On the way to Japan: Leaving Barcelona

AOG, Tokyo

So on Friday I had to play out the previous day's events, in fast forward.

Fast Forward to the bus stop (I can't believe the bus driver saw me tying a shoelace and didn't stop! He, in fact, drove past in a rush just as I lifted my head once I heard the oncoming vehicle).

Fast Forward to the train station, the airport, the security check, the train to the gate, the gate, and finally board the plane.

A small aside, on the way to the airport, I bought a coffee from the train trolley guy. He didn't have change for 20, so the guy in front of me invited me to a cup of coffee.

He was very handsome, very Eastern European (thick chains, strange mobile with music in hand, tough hands, dirty fingernails, tussled hair), and soon to be slightly drunk. It was not even 10:30 AM and monsieur was drinking red wine on the train as he texted (his girlfriend? his best friend? his mother in Serbia/Poland/Slovakia?) on and off.

Finally I got to Stanstead with a bit more time than yesterday. This time, however, I was overcautious given the events of the day before, and panicked when the screen said which gate to head towards, and, at the same time, to wait. I wasn't sure whether I should go, stay, roll over, or what!

I was on the last boarding group, but it turned out alright in the end. I sat near the wing's engine, and had three seats all to myself. What's more, having been given a set of sound-canceling headphones for my birthday, flying on low cost airlines is more tolerable these days since I can cancel out all incoming sales pitches, loudspeaker offers, etc etc. It was like I flew to Barcelona all on my own. Tried to sleep but failed. I was too wound up.

Once I got to Barcelona (and I survived the Aerobus into town strike), my mission for the day was to find a pair of shoes for the trip.

My partner and I went to a couple of shoe stores before he went home to finish work, and I stayed behind to roam the streets of Barcelona looking for a suitable pair of walking shoes to take to the Far East.

Finally I found them and had enough time left over to buy a gift for my brother-in-law's birthday, 2 weeks ago.

My partner, a friend of ours, and I had been invited to dinner by him and his wife and we arrived almost in time to their place. And what a place it is! Gigantic, well appointed, great location. It has it all. I told my partner we should move upstairs from them!

We stayed until about 2AM, when logic and responsibility kicked, and left for home to finish packing. Yes, only the gay go to a dinner party the night before going on a trip to the other side of the planet when they should be at home packing and sorting out any last-minute problems.

So we took it in turns to pack and nap. First I packed, tweaked iTunes, plugged the iPod, had some milk and cookies, then woke my partner up and went to sleep around 4AM.

Three hours later, we were on our way to the airport.

On the way to Japan: First, get out of London!

AOG, Tokyo

Any journey has its ups and downs. I suppose it is better if all goes as planned, but, as they say, getting there is half the fun.

My first trip to Tokyo started in Madrid one week ago. I had a few days off from work and I had the opportunity to spend a few days in London.

I met up with my family and some friends. From Monday to Thursday I ran errands, visited shops, finished reading "Dirty Havana Trilogy" by Pedro Juan Gutierrez, watched some TV, bought the odd trinket here and there, and, finally, packed my bags and headed to the airport on thursday.

Lets do the time warp again!

In my life, I remember when I was a kid, there were occasions when time slowed down. It is hard to explain. Basically, it would happen sometimes that we would be going somewhere, like a long car journey, and time would either stretch into infinity, or almost disappear. Odd but true.

I remember many a trip when a 5 hour car journey would last 45 minutes. Similarly, a one hour journey would take forever to end. These were the hardest since you became frustrated at how long things took, and your conscience told you that, in fact, this journey is much shorter than what you are actually taking to do it.

And the funny thing is that it happened not only to me, but to my family too. We were always surprised by this time warp of ours. I hadn't happened for a long time.

Until last Thursday.

Leaving London

I woke up around 8 am and left my London flat at around 9AM. I walked up to the bus station only to see the bus drive past me as I turned the first corner and made my way to the bus stop. I waited a few minutes and then another one came.

I then took the underground to Covent Garden and went to buy a Japan visual guide at Stanfords, the best travel store I know of.

After than, I went back home (do not stop around since you are running out of time).

First though, I had to get some euros. My partner had payed for our upcoming trip to Japan and I had to reimburse him. So off I went to my local HSBC branch. I was surprised by what happened next.

1- The person in charge of foreign currency is out to lunch. (And then the thought stroke me: should bank staff take a lunch break when the rest of the city is also taking a lunch break, thus ensuring that those of us who can make it to the bank at lunch create a daily lunch rush hour for which the bank is not equipped?)

2- Could I come back later (like in 45 minutes?)? No I could not. So then the deputy branch manager tried to help me.

Tried but failed since, a) she didn't have a password for the foreign till and, b) she could have a password emailed but that would take 30 minutes.

I really didn't have the time to spare, the energy to get upset further, nor the will to upset the bank staff any further.

3- It is suggested that I go to the Post Office (it's just down the street!) and get the money there.

I go there, only to be asked for some sort of ID. I didn't have any ID with me (as you know, in the UK nobody carries ID with them), so they could not get the money out of my bank card.

4- Could I get the money in cash from the bank (it's just down the street!).

So I traipse back to the bank only to find an even longer line than before.

A while later starts the same "No ID?" ceremony which had taken place at the Post Office.

After a few security questions the bank decides to hand me over the amount of money requested (you'd think it was a gift and not your own money!), and I rush back to the Post Office.

After a few minutes I am on my way home to eat and finish packing.

As I pack I make some lunch. I eat, shower, lock my travel bag, and exit in a rush.

At that point I was running a bit late.

I walk towards the bus stop. A bus drives by just before I get there. I begin to ponder on the wisdom of taking a cab to the train station. At the stop, I wait for about 30 minutes for the next bus (in theory, one should go by every 10-15 minutes).

The funny thing about the bus stop is that it is too far from the High Street to rush to it should a bus drive by, so that if I leave it, I have to be committed to taking a cab since there is no turning back! It was a tough call and I made a mistake. I should have taken a cab.

However at this point, I did not know this. I get to the train station and take the first train to Stansted. I have waited less than 2 minutes at this point.

The train is packed. I get on board and find a seat. The trolley guy comes by and I buy a coffee. I don't know why I did this since I was already quite wired and stressed since, at that point, I was -officially- running late. Very late.

The train, as British trains often do, stops for no apparent reason in the middle of nowhere for a few minutes. I recall that this happened twice or so. I get to Stansted 4 minutes before the gate closes.

I try to rush through security, but I can't. Too many people and none of them care that I'm about to miss my flight. Well, perhaps they did care, but I'm sure that they were mostly thinking (and with good reason) that I should have gotten there earlier. And they were right.

I finally make it through and miss the first train that gets you to the next terminal. When I get to it, I rush out, fly up the escalator, and sprint to the gate, only to find a surprised easyjet woman who, as soon as she sees me, pushes a chair forward to stop me from flying down the stairs and run to the plane.

I was completely out of breath, sweating, panting, trembling and upset with myself. I had no energy to argue. It was not meant to be.

The lady says I should go back with her to the terminal to book another ticket. For tomorrow!!! This was the worst possible outcome, alas, what could I do?

I called my partner who told me there were no other flights to Barcelona that I could catch that day from that airport. From other airports maybe, but I would have to get a bank loan to pay for the ticket. Why is traveling on the day so expensive?

One more day in "Paradise"

After talking to my partner (who was very supportive throughout the whole ordeal) I am escorted back by a different member of staff who was slightly inconvenienced by my situation (why do plane staff always think we miss planes on purpose?) and the fact she had to escort me back through the terminal's secret "staff only" passageways.

After buying a ticket for the next day, I decide to cut my losses and get back to London on a bus. It is cheaper than the train, though less convenient. But since I had no one waiting for me, it seemed like the right thing to do. Wrong again!!

Along the way I call my friend Miguel and we decide to meet once more in Soho. So now I have to rush home from Liverpool Street station and rush back out to the West End.

And I am on a bus, surrounded by Spanish tourists who think everything they see is cool. London holds a special fascination amongst Europeans. The Spanish are no different.

By the time Miguel and I meet up, I am exhausted, both physically and mentally. We talked about the day's events and I explained about the time-warp day I'd had. All along, I told him, it felt like time was slowing down and speeding up at the same time. I know this makes no sense. He thought it was hilarious. I may do...in the future!

By the time I get home, I am half dead. I have a glass of warm milk and some oatmeal biscuits and dive into bed. I have a flight to catch in the morning.

Somebody help me!!

Homophobia in London

AOG, London

I have been in London for less than 24 hours and already a story has hit the news that makes me loose my faith in humanity.

It appears that last week, right in Trafalgar Square, Ian Bayham, a 62 year old man, was assaulted outside the South African High Comission by three people.

Three teenagers, two of them girls of 17, and a boy of 19, named Joel Alexander, were arrested and will be tried in Court for the assault.

I cannot begin to understand what would make three young kids attack an older man because he was gay. According to the press, the motive of the assault is homophobia.

The Times writes that:

"Ian Baynham, 62, was walking through Trafalgar Square in Central London with a 30-year-old friend when a woman began shouting homophobic abuse at him.

He went to talk to her but she attacked him and a man with her is said to have punched him to the floor and then kicked him. A second young woman was also involved in the incident.

Mr Baynham, from Beckenham, southeast London, was taken to hospital after the attack two weeks ago suffering from severe brain damage."

Mr. Bayham died of a severe brain damage, according to the police, when doctors switched off his life support machine.

A vigil will take place this Friday in Trafalgar Square from 8 to 10 PM.

I have spent the afternoon with a good friend, and we were handed an invitation to the candle vigil.

Although I wish I could go, I won't be in London then, but I will be thinking about the incident.

Why?

Because with any luck, I might be 62 years old one day.

I would hate to be attacked by three teenagers so badly that I too would die from severe brain damage. And all because I was gay, like Ian Bayham.

I am sure that the kid's families are in shock as to the events and about what might happen to them. They have been charged, I think, with manslaughter.

There never is a reason as to why these things happen. How could there be? This is a hate crime, and like all hate crimes, it makes no sense. Ignorance is the motive. Also probably anger, and frustration. Alienation. It saddens me to read that these things still happen. It saddens me even more when I think that they will probably continue to happen when I turn 62.

For all our beauty, what a horrible species we really are.

Homo homini lupus .... indeed

Learning Japanese

AOG, Madrid

Ok, so I'm going to Japan. And I decided to buy a phrase book because, God knows, the locals are less than "fluent" with the Shakespeare, and although I'm a fan of all things "Nihon", the language escapes me.

Much like noodles do when I try to eat with chopsticks....

So there I am, learning away and asking my one friend who is from Japan (although in fact she was born in Mexico) to teach me a few phrases.

"Otearai wa doko desu ka?" means, where is the restroom please. Aren't I doing well?

She teaches me a few more phrases. I read a phrasebook. I practice.

And then my partner asks, nonchalantly, "why are you learning how ask anything since you won't understand the reply?"

Japanexican friend laughs out loud. Do I harakiri their ass now or later?

Public Holidays Judeo-Christian Style

AOG, Madrid

Yesterday, a newspiece popped up on the El País website. It mentioned that the Catalonian School Council in Barcelona (Catalonia is Spain's most "on-again, off-again" progressive region- at least it likes to think it is) was putting forward a project to the Generalitat (Catalonia's regional Government) to rename the Christmas Holidays (Navidad in Spain) as, simply, Winter Vacations. And the same goes for Easter- Spring Vacations.

It also wants the school year to have a week of rest for the students in February, to start earlier than it does, and to debate the heavy workload of some public schools in June. All these measures it seems to have the full backing of the Council.

According to the article, in Catalonia 63% of schoolchildren go to public schools, and 37% go to private academies- and more than half of these are religious schools.

Of course you can imagine the outcry. Change Christmas? I posted the link to the article on Facebook and my take on it.

I am all for the name change. Why call it Christmas? Years ago I was informed as to why in the US and the UK we often say "Season's Greetings" on X-mas cards.

So as to 1- not offend non-Christians, and 2- take away the religious aspect of a Christian holiday in a lay society.

A couple of colleagues at work are also friends on Facebook. One of them is very religious. He blew a gasket. He did not understand how you could separate the religious from the holiday (btw...Holy-Day). He thought the whole thing stupid, but he was, however, open to debate and discussion. He is a journalist after all.

My other friend, not religious at all, had a similar reaction.

He did, however, went down a more cultural route.

Would the Catalonians be willing to rename Saint Jordi's day? Saint Jordi (Saint George), is the patron saint of Catalonia (and Aragon, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, and Russia, as well as Moscow, Beirut and Barcelona) and on the 23rd of April, Barcelona celebrates the day with lovers giving each other a book and a rose. On that day, Mexico, in accordance with UNESCO, celebrates what is known as Book Day.

I recall it very well from my childhood and when I was told about the celebration in Catalonia, I was surprised to hear about the attached Saintly celebration -Sant Jordi's days.

Needless to say, it is a very beautiful public festivity with the whole city of Barcelona awash with bookstands and flower sellers.

I don't know if they want to rename the festivity, but they might not care. Or they might do.

Part of his argument was tinged by Spanish nationalism versus Catalan nationalism.

In other words, regionalism versus regionalism.

His main argument against the name change was that "it has always been done like that".

I, of course, argued against the danger of any premise that starts with that sentence. Women in Africa are circumcised because it has always been done like that. Women in some Islamic countries are stoned to death if they commit adultery (not the men of course) because it has always been done like that. When I mentioned this, he agreed to the invalidity of that argument. But he still kept to his former view.

Another Facebook friend, who now lives in the US, reminded me that in the Soviet Union Christmas was celebrated eventhough the regime outlawed all religious dates. Much the same continued to happen in Cuba until the regime relaxed its stance. The Pope visited Havana not long ago.

I pointed out to my friend that Christmas was actually based on a previous, pagan, holiday.

Emperor Constantine thought of merging the two so as to not upset too much the pagans (of which, according to historians, he was one until almost his dying day when he was finally baptised).

So the celebration of someone who was, in theory, born in August, is performed in December.

Furthermore, how many people, I asked, do something religious at Christmas? Many do, of course, but here, in Spain, the younger generations are not that religious. And many older people aren't either. Yes, they like the tradition. The look of things. But I think the religious aspect is, often, forgotten or looked over.

I for one am not a great fan of Christmas. Jesus loves you so here's a Playstation. Somehow it does not compute. Yes, as a kid its a good chance to get things, if you are lucky enough to have parents who can do that, and you live in a country where that is done.

But as an adult, yes, I love the presents aspect of it, but little else. Certainly the religious part of the festivity pushes me away.

Would we still get gifts in December even if Christmas was re-christened? Probably. The gift industry needs dates like that.

Furthermore, the Japanese celebrate Christmas. But then Japan is a law unto itself.

Falcon Heene Was Never In The Aircraft

AOG, Madrid

This whole charade is amazing. Not just because of the coverage it achieved in the US, but because the amount of countries which followed the story. A small boy was thought to be inside a hot air balloon in Colorado. And the world talked about it here, and here in the UK, here in the Philippines, here in France.

Fortunately, the balloon was empty and the boy, allegedly, was hiding in the family home's attic. The media have portrayed the family in question as being very media hungry. It seems the father has twice asked to be on Family Swap. When interviewed, the boy said it was all for a show. Was it a hoax? Who knows. It appears it was.

My take on the whole thing has bigger perspectives. I think it is a perfect example of the differences, injustices and disparities still found in our world.

Daily, children in the Middle East, Africa and India, die.

These deaths get little or no air time. Unfortunately, it shows once again that Western citizens' lives are much more valuable and newsworthy than the lives of non-Westerners.

It is also a monument to the Global reach of American media.

In my view, it shows us once again how the world is getting smaller, but only its rich citizens are worth knowing about.

Read the Article at HuffingtonPost

Gay weekend

AOG, Valencia

This weekend I went to Valencia. It was a friend's 50th birthday and he and his partner were flying down from London to celebrate. I was really looking forward to seeing them. We used to go out a lot when I lived in London. We have, somehow, managed to remain friends in spite of the distances- geographical and emotional.

I took a train from Chamartin Station in the North of Madrid and, unfortunately, traveled all the way down facing backwards. Dizzy does not begin to cover it.

My partner came down from Barcelona with a friend who was visiting from New Jersey.

My friends also had another friend of theirs, from Venezuela, over. All in all we were all a very merry bunch.

We made friends very quickly, sort of like children do. I have to say that this does not always happen, but I am glad that it did on this occasion. We seemed to like each other and made each other laugh in the gayest way. It was like a movie sometimes. All we did was have a good time and laugh. So simple!

The city itself is beautiful. The last time I'd been there was in 1990. A different time. And then, I was there only for one day. Hardly time to see any of it.

We went to dinner to celebrate the birthday boy to a homestead-cum-restaurant on one of the rice paddies outside Valencia. Very traditional, so traditional, in fact, that there was a wedding going on too, where the groom was in full Scottish gear. Kilt and all!

So it went, my friends and I. Jokes, laughter, merriment. All fun. All gay. It had been a long time since I'd had one of these.

I suppose some people might wonder what I mean by "gay". I mean the ability to speak our language and know we are being understood. The ability to pinpoint cultural references old and new, classical and made-up, real and fake, and discuss them. The ability to make up a situation on the spot, and have everyone play along for fun. Mannerisms, words, expressions, gestures, borrowed, stolen, made up or personal. All in all, the ability to be yourself with your peers. Finally, peers!!

I remember in High School, back in Texas, how my classmates were my peers "in theory". In fact, I remember that back then I thought of very few people as being on the same mental wavelength as I was. None of them were, to my knowledge, gay. The ones who, sort of, approached what I would call peerdom, were one or two people in Drama class, one or two in French class. And the odd classmate here and there. I think it is a shame that I had no gay friends back then. It would have helped a lot. Alas, it was not to be.

And this past weekend was all about that. Carefree bantering. Jokes, applause, sightseeing, conversation, looking at people and being looked at back. I wish I had more of these. It is ironic, perhaps, that everyone who met up this weekend in Valencia lives everywhere except Valencia.

Maybe that was part of the magic?

Obama Wins Nobel Peace Prize

AOG, Madrid

I truly admire President Obama. But I think this is premature. He has yet to do anything like bring about peace somewhere.

If he can stop the Israelis and the Palestinians from killing each other, then yes. If he can bring peace to war-torn countries in Africa, of course. If he ends the nuclear threat or bans nuclear weapons, without a doubt. But...as of today, he has done very little to deserve this.

I'm sure in time he will deserve it. No doubt.

But I think the best he can do right now is decline the honor and leave it for the future.

Read the Article at HuffingtonPost

Training of sorts...

AOG, Madrid

I spoke with a friend today about this blog. She mentioned she'd been reading it and that she felt she knew me a bit better for having done so.

Up until today, the only three people I'm aware of who read this are my mother , my best friend in the US, and, occasionally, my partner.

I was flattered and curious to know what she thought of it, after all, what else are blogs such as this one but exercises in vanity?

She seemed to reinforce this idea.

"You have a lot of tags on this blog. I didn't realize you had so many opinions on so many topics", she said.

My reply was, of course, pedantic. "Yes, opinions are free so of course I have many of those". I then encouraged ger to write one, but she declined. "I have nothing to say, and that which I do, I leave for my diary". I love having a friend who keeps a diary. Such an old thing to do.

I used to keep one too when I was a kid. Somewhere along the line I stopped. Perhaps I was too tired of moving around?

This past weekend I attended the Sitges Film Festival. On the flight there, I read an interview of the Spanish singer Concha Buika. She said that adults spend their childhood getting ready for what they are going to do as grown ups. "Children who grow up to be firemen constantly climb trees and get into trouble for doing so. But they are just training".

She then said that songwriters, and writers in general, also got into trouble because of lying. They lie because they are training; they are working on their stories.

I loved that biographical and sociological analogy. I like to think of myself as a writer. Certainly I work as a journalist. It was refreshing to think of that period of time as "training".

Now guess what I spent my childhood doing? It wasn't sports...

Customs old and new

AOG, Madrid

A few days ago I went to a wedding in the Basque country. One of my partner’s cousins was getting married. It was held in the town of Markina, halfway between Durango and San Sebastian.

It was great.

I was enthralled by the family spirit of the whole thing.

I was lucky enough to witness some old customs, and some new ones, as well as the first lashes of culture clash.

It is traditional in the Basque Country for a dance of honor called “Aurresku” to be performed just outside the church once the bride and groom have been married.

In this dance, the male dancer does a step whereby his leg is outstretched and kicked upwards all the way to his face. Amazing. No Ballets Russes here.

This was the traditional part.

The new custom, it would appear, would be the letting out of fireworks as the newlyweds walk past their guests and into the car.

Everyone remarked on it and asked (and by everyone I mean everyone) if the bride was from Valencia.

You see, aside from Paella, Valencia is known for its fallas and its fireworks. If you think the Chinese have cornered the market on loud firework displays, you’ve never been to Valencia.

So there it was, 2 customs, one old, one new, both surprising since, these days, it is less and less common to see weddings where the Aurresku is performed. But there were still new customs to be seen.

We were treated afterwards to a delicious wedding banquet in a lovely restored traditional basque homestead located in the mountains. Think Swiss Alps with log cabins, but add a couple of stories, make them bigger, and use stone, not wood.

It was white fenced throughout and everyone said it was very atypical to see white fencing. Personally, I thought I was in Virginia!

At our table were sat my partner’s brother and his wife, as well as his sister, and their cousins and wives. It was amazing to hear all the childhood pranks these people got into. It was great. I liked how they were telling stories 15, 20, even 30 years old. How they spoke of their joint childhood, their common stories, adventures, and the times they got in trouble too.

How they referred to each other's parents as "Auntie this" and "Uncle that".

I loved being witness to all that.

On of them was taking about his own daughters; he was worried about how they would try to outsmart him and how he was powerless to stop them. Well, much like his own parents I suppose.

Was this not the eternal family wheel upon which all humanity is thrust into? Childhood, youth, adulthood, patterns which repeat themselves albeit with new actors.

I kept thinking how lucky they all were by being able to grow up with family members their age, and that they are still in touch with each other. What a wonderful thing.

The bride and groom were surrounded by their loved ones and we didn't get much of a chance to talk to them.

For me it was also a great opportunity to get to know better some of my partner's family, and to learn how everyone is related. My family being so small, it was great to be able to do this.

Customs anew...

It is worth noting two of the banquet’s waitresses. One of them, in her early 20s or younger, blonde, blue eyed, prim, proper, white-gloved throughout, very professional, and, genetically designed not to laugh at anyone’s jokes.

She would come over with food, tell us what it was. Wait for us to grab a portion. Then split. If a joke was uttered, she either ignored it, or raised above it. We were actually embarrassed to make any jokes when she came round. She was not mean or anything, just trying to be professional I suppose.


The other waitress was definitely my favourite.

In her early to mid 40s, or younger perhaps, blonde, hazel eyed, tanned, muscular, prim, proper, white-gloved throughout, very professional, and, genetically designed to be a different gender once upon a time.

Some people mentioned that she was a body builder who used a lot of steroids, and that that was why she was so muscular and had such a masculine gait to her.

My partner and I differed. She was lovely. Which is why I was convinced that she might have started life with different gonads at one point in her existence.

She walked in heels like a football player would, and her hair was reminiscent of Ivana Trump. Her fake nails were the size of spoons. Yes, she could have tackle d anyone if she had wanted to. But it was all very dignified.

My partner and I loved the fact that the place which held the wedding banquet had the good taste to hire her. A new custom.

The old and the new. Just another day in Spain.