up.
pack up.
head out.
our goodbyes and fond farewells.
out to the airport an hour away.
the howle family in the van driven by a good roger.
but to my disappointment we arrive 2 hours early to the Barcelona airport. at least its in the modern renovated terminal.
(not terminal dose !)
but the plane is 1 hour late. eventually 2 hours late.
we are imprisoned in the mall like environs of an airport for 4 hours.
there is pain attached to this kind of stumple.
ages pass.
wonder how this place will look in ruins 2500 years from now.
at some point the point comes to board. they allow the guitar but tag it anyway so none of their bosses yells at them later i guess. then we fling to seville. (sa-vee-ya … say it right).
fetched by an estabon and here is special agent non agent joan vich again. yes. fantastico when he is on board. everything feels better. but pop is twilted.
we drive another hour or so to the hotel in rota. how long have we traveled today ? always more miles embedded when clustered with kids.
then the hotel.
i am done in. the last mile of speed bumps and bungled road lines have toasted my circuits. we pile out of the van and fall into the splendor of the real holiday almost happening.
the hotel is accommodating. yes let the man take the bags. this is never happens, but now it makes so much sense. we get to the room and its fine. solid marble floors which make it cooler and cleaner then carpet. small balcony enough to hang out in and suck in the sea breeze that is rumpured to be just on the other side of the far walls.
and finally a ton of elbow room in a room that fits the whole family.
but no. still have to go to work, sorta, as the day slides into darkness.
one very last gig. paco loco’s backyard. folks gathered there in a small pot luck mob to enjoy the beginning of summer and some tunes too.
its another 25 minute drive. toast. pop is toast. pop is a pop tart.
once there the moon prevails. the coldest beer ever had gets handed over. so cold it burns. there is a small stage set up. PA. amp. plastic piano. everything. a lot of trouble to set up a gig out here. its so sweet.
so we eat some pot luck and then i pounce the stage in equal parts glee and delirium. at the end paco join me for his practiced version of “wonder” with a couple other dudes. during which i hand the guitar my little brown eyed girl and have her play the jam part with paco, me stomping on the distortion pedal for her. then i reach over the neck while sitting next to her and finished chording the last bit and then the tour is really and finally done. done as much as any tour can really ever be, which is more like ‘paused’ then ever finished.
another stunningly cold beer. and just before a tour of his magnificent home studio there, the tortilla contest commences, apparently with me as designated judge.
loopy as it were, i dug into that first pie with fervor and reel back at the strike of taste. its amazing. really amazing. it has a glisten and a texture that says “more”, and its delicate and hardy at the same time.
wait a minute. i am set up for a fall here. i cannot judge tortillas. that will be disastrous. almost as bad as choosing a political party in public. its gonna piss too many people off. who am i to judge anyway ?
so i figure i’ll just let the first be the winner no matter what so that every contestant there will eventually tell themselves that its only because that that specific tortilla was first and i must have been hungry that it was why it won.
next tortilla comes my way. a mouthful and its too much of a shock. they probably don’t realize i am way over the edge, but this thing is bizarre and i have to fight the impulse to projectile. turns out it was made from cream and pear. what the hell. no one would have seen that coming.
then the next one is like something from “close encounters of the 3rd kind”, when dreyfuss starts building devil’s mountain out of his mashed potatoes.
next tortilla is standard fair, which is a pretty high standard around here. then the next and the next and how many are there ?
one of them tastes like a truck stop tortilla, you know the kind.
stop in for a coffee and a quick bight before dealing with the road again. hearty and satisfying and never to be seen again.
next one is more like the kind ot eat while driving, if they did that kind of americano thing here, which they don’t. but its dry and solid enough to handle without fear of splotch or crumble.
finally the last comes to me, an am slightly suspicious that perhaps this person held back on purpose. its monumental in scope. a different shape then the rest. it has risen ! and the over must have been built so it would purposefully brown the top crisp and slightly blackened. it’s a thing of beauty. the slice has sheers of potatoes innit that are obviously very happy being in there. then the taste, and it really does taste like ‘love’.
but the first one tasted like ‘sex’ and so i stick with sex tonight.
the winner and champion.
done and done.
so the night handles itself from there without me.
i am so gone.
i check out the fine studio there and make a mental note to get back here sometime to do up a record. looks great in there. and am tempted to just sneak away from the family in the coming couple days and throw down a bunch of these new songs i have stumbled upon on this tour. then am notified that josephine foster will be coming in tomorrow to record. she is my ‘fire records’ label mate. that’s a funny co-incident. and great to know the studio is unavailable now. for holiday’s sake.
someone piles us back into the van and delivers us back to that promising hotel. i am pretty sleep is what happened next, but
the lungs might have continued to party with the advent of ocean air.