Quixotically Capricious

Taurian tales of yore: Europa was the daughter of Agenor, the King of Phoenicia. One day while she was tending her father´s flock near Tyre, a splendid milk-white bull appeared before her. The beautiful Europa decked its horns with flowers and, as she stroked it, mounted its broad back. The bull stood up and plunged with Europa into the sea and swam to the island of Crete. The bull, who was no other than Zeus, vanished and reapperared to Europa in his own godlike form. From their union, Minos was born, the civilizing King of Crete and later, judge of Hades. It was in memory of this Phoenician princess, who had involuntarily come to their continent, that the Ancients gave the name of Europa (Europe) to this part of the world. Hmmm. So what do you think? Veracious verse or prevaricated prose? Probably a heap of cock-and-bull but let´s label it ´chanticleeric-and-taurian´ as it makes a nice love story ... boy meets girl, steals her away to an island paradise, and sows his dynastic seed. Nice strategy. Zeus was definitely Viking material.

Taurean tales of gore: Moving from antiquity to Tuesday, the Aegean seas to the Iberian breeze, and Greek fables to Basque foibles ... we arrive in Pamplona, Spain. Just in time for Los San Fermines, a religious fiesta in honor of the city´s patron saint. Each morning at 8am is the encierro, better known as the "Running of the Bulls." Seems more like a Minoan cult ritual than a Catholic tradition. As a student of theologic epistemology I was naturally drawn to this papal-pagan party on the plains of the Pyrenees. Phenomenal. Imagine the Minnesota State Fair on Labor Day, now cram everyone into the Midway, attach I.V.s flowing with Bacardi 151, and unleash a herd of pissed-off rhinos. Quite similar. If my analogy is quite foreign to many of you, or if you are literati intelligentsia, I suggest reading Hemingway´s ´The Sun Also Rises.´ A nice chronicle of the event that differs from mine.

Leaving the sunny Atlantic surf meccas of Biarritz and San Sebastion I stepped off the train in Pamplona to a cold drizzle just before midnight. So much for my plans to sleep on a park bench. Instead, I grabbed a white shirt and red bandana (the traditional garb), tossed my stuff into a locker, and spent the night partaking of the Pamplonan sacrament - a few loaves of bread and three liters of Sangria. Thus fuelled, I set about planning the logistics of the morning sprint.

Fortune smiled upon me. While escaping the rain in an ATM kiosk I met a couple kooks from Belfast who had driven their motorcycles down for the event. Veterans of the ´Run´, fellow bikers, and obvious members of the lunatic fringe - their sage counsel was avidly sought. The word on the street is to avoid the start of the 800 meter course where the bulls are really cranking and fly right past you (or over you). Wait until ´hamburger corner.´ It´s a narrow curve in the cobblestoned alleyways where the stampede slows or slips, thus allowing you to run alongside them (or deck their horns with flowers ala Europa). Once again - planets aligned, jedi focus - here come the bulls baby! The ultimate scamper for a former tailback; eluding the newspaper swatting locals hanging off the barricades, swerving around the less than swift, and, oh yeah, trying to avoid a painful three-quarter ton horned-enema. A testosterone laden success. Thanks for the timely advice Lynn, padawan Morimoto for your old running shoes, Dad for a genetic predisposition toward fast-twitch muscle fibers, and Mom for encouraging me to ´Go play on the freeway´ during my formative years. All quite helpful.

I didn´t continue running into the arena to view the festivity´s denoument. I´ll save you the soapbox diatribe but I think matadors are a bunch of emasculate gadiator wannabees. Relatedly, the word ARENA comes from the Latin word for sand (harena) which was put on the floor of the Roman Colosseum to absorb blood.

Mafioso mingling: Chided as being a panty-waist for my injury whilst dreaming of soccer ... I decided to toughen up and head into Sicily. It is separated from the Italian ´boot´ by the Messina Straits - legendary home to the sea monsters, Scylla and Charybdis, who terrorized the sailors of Ulysses. Undaunted, I slept like a baby as my night train rolled across the ´Bridge Over Troubled Waters´into Palermo. Beautiful location, ugly city, friendly people. While Palermo fails to whelm, the landscape of Sicily is quite dramatic: craggy slopes, volcanos, groves of citrus, and exceptional beaches. A decent excursion is to the Greek ruins of Syracuse, the great rival of Athens during the Golden Age. It is where the mathematician and physicist Archimedes once lived. In addition to exclaiming "Eureka" and prancing about town naked after discovering the law of equal displacement in his bathtub, he was quite martially inclined. He reportedly helped defend the city against Rome by inventing catapults and setting enemy boats on fire through a system of giant lenses. My time on Sicily was brief as a brutal heat wave made it feel like being fried by one of those lenses. It reached 111 degrees (that´s 44 degrees Celsius for my metric friends). Before I hear further insults and recriminations RE my mettle and fortitude, just remember that we Norsemen thrive in the frigid hinterlands ("So why do you live in Hawaii macho man?" Shut up.)

CAPRI-cious: In a book I recently read by the talented and quirky Tom Robbins, he wrote: "It was nice, but let´s face it ... it wasn´t Waikiki." Amen brother. While the beauty of O´ahu defies superlatives, the isle of Capri reduced me to monosyllabic stupefaction. Easily done for a caveman like myself, less so for the Roman emperors who built their villas atop the limestone cliffs, and a rarity for the Sultan of Brunei whose yacht was twinkling in the harbor. Indiscriminate - Capri enchants all. I´ll be back there for my honeymoon. That is, once I learn how to metamorphosize into a milk-white bull and find myself a suitable princess.

La Serenissima (the most serene): This is how a Doge described Venice in 1570: "This is the town which has inspired amazement in everyone ... he who does not contemplate it is unworthy of light, he who does not admire it is unworthy of the mind ... he who has not seen it will not believe what he is told, while he who has seen it will hardly believe his eyes. He who has heard of its glory will not rest until he has seen it, and he who has seen it will not rest until he has seen it again." Truth is timeless.

´Holy Shit´: Italian train stations invariably do not have toilet seats or toilet paper, yet every one has a chapel. So much for the idiom that "Cleanliness is next to godliness."

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust: In 1497, religious leader and social critic Savonarola convinced Florentines to light the ´Bonfire of the Vanities´ - a grand roast that consumed some of Florence´s best art. A year later, disillusioned citizens sent Savonarola up in smoke on the same spot. Ah, so that´s where Tom Wolfe pilfered the title.

Italian images (a personal list to tickle the cortex during my eventual ´asylum years´): the rolling fields of sunflowers in Tuscany, watching the horses gallop in the Campo before the Palio in Siena, rubbing Juliet´s breast in Verona (eliciting good fortune in romance, cheap thrill), the Capuchin catacombs with the freaky 8000 mummified monks in Palermo, the cruise from Como to Bellagio in the northern lake district, contrasting the Lord & Taylor jetset fashions with my Lord Shiva guttersnipe duds, the kama sutran frescoes of the Lupenar (Pompeii´s funky little brothel), 25 miles of porticoed streets in Bologna, three visits only whets the appetite, Galileo´s crooked tower in the Field of Miracles, gelato at the Trevi fountain, bring a fair maiden next time, bring toilet paper, the spires of the Milanese duomo, all roads lead to Rome - all trains to Florence, the blue grotto of Capri, coffee = espresso, the frenetic Indian bustle of Naples, and my sacred pilgimmage to the birthplace of pizza ... Neapolitan ambrosia.

First amendment finances: I finally read some useful guidebook information. The concept of free speech in Germany varies a bit from the U.S. constitution. Public humiliation carries such a disruptive force that German officials have created an insult price list (I am not making this up). The heaviest fines are incurred by those who put down a police officer´s respectability: the profane ´Trottel in Uniform´(fool in uniform) costs DM 3000 (1500 dolllars!), while the lesser insult ´Holzkopf´(woodheaded), goes for DM 1500. If you only have $600 to spend during your rant you can use the more economical ´Dumme Kuh´(dumb cow). Potty-mouths be forewarned. I can hear Jefferson cursing from the grave.

Directions on shampoo bottle = wash, RINSE, repeat: Travelling from Copenhagen to Italy required yet another stopover in Munich (Munchen, derived from ´monk´in the 9th century Old High German). This is an ideal city for interesting day trips - Bamberg, Augsburg, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and the wonderful sights of Heidelberg. On this last jaunt I decided to make the hour commute to Fussen to hike around the Bavarian Alps and visit the area´s grandiose castles. Neuschwanstein is pure fairytale romance. Undoubtably you´ve seen it or facsimiles thereof. It was the inspiration for Disneyland´s Cinderella castle. The location is idyllic - nested amidst snow-capped peaks overlooking pine-forested mountain lakes. It was built by the notoriously batty ´Crazy King Ludwig´ who bankrupted Bavaria building the thing. The place is as insane as its creator: indoor grottos, phantom staircases, and extravagence unpareil. I love the fact that good ol´ Ludwig didn´t use an architect to design his granite fortress; the loon asked a theater designer to whip up the plans.

Anyways, so I´m riding the train to Fussen. Unlike the other occupants in the first-class compartment, I could use a thorough bathing. Clandestinely armed with my shampoo and bandana (the ultimate hobo tool-of-the-trade) I went into the bathroom to wash my hair in the sink (yes, I live a self-imposed Jeckyll & Hyde life of degeneracy and priviledge). All went well until the important ´rinse´ phase of the process. The water pressure dropped and I was left with a slightly frothy coiffeur. Wipe it off, no problem right? Turn the clock forward five hours and I´m climbing some sensational trails toward the snow. Despite the altitude, it was quite warm so I took my shirt off. At times the ascent was a bit precarious (involving embedded cables) so I slipped my sandals into the day bag and made like Tarzan, a fellow monkey man. The point? With the exertion I begin to sweat ... my hair starts to rinse itself ... shampoo slime goes into my eyes ... I become painfully blind on a deserted mountain in southern Germany. As I believe God takes care of the wicked to give them time to repent, the fates graced me as I soon came across a cascading stream/waterfall. A yodel of delight, quick immersion, and a newfound appreciation for the gift of vision.

Tilting at windmills: The Dutch have a proverb that goes, "Hij heeft een klap van de molen gehad" or ´He was struck by a mill´ (He is a little mad). Today was quite meaningful for this madman; I spent the day in Toledo in the fabled land of La Mancha (from ´manxa´ - the Arabic word for parched earth). Don Quixote territory my friends; a scorched, desolate, battered, austere, windswept plateau of gloomy medieval fortresses, awesome crags, and forlorn groves of olive trees speckling the hillside. Dangerously delicious environs for those with hyperactive imaginations. Toledo is a charming labyrinth of narrow lanes encircled by the Rio Tajo. The true thrill was found in waxing quixotic and envisioning deeds of gallant knight-errantry.

I´m leaving Madrid tomorrow (grudgingly, as it a very çool, çlassy, çosmopolitan çity) southwards to the town of Salamanca which is famed for its university - the oldest in Spain, and once one of the "four leading lights of the world," along with the universities of Bologna, Paris, and Oxford. My visit will complete my sojourn to this scholastic quartet but most likely fail to enlighten my murky mind (remember - I view Cervante´s ´Knight of the Mournful Countenance´ as an exemplary role model). I will be passing through La Mancha and encourage any would-be Sancho Panzas to come join my quest (or any of you with a trusty mule).

A taste of Spain: Highly recommended movie musical = Man of La Mancha. If Peter O´Toole´s splendid performance doesn´t entice you, be aware that it also features a voluptuous Sophia Loren in one of her first roles (Dulcinea). A great little story written by Paulo Coelho is ´The Alchemist.´ Set in southern Andalusia it echoes in the style of Herman Hesse albeit with a much lighter tone.

As the Castillan sun colours my skin from café au lait to cappuchino ... Kév¿ñ

P.S. To my treasured foreign friends: I apologize for my arcane references, slippery allusions, obscure verbiage, and overall idiosyncratic idiocy. Feel comforted to know that everyone else finds me unintelligible, unintelligent, and just plain goofy :-) Kram.