Desencanto

Bilbao

I live in constant fear of falling out of love with stuff.
I'm pretty sure it's why I'm so careful... downright reluctant to grow to love things.
When I visit places for the first time, and I love it, I'm hesitant to return, because the disenchantment sucks.

Bilbao was a strange place for me the first time around. People were so... cold, but somehow, I felt like I had known the place in a past life. I was comfortable. People didn't fuck with you, and they all were mindful of their own business.
Aside from the people, the actual place was beautiful.
I fell in love.

After five years of not seeing it, D and I were eager to return... that whole salmon-instinct we seem to possess. I no longer cared about my fear of the possibility of becoming disenchanted by the place... I just had to return.
We figured we only needed a day to see the place, especially since we only know two people out there.

Upon landing in Bilbao, our hearts were racing. As the taxi zipped through the green mountains, D and I would excitedly look over at each other and clap.
Everything was fantastic at first... as we strolled around Bilbao.
Our first location was the Guggenheim.
Nothing had changed... seriously. The place remained unchanged.
Hmmm... well... that's a little sad.
The day was gloomy... with random moments of clarity.

We made our way to the tiny suburbs, where D and her friends had lived, and that's where our hearts broke.
The sense of familiarity was gone. It was a hostile... foreign... cold place. This was no longer "ours." It was... a sad reminder of what USED to be... but will no longer return.
Five years ago, the place was surrounded by precious little babies/kids who behaved like mini adults... now, those babies were annoying, rude little kids and obnoxious teens.
Even the voice used to announce the metro stops had changed... a voice that was so comforting to listen to as it pronounced the bizarre towns:
Etxebarri, Erandio, Lutxana, Leioa, Sopelana, Deusto, Larrabasterra, Plentzia, Bidezabal, Algorta, Neguri, AREETA, Lamiako, Astrabudua, Moyua, Abando.
Now, even that was a stranger.

D: This place... is no longer how I remembered. It's just reminding me of BETTER days that will never return... I don't like it... I think... I think I'm going to cry... I need to go back to my room... let's get out of here.

It was a heartbreaking reality.
We walked a number of miles of the beach... looking out at the cold water... silently acknowledging we had never belonged to this place. It had all been a fairy tale... a dream from which we had been abruptly shaken awake.

We returned to our room at seven in the afternoon.
We quietly laid in our beds and fell asleep.

Sea lions

Malaga Part 2

I've never been a beach person.
I'm pretty sure my dislike of the beach stems from the fact that I've always been a fatty.
Frolicking on the beach has never enticed me because all I can think of is the ridicule it will invite.

I had never been to a european beach prior to Torremolinos.
I've been to beaches in Mexico... and it's where I've dealt with much of the hate from other beach goers... their harsh judgements and whatnot.
I'm not going to sit here and I like I haven't judged... or have made fun of others... become scandalized... all of that shit-- because I definitely have.

While chillin' on this Spanish beach, I noticed people were splayed all over the place however THE FUCK they wanted. Old, young, fake (as in, plastic surgery up the fucking ass), TOO real, skinny, fat.
People from all walks of life... ALL minding their own fucking business.
Naked chick to my left? Cool tits. Oh look at that rock! Fuck, I'm getting a rash.
Saggy, old man to my right? Dude! Did you catch last night's game?! Intense!

As I sunbathed like a sea-lion, pausing my music, I sat in silence and observed my surroundings. I noticed the ONLY people judging were D and I.
That turned me the fuck off... it was so... off-putting... uncool to realize how fucked up we actually are.
Me: D, let's like... just enjoy the moment. That 89 year old woman wants to sunbathe topless? So be it. Just don't look at her if it bothers you so much... but let her be. We sound... so fucked up. We need to mind our own business.
D: Yeah... you're right. You know, I catch myself talking shit sometimes, and I feel embarrassed and I wish I could stop... but it's usually too late.
Me: Me too. We really need to make that extra effort to fight that tendency. We criticize those who do it, yet here we are like a bunch of stupid mean girls... only ones here talking shit while everyone else is having a good time.

As I resolved to be a good person... because everyone had been nice to my less-than-perfect ass... allowing me to lay there on my towel like some fucking Playboy Bunny (which of course, I am NOT. I'm an ex-obese girl... we all know what deflated balloons look like...), I heard my sister gasp.
D: ...fuck!
Me: What?
D: Well, before you decide to turn over (oh, I was on my stomach, tanning my backside)... I think I should let you know the most perfect group of Spanish boys have decided to sit next to us. They are... fucking beautiful.
Me: No pinche mames...
D: Ohhhhhh  yes.... PERFECT, AnoMALIE... they are... OoooooEeeee!
Me: Goddamn it! Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Just my luck... goddamn! Why couldn't we just be surrounded by old people? They make me feel secure enough to lay out here without giving a shit. Not some fucking... Adonises.
D: AnoMALIE... oh my god. They are... fuuuuck. Turn over... you gotta see 'em.

After some careful consideration and deep breaths, I threw all my traumas and insecurities out the window and turned over.
What did I see?
The most beautiful creatures on the face of the planet.
Four beautiful men enjoying a day in the sun... knowing we were gawking at them, and allowing it.
They even gave us a nice little show... running in what I swear was slow motion... wetting their bodies slowly... and running past us again... smiling.
Guys, it was magnificent.
They saw us taking photos... and they'd smile coyly. Instead of being jerks, or slime bags (they left that task to US), they graciously accepted the attention, but continued with their own business.
Yes, they talked about us... but it was so sweet.
Apparently, to these gorgeous Spanish men, D and I were Italian. They lamented about their inability to speak Italian, because they'd be unable to converse with us.
"Guapas, las Italianas" they said as they walked past us.

D and I were frozen... too excited to say anything... opting to hold on to that moment, rather than open our big stupid mouths and wrecking the memory.
To these beautiful, sweet men, we were happy, leggy Italian girls enjoying their beautiful country.
To us, these beautiful Spanish boys were bashful dudes who thought we were cool.

I doubt I'll ever feel so comfortable-- or happy-- at a beach again.

(Homeboy in red shorts was MY dude. Christ... the fucking beauty is mesmerizing. The dude in yellow was the coquette. He'd run back and forth, coyly smiling while looking in our direction. He was rather appreciative of our attention, I was appreciative of the obvious)

Sea turtles

Malaga

A couple of years ago, we were lucky enough to look through very old documents which revealed my family's ancestry.
The documents mention the origin of my mother's side of the family, which turns out to be Malaga, a Spanish city in the far south. Good ol' Picasso was from there... so is Antonio Banderas, so of course this excited us. It's pretty cool to find out where one comes from... especially when some renowned artist is from there (yeah, my thoughts on Picasso aren't necessarily positive, but hey, shit, he started a fucking artistic movement-- pretty cool regardless of how much I may dislike it).

The first time I visited Spain, I already knew of my origins, but didn't make a move to visit the south, and instead stayed in the far north, Basque country, and of course, my beloved Barcelona.
This second time touring the motherland, D and I decided we HAD to visit the TRUE motherland... it didn't hurt that it's also a touristy beach area.

Now, let me start off by saying I didn't feel that same sense of familiarity as  did the first time I landed in Barcelona... upon stepping foot outside of the airport in Malaga, we were actually pretty confused and turned off. It was pretty fucking dead... and we were surrounded by women in headscarves... so we felt completely out of place.
Then we saw their faces-- ME.
Ayyy gueyyyy! I'm a spanish muslim! I knew my fucking natural aversion for pork and shellfish had some sort of explanation!
D and I just looked at each other... finally cracking a smile.
Me: Fuck it, dude, we're gonna have fun.
D: WE CAN SPEAK SPANISH! WE GOT THIS!

Our hotel was not in the city, but the beach. When we asked Information what would be our best bet to get there, she told us the bus.
Ahhhhh, the bus. Three Euro one way, and out in 45 minutes.
Cool, I guess... we don't get our room until 3PM, so this wait only keeps us form waiting in the lobby for six hours.
D quickly struck a friendship with the bus driver... because she's charismatic and cute, so he promised to drop us off at our hotel.

Since we had taken off from rainy Paris at 4 in the morning (well, we LEFT our room at that time), we had our jackets on.... and didn't think to take them off while we waited for the bus because it was breezy-- the mountains were snow-capped, actually.
The bus drove through the winding highway, closer and closer to the beach... and after about half an hour, the driver tells us our stop is there, and if we'd just walk down "Oh, about five minutes down, next to Hotel Cesar," we'd find our hotel.
Umm.. ok?
D and I walked a good fucking fifteen minutes, breaking a sweat, looking for this goddamned hotel.
The streets were winding... up and down... hills all over the place... and we were lugging around our bags... wearing jackets (because we're fucking retarded when we're completely focused on one thing).
Tourists in their damned shorts would stare at us as if we were crazy.
We kept wondering where the fuck the fucking beach would finally appear, where the fuck this goddamned hotel would pop up, but all we would see would be tall hotels, with occasional, hidden architectural jewels.

After perhaps half an hour of just... walking towards where we presumed the beach would be-- like some fucking sea turtle hatchlings-- I ventured to look up and saw the name of our hotel prominently displayed on a building across from the beach.
We circled around the hotel like dummies because the entrance was a trip... under construction and whatnot... but alas, after bumping into some wonderful Irish tourists who practically took our hand and walked us to the front desk, we were in our spacious room... and we were stoked.

D: We're going to have fun, dude! FUCK IT! We're at the beach!
Me: Did... you feel anything?
D: No.
Me: Me neither... I don't feel any sort of familiarity... I think someone lied to us.
D: Come on, beach, prove us wrong!

We changed into more appropriate attire-- shorts, tank, and some flip-flops-- and power-walked out of the hotel, and onto the boardwalk.
Two Mexican-American girls of Spanish decent, ready to enjoy a place our old people once called "home."

Dude... why did we ever leave this place?!

Goodbye (hello?) Sunshine?

I was groped... and I mean GROPED on Tuesday when heading back to Bilbao from Barcelona.
I always forget my bra will alarm at checkpoint...
I hadn't gotten searched before at the airports... but this time the woman looked all pissed... motioned for me to spread my arms and legs... and bam... she got to work.
When she touched my chest, I was like "Whatever, man, like that's never happened..." (in Barcelona, the men were so fucking touchy-feely.... and they stared down my chest as if it were some sort of public property... like a park or something... shamelessly... weirdos), then she straight up groped my crotch... which made me "whoa, there!" out loud.
C'mon, lady, I wasn't being introduced to a jail or anything... why go that far?

ANyway, I leave tomorrow morning... back on to Vegas... from what I hear, it's pretty nice.
Mom wrote me (she uses the internet now!! how fucking cute!) to tell me about the weather... and how he front yard is covered in roses... how delicious it smells... and our backyard smells delicious as well, with our orange and lemon trees (citrus trees are fucking awesome).
So... I'm pretty glad to be heading back to my city... to America in general...

I'm not happy to be leaving my sister, though.
Poor girl... she's going to have it rough.
The kids she has to live with are fucking assholes...
Fucking 21 and 22 year olds that behave like goddamn 16 year olds...

They get shitfaced at least twice a week... and they think anyone who's not into drinking is a "loser."
I hope they keep thinking that way when they're on some street corner asking for change, holding a sign that says "Why lie? I need a beer."

Last night they threw a "dinner party" and invited everyone (from their school program) to the thing. Everyone but my sister.
I didn't really give a shit... but if that's what they're going to be doing to her after I'm gone, I'll make sure to give them a sweet asskicking today.
NO ONE mistreats my sister... and especially without reason.

I wish the poor kid didn't have to stay here alone...
I wish these punk ass stupid fucks would be upfront about their goddamn problems so they could actually resolve some shit...

Fuck... I hate drunks.

They stole my heart

So... it was my last full day in Barcelona today... and all I have to say is this:
I love it here...

I now know what my tattoo will look like... and I am excited to get it (I didn´t get it here because I don´t trust the needles...).

I´m sad to be leaving this place... but my heart will always belong to Barcelona.

P.S. Thing I don´t like? they treat Columbus like a God... and Native Americans like dogs... NOT cool.

Barça!!!!

BARCELONA IS BEAUTIFUL.

I love everything about it... even their confusing metro.
People and places are a little eccentric... but Jesus, do I love it here!

I never thought I would be someone to say this, but, ever been to a place and just felt like you belonged there? That is exactly how I felt upon arriving at the city... even if it was a drunken hippy who greeted little sister and me with an ¨Hola guapa!!¨ and then tried hugging sister like he knew her.

Gaudi... that man...
And yesterday I hung out at the Guggenheim (sp?) and checked out their art (US modern art and world wide surrealism) and found myself yearning for home. The US really is beautiful... I just grew jaded to it (why the fuck do I miss Utah and Arizona when I grew up in neither place?)
Anyway, tomorrow I watch Barcelona play at Camp Nou... living one of my sister´s biggest dreams.
Then I come home Tuesday morning ( Home being Bilbao) then to HOME home, Vegas, on Friday night.
Crazy 4 weeks I have lived so far...
I am so freaking stoked!

Little Steps

I take back ever mentioning that kids here are cute.

The little punk upstairs has been running a fucking muck since 6 in the morning.
He entertains himself by throwing a rubber ball at the floor, then running after it... all done in the room directly above mine.
He's about three feet tall... so his little steps are frequent.
I thought it was cute the first hour... now I just want to go up there and confine him to a crib (or a parrot cage!!).
Fuck.

I was trying to sleep as long as possible... for the next three days are going to be a giant pain in the ass.
We're headed out to London at 4:30 after the first half of the Manchester/Derby game (I'm so stoked... they show SO much Cristiano Ronaldo here... I'm in heaven!). From there, we're taking a two hour bus ride to the airport... then getting on a plane at... I think 10? then we get to London at 11PM. From there... and since we have no room... we're sleeping in the damn airport.
Then, at 8 in the morning, my bro is going to pick us up, take us to his apartment so we (me, TravelinDin, and Clemson--that's what I'm naming her, since she goes there) can put our stuff away, then we're going to "see the sights"... even if it's raining and 40 degrees.
Hooray...
Not.
Fuck London, man, fuck it.
I'm just gunning for the possibility of seeing a Chav in his natural environment, once that occurs, I'll consider this trip successful.

On Monday, we're off to Rome, where we DO have a hotel to stay.
Ye-haw!

Greeeeeeen!

DAY 3!!

God, times goes by QUICK.
Today I really liked.

Travelin Din decided to take me into the city (I guess we live in the "tiny" town).
Beautiful 30 degree Celsius day.
What we do?
Walked around the city... sat behind the Bellas Artes museum... with some ice cream... in front of a park:I wanted to sit there for hours.
Those fountains were everywhere and they were huge!
So fucking amazing!
We stared at some emo girls (too many fucking emos), dogs, old people holding hands... it was just... god, I could have sat there forever.
Will definitely be one of those moments in my life where I'll be thinking back to for the rest of my days.
Then we went off to the shops...
So... SO nice.
Totally going to buy stuff before I leave.
While tons of people dress emo here, they do have other styles.
Anyway, we then went to some candy store, where the little old man that ran the place was nice and sweet... and called us "Chicas" which I like.

I was going to take pictures of the city, but TravelinDin wasn't cooperating.
She did cooperate when we were in the grocery store... of course, she did it unknowingly.

Lovely.
(A kilo of avocados is 4.99 Euros! I just had to complain about that).

Anyway, I'm off to the beach.
:)

Dia numero dos

Ha, yesterday I forgot to mention how I had a tiny bit of drama at the Bilbao airport.
It was totally all my fault, for being a retard tourist.

Ok, so this area of Spain is notorious for being the breeding ground of the ETA movement… you know… the so called terrorists in Spain… the ones responsible for blowing shit up in Madrid and all that dramatic stuff that occurs down here…. Something about them wanting to be a separate nation and whatnot (they speak Basque, which I had originally believed to be simple to learn—Catalan isn’t bad at all—but shit, the more I try to understand the language, the less logical it seems. I find no traces of root languages… like with Catalan, I see the mix of Spanish and French).
So things down here are pretty tense (not to mention how every fucking teenaged person is angsty up the ass. You think emo kids in America are bad… wait ‘til you meet some of these kids! I asked myself “How the fuck can you be angsty when you live in a place with such a gorgeous beach… and such green grass… such picturesque homes?! Be angsty when you live in the industrious city of Detroit, for fucks sake! WHY are you emo when you live in David the Gnome’s land only with slightly larger homes/people?!).
Well… I brought my phone with me from Vegas even knowing that once I left LA, I’d be fucked. I brought the charger because I plan on charging my phone on my last day in Bilbao so I can use it upon arrival at LAX (I have a 4 hours gap between flights… I have to kill time in some way). I packed my charger in my suitcase—along with my ipod charger and a calculator—and then I put a TSA lock on it.

Everything seemed fine up until the moment I had to pick up my bags at the Bilbao airport.
I noticed the release of our bags was taking some time… plenty of the passengers were becoming annoyed.
Once the bags began coming out of the back area/customs… I noticed the passengers kept staring at a bag.
Whose bag was it?
MINE. Of fucking course.
Customs officers had ripped the zippers off the bag where my chargers and calculator had been placed.
The bag was wide open, with my i-pod charger dangling off, like some sort of suit case visceral organ.
People stared at the bag until I grabbed it… and they then went as far as begin to whisper amongst one another…
Good shit, good shit.
I sat there and then noticed my phone charger was rolling down the belt on its own.

My poor calculator ran no such luck.

I then said “Motherfuckers!” and walked out of the airport… semi-escorted by some sort of cop guy.
Best part of my day, really…
To be thought of as a threat to a country is just funny to me… taken I’m such a quiet, shy, innocent, idiot girl.
But that’s what I get for being an imbecile who packs a calculator and chargers in the same spot of a suitcase.

I had to laugh about it later as I thought of the customs officers urgently attacking my poor 45 pound bag… ripping the zippers to inspect a huge block that serves as a cell phone charger.
God, how freaked out they must have been… because to rip up a bag on a suit case? Jesus Christ.

Anyway…
Day two in Bilbao… and I’m still in love with the place.
The kids here are so cute, that even I want to have one. Their little accents make me want to squeeze them… and that says a lot since I’m not very touchy-feely.
Yesterday night, as TravelinDin, her close friend, and I went shopping for a screw driver at the “Chinese store” (I find it charming and terribly endearing to see a Chinese guy speaking Spanish… it just makes me smile like a moron and stare in amazement), there was a small child walking next to us with his mother. He’d stand there and point at things at the store and say their name. He was learning… so he didn’t really have the Spanish accent… he sounded like TravelinDin and me. Anyway, it was strange… since the kid and his mom scene was so cute, then if you panned a little to the right to see TravelinDin, me, and TravelinDin’s Friend, you’d have 3 girls looking at hardware, two of them with screw drivers in their hand (long story… involving the ghetto ass dual voltage blow-drier I brought TravlinDin) and the third checking out crowbars (I then made a quip about “If anyone asks, I’m going to say ‘I really like your cars here in Spain…’ then hold up the screw driver and crowbar”). However, we did spend about five minutes humoring the little boy and “awing” his word for “dog” (something along the lines of… gello—“g-eh-yo” instead of “peh-Rrr-oh”—we thought aloud “I don’t see a rooster around here…” Rooster=Gallo).
Also, their metro system is BADASS!
If Vegas had a metro system… yeah… it’d be horrible… considering all the bad shit that could happen down there. Sad to see things you could never have.

Thing I don’t like: they put egg on EVERYTHING!
I had a sandwich yesterday that surprised the shit out of me once I saw yolk leaking out of it.
Also, their eggs here seem to have problems concerning cell division. The yolk seems to go through some freak double cytokenisis. It doesn’t fully cleave, so you get double yolks.

P.S. I love their internet cafes!

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?!

Spain....

La madre patria...

La cosa mas hermosa que he visto en mi vida.

I'm madly... absolutely madly in love with Spain.

Oh yeah, I'm alive.

I could have been telling another story though.... London was fucking horrible. The plane had to circle around the airport for thirty minutes because it was "unsafe" to land due to high wind speeds.
So, we're circling, right? Next thing you know, the plane just dives... and we all scream... yes... I used the all inclusive "we."
I added to the drama by holding on to my arm rest and then screaming.
It did this for a while, each time less people would scream.
Then came the finale, when we landed.... that was a bitch.
The plane tilted to the right (I was on the left... and couldn't see how close the wing got to the floor), and all the people on that side screamed.
The lady to my right was "persinandose" i.e. making the sign of the cross repeatedly on her forehead.
When the plane got back to normal position... a ton of folks clapped (not inclusive this time... because while I felt like kissing the pilots, I refrained from clapping because I think that's tacky... and it was already done by those one passengers in that other plane that actually did touch the surface).

Other than that story... everything went... eh. Oh! On the London-Bilbao flight I was so exhausted and incoherent.... that I became a somewhat belligerent idiot.
They were playing this techno-ish music as we were boarding. I thought I was only thinking this, but apparently I actually mumbled "This is so gay..." as I was streaming in and out of consciousness in my seat.
I also woke up one of the times with a smile across my face...
Another time, I was hunched over my armrest and in the way of the aisle.
I guess it bugged the guy sitting next to me (he was window seat) because he actually got up and traded seats, far far away from me.
Yes.
I'm an imbecile when working with only 10 hours of sleep... I'm an absolute, grade-A pendeja working on only 3 (You see, the British Airways flight I didn't sleep because the motherfucker in front of me decided he was going to spend the entire flight leaned all the way back. I had the urge to ask him if he just wanted to rest his head on my lap... but I decided to stay quiet and only glare at him... which worked magic because the sweet, angel, flight attendant was VERY rude to him. I wish I could buy her flowers... or gold, as a sign of my gratitude. Also, I was so into the movies... that I found only 3 hours to sleep... I watched No Country for Old Men, Into the Wild--SADDDDD! But I loved it!-- and some Atonement. Then I listened to the entirety of a Brahms album, Beethoven album, Frank Sinatra album, some Ella Fitzgerald, Rascal Flatts, and Manu Chau... would you sleep knowing all this shit was available to you for free? Fuck that!).

Anyway...
I think I'll post often... sometimes even with pictures... this place is like a dream.... so tiny... green... undoubtedly wonderful.
Plus... I'm popular here... the kids like me... they say my name correctly (it's so strange... I feel like I fit right in! But I also have to correct MYSELF when introducing myself to someone... because I'm so used to saying my name like a gringa)... and the boys... they all wanna know me... hahaha!
And which boy did I like? The blond, blue-eyed, 6 foot 4, nineteen year old Lake-Tahoe-Native.
That's right... I'm a cradle robber.
My sister's roommate, while admittedly handsome (tall, dark... with dimples. You know, very Mario-Lopez-Like... if Mario Lopez were half Indian)... is just... too into drinking and smokin' weed for me to swoon over him (Last night, when I first met him, he was panting--from riding his bike so fast home-- drunk, and slightly high. He told TravelinDin and I a story concerning his new gang of friends... at 1 o'clock in the morning. Then he caught himself in the middle of it, and wondered aloud "Wait... why am I telling you this?").

I'll stick to the tall, cute, has-been-legal-for-only-one-year boy who makes me laugh...

I LOVE SPAIN!!!!
(I saw the ocean today!!)