Wanderlust Heaven!

I’m writing this entry a bit late. It’s December 31 and I’ve finally come up for air here in Boston. Felt that I needed to catch you up on everything before 2007 rolls around. So let’s get on with it, starting with my final weekend in Madrid…

Got off the train in Madrid’s Atocha station, and got a ride from Ken’s sister-in-law Pilar and her boyfriend Nacho. Nacho…I love it. I think it’s a nickname – hopefully it is. His full name is probably something like Ignacio. They dropped me off on Calle Atocha, just steps from my beloved Hostal Matute. Walked up the time-worn stairs and up to the front desk, where the familiar fellow there gave me the same room #5 I’d had the previous weekend. Hostal Matute is a real home away from home and I highly recommend it if you’re ever in Madrid.

I first stayed there in the early 90’s, at the behest of my friend Don. And I’ve gone back there numerous times over the years. Two years ago I stayed there before Ken’s wedding in Cordoba, and I saw Senor Gonzalez, the proprietor, who had aged visibly and was using a cane. He seemed to remember me from many years before, and I was happy to have that little link with the past. This time, I wondered if he was still alive and kicking. After checking in and getting my key, I walked down the hall and almost walked right into the senor himself, who looked hale and wasn’t using a cane. He welcomed me back and we chatted for a few minutes. Made me feel very much at home and welcome here…

My mellow mood was shattered a few minutes later when I checked email. Brother-in-law Dave, slated to come get me in Boston when I landed, had sent me a provocative email which provided a weblink. The link was entitled something like ‘British Airways cancels all flights for two days Heathrow in chaos.’ My trip to Boston comprised flying through London…never a great idea, but that was all I could get on my round-the-world cheapo ticket. I clicked through and found that London was completely fogged in and BA was scrambling to react. It was now Thursday…I was flying Saturday afternoon…no news was available for two days hence. That made me a bit tense…but not surprised. Traveling in the winter – especially around Christmas – is something I detest. I don’t have a great track record during these times…something random generally seems to happen. This time I was pretty calm, I just kept up to date on the BA website and did what I could to stay on top of this.

Went out that night with a bunch of Madrid friends, whose brief bios follow:

-Manuel: old friend from Monitor Group in Boston and Asia. Left the firm a few years ago, we’ve stayed in touch since.

-Paloma: old friend, we met at a wedding in the US many years ago. She’s a musician and good fun to converse with.

-Enrique and Marta: a cool couple I met in Burma this year. He’s a lawyer, she’s an investment banker. Both very well-traveled and impressively intrepid.

We all met at Cerveceria Los Gatos, one of a string of excellent little bars along Calle de Jesus and Calle Cervantes in Huertas. These bars have highly drinkable canas (draft beer) and snacks – not typical tapas, but tostes, basically pieces of bread/toast with great toppings like shrimp, cheese, anchovies, etc. I could stand at Los Gatos and drink and feast for hours. We stayed for an hour or so, mostly talking and catching up. Enrique and Marta had just returned from South Africa and were under the gun at work. I was happy they carved out some time to go out with us, especially given the busy Xmas season and the fact that we had only met a few months before, briefly, in Burma.

We soon moved on to my other favorite place around there, Cerveceria Cervantes. Found a table in the back and had a good feast – along with plenty of red wine and beer. Sat there for an hour or so, till about midnight, and traded weird travel stories and upcoming plans. And although the group was one I had just cobbled together, everyone got on wonderfully and there probably wasn’t a single gap in the conversation the entire time.

They had to work the next day, so we finished up and left the place. Manuel and I were exempt from work – he’s in school at the Kennedy School at Harvard and had just finished his exams. Exams…there’s a topic that seems alien to me these days. Anyway, he and I went out to look for further trouble. Found a buddy of his and we sampled 4-5 other bars, all of them quite different and quirky. Madrid has some great old buildings and courtyards and the selection of nightlife venues goes well beyond the typical Irish bar setup. Every place we visited was absolutely packed. I suppose the Xmas season was a key reason – many offices were having their parties that night. But given my many visits to Madrid, I think that it was more the case that Madrilenos are night owls and like going out hard…and I left it was my duty to join them and experience the holiday partying fervor.

I must say that Manuel is a rare bird when it comes to late-night fun. He and I have gone out in Tokyo and other Asian cities, and he truly seems in his element in a bar, surrounded by people, with the music blaring and drinks flowing. And his enthusiasm is definitely infectious – he always seems to have a woman on his arm at some point in the evening. I can admire that, and enjoy hanging out with him. The night was a bit of a blur, but I seem to recall some odd conversations in a variety of languages, fueled by rum and cokes and beer. And at about 5 a.m. I started stumbling ‘home,’ unable to find a taxi and with miles to go before I slept. The streets were packed with people and I made a mental note to spend more time in Madrid – not many cities have that sort of energy. It was pretty cold for Madrid…but at least it helped prepare me for my upcoming return to the Boston winter. Finally reached the hostal around 6 a.m. and promptly collapsed. Manuel was probably still going strong. I was scheduled to have lunch with Paloma that day…that was looking questionable given the events of the evening (and morning).

Got up at noon, having ignored a call (from Ken) and a text (from Paloma). Was happy to see that Paloma was cancelling lunch and instead proposing drinks for that evening. Perfect. Lazed around for an hour, checked the BA website and saw that the fog in London was clearing, but that things were still pretty crazy out that way. Still, my flights were looking OK and I left the hostal feeling decent about my chances of getting to Boston more or less on time.

Was starving…walked around Huertas and Atocha, wolfed down a pork loin bocadillo and some patatas alli-olli, a sure cure for a hangover. Mulled over a visit to the BA office in Madrid, to get more info on my flight…but really didn’t feel like torturing myself on my final full day in Spain/my journey. So I walked over to the Prado Museum, which houses a fine collection of Spanish and other art. I felt that was a proper and civilized way to spend an hour or so in these, my final hours before heading home…

The Prado is large – not as large as the Louvre or the Met, but still potentially overwhelming. So I decided to view only the works of Goya, who’s probably my favorite painter. I’ve seen a few Goya exhibits over the years – including a fantastic one in the Met some years ago, which featured several of Goya’s darker, satirical series of etchings – Los Capricios, for one. The Met exhibit was sponsored by Goya foods – a very nice touch, I thought. I’ve viewed the Goya paintings at the Prado 2-3 times, but it had been some time, and I wanted to take them in again.

To be honest, Goya’s earlier stuff leaves me a bit cold. Pastorals like boys picking fruit from a tree…or entertainers on stilts…nicely rendered, but kind of boring. That said, Goya did do a painting of two cats growling ferociously, about to do battle, which is about as close to real-life as you can get, and presages his later, darker works. Sends a wintertime shiver down the spine. Down, kitties.

I moved on to Goya’s pinturas negras (dark paintings), which are fascinating and grim. Goya’s worldview was shaped at least in part by the wars with Napoleon, which were predictably bloody and deeply traumatic for Spain. The 2nd of May and the 3rd of May are direct portraits of the violence of the time and are well-known. I like those two…but prefer the more allegorical stuff he created. Saturn devouring his son…two boys/men dueling with slingshots…old men eating like ghouls from an H.P. Lovecraft tale…grim religious (witchcraft?) festivals…so awesomely foreboding and brutal.

I wondered where his series Los Capricios and Los Desastres are these days. Should look ‘em up on the web. I just love the satire in some of Goya’s works. One of his pieces from those series is called ‘Asi Su Abuelo’ or ‘So Was Your Grandfather,’ and depicts a human with a donkey’s head perusing a photo book of his ancestors and laughing manically…of course, all of the photos of his relatives show humans with donkey (ass) heads. Fitting commentary on the general idiocy of the human race…

Really enjoyed spending time in the Prado, amongst Goya’s dark visions. Then went out into the bright winter light and walked up to the hostal. Thought about working out…but took a quick nap instead. My back was a bit sore and my workout clothes were soggy and pungent. Didn’t really sleep, but at least let my body and mind wind down for an hour in preparation for one final night of fun in Madrid.

Paloma and I met near the Neptune Fountain and spent a few hours walking around Huertas, ducking into wine bars and other tempting establishments. We’ve known each other since around 1993, when we met at a mutual friend’s wedding. The next time we saw each other, randomly enough, was at a radio station music festival at RFK Stadium in Washington, D.C., an event so long ago and so surrounded by beer-induced haze that it seems like something out of a Goya painting. I’ve seen Paloma each time I’ve visited Madrid over the years, and I think we’re a good measuring stick for each other – we have ‘longitudinal data’ about each other’s lives. Had a good chat, as always, and thought it was a nice way to spend my last night in Madrid. Given the likely mayhem of my flights the next day, as well as the previous night’s craziness with Manuel, I wanted to take it semi-easy, so we parted ways around midnight and I hit the hay. An hour or so later, the phone rang – it was Manuel, out at the bars and requesting my company. I was sorely tempted…but was too comfortable and lazy to move. Told him to text me if/when he moved to the next bar, but I had already decided to stay put and get some rest. And that was, in retrospect, a good idea.

Got up the next day with some trepidation. Felt that way largely because of the fog in London…but also because my trip was coming to an end and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. More about that later…

Took a cab to Barajas Airport, didn’t feel like negotiating the rail system or the bus. Got to the airport 3 hours in advance, desperately hoping to avoid holidays lines and to get both my boarding passes in Madrid, thus obviating the need to stand in lines in London, where things continued to be chaotic and where I might be racing for my connection. Checked the BA site before leaving the hostal…things seemed to look OK, but from experience I knew that any deteriorating in the status would occur closer in. Anyway, I was reasonably well-rested, certainly well-fed and lubricated, and ready for mayhem. Dave would be waiting for me in Boston, so I was hoping largely for his welfare that things wouldn’t get too ugly. I didn’t really have firm plans for the next few days in Boston, so I was relatively relaxed. That said, I was cursing myself for having a connection in London and vowed to never allow that again…

Things started smoothly. Line for check-in wasn’t bad…checked in my bag through to Boston, got my first boarding pass, everything seemed too good to believe. Precisely. The check-in clerk then told me that my London-Boston flight was ‘held’ in the computer system…and she couldn’t give me the second boarding pass. She asked me to return in 45 minutes and see if things had changed. I started worrying, of course.

Got a couple newspapers…ate a large bocadillo (I can’t get enough of the Spanish food – could you tell?), and hung out for a few more minutes. Went back to the counter…the clerk was about to take her break, but called me over and told me the status was the same. I worried some more. Soon after that, noticed that my Madrid-London flight was delayed for 50 minutes. Ate another bocadillo (diagnosis: nervous eater), then got on email and sent Dave a note telling him that things were deteriorating, and to keep checking the BA website – which seemed to be up-to-date.

My flight ended up departing Madrid almost two hours late. That left me just over an hour to change terminals in Heathrow, overcoming the many annoyances in between. As we touched down in London, I was amazed at the fog layer still over the city – it was like a blanket of clouds. We landed, then had to wait a few minutes for the bus to arrive and take up to Terminal 4. The clock was ticking and I had to get over to Terminal 1 for my Boston flight. Ugh…

Bus came…I got on it quickly…then, of course, the arthritic elderly woman took 5 minutes to get down from the plane. The ride to Terminal 4 took forever. Got inside, followed signs to Terminal 4, then got stuck in the mother of all security lines. There were probably 300 people in front of me. The first visible manifestation of the fog-driven mayhem still rippling through Heathrow. If I waited in this line, I could kiss my next flight goodbye. No airline staff were around to help…so I went around the line on the right side, spotted a Japanese family close to the front, jumped in front of them, apologized and explained my situation to them in Japanese, and they were more than understanding. Very classy folks. Got through security, then continued following signs to T4. Was unhappy to see that I needed to take another bus over there. Got on the bus…and waited 10 minutes for it to fill up sufficiently. The driver was compelled, he insisted, to wait until the bus was full. The clock was ticking. It was 25-30 minutes before scheduled takeoff. Ugh…

This bus ride was relatively short…only felt like a year. Got off, raced upstairs, saw the monitor and my flight gate listed there, and raced off to the gate. It was, of course, one of the very farthest gates possible. All the while during this process, I had sent off text messages to Dave in Boston, but hadn’t gotten anything back. Later found out that Dave had gotten my texts and had responded, but his responses never reached me. Ugh…

Reached my gate. Chaos all round. Ended up boarding 20 minutes late…then we sat on the tarmac for 90 minutes. Pilot promised (?) we’d make most of it up en route. Sent a final text to Dave, then turned off the mobile and sat back. Quite an exciting final leg of my round-the-world journey…too exciting, probably, but at least good for a story. Didn’t feel like reading – a rare state for me – so checked out the movies and noticed ‘The Queen’ was on offer. Watched that – and loved it. Helen Mirren was superb as QE2 herself, whoever played her husband was excellent, and even the guy playing Blair was pretty good. Not a product that could have been put out by Hollywood…or by Bollywood, for that matter. I rarely find time to watch movies, and get in most of mine on flights. Flight was only 6.5 hours and it was over before I knew it. But I continued to feel odd…I sat motionless, nearly without mental activity for part of the flight. It was a bit like Tom Hanks going home in ‘Cast Away.’ What would going home be like? What was I going home to?

Landed an hour late in Boston. All things considered, that was about the best outcome possible. Got my bag, went out to the arrivals hall, and saw Dave right away. I was home.

Stayed with Dave, my sister, and my nephew Jacob out in Hopkinton that night. Was nice waking up the next morning, going downstairs, and seeing Jacob for the first time in seven months. The last time I had seen him, he was at my Dad and Ellen’s place in Newton, very early on the morning I took off, crying and whining. He seemed more calm now…and he seemed happy to see me. Bon and Dave had told him I was coming back, but who knows what was processed in his brain?

My father called from Las Vegas, and we caught up. We’d see each other in a few days, as he was out west for a few days and I was heading to our vacation house on Lake Sunapee, New Hampshire for a few days. Jews are never quite sure what to do over Christmas and we generally take off for somewhere…Montreal, where my mother’s cousins live, New Hampshire, where we’ve had our second home since I was 11 years old, or other places.

I hadn’t been up to New Hampshire for many years. My mother died up there in 1995, and there are still some hard memories for me there. In Boston as well, for that matter. But my father had put the place on the market, and I wanted to go up there one more time to see how I felt, and if time had had any effect on my feelings of sadness associated with the place. I should also say that I had many, many great memories of my time there…I spent a lot of my life there and made some great friends whom I’m still in touch with. I remember water-skiing around the lake behind our motorboat…barbecuing out on the deck while the sun went down…going out and draining beers with friends at parties around the lake. All of the situations that kids get into, I got into up in New Hampshire. ‘Nuff said.

Got up there in early evening. Bonnie made us some dinner, we opened an old bottle of wine – I think it was a 1988 bottle of Bordeaux – which we decanted. But the wine had spoiled and we switched to another bottle of red. Sat around talking for a few hours…then hit the sack. I was pretty beat from the trip and from jet lag. Slept in my old room for the first time in memory – probably 7-8 years, I’d guess. As I passed out I briefly took stock of my feelings about being back in Sunapee. They were predictably mixed. I had forgotten what a special place this was…at the same time, the ghost of my mother seemed to linger and my moods were changing by the minute. But managed to get a good night’s sleep…

Next morning, decided to practice yoga in the loft to dispel some built-up aches. As I was going through some of the basic asanas (poses), I heard nephew Jacob (almost three years old) laughing and having fun a couple floors down. I couldn’t help but smile…it felt like life itself was being renewed in the house, and that sadness might not be the ultimate emotion there.

This was Christmas Day. As Jews, we decided to celebrate like real pagans…with a large Chinese/Japanese dinner up in Hanover, site of Dartmouth College. Before heading up, I went for a run and ran into my old friend Kathy, who was also out for a run. Hadn’t seen her in way too long – we made plans to catch up the next night. Kathy and her family recently moved back to NH from Denmark. They were mulling a move to Hong Kong, and I had provided some advice, but that fell through.

So we met the following evening, along with Kathy’s husband Chris and our friend Rich. Sat around their massive Xmas tree, had a few beers, and told some old and new stories. These guys had come to visit me in Washington back in 1991, en masse in a van. That was an insane weekend, the details of which propriety bars me from mentioning here. Made me realize how much I’ve missed these friends…

Bonnie and Dave had some friends of theirs, Gary and Stacey and their daughter Mia, up that night, staying at our house. We all went out for dinner at Peter Christian’s, a classic soup-salad-sandwich joint that I’ve loved for many years. It’s slipped a bit, but is still very good. I ordered ‘Peter’s Russian Mistress,’ a smorgasbord sandwich as fattening as it sounds. The waitress asked me ‘what type of bread do you want on your mistress’ and the table broke up in laughter. Indeed.

While waiting for our food I teased Mia and chatted with Stacey. When Stacey found out that I used to live in Hong Kong, she asked me if I had heard about the Kissel murder case there. I certainly had…it involved a woman killing her i-banker husband, who was apparently a real prick, rolling his body up in a huge rug, and sticking it in a storage room. Needless to say, not the perfect crime, and her trial was a big deal in HKG a year or two ago. Drug use, affairs, all that. She was found guilty. Stacey’s family knows the family of the dead fellow…and to make matters worse, that guy’s brother was also murdered, probably as a result of some US-based financial swindles. Nice family…

Went back to Boston the next afternoon. Moved over to Dad and Ellen’s in Newton. Had a good walk with Dad around nearby Crystal Lake, caught up with him about our lives and ‘next steps.’ Went out that night with Dad, Ellen, her daughter Amanda, and Amanda’s friend – went to a small comedy club in now-trendy Davis Square, Somerville. The comedian was a well-known local named Jimmy Tingle, who was hilarious. Left-wing humor, just my style. Bashed the Bush Administration and the general stupidity of the hoi polloi, but with a populist, non-elitist voice that worked pretty well. Had dinner afterward at Gargoyle’s, the first (and still only) upscale place in David Square. Good stuff. After that, even though it was getting late for Dad and Ellen, we walked over the a great local music joint, Johnny D’s, for some drinks and dancing. Hadn’t really partied with this group in a while, and had fun.

The next day I went and saw the movie ‘Borat’ with Dad and Ellen. Probably the funniest thing I’ve seen in years. They had already seen it once…and I will probably go and see it again soon. Highly recommended.

Well, that’s it on the home front. Hopefully I made a seamless transition, as we used to say in the consulting world, between continents and emotions. In any event, stay tuned dear readers…I will continue with my Slog and adventures and hope you stick with it as well. Am investigating other blog hosting sites, and might make a change sometime soon.

FYI, My near-term plans are set: I’ll be in and around Boston through early February, then travel to Asia again to help a friend start up a company. That should take about a month. After that, I plan to spend the balance of ’07 traveling, probably to 2-3 major places so that I can ramp up my writing and get into more of a routine for exercise, sleeping, socializing, etc.

This has been a pretty long entry, but I want to follow through on my promise to provide a few lessons learned (without trying to write the next best-selling self-help tome…). Hopefully these won’t be too obvious or cursory – I have given them a bit of thought. Here goes, in no particular order:

1. A smile gets you very far. But in times of conflict, offering a free cigarette works even better…
2. Don’t be overly ambitious when planning your day. The day is short, I’ve found, and you can’t do more than 2-3 things well before the sun goes down. This year I set a few major goals – exercise, writing, and working on my language skills. I did the first well, the second sporadically, and the third very rarely. Over the course of the day, particularly when traveling, all sorts of other things enter the picture: travel planning, sight-seeing, hanging out with friends, meeting new people, having good meals, sending emails, etc. Some days in Madrid all I did was walk around. And that was enough.
3. Related point – don’t rush. If you’re always in a hurry, you miss the key bits and make crappy calls. When I was up in Leh, hurriedly looking for my guesthouse and carrying my heavy backpack, I walked right by it and by the time I doubled back and found it, I was beat. When I was in Mumbai, I needed a SIM card for my mobile – and got one at a little newsstand that, in retrospect, was a questionable decision given that there are more respectable phone shops. I probably shouldn’t have handed over a photocopy of my passport to a dodgy-looking newsstand operator…
4. Most valuable apparel: tie between my Tevas and a plain white t-shirt from J. Crew. You can wear both (in warm climes) in nearly every setting, and they’re easy to carry and wash.
5. There are smart, resourceful people everywhere – but resources aren’t similarly well-spread. I met a lot of switched-on people wherever I went…some had the benefit of education and access to information, some didn’t, but even those who didn’t had their share of native intelligence and, because of their challenging environments, were especially self-aware and on their toes. Don’t dismiss people from downtrodden lands uneducated and incapable.
6. Flux creates adventure and stories…so don’t over-plan. At the start of my trip I tried to have flights and hotels booked at least a week in advance. By the end I was just walking into hotels and getting a room. You’ve gotta do the homework, and be aware of crunch times and costs, but it ‘costs’ more to worry and plan than it does to take it easy and play it by ear.
7. Dental floss lasts forever. I floss nearly every night and I swear I only went through 2-3 things of floss over the past 7 months.
8. Anywhere Hemingway frequented is now a rip-off. For example, Café Gijon (and Cerveceria Alemana) in Madrid are very nice places, but you can be damn sure they were far better value when they weren’t loudly advertising their Hemingway connection.
9. Please don’t take yourself too seriously. Nothing’s more annoying than having to listen or observe someone in the desperate and pathetic throes of self-importance. We’re all insignificant and should feel immense freedom from this state…
10. We Americans really need to get out there more. I met few Americans in the less obvious places I visited, and often felt like a diplomatic envoy fighting against the wave of anti-American sentiment – not so much from the natives as from other (European) tourists. It’s amazing to see the effect you can have on people just by being ‘normal’ and having a chat with them. Good thing I left my guns and ‘USA #1’ t-shirt back in Boston…

That’s it for now. Will post again within the week, before heading down to the Caribbean, where we’re taking my father on a 65th birthday cruise. Being on a package tour with everything scheduled in advance will take some getting used to. How will Mike do? Only the shadow knows…

Happy New Year, here’s looking forward to another random year of fun, adventures, and random mayhem. Over and out.

I can’t quite believe this is my final entry from the road…at least for this particular journey. I’d also say that I can’t believe that late December is already upon us – but I went back and scanned my earliest entries, and have two reactions. One, they seem like ancient history (did I really almost crash my rental car into a camel in Outback Australia?), and two, man, am I a crappy writer. Anyway, for those of you with strong stomachs and ample free time, I ask you to stay tuned, because I’m keeping the Slog going. That’s right…now that I’m finally able to string together nouns and verbs, why quit? Writing this scandal sheet has been the single constant in my life over the past seven months – besides heavy drinking, that is – and I’m grown fond of blasting out an entry every week.

I might make some substantial changes, beyond getting a decent editor, and will keep you posted on those. Oh Lord, when will it all end, you may be asking…

My annoying host site, Boots’n’All, has a limit on photo uploads and I’ve apparently crossed that threshold, so for this week at least you’re stuck with my text, no photos. Sorry ‘bout that…

When we last parted, Ken and I were about to head out of our beloved Hostal Matute and venture forth into the cool crisp Madrid afternoon, in search of adventure or at least a cheap glass of sherry. Ken had been up since 9 a.m. doing some work; I had dragged my ass out of bed early to write the previous entry; we both felt like shit given our bedtime of 3 a.m. or so. But there’s something energizing about polishing off a piece of work, and we were both ready to hit the streets. Ken’s mobile was ringing every few minutes and it became clear he’d be pinned down during the afternoon, putting out fires at work. I knew the feeling…and recalled one Friday in Shanghai years ago, when I had planned to do a call in the morning and then take the afternoon off. I woke up that day, put on a bathrobe, did the call, and then proceeded to get hit with calls and emails to such a degree that I was still sitting in my hotel chair at 6 p.m. in the bathrobe. So I didn’t sweat Ken his exertions…

We went into the Reina Sofia Museum, a cool modern structure that famously houses Picasso’s Guernica. There’s a lot else too – paintings by Dali, Miro, etc. – but I had to admit that I wanted to see the Guernica, it had probably been seven years since my last visit. So I went fairly quickly up to floor 2, room 6, and stood transfixed by the masterpiece for 20 minutes. And when I was done pondering the myriad horrors depicted therein, I investigated the many sketches and studies that Picasso made in preparation for the final painting. It’s safe to say he proceeded meticulously with the Guernica…every major image in the painting was worked up over the period of weeks or months. Made me think about the effort required for true genius…even those with ridiculous amounts of talent need to roll up their sleeves from time to time. Talent plus effort…well, that pretty much rules me out.

The Guernica is Picasso’s reaction to the 1937 bombing of the Basque town of the same name by German bombers during the Spanish Civil War. Not much civil about that war, or any other for that matter. The painting is probably one of the most disturbing interpretations of the evils of warfare – along with a few paintings by Goya, including Dos de Mayo and Tres de Mayo. I guess Spanish painters have a flair for depicting disturbing subject matter; the acquisition of this sort of talent might not be worth the cost, though. And after gazing at the Guernica, I couldn’t help but feel astonished at how commonplace, and basically acceptable, the bombing of civilians has become over the past century. And it hasn’t only been ‘evil dictators’ who pushed this envelope – Allied politicians burned out a hell of a lot of German and Japanese cities during WW2. I suppose that the murder of the innocent isn’t a new theme in history – Genghis Khan and his boys did their share of raping/looting/pillaging too. But one would hope that we’ve climbed a bit higher on the food chain over the past 700 or so years. I guess we haven’t; we’ve just built more dangerous killing toys.

What would happen if we sat George W. Bush down in front of the Guernica? Not for 20 minutes, but for 20 days…with his eyelids propped open with forks a la Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. Wouldn’t that be something? Of course, he’d need an art history major to explain the painting and historical context to him…we could provide that. Do you think that might provoke a glimmer of understanding, or at least questioning, in the old boy? Somehow, I doubt it…but I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. Of course, it would have been best to conduct this experiment in February 2003, before we started a war that has probably killed a couple hundred thousand Iraqis…

Headed out of the museum and walked up to Cerveceria Alemana (the German Beerhouse) in Plaza de Santa Ana. This place has been around forever, was a fave of Hemingway’s, and serves excellent tapas. Ken got nailed with a couple more phone calls, so I ate the lion’s share of a very nice spread of dishes…pulpo a la vinagreta, croquetas, jamon iberico, queso machego, and a few others. Washed down with beer and fino (sherry). Waddled out of there feeling like an emperor. Even forgot the feelings I’d had an hour before in front of the Guernica…

Ken caught a train to Cordoba to see his family and in-laws, who live there. I had decided to spend another night in Madrid – I was too relaxed to strap on the pack and get moving just yet. So I met up with a friend of Ken’s named Camia, who’s an architect in Basle. I met up with her, her boyfriend Pitu, and a few other partyers at Bar xxx in Malasana, a lively part of town. I was pretty tired…walking around all day took a bit out of me, I had gone for a run, and then had to find an Internet café to post my blog. I had planned to just stay out for a few cocktails…and kept thinking that as the hours rolled on inexorably. Our group lost a person here and there as we bar-hopped…but I hung in there, and finally it was just an architect named Pedro and I, at a late-night dance place near Puerta del Sol at 5 a.m. That wasn’t in the plan, by any means – I had a train ticket the next day (well, that day) for 12:30 p.m. I finally staggered home through streets still filled with revelers, reached the hostal, didn’t get as much as a second glance from the desk clerk, and got a few hours sleep before my train to Cordoba to meet up with Ken et al. Spain really makes a mockery of any and all intentions of moderation. And that’s why I love it. I really must spend more time here in the future…

Hadn’t been to Cordoba since October 2004, when Ken and Carmen got married there. That was a lot of fun, and I looked forward to seeing everyone again. And of course, Carmen’s family, the Penas, looked after me impeccably. They have a large family (six kids) and most of them are nearby. There’s always a mini-fiesta going on at their house, and I was happy to join in. I was also glad to finally get to see Ken and Carmen’s kids. Victoria is about a year and a half old, and Cristina is eleven weeks old. They’re adorable, and Ken and Carmen are very cool parents, as expected. Victoria had been sick, and had to go to the hospital that morning, but everyone hung in there admirably. Made me realize how much work raising kids is. Carmen was absolutely spent, but insisted on keeping a close eye on Victoria. Cristina was basically on auto-pilot, which made things a bit easier. I just hung around, eating, drinking, and cracking dumb jokes whenever possible. You know me.

We stayed up fairly late that night, and it was clear that sleep deprivation was a key theme of the times. Which is OK with me…I didn’t have much to do the next day. Ken and Carmen had a tougher deal…but both emerged reasonably well. I’m not too sure how I would do in their shoes; I think I’m too cranky and selfish to put myself through the wringer of total enslavement to the whims and weaknesses of small children. That’s not to say that I’ll never try it – I’ll just hire a small army of nannies and domestics to do the dirty work for me. And Ken and Carmen do have a nanny in London…and I think they really missed her while in Cordoba, even with their relatives to provide a hand. OK, enough of me writing about topics I’m ignorant of…

Next day (Sunday) took a train down Cadiz, a city rich in history and sights. I’ve been meaning to visit Cadiz for many years, but never made it there. The city is ancient, and may in fact be the oldest in Europe. It was originally a Phoenician trading post and has been around since around 1000 B.C., a bit longer than some of my mainstay jokes. It was an easy 2-3 hour train ride from Cordoba (itself a city of fantastic Moorish history) to Cadiz, and when I arrived I walked from the station to a little hostal near Plaza San Juan de Dios. The hostal was clean and cheap, and right in the thick of things. Which isn’t to say that Cadiz is party central. It was Sunday afternoon, and the place felt pretty sleepy, although there were a fair few folks hanging out at the cafes in the plazas and on the streets.

I spent a few hours walking the city and getting a feel for it. It’s a cool feeling to think about a place for years and then to finally go there…rarely do you really know what to expect, no matter how much you read beforehand. And Cadiz was no different – it was larger and more lively than I expected. People were hanging out on the seawalls and beaches – and the beaches are long and enticing, even in winter. It seems a ‘real’ place and not just a seaside resort – which is more to my liking. I can’t get too excited about going to the Bahamas these days…

So I walked around the perimeter of Cadiz, and stopped now and then in little bars for some tapas, beer and wine. I didn’t want to duck into any museums or churches…I didn’t want to hop on the Web…all I wanted to do was feel the fresh air/sun and eat some hearty food. And Cadiz was more than obliging.

I must say that Cadiz does have a provincial feel to it – it’s a long way from Madrid, literally and figuratively. The people aren’t dressed to the nines (lots of tracksuits and checked shirts), haircuts are only slightly more hip than mine, and the general level of human attractiveness isn’t sky-high. And my presence didn’t help in the least…

Went back to the hostal to relax, stretch a bit, and do some reading. Took a nap for 90 minutes or so. That took me to 9 p.m. Wanted to go for a run…kind of. Wondered about the availability of food after 10 p.m. Ordinarily in Spain that wouldn’t be an issue – dinner in Spain tends to be around 10 p.m. or even later. But it was Sunday night in Cadiz, and I wondered. Finally, my guilt got the better of me and I went for a run around the northeast perimeter of the harbor. Which was absolutely fantastic. Even at 10 p.m. in the winter, Cadiz is very pleasant – it was about 55 degrees Fahrenheit and I found it no problem to run in a wife-beater and shorts. Ran for a long time – probably 45 minutes. The footpaths in Cadiz are broad and clean, the sea air is fresh, and you can just go and go. In Goa I got myself into pretty solid cardiac shape, and now it was paying off. When I’m not in shape, I can only go for 20-30 minutes and I’m not happy doing it. When I’m in shape, I can go for an hour and feel like Superman. Or at least not Underdog. And so I sped around the Cadiz seafront and took it all in.

Got back, showered, and went out to stuff my gut. Which proved easy as pie. Or empanada, more accurately. Wandered through a few tascas (tapas bars) and sampled the wares. Finally ended up at one near the massive cathedral. Friendly barmen. Huge patas (pig legs) hanging from hooks on the wall. Nice selection of booze bottles. I had a plate of patatas alli-olli (potato salad with garlic mayo) and another of albondigas (meatballs). Washed ‘em down with beer and wine. Chatted haltingly with the old men next to me. Their accents are hardcore – southerners drop (eat) the ‘s’ in many words and I had to guess what they were saying. But it all seemed to go OK and we had a few laughs. Then I strolled to the hostal and collapsed for the night.

Next morning awoke with a need for churros and chocolate, a classic Spanish breakfast. Found a café that offered these, and wolfed them down. Chatted with a Spanish caballero (gentleman) who works in Berlin and was back in Cadiz visiting his kids. Invited me out with all of them later in the day, and I accepted. Walked out of the café, looked for a place to do my laundry but only found an ‘industrial laundry’ that wasn’t open to the public. Punted, and went back to the hostal. Just in time, as it turned out, because the churros and chocolate had staged a race through my GI tract and were at the finish line. Remind me to clear my calendar next time I have those for breakfast…

Walked around more of the town, continued to enjoy the vistas and fresh air. That said, you do come upon the smell of urine fairly often in Cadiz…it’s an old city and has that ‘lived in’ feeling, although to a much lesser extent that cities in India. And there are lots of places to get a drink. Perhaps the use of toilets is optional to the locals…

Went for lunch to a place my guidebook recommended, called Meson Cumbres Mayores. Remind me to figure out what ‘cumbres’ means. Anyone know? Anyway, this place was celebrating its 40th anniversary, it was founded in 1966. A year before I was born. That made me feel a bit old. I hadn’t really thought that my time on earth had established me as a dependable, solid ‘brand.’ But this Meson was trumpeting its 40 years and that was just fine with me. Because the food was superb – I had a jamon y queso montadito (small sandwich on French bread), a morros de cerdo iberico guiso (pork stew), and finally some of my fave pulpo a la gallega (spicy grilled octopus). With, of course, a couple glasses of house red. Man, I was stuffed. Since reaching Spain I’ve debated with Ken and other friends the possibility of getting fat here…make that the likelihood of getting fat here. And while one might get tired of the hearty yet basic Spanish fare, and lighten up after a couple weeks, methinks not. It’s sometimes said that Spanish food is meat and potatoes (and seafood), but superb meat and potatoes. And there are just so many choices that it would take years to get sick of the stuff. So if I were to live here, I think I’d need to run about 10 miles/day.

Speaking of which…after yet another nap, I arose at 8 p.m. feeling refreshed and ready for a run. My body clock was rapidly aligning with the local flows, i.e. everything is done a couple hours later than in most other Western countries. So I felt fine about going for a run, then having a late dinner. Put on my shoes and headed out to the seawall, in the opposite direction as the previous evening. And had another excellent run. This time I headed south along the Playa de la Victoria, which turns out to be a surprisingly lengthy stretch of sand…must be brilliant in the summer. As I ran along, I saw a few other runners, and what looked to be the local rugby side practicing right on the beach. Looked like they still had some kinks to iron out. I ran for 45 minutes or so, feeling fit and strong, despite the various challenges I was posing to my body and mind in the local bars and tascas.

I could have gone on for another 30 minutes, but when the promenade ended I doubled back and finally pulled up right near the cathedral. A little enclosed park was being used simultaneously by a soccer team and either a very bad school band or, more likely, a bunch of kids practicing their instruments in a place where no one would complain. I walked back to the hostal through the old town streets, passing dozens of Spaniards taking their evening promenade. I was full of energy, was looking forward to the night out, and felt something very much like joy.

Headed out after a quick shower, and sampled a couple new tapas places before going back to the bar I visited the previous night, near the cathedral. The barmen recognized me straightaway (your Spanish must be terrible for them to peg you a tourist that easily…), and one fellow, a large-ish waiter, was particularly friendly. Turned out he was from Berlin, and that surprised me a bit. Didn’t think Germany was exporting workers to Spain. We talked for a while, and went out for a drink after his shift. We shared stories…he had visited Spain ten years before and had fallen in love with the place, and was now a long-term resident. I told him what I had been up to recently, and he was amazed at my adventures. One drink turned into a few, and somehow we got our points across despite having to string together words in Spanish, German, French, and English…all in all, a random and fun night.

And that was pretty much my time in Cadiz. I didn’t visit a single museum or church, despite the bounty of such places, and the serious history of the place (Columbus had kicked off a couple of his voyages from right across the harbor). The only things I was inside all weekend (unfortunately) were bars and my hostal. But really enjoyed my brief excursion to Cadiz and am looking forward to another, longer visit sometime soon.

Took a train up to Jerez de la Frontera the next afternoon. Jerez is a center for sherry production, and is famed for its feria (fair) every year. I stayed in a great old place called Neuvo Hotel, which is one-star but situated in a classic old mansion and is more than sufficiently comfortable. Reminded me of Hostal Matute in Madrid.

Walked around town that day and night, sampling the local sherries. Tio Pepe is the biggest name, but there are dozens of bodegas (houses) where sherry is produced and you can visit many of them. I just hit a couple. I wanted to go get a haircut, and did so. I think the barber/stylist was new to his job…he didn’t seem too proficient and I kept an eye on his work the entire time. Turned out OK, but it was touch and go. Left the barber shop and ducked into a café to calm my nerves. This place, like many Spanish cafes/bars, has a real inclusive atmosphere – there are Spaniards of all generations in there. In most countries you don’t see much mixing of older and younger folks…but in Spain it’s not uncommon to see grandparents hanging out in a café with their grandchildren, drinking different sorts of stuff of course. Many years ago Ken and I went out in Madrid, and after a night of hard drinking we ended up in a sandwich shop, where we ate some amazing tres pisos (literally, ‘three stairs’ – a triple-decker sandwich). The proprietors were an older fellow and his wife, and they took us out after we finished our sandwiches. Had an interesting if boozy discussion with them about Spanish history and the expulsion of the Jews in the 15th century. That’s about all I can recall…but it was noteworthy in that a couple 60-year-olds took out two young idiots and treated them to drinks.

Took it easy that night. The next day, I intended to visit more bodegas and perhaps a museum or two, but got a call from Ken. He and Carmen wanted me to head back to Cordoba for dinner that night. I had to get my laundry from the laundromat, so needed to stick around Jerez until that evening. Visited the old Moorish Alcazar (fort) to kill some time. That was fairly cool…classic old Iberian/Arab architecture, surrounded by orange trees in full bloom (Cordoba has the best orange juice I’ve ever had). And inside there was a small museum with sketches by Picasso and Goya of corridas (bullfights). Good stuff. Went for a run around town, the streets were cramped and didn’t experience the same joy that I had in Cadiz. Then picked up my laundry, got my bags, and went to the train station to go to Cordoba.

Pulled into Cordoba a bit late, past 11 p.m. Ken had arrived a few minutes earlier, and he, Carmen and I went out to pretty much the only decent place in Cordoba still open at that hour. Had a good, filling meal – pizza, rice with vegetables, smoked fish, and beef of some sort. Washed it all down with a very nice, sparking type of sangria. Most sangria is made with crappy red wine and old fruit – this was far better and we drank two pitchers. Wobbled out of the place past midnight and went to the Penas.

Woke up the next day with a slight hangover, nothing too bad. Hung out with Ken and Carmen’s kids for a few hours, then walked ensemble into town for lunch. Went to the most famous local establishment, Bodegas Campos, where we had some red wine, fried eggplant, solomillo (sirloin – great cut), and a few other random dishes. Talked about our families and our plans for the next year or so. Was good to update each other on our lives and desires, and to compare notes. I could do that every day with good friends…I get more out of experiences like that than from visiting museums, working, etc.

Finally walked outside and hailed a cab. I had to catch a train to Madrid, as that night I was meeting my ex-colleague Manuel, and the two Spaniards I had met in Burma, Marta and Enrique. I was planning to meet them on Calle Cervantes, where there are some fantastic little tapas bars – including Cerveceria Cervantes and Los Gatos. The last time I saw Enrique and Marta was in Inle Lake, Burma…the contrast between that place and Madrid would be enormous. And I had some emerging plans for Friday night, including seeing my old friend Paloma and perhaps a couple other people. This was to be my final couple nights before heading back to Boston, and I wanted to make the most of them…

I’ll wrap up this post here, as I’m on that very train to Madrid. Next week I’ll fill you in on the final few days of this journey, and also share a few themes that have come together over the past 7 months. You’ll have to indulge me my dime-store philosophy, as you’ve gently done over the past few months. As always, I ask you to chime in with any feedback – insults, corrections, anything you like. And as I mentioned at the top of this posting, this Slog will live on – I’ve come to realize that the Slog is not just about this trip, it’s about my life. I sincerely hope that what I share with you in print is more interesting than my actual life…. Adios for now and see you next week.

Quite an eventful week out here on the open road. I covered a fair bit of ground, all the way from Goa to Mumbai to London to Madrid. Reminded me of my days at Monitor…except that the stress level was minimal and I didn’t turn on my laptop for days at a time.

In Goa I made my ‘final rounds.’ Had an exceptional lunch of tiger prawns and Kingfisher beer at the Shore Bar on Friday. And while stuffing my face I continued to marvel at the oddly comforting vision of cows – uniquely Asian cows, many with humps – wandering around the beach. Who owns these beasts? Do they know where their charges roam? It all seems very lax and perfectly ‘susegado,’ the Goan/Konkani term for letting it all hang out.

That night had dinner with Prem Leela, the Spanish woman who’s into tantric sex – aren’t we all, when it comes down to it – then hopped on my motorbike for a ride. Going for bike rides after dinner in Goa has a certain post-coital feeling – like a cigarette. Really clears the head and cools the body. The early December night air was quite cool…the stars were out in full force…the fragrances were everywhere…I felt right out there in the middle of life itself.

Leela is an interesting character. A very strong Spanish woman who says what’s on her mind. She’s the one, recall, who told me she loves sex, but not normal sex, just tantric sex. Her name, Leela, means ‘love games’ or something similar in Hindi. Not sure if that’s her real name or not…forgot to ask. But she did tell me that I’m a bon vivant…and I think she’s mostly right about that, although I’m a peculiar angst-ridden Jewish version of the classic bon vivant.

The next morning I drove to Panjim, the capital, for lunch at Hotel Venite, where Benji the Aussie and I had gone a few weeks before. I first ate at Venite years ago with Jan and Hasmeeth, and just continue to love the atmospheric little dining room – it has a real old-world European feeling. Consumed a huge spread of roasted papads, crumbed mussels (better than it sounds), Goan sausages (you’ve gotta try these sometime), and a daiquiri. Waddled out of there incredibly satisfied. I think Venite is one of my favorite restaurants on the planet, many attributes come together superbly there.

Rode around Panjim a bit more. Got a final look at the awesome Church of the Immaculate Conception, the symbol of Panjim. Then rode up to Candolim and had some memories of the times I’d stayed there at the Taj Holiday Village with various assortments of scoundrels. I had meant to have dinner at some point at the very cool little Santa Lucia, run by a Swiss couple who spend their winters in Goa (good fucking idea), but just didn’t get around to it this visit. Really must next time round.

Drove down a side road to the beach, and lo and behold there was the River Princess, the huge barge trapped just off Candolim Beach. I had read the previous day that the government finally chose a company to get the boat the hell out of there…only took 6 years to make that decision. Now we’ll see what happens. The thing’s gotta be full of water, sand, and decaying parts – but I suppose eventually it’ll be out of there and the beach will be back to normal. I did see a small boat next to the River Princess, but couldn’t tell what it was up to.

Headed back north to Vagator. A fair bit of traffic en route…lots of stops and starts. A little boy in a white van in front of me kept sticking his head out the window and waving. Kind of funny. Eventually we got separated and I rode on.

Goa’s Portuguese past and sights made me think about the whole slew of places I’ve visited. And I realized how much I’ve been following around the ghosts of explorers like da Gama. Years ago I wandered around the Cape of Good Hope (South Africa) Park Reserve and was impressed by the austere white monuments to da Gama and Dias. I sat down and wrote a poem that day about spending ‘Yuletide with Dias’ (poem available upon request – seriously). Years later, I spent some time in Macau, another area opened up as a consequence of da Gama’s adventures. Now I was roaming around Goa, the first Portuguese territory claimed in Asia. Are there still earthbound puzzles yet to be discovered in our age? I sincerely hope so, that possibility sometimes drives me on…

It was still pretty early, so I drove past Vagator up to Morjim Beach, on the other side of the Chapora River. I’ve always loved this drive, the bay is on the left and there’s never much traffic. The bridge over the Chapora is fantastic, soaring views and a feeling of total freedom in space. And when you finally hit Morjim, you’re reading for a dip. Morjim has quite a few Russians – Lisa calls it ‘Morjimski’ – but really it’s wide open and feels empty. Not as cramped as the beaches south. Had a nice long swim and then drove back to Vagator.

This was my final night in Goa. I wasn’t feeling anything in particular – I suppose I had gotten my nostalgia addressed earlier in the day – so didn’t make any ambitious plans. And Prem Joshua had just returned from some gigs up north, I wanted to spend some time with him and the other ‘regulars’ around Bean Me Up. Had a very nice dinner with 7-8 folks at BMU, traded stories and jokes for almost 3 hours, took a calming bike ride, and said my goodbyes. I’ve become pretty accustomed to saying goodbye to people, yet still haven’t ‘mastered’ the art – whatever that might be. I prefer to keep it low-key. Lisa gave me a very nice stash of things, Prem gave me one of his two latest CDs, and that was that.

Next day I packed up my stuff – which, for the only time on this 7-month journey, was entirely out of the backpack and around my room. Had breakfast with the Prems – Joshua and Leela – in the quiet of BMU, which is basically closed on Saturdays, except for breakfast for us hotel guests. Here’s what the Prems look like:

A Spanish woman just told me that she really loves sex. But not ‘normal sex’…she only enjoys ‘tantric sex.’ I found that intriguing…and instead of trying to demonstrate to her that I know all the ins and outs of tantra, and fail miserably, I thought I’d instead take a breather, type up this entry, and let you know. But please – if you have any primers on tantric sex please forward them to me ASAP!

My friend Lisa described Goa as a ‘gigantic insane asylum.’ And she should know…she’s been here for 25 years. I didn’t ask her what sort of inmate she is, though. Anyway, it’s hard to believe that this is the last entry I’ll post from Goa – I take off for Mumbai on Saturday. It’s at least fitting that I’m sitting here with a major hangover. Last night was Ladies’ Night at Club Cubana, and the place was packed with thousands of sweaty bodies, many of whom in fact belonged to ladies. And there’s an open bar once you pay the relatively large cover charge, so there’s every incentive to imbibe freely once past the door. I spent most of the night hanging out with some very friendly middle-aged Russian women – the sorts who 1) aren’t prostitutes and 2) aren’t with murderous boyfriends. I got back to the guesthouse at 4 a.m. and am hurting very badly as I sit here…

I’m really going to miss this place. Memories abound…riding on my motorbike through the green fields, eating huge plates of king prawns at the Shore Bar, taking a sunset swim in Vagator Beach, the little kids selling black market petrol (and yelling ‘pet-rul!’ to passing riders), and on and on. I think I’ll be back before too long…

To backtrack a bit…I went up to Mumbai last Friday to see Prem Joshua’s band play a gig in the chintzy suburb of Bandra. Just went up for 24 hours or so, just to see the gig. It was at a newish nightclub called Seijo and the Souldish…I have no idea what that means, but the club was nice and very full. And I was on the guest list, so didn’t have the pay the presumably outrageous (for India) door charge. Instead, I spent all my money on drinks, which were quite good and strong. A couple of waitresses were going around with test tubes filled with various potions. I thought that stuff went out a few years ago, at least in the States. Oh well. I thought it was pretty cheesy, but the test tubes were free, so I had one. It was awful…so I only had two more.

The guys played all their hits and the crowd loved it. While listening/watching I had a moment of life clarity, in which I concluded that I really need to boost my writing efforts and get going on my book…I’ve been inventing various excuses, all of which are lame and insufficient. So without making a formal ‘resolution,’ I resolve to devote 2007 to writing my book and seeing if it flies. Hold me to that, dear readers.

Back to the music. Here’s a couple shots of Joshua, the frontman / sitar player / flautist / etc: