Marao, Spain,
27 Nov. 2010.
I try hard to close out the cacaphony of Catalan and Spanish speaking voices of my fellow travellers on this slow train getting back from a daytrip to Lloret De mar, making a serious effort of getting Nong´s voice back inside my gray brain mass, that sweet femenine voice that was with me while I walked the two hours from Lloret De Mar to Tossa De Mar following a rocky coastal path going up and down the rocks and hills that seperate these two popular beach resorts north of Barcelona...
The strong smell of pine trees, a solitary walk in nature with the sounds of birds making me emotional and melancholgy...the right combination to transport my Farang mind back to Thailand and my many Lady Of The Night ladyfriends over there...but Nong always foremost in my mind when I make these mental travels...
but sitting here in this early evening train back to Barcelona, the Cataluña capital and my present place of domicile, dead tired from my long walk and all the clear sea air that has invaded my lungs making me even more like feeling asleep on the spot, making it sort of hard to concentrate on what that sweet woman was trying to tell me in that state of mental limbo....
Instead I try to concentrate on my fellow travellers...like this young Arab man in his long Djalleba and reddish beard that should grow on the face of a man much more advanced in age, sitting opposite me, wiping his reading glasses before starting to read his little leather bound version of the Koran, totally ignoring the group of catalan speaking teenage ladies, sort of semi-sluttily dressed and obviously on their way to Barcelona´s friday rowdy nightlife...
The much younger boys who carry their bicycle with them and excitedly talking about this skeeler structure in the urban gonglomerate of Barcelona where they wanna try their iron horses...
A few in black frocks dressed elderly women whose Catalan I find to difficult to concentrate on considering my present state of fatique...
Two Roman musicians busking with an antique looking acordeon amd a drum the size of a child´s play thing, dressed in a fashion that must have been out of time when even my dad was walking around in his shorts during his pre-adolescence years... the music they produce even worse as their dressing code...
No way I will be able to go back to that mental state of limbo back there in the pine woods that covered the hills between Lloret De Mar and Tossa De Mar...not in this slow early evening local train full with people!!!
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Sex in the Hostal´s bathroom
Spain, Barcelona,
26 Nov. 2010.
With the sign saying ¨Fuera de Servicio¨ on the door of the groundfloor toilet in my Hostal, I feltl forced to do my Cry Out Of My Belly business - as an old bicycle messenger Amigo once called peeing - in one of the Baños upstairs early last night...
Quickly opening the door, not bothering to check wether it is a male or female toilet I felt an short moment of embarrasment seeing a naked female shape half hidden by a plastic shower curtain, her hand rising up for her towel, her Japanese eyes looking me straight in the face, the tiny drops of water rolling down her well-shaped body made me hestitate for just a slight second before muttering a short ¨so sorry¨, wanting to withdraw back to the corridor...
¨Pst, pst, you come here quick¨, her fingers making the universal gesture of come here...in no time I found myself behind the plastic curtain, my pants around mt anckels, her left leg around my hip, her slender hands holding on to my shoulders while we had a proverbial quicky...ten minutes of pushing from both sides before her pelvic area started to move up and down my belly, a few high pitched shrieks and she was in her female physical and mental heaven...
A quick kiss on my mouth, a short ´thank you¨ muttered from a Japanese mouth stil gasping for much needed air, bending forward and pulling up my blue jeans, my whole male equipment still in its full glory, was expertly packed away by experienced Asian hands, still wed from her shower...¨quick, quick, you go now, before someone come¨´..a soft push in my back and I was in the corridor again remembering I went to that bathroom to have a piss instaed of making out with a complete stranger though ten minutes longer would have been just fine!!!
Saw her again this morning over breakfast in the communal room, flashing knowing flirtatious dark brown eyes in my direction whenever her girlfriend was gulpnig down her cup of tea, the big backpacks at their site of the table a dead give-away they will be leaving today...I presume that next ten minutes I needed so much last night will never come around...
26 Nov. 2010.
With the sign saying ¨Fuera de Servicio¨ on the door of the groundfloor toilet in my Hostal, I feltl forced to do my Cry Out Of My Belly business - as an old bicycle messenger Amigo once called peeing - in one of the Baños upstairs early last night...
Quickly opening the door, not bothering to check wether it is a male or female toilet I felt an short moment of embarrasment seeing a naked female shape half hidden by a plastic shower curtain, her hand rising up for her towel, her Japanese eyes looking me straight in the face, the tiny drops of water rolling down her well-shaped body made me hestitate for just a slight second before muttering a short ¨so sorry¨, wanting to withdraw back to the corridor...
¨Pst, pst, you come here quick¨, her fingers making the universal gesture of come here...in no time I found myself behind the plastic curtain, my pants around mt anckels, her left leg around my hip, her slender hands holding on to my shoulders while we had a proverbial quicky...ten minutes of pushing from both sides before her pelvic area started to move up and down my belly, a few high pitched shrieks and she was in her female physical and mental heaven...
A quick kiss on my mouth, a short ´thank you¨ muttered from a Japanese mouth stil gasping for much needed air, bending forward and pulling up my blue jeans, my whole male equipment still in its full glory, was expertly packed away by experienced Asian hands, still wed from her shower...¨quick, quick, you go now, before someone come¨´..a soft push in my back and I was in the corridor again remembering I went to that bathroom to have a piss instaed of making out with a complete stranger though ten minutes longer would have been just fine!!!
Saw her again this morning over breakfast in the communal room, flashing knowing flirtatious dark brown eyes in my direction whenever her girlfriend was gulpnig down her cup of tea, the big backpacks at their site of the table a dead give-away they will be leaving today...I presume that next ten minutes I needed so much last night will never come around...
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Early morning in Barcelona
Spain, Barcelona,
25 Nov. 2010.
Early morning and still 15 minutes away from the Hostal provided free Desayuno at 08.15 h., fair enough, I can have a cheap Cafecito in a nearby Cafeteria watching this classic medieval warren of narrow Carrers that form the toursit attraction Numero Uno of Barcelona, wake up...an opaque window over my table showing me an early Cataluña capital....
Urdu speaking Pakistanis opening their stores, Hindu speaking Indians preparing their small shops for the day to come, slant eyed Asians wiping tables in Cafeterias and narrow bars, sigarette buts and smashed Estrella glasses from the night before are absent-mindedly brushed away. Outside in the street young rough looking Marruecos have their first smoke of a brand new day, murmuring under their breath, probably discussing the best way to make the first buck of the day...
Homeless losers having spent the night on cartons in quaint little Plazas, have a first peek at the rising sun over the antiquated Barri Gottic from under dirty and gruffy blankets, their dogs waiting inpatietly for their owners to be moved on by the Mossos d´esquadra on motorbikes...
The city´s street cleaners are already in full swing, dressed in green and yellow coveralls, they handle their brushes, expertly moving around the waking homeless, avoiding the smoking Marruecos, greeting neighbors and other early risers, the Hindus and pakistani shop owners preparing for the new day ahead...empty bottles and plastic cups still containing a remnant of Vino Tinto, disappear in gray colored dust bags...
Yeah; I feel like my mission of coming back to Barcelona and feel that old but familiar admosphere of the cataluña capital, remembered from years ago selling Mandala games and be away from the rheumatic cold rains of the Dutch autumn, has been accomplished ...
25 Nov. 2010.
Early morning and still 15 minutes away from the Hostal provided free Desayuno at 08.15 h., fair enough, I can have a cheap Cafecito in a nearby Cafeteria watching this classic medieval warren of narrow Carrers that form the toursit attraction Numero Uno of Barcelona, wake up...an opaque window over my table showing me an early Cataluña capital....
Urdu speaking Pakistanis opening their stores, Hindu speaking Indians preparing their small shops for the day to come, slant eyed Asians wiping tables in Cafeterias and narrow bars, sigarette buts and smashed Estrella glasses from the night before are absent-mindedly brushed away. Outside in the street young rough looking Marruecos have their first smoke of a brand new day, murmuring under their breath, probably discussing the best way to make the first buck of the day...
Homeless losers having spent the night on cartons in quaint little Plazas, have a first peek at the rising sun over the antiquated Barri Gottic from under dirty and gruffy blankets, their dogs waiting inpatietly for their owners to be moved on by the Mossos d´esquadra on motorbikes...
The city´s street cleaners are already in full swing, dressed in green and yellow coveralls, they handle their brushes, expertly moving around the waking homeless, avoiding the smoking Marruecos, greeting neighbors and other early risers, the Hindus and pakistani shop owners preparing for the new day ahead...empty bottles and plastic cups still containing a remnant of Vino Tinto, disappear in gray colored dust bags...
Yeah; I feel like my mission of coming back to Barcelona and feel that old but familiar admosphere of the cataluña capital, remembered from years ago selling Mandala games and be away from the rheumatic cold rains of the Dutch autumn, has been accomplished ...
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Narrow Carrers and painfull feet in Girona
Spain, Girona,
23 Nov. 2010.
Small claustrophobic streets, narrow and winding going up the eastern bank of the Riu Onjar, make my poor feet hurt but I push on nonetheless, convinced to make this second daytrip out of the Catalunya capital another success number though Girona is a totally different day excursion as Sitges was...
It were the Germanic members of the Frank tribe that first kicked the Muslim asses out of Gerona, a serious step in a 800 year war called La Reconquista that considering the huge influx of Marruecos in Barcelona is still in full swing today...none of that in Girona though, no Hallal Cacuterias, nor Arab speaking olive colored men in the narrow Calles of this colorfull city surrounded by mountain ridges and full with foreign students from northern Europe, tourists speaking Dutch, German and Swedish pass me by while I struggle up and down these narrow alleys, trying hard to ignore my painfull feet...
Sitting grandly at the top of these winding narrow Carrers. is the fine looking cathedral, majestic steps rising up from La Plaza De La Catedral, a nice baroque facade glinting under a late Spanish autumn sun, almost as though greeting me and heralding my Actividades De Dolor...shit, my feet are really killing me...
I move down slowly, down another set of weathered stone steps, through another maze of narrow alleys, to another fine looking church, my free city map - Gracias be to the local Oficina De Turismo - tells me it is called Esglesia De Sant Feliu, a couple of Euros put into a slot and in I am, as always wondering why I have to pay money to enter the house of god, finally some rest for the lowest parts of my body...
23 Nov. 2010.
Small claustrophobic streets, narrow and winding going up the eastern bank of the Riu Onjar, make my poor feet hurt but I push on nonetheless, convinced to make this second daytrip out of the Catalunya capital another success number though Girona is a totally different day excursion as Sitges was...
It were the Germanic members of the Frank tribe that first kicked the Muslim asses out of Gerona, a serious step in a 800 year war called La Reconquista that considering the huge influx of Marruecos in Barcelona is still in full swing today...none of that in Girona though, no Hallal Cacuterias, nor Arab speaking olive colored men in the narrow Calles of this colorfull city surrounded by mountain ridges and full with foreign students from northern Europe, tourists speaking Dutch, German and Swedish pass me by while I struggle up and down these narrow alleys, trying hard to ignore my painfull feet...
Sitting grandly at the top of these winding narrow Carrers. is the fine looking cathedral, majestic steps rising up from La Plaza De La Catedral, a nice baroque facade glinting under a late Spanish autumn sun, almost as though greeting me and heralding my Actividades De Dolor...shit, my feet are really killing me...
I move down slowly, down another set of weathered stone steps, through another maze of narrow alleys, to another fine looking church, my free city map - Gracias be to the local Oficina De Turismo - tells me it is called Esglesia De Sant Feliu, a couple of Euros put into a slot and in I am, as always wondering why I have to pay money to enter the house of god, finally some rest for the lowest parts of my body...
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Local bars in Barcelona
Spain, Barcelona,
21 Nov. 2010.
I have my coffee at small, little bars where the ground is more often that not littered with sigarette buts, Pañules and assorted humna produced waste, where the local cliêntele gathers in the afternoon, noicy and rowdy Catalan is the norm, people run in and out, where I watch this Catalan world go by while my body recuperates from my endless wanderings, the streets and bars of Barcelona and never ending source of fascination for my Gringo braincells, my insides warming up by Cafe Con Leche A La Manera Española...
My ears are being besieged by the problems and gossip of the local Barri, adjusting fast to Catalan which I never studied but seem to have at least partly mastered during my stints in this Cataluña capital, picking up the latest happenings and problems of people who greet me politely when entering, a moment of curiosity in brown Hispano eyes before ordering Un Cafecito, getting into heavy discussions of daily life with Amigos Y Vecinos, vehemently discussing the marital problems of El Señorito Antonio, Señora Benitez and her pregnant daughter of eight months....
I follow it all trying hard to make sence of a language that sounds familiar and strange at the same time...the strong smell of Sigarillos invading my Gringo nostrils while I make notes in my scrapbooks, quick sketches of people around me so occupied with their daily affairs....
The strong hot taste of Una Copa De Coñac paid for by a friendly local gulving down my throat while showing him the Dibujos in my sketchbook, an amable Hombre Catalan wanting to know all about my life in my native Holland, Amsterdam ¨Es Esa No La Ciudad De Coffeeshops, Señor?, Donde Se Puede Fumar Porros Sin Problems Con Los Mossos, Si?¨...
A bit like being transported back in time to a much younger life though my Spanish was not nearly as good in these days of yonder...the days I toured Europe on forged interrrail cards, kipping in overnight trains to save Dinero on Hostales...
21 Nov. 2010.
I have my coffee at small, little bars where the ground is more often that not littered with sigarette buts, Pañules and assorted humna produced waste, where the local cliêntele gathers in the afternoon, noicy and rowdy Catalan is the norm, people run in and out, where I watch this Catalan world go by while my body recuperates from my endless wanderings, the streets and bars of Barcelona and never ending source of fascination for my Gringo braincells, my insides warming up by Cafe Con Leche A La Manera Española...
My ears are being besieged by the problems and gossip of the local Barri, adjusting fast to Catalan which I never studied but seem to have at least partly mastered during my stints in this Cataluña capital, picking up the latest happenings and problems of people who greet me politely when entering, a moment of curiosity in brown Hispano eyes before ordering Un Cafecito, getting into heavy discussions of daily life with Amigos Y Vecinos, vehemently discussing the marital problems of El Señorito Antonio, Señora Benitez and her pregnant daughter of eight months....
I follow it all trying hard to make sence of a language that sounds familiar and strange at the same time...the strong smell of Sigarillos invading my Gringo nostrils while I make notes in my scrapbooks, quick sketches of people around me so occupied with their daily affairs....
The strong hot taste of Una Copa De Coñac paid for by a friendly local gulving down my throat while showing him the Dibujos in my sketchbook, an amable Hombre Catalan wanting to know all about my life in my native Holland, Amsterdam ¨Es Esa No La Ciudad De Coffeeshops, Señor?, Donde Se Puede Fumar Porros Sin Problems Con Los Mossos, Si?¨...
A bit like being transported back in time to a much younger life though my Spanish was not nearly as good in these days of yonder...the days I toured Europe on forged interrrail cards, kipping in overnight trains to save Dinero on Hostales...
Friday, November 19, 2010
Gays gayly absent in Sitges
Spain, Sitges,
19 Nov. 2010.
I wander the windy small streets of Sitges which is as dead as a rabbit roadkill, at this time of year, with the world gay community all busy with other affairs I guess though rumour has it this place will once again be overrun by homosexuals the world over, the numerous bars of this meditarenean village slashing it out with the volume of decibels...gays dressed in swimming trunks invading the discos with the nightlife continueing untill dawn, holding hands the way lovers do, the beds in the local Hostales being tested to its very limits every morning after a fruitfull Noche of looking for the same gender bed partner...
The stories continue and continue in this small local bar where I have taken up temporary residence for Un Cafe Con Leche Caliente the Spanish way, listening to what these Ancianos tell me about the international gay community that takes over their precious little coastal Aldea each summer, bringing no Paz or Quietut but lots of Dinero, walking the boulevard unabashed and in feminine ways, proud of their Maricon ways, feeling at home in a Hispanohablante world where nobody objects to their gay behaviour...apart off course from these ancient toothless local men who knock down small bottles of Damm Estrella and Copitas of strong Conyac and have Nada Millor A Hacer in their old age but complain...
¨Es Usted Maricon Tambien, Senyor?¨ they wanna know...I tell them ¨No, but the way I see it there can never be enough male homosexuals around in this world¨, after all the more male gays, the less competition with the ladies for me...Guess they never looked at it from that point of view...
19 Nov. 2010.
I wander the windy small streets of Sitges which is as dead as a rabbit roadkill, at this time of year, with the world gay community all busy with other affairs I guess though rumour has it this place will once again be overrun by homosexuals the world over, the numerous bars of this meditarenean village slashing it out with the volume of decibels...gays dressed in swimming trunks invading the discos with the nightlife continueing untill dawn, holding hands the way lovers do, the beds in the local Hostales being tested to its very limits every morning after a fruitfull Noche of looking for the same gender bed partner...
The stories continue and continue in this small local bar where I have taken up temporary residence for Un Cafe Con Leche Caliente the Spanish way, listening to what these Ancianos tell me about the international gay community that takes over their precious little coastal Aldea each summer, bringing no Paz or Quietut but lots of Dinero, walking the boulevard unabashed and in feminine ways, proud of their Maricon ways, feeling at home in a Hispanohablante world where nobody objects to their gay behaviour...apart off course from these ancient toothless local men who knock down small bottles of Damm Estrella and Copitas of strong Conyac and have Nada Millor A Hacer in their old age but complain...
¨Es Usted Maricon Tambien, Senyor?¨ they wanna know...I tell them ¨No, but the way I see it there can never be enough male homosexuals around in this world¨, after all the more male gays, the less competition with the ladies for me...Guess they never looked at it from that point of view...
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Vino Tinto con El Menu Del Dia
Spain, Barcelona,
18 Nov. 2010.
¨Y Pa El Beguda´, Senyor?¨, I try to ignore the black stumps of teeth left in the grinning mouth of this local Anciano waiting on my table and asking me in the local limbo what I wanna drink. I realise I am in a non-tourist part of town and therefore will be served a whole bottle of Vino Tinto...no way to resist the temptetation of knocking it down completely while working on my Tres Plats Del Menu del Dia- Postre exluded - dark red wine entering my blood stream and doing a serious number on my day time consciousness, mixing in my Gringo tummy with the Ensalada, Paella Valenciano and Bistec Con patatas...let´s not forget El Postre Que Es Aqui Helado de Cafelato.
Surrounded by locals who despite the twenty percent unemployment rate in this Hispanohablante country seem quite capable to pay the daily eight fifty for the daily midday meal, outside in a local bar while gossiping the latest news of Los Vecinos, have a smoke after the necesary intake of food, Una copa de Conyac on top of El Vino Tinto or Blanco De La Mesa...
I ponder on the latest happenings in my life , like the people from the Hostal explaining me this morning the visitors that were around last night while I was sketching Borrachos de Marruecos in La Plaza Reial, my newly found African buddies from the street asking if I was in probably having a bad day of street selling and a thirsty throat for Estrellas...
Persisitent buggers not realising this free Estrella adventure was a one time affair and no ¨Tampoco Tengo Una Hembra Europea willing to marry an illegal African inmigrant with big dreams but empty pockets, no sister or blond daughter willing to take care of the necesary paperwork, a place to stay with the marital bed included...
I am more interested in the two canadian cruise ship ladies having a few days off here in Barcelona untill their Crusero will start in earnest down and up the meditaranean coast, having a strong need for female companionship myself while kipping in a dormitory with males only for five consecutive nights now, the snoring of drunk Scotchmen who return home after long nights of bar hopping in the Barcelona nightlife, keeping me awake at night...
Remembering the soft midnight groaning of Thai Hot mommas with emotional attachments to a Ting Tong painter from far away Holland who always is willing to part with some Thai Baht for food and rent money, willing to let them have the art they pose for in midday sessions inside a fan controlled room while the temperatures soar well into their forties outside...
This Vino Tinto is defenitely doing its number on me and I still have to finish the other half of the bottle, try to get to my Hostal, sleep off dark red wine entering my blood stream with a certian vengeance of the past, making me remember things long since forgotten...
18 Nov. 2010.
¨Y Pa El Beguda´, Senyor?¨, I try to ignore the black stumps of teeth left in the grinning mouth of this local Anciano waiting on my table and asking me in the local limbo what I wanna drink. I realise I am in a non-tourist part of town and therefore will be served a whole bottle of Vino Tinto...no way to resist the temptetation of knocking it down completely while working on my Tres Plats Del Menu del Dia- Postre exluded - dark red wine entering my blood stream and doing a serious number on my day time consciousness, mixing in my Gringo tummy with the Ensalada, Paella Valenciano and Bistec Con patatas...let´s not forget El Postre Que Es Aqui Helado de Cafelato.
Surrounded by locals who despite the twenty percent unemployment rate in this Hispanohablante country seem quite capable to pay the daily eight fifty for the daily midday meal, outside in a local bar while gossiping the latest news of Los Vecinos, have a smoke after the necesary intake of food, Una copa de Conyac on top of El Vino Tinto or Blanco De La Mesa...
I ponder on the latest happenings in my life , like the people from the Hostal explaining me this morning the visitors that were around last night while I was sketching Borrachos de Marruecos in La Plaza Reial, my newly found African buddies from the street asking if I was in probably having a bad day of street selling and a thirsty throat for Estrellas...
Persisitent buggers not realising this free Estrella adventure was a one time affair and no ¨Tampoco Tengo Una Hembra Europea willing to marry an illegal African inmigrant with big dreams but empty pockets, no sister or blond daughter willing to take care of the necesary paperwork, a place to stay with the marital bed included...
I am more interested in the two canadian cruise ship ladies having a few days off here in Barcelona untill their Crusero will start in earnest down and up the meditaranean coast, having a strong need for female companionship myself while kipping in a dormitory with males only for five consecutive nights now, the snoring of drunk Scotchmen who return home after long nights of bar hopping in the Barcelona nightlife, keeping me awake at night...
Remembering the soft midnight groaning of Thai Hot mommas with emotional attachments to a Ting Tong painter from far away Holland who always is willing to part with some Thai Baht for food and rent money, willing to let them have the art they pose for in midday sessions inside a fan controlled room while the temperatures soar well into their forties outside...
This Vino Tinto is defenitely doing its number on me and I still have to finish the other half of the bottle, try to get to my Hostal, sleep off dark red wine entering my blood stream with a certian vengeance of the past, making me remember things long since forgotten...
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
El Menu Del Dia in Barcelona
Spain, Barcelona,
16 Nov. 2010.
I try hard to make sense of the board outside one of Barcelona´s many small bars, proclaiming the menu of the day, El Menu del dia as they call it in this part of the world. It goes a bit like this...
Primers,
Mongeta Tendra
Rollito de Primervera
Amaita Tébita de Camamber
Segons
Calamars a la Romana
Fricandpo amb. Xampinyars
Salsitxes amb. Patats
Beguda, Pa, Postre o Cafe
Good thing this is not my first stint in Catalunya´s capital though the Catalan language is not all that hard to master when one speaks Castellano, the amount of different dishes in this part of the world is staggering, adding to that the numerous pakistani, Chinese, Indian and assorted foreign inmigrant owned restaurants all quite willing to advetise their own dishes in the local limbo and it should be clear that one needs at least a couple thousand of dish names just to make sure one gets his or her necesay nutrients inside the Gringo tummy...
If there is one thing I have learned during my many trips to Catalunya, it is the fierce nationalistic feelings among the local populace, and though probably stronger then in El Pais Vasco...at least the Catalans manifest it in the wrtten word instead of blowing things up A La Manera Vasco.
Still, I love sitting in one of these typical spanish bars after a whole morning of wandering around, somewhere in a busy Carrer or Passeig and enjoy a great meal, Una Copa de Vino Tinto and a Cafecito Al Final Del Menu Del Dia, stronger as my stomach can take it.....
16 Nov. 2010.
I try hard to make sense of the board outside one of Barcelona´s many small bars, proclaiming the menu of the day, El Menu del dia as they call it in this part of the world. It goes a bit like this...
Primers,
Mongeta Tendra
Rollito de Primervera
Amaita Tébita de Camamber
Segons
Calamars a la Romana
Fricandpo amb. Xampinyars
Salsitxes amb. Patats
Beguda, Pa, Postre o Cafe
Good thing this is not my first stint in Catalunya´s capital though the Catalan language is not all that hard to master when one speaks Castellano, the amount of different dishes in this part of the world is staggering, adding to that the numerous pakistani, Chinese, Indian and assorted foreign inmigrant owned restaurants all quite willing to advetise their own dishes in the local limbo and it should be clear that one needs at least a couple thousand of dish names just to make sure one gets his or her necesay nutrients inside the Gringo tummy...
If there is one thing I have learned during my many trips to Catalunya, it is the fierce nationalistic feelings among the local populace, and though probably stronger then in El Pais Vasco...at least the Catalans manifest it in the wrtten word instead of blowing things up A La Manera Vasco.
Still, I love sitting in one of these typical spanish bars after a whole morning of wandering around, somewhere in a busy Carrer or Passeig and enjoy a great meal, Una Copa de Vino Tinto and a Cafecito Al Final Del Menu Del Dia, stronger as my stomach can take it.....
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Racist police in Barcelona...or maybe not
Spain, Barcelona,
16 Nov. 2010.
In a few simple but profitable days I have managed to sell all the games I took with me from Amsterdam, a good deal of Dinero on top of my holiday budget, hanging out with dark skinned Africans who sell next to me in the busy streets of this Catalunya capital and are always willing, if not deperate to share some Estrellas with me at the end of a - for them anyway - stressful day...
I guess when you sell fake rolexes, not so real Rayban sunglasses and claim your jewelry is first class silver and gold though a few scratches with the human nail or the end of a room key will give the first layers away to the nickel underneath, complaints are bound to be filed...Barcelona´s finest trying hard to protect the Numero Uno reputation of a city thriving on the tourist buck...
Local shop owners not all that happy with illegal ambulant vendors spoiling their business but not paying taxes, rent of retail prices...yeah, small wonder Los Mossos D´esquadra are less interested in me and my handmade funny little games than in my dark skinned brothers who run on black soles like chicken do for the red colored fox, their wares slung around African shoulders, no eye for the blond Scandinavian sex bombs they were just mere minutes ago trying hard to impress with stories that had no real meaning apart from getting into Swedish female pants...
Not that my newly found buddies from that sorry continent see it that way, no way at all, according to them all the European police are racist and corrupt bastarts who have Pas De Respet for those that come from impoverished african states where the average education for those from the street and the countrysite is minimal...
On and on they go in this small and obscure little local bar near the Platja Barceloneta while they knock down red colored alu cans of cold Estrella paid by poor Moi...Well, what can I say, I have heard it all before, more than once, C´est La Vie, C´est le monde. Mes Amis D´Afrique
16 Nov. 2010.
In a few simple but profitable days I have managed to sell all the games I took with me from Amsterdam, a good deal of Dinero on top of my holiday budget, hanging out with dark skinned Africans who sell next to me in the busy streets of this Catalunya capital and are always willing, if not deperate to share some Estrellas with me at the end of a - for them anyway - stressful day...
I guess when you sell fake rolexes, not so real Rayban sunglasses and claim your jewelry is first class silver and gold though a few scratches with the human nail or the end of a room key will give the first layers away to the nickel underneath, complaints are bound to be filed...Barcelona´s finest trying hard to protect the Numero Uno reputation of a city thriving on the tourist buck...
Local shop owners not all that happy with illegal ambulant vendors spoiling their business but not paying taxes, rent of retail prices...yeah, small wonder Los Mossos D´esquadra are less interested in me and my handmade funny little games than in my dark skinned brothers who run on black soles like chicken do for the red colored fox, their wares slung around African shoulders, no eye for the blond Scandinavian sex bombs they were just mere minutes ago trying hard to impress with stories that had no real meaning apart from getting into Swedish female pants...
Not that my newly found buddies from that sorry continent see it that way, no way at all, according to them all the European police are racist and corrupt bastarts who have Pas De Respet for those that come from impoverished african states where the average education for those from the street and the countrysite is minimal...
On and on they go in this small and obscure little local bar near the Platja Barceloneta while they knock down red colored alu cans of cold Estrella paid by poor Moi...Well, what can I say, I have heard it all before, more than once, C´est La Vie, C´est le monde. Mes Amis D´Afrique
Monday, November 15, 2010
Free beer for African street sellers in Port Vell, Barcelona
Spain, Barcelona,
15 Nov. 2010.
¨Corre, Corre, Amigo, Ya vienen los Toros¨, and off they are, my fellow ambulant sellers, black as coal, their wares quickly wrapped in the blankets and sheets they sell them from out here in Port Vell in Barcelona, sunglasses and fake rolexes always good for making a quick buck in a tourist oriented city like the Catalunya capital, some fake gold and/or silver juwelry sold in the street by those that are illegal but had a head full with hopes for the future in the rich west when first they crossed the many loop holes of Fort Europe...
They run in the opposite dierction, away from Los Mossos D`esquadra who always love a good chase, run after illegal inmigrants from the dark continent and get a quick promotion...of course the white handmade Mandala seller is no serious option for them though they have clearly seen me and I can`t be bothered to run with my black newly found friends...just wait till this crazy cr*p is over and continue my ambulant activities...
In the end I find myself in a small bar paying a few Estrellas for my colleagues from the street whose life is made hard by local Toros - as these blokes call the coppers - remembering that if there is one thing an african male likes most apart from blond sex bombs, it is beer...my not so hard earned Dinero going down dark skinned thirsty African throats, a good way of making friends with people from a continent that have always beeen the downtrotten...
I tell them about my canoe trip down The Gambia River and the crazy backpacking I did in Sierra Leone looking for adventure in a country where blood diamonts made good fodder for child soldiers, my extra-marital affairs with Kenian hot Mommas in Nairobi, carefully leaving out my upcoming trip to Thailand...I don´t want these poor sods to believe I have plenty of D`argent and sell my games for old times´ sake...
15 Nov. 2010.
¨Corre, Corre, Amigo, Ya vienen los Toros¨, and off they are, my fellow ambulant sellers, black as coal, their wares quickly wrapped in the blankets and sheets they sell them from out here in Port Vell in Barcelona, sunglasses and fake rolexes always good for making a quick buck in a tourist oriented city like the Catalunya capital, some fake gold and/or silver juwelry sold in the street by those that are illegal but had a head full with hopes for the future in the rich west when first they crossed the many loop holes of Fort Europe...
They run in the opposite dierction, away from Los Mossos D`esquadra who always love a good chase, run after illegal inmigrants from the dark continent and get a quick promotion...of course the white handmade Mandala seller is no serious option for them though they have clearly seen me and I can`t be bothered to run with my black newly found friends...just wait till this crazy cr*p is over and continue my ambulant activities...
In the end I find myself in a small bar paying a few Estrellas for my colleagues from the street whose life is made hard by local Toros - as these blokes call the coppers - remembering that if there is one thing an african male likes most apart from blond sex bombs, it is beer...my not so hard earned Dinero going down dark skinned thirsty African throats, a good way of making friends with people from a continent that have always beeen the downtrotten...
I tell them about my canoe trip down The Gambia River and the crazy backpacking I did in Sierra Leone looking for adventure in a country where blood diamonts made good fodder for child soldiers, my extra-marital affairs with Kenian hot Mommas in Nairobi, carefully leaving out my upcoming trip to Thailand...I don´t want these poor sods to believe I have plenty of D`argent and sell my games for old times´ sake...
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The outlines of my mission
Spain, Barcelona,
14 Nov. 2010.
I slowly open first one eye and then the other, I see people half naked getting dressed, the semi-sickening smell of unwashed bodies after a night of boozing making me feel like puking...remembering the group of rowdy Scotchmen that entered the dormitory late at night, I sort of understand where the stink comes from, the noicy snoring in the bunk bed above me confirms my suspicions...
Contrary to yesterday my throat is parch dry making me remember the carton of cheap wine I finished off before going to bed, even in Spain, the one and only country of good Vino Tinto, the cheap stuff is better left alone!!!
But I remeber the outlines of my mission...three weeks of being out of the rheumatic Dutch autumn rain and bone chilling cold, walking around sunny Barcelona, sitting down every so often to read today edition of El pais or La Vanguardia while enjoying a strong expresso the Spainish way in one of the numerous bars in this great Catalunya city...
Maybe join the illegal African street sellers in Port Vell selling my handmade Mandala games and run when Los Mossos D`esquadra show up, making me remeber the years of Yonder, when I had Pas D`Argent, No dinero to speak of...
stroll the streets of this colorfull and cultural city, maybe do some sketches in my scrapbooks and have good food, El Menu Del Dia being quite affortable these days!!!
14 Nov. 2010.
I slowly open first one eye and then the other, I see people half naked getting dressed, the semi-sickening smell of unwashed bodies after a night of boozing making me feel like puking...remembering the group of rowdy Scotchmen that entered the dormitory late at night, I sort of understand where the stink comes from, the noicy snoring in the bunk bed above me confirms my suspicions...
Contrary to yesterday my throat is parch dry making me remember the carton of cheap wine I finished off before going to bed, even in Spain, the one and only country of good Vino Tinto, the cheap stuff is better left alone!!!
But I remeber the outlines of my mission...three weeks of being out of the rheumatic Dutch autumn rain and bone chilling cold, walking around sunny Barcelona, sitting down every so often to read today edition of El pais or La Vanguardia while enjoying a strong expresso the Spainish way in one of the numerous bars in this great Catalunya city...
Maybe join the illegal African street sellers in Port Vell selling my handmade Mandala games and run when Los Mossos D`esquadra show up, making me remeber the years of Yonder, when I had Pas D`Argent, No dinero to speak of...
stroll the streets of this colorfull and cultural city, maybe do some sketches in my scrapbooks and have good food, El Menu Del Dia being quite affortable these days!!!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
By Euro-Lines bus to barcelona
Spain, Barcelona,
13 Nov. 2010.
¨Estacion Santt, Barcelona, Estacion Santt, Barcelona, Todos Bajan Aqui¨, I open first one eye and then slowly the other, my tongue feels a bit dry but not like parchment as it does usually went I wake up in my own bed in Amsterdam...but then I am not in Amsterdam, I am in Barcelona, and that after a whole day and night travelling in a bus with a stinking toilet which door could not be closed, engulving the whole bus with a sour smell of fresh excrement whenever one of my fellow travellers had the evil nerves to use it...
A bus only half full with travellers, most of which I was sure had someting to hide considering they got into a nervous twitch whenever we croassed a border...19 Euro more and I would have been on a three hour flight from Amsterdam to this catalunya city...but then I was adamant doing it the old fashioned way, bunking it up with the lower levels of society...20 years ago it were the coffee shop types, down and out after a extended Mary-Jane holiday to Holland`s capital, the coffee shop dream world of Spanish blowheads with rasta hair, braids carefully bred over years of smoking pot....old and greasy jeans devoid of a laundry job as well as girlfriends that looked hardly better...
Nowadays it were East-European Roma, illegal immigrants from Marruecos visting relatives in the country were they once started their illegal status before moving up north...all of them giving me suspiciuous looks at roadside restaurant stops, scared of my sketchbook - good thing I forgot my camara on purpose -
But then I am on a mission, spending my hard earned dough, being away from Holland and feel the tongue of the Hispano-Hablantes enter my veins and make the neurons inside my gray Gringo brain mass do a dance, make a tumbler and get things sorted out the lazy Spanish way...maybe sell a few Mandala games again out at Port Vell surrounded by illegal African street sellers, or else on Las Ramblas which is nowadays covered by living statues from Roma origin as contrary to the bangles selling Hippies I use to mingle with years, and even more years ago...try to make to old years come back the possitive way by travelling the negative way...
Let´s wait and see how this trip will work out.
13 Nov. 2010.
¨Estacion Santt, Barcelona, Estacion Santt, Barcelona, Todos Bajan Aqui¨, I open first one eye and then slowly the other, my tongue feels a bit dry but not like parchment as it does usually went I wake up in my own bed in Amsterdam...but then I am not in Amsterdam, I am in Barcelona, and that after a whole day and night travelling in a bus with a stinking toilet which door could not be closed, engulving the whole bus with a sour smell of fresh excrement whenever one of my fellow travellers had the evil nerves to use it...
A bus only half full with travellers, most of which I was sure had someting to hide considering they got into a nervous twitch whenever we croassed a border...19 Euro more and I would have been on a three hour flight from Amsterdam to this catalunya city...but then I was adamant doing it the old fashioned way, bunking it up with the lower levels of society...20 years ago it were the coffee shop types, down and out after a extended Mary-Jane holiday to Holland`s capital, the coffee shop dream world of Spanish blowheads with rasta hair, braids carefully bred over years of smoking pot....old and greasy jeans devoid of a laundry job as well as girlfriends that looked hardly better...
Nowadays it were East-European Roma, illegal immigrants from Marruecos visting relatives in the country were they once started their illegal status before moving up north...all of them giving me suspiciuous looks at roadside restaurant stops, scared of my sketchbook - good thing I forgot my camara on purpose -
But then I am on a mission, spending my hard earned dough, being away from Holland and feel the tongue of the Hispano-Hablantes enter my veins and make the neurons inside my gray Gringo brain mass do a dance, make a tumbler and get things sorted out the lazy Spanish way...maybe sell a few Mandala games again out at Port Vell surrounded by illegal African street sellers, or else on Las Ramblas which is nowadays covered by living statues from Roma origin as contrary to the bangles selling Hippies I use to mingle with years, and even more years ago...try to make to old years come back the possitive way by travelling the negative way...
Let´s wait and see how this trip will work out.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Sanny from the petting zoo and a crazy Ho from the street
11 Nov. 2010.
I can believe this crazy Ho walking the Red Light District of Amsterdam, dressed in net stockings, high heels and a tight green colored short and thin dress spanning over rolls of female fat, big sagging boobs nearly popping out of their prison, her eyes provocative and she is apperently totally unaware of the cold hail that alternates with the rheumatic rain that comes down in droves...
Tjee, this nutty lady, probably already into her fifties, must be on someting, crack most likely since it is the hard drug of choice for most alcoholics and druggies from the Amsterdam streets, cheap and easily available...
It almost seems like total injustice to draw her in my sketchbook right next to Sanny from the petting zoo in Amsterdam West who is a hard working lady and mother of little Charlotte, nearly three years old and bearing the same name as my own daughter her in good ole Mokum though my Charlotte is two years her senior...
Mental Preparations...a new trip.
Holland, Amsterdam.
11 Nov. 2010.
It is slowly sinking into the gray cells, into the neurons that swarm around inside my Gringo skull...provided I wake up in time tomorrow morning, make it to Amstel Station in time and board that darned Eurolines bus...I will be on the way to Barcelona, nearly three weeks in the land of the original Hispanohablantes...
Twenty-four long and boring hours in an overland bus that will probably more or less take the same route as I took on my crappy bicycle when last I made it to the Catalunya capital, the Ciudad of Barca, the city that the Dutch soccer hero Cruiff considers his second home and where I have already been more times as I can remember...either on cycle trips during my nutty Bicycle Messenger Years, during my real young days of Interrailing, and later on selling trhe Mandala Game...
Yeah, can't deny the fact I am quite excited...maybe a ferry to Ibiza or some other Meditarenean island...nearly three weeks of being away from the Dutch cold...
LOVE IT!!!....Just need to get on that darned bus tomorrow.
11 Nov. 2010.
It is slowly sinking into the gray cells, into the neurons that swarm around inside my Gringo skull...provided I wake up in time tomorrow morning, make it to Amstel Station in time and board that darned Eurolines bus...I will be on the way to Barcelona, nearly three weeks in the land of the original Hispanohablantes...
Twenty-four long and boring hours in an overland bus that will probably more or less take the same route as I took on my crappy bicycle when last I made it to the Catalunya capital, the Ciudad of Barca, the city that the Dutch soccer hero Cruiff considers his second home and where I have already been more times as I can remember...either on cycle trips during my nutty Bicycle Messenger Years, during my real young days of Interrailing, and later on selling trhe Mandala Game...
Yeah, can't deny the fact I am quite excited...maybe a ferry to Ibiza or some other Meditarenean island...nearly three weeks of being away from the Dutch cold...
LOVE IT!!!....Just need to get on that darned bus tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Westerchurch as seen from De Jordaan
10 Nov. 2010.
I cycle through rain and wind, high time for my departure to sunny Barcelona, the streets of my childhood far away though probably suffering from the same shitty weatherly conditions, wondering how far I have come in this life, a village boy moving to the big city and street wise beyond these long forgotten puppy years...
Or else, maybe a different life, a reincarnation brought about by the melangoly feelings inside my Gringo skull due to the depressing weather, sleek and damp cold making my bones feel like they got invaded by rheumatic pains...
Nearly a quarter of a century responsible for a comfortable feeling, coming out of time and familiarity, a farmer's son with the experience of backpacking through war-torn states like Sierra Leon, Cashmir and Birma - or was it called Myanmar? - where the police and assorted government controlled institutions were more of a threat than the Borrachos in rowdy Latin American bars in local Barrios Nocturnas....
Besieged by hatred and empathy of different races and skin color...shit it is cold!!!
Monday, November 8, 2010
Noi from Kachanabury
08 Nov. 2010.
I used to meet Noi at the Marine Disco in Pattaya's rowdy Walking Street dancing the night away with her before returning to my claustrophobic small room back in Soi Yamato when I was still staying above Lucky's bar, on the back of her scooter holding on to her for dear life while she would laugh out loud, amused to the max with my fear, half drunk on Chang beer and high in her dark skinned head by all the chemicals released by many hours of wild dancing...the expectations of great s*x with the Dutch Farang probably adding to her merry mood...
Soi Yamato where even at that advanced hour all these English bars with fancy names like The Dog's Bollocks where still in full swing, heavily tattoed Brittons loading their enormous bellies with Thai beer, more interested in smashing each other's intoxicated heads in instead of paying inflateds bar fines for the lady of their choise...
Noi who worked as a cleaning lady in some expensive hotel six days a week, twelve hours a day, who wanted fun on her one and only day of the week off...the way any young hard working lady the world over would I guess...
After years of seperation I met her again last winter during my latest stint in King Bhumipol's Asian realm, but the magic between us was gone the way the dinosaurs have from Planet Earth...
The portrait is from my mind and a small passport sized photograph she once gave me...we never had the time for sketches in my scrapbooks being too busy with the Adults Only Game I guess.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Lidewij from Amsterdam
07 Nov. 2010.
This is Lidewij from Amsterdam though originally from the Dutch province Overrijsel, who came to Amsterdam to do her studies and hung on in good ole Mokum as many students from the Dutch hinterland tend to do after their graduation ...
I first met Lidewij at the petting zoo where I do my volunteer job, as always shovelling horse manure, goat shit and huge pig droppings, no pay but hard work nonetheless...
Lidewij came to check out one of our farm buildings, hoping for the blue prints to copy the structure back at the neighborhood farm which is just around the corner from the petting zoo and where my present model is involved in a volunteer project called Weggeef Winkel, a shop where you get your articles free of charge and runs on donations..an idea stolen from some obscure native American indian tribe...
The moment I saw her young finely shaped feminine face i knew I had to make a portrait of her...
For those of you who wonder - like all my friends here in Amsterdam do - how I get all these beauties to pose for me...the answer is really quite simple, JUST ASK...all women suffer from a certain dose of vanity and will therefore always wonder how beautifull they will turn out in the drawing. No is just no option for them...I never had a single woman say no!!!
Oh Yeah, thanks for posing for me Lidewij...hope you like the outcome.
Friday, November 5, 2010
People from my street
05 Nov. 2010.
With my head heavy with my latest hangover, a result of last night's boozing downtown looking for female companionship but only finding empty wine glasses that needed constant refills, I watch the world go by from the entrance of my house door...
The pages of my sketchbook fill up fast despite my shaking hands, with my subjects quite familiar, neighbors, people from my street getting inmortalised by my trembling hands, an old man in flanel suit patiently waiting for a sketch, happy with the result he walks on, "good work, mate" he tells me in English...
A few coppers on bike patrol heading for the Turkish bakery next door for their Döner Kebab lunch spare me ten minutes of their precious time, "Leuke Tekeningen, Meneer", before moving on....
A local woman with her grumpy son has got another ten minutes before disappearing inside the care centre on the ground floor of my house...
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Yang from Shang-Hai
....a comprehensible bike ride and the by now habitual Nasi Special Pork at the Kam Yin in the Warmoesstraat...
Yang was a typical victim of the Chinese one-child-policy, spoiled to the max by party member parents who had hardly any time for their one and only child due to party obligations, their daughter being used to a gran array of nannies from the Chinese hinterland speaking different dialects, who helped her through her childhood, parents who would make up their neglect by expensive gifts and costly private schooling...
Yang went to The States to study architecture "I like looking at buildings, Hans" and on to Kopenhagen in the Land of the Danes because it would look good on her resumé...
Being well into her twenties she was still unsure of what to do in her life, what direction to choose, still living on her dad's dough, always slightly bored with her surroundings, never wanting to go back to her native China, or maybe "no wait, maybe I do wanna go back soon"...
Yang from Shang-Hai, another Asian couchsurfer on my couch.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Hosting couchsurfers
Holland, Amsterdam,
03 Nov. 2010.
Every so often now I have young nubile lady backpackers in my house, sleeping on my couch as a good couchsurfer member of http://www.couchsurfing.org/ should, taking them on comprehensible cycle tours, enjoying a free meal at my favorite Surinam Chinese restaurant called Kam Yin...
But most of all getting all that aspiration to paint, portraits from the dream world, Phillipino Hunting Girls and Thai Hot Mommas, Mexican Putazas with their teeth knocked out by Mexican Borrachos who had serious erection problems due to too much Tecate beer and Cactus fermented Pulque, hard knuckles landing on the dark eyes of impoveriched ladies of the night who had no options in this Vida but selling their bodies...all of them coming out of my crazy f*ucked-up gringo - or was it Farang -mind and getting immortalised in acrylic paint and Internet stories that have no real meaning...sometimes making me fear what the digital world will think of all this shit...
Still, these couchsurfing ladies with their huge backpacks filled to overflow with dirty knickers and assorted laundry, all find their way to my couch...a free meal at the Kam Yin is all it takes to spend time at a local male's house, a real street character who has been the world over and is willing to host...
Free food and artistic inspiration my reward for participating positively in the Amsterdam tourist industry.
03 Nov. 2010.
Every so often now I have young nubile lady backpackers in my house, sleeping on my couch as a good couchsurfer member of http://www.couchsurfing.org/ should, taking them on comprehensible cycle tours, enjoying a free meal at my favorite Surinam Chinese restaurant called Kam Yin...
But most of all getting all that aspiration to paint, portraits from the dream world, Phillipino Hunting Girls and Thai Hot Mommas, Mexican Putazas with their teeth knocked out by Mexican Borrachos who had serious erection problems due to too much Tecate beer and Cactus fermented Pulque, hard knuckles landing on the dark eyes of impoveriched ladies of the night who had no options in this Vida but selling their bodies...all of them coming out of my crazy f*ucked-up gringo - or was it Farang -mind and getting immortalised in acrylic paint and Internet stories that have no real meaning...sometimes making me fear what the digital world will think of all this shit...
Still, these couchsurfing ladies with their huge backpacks filled to overflow with dirty knickers and assorted laundry, all find their way to my couch...a free meal at the Kam Yin is all it takes to spend time at a local male's house, a real street character who has been the world over and is willing to host...
Free food and artistic inspiration my reward for participating positively in the Amsterdam tourist industry.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The sad Buddha in acrylics
02 Nov. 2010.
The Sad Buddha which I already did in my sketchbook last winter - http://heraclio-heraclio.blogspot.com/2010/06/sad-buddha.html - while waiting out the Dutch cold in King Bhumipol's Asian realm, enjoying more agreeable temperatures and countless local Hot Mommas vying for my attention, the unattached male from Holland, that Farang Ting Tong painter from Amsterdam who is always willing to depart with some local currency for a hungry lady of the night who had bad luck on her side and no Farang customer to help her meagre wallet grow a bit fatter...
The Sad Buddha whose eyes fascinate me though it is my own artwork but seem to bore into mine making me remember all those Thai Yings I shared short or longer periods of my life with, to be met again the next year or maybe never again...
Yeah Buddha's sad eyes coming out of my own hands making me wonder if some hidden part of my Farang mind is trying to come to the forefront, trying to convey a message of some kind...
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