My third report describes the friends I made as I settled into la vida local and the cruel irony of Spanish priesthood. Visuals inspired by the Twilight Zone, provided by Google Images.
Note: All images displayed are courtesy of Google Images.
This is unofficial report number three. You will be glad to know that I speak enough Spanish now to have basic conversations. I utilized this newfound ability with some punk rockers (punkis) panhandling in the street. They had mohawks and rainbow colored hair and safety pins stuck in their faces.
They were cool.
Upon asking them where the local punk rock bar was, they took me to a nearby cafe coffee house. Like most people here, it seems that even punkis are coffee addicts. The cafe was playing poorly recorded music on a cheap stereo. "Punki no es muerto!" was spray painted on the wall . Punk's not dead.
I am starting to believe that I am living in some sort of parallel universe to Sanford. So far I have met Spanish versions of Vicky, Kirik, Bob Wayne and my brother. The Spanish Kenny McMahan even has a completely indecipherable regional accent. The Spanish Bruce Howard is always hanging around bumming cigarettes off people. Of course I am the one and only, except that everyone here ties me to Brad Pitt. I say my name, they say "Brrad Peet". The guy in the hotel I was staying at referred to me as that for my entire stay and even wrote it on the bill. That explains the hoard of women hanging around who looked confused when I went into Brad Pitt's room.
I moved out of the hotel this week into an apartmento. I am in the penthouse suite. Though that sounds glorious and all would expect me in the penthouse, in Spain it means that I hit my head a lot on the downward sloping ceiling. The realtor ladies who are renting it were not unlike realtors in America, thus that parallel universe thing again. They were super nice but kind of scatterbrained in a good way. I am tall enough to stand up and look out of the skylight and see the ocean. They wanted to see as well so one of them got a chair and stood on it, only to have it smash to pieces. She was ok so it was sort of funny. This was one of those times when acting like I didn't know what she was saying was beneficial. I wanted another chair. As she tried to convince me that I had another chair (made with the same remarkable craftsmanship of the first), I just kept a blank look I my face and said "Another chair, yes, ok" over and over. She finally gave up and I got a new chair.
This past weekend I went to check out a church that is completely covered in oyster shells.
It looked cool, but I got to thinking that making celibate Catholic priests eat a church-load of oysters was some sort of cruel Vatican joke. The immediate area was surrounded by people selling souvenir junk, much like an American tourist spot. The church itself was in the shadow of a casino, which blocked the seaside view. I am sure the oyster eating priests are stoked that their hard work has been rewarded by turning it into a tourist trap. Most of the shells had been written on and I read a few. My friends had visited: Punki no es muerta!.
More later. Shout out to 7, peace out to all.
18 junio 1997
Note: All images displayed are courtesy of Google Images.
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