fin de les glories

So I lived in Les Glories for some months. To be exact from the 24th of February until the 2nd of July.
Some months.

I lived with some peeps. In no particular order these are they: Marco, Emanuelle, Matteo, Odile, Fanny, Sabrina. Other people were around at various times, but that was the core unit. If we were in Saving Private Ryan, I would undoubtedly be Tom Hanks, and they would be my battalion that all got killed trying to save Matt Damon. Luckily I am much more attractive than Tom Hanks, and perhaps more luckily Matt Damon isn't in our friendship circle. But you get the point, under normal circumstances we may not have been friends, but send us to fire guns in Normandy or share a flat in Barcelona, and we form unbreakable bonds, only to be shot in the back by the Germans.

Sabrina. She was Austrian and I have subconsciously jumped straight from the Nazis to her. Sorry, but what do you expect? Isn't that what they are most famous for? Being bezzies with Hitler? Anyway, she wasn't a Nazi, even if her room was always really clean and her hair was straight. No, Sabrina was actually really nice. We never got glenn close, she was always working down by the beach at the Ritz and I was always consumed with being unemployed, our paths only ever crossing in the kitchen. A casual glance over the hob or our hands meeting at the same carton of milk in the fridge. We seldom shared time together alone, we had little in common. I often felt sorry for her, she was the only one of us who actually had a job, actually had to go to work, and she slept right next door to the dinning room. Next door is not the ideal sleeping place when you have ten Italians over for dinner and they start talking heatedly about different types of Mozzarella, every night. All of her friends that came to stay were like Sabrina herself, proper, polite, and went to bed early.

The most important thing that Sabrina taught me is that in Austria they make good chocolate. Particularly chocolate with wafer inside. She gave me calories like my name was Oprah in the nineties.


Matteo was a proper Alpha-Male Italian. What does that mean? He cooked well and had little time to take on board the opinions of women. "What Odile? You want me to clean this pan? I'll be honest love, I'm more likely to defecate in this pan before I clean it".
When I imagine Matteo in my head he is bald, he isn't actually bald, only in my head. I don't really know why, sometimes I just remember people different to how they actually are.
In our flat, there wasn't a lock on the bathroom door. Matteo was never afraid to come in while you were having a shower and urinate, I never got used to that.

A Matteo story that stands out happened at the dinner table. It was in the early days when I couldn't understand Spanish, let alone Italian. We were having one of those dinner parties we often had; me and the Italian guys with a bunch of Italian girls. It sounds really good, but its not very good when everyone is speaking a language you can't speak, all night, pretty gash to be honest. Anyway, we were eating chicken that night. The chicken came out of the oven all golden brown, destination known: stomach. It proper looked like something that would come out of Jamie Oliver's oven on a sunday. Matteo carved open the chicken and what do you know? Everything was still on the inside. I was served a nice piece of lung.
Turns out that was the first time Matteo had cooked a whole chicken, he happened to forget about the bits inside. Other than that incident, his culinary skills were always top notch, but he's going to have to pull something really special out of the oven if he wants me to forget about that one.


Marco was the beta to Matteo's alpha. Tall and skinny, he rocked lime green polo shirts in a way that only an Italian could. Due to Matteo's dominance in the kitchen Marco was always resigned to washing up, I kinda of felt bad about this, so occasionally I secretly washed his dishes, like a fairy godbrother if you will. Once Matteo returned to Italy in April, Marco was slightly lost for a period of time, the balance was disrupted.
The most sociable member of the flat, every night there was some kind of event up his sleeve, a dinner, a club, or another bottellon at the beach. Every time he invited me and for this I am very grateful. Marco's social life soon became my own and this is the main reason my Spanish speaking skills improved, if at all. I am also grateful that Marco refused to speak English with me, even when he had to repeat sentences six times.

Marco was constantly on the hunt for a girlfriend and this desperate attitude resulted in him becoming best friends with every girl in town. Which is more or less not what he wanted, but oh well.


Fanny was exactly five feet tall. Maybe the smallest person in the whole of Europe. At least in the top forty. Apart from sharing her name with female genitalia she had other good qualities. She could speak French, English and Spanish, all very well. Being from from France, meant she liked to cook crepes and load them with nutella, she also liked strawberries and good cheeses. As a result, I was often to be found eating her leftovers.
She smoked more weed than anybody I've socialized with since I was seventeen. At times I felt like the living room was a Snoop Dogg video, just without Snoop Dogg and the hot bitches. She had a boyfriend most of the time and when they split up, was highly upset, I met him once and he was handsome, if not a bit dumb.

After I had all my hair chopped off she said "Come on man, you're not serious? It looks stupid. This is a joke." So I guess we can add honesty to her list of qualities too.


I feel like I've exploited enough of Manu on this blog already, so I'll be quick. A well dressed Alpha Italian, he also liked to drink well, Johnny Walker Black Label and Havana 7. Manu was never letting you forget his Napolitan heritage, although as it turns out, hes actually from one of the neighboring towns. Fake. Lies. Friend. The first day we met he tried to sell me Armani shirts that his friends had stolen from a hijacked train. I have promised I will visit him in Naples. This too could be a lie.
His time in Barcelona was plagued by a love/hate relationship with a girl. I hated her, he loved her. Too much drama, too much hugging things out. We got on like a house on fire, I taught him the Liverpool chants and he taught me songs from Naples. One minute we were singing about Steven Gerrard, the next we were singing about, well I don't know what the words meant, in fact I was generally just humming, but it was fun all the same. He could only make one meal and that was curry chicken. He always bought meat cut fresh from a deli and was possibly the fussiest eater I have ever met. Out of everyone, Manu is probably the person I will see again. Hopefully.


Odile was fun. You could make disgusting jokes and she wouldn't get offended. Living across the hall from her, she would often ask my advice before a night out, which shoes go with this dress? with leggings? just a bra? really?
Odile's biggest flaw is her story telling ability, her stories always started with the climax and went on forever, we have spoken about this and she is working on it.
Her mother is fifty something and dating a twenty-nine year old, brilliant.
She is still a scout.
She drinks to get drunk. I think she lost her phone three times whilst we lived together.

My favorite memory of her? Once when I was making breakfast in the kitchen, she just turned to me and said "Last night I dreamt that Marco, Manu and you, beat me up and raped me. It was horrible". Don't lie Odile you loved it.


And so the days in the trenches of Les Glories are over and Matt Damon has been shot dead.

despedidas

Its three-thirty am on a Friday night. I am sitting alone on the nitbus heading towards the beach. The only thing keeping me awake is a group of Spanish twenty-somethings (am I now considered a twenty-something too? I hope not), they have taken it upon themselves to sing every track from Queen: The Greatest Hits, at an above average volume. One of these girls can actually sing quite well, but, oh no. She's getting carried away and going all Diana Ross at a wedding, fairly sure she's just made a couple of shout-outs in Catalan. She's lost my vote. Wow, look how hairy her arms are. Definitely lost the vote.

It has been a sombre couple of weeks. My friends are all leaving Barcelona, returning home. Serves me right for only befriending erasmus students. Why they aren't staying to enjoy the summer is beyond me, but whatever, they are all going. Which means a mass of leaving-parties, and I must say I am exhausted from what now seems like a nightly activity. I've already lost, Manu, Marco, Matteo, Odile and more. Who will be shedding tonight's tears? Simona.

Simona originates from some village near Roma. She has a good sense of humour and is a lot closer to beautiful than the average girl. You know that kind of pretty girl who never looks good in a photograph? She is that kind of pretty girl. Like most, she has her defects; she thinks she needs to lose weight and she dances like a chicken. She has a couple more defects, but I'm beginning to feel a bit mean so I guess I'll leave it at that. I can't remember what she is studying, but she said she wants to be a teacher, which sounds like a decent choice, shaping the future and what not. This is probably the last time I will ever see Simona. Shes been a good friend for the best part of six months, but this is probably the end of that. Out of all my friends who are leaving or have left, beyond the realms of facebook, I will probably only stay in touch with a handful. However you look at it, it is undeniably sad.

Anyhow, I eventually arrive at the beach around four am-ish. We sit on the beach with a mass of other familiar faces, far too many familiar faces to be bothered going around and saying hello to everyone, if they want to chat they are more than welcome to come on over to me. A few do, a few don't. No love lost.
A Portuguese guy sees fit to take all his clothes off (not for the first time might I add) and borrow a girl's dress. Once he is wearing the dress, he poses for photographs. He begins prancing around and purposely lifting the dress to reveal his penis lost in a mound of hair, once again for photographs. This guy is actually rather nice though, I've spoken to him a few times when he has had his clothes on and he is interesting conversation.
I neck a bottle of wine, in what I should consider a worrying amount of time, and we all sit watching the sunrise over the sea. A few couples disappear beyond the rocks for some shagging or just uncomfortable foreplay, I just sit and wonder what I am going to do next. What am I going to do next?

sonar

Sonar. In the months prior to the festival, I tried and failed to obtain press accreditation. Something it turns out that never actually works for me. My salvation came in the form of a synth-playing friend. A friend called Kemsley, from my pub-working days gone by. Playing the festival on the Friday night, he offered me a complimentary ticket. Lush.

I knew a few other groups of people going to Sonar and managed to meet up with none of them. After spending many a festival juggling social circles, I simply couldn’t be bothered.

I arrived at the hotel to collect my ticket and do a catch up. Kemo introduced me to his gang; Ben, Lauren and Karen. I managed to wrangle a lift to the festival with them, which in turn meant a sneaky backstage entrance and a sneaky backstage pass.

The backstage pass means free beer from a fridge all night. Which for me, is all it needs to mean.

In the dressing room, I felt fairly uncomfortable. Not really knowing what to do or say, I wobbled around for a bit, and after making sure nobody was looking, did some light snacking from the food spread.

Kemo et al were scheduled to go on stage in a short time, so I pocketed some beers and we left the dressing room.

They went on stage, and we advanced towards the lighting controls area. We had a good view of the action from there. We being Karen, Lauren and I. I took a few photos and tried/failed to join in with some dance routine the girls had conjured up. When the gig finished we ran and caught the end of the Grace Jones, not before losing the female half of our party to a real life horse.

After Grace, we went back to the dressing room. Kemo introduced me to some friends of his, a band called Heartbreak and they were nice. Then we saw them play their set, which was more than enjoyable, we also caught a bit of Buraka Som Sistema.

Lights. I cannot help but remember an insane amount of bright lights at this festival. Was it necessary? I don’t know. Maybe.

Bumper cars. They were fun.

I ran off solo to catch the beginning of the Crookers set. Now I know that “Day ‘N Night” is the most played out song since Jack Johnson found a ukulele, but I am a sucker for fidget-house. Smash some pills down me and prop me in front of one of their sets and there is no way I am not going to have a good time. I bopped around for about twenty minutes, on my own, doing my own thing, looking like that weird guy you always see dancing on his own in the corner of a club. I only managed to stay for a couple of tracks before I got a text from my lost friends and hustled over to Erol Alkan.

We retired back to the dressing room for more chitchat. Being slightly upset at missing Late of the Pier I saw fit to say “hola” to the long haired one as we crossed paths, that went a little way to repairing my upsetness (I am aware that “upsetness” isn’t actually a word, but it fits really well) at missing their slot. Someone later said that they had walked off after two songs or something anyway because the sound wasn’t very good. I bet they would have played the whole set if I was there, definitely.

Then it was time to leave.

As we were bundling into a taxi, Crookers pulled up in a taxi adjacent to ours. As they got out, I saw this as a great opportunity to try out my Italian. “Wå Fra, como estai?” Regional slang only spoken in Napoli, if they knew what that meant perhaps they thought I was a well-travelled vagabond at best, more likely than not they just thought I was a bit weird. We shook hands and I felt like a bit of a dick the next morning. But that’s okay, as soon as they start making music with Kanye West I will get my high horse and no longer think they are good.

We arrived back at the hotel and said our goodbyes. I nervously squeezed through the ticket barriers to catch the metro, because I’m too cheap to pay seventy euro cents.

The following day was largely spent doing a lounge-off at the beach. Everybody won. Lauren and Kemo got sweaty five euro massages from Asian women probably owned by the mafia or Burger King. We made sandwiches and Lauren ate some lard. Magic times.

Again we met later that night on a terrace for dinner and some sange-cava. For the most part the topics of conversation were music based, an arena where I can usually hold my own, rather well. Not this time. Names were being thrown about and half the time I wasn’t sure if they were discussing bands or just saying random words, it wouldn’t have mattered either way, I was out of my depth. I let my concentration wander to a house party across the road and stared at their balcony. There was a man and a woman sat outside talking to each other, obviously I had no idea what they were saying. So I scripted it in my head instead. We’ll call the woman Ramira and the man David.


The best years of David’s life are behind him. He can’t hack it in the fast lane anymore, he needs to slow down, needs to think about knocking someone up. Step up Ramira, eight years his junior, a viable candidate. They both sit on Ikea fold up chairs on the balcony.

David: Ramira, you look lovely tonight. Like a really shiny bottle.

Ramira: David, your words are kind. But you are notorious for your playboy lifestyle. I can’t get
involved with a man like you.

David: I’m a changed man. I have a bible and everything.

Ramira turns to gaze at the world beyond the balcony. David puts his hand on her thigh. Ramira quickly gets up, scowls at David and storms inside. David is left alone with his thoughts.


That only took about ninety seconds in my head, if that. We were at the dinner table for a much larger amount of time.

One of that evening’s main problems was that I didn’t actually have a ticket. Pablo to the rescue. On our way to Sonar we had the taxi stop at the sound man Pablo’s dwelling spot and pick up his pass. I promised it would get back to him after he told me he collects them. Kemo said he’s been on the road for like ten years, he should probably think about recycling them. The pass had a photo on it, and although we had completely different hair and skin tones, I thought the fact that he was wearing sunglasses in the photo could only be a good thing. It wouldn’t matter, nobody even checked, I could have been Chinese. Maybe I will be next time, that’ll be really hard though.

By the time we finally arrived, I had missed Animal Collective, another one of the bands I had really wanted to see. We watched a bit of Orbital, none of us were really feeling it. We went to some office and convinced a woman to give us backstage passes for that evening aswell. Then we drank the free beer and discussed all things topical.

Things get hazy from then on, later that evening I spent about six hours in a hotel room and got mocked for not knowing about some lady disease called “the beast”.

Another beach day followed as did the goodbyes. An enjoyable weekend.

I like English people.

nico the chef

Nico is a twenty-four year old boy from Naples, the older brother of Manu's best friend. But his face has fourteen written all over it. He cooks good food, with vegetables and everything. His English is much better than what I have found to be the usual level for an Italian. Sadly, he has left us now and has moved onto Cadiz.

The first time I properly spent some time with Nico, we got quite deep. No Mark, not with penises, with words. He told me how his ex-girlfriend changed his life, how she opened his eyes to the world. He told me how he wants to move to a less fortunate country and help out. It didn't take me long to realise that Nico was a good guy, and that I was a bit jealous of his ambition. It took Nico two days in Barcelona to find a job and I am on four months and counting.

One time we went to a house party. Having a good time. As usual the rumours quickly spread that the police were on the way to put a halt to the joy. At this point Nico was talking to an intoxicated Mexican hussy. Next thing I know we are all being hustled out of the flat. Nico is staying behind. Just days earlier Nico was saying how much he was craving some sexy times. I kind of expected him to stay there and do some damage. What I hadn't expected was for Marco to avert my attention to the balcony, when we were on the street below. In full view of anyone who cared to look up, was the Mexican girl leaning over the balcony, groaning, out of view was Nico pulling the strings. Got to love Nico.

andalucia

When you have little money in your bank and no steady income forthcoming, going on holiday isn't usually the best idea. Never one to conform, I went on a little holiday.

We left Les Glories on Monday night at three in the am. Before that we got drunk, which makes bag packing a lot more interesting. We caught a taxi to the train station, I performed my usual taxi driver spiel: trying to talk football in Spanish. Trying.

Then it went like this: coach, plane, arrival in Sevilla, hangover, spending an hour looking for the hostel in 35 degrees heat, taking a light nap in the Granada University courtyard, getting sun burnt at 8am in the morning, still being hungover, finding the hostel, sleeping till 7pm.

We awoke and ambled around Sevilla trying to locate a super market. Our feet pattered along the wonky Mediterranean streets, was I still a bit drunk? Still? Maybe. I used this walking time to try and teach Manu and Marco some English slang, one that particularly stuck was "skeet skeet", for those of you not in the know, it means to ejaculate. After some pronunciation corrections and asking about eight people for directions we found a supermarket and bought some supplies/vodka, one of Marco's skills is that he always seems to know his way back, something I never seem capable of and so we returned to the hostel with Marco leading the way. Everytime Manu cooks pasta he is convinced it is going to be some life changing experience for me, that somehow "real Italian pasta" is going to change my life. "Real Italian pasta" actually means tomato puree and pasta, chapter one in the single male cookbook.

I rifled through my suitcase, and this is where I realised that perhaps being drunk whilst you pack your suitcase isn't such a brilliant idea afterall. Definitely didn't need four pairs of shoes, definitely needed more underwear.

We played some table football and played some vodka. Went out drunk, got drunker, and returned to the hostel and fell asleep.

The next day we took in some of the sights/food. One place we dined at for breakfast (in the photo above) was very Spanish, they wrote the bill on the counter in chalk and laughed at Manu when he asked for a glass of water. The first thing I drank that day was beer, and it would turn out that was the same beverage I would be drinking for the rest of the day. What a surprise.

I won't try and remember the names of historic places, that will bore you and I. We went to some fantastic gardens, literally beautiful. There was a labyrinth, Islamic architecture, fountains, and a few hot tourists. After that we wandered around the old town.

A key mistake we made whilst booking this trip, was failing to realize it would take us out of Barcelona during the Champions League final. Schoolboy error. Instead of a sea of Barca shirts in Plaza Espanya, we would have to make do with an Irish bar serving Fosters. Joy. During the not so memorable final we conversed with several locals, I didn't understand much, so I just kept saying "Steven Gerrard? El mejor jugador del mundo", which must have been a bit boring for them but at least it allowed me to feel like part of the conversation. After the game we went to some clubs.

The first club felt like a cheaper version of those 2 Slags in Greece type reality TV shows, it was a foam party. Not to be enjoyed.
The second club was where it got interesting. A couple of American girls were at the club, girls we had been previously chatting with at the Irish pub. Manu fancied one of them and was asking me for English words to use in his seduction act. After noticing the crucifix around her neck, I was considering what would be the best/most offensive move. Then we bumped into the hostel receptionist and chatted with her for a bit. By the time I had thought of a line for Manu, I turned back to see him trying his hardest to make the Spice Girls song "2 Become 1" an actuality. To say "he was kissing" the hostel receptionist does not do him justice, to say "he almost swallowed her nose at one point" would be far closer to the truth. Me and Marco walked home together at five in the morning, Manu had long since disappeared. Long since.

I woke up in my hostel bunk with the usual parched mouth and light headache, I reached down for the communal bottle of water and saw Manu sleeping in the bed opposite me. He was not dead or lost. Of course. Being a lover of gossip, I got the low-down. In Manu's own English words; "I did skeet skeet on her face". Brilliant. After watching me laugh for a long time, he looked over to me and said "What? It's normal for me". I find it really funny that Manu shagged the receptionist from the hostel, probably because she looked like a chipmunk. What was even funnier was having the same receptionist checking us out of the hostel that very day.

That was pretty much all that happened in Sevilla. In trying to get to Granada we managed to catch about four buses (one of which, was called c4, a name shared with a common explosive, I couldn't help thinking Keanu Reeves was sure to come along and pap some lead into the driver, I waited patiently but he never made it). When we finally got to a station that had services to Granada, it took us about twenty minutes to realise that we were standing in the train station and not the bus station. The bus station was on the other side of town, so we settled. The only food in sight was overpriced and we had time to kill. So I ventured off into the streets for some edibles. I wanted to buy something Spanish, honestly I would have loved some takeaway tapas, but they don't do that here, so I swallowed my pride and settled for Burger King. If it helps I did feel guilty about that. I rocked back at the train station with the spoils, three extra value meal deals. Marco was fair game, but Manu wasn't, which meant I had to murder two double cheeseburgers, rank.

During the train ride from Sevilla to Granada we did what most men in their early twenties would do, we compiled our all-time football dream teams. I got heavily mocked for the inclusion of Robbie Fowler, but he has scored the quickest hat-trick in premiership history, fuck maradona, and his world cups. After the tears we slept.

We arrived in Granada and trekked through the concrete jungle. It took me too long to realize that the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range stood on the horizon, overlooking the city. Its a strange feeling lugging around 15kgs in 35 degree heat and looking up at snow peaked mountains. The guy who's flat we were staying in was not back from university yet. So we went for some tapas. This is were I found out something amazing, something beautiful, something life-changing:

At many taperias in Granada, you don't have to pay for the tapas. They come free with the drinks. Imagine that, pay a euro for a beer and get a free ham and cheese toastie. With snacking being my number one recreational pastime, I was in my element.

We went back and met the guys who would be giving us a bed for the next few days. Mattia, a young long-haired Italian, and Paco, a slightly tubby Andalucian guy with a cheeky grin. They talked in Spanish, I did some casual nodding. I've almost perfected it. But sometimes nodding is the wrong thing to do, so I'm also getting good at judging Spanish speaker's reactions to my nods early on, and being able to turn a positive nod into a negative shake, before its too late.
I do wish I could speak Spanish better, it would make a lot of things easier, and not just nodding. For example, when me and Marco were going to get some cash from the ATM, he just stopped and rubbed his elbow on a nearby drainpipe. I wanted to ask him why he did that, but I didn't have the words, so instead I've wasted hours thinking about it. Was it a signal to another Italian across the road? Was he rubbing the paint onto his skin? Is that why most Italians look so tanned? Or did a bird drop knowledge on him?

That night we went to a really shit club called Kapital, this is where I realized that I cannot handle the power of the strobe. I haven't seen a strobe light in England since my last school disco, they weren't special then and unlike denim jackets, they aren't good now either.

The next day for the early evening we trotted up a hill to Mirador de Sant Nicolás. By the time we reached the summit I was an advertisement for sweat, but it was a peachy view. We were stood outside a church, staring across a small valley at Alhambra. There were hippies hand-making really impressive jewelrey and selling chilled beer, and tramps playing guitars in some Spanish fashion. It was pleasant.
Later that night we went to a botellon. Botellon. In barcelona this means going to a friends house and drinking on the cheap, or sometimes at the beach, the biggest one I've been to was probably around four hundred people. The one in Granada was in a massive carpark and was easily over two thousand people, it was mental and reeked of piss. We were joined by four Italian girls, two named Valeria and two named Valentina, I kid you not.
At said botellon, Manu and Mattia approached me and said "¿hacemos una vuelta?", in English "shall we go for a little walk?". Looking back on it I should have picked up on the idea that it might be something more than just "a little walk", them being Italians and all. Don't worry, it wasn't an initiation, I didn't whack any body. Neither was it I, who was to be whacked. Actually, it was a proposition. Would I like to shag one of the two Valentinas? Excuse me what? It turns out she hadn't fornicated for a while and saw me as a solution to the problem. I let my beta-male shine through and gracefully declined. No thankyou, I would be okay. Is that normal? I remember in primary school getting your friends to ask girls out for you, but when you throw sex into the equation, it gets a little bit weird, even if it does save a lot of time. Then Manu asked me if I would like to shag any of the Italian girls. If I was taken aback before, at this latest question I was steadily in reverse. Again I declined, clearly I am a bit too much of a prude. After later finding out their political beliefs lay with Berlusconi, I was more than sure I had made the best decision.

Granada passed by slowly, we went to more euro clubs where everybody looks the same and dances like a twat.

We spent a day at the beach. I got laughed at for rocking spf 30. Cancer isn't funny though is it? Pricks.

The nice thing about staying with people that live in a city is that they can show you the real side of the city. Like where to get the best kebabs.

On our last night we got into Paco's car. He pulled his car aerial out from his glove compartment and screwed it onto the roof, all with one hand, whilst driving with the other one. I don't know how safe that is, but I was fairly impressed nonetheless. He took us upto another viewpoint and we all ate our dinner in the darkness staring down at the illuminated city, particularly Alahambra and the slightly less impressive town Cathedral. They ate kebabs. I opted for a bocadillo, I have no idea what was in it, but it tasted lush. We shared some beers and practiced Spanish swearwords. Light bonding you might say. There were a few other couples nearby in their cars, obviously it was a romantic spot. All being boys, I kind of expected a gay orgy, it never materialised.

The following day me and Marco left for Cadiz. Manu remained in Granada because he didn't want to spend ten more euros or something. I got slightly sunburned in the bus. Is that even allowed? Its definitely not fair. Later that day I discovered that the aftersun product I had been using all week, contained shards of glitter. I had put that on my face every night before we went out. Lovely, I'd looked like I'd been shagging tinkerbell all week.

On arrival in Cadiz we met Dave, a friend made the previous summer in a Croatian campsite. Dave was kind enough to put us up. But Dave is kind. That might be the first adjective I would use to describe him if quizzed, closely followed by cool, smart and casual (tm). Walking from the bus terminal to Dave's flat, we managed to pretty much see the whole city, which left us with little much to do for the rest of the day. So we did the tour again. This time Dave added exciting bits of information. Cadiz has something to do with Christopher Columbus, an Eternal Flame, was conquered by the Romans, and is home to the beach where Haley Berry looks all kinds of sexy in James Bond. We saw homeless people fighting with beer bottles and chairs on the beach. It was memorable.

We sampled a few bars. They were saturated with American's, a few of whom, it looked like knew all about saturation. We were having a pleasant drink, trying to engage Marco in the English conversation, when suddenly a plump little yank came and stood at our table. Her name was Ashton, yes like Aston Kutcher. Is Ashton a unisex name? (It certainly felt weird at the time, but with the benefit of hindsight it seems now that it might be okay). She simply came over "because I thought y'all looked interesting", you have to hand it to Americans, they might be loud, overweight and annoying, but they don't lack confidence. She went on to impress us with the fact that she was staying with a family in town, and she even got her on key! She could come and go as and when she pleased, then she got her key out to compete the show-and-tell. She was from Georgia, I don't know if I have to say much else. We also saw another American guy rapping along to Jay-Z's Me and My Girlfriend, in an attempt to impress a girl. I thought that when he started bopping his shoulders and rapping about burberry swimwear, he'd sealed the deal, but no, she wasn't lapping it.

The following days were chill, beach basicamente. Marco left a day earlier than me, because in typical Charlie fashion I had booked the wrong day to fly out on. When my time came to leave, I hugged Dave goodbye and boarded the bus to Sevilla. Once in Sevilla I had no idea what I was doing, it actually took me an hour and a half to find the bus for the airport, which once I was on I bumped into some Italian girls I knew, Isabella and Simona, by accident. I smuggled some suntan lotion through security. We flew home.

Home being Barcelona.

les glories: where dreams are born and cats are killed

Sometimes when I'm walking around my neighborhood I think things like this:

"wow this place is so urban, look at the graffiti"
"wow this place is so ghetto, look at that hole in the ground where a house once was"
"wow this place is so shit, I want new shoes"

When I am in bed I have dreams. Lots of people do. In Les Glories my dreams are not like other peoples. A few weeks ago I dreamt that me and Dan Patel had a facebook friend in common. That was the whole dream. No beginning, middle or end. Just a piece of information. "Charlie, you and Dan Patel are both friends with Rob Ashby", I woke up and we weren't. Another dream? That I went to a farmers market and bought two separate leaves of iceberg lettuce. They were washed in water, weighed in front of me, individually wrapped, and finally I paid for them. My first thought upon waking up? I should've had those leaves weighed before they were washed, I paid for water as well. Currently this is my life.

If I want to catch the metro, I have to take a longer route because various constructions are blocking various paths. It's not that bad. I go left from my house and walk a bit, then up a passage to street level, cross a road, and I am at the metro. If I am "rolling deep" in the black hours, I get to walk past homeless people asleep in a crevice under the road. Two nights ago, I spotted one of them attempting a crossword. I wanted to help, maybe there was a piece of film trivia or something to do with Liverpool FC I could supply the answer to. I think I would have just about been able to spark up a conversation in Spanish. What I wouldn't have been able to handle is if this homeless man grew attached to me, or even more likely, offered a spot of fellatio in return for some euro. So I left it at a glance.

If I want to eat, (generally a good idea for most of us), I have to go to the supermarket.
No surprises there. The first time I went to the supermarket, I wanted to take everything in, digest my surroundings if you will. So I did.

What I found out is that I am living in Gypsy-Harlem. Peeking through holes in the walls, I saw warehouses filled with caravans. Like an indoor Dorset, or Butlins with a roof. One of the caravans looked quite homely from the outside, but on the whole the rest of them looked shit.

I am split down the middle with these folk. The kids are innocent, playing outside on the pavement, throwing basketballs into bins, generally enjoying life. Do they go to school? I don't know. Something tells me the Spanish government isn't overly concerned with this bunch. The adult types, are not quite so nice to look at. They have a look in their eyes that says something between "I've been on the Sainsbury's basic range for life" and "I've been raped, by my dad". It's not pretty. The women's breasts are always flopping about and not in a good way, I've been searching for a hint of attractiveness from one of them, but there is nothing. Like a small village, home only to the sisters of Medusa. Is that too harsh? No. The men look like they get paid to sweat, and that they haven't received one of their sweat checks for months. I really hate crossing eyes with these people, because I can't help but feel guilty for having freshly pressed apple juice in my bag.

When I am cooking the food I have bought from the supermarket, I do it in the kitchen. From the kitchen window I can see Sagrada Familia, it looks good.

Razzmatazz is around the corner from my house. It is my favourite club in the city. Firstly you can wear trainers. Secondly they get some dangerous DJ's. Sadly none of my friends like this club as much as me. I think it is because you have to pay ¢15 to get in, but you get a free drink. I think it is a good deal when Boys Noize is playing in ten days time, and MSTRKRFT the night after. Maybe I need some new friends. I definitely need to find someone who sells mdma. Its been a lengthy amount of time standing on the sidelines, and I don't want to feel like John O'Shea forever. I've had plenty of offers, but I'd like to actually know my dealer on a personal level, then buy drugs off him. Like a drug vendor interview process.

The elevator in my building is small. In my building the general themes seem to be old people and people with mental disabilities. Obviously saying "hola" to these people is not a big deal. They are old and disabled, that could be me one day.
A big deal is when a fatty gets in the lift. I wonder to myself just how old the elevator is, just how much three hundred kilos is, and most importantly, whether I would be able to position myself in free fall, to land on the fatty and still not get covered in their sweat.

Cats. A popular musical, most likely debuted on Broadway. The musical is about an animal of the same name. That animal is common in my neighborhood. Someone on our road puts out cat food every night, for the strays. A feline breadline. This is fine. I'd appreciate it if that person would leave a doner kebab outside my house occasionally, but I understand that's unlikely. So the cats, I don't touch them, I don't want rabies. But if the shit hit the fan, I'd much rather fight with a stray cat, than a stray homeless man. Rape by cat is so much less likely, than rape by homeless man with no teeth and a passion for crosswords. Recently we were on our way home in the early hours and one of these cats lay dead in the road. It's head was crushed and leaking blood. I woke up leaking sangria and crushing my head with my pillow. I really wanted to photograph this dead cat, I can't put my finger on why exactly, possibly because it was an unusual sight or perhaps I would want a wank later. Anyway when we went out the following day, it was gone. Gone. Just like Nikki. People always say blood stains, but does it? There was no blood on the road when we dropped by for the sequel, and I am fairly sure last time I "stained" a t shirt with blood it came out without any hassle.

fucking with me cause I'm a teenager, with a little bit of gold and a pager

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