bore you with descriptions of each float and how they made me feel or their choreography...but I will make mention of one float in particular. I, sadly, did not get many pictures and i will go into the reason once I get into the idea of this float, but nonetheless, I was shocked and in awe.

Picture this, 40 or so walking dancers, all with brown makeup covering their natural skin, all wearing cartoonish sized curly wigs in black and the kinda brown color when you see a African American woman, who decided to go Blond, like Pamela Anderson. Not quite Blond, more of an auburn color, you know. They were all wearing purple robes with a gold V running down from each shoulder and meeting somewhere below the abdomen. They were jumping and clapping and smiling. In the background was Aretha Franklin playing. In it's slow march, they played a second Aretha song so I am not sure if they had real Gospel music or just thought that was the ultimate Gospel.

My jaw dropped.

So I politely walked cross the street towards my apartment, walking the extra few steps to get a clear view of my wife on the other side of the Magnolia tree, and just to put my hands up as to say, "What the fuck are they doing?". I noticed a smile on my wife's face as she expected me to come to her and give her that look. We have been married too long so i need to switch it up on her but i will save that for another day.

So I turn back to the parade and head back to my perch in anticipation of seeing this plate of hot mess pass before me. I remember swallowing hard and trying to sort thru my initial gut feelings. It is almost impossible to explain this to my new found friends here in Spain. Somehow I try but i am not sure they get it or if I do the story justice in my limited vocabulary. I can't explain Al Jolson, Jim Crow, Reconstruction, lunch counter sit ins, J.J. Evans (does any one know the real reason why the father on "Good Times " left after the first first season or two...I do...ask me if you want to know), Al Sharpton, Malcolm X, segregation, the grandfather clause, poll tax, 3/5 compromise and so forth. Black face is just a small part of the stained (no pun intended) history that built America. Many things attribute to the powder keg that is America that exploded in the 1960's.

Ok I need to put this in perspective. Actually my wife did her best to do so. You see she was trying to explain to me that this was more of a honor than an insult. America is known for many things and one particular thing are the churches. here in Spain, like most "white" churches in America, the sermon is boring and calm which makes it seem more drawn out and excruciating. I grew up in souther baptist churches filled with a sweaty preacher, due to lack of AC and from his animated delivery of the word of God, soulful choir in beautiful robes, all swaying in perfect time to the music and an equally animated congregation. Also it is a testament to the wonderful singers in the choir. but come on, the hair just makes it a bit cartoonish.

Carme then explained to me her first few months in America, seeking out this imagery she had only seen in movies like "The Preacher's Wife" staring Whitney Houston. She told me of when her friend Rosa came to visit and both sought out Gospel churches in the yellow pages and running across a tame show at a church in Carytown which promoted itself as a Gospel church. later did explain to her that the word gospel is a bit more inclusive and does nto paint the picture she found out to be so untrue.

Still, there is a source of my proverbial ulcer that appeared as soon as I got off the plane when I first moved here and slowly is subsiding (although on some bad days I can still feel the growing and nagging of it). this ulcer is the inability to fully express myself when i want. I cannot tell jokes or explain my emotions to the masses here. i don't want to offend anyone or paint an inaccurate picture so I dare not attempt at this stage as I can only do it accurately in English. But i did attempt with a friend who understand English to a point.

The images I tend to b weary of is portraying Blacks to be servants, stupid, ape like or violent. I remember cringing at every newcast of a Black man robbing a liquor stor and the description that followed. He is a Black male, with short hair, white tee, blue jeans, between 5'6" and 6'2", 150 to 180 lbs, etc. Just in general, i kept my butt in the house out of fear of being fingered and having to pass off some alibi. Images of Al Jolson haunt most African Americans to this day. Hard to find humor for most of us in someone trying to imitate our being, culture or mannerisms, whether accurate or not.

But one thing that i have come to realize about this area of Spain, they are secluded in many ways. Sure they watch American movies and television shows but nothing beats living in a language and experiencing it for yourself. Things always get lost in translation. But this area of Spain has never experienced the long standing issues of America beginning with slavery, emancipation, KKK, Civil Rights, separate but equal, separate facilities, lunch counters,etc. Catalunya, like Spain, has been pretty much a closed society. Having lived thru their own modern day civil war and cultural clashes, they have ha not time to focus on the rest of the world and their issues. Their focus is on gaining autonomy from the Spanish government and that takes time.

Now with the economy growing, there is a bit of "catch up" Spain is experiencing. New ideas are trickling in as more European and American businesses are looking t o invest within their borders to be true global presences. Still the old ideals and beliefs reign supreme here. Most darker skinned people I have seen work in labor jobs and not in a suit and tie. I am thrown off by inheriting the life long friends of my wife to think that all Spaniards will accept me as one. all the people in my soccer club are Catalan and a few Spaniards, but i am the only American, with a few Brits who have one Spanish or Catalan parent and have lived here all their lives. I used those kids to explain things that I cannot but still I am not sure I am being served well by their translation skills. So i try to keep it short and not as intense as I would like.

So is Spain a racist society? That I have always never felt comfortable answering. To call a society in whole as racist like the Nazi's against Jewish people...no it does not compare. it does not compare to ethnic cleasing. No it does not compare to creating a system of oppression like outh Africa or america at one time. But instead i am convinced that there are just some people, in any society, who just can't get comfortable of people who are different as a whole. be it a different language or skin color or continent, all people are this way in some form or not, and when you characterize a whole culture as being anti something, it just sends too strong of a message. I have had some older women look at me twice when passing, with blank looks or suspecting looks, but i would get that at home from an older Black woman. I have had strangers come up and start a conversation but I am more than likely to get that in a souther state, you know how nice us southerners are. i have traveled over a pretty good sized area surrounding Tossa with my soccer team and be it we are the opposing teams, the other coaches and staff are more than nice.

So how do i feel about this display? is it racist...no I don't think so. Does it strike a cord within me, sure it does, hard to deny my history and my family's history and feelings. is it worth returning Rev. Al Sharpton's phone calls about stagging a protest...? Ha ha. just a thought but a funny one.

24 hours later...

So I marked today on my calendar. It was not a day I was looking forward to. but still it was a day that needed to come. No, it is not the end of the world, no test results coming back and no it is not some Spanish Holiday for tall good looking Black men. But it is kind of the end of the world and some testing will be in place.

Some time ago, for a good 6 years, I have hidden the fact that I smoked from my son. Not that he is stupid and cannot put two and two together, but in his then 6 year old mind, if he never saw me smoke, then daddy was not a smoker. Sure all the other parents smoked, even Aunt Natalia smoked, but not his daddy. I hid it by smoking after he went to bed, volunteering to go to the grocery store, only smoking when he was changing in the dressing rooms and not during games, and so forth. Times when he did not actually see me. sure Carme met me and I was a smoker but did not stop her from pushing to get me to quit once she said I do. I think she pushed even more so since we are not carrying any life insurance right now.

Until that fateful day, when all of the worlds hopes seemed to fall hard to the pavement, when my little boy, my pride and joy, my spitting image, my best buddy...saw me smoking on a cigarette. So many times before, he'd "almost" catch me so it was a matter of time. I am not one to spout of God's will or anything like that, but i took it as logic that the child who seems to live and breath time with his father, will have more and more opportunities to catch me as my nasty addition grew or kept it's steady hold on me.

I don't remember the day well at all. I do remember having to explain myself. I mean I am the daddy, but if I am doing something that I know is a bad example, something that is killing me and possibly losing day by day with this little man who loves me so much, if I can't love myself enough to drop that monkey that can't nearly love me as much as my son...well what kind of father can I truly be?

So after many conversations, many questions, I finally had to come up with a plan to approac my son's larger than life sad eyes. I knew with all the questions, tried his best to make sense of what made no sense. One by one the questions came. Day by day passed. Randomly he seemed to pick up where he left off 2 days before, sometimes repeating the same questions before. I am not really sure if he meant to see if I would change my answer or if he was making sense of such silliness.

How could I explain addiction to him. sure my addiction slowly rots me to the core. Leading me to shortened breath, diminished lung capacity and other chronic breathing conditions. I may have already done irreparable damage already. sure i could get it by a meteor in a random act but it is time to change my mentality and welcome that meteor.

So I set a date. Jan 31, 2009. I am not one to make new years resolutions, despite setting a date is still the same as doing it along with every other hopeful mind who seem to draw strength on knowing other poor souls are suffering for the sake of bettering themselves on that first day of the new year. And along with the the setting of the date, goes the age old joke about how long you can last on your quest. Sure it's easier to count from Jan 1 than, say, March 23rd, but still I am not that random, and there had to be the end of something in order to begin something else. so why not postpone it a month. Well originally I had made an open promise to myself and my family that I would quit in February, 6 months from the day i was claiming this miraculous feat. But Carme took it as no smoking in the month of February. So it only cut me short 28 days but such is life. I had to show some dedication so Jan 31 it was.

I have tried a few times before to quit. The first time was cold turkey. It was as pleasant as a root canal. well Actually a root canal was more appealing since eventually there was some end to the discomfort and pain. The most successive attempt was with this medication which I can't seem to remember it's name. Funny it was originally being tested as an antidepression medicine and the clinical tests all failed. They almost gave it a second run until they figured out people just gradually lost the will to smoke. Now that is quitting. Seems they go around trying to chemically alter the brain and push the wrong switch.

The poor thing about the medicine, is if you try it, then go back to smoking, the med doesn't seem to work again. So that option is out the window, and not much in the way of anti smoking research being funded, my options dwindled down to cold turkey. I always liked cold turkey. Turkey is a lean meat and pretty good as a cold cut. But quitting something cold turkey is like sucking a watermelon thru a straw. It is going to take some serious resolve and mental planning and fortitude.

So Saturday Jan 31st came and went. I still had a few cigs in my last pack. I forgot to smoke actually, not out of fear of running out. But it is a testimony to how much of a hold this does NOT have on me. see when i am active, hands are moving, things to keep my mind active, I do not crave smokes. But sure I did have my rituals. I never smoked first thing in the morning, had to at least shower, shave, and dress and get out o the house before a cig. I smoked when I drove in my car, esp to work in America, having 45 minutes of a drive. I smoke when I get restless, bored or sleepy and want to stay awake. I can take a 8 hour flight across the Atlantic and not worry a bit, but as soon as I land, I am thinking when is my next flight and where is the closest place to smoke. But to quit...that is a different beast all together.

So I might keep this up and keep you going on my progress. It may be better if I not think about it. Still, I might need to express myself and let it out.

24 hours down, rest of my life to go!