So, this was harder than I thought. In August, as I write this with a full stomach of pasta and homemade sauce, I must look upon my early-year goals and come to terms with what’s worked and what hasn’t. Clearly, the daily blog has, in a certain sense, failed. Finishing my novel by my birthday, June 30th? Well, I’m a third of the way through but we’ll get to that at a later time. And the nebulous goal of simply improving my time management? See the previous two goals for reference.
I’m not happy about these failures. But at the same time, looking at the year so far, I can’t be unhappy about where I am and what I’ve done, either. Don’t worry, the Spain shenanigans are coming, but this small bit of housekeeping needed to be addressed, at least for my own sanity. When the year started, I had just begun working at a new job, I was still writing my MA thesis, unsure when my full residence in Germany would be administered, and only had about 50 pages of my book. Today, I am graduated from the MA with a 4.0, have my residence and health insurance finally sorted out, have about 100 pages of the book, and was just given major responsibility for a project at my job. All that’s left, then, is to carve out the life I want. This itself is not easy, either. But to be unhappy about where things currently are would be foolish as well. Disappointed? Only in some parts of myself that refuse to die: procrastination, lack of motivation, routine-making, and proactivity. These demons seem to point at any accomplishments and say: “you got lucky this time, kid. But you still have leagues to go.” And they’re not wrong. But like Sisyphus and his damned rock I will keep trying. And even though this daily blog is not so daily, and hardly a blog at this point, I’m not done writing it either. This summer, as it draws to a close, has been a great one, and I hope to do it justice in these posts, and do myself justice by keeping my head down and plowing forward against those demons that don’t ever seem to get any weaker. But hey, every word written is a small victory in itself. Now, I give you Spain.
Primavera Sound
Going to Barcelona felt like when Daenerys rides up to Qarth and when they open their gates she realizes this truly is a different city in a different world. We were nobodies, a bunch of tourists in a strange land, here for the spectacles and the sounds of reputed sound-artists to tickle our eyes and ears while we laid waste to whatever bottles, glasses or jugs of Estrella Damm were placed in front of us. Well, us and what seemed like an unbelievable horde of Scottish zoomers, here for 100 Gecs and nothing else. This is often the case in these big European cities known to attract visitors: you go to Barcelona and you meet Scotsmen, Italian waiters, daddy-rich American 17 year olds with rented villas who are there for two weeks. Then you look in the eyes of the actually-Spanish bartender and you want to say “I’m so sorry” but it’s too late because you’re already smiling as she’s pouring your next round.
Getting from Miami to Frankfurt and then from Frankfurt to Barcelona felt like I was in the middle of some Carmen Sandiego shenanigans. Growing up, I fully expected to never see anything outside the US until my 40s at least. Now I sat in the Frankfurt Airport at 27, jetlagged and tummy-rumbly from fast food, ready to jet-set my way to a new place, a new wonder. I’m even a little grateful I grew up re-using Ziploc bags and eating ketchup sandwiches on occasion, because when I experience these things now, underneath the texture and joy of the experience is the truth of it being a gift. A well-deserved gift, for sure. Better me than some other bozo. But a gift, nonetheless. I only had one day of recovery in Germany before heading out, but when I landed in Barcelona with Victoria, my brain was too stimulated to let my body become tired. We walked the streets, saw the sites, and tried to settle in before the festival started in two days.
The sun was high and seemed to stay that way for unnaturally long. Of course the bands were great, Caribou, Gorillaz, Parquet Courts, Black Midi and Tyler being my favorites. And getting to the grounds themselves was easy enough, except for the one time a taxi dropped us off at the back of the grounds and we had to walk for 40 minutes on the side of a highway. The shows would begin in the afternoon, and go well into the next morning, like 5 or 6am. It’s said that the last person on the last day of the festival, our good friend Rik, watched the sun rise over the ocean and sand as Leon Vynehall played rapturously upon the dunes.
I want you to look at that last picture in the slideshow above. That color isn’t added or manipulated by me at all. I have never seen a more palpable diffusion of pink mist and light than the sunset of Barcelona’s beaches. That was the night a couple of my German friends who were in the area came out and ate Paella with us, overlooking the waves. They couldn’t stay long, however, because they needed to catch the last train out of the city, and we could not house them due to some Orwellian levels of surveillance at our “apartment suite”. I believe the sign in the elevator said: “There are cameras on every floor of the stairwell. We can see who enters and leaves.” As tempted as I was to place the financial burden of the inevitable fine on my friends, it was decided that we wouldn’ttry to be sneaks, which meant saying goodbye to Tobi and Isa (pictured above) just as it felt like the dinner was really getting started. Still, their commitment to meeting us at all was impressive.
The other times outside the festival hours were often stranger than anticipated. Vici found 100 euros sitting in an unoccupied ATM. The bank told her not to worry about it. Outside a meat and fish market, near the ‘rougher’ side of the city, we heard a loud commotion: a bell ringing, screaming and cheering. In an open-air dome connected to a pedestrian-only walkthrough along the market, they were having amateur fights. For 5 euros, we could stay, drink, and watch people fight for as long as we wanted. We had to get going, so I declined the bouncer’s offer, but as I left I saw the saliva spray from a young woman’s mouth as her opponent landed a right hook. Perhaps the strangest of all, though, happened late in the night. Our whole group was out, looking for a calm nightcap. We walked the harbor, gazing across purple water and up at temples on mountains on the other horizon. Getting later than we wanted, we stopped at just some random place with outdoor seating. The sun was setting, then it was gone, and we each ordered a drink. I was under the impression we would order cocktails, so I ordered a White Russian. The others then quickly ordered beers, making me look like a goddamned fool. Matters were then made worse when my drink was the last to arrive, some 10 minutes later. And then the waiter shattered the glass. Yes, as he was handing me the drink, he clinked it against something I didn’t see, and the glass fell inside itself. He almost tried serving it to me anyway until he saw the look of horror in my eyes. Then, as quickly and late as he appeared, he was gone. Another 10 minutes. Then 15. Finally, a different waiter shows up, and in his hand is a glass of milk, straight from A Clockwork Orange, but with a layer of black on the bottom. It seems they went for a deconstructed take on the White Russian this time. The waiter walks around the table, silent, and slowly, ever so slowly, descends the drink toward the table. So slowly, in fact, that I reach out my hands to take the drink. And then we were stuck.
I had the drink in my hands. He had it in his hands. And he would not let go. I even pulled, to make my intentions clear, and yet he would not surrender the beverage. His eyes were blue tigers and emotionless and his cheeks sank into his face. Finally, I, out of some primordial fear, let go of the drink and said “what is going on?” out loud in a way that I have never said it before. My friend Marie laughed into her arm as the waiter mumbled “humano fourth”. We asked him to repeat himself. Again: “humano fourth”. One more time, please? Then finally he enunciated, while looking at me: “you have no force”, and in a flash of lightning his face changed from stoic, sullen and empty into the epitome of all joy and laughter. He laughed like we were his family, like the whole thing was some jest on a brother. Marie was crying tears of laughter into her arm under the table now. Rik’s mustache looked like it wanted to run away.
To this day, I am still frightened of the possibility I have been cursed by some other being. We drank our drinks as quickly as possible and left in a hurry. The bus dropped us off at the abandoned mental hospital and we walked home.
Soon, enough it was time to depart. I had to brace myself once again, because in a week, I would be going back to America, to another wedding, my birthday, and Independence Day.
See you then for the next incredibly late recap.
Nick
Nick Denardi 