I Love Lucio
Monday, May 11, 2009
...Union Verdadera
Here we go with another weekend recap.
Friday:
Hopefully, you’ve all noticed the NBA play-offs started a couple of weeks ago and a certain Los Angeles team is thick in the mix of it all, albeit sucking ass as of yesterday. I’d made plans to hang with my girl but also wanted to watch the Laker game. My homies were headed to Hooters in WesCo and in an effort to spend quality time with wonders et al while enjoying some yummy beers and passable food at a less than reputable spot the chica and I made the hour long trek to the edge of the S.G.V. to throw back a pitcher of Heineken and have a bite to eat. A funny thing happened at Hooters. This MMA wanna-be douchebag kept looking at our table as the Laker game went on. At some point we made extended eye contact the way strangers do at the gym and I looked over to Bear and said, “Dude, that guy keeps looking over here, he must be a %$@@&*.” Sure enough, meathead was so taken by my rugged yet refined good looks he managed to read my lips and strutted over to our table in his best WWE entrance walk.
Douche: Hey, why did you mouth %$@@&*?
Dodger fan extraordinaire: Um, that’s none of your fucken business
Meathead: Do you know who I am?
Far from intimidated Monte self: I don’t give a fuck who you are.
Small penis syndrome peanut brain: Do you want to go outside so I can show you?
Bear: Dude, relax
Alpha male exterior, frightened little child interior: Do you know who I am; I’ll fuck you up so fast…
It walks away.
Jesus Christ, what a fucken idiot. I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I’m also a fighter so don’t get any ideas. I guess that whole exchange was my fault, I forget the universe sometimes conspires to teach us a lesson which in this case is, don’t go to fucken Hooters. I forget we still live in an age where the opinion of complete strangers enrages some so much as to want to throw hands. I actually feel sorry this breed. As Joe said, “It’s just natural selection at work.”
I finished my beer, made fun of the Mexican Napoleon some more and headed home. My only regret for the night? Not prompting Mr. Drives a raised truck with customized license plate to speak in third person. That would have been gold.
Saturday:
I actually woke up at about 5:15AM. Why? Because I was golfing that day. What time was I going to golf you ask? 11:30AM. Yea, I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. My dad swung by to take my truck. Since I’ve purchased a new car I figured I’d give my old truck to my pops or sister. After a couple of hours of watching Family Guy I got ready and waited for my buddy Joe to pick my ass up. We got to the course early, met up with Smy, shot the shit for a minute and finally hit the course. We were paired up with a less than interesting 50-something year old Asian man, so we thought. We usually go easy on the brew until maybe 2 hours or 9 holes into our game. This time, not so much. Beers were cracked open before we even teed off at hole 1. By hole 9 we were in a happy place and out of beer. Our golf buddy, Winfred, or Wilfred or Winford – all three of us called him by a different name – bought us a round and Smy and I bought a sixer on top of that. I honestly don’t know how we finished that course and actually shot decent scores all around. I don’t even remember saying goodbye to Wilford. Joe and I headed to The Hat for some booze soaking grub. I knew something was wrong with what we ordered when a couple of obese people saw the cooks making our stuff and said aloud, “Damn, what’s that?” Ooh-oooh, heart, don’t fail me now. A pastrami burger, onion rings and lemonade later I stumbled up my stairs stripped down to my chonies (that’s right ladies) and knocked the fuck out until 11:30PM. I woke for a few hours, watched TV and went right back to sleep.
Sunday:
I woke up late, chilled out, got ready and ran some errands (meaning, I bought Mother’s Day gifts for my mom and sister) before heading over to my mom’s house. We planned to BBQ and that we did; my dad even bought a new grill. A recent resolution of mine has been to spend more time with my immediate family. It’s not like I hardly see them or anything because I see my sister and nephew at least once a week but I’ve felt this need to reinvent my relationship with my family. Thing is we have a great relationship as it is having been through the same heart breaks and all but yesterday was a testament to how great things are when we’re all together. With my dad around, it feels like we’re making up for lost time. My dad’s always been around but rarely side by side with my mom. This tide of change is one my sisters and I have been waiting for, for a long ass time. Even though our parents have no future together, their future with us is undeniably bound and I’m thankful for that. We ate, chatted up a storm, tossed my nephew around, admired each others new or relatively new vehicles and finally called it a night. I drove home with an overwhelming and cheesy sense of happiness and gratitude while pumping Juana Molina tunes into the 10 freeway’s night. Te sigo extranando mi viejita.
“Que tengan union verdadera…”
Juana Molina, Rudo Y Cursi
¶ 2:09 PM 1 Comments
Friday:
Hopefully, you’ve all noticed the NBA play-offs started a couple of weeks ago and a certain Los Angeles team is thick in the mix of it all, albeit sucking ass as of yesterday. I’d made plans to hang with my girl but also wanted to watch the Laker game. My homies were headed to Hooters in WesCo and in an effort to spend quality time with wonders et al while enjoying some yummy beers and passable food at a less than reputable spot the chica and I made the hour long trek to the edge of the S.G.V. to throw back a pitcher of Heineken and have a bite to eat. A funny thing happened at Hooters. This MMA wanna-be douchebag kept looking at our table as the Laker game went on. At some point we made extended eye contact the way strangers do at the gym and I looked over to Bear and said, “Dude, that guy keeps looking over here, he must be a %$@@&*.” Sure enough, meathead was so taken by my rugged yet refined good looks he managed to read my lips and strutted over to our table in his best WWE entrance walk.
Douche: Hey, why did you mouth %$@@&*?
Dodger fan extraordinaire: Um, that’s none of your fucken business
Meathead: Do you know who I am?
Far from intimidated Monte self: I don’t give a fuck who you are.
Small penis syndrome peanut brain: Do you want to go outside so I can show you?
Bear: Dude, relax
Alpha male exterior, frightened little child interior: Do you know who I am; I’ll fuck you up so fast…
It walks away.
Jesus Christ, what a fucken idiot. I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I’m also a fighter so don’t get any ideas. I guess that whole exchange was my fault, I forget the universe sometimes conspires to teach us a lesson which in this case is, don’t go to fucken Hooters. I forget we still live in an age where the opinion of complete strangers enrages some so much as to want to throw hands. I actually feel sorry this breed. As Joe said, “It’s just natural selection at work.”
I finished my beer, made fun of the Mexican Napoleon some more and headed home. My only regret for the night? Not prompting Mr. Drives a raised truck with customized license plate to speak in third person. That would have been gold.
Saturday:
I actually woke up at about 5:15AM. Why? Because I was golfing that day. What time was I going to golf you ask? 11:30AM. Yea, I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. My dad swung by to take my truck. Since I’ve purchased a new car I figured I’d give my old truck to my pops or sister. After a couple of hours of watching Family Guy I got ready and waited for my buddy Joe to pick my ass up. We got to the course early, met up with Smy, shot the shit for a minute and finally hit the course. We were paired up with a less than interesting 50-something year old Asian man, so we thought. We usually go easy on the brew until maybe 2 hours or 9 holes into our game. This time, not so much. Beers were cracked open before we even teed off at hole 1. By hole 9 we were in a happy place and out of beer. Our golf buddy, Winfred, or Wilfred or Winford – all three of us called him by a different name – bought us a round and Smy and I bought a sixer on top of that. I honestly don’t know how we finished that course and actually shot decent scores all around. I don’t even remember saying goodbye to Wilford. Joe and I headed to The Hat for some booze soaking grub. I knew something was wrong with what we ordered when a couple of obese people saw the cooks making our stuff and said aloud, “Damn, what’s that?” Ooh-oooh, heart, don’t fail me now. A pastrami burger, onion rings and lemonade later I stumbled up my stairs stripped down to my chonies (that’s right ladies) and knocked the fuck out until 11:30PM. I woke for a few hours, watched TV and went right back to sleep.
Sunday:
I woke up late, chilled out, got ready and ran some errands (meaning, I bought Mother’s Day gifts for my mom and sister) before heading over to my mom’s house. We planned to BBQ and that we did; my dad even bought a new grill. A recent resolution of mine has been to spend more time with my immediate family. It’s not like I hardly see them or anything because I see my sister and nephew at least once a week but I’ve felt this need to reinvent my relationship with my family. Thing is we have a great relationship as it is having been through the same heart breaks and all but yesterday was a testament to how great things are when we’re all together. With my dad around, it feels like we’re making up for lost time. My dad’s always been around but rarely side by side with my mom. This tide of change is one my sisters and I have been waiting for, for a long ass time. Even though our parents have no future together, their future with us is undeniably bound and I’m thankful for that. We ate, chatted up a storm, tossed my nephew around, admired each others new or relatively new vehicles and finally called it a night. I drove home with an overwhelming and cheesy sense of happiness and gratitude while pumping Juana Molina tunes into the 10 freeway’s night. Te sigo extranando mi viejita.
“Que tengan union verdadera…”
Juana Molina, Rudo Y Cursi
Monday, May 4, 2009
Adobe, Mole and We
Peace.
¶ 4:04 PM 2 Comments
I haven’t been able to find the wit or charm or even inspiration to write anything post Europe. I almost haven’t wanted to write anything if only to revisit my untainted site and easily jump start my very own time machine. Today, there are two distinct periods of my life that I have finally reconciled. B.E. (Before Europe) and A.E. (After Europe). I’ve written enough about it and talked even more. Wait, I’ve talked, talked, talked, talked, talked, talked A LOT about my experiences in Europe (never unprovoked of course) and for the sake of my own sanity I think I need to stop now. It’s become clear that the only way to come to terms with the fact that I am here and Europe is waaaaay the fuck over there is to let go of that far and away elusive lover I’ve come to know as Paris. Te suelto la rienda hasta Septiembre.
Before I forget, tacosam, thanks for your comments and vicarious ways. Those almost daily comments were a gay man’s glory hole in the men’s restroom: unexpected and never disappointing. So again, thanks. If you’re ever in L.A. proper and want a beer or some La Estrella tacos, hit me up.
So back to my regularly scheduled life, which to be honest is really fucking great sans the virtues of Europe because the virtues of L.A. are quite comparable; no joke. I mean, its spring but it feels like summer. Baseball is back and the Dodgers look like a legitimate powerhouse. The Lakers are rolling through the play-offs in Shaq era-like fashion. I’ve been golfing like never before all the while slowly improving even though most of my friends seem to have given up on the sport. My nephew is becoming a mini mad man. Summer is technically less than two months away. I’ve been spending lots of quality time with quality peeps. I return to school in the summer to refine this thing I call writing. My mom has retained some and I repeat SOME level of stability. Conservatives are reeling, crying and tea bagging like the dickheads they are in the aftermath of a devastating lose of the White House. I’ve rediscovered, as I do every spring/summer, the Pixies & J Dilla and the unequivocal musical joy they bring to my everyday. The Hollywood Bowl calendar is stacked with yummy ear candy goodness. Ten years after buying my first car, I finally buy another. My fantasy baseball team is already way ahead of the pack, again.
But I digress. In an effort to get back on the writing track, I’ll cop out and talk about my weekend.
Friday
Friday’s are always the same for almost everyone in the following way. We wake up looking forward to the end of the day as the morning routine feels less convoluted and more pleasant. Co-workers almost feel like friends as the work day flies by. Evening plans are meticulously planned even if the agenda is to stay home and bring your TiVo up to speed. Work flew by and before I knew it, I was playing with my nephew at my mom’s house as my dad waxed poetic about how emotional he’s become as of late which I thought was funny and strange; for the first twenty five years of my life I’d seen him cry maybe 4 times. In the last 5 years? 6 times maybe? I dunno, I could be wrong on that number but what I’m sure of is that the unemotional unfazed machista father I knew as a kid has been disarmed. A couple of hours later, I dashed home, showered and waited for Mina to hit me with the, “I’m outside” text. Mariana made a cameo appearance. We jumped on the 110 to the 101 and were throwing back Heinies at the Little Temple Bar post haste. We danced, clowned and laughed our asses off until last call. My drunken ass ate a hot dog, stumbled up my stairs and passed out on my couch.
Saturday
For no damn reason, I woke up early on Saturday. Crudo and sleepy I tried to fight my way back to sleep but was startled by a missed phone call. My dad needed me to fill out some documents for him so I threw on some pants, jumped in the ride and went to back Monte. We shot the shit for a while as Control played in the background. It took me like 30 minutes to fill out a 3 question questionnaire. If you haven’t seen the show, I’ll just say that even the commercials are dope. Reason 23,486 why it’s great to be Latino. I bid my pop farewell and headed to the cemetery to visit my grandma. It’s one thing to visit her with my family and all but it’s a whole different experience when I roll solo. The emotional walls come crashing down. I revert to the emotional beast I once was as a child and suppress as an adult, a male adult. Never underestimate the misguided power of gender roles kids. I chatted with my G, arranged her flowers and headed to the driving range for a minute. I made it home in time to shower and chill out. My cousin invited me to his place to watch the Pacquiao vs. Hatton fight. I made the 5 minute drive to his house and watched the fight the only way any Pacman fan should; with a house full of Filipinos. It was interesting and extremely heart warming to watch the fight with my cousin’s relatively new family. The parallels in culture, mine and theirs, were way similar. From the welcoming to the overzealous cheering to the “do you want to take some food for your wife?” offer even though I’m not married to the clinginess to the beautiful babies, to the spectacular food to the Lia Durans and Jasmine Villegas' of the world... These small and subtle but enriching experiences reaffirm my belief that we are all beautifully the fucking same. An incredible knock out later I went home and waited for Lilia and Mariana to swing by for another night out. We headed to the Little Cave threw back a few Stone I.P.A.’s and shot the shit until they turned the lights off on us.
Sunday
Before I forget, tacosam, thanks for your comments and vicarious ways. Those almost daily comments were a gay man’s glory hole in the men’s restroom: unexpected and never disappointing. So again, thanks. If you’re ever in L.A. proper and want a beer or some La Estrella tacos, hit me up.
So back to my regularly scheduled life, which to be honest is really fucking great sans the virtues of Europe because the virtues of L.A. are quite comparable; no joke. I mean, its spring but it feels like summer. Baseball is back and the Dodgers look like a legitimate powerhouse. The Lakers are rolling through the play-offs in Shaq era-like fashion. I’ve been golfing like never before all the while slowly improving even though most of my friends seem to have given up on the sport. My nephew is becoming a mini mad man. Summer is technically less than two months away. I’ve been spending lots of quality time with quality peeps. I return to school in the summer to refine this thing I call writing. My mom has retained some and I repeat SOME level of stability. Conservatives are reeling, crying and tea bagging like the dickheads they are in the aftermath of a devastating lose of the White House. I’ve rediscovered, as I do every spring/summer, the Pixies & J Dilla and the unequivocal musical joy they bring to my everyday. The Hollywood Bowl calendar is stacked with yummy ear candy goodness. Ten years after buying my first car, I finally buy another. My fantasy baseball team is already way ahead of the pack, again.
But I digress. In an effort to get back on the writing track, I’ll cop out and talk about my weekend.
Friday
Friday’s are always the same for almost everyone in the following way. We wake up looking forward to the end of the day as the morning routine feels less convoluted and more pleasant. Co-workers almost feel like friends as the work day flies by. Evening plans are meticulously planned even if the agenda is to stay home and bring your TiVo up to speed. Work flew by and before I knew it, I was playing with my nephew at my mom’s house as my dad waxed poetic about how emotional he’s become as of late which I thought was funny and strange; for the first twenty five years of my life I’d seen him cry maybe 4 times. In the last 5 years? 6 times maybe? I dunno, I could be wrong on that number but what I’m sure of is that the unemotional unfazed machista father I knew as a kid has been disarmed. A couple of hours later, I dashed home, showered and waited for Mina to hit me with the, “I’m outside” text. Mariana made a cameo appearance. We jumped on the 110 to the 101 and were throwing back Heinies at the Little Temple Bar post haste. We danced, clowned and laughed our asses off until last call. My drunken ass ate a hot dog, stumbled up my stairs and passed out on my couch.
Saturday
For no damn reason, I woke up early on Saturday. Crudo and sleepy I tried to fight my way back to sleep but was startled by a missed phone call. My dad needed me to fill out some documents for him so I threw on some pants, jumped in the ride and went to back Monte. We shot the shit for a while as Control played in the background. It took me like 30 minutes to fill out a 3 question questionnaire. If you haven’t seen the show, I’ll just say that even the commercials are dope. Reason 23,486 why it’s great to be Latino. I bid my pop farewell and headed to the cemetery to visit my grandma. It’s one thing to visit her with my family and all but it’s a whole different experience when I roll solo. The emotional walls come crashing down. I revert to the emotional beast I once was as a child and suppress as an adult, a male adult. Never underestimate the misguided power of gender roles kids. I chatted with my G, arranged her flowers and headed to the driving range for a minute. I made it home in time to shower and chill out. My cousin invited me to his place to watch the Pacquiao vs. Hatton fight. I made the 5 minute drive to his house and watched the fight the only way any Pacman fan should; with a house full of Filipinos. It was interesting and extremely heart warming to watch the fight with my cousin’s relatively new family. The parallels in culture, mine and theirs, were way similar. From the welcoming to the overzealous cheering to the “do you want to take some food for your wife?” offer even though I’m not married to the clinginess to the beautiful babies, to the spectacular food to the Lia Durans and Jasmine Villegas' of the world... These small and subtle but enriching experiences reaffirm my belief that we are all beautifully the fucking same. An incredible knock out later I went home and waited for Lilia and Mariana to swing by for another night out. We headed to the Little Cave threw back a few Stone I.P.A.’s and shot the shit until they turned the lights off on us.
Sunday
I developed a bit of a sore throat so I woke up, took a swig from the Nyquil bottle, ate a fantastic soyrizo and beans breakfast and went back to sleep. I woke up round 4:30 and realized most of the days good sporting events had come and gone. Tiger took a big shit, the Dodgers won again and there was nothing else to watch so I fired up back to back to back episodes of Family Guy. Fatima finally arrived; we hung out, ate from La Estrella and watched TV until we both passed out in the living room.
It’s Monday and the Lakers start their series against the boring ass Rockets. I said ass rockets. Anyway, go Lakers, Dodgers and whoever is playing the Giants and Celtics.
It’s Monday and the Lakers start their series against the boring ass Rockets. I said ass rockets. Anyway, go Lakers, Dodgers and whoever is playing the Giants and Celtics.
Peace.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Au Revoir
It’s our last night in Paris and it’s only appropriate that a hefty amount of Bordeaux is currently running through my veins. Spelling and grammatical errors cometh. We woke up this morning and started the day late. We walked over to the place we went to when we first arrived in Paris, Au Metro. It was a must to go there one last time before our metro/freeway stop changed from Porte Doree to Avenue 66. I ordered the special of the day; chicken with rice while Fatima had the salmon I had last time we were there. Both were absolutely fucking ridiculously last meal status delicious. We had a crème brule, café au lait and a ciggy for dessert and I must say the thought of this meal will never leave me but not just because of the food. A 63-year-old Parisian man sat next to us. He worked the news kiosk in front of the brasserie we are at and was a patron of the place twice a week. He had this salad with a concoction of fish and potatoes. The moment I saw his dish I regretted not having what he had. That is, until my food arrived. In between bites, in his best English, that was ten times better than Fatima’s French that was in itself quite impressive, we talked about food and travel. He asked where we were from and I asked if he was native to Paris. He wasn’t. He was actually from the south of France; Marseille. He was super curious and asked of our wines, our food, our language. As any Frenchmen should, he knew his food and knew his wine. We asked him if he’d been to the Etas Unis to which he responded in broken English, “I have never left France, I have always been too poor, sometimes I cry because I have never been anywhere else.” He then said, “I’d love to go to Italy.” And I’m not bullshiting, he said this, “I’d like to go to Venizia, Firenze, Rome.” He said that, just like that. I looked at Fatima and thought but never said, “Please don’t tell him that that is where we are coming from.” Immediately after he said that my eyes welled up like an eighty-year-old black woman on January 20, 2009. I was sad for and envious of this man. He said he had never left France as if it were a bad thing. On many levels it is but if one cannot a leave a country in 63 years I’d be hard pressed to think of another country besides France or the U.S. that I’d rather be stuck in. I find this hard to believe but perhaps he doesn’t understand how fortunate he is to be from France. The food, the wine, the people, the ambiance, the culture, the history, the aesthetic beauty? I mean Paris overwhelms the fucking shit out of me, it really does. It’s like making love to the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen, it’s THEE best meal you’ve ever had, it’s one of the butterflies in your stomach during your first kiss, it’s new love, it’s the best book you’ve ever read, it’s driving to Santa Barbara with your little sis, it’s a dub sack of stress weed at a punk rock gig in El Monte, it’s Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl, it’s almost Noah, it’s winning City champs as an eleven-year-old lefty, it’s fucken heaven on earth for crying out loud. When the sun started setting on Paris tonight and our trip for that matter I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sadness. I’ve never wanted to prolong trip. At the end of all vacations I can’t wait to get back to my beloved Los Angeles but tonight I need another night, I need another month, another year, perhaps another life.
Back to the days events. We ended up at a local supermarket, stocked up on cheese, bread, wine and cookies; Jesus style, minus the cookies. We planned on having a picnic near the Seine River in the evening. We brought our stuff back to the hotel, psychologically prepared for out last hoorah in Paris and hit the train. We headed back to the Republique, where we had our North African experience to pick up a couple of souvenirs and bid farewell to the part of Paris that Fatima will forever have an affinity with. We then headed over to Shakespeare and Co. It’s a bookstore opened up by a Massachusetts man that did not want to leave Paris so he decided to sell English language books. We walked through the store in museum like fashion. That store is a piece of work, let me tell you. After much ado I found it appropriate to pick up The Fall by my favorite and the best author on planet earth and a French Algerian at heart, skin and blood; Albert Camus. Like a kid at a candy store, Fatima pried me away and we were on our way back to the park near our hotel to have our cheeses, olives, grapes and Bordeaux. When we got off on Porte Doree Fatima realized she was cold and said she’d rather eat in our hotel. I didn’t care either way so we headed up to the 2nd floor, room 14 in Hotel Porte Doree, spread out a towel on our bed and had a makeshift picnic while the Marseille soccer team beat Ajax in the Champions League on the tube. Fatima’s asleep as I type away and listen to Tori Amos. We have less than 12 hours in Paris and like the 10-year-old version of me when my cousin Patch or Rocio would spend the night at my house; I want this night to last forever.
Who am I fucking kidding, I can’t wait for the first sight of the San Gabriel mountains as our jumbo jet nears LAX. That security blanket I call Los Angeles is waiting for me. As much as I love Paris and will miss it I am ready for home. Noah, I will see you soon.
It’s our last night in Paris and it’s only appropriate that a hefty amount of Bordeaux is currently running through my veins. Spelling and grammatical errors cometh. We woke up this morning and started the day late. We walked over to the place we went to when we first arrived in Paris, Au Metro. It was a must to go there one last time before our metro/freeway stop changed from Porte Doree to Avenue 66. I ordered the special of the day; chicken with rice while Fatima had the salmon I had last time we were there. Both were absolutely fucking ridiculously last meal status delicious. We had a crème brule, café au lait and a ciggy for dessert and I must say the thought of this meal will never leave me but not just because of the food. A 63-year-old Parisian man sat next to us. He worked the news kiosk in front of the brasserie we are at and was a patron of the place twice a week. He had this salad with a concoction of fish and potatoes. The moment I saw his dish I regretted not having what he had. That is, until my food arrived. In between bites, in his best English, that was ten times better than Fatima’s French that was in itself quite impressive, we talked about food and travel. He asked where we were from and I asked if he was native to Paris. He wasn’t. He was actually from the south of France; Marseille. He was super curious and asked of our wines, our food, our language. As any Frenchmen should, he knew his food and knew his wine. We asked him if he’d been to the Etas Unis to which he responded in broken English, “I have never left France, I have always been too poor, sometimes I cry because I have never been anywhere else.” He then said, “I’d love to go to Italy.” And I’m not bullshiting, he said this, “I’d like to go to Venizia, Firenze, Rome.” He said that, just like that. I looked at Fatima and thought but never said, “Please don’t tell him that that is where we are coming from.” Immediately after he said that my eyes welled up like an eighty-year-old black woman on January 20, 2009. I was sad for and envious of this man. He said he had never left France as if it were a bad thing. On many levels it is but if one cannot a leave a country in 63 years I’d be hard pressed to think of another country besides France or the U.S. that I’d rather be stuck in. I find this hard to believe but perhaps he doesn’t understand how fortunate he is to be from France. The food, the wine, the people, the ambiance, the culture, the history, the aesthetic beauty? I mean Paris overwhelms the fucking shit out of me, it really does. It’s like making love to the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen, it’s THEE best meal you’ve ever had, it’s one of the butterflies in your stomach during your first kiss, it’s new love, it’s the best book you’ve ever read, it’s driving to Santa Barbara with your little sis, it’s a dub sack of stress weed at a punk rock gig in El Monte, it’s Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl, it’s almost Noah, it’s winning City champs as an eleven-year-old lefty, it’s fucken heaven on earth for crying out loud. When the sun started setting on Paris tonight and our trip for that matter I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sadness. I’ve never wanted to prolong trip. At the end of all vacations I can’t wait to get back to my beloved Los Angeles but tonight I need another night, I need another month, another year, perhaps another life.
Back to the days events. We ended up at a local supermarket, stocked up on cheese, bread, wine and cookies; Jesus style, minus the cookies. We planned on having a picnic near the Seine River in the evening. We brought our stuff back to the hotel, psychologically prepared for out last hoorah in Paris and hit the train. We headed back to the Republique, where we had our North African experience to pick up a couple of souvenirs and bid farewell to the part of Paris that Fatima will forever have an affinity with. We then headed over to Shakespeare and Co. It’s a bookstore opened up by a Massachusetts man that did not want to leave Paris so he decided to sell English language books. We walked through the store in museum like fashion. That store is a piece of work, let me tell you. After much ado I found it appropriate to pick up The Fall by my favorite and the best author on planet earth and a French Algerian at heart, skin and blood; Albert Camus. Like a kid at a candy store, Fatima pried me away and we were on our way back to the park near our hotel to have our cheeses, olives, grapes and Bordeaux. When we got off on Porte Doree Fatima realized she was cold and said she’d rather eat in our hotel. I didn’t care either way so we headed up to the 2nd floor, room 14 in Hotel Porte Doree, spread out a towel on our bed and had a makeshift picnic while the Marseille soccer team beat Ajax in the Champions League on the tube. Fatima’s asleep as I type away and listen to Tori Amos. We have less than 12 hours in Paris and like the 10-year-old version of me when my cousin Patch or Rocio would spend the night at my house; I want this night to last forever.
Who am I fucking kidding, I can’t wait for the first sight of the San Gabriel mountains as our jumbo jet nears LAX. That security blanket I call Los Angeles is waiting for me. As much as I love Paris and will miss it I am ready for home. Noah, I will see you soon.
Labels: Paris
¶ 4:44 PM 1 Comments
Pair-is
Back track to two nights ago, since my last posting. This mom and pop restaurant, Robert et Louise was recommended to us by a friend of my girl’s. We took the train ride into the Marais neighborhood, also known as the Castro of Paris; the gay neighborhood. Google maps failed us, actually I think I failed us and we ended up getting lost and not finding Robert et Louise. We stumbled upon another place that happened to be recommended in our guidebook. We asked our waiter to recommend something, as has been the norm and he recommended the pizza. I had this crazy, mushroom/ham/bell pepper/egg pizza while Fatima had the four-cheese pizza. Both were great but it wasn’t what I’d expected to have in France, pizza. We trained it back to the hotel and went to bed.
The next day we got ready and headed over to St. Germain, the art district. We couldn’t find a Café with reasonably priced food, reasonably meaning under 15 Euro a plate; that’s like $20 a plate at home so we weren’t being frugal or even picky, that area was just crazy expensive. We found a cool little spot on a corner. I realize that in Europe, especially Paris, almost every single restaurant has outdoor seating. In L.A., not so much. This vexes the hell out of me. Why would anymore NOT want to eat outdoors aside from when it is pouring outside. I mean, we have perfect fucken weather and still outdoor eating options are way limited. Anyway, we both ordered an omelet with ham, mushroom and cheese. At first glance it looked like just any old omelet. I thought, eh, at least it will power me through the next couple of hours but at first bite it was incredible. It’s amazing how the simplest food here is so damn tasty. We finished our coffee and jumped on the train to the Eiffel Tower.
The Eiffel Tower was very cool but like most things tourtisty, full of fucken tourists. I threw on my ear buds, fired up the old iPod and let Lagwagon drown out the eeks of stupid Americans until we got to the top of the tower, actually the 2nd level, the top level was closed. The view of Paris from up top is just amazing. We snapped some pics, gazed in amazement and finally left all the while looking back every few yards to just to look at the tower again. Thing is huge, like scary huge. We bought some crepes and a water and sat on the steps of some theater hall to people watch. Tall, thin French women in slender black dresses kept pouring into this theater. I imagined they worked there but couldn’t imagine what they did. We jumped on the train back to the hotel to chill out before heading to dinner.
Yesterday was me and Fatima’s anniversary. The whole point of this trip was in celebration of it. We decided to try Robert et Louise again, considering it’s supposed to be a fantastic place. We later found out that Anthony Bourdain had been there and were even more stoked to go. That dude is my fucken travel, culinary hero and if a place is okay by him it’s probably ok by me. The makings of a great anniversary dinner were queued. We actually found the place, walked right in, sat down and ordered our food. The place was super hot and stuffy. Under normal circumstances I’d of walked right the fuck out. They have word burning stoves like right fucken there in front of everyone. I bit the bullet and just focused on trying to stay cool. Ten minutes later all was well, I felt better and wine was on the way. This place is so popular that one has to sit among strangers, communal eating y’all. We sat next to this guy who sounded like a prick and his girlfriend. Soon after, three other guys say next to us. They heard us speaking English and sparked up a conversation with us. They talked about how great and typically French this restaurant was as the wine poured. They mentioned how they used to live in the Southern countryside and create their own wood fire stove in order to have the same kind of meals out there that they had here at Robert et Louise. They spoke of their hatred for their president, Sorkozy and I spoke of the hope in mine. And we ate. I ordered a simple steak with potatoes while Fatima ordered the duck, yes the duck. Again, the food was fantastic. The steak? Perfectly cooked, succulent and flavorful. The potatoes? Perfectly seasoned and delicious. Fatima’s duck was amazing. I’d never had duck before but it did remind me a little of turkey only if that turkey was French, moist and a duck. All in all, the food, the wine and the company was top notch. We walked over to a nearby bar, grabbed some beer, wine, lit up a couple of smokes and chatted with a transplanted American next to us. I’m assuming she was gay because the waitress, who was butch to the nines, kept hitting on her and kissing her on the cheek. Seriously. But what’s even funnier is that the transplants mom was right there watching the whole thing. I can’t imagine this happening at home, not even at the highest levels of tolerance. It was refreshing to say the very least. Viva la France.
Again, this trip was in celebration of our relationship but it’s turned into so much more. As have the last few years with Fatima. I’m a lucky motherfucker I know. She’s such an amazing women, such a rare breed but above all, she’s mine. I am thankful for her love and I give it in many returns. To many more. ¶ 4:22 AM 1 Comments
Back track to two nights ago, since my last posting. This mom and pop restaurant, Robert et Louise was recommended to us by a friend of my girl’s. We took the train ride into the Marais neighborhood, also known as the Castro of Paris; the gay neighborhood. Google maps failed us, actually I think I failed us and we ended up getting lost and not finding Robert et Louise. We stumbled upon another place that happened to be recommended in our guidebook. We asked our waiter to recommend something, as has been the norm and he recommended the pizza. I had this crazy, mushroom/ham/bell pepper/egg pizza while Fatima had the four-cheese pizza. Both were great but it wasn’t what I’d expected to have in France, pizza. We trained it back to the hotel and went to bed.
The next day we got ready and headed over to St. Germain, the art district. We couldn’t find a Café with reasonably priced food, reasonably meaning under 15 Euro a plate; that’s like $20 a plate at home so we weren’t being frugal or even picky, that area was just crazy expensive. We found a cool little spot on a corner. I realize that in Europe, especially Paris, almost every single restaurant has outdoor seating. In L.A., not so much. This vexes the hell out of me. Why would anymore NOT want to eat outdoors aside from when it is pouring outside. I mean, we have perfect fucken weather and still outdoor eating options are way limited. Anyway, we both ordered an omelet with ham, mushroom and cheese. At first glance it looked like just any old omelet. I thought, eh, at least it will power me through the next couple of hours but at first bite it was incredible. It’s amazing how the simplest food here is so damn tasty. We finished our coffee and jumped on the train to the Eiffel Tower.
The Eiffel Tower was very cool but like most things tourtisty, full of fucken tourists. I threw on my ear buds, fired up the old iPod and let Lagwagon drown out the eeks of stupid Americans until we got to the top of the tower, actually the 2nd level, the top level was closed. The view of Paris from up top is just amazing. We snapped some pics, gazed in amazement and finally left all the while looking back every few yards to just to look at the tower again. Thing is huge, like scary huge. We bought some crepes and a water and sat on the steps of some theater hall to people watch. Tall, thin French women in slender black dresses kept pouring into this theater. I imagined they worked there but couldn’t imagine what they did. We jumped on the train back to the hotel to chill out before heading to dinner.
Yesterday was me and Fatima’s anniversary. The whole point of this trip was in celebration of it. We decided to try Robert et Louise again, considering it’s supposed to be a fantastic place. We later found out that Anthony Bourdain had been there and were even more stoked to go. That dude is my fucken travel, culinary hero and if a place is okay by him it’s probably ok by me. The makings of a great anniversary dinner were queued. We actually found the place, walked right in, sat down and ordered our food. The place was super hot and stuffy. Under normal circumstances I’d of walked right the fuck out. They have word burning stoves like right fucken there in front of everyone. I bit the bullet and just focused on trying to stay cool. Ten minutes later all was well, I felt better and wine was on the way. This place is so popular that one has to sit among strangers, communal eating y’all. We sat next to this guy who sounded like a prick and his girlfriend. Soon after, three other guys say next to us. They heard us speaking English and sparked up a conversation with us. They talked about how great and typically French this restaurant was as the wine poured. They mentioned how they used to live in the Southern countryside and create their own wood fire stove in order to have the same kind of meals out there that they had here at Robert et Louise. They spoke of their hatred for their president, Sorkozy and I spoke of the hope in mine. And we ate. I ordered a simple steak with potatoes while Fatima ordered the duck, yes the duck. Again, the food was fantastic. The steak? Perfectly cooked, succulent and flavorful. The potatoes? Perfectly seasoned and delicious. Fatima’s duck was amazing. I’d never had duck before but it did remind me a little of turkey only if that turkey was French, moist and a duck. All in all, the food, the wine and the company was top notch. We walked over to a nearby bar, grabbed some beer, wine, lit up a couple of smokes and chatted with a transplanted American next to us. I’m assuming she was gay because the waitress, who was butch to the nines, kept hitting on her and kissing her on the cheek. Seriously. But what’s even funnier is that the transplants mom was right there watching the whole thing. I can’t imagine this happening at home, not even at the highest levels of tolerance. It was refreshing to say the very least. Viva la France.
Again, this trip was in celebration of our relationship but it’s turned into so much more. As have the last few years with Fatima. I’m a lucky motherfucker I know. She’s such an amazing women, such a rare breed but above all, she’s mine. I am thankful for her love and I give it in many returns. To many more. ¶ 4:22 AM 1 Comments
Monday, March 16, 2009
Vivo la France
We've made it to Paris. Oh wait, Venice. Venice is a tourist clusterfuck of grand proportions, like The Louvre grand (more on that later). Our hotel in Venice was about 1 minute away from the train station. I haven't mentioned the hotels we've been staying at whatsoever but they've been nice for the most part but our hotel in Venice was pretty off the hook, it's called Hotel Abbazia. There was ass plush furniture, it was aesthetically nice, super close to everything and nice & sparkly clean. We checked in, dropped off our stuff and hurried out into the Venetian "streets." Venice is super elegant and full of shopping opportunities. I mean it felt like a mall on steroids; not Andy Pettite steroids, I’m talking about shot on your butt cheek breaking records like Barry Bonds steroids. It was just surreal. I'm super glad I went to Venice before the fucken place sinks into the Mediterranean Sea but in all honesty, I could have done without it. Mireya, I just couldn't bite the bullet and take the gondola ride. I'm sorry; I know I said I would but CHALE, that shit would have made me feel like such an American tourist! Translation: douche bag dickhead. Speaking of douche bags. News flash! You all think guys wearing sunglasses indoors in L.A. are douche bags? Well in Europe, they're just Italians. I'm serious; even little kids were doing it. Plus, I saw six year olds with their ears pierced! You can't make this stuff up. All kidding aside, Italy was off the fucken hook. Shit, we spent the most time there. I can honestly say I love Italy and some of its people, Marcella; I’m talking about you. But there is something to be said about a city that immediately demands your love and attention; demands it. What’s more is when one is willing to give that attention and succumb to its charm, its grace and it’s well deserved lore. I’m talking about Paris.
We got to Paris and took an hour-long train ride that felt like a commute from downtown L.A. to the 909, just brutal. We chilled for about an hour in our room; traveling can take a toll on you, tu sabes. We freshened up (freshened up meaning, Fatima actually freshened up and I just washed my hands) and headed down to the front desk. We asked the girl at the front desk, whom we think is either American or Canadian (I think Canadian from Montreal while Fatima thinks American from the Northwest, we’ll see) if she knew of any good restaurants nearby. She suggested this place called Au Metro. We walked over couldn’t read the menu, couldn’t decide what to get and finally settled on a crab salad for Fatima and salmon for me. The last week and a half we’ve been able to get an English menu, not have to really know the language – here? Fuck that. This was in no way shape or form a tourist destination. There were a bunch of teenagers in the patio (right in front of us but on the other side of the glass) smoking like trains, drinking coffee and chatting up a French storm. Oh and the food was the absolute best thing we’ve had this entire trip. That’s saying a lot. The food has gotten progressively better as we’ve traveled, 'cept Venice. The salmon was classic French; French technique, French sauces, French flavors! The crab salad? Same deal. I took my time eating, I wanted to savor every last bite and I did. We finished eating, talked about the significance of traveling and it’s ability to manifest a deep admiration and appreciation for other ways of living, loving and dying. We drank some coffee, paid the tab and jumped on the train to anywhere. I don’t even remember where got off but we found what looked like the Paris version of the alleys downtown, los callejones. It was bustling like crazy. We were in the heart of Paris. I’m not talking about the Champs Elysees or better yet, the Hollywood Blvd. (bad comparison I know but you get the point). I’m talking about the East Los of Paris. There were a ton of North African immigrants. How’d I know? Well, those who weren’t black looked like my girl’s Berber Algerian father and the rest were Zinadine Zidane looking motherfuckers, Berber too. I know my girl was enjoying this. The truth of the matter is that this is as close to going to Algeria as she’s ever going to get. I could tell you what it looked like but I couldn’t describe the smell of food oozing out of restaurants as we walked by, you couldn’t hear the buzz of Arabic, French and other, you couldn’t see the countless halfsies, like my girl. But the real beauty of this place? We weren’t tourists, we weren’t experiencing Paris as tourists, we were experiencing Paris as the everyday immigrant Parisian. Can I get hell mutha fucking hell yes? We found the train back to our hotel, took a chill a pill and fell asleep a lot sooner than we had hoped. So be it.
Today, we woke up slowly and found our way to The Louvre. Before we entered, we ate at a little café close by; nothing to write home about but it was good. We went into The Louvre and all hell broke lose in my noggin. We rushed to the Mona Lisa, whisking past masterpiece upon masterpiece. We finally got to it; fucken thing is a well-deserved rock star. I stood in front of it and tried to remember what I read about it in The Da Vinci Code. That’s embarrassing huh? I don’t care man, that’s what I did. Either way, I couldn’t absorb the magnitude of the moment, I just couldn’t. I think it will hit me weeks maybe months from today while I’m golfing with Joe, throwing back an I.P.A. with Mariana or just watching the Dodgers on my couch by myself but it will undoubtedly hit me. We also saw the Venus de Milo; it’s temporarily at The Louvre. I enjoyed it but to put it not so mildly, I didn’t get an artistic boner from it. I’d been looking forward to The Louvre for a long time. I think it was the ONE thing I looked forward to the most from this trip, maybe more so than the food or the FC Barcelona game and it delivered just not how I thought it would. There were countless pieces that just inspired the fuck out of me. There are too many to count and name here but there were two in particular that I just couldn’t keep my eyes off; Gericault’s The Raft of the Medusa and Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, both next to each other. You may have seen part of Liberty Leading the People on the cover of Coldplay’s album, Viva La Vida. I don’t know if it was because of these pieces’ relevance to the French Revolution and the world for that matter or if it was simply because they are massive in size and beauty but both truly evoked something from within, I felt emotional, I felt a sense of understanding about the French I never had before. I know it may sound far fetched but that’s what I saw that’s how I felt and that’s that. If you are not one that appreciates art or are even bored by this type of art, paintings and sculptures and such. I challenge you to come to Paris, come to The Louvre and study these pieces in person and ask yourself if you’ve ever in your life seen something so vivid and alive. But if you are an artist of any kind there is no fucking (notice I said fucking, not fucken) excuse. Not coming to The Louvre is like aspiring to be a world class chef and not understanding French cooking techniques, it’s like practicing law by skipping law school and just passing the bar, it’s like driving with your fucken feet on the steering wheel. Just because it can be done doesn’t mean it should be. And that was just the Large Format French Painters room. We saw Napoleon’s apartment for shits and giggles, chilled out at the courtyard and made the historical trek Napoleon did from The Louvre down Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe, snapped some pictures, trained it back to our hotel and fired up the old laptop.
TONIGHT! WE DINE IN…
Paris.
Til manana.
We've made it to Paris. Oh wait, Venice. Venice is a tourist clusterfuck of grand proportions, like The Louvre grand (more on that later). Our hotel in Venice was about 1 minute away from the train station. I haven't mentioned the hotels we've been staying at whatsoever but they've been nice for the most part but our hotel in Venice was pretty off the hook, it's called Hotel Abbazia. There was ass plush furniture, it was aesthetically nice, super close to everything and nice & sparkly clean. We checked in, dropped off our stuff and hurried out into the Venetian "streets." Venice is super elegant and full of shopping opportunities. I mean it felt like a mall on steroids; not Andy Pettite steroids, I’m talking about shot on your butt cheek breaking records like Barry Bonds steroids. It was just surreal. I'm super glad I went to Venice before the fucken place sinks into the Mediterranean Sea but in all honesty, I could have done without it. Mireya, I just couldn't bite the bullet and take the gondola ride. I'm sorry; I know I said I would but CHALE, that shit would have made me feel like such an American tourist! Translation: douche bag dickhead. Speaking of douche bags. News flash! You all think guys wearing sunglasses indoors in L.A. are douche bags? Well in Europe, they're just Italians. I'm serious; even little kids were doing it. Plus, I saw six year olds with their ears pierced! You can't make this stuff up. All kidding aside, Italy was off the fucken hook. Shit, we spent the most time there. I can honestly say I love Italy and some of its people, Marcella; I’m talking about you. But there is something to be said about a city that immediately demands your love and attention; demands it. What’s more is when one is willing to give that attention and succumb to its charm, its grace and it’s well deserved lore. I’m talking about Paris.
We got to Paris and took an hour-long train ride that felt like a commute from downtown L.A. to the 909, just brutal. We chilled for about an hour in our room; traveling can take a toll on you, tu sabes. We freshened up (freshened up meaning, Fatima actually freshened up and I just washed my hands) and headed down to the front desk. We asked the girl at the front desk, whom we think is either American or Canadian (I think Canadian from Montreal while Fatima thinks American from the Northwest, we’ll see) if she knew of any good restaurants nearby. She suggested this place called Au Metro. We walked over couldn’t read the menu, couldn’t decide what to get and finally settled on a crab salad for Fatima and salmon for me. The last week and a half we’ve been able to get an English menu, not have to really know the language – here? Fuck that. This was in no way shape or form a tourist destination. There were a bunch of teenagers in the patio (right in front of us but on the other side of the glass) smoking like trains, drinking coffee and chatting up a French storm. Oh and the food was the absolute best thing we’ve had this entire trip. That’s saying a lot. The food has gotten progressively better as we’ve traveled, 'cept Venice. The salmon was classic French; French technique, French sauces, French flavors! The crab salad? Same deal. I took my time eating, I wanted to savor every last bite and I did. We finished eating, talked about the significance of traveling and it’s ability to manifest a deep admiration and appreciation for other ways of living, loving and dying. We drank some coffee, paid the tab and jumped on the train to anywhere. I don’t even remember where got off but we found what looked like the Paris version of the alleys downtown, los callejones. It was bustling like crazy. We were in the heart of Paris. I’m not talking about the Champs Elysees or better yet, the Hollywood Blvd. (bad comparison I know but you get the point). I’m talking about the East Los of Paris. There were a ton of North African immigrants. How’d I know? Well, those who weren’t black looked like my girl’s Berber Algerian father and the rest were Zinadine Zidane looking motherfuckers, Berber too. I know my girl was enjoying this. The truth of the matter is that this is as close to going to Algeria as she’s ever going to get. I could tell you what it looked like but I couldn’t describe the smell of food oozing out of restaurants as we walked by, you couldn’t hear the buzz of Arabic, French and other, you couldn’t see the countless halfsies, like my girl. But the real beauty of this place? We weren’t tourists, we weren’t experiencing Paris as tourists, we were experiencing Paris as the everyday immigrant Parisian. Can I get hell mutha fucking hell yes? We found the train back to our hotel, took a chill a pill and fell asleep a lot sooner than we had hoped. So be it.
Today, we woke up slowly and found our way to The Louvre. Before we entered, we ate at a little café close by; nothing to write home about but it was good. We went into The Louvre and all hell broke lose in my noggin. We rushed to the Mona Lisa, whisking past masterpiece upon masterpiece. We finally got to it; fucken thing is a well-deserved rock star. I stood in front of it and tried to remember what I read about it in The Da Vinci Code. That’s embarrassing huh? I don’t care man, that’s what I did. Either way, I couldn’t absorb the magnitude of the moment, I just couldn’t. I think it will hit me weeks maybe months from today while I’m golfing with Joe, throwing back an I.P.A. with Mariana or just watching the Dodgers on my couch by myself but it will undoubtedly hit me. We also saw the Venus de Milo; it’s temporarily at The Louvre. I enjoyed it but to put it not so mildly, I didn’t get an artistic boner from it. I’d been looking forward to The Louvre for a long time. I think it was the ONE thing I looked forward to the most from this trip, maybe more so than the food or the FC Barcelona game and it delivered just not how I thought it would. There were countless pieces that just inspired the fuck out of me. There are too many to count and name here but there were two in particular that I just couldn’t keep my eyes off; Gericault’s The Raft of the Medusa and Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, both next to each other. You may have seen part of Liberty Leading the People on the cover of Coldplay’s album, Viva La Vida. I don’t know if it was because of these pieces’ relevance to the French Revolution and the world for that matter or if it was simply because they are massive in size and beauty but both truly evoked something from within, I felt emotional, I felt a sense of understanding about the French I never had before. I know it may sound far fetched but that’s what I saw that’s how I felt and that’s that. If you are not one that appreciates art or are even bored by this type of art, paintings and sculptures and such. I challenge you to come to Paris, come to The Louvre and study these pieces in person and ask yourself if you’ve ever in your life seen something so vivid and alive. But if you are an artist of any kind there is no fucking (notice I said fucking, not fucken) excuse. Not coming to The Louvre is like aspiring to be a world class chef and not understanding French cooking techniques, it’s like practicing law by skipping law school and just passing the bar, it’s like driving with your fucken feet on the steering wheel. Just because it can be done doesn’t mean it should be. And that was just the Large Format French Painters room. We saw Napoleon’s apartment for shits and giggles, chilled out at the courtyard and made the historical trek Napoleon did from The Louvre down Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe, snapped some pictures, trained it back to our hotel and fired up the old laptop.
TONIGHT! WE DINE IN…
Paris.
Til manana.
Labels: Paris
¶ 9:37 AM 2 Comments
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Italian Double Feature...
Finally got on a wifi connection. We are in Venice today and about to head out. Here are my pieces on Rome and Florence. First Rome:
When in Rome
What a predictable title eh?
We’ve had very limited access to the internet since arriving to Rome but the last few days have been so uneventful there hasn’t been all that much to write about. PSYCHE!
Seriously, though I’ve lost track of the days. I know it’s Thursday as I write this while sitting on the Eurorail to Florence.
Now to recap: The day we left for Rome was a pain in the fucken ass. Our flight was scheduled to depart at 1PM and as we frantically hurried and arrived at the airport we found that our flight had been postponed until 5:45PM; it was about 11:30AM. They supposedly sent an email to Fatima in advance letting her know of the change. Whether that email arrived or not is still a mystery to both of us but I digress. I expected the next six hours to be sheer fucken torture. The first hour was but soon after we checked our bag and found a cozy corner in the airport all was well. Having only slept about three hours the prior night I uncomfortably slept like a baby. We woke up at five, jumped on our flight and made it to Rome.
It was so late that all we had time for was dinner. We took the hotel shuttle service into Rome’s City Center and stumbled upon a quaint little spot. The food was fantastic. We both had pasta and Lazio wine with champagne and cookies. It was our first night in Rome and thought if that meal was any indication of what we could gastronomically expect of this city then this was gonna be super dope and it was.
The next morning we headed back to City Center and found our way to the Coliseum (Colosseo). On our way there this Italian man drove up next to us and asked me if I knew where the Colosseo was. From the little Italian I could understand he said he was embarrassed because he didn’t know his way around Rome but was from Milan and hadn’t figured out the chaos of Rome. Before I go any further I have to explain that my guidebook warns of con men all over the city so I already had the mindset to be cautious. Shit, I’m paranoid at home where I feel relatively safe so you can imagine how that warning resonated with me. This guy proceeded to ask me where I was from, He said, "Let me guess, Braslieno?" I said, "No I’m from the U.S. but I’m Mexicano." He said, “Ah, my wife is from D.F.” and so on. I was skeptical but hadn’t shat on this man yet. He then said he was a distributor for Armani or some shit and since I’m Mexican and his wife is Mexican he wanted to give us two “leather” jackets from his “corazon” (he even put his hand over his heart, it was precious) in exchange for a couple of Euros for gas. I looked at his gas gauge; he had more than half a tank. I dug through a couple of 50 and 20 Euro bills in my pocket and pulled out a single Euro coin and said, “Here you go, this is all we have.” His face crumbled like the ruins in the background as Fatima handed him his shitty pleathery looking jackets and I handed him his (that I found hilarious) homemade business card. Funny shit eh.
The Colosseo was everything one imagines it’d be like. One gets lost in the historical gravity of it all. It was a spectacle but undoubtedly the spectacle of today is nothing compared to what it was like in its heyday. One can see where slaves, gladiators and animals were stored and aqueducts that rushed water into the Colosseo for Naval battles. I kept thinking; if Carlos were to see this, his head would explode.
Side note: As the train barrels through the Italian (Rome to Florence) countryside I can’t help but notice resemblances to Northern California. Next time you drive up to the Bay, look out your window and think of Italy, it’s not all that different.
After the Colosseo, we jumped on a couple of trains and found ourselves at St. Peter’s Basilica. I ate a half pizza, half calzone made with the finest dough downed with a Peroni beer while Fatima ate pasta and drank wine. Again, the food was superb. Belly’s full, we made it to St. Peter’s Basilica. I know I’m starting to sound way repetitive but this place is just absolutely over the top ornate. I mean every nook and cranny is an absolute marvel. It’s an art orgy and everyone’s busting a nut all over the fucken place. Michelangelo must have been on some of that madman heroine Vincent Vega shot up in Pulp Fiction.
After we wiped ourselves off we headed to the entrance to Vatican City to find they had just stopped selling tickets. Oh man, I was devastated. I’d been looking forward to Vatican City like a fat kid to McDonald's on Fridays. I had that sinking feeling in my stomach; like my girlfriend missed her period and I’m only 18 with no job and I’m taking 6 units at PCC sinking feeling. We decided we’d come back in the morning before leaving to Florence. I was skeptical we’d come back and almost resigned myself to believing we weren’t coming back but as the cliché goes, where there’s a will there’s a guey, I mean way.
We jumped over to the Pantheon that I liked very much. It was super packed with a shitload of early teenaged kids, my fav. It was well preserved, a historical masterpiece but I could do without it. Don’t get my wrong it’s stunning but after St. Peters it was like reading Camus then Bukowski right after. Both great but one’s going to change the way you think of man’s ability to find happiness and joy in absurd situations while the other will just make your ass laugh. Get it? Good.
We then went to Trevi Fountain, snapped some photos, threw some change into the fountain and ate Gelato. Fatima mentioned that our friend Sandra had Gelato twice a day while in Italy and I just chalked that up to Sandra’s ability to eat like the entire offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys but damn, that gelato was off the hook! On our way back to the hotel shuttle stop it started to rain so we hurried into a bar, grabbed a pint and glass of wine and waited for the rain to subside. It was a proper Irish pub. Why was it proper you ask? Because an Irish woman farted right on us, that’s why. We walked down to our shuttle stop, picked up a couple of sandwiches, waited a freezing hour and made it back to the hotel in time for me to watch the AS Roma v. Arsenal Champions league match at the bar and get to bed in time to wake up early in the morning.
It wasn’t an easy process by any means but we managed to make it to Vatican City today. I think I would have been totally depressed if we hadn’t. I mean, what's the point of coming to Rome if you're not going to Vatican City, may as well go to NYC and stay in little Italy. We strolled through the entire museum. There’s really no way to put into words how one feels and what one thinks when watching, nearly touching and walking among enormous, old pieces of art. I was really impressed by the tapestries and religious sculptures (I guess everything is religious in there) but the heart of the Vatican is without a doubt the Sistine Chapel. I advise you to google it even if you have no intention of ever going to Vatican City. As a catholic kid I’d always hear about it, my grandma would mention it but I never understood the mystique of Michelangelo’s art. I know that sounds stupid but I didn’t. After St. Peter’s and Vatican City I mean, he’s gotta be the Michael Jordan of art right? I still have Paris to find out. Well, we’re almost in Florence.
One would think videos and images of my nephew would exacerbate any inkling of homesickness that would arise right but the opposite is true. Pa la proxima.
And here's the one on Florence:
Running over new ground
I don’t think there is any way shape or form I’d ever stay anywhere else in Florence. It’d be like drinking The Craftsmen 1903 at The York, showing up a month later and ordering a Miller Lite. When life throws you pocket kings you don’t fold and ride a pair of deuces til the river.
We arrived in Florence on Thursday, lugged our luggage to our “hotel,” got a proper tour of our temporary home and plopped our shit in our room before heading out to Michelangelo’s David; I think the museum is called L’Academia or something like that. We saw David’s gargantuan right hand and marble penis and stood in amazement. Everything about that piece of art is huge. From it’s relevance to the Renaissance to it’s actual size to it’s significance in the face of religious norms and preconceived notions of man as a pawn in the living world in preparation for the aftermath.
We left David, bounced over to our so-called hotel’s neck of the woods, grabbed a bite to eat and went to bed. Wait, the bite to eat. We had a liter of wine, beer, pizza, spaghetti with sausage, not Italian deli in L.A. sausage pasta but gangster shit; like leave the gun and take the cannoli gangster.
We woke up with chores. We had a fat load of clothes to wash, two bellies to fill and soul nourishment to attain. To be perfectly honest I was museum’d out today. In the last week we’d seen more art than an ass kissing Englishmen curator in L.A. would care to see. I’ve appreciated every last bit of it but more of the same gets tiring after a while, it really does. It reminds me of the saying, “Show me a beautiful women and I’ll show you a man that’s tired of fucking her.” I’m tired of fucking Michelangelo so needless to say no museum carousing was on the itinerary. Seriously, not even the Uffizi Gallery. We washed, grabbed some breakfast and took a nap. We woke up, hit an internet café, ate gelato (twice) walked to Ponte Vecchio and separated for a couple of hours. I love my girl and her company but there always comes a time during a long ass trip to take a psychological break and check-in with oneself, take a long walk, see how things are going in the skull, fantasize about home and make sure all checklists have been checked. It doesn't help that I'm a basketcase when I travel. Due diligence mo’fo’s.
We met up hours later, chatted about our alone time and figured out where to eat. We found this fantastic trattoria, thanks to Rick Steve’s, down the street from our temporary home and ate another amazing meal. Have I mentioned I’ve suspended my fishetarianism? Well, I had some rosemary steak that was off the fucken hook while Fatima had cheese ravioli with meat sauce that was equally good downed with house wine. We had a conversation trying to figure out whose food was better and we couldn’t figure it out. I say that’s a good thing. We found dessert and Belgian ale down the street and here we are. We leave to Venice tomorrow and I’m psyched for Venice yes but more so because Paris is just a few days away.
One thing about the place we stayed in. We literally stayed in an old woman’s home; her name is Marsella and she runs Casa Rabatti and it's just that, a casa. She’s this tiny little warm woman that exudes Florence and love just the same. She reminds me so much of my passed grandmother that it fucken breaks my heart; when she kissed me goodbye this morning I nearly wept. Years later, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here continues to play in the background of my heart. What more can I say.
Venezia here we come. ¶ 6:48 AM 1 Comments
Finally got on a wifi connection. We are in Venice today and about to head out. Here are my pieces on Rome and Florence. First Rome:
When in Rome
What a predictable title eh?
We’ve had very limited access to the internet since arriving to Rome but the last few days have been so uneventful there hasn’t been all that much to write about. PSYCHE!
Seriously, though I’ve lost track of the days. I know it’s Thursday as I write this while sitting on the Eurorail to Florence.
Now to recap: The day we left for Rome was a pain in the fucken ass. Our flight was scheduled to depart at 1PM and as we frantically hurried and arrived at the airport we found that our flight had been postponed until 5:45PM; it was about 11:30AM. They supposedly sent an email to Fatima in advance letting her know of the change. Whether that email arrived or not is still a mystery to both of us but I digress. I expected the next six hours to be sheer fucken torture. The first hour was but soon after we checked our bag and found a cozy corner in the airport all was well. Having only slept about three hours the prior night I uncomfortably slept like a baby. We woke up at five, jumped on our flight and made it to Rome.
It was so late that all we had time for was dinner. We took the hotel shuttle service into Rome’s City Center and stumbled upon a quaint little spot. The food was fantastic. We both had pasta and Lazio wine with champagne and cookies. It was our first night in Rome and thought if that meal was any indication of what we could gastronomically expect of this city then this was gonna be super dope and it was.
The next morning we headed back to City Center and found our way to the Coliseum (Colosseo). On our way there this Italian man drove up next to us and asked me if I knew where the Colosseo was. From the little Italian I could understand he said he was embarrassed because he didn’t know his way around Rome but was from Milan and hadn’t figured out the chaos of Rome. Before I go any further I have to explain that my guidebook warns of con men all over the city so I already had the mindset to be cautious. Shit, I’m paranoid at home where I feel relatively safe so you can imagine how that warning resonated with me. This guy proceeded to ask me where I was from, He said, "Let me guess, Braslieno?" I said, "No I’m from the U.S. but I’m Mexicano." He said, “Ah, my wife is from D.F.” and so on. I was skeptical but hadn’t shat on this man yet. He then said he was a distributor for Armani or some shit and since I’m Mexican and his wife is Mexican he wanted to give us two “leather” jackets from his “corazon” (he even put his hand over his heart, it was precious) in exchange for a couple of Euros for gas. I looked at his gas gauge; he had more than half a tank. I dug through a couple of 50 and 20 Euro bills in my pocket and pulled out a single Euro coin and said, “Here you go, this is all we have.” His face crumbled like the ruins in the background as Fatima handed him his shitty pleathery looking jackets and I handed him his (that I found hilarious) homemade business card. Funny shit eh.
The Colosseo was everything one imagines it’d be like. One gets lost in the historical gravity of it all. It was a spectacle but undoubtedly the spectacle of today is nothing compared to what it was like in its heyday. One can see where slaves, gladiators and animals were stored and aqueducts that rushed water into the Colosseo for Naval battles. I kept thinking; if Carlos were to see this, his head would explode.
Side note: As the train barrels through the Italian (Rome to Florence) countryside I can’t help but notice resemblances to Northern California. Next time you drive up to the Bay, look out your window and think of Italy, it’s not all that different.
After the Colosseo, we jumped on a couple of trains and found ourselves at St. Peter’s Basilica. I ate a half pizza, half calzone made with the finest dough downed with a Peroni beer while Fatima ate pasta and drank wine. Again, the food was superb. Belly’s full, we made it to St. Peter’s Basilica. I know I’m starting to sound way repetitive but this place is just absolutely over the top ornate. I mean every nook and cranny is an absolute marvel. It’s an art orgy and everyone’s busting a nut all over the fucken place. Michelangelo must have been on some of that madman heroine Vincent Vega shot up in Pulp Fiction.
After we wiped ourselves off we headed to the entrance to Vatican City to find they had just stopped selling tickets. Oh man, I was devastated. I’d been looking forward to Vatican City like a fat kid to McDonald's on Fridays. I had that sinking feeling in my stomach; like my girlfriend missed her period and I’m only 18 with no job and I’m taking 6 units at PCC sinking feeling. We decided we’d come back in the morning before leaving to Florence. I was skeptical we’d come back and almost resigned myself to believing we weren’t coming back but as the cliché goes, where there’s a will there’s a guey, I mean way.
We jumped over to the Pantheon that I liked very much. It was super packed with a shitload of early teenaged kids, my fav. It was well preserved, a historical masterpiece but I could do without it. Don’t get my wrong it’s stunning but after St. Peters it was like reading Camus then Bukowski right after. Both great but one’s going to change the way you think of man’s ability to find happiness and joy in absurd situations while the other will just make your ass laugh. Get it? Good.
We then went to Trevi Fountain, snapped some photos, threw some change into the fountain and ate Gelato. Fatima mentioned that our friend Sandra had Gelato twice a day while in Italy and I just chalked that up to Sandra’s ability to eat like the entire offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys but damn, that gelato was off the hook! On our way back to the hotel shuttle stop it started to rain so we hurried into a bar, grabbed a pint and glass of wine and waited for the rain to subside. It was a proper Irish pub. Why was it proper you ask? Because an Irish woman farted right on us, that’s why. We walked down to our shuttle stop, picked up a couple of sandwiches, waited a freezing hour and made it back to the hotel in time for me to watch the AS Roma v. Arsenal Champions league match at the bar and get to bed in time to wake up early in the morning.
It wasn’t an easy process by any means but we managed to make it to Vatican City today. I think I would have been totally depressed if we hadn’t. I mean, what's the point of coming to Rome if you're not going to Vatican City, may as well go to NYC and stay in little Italy. We strolled through the entire museum. There’s really no way to put into words how one feels and what one thinks when watching, nearly touching and walking among enormous, old pieces of art. I was really impressed by the tapestries and religious sculptures (I guess everything is religious in there) but the heart of the Vatican is without a doubt the Sistine Chapel. I advise you to google it even if you have no intention of ever going to Vatican City. As a catholic kid I’d always hear about it, my grandma would mention it but I never understood the mystique of Michelangelo’s art. I know that sounds stupid but I didn’t. After St. Peter’s and Vatican City I mean, he’s gotta be the Michael Jordan of art right? I still have Paris to find out. Well, we’re almost in Florence.
One would think videos and images of my nephew would exacerbate any inkling of homesickness that would arise right but the opposite is true. Pa la proxima.
And here's the one on Florence:
Running over new ground
I don’t think there is any way shape or form I’d ever stay anywhere else in Florence. It’d be like drinking The Craftsmen 1903 at The York, showing up a month later and ordering a Miller Lite. When life throws you pocket kings you don’t fold and ride a pair of deuces til the river.
We arrived in Florence on Thursday, lugged our luggage to our “hotel,” got a proper tour of our temporary home and plopped our shit in our room before heading out to Michelangelo’s David; I think the museum is called L’Academia or something like that. We saw David’s gargantuan right hand and marble penis and stood in amazement. Everything about that piece of art is huge. From it’s relevance to the Renaissance to it’s actual size to it’s significance in the face of religious norms and preconceived notions of man as a pawn in the living world in preparation for the aftermath.
We left David, bounced over to our so-called hotel’s neck of the woods, grabbed a bite to eat and went to bed. Wait, the bite to eat. We had a liter of wine, beer, pizza, spaghetti with sausage, not Italian deli in L.A. sausage pasta but gangster shit; like leave the gun and take the cannoli gangster.
We woke up with chores. We had a fat load of clothes to wash, two bellies to fill and soul nourishment to attain. To be perfectly honest I was museum’d out today. In the last week we’d seen more art than an ass kissing Englishmen curator in L.A. would care to see. I’ve appreciated every last bit of it but more of the same gets tiring after a while, it really does. It reminds me of the saying, “Show me a beautiful women and I’ll show you a man that’s tired of fucking her.” I’m tired of fucking Michelangelo so needless to say no museum carousing was on the itinerary. Seriously, not even the Uffizi Gallery. We washed, grabbed some breakfast and took a nap. We woke up, hit an internet café, ate gelato (twice) walked to Ponte Vecchio and separated for a couple of hours. I love my girl and her company but there always comes a time during a long ass trip to take a psychological break and check-in with oneself, take a long walk, see how things are going in the skull, fantasize about home and make sure all checklists have been checked. It doesn't help that I'm a basketcase when I travel. Due diligence mo’fo’s.
We met up hours later, chatted about our alone time and figured out where to eat. We found this fantastic trattoria, thanks to Rick Steve’s, down the street from our temporary home and ate another amazing meal. Have I mentioned I’ve suspended my fishetarianism? Well, I had some rosemary steak that was off the fucken hook while Fatima had cheese ravioli with meat sauce that was equally good downed with house wine. We had a conversation trying to figure out whose food was better and we couldn’t figure it out. I say that’s a good thing. We found dessert and Belgian ale down the street and here we are. We leave to Venice tomorrow and I’m psyched for Venice yes but more so because Paris is just a few days away.
One thing about the place we stayed in. We literally stayed in an old woman’s home; her name is Marsella and she runs Casa Rabatti and it's just that, a casa. She’s this tiny little warm woman that exudes Florence and love just the same. She reminds me so much of my passed grandmother that it fucken breaks my heart; when she kissed me goodbye this morning I nearly wept. Years later, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here continues to play in the background of my heart. What more can I say.
Venezia here we come. ¶ 6:48 AM 1 Comments
Friday, March 13, 2009
Quick and dirty
All is well but I haven't been able to access the internet for longer than a few minutes at a time; I can't even get wifi out here. Just thought you all should know in case you worried. I got a big piece on Rome on my mac so hold steady y'all.
I'm typing away from an internet cafe in Florence while some Filipino kid web casts his ugly mug to some poor girl. It's way cold but such a fantastic city. The gelato here? Off the chain and better than in Rome. The food? Just the same as in Rome; carbo and pork delicious. David's package? Big and marbleous.
Another thing this trip has helped me realize, well not so much realize but brought forth as a sad truth is that as much as I'd love to take trips like this with my friends from Monte (the guys), I know it will never happen. I see all these Brits & Irishmen just having a fucken blast, throwing back pints and shooting the shit in these grand European cities and think of what crazy shit my friends and I would get into and can't help but feel a little bummed by the sad truth of it all. Spif, Bear, Patch, Pollo, even you Jules; I'm calling you out.
That's all I have for now. My alloted interet time is running out so like a cholo from East Los at Adelita's I gotta wrap it up.
Peace!
I'm typing away from an internet cafe in Florence while some Filipino kid web casts his ugly mug to some poor girl. It's way cold but such a fantastic city. The gelato here? Off the chain and better than in Rome. The food? Just the same as in Rome; carbo and pork delicious. David's package? Big and marbleous.
Another thing this trip has helped me realize, well not so much realize but brought forth as a sad truth is that as much as I'd love to take trips like this with my friends from Monte (the guys), I know it will never happen. I see all these Brits & Irishmen just having a fucken blast, throwing back pints and shooting the shit in these grand European cities and think of what crazy shit my friends and I would get into and can't help but feel a little bummed by the sad truth of it all. Spif, Bear, Patch, Pollo, even you Jules; I'm calling you out.
That's all I have for now. My alloted interet time is running out so like a cholo from East Los at Adelita's I gotta wrap it up.
Peace!
Labels: Florence
¶ 6:53 AM 1 Comments
Monday, March 9, 2009
El Ultimo de la Fila
Monday was our last full day in Barcelona. We leave to Rome in a couple of hours and as the reality that unfulfilled love is the only romantic thing in this world hits me, I find I've finally fallen in love with Barcelona.
We started the day by going to the Montjuic, "mount of Jews," I didn't see any by the way. Montjuic is a hill that overlooks the entire sprawl that is Barcelona on the east and the Mediterranean Sea on the south. We took this cable car even further up that hill, that lead to this medieval castle where fascist Franco held political public executions. It wasn't the sexiest thing to see but interesting nonetheless.
We jumped back on the train and headed to Gaudi's Parc Guell. We strolled by Gaudi's old house snapped a few photos, avoided children that seemed to have magnets on their heads all trying to connect with my nuts and eventually headed back to the hotel for a nap. I'm telling you, jet lag is a mother fucker.
I was woken by a soft voice that kept saying some variation of, "Baby, I'm hungry." We freshened up and took a stroll. We found this place called something like, Escina de Estrellas. Our waiter was an incredibly nice man from Pakistan; Fatima thought he was very good looking. Me, not so much. We asked him to make a suggestion and what does he suggest? Meat. I thought twice for a second to which he said, "Esta muy sabroso, nadie lo come y dice que no le gusto." Sold.
Now, I recently started eating meat at home to prepare for this trip but this is how out of the carnivore loop I am. That or I'm just a dumb ass. He brings over a plate of what looks like medium slabs of steak. I promptly grab a piece and take a bite out of a cold, raw piece of meat (that's what she said). The waiter comes back with a small cooking apparatus and says, "No, haci no!" Fatima laughed her ass off as the waiter explains how that happens all the time. I think he was just trying to make me feel better. The meat came with this crazy delicious sauce and not much else was needed. It was NorCal hella good. Fatima and I devoured our food, drank and talked up a storm. Now THAT was a culinary boner extraordinaire.
In need of a nightcap we headed further down our street and went into this crotch rocket biker bar. The bar was empty, except for a girl playing video games who happened to be the bartender. We ordered a liter of sangria bought a pack of smokes and talked, talked, talked. We listened to the poetically named El Ultimo de la Fila while sympathizing with the immigrants of the world.
Traveling changes me; it reaffirms or debunks my absolute truths. It does for an umpteenth amount of reasons but Barcelona has, in it's diverse identity (Catalan, Hondureno, Basque, Pakistani) reminded me of how fortunate I am in being not just from Los Angeles, not just from California, but yes, from the good ol U.S. of mutha fucken A. Why? Well, Barcelona is crazy diverse, NYC diverse. People come here from the four corners to make a better life themselves and their family. Why else would they come right? In L.A., NYC, even Chicago, immigrants find refuge in their respective communities. Boricuas have the Bronx, Harlem for that. Mexicanos and Salvadorenos have East Los, Santa Ana, L.A. proper, El Monte for that. Eastern Europeans have Northwestern Chicago for that. For example, Mexicans come to L.A. and never have to learn the language. They should for the betterment of their situation but it's not necessary for survival. In Barcelona, he or she that does not assimilate does not survive. The immigrant in Barcelona has to become a Barcelonian. It's that simple.
But for that I love Barcelona; rarely is a city so unapologetic and telling of character.
While L.A. is a hodgepodge (hi Mariana) of people and cultures it is also a hodgepodge of opportunity, especially for those with deep roots there. I, as an Angeleno do not have to leave L.A. to make a better life for myself, not now at least. I live in a city that will sustain, that does sustain. Shit, with the way I get homesick I could never move to another city, never; this I just realized. But if things got rough and the economy continues to tank and L.A. can no longer allow for the life I have I'd probably rather die in L.A. than transplant these intricate and beautiful roots in another city. My empire wasn't built in a day. On to Rome.
C/S,
Lucio
Monday was our last full day in Barcelona. We leave to Rome in a couple of hours and as the reality that unfulfilled love is the only romantic thing in this world hits me, I find I've finally fallen in love with Barcelona.
We started the day by going to the Montjuic, "mount of Jews," I didn't see any by the way. Montjuic is a hill that overlooks the entire sprawl that is Barcelona on the east and the Mediterranean Sea on the south. We took this cable car even further up that hill, that lead to this medieval castle where fascist Franco held political public executions. It wasn't the sexiest thing to see but interesting nonetheless.
We jumped back on the train and headed to Gaudi's Parc Guell. We strolled by Gaudi's old house snapped a few photos, avoided children that seemed to have magnets on their heads all trying to connect with my nuts and eventually headed back to the hotel for a nap. I'm telling you, jet lag is a mother fucker.
I was woken by a soft voice that kept saying some variation of, "Baby, I'm hungry." We freshened up and took a stroll. We found this place called something like, Escina de Estrellas. Our waiter was an incredibly nice man from Pakistan; Fatima thought he was very good looking. Me, not so much. We asked him to make a suggestion and what does he suggest? Meat. I thought twice for a second to which he said, "Esta muy sabroso, nadie lo come y dice que no le gusto." Sold.
Now, I recently started eating meat at home to prepare for this trip but this is how out of the carnivore loop I am. That or I'm just a dumb ass. He brings over a plate of what looks like medium slabs of steak. I promptly grab a piece and take a bite out of a cold, raw piece of meat (that's what she said). The waiter comes back with a small cooking apparatus and says, "No, haci no!" Fatima laughed her ass off as the waiter explains how that happens all the time. I think he was just trying to make me feel better. The meat came with this crazy delicious sauce and not much else was needed. It was NorCal hella good. Fatima and I devoured our food, drank and talked up a storm. Now THAT was a culinary boner extraordinaire.
In need of a nightcap we headed further down our street and went into this crotch rocket biker bar. The bar was empty, except for a girl playing video games who happened to be the bartender. We ordered a liter of sangria bought a pack of smokes and talked, talked, talked. We listened to the poetically named El Ultimo de la Fila while sympathizing with the immigrants of the world.
Traveling changes me; it reaffirms or debunks my absolute truths. It does for an umpteenth amount of reasons but Barcelona has, in it's diverse identity (Catalan, Hondureno, Basque, Pakistani) reminded me of how fortunate I am in being not just from Los Angeles, not just from California, but yes, from the good ol U.S. of mutha fucken A. Why? Well, Barcelona is crazy diverse, NYC diverse. People come here from the four corners to make a better life themselves and their family. Why else would they come right? In L.A., NYC, even Chicago, immigrants find refuge in their respective communities. Boricuas have the Bronx, Harlem for that. Mexicanos and Salvadorenos have East Los, Santa Ana, L.A. proper, El Monte for that. Eastern Europeans have Northwestern Chicago for that. For example, Mexicans come to L.A. and never have to learn the language. They should for the betterment of their situation but it's not necessary for survival. In Barcelona, he or she that does not assimilate does not survive. The immigrant in Barcelona has to become a Barcelonian. It's that simple.
But for that I love Barcelona; rarely is a city so unapologetic and telling of character.
While L.A. is a hodgepodge (hi Mariana) of people and cultures it is also a hodgepodge of opportunity, especially for those with deep roots there. I, as an Angeleno do not have to leave L.A. to make a better life for myself, not now at least. I live in a city that will sustain, that does sustain. Shit, with the way I get homesick I could never move to another city, never; this I just realized. But if things got rough and the economy continues to tank and L.A. can no longer allow for the life I have I'd probably rather die in L.A. than transplant these intricate and beautiful roots in another city. My empire wasn't built in a day. On to Rome.
C/S,
Lucio
Labels: Barcelona, immigrant, Los Angeles
¶ 11:40 PM 0 Comments
Que chuletonsote!
I couldn't post anything last night. Wait, it is last night over there now. Anyway, on Sunday I woke up with a serious case of homesickness. I thought for sure it wouldn't happen this trip but as sure as the Barcelona night is long it happened. In a panic, I texted my sisters and Sofia. I knew the words of either of those three would help subside the damn near anxiety attack. Before I could jump out our hotel window Cloddy replied and what ensued was a back and forth that assured me everything was ok at home. Sofia's b-day party was in full gear and my spirit had jetset back to L.A. Hours later, a video of my nephew was sent to my gmail account and what can I say, we've come full circle. Homesickness be gone; at least for now.
We started our day way late, 2PM late. Our goal for the day was to explore the Ramblas, that we did but on our way there we found a little cafe crowded with locals who were buying up baguettes like Dodgers Opening Day tickets. We ordered a couple of sandwiches, coffee, Coke and freshly squeezed orange juice. Finally, a proper Barcelona breakfast. The simple sandwiches were de-fucken-licious. I had a ham sandwich (I suspended my fishetarianism [just made that word up] for this trip) and Fatima had a tuna sandwich. It was just what we needed; carbs, caffeine, sugar and nourishment.
The Ramblas is a long pedestrian street that is the commercial hub of Barcelona. While I've enjoyed it, it is very much a tourtist destination. That being said, I think the days of it being The Ramblas Garcia Lorca romanticised over are long gone. It is still a beautiful place to see and if you ever decide to come to Barcelona it is definitely a site to behold BUT it's not going to give you nourishment for the soul, it will not change how you view the world or view yourself in it. It will entertain you and offer delicious Sangria and people watching but again it will not do what Sagrada Famila has done for me.
At the top of the Ramblas we watched a few South American salseros perform and then headed over to Placa Catalunya square, took some pictures and decided to head on over to Gaudi's old Church. We jumped on two trains and were halfway across town in 15 minutes. If you aren't familiar with The Sagrada Familia google it. In sum, it is an unfinished church designed by the world's most renowned architech, Antoni Gaudi. It is an absoulte marvel. It is art upon art upon art upon art; literally. Nevermind that it's a church, nevermind that it won't be completed until I'm super old or dead; 50 years. What's great is that one can walk in it, can touch it's walls can smells it's concrete. By being there one becomes a part of the grandoise vision Gaudi set out when designing this place. I can go on but to truly get the jist of what this place means as a piece of Catalan culture and the world in general one needs to experience it firsthand.
After the Sagrada Familia we headed back to the Ramblas and went into this English pub, of all places, for a drink. I think the dick to women ratio was 40 to Fatima. Drunken Brits yelped over cidar beers and a Premier League match while Fatima and I drank Sangria and Murphy's Irish Red Ale while reminiscing about our childhoods and complicated but extremely loving relationships with our mothers. It was proper heart spewing pub conversation.
We headed back to our hotel, power napped and got ready for dinner. We made reservations at a Barcelona staple, Re-Pla. We tried to walk it there but got lost in the shuffle of streets. We hailed a taxi and got there right on time. Since we've suspended our fishetarianism we decided to let our waitress offer suggestions for dinner and go with what sounded good. What sounded good was a chuleton, fried artichokes and tuna tarter downed with a bottle of Catalan wine. Boy was it good. The chuleton was bloody as fuck but just as tasty. The waitress saw the poor fisheterians struggling with chewing and offered to have it cooked some more. She took it back and returned it a notch darker but just as delicious. On the way back the wine got the best of us and my playful suggestion to race from the Christopher Columbus monument to our hotel turned my girlfriend into a little shit talker, "I'm gonna smoke your ass," she said. Well, I beat her ass! Not literally of course, but I was the one doing the smoking. In her defense, she was wearing boots and tights underneath her jeans so I might have had an unfair advantage. Whatever, a win's and win right?
While the food in Barcelona has yet to give me the culinary boner and sexy explosion I had hoped for, it certainly hasn't disappointed. Ugh, I'm hungry now. Back to the cafe.
P.s. I've given up on the picture loading for now. Will try again tomorrow.
I couldn't post anything last night. Wait, it is last night over there now. Anyway, on Sunday I woke up with a serious case of homesickness. I thought for sure it wouldn't happen this trip but as sure as the Barcelona night is long it happened. In a panic, I texted my sisters and Sofia. I knew the words of either of those three would help subside the damn near anxiety attack. Before I could jump out our hotel window Cloddy replied and what ensued was a back and forth that assured me everything was ok at home. Sofia's b-day party was in full gear and my spirit had jetset back to L.A. Hours later, a video of my nephew was sent to my gmail account and what can I say, we've come full circle. Homesickness be gone; at least for now.
We started our day way late, 2PM late. Our goal for the day was to explore the Ramblas, that we did but on our way there we found a little cafe crowded with locals who were buying up baguettes like Dodgers Opening Day tickets. We ordered a couple of sandwiches, coffee, Coke and freshly squeezed orange juice. Finally, a proper Barcelona breakfast. The simple sandwiches were de-fucken-licious. I had a ham sandwich (I suspended my fishetarianism [just made that word up] for this trip) and Fatima had a tuna sandwich. It was just what we needed; carbs, caffeine, sugar and nourishment.
The Ramblas is a long pedestrian street that is the commercial hub of Barcelona. While I've enjoyed it, it is very much a tourtist destination. That being said, I think the days of it being The Ramblas Garcia Lorca romanticised over are long gone. It is still a beautiful place to see and if you ever decide to come to Barcelona it is definitely a site to behold BUT it's not going to give you nourishment for the soul, it will not change how you view the world or view yourself in it. It will entertain you and offer delicious Sangria and people watching but again it will not do what Sagrada Famila has done for me.
At the top of the Ramblas we watched a few South American salseros perform and then headed over to Placa Catalunya square, took some pictures and decided to head on over to Gaudi's old Church. We jumped on two trains and were halfway across town in 15 minutes. If you aren't familiar with The Sagrada Familia google it. In sum, it is an unfinished church designed by the world's most renowned architech, Antoni Gaudi. It is an absoulte marvel. It is art upon art upon art upon art; literally. Nevermind that it's a church, nevermind that it won't be completed until I'm super old or dead; 50 years. What's great is that one can walk in it, can touch it's walls can smells it's concrete. By being there one becomes a part of the grandoise vision Gaudi set out when designing this place. I can go on but to truly get the jist of what this place means as a piece of Catalan culture and the world in general one needs to experience it firsthand.
After the Sagrada Familia we headed back to the Ramblas and went into this English pub, of all places, for a drink. I think the dick to women ratio was 40 to Fatima. Drunken Brits yelped over cidar beers and a Premier League match while Fatima and I drank Sangria and Murphy's Irish Red Ale while reminiscing about our childhoods and complicated but extremely loving relationships with our mothers. It was proper heart spewing pub conversation.
We headed back to our hotel, power napped and got ready for dinner. We made reservations at a Barcelona staple, Re-Pla. We tried to walk it there but got lost in the shuffle of streets. We hailed a taxi and got there right on time. Since we've suspended our fishetarianism we decided to let our waitress offer suggestions for dinner and go with what sounded good. What sounded good was a chuleton, fried artichokes and tuna tarter downed with a bottle of Catalan wine. Boy was it good. The chuleton was bloody as fuck but just as tasty. The waitress saw the poor fisheterians struggling with chewing and offered to have it cooked some more. She took it back and returned it a notch darker but just as delicious. On the way back the wine got the best of us and my playful suggestion to race from the Christopher Columbus monument to our hotel turned my girlfriend into a little shit talker, "I'm gonna smoke your ass," she said. Well, I beat her ass! Not literally of course, but I was the one doing the smoking. In her defense, she was wearing boots and tights underneath her jeans so I might have had an unfair advantage. Whatever, a win's and win right?
While the food in Barcelona has yet to give me the culinary boner and sexy explosion I had hoped for, it certainly hasn't disappointed. Ugh, I'm hungry now. Back to the cafe.
P.s. I've given up on the picture loading for now. Will try again tomorrow.
Labels: Barcelona
¶ 1:47 AM 3 Comments
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Barca Faithful
I just bought a 1 Euro Estrella Damm beer from some gypsy looking dude selling them on the street near our hotel. I'm pretty buzzed as it is but couldn't pass up what looked like a six-pack of Cokes. As Fatima lays close by and watches a dubbed version of The Green Mile I continue to fight off the jet lag and revel in a nice buzz. I apologize in advance for misspellings and grammatical fuck ups.
All in all the day has been awesome. We got lost and somehow managed to find the Barcelona Cathedral, Picasso Museum, the Ramblas and the Camp Nou. We've yet to find a proper meal and have been feasting on tapas galore. I'm starting to think that the literal translation of tapas to English is calamari appetizers. Our culinary adventures have been mostly miss but that's what happens when you wait half the day to eat and have to settle for the next Cervezeria restaurant you find. Tomorrow I have some great places on the to-eat list so hold steady tacosam.
We walked near the port and ate at a less then reputable spot. Our waitress was LAX security check point abrasive but we managed to eat fast and run. The Barcelona Cathedral was an architectural wonder but way full. One thing about Barcelona I can do without is all the tourists. Yea, I know I am one as well but I don't think I behave as such. I appreciate the local norms and am very respectful of the culture. The Brits and Americans here? Not so much. It's difficult to get swallowed by a city when many of the people aren't even from here. In the same token, I can see why they are all here. Barcelona is a fucken bombshell.
After checking out the Cathedral we hopped over to the Picasso Museum. I couldn't believe I was standing in front Picasso originals; especially his renditions of Las Meninas. I had to keep looking at the paintings at angles with the light to remind myself that those brush strokes were real. I think Picasso is the only artist that could ever pull off a blank face on any canvas.
After the museum we ended up at another tapas joint. We ate some fantastic mushrooms stuffed with cheese, pan con tomate and threw back a bottle of white wine. We literally stumbled back to the room and took a three hour long nap to barely wake in time to get ready to head on over to Camp Nou.
Now I've always fantasized about going to a FC Barcelona match but never really thought it would happen. I've wanted to see them even before they had a Mexican player on their squad and even before they were the best club not only in Europe but on the planet. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be here to see both. They beat Athletic Bilbao 2-0 while the Mexicano, Rafael Marquez played a near perfect game. I found it funny that the Catalan faithful are so fanatical and uncontrollable that they have lost their alcohol privilege. I thought I was at a USC football game. I can't imagine this happening at Dodger Stadium; attendance would easily be cut in half, no joke. I settled for a Coke and hurried to our seats. The global relevance and importance of a Barca game in March is unmatched by anything I've ever experienced as a sports fan. Being a part of this game made going to a Yankees v. Red Sox game feel like a 50 years old + softball tournament. It was to say the least a beautiful and humbling experience.
Before we headed back to our hotel we went to yet another tapas bar and found ourselves among a few locals and way shady characters. There were a group of guys that wreaked of smoke and had cuts on the top of their hands, like meth addict like cuts. There was a dude that brought in his wife/girlfriend AND his fucken kid to this tapas bar. I mean, people were smoking like trains in there. I told Fatima, nothing toughens up a baby like second hand cigarette smoke. Toughens up, kills, what's the difference right? These shady dudes even tried to leave without paying their bill. Anyway, we left before all hell broke loose.
So here we are. The day has come and just about gone and we're beat. Fatima's knocked the fuck out and I'm damn near it. Til tomorrow!
P.s. I'm having a hard time putting up my pics. I'm too inebriated to figure it out now but I will by tomorrow. Promise.
I just bought a 1 Euro Estrella Damm beer from some gypsy looking dude selling them on the street near our hotel. I'm pretty buzzed as it is but couldn't pass up what looked like a six-pack of Cokes. As Fatima lays close by and watches a dubbed version of The Green Mile I continue to fight off the jet lag and revel in a nice buzz. I apologize in advance for misspellings and grammatical fuck ups.
All in all the day has been awesome. We got lost and somehow managed to find the Barcelona Cathedral, Picasso Museum, the Ramblas and the Camp Nou. We've yet to find a proper meal and have been feasting on tapas galore. I'm starting to think that the literal translation of tapas to English is calamari appetizers. Our culinary adventures have been mostly miss but that's what happens when you wait half the day to eat and have to settle for the next Cervezeria restaurant you find. Tomorrow I have some great places on the to-eat list so hold steady tacosam.
We walked near the port and ate at a less then reputable spot. Our waitress was LAX security check point abrasive but we managed to eat fast and run. The Barcelona Cathedral was an architectural wonder but way full. One thing about Barcelona I can do without is all the tourists. Yea, I know I am one as well but I don't think I behave as such. I appreciate the local norms and am very respectful of the culture. The Brits and Americans here? Not so much. It's difficult to get swallowed by a city when many of the people aren't even from here. In the same token, I can see why they are all here. Barcelona is a fucken bombshell.
After checking out the Cathedral we hopped over to the Picasso Museum. I couldn't believe I was standing in front Picasso originals; especially his renditions of Las Meninas. I had to keep looking at the paintings at angles with the light to remind myself that those brush strokes were real. I think Picasso is the only artist that could ever pull off a blank face on any canvas.
After the museum we ended up at another tapas joint. We ate some fantastic mushrooms stuffed with cheese, pan con tomate and threw back a bottle of white wine. We literally stumbled back to the room and took a three hour long nap to barely wake in time to get ready to head on over to Camp Nou.
Now I've always fantasized about going to a FC Barcelona match but never really thought it would happen. I've wanted to see them even before they had a Mexican player on their squad and even before they were the best club not only in Europe but on the planet. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be here to see both. They beat Athletic Bilbao 2-0 while the Mexicano, Rafael Marquez played a near perfect game. I found it funny that the Catalan faithful are so fanatical and uncontrollable that they have lost their alcohol privilege. I thought I was at a USC football game. I can't imagine this happening at Dodger Stadium; attendance would easily be cut in half, no joke. I settled for a Coke and hurried to our seats. The global relevance and importance of a Barca game in March is unmatched by anything I've ever experienced as a sports fan. Being a part of this game made going to a Yankees v. Red Sox game feel like a 50 years old + softball tournament. It was to say the least a beautiful and humbling experience.
Before we headed back to our hotel we went to yet another tapas bar and found ourselves among a few locals and way shady characters. There were a group of guys that wreaked of smoke and had cuts on the top of their hands, like meth addict like cuts. There was a dude that brought in his wife/girlfriend AND his fucken kid to this tapas bar. I mean, people were smoking like trains in there. I told Fatima, nothing toughens up a baby like second hand cigarette smoke. Toughens up, kills, what's the difference right? These shady dudes even tried to leave without paying their bill. Anyway, we left before all hell broke loose.
So here we are. The day has come and just about gone and we're beat. Fatima's knocked the fuck out and I'm damn near it. Til tomorrow!
P.s. I'm having a hard time putting up my pics. I'm too inebriated to figure it out now but I will by tomorrow. Promise.
Labels: Barcelona
¶ 3:48 PM 3 Comments
