Bike Trip / Spain Journal #last

My trip is mostly over now. I can hardly think of what to say or write. I'm excited and sad, definitely, as I am inbetween things. By the time I am home, I will have ridden on seven planes, tasted three oceans and biked nearly 300 miles. I've lost and found myself, and celebrated that in full, ripped-out style. I crawled out of my reality to get to Spain, and that reality which I fly back towards is not what I left. Really, I feel powerful, vital, and vulnerable, and my future looks to be the set upon which I will rock, slow or fast, towards whatever awaits.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #13

I'm leaving.
I'm leaving?
I'm leaving!


I'm leaving.
I'm taking the train from Córdoba to Málaga Currently, skimming the countryside on a long track. I left at 6:45pm, after planning to leave at 10am. I'm glad I stayed. I got to have a beer and a snack Rachel and Chloe. I ate caracoles (snails), and Chloe walked me to the train station. Rachel had left for work, and missed my snail lunch. I had a couple of hours to kill before departing, so Chloe and I walked and talked and had another beer. Well, I had two. I already miss her and Rachel. I'm sad, and excited. One of my co-workers told me I would come back a different person. I think she was right.

Málaga again. Yo tengo hambre, pero no se donde ir a comer pescado frito. Or something like that. I am short on time here, and I still have to figure out how to get to the airport, so I've decided to eat across the street from the train station. Hell, I just might take a taxi to make it easy on myself. My last meal in Spain: tortilla de Espaňa y ceviche y cerveza. There will be no postcarding from Málaga. De Dublin es vale.

Traveling is fun, but it also makes me anxious. Getting onto the transportation on time makes my pulse race. Speaking of which; gotta move!

Well, getting a bus was easy. And it was only 1 €!

This is a great, sad, wonderful, beautiful thing, my leaving Málaga, leaving Spain. It came and went, as fast as rain. I could be on a little boat in the ocean. I'm drifting back.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #12

My time in Spain has gone quickly, though I also feel that I've been here a long time. I was enjoying a beautiful evening walk, moving slowly through the narrow, winding streets when I found myself in front of the Museo Arqueológico. There is a beautiful plaza there with patio seating for an adjoining restaurant. The last time I came, a bird popped on my shoulder. It did not stop my enjoyment of this peaceful place; I was obliged to stop again and have a beer and write something.

Plaza de Jeronimo Paez.

[On the next page, I made a sketchy pen drawing of the plaza from my seat. Perhaps, if this drawing runs into a scanner, I'll get it up here. There are a couple other little drawings that I'd also like to include, so I have some impetus.]

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #11

Last night, I was at a flamenco show at the Plaza de las Tendillas, up and leaning off a street lamp for a better view. I was swamped in the culture of the city, the region and the country. I watched two master flamenco dancers blaze through their routines while, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a three year old doing her own, equally intense dance to the music.

I thought of my life back in the states, and it seemed so incredibly small. There are no troubles. Salt dissolving in water, and steam rising, carelessly. I saw through myself, hanging from a lightpost.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #10

Cádiz.

The sun is setting. I awoke this morning on a beach: Playa Velagerondo (?), near El Puerto de Santa Maria. [a place I have since learned is a producer of excellent sherry. Not something we were privy to, arriving in the middle of the night as we did.] We went there from Córdoba yesterday by bus, via Seville. We arrived quite late, after ten pm, and were wholly desecrated by a swarm of mosquitoes. Actually, I've had some tequila, and I'm exaggerating. A plethora, not a swarm.

Earlier, I bought a sweatshirt at a small store, as I hadn't brought enough clothes. I had two shirts to choose between, for the same price. I found a coin and flipped it, calling, “Cabeza!” The sales girl loved it. I paid for my shirt, and fought for the words in Spanish to tell her, that's how I make all of my important decisions.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #9

Verbos en el presente

Yo
Nosotros
Tu
Vosotros
El, ella, usted
Ellos, ellas, ustedes

Hablar

Hablo
Hablamos
Hablas
Hablaís
Habla
hablan

Tomar

Tomo
Tomamos
Tomas
Tomaís
Toma
Toman

Preterit Tomar

Tomé
Tomamos
Tomaste
Tomastáis
tomó
tomaron

Beber

Bebo
Bebemos
Bebes
bebéis
Bebe
beben

Preterit Beber

Bebí
Bebimos
Bebiste
Bebistéis
Bebió
bebieron

Vivir

Vivo
Vivimos
Vive
vivís
Vive
viven

Preterit Vivir

viví
Vivimos
Viviste
Vivistéis
vivió
vivieron

Escribir

Escribo
Escribimos
Escribes
Escribís
Escribe
escriben

Sevillanas. A dance!

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #8

Studying.
I have now spent the night of the 22nd, the 23rd, the 24th and 25th in Spain. Three days and a quarter, surrounded by Spanish and foreign surroundings. It's been wonderful. Right now, it's hard to imagine wanting to leave. I've hardly written. It's been overwhelming. I'm studying Spanish and wandering the city with Rachel and Chloe and drinking and meeting people and kissing cheeks and having my cheeks kissed. This is a friendly place. At least, it attracts friendly people. I don't believe I've met many Cordobans. Mostly, I've met travelers.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #7

Cordoba. Espana.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #6

Grey and Stan graciously gave me a ride to the airport yesterday morning. I arrived in Chicago at two pm to shocking weather. As I looked out the planes window, I couldn't see the sun. Nor could I tell if the sky was thinly clouded, or clear. It was a strange, lightly darkened blue. When I reached the train platform, I discovered it was warm. And a sunny, cloudless day. Oh. Joy! And that strange blue, I suppose, is pollution. A pall for Chicago. I saw Kyle, and his roommates. I was happy to see him; I miss him. It had been a year, but it felt like far less time to me. I stayed with them for the night before heading to the airport this afternoon.

Their home has some surreal nostalgia to me. When I performed my sudden move to Portland, it was Kyle and his roommate, Brandon, that took care of the apartment and belongings I left behind. Kyle told me that it was as though I had died, and they were disposing of my meager estate. My words, not his. Sometimes, it's necessary to die. I told them to keep what they wanted and toss the rest. Touring their home, I found relics of my past. My old computer, a paper lamp, a pile of books. The computer I won in a raffle, the lamp that was a birthday gift from my mom, and the books that were given me by an avid reader who was disposing of the duplicate books she'd acquired over the decades. Searching through her discards was like being offered my pick of a pile of treasure.

Each item brought memories and stories back to me; even two boxes of tea, apparently left untouched since being removed from my old place. Melancholia comes as easily to me now as it did ten years ago, but it rarely knocks me down anymore. I am sincerely glad for it's poignancy, though. It is a powerful reminder that I have lived.

My flight to Dublin was delayed for three hours, but I'm finally in the air. Ten minutes before we were to board, we were told that our plane was being taken out of service. It took three hours to get another plane out to us, from Rome, to Boston, to Chicago. It must have been an awful scramble for them, and I could see how stressful it was for some of the passengers missing their connections; I'm glad to not be one of them. My touring of Dublin has been cut in half, but I'll still have time for a pint of Guinness, and to see Dublin Castle.

I've made promises to some of my friends to type up this travelogue for them when I'm through, and now I'm conscious of other readers as I write this. I hope it doesn't become droll. If I see that path being tread upon, I promise to fabricate some excitement. Which reminds me of something I read on a bathroom wall in a Chicago bar: “If you are always honest, you don't have to remember anything.” Perhaps we'll see if I've a good memory.

We're passing over a large city. It's a cloudless night, and I can see it well, though I've no clue to it's name. As I look at the lights, and smell food cooking in the planes galley, I'm reminded of home. Warm light and comfort. Eating a meal at my desk, or watching a movie in the dark. Alone or with friends. Home is not a fixed place for me. There is no place I reflect back on as home, none that I return to for holidays to meet those I grew up with. Home, for me, is a concept of comfort. A scattered thing that represents solace, it is found all over, in the various places that my friends and family have settled and resettled in. It's where I keep what brings me comfort, and where I have secured some privacy. Ten years ago, movement and moving was hell. It tore me open. Now, I feel more secure, and home has become much more personal to me. I realize that it is something that I carry with me, more than a place to return to.

I've made it into Dublin. I overheard the bartender at the Temple Bar talking about Connomara whiskey, the only smoky Irish whiskey. So I tried it. I am such a tourist. I have about an hour to wander Dublin before I need to wend my way back to the airport. Where shall I go?

I'm bewildered. I just saw Dublin Castle, Trinity University, and had an Irish whiskey and a Guinness at the Temple Bar in a little over an hour. Caught a taxi back to the airport. Had a great talk with the driver, and got to the gate just in time. Beautiful weather in Dublin. Really perfect weather. On to Malaga.

I just remembered this. On the last morning of my bike trip, I was descending the mountain. Snow and sunlight alternated. A truck passed me and threw up a spray in the sun, that formed a rainbow, a full half circle directly in front of me. I could hardly look up at it for more than a half second at a time, but it stayed magnificently with me for at least half a minute, riding down the mountain.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #5

I am so tired. I didn't sleep very well last night. I felt that I was waiting for the sun to come up more than I was sleeping. I remember turning off the light to go to sleep, and I remember really needing to pee, all of a sudden, like. I slowly realized that I'd been asleep. I opened the inner tent flap and saw snow, snow, snow around the edges of the outer entry way. I got up the second time around six am, and resolved to get the hell out of there as quick as I could. When I stood up outside of the tent, I was shocked. There was snow everywhere. I remembered where I lay my bike, but I couldn't see it under all of that. At least four inches, overnight. The prospect of coming off the mountain through all that dismayed me, but I was determined. I was thoroughly ready to get the fuck home. I was cold and tired and miserable, but hopeful. I felt like the road had been climbing for 25 miles. There had to be a strong downhill soon. I packed as quickly as I could, and wore most of my clothes. Everything on my bike was hidden under snow. It worked. The road was slushy and slow, but there was no ice. I had good traction, and it softened the abused and rutted asphalt. There was more climbing and I yelled at the weather and sang out and rode, slowly.

There was sun and then more snow, which seemed unfair. There was a small downhill, and then a tunnel and thin fog ahead, promising even worse weather. I hit that, and that's when the downhill finally started. I rode it all the way down the mountain, urging myself below the snow line with foggy breath. Soon, there was no slush on the road, and snow only on the sides. The white turned to green quickly, as though it had never snowed. I looked behind me to see a line of white, somewhat harshly melting at its edges. I couldn't feel my toes.

I made it to a diner, and had the most delicious breakfast of my life, thus far. I grimaced as my toes unfroze. It was nine am. I made it home several hours later, with the help of a Max train from Beaverton. Sweet luxury. Automation is a wonderful concept. I met a man from Kenya on the train. An election volunteer asked us if we were registered. I said yes, and he said something that was incomprehensible to me. Then he told me that he voted in Kenya, but nobody knew who won! Things got hairy there, which brought him here to work. He's a wilderness survival guide, who takes people with money on to trips into desolate and beautiful places. Montana and Mt. Kilimanjaro are two. He was in Oregon to be re certified in his profession. I helped him find his train, he gave me his business card, and I got the fuck home.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #4

Just had lunch at Buoy's Best. Delicious fish in Seaside. The weather has been miserable, with snow forecast for tonight. I'm about to start up Hwy 26 towards Portland. See how far I get. Bike's making some grinding rumblings in the drive train. I oiled the chain, but no change. I need luck now. At least, if I have to stay in the mountains, snow is insulating.

-- Well, I made it up to the summit. 1,309 ft. Jesus didn't get that high. My bike is making some awful grindings down in the bottom bracket. Or the chain. Not sure which. I've reached Elsie[, Oregon] at 4:30pm, which gives me about three hours of daylight and one of twilight. Got about 55 miles to go. I can do it if my bike can. There's a lot of downhill left to me, and I'm feeling better than I did on the summit. That was awful up there. Snowy cold chills. I traded some of myself for a [deer] jawbone.

-- Somehow, I find myself sleeping on the side of a snow covered mountain again. JR's not here though. Too bad. I don't know anyone else that would have gone through something like this willingly. And I would welcome the body heat. So I didn't make it into Portland. I had my third flat in four days. What the hell?! New tires too! I would have screamed, but I didn't want to waste the energy. So now I'm in a tent, covered with snow, and I've got two squares of chocolate left. I was worried about warmth, but this emergency blanket is well suited to its name. I think I'll be able to sleep, even without some of my clothes. I am so mortal. Fuck this mountain, though. It's the middle of April, and I'm looking at two and a half inches of snow! They might've had snow in Portland too. I've been beat to hell out here. I'm wounded and cold. I've been really scared. Like I was out in Texas, as I began to realize just what I'd forced myself into doing. Being alone and scared can make you desperate. I was talking to myself a lot, to stave off the lonely desperation. I just wanted to see the suburbs appear around the next corner.

Nope.

The elements are awesome. Awe-some. Life is incredibly tenuous. I would not last up here very long in this state. The wound on my index knuckle burns. I've a bruised knee, two raw elbows. My shelter and gear is inadequate for winter weather. I was prepared for rain and 40-50 degree lows, not freezing snow and 30 degree lows. Jon at Buoy's Best said this is unusual . He wasn't the first I heard say that.

- I haven't felt any lust these several days. Survival has been overwhelming. As I was coming down the mountain in the darkening snow, getting colder and colder, I thought, “I wish I could say I was doing this for a girl...” I hope I don't shiver in my sleep.

Bike Trip / Spain Journal #3