advantage: me

Today I left Madrid for Barcelona.

What got me there was an airline called Vueling, which I suppose is something like Southwest here in the U.S. The company color was a pleasant yellow, represented nicely as a scarf around each attendant's neck. I was pleasantly suprised by its multi-lingual announcements: I wouldn't have known how to grab an oxygen mask had they not given emergency details in English.

The flight was disappointingly uneventful - no drunken passengers making a pass at me, no screaming children with screaming parents, and no odorous, obese man trying to fit every centimeter (I'm in Europe now - we use the metric system here) of his pannus into a seat meant for people weighing less than 80 kilograms. No, none of that. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm begging for drama. But ever since the airlines started charging for earphones, when it's a flight that short (an hour), I wouldn't mind just a little bit of soap as my free, in-flight entertainment. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. The flight ended with the smoothest landing I had ever experienced.

When I walked into the airport, I suddenly had a surprisingly pleasant feeling. I felt like I was returning home to a place filled with fond memories - I just couldn't remember what those memories were - and at the same time like a wondrous place I had never been to was welcoming me with its warm mysteries. It was almost a jéjà vu kind of thing. And instead of rushing to the bus station to get into town like I normally would, I felt the desire, the need, to stay and have breakfast. That was my first Barcelona experience.

I know the one question on your mind now: what does one eat for breakfast in a moment like this. Well, I was craving for chocolate, so the first thing I grabbed in the airport café was a bottle of chocolate milk that looked richer than Bill Gates' bank account. As if that weren't enough, I then got me a piece of a delicious-looking morsel of pastry that would have been called pain au chocolate in France. In Spain? Who knows. What's the Spanish for bread with chocolate? I needed something different to accompany all this bitter sweetness. I looked around. That's when I saw the answer - the perfect accompaniment to my chocolaty, first Barcelona meal - stewed tripe. Yes, you read correctly: tripe. And know, you're not the only one staring. Boy, was it good.

My stay in Barcelona this first time around would be short, as my plans were to meet my amigo Andres, then drive down tomorrow to his home in Valencia. Andres is here for the Panteres Tennis Tournament, which is Barcelona's version of the US Gay Open. The tournament is taking place at the Club de Tenis - Barcelona Tennis Olimpic, which was the site of the tennis matches during the 1992 Olympics. As Andres was quick to point out, this was where Jennifer Capriati won the gold medal.

So there I was, at a tennis tournament, surrounded by beautiful European men. What was I to do? I watched tennis. Then I watched the boys watching tennis. It was a pleasant afternoon.

My first impressions of Barcelona? If you've ever seen the movie L'auberge espagnole, you would understand immediately, as my bus arriving at Plaza de Catalunya was exactly like in the movie. Barcelona really is a beautiful city. It's large, spacious, not over-crowded like Madrid, and its architecture is definitely its defining element. It's like meeting a strange-looking man, but being impressed and assured by his pleasant and amiable demeanor. That's Barcelona.

Tomorrow I leave Barcelona for Valencia.

lost and found

One of the things I really want to do - really, really want to do - while in Spain is to attend a Flamenco performance.

I am not certain whence stemmed this interest, but I think it's from watching some very memorable moments watching skating competitions. And no, I cannot blame this lack of precise memory on age, as my friends can attest to the fact that I've always been deficient in this department.

What I specifically want to experience is not the Flamenco dance itself, but the performance of the guitar. Another haunting image embedded in my insufficient memory is of a mesmerizing guitar performance in the fantastic movie Talk to Her, or rather Hable con elle. But, since I'm already here in Spain, why not enjoy this captivating tradition to its fullest. When in Spain, do as the... tourists do?

Here's the problem - I can't seem to find anyone who can tell me where to go. Not the manager of the bed and breakfast where I'm staying, not the waitress where I had the most delicious Iberico ham, not the hooker (don't get excited, it was a she) who tapped my shoulder and stopped me on the street. Everyone said these performances are everywhere, but no one seems to know exactly where: sort of like love... happiness... and great deals on flights.

And so it happens that while returning from the Reina Sofia Museum the other night, I wanted to find a shortcut home but ended up getting lost. No surprise there, it's 100% guaranteed that I get lost every time I seek alternate routes - anywhere. But as I've said before, good things happen when you get lost - except when you're in a hurry; then you just end up being lost and late. While I meandered the tiny streets of Madrid, I passed by many shops and restaurants that I otherwise would not have encountered had I not gotten lost. I walked by this cozy Tapas restaurant and made a mental note to return the next day, as enjoying an authentic Tapas meal was another important item on my to-do list.

Today, I retraced my wandering steps from the other night back to the Tapas restaurant, only to discover that it was closed. Darn it - looks like I would have to get my tripe elsewhere. Walking back, I was stopped three storefronts away by a Spanish man handing out flyers. He was obviously targeting tourists, since he spoke English to me from the start. Guess what - it turned out that he was handing out flyers for a Flamenco show tonight. Imagine that. While looking for a shortcut, I got lost. While getting lost, I found a Tapas restaurant. While going to the restaurant, I found a Flamenco venue. Or, rather, it found me. Each un-success leads to an unexpected success. Must remember that one.

Thus I was able to enjoy my first Flamenco performance tonight. The host had reserved for me a table-for-one near the front corner. It was set up higher, so I had the best view of the house. Every now and then, I took the time to study the faces of the vocalists, guitarists, and dancers. What I discovered was that the face of a person focused with great intensity is really one of pain. I suppose there really is some truth to the saying: no pain, no gain. The concentration required to present any artistic endeavor is immeasurable. And in the end, it's all about telling a story, no matter the art form. I know I lack this focus; I have this undesirable nature to want to do everything - it's my curse, really. But I do realize that if I want to achieve my goals, the journey will be one filled with sacrifices and pain.

Oh, I'm getting a headache thinking about it. Does that count as pain?

moving on

As I was saying yesterday, I noticed these Chinese people hanging around on street corners and in plazas every evening well into the morning hours of Madrid.

Now since I can count the number of Spanish words I know with one hand, I couldn't tell what they were saying. I could only tell that they're from Mainland China by what they said when they came across each other as they paced in the plaza. So I watched them walk back and forth with their backpacks in the plaza and sit idly behind their cardboard boxes on street corners all over central Madrid.

Finally, I saw. I witnessed a transaction. No, not drugs. Beverages. They were selling drinks to pedestrians and folks hanging out in plazas. How uninteresting, I thought. How strange... How sad.

The longer I watched their expressionless faces the more curious I became. How could selling drinks on street corners in a foreign land where you could easily be discriminated against be a better life than what you had in your native land? I immediately knew how naive and how privileged I am to not know the answer to such a question. I wondered about their lives in China. Various possibilities came to mind - none satisfied my curiosity.

Then I reflected on the new Chinese immigrants I've encountered in each of the cities to which I've traveled: New York, Paris, Vancouver, Sydney, and now Madrid. They worked in restaurants, they sold newspaper on street corners, they owned grocery stores, they opened laundromats. These were jobs that required little language skill; but still, selling bottles of water at 4 a.m.? I didn't understand.

Days later, when I joined with my friend Andrés in Valencia, he would attempt to explain by telling me that immigration is a relatively new concept in Spain. As these hopeful foreigners arrive, they have no choice but pick up any job they can find, however undesirable (I understand that is completely subjective). Sometimes, they have to create new work - whatever it takes to survive.

So is this what people mean when they say "welcome to the real world"? Yes, there is a world where people labor, work, compromise, and sacrifice to make a living counted in pennies. There is also another real world where money isn't counted in dollars but in thousands of dollars.

I live in neither. I can't imagine either.

Perhaps that's one reason I travel. To see. To learn. To love.

what i don't see

While in Madrid, I took some time to check out their two major museums - Museo Nacional del Prado and Reina Sofía.

Prado, which is not to be confused with Prada (I had to give it a second read the first time I came across the name), is pretty much Madrid's answer to Le Louvre. Although not nearly as big, it still has a great collection of works, with emphasis on Spanish masters like Goya and Velázquez, of course.

Reina Sofía, referring to the Queen of Spain, houses contemporary works, similar to the MOMA. What I found coolest about this museum is the architecture. It has two glass columns of elevators with Reina and Sofía written on each one.

This being a low budget vacation, I took advantage of the free entrance during the final two hours of each day. As I wandered through Prado in my Pradas, in search of the likes of Poussin's Parnassus and Goya's The Third of May, 1808, I couldn't help but wonder why. Why what, you ask? Why I was searching for the paintings on the list of "Masterpieces" in the museum guide - that's why.

Why must we be told by "experts" what the Masterpieces are? Why do we walk the maze-like hallways of Le Louvre, fighting through the crowds of tourists like salmons swimming upstream, just to catch a glimpse of La Joconde (Mona Lisa), only to be disappointed by its small size (trust me on this one - in this case, size would impress). Why must I feel content with a museum visit only after I have laid eyes on each recommended Masterpiece, even if just for a brief three seconds, ten feet away, over twenty-some heads, with their point-and-shoots held high, all trying to document their artistic worthiness? There must be another way.

Perhaps I should just forgo the guide, granting myself the freedom to stroll aimlessly through the museum, stopping in front of whichever painting that happens to catch my eye, without knowing which suicidal or homicidal genius graced it with his brush. Perhaps I could come up with my own list of Masterpieces. Perhaps I might even sit down in front of a painting, ignoring the high-heeled señoritas attempting to pass by, and just study it, admire it, question it.

Perhaps. Just perhaps

so that's why

Some of the first things Americans hear about visiting Spain are that they have dinner after 10 p.m., party all night, and have siestas everyday. What's that all about?

Within a day of my trip, I understood why. Well, it would probably be more accurate to say that I could come up with reasons for this cultural phenomenon.

Spain is hot. And no, I'm not just talking about the men. On my first day there, I could feel the heat rising as early as ten in the morning. By early afternoon, my delicate body was starting to wilt. I exaggerate. It wasn't my body wilting; it was my gelled hair. My first thought whenever it gets warm is to take a nap. That's when I understood the value of the siesta. What better way to spend a warm summer afternoon than enjoying a beautiful slumber in the comfort of one's cool, Spanish home. I suddenly felt very Spanish. "Hola" rolled effortlessly off my tongue.

After my nap, the sun was starting to set, and I noticed it was eight in the evening. Finally, safe to go out. Almost forgot - I re-gelled my hair before leaving.

I took a nice, leisurely stroll through the streets, finally understanding that calle means street. The shops were in full bloom, as were young lovers and after-work business folks. An hour of walking was sufficient, since I started to feel hungry, even with my jet lag. Why isn't my stomach ever jet-lagged? It seems to readjust perfectly to whatever time zone I travel to. In any case, I realized then that it was a good hour to socialize with friends, have a glass of beer (or milk for me), then gossip about... oh wait, I promised not to tell... then talk about the weather over dinner. Second mystery solved.

It was past eleven by the time I finished dinner. I wasn't tired because of the jet lag and of the long nap I took in the afternoon, so I sauntered some more in the Chueca neighborhood - the Castro of Madrid (that only means something if you know San Francisco). There is a nice plaza there, surrounded by shops, restaurants, and hotels. What a pleasant night it was. The discomfort of the blazing sun had evaporated; it was a perfect evening for a couple to be out - or, in my case, a lonely, single guy. To my surprise, everyone was there. By everyone, I meant chatty teenagers, waddling toddlers, wrinkled grandfathers, weary mothers, and all their cousins and friends. People of all ages were hanging out in the plaza. Could you imagine a scene like that anywhere in the U.S.? Little kids out playing past midnight? Without parents screaming after them? How refreshing! So this was one of the ways to party until the wee hours in Spain. I could get used to this.

Then I noticed them - the first Asians I saw all day. They were definitely Chinese. I could tell because I'm Taiwanese, and not all Asians look alike. Plus they were speaking some Chinese dialect. The strange thing was that they all were carrying either a backpack or a box. What the heck was this? Chinese terrorists?

I quickly found out. But that's a different story for another day.

it had me at hola (almost)

I'm about to give up my working bachelorhood.

What the heck does that mean? Well, after working no more than three days a week for the past four years, typically during afternoons, evenings, and weekends, I'm about to start a salaried position - Monday to Friday, nine to five.

Scary. So, to prepare myself, I thought I would take a short trip - to Spain.

I managed to maintain a blog during my two-month trip to France last year. I was a Francophile, still is to some degree. But for this Spanish sojourn, there will no traveling laptop, just old-fashioned scroll and quill accompanying me from Madrid to Barcelona to Valencia. Please note the "th" sound of the letter c. So in fact, I'm writing this blog entry after my return to San Francisco as I channel myself back to September 9, 2009 (that's 9-9-9, ultra-lucky in the Chinese culture) when I arrived in Spain for the first time.

My initial impressions of Madrid were generally positive. For me, public transportation is essential in any large city (Paris, New York, and Taipei are the best so far in my travels). Just a couple of euros got me a metro ride from the aeropuerto to the center of town - excellent start.

When I exited the estacion de metro, my first thought of Madrid was that it was the Spanish version of New York - lots and lots of people. However, there were a few important differences after I took in my first few Spanish breaths.

First of all, Madrid is nowhere nearly as multicultural as New York; it predominantly is a city of Spanish people with some tourists. As my friend Andrés would later tell me, Spain is relatively new to immigration, so the homogeneity in the faces I encountered was to be expected. Stay tuned - I'll return to this subject later.

The second difference is what I call the U-EQ - the urban emotional quotient. In New York, while most places you go seem to be exciting, full of the glitters of Broadway or fashion models, there are definitely areas which engender a feeling of loneliness, almost a suffocating solitude that haunts your soul. I didn't get that same feeling in Madrid, even though I don't speak Spanish and was traveling alone.

Thirdly, the architecture. There is a dark elegance to Madrid which I found quite seductive. I am not well versed in architecture (thanks to the arguably incorrect decision to study medicine in college), so I can't guarantee that I am using these terms correctly. But there is a pleasant Gothic quality to the city, sort of like Batman and Robin in Paris.

Here are a few pictures from Madrid. The first thing I saw on the streets of Madrid was McDonald's. What a disappointment.

what am I driving?

I suppose this post was inevitable.  I mean, after the previous two posts, I couldn't just leave things hanging there, could I?

So which car did I ultimately choose?  Behind the first door was a used but practically brand new Lexus IS 350.  The second door led to a brand new Volvo S40 with five years of free maintenance.  Choosing the third door would have given me a Prius with unsurpassed fuel economy.  What to do...

I was pretty much torn between the Volvo and the Lexus (sorry Prius, you were a distant third).  A friend suggested I went with my gut feeling.  So I sat quietly on my couch during the long commercials while watching Roger Federer destroy his opponents at the U.S. Open and listened to my gut.  Nothing.  I poked on my belly at little, hoping to prod it into life.  I first giggled reflexively like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.  Then I waited.  Still nothing.  This isn't working.

Then another friend suggested that I crunch out the numbers - which one would cost me more on gas, insurance, maintenance fees, etc.  I knew from the beginning that the Lexus would cost much more, and that was the way in turned out.  But even then, I wasn't pursuaded that this was the right way to go.  

I decided to use my brain - not the part responsible for calculations, but the calm and collected part that has displayed great sense in the past, which not to infrequently was then trumped by the anxious, emotional part.  I asked myself:  what do I need this car for?  The key here is need, not want.  I need a car that gets me safely from A to B.  A smaller car that allows me to find parking more easily.  A car that doesn't have extraneous gadgets that I won't use (and pay extra for).  I came to a conclusion quickly this way.  The Volvo C30.

Wait a minute, what!?  When was the C30 in the picture?  Oh, that's right, I test drove it as a substitute for the turbo S40.  Cousin Elmer had told me that I would be a fool if I didn't test drive the turbo if I was already thinking about the S40.  I just never thought I would need or want a car with greater horsepower.  The dealer didn't have one of the latter in store, so he recommended that I test drive the C30 because it's basically the same engine.  I loved the drive and was immediately hooked - going uphill and onto a freeway were much more effortlessly done than with my old Volvo.  The C30 is very compact - a two-door hatchback.  I had always disliked coupes for the reason that it would be inconvenient for the third person to get into the car.  I asked myself how often I have a third person in the car (or even a second person, for the matter).  It was an easy answer.

So that's what happened.  I bought a Volvo.  A coupe.  A turbo.  In white.  All things which I didn't want in the beginning.  Go figure.  It has been a week since the purchase, and I'm loving it more and more.  The fuel economy isn't as great as I would have liked, but still...  I can live with it.

Just need to train my gut.  Maybe I need to feed it even more.

P.S. Thanks to my friend Joe for these pictures.