Loose Cans

I don´t get it. The felonious follicular folly going on in this town, I swear. Either it's frighteningly shaved off, or it´s got weirdly cropped bangs, or it´s gelled to plasticine hardness, helmethead, or it´s a godawful mullet, and yet the demoralizing truth of the matter is, more often than not, it´s a ghastly combination of all four. Driving me crazy. Trés à la mode appears to be the central mullet sloping off the back ot the neck, sloppy bangs pasted down on the forehead, with the sides--hand to God--in crew cut. This we find on both genders. I want to run over these people with riding mowers. I´ve been here all of 24 hours and already I´m losing it.

I get testy at the beginning of any long trip. Usually the initial 24 hours of transit drive me into a homicidal rage so consuming that I find myself swearing under my breath at the dawdling old ladies in front of me in line to get off the plane. It´s the lack of sleep that does that, so when I finally made it to my hostel yesterday, after eight hours on airplanes, an hour of standing on a crammed E train, wearing my big backpack for most of it, and before that, an excellent tkd class, I crashed for what, five hours? Very pleasant. Between the fatigue and the earplugs, I slept like a baby. Did away with the jetlag, too. It´s weird, I never get it going this way. Crushes me going back.

After dinner and drinking etc, I did something I don´t think I´ve ever done, at least not of my own free will. I went running.

Part of it comes from the need to unwind after a farily stressing day. But most of it derives from a developing physical addiction to exercise. It´s definitely the tae kwon do talking; I´ve gotten to a point where not only are three classes (the maximum, for the moment; that will change when I get back, I'll explain why momentarily) a breeze, but I go into physical withdrawal when I'm not there. There's no question I'm there more than anyone else in the school (talking between eight and ten classes a week), but then again, there's no question that I have more time on my hands, too. The rate at which I´m improving. It´s better and better every class. 60 pushups are a breeze. After a week of being frustratingly unable to crack 24, I finally hit 25 kicks in 10 seconds. ("Great!" said Elisha. "Now do 28.") I´ve completely overhauled my side and round kicks, and now they´re both at rib-cracking speed. I don´t hurt anymore, and I need to stretch less and less to warm up. It's the obsession du jour, I suppose, but the difference this time is, I'm getting recognized for doing it well. As soon as I get back, I start training hard with Elisha, who is addition to running the team, just so happens to be my age; she wants me competing on May 20. Popped the question just this week. I'd expected to start competition in September, when I got back from China (hopefully with no small amount of kung fu under my belt), but they want me now. This means 7am training sessions, but it'll be worth it. It´s really an honor, too; I think it´s mighty rare for orange belts to compete. They´re not actually allowed in the sparring class. She also wants me as a sparring partner for the best student in the school, this very pleasant 15-year old behemoth named Joss, who's in the running for the Junior Olympics. That kid kicks you, you stay kicked. Mostly I think she asked me because I´m about his height, and have all the techniques, if not the faintest idea what to do with them. She wants an opponent who's theoretically dangerous, but whom Joss can essentially pummel at will. I really like the kid, too, so I´m glad to take the beating. Now I have to decide whether to test early for the next belt up (green) and compete at a higher level, against people with more sparring experience, or stay orange and mop the floor with my opponents (who will be very few in number anyhow). Probably go with the former out of some notion of valor. Feh.

So anyhow I went running. It was about 11pm, I´d had slightly more wine at dinner than I´d wanted, and I was already fried from the day´s labours. More than anything, I feel like this continual physical punishment bleeds the bad stuff out of my system. Slipped a ten euro note into my iPod case, which I held in my hand, and took off down Las Ramblas, Juno Reactor hammering in my ears. Ran hard down to the waterfront, along the docks, and started back up las Ramblas again, but then my iPod spazzed out on me again. Walked for a ways, gave directions to a lost-looking Canadian, and then when the iPod came back to life, rode the thunder of AC/DC all the way to the other end of las Ramblas, and then back. So today my calves are kind of sore. Really enjoyed it, though. Much more than I thought I would. But I stop running the instant the iPod dies.

But I shall, over the next few weeks, do my level best to rectify the great wrong done you, the readers, by posting as much as possible from the various European hotspots through which I shall be traipsing. Wheels up in four hours. The dates are as follows:

Tomorrow-Apr 19: Barcelona
Apr 19-25: Dublin
Apr 25-30: Amsterdam
Apr 30-May 2: London

And back up into the wild blue yonder I go.