DAY 264: Part of the drama of travel is getting into trouble whether you like it or not -- or caused it or not for that matter. On the road, you never know if trouble is lurking right around the corner.

"Hey look!" Jack exclaimed, pointing to the object coming around the corner. It was PT Cruiser, the classic-looking automobile by Chrysler. Jack had a fetish for PT Cruisers (the way I did for olives and key limes) and was excited to see one in Spain.

We were on a casual stroll on the east side of the city center -- not looking for any trouble at all -- after having bought our tickets back to Valencia and leaving our bags in a train station locker. (Jack's big suitcase actually fit!) We walked up the Paseo del Prado, passed the Centro de Arte Reina Santa, the Jardin Botanico, the Palacio de Comunicaciones and the National Library. We spent some time in the world-renowned Museo del Prado art museum where I appreciated seeing paintings (picture above) I remember from art history classes -- Bosch's El Jardin de las delicias and Velazquez' Las meninas -- Jack was pretty much bored the whole time. On a makeshift megaphone I made from a rolled museum map, I declared that the staff of the museum should wear crazy hats to make it more fun.

After waiting to see if Selima would show up after Jack sent her an e-mail invitation for a final farewell (and possible make out session) -- she was a no show -- we strolled over to the Parque del Buen Retiro and sat at a cafe near the Monumento Alfonso XII. On the way there though, trouble found us, or rather, we became the trouble. A man who seemed really distraught approached us with a lecture.

"[Are you Madridian?]" he asked Jack. Jack told him no.

The man went on and on about how dangerous it was for him to be wearing the San Fermin festival t-shirt he bought with a black and white bull's head superimposed over a bright pink and green flag -- the flag of the Basque country.

Many people know of the ETA, the Basque radical group that uses terrorist activity to express their detest of Spain. In fact, the finger was first pointed at them after the 2004 Madrid bombings. However, the ETA is just the representation of the extremists of the Basque people in the province to the northeast of Spain -- most of them were peaceful. The Basque have pride in their regional identity (they use their own language), so much that they wish to secede from Spain. According to Jack's friend Juan, it's not just the Basque who want to stay true to their own identity; every Spanish province want it too, from the eastern province of Catalan to the northwestern people in Galicia. They all have grudges against each other too, grudges maintained for years. The Madridians hate the Catalans who hate the Basque who had Madridians.

The rather vocal man in front of us was a very concerned citizen, pointing out that Jack's wearing of a Basque flag in Madrid was a major faux pas that could get him killed. "[Wearing that is an invitation for trouble,]" he said. He himself had lost family members to Spanish/Basque violence

With that said, Jack put on his spare, plain long sleeve tee.

SEVEN HOURS LATER, we were back in Jack's friend Juan's apartment in Valencia. Since Jack was to leave back to the States early in the morning the day after, this was to be his last big night out in Spain -- Juan had been waiting for us to go out clubbing. After a couple of toasts of White Horse scotch whiskey, we went back to Acuarella, the club we went to the night we got to Valencia, this time on a full blown crowded Friday night. The place was ten times more packed than the Sunday before, with different rooms playing different styles of music. With such a crowd, it was inevitable to get separated, even if we did try and stay together.

"We'll check back here [near the entrance] at six," Juan said.

We partied through the night with farewell toasts and farewell flirtations with Spanish girls. The inevitable separation did happened and at 5:55 I realized it was coming time for our rendezvous update. Drunk and exhausted from being up for about twenty-one hours straight -- I'm a morning person and Jack's a night guy, so between the two of us hanging out there isn't much time for sleep -- I waited for Jack or Juan to arrive back at the entrance. Across the street from me was the beach, the perfect place for a sex romp in the dark -- if clubbers weren't around. A couple that had just left the club started walking down the beach, walking hand in hand towards the Mediterranean.

Those two are going to have sex, I thought. I have five minutes before our meeting time. I have time to watch; I mean, sometimes a guy only needs thirty seconds.

I followed the two down the beach, but they walked way too fast for me in my stupor. I sat on the beach and put my head down for a rest...

I WOKE UP from a tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see the sun rising and the girl who was walking me up.

Hey baby, was it good for you too?

"[I think some guy just took your wallet.]"

I checked my back pocket and it was gone. "Oh shit."

"[I'm sorry,]" the girl consoled.

Damn, passing out on the beach sure was an invitation for trouble. Oh well, it's just money -- I kept all my cards at the apartment. At least I still have my--

"Fuck," I said out loud. My camera was missing too, along with the pictures I took the past ten days.

I ran back to the club, looking at my watch that survived the robbery. Only about twenty-five minutes has gone by. The club crowd had thinned out, but not my much; the DJ was still spinning the tunes. I found Jack right away, who was still drinking and flirting with two girls. I don't think he remembered the six o'clock thing.

"Hey! There you are!" he said all slurred.

"I was just robbed."

And so, the party was over. We found Juan and took a cab back to his apartment.

Whether it was the alcohol or the exhaustion that caused my passing out on the beach I'm not sure, although I still remember the events leading up to me lying on the beach, so it must have been more of the exhaustion and lack of sleep. Then again, I'm sure the whiskey cocktails didn't help much either. In any case, I learned my lesson not to mix the two -- a surefire invitation for you-know-what. On the bright side, at least I wasn't wearing a Basque shirt at the time. Who knows what could have happened to me then?

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