Cycling About La Rioja & Punk Rock

The weather was more than astounding yesterday, so I took it upon myself to go for a brief 10km jaunt on my bicycle to the surrounding areas of La Rioja. Just a few klicks away is the pueblo of Lardero. The school in which I work is in "Lardero", but not quite Lardeo Proper - the compact, exponentially growing town that can be seen over the crest of a hill just past my school. While I wanted to spend more time navigating the streets of the town, I was teased by the highway sign pointing to Alberite, which was marked in the distance by the bell tower of a cathedral. I kept on trucking, well biking really, and descending into a flat area with grape vines, houses with piles of junk, and construction equipment lining both sides of the road, I eased into a nice rhythm towards the bell tower. Alberite is a small pueblo that is mostly uphill, and which leads to another pueblo further up the mountain called Clavijo. I crossed the Iregua River and entered the town. It was quite small, quaint, and apparently full of a million of my students at La Laboral. My name was shouted, and of course I imagined it was another Tomás, but was quickly proven wrong as I turned around and a posse of 15 or so 15 year old boys were hauling ass towards me on their bikes. I was circled, and prodded for questioning as to what I was doing, and granted I have never spoken to these kids in Spanish and usually tell them that I don't speak Spanish, it was a little strange to jump into conversation with them. But they were nice and said that they were on their way to Clavigo to play tennis. I visited the cathedral, which was really nothing spectacular, drank from a natural water fountain, and then quickly got back on my horse towards Logroño since I was supposed to go on another ride with Marta after my personal trip. The way back was a bit difficult since I had already traveled a bit, but the wind was not helping me out and was quite strong.

I passed back through Lardero, down the hill towards Logroño, through the busy streets and next to the oblivious motorists, and went to Ebro Park to meet Marta. Seeing her pull up awkwardly on her dads red bike was pretty hilarious, and I knew immediately that she was not well acquainted with a bike. While this means nothing, nor alludes to anything bad that happened like obliterating blows to the clavicle forced by an over the handlebars de-mount, it was still humorous. We followed the park along the river and stopped for a moment at a large park near the plaza de toros as miss Beceiro was tiring quickly. It got a bit chilly and we headed back. After giving a late afternoon class, we got some pinchos in the Casco Viejo and went to meet with David (dah-veed) and Lucas (loo-kahs) on our way to the "casa ocupa" - a squatter house that houses a community of punks. There was a cheap bar, no electricity, and loud crazy punk music. It was pretty damn fun, and I can't even say that the typical rancid punk smell was really all that present. I had no idea what the hell they were screaming about, but I felt better when Marta told me that she didn't either. Some of the people told me with a certain air of vanity as if I should have understood these babbling drunkards, but it was CLEAR that they were:
A) screaming wildly into mic's in an unpowererd house. [I assume there was a generator somewhere]
B)quite drunk.
C)possibly poorly educated, hence the strange bastardization of their own language.
It was definitely fun, different, and an impossible find without knowing locals. I met my Italian roomate at a bar afterwards, and was shocked at his inability to make decisions, but happy to see him since this was his last night in our apartment, and then headed towards the casa.
Fun times.

^

I have since shaved thank jesus

Cowabunga dude

My First Pizza (out of the hundred i've made in restaurants)

Ingredients

200 g - Harina

10g - Levadura

1 Tbsp - Aceite de Olivo

A little bit of agua

Process

+ Mix warm water, yeast, a little salt and sugar in a bowl.

+ Poor Tbsp of olive oil on the flour, and then mix the water and flour together.

+ After mixing, knead for 5-10 minutes into a ball

+ Place ball in bowl in the un-heated oven and let sit for 3 hours

+ Get the now risen dough out and knead it more, and put it back into the oven for a bit longer

+ Make your sauce however you want (I used some tomato juice, cayenne pepper(2), S&P&herbs)

+ Flour the tray, spread the dough, sauce & toppings, cook on high till you like

PIZZA TIME!

My Italian roommate Matia told me how to do this and I improvised some. A few of my buddies and I shared the pizza and went out to a party together afterwards. The cayenne peppers were crucial and I believe myself to be addicted to them. A little bit of spice is always something nice.

Caixo! (hola en Vasco)

Bilbao. An adventure in itself.

6 p.m. arrived and I got out of my bed in Logroño for the second time of the day. The painful residue constructed from the night before's activities had held me prisoner in my own house for a slow recovery, but nothing was going to stop me from diving head first into the Basque country that weekend. A quick scoot down the road on the bike and 25€ later, I had a return trip ticket situation to Bilbao for 3 days. Poorly preparing for my quick departure, a pillow, random clothes that served for decent warmth, and no toothbrush ( I know mom, I should know better by now) made their way into my bag and onto a bus within 30 minutes.

Bilbao is a wonderfully quick 1.5 hours away, and a terrifying 4 degrees Celsius colder. My friends Carly and Tammy met me at the bus station of the Basque capital city and took me back to their cozy apartment in the Casco Viejo. Prior to arriving in Bilbao, I had heard some negative chatter about it being a strange collaboration of medieval neighborhoods and horrifying industrial zones, but my impression was swayed for the better since Carly and Tammy live in the beautiful old section; they even had a steaming pot of chili prepared that was ALMOST comparable to my moms'. Needless to say, it was super rica and I had quite a few helpings of it. The Casco Viejo is placed around the Nervión river and boasts Gothic churches and interesting apartment buildings. Since the majority of gossipers had hinted that Bilbao was not a very pleasing place, I was astounded by its beauty and enjoyed every minute of my time in the streets.

The Ribiera market has some of the freshest seafood, meats, veggies and fruits in the region and is currently under construction to extend itself by about 2 times its current size. It was an interesting dark sulfuric yellow, and the new editions are set to be brick red and an azure blue. Just around the corner from the girls' house is the local theater, plaza nueva, and a never-ending maze of tapas bars and restaurants - most of which specialize in bacalao(codfish) tapas, or as they are called here, pinchos. We followed the bending river through the city and ran into the Guggenheim Museum which is a work of art in its own architectural right. Since I am going to return to Bilbao at a later date, we did not enter, but rather marveled at the metallic structure from outside and pondered its structural integrity. Just a few blocks from the museum is the city center called Greater Bilbao, where the streets are lined with name-brand stores and large buildings and impressive plazas. To get back home, we took an exquisitely quiet, electric "street car" that ran on tracks placed in verdant green grass, back to the casco viejo for a rest. The next day was to be carnaval, so the streets were dead and it was a bit eerie walking along the medieval metropolis' streets at 2a.m. without seeing anyone. They were all hibernating for the insanity that was to follow the next day.

Carnaval... Supposedly it is supposed to be the celebration of Lent, but who knows what people are thinking when they take it upon themselves to absolutely lose their minds on purpose. Parades, disguises, outfits, groups of people collectively dressed as super heroes, Harlem Globetrotters, or mimes were just a few of the wilds antics thrown into a huge mixing pot of Basque, Spanish, and foreigners in Bilbao. The celebration takes place all over Europe, but I happened to spend it in Bilbao. I bought a harlequinish jesterish hat, painted my face (poorly I might add), and wore a pair of entirely way too dark sunglasses out into the night. We partied with friends, half of them didn't make it out of their apartment, and we hit the freezing cold streets with the rest of the crazies. Photos exist to document the insanity, and I have video of an extensive parade where bands played on the backs of trucks as they went down the streets, children and adults alike wore wild outfits while demonstrating all sorts of ant-government, pro-gay, and completely erroneous representations. It was truly a good time, and the next day was devoted to relaxation and recovery. Before getting on a night bus back to Logroño, Carly, Tammy and myself went to see some traditional Basque dance and music in a large tent they had erected in plaza nueva. The dances reminded me of the Russian dances in the Nutcracker, with deft old-school crip walks and ankle tapping. The music was fueled by pipes, a small snare drum, and a violin. At one point, the dancers approached a small glass of wine, nimbly hopping about the glass without disturbing its´ presence, and then mounting the precipice of its´s rim with flat feet... One guy toating some silly boat dress slipped on the glass and fell pretty hard, spilling the wine everywhere, which was immediately followed by many frightened Basque WOAHS!!!

Before leaving, I tried some more pinchos. One was called ¨croquetas de txipis en su tinta¨ which was a croquet that had squid ink added into the batter, and really looked quite disgusting, but was delicious. Another was some kind of fried crabmeat with jelly on top. This was a strange collaboration to say the least. After filling myself up, the girls showed me to flashy metro system, and I headed through the tubes to the bus station. Frantically running around looking for my bus, I had to change my ticket, find my seat, sit calmly, listen to Spanish radio on my phone for the short duration of the trip back to Logroño, and be overjoyed to recount my silly weekend with Marta.

Oh how celebrating things for Jesus can be fun.

Agur! (adios en Vasco)

Drawerings.

I have recenty been wandering through the internetz to look at photography, and have found some pretty dope stuff that really makes me envious. My envy reaches far and wide - into the elements of funds, skills, tech-knowledge, etc. While I have never studied photography and can basically admit to mis-using all techincal terms involving the camera, I really do enjoy controlling an object to capture what I deem to be beautiful or interesting. This is possibly a fascination of mine since I really have a short list of skills to express myself in the arts, but I have pride in my photos and my eye for a photo, so I might as well keep doing it. I just need to learn how to use programs like Photoshop to give myself more to do with my photos, obtain a turbo sweet camera, and get someone to pay for all of the above.

I came across a Dutch photographer by the name of Erwin Olaf, who has some critically acclaimed photos representing dead royalty and in a brilliantly dark and disturbing fashion. Amongst some of the icons represented are Princess Diana, Julius Ceasar, and Jacqueline Kennedy. The striking use of inner-person contrast (I made that word up) between their skin, hair, and evident blood brings a vibrance to these deceased dopplegangers, and touches on themes prevalent to their demises as social, public, and worldly monoliths. I thought it was quite crucial that he used the Mercedes Benz logo on "Diana's" arm to ironically note her way into, and out of, that tunnel.

Olaf also has some lavish photos made for select couture labels such as Armani, Calvin Klein, Versaci, and Gucci. Nudity has lost it's shock value for me. I do not find random nudity being used for such value attractive, and I can't say that random shiny erect cocks or spreadeagled vagina's hits me as shocking or artistic simply because it contains nudity. I do believe that the idea of something that we buy, as expensive as these labels, just to cover our naked bodies, when all we need is a white t shirt, is kind of silly, and Olaf is possibly addressing this by just covering their faces with the bags. Does your face say Armani, or does your body, or are you just hiding it all with a fancy name? I also read that some of his photos were rejected from the set because the models were NOT nude, which is ridiculous.

There is a set of very high-def, close-up portraits containing heavily doctored make-up jobs, that are a little frightening which I quite like. The tones and over-zealous colors do wonders on the emotions portrayed by the models, and I am unaware as to whether or not the majority of that situation is photoshopping, or make-up. Whatever the magic is, I like it, and its entertainingly creepy.

Without a history of using film, disposable cameras not-included, I can't say much like "awhh man it's so wack that they are replacing all things film with digital", but I do sort of feel like that. I am also affected more by this since I have found a passion for photography, to some level, and don't really know too much about either medium - digital or film production. I recently downloaded photoshop and will see if I can get some people close to me to show me the ropes. My cousin also left her Juxtapoz magazine here which has left me with the desire to at least make some "amateur" designs and mess with them if anything. We'll see.

La bicicleta part deux

Before arriving to Spain I had a beautiful vision of mounting a bicycle for the entirety of my stay here, hoping to zip about the northern wine country with unparalleled quickness and ease, but these dreams fell victim to a slow developed comfort zone and lack of funds. After approximately 5 months here in La Rioja, I decided to put my feelers out past the bike shops that I had encountered ( all of which had zero cheap or second hand bikes in their hands ) and hit up the people closer to me. As of now I am the owner of a wonderful feaux mountain bike that is absolutely practical and wonderful. While it grinds its own gears, and amongst those that it has, which are not clearly labeled on the shifters by any means, it has been getting me from point to point with a catalyzed quickness that is unquestionably joyous. I now get to the school, houses, and bars in a quarter of the time on foot, and do so with glee. Head on a swivel, I take to the busiest streets for quicker routes and break all traffic rules along the way. Red light = sidewalks, pedestrian crossing = me crossing, and 25 minute prior departure time = 5 minute prior departure time. All thanks are given to Margarita, who has supplied me with man's favorite machine ( or so I believe it to be). I have entered the most comfortable of all zones, and am now able to see the other side of the river, which is home to the bodegas and countryside, have seen more of the pueblo where I work, and can step outside of my own autonomous region to the Basque country for new language and beautiful countryside.
I am riding a nostalgic new high.