My Italian Memoir

As I casually stroll through Retiro Park on a tired and gloomy Tuesday evening, I can't help but feel a little regret as the cold can of Mahou Clasica sweats in my hand. The Africans swarm me, as they try to out-yell each other. Don't you know it's a competitive market out there...and i'm the customer. Or so they thought. I should have known better than to walk by a group of vending Africans with a tallboy of Mahou in hand. Of course they were going to think I wanted to buy whatever they were selling - and in this case, and I presume every other case dealing with a group of loitering Africans in a park, they were selling hash.

Don't even look at them. Don't hesitate for a second. Any hiccup in your stride will be wildly misconstrued as the tiniest window of opportunity, but that's all it takes. That's all they need - they're desperate. Scraping to make a living, to feed their daughters and pay the bills - I have sympathy for them, but then I see a "HELP WANTED" sign on the McDonald's across the street. Fuck it, someone has to supply the people with hashish.

I firmly wave them off and head to my spot next to the lake. It's been my spot from the beginning. Bums stumble by as I lean against a tree, watching the sunset, and enjoying my cold bier. As the sun reflects off the lake, illuminating Alfonso XII, i begin to reminisce over the past 8 days...my Italian adventure. This is my Italian memoir. Don't let that confuse you, though - I will not be speaking in Italian. Shit, I'm not speaking at all. I will not be writing in Italian in my Italian memoir.....

This is the intro that I wrote 8 days ago, two days before my birthday. However, this intro holds no weight anymore. It is no longer valid. I'm twenty-two now. I can't be meddling around with drug-dealing Africans, and cold biers, and sunsets next to lakes. No. I need to represent the truth, now. I need to write it, how it is.

A more suitable beginning.....

The old man sits on his bed strumming his broken guitar. The guitar is like him in a sense - still making noise, but broken. His soul is young, or so he hopes, but he knows that as the clock struck midnight six days ago, on November 3, 2010, and he turned 22, his prime was laid to rest. He's no longer the young, youthful boy that he once was. It's time to grow up.

The "ding" of the microwave is heard in the smoky kitchen - his raviolis are done. He butters his toast, grabs his OJ, some sriracha, and a banana for dessert. The Tuesday night dinner of an old man. He has to watch his health, and more specifically his potassium intake - that's why the banana.

The wind howls in the night air, and he hears laughter and chatter in the apartment next door - oh how he wishes to be young again...

SUDDENLY, he travelled to Italy and ate pizza and lasagna and gnocci and more pizza and gelato and REAL RAVIOLIS!!! He played fútbol on the beach, and swam in the Mediterranean, and flirted with Italian girls, and jumped off HIGH things...! He hiked, and drank, and cooked, and laughed, and road trains, and buses, and flew on airplanes, and even made JOKES!...he wasn't old! or washed-up!

He was young and full of vigor and life! This is a story of discoverance and self-realization. The message that I'm trying to convey is that you're never too old to jump off high things and swim in the mediterranean...even at 22 years old, the boy in the story lived life as if he was still a young boy.

Well, let me tell you another secret. That boy....is me.

Sorry for not posting in a while. This is all you're going to get right now. I'll update you in detail this weekend, but i'm going into a hard week at school...finals and things. Brief update: My parents just left today. We had a GREAT time exploring the city - did some real local Madrid stuff. Loved seeing them. My trip to Italy was delicious - the food. Great time, beautiful weather, a lot of fun. Only about one month left, and i'm going to try to be in Madrid for most of it...aside from a trip to Morroco and a trip to Barcelona. I miss you all terribly, except for those of you that I don't like - in those cases, I don't miss you. Can't wait to see you all when I get home. I'll update you with more this weekend.

Briefly,

CM Stassel

Es jueves...jueves...jueves...

I ate in the restaurant today. It's different from the cafeteria. Not only are the names different, but the food is different - sometimes it's better. Today they served chicken and pasta with my choice of either a bottle of water or vino. I chose the vino and bought a coke - to make...can you remember?....CALIMOCHO! A little calimoch to go with lunch.

Today is Thursday, the day that I play fútbol. Last week we lost 6-2, but I played well as portero in the second half.

I slowly walked up to the basketball court/ soccer court with a bent brow, beaming glare, and a mean scowl (in my mind it was in slow motion. My mind.). I was sick of these Spaniard jugadores running circles around AMERICA.

Soccer shorts and an extra shirt in my mochilla, i was still in my school clothes. I undraped my pants and tore off my shirt. I wasn't in a hurry. I stood there in my boxers and socks - enjoying the sun and breeze. I made sure the other team knew I was comfortable standing there almost nude. I don't know what kind of point I was trying to make, but I definitely made it. Finally clothing myself, I laced up my Nikes and took my position in goal.

Our game plan was to keep me in goal for the first half - i was our only hope. The goalie (portero) gets most of the action on our side. I was serious. They called me Porteraso.

Fast forward to the end of the first half. Mateo has a quarter sized blister on the ball of his foot, Nick is crying on the sideline with a hurt heel, Sam is limping around, and we're down 5-0.

Game plan didn't work. What do we do when the game plan doesn't work? Well, I know what I do. I grabbed my basketball and starting dunking on the 9' 8 rims. They might mop the floor with us in soccer, but they can't hang on the basketball court - they knew it.

Ended the game 5-0. I almost scored 3 times when I came out of goal...but didn't.

After the game I threw oops to this big Spaniard and then we split up the teams and played some pickup.

Seviano the Magician lit a hash cigarette as he nutmegged Ryan and spun on one of his amigos. Cigarette in mouth, he commands the ball like a puppet master and scores from 18 out- it's beautiful to watch.

I feel like I'm experiencing the real Spain - The real Madrid - everytime i play fútbol with these hombres.

Fue la polla.

Atlético game tonight. I invited this girl named Ana...she can't go. Ana is beautiful, but I'm only going to invite her to so many Atlético games....i'll probably invite her every time - i'm a sucker for her dark eyes and beautiful accent.

As I siesta,

C.M. Stassel

It's best to walk the streets at night...

Restless and cold, it's time for me to step outside - I need to go on a walk. My doorman is still here. It's getting late, why is he still here?

He's obviously from northern Spain. I can tell because he always says "venga" as a goodbye. He's missing his two middle, bottom teeth, and intensely smells of cigarettes.

For some reason he's always really happy to see me - i think he likes the shitty conversations that we have. Like today we had a conversation about the bread i was eating, and the paintbrushes that I had in my hand. Horrible conversation - but in Spanish. I like the guy. He's a good doorman.

Whatever happened to my other doorman, Orlando? He was my homie. Maybe his wife had a baby...come to think of it he did tell me she was pregnant. Orlando told me where to buy some socks and see a cheap movie - i've lucked out with good doormen thus far. I'm curious as to who will be my doorman next month. It seems as if they change every month. What if all doormen just rotated buildings every month - at the end of the month they just pick up and move one building to the left. I bet Orlando is at the next building. I'm going to go check it out tomorrow.

I walked in a direction that I hadn't been before, tonight. The streets were busy with people. I love Madrid at night. The stores are all open late. People walk their dogs at 11 pm. The side walk cafes are overflowing with food, people, and bier. It's nice that it's cold, too. I enjoy living in the big city.

The chino stores are where the bargains are. They can't speak english or spanish, but they sure know how to stock a store full of random, incoherent, and utterly useless items. One aisle carries snow globes on the top shelf, and deflated basketballs and soccer balls on the bottom. While the next aisle over is filled with gardening tools and bedsheets. Canned soup on display near the front, and roller skates in the back - it's like they are reading my mind.

I perused the store for a while before leaving with a deflated basketball. I've had the basketball itch lately.

I found a nice little outdoor vending tent. I've never seen it before. Great place to buy gifts. I bought a leather wrist band, before finding a bench to sit and inflate my basketball. Pumped, i dribbled the ball down the crowded streets looking for a place to find some food and a bier.

El Chiprón...there we go. That's the place. It was right next to the bus stop and there was a lot of foot traffic, but i like it that way - plus it has CHIP in the name. Got some calamari and a bier before I headed back home.

A simple night in Madrid. Couldn't be happier.

Tomorrow the Atlético game. Soon a story about my travels to Bilbao and San Sebastian. Italia on Saturday.

Involved,

C.M. Stassel

Fotos de Francia. La Riviera de Francia

The French Riviera

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