Plastic grass and bloody whisky
I decided to ditch the weekend wrap up this time since I had a spectacular weekend my damn self! It was phenomenal by Cadiar standards, which would make it a boring weekend if you live anywhere else.
First, Friday night and Saturday was the grand opening of the new town pool. This was celebrated with copious amounts of alcohol and a funny odor that I kept smelling. There were bars set up inside and outside the pool. In all, there were 3 bars within 20 feet of each other, but this is Spain after all, where if alcohol is ever just outside of arms reach, half of the town would go into grand mal seizures.
The construction was done in record time; only 8 months. It was completed on schedule for the July 18th start of summer! They really did do a terrific job and being a water person, I would have been happy with a mud puddle. Still, there were a few amenities that I wasn’t too sure about.
As soon as you walk in you are greeted with the greenest, plushest, fakest grass that you could ever imagine. It turned out to be 3 inch strands of plastic sewn into a black rubber mat. It felt ok after my towel finally snuffed out the rubber fire which was just getting going. Did I mention the rubber mat was black?
The only other small issue was that they set up concert speakers around the whole thing. The speaker volume increased in perfect concert with the blood alcohol level of the guests, which would have been ok, if Spanish pop music wasn’t akin to a bad LSD trip. There is a reason that Hasselhoff is a star over here. Other than Shakira, they got nothing! It’s all really bad drum and bass remixed to Sinatra songs; I’m not even kidding. I’m hoping that after this weekend the local disco will come and take their speakers back. If not they may accidentally get knocked into the pool at 3am, very soon.
Really though, it is amazing, it completely reminds me of Vegas, sitting in a gorgeous pool surrounded by desert mountains and a pure azure sky!
On Sunday we had a ‘market day.’ These utopias of consumption are held on the 3rd and 19th of every month. Market day consists of farmers selling their produce in the streets, along with an obligatory assortment of gypsies selling cheap watches and sunglasses, fake jewelry, and pirated DVD’s. It’s pretty much the same scene as a Florida flea market, minus the Chinese stars, blowguns and meth dealers.
The real fun comes because the old men use market day as an excuse to get plastered. They get drunk everyday, but on this magical bi-monthly event they become shit-faced…..immaculate. The ‘Winehouse Godfathers’ as I have dubbed them, start at the break of dawn, doing a cane and walker enhanced version of a pub crawl.
This Sunday had a surprise in store for the WG crew though. As I was standing in the butcher shop, I noticed a white Peugeot (what else?) pull up and park in front. The driver gets out, and grabs a gasoline can from a collection of 7 in the back of the truck. The passenger grabs a bag filled with drinking glasses and another bag of 1 liter plastic bottles. The elderly crowd parts like the gray sea to let the two entrepreneurs conduct their hallowed business. They are both swaying as the driver unscrews the top off of the grease stained can smelling strongly of gasoline. The passenger lines up 8 or so cups on the floor as the driver starts shakily pouring what I can now identify as homemade whiskey due to the floating chunks of rye.
I regretfully turned down my lipstick and grease smeared glass of drain cleaner as almost everyone else started happily drinking, coughing and choking their whiskey down. Even the helper in the back took a break from his pork carving to sample the butchered whiskey from the hacks in the shack. He managed to leave an almost perfect handprint of blood on the glass before handing it back.
Surprisingly, no one broke a glass and no one spilled a drink. Almost every customer bought a liter, including the butcher, who immediately poured himself another 3 fingers. A shot for every finger on his ‘good’ hand.
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it’s amazing how pop music from other countries (I personally am thinking India) sounds so odd to us. makes you realize what our probably sounds like to the objective ear
No, I think this is just bad, as is most of Europe. That’s why US artists do well over here as well. But you will never see ‘Chica da Loca’ sell out the Staple center. I kind of like some Indian music though, nice and funky. It goes great with my Curry!
Sounds like an interesting weekend indeed.
By the way, that fake grass looks pretty good. There is a company here will install that stuff in your yard. Brent mentioned that because he never wanted to have to water the yard again. It’s supposed to never fade, look natural, etc. I wonder how it holds up having a dog shit an piss all over it?
Well it does look natural until you go barefoot on the tire fire. It looks good as hell. I’d take it. Surprisingly when I went today, I saw the guys watering it. They could’ve just been drunk, stoned, or retarded though. I’ll ask them about it if you want.
I would think it would hold up ok in a doggy shitstorm. You’d probly want to rinse it out then though. Within the next two days I’ll take a few close pics of the grass itself.
They must’ve been watering it just to give the illusion that it was real.
Mmm Hmm. I bet that’s it.
True, illusions can be very powerful! Or maybe they have to spray it down everyday to clear away all the accumulated hair gel and baby oil that the Spanish kids use. Or maybe they were just high.
Where are the rest of the pictures?
Why do they have pools near beaches?
They have pools near beaches everywhere you go. Even though you can see the ocean from here and it’s only about 15 miles (as the crow flies) Cadiar is about a good 30-40 minute drive down the mountains to get to the sea.
I’ll put more up on facebook soon. After I take more.
A pool filled with alcohol and fresh produce… I’d say that was the source of your funny smell. Or it could be my burning contmept of your foreign-fling lifestyle. Either or, pick one.
If I have to pick one, I’d say I can smell your burning contempt of my foreign fling lifestyle. Glenn Beck and Limbaugh told me that you nice God fearing folks from the mid-west hate all of us east-coasters. Now that I live in a foreign country I’m probably looked at as a traitor and a terrorist by some. Now that I’ve used ‘terrorist’ in an online communication, I’m probably on some kind of rendition list. Now that I know I’m on a rendition list….uh oh.
I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go with, “because the pool is filled with alcohol and fresh produce!”
People in the Midwest don’t hate certain types of people, that would require the ability to divide and no one here is good at math. I say terrorize the world while you can. Go naked in the alcohol/fresh produce pool, just watch out for bananas.
Wow… So, the legends are true? Things don’t get fun until the old men get plastered.
I’m surprised that you’d even heard of the lore surrounding the tiny villages in Southern Spain. It is very true. The have a hall of fame of the best town drunks. The ones who are inducted get covered in plaster and left in the sun to dry. The ones who pass out during the process die and are forever entombed in the plaster, leaving the legacy of legend. If any do escape they are said to become endowed with godlike powers, although no man has escaped yet!
On a full moon, when the wind hits just right, you can just hear the clinking of glasses in the fields.
So, are you living in the West Virginia portion of Spain…Spanish hillbillies???
If you get the chance read,
http://zodiblog.wordpress.com/2009/05/04/tougher-than-bea-arthur-on-steroids/
http://zodiblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/12/fiesta%e2%80%99s-morning%e2%80%99s-and-other-good-reasons-to-drink/
http://zodiblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/15/dirty-animal-sex/
At some point I will put all of my Spanish related posts on another blog.
Anyway yea, all of these little villages anywhere in Spain, Italy, and even France are worse than West Virginia. They all make their own hooch, they all distrust doctors and cops, they all are super catholic. Meaning no birth control for themselves, even when they get older (which produces an overabundance of Down syndrome), or for their pets, which they means the streets are filled with stray cats and dogs. It all really is like stepping back in time 200 years. Very interesting though.
I make my own hooch and I distrust doctors and cops. And I’ll take it a step further by saying…wait a minute. I can’t say that or I’ll end up on that list. And I distrust lists. Because:
1. They keep track of people
2. They use numbers, some of which I distrust and just plain dislike
3. They are often part of things that are supposed to be funny but aren’t. It’s lazy humor, I tell ya, and I’ll have nothing to do with it.
Anyway, West Virginia is beautiful country. It’s just like any place really – perfectly lovely except for all the goddamn people.
Interesting about the homemade hooch.
Sounds like it was the highlight of the day.
It was certainly the highlight for the old men. Also the last thing they remember.
Rooster, after a half hour in the produce/alcohol pool, I don’t think I’ll mind the bananas anymore.
I never do.