A weekend Get Away Where Young and Old Come Out to Play

I have yet to really write personal accounts with what I have done here, reason being, is that Spain within in itself is so breathtaking and captivating that I feel like my personal stories don't do it justice. But I believe this weekend has some merit worth sharing, and this way those of you righteous readers can catch a glimpse of a sleepless night in Salamanca.

Salamanca is a university town in all the sense of the word. It is also a weekend get away for lovers and party animals alike. Thus many a bachelor and bachelorette party come here to indulge in what this city has to offer. These groups of thirty somethings usually adorn elaborate costumes. Last night I saw many a grown man walking around in diapers, wings and afros. I witnessed a soccer game amidst hundreds of people in the plaza between men in soccer jerseys with the bride to be's face on them and a group of matadors and their lone bull. Only four women got hit the head by the ball and the game was called a tie after the bull fell on top of a group of people dressed as pac men and bearing a blow up doll on a stick. It was only three in the afternoon, but the beverages were obviously flowing.

On to me.

I met a friend here through our university wholeft for his home in germany on saturday and naturally he wanted to give it one last hurrah thursday evening. I will refer to him as “Ze German.”

So the Ze German calls me a few times thursday night and insists on going to the Hookah bar, naturally I obliged as hookah is definitely one of my simpler joys in life and he said my favorite word in spanish “Gratis.” Now I don't know if many are familiar with Germans, but they enjoy drinking, especially in copious amounts, so upon my arrival at said hookah bar there was already a large frothy beverage awaiting my consumption. We talked economics, both German and American, and the conversation was enlightening as we puffed plumes of smoke into the crisp spanish air and laughed and mused about the state of things in the world market. We finished our smokey treats and completed our golden goblets, or as there more formally known, pints. We agreed to meet at a Reggae concert later that evening.

Now, I'm in Spain, this Concert was held at an Irish bar, and the large African men in the band were apparently from France. And they sung and strummed Bob Marley like they had lived in Jamaica for the Majority of their lives. Talk about quite the identity crisis.

Much fun was had, the German continued to down pints and tried to insist on my own heavy consumption, but I was just along for the ride and experience. Eventually, the speakers started blairing with interference and said German could not handle it and insisted on moving to another watering hole, Being a gentleman I obliged.

We walked down the street towards a bar called the Irish Rover, infamous for it's large crowd of international students and illustrious lack of locals. But to our immediate surprise, there was a band playing. This event may have been the highlight of the weekend. First off the singer was a gorgeous brunette with beautiful curls that draped all the way down her back, and bounced and swayed to the music she was crooning. Her Luscious locks were crowned by a pink hat reminiscent of Slash from Guns and Roses. This matched perfectly with her aqua marine nylons and pink tutu. Her eyes were piercing, a brilliant blue that gave the impression that she was staring right into to you no matter how into the music she was at the moment. I fell in love with the idea of finding a spanish rockstar to marry that evening. To my dismay and probably to my mother's joy this didn't happen.

Aside from the inherent beauty I was visually seeing, I was also listening to some of the coolest live music I have ever heard. This was a Ten piece band. That included both an acoustic guitar, trumpet, and trombone. Every guitar rift sounded straight out of a Sublime song, and the energy of the singer was somewhere between Janis Joplin, punk rock, and a Japanese bullet train. But it was inherently Spanish. The music and the accompanying pieces played with a flamenco feel, that counteracted the sublime rock rifts. The acoustic guitar did it in though. He led the entire band with the fastest finger picking I have ever had the joy of encountering.

The energy of the place was absolutely ridiculous. People were getting down with their bad selves, mosh pitting, getting down and dirty, or just acting as court jesters. The place was full of locals, from the ages of 18- 74, and Ze German and myself were the lone international people in the parlour. It was awe-inspring, to see both the passion of the crowd and band coinciding into one and creating one of the most beautiful train wrecks of awesomeness I have ever witnessed.

I wanted to stay and try my luck with my new favorite Femmé Fatale rock star crush, but Ze German had other plans, and pints on the mind. So once again we departed into the night.

We walked down the street and ran into another group of americans and push came to shove and suddenly I was leading a crowd of 60-70 individuals in show tunes, 80's one hit wonders and christmas carols. Who would have thunk it?

Of course some overly inebriated adolescent English folk stole our thunder and our my sixty to seventy backing vocals with some classic spanish songs.

And then my pants were on fire.

Yes. On fire, I turned to see the german on bent knee blowing on my buttocks. Exclaiming “ I didn't think they would start on fire so quickly! Ahh, I'm Sorry, Lo siento!”

My only response at that point was, “ That's cotton for you man.”

In a flurry he told me to wait at that spot while he took off. He told me he would be back in ten minutes. I didn't know what to expect at this point. A pint? A Pair of Pants? Or the old Kansas City Shuffle.

He returned frantically waving fifty Euro in my face apologizing profusely. I tried to explain that the pants only cost thirty, but he insisted that he could tell they were Italian and had to be at least forty, and that he just felt bad and wanted to give me fifty.

Luckily I have this issue were I can't say no to free Euro. And you know what, I'll probably still wear the pants.

Luckily our next destination of debauchery was an electronic show being performed by a group called “The SexInvaders.” And thanks to the German I had the perfect costume and location of hole for a SexInvaders event.

We got into the club and waited for an hour, but no SexInvaders so I called it a night, at about 5 am.

This is what can be expected in Salamanca, adventure, debauchery, and fire.

Seriously, Fire breathers are the norm here.

But on a different note I experienced something phenomenal earlier this sunday evening. As I was walking about after dinner I came across a procession that at first looked like a Spanish funeral.

At the front where somber older gentleman in fine dark well-cut suits bearing silver crosses and candlesticks. They were led by a man carrying a septre and dressed in religious sashes and medals. They stood absolutely still, awaiting the leader's motion with staff. Behind them were distinguished hard faced, proud, spanish women and small children bearing their own small red candles lit in their cupped hands. Men flanked the outside adorned with similar medals and holding the hands of their loved ones in the middle.

And then the Procession began. An unseen brass core at the back came in with trumpets blaring that sent shivers down my spine and almost inspired a tear to roll from my eye. The mood was somber, all were walking with heads down and even the four to five year old children didn't make a sound. And then suddenly an enormous intricately carved Jesus on a crucifix came parading down the street lifted high by 30 or so stoic men. His skin was Ivory, the sun caught it and it almost looked as if he was sweating from the setting sun and the spring heat. His body was draped in a deep purple sash. Out of respect to the religious nature of the ceremony I restrained from snapping but one photo. Then I saw the Brass core emerging from behind the brilliance of the statue. All of them were matching in outfits reminiscent of USMC formal dress. There were both old men, beautiful women, and children as young as 7 or 8 playing the somber croon of a mournful Lenten procession. As the sun set the drums slammed heart stopping beats in time with the trumpets, the procession passed, and Inspiration hit me.

Now Playing: “So Here We Are” Bloc Party

I still can't believe where I am, but so here we are.