Spain.

Madrid, Spain.

Madrid is majestic. Just outside our window a man plays his Violin no different than a wind plays a willow. I listen with the same attention I give to a steady, fall breeze and pretend to fall asleep. Truth is, though my body as weak as a match, I couldn't fall asleep if I wanted to. Not now. I wouldn't dare miss the sounds of laughter in another language or the silverware echo of a dozen dinner parties . I couldn't possibly neglect the brick-to-brick tantrum of youth on wheels; a sound so familiar I can almost feel the rumble on my feet. It's a Monday night in Saturday night's clothes and I couldn't feel less alone. O Mr. Violin man; May your song meet the galloping air and float like a feather 'til it wraps me in a deep, heavy sleep. Awesome, thanks.
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Sidenote Sillyness.
Pete: You better check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Lauren: Okay, thank you for the advice.
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Mediterranean.
Valencia, Spain.
Today I swam the Mediterranean. From a circle of shade I ran away, like a child escapes the rain.
Big toe to big toe, Hot sand to wet.
Heart somersaults and breasts bare of all shape; I try but I can't look away.
It swallowed me whole and I let it. No use in pretending it can't.
I heavy my eyes and thank the sky for all of the color's it dare never hides.
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La Tomatina 2009.
Bunol, Spain.
A celebration of the worlds! Dim lights led both our feet and curiosity to a spiral stairway of sing-along uncertainty among every stretch of the globe. A colorful collection of war paint Australians, shy Americans, masked Japanese and fearless Spaniards (among many more) brought here to experience something bigger than themselves. Something only those who attend can fully understand and whisper among friends and future grandchildren.

It was still dark when the train left Valencia and we made friends with a sleepy bundle of Americans who later let us cut in line with them for the train ride back. A whirl of "Au Lait's" and a cup full of beer welcomed us into the beautiful, tarp covered town of Bunol. We followed the crowd and the music down a long stretched road where the locals waved politely and smiled. Not necessarily a genuine wave, but more like the way you wave to a teacher in the hallway. The kind of wave you give a group of people who plan on painting your town with tomatoes. The deeper we got the more we realized what we wandered into. We couldn't go left, we couldn't go right. We could only stand as still as a grave and accept the inevitable tomato missiles like we accept our everyday flaws. Joyous or not, it was fair to be uneasy.

Not far from our sight, a lard-smothered pole is erected with a ham dangling from the top of it. Strange sentence, I know, but tradition being the only way for the festivities to begin is when that eager-somebody can climb the pole and collect the ham. Easier read than done. One by one, likes apples from a tree, they fell to their defeat. This went on for nearly two hours before the crowd grew anxious and yawny with the acrobatic attempts to ham-held glory, and their attention was quickly directed elsewhere. When I say "elsewhere" I mean to the simple fact that they were out of beer and had yet to see a single tomato. Then it happened. Among all the sweaty sing-a-long's and airborne t-shirts, a siren sang loud and clear, sending an uproar of animalistic cheer into the afternoon.

I could go into detail, but details would never justify the rubbery sting of a ripe tomato hitting you in the eyeball at full speed. They would never amount to the green light of juicing a fresh tomato over the head of a complete stranger. Details would never stretch the length of your smile to its absolute limit, watching as your spaghetti-head friends holler with every clobber to the face. They would never tear the shirt right off your back and they would never force you to put on a second shirt that you found in the middle of the street in order to get back on the train (That shirt was hot pink might I add). Details would never defeat the truck load soldiers, armed and ready to make salsa out of you. They would never leave you begging. Begging under the hose of a kind neighborly woman to wash your skin and free the slime from your heavy hair. Details would never put you to sleep as easy as it put me and they would never, ever let you forget the stink. Details, no. Details would never make sense of something like this.
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Valencia, Spain.
Tonight we're on a beach in Valencia, Spain.
Tonight we ate salami sandwiches.
Tonight we drank two bottles of cheap wine.
Tonight we leaped into the Mediterranean in our underpants.
Tonight we wrote a poem and stuffed it into one of two empty wine bottles.
Tonight we watched as Dorothy tossed it to sea.
Tonight I walked home in my underpants.
Today you read our poem.
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"Large Bosom"
A man with a large bosom,
emerges from the sea.

A man with a large bosom,
unites you and me.

A man with a large bosom,
clings to a tree.

A man with a large bosom,
years to be free.'

A woman with a medium-sized bosom,
let's it be.

Words of undeniable wisdom by:
Peter Hoffman, Dorothy Yang, Lauren Siwicki and Kevin Prchal.