7:30am! It was Greg’s last day with us, and he had to be at the Madrid airport by noon. He will be missed as a human as well as a laborer. Greg always helped load in, load out and sold merch. His tips and tricks on how to get by in life without spending a cent were priceless. His presence perked things up as he snacked on expired yogurt from a Swiss trash can or regaled us with tales of Alaskan hitchhiking and Canadian bear killing (self defense). His ability to adapt and his spirit are to be envied. He must have thought we were a bunch of soft jello pansies when we paid for things like food and shelter. Hats off to Greg! May our paths cross again.
Reid drove our bug-caked beast through the endless blur of untouched Spanish countryside. On roadsides we explored spooky stone shacks in the red rocks, relaxed on the steps of an abandoned hotel restaurant, and played in its hot, rusted playground.
Salamanca is a college town, home to the oldest continuously active university in Spain. It’s been around since the 13th century, which is older than America…and Dick Clark (BOI-YOI-YOI-YOING! Applause! Fanfare! Confetti! Standing ovation! Champagne! Human cannonball! Parade! Obama! World peace! Explosion of Mars! Sudden inclimate weather! Cannibalism! Destruction of any evidence of life as we know it! Deep century’s long freeze. New life forms! Evolution! Language! Technology! Dick Clark’s New Civilization’s Rockin’ Eve! BOI-YOI-YOI-YOING! Applause!...).
We spread out today, checking out them jumbo churches, serene rivers, and the constant flux of well-bottomed college girls. It was torture and stupid. I haven’t "seen" my girlfriend in over a month. Haven’t showered since Zurich. White make-up clings to the locks of my itchy, itchy scalp. The elastic band on my three-days-in-a-row swimming trunks can’t contain my ever-expanding beer-then-pasta-then-beer tour gut. Ugh.
Blech.
ANYWAY, Ralo is a garage in an industrial block of Salamanca. When we first tried to find it we ended up in the locker room of a factory, where men and women were changing into their work coveralls. A man chomping on the final moments of a cigar shooed us away.
We reunited with Anteojos friends Javier, Maria and Carlos, who were so kind to us on our last visit. Tostadas, the pretty duo with the funny name, played sweet & sad instrumentals on delayed guitar and Rhodes. Maria’s Italian Jen-Moog circled around the songs like a sleepy bee making moon honey (I'm auditioning for Pitchfork in 2005). Someone passed around green foam squares and Salamanca’s bookish drop-outs relaxed their bountiful asses after a long week of exams.
Reid opened the set with a molester’s guffaw into the mic. Mike translated our songs in Mexican. I ate a banana during Alan’s monologue in “Moline”. “Things The Boys Love” made its European debut. One of these days I’ll catch that bounced stick during the one-beat break in “Stumper”.
After the show Jose from Ralo treated us to a 2am breakfast that would stave off substituting my hand for a relationship. For a little while. What I am is an amazing human.
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