Orce

My trusty swimmers earplugs blocked out the morning bustle of Tressa’s house until noon when my also trusty phone alarm sounded to penetrate my wax-stuffed ears. I was huuuuuung over. I had to catch a bus at 3:30 PM, which would take me to the ancient little town of Orce (pronounced almost like “or-they”) a couple hours outside Granada. Once there, I would meet up with my workstay hosts David and Simon. They would then transport me to a remote village of four people about half an hour outside of Orce dubbed Venta Methena. I was scheduled to assist them with renovating their property just outside the little village. I stuffed down some brekky and packed up all of my things. I have a very special way of cramming all of my junk into my little baby pack which takes some tender loving care and patience and quite a lot of minutes. By the time I was about ready to bust out the door it was already after 2. I was stressin’, and I still didn’t know the exact bus route to the main station. So sure enough, after waiting 20 minutes for the bus I managed to get off at the wrong stop and engage in an escapade of completely silly failure, finally arriving at the bus station a good 20 minutes late. No bus. Lame. I bummed about it for a second, then swiftly switched into fuck-it mode. I contacted Simon and David and rescheduled a rendezvous for the next night. I went back to Tressa’s and napped the day away, waking up only to go on an adventure downtown consisting primarily of ice cream and watching people drink like sailors. Saturday nights in college towns are legendary, everybody fightin’ wars with their bottles. Sleep came easily.

The following day was significantly more successful. Got sleep, got to the bus station on time and shot off for Orce. I arrived after dark and met David and Simon at the bus stop. We made quick friends. Simon and David have been together for about 25 years and are in their mid 50’s and mid 40’s respectively. They grew up in Cornwall, a beautifully scenic area in southwest England. Like many of their fellow country men, they got sick of the grey dreariness and overpopulation of Britain and moved to a place with less white people, namely southern Spain. Unlike their countrymen, they moved to the middle of buttfuck nowhere inland Spain as opposed to the Mediterranean coast where some beachfront suburbs have a 90% British population. I could dig it. They now own a cave dwelling a few miles away from their home in the side of a hill that they rent out to tourists and are renovating the rundown second half of their house in hopes of turning their home into a bed and breakfast. The area is also popular with anthropologists and paleontologists because the Orce valley used to be one of the biggest prehistoric lakes in ancient Europe. Anyways, they love music, I love music, they like talking, I like talking…We got along just dandy. They were also fascinated with my California ways and teased me every chance they got for my American accent and euphemisms. I returned the favor by dissing on their silly British leanings. We had a wonderful time.

I had my own dope suite in their house. Their cortijo (a piece of property in Spain) overlooks the slightly distant Sierra de Maria mountain range, which became my number one obsession. They are amazingly beautiful and sort of hypnotic. There is also a huge hill right next to the cortijo I climbed on a daily basis to play guitar and yell and whatever. We had a solid daily routine we followed in order to align all of our meals and start work early. Breakfast at 8:45, start work at 9:30, tea at noon, stop work at 1:30, lunch at 2, dinner at 7:30. It felt really good to get up early and do some good physical labor. They taught me how to mix concrete and lay blocks. I watered tons of plants, scraped ancient paint off of beams and busted huge holes in unsafe walls. After work, I played tons of guitar, listened to a lot of music very intently and enjoyed long rides through the valley on a mountain bike they lent me. Oh, and naps. Lots of naps. I obtained a tranquilo mindset (tranquil, relaxed, meditative) and started work on a number of songs I feel are some of my best yet. David is an incredible cook and made us amazing British dishes on the daily. Wine was served nightly and I was introduced to the hilarious Monty Python comedy series Falty Towers.

On my day off, I rode the bike out to the Sierra de Maria, something I had been looking forward to since the day I arrived. It was about 12 miles away, all up hill. I hiked up the closest little mountain I could access and got seriously lost in the dense pine forest. I scrambled up a little rocky hill and stole some breathtaking views of the valley and of the Sierra Nevada’s in the distance. The ride home was orgasmic as I coasted down 10 miles past 19^th century farm houses, pine forests and the mountain range to the North. I couldn’t walk for a couple days. So it goes.

After two weeks, Simon and David dropped me back off at Orce for my bus ride back to Granada. We had visited Orce a few times during my workstay to pick up some building materials. The town seems buried in the past, the architecture all sand blasted with thousand year old Moorish castles shooting up above the few storefronts. I love streets that are made for people and not for cars. Little Spanish men wander around all day with their hands behind their backs and their cigars in their mouths yelling at each other and telling stories and grinning with no teeth. Everyone walks so slow and yells at each other from across the street with tons of cheer. I gave Simon and David big ol’ hugs. They thanked me for the hard work and I thanked them for the delicious cuisine and delicious bed. Work exchanges are awesome. I blew Orce a big sloppy kiss.

Granada

I knew I was in for some tough shit when I started having to pee the first 10 minutes of the bus ride. There was a bathroom on the bus but it was locked and nobody would let me in. I was sitting in the back of the bus with a woman and her two children, the kids all splayed out on the row of seats and the mama dead asleep with her head cocked back and her mouth gaping. I harnessed every ounce of strength in my little frame not to pee my fucking pants. Somewhere amongst my struggling I fell asleep and woke up to an empty bus, stopped at a gas station in the middle of buttfuck Spanish desert as the sun was coming up. I ran over to the driver and said “Granada?” and he started yelling some bullshit at me and pointing to another bus across the parking lot which was about to leave. I ran over to the bus and chucked my stuff in just as they were pulling out. I said “bano por favor?” to the driver and made a face communicating the extent to which I had to pee everywhere. He understood. Thanks gas station. I drowsily watched the sun come up over the Andalucian desert, wanting so hard to fall asleep but amazed by the almond trees blooming and the endless fields leading up to jagged mountains and the sun casting its first light over everything. I dozed off and awoke to the Granada bus station.

I spent some time trying to figure out Granada’s rocket science cracked out bus map and decided to cave in and get a cab. I made it to Tressa’s address at 10 AM and rang the doorbell. She answered, sort of (hahaha). The night before was her friends last night in town and she had stayed up til 7 AM. I was in a similar state (fuck buses) so we had some hilarious interactions until we both sort of wandered away from each other and fell back asleep. I slept allllllll day. I was a happy boy. I met Tressa after school and we wandered to the hippie square in Granada where all her homies were hanging out, playing music and drinking 40’s. I met her fellow Californian friends and her Spanish accomplices. I jammed with a dude for a couple hours and made some Granadians dance with some gypsy tunes. A bunch of dogs made a bathroom line and peed on my guitar case one by one. So it goes. A Moroccan guy explained to me that my guitar playing was the shit in a language I didn’t understand. We climbed back to Tressa’s house after some jammin’. She lives at pretty much the highest point in Granada so getting home is kind of a biiiitch but it’s bomb exercise. This dude Audrey followed us back. He has a funny way of speaking Spanish to me expecting me to understand if he moves his hands around enough and makes hardcore eye contact with me. I guess it sort of helped. I listened to Miles Davis in bed for waaaaay too long and eventually dozed off.

The next day, it was Alhambra time. The Alhambra is a massive, beautiful complex built by the Moors about a thousand years ago on one of the hills above Granada leading up to the Sierra Nevada’s. It is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Europe and rightfully so. I wandered around the courtyards with ancient spitting fountains and buildings with elegant stonework whilst dodging the leagues of distracted Asian tourists. I waited in line for a time in anticipation for the Nazareth Palaces where the royal chamber is. It is absolutely incredible. The shrine’s walls are layered with an intricate craftwork that looks like holy stalagmite from afar but is actually hand chiseled little drips of beauty. Everything is made of marble, which causes the chamber to be eerily freezing. I was entranced with this this image – A king sitting in an enormous chamber in an unearthly stronghold organizing wars in honor of his God while absolutely ball-numbingly cold. I stumbled out of the Alhambra more inspired than I expected. I wandered around downtown Granada, admiring the architecture of the little buildings and the cobblestones streets, stopping for cerveca y tapas at the occasional café. In Andalucia, they serve you food with your beer, free of charge. Beautiful. I marched up the steep ascent back to Tressa’s house and stopped at a market for some eggs and a 40 of Alhambra beer, in honor of the epic castle. Tressa, her roommate Borja and I had a dope laptop party and took it real easy.

The following day I woke up at the God fearing hour of 2 PM to Tressa tempting me with some delicious scrambled eggs and potatoes she had graciously prepared for us both. We chomped down some food and headed out to downtown to help her friend Michelle search for some new gauges. We had a silly time infiltrating this little subculture where all the tattoo & piercing shops were blasting Spanish metal and hardcore. I bought several bottles of delicious wine for this fine Friday night. Spanish wine is cheap as fuck and delicious, 6 Euros for the finest. Audrey spent a really long time explaining to me that this particular bottle of wine was the best in the world in Spanish. I didn’t understand. I’m sure his speech was moving. Back home, Tressa’s roommates prepared us Spanish style fajitas. We drank wine and had hilarious bilingual conversations. We headed out for the Booga, the big ol’ Friday night clubspot. There was a number of bands playing that night. The joint was fuckin’ jumping. University students spilled out into the streets and onto a nearby stairway drinking Alhambra 40’s and smoking fine Spanish herb. We managed to get into the gigantic line leading into the Booga at just the right time in between bands ensuring a short wait. Inside, it was hot and everyone was drunk. The first band we saw was this really high energy Ska band that reminded me of Fishbear back when they first started. I moshed really hard just for the fuck of it and to force out the 2 bottles of wine we had consumed on the way over. After the band played, two different gypsy folky flamenco bands rocked different sides of the club with accordions and guitars and saxophones and all the good shit. I felt like I was back home as I got my hoe-down on with Michelle and Tressa, absolutely loving every second. A really lame DJ overtook the soundscape out of no where so we decided to move on and dance to some silly house. I rescued some dead soldiers (half drank beers) and danced the night away. We blew the Booga after a bit and got a late night kebab down the street. We drowsily made our way back up the hill at about 5 in the morning. Everyone wanted to sit out on the castle nearby and watch the sun come up but it was definitely time for me to go to bed so I went home by myself and I don’t even remember falling asleep I was so tired. Onward.

Lisboa Part 3

I had to get all my stuff out of my room by 11 AM the next morning. I slept for four hours. The Traveller’s House staff were kind enough to let me nap it up in the TV room for as long as my heart desired. I slept heavily. I woke up surrounded by an adorable French family watching some old-school Jackass. I spent the day drowsily wandering around the Alfama district, stopping for a glass of wine every so often. Portuguese wine is cheap as fuck and delicious. I dropped by the Traveller’s House for one final farewell and to pick up my junk. I homie’d it up with all the staff there and was awfully sad to bid them all adieu. I took the metro to Joao’s house where I was scheduled to surf his couch. He lives in a very cozy apartment on the outskirts of Lisbon. We talked about Charlie Hayden, my family and Couchsurfing. I could sleep in his son’s bedroom while he was gone for the week. I was stooooooked. I also discovered via the interwebs that Tressa is studying in Granada, Spain, my next location. She offered to put me up for the nights I’d be in town so I was double stoked to not pay for a hostel and to see a familiar face. Life is totally convenient like that, it’s kind of unfair.

The next morning I rubbed copious amounts of sleep out of my eyes and ate some breakfast with Joao before he left to teach highschoolers some bomb math. I headed for Belem, an old district down the river from downtown. I wandered into the Centre Culturale de Belem, an epic museum. They had several free exhibitions. I listened to Aphex Twin and stumbled through the modern art section – classic. They also had a World War II propaganda section that put me in a reeeeaally weird mood. I decided it was time for some cuisine. I snagged a kebab, Europe’s burrito. My Portuguese was getting a little better and I was able to order without feeling like a silly whitey. I also picked up a couple world famous Pastel de Belem’s which are these little crème brule-esque tarts. I doused them with cinnamon and watched some religious group play some national songs Fado-style in a park (Fado is epically silly acoustic melancholy folk music from Portugal). I charged back to Joao’s and we prepared some Portuguese style hamburgers. We drank copious amounts of wine and talked about politics, music composition and traveling.

I decided to sleep in. My brain was fucked from 5 hours of sleep and 2 hour naps every day. Joao took me to a place outside of Lisbon called the Expo. It is a huge development put together for some European expo a number of years ago. We walked around at a Portuguese pace and did some quality people watching. We wandered into a mall that is designed to look like a cruiseliner. We got distracted and Joao ended up being 30 minutes late to a parent-teacher conference. It’s cool though, the Portuguese don’t give a fuck. In the evening he drove me to the bus station and figured out which bus was mine with his pro ass skills. I bid him a farewell through the window as the bus dashed out of Portugal and off to Granada, Spain. Joao is an excellent human being – an ageless dude and a true hippie. I promised to someday show him around the redwood forests of Northern California.

Lisboa Part 2

I slept for 13 hours. It was glorious. I went downstairs and was immediately served eggs, toast, coffee and this delicious Portuguese pear juice stuff. I was fully rested and prepared for a week of absolute exploration. I stocked up on America to Europe outlet adapters and a Portuguese simcard for my phone. I ran around Bairro Alto, the bar district, during the day. It was 3 PM and people were already starting to pound back the drinks. I watched a detached junkie looking dude pee in an alleyway with an older Lisbon lady. We laughed at him. I stumbled into a really awesome record store that strictly carried obscure European electronic music and the whole Animal Collective discography. I know that Panda Bear from Animal Collective lives in Lisbon and wondered if he had arranged this.

Lisbon is full of these cute old squares always overlooking something magnificent, filled with old gentlemen smoking and playing chess or some other game. It was beautiful and hot. I was happy to be so far South during the winter. I stopped in on an old family restaurant right before lunch time was over. I was the only one there except the family that owned the place. They watched me intently. I ordered in broken Portuguese and finished off in English. As I waited, the son sat down with me and spoke to me in moderately good English. He was fascinated with my Sonic Youth shirt. His name was Bernardo. He was obsessed with Lady Gaga. He smoked Camels. He was an artist. He said he would stayed up until the early hours of the morning listening to Lady Gaga and painting. He called me "Charlie the Musician". He invited me to check out his paintings at his apartment down the street. I declined. He seemed dope, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

That night, I played guitar out in front of the hostel for a couple hours. I made some money and a lot of people came and hung out with me. Miguel, a guy I met through couchsurfing, met me there after he got off work. Him and his friend Edgar were going to show me around Barerro, a little town on the other side of the river, the next day and wanted to help me buy a boat ticket. We immediately got along and joked about all sorts of things. I bought my ticket with them and returned to the hostel. Nurragin, this awesome Norwegian guy who works at the hostel, was preparing a Portuguese style BBQ over a small, clay pig in the main room. We BBQ'd several different types of sausage, drank way too much wine and did some hardcore socializing. These 3 Dutch guys and I did some hanging out the rest of the night with these really cute French girls (whom I couldn't speak to). We sat outside the hostel and I played music for the drunk passer-byers while they danced and fought. This older Portuguese gentlemen decided I was the shit and started buying me beer. I would toast him, drink the beer, play music, look down and ooooohh goodness another beer? Why thank you! A strange group of party-happy teenage girls chilled with us for a bit and desperately wanted me to play Lady Gaga covers. The coincidence made me giggle. I played a bunch of songs I would play back home and loved that no one had ever heard them before. I was eventually deserted by the rest of my late night cohorts and stumbled back to bed, full of free beer and wine. Nothing better than free beer and wine.

The next morning was rough. I was huuuuuung over. Beer and wine...don't mix it. I downed some coffee and eggs and dragged myself to the boat station. The ride across the river was beautiful, with Lisbon setting behind the crest of the water. I was greeted by Miguel in Barrero. He had just played a vicious game of football and was covered in grass. We talked about the Crisis and how it effects Portugal. The unemployment rate is fucking blasphemy, something like 25-30%. We met up with his friend Edgar and started off on a tour of outer Lisbon. We got a traditional Portuguese sandwich, Biftec. Delicious pork and bread with some mustard. We took off for a rugged looking mountain range in distance. We stopped at the top and walked around for a bit. The mountain quickly dove down into the bay on the other side and the view was breathtaking. It reminded me of the drive on highway 1 north of Jenner towards Salt Point. There isn't much wildlife out in the countryside of Portugal and the trees are very interesting. They're thin. I liked them. There was an incredibly epic, gothic looking cement facility out in the middle of the wilderness. At the coast, we took a hike down to a sandy beach. The sand is so much thicker than in California and littered with little things like shells and pretty rocks. We drove over to a town called Setubal where Miguel had gone to college. The town was a color that reminded me of a crazy circus. Above the town we visited a thousand year old fortress with the coldest darn worship room I've ever been in. Overlooking the bay and Setubal, I explained to them the Occupy movement and we watched a daring bicyclist ride all the way up the steps. We picked up some ultra-churros called fraturas on the way out of Setubal and tortured ourselves with the delicious smell as they took me to an even older castle overlooking the whole area 360 and devoured the big fraturas. We went back to Barrero as the sun went down and enjoyed a meal they had been joking about all day, the fried cuddlefish. I explained to them that eating cuddlefish was a crime because all they wanted to do was cuddle. They objected - the cuddlefish had it coming. We stopped at a bar next to the boat station and took a celebratory shot of some high alcohol wine before we bid adeiu. They were the most excellent hosts and tour guides and I promised to return the favor if they ever made it out to California.

I was exhausted, but I had made plans to meet with another couchsurfing friend named Joao at a jazz club dubbed Onda Jazz. It is in the oldest neighborhood of Lisbon, Alfama. We met up, got some delicious sangria and chose a spot right next to the stage. Joao knows the owner and they treated us like good friends. The jazz group was from France. They kicked ass. They were a little more rock than jazz but they had this excellent dissonant style that resonated with me. Joao had just enough English to communicate with me well. He is a 53 year old math teacher and jazz musician. He loves fusion, like the Weather Report. We talked about black holes and Miles Davis. I spilled sangria on him. He laughed and didn't mind. After the show, I went back to the hostel expecting a quick descent into sleep. It was 1 AM and I was donezo. No. It was a party. People were playing king's cup in the main room. I had to kick it. I played guitar for people as they passed out on bean bags. The night crew and I chatted it up in the kitchen. We talked about Lisbon and how chill the people were. We traded music. We talked to these two Swedish girls who had to catch a flight at 5 AM and saw them off. They were drunk as fuck. So it goes. I nearly crashed sitting on the kitchen floor and decided to transplant myself into a dope bed. Goodnight, bitches.

Lisboa Part 1

The airline I took over to Lisbon from New York was called Jet Airways. It is a relatively new Indian airline. Everything was in Hindi. The old Indian lady next to me said absolutely no words. She couldn't figure out how to lock her tray table, so I did every time she needed it done. She didn't thank me. I was too busy reading Just Kids to care. I read half of it. I had never heard Patti Smith's music before, but I was completely in love with her. I don't remember ever having that experience before of falling in love with someone I've never met. I tried to watch Food, Inc but it made me waaaaay too sad. We arrived in Brussels, Belgium at the equivalent of 3 AM in New York time - just about my bed time. I slept on a bench thing in the airport for a couple hours waiting for my connection flight to Lisbon. No one at the airport could tell me where the flight was leaving from until 30 minutes before it's scheduled departure when an old lady came stumbling down the terminal station yelling "Lisboa! Gate 50! Lisboa! I figured it out!" I thought that was a silly way to catch a flight. I was going to learn very quickly that in Europe you are expected to know where to be and when to be there. Always. No babies.

On the plane to Lisbon I tried to sleep but couldn't manage. I was quite anxious, about to disembark in this new country where I didn't know the language or any friends. I was sitting next to a very cute girl who looked equally as tired as I but also very excited. She only spoke Portuguese so we talked in body language - a sigh when our airplane left late, a smile when we realized the food we were served was kind of good. When we flew over Lisbon she nearly lost her shit, smiling and laughing with her face glued to the window. I liked to think she was from Lisbon and she was returning from a trip of similar nature and magnitude as mine. I loved seeing someone so excited to return to Lisbon, as I will be when I see San Francisco out of an airplane window in June. Her excitement became my excitement and I left the plane eager to explore.

I had booked 3 nights in a hostel in downtown Lisbon called the Traveller's House. Hostelworld.com has it listed as the best hostel in the world. It cost 15 euro a night. I was intrigued to see what the best hostel in the world would be like. On the way to the Traveller's House I watched a group of rambunctious young dudes raise some Kain all over the back of the bus. They were talking in a language I couldn't recognize. They were whistling at all the fine ladies, not letting old people sit down, blocking the way so people missed their stop, ect. I was scared they were Portuguese. I soon found out they were Polish and that a big Polish football team was playing a high profile game against Lisbon's team that night. The Poles got creamed. They were total motherfucking crybaby vermin smeared all over Lisbon for the next week, singing stupid national songs drunk off their dicks, peeing on historic monuments in broad daylight and roaming around without their shirts on and their big white bellies flapping in the wind. When not distracted by the silly Poles, I noticed loads of street art all over the abandoned buildings in the area outside of historic Lisbon. One piece spanned three different 5 story buildings and looked like a bunch of cartoony super heroes fighting it out. I was stoked.

I arrived at the main drag in historic downtown Lisbon, Rua Augusta. A huge archway-clock tower is the gateway towards the river port at the end of Augusta. The streets are made of little square-ish stones. Time has made the stone laying wavy and sort of dreamy. I found this incredibly elegant and it would be my main source of inspiration in Lisbon. I walked up and down the main street, bewildered by the antique architecture. The colors of everything were otherworldly, lots of beige and brown and faded yellow. I couldn't find the Traveller's House, so I asked a man at an information stand where it was as he was closing up. He laughed and pointed towards a little door with no sign on it across the way. He told me to ring the doorbell and they'd beep me in.

Up the stairs and into the hostel, I was greeted by an incredibly dope guy named G who grew up in Lisbon and now worked at the Traveller's House, the classiest hostel I've ever seen. He was a DJ and spun old jazz records at a club in the bar district on weekends. He took my luggage from me and showed me to my room, introducing me to the awesomeness of the Traveller's House. They have a couple dozen beanbag chairs, 1 euro beers you can have on an honors system, the fastest wi-fi I've ever experienced and delicious free coffee and tea all day long. I realized how exhausted I was, having slept so little and been on a plane so long. He gave me an awesome itinerary for "my sleepy face." Traditionally, restaurants in Portugal shut down between 3 and 7:30 PM and re-open for dinner. It was 4. He outlined the way to a cafe run by a bunch of young people called Cruz that don't give a fuck and are open all day long. I walked in and they were spinning a really epic remix of the Radiohead song Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Can on an old record player. I said "hola" to the guy working there and he noticed my accent and replied "hola, or hey, or whatever." I went there every day for a glass of wine and a place to write.

I watched the sunset from the top of this old church overlooking the river that runs by Lisbon and runs in the Atlantic ocean just north of the Mediterranean. It was absolutely beautiful. I people watched an incredibly malformed young guy who looked sort of like the hunchback of Notre-Dame buy a beer for a pretty girl sitting across from me and their adorably sweet interaction. I ran back to the hostel. It was a total fucking party. There was 30 or so people hanging out in the common area, drinking and socializing. I felt like a lame-o going to bed so early. I kicked it with G for a second then crashed like a fucking cruise liner at 8 PM, stoked as all hell on Lisbon.

Bruekelen Part 2

The next few days I engaged in some pretty general rompage and adventuring. I visited the Freedom Tower, which is where the World Trade Center used to be. It has transformed into a full-blown tourist orgasm, with 9/11 t-shirts and coffee mugs and tours and whatever, all of which were overpriced. I decided to listen to Wolves in the Throne Room as I set my eyes on the Statue of Liberty for the first time and popped my Wall Street cherry. I giggled maniacally as the rest of the tourists eye-balled me wondering what I was laughing at. I ate New York style bagels and pizza. My favorite records to listen to while wandering around the epic streets of Manhattan were Three Rounds and a Sound by Blind Pilot, Gorilla Mansion by Local Natives and Labor Days by Aesop Rock.

A girl I met in Brooklyn - Maria - told me story about how a frustrated woman working at a laundry mat had yelled at her these beautiful words of advice (or something) - "You live in hope garden? YOU DIE IN BROOKLYN!" I decided to rank that amongst my favorite quotes of all time. At night, a very junkie looking fellow in Crown Heights stopped Gabe and I on our way home and drooled his terribly depressing life story all over us. His wife died in Katrina, he jumped out of a window, he survived, he moved to Brooklyn, his baby was starving. His only request was that we buy him some powdered milk for his hungry baby girl. We did. It was $20. We decided it was worth it.

On Monday I did errands. I bought an old wool military coat from an awesome thrift store in Park Slope, got a Portuguese phrase book from a strictly travel bookstore called Idlewild and picked up a bitchin' set of headphones in Williamsburg at a good price. Everything was dandy smandy. That night, however, things started to get super duper sketch. A group of migrant workers had been hastily replacing the stairwell in Gabe's apartment complex for the past week or so and the conditions were super unsafe. It was pretty much just the skeleton of a staircase with plywood covering the missing parts. Gabe, his roommate Maya and I were all chillin' in his room when I noticed some flashing red lights on the buildings outside the window and some commotion in the stairwell. I opened the front door and smoke rushed into the apartment. I went into survival mode. I discovered the things I would save in the event of a disaster - my boots, my guitar, my computer and my water bottle. We rushed down the skeleton stairwell to find some fire men promptly putting out a little fire in the new wooding of the stairwell on the first floor. I said "should we roll?" and they said "no, it's cool". I thought that was a very Brooklyn way to quell my fears of dying in an apartment fire.

The next evening, before leaving the apartment, I was greeted by a Housing Enforcement guy who informed me that everyone had to evacuate the building that night because of unsafe conditions and building violations by the landlord. Gabe wasn't home, nor were any of his roommates. He gave me the number of the Red Cross in case we needed a place to stay. I packed up all my things and left hastily because I was scheduled to meet Sophie for a show she had invited me to. It was in an art gallery called the Clocktower in Manhattan. All we knew was that a band called Prince-arama would be giving a presentation on their philosophy dubbed "the Now Age". We were intrigued. I was running a bit late to the venue. Upon emerging from the subway I had no idea where the street I was looking for was. I ran around anxiously searching for Financial Parkway and found nothing. I looked into the skyline and saw an epic motherfucking clock tower in the distance. I decided to give it a go. I ran over to the base of the clock tower and saw security checking people inside. I thought that was strange and second guessed my intuition. A voice behind me cried, "it's the Clocktower! Go inside!" I glanced behind me but saw no obvious source of these instructions. I went inside and saw Sophie behind security. The guard asked me "what floor?" and I said "the Clocktower" and he said "uhhhh...what?" and then Sophie said "12th floor!" and we were cool. Out the elevator, we made our way through a silly maze of nondescript hallways, following signs for "the Now Age". We came upon a hallway with flashing lights and a tape loop of someone mumbling. This was a little unsettling. We wandered into another hallway, but it wasn't just a hallway, it was a fucking cave! A realistic looking cave made out of paper-mache and other arts and crafts. It was incredibly well done and it totally tripped us out. This led to the gallery where we were served free wine and watched a crazy artsy Spaghetti Western style movie that was filmed in the cave while we waited for the presentation to begin.

The band started the performance and I instantly realized this was going to be hilarious. Prince-arama was two girls dressed like futuristic Amazonians. Airy synths and a straight pounding floor tom was the backdrop for the presentation, accompanied by a powerpoint presentation and synth girl speaking epically with tons of echo and reverb. The Now Age presentation was bullshit - something about how modern music uses ancient imagery to communicate the coming utopia where we will all get together in huge stadiums and do molly or something and rock out and watch the band "sacrifice" themselves to the Gods. They threw glitter all over the room and got down to War Pigs by Black Sabbath and pulled all of us up to dance with them. Tons of dancers came out of the cave and one of them fake-killed synth girl. She stumbled to the ground next to this record player and gave a silly epilogue about how the circle of life is like a vinyl or something. She "died" at our feet. All this was good fun, but the icing on the cake was the ending. They invited up the lead singer from the hipster Black Metal band Liturgy and some other popular Brooklyn socialite to have a guided discussion with a professor from Columbia University about the spirituality of digitized music. Sophie and I laughed and laughed and laughed. We left early. I explained to her my sleeping predicament and she let me crash at her place. She lives with some excellent artists so I admired the works on the walls and promptly hit the hay.

The next morning, I awoke early and prepared myself for the flight to Lisbon, Portugal. I got coffee and a PB&J at a cute little coffee shop in Bushwick called Little Skips. I still felt like a granola with my backpack and guitar, looking like a confused mountain climber in the dirty streets of Brooklyn. In Manhattan, I bid a farewell to the wonderful Mr. Gabe. How I love him so. We ate hummus and bread and talked about the future. I decided to pick up a book at Strand before getting on the train towards Newark airport. Sophie recommended me a novel by the musician and poet Patti Smith called Just Kids about growing up a struggling artist in New York City. I was quite enamored with the dark dirty mortal yet uniquely inspiring vibe of the town and the book was on sale so I purchased it. I started devouring it on the train. It is an amazing read. I love her gab - punchy, aggressive, crude yet graceful and beautiful in all the right places. I loved knowing what the streets looked like described in the book. I was so distracted that I had no idea how far the train had gone and how close to the airport we were. I asked a young guy who just got on the train if this stop was the airport. He said "yeah man you better go!" I grabbed my stuff and the door closed on me just as I was about to leave. The guy said "you're fucked man! Let's go talk to the conductor." He ran down the aisle and I followed him with my big old stupid backpack and awkward guitar case. The conductor gave me a mouthful about how I am "the stupidest piece of shit" and how I will "never survive when the shit hits the fan" before opening the door and pushing me out. I laughed, sitting on the ground, loving how temporary everything was. There would be moments on this trip where situations would get hairy but it was okay because I was on the move. I would never see that conductor ever again and I would never get to thank that dude for helping me not miss my flight. But it was okay, the moment had passed and I was getting increasingly better at living inside the present. I made it to my terminal just as boarding began. I felt deeply grateful and counted my blessings. The sun set on New York as the plane picked up and I blew a kiss out the window. An older Indian woman sitting next to me looked at me funny. I smiled at her. She didn't smile back. Hahahahahaha.

Breukelen Part 1

I slept for 13 hours. It was beautiful. I charged into Gabe's kitchen to start some breakfast. I heard some construction going on in the stairwell but didn't think much of it. Just as I put a bagel in the microwave, I hammer burst through the kitchen wall and chunks of drywall flew all over room. I managed to block all the flying drywall with a frying pan. I let the workers in and they helped me sweep the floor and get pieces of wall dust out of the open butter container. I caught the subway out to NYU to meet up with Gabe once he got out of class. I was not spiritually prepared for the epicness of Manhattan. It's not human sized. It's a city made for giants. We got some falafel sandwiches in an old heroin neighborhood. Back at NYU, I met some of Gabe's theater cohorts, one of which was wearing bright red rain boots and a bright blue kashmir sweater. We watched an extremely avant-garde play. The dialogue was originally in Russian but they decided to translate it into English word by word. This made for some awesome one liners. Everyone looked like steampunk Moorish motherfuckers. The play was about...nothing in particular. I liked it a lot. We got some dinner at a silly Asian restaurant that didn't have a name and had a serve-your-own cotton candy situation after dinner. Fucking delicious. We charged back to Gabe's and once again hit the hay.

This next day I will dub the "day of economic differences". I had to go to the UPS ground center to pick up my travel debit card. It was on the outskirts of Brooklyn, in Brownsville. Gabe told me to avoid Brownsville. Some notable residents of Brownsville are Mike Tyson, Rza and Gza from the Wu-Tang Clan and Larry King (wtf?). Brownsville is the motherfucking PROJECTS, where all the pussy ass ghettos in other US cities go to get murdered. So, I jumped on the subway and headed out. I don't deal very well with sketch situations, as some of you may know, but I figured it would be a delicious experience. It was a cold, sunny day, with large square buildings sprawled out as far as the eye could see. There was garbage covering the edges of the streets and every fence was barbed. I was the only white dude for miles and miles and miles. Every once and a while I would pass by someone listening to headphones and singing maniacally with the music, cracked out on some vicious drugs. I finally made it to UPS only to be informed that the package wasn't for me but for Gabe and that only Gabe could pick it up. I was a little pissed. I ran over to FedEx conveniently located across the street. I was informed that my package could only be picked up with the package receipt that I left at Gabe's apartment. I was double pissed. I decided to call it quits and get the fuck out of Brownsville. I jumped the L train and traveled all the way to Central Park. It was so mind boggling being in the most impoverished ghetto ever, getting in a train and emerging in a beautiful city park surrounded by skyscrapers, millionaires and little drooling babies wearing sweaters. I wandered around the park listening to Blind Pilot. I felt wonderful. As night drew near, I got a baller cappuccino and wandered around upper Manhattan. I somehow stumbled upon Times Square on a Friday night. I was not emotionally prepared for the visceral assault of the lights, the people, the advertisements...it blew my fucking gourd.

I met up with Gabe and we made our way over to a house party in Brooklyn that Sophie had invited us to. This part of Brooklyn was also quite ghettolicious. It was hilarious to walk up to one of the old houses in this neighborhood and see a little hippie living room with dozens of hip kids sitting around some guy playing guitar. He was in the middle of a song so we decided to watch him from the window until he finished and people clapped. His song went on for about 30 minutes, with silly tape loops and one epically emotional chord progression on repeat. Gabe and I noticed Sophie sitting right next to the window so we decided to imagine what she was thinking. "What the fuck am I doing in Brooklyn?" She looked like she was about to fall asleep. We sent her a text message - "I CAN SEE YOU". She finally picked up her phone and turned around. She almost lost her shit. We laughed. We came inside, drank wine and met some of Sophie's friends. They reminded me of folks back home. We watched a girl do an excellent dance performance where she led a game of charades and contorted her body in absolutely beautiful ways. I introduced myself after wards and we talked about the possibilities of dance and performance art in house show settings. We had a little 60's dance party and danced the night away.

Blastoff!

It was rather intense leaving Sonoma County for four months. I have a knack for cramming way too much shit into a slim time slot and preparing for this trip was no exception. In the frenzy of a week I bid a forlorn farewell to the faces I love, smashed together all my belongings, stuffed them in my fathers old hermit shack and drank a cappuccino stout just in time to catch a ride from my beautiful homies Christine, Andrew and Taylor to the Oakland airport at 3:30 AM (an ungodly hour). I was under the stony haze of sleepiness as I gave them all goodbye hugs, one by one, and awkwardly shifted my belongings toward the check-in line just as the pissed-off morning crew was turning on the lights. I somehow made friends with a group of church goers who were on their way to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras and spread the Good Word. I thought that was a funny itinerary. We sat around the boarding area telling sleepy stories from the Bible. On the plane, I got to sit next to a business man from Silicon Valley who told me he had "some real smart software people" working under him and that he was on his way to Cleveland to sell "the next big thing" to some "rich motherfuckers". I fell asleep as I told him about my trip to Europe and all my intentions. He made me feel young and my dreams were whimsical.

I called my mother during the long, long, long lay over in Cleveland to help me not fall asleep. She kept saying "I have to go" and I kept saying "no please don't I'll fall asleep" over and over again. The back of the airplane to New York was empty and easy to sprawl out in, so sleep was easy to obtain.

It was nighttime when I arrived in New York and called Mr. Gabriel Green. He gave me the directions to his place via subway. I had never ridden the subway before. I felt like I was in a movie. I looked like such a fucking granola with my backpack and guitar, nearly falling over every time the train accelerated through the underground labyrinths. I arrived in Crown Heights and was greeted by Good Gabe. What a dope guy. I unloaded my stuff in his hallway (oops, I mean apartment :) ) and we kicked it old school until sleep was like an anxious light at the end of the tunnel. We hit the hay and I sprawled out on the amazing air mattress he graciously arranged for me. I loved him and was excited for the New Yorkian adventures we would have over the next week.