Rumba New York & Barcelona

Just a quick post. Barcelona has been nothing short of amazing. Before the monster post I thought I would post this quick link to a little jam I did with my host here Marti. He taught me a cool rhythm called a Rumba which is an Afro-Cuban style that was and is still quite popular here in Catalunya.
Of course it doesn't touch the masters but has been quite fun to play.



The following night Marti through a party and invited a bunch of other musicians. The result was a jam that lasted for almost 4 hours and traversed genre's like Gypsy, Bossa, Jazz, Funk, Merengue and Salsa. This is a one minute clip of it which has poor sound but shows off the vibe. There were other videos taken that night which I'll post if I get my hands on em. Ciao for now.

Madrid: Siesta is Real!

Hola. I kiss you all on both cheeks, of course. I believe I’ve finally come to the point where I’m ready to leave Barcelona, in about a week or so. However, let me not get ahead of myself. After a fulfilling and eye opening two weeks in Ireland I’d arrived in sunny Madrid where I was to be staying with my friend Vicente and his family. Due to the fact that he is indeed a working man, there was plenty of time to wander the city alone.

One doesn’t truly feel like he is traveling until he hit’s the brick wall that is a language barrier. Madrid, outside of the very touristy center, is not a city for non-Spanish speakers. Unlike NYC, you will find that most of the people inhabiting Madrid have lived there their whole lives. This both enriched and complicated my experience with Madrid. The complications are the fun part.

Walking the elegant streets one noticed the regal air to the city. Each window in every apartment building had the proper Spanish exterior shutters. The cobble stone streets were surprisingly clean. Aside from the obvious royal structures of days past, the true spirit of the city lies in its people. The beautiful women, men & children walking the streets to and from their daily activities were the final piece to the puzzle. Of course, just about the only language heard on the streets, outside of the tourist area, is Spanish. Spanish, Spanish, Spanish. Never having studied the language, I suddenly found myself trying to remember every word in the language overheard, borrowed or stolen in NYC.

Unfortunately, the crude kitchen slang and rudimentary tourist jargon would be of no use in conversation with locals, thus I hit my wall. Despite this, great pleasure was taken in one of my favorite pastimes while traveling. Drinking in dark, smokey bars frequented by old men. Madrid you did not disappoint

The streets were littered with these little Cervecerias or Cafeterias as they are sometimes called. These are wonderful little places where you could get a beer, a café con leche, a sandwhich, some tapas and a face full of smoke. The best thing, is with every drink you are always served a piece of food! Though I couldn’t quite converse with my fellow bar patrons, I took great pleasure in trying to guess exactly what their conversations were about and just soaking in the atmosphere.

After wandering around the streets, bars, historical structures, gigantic parks and what seems to be a million and one hills I found myself quite glad that I didn’t hear a word of English. Madrid is perfect the way it is. I’m told other parts of Spain are often questioning the domineering role Madrid chooses to play in the decisions made around the country. For it’s part the, city truly aims to play the role of a capital city. Ones mind can easily imagine a time when it was a capital offence to kill a Spanish rat! Anyone saw that movie?

Other than the wandering, there was of course bossa jamming, attendance of Rock en Espanol concerts and of course Oktoberfest. That’s right there was a little Oktoberfest action in Madrid as well. The whole thing took place in a Church (Hey! Monks brewed the first beers) and was replete with a beer, brats, dessert und a German band. Somehow this event drew just about all of the German speakers in Madrid, allowing one to imagine himself to be in Munich. Only for a second though. The beer was Estrella and served ridiculously cold, another standard in Spain.

Barcelona next....

As usual more fotos @ http://public.fotki.com/Dimakay/travel/madrid/

The Murals of Belfast

Just wanted to clear something about some of the things I write. For one, these posts are in no way meant to summarize a location, it’s people or culture. Furthermore, they don’t summarize everything that I’ve experienced in these places because most experiences simply can’t and shouldn’t be recorded in any tangible form.

I felt it was necessary to put that out there as I write about Belfast. For those who don’t know I suggest you read up on the history of Northern Ireland. Up until the past couple of years there was great strife in the city between the Loyalist Protestants and the Republican Catholics, with many innocent casualties on both sides. Nowadays the peace seems to be holding and the time of troubles has ended. However, the relics of this fighting is evident in the murals, peace walls and over all feel of the city.

Belfast is no war zone. At the center it appears to be a bustling city of the United Kingdom with well dressed cosmopolitan inhabitants on their way to work or school. Busses, taxis and cars crowding the streets. Electric advertisements, beeping crosswalks and fast food restaurants line the streets. The buildings also have the air of the Royal style so often personified in the media’s depiction. This was truly a different country.

This was the City Centre, but my real interest was elsewhere. After getting some directions from my hosts, I decided to head to West Belfast, the location of some of the more publicized aggressions between Catholics and Protestants.

The walk up to Shankhill Road was a quick one but you realize where you are very quickly once you start seeing the British Union Jack and the white and red English flag draped from houses. The real evidence is off of the main street onto the side streets and alley ways where you can see the giant murals painted on the sides of houses. Though most are commemorations of people who have died, others are powerful images of masked gun men, Oliver Cromwell and many feature the image of a red hand.

When traveling one has to remind himself to not judge, merely observe and try to understand. The truth is, standing there in a row of houses looking at such powerful images and thinking about their meaning was a bit surreal, considering this was a modern British city. Granted, at no point did I feel in danger standing in this place, but it did occur to me that a Catholic person would not dare step into this neighborhood as a protestant wouldn’t dare step onto Springfield Ave the adjacent Catholic area.

Towards the end of the main thoroughfare on Shankhill Road you come up to Lanard Way which crosses perpendicularly and leads through one of the main gates in the Peace Wall in that area. I was told there are roughly 17 such walls separating neighborhoods all over the city. With the most recent one only going up a few years ago, this one is one of the older ones. The wall, as shown in picture, goes rather high and is littered with graffiti. Facing such a wall in such a modern city makes one think of other walls separating people in other cities worldwide.

Springfield Avenue as a neighborhood quite resembles Shankhill with the difference being the content of the these murals. Avoiding all bias, there is a clear absence of gun men in these depictions. Rather, memorials of people who have fallen in the troubles, along with some Catholic imagery. Here there is also a presence of Celtic style pubs and the Irish tricolor hanging from businesses. Though this imagery appears to be quite less violent it behooves one to know that this is the domicile of the I.R.A., a group that has committed an equal amount of violence to the opposition.

All in all the experience was quite eye opening. Having decided to make a loop around the Island I’d come expecting to find a city somewhat similar to the other places I’d visited in Ireland. What I found was a completely different country with it’s own story to tell. Let me remind you that different doesn’t mean bad. The strangers that started talking to me in the pubs after hearing my American accent were no less curious and friendly then those in the pubs of Donegal. They all wished me a happy stay in the North and were free with their laughter and recommendations. It was this warmth and kindness which created the strange juxtaposition to the suffering sowed here.

Sorry if this seems a bit disjointed, it's so hard to put something like this into words especially when you're surrounded by sun and palm trees.

As usual more photos at dimakay.fotki.com

The Hawthorn of Donegal

Welcome to October, I’m writing this sitting in Dublin Airport, just arrived from Beflast having just completed somewhat of a circle around the Island of Eire. Next up is sunny Madrid where I’ll meet up again with Vix a bossa loving couchsurfer I’d met in NYC this summer.

The departure from Galway was bittersweet as the days were blessed with great weather and even greater people. However, the trip up to Donegal in the northwest of the republic proved to be one of great interest. Sprinkled in amongst the various fields and towns are mountain ranges as well as lakes and bays opening to the ocean. Times like these one can just stare out the window for hours with no need for any other stimulation.

In Donegal I was met by Robbie my host, a lifelong resident of the area and rambunctious world traveler, he also cooks a mean shepherds pie. Folks, I’ve met the Irish Hunter S. Also of note, despite arguments with other travelers I find the Donegal accent with its elongated enunciation and Scot-like R’s easier to understand than say your run of the mill Cork accent. That is of course until you witness a drunken conversation between two of them and are grasping for the remote to turn on the subtitles. Though I’m quite aware that it is I that has the accent here.

Donegal itself is a very small town by the water. Though it sits on a bay it still some ways to the open ocean. Most shops are situated around the town center which also features the historic Donegal castle and the wonderful Castle Pub across the street which I got to know as well. Nothing but good craic with friendly people, good pints and a fireplace the burns turf (the standard up here apparently).

Though this post has been quite long so far I actually did quite little there, a blessing. Just a bit of wandering and of course some music and trying to pick up on the local humor. One point of interest though was the fairy tree in Robbie’s backyard.

In Ireland, the Hawthorn tree/bush is considered to be the dwelling of fairies. So deep is this belief that there have actually been highways re-routed around such trees because it’s believed that bad things befall upon those who try to disturb them. Just about every Irish person you meet will have a story or other to verify this.

This one in particular was described to me as a consumer of soccer balls, babies and just and overall mean bugger. The tree as shown in the picture, sits along the water edge at the end of Robbie’s backyard.

Initially, there were many small trees and a few big ones. Robbie’s father had apparently been cutting down all of the small trees with a chainsaw in order to make for a better view of the waterside. All was going well until he got to the thorny Hawthorne beside the big tree on the left. As he started to saw, the chainsaw had slipped from his hands and fell into the bushes below, missing him by inches. Being an Irishman and not wanting to tempt fate he took that as a sign to cease.

However, upon recanting the story to his German friend, the man decided to try it for himself. He was not so lucky. This time the chain saw slipped but didn’t miss his leg and the man was taken to the hospital. The tree still stands.

At this point I must confess I too tempted fate when I went to retrieve a soccer ball that had been lodged under the tree. Calm and collected as I was when I reached out to get the ball, I pulled my hand back to find two small thorns lodged in my fingers. Lesson learned. After apologizing to the fairy tree I wished it well and went on my way.