My September 11th 2001

After changing into my office attire, I logged on and immediately went to the internet to see if I could find any more information about the plane. Streaming video wasn’t yet in use, but the pictures from some news organizations told me that the story was far larger than I had thought. I decided to visit the company’s library, which contained the only accessible television. I flipped the station to CNN, and watched in amazement as the North Tower burned.

Dazed, I walked back to my desk and told my colleagues about the fire. The general reaction was of disinterest, with the exception of my friend Darnell who wanted to have a look. Thus, at around 9 AM, Darnell and I went back to the library and stood watching the disaster unfold.

The next minute changed everything.

Now, I wasn’t born when Kennedy was killed, and was quite young when Lennon was shot, but from what I imagine, the incidence of Darnell and I watching the plane fly into the South Tower had much the same effect. Time slowing down... stopping... irrelevant... incomprehension. Darnell and I were watching the North Tower burning when all of a sudden the camera panned jerkily to the left just in time for us to see a plane strike the South Tower and explode into a fireball of ferocious intensity and a million shards of broken glass.

My jaw was agape, and if I were to charade an expression of shocked horror, I couldn’t replicate what I felt or must have looked like at that moment. Darnell and I stared at each other as the horrible truth dawned on us. One plane hitting one building could easily be an awful accident. Two planes hitting the towers was obviously an act of aggression, an act of war. I was dumbfounded.

I don’t remember much about the hours that followed. I know that at some point I went back to my desk and tried to work. This was impossible and the events that were unfolding in New York City weighed heavily on my mind. Thus, I spent most of the morning in the library, with a small crowd of colleagues. In that time we saw first the South Tower collapse, and then the North Tower. We heard about the plane crashing into the Pentagon, and when Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania, it seemed... well, let’s put it this way. Normally, when a passenger jet carrying 40 or so people crashes in North America, it is big news. On the morning of September 11^th, however, it was just another part of the horrible continuum. Nothing made sense and nothing was shocking anymore.

At around 11:30 AM, the company decided to shut down. Scotia Plaza and First Canadian Place, the two tallest buildings in downtown Toronto, were also evacuating in large numbers. Suddenly the streets were full of bewildered office workers, wandering around in the September sunshine, confused as to where to go or what to do. Making eye contact (not common in Toronto) with somebody from another building told me the same bewildered, frightened story over and over. We were all in this together, and not one of us had a clue as to what the appropriate response should be.

My older brother worked at the same company as me, so we decided to walk together to his condo. I wheeled my bike up Yonge Street, and was shocked at the number of people holding signs. Normally a big city like Toronto has its fringe elements, mostly harmless people who want nothing more than to impart their theories about the imminent alien invasion or whatnot. September 11^th was different: there were dozens, maybe hundreds of people holding signs saying that the attacks were foretold in the prophecies and that it was the wrath of God upon a decadent Western society and other such rubbish.

At the end of my brother’s street, I told him that I was going to bike to my apartment to see if I could get in touch with my wife, who was also working downtown. He invited me to stay with him, but for some reason, being in my own place seemed important to me. I hopped on my bike and headed west.

Part of my ride took me past Ontario Place, and at the waterfront I got off my bike and lay on the grass. I looked up at an empty sky and realised that there were no planes flying anywhere in North America. Everything was different. I cried a little then, probably for the first time that day but certainly not the last.

The rest of my September 11^th 2001 is a familiar story. I got home, turned on the television and immediately started making phone calls. I reached out to everyone I loved, just to hear their voices, just to make sure we were safe. The world had changed instantly: had become sadder, more dangerous. I needed make sure my community was still together, still facing whatever uncertainties this new millennium seemed to be presenting to us.

After what seemed like an eternity, my wife finally made it home. We hugged and wept for hours.

Ten years on, the memories still linger, as vivid and haunting as they were on that sunny September Tuesday morning.

European Journal, July 28, 1996

In the above picture you’ll find a random shot of some Italian, or possibly French, shrubbery. I seemed to have all but given up on taking photos for a few days.

            (As always, my 2010 comments are bracketed and indexed. My original 1996 comments are left alone, often with cringe inducing results.)

Sunday July 28

I am now the proud owner of a spanking jolly flat cap.

Yesterday I woke from my dog-like sleep on Carmello’s floor, and tried to clear my head from the copious quantities of wine and shish-kebabs I had ingested the night before. The party was a success, and the men, Roc, the four of us, and neighbor Kaarsten, a corporate lawyer from Denmark, sat around shooting the breeze and smoking expensive cigars on Jane’s terrace.

I got up and made myself presentable, which was difficult with the laundry situation. We said our goodbyes, and Carmello already had the Count Basie cd. We boarded the bus and made our way down the winding mountain road through Isolabona and Dolceaqua to Ventimiglia where we got a train to Nice. I love that train, because you can sit in these dickie seats right next to the door and sit with it open to a rather stunning vista of the med and mountains.

We went through Monte Carlo next to the road where Princess Grace was killed. Monte Carlo and the whole Cote D’Azure exuded wealth which I had never seen before. Nice was alright, and the six of us checked into this hotel full of crackheads and junkies, but it was cheap and they were pretty lethargic so it was cool.

            (At least I had a mellow perspective on things. I’m not so sure nowadays how I’d feel about sharing a room with a bunch of junkies. Have you ever seen a full-on junkie? They’re the ones with the yellow eyes. I do remember one of them grabbing for Sarah, but we extracted her from the situation at hand. It wasn’t difficult: junkies are pretty docile and this little guy weighed about 70 pounds.)

The best thing about Nice was that after 23 days we got to do laundry. That was a treat. We bought 96 bottles of beer and proceeded to get inordinately drunk. After all, Jono, Jonathan, Sarah and Ada were leaving for Budapest the next morning and Aaron and I were going to Paris.

            (Our friends’ plan was to get hammered and then catch the early bus for the three day trip to Budapest, whereupon they’d sleep the whole way. Upon consultation after meeting up back in Canada, they advised that getting hammered immediately prior to a long bus ride is a really bad idea.)

We are right now sitting in first class of the TGV from Nice to Paris, and scooting through the red hills and vineyards of Provence. I could definitely see myself and Wendy spending some time here. I love this area. I find my French skills, although rusty, are coming back to me. I can hold a decent conversation or at least make myself understood. Paris shall be the real test.

            (I was in first class on the TGV? No wonder I’m still paying the trip off: all them concubines and peeled grapes don’t come cheap, you know.)

Anyway here’s how I came to acquire my new chapeau. The others had to leave in rather a hurry because we were all drinking until six and then passed out. I found Jonathan’s cap under the bed, by which time, they were nearing the Swiss border. They also lost all their cutlery, and Jono forgot his pepper. That’s the danger of traveling wasted I guess.

I listened to the Paintbox tape and realize how much I miss those guys. I can’t wait to get back and play again. Wendy, my darling Wendy, I can’t wait to be back again.

Sometimes, a band will really suit the mood of a place and Pink Floyd really does it. South of France and Floyd really go hand in hand. It’s just a sunny, baked feeling.

Paris should be exciting, then London, England will beckon.

European Journal, July 26, 1996

Above, you’ll find an excellently framed and focused photo of us on the beach at Mentant. Whoever took that picture should get some kind of award for such a quality image.

(…wherein our intrepid adventurer’s lack of clean clothes is starting to offend even him.)

            (As always my 2010 comments are bracketed and indexed. The original 1996 writing is left in situ and unedited.)

Friday July 26/96

Yesterday I must have sprained my ribs somehow. It hurts when I move in certain direction. It has been three weeks since laundry and things are getting desperate. We wanted to do laundry in Grindelwald for Christ’s sake.

            (To put this in context, we hadn’t done any laundry since the woman in Prague stole our clothes on July 4th. The twenty-two day interim was spent travelling to Vienna, climbing the Alps, spending time in blistering Barcelona, spending a night sitting on a sidewalk and travelling to Italy. Considering our clothes spent days fermenting in our back-packs, we must have smelled fantastic.)

Today, we woke up early, which was difficult, and went to Mentant in France. The bus wound along these mountain roads that always thrill me,

We went to the Mediterranean beach and saw the sights. Boy did I see the sights. We bought enough food to feed an army, and liquor to poison the Grand. The Mediterranean is every bit as blue as it looks from postcards.

I fell, for once, somewhat at a loss for words. I miss Wendy, but by now that’s a constant. I feel as though I should describe things in greater detail, but I’m only writing this as a memory trigger.

            (My concept of a memory trigger was that if I couldn’t write down a full entry, I’d at least write down a few words to help me remember later. Oh, and I think in the first sentence I meant “I feel” instead of “I fell”.)

I am at the train station in Ventimiglia. Jono is sitting beside me in a green golf shirt. He has bought a Count Basie CD for Carmello.

I have had some crazy times in Pigna, but I feel ready to move on. This slow pace suits me; a week here and there, and much relaxation.

Europet – dog/cat © J. Halliwell, 1996

Eurogas

Eurosnack

“Can’t breathe, can’t laugh”

            (I’m not sure, but I think that last quote was me and my hurt rib. Since laughing was agony, my pals thought it great fun to try and crack me up.)

European Journal, July 25, 1996

In the above photo you’ll find a valley with a big brown splotch on the distant hillside. It’s either a problem with the developing or I was eating HP Sauce whilst compiling my pictures.

(…wherein our intrepid adventurer stumbles into the exciting world of homeless wino.)

            (2010 comments are bracketed and indented. Original 1996 mumbling is left unedited.)   

Thursday July 25/96

Yesterday. It seems so vague. After the river we came back to Carmello’s and he made us a dinner of ravioli followed by a delicious spicy rabbit. After we drank 8 litres of red wine and went to The Villa. I sat dumbly watching some guys play ping pong. It became intense and my head started spinning so I went and lied down in the parking lot.

            (Wine was super-cheap and you could buy it in those carrier packs that the older among us will remember glass bottles of pop coming in. I didn’t say it was good wine, but what it lacked in quantity it compensated in price. Lying down in a parking lot at night sounds like a bad idea.)

I then decided to walk. I walked toward Isolabona, and found a park where there were benches. I collapsed onto one. I thought the others were there and I began talking to them. So essentially I was this drunk lying on a park bench mumbling to himself. I know finally what it means to be a wino. I stumbled back at 5 AM.

(I thought that it would be fun to walk to the Mediterranean. I made it to the next village down, about two kilometers, and not the 20 or so kms it would have taken to get me to the sea. I actually remember talking to my friends while lying on the bench, and how confusing it was when I realized that I was alone and in the wrong village. I remember seeing fairy lights, which was probably a cop’s flashlight ascertaining that I wasn’t dead.)

The fucking church bells are right next to my window and I swear the guy who rings them is a lush because they’ll go off whenever and ring loudly for insanely long times. Anyway, I was roused at noon and we went to the cliff today. I think I bruised my rib because it really hurts.

            (Perhaps I hurt my rib when I decided to have a refreshing nap in the parking lot.)

I think that Pigna is a lovely town, and the people are friendly. We went for drinks with this older Danish lady who has a place next to Jono’s.

European Journal, July 24, 1996

(In the above photo you’ll find a stone bridge one would assume sturdy because it’s ancient. Wouldn’t it make more sense to assume it’s old and rickety?)

(…wherein our intrepid adventurers are recovering.)

            (2010 bon mots are bracketed and indexed. Original 1996 text and bad poetry is sadly left as is.)

Wednesday July 24/96

Yesterday we came to the nice river where I am again. It’s Jonathan’s 24^th birthday today, and we went to the Mediterranean last night and drank copious beers in this verandah on the beach and listened to Santana.

            (I think we went to the Med at a town called Ventimiglia, just on the Italian side of the border. Aaron and I had our first real Italian pizzas there. Nowadays authentic pizza is a dime a dozen, but in 1996 it was still mostly doughy, tomatoey stuff.)

Today it’s a bit overcast and grey, so we are just chilling out on the rocks, spread out like lizards. Have to remember to call Wendy at 3 Pm tomorrow. Hope she’s doing alright. God I miss her.

            (Uh oh, another short, probably hung-over, entry followed by poetry. Again, observation: I was too addled to write a longer entry, but well enough to write poetry? This bodes ill.)

Dusk Midnight Dawn

The cliff rises up in mute green splendour

Above the raging current

Cutting rough paths in the rock

It makes me cry under the grey sky

Missing the one who understands

The motor burns below the cliff

In terrible orange tiger

Blinding these tired irises

I makes me wonder who created this

Imperfect current through the ripples

The energy rises up in sheer human terror

As the people chant in electricity

Culting the motor burning down to ash

It makes me tired in the blacking sky

Weary of traveling to weary scenes

Again

The cliff rises up in mute morning splendor

Above the sparkling current

Sunning through the morning rock

It makes me smile under the blue sky

Bittersweet for the one I miss

Greg/96

(Good god, I signed my name to it. You know, lest other people try to pass off my mawkish sentiments as their own.)

European Journal, July 23, 1996

(In the above photo you’ll find Aaron taking on the world’s sock fascists.)

(…wherein our intrepid adventurers attend a large party.)

            (As always, my 2010 scorn is bracketed and indexed. My original 1996 musings are left unedited.)

Tuesday Wednesday July 23^rd 96

            (Uh oh. Got the day of the week wrong. The addling begins anew.)

Right now I’m sitting on a rock in a little river near Pigna. Yesterday we went cliff-jumping. Sarah hurt herself rather badly by doing a big belly flop. The cliff must have been 25 feet high and a rather exhilarating. After, Carmillo, the jazz trumpeter with whom the others are staying drove the four men, me, Aaron & 2 Jons up to his campagna where we set up 500 bean poles. Bimbo- a crazy puppy.

            (The cliff jump was at the top of this waterfall and it was awesome. The only drag was having to climb back up the cliff, soaking wet and feeling a bit like Gollum. When Sarah jumped we all knew instantly that it wasn’t going to end well. She hit the water with a tremendous smack, and actually floated on the surface for a while before sinking. Jonathan jumped in right away and got her out.

Setting up the bean poles was kind of annoying because Carmello had this large black lab puppy named Bimbo who thought it was a great game to yank the poles out of the soil the moment I turned my back.)

After that came the experience that let me know that I could die at any moment. It was five to seven and Carmello want to get us to a meat shop before it closed at seven. I believe that Italians are the best drivers in the world. They have to be because if they weren’t, there wouldn’t be any Italians left. Marcello drove at 120 kms on these super winding narrow roads, with walls on either side. Anyway, the store was closed, so we went to a bar and drank some sambuca and ate pizzas. When we got back to Pigna, Carmello felt pretty bad, so he made us all this amazing pasta dish and after we sat around drinking lemon vodka and listening to Stan Getz.

After, all seven of us piled into the little car and we drove to a pre-party which involved us drinking a lot of wine and listening to this brass band occasionally fall apart. This really drunk guy made us these tuber instruments. The rest is a haze- we drank and went to another party. We drove on the back of this dump truck. These guys threw some other guy’s bike into the gorge, and he laughed and said he’d get it tomorrow. I drank a bottle of wine and chatted with this cop who was carrying an uzi. We then got back on the dump truck and the driver who was quite wasted kept dumping us out. Then we went to somebody’s garden and ate bruschetta with this old accordian player who rocked out with a benign smile. We got back as the sun came up.

            (This was one of the most amazing nights I’ve had in my life. The pre-party was held at someone’s villa on the side of a gorge, where we sat at a long table covered in a red-checked tablecloth and with large grape arbors all around us. It was exactly as you’d picture an Italian terrace looking like. In the corner there was this little oom-pah band with three old guys playing enthusiastically and badly. We were all tooting along on these little horns a guy made for us out of green stalks. One fellow had a large earthenware pot of some milky liquid with a stalk-straw in the middle of it, from which we were instructed to take large draughts.

            Finally, we all congregated at the front of the house, by the road, where a guy came barreling at us with a dump truck. We all got in the back and as we were about to cross the bridge across a shockingly deep chasm, the truck stopped. There was a guy with thick glasses on a bike who was invited to come with us. We helped him and the bike up, and while we were crossing the bridge, someone threw his bike over the edge. Me? I would have been super annoyed, but he was laughing about it, like people were always chucking his bike around.

            When we got to the next village, there was a large square that was filling up with people. There was a stage set up and a band was getting ready to play. Our driver drove the dump truck into the centre of the square and proceeded to raise the dumper. Most of us quickly realised what was happening and jumped over the side of the truck. Sarah unfortunately did not, and held onto the front until she was all but dangling in the air. At this point we tried to get the driver to put the dumper back down, but he wouldn’t, so the five of us basically built a human ladder and Sarah climbed down our backs.

            The party was huge, and everybody was drinking bottles of wine that they were selling like beer at the bar. From talking to a few people, it turns out that three villages in the valley take turns once a month hosting a big party. It seems like such a fun thing to do, and nobody knew how long they had been doing it for. We sang and danced and met loads of people from as far away as France. Oh, and I chatted with a cop who was also drinking wine and lazily swinging his Uzi.

            The music was lively, with guitars and horns and a really hot female singer. I have no idea how long they played for, but the dancing seemed to go on forever. I was having a blast, dancing with a lot of different people.

            At the end of the night, much the worse for wear, the dump-truck driver told everyone he was leaving, so we climbed back into the bed of the truck and rode at break-neck speed back to the villa where the night’s festivities had begun. Once there, more wine was opened and an old accordion player started playing these really traditional songs.

The home owner, who had offered us pasta, came out of his house with a mortified look and tragically declared that there was no pasta, and would bruschetta be okay instead? He brought out this string sack of freshly baked buns, along with some olive oil. Then he went around the garden getting tomatoes and basil and whatnot, and chopped it all there at the table. The bruschetta was amazing.

Finally, as the sun came up, we made it back to Pigna where we actually went to a restaurant for some breakfast before heading to sleep. Ah youth.)

European Journal, July 21, 1996

In the above photo you’ll find some of Pigna, a village in northern Italy.

(…wherein, after a dodgy couple of days, our intrepid adventurers are reunited with their friends.)

            (As usual, my 2010 witticisms are bracketed and indexed. My original 1996 text is served al dente, with absolutely no editing.)

Sunday July 21/96

Well, we finally met the gang, after sitting for seven hours on the granite bench in front of a big tree that passes for the Pigna bus station. Actually Pigna is a lovely village, and we are situated about 15 kilometres from the Mediterranean in the Italian Alps. All of the houses are joined together in a cluster on a hillside, and have house bridges joining them. I felt quite medieval walking through them. We waited and waited in this pleasant town where the bus stop is in front of the gas station, which is two pumps in a park. Finally at 3:30 we asked this couple with hats who were obviously tourists whether they’d seen our friends. They said they’d seen a guy with a Canadian flag on his back pack (Jonno!), a guy with a beard (Jonathan!) and a girl with blonde hair (Sarah!) skulking stealthily about. With panic, fearing we may never see them again, I bounded up the steps and shouted “Jonathan!” The rest is history. We are staying at Jonno’s place, which reads “The Halliwells”. Jonno is staying at some jazz trumpeter’s place. Cool.

            (Pigna is a little Italian village about 10 kilometers from the Mediterranean and very close to the French border. It’s medieval in character: it obviously precedes the auto age in that many of the roads contain one or two car-defying steps in their course.)

We are staying with Rob and Arlene, two teachers from Brampton and their lovely kids. Nice people.

            (I remember absolutely nothing about these people. I’ll have to take my word for it.)

Today is Jonno’s birthday, and we went to a dinner which couldn’t be beat. It was an upscale place, and let me describe the dinner in great detail for you. First, a spicy Italian wine. Then the antipasto, which came individually.

1. Salami on a string
2. Olive oil spread with bread
3. Mushrooms
4. Dumplings
5. Stuffed onions with potatoes and meat
6. A kind of spinach quiche
7. Sweet spinach dumplings

Then we had ravioli, hand made with ricotta, a bit of meat and a load o’spices. The best I’ve ever had. A far cry from Boy-Ar-Dee. They were homemade with basil.

            (Praising Italian cuisine by contrasting it with Chef Boy-Ar-Dee is like praising a filet mignon by saying that it sure ain’t McDonalds. Not a terrifically useful comparison.)

After we had veal which I wouldn’t normally eat, but Jono had ordered and I didn’t want to offend. Anyway, the lemon and pizza sauces were delish. Anyway, Jonathan gave Jono his present, a knife like Wendy’s (God I miss her), and the lights went down and we sang happy B-day to Jonno, and the bearded waiter came out with a large ice-cream cake. It tasted like cappuccino and heaven. Followed by coffee and Grappa. Grappa has olives in the bottle and makes your eyes water, but nonetheless I had two glasses, feeling a bit like Hemingway.

            (Grappa is made from distilled poison and makes rocket fuel taste like milk. After this night I developed a saying: “The wine was fine but the grappa was crappa.”)

Ada & Sarah gave Jonno and Jonathan cigars for their joint birthdays, so we shared and felt like Mafioso. Finally we stumbled into the night and spent the rest of the night in a little bar with a sizzling bug lamp, listening to CCR and the Byrds.

            (This entry makes me sound like a hick. I felt like part of the Mafia because I was smoking a cigar? Because I was in Italy? I bet there’s dozens of people in Italy who have nothing to do with the Mafia. Anyway, in the paragraph immediately before that last one, I wrote that I felt like Hemingway. So which is it? I’m pretty sure Hemingway wasn’t running with the mob. (The Old Don and the Sea, anyone?))

European Journal, July 20, 1996

In the above picture you’ll find one of us in an exuberant, possibly “refreshed”, state.

(…wherein our intrepid adventurers spend the day travelling across southern France)

            (As always, and it’s been a while since the last entry, the 2010 comments are bracketed and indented. The original 1996 text is left completely unedited. Sometimes this embarrasses me, but I think today’s entry is okay.)

Saturday July 20/96

Later… I feel wide-eyed at the prospect of something new and exciting. My current lack of sleep makes me feel like I’m out of my brain on the train. Moose makes the country go by in a metallic blue blur. The line between where something stops and another starts- physical matter turning into an airy blur; that line is broken by tired perception, the wide-eyed methadone grin, and by the shimmering properties of the music.

            (Moose was an underrated English band whose music started out as shoegaze and ended as country. There are two things I remember about this trip:

1.    We shared a compartment to Nice with an elderly couple who spoke no English. I was impressed by my ability to have a conversation with them. We spoke for almost an hour, and when I didn’t understand something, I’d say “Lentement, s’il vous plait”. They must have felt as though they were talking to a five year old. I enjoyed it, though, as it forced me to use my Grade 13 French skills and not mention “chalk” or “blackboard” once.

2.    We shared another compartment somewhere on the trip with four French advertising men. This was pre-laptop, and they had notepads they were scribbling in and talking: I think they were on their way to a meeting. They were all smoking unfiltered Gitanes, and they offered cigarettes to us. Aaron took one, but having not slept in two days, I couldn’t. I might as well have smoked, though. Unfiltered Gitanes are very strong, and when five out of six people in a closed compartment are smoking, the air turns blue very quickly indeed. I had to escape and wander around the train.)

European Journal, July 19, 1996

In the above photo you’ll find some of us wandering around in the Spanish sunshine. Not the world’s best photo, but as stated, there’s a paucity of releasable photos for this portion of the trip.

(…wherein our intrepid adventurers find themselves spending the night on the sidewalk.)

            (Ad nauseum: my 2010 comments are bracketed and indexed. My original 1996 text is left sadly unedited.)

Friday July 19/96

Today we went to the contemporary art exhibit at the Picasso gallery. I loved the contemporary art by a guy called Balla. There’s a piece by him called Mercury Passing Before the Sun. It is very much in the dadaist tradition, and was painted in 1912. It’s neat to see something from so long ago with such an ability to appeal to me.

            (I guess as you age, you’re more able to see the long view. An 84 year old painting, in art terms, doesn’t seem that old to me.)

A guy tried to steal my wallet. Man, this town is full of thieves. A guy the other day tried to steal my watch, but I caught him with his hand around my wrist and told him to fuck off. Anyway, right now, things have gone haywire. We’re supposed to meet Jonno, Ada and the rest at 8:00 AM tomorrow in Nice. Trouble is we missed the last train, and are now spending the rest of the night at the railway station.

            (I remember stepping onto the very clean and air-conditioned subway: this was only four years after the Olympics don’t forget, so a lot of infrastructure was new. Onto the train with me stepped an unfamiliar fellow, uncomfortably close, and I immediately felt his hand in my pocket. I grabbed my pocket as hard as possible and didn’t let go. Being a guitar-player, I have very strong fingers, and I was jabbing them into the back of the thief’s hand with extreme ferocity. He screamed and screamed until I let go. He then  gave me an extremely dirty (and hurt of all things!!), look, and ran into another car.

The watch thief was actually kind of interesting. I had left my good watch at home, and Wendy had given me this cheap but trendy watch she’d gotten with a make-up kit. Every night in Barcelona we would congregate by that famous fountain (Placa Reial, I think), to figure out what we were going to do that night. One night, this little fellow came up to me and started doing a strange sort of dance. It quickly got weirder and weirder as he would dance towards me and then away again. At some point I said “enough” and threw my hands in the air. That’s when I discovered his hand on my wrist.

We weren’t too upset about having to spend the night in the train station, until we learned that the train station shut down at midnight and that we were going to have to spend the rest of the night sitting on the sidewalk outside. There were about forty of us- some people slept. Aaron slept. I stayed resolutely awake, and watched strange groups of people wandering up and down the sidewalk, watching for groups of people who had fallen asleep. It was a little surreal.)

Sound familiar?

It’s not too bad, though. I’ve met a Dutch guy named Mark and we’ve been whiling away the hours. Unbelievable how many people there are here. It is now 6:07 AM on Saturday morning. Our train leaves in 43 minutes, taking us towards our Nice friends. I have met a guy called Peter with whom I get along very well. We exchanged address etc.

            (I was glad Mark was there- he was a body-builder and was about to return to service in the Dutch Army. Nobody was going to mess with us while Mark was around. He explained to me that the reason most of the bikes in Amsterdam were those old-fashioned black ones is that since everybody rode the same bike in the city, nobody’s bike was worth stealing. He said that most people kept their real bikes at home.

            Peter… he seemed like a nice guy. He made Sno-cone syrup in St. Louis. I last saw him on the platform of the train station at the French border, where the line changes from awkward Spanish gauge to the one used by the rest of Europe. While chatting on the platform, Peter suddenly realized that he had left his toothbrush in the bathroom on the train. He hopped back on the train, and whilst he was retrieving the brush the train left for Barcelona. My final image of Peter is of him standing in the doorway with his brush and Aaron and I shouting that we’d give his bag to security.

            So we took his backpack to the station concierge who said he’d look after it. It’s funny, you know. The thought of giving a relative stranger’s bag for an official to take care of didn’t seem at all odd to us. Nowadays they would have had a bomb squad out there, blowing Peter-from-St.Louis’s gitch all over the Southern French hills.)

Actually, our friends in Nice are expecting us at 8 in the morning. We won’t be there until 6:00 PM tonight. I hope they’ll understand. I was scared about spending the night sitting on a sidewalk in Barcelona, but it turned out fine and I ended up meeting some great people.

I’m dog tired, but Pigna should be relaxing.

European Journal, July 18, 1996

The photo above depicts a complete lack of ability on my part to find a photo that reflects what I did on this day in Barcelona. Oh, I have photos all right. Just not ones fit for putting on this blog.

(…wherein out intrepid adventurer gets all broody and philosophical.)

            (As always, my 2010 comments are bracketed and indented. My original 1996 text, as juvenile as it may seen, is being left unedited and exposed for the sub-Morrissey teenage(ish) complaint that it is.)

Thursday July 18/96

I feel strange sitting all alone in this room in Barcelona. I look around and feel empty, full of cobwebs. The wine bottle is empty and the ashtray is full. I feel purely alone as I look out of my window into all of the other darkened windows here in Spain. The Spanish night leaves me with no remorse, and I feel tight set against the cloying intrusion of any caring individual into the careful Spanish isolation I have carved for myself.

            (God… why did I promise not to edit? I desperately want to excise that last sentence, so very angsty it is.)

I realize, in a strange flash of inspiration, that I am purely me, and could take my life anywhere in the world. I would still be me, and not caring about whether I acted Spanish or whatever.  The Universal isn’t about the significant form in art; it’s about lives lived in essential isolation and the fact that at the end of the tunnel there is an inky black void that we are taught to fear and revere. This is it, the universal.

            (“Acted Spanish”? What does that mean? I don’t recall taking flamenco lessons or speaking with a lisp. The Universal? Once you have a mortgage and dogs and kids and things, you spend far less time brooding about The End or whatever BIG CONCEPT my little addled brain was fumbling with. Again I wish I could edit most of this entry.)

So I sit and smoke and try to figure out why this mood has come over me. I feel alone and miss Wendy, but realize that I am me, no matter where I am. I am a survivor. This makes me smile. One more swig of wine and I’ll lie down with the Beatles and think about Miro and his stupid, juvenile subconscious art. Doesn’t he realize that the subconscious is a hundred times smarter and more beautiful than the conscious? The subconscious is made up of the universal knowledge; oh yes, that which I renounce. I just think that the universal can’t be quantified in terms of art or music. The universal is the collective unconsciousness at the core of our being. To unleash that would be to unleash

            (Umm… where did the rest of that sentence go? I stopped writing at a bit of a critical moment, there. And again, I wish I was using the old delete button on most of that paragraph. I must have had angst in my pangsts.)

“When I am Sad and weary,

And all my hope is gone

I walk around my house

And think of you with nothing on”

            (Good one. End your heavy, philosophical diatribe with a meaningless quote from a completely unremembered Britpop band, The Bluetones. I may still have that album, Bluetonic, somewhere. I don’t think I’ve listened to it for at least a decade.)