what if God was one of us

I have never paid much attention to this song. Joan Osborne’s version or Prince's weird remake. That's right; I said Prince did something weird! But it has never been running thru my head and I will tell you why.

There is this gentleman who lives here in Tossa. Let's paint a picture for you since I thought it would be rude to flash photograph him. But first, can anyone tell me the natural state of hair if you never touched it with your fruit infused shampoos or a large toothed comb? Well it goes into dreadlocks. I am not talking about the Bob Marley well thought out and planned one. I am talking, and depending on your disposition, the creature from the movie Predator type "dreds".

Well this gentleman, the day I first laid wondering eyes upon, was wearing no shirt, interesting running shorts, sporting a head full of these dreadlocks (the aformentioned type above), I think also sneakers, headphones and a gold cross around his neck and he was jogging past me thru the center of town. Something was quite odd about him. Could it have been his running shorts? Let's see if I describe them. ummmm...well....you know the kind of full panties that women now wear? They look kind of boyish and they cover like 90% of the ass. Well his running shorts were like that...tight and hugging his pubic area. I think they were psychedelic colored, I am not sure. Maybe I was awestruck in his lack of dress as well as his choice of dress. I did notice the gold cross around his neck, which unlike the size of a Flava Flave's clocks around his neck, was quite petite in size but he was only a few feet away from me so it caught my eye. He had stopped his run to cross a street, still jogging in place, silently negotiating with the upcoming driver who was about to run him over. Hmmmm...A sign of intelligence if his appearance did not precede that notion. Quite odd in stature and first glance, but still looking somewhat fit, I noticed he turned a few of the locals heads. He is a tall and lean white male with brownish red matted hair. Not looking malnourished and obviously having enough energy to go for a run, still his overall appearance struck me as out of place. Could it have been the grizzly Adams beard, which was neither trimmed or cut like he was well manicured, which added to his homeless look from the neck up. Still how many homeless people do you see jogging around Byrd park? Either it was his first major appearance in this mid afternoon late summer day or was a rare appearance by a local celebrity. But he definitely stood out like a nun in a whore house.

Still I do not think I have done justice to describing this guy. Outside of his matted hair and overgrown beard, he did not look homeless. Now I would use the word homeless not to insult him, but more of a visual we Americans have when generalizing the unfortunate group of people we run across in our daily, big city lives. A generalization of a group of diverse people we know to be possible alcoholics, drug addicts, mentally off balanced, emotionally disturbed or just plain out unlucky in life people who live in the alleys, streets, public parks and under bridges. I do not want to assume he is homeless in the least bit but paint a visual of this character that words can’t seem to do justice over.

At my first sight of him, I had no indication that he was an "un-neat" person other than the over grown beard and matted hair. Still I have never watched the full transformation of someone trying to transform their hair into dread locks. Well maybe one but that was over the course of one semester watching Steve Fountain in French class twisting his own hair between his thumb and forefinger ever 2.3 seconds which I assumed was out of boredom more than cosmetic preparations. Back to the gentleman at hand, I would say he looked more “wild” and natural than homeless. Still, being a small community, this gentleman surely stuck out like a sore thumb and caught my attention.

As quickly as he came, he jogged off into the semi crowded street, clapping his hands and raising his arms in what looked like him being really into his workout and music in his headphones. I was left dumbfounded. Left with my jaw wide open and internally wondering, WHAT WAS THAT! I did not dare ask the locals if they had seen what I saw but I noticed on the locals faces, that this was a rare and interesting treat. Something to look forward to, eh?

Time passes...and by the luck of the north wind, there were several sighting in my 11 months here. Most without incident. They progressed in excitement for me as I slowly began making friends and having more conversations about our mystery friend seen strolling thru town. I could only piece together a jagged story, which I was aware was mostly rumor and guessing, that one day this guy showed up in Tossa with a Vespa but the cops took it away (for some unknown reason. Maybe they told me but I did not understand the Spanish when they told me), that they think he lived in the woods or something since no one knew where he lives (and I say again...Tossa is small!! So you kind of by chance find out where people live) and that he is probably rich since he has no job, nowhere in those little shorts to carry an ATM card and well, there are no other supporting facts.

Each sighting seems to grow stranger and stranger and fueling my curiosity in just who is this character is. No one seems threatened by him. Children do not follow him and mock him causing him to bite his tongue and storm off in frustration. I do not see people treating him differently, only stares and silent whispers. And when a tourist went missing (and I know this sounds extreme and something out of a movie but...) and her body was found 5 days later, I was relieved to see that there was no witch hunt for this stranger for "questioning". I hope one understands that last line. Still my first social contact with this person was an odd event.

Carme and I had the night off from parenting and decided to have a drink before dinner. We were seated at Comics Café when, like a ninja, this strange fellow walked up. He was walking along the sidewalk which, if you can imagine, contains a number of tables with seats under an awning projecting from the bar. When people walk down the broad sidewalk on this main street, they pass the island of tables street side and cafe side. Eric, the owner, has to be careful when crossing human traffic cafe side when he is serving a tray full of drinks. Well we were sitting near the stream of human traffic nearest the cafe's front door and that bottle neck can cause you to slow down just a bit when walking thru to recognize your long lost mother is sitting in the island of tables next to where you are walking thru. Well this gentleman was funneled thru this traffic. Shirt in hand, wraparound sunshade perched atop his sun kissed forehead, fanny pack around his waist(possibly containing that elusive ATM card to access his presumed millions) and extra tight shorts...for comfort and support I supposes. Carme did not see him but I gave a silent type of "we have been married for almost 10 years" signal to warn her that something interesting was nearby for her to casually glance around to. I did not warn her in time enough for me to turn my eyes from the target and her to casually turn her eyes toward the target (so it did not seem like we were talking about him) before he was upon us. He was 2 feet from us, close enough to a person that they begin the process of acknowledge your existence in casual passing. And in one split second, our existence, Carme and mine, came clear to him in one breath, he locked on us and stopped dead in his tracks. All I could do was draw back as I was surprised at the cat like agility this man possessed from stopping on a dime from almost and Olympic style walking marathon pace! This is what he did:
1.he put his finger in front of his mouth as to silently say shush your mouth or don’t speak, then closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, silently saying "no".
2.tapped the arm of Carme's chair nearest to him (Carme almost jumped out of her underwear at his bold and swift transition from one mime event to another) and waved his finger signifying another no-no.
3.took his cross of Jesus between his thumb and forefinger that was hanging from his neck and with the hand that was free and gave a thumbs up sign.

And again, as quickly as he came, he left, breaking out in full stride again and getting lost in the crowded sidewalk.

Carme and I sat dumbfounded for a second. Then we stared at each other as to say "what the f---". Then, with mouths open, looked around to see if anyone was staring at us in amazement as we seemed to be one of the first of the locals to have made contact with this stranger. But no one was paying much attention to us at the time. Then our eyes met each other again as to silently say "did we just dream this?” Then we broke out in laughter. Carme and I have never lacked in conversation, but we put all important business on hold to decipher this stranger's message to us. Is he a man of divine wisdom? A nut? You decide. Our first contact with this odd fellow yielded more questions and more myths to pass on to our grandchildren.

I have seen him walking down streets on other occasions, walking with a purpose and speed. Like he was going to a meeting or something. But there are no meetings here in Tossa. And he always is less than pristine. This adds to the myth of his living in the woods. Not that is making fun of this guy but he does not have a vast amount of wardrobe to show off and usually his clothes are well worn and untidy. There is always some combination of the aforementioned shorts, a button down shirt, a few t-shirts and some shorts. Of course, with his uncut and tangled looking hair and Robinson Caruso growth of a beard, well it does not add to the mythology of this character. I have seen him, sitting in peace at the cafe next to my shop, in the afternoon sun, with a pad of paper and some water colors and a small Styrofoam cup. Now let me just add that I have just realized I have not seen one Styrofoam cup in the country which seems to be very big ongoing "green" (see future blog ongoing green in Spain"). I casually passed this gentleman sitting and smiling and laughing under his breath after each stroke. Seemingly he was amused with each way his painting transformed with each new color. A sign of artistic brilliance or madness?

Who was this odd character and where was he from? What is his story? I was destined to find out. One especially hot day, after coming back from lunch break, I found this strange character sitting in the outside seating at the next door cafe, Cafe Ramblas. I knew Yoli and Mari Jose always close thier cafe for siesta and do not open until 4ish. It was not 3:30.

I had a good view from the street corner and I slowly coasted with my bike toward my shop, studying this character as he sat, with his button down wide open, looking left and right, like he was waiting for the bus or something. I figured this was a great time to try to talk to him. Maybe he is confused or just resting. Still this was market day, well earlier that morning. The market runs from early morning to 1pm and then the street cleaners come in to clean up all the trash left by the vendors around 3pm. The market is like a traveling flea market with clothes, trinkets, local candies...you name it. And they clear the street of tourist and locals parking there so the vendors can pull in their trucks. So imagine the street being completely clear and not open for traffic until the street cleaners were done. So at best, I had the local trash men in some close proximity in case this guy goes for my jugular!

So, as I usually do, I mentally practice my Spanish in what I am going to say to him with only 10 steps to go. As I am going thru and conjugated every possibility in my unusually large head, I realize maybe he is here waiting for me. Maybe to rob my silly ass and here I am...the fly walking right into the spider's web. So I spoke in Spanish and it goes a little something like this:


***in Spanish***
me: Hey, how are you. What’s up?
Him: (a bit confused and stuttering) ummm...hi
me: are you ok, needing anything?
Him: ummmm...no...I was just...well...ummm resting
me: so you are waiting for Yoli to open up?
Him: uuummmm ...well I was ...I am not that good with Spanish, I only....ummmm....know a little bit.
Me: so what is the language you prefer to speak?

And I wait for eternity thinking how ridiculous was that question. I only speak English and a little Spanish. He might come back with some remote Thailand rural language or dialect. I could be lucky and he might say pig latin but I doubt that. But things get interesting really quickly as he leaves me hanging. I am not sure if he is ignoring me or distracted by something else but he is visibly in more than one place at a time. Now my concerns for him go from worry about him being dangerous to me and possibly he might be suffering from dehydration or worse case scenario, some form of mental illness. I am not sure how to say it but my first impressions have been that he was a gentle soul but maybe a little odd and eccentric. Just then, he lifted his head and looked at me with one eye closed like he was going to try something out on me when he opened him mouth and said to me with the clearest and most elegant British accent..."English".

I AM FLOORED!!!! He is from freaking Wales and is as intelligent as you or I. Now let me explain why I am so floored. Admit it or not, in America, with most of our impressions of other cultures and people are shaped thru TV and movies, when I hear a British accent I think of James Bond or John Cleese and Monty Python. I think either refined or elegant to silly and drunk. I think of someone being really smart and Oxford educated or someone really drunk and slurring. I know the visions ranged but all of a sudden, this man with his tattered outside seemed like the most brilliant man in the world. I was relieved that I could actually communicate with him and get to know him. Like divine fate was at hand.

So he told me a little bit about himself. His name is Daniel and he is from Wales and had been here for about a year. He confided in me that he did spend some time in psychiatric holding (assuming against his wishes by his tone when he spoke of it) but figured if he focused and read the word of God and lived out of his element for at least a year, it could heal and re-center him. He did not use the words heal and re-center...I have this annoying habit of finishing Carme's sentences when she cannot think of the word in English and to show her that I am actually listening to her. But with his occasional breaks in speech and losing focus when looking around, I kind of helped myself to finishing his thoughts.

So I named this blog after that really popular tune because i had a thought. Just hear me out if you will. What if God was one of us? What if God walked the Earth again? Would He be in one form or many? If in many forms, would He be part of the flow of normality or stand out to test His creations and their reactions? Who are we to judge this man? How would we treat Him if we knew He was wearing tight shorts, headphones and staying in shape?

All in all I feel pretty good about introducing myself to Daniel. I think he could use a friend. My plan is to see if I can find him again and learn more about him. See where he came from and where is he going before he moves on to another location, if he hasn't already. Here's to you Daniel, brave soul indeed.

signs of getting old and not taking care of myself...

ok it's time for the blood results! I was all prepared to go to the doctor alone, and it seemed one by one, Alex wanted to go and help me translate, then Carme got out of work to meet me there also. I know I have to speak the language but I am not sure if my doctor can even speak Spanish. every time I have seen her, it's been in the most rapid Catalan I have ever heard (yet never understood).

Side note: as I have said a million times, Tossa is very small. so we end up doing two or three jobs to keep the small town running. My job is local computer tech and soccer coach. And that goes for my doctor, Imma. She is not only a doctor, but she is the town mayor. I am not sure how long her term is and how she is elected, but she is a very sweet and gentle person, despite not understanding her words. But I noticed her name, and not to make fun of this woman who I admire, but for my American friends, I just love this name...

Immaculada Colom Canal.

Ok so I go in with my whole family for Imma to go over the test results of my blood work. as I already knew, with my cholesterol, I have too much of the bad and not enough of the good type. Signs of liver issues. But the part that really got me off kilter was the blood sugar test. Seems my body does not know what to do with my incredible sweetness. Oh sweet pancreas, don't fail me now. Imma asked if anyone in my family had diabetes, and I sat and thought on it. I actually did not know. I know my mother does not and my brother, but as for my biological father, I could care less. But it saddened me that I realize how little this man has given to me while possibly giving me way too much! I did remember that when I was younger and he and I WERE speaking, his father had died after complications but in the last few years of his life, if I remember correctly, he had his legs amputated due to complications with diabetes.

So I answered Imma, with an uncertain "no" and she just took it with a grain of salt. Well the good thing is that I don't have hepatitis or some other blood borne disease. I think that might be a bit difficult to explain to Carme! Still I was a little rocked by the diabetes. I mean yeah it could have been worse, but still I was a little worried. So Imma has scheduled me next week for another test involving me drinking this highly potent sugary mix and waiting around for 2 hours to take more blood. I will be bringing lots of comic books to say the least.

So I got home that night, still under a bit of the weather, dealing with the fact that I am getting older and still eating like a teenager. I spent the afternoon thinking about this impending diet Imma wants me to be on. No more pizza. Just vegetables and bean spouts...ugh! I called my mom to let her know what was going on and found out that out of my mother’s 11 siblings, all but 3 have diabetes. I was blown away. Also, she laid more family news on me as one of my younger aunts, I think she is 50, had been dealing with a failing kidney the past two weeks, and just had a heart attack while in the hospital. Things are not looking good for my aunt Alice. Still it puts my possible diagnosis in perspective. No matter how bad you have it, someone has life a little bit rougher. It would be selfish of me to sulk or turn inward. And instead, anything thrown at me can be handled because I have a little man who is depending on me. This is not curable but it is manageable. Who knows, maybe carrot sticks will not be too bad in the end.
I love you aunt Ree.

STRESSED OUT!!!

So something strange has happened to me in my time here in Spain. It started a month ago but I was not too worried about it. Still Carme was concerned, as she is with me, she loves to fuss over me and I love it. Still it alarmed her enough to want me to see a doctor.

A few weeks ago she noticed a patch of hair missing from my head. Located just behind my right ear, a place where I usually don't inspect, there was a noticeable patch of hair missing, bigger then a silver dollar, smaller than a pancake! Normally I keep my head shaved as bald as I can with electric clippers. A far cry from my high school days where I sported a high top fade like Kid from Kid 'n Play. So this patch of hair never seemed to recover from whatever is making it die off. It did not itch or turn red. But I had waited long enough and decided to go see what the doctor had to say. The doctor seemed confident enough when she saw it, to initially diagnose it as a classic occurrence of stress. Still she set me up for a blood test to make sure. What she is actually looking for in my blood, I am not sure. But she said she had seen it more often than one might think. I mean, what could I possibly be stressed out so much about that could make me lose my hair? Not only am I trying to maintain my normal life in an abnormal place, I am trying to speak another language after never truly mastering my mother language (evident in my spelling and proofing of my past blogs), trying to start a business and feed my family with minimal help from my in laws, trying to raise a son, maintain a marriage, get in shape, coach a team, etc. all normal things in life (denote the sarcasm).

Still next Wednesday I have another appointment to get the results of my blood test. I am sure I am quite healthy but one never knows...

riding the mechanical horse...

Just a quick story that made me laugh...

You all know I have never ridden a motorcycle but I have dreamed of getting up the guts to own ride one. Something about the open road, wind in my scalp and bugs in my teeth makes my skin shiver with excitement. Still I have not gotten up the nerve to oppose the wishes of my wife and mother. I am such a good boy.

The next best thing to a roaring Harley or Japanese made crotch rocket is a moped. Now I know you might have images of some noisy, slow moving rusted step up from a mountain bike. Actually you can't call it a step up since the moped looks like it might fall apart if you hit a speed bump too fast. And here in Tossa you will find a wide range of moped, called "motos". Some range from the new, sleek and powerful to the old and falling apart if not held together with a fresh coat of paint each year. Still, motos are somewhat preferred mode of rapid transportation within Tossa. Our population swells and contracts each day like an accordion as buses bring in more vacationers from as far as Sweden. Also the weekender from Barcelona will come and spend some much needed stress less time away from the big city and come to stress us out by overtaking all of the parking spaces. If not for emergencies or the occasional excursion, we won't move our car after Thursday so we can actually have a parking space within eye's view of our apartment windows.

The motos is such an integral part of daily life and transportation here. With the prices of gas far exceeding that of America (despite you guys catching up rather quickly), the moto is easier on the wallets than a full sized car. Sure if you need to carry more than two full grown people, walking or by car is the only option. There is public transportation but the only subway in Tossa is for the moles. And if I need to go to Barcelona alone, I go by train, which the nearest station is in Blanes (pronounced Bla - nes), two towns down the coast.

The road connecting Tossa to the nearest town, Lloret (pronounced Your-et not Lor-et) is a long and winding road frequented by daring motorcyclist on the weekend darting between cars and daring one another to cause an accident. Another reason to leave your car parked on the weekends as they have taken over the windy roads. By moto, since they do not have the extreme and fluid power of motorcycles, it´s a bit trying to get up and down the hills of this winding road. It's especially hilarious to see someone trying to attempt this feat in the winter time, braving the cold and harsh winds sweeping thru the hills and valleys while bundled in a bubble goose jacket and icicles gangling from their ears and chin. Still things have to be done, and motos are just a staple of life here.

The age range of moto riders can be as young as, and don't quote me, 12 years old or such to 113 years old. Every child here seems to have a moto, as it seems to be a rite of passage for the teenagers. They go to school and joy ride in them. A blind man knows it is lunch time and the end of the school day in the only high school here when the roars of bee like motors rev and disperse throughout the town. If you read an earlier blog, I described how these machines can avoid even the ugliest of one lane traffic jams with ease by cruising either down the roadside or daringly down the other lane of traffic and darting quickly into a space when oncoming traffic prevents them from advancing further. Most of my soccer players and those younger come to practice on their motos, some 2 at a time. Having a helmet, even if you don't have a moto is needed in case you ride with a good friend or your girlfriend/boyfriend. I do not have a helmet as yet due to the enormous size of my head. They may need NASA to make me one. Why would a helmet be easy to find in Spain if I can't even find normal articles of clothing like shoes and socks to fit me properly?

My first time riding as a passenger was when Jose offered me a ride to my car when we left the grand opening of Sebastian's bar (another player of mine) one night. Sebastian's bar, La Gamba...or The Shrimp...is situated just on the outskirts of the old part of town, accessible by car but no parking is available. Still having a motos allows you to be close enough to park so that you can trip and fall onto the bar's doorstep. I, on the other hand, had to park my car at the bus station, a good 15 minute brisk walk away. Jose passed me that night when I was leaving and offered me a ride. I figured now was good as any time to get the feeling of the cool air wind whipping thru my body as ever. I was feeling a bit awkward mounting behind another man but I am secure in my manhood so who cares. Plus it was near midnight in the winter; no one would be walking the town and pointing fingers wondering what we were doing.

As we sped past the local police station, I without a helmet, Jose assured me it was no biggie as we were going a few meters past the station to the bus terminal. Just then we hit a speed bump the size of a pimple on an adolescent's forehead and I was lifted off my seat. Since I am a big guy, I thought I would kill the shocks on the back of his bike when I finally did land back in the saddle. All I could compare this to was maybe riding a Bronco and it bucking me nearly clean off. When I landed, sometime later, I was still alive and Jose was in full control. We stopped at the bus terminal and I cautiously exited the bike. Not because I was feeling like Pinky Tuscadero on back of the Fonz’s English Triumph TR6 Trophy in episodes of Happy Days, but because I was not sure if my heart was pounding too hard and my legs were shaking too much to stand on my own.

I was so thrilled that I ran home to tell a sleeping Carme about my adventure. She brushed me off with a "that's nice, honey. Now go to bed...” the next morning I awoke, I was craving for more. I expressed to Carme that I was still excited and wanted more; she thought to herself that we should go to her parent’s house. I had forgotten that they had two motos in the garage. They were stored there in the winter mostly and unearthed during the blitzkrieg of invading tourists for ease and mobility in this small town. She took me to her parents to see if I wanted to learn how to ride the newer of the two motos and, salivating profusely, I just muttered a "yeah".

When we made it to her parents, I began my first and only lesson in the mean streets of Tossa. The only thing slowing me down was trying to squeeze my head into the larger of the two helmets owned by her parents. I laughed internally when I saw the fallen gray hairs of her father still embedded in the lining of the helmet, wondering if mine would gray quickly when I took off on the bike solo. Finally I tucked in my ears comfortably but knew I could not wear this helmet too long as my head was feeling a slight pressure and my brain would soon leak thru my nostrils. After riding passenger with Carme, just to relive those windy and exhilarating moments, I decided to go it alone. The hum of the small motor churned and I could feel the vibrations in my seat and legs, but could not heat it due to the skin tight fit of the helmet on my head. I hit the throttle and lifted my feet from the ground as the moto took off and I was securely settled in the saddle. I wanted to yelp out a "YEE HAW" but, as when you are wearing earphones and trying to speak, you tend to speak a little louder than you should and all of Tossa would have heard it. I took a roundabout and came out fine. I was scared I would not be aware of how to balance the bike but, sorry for this, it's like riding a bike. I took a few laps down the street and back, trying my best to avoid pedestrians and abiding by the laws of traffic, while praying for no increase in traffic all of a sudden.

When I finally came to a stop, parked the bike and took off my helmet with a resounding and echoing pop like that of a suction cup, I smiled and staggered my wobbly legs to the nearest seat and just smiled for the rest of the day.