Zodi’s Blog

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!


 cady pool 004



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.  


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   End June 2009 202


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.


July 20, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , | 20 Comments