Highlights pt. 3 (Final Post!)

As you may have inferred from the title this will be the last time I post in this blog.  It is a sad time but also a joyous time, as I know that my URL address will go on to a better place when I take it behind the interweb GUI interface, delicately put my hand over the delete key, tears in my eyes, and kill it in the face.  I am the creator and the destroyer in this virtual page, but perhaps I will leave the relics here just so others may know what a great rulers have come before them, my kingdom could be a museum.  I have earned the most blogosphere points out of any social networker in existence.  Note* there are no such thing as blogosphere points, I did that because now all the competitive hipsters are scrambling anxiously trying to figure out why they never earned any points for their ironic and non-conformist indie music blog.  I'm not fond of hipsters despite the similarities I share with them, the subtle difference being that I'm actually a sarcastic hippie, not a contentious prick. 

This last post will cover some of the people I met this year, not main characters, like my host family, or friends from school, or the Pamplona group, but rather the third-tier.  Characters that come up only every couple of episodes but brighten one's day nonetheless.  These people are more than acquaintances but just barely, they are going to serve as examples of how the world is always filled  with more people to meet.  And barely any of them are hipsters.  The three people I will mention here are surf lady, ganja man, and pastry woman, which all, incidentally, sound like awesome team of super heroes.  They would all work as a team, to enjoy extreme sports, get the munchies, and then satisfy those munchies.

I met surf shop lady in October and have known her by far the longest out of any of the three.  At the beginning of the year she helped me with choosing out a wet suit for classes, but as time went on I stopped taking classes and she helped me out more.  Once every two weeks or so I would return and rent a new board, trying out different styles and coming back with new and interesting injuries.  Sometimes she would ask me how I got cut up and sometimes I would successfully hide the wounds because everybody knows that men who feel physical pain are just covering up their vagina.  Sometimes I would accidentally scrap my feet on the fins and cut up my toes, other times I would use my gloves to wipe salt water from my face and end up getting abrasions all around my eyelids.  The value in surfing for me was a careful balance of how much time I spent riding waves and how much time I spent limping/bleeding for days afterwards.  Surf shop lady helped me out a lot this year but I now realize that I probably know more about surfing than she does.  At first I would ask her a question expecting an all-knowing sort of answer, now I ask her for advice and we sort of awkwardly stumble through a problem together with guesses and assumptions.  I have found that jobs are just a way for people to earn money, just as a McDonald's employee will probably not be able to help you with recommendations for your gastric track, a surf shop employee might not be an avid surfer.  Weird right?  I don't know if I will see surf shop lady again, but I will miss her smile and concerned eyes every time I came back with a new wound.

Ganja man is different, I have only met him twice.  Marijuana is legal to grow for personal use in Spain, thus there are a large number of seed and smoke shops around town.  For months I passed by this one store on the way to and from school everyday, always trying to peek in and see the magical pot world.  At the start of the year I was afraid to do more than just walk by the shop for fear that my host family or host club member would walk by and get the wrong idea.  But then I decided screw it, what are the chances that a member of my host family will walk by and I'm pretty sure that no one from Rotary even remembers I'm here, much less what I look like.  Health class always taught me that if I ever went near a pot smoker without calling my parents for emergency evacuation much like in a zombie apocalypse I would soon descend into the realm of shelling out sexual favors for hits of crack, that is just how drugs work in health class.  Just like how Health class showed studies that said if  two virgins ever had sex with a condom there was a 50% chance you would both get an STD and she would definitely be pregnant.  But in the end my reasoning was 'Screw it, I'm interested and the rest of the world can think what they want, but I'm going into that store.'  So I did, and nothing happened.  I had a talk about the environment, political and economic influences, and medicine.  I will say that even before going into the store I was well aware of the benefits of hemp and medical marijuana as well as the relative danger of alcohol or tobacco compared to weed.  The man must not get many customers because I made it clear I was not going to buy anything and he was still happy to talk to me for thirty minutes about this and that, mostly cannabis but some other subjects as well.  The times when I talked to this man were in December and January when my Spanish was still developing, and I have to say, that out of all the store owners who tried to speak English with me, Ganja man spoke the best.  Explain that Health Class.

Last but not least is Pastry woman.  I dropped by her store from time to time to try some Spanish desserts and recently I arranged a large order that I will take back to the U.S and give as gifts to family and friends.  After I started showing up more and more often to decide what I was going to buy to take across the ocean with me we got to know one another better.  She helped me with choosing travel safe goods that were still typical to Spain and gave me free samples.  My reaction to samples is usually somewhere around this.
Me: 'Well I've already had some at another store and I really don't need any more, after all I don't even know if I want to buy the gifts here.'
Seller: 'It's free.'
Me:'... You son of a bitch, and I was watching my figure too.'
She greets me with a smile and has started calling me 'maho,' which means sweetie, my name just seems to complicated for the Spanish people.  Her store closed for the summer one day after I bought the gifts for everyone back home, and again, I don't know if I'll ever see her, but it was nice meeting her.

This wraps up my blog from San Sebastian, Spain.  If you've been following and enjoyed it, or maybe just read a couple posts and thought it was funny, write a comment below or send me a message on Facebook.  I'll probably reply but I don't know if I'll write anything special for you, this is just kind of for my ego, after a year of writing I would kind of like compliments from someone other than my mother.  In summation, although this has not been the easiest or greatest year of my life I would recommend a year long exchange to anyone considering it.  The opportunity to learn and grow is fantastic and living with a different family can really make an impression on anyone.  Plus, when you study abroad, you are the person with the sexy foreign accent.  Think about it.

Highlights pt. 2

Next highlight is traveling.  Since I've been here not only have I seen famous sites around Spain but I have also visited France, Italy, and Portugal. Since I'm a nice sort of guy I won't bore you with the details of each cat's name and how old they are and what their favorite toy is and... wait, take those statements, make them relate to cities and traveling and what not, but cat ladies let that be a message to you, we understand, you like cats, if one of them once pulled a child from a burning building tell us about that otherwise shut up before I call the Chinese restaurant (the mortal enemy of cat ladies according to my racial stereotypes).  Just like the lonely women should I will only be providing tid bits of interesting occurrences, no more, and no fucking stories about how god damn intelligent the animal is (not very).  Traveling provides a wealth of experience because there are new adventures to be had every day, and of course my family (The crazy group of people I grew up with who visited me twice during my exchange) is all about new experiences.  Whether it is getting lost in a museum or getting lost at an airport or getting lost in a city and driving for five miles the wrong way up a one way road we love doing it all everything.  I could tell you about all the times my dysfunctional sense of direction messed us up in Spain, like the time my family was split between two cars at an airport waiting for Tony and Leah; six people, two cell phones, two GPSs, food, and water in one car, two miserable bastards in the other.  This was not the best set up as we quickly learned, then spent three hours memorizing it as one car picked up the arrivals and then did loops around the airport searching for the other car which was parked and waiting inside the terminal that no longer contained the people they were searching for.  But there is a better story of getting lost beyond all hope.  After picking up my brother and his girlfriend (who is pretty much a sister by now, which makes what he probably does with her really gross, you hear me Tony? gross) two cars containing a total of eight people traveled to Sevilla.  We arrived in Sevilla during Semana Santa (Ester Week) just a few hours before the processions began (so half the roads were closed) and had to get to our hotel in the center of the city.  Also we were using a four year old map.  This is what news pundits might call a 'perfect storm' mainly because it is considered unprofessional to call it a 'Oh my god, hahahaha, look at these stupid bastards.  Holy crap'  pundit covers face chuckling to self 'Man, they are so fucked.'(What most pundits said off air during the recession).  After driving up and down the same road for an hour studying the map someone had the great idea to ask for help, we would not have survived if we had not.  I had been entrusted with the map because somehow my family does not understand that I'm incompetent, so I got out to try and communicate with the locals and find out how to get into the center of town.  This did not work.  We then tried ignoring road signs and going down taxi only roads and slipping by barriers into closed off areas.  Although this got us more attention it also did not work.  Finally we just called the hotel having no idea how they would actually help but wanted to say that we were on the way and that they should wait for us and not sell our rooms to hobos (as my parents most likely did when I came to Spain).  It turns out the woman at the front desk had dealt with Americans before and told us that one of us should get into a taxi and tell the driver to go to our hotel while the other two cars followed.  This worked beautifully.  At the police barricades the driver just shrugged to the officers and said 'Americans,' but he seemed to be implying, 'You know these people need cork covering all sharp objects, can you help a man out who is trying to do some charity work for these poor, stupid people.'  And the officer let us by, but we could only travel about another half mile until the taxi driver could go no further, he drove away and we parked in a plaza.  After scouting out the hotel on foot we discovered that in order to legally arrive at the hotel we had to actually leave the plaza and go back through the police barricade, or we could drive through streets that aren't technically open that are supposed to only have official traffic on them, also they were one way roads and we were not facing the right direction.  So we turned around and spent another five hours searching for the legally viable way to get to our hotel.  That's what the Kingstons would do right?  Hell no, we drove down those roads and told people to get out of the way like we owned the place, and people listened to us.  Why would people listen to us, a bunch of lunatics in two rented cars, well because Tony made the fantastic discovery of an imitation police vest in the glove compartment of one of the cars.  But impersonating a cop is illegal or something right?  Hell yeah it is!  I wonder what would have happened had I been caught, but I wasn't, instead people moved out of the way most likely wondering what a 19 year-old who has a strange accent is doing directing traffic during their holy week.  We made it to the hotel just in time.  Several hours after the streets became so filled that even moving on foot was impossible.

'Sir I know everyone wants to see Jesus but you're so close you just boner-poked me.'

That is not even the worst picture of Semana Santa in Sevilla, it can be impossible to move.  Also if someone is unfamiliar with the tradition they may be a little surprised to see the KKK wandering around the street being celebrated like holy men.  As it turns out they actually are holy men, in an unfortunate coincidence the robes of the two groups look exactly the same, the only difference is that the holy men have a variety of colors.

Next year: Rainbow

Next story comes from Portugal and Mardi Gras.  Walking around with other Rotary students during free time we decided we wanted to explore famous locations.  At the end of the day we saw a church and two famous plazas, but I've seen loads of those, and the ones in Barcelona have discount hookers, so what more could Portugal offer?  There were huge drum bands for the Mardi Gras celebration and a great parade, just like so many others I've seen in my lifetime, this one didn't even have real midgets.  Instead the greatest memory came from the unplanned, inexpensive, day-to-day beautiful mistakes, that tend to happen.  All this miracle of a day needed were three seventy-year-old women, cheap party supplies, funny outfits, and what I determined to be five bottles of wine.  They laughed and threw confetti all over us, really expressing the mood of the day, showing how the best adventures are the surprises.  See, you don't need to spend a lot of money or be in a historical monument, all you really need is cheap liquor, then everyday is a surprise.  Will I puke in the toilet at home? or will it be on this lovely couple I just met?  surprise, it's in my parents bed. 

Madrid and Barcelona are the largest cities in Spain and I have visited each multiple times.  They are fantastic cities for tourists, each has a number of museums, monuments, and beautiful gardens/ports/beaches and what not, there is always something new to do .In the south of Spain there is a huge amount of Islamic influence.  Note* I'm not going to be insulting Islam, last time I tried to help them out with revitalizing their image and getting to the young people with several images of the Mohammad fellow, looking hip and young with a mohawk and piercings (one of which may or may not have been in his special man-region), and what did I get in return?  Weeks of mail containing death threats and dead woodland creatures, and there was barely enough meat on those animals to feed me for two days.  Although surprises and new experiences are great and all sometimes it is nice to become familiar with a location, have a comfortable fall back.  It was not hard to find one of these in Madrid, a restaurant that just seemed comfortable, had everything we really wanted,  a sense of well being and happiness as soon as we were in the door, or as my parents would call it, 'You know, that place that has German beer.'  I have been in Madrid four times and La Cervezaria Alemana five times, almost enough to be comfortable calling the waiters by first names or ordering a plunger for the bathroom.  All in all, traveling this year has been amazing, albeit stressful.  I've had  so many new experiences and have had to adapt myself so often that I think I'm ready to return to the States and fall back into a comfortable routine, at least for a few months.

Highlights

When I get back to the States in less than three weeks I will be busy.  Seeing family again, getting ready for college, traveling around Canada with friends, and also I'm still trying to figure out a way to make pokemon real, after all if video games and T.V have taught me anything (I get all my life lessons from them) the perfect world is one in which pets battle for the entertainment of ten-year-olds, and I'm almost twenty, I should be a master by now.  Unfortunately the world still frowns upon pokemon thanks in large part to jerks like Micheal Vick, you see pokemon is not about the innate violence in all of us or about making money, it's about picking out the snitches early before they have time to rat you out, pokemon is still a felony.  Thus, with my time here coming to an end, and my time in the U.S packed I'm going to try and recount some of the best times I had in Spain and what I'll remember most about this year.  *Note, there are some parts of this year that I will always remember in a PTSD, shell shock sort of way, I will not be recounting those moments, if you would like to hear about them just ask me, then I will curl up in a ball, clutch my knees, and whisper to myself.  You know what, it's probably better if you don't ask me, and I can just keep the emotions bottled up inside and grow a stress tumor, that's how men deal with emotions.

I will try to cover three subjects in this highlight reel, beach time, traveling, and meeting people.  I could cover other topics about times where I reasonably enjoyed myself, or had an average amount of enjoyment, but those times are not interesting.  It is similar to how it's going to be in the future when I have kids and go the the parent teacher meetings for Kindergarten, the teacher will say to all the other parents how their child is such a 'hard-worker' or 'shares really well' picking out one little point to advertise.  Then the teacher will take me aside away from the other parents and tell me about how my child is the best at fucking everything, he finger paints, then flows seamlessly into nap time, and has sharing skills that would put that other little kid to shame.  In fact the teacher was thinking about organizing a competition just to humiliate the other little brats compared to my child.  At least, that is better what the teacher tells me, otherwise my lazy-bastard of a child is going back to sleep in the basement.  Anyways, the only stories I'm going to tell are the ones that are as awesome as my theoretical child, the stories that beat all the others without even trying.
First up is the beach.  As I have mentioned before all the beaches in San Sebastian are nude beaches, or at least that is how they are treated by the locals.  As with everything there is both a plus side and a male genitalia side to this issue.  It turns out women taking their tops off makes more sense than I thought, I originally believed that the end goal was actually to tan the breast.  This was confusing for me, because I can never imagine a woman in an intimate situation (lets face it, tans are for impressing other people) and she takes off her bra, then her potential partner sees the strange triangle tan lines and shakes their head in disgust before walking away.  As it turns out hen women remove their tops they trying to get rid of the tan lines left by straps so that when they wear another bathing suit they don't have strange lines everywhere.  Also, boobs are great, so why not take them out?  On the other hand there is always a large number of the geriatric crowd, or as they should be known on the beaches, group saggy.  I have seen couples of seventy plus years, smoking cigarettes together as they walk the beach, respective organs dangerously close to leaving trails in the sand.  I am not a fan of sunbathing, so I find other activities at the beach.  Surf and breakdance/parkour are two subhighlights of this year.  I danced on the sand, as opposed to concrete, where landing on my back was not such a big deal (unless attractive girls were watching, then it was the end of the world).  However breakdance is something that one can do anywhere in the world, so I'm going to move off the beach.  I spent a couple hundred Euros getting thrown around by waves and partially drowning, and I also stood up from time to time.  Yes, as it turns out surfing can be pants-shittingly terrifying.  At the beginning of the year I had the double benefit of having an instructor and being treated to nice slow-breaking waves, sort of like a bunny hill.  But that was at the start of winter, now at the start of summer the waves tend to break more like the 'Classic' waves that rise up then fall creating a tube, which is great, if you are good enough to ride inside the tube.  I normally end up on top of the tubes and fall four to six feet into the water, which doesn't seem so bad, until one takes into consideration it is like jumping from a high dive into a wave pool with an undertow and a giant piece of fiberglass strapped to your leg.  But the two hours waiting in the water turn out to be worth it for the ten minutes you actually end up standing on the board.  Just like falling on my back one hundred times is made worth it by finally performing a front flip.  These are highlights because I could see myself improving.  Although after a year I'm pretty sure I enjoy snowboarding more than surfing but learning a new skill and making myself a better/more badass human being is something that always appeals to me.  I will continue to dance in the United States and maybe if I have the chance I'll surf on vacation now and again, but what is most important is that I can wear those rocking shirts and boardshorts without being labeled as a poser, now I get to be one of the pompous jerks that actually do what their shirts say.

This post is the first of a three part series.  After I finish the recounting the best parts of my exchange I will probably have finished with this blog.  As of today there are eighteen days remaining for my Rotary year before I head back to the states.  I might feel compelled to write a follow up post or two from the U.S, but if I kept this up too long it might just devolve into a blog about my life, and no one wants to hear that.  You might think I'm wrong, but if you go ahead and click to the next blog and just bump around this site for a while and read peoples stories about dogs tracking mud into the house or babies first steps.  Then try and rate how much you connect with the story against how much you just want to punch the person in the ovary for wasting your time.  Everyone else shares their stories with friends, in person, why would someone post their lives on the Internet?  An example would be how everyone in public restrooms poops in the stalls, doing their business with who they feel comfortable with, while a blogger would poop in the urinals because the whole world needs to know what shit is going on in their damn life even though it is probably no different from any one else's crap.  The next post will cover traveling.

One Month and Hard Drugs

The package will be transported to the United States in one month or less.  It comes with a garuntee of having all four limbs attached and no sever mental scarring, no other gaurantees, he's too damn crazy.  The 'Andrew' model has changed significantly in the eight month period for which it has been absent from the United States.  It has improved its writing skills, been programmed with two foreign languages, come to a greater understanding of itself, and nearly all shame has been deprogrammed to the point where the unit has little trouble making exaggerated compliments about itself in the third person. Also, what a douche.
If I could say the one aspect of myself that changed the most this year it is my sense of embarrassment or shame.  Before this year my idea of living without shame was a theory but this year I have grown accustomed to implamenting it.  I formerly was uncomfortable in a room full of people who knew one another and wanted no part of me, I tried to latch on to people and join part of a group but when they shot me down I tried to hide in a corner, or better yet, self destruct.  Now I have learned that if the people around me want to exclude me they can depart the scene and copulate themselves (Get lost and, well, you know), because I'm freakin awesome.  That's the stance one must take in certain situations.  Analize the situation, if you are doing nothing wrong (like being over-agressive, creepy, high/drunk, Italian, etc.) , and the strangers are unaware of your past police record, and they still chose to ignore you, then screw them!  If they don't want a chance to meet a new person than they don't deserve to know you, and as an added bonus for your imagination, if they're guys they most likely have small genitals at least in relation to a person as open as yourself.  I think that way because if the man does not want to meet me then he is clearly fearful of a situation where he gets to know a stranger and they end up in a sponaneous game of 'Drop Trousers and Compare.'  Also they have irrational fears and strange thought processes.
On the flip side of that situation, if you are feeling lonely don't be afraid to go out onto the street and talk with complete strangers.  Or maybe visit a cafe and offer to sit with someone who is alone.  Seriously.  Chances are some of them are bored and thinking exactly what you are, namely, 'Why don't interesting people just walk up to me and introduce myself, if they started a conversation I would be more than willing to talk with them.'  I have met a decent number of people that way, so don't be afraid that everyone but you is thinking that they are superior and avoiding you in particular on purpose. 
Another change in me is my aversion to drug users.  *Note: Not to be confused in a change of aversion to drugs, I still avoid those like fat kids avoid carrots.  Numbers of people here smoke cigarettes and although I don't care for the smell I've accepted it as just another habit that an individual will change if they want to or ask for help if they desire it.  Marijuana is widespread in Spain, if it is more available than in the U.S I'm not sure, but many people here smoke up from time to time.  Far from going crazy and blowing their brains out these people tended to laugh more and look ridiculous, I actually have found high people to be less dangerous to themselves and others than drunk people.  Although Rotary forbids drinking and drugs, when I'm out on the streets having a party with friends some people will be drunk and high, the drunk person is much more likely to try and get involved in a fight or threaten strangers or vomit all over my new god damn shoes.  Last drug related encounter, cocain.  Oh my God!  Cocain, Andrew why the fuck didn't you run in the opposite dirrection?!  In reality, because it's too common to be running away every time the drug shows up on the streets.  Random people standing on corners will nod at you and hold up a little baggie, or ask you if you're looking for something, and all you have to do is shake your head and walk past, and they will leave you alone.  However on one situation I came a little closer.  I ran into some Americans (and a British guy with a hilarious accent), on the streets and decided to link up with their group because it tends to be easy getting to know Americans than Basques.  We were walking along the boardwalk in front of the beach at about two in the morning when the group stopped.  I thought they were trying to figure out what to do next, turns out they already had that figured out, buy a powdery accelerant to snort up their noses.  My first reaction was to burn rubber and run away like the nearly six foot glob of wuss that I am, but a stronger urge was curiosity.  With my feet ready to haul me out of there if one of the coke-heads decided to go on a stabbing spree that coke-heads are known for, I held my ground.  There were two Americans in the group who tried to ignore the transaction entirely and seemed disappointed the others were buying coke so I was not overly afraid, these other two guys seemed like reasonable nerds, generally a safe group of people.  The group was negotiating quality, quantity, and price of the good, and I have to say they were some of the most empathetic and generous people I've ever seen conduct business.   The dealer provided the group with something called 'tasters' where a buyer wets his pinky finger and dunks it into a coke bag so they could then brush their teeth with the substance, three group members did this.  The Americans then circled up to discuss quality, and I have never heard a conversation that came so close to the picture I have in my head of a female, high school sleepover.  Everyone who had tried it said the quality was terrible, it tasted like baking soda apparently, but the one man felt so bad that they had taken so much in free 'tasters.'  Another argued that the dealer had given them large tasters so that they would feel bad and more likely to buy, and the origional responded by saying 'Well it worked, I don't feel right doing that to him,' in a tone like that of a girl having a fight with here BFF and looking to her other friends for advice.  While two went to buy the low quality drug another said to me and the rest of the group that they were getting a bad deal but they felt obligated to purchase.  The other men then returned and offered free rounds of coke to anyone who was interested, three of the five men then proceded to snort the contents of a little plastic bag.  Unlike my expectations none of them pulled a gun, and no one decided it would be a good idea to jump head first onto concrete.  Instead they just seemed jittery and zoned out at the same time which was a strange combination to see.  Thus I have learned to not completely write a person off do to drug use, they could be good people who have just made some mistakes.  After my morbid curiosity was satisfied by watching strangers take a potentially deadly stimulant I said goodbye and went on an adventure to search for females.
I will try to make a few more posts before I finish up the year, but I'm also going to try to have as much fun as possible.  After all, next year I'll be in college, and everyone know that no one has enjoys themselves at those institutions of higher learning, or at the very least they most likely won't be surfing.

Art

I am not a huge fan of art.  I find it boring and uninspired, or if not, lame it seems to be hack and unmotivated.  I'm always disappointed when I'm shown a famous piece that has been critically acclaimed and is worth tens of thousands of dollars and there is just a red square slightly off center.  Let me take a moment to clarify, I love almost every artist I know and I love their works, street artists do a fantastic job as well, cartoonists, surrealists, and graphic designers all turn out paintings, drawings, sketches, and strips I can appreciate.  I have a problem with 'art' as defined by the art community with power, that is curators, critics, and collectors.  The three C's love money but hate art and will do anything they can to destroy said industry.  They collect, swap, and bargain classic pieces to give them great value but never let a new name break onto the scene unless they create terrible blotches of paint on canvas.  Dali, Picasso, Monet, Da Vinchi, Van Gogh, O'Keeffe, Warhol, what are the two things they share?  First, they are the only artists a common man would know Second, they are dead.  If you want something to be valuable in the art world it better have one of their names on it (or some other popular dead person), otherwise no one will buy it.  Why not?  Because if art was valued based on style, originality, detail, and overall beauty then collectors and museums would suddenly lose a whole lot of money.  Also they are trying to destroy art because their hearts are suspected to be two sizes too small.  Note: I made all of that up, but it sounds pretty freakin logical am I right?  Anyways, I think if the starving artist types decided to take authority and take control of the community because those are the people who really love art.  They could find works that have vision and a creative artist behind them, re-work cliched museums, breath new life into worldwide interest in art, and maybe even make a little money.  Now I know some artists will be opposed to the making money part of my proposal, it might interrupt their whole starving lifestyle, but think of it like this: you could just give all the money away and leave yourself barely enough to scrape together for a bowl of Kraft Mac'n'cheese and a pack of cigarettes per week, just like you're accustomed to.  So I don't hate artists or most of what they create, I just hate what collectors have done to warp the idea of 'art' around some contrived concept that keeps them rich and feeling like they're better than everyone else.  So I say starving artists punch art collectors in their tiny hearts, with any luck they'll have a heart attack and die, we don't have time to help the Grinch in this story.

There seem to be only a few types of famous 'masterpieces' left in the world.  There are a few that I really appreciate, Dali and MC Escher being all of them.  I once thought that I enjoyed other artists but then I went to these horrible locations, formed of broken dreams and artistic constipation, called museums.  Besides the Surrealism that I actually enjoy there seem to be three main types of art, Classical, Modern, and Drug Induced.  I hate them all, and will explain why.  Classical art is all painted in the same style and the subject was either the bible or whatever royal family could get their kids to sit still long enough to have a portrait done.  Sometimes really crazy artists painted kings and queens with angels and Jesuses, combining the two themes to create something twice as boring.  I discovered this after visiting the Prado, one of Spain's most famous museums, all the pieces looks like the same guy painted them all in the exact same way.  That is when I stopped liking most artists, when I found out they were all copy cats.  It would be like if I was a writer and copied Stephen King's writing style down to a pin but then added in some M. Night Shamalan twist endings in.  There are those who would call me a good-for-nothing fraud, and then once my mother got done making fun of me the critics would be worse.  That's all I find in Classic art the same thing over and over, with a slight twist. 
Modern art is bullshit.
Drug Induced art has a potential to be decent, there might be some ideas partially visible, and maybe an overlaying theme or social commentary, but the person clearly took one too many pills before starting.  It does show more initiative than Modern art, which, as previously mentioned, is bullshit, but there is still a great lacking in true artistic presence.  A good example of Drug Induced art is Pablo 'drop the acid' Picasso.  As the nickname I hope catches on suggests, he liked him some hallucinations brought on by massive amounts of foreign chemicals in the blood stream.  He painted some good art at one point, people bought some of his paintings, he earned enough money to buy some really powerful drugs, painted some terrible and crappy art, people bought his paintings because he was already famous, and he got enough money to buy more drugs.  There is a lesson in his story people of the world.  If a friends shows you a piece of art clearly influenced by drugs that may have life threatening consequences, do NOT buy it to make them feel better.  They will think the art is good and think their inspiration came from the crazy acid trip.  If anything find out where they got the drugs and then buy some yourself, the drugs made that piece of crap your friend painted look like a masterpiece, it must be some good shit.

P.S  Starving artists, if you take my advice and renew real, beautiful, new, and creative art please don't use the money like Picasso did.  Don't do hard drugs if your in a position of power, you'll just end up ruining art for everyone all over again.  There is plenty of time for hard drugs when your retired, besides the nursing home could use some people who live it up.

Football aka Soccer

I love professional sports.  Or I should say, I love parties based around professional sports with a mild interest about what is happening on the T.V.  Pizza, spicy wings, cheerleaders, one dollar pride bets, cheerleaders.  The only way sports could be any better is if they were something I was actually interested in following, like the Governator (when he was in his youth) fighting Mongals and the Zerg in the Colosseum, which I would totally pay to see.  There are competitions I would love to watch: sword fighting, parkor, video games, and stand-up comedy are great fun for me to watch, except for there are neither cheerleaders nor hot wings.  Statistics of a study I just made up say that men interested in those activities are 1/3 less likely to win the girl at the end of the romantic comedy than their helmet wearing, quarter-back tackling peers.  So when I was asked if I would like to attend a Futbol (yeah, they actually spell it that way) match I was conflicted.  In the end I remembered what Rotary had taught me to accept any offer to meet new people, so I headed off with my host brother to watch San Sebastian's team play some other team.  I was assured by all of the Basque people that the other team was totally lame.  We went to a bar, ordered red bulls for some reason, and sat down to enjoy a fierce human competition of... what is, sure to... be, ugh, I'm already bored.  I sat through the full ninety minutes of game plus the half time review of whatever was happening in the game then the next morning everyone was talking about the game, but I can't even remember who won, the only fact that sticks in my mind was that there were no hot wings.  In fact there was no food at all, there weren't even cheerleaders to help direct blood away from our cramped stomachs. 
Oh well, that was just one evening, I figure I should give Futbol a second chance to prove itself, after all it's the national sport of Everywhere that's Not the United States.  I did in fact attend a second soccer game, this time in person.  I went to see my host brother and some friends play in a high school match.  Since we were in person I was hoping for some Spanish sports food to be passed around the stands, like cheese nachos.  Instead I had a conversation with the people around me about how Americans are so fat they're always eating something at sports matches.  I could see their point, one can get distracted from the match when they're trying to not drop ketchup on their pants, the Spanish don't have this problem, smoking cigarettes assures zero percent spillage onto clothing, they're light years ahead of us.  During the game I learned some of the fundamentals of soccer and why it will fall into the category in which I hold most other sports, meh.

Here are some key facts I understand:  You want to put the ball in the goal, if you put the ball in the goal enough you earn millions of dollars and get to date supermodels, and intelligence/speaking skills not required.  I used to enjoy playing rec league soccer, rec meaning recreation, which means everyone wins.  I enjoyed this set up, we could still be competitive if we wanted to, but there was no need to beat the shit out of anyone over a win or a loss.  Unless you were a parent, because your neighbor's bastard kid was ruining your childstar's chances at reaching the Olympics and forever redeeming your wasted life.  With enough reinforcement kids start to believe that they are indeed superior to their peers and then they can scream and curse all by themselves (they grow up so fast).  For example I would not say that a sports match is a reason for killing another human being.  There are some people who would politely disagree with me, right before shanking me in the stomach, putting a Real Madrid Jersey (soccer team) on my corpse, and calling the cops, the police would plant a suicide note on my body and everyone would understand why a person who liked that team would off themselves after Madrid played Barcelona. 

Madrid and Barcelona are the two biggest teams in Spain (also they are cities but no one seems to care about that fact) and this year they have played five times.  Every time they played, for days afterwards, every conversation is dominated by what calls were unfair and who really should have won or why the team that won deserved it.  Every XY chromosome has some sort of input to add just like in the United States.  Something about Spain (or maybe just my region), there seem to be no competetive female sports on any level.  I have no idea why and I'll be honest about something here, I miss strong females.  One favorite past time of the Basque people is screaming at T.V screens and the starting fist fights in real life because of what happened on said screen.  Out of all the problems that affect the game one of the worst is the refusal of referees to use instant replays.  It would be like working on a math problem then not double checking with a calculator, sure the technology is there but where is the excitement of a stranger showing up at your house to break your knees after their building collapses to faulty engineering.  Actually for causing a building to collapse you would probably just get fired, but if you fuck up a Futbol call you better start wearing shin guards and and a cup year round, because the fans are coming for you.  And they're pissed.

All in all I can't wait to get back to the U.S and have a Superbowl party and some March Madness parties.  Who knows, I might even watch some sports.

A third language and more

With only a month and three weeks left in Spain I have decided to move onto my third language.  Well technically practice  my second language because French came before Spanish for me, but no one really cares about technicalities.  For example, I once fought five people, by myself, and won, now technically they were all sleeping nursing home patients with heart conditions, but no one needs to hear that part of the story.  So French, language of fries and toast, formerly of romance, but then too many creepers with greasy mustaches started speaking it.  I have several reasons for relearning this language, some personal, some general.  My main personal reason for buffing my french is that I have a great friend who will be bringing his family to visit me this summer in Canada and I can't wait to see him.  General reasons, aka why anyone would learn French, one, it is a widely spoken language, and two, the women.  I know that I bashed the romanticism of French just a moment ago, but that is just on an overall/worldwide level, for the individual it can be very useful, as long as you don't grow ridiculous facial hair patterns.  French is most useful for picking up American girls who think it is beautiful but have no real idea what you're saying.  Trying to pick up a French girl with French is significantly more difficult because you're no longer allowed to spout gibberish in her complicated language.  I would like to get to a level where I can speak French as well as I speak Spanish because there are some fairly attractive European women, and I hear with just two to three weeks of training they can learn to shave their legs, sit, and roll over.  I learned it from a book 'Man's best friend, how to communicate and train,' so I assume I'll be making great friends, also according to this book I'll be able to get all the bitches I've ever dreamed of.

Now just for some random updates and observations of Spain.  I have been exercising a fair amount this year, however my routines have not been what a normal person would describe as enjoyable.  Running long distance alone, strength and core work outs alone, weeping to myself at night because of how lonely I am, with a spotter.  For me exercising alone is not terrible, I just have to imagine I'm training for the zombie apocalypse (It's unavoidable, I've seen the documentaries), but every so often I enjoy utilizing what I worked for.  I have not played Ultimate Frisbee in eight months, not only do I miss the adrenaline and competition but I miss how laid back it was.  I have played some pick up basketball and pickup soccer here in Spain (not very often but more on this in a later post), and people get intense and people get pissed.  I think that was the main reason I quit most team sports, screwing up for the team. So on the other side there is breakdancing, but since my host apartment is not designed for the violent, flailing motions invloved in bboying I have to practice outside, in public.  In the U.S I had a crew, basically a group of people who help one another out and ward off haters.  Haters are like mosquito with slightly larger brains, they buzz annoyingly, suck what they can, but all it really takes is a good slap to get rid of one.  Unfortunately with their advanced brain function they learn to suck at one's back, which isn't a problem if you have a friend to guard you, but all alone I feel vulnerable to the hate.  I have tried to find other dancers in Spain but I think learning to dance is too embarrassing for them.  So I dance alone, without music, strangers watching as they pass by, sometimes I give one or two a bitch slap, just in case.
During one of my runs recently I came to accept some realities about the United States versus Europe.  I passed by a woman on my run who was taking an active interest to help out the global population crisis, by chain smoking cigarettes.  But her commitment did not stop there, while smoking she was also sticking her head in a stroller to comfort a baby, reassuring the child that he would be consuming the earth's precious resources for far fewer years than the selfish bastards like me.  The only problem I find with smoking as a way to control the population is that it's just too damn sexy, smokers promptly ruin the benefit they're having on the planet by reproducing like rabbits.  In America we have far fewer smokers, but our drive to save the planet is no less powerful, in fact I believe we are doing a better job. With fast food we have solved the tobacco conundrum, lower life expectancy and less attractive as a reproduction partner.  Unfortunately fast food just doesn't agree with me so I can't do my part to keep the population down because I'm already cursed with extreme sexiness.  Were I to start smoking sure I would die a few years earlier but with the added attractiveness, by my calculations, the planet would be unable to support my offspring by the year 2027 with my children making up 12% of the world population. It's a tough life.

My family

They are coming, again.  No warning has yet been issued to the people of Spain because of the wide spread panic such an announcement would cause.  Their last spree through San Sebastian, Madrid, and Barcelona caused enough emotional scarring that Spain has seen a triple in the demand of psychiatrists.  It is impossible to determine how much damage was caused by the inappropriate jokes or tasteless movie quotes, but the results have been devastating.  The second invasion will include two more offspring of the Kingston man (along with two unrelated, but equally insane, counterparts to the spawn) I interviewed average citizens on the streets of Spain, they had the following reactions:  42% demanded the government start evacuations of the areas that would be hardest hit, 23% ran screaming from the scene, 33% had a PTSD flashback and curled into a ball, and the remaining two percent backed away muttering 'No, no, can't be, they're... they're just a myth.'
Yes, my family is coming to Spain and I'm feeling giddy and energized, along with a few other symptoms that come along with high doses of illicit substances.  I have been preparing for this visit by buffing up on my Spanish because as far as I know my family's collective Spanish has yet to expand past several key phrases, such as, 'Where is the beer?'  'What types of beer do you have?'  'We would like another round of beer.'  'Yes, the liter glasses please.'  'I have once again clogged your toilet.'  Although in theory that is enough Spanish for them to survive one tends to forget that even with all that vocab they would still be unable to purchase gin or rum. 
My family's visit is not the only activity I have planned for the second half of April.  I will be in Madrid two days before my parents arrive to celebrate the birthday of a friend.  Then after my family leaves I come back to San Sebastian to relax for a few days before my host city will be invaded by a gang only slightly less insane than my parents, Rotary exchange students.  However these 'students' have been present in Spain for seven months so hopefully a natural defense has had time to develop enough to protect the city from the potent form of insanity that will build exponentially for every exchanger added. 
Less than a week separates me from that band of socially taboo lunatics, and I could not be happier.  When you grow up in a family where absolutely everything is open to discussion (from political views, to sexuality, to symptoms of a current disease you might have) it becomes the norm.  Sure it can lead to some situations of TMI (Too Much Information, for those of you not in the texting generation), but I would rather have that than being left in the dark.  Sure my dad doesn't need to know who won the blood donation race between me and mom, just like I don't need to know about the three way battle between his lower intestine, the indoor plumbing, and the Mexican food.  However, I've gotten so used to saying whatever come to mind that living any other way is taxing, just all these unused thoughts bouncing around in my head.
So attention Spain, the Kingstons may cure shame, misunderstandings, awkwardness, shyness, and sobriety.  Side effects may include, Bridge, Boratism, and spontaneous combustion of your dysfunctional man parts.  So prepare yourself, it's gonna be a party.

Italy pt. 5

I'm cursed with barely being able to control my stream of thoughts and thus end up rambling endlessly about topics that might have very little to do with what I'm actually writing about.  So now I'm going to try and cover four days in one post, readers should probably take a break half-way through so as to not become suicidal.
After the camping we visited two villages in Tuscany on our way to Rome.  Now things like 'Geography' or 'facts' may prove that there is no possible way we drove through Tuscany on our way to Rome, but I'm just calling it how my fuzzy memory remembers it.  My diary isn't much help because the guy writing it is mentally unstable from what I can tell, or just has a serious case of ADD, either way I can't rely on that either.  So.  Tuscany was nice, although I wanted to experience it differently than most of my friends.  I wanted to take the wander around and explore route, while they preferred the sit down and take pictures of attractive strangers route.  Seriously, whenever I think I'm the creepiest of creepers someone else takes it to a whole different level.  Although I did enjoy listening to the birds and contemplating the landscape I hoped that the Basques would be more active when we got to Rome, and they were, although not by choice.  You see in Rome when you sit down the Italians do not understand it as 'I am tired and need to rest,' but rather 'Please harass me.'  Do you have half a dozen pamphlets in your hand already?  No problem, you don't have this fucking pamphlet, it's so much better than those fucking pamphlets, you can tell the food at this restaurant is of higher quality because of the mother fucking font we use, and if you try and ignore us we'll just swear at you more. 
In Rome we stayed in Idea Hotel.  It had a beautiful design, comfortable rooms, and a great breakfast buffet (although our standards weren't exactly high after the plain cereal and coffee of the camping).  In fact it was so aesthetically pleasing that the owners must have decided that maintenance would just be silly, half the lights were burnt out, several showers had cold water or colder water, and many hairdryers were broken.  Luckily I'm a good person so I was not punished with stepping into an ice shower, but one of my roommates must have done something to anger the maintenance staff gods because we had to pass the nights by reading lamp light or bathroom light.  Now for a run down of the places we saw.  As a group we visited an ancient Roman market.  It was a multiple story, open air, well protected, collection of beautiful edifices.  If modern farmer's markets were like that one I think they would get a lot more business, there were great views of the city and a comfortable feeling as if the Roman's wanted to say, 'Yeah we built this place because it suits our needs, it was not meant to be extravagant or anything, but it gets the job done,'  and they would tell us that in a completely not douchebaggy tone. 

Also many more dark corners to play hide the organic hotdog in the whole grain taco shell

The next day we visited the Colosseum.  It was impressive, although it is one of the structures that a person sees so many times in their life time before actually visiting it there is a loss of pure shock at the grandeur.  It is replaced by shock at all the ways they extort money out of tourists.  Besides gift shops and photos with gladiators there are secret rules, like how your entrance fee only allows you to visit two levels of the four floor structure.  Some people want to go to the basement, which would be cool, you get to imagine the pants-soiling fear the gladiators faced without actually having to fight a jungle cat with a piece of folded metal.  Almost everyone wants to go to the third floor which is where you get the best views, but here's the catch.  You enter at ground level, you have no choice, then you climb the stairs, to the second floor, then you encounter the typical working Italian who needs to fill his daily quota of ripping off tourists for the day (Americans count double) and explains even though you did not want to see the ground floor you technically set foot there and therefore have to pay an extra fee to go higher.  You then imagine yourself kicking him in the balls and running up the stairs to experience five seconds of great view before getting tazered, Itlaian style (read: Italian taser=baseball bat to knee caps). 

Later we went to the Vatican.  I'm not a fan of the 'great' classical artists, mainly because they all look the same.  Same style, same subjects, same themes, ugh.  Also not a fan of religion, I don't mind it, but it's sort of tough to avoid sometimes.  Quick side track into why I'm an atheist because I've had to talk about religion a lot while talking about Rome.  It's not science, or what can be proven and what can't, or any of that.  It's for the morality.  Religions all seem to say, be faithful, be a good person, and make lots of babies so they can all be good and faithful whatevers.  If the world slowly gets worse and worse don't worry about it there is totally a plan behind everything.  Heaven will always be waiting for the faithful.  But for me, if I ever want to see heaven I have to make it here on Earth.  How will I be comforted as an old man knowing nothing is waiting for me (or some sort of hell/underworld at best), I will be comforted by being able to look at the world and say humanity, and the planet as a whole, is better off because I made some positive changes.  There is no plan (according to me, please don't take any offense) so we are making it up as we go, and so far we've made a steaming pile of pollution and war.  So that's why I plan on changing the world in a major way.  So, in a totally selfish act to ensure my own happiness, I would like to take this opportunity to announce my candidacy for president... in a few years, and as far as I can see I've got a fairly strong base in Fairport NY, Ontario Canada, and San Sebastian Spain.  So I can work the international angle.  Back on track.  In the end I found the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel cliched even though they were probably the originals (I'm not so good with history).  The Chapel did not even compare to some of the other huge ass churches I've seen.  Anyways time to move towards a subject less likely to get my house firebombed, so basically anything but religion.  Dead people.  Specifically dead Popes, but I won't be talking about them.
On our last day, before going to the airport, we went to a cemetery.  Well actually a crypt.  Or perhaps it was just a labyrinth of terrors that someone decided to fill with bodies to brighten the place up a little.  Normally I'm the exploring type of person, most of the time like breaking away from the group to go explore on my own and get a different perspective than the average tourist receives.  However, most of the time my tourist groups do not visit zombie dungeons.  Normally I'm all for fighting the living dead, there is no foe with less compassion generating power, but when I imagine myself destroying hoards of zombies I'm not trapped in an underground, under-lit, rock maze.  The caverns were amazing and we had a great guide (a chubby Spanish guy), I just had no desire to see anything he did not want us to see.  He did tell us stories about kids getting lost and starving to death, but I'm sure those were just made up stories to keep the kids from wandering off and getting torn apart by skeletons. 

After we re-surfaced it was off to the airport where we boarded a plane back home.  Kind of.  It was a strange experience for me, going from a double foreigner to just a regular foreigner again.  The calm that comes from returning to normal life, but not exactly.  It has me thinking about going back to the U.S, my original home, a land a slushy winters and slushy springs, followed by boiling hot summers before a slushy fall.  I've been here for seven months and would be comfortable in saying that I'm at home here, but I'm also at home in Rochester.  I'm not going to tear apart security by saying that home doesn't exist, but rather that no matter what differences we try to imagine about different peoples and different cultures, home can be anywhere you want it to be.  We owe it to ourselves to not judge people based on color, gender, or religion, or would you rather that your only home be the city you grew up in?  I will be using this new philosophy to my advantage.  Tell girls, 'You wanna come back to my home baby?'  She'll think 'Oh he has a home here, he must be doing well.'  Take her to a public park, 'Planet Earth is my home.'  'Oh he's sensitive and sweet.'  Then we could sit quietly a foot apart so as to not break any of the Rotary rules.  What, you were expecting a different ending?  Can't break Rotary rules for another two and a half months, also the girl is imaginary, real ones don't like getting lied to like that. 

 

So that concludes my Italy trip.  I left home to return home where I have April, May, and June before I go back home.

Italy pt. 4

From Venice we traveled to that other Italian city with those things with the people, and that stuff.  Yeah, there.  The city was actually Florence, although we would not have known because we went to what the Spaniards called a 'camping.'  As in, 'Hey Joe, would you like to go do a camping with me,'  'Haha, honestly Mark, I'd rather gauge my eyes out than spend one entire night have to look at your poor man's excuse for a face.'  I am not a fan of camping (or doing campings, as it were), you see I love nature but I also think that humans live in houses for a reason.  I am perfectly fine with observing animals for an afternoon or taking a full day trek through a forest/mountain, but at the end of said day I like to go home, sleep in a bed, take a hot shower, not contract malaria, eat a non-mac'n'cheese based meal, you know, the benefits of civilization.  Now for the other side of the argument.  I want forests to stay large and relatively human free, day time excursions and national geographic employees excluded.  I personally don't mind having animals in my back yard, but there are some people who would take the offense of intrusion on their land to shoot that creature in the brain cavity.  And that's just for wandering around and being lost.  Now you want to go and stay on an animal's home turf for weeks at a time with no expected consequences?  I'm just saying if you want to go camping you should be ready for a little extra mauling to death with bear claws than you are used to.  So now your problem is that both the 'arguements' I presented was that they were both supporting my theory?  Well in that case you can set up your own blog talking about all the fun, dysentery-filled, adventures of staying in the wilderness which I won't read because I've already made up my mind. 
Admittedly the camp ground in Florence was better than I expected because we stayed in trailer homes, had hot water, and enjoyed a heating system.  However, for what the site lacked in 'actual camping' it made up for in 'being creepy as all hell.'  The general vibe of the location made me expect expect a mix of killers wearing hockey masks and armed rednecks, but back to the positives, like the heating system.  At least 'heating system' was how the owner played it up, I would more describe it as giant, wall mounted, hand dryer that shuts off in the middle of the night.  I like going to bed cold and waking up warm, normally I have to compromise, one or the other, this time I got a middle finger and a kick to the balls.  We went to bed hot, but after the heat shut off I would have to start putting on clothes, starting with a shirt and ending with a second pair of socks.  My petition to set up the cabins boy girl boy girl to make cuddling and preserving body heat less awkward was shot down.  The boy I was stuck with did not appreciate my advances either.  So we froze through the night and had a breakfast of cold cereal (choice of cornflakes with milk, or cornflakes without milk)  and coffee, because all you really need to get the day started is drugs, right?  Folgers, keeping your hands from trembling until the last drop.  We then took a walk.

Italy's nature walk

And waited for a bus for an hour.  But I can firmly say that after catching the bus the day was amazing.

Yeah, they build houses on their bridges.  Just because.

Sure we walked around some streets for a while or did something like that, but then we did this.

Inside a Cupola

On top of the Cupola

I could literally have just filled this page with pictures from the top of the cupola.  When we finished with the church there was still half a day before we had to return to Camp Crystal Lake in Deliverance country, so we went to Pisa.  Wait how could we cover Pisa, known world wide for its tower, in half a day?  Well if you've been to Pisa you've seen how it has the tower.  And then maybe you've seen how it has a few restaurants if you were forced to stay for a meal.  The Pasta I had was actually quite good, while the tower I saw was slightly puny.  What I expected was an Empires State building in a gallant fight against gravity, while in reality it is an over sized column on poor foundation.  Most people take pictures of themselves holding it up, in mine I'm pushing it over.

Italy pt. 3

So after a heaping helping of rain and lunacy we headed to our hotel where we were informed that we were to be in our rooms by midnight.  They decided to enforce this rule by patrolling the halls after 11:30 and ordering anyone who was out of their room back inside.  You see the teachers believed the trip was intended to be educational and fun, kids know that this combination is rare and has been achieved only a few times in history (Bill Nye the Science Guy and Dr. Suess being some notable examples).  So our opinion of the trip was that we were supposed to have fun by doing whatever the hell we felt like, and that meant hanging out with friends in other rooms after midnight.  So what's the solution?  Talk to the teachers?  Wait till the next day?  Run across the roof while smoking cigarettes and jumping into second story windows?  If you answered number three, you're right!  The teachers however thought that this was uncalled for and had a meeting with us in the morning to reasonably lay out the rules and tell us that our action was a little over the top, but somewhere along the planning stage and the delivery stage something went wrong,  'What the fuck do you think you guys were doing last night?!  I caught a girl running across the roof and I have a good mind to send her home!  You're all a bunch of god damn hypocrites!  You want to be treated like adults but you act like fucking children!'  Yeah, they're a little more liberal with curse words here.  Indeed the teachers almost elected to go the 'third-world dictator route,' if people disobey your rules don't reconsider policy, eliminate the infidels.  Luckily it turned out that he simply had not had his coffee that morning, the rest of the trip the teachers were relatively calm (and no one got sent home). 
That day we went to Venice, an entire city designed on the Italian dream, take money from people who don't speak Italian.  Not there is anything wrong with that, everyone was incredibly happy to be ripped off at every corner because it was freaking Venice.  This city fulfilled all my misconceptions about Italy while being incredibly beautiful.  We visited a royal palace where paintings covered walls and ceilings to the point where you could not look anywhere without being bombarded by the royal family involved in Jesus-y scenes.  Our teacher explained that it was old school propaganda, they did not have the fast talking, beautiful bearded, Billy Mayes types back then, so they had to rely on artists.  The artists then painted members of the royal family in classic religious scenes proving once and for all that the king was divinely selected.  No way to argue with that logic.  If you can't trust an ad man, being paid in gold, who fears for his life if he disobeys orders... I forgot where I was going with that, but anyways the view was that they were pretty darn reliable.  The only problem I saw with this form of brainwashing your collective subjects was that unless there were guided tours of the palace (Royalty usually isn't too keen on that idea), then you only get to screw with your children's world view, and sure they might believe they're divinity but for some reason that doesn't help public opinion. 
The rest of the day we were free to walk around the river community, that I still think should be inhabited by elves, and find dinner while getting completely lost.  We also took a Gondola ride around the rivers that traverse the city during which our driver (gondolier? boat dude?) spouted off a few facts about the city while singing, no joke, Katy Perry.  The only fact I remember is that there were 152 churches in Venice and could not help but wondering if that automatically cancelled out sin on a city wide scale.  On our little circle around the block we came to many buildings that appeared to only be accessible from water illustrating one of approximately two benefits of a city built around rivers.  Don't get me wrong I loved Venice, it was beautiful and very few motorboats made it incredibly peaceful, it was nice having a break from automobiles for a while.

Did I mention really really beautiful

However, water is a substance amazingly easy to pollute and hard to clean.  Getting around was inefficient and slow.  Every vehicle was in a continual state of rot or rust due to constant exposure to water.

Or at least 36% water, urine levels unknown

On the plus side, many stupid tourists to take money from.  The Basques did not seem to go into the situation with the same mindset I did.  I knew the people of Venice were going to have no respect for us, we're like prostitutes to them, we get what we pay for, then we get the hell out of the way.  So I, in turn, set my standards to low.  For example, while my friends were complaining that a certain waiter was impolite I was just happy he did not stab me in the temple with an ice pick.  It's all about perspective. 
The next day we went back to Venice this time we took a boat bus all around the city and saw every water side neighbor hood for all its beauty.  I know I'm sounding a little repetitive with my adjective choice but there really isn't another word to describe it.

Lovely, doesn't that just sound too British and sarcastic?

But it really is worth it, if you're a world traveler Venice is one city you can't pass by.

Italy pt. 2

Okay, so we did not start the trip by going directly to Italy, instead we started in France.  Well actually we started in the school parking lot at seven in the morning before piling onto a bus where I witnessed, once again, one of the most annoying traits Basque people have.  The Separation.  Boys lined up at the second door, girls at the first, the bus was perfectly divided into front and back based on gender.  The only reasoning I received for this phenomenon was, 'But dude, they're like, girls.'  Yes, anonymous surfer talking boy, they happen to have different parts than you and me, but last I heard one of those parts was not a cooties gland or a stinger or six inch claws.  I'm pretty sure we can sit next to them and talk.  The other boys were not so sure, besides one couple (who sat right on the 38th parallel) the boys sang and shouted from the back of the bus while the girls sat in the front and most likely worked on ways to import enough Australian men to go around.  Later in the trip when the buses became progressively more cramped some were forced to sit away from their genders a fact which I exploited early on by intentionally not getting a seat in the back.  That may sound a little creepy at first, me trying to get forced to sit next to a girl, but sometimes it takes a little creeping to change a social norm, or at least to get to know some new god damn people.  Unfortunately the girls had planned for this eventuality and closed their ranks.  I got a seat next to one of the teachers, when the teacher saw me he promptly filled the chair next to mine with a bag and jackets before going to sit on a little pull out seat next to the driver.  On the plus side I could cut my wrists without interruption.  On later bus rides I did manage to sit next to a variety of people and tried my hardest to get to know them, but how tempting is it to sit next to and presumably talk with a stupid American who can't even conjugate hypotheticals correctly?  The answer is slightly more than being strapped to the back of the bus by the wrists.  So I got to sit next to people!  although there were some who clearly considered the concrete skiing alternative. 
When we descended the bus stairs we were in Bordeaux, a beautiful French city with numerous enjoyable locations to visit.  Like that street we were walking down.  Also a McDonalds.  Local artwork manifested itself in the form of graffiti, and a strict plan to preserve the past by steadfastly refusing to fix potholes in historic ten year old asphalt and concrete.  However our time was limited and we couldn't experience the natural wonders of the approximately eight trees the city cared for and we were soon off to the airport to really begin our adventure in Italy.  We started in Milan, a city that struck me as European but not entirely Italian.  Although that's probably because I assumed most Italian cities were full of rivers and gladiators, unfortunately they are not.  On the other hand we saw an amazing church, the second largest one in Europe, when I asked if the architect was compensating for anything no one understood what I meant and I died a little inside as my penis joke when unappreciated.  Although not being a Christian (or anything else for that matter) I estimate I have seen around eight quadrillion churches in my life time, just because they're freaking everywhere.  So I found another building much more interesting, it was sort of like a combination of a modern mall and the great columned structures of ancient times.  As an added benefit it was also covered in Christmas colors, red, snow, and green. 
That night I had a great meal, one third of a pizza and a calzone that I'm sure weighed more than some infants.  The pizza was covered in spicysalami (pepperoni) which brought a nostalgic tear to my eye and a tear of searing pain to my friends' eyes.  They can't even handle slightly spiced pig here, I'm not sure how I've survived for so long, but I do know that when back in the states we have family friends from all over the spice loving world, and I will be paying them a visit.  The next morning we walked around Milan some more before loading onto the bus, this was the day I sat up front with the teachers as well as the day I was able to observe the bus driver in action.  When a human being is talking while driving the danger is drastically increased.  When an Italian is talking while driving you should have your will prepared.  You see, when a normal person talks they move their lips, tongues, and voice cords or some internal gross thing like that.  Italians need to make eye contact and hand motions, they will swivel their head (away from the road) to face you while making elaborate gestures (the steering wheel can handle itself), and here's the kicker, this is for a normal conversation.  I'm not talking about during rush hour or in a road rage induced fury or even when they're so hammered/hyped on jeagerbombs that pulling a wheelie in a crowded rotunda seems like not such a bad idea, because Italians would not need the alcohol or the caffeine.
After suffering a minor heart attack on the bus we disembarked in Verona where we encountered pouring rain.  Walking from store to store looking for a good place to grab some dinner we eventually found a little shop with some nice menus (menus are when you pay a set price for a meal, side dish, and drink).  We were thinking about moving on when a man sitting outside smoking heard us speaking Spanish and jumped into the conversation.  He was thin and tall, with a face styled off of a movie villian who spends all his time underground, a scarf over his head and some rotten teeth nicely complimented the vibe he already had going on.  When he heard we were from Basque country he started speaking some Basque.  Not just Basque, but the Basque that was from San Sebastian.  For an American equivalent that would be like telling someone your from the States and he/she starts speaking English, then you tell him your Native American and he starts speaking your tribes language.  He invited us in for something to eat and a chess game, we were cautious at first given that his appearce told us he was after the stage of losing his hair and before the stage of calling a ring 'precious' and eating raw fish.  But then he told us he was Polish, to which we all breathed a sigh of relief, snapped our fingers in recognition, and nodded our heads knowingly, he was not Golum, he was Polish.  We went inside and commenced a five on one game of chess against a man who spoke four languages and rattled off facts and opinions about Basque Country and Spain that I think some of my friends were not even aware of.  Although to be fair, given what we learned later, he might have just been rambling off bullshit, although he did say that it was horrible how some people thought that anyone from Basque Country was a terrorist.  Clearly expressing an opinion against racistly(yeah I made that word up) judging people.  When it finally came out that I was American he directed me to his girlfriend who spoke English who was sitting in the outside room and suggested I keep her company.  I obliged and had a wonderful conversation that included stories of when she used play music as a street performer and her old husband was a love interest of Arte Garfunkel.  It is a complicated story and not my own, so I will not tell it.  What I will say is that when I tried to rejoin the chess game, because the woman had gone outside to smoke (and presumably for some privacy), her boyfriend told me to join her and stop bugging them.  I took it as a joke (wrong) but went outside anyways and talked more about how the couple has two kids, speaks five languages between them, and are still street performers.  I was confused, but when the chess game finished and it was time to leave my friends taught me why they were not higher up in the establishment.  Namely, the man was crazier than a coked up gorilla in heat.  He had participated in multiple rallies supporting terrorist organizations, told my friends that I was a terrorist because I came from the U.S, and had been deported from his home country.  The lesson, it doesn't matter how smart a person is, they can still be insane.  Insert picture of Dick Cheney here.

Italy

I am fully rested after the eight day trip around Italy, for which I am embarrassed.  When I came back from Portugal my host parents, although being very nice, could not hide the surprise and fear they felt when I first walked back in the door.  Over that trip I had walked uncountable kilometers and gotten an average of four or five hours of sleep per night, in short, I lived it up when I was supposed to be living it up.  In Italy I don't believe there was a single night when I was asleep for less than seven hours.  Bed time was 11:30 every night, so I'll skip over the night life of Italy, because I have no idea what it's like, I did however get a heaping helping of the day to day life that is living in a world full of hit men, con-artists, and other mafia related professions, so just Italians in generally really.
I say hit men because there is absolutely no reason to drive like the Italian people do unless your goal is physical damage inflicted upon whoever happens to be in your path.  I thought driving in Spain was crazy, and it is, but if an Italian heard me say that he would laugh and run me over for comparing him to a people who have less crazy in their terrorist organizations than he does under the hood of his Ferrari.  Sidewalks are considered legitimate parking spaces, people blow past red lights, and mopeds drive through gaps in pedestrian foot traffic , but that's pretty standard as far as crazy goes.  No, I'm talking about details like three lane roads with zero markings on them, cross walk lights that turn green and are red before you reach the other side, and other conflicts on the road that made me feel like I was back in Sri Lanka.  Also it would be entirely understandable to assume that fifty percent of all Italian traffic is people in road rage chasing one another, hell we even got yelled and cursed at by drivers, and we were on the sidewalks.  Bands of aggressive mopeds roamed the streets which to me seemed incredibly ridiculous.  A band of Harelys are threatening because the people on them are covered in tattoos, are most likely armed, and have that 'I don't care if I go back to jail, if you scuff my boot I will stab you' attitude about them.  Meanwhile those on scooters, with their perfect posture, might start off with a harsh confrontation if you anger them but would most likely invite you out for vegan coffee before the end of the day. 
Another paragraph on something general in Italy before I get down to the specifics.  There are people trying to take your money at every corner.  I don't mean in a mugger, beat you up, sort of way, more in a sleazy, used-car dealer sort of way.  'You want cheap knock off bags, we got cheap knock off bags, how about balls that splat but reform back into balls, maybe some play dough that you can shape like a certain male organ, none of that, well then how about I just tie this piece of string on your wrist, gift straight from my fatherland, looks good don't it, now you going to pay me mother fucker?'  Oh silly locals and or immigrants, please don't stab me when I turn around.  On the plus side we were never offered any drugs, except for twice, and even then it was only marijuana except for when it was cocaine. 
The food was hit and miss.  With such a huge population of tourists who have no idea how to choose a decent restaurant many cheap crap slinging joints are all over the place.  I will give myself a little bit of praise (even though I deserve more) on the point of food for where I choose to eat.  I'm not saying I chose well, but I took chances, only one time did I eat at a Hard Rock Cafe.  This is in comparison with some people who had Hard Rock three times and McDonalds upwards of six times.  In Italy.  Seriously.  I can understand because no of our meals were covered (I spent at least €150 on food alone), but then again, really? 
So now you have some background on what will be in the posts to come, I'll try and put them up quickly because April 12th or so I'm off to Madrid.  Birthday party followed by a trip with my family, I can hardly wait, San Sebastian just seems to love raining on me, literally.  Every time I come back here the storms come in force, but if that's how my city is going to play it fine, I'll just run away, Madrid gives me sun whenever I want, I never liked your stupid beaches anyways... (I know that in a week it will seduce me back with promises that now that winter is over it will leave precipitation for good, for real this time, not another drop will touch these shores, and maybe this time it will be telling the truth)

Portugal pt.5

The idea that our journey will soon be over is starting to cloud the thoughts of our exchange group.  What will it be like having to leave all these new friends?  Can we see each other again in the future?  How has our emotional maturity been affected and what will that mean for not only the new relationships we have formed but old friends waiting for us in the States?  To deal with these feelings we learned how ancient peoples handled similar situations of fear and unbelonging, violence and bloodshed.  Seems reasonable.  Day number eight and our group goes to Merida to study a Roman Colosseum.  Sometimes POW's who were stuck in a country not their own, other times the poor who just wanted to be accepted by their community, and usually animals, that had no idea what the hell was going on.  But talking about emotions and acceptance is for 21st century pussies.  If someone did not accept you in the first century you killed them in the face. 

Not pictured: Prime first date location for first century girlfriend

We were led into the holding cells where gladiators would have to wait and listen to the crowd cheer and boo while friends fought to the death.  Then we were led to the main ring where warriors would try and take down lions with little more than modern day kitchen ware.  Sometimes the ring was flooded and filled with crocodiles so that the fighters could enjoy a nice boat ride before stabbing one another in the loins.  Some people were amazed and disgusted that one of the most civilized cultures of the past was so violent, I was not.  There has been only been one change between then and now, special effects and video games.  Those who argue that video games cause violence have not studied history or playground behavior.  Watch almost any group of five year old boys none of whom have every seen an action film or shot a zombie, they will be playing something along the lines of imitate violence, until someone gets hurt, then it turns into tears, or real violence.  Then they go to high school and learn to smash each others' heads around with rules, this time calling it sports, I'm looking at you MMA.  What about the more sensitive people, those with problems that could not be solved by gore, the people who wanted the subtleties of their emotions explored, women.  Where could they go to deal with the difficult life questions?  To the theater of course, where when someone dies it is usually supposed to be sad, because they have a back story and a family and other stupid human traits like that. 

There's a pillow fight backstage

The structure was steep and designed specifically for bouncing one's voice all over the place so even a normal conversation could be heard all around.  In order to demonstrate a pair of Rotary students were selected to perform on stage while the main group sat in the nosebleed section.  Unfortunately the demonstration was to be singing and not screaming obscenities so, once again, my talent went undiscovered.  Fortunately the acoustics were amazing and the pair of voices were heard perfectly all through the stands.  Moments like that make me wish I wasn't so tone deaf that someone could beat to death with a tuning fork and I would never hit an actual note, but the songs were pretty anyways.  We then explored some other old Roman architecture, but in all honesty it is tough to top the image of gladiators getting eaten by exotic beasts while hearing opera belted in the background.  We end the day by taking a relaxing and reflexive walk around the city.
Waking on the final day was a strange feeling, the guide leading us around Salamanca really had no chance to get our attention.  Yes, the city was beautiful, and yes, we bought some souvenirs, but it was all over-shadowed by the fact that it was merely a stop on our way back to Madrid and going home.  That evening we gave our Rotary chaperons and bus driver gifts that we had picked up along the way.  Cards, with all of our names, and a fine bottle of wine for each one.  When we surrounded their dinner table with the wine bottles I believe the chaperons were confused and worried, for all they knew we were planning to get wasted right in front of them and tear up the dining room in classic rock star fashion.  But when the word gifts came out the chaperons were still confused, although less worried.  I believe that they have come to accept that teenagers are about as considerate as raccoons, we'll take all you have to offer, tear up your house, and mess up your garbage, but on the nice side, we usually won't kill you.  Unless we're rabid.
The next morning we said tearful goodbyes over Starbucks and Taco Bell.  Although a fan of neither, except for the occasional frozen caramel chocolate with just a touch of coffeechino, I followed hoping to spend my last hours in Madrid with friends.  On the return to San Sebastian I had a strange moment, almost as if I, as a male, felt emotions.  Weird, I know.  Anyways, tomorrow I'm off to Italy, readers can be bombarded with another storm of travel tips that will most likely get you deported.