Pope JP Deuce
So I was walking through Madrid the other day (as I've been known to do on
occasion), and as I passed by the Catedral de Nuestra Senora de la Almudena,
who should be standing out front, but none other then big Pope JP Deuce. I walked
in the fence and stood in front of the likeness of Pope John Paul II (His Holiness,
as he likes to be refered to), arms wide in an eternal bronze embrace of the
world. I must say, he looks much younger and healthier in person then he does
on TV. Bigger, too. Anyway since I was the only one in that particular alcove,
and since most everyone else around me spoke Spanish (go figure), I started
asking the Deuce a few questions.
Me: How's it goin', Pope? (I started slowly)
JP: Not Bad. You? (sweet, he spoke English)
M: Can't complain.
JP: What's on
your mind? (as if he really had to ask...)
M: Well, just kind of wandering...in
a literal sense.
JP: Yeah...? how's that going?
M: Great. Seein' all kinds of cool
stuff.
JP: Good, keep going.
M: Plan to.
I won't bore you with the entire conversation
verbatim at this point, but I think we really connected. He said things, I listened.
I said things, he listened. Almost like a real conversation. Except that I was
just staring up at a statue imagining the whole thing in my head.
Anyway, what
started out as a week long detour off the road to Ireland quickly became the
most exciting leg of my trip so far. Since I last wrote of my adventures, and
the now infamous patatas story, things have just kept going along those same
lines.
In Granada, a human statue got upset when five people walked past him
without dropping any change into his little hat, and in return he yelled at
us all (in Spanish) and flipped us off with some authority. All I could do was
laugh. It's not every day one sees a statue get upset...or move.
Granada is
also where I met the Australian. And as we travelled together to Cordoba, where
every turn around every other corner revealed another picture perfect fountain
in a courtyard filled with blooming flowers, or a 1500 year old functioning
well, we discovered that we shared a rare connection which allows one to read
the other's mind. To finish the other's sentences, or even to say exactly what
the other is thinking before they can get the words out of their own mouth.
The sort of connection that, in different circumstances might have had a different
outcome. But as it happened, two days later she was gone. Off on her own journey
to the West, as I went East. Because sometimes that's the way is has to be.
Besides, in the east (or rather, northeast) was Madrid.
Madrid, where I walked
past the Palacio Real, whose 2800 rooms remain "one of Europe's best preserved
Palaces," and whose doors seemed to be closed every time I went to buy
an entrance ticket. No wonder it was so well preserved. But next to that was
the Catedral de Nuestra Senora de la Almudena, and His Holydeuce, and the conversation
earlier referred to. Madrid.
All through Spain, I had been hearing that it was
"just another big city," and could afford to be missed. I tell you
now that Madrid is "just another city" the way New York is "just
another city." Like a step back in time, the most beautiful architecture
that anyplace ever referred to as "just another city" has ever had.
Four nights in Madrid, and I had to pull myself away before I stalled before
I was ready.
From Madrid, an early morning train to Barcelona for three nights
to take in the city that Gaudi built. The Sagrada Familia cathedral, although
not quite finished, and still under construction, is by far the most incredible
church I've ever seen. On this trip or any other. With a look sugesting that
it may have been designed by Tim Burton, and built by Dr. Seuss's Whos down
in Whoville, fifty years from now it will definitely be worthy of another visit
to see the completed structure in all it's glory.
And after having spent six
weeks ordering cafe con leche for breakfast, bocadillos for lunch, and Pollo,
Patatas, and Sangria for dinner, I once again find myself back to Cappucino,
Pizza, Pesto Pasta, and Vino Blanco. (Ahhh....) Italia.
Today I find myself
back in the land where people greet each other like lost cats (ciao!), where
names like Mario, Giacomo, Ivo, and Simone are commonplace to the men who unofficially
run the town that contains what some refer to as "the Fifth Element"
of the Via del Amore. Where the cutest kids in the world have names like Niccolo,
Luigi, and Giovanni, and where people actually say things like "Mamma Mia"
with a straight face and don't get laughed at. Where the electric bus drives
up and down the hill on the only road in town, taking people back to their cars
parked in the only parking lot in a town where the older local women sit on
their benches and talk in their native tongue trying to figure out why so many
people want to visit their tiny village. A place where, if you listen, you can
hear a small man named Heinrick strike his clock tower bell 87 times every morning
at precisely 7:14 AM, just to wake up the town. 87 times. Because 85 just isn't
enough.
For those of you who understand the aforementioned refrences, I don't
have to tell you of the beautiful simplicity of the two photos, side by side
in Bar Tabacchi (the only coffee shop in town), dated 1899, and 1999, and showing
the town as unchanged as if they were taken on the same day. Riomaggiore is
a place whree time stands still, and if not careful, one might get trapped here
quite happily for a great many days.
Riomaggiore, where cherries are out of
season, putting a damper on the legendary "cherry love." But that
doesn't matter because "sexy pizza girl" still holds her post behind
the counter, and has been joined by "hot bar chick," and the pesto
flows as abundantly as the local white wine. The perfect place to pause and
take a proverbial breath, and maybe do a bit of laundry before heading off again.
North.
In other news, after four months in Europe, and three months in Mexico
before that (with a bunch of Europeans), one thing has begun to worry me almost
more then anything else. I sense a change coming over myself. I'm trying not
to accept it, but I can't help it. I've started to think that maybe Speedos
aren't such a bad idea afterall. I've even considered getting one for myself.
I mean, the tanlines would be much better, it would take up hardly any room
in my pack, and I might even blend in with the locals. But lucky for me, I'm
heading North, and summer's almost over. My saving grace.
North, I say! Next
stop: Interlaken, Switzerland, for something called "canyoning."
Lovin'
livin',
peace out,
The Stray Dwanimal