Art After Dark

I entered the Guggenheim museum, tentatively at first, looking around at the trickle of people that gradually filled the room. The club event known as "Art After Dark" was supposed to begin at 10:00, and here at 9:55, I was expecting to see far more people. I frowned, adjusted my short skirt, and walked into the wide, circular room, right as the DJ began playing his music.

Ah, electronica, the best genre to dance to. The bass filled the room, making the walls pulse and my body throb.

More people arrived, but rather than dancing, they all drifted towards the bars, perhaps looking for a little liquid courage before they began moving. I stood there, disappointed at all the people unmoving, awkwardly standing in their social circles. Some of them swayed back and forth, some bobbed their heads, and it was obvious that they wanted to dance, but simply didn't want to be the first person to go out and do it.

I adjusted my skirt, leaned against the wall and sighed. I'd paid twelve euros to get in, and I was hoping this would be worth it. One of the things I loved about raves and clubs was when all the people danced. When the room would fill with heat, pulsating with raw energy as people gyrated and moved to the music, uncaring of rhythm or grace, just swept away by the sounds.

A couple men opted to talk to me. Miguel and his friend, both nice boys who seemed stunned to discover that I wasn't there with a group of friends or a boy hanging off my arm. Miguel kept introducing me to his other friends as that girl from the US with nobody to accompany me. An amusing group, but I wanted to dance more than I wanted to socialize.

Then, there was one woman who finally didn't care about being the first person to start dancing. An older woman, perhaps in her forties, with spiky, platinum blonde hair, tan skin, a colorful skirt and sneakers that in no way matched the rest of her outfit. She stood out, as I imagine I did with my schoolgirl skirt, and she began dancing. Encouraged, I did so, as well, moving my hips to the rhythm, the hypnotic, electronic beat.

The blonde woman kept handing me her drink after we'd been dancing for a while. I smiled and thanked her, sipping the drink, which was alcoholic in nature but at least quenched my thirst. When I was done, I'd hand it back to her and continue dancing.

More people filled the room. Finally, the crowd began to dance, edging a little closer to the DJ table, moving to his music. I wildly swayed my hips, and I probably can't count on one hand the number of people that probably saw my black panties that night, but I couldn't have cared less. With just a little alcohol in me and the music resonating in the room, I had hardly a care in the world.

I must've danced for two and a half hours straight. My shirt became soaked with sweat, and my once neatly-done hair had become a tousled mess. I was a little ball of energy, moving, swaying, jerking to the rhythm.

When the event was over, the blonde woman and her friend approached me, telling me they'd accompany me to the metro. Despite Bilbao being a safe city, they said, it still wasn't a good idea to walk around alone, especially a cute young girl. Thankful for the company, I walked with them into the refreshing evening air, my hot flesh cooled by the crisp night.

I learned that the blonde woman's name was Katrina, and the only way I could describe her is this: unashamedly bizarre.

By the time we finally reached the metro, it was almost two AM. At the metro, Katrina and I parted ways. She hugged me before her train came and gave me a kiss on the lips before leaving.

The night began as a bizarre, energetic adventure and ended rather modestly. When I boarded the metro, an old man goaded me to sit next to him, and so I did. He smiled, looking rather pleased to have the company of a pretty young girl in a skirt. He was far from lecherous, though, and his friend ended up talking to me quite a bit, as he was relatively fluent in English. He told me about the events going on in Spain, and how, if he were in my place, he'd travel the world while he could.

The old men and I got off at the same stop, and I hugged them goodbye, having been pleased by their company. Then I walked home through the stillness of a quiet, sleeping city, reminded of how vibrant Reno would be at this time, with the flashing casino lights and places open for twenty four hours. But not here, in the sleepy town of Getxo, where the most activity was the drunkards and partiers making their way back home after a long, energetic night.

I smiled, breathing in the night air, thankful for the quiet.

First two weeks

Alright! I've survived the first two weeks of my time here in Spain, and need to start remembering to update this blog with some stories. The short story in my previous post is dedicated to my favorite exhibit in the Guggenheim. It was a bunch of statues that represented the peasants under the tyranny of Communist China, and their eyes were eerily real looking. It was a large room just filled with these statues in various positions, a lot were unfinished and they're never touched up, just left to crumble as they are. The whole thing put me in a very contemplative mood and inspired that little blurb.

Anyway, enough of that. In the first two weeks, I have:

Gone to the beach. A lot.
Gone to the Guggenheim.
Went to the village of Bakio, which has the most beautiful beach. There, I did some wine-tasting, ate paella (which is a dish composed of rice, meat, and is delicious), and of course went to the beach.
Started learning how to surf.
Gone on a tour of the city with a man named Aritza. Those of you who read my Facebook, he's the dude that was climbing that wall. He took me to a war bunker and told me about the history of the city.
Gone to a jazz festival. Briefly, I couldn't stay long because of all the smokers.
Gone to Blanca Noche, the 709th anniversary of the creation of Bilbao. I hung out with my girlfriends first, walked around the city, but the REAL fun began when I partied it up with a group of Spaniards, four men and one other girl. One man kept singing in bad English "All you need is loooove!" We went to a couple bars, the second one was where I danced with girls and guys alike, and got pretty damn drunk. I got home at about five AM, fun times.
Tried kalitmoxto, which is a delicious drink made of cheap red wine and coke. It's my favorite.
Found the most DELICIOUS ice cream place with the best chocolate ice cream I've ever had ever.
Practiced my Spanish with the host family and the locals. I can get by pretty well!

Overall, I'd say it's been an eventful couple of weeks. Surprisingly, I don't miss home much at all. Although I do miss Luna quite a bit. There are so many adorable dogs here, I miss having something cute and fuzzy to cuddle.

Things I love about Spain: where I live, everything is within walking distance, and I love the transportation system. I'd like to live downtown somewhere, so I can walk to wherever I need to go and everything is convenient. Less gas money. I love the beauty of the country. I'll admit, Bilbao isn't the most beautiful city. Aesthetically, it's actually somewhat ugly, but I find it to be charming and pretty in it's own way. It's history is interesting and all the local shops, bars, and people give it character. I love being somewhere that doesn't feel so modern or stuffed to the brim with corporate crap. The countryside is absolutely green and so stunning, it takes my breath away. I can't wait to go to other cities and experience more of this country.

Things I don't like about Spain: the smokers. Seriously, they're everywhere. In the US, students aren't allowed to smoke in the university, but it's perfectly acceptable here, and so I'm forced to feel like a fool everytime I hold my nose through the smelly corridors. Sometimes, I wish that I'd have a car because the bus system can be a bit confusing. In my first week, I got lost on the bus system and wasn't home for another two hours, but I think I've got a hang of it now.

This isn't a problem, but an interesting cultural note. People here kiss each other on the cheek when meeting one another, which I knew beforehand, but it's been a bit strange to experience. I automatically hold out my hand when I'm introducing myself to someone, and I've gotten weird looks and been reprimanded, told that "only men shake hands." Heh, I need to get used to the whole cheek-kissing thing.

The culture, while not vastly different, is interesting. I've been eating much healthier, and discovered that my new favorite snack is bread. Now I just need to refrain from the ice cream and churros not even a couple blocks away.

Plans for the future: go to San Sebastian and Bakio again.

Cast in Clay

They were peasants, trapped in clay. Mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, forever encased. Unable to move, unable to speak, cursed to be statues and moved at the whim of those not cast in clay.

They cannot speak.
They cannot cry.
But they can see.

Though their lips are sealed behind the white clay, their eyes remain open. Forever moving, forever pleading, forever ignored.

Then arrives the passerby, who gazes upon those trapped in clay. Their eyes meet, and the passerby moves on, neglecting the glistening, melancholy eyes.

Backs forever buckled underneath their tremendous weight, knees forever collapsed under the burden of tyranny.

The peasants are frozen in their era of destitution and oppression. The old man continues to carry the massive bag of rice. The little child will never stop pulling the substantial wagon. The tiny girl will always kneel and clean the shoes of her tyrant, while he gazes down upon her with a lecherous smile. The disobedient peasant will never feel anything but the stinging lash of the whip upon his back. The woman will always stretch her arms towards the overseer stealing her child, never able to grasp the babe, always crying for its salvation.

Trapped in clay, unmoving, but always begging.

Trapped until the clay slowly begins to deteriorate. Gradually, as the years pass, cracks and rivulets sift throughout the clay. The elderly man loses his jaw, the child her fingers, the woman her outstretched hand. Shards of clay lay about them, and they can only wait for it to crumble and free them from their misery.

The clay remains untouched, left to break and diminish. Until, at last, the clay crumbles, crumbles, crumbles, and there is nothing left of them but white, chalky dust.