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...
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