RECAP: Loyal viewer and occasional contributor LBok requested a retelling of the fascinating tale of a young American living in Spain who lost his glasses. Actually, LBok requested a different story involving Alceste's loss of his glasses, but I was unable to recall many of the details from that instance other than that our african-American-female friend Sitnay had picked a fight on Alceste's behalf with a large african-African man who proceeded to punch Alceste in the face and thereby knocked his glasses off. I don't think there 
was much else to that story, but my memory is fairly foggy since I was pretty heavily medicated at the time.
Instead, I opted to tell about the time that Alceste lost his glasses at the Plaza Mayor (or was it Puerta del Sol) on the night of New Year's Eve 1990-91. Frankly, I don't recall that night very well either, but I kept a journal of the events leading up to it, and I've been reminded by Alceste on numerous occasions as to what allegedly happened.
The story picks up where Alceste, Colyp and I had returned to Madrid after spending a week in Portugal. By the way, lest I leave the reader with an incorrect impression, the Port we drank in Portugal was generally very good. We only had one bad bottle of Port, but that was what made that bottle noteworthy enough to note. Also, the Aldera Nova that I referenced as the World's Worst Liquor was not Port. It was some type of Anis drink with an unbelievably strong flavor. It wasn't bad in the sense of rotten. It tasted like some sort of evil reduction of black licorice and turpentine. Apparently it is supposed to taste like that.
Speaking of inadvisable alcohol purchases, Coco often reminds me of the time we went into a liquor store somewhere before boarding a train to somewhere else and I spent our available funds on a bottle of Grenadine. Having heard the Grateful Dead song lyrics "Brown-eyed women and red grenadine, the bottle was dusty but the liquor was clean," I'd always wanted to try it. Little did we (I) know that Grenadine is concentrated cherry syrup.
But back to New Year's Eve, 1990. Incidentally, is it New Year's Eve 1990 when the New Year will be 1991? I can never keep that straight. Nor could I keep it straight that night. As evidenced by my journal:
31st- prepared for the night - 1 bottle gin, 1 bottle vodka - took nap - drank vodka - gave presents=BBall "dirty stuff" & IV for liquor. (So, here we are at the infamous New Year's Eve. It appears that we've procured the refreshments and exchanged Christmas presents. I do recall that I gave Colyp and/or Alceste a basketball and we fashioned a hoop and played tackle basketball in Alceste's room with the Germans. I don't know what the liquor IV could have been all about).
Ate chicken. (Again, chicken plays a role).
Filled flask for road and brought bottle of gin. I continued drinking with little assistance. Left with Gunter and the Germans and 2 French girls. (For some reason, I headed out for the evening with the Germans, and, apparently, 2 French girls. I infer that Alceste and Colyp were not with us, but that doesn't seem right. Perhaps they were still napping while I was enjoying a beverage or two, but I really don't remember. However, we must have either made arrangements to meet or they knew where I was going, because, as you will see, we met back up in a sea of 100,000 people).
Got to Sol. (Ah, it was the Puerta del Sol.).
Saw Air Force dude from Moncloa (We had met a group of US Air Force fly-boys one night at a bar. You may recall that the US was conducting bombing raids in Iraq in Gulf War I during the winter of 90-91. This was an unnerving situation for us for numerous reasons, not the least of which was because we were illegal alien Americans in a country that had been ruled by Arabs for an 800 year period. Also, the Spanish public was not generally enthusiastic about the US bombing operations. They thought it was all about oil.
As an example of the social climate at the time, on another occasion, Alceste and I were walking up a street when we noticed a large and growing crowd, or "mob" if you will, building in front of us. As we progressed onward between the burning trashcans, etc. toward our destination, our oblivion was shattered as it slowly dawned on us what was going on. In addition to burning effigies and waiving home-made flag-signs with impolite slogans, the mob was chanting, "Bush - Asesino - Destruye del mundo" or something to that effect which, in our rudimentary understanding of Spanish, we interpreted to mean, "let's get the fuck out of here!" For those who might be amazed at the prognosticating prescience of the Spanish mob who was calling President Bush a killer and destroyer of the world, do not be amazed. This was the first President Bush they were rioting about.
By the way, another problem often encountered while dicking around in a foreign country while your motherland is at war is that it is difficult to get decent news. We had to choose from the slanted Spanish press or US Armed Forces radio from Torrejon, neither of which is very objective. Given the tense situation and the occasional kidnappings, etc., the Torrejon Air Force base was on high alert. When pilots returned from bombing runs on Iraq, they were supposed to keep a low profile. And so it was when we met these guys one night and sat down for a night of drinking. These four 30-something Americans with crewcuts claimed to be visiting Madrid on vacation as an award for meeting their sales goals selling Amway. Right.
Well, it appears that one of these guys was down at the Plaza del Sol. He marks the first in an unbelieveable series of people I/we had met and drank with days, weeks, or months prior who would emerge from the throng of 100,000 to reunite on this magical evening.
-sin dedo (I don't know what this means).
- Saw drunks from Portugal=soccer players=still drunk (These were the freak brothers, one of whom pulled the emergency stop on the train. Again, a bizarre coincidence to run into them again. Who would've guessed that they, and I, would still be drunk days later?)
-German from Faro trip (I think this guy had been on his way to Morocco. He told us some horror story which I don't remember).
-Bought some champagne (There were champagne street vendors. Great concept.)
-drank 1 bottle with gin shots, drunk came along, he helped himself. Ladies, one grabbed Alceste's crank. (I vaguely remember Alceste remarking to one of the ladies, "Hey, you just grabbed my crank!")
-Saw Aussies again. (This was the 2 chicks 1 dude group). Again, what are the odds?
So, my journal entry ends for the night. The remainder of the story is pieced together between my steel trap memory and the unsubstantiated allegations of Alceste (and Colyp).
Many of us who drink to excess have experienced the occasional "blackout." I've been told that it is a symptom of alcohol abuse. Usually, the way that it works is that one drinks too much, and, the next day, when trying to recollect what happened, there is a foggy period after which you don't remember anything and then you wake up somewhere (such as in the bushes) in the morning. This occasion was different. My next recollection was sitting at a table early the next morning. Apparently I had not slept or been home, but I had spent all of my available money (as usual). I was sitting in a tavern that I didn't recognize with a group of people I didn't know. I wasn't sure where (or when) I was. Presumably the adrenaline brought me to a sharp state of awareness. There was a young lass sleeping cuddled against me who, again, I didn't recognize.
The other folks at the table were carrying on a conversation as though we had known each other for some time. I excused myself, and the young lady awoke and, despite my urgent indications that I was leaving, decided to follow. It turned out that she apparently spoke only French, which I don't, and I recall spending several minutes trying to explain that I had to leave because I wasn't sure where (or when) I was. Eventually I left the bar into a neighborhood that I didn't recognize and began trying to figure out where I was. With the sun rising, I could determine East, but I had no idea which way I should head. I walked for the rest of the morning in concentric circles until I found a street the name of which I recognized. I eventually found my way back to familiar ground and walked home late in the morning.
What happened after midnight is a mystery. Alceste alleges that, for no known reason, just after midnight, I walked up to him and smacked his glasses off of his face. He claims to have reached down and put his glasses back on at which time I allegedly knocked them off again.
Though I can't deny it, I would likewise have no reason to believe him but for the fact that a) Colyp concurred and b) Alceste was angry with me for several years which seems like alot of histrionics if it was a joke. Also, he did, in fact, have broken glasses.
was much else to that story, but my memory is fairly foggy since I was pretty heavily medicated at the time.Instead, I opted to tell about the time that Alceste lost his glasses at the Plaza Mayor (or was it Puerta del Sol) on the night of New Year's Eve 1990-91. Frankly, I don't recall that night very well either, but I kept a journal of the events leading up to it, and I've been reminded by Alceste on numerous occasions as to what allegedly happened.
The story picks up where Alceste, Colyp and I had returned to Madrid after spending a week in Portugal. By the way, lest I leave the reader with an incorrect impression, the Port we drank in Portugal was generally very good. We only had one bad bottle of Port, but that was what made that bottle noteworthy enough to note. Also, the Aldera Nova that I referenced as the World's Worst Liquor was not Port. It was some type of Anis drink with an unbelievably strong flavor. It wasn't bad in the sense of rotten. It tasted like some sort of evil reduction of black licorice and turpentine. Apparently it is supposed to taste like that.
Speaking of inadvisable alcohol purchases, Coco often reminds me of the time we went into a liquor store somewhere before boarding a train to somewhere else and I spent our available funds on a bottle of Grenadine. Having heard the Grateful Dead song lyrics "Brown-eyed women and red grenadine, the bottle was dusty but the liquor was clean," I'd always wanted to try it. Little did we (I) know that Grenadine is concentrated cherry syrup.
But back to New Year's Eve, 1990. Incidentally, is it New Year's Eve 1990 when the New Year will be 1991? I can never keep that straight. Nor could I keep it straight that night. As evidenced by my journal:
31st- prepared for the night - 1 bottle gin, 1 bottle vodka - took nap - drank vodka - gave presents=BBall "dirty stuff" & IV for liquor. (So, here we are at the infamous New Year's Eve. It appears that we've procured the refreshments and exchanged Christmas presents. I do recall that I gave Colyp and/or Alceste a basketball and we fashioned a hoop and played tackle basketball in Alceste's room with the Germans. I don't know what the liquor IV could have been all about).
Ate chicken. (Again, chicken plays a role).
Filled flask for road and brought bottle of gin. I continued drinking with little assistance. Left with Gunter and the Germans and 2 French girls. (For some reason, I headed out for the evening with the Germans, and, apparently, 2 French girls. I infer that Alceste and Colyp were not with us, but that doesn't seem right. Perhaps they were still napping while I was enjoying a beverage or two, but I really don't remember. However, we must have either made arrangements to meet or they knew where I was going, because, as you will see, we met back up in a sea of 100,000 people).
Got to Sol. (Ah, it was the Puerta del Sol.).
Saw Air Force dude from Moncloa (We had met a group of US Air Force fly-boys one night at a bar. You may recall that the US was conducting bombing raids in Iraq in Gulf War I during the winter of 90-91. This was an unnerving situation for us for numerous reasons, not the least of which was because we were illegal alien Americans in a country that had been ruled by Arabs for an 800 year period. Also, the Spanish public was not generally enthusiastic about the US bombing operations. They thought it was all about oil.
As an example of the social climate at the time, on another occasion, Alceste and I were walking up a street when we noticed a large and growing crowd, or "mob" if you will, building in front of us. As we progressed onward between the burning trashcans, etc. toward our destination, our oblivion was shattered as it slowly dawned on us what was going on. In addition to burning effigies and waiving home-made flag-signs with impolite slogans, the mob was chanting, "Bush - Asesino - Destruye del mundo" or something to that effect which, in our rudimentary understanding of Spanish, we interpreted to mean, "let's get the fuck out of here!" For those who might be amazed at the prognosticating prescience of the Spanish mob who was calling President Bush a killer and destroyer of the world, do not be amazed. This was the first President Bush they were rioting about.
By the way, another problem often encountered while dicking around in a foreign country while your motherland is at war is that it is difficult to get decent news. We had to choose from the slanted Spanish press or US Armed Forces radio from Torrejon, neither of which is very objective. Given the tense situation and the occasional kidnappings, etc., the Torrejon Air Force base was on high alert. When pilots returned from bombing runs on Iraq, they were supposed to keep a low profile. And so it was when we met these guys one night and sat down for a night of drinking. These four 30-something Americans with crewcuts claimed to be visiting Madrid on vacation as an award for meeting their sales goals selling Amway. Right.
Well, it appears that one of these guys was down at the Plaza del Sol. He marks the first in an unbelieveable series of people I/we had met and drank with days, weeks, or months prior who would emerge from the throng of 100,000 to reunite on this magical evening.
-sin dedo (I don't know what this means).
- Saw drunks from Portugal=soccer players=still drunk (These were the freak brothers, one of whom pulled the emergency stop on the train. Again, a bizarre coincidence to run into them again. Who would've guessed that they, and I, would still be drunk days later?)
-German from Faro trip (I think this guy had been on his way to Morocco. He told us some horror story which I don't remember).
-Bought some champagne (There were champagne street vendors. Great concept.)
-drank 1 bottle with gin shots, drunk came along, he helped himself. Ladies, one grabbed Alceste's crank. (I vaguely remember Alceste remarking to one of the ladies, "Hey, you just grabbed my crank!")
-Saw Aussies again. (This was the 2 chicks 1 dude group). Again, what are the odds?
So, my journal entry ends for the night. The remainder of the story is pieced together between my steel trap memory and the unsubstantiated allegations of Alceste (and Colyp).
Many of us who drink to excess have experienced the occasional "blackout." I've been told that it is a symptom of alcohol abuse. Usually, the way that it works is that one drinks too much, and, the next day, when trying to recollect what happened, there is a foggy period after which you don't remember anything and then you wake up somewhere (such as in the bushes) in the morning. This occasion was different. My next recollection was sitting at a table early the next morning. Apparently I had not slept or been home, but I had spent all of my available money (as usual). I was sitting in a tavern that I didn't recognize with a group of people I didn't know. I wasn't sure where (or when) I was. Presumably the adrenaline brought me to a sharp state of awareness. There was a young lass sleeping cuddled against me who, again, I didn't recognize.
The other folks at the table were carrying on a conversation as though we had known each other for some time. I excused myself, and the young lady awoke and, despite my urgent indications that I was leaving, decided to follow. It turned out that she apparently spoke only French, which I don't, and I recall spending several minutes trying to explain that I had to leave because I wasn't sure where (or when) I was. Eventually I left the bar into a neighborhood that I didn't recognize and began trying to figure out where I was. With the sun rising, I could determine East, but I had no idea which way I should head. I walked for the rest of the morning in concentric circles until I found a street the name of which I recognized. I eventually found my way back to familiar ground and walked home late in the morning.
What happened after midnight is a mystery. Alceste alleges that, for no known reason, just after midnight, I walked up to him and smacked his glasses off of his face. He claims to have reached down and put his glasses back on at which time I allegedly knocked them off again.
Though I can't deny it, I would likewise have no reason to believe him but for the fact that a) Colyp concurred and b) Alceste was angry with me for several years which seems like alot of histrionics if it was a joke. Also, he did, in fact, have broken glasses.
So, at this time Alceste, I am willing to accept responsibility for breaking your glasses, and I would like to say, "Sorry." Or should I say, "Rorry."
-
PS: I think it only appropriate that you now apologize for the hotel incident.
1 comment:
That was cathartic. Perhaps I'll next tell the story of the humming closet.
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