It´s a warm day and Huckleberry has returned from his paseo tracing the circumference that limits the city of Cáceres. Except for las Minas, of course. The museum of the House of Guayasamin has cherry trees already blossoming outside. Pretty soon, the long awaited trip to honor Polly could finally be checked off that Spain-To-Do list before he sets foot back in the homeland. The old jewish quarter of La Parte Antigua in Cáceres is looking all plump with pots of spring loving flowers and tenacious succulents trying not to offend the prickly cacti who don´t need to be touched, thank you very much. Barrio San Antonio (The Jewish Quarter) has some of the best angles, staircases, slim corners, tiered housing and kittens the old town has to offer and today everything there was looking pretty sharp.

At the height of heat the city reached about 19 degrees celcius. Not bad for a time of year when he would normally be shedding off cabin fever. The absence of rainy weather has made today a day to search for one thing: the ripest mango in the city.

Huck´s grand mango tour of the city brought new bars, restaurants, shops and stores into his catalog. By time he leaves this place, he very well may know it better than the back of his handy dandy town map.

After picking up the cod he would need for dinner, the clouds opened and God spoke: ARTHUR…

Huck told him that he had the wrong guy, but maybe while he was in town he could lend little Huckleberry a hand on his quest for the ripest mango. Then there shone a light over la Ruta de la Plata, shining down upon the grocers laying in abundant wait. Huck thanked Don Bigote in the sky and made way towards his sugary, fleshy, sweet, and undeniably juicy future.

There it was, in his hands, checking out at the register.

There it was, in his hands, easily giving in to the bladed persuasion of his hunger.

There it was, in his hands, a complete mess of delicious mango flesh.

How ever would he practice guitar with these mango juice covered fingers? In about two weeks he would be participating in a day festival put on by the school. Sing some Gillian Welch, sing some CCR, sing some Wood Brothers. Just a lil´singing. But, the mango conquest put practice on hold. The rest of the year is pretty much booked up, like his sticky hands, and cleaning up after it all will likely be an awkward experience.

For example, getting used to politically correct language. That could get dicey. Meanwhile, getting used to not being talked to like an illiterate and undereducated swine will probably feel like the limit of a bungie cord before it retreats back towards the bridge whence he came, having jumped straight into the heartland of Spain.

There will be many, many positively and negatively perceived changes, but today

Today

today there would be no change like that, just a gin martini and the quiet night hushing up the traffic of scooters, motorcycles, and parked in neighbors honking in hopes that someone – somewhere – is listening to their prayers. Worry not, young one, they have not fallen on deaf ears. But you´ll have to lay off the horn if you want me to have any ears left to hear you with the next time you forget your keys and I have to let you in, or to hear you speak when I go door to door in the apartment building to return said pair of keys to whomever left them in the lock outside. Yes, these ears, these lovely ears my friend.

The ability to have a beer midday during siesta and not been seen as an alcoholic has come easy but it could go hard; and the expectation of having coffee at six at night hits all the right addiction buttons even though its not necessarily a past time with its finger on the pulse.

What were the hard things this fall? Spanish. Spanish was hard. How was it now? While he certainly wasn´t bilingual, there was definitely some improvement. What was hard about winter? Rain. It was pretty much gone now, leaving him no reason to complain on that front. What would be hard about spring? Spring was pretty much booked up until the end. A trip to France, a trip to la Valle de Jerte, a trip to the boonies to see where his friends grew up, a trip to Sevilla for the Fair of April. A world music festival. A patron saint day. A city fair. A monastery to witness at the wee hours of the morning under the stars. A bunch of stuff to get from point A to point thousands of miles away. A ribbon wrapped package of sweet farewells and packing price tag removed hellos. Ceremony music to learn for an important wedding. One giant and difficult masterpiece to finish reading before hitting up the next volume. Songs to sing. Letters to write. Words to forget and a return to Art in all of its glorious manifestations.

That would be, perhaps, the hardest thing about Spring as nearly everything that has happened here has ocurred in an artless void. But, we´ll see. One never knows what curve balls will come their way.

So, decisions decisions.

For examplettes, two things: a grouping of things Huck feels For and Against Spain when its at its best and worst…starting with the worst, and ending with the best.

First, things that Spain and Huck don´t have in common, a short letter:

“G´Day Spain,

Hey, we should probably talk. If you let me get through the difficult things to say there will be plenty of ice cream and cake later. Sound good?

Spain, you and I don´t got a common tongue.

I´m a morning person, you in no way have anything whatsoever to do with the morning.

I like flamenco, you don´t. You have, in fact, disowned flamenco a long time ago.

I´m generally politically correct and actually enjoy not being an asshole even when it seems like someone deserves a kick in the groin. Here, I´ve had to settle with the fact that blatant barbarism is a norm, and you simply don´t care. I don´t give into calling you classist, fascist, racist, or sexist – so please don´t ask me, “but, I can say Ni%$·r, right?” No, no you can´t. Go sit in the corner and think about your megolomania.

You really like your daily dose of penis and vagina jokes. I haven´t not laughed so hard since elementary school when I first started looking around in bewilderment, wondering if I was missing an extra chromosome.

I generally prefer quality above quantity. If you want foreigners to stop abusing your undeniably beautiful country as a tourist-party/let´s-get-wasteland, the onus is on you to get your shit together and earn respect. A little self respect will help that, too.

I like to eat delicious things. You are infatuated with french fries.

You like to drink beer. Me too! Wait, what? So we just pound these? Ah, I see. By the way what are we talking about? I got so distracted I almost got bored.

You talk about someone as “liking to be different” as if individuality was a vice. I talk about people as being different.

I grew up in a house where my parents shared equal power. I remember them yelling at each other in the house ONCE in my 25 years of blessed life. My role models didn´t constantly compete to be the alpha dog, cat, teddy bear, or perhaps sunbathing penguin. With you Spain, too often I grow weary of conversations with both men and women trying to prove (to themselves mostly) that they are the top dog and by doing so merely proving how much more of a dick they really are. Sorry, I don´t give a hooten holler.

Also, you and I don´t really speak the same language of coffee – my holy ambrosia, the orpheus bowl elixir, the miraculous wine of the last supper.

Now, for the best parts, the things that make me feel high with puppy love in this great country.

On the exact opposite side of the spectrum, I have met some excellent people who I gladly treat as a top dog, cat, or what have you for the following reasons: they have high standards, they do rather than complain, they aren´t complete dicks, they´re inquisitive, they have passion about at least something other than their ego, and last but not least they consistently show respect for others. These individuals, I treasure. Some of them are acquaintances, some are friends off the street, some are friends from the program, some are students, and some are friends that are colleagues. Now, What do these criteria have to do with Spain? Don´t they apply Everywhere? Most absolutely, Dear Reader, and they are currently relevent to Spain because it is not exempt from being a part of Everywhere.

Spain, something that I´ve realllllly dug about you is that people have often reached out to help. In both big and small ways, you keep coming around to lend a hand. Yeah, it´s kinda weird that everyone knows everyone meaning erbody know whatcha been up to but you´ve been supportive in times of need. That my friend, Spain, is one of your best qualities. On the twisted, distorted flip side of quantitiy over quality, I must say there are definitely times when your Generosity goes noticed. I can dig that.

Let´s get down to brass tax, and cut to the chase or perhaps cut open the oven baked liquidy cheese to spread the wealth around with your bluntness. Spain, the only place more rudely-bluntly-friendly to strangers is NYC. On one hand, it took me quite some time to readjust to the seeming lack of formality(politeness), but at this point I just don´t care, and neither do you. It´s kinda nice. Yeah, its a new version of an old Niceness that doesn´t take long to appreciate. Now, nothing personal, but get outta the way, I´m walkin´ here.

Maybe we don´t have a common tongue, but I think we´ve had some fun in this language exchange. In some ways my spanish isn´t nearly what it was four years ago – in other ways its a lot better. Further, I´ve highly enjoyed helping out some of your citizens in their quest to learn the English language. It´s a difficult process for you, but the actual conversation-auxiliar work that I have done so far will definitely be one of my best memories from this year.

Spain, you´ve taught me some things. Yeah, quite a few. But don´t get cocky, you´ve got a lot more work to go. Understood? But, really, I´m quite appreciative of what I´ve learned here thus far.

Have I mentioned, Spain, that I´ve met amazing people here? Yeah, there have been some D-Bags of grotesque proportions, but some of my favorite people in the world I´ve met right here.

Might I add that this year has offered me the ability to reunite with friends I made long ago – for which I will forever be thankful, and from which I have grown immensely.

Lastly, this year this spring within this month pretty soon you will offer me the chance to try on a new and strange role. I´ve been a student, a mentor, a cook, a server, a snooty barista, an extremely bored yet eccentricly costumed partygoer, a dreadlocked eagle eyed Granaíno, a master of haphazard paintings, a half-baked scholar (I always wished that role was more thoroughly baked), an asshole nephew, a not appreciative enough grandson, a play-for-free musician, a paid artist, a tuxedo chap, a would you like paper or plastic?, a Lake Mendota bum, a capitol-protest-rotunda-overnighter, a liar, a lose-controler, an auxiliar, and now I have this new hat to try on.

From now on, I´m sure having to work with grief for various people dying at various stages of life for various reasons will only become more common. Last year, I promised you, upon her suicide, that we´re gonna have a moment with the cherry blossoms of Jerte. Yes, in many ways its an event for me to check up on how things are progressing, and in other ways a moment to allow myself to just let tears fall in the presence of that ultimate symbol of intensely colorful but ephemeral beauty. It will be a moment to reflect on her death and reflect on my life of which I plan to have so much more. Life is funny, and now that I´ve gotten this far I just can´t seem to get enough of it!

So, Spain, we´ve had our ups and downs – our resonant harmonies and (as Prof. Hyer would say) austere dischords – but I have a feeling that in the future what will soon come to pass between us will be one of those milestones, those peaks, from which you can see the curved horizon of your making far far away beneath icy clouds just tantalizing the Swiss mountains at your feet. This brief and third Intermission is definitely the beginning of the end of this particular trip, I´m sorry to say, but I trust that we won´t waste what´s left. Time to realize all those plans, make all those decisions.

Your very sincere jerk of a friend,

Huckleberry”

To catch up, Read Chapter 12: Part 1, Fear and Loathing in Cádiz, HERE

Turns out the 19th century Russian military man´s name was Alberto. Alberto and his troupe had arrived from Sevilla. Their choir was called Agua Tapá. We talked over breakfast and it proved that, a Russian and an American cannot be expected to be represented by their respective nations. This guy was legit and genuine. He was so friendly and open one might mistake him for being an Andaluz.

Over breakfast Alberto gave me the low down on the current status of Cádiz´s Carnaval tradition. There was a lot of grief over the falling away of handmade blood-sweat-tear costing costumes and intelligent preparation, there was also a lot of grief over the increased roll of botellon at night. Non of this was surprising. All joking aside, it was immediately obvious upon arrival that the real beauty of this festival was in the festive decor, rapport, and talented choirs showing off Spanish humour. The rest was mere pills and additives.

After he convinced me to book my hostal now for the Feria de Abril in Sevilla (which I promptly solidified), I booked to the streets to catch some churros, some morning caffeine juice, and to meet up with some colleagues from school. On the way I grabbed a cheap cordobés hat and ran into Alberto again, this time with the entire russian squadron. Like the majority of the Festive folk, these guys had red dots on their cheeks. I asked them what the traditional reason was for painting your face with red dots. One by one they each made different jokes about the red dots, some clean some dirty, instead of answering me…I was clearly too serious. Maybe it wouldn´t hurt to get a little buzz on, me thought. Shortly thereafter I met up with some folk from work who also happened to be in Cádiz, and we checked out some of the carrusel de coro around town. We picked up some free shandy beers (In March? Meh. Free beer.) Cracking a crisp fizzy drink was the first step to entering the ring, waking up and getting back on my fighting feet in the Fear and Loathing that defined the days of this trip.

Suddenly, the sun breached the clouds in the sky.

As we shuffled through the packed streets back to the central market square, I heard some one call my name. Why, if it wasn´t the American folk I had shared a hostal room with. They were seated and observant of the passings on, taking a food break between the intense doses of entertainment. Some beer to wash down the moment certainly looked like it was helping. Shortly after bumping into them I joined the group and even shortlier there after we all ran into Agua Tapá, the Russians! Tío, they could sing! Between songs you could see the wear and tear of two full days of the deadly art of Performance. When they would sing they would give it their all: their bodies dancing, their faces stetching, and their expressive capabilities taken to the limit. Between songs, they would ignore the salty burns of the sun and take a swig or a cig.

We saluted Alberto (who would be returning to Cádiz the following weekend to close out the Carnaval festival dressed as the Tin Man, his wife as Dorothy, and his two little boys as the Lion and the Scarecrow. I´m sure that family´s Kawaii factor would be off the chain) and after saying goodbye we continued on our long voyage daring the testy waters of half attentive half unattentive crowd goers throwing out a tango dance or a jaleo or asking the nearby pretty girl to take a picture please thank you very much.

Now, I was in need of some mobile booze. I had my minds eye on the local custom that doesn´t pass international customs cheaply: Andalucian sherry. If there are two things that I miss about Andalucia, its the people the flamenco the weather the smell of the country air the sun baked air the blue mix of mediterranean and atlantic skies the nearness to the ocean the youths political dispositions the tapas and, of course the second thing being, the solera system sherrys of the south. Not as sweet as a Port wine, not as strong as a hard liquor, and not as heavy as a full glass of wine. Chills well. Above all, it chills well. And I was in the mood to chill while I waited out the divine revelation of the sun passing over the barred burden of striped clouds yearning for horizon´s reach.

The group nested upon the westward facing wall of the dicey shoreline. And there was genuine happiness. Everyone seemed to be in their different phase of it. For me, it felt like nostalgia, but they all seemed to be right in the middle or in the main thrust of that high water mark. “Riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.”

The regional sherry I was drinking was called Manzanilla. A clear drink for clarity. A dry drink for realism. A follow through of sweetness to stimulate a relentlessly appreciative perspective. An aroma to endure forever in the well maintained library of olfactory memories. It was a pact, unspoken to nobody. A vow between my expressive fingertips. There it was, the silver lining had become unobstructed heresy. Anything so beautiful as the sun over an afternoon ocean in the early spring could only be the very filth of sin.

Turns out, many of these people – having been aleviated of their duties of “being somebody” – were just little laughing buddhas like my travel companion, Sabi. These moments are rare, and when they happen, you don´t want to leave until dinner. Which is exactly what we did. Food is the only excuse for leaving behind a several hour moment of pure simplicity.

The girls did Ben and I the favour of cooking a wonderful dinner, and while I waited for the gift I chatted with an old lady from ..guess where? That´s right, another person from southern France. This was getting ridiculous. What do you want from me, South France? I get the message already, I just need an excuse of a destination without which I can´t …hugh? What´s that hippie grandma from Villerouge-Termenes? You´re gonna give me you address and invite me to come visit the vineyards of your town whenever I want? I guess I shouldn´t be surprised by your openess: your parents are spanish and italian, you grew up in Algeria and moved to France during the Algerian civil war, sometimes you work on vineyards during the summer to make money for the months ahead, you´ve done the Camino de Santiago twice in Spain and once up the coast of Portugal, and you stopped in Cádiz for a “restful” night of sleep during Carnaval. Now, to top it all off, you just invited me to stay for free and check out the goodness of southeast mediterranean France.

Marie-Gabrielle, I will honor that offer – consider it done.

But first dinner with new friends, and then to prepare for the third day of Carnaval in the beautiful tranquility of Cádiz as it does it´s eternal parody of a Carribean pirate/port town turned beach paradise.

————————-

I awoke the third day and hit the streets, with half a bottle of Manzanilla wine left, and a full tank a gas in my feet, a backpack full of souvenirs and memories, a smile behind my beard, and eyes covered with the cool delight of style: Aviation. I saw dinosaurs under waterfalls, but that wasn´t even half the spell I came under that third day. That sea-windy day of pleasant paseos in the sun, destination nowhere on route wherever to talk to the locals using my incredibly witless Spanish to get them to spill the beans on just what it is to live, work, and breath in the happiness harbouring Cádiz. You are a fotunate son, Huckleberry.

The timing was perfect. Sunday, the Kimchi would be ready. Saturday night, to eat wild asparragus pizza and wild asparragus spanish tortilla and wild asparragus pinchos-tapas-whathaveyou. Once again, Manolo had invited friends to go asparragus hunting – and the harvest was a catch. Then he got it; perhaps it was a culmination of the previously mentioned poor sleeping Huckleberry was getting, along with plenty of new sun at winter´s end, along with perhaps a little too much asparragus, and a random stomach bug or two or  perhaps it was simply at the arbitrary dealings of fate. Whatever it was, Huck would have no idea what sort of illness was coming his way while dining in on Saturday´s asparragus harvest.

The following two days were spent in bed, in the bathroom, or on the sofa lying down while trying to make sense of Television in its multifaceted splendor. He was seeing crazy things like talking rabbits that drove hybrid cars that might hit a certain scam artist who now wants 40 thousand dollars to fix his “broken” turtle shell. Huck thought he might watch some cartoons and now he was way over his head in complicated adult matters. With great ambition he vaulted his eyes to the remote inches away, and made the necessary advances to access a different daytime cartoon: Pokemon, the most uplifting psychedelia in our catalog.

Whatever he did, he had to avoid reading In Search of Lost Time, that would be too perfect in said vulnerable condition. Best to..lay low..while the storm ..passed.

Once conditions were normal again Huck woke up to find that one of his musical heroes, Paco de Lucía, had died of a heart attack while playing with his family on the beach in Mexico. February 28th will now be marked forever by something that will eclipse the next few leap years. This my friends was the death of a legend and the dawn of a new age.

After a recovery week involving walks through olive tree hills and receiving free chocolate mousse and french magdalenas from a bakery in exchange for performing latte art for the kind folks at a nearby Pastelería (no surprise, the first decent tasting latte I´ve had in Spain), the opening gate of this Legend-less new age was Carnaval weekend. Carnaval is the closest thing to All Hallows´ Eve that ocurrs in this part of town, and with a five day weekend it would be a plain pity not to check out the charming islet city of Cádiz which is famous for its long honoured Carnaval traditions.

It was so famous, that Huckleberry had actually forgotten just how big a deal it was when he booked his adventure there – his principle intentions were simply to see this beautiful Andalucían city previously beyond the reach of his time. The city has so much charm, history, and flamenco cred that Carnaval ended up being kind of an afterthought in the trips preconception. His arrival came with the sunrise, after over 300,000 people had a giant drinking party (Botellón!) the night before leaving more than 200 tons of trash throughout the streets. Amidst the smells of piss, shit, vomit, and who knows what else could have created that funky atmosphere one could see that a massive confetti bomb of meteoric proportions exploded over the city´s skyline the day before leaving no street unscathed by washes of bubbly brite colours of party paper. Everywhere people were in costumes. As usual, old men were ordering cups of brandy or hard licor to wash away the darkness of sleep from which they came and for all things awake and clear to stay at bay. The moderately unusual, was that everyone else was also having a beer or a cup of distilled priveleges.

There was a group of apes with guitars heading down the street. A band of Turks preparing for the field. A host of straw ships looking for shade. A boat of Russians tapping water at the bar. A nesting group of Swiss yodelers who seemed to have hiked down the wrong side of the mountain. A pack of howling Elvis impersonators. An unnecessary clown. A couple dressed up like Cowboys. A bunch of smoking nuns. French fry hatted friars, poorly matched polka dot patches, Sponge Bob Square Pantses, Day of the Dead Sugar Skulls, The Politically Incorrect Costume Your Heart Desires, Loquacious M.D.´s and Lascivious Referees. Then the icing on the Double Fudge Ice Cream Brownie Cake…11 people dressed up in street cleaner uniforms sweeping up the never ending trash left behind, whistling to whistle-back parrots, talking about the neighborhood news, and generally playing the part of real street cleaners very well. There was a little bit of everything in this cluster-fuck chaos of a beach town.

They constructed the city of Cádiz before photographs, in an era when pastel crayons reigned supreme. Thus, one notes just how cakey they laid on the thick layers of pastel colors about the historic downtown houses. It´s like being in Habana minus everything that´s even remotely Cuban. However, despite the far stretch of reference to Cuba, the look and feel of the city certainly does remind one of idyllic and bouyantly colorful Carribbean towns.

Here, in this gonzo city, we catch a glimpse of Huckleberry´s world having freshly laid feet upon the true wasteland of sanity that is Fear and Loathing in Cádiz:

“Jesus! Watch where you´re goin´Lazy Susan, and your Mario Karting buddy, too!”

The forever FreeForAll of Carnaval had already begun, and looking for a fresh shot of caffeine I felt like a fish out of water, fried in beer batter and thrown onto a plate observed by three savagely hungry red lipped middle aged women dressed like fairies from hell. Lizards boozing everywhere, Sardines fried for breaking the fast of 3 hours since last nights botellon, and salty deep fried donuts forming islands in the thick lava of scorched goops of impure chocolate. The sun-drying sobriety of this moment wouldn´t last long, I had to jump start the brain feed before things  really got goin.

Plastic bags once bountiful now hunted the bounty of my feet that spelled out their escape from the downhill part of their life; they´d seen the culmination of their predestined glory- now they had eternity to not decompose and eventually find their way into a tree, or the ocean, or caught upon some rock to wait out the eventual explosion, super nova, or gravitational mishap that someday will certainly reduce everything that is Earth to miraculous space dust, space gas, and maybe space ice. Its all ok, though, they lived well, carrying countable by the hundreds of tons of booze bottles they shipped merrily about the city which fueled the mildly alcoholic thirst of serveral hundred thousands the day before, and the real party hadn´t even started.

Caray, Caray Caray estas son las cosas que pasan en Cái!!!

Walking down the Barrio de la Viña I stuck out like an American in Spain; not to mention my backpack was stuffed full of clothes, toilet paper, and the bare necessities. I looked around at things – the best way to be noticed by a dirty old mustachioed man who walks by and whisper “foreigner” beneath his bristles. Maybe he wanted a cookie for his observation. Having just stepped upon the sweetly tided sands of La Caleta that gave me yearnings for the nearby Chiclana beach La Barrosa, I was in that realizing mood to take in the glory of Cádiz and let the oily comments from Señor Hair Cream bounce off into the nearby peña or bar that was preparing for the caña burning marathon to hit full steam.

The flamenco gargoyle of Chano Lobato hung out in the Plaza de Merced outside a Peña Flamenca. Just up the street was my hostal.

I checked in.

White walls. Cleanliness. All the dishes in the kitchen were put away.

What infernal blasphemy was this in the middle of Carnaval? That´s ok, for a cheap price I can suffer the welcoming hospitality of any clean hostal. Rare and weird individuals are the goods ones, as with hostals and cleanliness. A nice chap named Pablo showed me my room, and explained the key system based on size. The small one gets you in the building, the large one into your room, and the other..doesn´t do anything at all.

I laid down my foreigner advertisments and monetary take me pamphlets and Morning-Bus-Obligated-Sweatshirt-Layers turned Sun-Obviated-Accessories underneath the bed of my stay. I also left a ceremony pick me up: a new found Cádiz sea shell. It had become one of those necessary stereotypes to bring back from a seaside journey, back to the flatlanded mountain locked enormous plain of Extremadura. Living anywhere cold and away from water just didn´t make any sense anymore; I had to bring  back some sea for the sun bloomed and rained clogged winter greens of Cáceres.

Back out onto the streets with their deep fried everythings (#theworldover) and meaty empanadas. Europeans love to give me shit for American food, and they in turn eat the most, apparently, “American” things. But you and I, Dear Reader, both know that that´s a huge load. Every one is an individual, and every community has its own culture, and every culture has its own profoundly complicated mess of extremes, contradictions, exceptions and generally useful rules. No one preaches the “American Dream” better than Right Wing Yuppies but no one exemplifies it better than a European who happens to buy into the pitiful media for hire that´s been fed to them. The meat industry is not sheephish in its execution. Now, back to the infernally carnivorous Carnaval bloating the streets with glorious indulgence –

Possibly because they get more foreign exchanges in Cádiz, people didn´t look at me with as much disgust when I opened my mouth to speak Spanish. Did no one, upon hearing my horrid voice, feel as if their ears had suddenly come down with flesh eating lepresy? What was happening? They were drunk, indeed. Possibly sloshed. In the corner of the Plaza de las Flores appeared a caravaning village of touristy merch. I hadn´t seen so much merchandisal lechery in years. One bonus of living in Cáceres is the palpable absence of touristy merchandise entreating upon your special moment with a brew during the afternoon in the sun. A clash of thunder and lightning, the turning of giant tractor wheels, and the hollering of man sized gorrillas stirred me and my “Typical-Spanish” souvenir glazed eyes. People were starting to sing in the streets. It was nothing sort of a revolution. A multicultural coup d´etat unlike anything you´ve ever heard of. Ranks and phalanxes from all over the world arrived and dueled and duked with all the air their debaucherous smoke-drink-all-day lungs could muster. First, a volley from over here. Then, a volley returned by the other choir who – though partially smashed – answers with a resounding “Well, I don´t piss in the waves that feed me”. This was a facetious feast of regional slang, ironic love addresses, and vulgar political grievances. God, it was good. These people were crazy.

To get some rest I discreetly sneaked out of the jocund war zone and floated on the cultural high one only gets when playing voyeur to such an..exhibition of party culture. But I also felt dirty. The Beach. Liberty. From what? Ah, yes – from here sailed the Spanish Armada. Once, long ago, this very window of this fortress may have changed the world. All it takes is one glance through the way it frames the ocean outside the castle walls to understand what it must have meant to voyage out beyond the known. Or, if nothing else, escape the constant dream world of Cádiz. Time to soak up a little of ocean water flirting the shores with its coming and going, its lunatic rhythms and its salty charms. Then, back to the hostal to lay low on the bottom bunk and rest until the night, when things wouldn´t be so wickedly fantastic in the choir full joyful Carnaval-ing streets.

Once back at the hostal, I met a few American folk just gettin ready for the evening´s fares. Fancy that, Georgie, someone to help make the fire light to burn through the night! Something like a siesta happened and once consciousness regained clarity of vision we dined on the local classic, fried fishies and cañas of wheat gold beer. Polka dot skirted Mini-Mouses the size of a grown woman drank at the paintings´ background and Van Gogh´s brush had much much more paint on his palate. What was next? A cross dressing scoobie doo reference? Maybe. After the fishy fallout we inspected a multitienda for some booze. A bottle of rum. Plastic cups. The interrogation worked. T-minus 10 minutes till botellon. The streets were already littered with the gold of the street party´s amber colored glass liters and the silver of the street party´s fossily shine of vodka bottles. More requestive plastic bags. Slews of streams made of God knows what kinda sterility. The botellon was not in the same force as it brought out the night before, but tomorrow was “Hangover Monday” (Yes, they literally call the first monday of Carnaval the Hangover Monday and everything is closed – except for bars, of course. The banks didn´t open for 4 days. They knew better than to tempt total anihilation.) and that meant that people had a license to chill. Eventually people dissappeared and my weary eyes thought they witnessed construction vehicles cleaning up the streets. That was by far the greatest group costume effort – a bunch of uniformed people riding around in land digging and earth moving construction vehicles plowing the trash away.

Returning to the hostal we turned in for the night, this time for good. For good riddance, too, because before my eyes I could have sworn I saw a Russian military man from the late 19th century also preparing for bed. This was the edge of sanity.

The edge, there was no way of explaining it, because the only ones who could were the ones who had gone over it. (H. Thompson)

Chapter 12 PART TWO!