Foo Fighters - Times Like These

I can't stop listening to this song, so I wanted to share it with you all. The acoustic version is so powerful.

I am a one way motorway
I'm the one that drives away
then follows you back home
I am a street light shining
I'm a wild light blinding bright
burning off alone

It's times like these you learn to live again
It's times like these you give and give again
It's times like these you learn to love again
It's times like these time and time again

I am a new day rising
I'm a brand new sky
to hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
do I stay or run away
and leave it all behind?

It's times like these you learn to live again
It's times like these you give and give again
It's times like these you learn to love again
It's times like these time and time again

Gravity

Check out this guitar solo starting at about 8 minutes. Wow.

John knows how to get down.

Moroccan Adventure

Tomorrow at 10:20 AM I'm going to be on a different planet, I mean different continent. Friends, I'm headed to Morocco, Africa for two weeks. And I have no idea what to expect.

I hear that you have to bargain for EVERYTHING. I'm picturing myself standing in line at the grocery store, bargaining with the cashier, trying to get my peanuts and crackers for 15 cents less. I look forward to this. I also hear that the desert, although hot during the day, gets really really cold at night. This is news to me. I think I'll bring a sweatshirt. That's about all I know of Morocco. Oh, and that they have really high unemployment rates so everyone just kind of hangs out all day. This sounds nothing like America. And I like it.

We found a Moroccan girl on Couchsurfing.com that we'll be traveling with during our stay. She seems really nice and really bored, a perfect combination for showing us around. She has a car so we'll be able to see much more than by public transport. I think we'll be staying with her family and friends she has there. Now I know what you're thinking, "She's actually a creepy old man that's going to sell us for a goat and camel". I can assure you that Couchsurfing.com is safe and this won't happen. Besides he could probably get an elephant thrown in the deal too.

All I know is that I'm riding one of these babies. And if he spits on me.... I'm spittin' back!

Foot Better...Voice Not

My foot is almost completely healed, just a little tender in some places. I finally have toe movement. This is fortunate, because I will be doing some hiking in the coming days.

About the time that my foot was feeling better, I lost my voice. This is unfortunate. I've been practically mute for the past 3 days, with the exception of some squeaks. I even resorted to pen and paper for what I wanted to say. My voice is starting to come back, but I now sound like a 13 year-old boy just starting puberty. That's fantastic.

Let's just say I'm hoarse.

You can do it, work a little harder.

I had two separate conversations last week that revealed the same Truth. The first was with my flatmate, a girl from Colombia, whose parents moved to Miami. She now lives in France but visits her parents occasionally in Miami. The second was with a girl from Berlin who spent some time in Atlanta, studying and living with a host family.

When telling me about their experience in the US, it was incredible, their observations were almost the exact same. They both had a lot of positive things to say about their experience in the US and would love to visit again. What struck me though was both of them commented on the insane number of hours that most Americans work. Their host family or parents of American friends… 50, 60, 70+ hours every week. Sound familiar? And for what? To them, it seemed like a competition for Americans, who can work the most hours? And then feel proud because you worked 80 hours and your colleague fell short at only 70. That’s it; I’ll work a little harder next week to get that promotion. SICK.

France just fought for a law to keep their work-week at 35 hours per week. I expect our standard week will rise to 45 hours soon. And they take the 7 weeks time-off that they’re entitled to every year. For many of them, life isn’t all about working or how much is in their bank account. They rather spend their free time pursuing things they enjoy, not working away their lives, things like: art, literature, and photography, building relationships, wine and cheese, trimming their moustache, whatever it may be.

Let me add, I don't write this post to criticize the United States and raise the roof for France. We all know that the French are a bunch of pansies anyway. No really, I’m pointing out that in our culture, people are more susceptible to becoming workaholics and driven by Greed (with a capital G). I've been guilty of this. These conversations made me reflect on how I want to live my life. Does it matter if my neighbor’s car is bigger and has more buttons than mine? Do I really want to work 80 hours per week so I can move to that certain neighborhood where I’ll be seen by everyone? Or so I can tell everyone I got promoted to Super Senior Executive Vice President of Large Multinational Corporation? Nah, I rather pursue things that really matter in life, and I don’t mean that big bonus or MVP for working the most hours or prestigious titles.





Okay, I'm off my high horse now. You can get back to work :)

Bus Trip to Madrid

Two of my Dutch amigos and I took a 7-hour night bus to Madrid a few weekends ago. We left at 1 AM and arrived at 8 AM. I remember waking briefly on the way there and seeing the sun rising over the mountains along the Spanish countryside. AMAZING! I love gifts like that. Then I fell right back to sleep.

I loved Madrid. We stayed with some Spanish friends and saw a lot of the city by car. There are beautiful parks, museums, monuments and girls. We took a day trip to El Escorial, a small town outside the city with a huge monastery and beautiful views. I really like the Spanish countryside; I wish I could get away from the city more often to enjoy it.


Is that not postcard quality?

Even though Madrid is the largest city in Spain, and very international, it felt much more “Spanish” than Barcelona. The architecture, people, food, and language. Barcelona is a great city but doesn’t really have that "Spanish" feel, probably because it’s Catalan (a territory that wishes it was independent from Spain). Barcelona is a very international city, not only with tourists, but with people moving here to live and work. It’s touted as “the place to live in Europe”. Because of this, it feels more European than it does Spanish.

I had a chance to practice a lot of Spanish while in Madrid because less people there knew English. Madrid felt more like a livable city to me, whereas Barcelona as a place to visit for the summer, which is what I'm doing. I hear Madrid gets really hot in the summer because it's wedged between mountains with no air. I enjoy the breeze of Barcelona. I’d like to visit Madrid again if I have time, and I can’t wait to see southern Spain.


Parc Retiro with 2 huge lakes in it! Picturesque.


From shortest to tallest: Christian (Dutch/Hungarian/Jewish), Derek (Blatently American), Jordi (Dutch), Jésus (AKA Chuchi, Spanish, and a great host).


Another one of these?? Didn't see that one coming.

*To see an absurdly large view of any of these pictures, just click one*

I fell off a ladder and slept 17 hours.

A post of two unrelated events that happened this past weekend:

Saturday I started painting the ceiling of one of the apartments my company owns. Right now, it’s a dark, uninviting blue. So, I’m painting it a stark, inviting white. We’re in the process of opening another office in this apartment, where tourists can access free wireless internet, store their luggage for the day, and come to find a hostel. A tourist information type-of-place. It’s quite an undertaking.

Anyway, I’m in there painting away, music turned up, getting ready to go to lunch. I have the ladder leaned up against the wall and I’m almost at the top (the ceiling’s about 12 feet), when suddenly this thing starts sliding down the wall. I remember thinking “Uh-oh. Not good. Not good!” Before I knew it the ladder crashed to the floor, me and the paint with it. I panicked for a second, thinking I surely broke something falling from that high. Thankfully though, my only injury came from the ladder landing on my right foot. I was unfortuantely painting in flip-flops that day. To give you some idea of the impact, the ladder fell hard enough to bend one of the pegs you step on. Mom, don’t worry I’m alright. It’s been a little sore to walk on, but I’ve been icing it and staying off it.

My battle wound:





On another note, I slept 17 hours on Sunday. I think I got out of bed two or three times to eat or use the bathroom. In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t hit my head when I fell off the ladder. Is this normal, at all? I didn’t think it was possible to sleep that much in one day. I know painting can be tiring, but come on! …a strange weekend.

A Little Clarity

I've had the opportunity to do some pleasure reading in my free time, something I rarely seem to have time for back home. So far I've read Blue Like Jazz and Wild at Heart (both for the second time), The Adventures of Huck Finn (an absolute classic), and I'm finishing Way of the Wild Heart (for the second time).

The Way of the Wild Heart is speaking to me right now. It's a fantastic book about the different stages a man experiences throughout his life. The truth is that most of these stages are interrupted or wounded in some way. It can happen in a variety of ways, anything from verbal/physical abuse to being bullied on the playground as a child to having a father who is checked out. A man carries these wounds with him throughout life, and it affects every decision he makes. Why do you think there are so many men out there striving and working endless hours trying to overachieve? Or how many men do you know who try to use a girl to make themselves feel more like a man? There's a part of the soul that remains immature and boyish.

There was a paragraph that just jumped out at me as I read it. This couldn't be more true in my life right now...

"Life is hard. While he is the Beloved Son, a boy is largely shielded from this reality. But a young man needs to know that life is hard, that it won't come to you like Mom used to make it come to you, all soft and warm and to your liking, with icing. It comes to you more the way Dad made it come to you - with testing, as on a long hike or trying to get an exhaust manifold replaced. Until a man learns to deal with the fact that life is hard, he will spend his day chasing the wrong thing, using all his energies trying to make life comfortable, soft, nice, and that is no way for any man to spend his life."

Life isn't icing on the cake for me right now. I am continually being tested and challenged. I think that's part of the reason I'm here. The majority of my internship is dealing with customer complaints and solving problems other people created. There have been many times I've wanted to quit. Then there is the language barrier of course. I don't say any of this in a bitter way at all. I accept that life is hard and with it comes challenges. It's a daily struggle for me to try not to merely seek comfort and pleasure. I'll be the first to admit that I quite often fail at this. But I'm slowly learning (emphasis on slowly). More importantly though, I'm open to learning.

I'm having a blast here though. Don't think that I'm miserable or stressed out... that's only at work :) I'm learning so much about myself, other people and different cultures. I wouldn't trade this experience for anything.

I wanna go fast.

This past weekend there was a Formula 1 race and a soccer (football) match in Barcelona. The city turned into a zoo. People were everywhere with their Ferrari, BMW, Mercedes apparel on or their FC Barcelona jerseys.

I don’t really follow soccer, or F1 racing for that matter, but I would have liked to gone to the race if tickets weren’t 150 euros (about $200). Instead, I went down to the free BMW expo at the sea port and looked at all the new models. They were alright, nothing too exciting.

Then I went over to a little make-shift track they had set up for one of the F1 cars. The driver of the car was there signing autographs, shaking hands, kissing babies, the usual. He then climbed into the car, fired it up, and revved it down the little track, doing doughnuts at the end. Wow! Now that’s exciting.

This gave me goosebumps, and I immediately wanted to be a racecar driver again. I don’t know what it is about the smell of gasoline, burnt rubber, loud engines, and going fast… but I like it. There’s something in my soul that comes alive. It’s so much more than the car itself or the publicity or any of the crap that goes along with it. I’m talking raw racing. I couldn’t imagine flying around the track at the speeds they do, hugging the turns, feeling the power of the car, knowing you’re in control.

The Italian Nightmare

I haven't posted in a while because I've been recovering from a traumatic event that occurred last weekend. I had a "run-in" with some old Italian women. Eight Italian women to be exact.



Part of my job here in Barcelona is to take guests to a private apartment they've booked with us. This includes verifying their booking, collecting their money, physically walking them to the apartment, etc. I enjoy this for the most part because I get to meet people from all over the world, and I get to walk around Barcelona.

I usually enjoy doing this, unless I have unhappy guests. Nobody likes unhappy guests. Especially unhappy Italian guests.

The Italians arrived at 9:30pm. It took almost 2 hours to check them in because they didn't speak but 2 words of English and no Spanish (which is a little embarassing for them because Spanish and Italian are quite similar). I showed them 3 or 4 times on a map where the apartment was, and explained how many bathrooms there were, and how much they still had to pay, and assured them that 1,000 euros was the correct amount, and I wasn't ripping them off. Then they all wanted to pay separately and I didn't have change.

Meanwhile, two other groups arrived. I should note here that I was the only person working in the office because we close at 9:00pm. We didn't have space for one group because we overbooked them, so I had to call another hostel to see if they had space and explain how to get there. I had to call another intern to come check-in the other couple, while I dealt with the Italian nightmare.

Once this was all sorted out I took them to the apartment, which is 15 minutes walking. This was far too long for them. I could tell they were angry by their Italian tone. It was even louder than normal. Once we arrived, which seemed like forever, we had to go up in the elevator two at a time because the elevator is so small. After four elevator trips, we finally made it into the apartment. This is where the story gets good.

I took half of them to one end of the apartment and was supposed to take half to the other end. One minor problem. There were already people staying in the room they were supposed to be in. This is when all hell broke loose.

They started screaming at me in Italian and among each other. They were also pissed because there was only 1 shower in the apartment. I completely understood their frustration. They booked a room with us, and we accidentally gave it to someone else. I tried to quiet them down, explaining (by hand gestures) that there were other people sleeping. They didn't care, screamed louder. I told them if they were going to scream, then I was going to leave and they could sleep on the floor.

Well they solved that problem for me. Four of them blocked the door so I couldn't leave, and the rest continued yelling. I'm not exagerrating either. Then they got the idea to call "policia, policia". No, no, no... don't call the policia. Bad idea. The last thing I wanted was to deal with the Spanish police. They got out their cell phone and started looking in their guide books for the police number.

After at least a half hour of yelling, I got them to understand that we could go back to the office and I would give them a complete refund. This was alright for half, but there were a couple of the ladies who were insistent on calling the police. I then pleaded to them how this wasn't my fault and this is my internship and now I'm going to quit and I'll give them their money and call my boss if they just come back to the office and don't call the police.

I don't know what finally clicked, but at some point their attitude towards me changed. They agreed to come back to the office for a refund. On the walk back they were saying "Derek good. BCN Loft bad." They gave me an Italian pastry and were sure to point and laugh at every police car we saw.

One of the worst/best learning experiences I've ever had. I know I learned a lot from that situation, but I'm still trying to figure out what all it was. I really wanted to quit that night. I was almost in tears. I think I became more of a man from that night though. I learned how to handle an extremely stressful situation without being able to communicate very well. I feel like God specifically put me in that situation and was fathering me, teaching me that I do have what it takes. He just used 8 pissed-off Italian ladies to do it. I'm grateful for that experience.

I watch Spanish cartoons.

My latest way to practice Spanish is to watch kids' cartoons. It's also a great way to reminisce about the childhood years. Two for one, I like it!

I can understand most of what is said. Surprising, I know! The parts I can't understand, the 9-year old boy who speaks Italian, Spanish, and Catalan, is happy to explain to me.

My favorites include: Sandokan, The Magic Sword of Camelot, The Simpsons (although Marge is impossible to understand), and Curious George.



There is a collection of about 30 cartoon DVDs I'm going to watch. Between this and stumbling through conversations I'm bound to improve, right? If not, at least I've watched some classic 'toons!

I wonder if they have Spanish Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner? It's probably called El Diego Coyote y Señor Roadrunner or something. Yeah I'm going to watch that. Beep! Beep!

Random Beauty

Here are some random photos I've taken...for your viewing pleasure. Kick back and relax!

Loads of sailboats.



Port Vella with Parc Montjuic in the background.



Ping Pong!



Giant butt in the park.



Fountain in Plaza Catalunya. (The city center)

WARNING: Not for Kids!

I went down to my local "Dick's Sporting Goods" equivalent last week and picked me up a pair of Boomerang rollerblades. (Is rollerblades one word or two words?) I had to exchange the first pair because size 44 was too big. I'm only a European 42.



I wanted to reclaim my innocence of being a kid, rollerblading at The Skating Palace to a mix of Vanilla Ice, Depeche Mode, and Boyz 2 Men. Rollerblading limbo. Couples skate. Disco night. End-of-the-school-year parties. Can you feel me?

I saw people here weaving in and out of traffic, rollerblading backwards, with their dogs. This seemed like great fun. I quickly realized that you have to re-learn how to rollerblade. I forget how to brake! I have been using the rubber pad on the back of my right heel, but this brings me to a slow roll at best, not a stop. To come to a complete stop I normally have to run into something: a trash can, light poll, helpless elderly lady, Asian tourists... Can someone please instruct me on the proper braking technique?

Random cracks in pavement, brick sidewalks, sewer drains, and thousands of tourists have added to the rollerblading experience. I couldn't be happier with my purchase though. It's been a great workout and an easy way to see the city. One day I'll be weaving in and out of tourists, but not listening to Vanilla Ice.

I decided to make my rollerblading debut on St. Jordi's Day, where thousands of people crowd the streets to buy books. What an adventure!

St. Jordi's Day

Monday was St. Jordi's Day here in sunny Barcelona ...aka Valentine's Day!

Now most of you already know how I feel about "V-Day". In short, I think it's nothing more than a commercial ploy for retailers to boost 1st quarter earnings by pressuring guys into buying expensive dinners and chocolates and jewelry. I'll stop there, because I know this is a special day for many couples, and I'll never get a girlfriend with that attitude :)

Barcelona celebrates the big day in an interesting way. The guys buy their sweetheart a rose and the ladies buy their man a book. I like this. It's simple. It's romantic. And I like a good read.

I know you're all wondering though... no, I did not buy my sweetheart a rose, and I did not receive a book. Maybe next year.

Arc de Triomphe

Why is there one of these in every European city? Let's be more original.

A better question is why do I visit them all and take pictures?

Barcelona

Paris

Rome

Shooter!

There's nothing like a good American film when feeling a bit homesick, especially one with Mark Wahlberg. When the FBI sets him up, he decides to make his own justice. It's another movie about conspiracy in the US government. And I like it. It leaves you wondering how much was really fiction. It was too realistic for fiction.

Just shoot it.

Where are the appliances?

I normally describe myself as observant, or "detail oriented", as they say in "the business world". Not this time. I completely missed the boat on this one.

I went grocery shopping for the first time yesterday. It took me about 5 minutes to understand if I was buying mayonnaise or pudding or tartar sauce or marshmellow spread. I was drewling as I passed by the chicken, turkey, and beef aisles. I did manage to sneak some tuna and lunch meat into the house.

This is day four in the new apartment, and I finally realized there is no: microwave, toaster, OVEN, or dryer. Did I really overlook all that? You betcha! Looks like I'm roughing it for the next 5 months. There is a make-shift stove though. So I can toast my bread on a skillet and boil water.

Cheers!

Surgeon General skips Barcelona

I have come to the conclusion that The Surgeon General must have skipped Barcelona when promoting the hazards of smoking. He must have missed his flight and decided to call off the European tour altogether.

I would say 85% of the people I see are puffing their lungs away. And this is more than the casual cigarette. More than the not-so-casual cigarette. We went out for a drink this past Saturday and I saw a guy who would light a new cigarette with his current one, so that he always had at least one going. I was impressed with his creativity at first. By number 10 I became concerned for his health.

On a more positive note, I'm getting really good at holding my breath as I walk through the clouds of smoke.

I'm petitioning for a SMOKE-FREE Barcelona, similar to that in Ohio. Here's my current ad:

Home Sweet Home

Alas, a place to call home!

After what seemed like weeks of searching, I moved into my new room yesterday. I live with a very nice Colombian lady and her son Swami, meaning "teacher of himself". He's young and quite energetic. In the flat there is also a young couple from Greece and a young guy from Germany, whom I have yet to meet. As soon as I met the Colombian lady, I knew I wanted to live there. She was warm and inviting, quite rare from the other places I visited.

Her only rules are:
"no carne. no zapatos. no fumar."
"no meat. no shoes. no smoking."

I don't mind the last too, but that first one might be a challenge. I am a lover of meat. She is a vegetarian and the smell of meat cooking makes her sick. So I can eat lunch meat and tuna, but I can't fry up some good ol' chicken breasts. I'll find a way around this. Any suggestions here would be nice.

I took some photos of my crib:

But first, let me start with my previous pathetic-excuse-for-a-room.




Mi Casa.

Joke's on Me!

I thought I was just being cute and witty with the description of my blog (see above). I was tucked safely away in my little cubicle that overlooks the Red's stadium before I left, trying to think of something clever to capture your attention, so you would add me to your favorites, and read everyday. Oh and I wanted to gross you out a little too. Turn's out, you really are enjoying all this at my expense. Let me explain:

Diahrrea. This one's for real folks. I couldn't make this up. Karen Ramos from UC International warned me of this before I left, even told me to go to the doctor and get a prescription for it before I left. I traveled to Europe last year, diahrrea-free, for 6 weeks. Naturally, as I do most UC faculty, I blew her off. Wow am I paying for that now. I've been bed-ridden for nearly 48 hours and all I can hear is my stomach making the oddest gurgling noises. My stomach likes the breast of a chicken, not the butt of a duck or something.

Language Barrier. I thought I had a pretty good grasp of the "Spanish Language". As defined by the American education system I would have a 4.0. Riiiight. I'm staying in a flat/hostel/apartment until I find a place to call home for 5 months. As I call on rooms for rent I have to speak to them in Spanish. If I can manage to get past that stage and set up a time to look at the room, I go and they explain everything about the apartment in Spanish. I'm really fluent in two phrases: "Como?" "What did you say?" or "Repita por favor" "Please repeat everything you just said." The search for a room and a set of friends continues...