Jello's jigglin

Gabriela is gone. Gloria is paid. The floors are swept. Sheets folded. Dust dusted. Shades are drawn and the sun has set...it's time to leave Madrid. Qué triste.

I knew this day would eventually come. I knew my time here wouldn't last forever, but the end arrives so suddenly, and when it does it's hard to comprehend. The end creates questions of doubt in our minds...like when I am going to come back? How's my spanish? Are you dense? Do most people really use peanut butter as bug repellant? does that work?

I thought i would have a better grasp on life and the world when my trip was all done...but to tell you the truth i'm more confused and torn up than ever before. HOwever, i'm completely REJUVENATED...a well-deserved break from the USA...and now that it's time to return, i couldn't be happier. Sad to leave Madrid, ecstatic to be back in the warm embrace of my home, my country, my family, my friends (sunsovbitches).

I spent last night at my favorite blues bar in Madrid. La Coquette. The thick waiter, with a full beard and wide eyes raced around the bar with his chest puffed out, agile feet, and a questioning, goofy smile...he is the Spanish version of Jack Black. I laugh every time i see him. He laughs too. "Estás listo?"...he responds in funny spanish english as Jack Black would if he did not speak english, "Ohhhh! I am ready."

Neither of us know what the other one is talking about...i randomly asked a waiter who i've only met a handful of times if he was ready...and without skipping a beat he responds in a different language. Both of us talking about nothing in our second languages. He is Jack Black...or en realidad, Juan Negro.

The harmonica player was a magician...he made sounds come out of that harmonica that i've never heard before...and the lead guitarist with shiny gray hair and a soul patch killed it....he knew his guitar like the backside of his hand. These guys dueled it out all night, giving us an incredible show.

Sitting in the crowd sipping on my cold Mahou, occasionally smoking a borrowed cigarette, completely surrounded by Spaniards, while spanish blues blast in the background - couldn't think of a better way to go out.

One last dish of Bravas and a croquetta to go. I'm gone.

Actually i have one more night and a shitload of money - just got my deposit back. What should i do? I can think of a few things. I'm going to go out with a bang. My bags are packed. All i have to do is grab them and hop on the metro. I've completely eliminated the idea of sleep from my mind, and reality is starting to sound Spanish.

Hasta luego Madrid, mi amor. Hasta pronto USA.

Qué triste/feliz & for the last time,

C.M. Stassel

Rentals

What time is it?

I'm not sure because the blinds are shut.

I can see light out so it must not be night.

Yeah, that's probably a good guess, but what I'm more concerned about is finding a nude model to draw for my art class.

You should rent a hooker on Gran Via and draw her.

That's a great idea. I'll bring my basketball, and maybe afterwards we can play one on one.

I just ate an entire chicken with a side of french fries and a salad. A coke to drink. One of the final meals I will eat here in Madrid. The countdown has begun and the days are flying by. I'll be home in 8 days.

Last night was fun. We went to a bar and I roamed around asking Spaniards about their opinions on bullfighting. I could say that I always do that, but that's not the truth. The truth is i'm doing an investigation on Las Ventas y Las Corridas de Toros for my spanish class.

A tall, bald black man licks his fingers and asks me if i'm looking for some "lamb lamb". He's a sleazy looking guy wearing a black pea-coat (or is it p-coat?), with a huge diamond in his ear. Probably fake. When he says lamb lamb he's referring to chicas. girls. women. babes. I haven't the slightest clue why he calls them lambs, but i'll allow it. It's funny. Courtesy of Mr. Lamb Lamb the drinks were plentiful.

As I leave the bar I see a man getting the living hell beat out of him, and as he lays there in the street I walk up to him to see if he's alive. Just as i'm almost directly standing over him, i look up to see an angry Spaniard run up and kick this man right in the face. Blood flies everywhere. The man then sets his sights on me. I put a hand up to let the guy know that i'm not part of this. Had he charged me it wouldn't have been much of a fight. He was no taller than 5'5 and very drunk. A foot to his chest would have sufficed - i wouldn't want to get my hands dirty with that little, little man. The guy begins to slowly walk away, admiring his work as he yells and cheers. I drag the bloody man out of the middle of the street and lean him up against the building. I got blood all over my hand. I washed the blood off with paper towels and beer. Don't know why I almost found myself in the middle of a spanish battle royale or with a hand full of blood. I didn't really want to stop the fight, i didn't even know why they were fighting - for all i knew the guy deserved to get beat up, but not kicked in the face while he's already lying almost lifeless in the street. I merely wanted to drag the guy out of the street so he didn't get run over or gang beat to death. Go ahead, fight. I don't care, but i wasn't about to see a guy get run over - it's my last 8 days in Madrid. I don't want to see someone die. I've seen a few bulls die, but no humans. Fingers crossed that I arrive to the airport in 8 days with this truth still intact.

Now i'm going to curl up in my bed, read a spanish book and then probably draw a picture for my art class. Dinner is up in the air, but I think I know a place.

Whoa,

CM Stassel

p.s. Don't worry Mom it's too rainy and cold to go rent a hooker on Gran Via.

No está nevando en Marakech, Marruecos

"Please. My friend. Take a look. Look what I have. Oh you like that. 650 dirhams...it's a very happy price."

"Oh, not a chance. I'll give you 100 dirham for it."

"My friend! Look how nice it is...okay i'll give you special price, but just for you. Don't tell anyone", the musty and scarred Moroccan man whispers, "i'll give it to you for 350 dirham."

"Nah, i'll give you a 100 dirham for it", I calmly say back, trying to avoid eye contact with the guy. Avoiding eye contact lets them know that you aren't some naive tourist. This isn't your first time haggling. All the other wide eyed Brits and Americans get eaten alive by these Moroccans - laughing at their jokes, looking them straight in the eyes. They start to feel emotion...sympathy, empathy, kindness, whatever....it doesn't matter what feeling, but once emotions come into the picture, reasoning exits out the back door. And it might be true that this guy is nice and charismatic, but he's trying to charge you 650 dirham for a small little moroccan cup that's worth 100 dirham at best...that equals one euro, which is about $1.40 US...they try to scam you at all costs.

"My friend...this is happy price! okay, okay...you give me 300 for it. Deal..."

"Nah, how 'bout 100."

"Alright, alright...250," as he reaches out to shake my hand.

"Ha. Okay i'll give you 100," as his hand sits empty in the open air.

"Come on...it's worth 600 dirham..."

"Alright...," as I turn my back towards him and start to walk away...wait for it....wait for it...wait for it...

..."Hey, senor! Alright, alright come back," he yells waving frantically at me.

Got him now.

"What is the best maximum, ultimate price you will pay..."

"100."

"Alright, you give me 150, " as he starts to wrap it up.

"Nah. I'll give you 80."

"Ahhhhhhhh...okay, okay 100."

I smile. He knows I won that round. I hand him the 100 dirhams, and make eye contact with him for the first time. He's not mad. He knows it was a fair price...he's disappointed he couldn't get more money out of me. The smile doesn't leave my face - this guy is a good man. He finally breaks, and gives me a smile, and then knocks on his head, "You are stubborn."

We shake hands and I continue to walk through the crowded and dirty streets of Morocco. Lined with tents and Moroccans, all yelling and trying to make money - it's overwhelming. Finally, I make my way out of the crowded marketplace, but not really...Morocco is like one big marketplace. Everywhere you turn someone is trying to sell you something, or beg for money, or trying to get you to take a picture so they can hassle you for money until you give it to them. Morocco is a different world.

The open square is filled with white food carts...chicken, shrimp, prawns, beef, vegetables all being cooked. Smoke lifts off the crowd of food carts into the crisp night air. Cous-cous, Tanjia, Tanjine de poulet, Pastilla de poulet....it's all good. Moroccan food hits the spot...but if you're not careful it will send you to another spot. A porcelain spot, where you will be for a while. Luckily, i was careful.

Snake charmers dazzle toothless cobras, while chained up monkeys are trained to jump on you if you get to close. I had a snake thrown around my neck. I didn't ask for it, and I didn't take a picture so I didn't pay. I didn't even take my hands out of my pockets. I just spun in a circle to unravel the snake off my neck...it would have fallen to the ground had its Moroccan owner not caught it. Don't put snakes on my neck.

I walked too close to a monkey, and before I know it the sad, little guy is sitting in my arm like a baby. I took a picture this time. Once the photo is snapped, its toothless owner immediately yanks the monkey away, and onto his back, his smile disappears, and his tone grows angry. He wants money. He demands 200 dirham...100 for him and 100 for his partner who is a bigger man sitting under an umbrella with a bucket under his feet. I'm not scared of him...i'm the biggest person in Morocco. They are all small, little thieves. I give the guy 20 dirham, and he tries to deny it and demand more. I'm not gonna budge on this one...I didn't just take a 20 euro photo. "I'm gonna drop it. Do you want it or not," the stubborn man won't take the money.

"Alright", as i start to put it away...he accepts it, finally. Don't charge 20 euros for a photo you scam artist, monkey slave driver.

"We know where we are going," I firmly say to a lingering Moroccan.

"Yes, yes, right this way."

"No, we don't need your help. Stop following us."

He won't stop...he's desperate, and he knows if he walks with us all the way to our hostel he has a "good" enough reason to hassle us for money. In which case, one of us will feel sorry for him, or one of us will get so annoyed at his insistent bantering that we give him a little money. Not this time. I put an arm bar out - not an aggressive one, just enough to let him know that he's scaring the girls...

"Stop following us. We know where we are going," I say as I look him straight in the eyes. I stand a solid foot over him, and he gets the message. He turns and walks back down the dark alley where he came from. Lingering in the night, waiting for lost tourists.

Morocco is a beautiful place. The countryside is amazing, and as I think of where on the globe I am right now, it bewilders me - like thinking about life on other planets. That type of trip. There are a lot of really good and warm hearted people in Morocco. Most don't care if you don't buy anything, they really just want you to take a look and give their shop a chance...one guy named, Ali, made us some tea...i didn't buy a thing.

"Ali Baba, Ali Baba," a tiny, little boy says to me as he runs up with his hands out and a goofy smile on his face. He's no more than 4 years old, and his mom sent him up to me to beg for money. 4 years old and already working the streets. It almost chokes me up, as my eyes start to glisten. He's the cutest little boy. He's grabbing at my arm, trying to pull it out of my pocket...he doesn't even realize what's going on. He thinks it's a game. He calls me Ali Baba because of my beard...all the little children do. I give the kid 20 dirham and signal him away. If he stuck around I'd have given him all my money.

Another kid, about 10 years old, wearing dirty clothes and a worn out brown beanie approaches us as we are drinking juice at a tent. He's very aggressive and in your face in his approach...he wants you to see his face, and look into his eyes. We gave him a couple euro, but he stuck around and kept asking. He saw one girl getting skiddish and tried to approach her, but she ran away. What he didn't realize was that her eyes were filled with tears, and her heart was throbbing for that poor little boy...she couldn't stand to look at him without crying her eyes. It was a really touching and moving moment, while also very sobering. It gave me some perspective on everything that was going on before my eyes. The intensity of all, the realness...T.I.A....this is Africa. I plan on going back. It was a great experience and I'm a better person for having gone.

Sober,

C.M. Stassel

p.s.

It's snowing in Madrid. Clásico is tonight...for those of you who don't know what clásico is....it's the fútbol game Real Madrid v. FC Barcelona....Vamos Madrid! I'm going to sit outside in a plaza with the real fans, as snows floats down from above and Clásico is illuminated on a giant screen hanging on the side of a building.

Great Tassles

"What's that pink tassle hanging behind your head?"

"Oh this old thing?" he says as he drags the last bit of his cigarette. "That's part of my curtain."

His grandma laughs, "Oh yeah, I bet it is. Great tassle!"

The song in the background was something of his own creation...not smooth, or well practiced, or even planned, but raw. The rawness of it gave it character, and it was nice to listen to.

The eve of Thanksgiving, and all I can think about is the turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing that I'm going to miss...get 2nds and 3rds and 4ths for me. Don't waste any of it.

I'm not wasting any of it here either, but when I say here I mean Northern Africa...Marakesh, Morocco. A funny thought to consider - i'll be spending my 22nd Thanksgiving in Morocco. Snake charmers and finger foods...I hope the taxis are camels with attitudes.

Two nights prior, I met a group of friends at a small little cerveceria to drink and play card games. Well, I was the one bringing the cards so they didn't know that card games were on the agenda...but they were.

It was in between the first and second hand of Escoba, and the 3rd and 4th shot of whiskey, when I saw her. I won't say her name, out of respect - or maybe it's because I want to keep her to myself. She was a mature woman, an older woman, with patience and style, and a look in her eye that made me melt.

She carried herself tall and walked with a purpose. She pulled up a chair, and told us to shuffle the cards. I obliged. It's time for her game.

She had a freckle on the cleavage of her left breast...i'm not sure if all men notice it, but I did. A beauty mark, how was i supposed to miss it?

I'll keep it short, because it didn't take long for me to fall...but then again I guess I fall most every day. She spent the night laughing, and lightly brushing my shoulder with her gentle hand. She probably has kids, but I wasn't thinking about that.

She took us to a Moroccan bar, where we talked and laughed.

I know this story isn't going anywhere fast, but I'm not worried...it's almost Thanksgiving and i'm thankful to have met her.

Tomorrow i'll be in Morocco. I miss you all. I'm thankful for you all. I'll see you all soon....except for those of you who are not missed. In those cases, I might see you at the supermarket or the drugstore or the post office - it's up in the air, really.

Happy Turkey Day,

CM STASSEL

Sabelotodo

Roald Dahl read me a copy of his latest book yesterday. It sounds pretty good, but I didn't really understand where he came up with the idea. He told me that he was inspired by his doctor to write a story about a man who could see without his eyes. I was surprised by his answer because that very same day I had plans to go see a doctor about my back.

Roald Dahl's doctor's name is Dr. Henry Sugar, M.D., which sounds more like a dentist, to me. My dentist's name is Dr. Hair, which sounds like the name of a barber. My barber's name is Juan Espalda, and espalda means back in spanish, which sounds like the name of a back doctor. I seriously considered going to see my barber about my back, but I didn't need a haircut so I figured the visit would be pointless, even if he could help me with my back. I decided to stick to my original plan and go see Dr. Borras, which sounds like the name of a doctor whom I have never met before.

As I walked to his office I wondered how my first visit to a Spanish doctor would be. I had the notion that I would be speaking Spanish, and as I was buzzed into the waiting room I began to speak Spanish to the receptionist. I threw out a simple, "How much is it?" in english just to test the waters, see if she knew any english - her head turned to the side like a confused puppy...she didn't.

I sat awkwardly in the chair, not because I felt awkward, but because sitting in chairs is the most painful thing you can do with a bad back. I slouched with my backpack still on for support.

Then the doctor came out and spoke to another patient in Spanish, turned to me, and as I started to say "hola", he said, in crystal-clear english, "You must be Chad." This guy wasn't a tourist - he's an educated doctor, of course he can speak english. This isn't Burger King, this is the office of a medical practitioner. Talk about low expectations.

I was finally called back to his office, where examined my back and told me that I have a rare case of spinal deteriation, in which my spine is slowly deteriorating, and it will continue to deteriorate until I have no spine. He said it's nothing to worry about - in about 5 years you'll be as flexible as a salamander he told me. He said that my body will naturally replace my spine with cartilage - it's very, very rare, but many people consider it lucky, and some consider a super power. He gave me a shitload of pills and told me to call him in a week, and start to think about what I want to do with my newfound power of flexibility.

*Did you believe one word I just wrote? what about salamander?*

I was finally called back to his office, where he examined my back and told me that I have a great spine, and that it was a muscle injury - nothing too serious. He did give me pills though, that part was true. He gave me some muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatories. It was a great visit to the doctor - he was quick and thorough. There was no nonsense like there are during visits to the doctor in the USA...i was happy.

The receptionist let me out and I took a left towards the the metro. I walked twelve steps and on the thirteenth I stepped in a big, healthy piece of dog poo. I couldn't have been happier! If i were in the states i would have been furiously irritated, but in Espana it's goodluck to step in dog shit. So, with the dog shit on the bottom of my left shoe I walked proudly down the street to the metro. What a great trip to the doctor.

Had a wonderful sleep with those muscle relaxers - very relaxed.

I think i'm going to take a muscle relaxer and try to catch the midnight showing of the first installment of the 7th Harry Potter movie...what are you doing?

Relaxed,

CM Stassel

Almost quite an uneventful day

It's been a bedridden day. In too much pain to get out of bed, I took my sick day. My back is killing me. My mattress doesn't help, and neither would sitting in a classroom for three hours talking in a different language. What i needed was a jacuzzi. I wish this story could earn its wings and take flight in this direction, but, sadly, I never do get my jacuzzi. Instead, this story has lazy beginnings, painful middles, and an unexpected twist at the end. This is the day my back kept me home from school.

It was a long, sleepless night. I couldn't stay in one position for more than 30 minutes. This isn't a sob story. My alarm sounded at 8am. I hit snooze three times with full intentions of getting out of bed by 8:27 - each snooze is 9 minutes for some odd reason. It wasn't until I hit the third snooze that I realized how badly i did not want to go to school today. I was in no mood to sit in a small desk for 3 hours with my bad back. I snoozed for nine more minutes and dreamt of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a massage - with 9 minutes like that I can't see how any one could drag them-self out of bed to go to class....once again I must forewarn you that I never do realize my dream of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a massage - if you are looking for a story like that i suggest to try somewhere else.

I stayed in bed all day. Roald Dahl read me a book on tape and I took a three hour nap. The bread I had was stale, so a midday sandwich turned into a mid-day market run. It was nice to get out of the house in the middle of the day (actually 2 pm)...the market was uncrowded and I perused its aisles peacefully.

Back in my apartment I prepared a feast of sandwiches and a tall glass of milk. I watched an episode of Outsourced as I ate my lunch. Cleaned up, threw in a load of laundry, and retreated back to my bed where I checked my email, and then watched an episode of Dexter. This is all very trivial and boring, I know, but this is how it went.

445 pm - time to get up and shower. I had an english lesson at 6, and a 30 minute metro ride. I wasn't the student in the lesson, i was the teacher - I speak english fine. As I hobbled to my student's house I debated calling her father to tell him that I wasn't coming. I seriously battled with the decision all the way to the buzzer, as my back spasmed. Celia needs me - she has a test on Friday.

Lesson went really well...best i've seen her do since i starting mentoring her, i mean teaching her english. I have good feelings about this Friday's test - we're going to kill it! I mean, Celia's going to kill it. I left the house speaking spanish, and feeling really happy and good about myself...i skipped to the metro. Ya right. My back killed after sitting down for an hour...15 euros was worth it. I mean, the smile on her face and A on her paper was worth it.

As i'm about to cross the street to the metro a gray sedan speeds up and skids out right in front of me, wedging in a black car against the curb. The driver of the gray car has a flat top, and he's very angry. Swiftly and powerfully gets out of his car, and without breaking stride hammer kicks the driver side window of the black car. He starts punching the window repeatedly and cursing in Spanish. He kicks the doors and double gavel punches the hood of the car. Things were getting heated.

For some reason, the man in the black car lost all sense of sensibility while this was going on. His driver side window was slightly down, and the angry man with a flat-top gripped the top of the window with great fervor and started to frantically try to snap the window in half. It was at this point that the driver in the black car looked at me standing there on the corner with my hands in my pockets and a slight smirk on my face. He then let out a huge scream and looked as if he was going to cry, before shaking madly in the front seat as if his life was about to end. I somewhat hoped that the angry mad would break into the car - of course, i also wondered what had made him so mad. I debated helping the man in the black car, if the flat-topped man were to break in, for a very quick second, but then i remembered my back - what was I going to do anyway. I couldn't fight him. And I certainly couldn't talk him out of it in Spanish, I can't even put on my socks...and besides, people with tempers like that don't speak two languages, or even three for that matter! I thought the man in the black car was doomed...

Just then, I witnessed a moment of clarity - something that only alcoholics and strippers usually experience. The driver gained his composure and realized that he was in his CAR, and the other man WASN'T...AND he realized that he was only blocked in from the front - he had room to back up. With a couple more hammer kicks and gavel throws the driver in the black car was able to garner enough room to hop the curb and speed off...probably to no avail, and he was most likely caught by the flat-topped man and beat to hell...mind you, this all went on five feet in front of me. I must admit during this whole ordeal not ONCE did I think about the pain in my back...I smiled as I walked into the metro, but my back was, once again, on my mind.

Quite sad, really. Now I walk around hoping that perfect strangers will get into fights only so that I can forget about the pain in my back for a few good minutes...

Well, I'm not going to beat myself up over it - i have a pizza in the oven.

Painstakingly yours,

CM Stassel

Hola Putas

A quick note on Italy: The food was delicious. I've waited too long to write about Italy, and now, I'm afraid, have become bored with the idea of writing about it. Instead, i'll let the pictures do the talking - or writing.

I am injured at the moment. I hurt my back playing fútbol, and then I tried to play baloncesto too soon, and reinjured it - so i've been bedridden for the past few days. I can't even put on my socks, let alone write - but with a sudden urge i've gained the strength to string together a few sentences. I wish i was stronger...

"Where are they?"

"They're everywhere."

"I don't see them. You should walk ahead of us like bait..." an eager mother says to her first born son.

The son laughs and begins to walk ahead of his parents down Gran Via - the famed Spanish street, known for its tall buildings, bustling foot traffic, and hookers. The prostitutes or as they are called in Spain, Putas, line the footpath that connects Sol and Gran Via. With all the people walking on a Friday night it's hard to spot them with an untrained eye, but once you spot one, it's easy.

The son struts down the pathway, passing one hooker negotiating with a man - he nonchalantly points her out to his parents. The negotiation didn't go so well - the man laughed, and the puta slapped him in the balls. The boy can hear the laughter of his mother.

A small, little hooker quickly approaches the boy, and says something vulgar in Spanish. She tries to hold his hand, but he laughs and scurries away like it's some kind of game. In a way, it is. The boy has walked down this pathway many times before - it's the superbowl of people watching. Any time you want to go people watching, and you throw hookers and booze into the mix, it elevates the experience tenfold.

The hookers lean on the trees that run down the center of the pathway. They curse and yell, and talk on their mobiles, and they all have their different styles. On Halloween I walked with a basketball in my hand - i was Pau Gasol. Hookers from every direction tried to steal the basketball - they think if they can steal something from you, and get you to follow them for even minute, their chances of making some $ increase. Little did they know that I had a mean cross-over and handles for days. I ball faked every hooker on that street that night - zero turnovers. The captain that i was traveling with didn't fair so well. One pudgy puta with an attitude and a devilish laugh stole his captain's hat from behind. She alluded him for a good 5 minutes before throwing the hat into a parked Ambulance. Quite the strategy.

The boy and his parents make it to the end, but now they have to turn around and head straight back to where they came from...the second time you pass the hookers always gets a little dicey - despite all their ill qualities, hookers have great memories - they don't forget. The same little, feisty puta approaches the boy again. He's too experienced with alluding putas like her. It's really not that hard...you just run.

The boy's father falls behind him and his mother as points his camera every which way. His mother calls for him to wait as his father catches up...remember how i told you most of the hookers lean against trees? Well, the boy's mother slowly starts to lean against the nearest tree, when suddenly the boy screams out, "Mom, no! Not the tree....do not lean against that tree!" They both begin to laugh hysterically surrounded by drunken Spaniards and hookers on the clock.

Snap a photo.

Evasively,

C.M. Stassel