nothing.
nothing …
but the ocean was found. and it did exist just beyond the walls of the pool. it was entirely too easy. the hotel is on the beach, the waves lap up so close to it. the kids are now amphibians. the parents are croutons.
mas nada .. . . .
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.
technically its morning the next day. . .
waking up in the middle of the night.
check on the kids nestled there across the room.
the room filled with the symphonic breathing again.
i flicker on this contraption and try and buy this last ticket for dour drummer on this endless jaunt.
the price has mysteriously gone back down and i nab it.
then before going back to sleep i wonder where i am.
i can’t remember.
the family is all here, but i can’t quite think where it is we are. maybe italy. or denmark. i have no idea. i look around the dark for clues, not even realizing i just bought a ticket for peter to come wherever it is we are. there must be a term for this condition.
the brain has shut off. it won’t allow me to facilitate my location. or maybe it feels more like its getting back at me for traveling too much.
everyday a different country. it has had a lot to reconfigure on a daily basis and now seeks revenge.
where am i ?
outside the sun seems to be waking up slowly and blue-greyly.
i apt for ignoring the brain’s game.
turn over and look for some sleep.
will let the morning figure itself out without me.
– – - — – — – – - – – - – — – -
so the blue eyes (people in the family) head to barcelona to check out the barce stadium and take some photos with a cardboard messi .the brown eyes that are left behind take to the streets of tarragona. we come upon a human castille just at the moment they begin to mount. we are standing right next to them, but am looking the other way at something and my little girl tugs on my arm to inform that people are climbing on top of each other behind me. she’s right. it’s the local custom here, a tradition like running with the bulls or smashing each other with tomatoes, some of the other spanish pastimes in certain specific cities. here they mount each other 4 or 5 high. they say even higher sometimes.
the men on bottom. then the woman on their shoulders. then the older kids on their’s. and finally smaller kids with helmets get up on theirs. and in the end 2 or 3 very little kids clamor up to the top of the shaking human castle and do a leap frog thing at the very top near the tree tops. the look on their faces is unforgettable. there is a severe and stern focus on them kids. they know this is not a game. their eyes have the speck of fear and the bulk of respect for their position. and they are so very determined to accomplish. the face is almost a cartoon, a ‘peanuts’ character, peppermint patty with that flat lined tight mouth and a bit of tongue sticking out. eyes round and staring ahead. not much nose. the helmet making their heads big and round too.
its amazing. us brown eyes are blessed here with immediate proximity of towering humans.
then the kids slide down the humans like they were slipping down a fire man’s pole. we stand there astonished. the crowd applause.
then off to shop.
flip flops for the girl, and at her insistence, a new bathing suit she picked out for pop.
– – — – – - –
me and thøger head to sound check. will have to do peter’s drums a bit too. its outdoors, this one. didn’t see that coming, but why would i?
we do it quickly, Miguel has shown up to do the sound board. tonight we will be yet another variation on this run. is it the 6th or 7th variation of whatever it is we do? the power trio. me with only the 1959 martin with original d’armond pick-up innit to ca-chunk the night away.
once done, we beach it. a local deliver us to a nice one. water must be warmer then the atlantic, but still chilled. my new suit feels fine too.
we hang there for a while, then fetched to the hotel, quick change and back to the stage for the giant paella. the blue eyes have returned. peter has showed up. we are well clustered again.
that night we take the stage at midnight. my son sticks around and assists. the crowd has been lethargic with the previous bands. but they spark to life when we amp up. this continues to surprise me, especially the younger crowds. what do they get out of me and this mess and what do i sound like now ? at some point i venture in to my ‘little feet’ homage with “brand new swamp thing” and pronounce lowell george’s name so they might understand. the rest of the set is chunky and bright, me with my 2 amps hooked together. (that’s the trick with playing outdoor scenes, 2 amps in tandem, somehow they provide a huge circle sound wave that sounds the same as a single amp at an indoor stage. make a not of that. its science. )
at the end they want more and more. so i have to kill them with “light my fire”, and its really starting to sound like it makes sense. i think.
peter looks like he is having a great time. thøger is tickled too. all is well on planet sand. we get done. almost nothing to pack up. we leave.
a good sweaty set. we mingle with the crowd a bit and notice their lethargic patina for the following band. were we the headliners ?
one cold drink and then a fine walk past ancient roman ruins to the room to find some sleep.
a fine day in ruins.