Dave the Nomad

Dear Friends and Family,

Thank you for your service abroad and at home. Except for the past few years when I have actually had friends serving in the Armed Forces, Veteran’s Day (as we Americans like to call it,) has been a lesser known holiday on my personal calendar.

Today, has been the most memorable Remembrance Day I’ve ever had.

I took a fast train back up to Amiens, France in order to get some work done, and found myself on a day trip with Geoff to the Beaches of Dieppe and the V2 bunker of St. Omer. There is only so much you can comprehend of past battles until you see the places first hand. Looking at pictures in history books, and reading excerpts means nothing until you see the ridges they fought for, walk on the land that so many lost their lives over, and breath the air passing over.

Dieppe was the site of the first attempted beach landing by the Allied Forces in Occupied France during WWII. The cost of lives was heavy, and primarily composed of 5,000 Canadian Forces. However, it is also the first time American forces saw ground action against the Germans in WWII. The lessons learned from this bloodbath raid gone awry helped prepare the Allied forces for the D-Day landing nearly two years later.

Today we arrived after a beautiful sun speckled drive across Northern France’s dottted green fields and a venerable wind to the coastal plain. As we approached the coast, rain spattered on the windshield and dark grey clouds whisked by leaving no time to contemplate their shape or stature. The beach of Puys was wet with the mist from turbulent waves breaking at high tide on the walls below. The rocky beach provided a violent and raucous reprisal to inward thoughts as visions of men storming the beach with its high white cliffs and opaque colored water rushed through my head. Farther down the beach is the down of Dieppe, originally founded by William the Conqueror. Still holding onto its fishing village roots, the town was wet and true to its being with a port surrounded by townhouses and the faint smell of fish. Unlike fair weather ports farther south harboring yachts and eloquent ships, this was a city clinging to a violent past, proud and up kept without the necessities or demand of tourism. Here at daybreak Aug 19, 1942, on the town beach, thousands of men (5/6 of which were Canadian) were mowed down by machine gun fire and met by uncleared beaches and prepared Germans.

Today, the town was nearly empty. Artificial poppy wreaths dotted small memorials around the city and beachhead, damp and leaf covered since the weekend onslaught of veterans. Although it is not as memorable to most of the world, this beach was instrumental in victorious landings made years later in Normandy’s D-day beaches, and should not be washed out of memory.

Our second stop for the day was the German V2 launch bunker in St. Omer. This site has the feel of Dr. No’s evil headquarters over grown like Mayan Pyramids lost in the New World. The immensity of this structure is unbelievable, and the imagery inside almost overwhelming. The site never launched a V2 rocket at nearby England, which was a key stepping stone in the development of NASA. The site is now a museum showcasing not only the history of rockets, but also the local history of Northern France in WWI and WWII. As I look through these pictures of utter destruction, I try to fathom a daily loss of 73,000 people in present day terms. This may take a couple seconds to those reading about this, or to those, like me, who have been grateful enough to not see such atrocities in person. I can only imagine what the men in WWI experienced in the trenches they called home, and the emotions that overcame them.

I have not mentioned much about my fraternity yet in my postings, but I think this is a most apt time to do so. I would like to leave you with a poem written by one of my fraternity brothers of past who was a field physician during WWI, it is a poem remembered by us, and I ask that you take a moment on this day to contemplate as well:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— Lt.-Col. John McCrae
Canadian 1st Field Artillery Brigade
Zeta Psi, Theta Xi Chapter 1894

November 11th, 2008 | Tags: Coupole, Dieppe, St. Omer, V2, Veteran's Day, WWI, WWII | Category: Background, History | Comments (1)

Barcelona, the capital of Catalunya, is a city that is in Spain, but it is easy to forget this when you are speaking the native language Catalan, a mixture of French and Spanish. Until 1975, Spain was ruled by a dictator ruthless enough to stop invasion by Hitler, and whose actions are still being contested in court to this day due to Amnesty laws still in place by the government. As Spain’s civil war was ending, the rest of Europe erupted in WWII. During this time, Franco, Spain’s dictator, made a bargain with Mussolini and Hitler: let Spain be untouched, but Hitler could bomb the Basuqe region, and Mussolini, Catalunya. These areas were strongholds from the Spanish Civil War, and as such unliked by the dictator. Franco treated Barcelona and the rest of Catalunya like the British treated Australia, sending criminals and people unwanted by mainstream society there to do as they wished. The city still has a lot of petty crime, but there are many amazing sights to see in Barcelona that make up for this.

One man is more elevated than any other in this city, Antonio Gaudi. He is responsible for the creation of many amazing works of architecture from his first city commissioned piece, a lampost in Plaza Real, to his final work which is still in progress, La Sagrada Familia. Barcelona is filled with homes created by Gaudi, a park on the outskirts of town, a small self sufficient Dr. Suess like town, and of course the Sagrada Familia. The Sagrada Familia is unlike any other church in the world. The whimsical, naturist feel of this intricately designed Art Nouveau church leaves you awe inspired. When you start to realize it was designed, and under construction before the automobile was invented it becomes even more impressive. The church has a different architectural style on each side, and encompasses unique figures like snails in place of gargoyles, fruit-like balls on top of spires, and soldiers.

The city of Barcelona also has the most walked street in Europe, Las Ramblas. Originally, this was a trash infested sludge like “river” which provided a means of trash disposal into the sea. Nowadays it is a beautiful meandering walkway lined with sycamore trees, shops, newsstands, street performers, restaurants, and artists. This is a great city to visit, just plan on leaving credit cards, ID, etc in a safe.

November 8th, 2008 | Tags: Barcelona, Catalunya, Franco, Gaudi, Sagrada Familia | Category: History | Leave a comment

I just wanted to start off by letting everyone know I’ve added pictures from Paris to Valencia. Enjoy them via the links on the Photo/Video tab. I’m still working out some technical difficulties with the videos, but will let you know when they are up.

Today is a bit less known as All Saints Day…which means last night was Halloween. I wasn’t sure how this holiday would be celebrated abroad, but in Spain it seems to be a big deal. Our hostel had a party for it last night before then guiding us around to some parties. I was working all day and didn’t plan to dress up until being convinced to a couple hours before the party started. I wanted to be some sort of American for party, but was struggling with a good idea. With the help of a cheap dollar store, and some innovative inspiration I emerged for the evening as Hulk Hogan! Thankfully, lots of people also dressed up for the evening, and we had a great time. Unbeknown to me, there was a costume contest and the winner was…. Hogan! It was great to have people to celebrate with, and thankfully I didn’t eat too much candy. I hope everyone is having a safe end to their Halloween night and a good weekend ahead.

October 31st, 2008 | Tags: Granada, Halloween, Hulk Hogan | Category: Friends | Leave a comment

Granada is not just a working city or just a tourist trap, it is a city with an international presence but relaxed vibe void of having to follow the latest fashion,it is a city where I could live. It is also home to the Alhambra. This massive fortress and palace has been fought over and written about for centuries. The Moorish complex is surrounded by impeding walls, forested walkways, and a river that provides intricate and innovative waterways to gardens and pools. I will hope my pictures can do it more justice, but I know that over the centuries many poets and writers have produced much finer works proselytizing the beauty of this place. Plan to spend a full day wandering around this complex which includes the Alcazaba (Citadel), Generalife, Holy Roman Emperor Charles V’s Palace, and the Nasrid Palace. Generalife was the “bucolic” gardens of the Sultans during their reign of power. It is is a very peaceful place filled with gardens and pools intricately supplied by miniature aqeducts. Charles V’s Palace now house several museums including a superb modern art exhibition. The Alhambra is not a place you can visit whenever, tickets sell out everyday so plan to arrive early. In addition to an early wake-up, you are given a specific time to visit the Nassrid Palace, so as to keep the crowds limited. The intricate art work, high archways, and stalactite like ceilings create an impressive show of Moorish power. Unfortunately, it is the off season, which means restoration work is in full swing, including the removal of the Court of Lions fountain for extensive work.

After a full day of walking around the complex, I took the time to visit a very unique area in Grenada, Sacromonte. This hillside opposite the Alahambra, has many homes in it. Yes, in it. The better known areas have been refined to look like real homes inside, and are still home to a large Gypsy community influential in the creation of Flamenco. The clay-like earth of the mount makes it ideal to carve out and maintain stability. As I walked up the side of the hill I found doors, ruined brick facades, and front yards ranging from tidy and welcoming to expulsed heaps of interior décor littered around a makeshift fenced yard. As I passed and made short conversation with people, I ran into a group of youngsters quietly practicing Flamenco on their guitars, apprehensively quiet but still recognizable. Farther up the hillside, I ran into a Senegalese man chopping wood. We talked for a while and he invited me in to his home for dinner. After refusing several times, I finally conceded. He and his neighbor had made a modest meal of pasta and a cheese sauce with bits of chorizo. It wasn’t fancy or extravagant, closer to a watered down version of kraft macaroni and cheese, but it was warm and welcoming with the mountain air starting to cool off outside. I had some chocolate in my daypack, (as on most days) which was gladly accepted as dessert.

The cave was humble, but well maintained. White stucco was heavily applied to the asymmetrical walls and floor while various levels were covered with cushions and blankets provided comfortable seating. He explained to me how he added the fireplace last year made out of brick and mortar, and is working on making a porch awning currently. As happens after a relaxing meal, the conversation would die off at times, the crackling of an old handheld radio on the table outside would interrupt before quieting back down as the next weekly top 40 song started to play, sometimes prompting more conversation, sometimes providing an excuse to not make awkward conversation for the sake of it.

As I sat there in this whimsical home chatting by the light of a fire, I realized how similar people are no matter where or what their homes look like. Although this cave home was not as extravagant as others, this man has taken pride in it and is upgrading and is telling me all about it. A conversation that is not uncommon among men on the weekend in suburbia across America, about the porch they built or the problem they had while installing the new light fixture in the kitchen. Is it irony that I sit here in a cave overlooking one of the world’s most fought after fortresses speaking another language to a man from Senegal about something I could’ve easily talked to a neighbor about in America? I think not. The opening of doors, sharing of food, and warmth of genuine people and conversation are acts capable of single handedly stopping many problems or at least the ignorance found in today’s world.

October 29th, 2008 | Tags: Alhambra, Granada, Sacromonte | Category: Castles, History, Odd Travels | Leave a comment

The history of Gibraltar for those practicing standardized tests:

Shiny Toy : Three-year-olds :: _____________ : European Countries

A: Raccoons
B: Gibraltar
C: The Euro

This rock ascending out of the surrounding ocean and plains is currently a UK enclave. Coming here after leaving Morocco was quite a load of culture shock. My senses were flooded with English signs, well manicured areas, and imbibed Englishmen. The superfluous acts of life surrounding me have never been more clear. I left a small village of people happy to barter their hours of work with you for less than a cup of coffee only to arrive on a patch of land lined with shops filled with indulgences and exorbitant prices.

This is quite the unique piece of land, it has been fought over for thousands of years, and has lots of great sights to see. The first novelty, which everyone experiences is walking or driving across an active runway. In order to save on what little space they have (5 km x 1 km), the British have the runway perpendicular to the flow of traffic into Gibraltar. The other thing Gibraltar is known for is the only group of wild primates living in Europe. These monkeys stick to the nature reserve engulfing the physical rock, but watch out, they are in charge here. The Barbary Macaques are excellent at picture posing, food and purse snatching, and jumping onto car windshields and mirrors. I have to say it is much more interesting looking at historical landmarks with monkeys running wild around you. I watched one macaque effortlessly thrust his hand into a ladies bag and remove a pack of gum.

On top of this great protrusion, you can easily see Morocco and the massive amount of aquatic traffic about to head west now that the hurricane season is about to end. The strategic stronghold of this rock needs no explanation, but it was in siege tunnels here that Dwight Eienhower and other Allied leaders planned the invasion of North Africa. This is really the first natural landmark I’ve visited that has had such recent success in its violent past. Its fascinating to think this rock successfully protected men in a war that was ended with the premier of the atomic bomb, I only spent a day here, and that fact alone may have added to the circus-in-town feel of the enclave, but it is worthwhile to visit. Tomorrow I will hopefully be in Grenada, home of the Alahambra.

October 26th, 2008 | Tags: Barbary Macaque, Gibraltar | Category: History | Leave a comment

We started our trek to Chefchaouen standing at the bus station in Tangiers confused and worried we missed our bus…until we were told the time change in going to Morocco was plus two hours, not one. Relieved, we waited around the bus stop and met a Canadian traveling to Chefchaouen named Gary. Gary has traveled around Morocco before, and was returning to just Chefchaouen this time as he said it was by far the best part of Morocco. He was nice enough to also share his handwritten map of the city with us, and let us follow him to a hotel just outside the medina.

The bus ride was extremely wet. The rainy season has started about two weeks ago and I found myself in the window seat in the very back of the bus. The 90% sealed windows provided me with fresh water every time the bus would start going uphill; the gravity fed water droplets would trickle until they reached the last window and dropped down on me like a mini Chinese water torture device. Thankfully the scenery was amazing with views of rolling hills covered in olive trees and makeshift streams of eroded material from the influx of water. We arrived in Chefchaouen to emerging blue skies as the nearby craggy peaks tore away the clouds.

Chefchaouen was founded by one of the last groups of Jews and Muslims expelled from the Iberian Penisula and until a hundred years ago was shut off to the rest of the world. Nowadays, the city is undergoing massive construction capable of bringing in big tourist money. Thankfully for the time being this town seems to be off the beaten path enough to get away from the hustle of Morocco’s other larger cities.

Gary has been our unofficial guide and has suggested breakfast places, day hikes, and supplemented conversations with his French. The pace of life here is intoxicatingly slow and unmetered. You could easily run through this city in one day and move onto other cities, but once the daily influx of private tour bus crowds leaves for the day the clear night air is only filled with smells of tangine, couscous, and mint tea.

The main plaza is home to a dozen or so restaurants serving traditional three course meals for under 10 euro. However, watch out for the incessant hustling and begging of … the cats. Their faces are capable of duping you, but they are fearless and talented at swindling food off your plate if given the time of day. If you are feeling daring, as Chelsea and I were, then look out for the food stalls the locals crowd around. One in particular became a part of our daily routine, serving a bowl of snails in spiced broth fresh from Fes each day for fifty cents each.

If you can afford to not run through this city in a day, stay and take a deep breath.

October 24th, 2008 | Tags: Chefchaouen, Morocco | Category: Off the Beaten Path | Leave a comment

Today was a true highlight. I decided to spend a few days in Morocco, which is my first time in Africa, and also first time in an Islamic country. To throw a little spice in the mix, I decided to travel with a young woman as well. Chelsea was hoping to go to Morocco, but didn’t feel comfortable going on her own, and I was looking for someone to travel with for the first time on my trip. We got along well, and didn’t end up ripping each other’s heads off. Many thanks go out to Chelsea for making my experience in Morocco so memorable.

We landed in Tangiers after a quick ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar from Tarifa. Our plan was to stay in a pension in the medina, or old town, so we naturally started to walk. If you hear someone talk about small windy streets it still doesn’t quite prepare you for the finer aspects of Tangier’s medina. Most streets are too small for cars (those that are allow just enough room for an anorexic body to miss the side mirrors), with erratic steps, twists, and turns capable of making your head spin without the mental stimulation of people, smells, colors, and movement.

There is an ominous and intimidating aura present of young men with crossed arms staring at you waiting to pounce on your slightest fallacy or hesitant move. As soon as you just touch sight of their eyes an immediate flood of language comes at you as they attempt to speak your language, to make contact. Every soul is eager to help you, to make sure you get where you are going, to make it efficient and pleasant, but always at a price. No matter what you hear, everyone will eventually want money from you for a service we refer to as a good deed or helping hand. The smells and sights are not of a spice bazaar, but more of stale water, grime, disrepair, and urine. This place is a sort of purgatory of helpless eyes held only high enough by the promise of money. There is no pride in their faces, for their work, or for their community. The streets are dirty, houses made with crumbling bricks, corners rank with piss, and dilapidated fountains. There are two types of hope in this place, the face of a child still young and cheerful capable of an innocent smile, yet wise enough to know of the other hope, your wealth. We are rich, we have bountiful lives, and the hands of small children reach to your pockets as if you were Robin Hood.

After settling in, we decided to take a breath from the hustle of the medina and check out the New Town area filled with wide streets, mosques, and glimpses of the Western World. It was at this time, while on a hill in a cemetery I experienced my first call to prayer. I had these visions of men in robes shouting from the peaks of the minarets to people below, and time stopping as everyone turned to Mecca and took time to reflect and pray. I was greeted by the crackling of a megaphone propped to the top of the minaret filling the air with sound, and slowly more minarets announced their presence as they created a cacophony of sound. I stopped to take in the moment, and it seemed as if I was the only person who stopped. Life kept moving, cars kept driving, and people kept talking.

Morocco is at the western edge of the Islamic world and is known as Al-Magrihb for short or “The West”, and thanks to a progressive head of state, also more progressive in womens rights and enforcement of Islamic law. However, for the first time I felt like I was truly in a foreign land. It took some time for me to process what made this place so alien to my senses. It wasn’t a different language, it wasn’t the type of people, it wasn’t the oddities of cuisine or marketing, it was the lack of sex. It is hard to fathom how much sex has impregnated our culture until you remove yourself from the equation. We are flooded with nuances, hints, and outright movies of lust which missed this place like a three year old misses adult jokes in a Disney movie. This place is fascinating, exciting, and truly different. I was warned about Tangiers, but I am glad I experienced it. I’m not planning to judge Moroccoo on this city alone, but it was been quite the introduction into a chapter of my trip.

Chelsea had heard from other travelers that if you only have a few days to go to Morocco to head to Chefchaouen. Its a small city about three hours south of Tangiers, that was founded by the last of the Muslim and Jews expelled from Spain and has been opened to the outside world for only the last 100 years.

October 23rd, 2008 | Tags: Al Maghrib, Morocco, Tangiers | Category: Odd Travels | Leave a comment

Juanjo and I got a chance to actually meet up on Sunday and went to a bull fight at Las Ventas. Las Ventas is the largest bull fighting ring in the world. If you get the chance I highly suggest going to a fight. During the high season in the summer and the Feria, bull fights are held everyday. Earlier and later in the season fights are held weekly. As this was the second to last fight of the year, the crowd was small and the matadores novices.

Before I go into the best translation of a bull fight possible thanks to the great commentary by Juanjo, I would like to warn those faint of heart, queasy at bloody images, or PETA lovers to skip over this entry and not look at the pictures. You may have your personal opinions on the treatment of animals, but I will try my best to present the fight as it is done in the hopes you will become more aware of its complexities and nuances….and not ramble too much.

Almost all fights involve 6 bulls, and will last at least a couple hours. There are can be anywhere from 1-3 matadores who will fight 6 - 2 bulls each respectively. The fight I went to also had picadores, who are horsemen who aid in the fight and three matadores. The event is started by a procession of all the men involved from the horsemen to the clean-up crew. They will walk over to the president’s box and ask for permission to start the event. There are numerous matadores in the ring at the beginning. Some of them will be trying to help the bull, while others will not. For the first few minutes they will be running the bull around the ring to tire him out for the safety of both the bull and matadore.

After a few trumpets blasts two picadores enter the ring. They have to stay outside the white ring on the ground. During this time the silver colored men (helping the bull) will try to lure the bull into the middle of the ring, and the gold men (against) will try to lure him towards the picadores at the edge. Eventually, the bull is allowed to charge the picadores and the heavily armoured horse and near sumo like picadore will spear the bull in the high shoulder area. Their main goal is to tire the bull out by bleeding him.

After several minutes of this, the picadores must leave the stadium. At this time, the silver colored men will “energize” the bull by placing small spears in the middle of the back. These are used to release endorphins and adrenaline. They will try to place these along the spine. There is a rule in place that they can take as long as needed to place no more than six of these on the bull. The men will do this by standing in front of the bull with two spears and jump to the side at the last second while placing them as close to the spine as possible. In some cases, an older experienced matador will come out to test the bull and see how he will behave.

At this point the matadore will enter the ring and ask the president for permission to fight the bull. In a good fight, the matadore will go to the center of the ring to celebrate the killing of the bull with the entire audience. Sometimes they will then throw their hat over their shoulder. If it lands top down its good luck, and if it lands top up its bad luck. Other times they will hand their hat to a friend or loved one. By doing this, they are saying they are dedicating the death of the bull to that person.

At this time, all other men leave the arena and the matadore and bull will begin their dance. There are many different styles of fighting. In one, the matadore will stay in place and wave the pennant over the top of the bull as he charges without moving his lower body. Other styles involve moving around the bull and having it run around him. This style can be done natural, or with the use of the sword to extend the pennant farther away from the fighter.

This dance will continue with some help from the audience. One section of the stadium always cheers for the bull. Everyone else will cheer for the matadore primarily. A good fight involves a slow dance where the bull is still dangerous and powerful but is lead slowly around by the red pennant. The fighter is trying to make the bull look graceful, and keep his pennant as close to the bull’s horns without letting it touch. After each successful pass, the crowd shouts “Ole!” This is the highlight of the fight, and is the best known part. When the fighter is done with his dance, and everyone is satisfied that both the fighter and bull have danced to the best of their ability the matadore will hopefully complete his last act correctly. The kill.

The matadore will set the bull up so that he charges with his head low. He is aiming for a very small hole in the bull’s back. When done correctly, the sword will go into the bull down to the hilt and pierce the heart. The bull lies down very soon, and the men will use a dagger to cut the brain stem immediately afterwards. Once the bull is dead, a triad of ornate horses are rushed out, and the bull is dragged out within seconds. The ground crew will then rake the sand out and cover up the blood.

Unfortunately, it is a small hole, and I only saw it happen correctly once. If the matadore misses the first time, he has 15 minutes to kill the bull. If that is not done, the bull will be ushered out to be killed. Usually what happens is the sword will stick just off and about halfway in. The other men will come out and help distract the bull as the matadore is not allowed to use another sword. Once he has extracted the sword, he will try again. During this time, or after a miss, the crowd will start cheering for the bull. Most commonly, this is done by whistling. After a few minutes pass, trumpets will sound. This is the matador’s first of three warnings and lets him know he now has 12 minutes. Thankfully, I never heard the six minute trumpet warning.

If a matadore does everything correctly, he has the opportunity to win a piece of the bull. After the kill, the audience will petition the president by waving white hankerchiefs in the air. If he agrees, he will allow the matadore to receive an ear of the bull. If he does and extremely good job, the crowd will continue to cheer, and he can get another ear. After a great fight, the tail is then also given. When you look at the records of matadores, they will say how many ears and tails they have received and a total number of fights.

The bull also has the chance to live. If a particular bull has shown great eloquence, power, and strength. The crowd will wave a non-white hankerchief before the matadore’s final stroke. If the president approves, the bull is allowed to live, and the matadore will just simulate the kill. This enables good bulls to procreate, and they are allowed to lives their days in copious pastures.

As I reflect on the closest live event I will hopefully ever see to a gladiator fight. I have come away, not signing up for PETA protests, but with great respect for the matadores and this tradition. Although the bull is killed in a not so efficient and humane way, there is a chance the matadore can and have been killed in the ring. I was talking to some other travelers who watched one matadore get a crushed skull, and another lose his testicles.

The dance between the bull and matadore seemed to be more a display of the talent and beauty of the bull before being killed. The purpose of the matadore is to lead the bull, and guide it. So I find myself appreciating the talent of a good matadore to be able to read a bull, and know how to bring out his best characteristics, be it by a different style, or subtle changes in movement. Yes, the bull may suffer more before being killed, but unlike the endless number of animals which are killed for our consumption out of sight, the people have the chance to more fully appreciate and know this animal. So many of us have never seen or truly understand the life we are ending before selfishly indulging.

I’ve been doing soem reading along the way, and this short bit seemed aptly related. If you have any suggested reading for me along the way, please feel free to pass on the info.

Related Reading: Jack Keraouc “Lonesome Traveler” - Bullfight in Mexico while high on Opium.

Videos Posted from the Bullfight.

October 21st, 2008 | Tags: Bullfight, Jack Keraouc, Las Ventas | Category: Related Reading, Sports | Leave a comment

Its very refreshing to understand the native language again. I’m nowhere close to fluent, but I can manage to hold short conversations and understand directions and most conversations I hear. I’m not staying too long in Madrid, but I wanted to make sure to indulge in some quality cultural events. I met Juanjo in Amsterdam, and he told me to make sure to contact him when I came to Madrid.

Unfortunately, I called Juanjo on Saturday only to find out he had tickets to the largest futbol (aka soccer) game of the year in Madrid. Real Madrid vs. Atletico Madrid. He told me I could try to get an outrageously priced ticket or find a jam packed bar by the stadium. Budget traveling helped me make my decision not to buy a 120 euro ticket.

The game was home for Atletico, and as such the bar was filled almost entirely by Atletico fanatics. I promised Juanjo I would cheer for Atletico. American fans of any sport will be hard pressed to beat the frenzy of true futbol fans. The chanting and cheering in the bar was ear-numbing, I stepped outside during half time for some fresh air and a little more space. By the final few minutes of the game Real Madrid was winning 1-0, and Atletico had a foul shot. The crowd became silent waiting not for the TV, but the roar of the crowd inside the stadium. The suspense in the bar electrified as the stadium exploded with sound. The three seconds it took for the images of the goal to be transferred to the TV inside the bar would make any movie producer lustful with envy in trying to emulate. The cheering of not just a goal, but of hope as the game was now tied was overwhelming. Fair weather fans who were leaving the stadium in shame of the ensuing loss ran to the bar. You could feel the wave of people pushing to get a glimpse of the goal on the TV..

Sadly, this fairy tale story stops short. In the stoppage minutes following the goal, Real Madrid scored again and many a fan left for home quietly.

October 19th, 2008 | Tags: Futbol, Soccer | Category: Friends, Sports | Leave a comment