Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The Manliest Queen in the DCU
So it's Halloween, an American holiday. I know this is going to be extremely ethnocentric of me, and don't get me wrong, I really like Spain, but they need to get on this Halloween thing. Clearly no one has told the children that there is a day of the year where they get to stay up past there bedtimes expressly so they can demand candy from strangers. What country wouldn't want to be all up in dat?
So I haven't really made a big ting about dressing up in the past few years. Usually I got as secret identities, which doesnt actually require me looking silly. I've also gotten away with Arthur Dent (which I did extremely well because it required little more than a bathrobe and a towel) and the scariest costume of all: a Republican.
This year I decided to step it up a notch or two and embrace the sillyness. I took my comicbook geektom to the next level and swung the political leanings of my costume the other way. This year I dressed up as Oliver Queen aka the Green Arrow. He is the most outspokenly liberal hero in the DCU, so we are confederates in that respect. Also his costume is easy to mimic without wearing spandex. He does have that goatee though, the facial hair is not for keeps.
I hope you enjoy my sillyness as much as I did. I only wish the Spaniards had heard of costume parties. I'd be up for one tonight if such a thing existed in this topsy turvey country.
-Ollie
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Night Swimming Deserves a Quiet Night
I don't think it is a great mystery to anyone that knows me why I bring a towel with me when I travel. I aint no strag. And it thus follows, by the "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" school of logic, that if I am going to bring a towel with me on vacation, I might as well bring a swim suit. This all made perfect sense to me in my head (as most things that make little sense IRL do) so I brought my swim suit along. This may have flown in the face of the presumption I had made about the weather being chilly in Africa (which you will have read all about if the internet ever chooses to publish that post, or the identical copy I made some five minutes later), but I figured no harm could be done by bringing my suit along.
And in the immortal words of Lewis Carol and Jervis Tetch, "Kaloo Kalay", my ill founded forthought paid off. For when I arrived at the Ibiz Hotel in Marrakesh, what did I find in the courtyard? None other than a refreshing looking pool surrounded by exotic fruit trees. The trees bore bananas and oranges and lemons, while the pool bore a rotund woman in a bathing cap lazily swimming the perimeter of the pool.
The pool looked so inviting, not only due to the heat, but more so due to the act that I had just been restricted to a seat (be it plane or bus) all day, and so the pool afforded me the unequalled opportunity to move freely through all three spacial dimensions. I decided that I should, nay, must, go for a swim after I'd unpacked.
However, by the time I'd unpacked, the sun, source of all heat in Africa, had already set. It was that time that I'm never sure whether or not it is dusk, when the sun is down but the sky is still blue. And though it had taken me longer than I had expected to get down to the pool, that same woman was still circumnavigating the pool. I could not deny myself the refreshing pleasure of the pool any longer. I dove in. It was everything I expected.
Swimming under water is the closest thing I've ever experianced to flying. And though I one day would like to try sky diving, I doubt it would afford the same satisfaction as swimming. For it is in water that you can control your speed and possition in all directions. Skydiving, though it might feel like flight, one must remember, is just a body accelerating in one direction.
Getting out of the pool was chilly, but the experiance had been refreshing. And a warm shower made all right with the world.
It was my own rhetoric as to how good the pool felt that convinced everyone at dinner that we should have a pool party that night. An idea that sounded better on paper than it would have done in practice. Especially since, it seemed, I was the only person who had brought a swim suit. However, when eleven o'clock rolled around, I was not the only one ready to take a dip. Only half of we Moroccan IESers showed up at the pool, and most of those that came showed up in sweatshirts. But sure enough beside the pool, ready to jump in, was my roommate (for the trip) Kevin.
Kevin, clad in a pair of gym shorts, was just as eager to make the most of the Moroccan adventure as I was. And so we went for a, albeit short, swim in the African moonlight, while the other IESers looked on like, as Victor (my History prof who came on the trip too) put it, Mermaids. Liam, Kevin and my other roommate, insisted that he was a Mer-MAN, but we all know the truth.
The next night the group stayed in the city (and I use the term very loosely) of Ouarzazat. There we stayed at a hotel that looked far more classy than we could ever have expected for a school group like ours. It looked like one of those hotels that was a former abode for some monied type of person. In reality the hotel had only been finished some two weeks previous to our arriving there. But the food was good and there was a pool. After dinner Kevin and I decided to reprise our antics of the previous night, we even convinced Liam to come with us. But where our swim in Marrakesh had been refreshing, this swim was only cold. The Atlas Mountains do not provide the most appealling weather for aquatic activities during the month of October. But there are other reasons for swimming than to cool off. Swimming can be an adventure if you make it one.
Now maybe the cold water had gone to my head, or maybe I'm just bad at making decisions. But as I returned to my room, shivering, having not yet recieved my warm shower, I ran into a couple of the girls from the trip. They were dismayed that we were done swimming. Now I know what you're all thinking, and who knows it may be the truth, but I tend to think that the reason I returned to the pool was of a more innocent nature. I think that the part of my brain that allows me to say 'no' had simply frozen, and become useless.
I am glad that I returned to the pool. Though the water greeted my skin with a frosty sting, and the conversation with my fellow swimmers consisted mostly of how cold it was when one removed themselves from the icy water, and how it created such a terrible catch 22, the swim got all the more exciting when Muhammad arrived.
Muhammad worked in the kitched of the hotel, and at first when he came out to the pool we thought it was to kick us out. But Muhammad only wanted to talk to us. He was very nice. But most of the Moroccans were very nice. What made Muhammad special was, like his namesake, the message he brought us. In our conversation with him we learned that one of the major components to the Ouarzazatian economy was the movie studio just outside of town. It was here that many scenes from "Gladiator" were filmed, but Russle Crow does little to excite me. It was in this area that "Flight of the Phoenix" was filmed, and therefore it was nearby that Hugh Lauri had taped his audition for "House" in a hotel bathroom. The message brought by the Rasul that really got me excited that night was about the movie filmed in this town about thirty years ago. A strange little movie called "Star Wars". I was on Tatooine!
There was no pool in the desert, so there were no nocturnal aquatics in the Sahara.
When we got to the hotel in Fes, there was something eerily familiar about it. It was another Ibiz, but it was not just similar to the one in Marrakesh, it WAS the Ibiz from Marrakesh. You might say it was an exercise in cookiecutter architecture, but I believe we had stumbled upon an actual factual doppelganger. Kevin and I, who had developed a taste for nightly adventures, went for a swim in the familiar pool right away. When we surfaced we found a couple of our IES cohorts waiting for us. They asked us if we wanted to join them as they explored Fes. We agreed assuming they would grant us time enough to change.
They did not.
Kevin and I found ourselves wandering around the Fes night market dressed in swim suits and sweatshirts, still carrying our towels. My Ithaca sweatshirt has lost its zipper, thus it does not close. I was forced to Mcguyver myself a dickie out of the towel. I hope we started a new trend.
That night I capped off the night with a quick swim, and a couple chapters of Moby Dick.
It made me very sad to find there was no pool at the Casablanca Ibiz our final night. Drinking sodas in the hotel cafe lacks the adventure of night swimming. But then I met a man who had no feet and I was thankful for all the night swimming I had done.
More Excitement to come.
-Arthur Curry
And in the immortal words of Lewis Carol and Jervis Tetch, "Kaloo Kalay", my ill founded forthought paid off. For when I arrived at the Ibiz Hotel in Marrakesh, what did I find in the courtyard? None other than a refreshing looking pool surrounded by exotic fruit trees. The trees bore bananas and oranges and lemons, while the pool bore a rotund woman in a bathing cap lazily swimming the perimeter of the pool.
The pool looked so inviting, not only due to the heat, but more so due to the act that I had just been restricted to a seat (be it plane or bus) all day, and so the pool afforded me the unequalled opportunity to move freely through all three spacial dimensions. I decided that I should, nay, must, go for a swim after I'd unpacked.
However, by the time I'd unpacked, the sun, source of all heat in Africa, had already set. It was that time that I'm never sure whether or not it is dusk, when the sun is down but the sky is still blue. And though it had taken me longer than I had expected to get down to the pool, that same woman was still circumnavigating the pool. I could not deny myself the refreshing pleasure of the pool any longer. I dove in. It was everything I expected.
Swimming under water is the closest thing I've ever experianced to flying. And though I one day would like to try sky diving, I doubt it would afford the same satisfaction as swimming. For it is in water that you can control your speed and possition in all directions. Skydiving, though it might feel like flight, one must remember, is just a body accelerating in one direction.
Getting out of the pool was chilly, but the experiance had been refreshing. And a warm shower made all right with the world.
It was my own rhetoric as to how good the pool felt that convinced everyone at dinner that we should have a pool party that night. An idea that sounded better on paper than it would have done in practice. Especially since, it seemed, I was the only person who had brought a swim suit. However, when eleven o'clock rolled around, I was not the only one ready to take a dip. Only half of we Moroccan IESers showed up at the pool, and most of those that came showed up in sweatshirts. But sure enough beside the pool, ready to jump in, was my roommate (for the trip) Kevin.
Kevin, clad in a pair of gym shorts, was just as eager to make the most of the Moroccan adventure as I was. And so we went for a, albeit short, swim in the African moonlight, while the other IESers looked on like, as Victor (my History prof who came on the trip too) put it, Mermaids. Liam, Kevin and my other roommate, insisted that he was a Mer-MAN, but we all know the truth.
The next night the group stayed in the city (and I use the term very loosely) of Ouarzazat. There we stayed at a hotel that looked far more classy than we could ever have expected for a school group like ours. It looked like one of those hotels that was a former abode for some monied type of person. In reality the hotel had only been finished some two weeks previous to our arriving there. But the food was good and there was a pool. After dinner Kevin and I decided to reprise our antics of the previous night, we even convinced Liam to come with us. But where our swim in Marrakesh had been refreshing, this swim was only cold. The Atlas Mountains do not provide the most appealling weather for aquatic activities during the month of October. But there are other reasons for swimming than to cool off. Swimming can be an adventure if you make it one.
Now maybe the cold water had gone to my head, or maybe I'm just bad at making decisions. But as I returned to my room, shivering, having not yet recieved my warm shower, I ran into a couple of the girls from the trip. They were dismayed that we were done swimming. Now I know what you're all thinking, and who knows it may be the truth, but I tend to think that the reason I returned to the pool was of a more innocent nature. I think that the part of my brain that allows me to say 'no' had simply frozen, and become useless.
I am glad that I returned to the pool. Though the water greeted my skin with a frosty sting, and the conversation with my fellow swimmers consisted mostly of how cold it was when one removed themselves from the icy water, and how it created such a terrible catch 22, the swim got all the more exciting when Muhammad arrived.
Muhammad worked in the kitched of the hotel, and at first when he came out to the pool we thought it was to kick us out. But Muhammad only wanted to talk to us. He was very nice. But most of the Moroccans were very nice. What made Muhammad special was, like his namesake, the message he brought us. In our conversation with him we learned that one of the major components to the Ouarzazatian economy was the movie studio just outside of town. It was here that many scenes from "Gladiator" were filmed, but Russle Crow does little to excite me. It was in this area that "Flight of the Phoenix" was filmed, and therefore it was nearby that Hugh Lauri had taped his audition for "House" in a hotel bathroom. The message brought by the Rasul that really got me excited that night was about the movie filmed in this town about thirty years ago. A strange little movie called "Star Wars". I was on Tatooine!
There was no pool in the desert, so there were no nocturnal aquatics in the Sahara.
When we got to the hotel in Fes, there was something eerily familiar about it. It was another Ibiz, but it was not just similar to the one in Marrakesh, it WAS the Ibiz from Marrakesh. You might say it was an exercise in cookiecutter architecture, but I believe we had stumbled upon an actual factual doppelganger. Kevin and I, who had developed a taste for nightly adventures, went for a swim in the familiar pool right away. When we surfaced we found a couple of our IES cohorts waiting for us. They asked us if we wanted to join them as they explored Fes. We agreed assuming they would grant us time enough to change.
They did not.
Kevin and I found ourselves wandering around the Fes night market dressed in swim suits and sweatshirts, still carrying our towels. My Ithaca sweatshirt has lost its zipper, thus it does not close. I was forced to Mcguyver myself a dickie out of the towel. I hope we started a new trend.
That night I capped off the night with a quick swim, and a couple chapters of Moby Dick.
It made me very sad to find there was no pool at the Casablanca Ibiz our final night. Drinking sodas in the hotel cafe lacks the adventure of night swimming. But then I met a man who had no feet and I was thankful for all the night swimming I had done.
More Excitement to come.
-Arthur Curry
Pants Afire
Words fail me as to how amazing my trip to Morocco was. People have been asking me about it, but referring to my trip as being "really cool" has sounded to my own ears as an inexcusable understatement. Whenever I had a spare moment last week, I found myself pondering how to grapple with the problem of how to put my experiance into words here, on my blog. I will try to resist the temptation to wax poetic about my experiances. I know I lack the felicity with words necessary to make such an expression readable. And yet to give an account of the previous week consisting only of a laundry list of my daily activities would be sorrowfully inadequate. I will attempt to walk that thin line between textbook and emo. Indeed my trip was so full of excitement, adventure, and perception altering experiances that I doubt I can even muster a chronological account of my trip. Therefore I indevor to give accounts off my experiances as they come back to me as I attempt to spin the yarn as to why my trip to Morocco was "really cool".
I apologize for the inaccuracy of the preceding statement, and likewise apologize to any of you that I wasted the time of by telling you how chilly Africa was supposed to be this time of year. But you'll have to understand, that is how it was explained to me. In our preliminary meeting for the Morocco trip, Mannel, who organized the IES trip, and who was in every other way a superlative organizer, warned us that Africa was not going to be the hot place we all invisioned. The assumption he made was that all we Americans who were, in all honesty, ignorant of the ways of the Sahara desert and the land above it, would theorize that the climate would be as hot as it was arrid. I'm sure you have the same image in your minds eye as I did. Mannel warned us that this was not the case, and that we should pack with the idea that Africa would be chilly. So I heeded Mannel's advice and packed primarily warm clothes, along with my sweatshirt and jacket, both of which took up valuable space in my duffle bag.
Mannel is a liar. So much so that his pants are on fire, and I think we can all correctly assume, are hanging from a telephone wire. That image that you have conjured in your mind's eye is no phantasm. Africa is HOT. I don't know what they do to the solar rays over there in Africa, but when they hit you it isn't like the warm aura it is in the states or even Europe. When the African sun shines upon your skin it feels as if you have gotten too close to a bonfire, so much worse the sun over the Sahara.
I am no wuss. I can take a little UV light, no problem. I have even been known to enjoy it. I love the feeling of soaking up the solar rays from a yellow sun. It makes me feel energized. What I don't enjoy is being lied to, and forced to wear long sleaves and jeans. Cotton, by the way, does not breath half as well as they tell you it does. I found myself forced to wear the same three T-shirts day in and day out. T-shirts that are now, I fear, irreversably caked with Saharan sand.
I loved it.
How can one ever expect to get the true raw feeling of the apathy of the Saharan desert towards the human soul if they are protected by a bubble of clean clothes? I fear I would not be able to. But living a dirty lifestyle is all the more appealling when you are surrounded by an area of limitless filth that extends throughout an area the size of the United States. More will be written about desert life in upcoming posts, but it is important to remember when I do write about my time in the desert, I am writing about a filthy, unshaved, feral version of myself, so different from the bathed Mr Tim that exists in the civilized world.
The warm clothes, or rather the sweatshirt did come in handy once under the Saharan sun. That being the day that I woke up early to watch the sun rise over the Sahara desert. While it is an amazing experiance to see such a sight, and while I would not trade the memory for anything, the sunrise itself was pretty dull and I fear reading about it would be just as uninteresting. There were no bright and vibrant colours that painted the sky. All I saw was the great dunes of the Sahara, titanic in grandure, slowly materialize from pitch darkness, and stretch into infinity. But it was very early in the morning so the peaceful emensity of the sight was lost on my until I relived it just now.
I'm not sure what I'll write next, but the amount I left unsaid guarantees more to come.
-Tim M Lunardoni
Pants Afire
Words fail me as to how amazing my trip to Morocco was. People have been asking me about it, but referring to my trip as being "really cool" has sounded to my own ears as an inexcusable understatement. Whenever I had a spare moment last week, I found myself pondering how to grapple with the problem of how to put my experiance into words here, on my blog. I will try to resist the temptation to wax poetic about my experiances. I know I lack the felicity with words necessary to make such an expression readable. And yet to give an account of the previous week consisting only of a laundry list of my daily activities would be sorrowfully inadequate. I will attempt to walk that thin line between textbook and emo. Indeed my trip was so full of excitement, adventure, and perception altering experiances that I doubt I can even muster a chronological account of my trip. Therefore I indevor to give accounts off my experiances as they come back to me as I attempt to spin the yarn as to why my trip to Morocco was "really cool".
I apologize for the inaccuracy of the preceding statement, and likewise apologize to any of you that I wasted the time of by telling you how chilly Africa was supposed to be this time of year. But you'll have to understand, that is how it was explained to me. In our preliminary meeting for the Morocco trip, Mannel, who organized the IES trip, and who was in every other way a superlative organizer, warned us that Africa was not going to be the hot place we all invisioned. The assumption he made was that all we Americans who were, in all honesty, ignorant of the ways of the Sahara desert and the land above it, would theorize that the climate would be as hot as it was arrid. I'm sure you have the same image in your minds eye as I did. Mannel warned us that this was not the case, and that we should pack with the idea that Africa would be chilly. So I heeded Mannel's advice and packed primarily warm clothes, along with my sweatshirt and jacket, both of which took up valuable space in my duffle bag.
Mannel is a liar. So much so that his pants are on fire, and I think we can all correctly assume, are hanging from a telephone wire. That image that you have conjured in your mind's eye is no phantasm. Africa is HOT. I don't know what they do to the solar rays over there in Africa, but when they hit you it isn't like the warm aura it is in the states or even Europe. When the African sun shines upon your skin it feels as if you have gotten too close to a bonfire, so much worse the sun over the Sahara.
I am no wuss. I can take a little UV light, no problem. I have even been known to enjoy it. I love the feeling of soaking up the solar rays from a yellow sun. It makes me feel energized. What I don't enjoy is being lied to, and forced to wear long sleaves and jeans. Cotton, by the way, does not breath half as well as they tell you it does. I found myself forced to wear the same three T-shirts day in and day out. T-shirts that are now, I fear, irreversably caked with Saharan sand.
I loved it.
How can one ever expect to get the true raw feeling of the apathy of the Saharan desert towards the human soul if they are protected by a bubble of clean clothes? I fear I would not be able to. But living a dirty lifestyle is all the more appealling when you are surrounded by an area of limitless filth that extends throughout an area the size of the United States. More will be written about desert life in upcoming posts, but it is important to remember when I do write about my time in the desert, I am writing about a filthy, unshaved, feral version of myself, so different from the bathed Mr Tim that exists in the civilized world.
The warm clothes, or rather the sweatshirt did come in handy once under the Saharan sun. That being the day that I woke up early to watch the sun rise over the Sahara desert. While it is an amazing experiance to see such a sight, and while I would not trade the memory for anything, the sunrise itself was pretty dull and I fear reading about it would be just as uninteresting. There were no bright and vibrant colours that painted the sky. All I saw was the great dunes of the Sahara, titanic in grandure, slowly materialize from pitch darkness, and stretch into infinity. But it was very early in the morning so the peaceful emensity of the sight was lost on my until I relived it just now.
I'm not sure what I'll write next, but the amount I left unsaid guarantees more to come.
-Tim M Lunardoni
Friday, October 20, 2006
Back in the BCN
Lo I am come. Returned from Morocco in one piece. I want to apologize to anyone and everyone who may have tried to contact me electronically in the past week. I have had no access to a computer. It is only thanks to some unwarrented good luck that the recesses of my brain that store the knowlege of how to navigate this system of tubes we know as the internets has not atrophied to nil. I promise you that annicdotes and observations will be forthcoming, and with any luck, pictures too. But for the moment I am in desperate want of a shower and a shave.
I missed you all.
-Tim M Lunardoni
I missed you all.
-Tim M Lunardoni
Monday, October 09, 2006
Futbol
For those of you confused by the first letter of this post and its title, let me begin by explaining that I am typing on an IES computer, and therefore have full use of all the fun and fantastic letters in the alfabet. I can also use "ñ"!
"Futbol" is the borish translation that these idiotic iberians use when talking about the good old fashioned American sport of Soccer. Nothing says America to me more than Apple Pie, the Forth of July, and Soccer. I went to a Barcelona (not the EU Champions, the Catalan team from the Spanish League) futbol game last night. It was the Catalans vs. the Basques, which I thought was interesting as neither team really wanted to be part of Spain. The sport itself is, I guess, the same everywhere, but the fans are so different here from the soccer fan in the US. (His name is Jerry)
Everyone, or at least 90% of them, tie the flag of the team they support around their neck. It is like being in a stadium with so many caped crusaders. The fans seem to be less interested in the game, so much as they are preoccupied with their own little rituals. There were some that I was familiar with, like "The Wave". However, there were others such as a responsorial chant between the two sides of the stadium. There was also a ritual that involved lighting flares and throwing them around the stands. That one was an import from the Basques. No, really.
The game ended in a tie, which seemed perfectly natural to all the Spaniards there who didn´t realize that: it´s not a game unless somebody loses. Then as I left the stadium I noticed that some of the Catalan "super heroes" were chatting with their Basque opposition. That hippie mentality of thinking that futbol is "only a game" and that you shouldn´t hate someone souly because they support a different team than you might fly here in the EU, but I´m glad to be from American. I think a good sports victory induced riot would do the people here some good.
-Tim M Lunardoñi
"Futbol" is the borish translation that these idiotic iberians use when talking about the good old fashioned American sport of Soccer. Nothing says America to me more than Apple Pie, the Forth of July, and Soccer. I went to a Barcelona (not the EU Champions, the Catalan team from the Spanish League) futbol game last night. It was the Catalans vs. the Basques, which I thought was interesting as neither team really wanted to be part of Spain. The sport itself is, I guess, the same everywhere, but the fans are so different here from the soccer fan in the US. (His name is Jerry)
Everyone, or at least 90% of them, tie the flag of the team they support around their neck. It is like being in a stadium with so many caped crusaders. The fans seem to be less interested in the game, so much as they are preoccupied with their own little rituals. There were some that I was familiar with, like "The Wave". However, there were others such as a responsorial chant between the two sides of the stadium. There was also a ritual that involved lighting flares and throwing them around the stands. That one was an import from the Basques. No, really.
The game ended in a tie, which seemed perfectly natural to all the Spaniards there who didn´t realize that: it´s not a game unless somebody loses. Then as I left the stadium I noticed that some of the Catalan "super heroes" were chatting with their Basque opposition. That hippie mentality of thinking that futbol is "only a game" and that you shouldn´t hate someone souly because they support a different team than you might fly here in the EU, but I´m glad to be from American. I think a good sports victory induced riot would do the people here some good.
-Tim M Lunardoñi
Saturday, October 07, 2006
What the "F"
The F key on my keyboard has decided that it hates life. Only occationally will it do the very simple job I pay it for nowadays. So I've decided to use that letter less and less when I type. So if you all could help me come up with some non-F-ing words, that would be neato.
-Tim M Lunardoni
(looks like my name isn't a problem)
-Tim M Lunardoni
(looks like my name isn't a problem)
Living a Lie
So when my study abroad experiance began, and I had only just moved into my dorm, there was one Saturday that I just went out and walked around the city. That very same day two girls from my dorm, Trish and Ellie, went to Montserrat.
For all of you who don't know, Montserrat is a thousand year old monestary built on the top of a mountain. The composition of the mountain itself is enough to keep me interested for a day. It is sedimentary rock that has erroded in the strangest way. But the monastic cathedral also makes my nerd sense tingle in all sorts of fun ways. (I any of you took that as dirty, I suggest you seek mental help) There is also an infamouse, and if you're a Cathol, miraculous, statue of the Black Virgin at Monstserrat. The idea is that you wait on line for way too long, with Catholics glaring at you any time you open your mouth, and telling you 'silencio' whenever you breath, so that you can look at a black stone statue of Mary and Jeesey Chreesey at the back of the church. The statues supposed to have healing powers, but I wont believe it until I see Mary sporting some adamantium claws.
Of course I didn't need to read that paragraph because I'd already been to Montserrat. I went the first time I came to Spain in 2004. It was a really foggy and rainy day that made the monestary look particularly old and... erm... whimsical. I even remember what CD I had in my now dead discman at the time, it was a mix CD I called "Monday", referring to Monday April 12th, 2004. That was also the day I dicovered I hated "Benny and the Jets". I know this level of detail seems superfluous, but I really want to get the message across that I had been to this place before.
When Trish and Ellie came back to the dorm after visiting Montserrat way back in September, they were so excited that they wanted to describe the place to anyone that was willing to listen. I was willing to listen. And as they tried to describe it to me, I explained that I remembered, that I'd been there too. But this information must have sounded like a foreign language to them. No matter how many time I told them that I too had touched the Black Virgin's Ball (also not dirty), they would not, could not understand me. So eventually I gave up and just started to pretend that I'd never been there before.
It was a little white lie that I should have know was going to come back to haunt me. When I went to Montserrat again today for the first time, I suspiciously seemed to know a lot about the monestary. Not only did I know the history, and basic lay out of the Monestary, but also where to find bathrooms, where the cafe was, and where to get on line for... anything we wanted to see. I tried to pass it off as if I had a REALLY good guidebook, but I think people may be onto me.
Although, I think something I heard recently is true. Going somewhere new is fun, but I find it much more interesting and enlightening to re-visit places. Perhaps one day I will get back to Montserrat. Perhaps, once again, it will be for the first time.
-Tim
PS.
Pictures:
This is the Monstserrat Facade.
Now look at those rocks. Someone find Bouley so he can tell me why those rocks are so nifty.
Now I'm not usually one for taking or posting pictures of myself. I know what I look like, so what's the point? But I guess I have to admit that this blog isn't really for me. So here I am selling out for my fans. I think the filename for this photo says it all. That's Spain Behind Me.jpg
For all of you who don't know, Montserrat is a thousand year old monestary built on the top of a mountain. The composition of the mountain itself is enough to keep me interested for a day. It is sedimentary rock that has erroded in the strangest way. But the monastic cathedral also makes my nerd sense tingle in all sorts of fun ways. (I any of you took that as dirty, I suggest you seek mental help) There is also an infamouse, and if you're a Cathol, miraculous, statue of the Black Virgin at Monstserrat. The idea is that you wait on line for way too long, with Catholics glaring at you any time you open your mouth, and telling you 'silencio' whenever you breath, so that you can look at a black stone statue of Mary and Jeesey Chreesey at the back of the church. The statues supposed to have healing powers, but I wont believe it until I see Mary sporting some adamantium claws.
Of course I didn't need to read that paragraph because I'd already been to Montserrat. I went the first time I came to Spain in 2004. It was a really foggy and rainy day that made the monestary look particularly old and... erm... whimsical. I even remember what CD I had in my now dead discman at the time, it was a mix CD I called "Monday", referring to Monday April 12th, 2004. That was also the day I dicovered I hated "Benny and the Jets". I know this level of detail seems superfluous, but I really want to get the message across that I had been to this place before.
When Trish and Ellie came back to the dorm after visiting Montserrat way back in September, they were so excited that they wanted to describe the place to anyone that was willing to listen. I was willing to listen. And as they tried to describe it to me, I explained that I remembered, that I'd been there too. But this information must have sounded like a foreign language to them. No matter how many time I told them that I too had touched the Black Virgin's Ball (also not dirty), they would not, could not understand me. So eventually I gave up and just started to pretend that I'd never been there before.
It was a little white lie that I should have know was going to come back to haunt me. When I went to Montserrat again today for the first time, I suspiciously seemed to know a lot about the monestary. Not only did I know the history, and basic lay out of the Monestary, but also where to find bathrooms, where the cafe was, and where to get on line for... anything we wanted to see. I tried to pass it off as if I had a REALLY good guidebook, but I think people may be onto me.
Although, I think something I heard recently is true. Going somewhere new is fun, but I find it much more interesting and enlightening to re-visit places. Perhaps one day I will get back to Montserrat. Perhaps, once again, it will be for the first time.
-Tim
PS.
Pictures:
This is the Monstserrat Facade.
Now look at those rocks. Someone find Bouley so he can tell me why those rocks are so nifty.
Now I'm not usually one for taking or posting pictures of myself. I know what I look like, so what's the point? But I guess I have to admit that this blog isn't really for me. So here I am selling out for my fans. I think the filename for this photo says it all. That's Spain Behind Me.jpg
