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