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I am on the sunny island of Tenerife...look it up :)

I met my long lost father...

So this is a story...true to life...that happened to me soon after arriving to Spain. Let´s set it up...

here in Spain, things move very slow. paperwork is the slowest of all things. I am sure there is some reason behind it all but it takes months to get your paperwork done for your residency. Of course it would take longer if i were not married to a Spanish citizen. This paperwork seems to not be done in one place. Still with the new invention's of fax lines, the Internet and online forms, paperwork still moves slowly.

So rumor has it that you have to arrive early in the morning to get in line and expect to wait all day just to talk to someone. So we brave the dark early morning hours with alternating high and low beams thru the hills and winding roads to head north to Girona. Down what i would consider "back roads", we sped thru the stretches of road from one small town to another. Finally we reached Girona and Carme told me to go up to the building and wait in an already forming line. As I wait in the dark morning, hoping no one comes up to me and asks me something and I panic and cannot understand their Spanish. mind you I had only been in the country 2 weeks at this point. As soon as I think this, I notice a man in this loosely formed lined now turned and facing me and smiling. It´s dark and maybe i am not seeing him well in the shadows of the dimly lit street. I could tell the man was African, older ...maybe about mid to late 50´s, and slightly shorter than I. The reflection of the street lights in his glasses made me wonder was he looking at me or staring off in the distance.

Just then I felt the man make a motion towards me. Was this it? was he here to rob me? Was he here to talk me to death like my people we from his tribe before slavery? So he stuck his hand out to me as offering a handshake. Still this motion could not be taken as a threat, as outreaching of a hand in any culture would be considered peaceful, still i reluctantly shake his. He laughs this deep and guttural laugh. One could consider it a sinister laugh but if you read on you will see why I was not sure at his intentions by his laughing alone.

So after what seemed to be an eternity, he finally spoke, still not letting go of my hand. I tried to peek over my shoulder to see if a criminal partner was slowly sneaking up on me to snatch my bag or something, but I did not want to take my eyes of Kunte Kinte. So he is speaking and i am not catching a word he is saying. and it´s not because he is speaking Spanish. quite frankly, i am not sure what language he is speaking. He sounds like he is gurgling and drowning and I can´t make out anything. i can´t even read his lips. Then reality sets in...I wonder if this is a ploy for his partner to come along and knock me over the head. Maybe they are delaying me and attacking Carme in the parking garage. I frantically look around and i see my wife strolling across the street. i could not be more relieved to see her. I quickly mentioned for her to come join this train wreck of a conversation.

The look on her face was priceless and I felt a wave of reassurance as she obviously could not tell what this man was saying as his gurgling and mumbling continued. Out of kindness, we both sat and tried to piece together what he was saying. Finally, Carme showed the man mercy and said in Spanish "i cannot understand a damn word you are saying to me...sorry". the man motions to us to wait a second as he is unbuttoning his top botton of his shirt. I am thinking to myself, was the shirt that tight to cause him not to be able to speak.

Just then, the sun broke thru the tall building of this metropolis and a ray of light bathed this strange man. At first i thought it was a sun flare but after instinctively turning my head, raising my hand and squinting to bloke the bright light shining in my eyes, I realized it was not bling bling reflecting this light...but a VOICE BOX! This man had just had surgery, we find out once he pulls out his battery operator voice box hand control. Now we can understand him! Still we are taken back by the fact that we have not ever spoken to a person with a voice box, together or alone. i can tell by the silent look Carme and I give each other during the man´s telling of his important story he now has to retell. he goes on and on and i am lost...I am only catching a few words but not able to make much sense of it all. Usually people here speak with their arms in such an animated way that you think you are in a game of charades (first word...sounds like...). but sadly this man is stuck with one arm to motion with and it is not working.

So as the story goes on, I am looking into Carme´s face to get some indication as to what this man wants. By now I am figuring he is not here to rob us so I relax and wait. The man stops speaking and turns to me and just smiles a serious smile, not once taking his eyes off of me. Carme is speaking now and I am still mesmerized by his unbreakable glance. Not until Carme tells me the story do I break eye contact with him and look at her with amazement. this man has just told Carme that I am his long lost son. I was to meet him here with a friend named Marta who found me and was bringing his son to meet him and he wanted to know where was Marta.

I know, i know...but it´s true. i am not lying.

so after politely telling the man that i am not his son, the man seems hurt and disappointed. Like i was playing some cruel joke on him intentionally. he retreats back into line, sulking a bit. Carme and I can´t do anything but stifle our laughs. The reason is that i often express to her how as an African American, I feel almost obligated to some how connect with the Africans here in Spain. Almost like my spiritual Mecca or my Alex Haley´s "Roots". It´s hard to explain but historically, blacks in America never felt like part of America (civil rights, Jim Crow laws, lynching, etc) and with the inception of African in our race title...well that just implies we have some ties to the continent. yeah I know there was a failed movement in the 70´s (dashikis and afro picks) and the 80´s (I wore an African medallion myself). But there has been no concentrated effort to follow Marcus Garvey back to Africa. Not with all the bad press they are getting. So anyhow, Carme ribs me about my new African friend and I was not allowed to let that go one bit.

So to make a short story long, we finally get inside to talk to someone and despite complying with the requirements listed on the web page, it seems we have to get 2 more pieces of information and are sent on a scavenger hunt which will take us to Blanes and to Barcelona on two separate days. I swear, all this waiting in line for nothing...sigh.

So why does this process take so long? I have an idea. You see after returning to Girona after venturing on the scavenger hunt around the coast Brava area, we went int to finally turn in all the collected items. So back to Girona first thing in the morning to wait in the line to start the process of finally getting my residency card. We were very early and needed a special queue so we were first in that line. second in line was this man and woman. the man was short, pale and thin as a rail. the woman was almost as tall as I and African and looked like she could bench press a bus...not just any bus but one of those luxury ones. She had shoulders the width of a single lane by way. This woman was huge, beautiful and Queen Latifah-ish but probably some James Bond assassin girl or something. Well anyway, to finish painting the picture, this woman stood a fool two feet over this man. Carme and I never thought much about them as many people come to this office with their immigration lawyers. But actually they were in our line. We did not put 2 and 2 together until we actually heard them say it. That much in Spanish I could understand.

Now I see why paperwork takes so long...to discourage those trying to pass one over on immigration. If this were an actual couple, she would break this man in tiny pieces with one well timed thrust! She was used to Shaka Zulu, Mr. Peabody is not making a dent in her chassis.

Amsterdam pt2...into the city

So now we are all settled into our residence for the night and decide to head out on the town. Amsterdam is a about 20 minutes away and we are driving a rental car we got from Germany. Johnnie seems to think that the car will be vandalized, since we have plates from Germany, if we park it in the city. So best we park outside and take the metro into town. So we head to the station about 3 stops away and brave the cold for a 10 minute wait for the next train.

A few minutes later, we pulled up into central station. Central station is not some underground receptacle like Penn Station NYC. It´s like a bunch of street cars that all seem to converge in one area. the streets are filled with cars, trains, pedestrians and bicycle riders. I swear to make a fortune, you can open a bike repair shop there. All the bikes seem a bit outdated by American standards. No deep treaded tires on mountain bikes or 15 speed long distance riders. Seems like bikes with a need for a a wicker basket. They do have cute little bells to warn you when they are approaching you from the rear.

Amsterdam is relatively flat and most of the area is under sea level like New Orleans. Most of the area is protected by dams or what they call dikes. These dams are fortified but Johnnie tells me one broke in the 50´s and a lot of people died fro the flooding. Yippee! So take a look at a map of Amsterdam...there are nothing but canals everywhere. You are crossing water whether you like it or not. i guess the canals are for the drunks to have a place to urinate at a moments notice or to wash out the streets after a profitable night in the red light district.

Speaking of the Red light district....it´s INSANE!!! An outside shopping mall for prostitution. It´s not a strip mall like Willow lawn, it´s more like a labyrinth of debauchery an ill repute. As you wind down a main canal, there are windows...small rooms with a full length window where the girls...and some boys who are girls...stand there in bikinis and such trying to entice the casual passerby to taste their wares. black, white, tall or short...real or fake...all within footsteps of one another. And i here that it´s so accepted, the cops know the girls and patrol to make sure they are OK. They even have the area clearly marked on city maps for your conveince.

Some of the more interesting things I saw was the banana bars. email me if you want to know what goes on there but WOW!!!

anyhow...soon we were out of the district and passing by one of a million sex shops with all their wares in the store window...and i mean anything you can imagine or have a nightmare about. Sickening and exciting at the same time. We turned a corner and in one breath...a nice whiff of the coffeehouses that are strategically placed in prime spots around the area. We happened past a corner spot called the Jolly Joker. we joked about going to get some coffee rather than something else...but the stench was too thick for one to see the actual bar. After more questions, i found that there are some weird laws here in Holland. It´s illegal to grow marijuana. It is NOT illegal to posses a small amount of it. It is tolerated to be sold...hence the shops but the small amount you can buy at a time. So the question is...if it illegal to grow...then how do the shops get it to sell it? I am sure if I had taken the time to sit back and inhale the sweet smells of nature´s own, I would have spent an eternity thinking on that matter.

So with my mind full of visions to make Rick James lick his lips...we decided to call it a night and head back to our places for a night of sleep and more discovery the next day...maybe i will write more on that but for now here are the pic:

call me one eyed Jack

So it´s Tuesday night and my eye has been itching since I got on the plane to go to Amsterdam. I had been fighting it for a while and trying not to worry about it. So tuesday night, I noticed my eye was a bit red and not feeling too hot. so I fall asleep...

I wake up wednesday looking like I got in a bar fight and my left eye not matching my right. Well my right one was normal and my left one was about 3 times the size it was the night before. Seems like I have some kind of sty or ifection in my eyelid. It´s not affecting my vision other than being so swollen I cannot keep the eye open even with effort. Some how I never got the gene to be able to raise my left eyebrow without moving my right one, So for the first few hours this morning, I was walking around like I had this suprised look on my face until my eyes became so exhausted i just relaxed.

Also having only one eye to use, I have no depth perception. Carme just handed me a drink and I almost dropped it not reaching out far enough. I decided to put a patch over my eye to hide the hideous display of my one frog eye. So needless to say, I can´t drive nor can I go to soccer practice tonight. This is not promising for my little vacation in the Canary Islands. Worse yet, Alex´s birthday is this Saturday and I don´t want to be mistakened for the pirate who should be entertaining the children at th party. It´s going to be hard to enjoy myself on the topless beaches of volcanic ash with only one good eye. Do you know how many times I have had to mop the bathroom floor. AUGH!!!