There are times when I feel like this world is just ridiculously small.  In a planet of 6 billion people it’s amazing who you see and just happen to run into sporadically on the street when you least expect it.  Take tonight for example.  I went out with two of my flat-mates and two other friends for Tapas.  The tapas place was off a little side street in the middle of Madrid and was small, smoky and Spanish down to the very “Gracias Por Su Visita” napkins that graced the table.  We drank and ate and talked until it was 2 hours later without anyone even realizing it and when all was said and done we walked out onto the street into the cold, fresh, Madrid air to the bright lights of Sol.  As we were walking I noticed a figure fast approaching me and suddenly realized that I was going to be assaulted, whether I wanted it or not.  Though the alcohol was clearly making its way through my veins by this point, I was still quite aware of the situation at hand and realized that I was to find out who this person was before it came any closer.  I gave it a closer look and realized she was none other than Paula from UCSD.  She came and gave me a hug but by this point I was too shocked to understand.  Why would Paula be in Spain?  Isn’t this where I live?  No one else knows about Spain except for me and the Spaniards.  In a quick sentence that could have easily lasted three minutes had it been spoken in normal sequence, Paula informed me that she was studying abroad in Sevilla for the semester, that we must get together, and for me to bust out my cell phone for her to get my number.  I did as was told, still in shock to see someone from a past life now entering the present, and hugged her again, just to make sure she wasn’t some imposter Paula coming to trick me in Spain.  And like that, it was over, I walked on with my group and she with hers like we were just two other people meeting on the street.  Like always.  Although in retrospect it isn’t that weird that I would see someone I know in the middle of Madrid, it’s things like this that happen that make you take a step back and realize that in a city of 5-6 million people, you still can always run into someone you know.  As we were walking, my friend Alison said something interesting about fate, she said, “You know, it’s things like this that have to make you believe in something higher, some plan greater than we know.”  I pondered it for a minute after giving my automatic quick-response “yeah…” and realized that indeed it did at least make you think about those sorts of things.  I’m no believer in fate myself but to think that things like this can easily happen, it has to make you ponder, what else can happen?  Who else can you meet just by taking that one street instead of the other?  Or going out that night instead of this one?  You kind of have to wonder if there’s something else out there that you’re missing.

No, this won’t persuade me to restart some new test of nightlife to see if in fact I really do enjoy the recreational activity (also known as boozing it up, losing inhibitions, and hooking up with random international students) but it will make me realize that, hell, at the end of the day, there are always tapas to be had, conversations to be talked, and friends from the past to run in to.

Currently Playing Finally Woken By Jem see related

Now that I’m back from my travels and settled in, I figured this would be a good time to give an update of what’s going on.  I went to London for a week and stayed with one of my close friends, Dani, who I have known since high school.  I traveled with my friend Travis, and we both stayed in her place for the trip, which although was a tight squeeze, was incredibly appreciated both by Travis and I. London was an interesting place, to say the least.  Its people are a diverse one and to me, it fit the image of what a European city would be like.  I would walk into an Underground Station and hear three or four different languages being spoken.  All around the city I saw various ethnic cuisines, far outnumbering the awful fish and chips that somehow made there way to become the iconic English food.  Oftentimes however, I felt the people to be uptight, haughty, and even pretentious, as if they possessed something that the rest of the world was greatly incapable of matching.  In some ways it even reminded me of the States, where almost nationalistic attitudes reflect those of a very self-centered and narrow-minded view of the world outside of the country.  Travis and I saw a lot, an easy feat in a city that is known for its museums, monuments, night-life, and national treasures (yeah alliteration).  Just to name a few, we visited the British Museum, The Tower of London, Tate Modern, the BBC Television Studios, Tower Bridge, London Bridge, Millenium Bridge, Notting Hill, Hyde Park (with Speakers’ Corner!), Kensington Palace, Buckingham Palace, and more…  Travis also visited the Imperial War Museum and the Cabinet War Rooms, both of which he enjoyed immensely.  I took a day trip by myself to Canterbury which was absolutely charming and lovely.  Imagine a quaint little village with a big cathedral surrounded by rolling green hills and there you have Canterbury.  Outside of London there are some notable changes in people, accent, and overall way of life and I recommend anyone traveling to England to not just go to London but see one or more of the smaller outlying towns as they have an incredible amount of sightseeing and history to offer.  I was in Canterbury for the full day, which I thought I would need but it turned out that I pretty much saw the whole city within 5 or 6 hours so I went to GAP (yes they had one there, kind of strange to see among the countless little shops dotting the central street) and bought a new shirt and then spent 3 hours on the second story of a charming little bookshop overlooking the central street reading on one of their couches.  It was a very relaxing day and I’m glad I had the opportunity to go there.  The next day I went with Dani to Brighton, a small city on the southeastern coast of England to visit two of our friends who are studying there—Sara and Morgan.  It was great to see them both and to see the city of Brighton, which was absolutely beautiful.  The only disconcerting thing about the place was going on its brand new pier and looking about a half a kilometer to north only to see the old pier which randomly and suddenly collapsed with people on it into the ocean about a year ago.  Now, one would think that the city would take away the remnants (and might I add, the very visible and shabby looking remnants) of the old pier, but no, they chose to leave them there and there they will apparently stay for everyone to see right from their stance on the new Brighton Pier.

So what is the next big adventure for Ben you ask?  Well, something a bit closer.  Portugal baby.  On Thursday night I’ll be taking an overnight bus to Lisbon and will be traveling around the country for six days after which I’ll take another overnight bus back to Madrid (the overnight busses are nothing short of awful—but they do save a lot of time for travel and money on hostels, and if you know me well, you know that I’m inpatient and a cheap bastard).  Am I looking forward to it?  Absolutely.  Do I know what to expect?  Not at all.  The only thing I know so far is that it’s one of the cheaper countries in the EU and that makes me happy, especially after coming back from England where 12 of my dollars barely bought me a decent meal at Pizza Hut.  The monetary aspect aside, I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful there and I cannot wait to explore it a bit, especially the more rugged towns outside of Lisbon and Porto.  Many people seem to be perplexed that I am taking this vacation alone and to them I always have the same reply, “I enjoy my own company more than anyone elses’ in the world.”  At that point they usually develop a frown on their face and I can just see the pity and sadness forming in their eyes.  That is usually followed with a “that’s so sad” or “I’m so sorry” but I never take that as an insult.  I quite like the fact that I am perfectly content being by myself for extended periods of time.  It’s what I like to consider my battery recharge, my way of becoming whole once again, if you will.  I can get caught up on my thoughts, write some poetry, write some good journal entries (pondering everything from the infinite meanings of life to what restaurant I want to eat at first upon my arrival back in the States), do some of my crosswords, and read for pleasure.  These are the true joys I take in life and I’m not ashamed to admit them.  I suppose that it could get a little lonely at some points but I’m not really worried.  When I travel, I travel, and that means I see everything I possibly can and thus stay very busy.  I’m not a crazy nutball and wake up at the ass-crack of dawn or anything but I don’t waste time either.  I find that it’s just easier to deal with myself than dealing with myself and others.  Don’t get me wrong, I quite enjoy traveling with others, but overall I love being on my own and taking in the world at my leisure.  So I guess we’ll see how that goes and I’ll get back to you after I come back.  For now, all of my UK pictures and some new ‘Piso Life’ pictures are up online at my Webshots sight: http://community.webshots.com/user/benjaminlazarus.

Currently Playing A Beautiful Mind: Original Motion Picture Score By James Horner see related

Madrid is known for its night-life.  This is not a bragging statement made by me to entice you to study abroad here or even travel here on your vacation, but simply the truth.  This night-life that it is known for consists of literally hundreds of bars and discos that dot every street throughout the city.  Now being a so-called virgin to the night-life scene upon my arrival to Madrid I was a bit weary of what I considered to be a rather boring and monotonous form of evening recreation, and yet I honestly gave it a chance, and quite a few at that.  For example, last night I went out with two of my flat-mates to do an activity known to night-life connoisseurs as “bar-hopping” in which one enters a bar, moves through the smoky air, perhaps meets with one or more people of another party, talks, socializes, perhaps has an expensive drink, and then leaves to find another bar of the same or (one hopes) better quality.  Now, to me, both before coming to Madrid and after I have been here and done this so-called bar-hopping several times, this is stupid, and last night was absolutely no exception that formed opinion.  It’s not so much the activity in general because it seems to be quite popular to youth my age, especially the following groups: Americans-just-arrived-in-Spain, homosexuals, horny-men-seeking-quick-vagina, college students and Euro-trash.  I do honestly believe I am in a category of my own, the one filled with people who simply derive no pleasure from going out to these night-life establishments.  Perhaps we should do some role playing.  First I will describe the going out process for someone who seemingly enjoys the night-life scene in general:

Hi, my name’s Blake, and I love to go out.  I’m a college student that’s just arrived in Madrid to study abroad for the year and boy-oh-boy do I love to par-TAY and see hot chicks.  The night begins at my flat where my fellow American study-abroaders and I quickly down some 40s that we bought at the corner store for only one Euro each!  We sit around and talk about girls and how much we love staring at their asses and slowly we get drunk, which, man I love!  Once we are strongly under the influence of alcohol, we go and hop on the Metro to go to Sol, where we find all the hottest clubs in Madrid.  While we walk around aimlessly and all the cool colors of the buildings light up the night, I stare at some girls’ tits as they walk by.  I start to gawk at them because, well, why not, they’re chicks!?  What else are they for!?  So we go into this bar, and man they have the tightest music!  We then got some more beer, actually three more rounds, but by that time, I can’t even count anymore man.  So we ditch that place and run into more people from our program that happened to be walking by and that was so cool!!  I like can’t even believe that we see other Americans walking through Sol, crazy shit man.  We go to like three more bars until I start to get a little tired.  Oh yeah, and then I throw up on the street on my way walking to the Taxi!  All my friends are like, dude what are you doing?  I’m like, man, I fuckin’ drank too much.  They are like, shit man I know!  I can see!  After collapsing on the floor next to my bed for the night I wake up the next day at 3:30pm so hung-over I can barely walk, so I drink half of a 40 to cure my hang-over.  I figure I should eat something so I down the bag of Oreos we have in the cupboard, even though they are stale and don’t belong to me.  After that, I get tired so I take a nap until 8:30, when my friends call me to wake me up because they are going out to eat and then to the bars again.  I can’t fucking wait man!

And now, here is the going-out process for me:

The night starts out at a time I usually consider to be late, 12am, when I am taken to a random flat where there is a party hosted by the brother of a friend of my friend who was in my Study Abroad Program.  We get to the flat and I begin to cough upon the opening of the door as the strong smoke from everyone’s cigarettes wafts through the air.  I immediately realize to myself that it is now too late, beyond the point of no return, where I will absolutely have to wash my clothes the next day, including jeans, in order to rid them of the quite unpleasant odors of cigarette smoke.  As my group of friends and I pass through the hoards of people filling each room of the flat, I wonder if my night would just be better spent curled up in a ball in my bed under my warm IKEA comforter reading perhaps Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Karl Marx’s Das Kapital.  Yet I continue to follow my group at least at this point in hopes of scoring a good gin ‘n tonic or perhaps even settling for some vodka and orange juice.  My hopes are immediately squashed when, upon arrival in the kitchen, I am greeted with the grim reality of the situation.  No, there will be no Tanqueray Gin for me or even a crummy bottle of Absolut vodka to accompany the artificially flavored “orange juice” that seems to appears far too often on the shelves of Spain’s markets.  There is, to my dismay, only a barrage of empty beer bottles and the sad, slap-happy smile of the inebriated slut who happens to be roaming the kitchen in hopes of finding more alcohol to soothe her battered nerves.  At this point, I become vocal about the depressing reality of the current situation and begin to list all of the other things I could be doing at the moment, including the reading of the aforementioned novelists.  While I receive no sympathy for my unfulfilled educational fantasies, I do manage to convince the group that we must leave, and perhaps before the lung cancer that has been developing begins to spread to my throat and begin a new colony there.  We catch the next Metro train, and at this hour it is filled to the brim with people, and mind you, these are not your ordinary people—no, these are Spaniards, and to Spaniards, the concept of personal space is one that has never been implemented into their social education.  So while I am participating in a clothed gang-bang as the Metro makes its way along the rickety tracks, I begin thinking to myself about that comfy bed I have waiting for me back at home, until out of the corner of my semi-conscious mind I hear someone yelling my name, “BEN!  We are here, hurry up!”  I make my way through the crowds of people like a lost child at Disneyland until I reach the group, who has not only already decided where to go, but has started the trek there.  We arrive at our destination—a bar, in Sol, the most touristy, cliché area for night-life in Spain—and this time the smoke is so thick that I am not only unable to breathe normally (I must take in shorter, more concentrated breaths to get every ounce of oxygen I can), but I can longer see anything farther than 5 feet in front of me.  There is a constant outpour of some sort of Latin music in the background, so loud I cannot even interpret the words.  I then understand what it is like to be an airline pilot, making his way through dangerously stormy skies with poor visibility, except these skies have carcinogens in them and all around there is a monotonously clamorous thunder to remind him that where he is is a location considered to be quite dangerous.  As I lose myself in my own thoughts, everyone in the group decides its time to head to the bar and I agree at that point, if for no other reason than to be slightly under the influence of some sort of substance to try better the current situation.  I order a gin and tonic, and receive a minute amount of crappy gin in a glass that appears to be no taller than a Popsicle stick.  The bright side is that I get a pretty little bottle of Schweps tonic water to add to that miniscule amount of gin and I immediately begin pouring—that is, before the bartender tells me that I owe her seven Euro.  We dance for a bit to the crappy music, and when I say ‘dance,’ it is actually us gyrating our bodies to the beat-happy Latin music.  I can barely feel a slight buzz and try to take advantage of it by letting myself feel more free, more relaxed, but all the while I can’t help but look around the room and ponder deeper thoughts concerning matters such as if there really is an adequate evacuation plan in case of some sort of emergency is to occur in the establishment.  I try my hardest to have fun, but you can never really have fun if you are trying.  Eventually, after all faux amusement is soaked out of me, I tell everyone that I want and am going to leave.  Usually there will be at least one or two others in the same situation and we will go home, this time by walking in the cold for a good twenty minutes, trying desperately to find a taxi that is free to take us home in.  I arrive at my final destination, my absolute favorite part of every day, my bed, and as I lay down I realize this is where I should have been the whole time—calm, contemplative, and enjoying my own company with a good book or crossword puzzle.