Kill the lights. Kill the beat.

Life between buildings

After hours of watching passing countryside and endless rows of orange trees through the window of a bus, I started to realize that Mediterranean Spain reminded me of the 4c (sans orange trees).  Arid, dry climate with some hills.  It was nice to daydream.

Vasco discovers the perfect pour

  I liked Valencia in the respect that I lacked any preconceived expectations that the city was forced to live up to.  It was clean, full of gay dudes, and shut down between the hours of 3 and 6pm.  The microwaved paella at the bar next to the sex shop was surprisingly tasty.

Major life lesson:  Always open the drapes before packing for a day at the beach.  It might be fucking raining.

The bull fight pro salutes you

I hesitate writing about the bull fight we watched.  Everyone that I have spoken with has this inherent disgust with the ritual of killing bulls, yet they have no problem eating meat which come from animals who almost certainly lead worse lives (until they are unceremoniously slaughtered).
I, on the other hand, thought the bull fight was an amazing spectacle to witness.  These animals are specifically bred (and probably lead a good life) for a magnificent death.  The ceremony and respect given to the animals overshadow the "brutal" slaughter in the end. Death can be a beautiful thing.  Consider yourself lucky if you receive a standing ovation when you die.  
Moreover, after living in what is arguably the most equal (feminist) society on the planet, it was refreshing to see an overt display of masculinity.  While I would normally accuse a dude wearing bright pink socks and a skin tight sequined gold jump suit of somehow being less than a man - these dudes embody macho.  Staring a 1000 lb bull in the face must take courage.  And even when one matador caught a head-butt to the face, he still finished the match.  That impresses me more than your suit/tie job and diversified portfolio.  

Madrid calling