in the meantime

I was in bed with a lover some months ago. As we was listening to one of my more exhausting stories about my "friends" he told me that I was a bad judge of character, and that I use the word "friend" too easily. Upon much introspection, and as recent events unfold in my life, I realize he was right.

A while ago, another man whom I loved dearly told me once that you cannot change people, you can only change yourself, and the people you choose to keep around you. Upon much introspection, and as recent events unfold in my life, I realize he was right.

The thing is.....I'm in Spain. I am here to learn another language, languish on a beautiful beach, clear my head, and live my life.

I am trying to gain perspective and break the negative boundaries that jealous and incomplete people tried to temper upon me because they are uncomfortable with the freedom I have to live my life. And, in my poor judgement, I called you "friend".

I am not here for you. I am here for me. I am not here to deal with your drama that you try to pass on to me from across an ocean. I am here for me. And it feels good to write that, as I have lived too much of my life clamoring for the approval of others and vying for the love of others, being respectful of the emotions and feelings of others only to have my efforts not only NOT reciprocated, but shit on.

I am in Spain for me. I am not here to entertain your bullshit because you feel a way because your homosexual-in-the-closet boyfriend wanted my phone number so now you want to judge me, who I fuck and what I smoke.

I am not here to indulge your passive aggressive crap because you don't think I am good friend for not writing the papers you didn't know how to write.

I AM HERE FOR ME. I am here to grow, to understand, to live and to love, free, with no boundaries, judgements, jealous prying eyes or limitations.

I am here, and apparently I have come here, flown thousands of miles away from my home, to find out who my real friends are.

That being said.....

Andalucia is the province to which Malaga belongs. It is absolutely beautiful and very tropical, even though apparently all of Spain is not like this. Seville, which is famous for bullfighting and great food, is pretty landlocked and extremely cold.

Barcelona, up close to the north coast, looks like 5th ave at noon and is somewhat temperate when it comes to weather. Also, they speak a dialect called Catalin, which is a mixture of French and Spanish.

Valencia, famous for being the world's originator of sherry (I had no idea either!!) and great tasting olives, is very warm but also has really brutal winters, and is landlocked.

I am considering renting a car and driving up the coast of Spain to see these cities.

Maria, the teacher from Chicago who is new to flat, told me about a great tour in Valencia, where some of the (I guess they would be the equivalent of the department of parks and recreation) people in the city take you around and show you these exquisite caves (I know, more caves). The interesting thing about these caves is that people live in them. People actually, find a place they like in this certain part of Valencia, and dig out a house in the caves. They furnish them, they buy generators and they live in caves. They toss caution and all other excessive ammenities to the wind and live in a flippin cave.

Maria said there was one man, Michael, who had lived in the cave for years. He took some day work around Valencia and had given up all the trappings of the 1st world to live in this cave. And, he seemed very happy. Just one thing-he owned a porche. Yes. He kept it in a tarp by the cave. When the tour group came to his cave, he was very cordial, he spoke many languages, and was very smart. Maria surmised he must have been an important man in his former life.

Then, out of generosity. He took some of the members of the tour around in his porche. He was particular about people putting their feet all over his car, even though he smelled like he hadnt washed since he finished digging out his cave. Wow.

i was laying on the beach today when I saw a man who kind of matched Michael's description selling beaded necklaces on the beach. I imagine that was his life, as I had seen him quite a number of times before (I contemplated asking him about where the weed man was). I thought about vagabonds, layarounds, hobos(which actually stands for people who are homeward bound) and the stories they carry within them. All of us have a story, waiting to be written, some of us have stories that are incomplete without each other. I wanted to know this man's story all of a sudden, but I was apprehensive to speak to him as my Spanish is still somewhat poor.

I walked up to him anyway, smiling my most non negro non threatening smile.

"Ola,"

"Ola, tu quires una cosa aqui?"

"No, gracias, Yo quiero hablah contigo,".

I tried in my most heartfelt Spanish to tell him how much I admired him and wanted to know more about his life, and would love to sit with him and talk to him about this beautiful beach and what he has seen.

He responded, "English. You buy something now?"

"Well, no, I wanted-"

"Que puta".

And he walked away.

Romantically, I surmised that some people, just don't want to tell their stories.

Vale.