Walking Through Spain

April 12th, 2011 by acjohner

Walking Through Spain

On down this old road. Dagger strapped heels tightly feeding on the ground. See beyond and out the world of madness and longing for more always wanting to put more in past the teeth and why they are never clean always putting more and more into there.  All the things that make us whole again.  But never ever ever full, always only partially empty, and partially full.  And never the way it was meant to be and why nothing works in this world except the wheel and if it ever breaks down the earth will come alive and screw us all to death.

Up over the hill the sunshine, then the glistening of a thousand wet rooftops all with scarlet clay tiles and I smile to myself because I have been on this walk before and know that this same little path winds all the way along the coast of the Mediterranean, all the way from Almeria to Barcelona.  It takes one summer to walk the entire way.  Sleeping on the beaches and drinking wine on the steps of churches and the Museum of Salvador Dali, and eating tapas with every drink never once having to pay for a meal.

Then waiting in Barcelona for my bus to Madrid where a plane would take me home and spending my last night out there on the beach watching teenagers rampage in and out of a row of discos some of them sneaking down the beach to get at one another and always in the style of the dog…it must have been something the Spanish liked to do a lot.  But that’s not what I remember the most, even though it is the part I love to tell friends…what I loved the most was a single sunrise I saw camping with hashish in Alicante and living with this strange girl in Madrid who was German and only liked to read American authors and always read my stories even though they were all terrible and told me I was a wonderful writer but sad.

And what is so sad about it Evelyn? Is it the same everywhere or do the expressions change with the changing of colors? Do you mean the flags? The Flag of Florida is my favorite. I hate the American flag.  Why is that Evelyn? It just looks disgusting all the colors are bad together.  Do you think American sadness is the same as German sadness?  Of course it is.  What about Spanish sadness?  There is no such thing, everyone here is happy.  Are you happy?  Of course. I’m not.  I want an adventure.  You’re on one.  This isn’t an adventure enough for you?  No.  All I’ve seen of Spain is this window and nothing beyond it.  That’s because you drink all the time and never go anyplace.  I’m not one for cities.  Get out of it.  Come with me.  No.  And her walking me to the bus station.  A frightened boy with no tongue but English and just wondering from town to town saying perdón perdón…donde está el cuarto de baño? And sometimes not getting answers because my tongue was all wrong.  Then meeting this girl from France, and one from Argentina, and two that had a cottage out in the countryside where we all got naked and let me lick wine off there breasts because it was all I wanted to do, and realizing that Spain is a lovly and loving country after all for divine nakedness and dancing and drinking in the streets.  Everything can be done in the street because everyone loves to watch and see how the others do and they always share everything.  Even if it’s only a baguette and a dozen mouths, crumbs are dispersed.  Running all the way up the coast in cars with strangers then mostly with this girl from France who was a Lesbian but we always slept in each others arms because it was nice and why not do nice things for a change you American she would say always thinking opposite of everything fun.

Then coming back to Madrid finally on a bus after seeing a thousand beaches covered in tits and walking up to Evelyn and not thanking her for my summer even though Spain was her invitation, and I was sorry that I got tired of sleeping next to her.  And that I would not stop writing and drinking long enough to take any walks with her in the park.  And now looking back I wonder just how I got by with my manners all like a bag of assholes.  And wondering why they always whispered behind my back but loved me when I was drunk which I was all the time anyway.

I could walk all this way again but I’ve come this far I might as well go back, otherwise I may never come back, and the adventure is always in vein for me if I can’t tell anyone the story.

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