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Show THE ZEPHYR/ APRIL-MAY 2006 After a few days in the south of France, Willie suggested we venture into Spain for sangria. So off we went, lugging backpacks, our precious guidebook, and the remnants of the Paradiso stash. For now, suffice it to say that we were a pair of idiotic Americans in short supply of common sense or rational acumen. Which seemed perfect at the time. welcome to the Barcelona was “fast and bulbous,” as Captain Beefheart might say: Hulking grey buildings lined up like battleships as far as the eye could see; traffic to beat the band; stinky sewers; cheap hotels and lots of alcohol. It was only a matter of hours before we hooked up with a trio of young Americans who agreed that a bullfight was par for the course. That two of these people were female didn’t hurt matters. Visions of Hemmingway danced around us like phantoms from some lost generation. nedmudd@bellsouth.net Thanks to Willie’s keen research, we found a splendid bullfight not far from the hotel. from the CRAWL SPACE of HISTORY...notes from the desk of NED M UDD NED'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE To become aware of the possibility of the search i is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair. Walker Percy Any “big” adventure of mine should not be a liscussed in a family paper such as the lif bul fight in B might sneak pas the censors, but involves baby octopus, Zephyr. The three young sojourners who were never seen aj gain, and an American cartoon show overdubbed in Spanish. That I didn't get arre sted, or become violently ill, is quite remarkable. There was gunfire, a small stampede, martial law, and a sickly dash for the o border, of which I have scant recall. The year was 1976. These were slovenly times an dit was every man for himself. But let’s stick to the facts— assuming “facts” still have merit in this strange world of ours. I was in Europe thanks to my dear Grandmother, who felt a young man should “tour the Continent” as a an adjunct to a decent education (which I didn’t possess, having become a college dropout the moment the U.S. military noloy nger had dibs‘on- my scrawny ass. By the luck of the draw, literally, I was exempt from Vie tnam. Lotto Draft was stupid then and seems stupid now; but, by God, I was right where I wanted to be — “a free man in Paris,” to quote the song). My running buddy, who I'll call Willie to prote ct the guilty, decided to join me, which was handy, seeing as he was willing to read & urope on $25 a Day in its entirety as preparation for our journey. Little did we know that tdrunkards couldn’t begin to appreciate life in the Old Country on a paltry 25 skins a day I’m willing to bet that half our budget vanished in the first week alone, mainly on cigaret tes and giant mugs of beer. A massive heat wave stalked Europe that summi er, and dank basements, such as the one beneath Amsterdam’s Paridiso Café, were good p laces to dwell. Especially if said cavern was laden with the best of what Morocco had to g offer. It was here that I began to realize how wise my Grandmother actually was. | always believed a good education should be a hands-on experience, and Amsterdam seemed like the place to begin. A total of six snorting animals were destined to meet their Maker for the sake of what the locals considered Grand Entertainment. Picasso, who knew a good bullfight when he saw one, would be proud. That we had the foresight to fill a bota bag with cheap wine proved our worthiness as initiates into the complexities of animal sacrifice. Behind every Episcopalian lurks the vestige of an atavistic paganism, I was ready for the kill! And kill they did, various matadors practicing the ancient art of slaughter with a gracility the likes of which most of us have never witnessed. I knew we were on the cusp of societal evolution when the final conquistador of the day flung a dead bovine’s ear into the stands, to the tumultuous screams of his adoring fans. As a touching retort, a lovely senora gave the hero her shoe, which he politely sniffed and returned to its owner. As my man, Shakespeare, once penned: "The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on." And, as we all know, this is true. Even in Barcelona. | knew we were on the cusp of societal evolution when the conquistador flung a dead bovine's ear into the stands... _As a touching retort, a lovely senora gave the hero her shoe, which he promptly sniffed and returned to its owner. Here’s how it went down — The five of us emerged from the coliseum and swung down a wide boulevard, een on wine and pumped from an afternoon of serial murders. A crowd of hippies, amassed in a park at the end of the street, appeared to be chanting Ole/ Which seemed appropriate in light of the circumstances. Following natural impulses, our troupe joined the action, fists raised in sympathy with the revelers. Ole/ It’s amazing how similar the words ole and amnesty end up sounding in Spanish. This became glaringly apparent when a squadron of military vehicles sped onto the scene and began discharging tear gas and anti-riot guns. Dead bulls are one thing, but political mayhem in a foreign country is another matter altogether. The thought of being bushwhacked by the Spanish militia jogged By brain into action and I did what any red blooded fool would do in my situation: Run! GET YOURS AT’ BACK OF BEYOND BOOKS: OR ORDER ONLINE: WWWw.CALENDARS.COM Hurry! The Year will be over before you know it. |
