Seville - Part 2 - Pomegranate Sour

My eyes were locked; I wanted to know her dance, her life, and her name. The power of Flamenco was infused in my mind, as the music played on I would toss my Boston shaker’s higher, flip my ‘waiter’s friend’ a little longer, serving up my cocktail’s, longing for her attention, yearning for her dark brown eyes to miraculously meet mine.

Fuelled with passion and driven by seduction, she moved slowly, allowing her audience to gaze in wonder at what was next. From the moment the guitarist began, the music was systematic, starting slow, the vocalist, concentration etched across his brow worked together in sync with the dancer. Without eye contact, the pair emotively cast their skill upon the audience not losing character as sweat coursed off their face and the beat picked up.

Riffs occurred, the guitarist began to thrash at his acoustic strings, the movement felt deep into the audience. The steady hands of the dancer would clap vociferously; in tandem her feet would pound the dance floor; her blood-red frock swivelled as the sounds of guitar and vocalist played on. Sending shivers throughout the crowd, the floor shook powerfully as her feet connected with it. Filled with emotions such as sadness and grief all through the power of dance, this was incomparable. This was beauty and romance, this was dance, and this was Seville.

By the time the next day rolled along I was more than your uneducated tourist by day and cocktail bartender by night, I searched for this place of belonging. Slaving away at nightclubs back in Melbourne, yearning for the end of my degree, hoping for that escape route, where I could simply draw my curtains and bask in the Spanish sunshine. The mundane repetition of Melbourne was nowhere to be seen here, I was hooked, and I was immersed in the culture and life of Seville.

Settling into a routine in Seville, I enjoyed the late starts to days, the afternoon siestas and the eclectic nightlife. After months of backpacking throughout Europe, my system was inundated with drugs and alcohol due to constant benders with my closest friends. However landing in Seville I was faced with a nighttime job and I suddenly didn’t feel like your typical tourist. I was lucky enough to live with a local family and meet some amazing people; home couldn’t be any further away.

Commencing my day much earlier than the locals, I found myself wandering the streets, familiarising myself with everything from their markets to high-end retail chains. I was facing a dilemma, I didn’t want to leave this life, and I knew reality would come calling or in my case, my father would.

“Come home now son, enough partying in Europe, you have had your fun.”

That notion of fun is a peculiar one; people always seem to think fun has to have an end. Why can’t people live their life full of fun, without the expiration date? Either way, the conservative boy of sub-continental parents would eventually kick in, but not today.

She was back; ready to face an enormous crowd, but more importantly I was ready to meet her. Nothing would stop me this time; I had it all planned out to a tee.

The entrance to Seville’s flamenco club was tainted with the drawbacks of Moorish history; two large bi-fold doors would retract allowing everyone inside. The first stop was young Celia Serrano, her morbid facial expression would greet you, mixed with looks of disdain and disappointment, she realises its just me, the foreign bartender, no longer flavour of the month. She yearned for those handsome tourists to come strolling through, countless numbers of them hitting on her whilst she soaked it up like a ‘Chux’ Handy-Wipe.

“You’re early man!” Says Celia.

With a huge smile stretching from ear to ear I quietly tell her about ‘extra work’ for ‘extra guests.’ She slips back into her depressed look, ignoring my comment, sifting through her ‘Vanity Fair’ magazine.

I was alone in the bar, my supervisor, David, was due in any moment, so I quickly pre-made her drink, I vividly remembered her choice, it was I who recommended it after all. Not wanting to over-do it, I kept it on ice. Two egg whites, three wedges of lemon, shot of vanilla vodka, pomegranate liquor and a dash of ‘molasses.’ Iced, shaken and mixed to perfection, awaiting the arrival of its consumer.

The night wore on, again the club was full, the bar lines seemingly endless and their she was, sitting in a deep corner enjoying the company of no one. Without wanting to seem overly creepy, I tried to distract myself with work, concocting anything to take my eyes away from her. The guitarist and vocalist had left, she was alone, basking in her brilliance and recovering after another arduous performance.

Everything felt like a Hollywood script, the world had slowed down, and all you needed was a fan blowing her long brown hair into the wind. She slowly removed her shoes, in excruciating pain after laying into the dance floor, I could see her pain and her relief was evident after completing another show.

“Just go talk to her man,” yells David from the other end of the bar, waking me out of the funk I was caught in.

“You only live once Chico.”

David was right, this was the chance I had been waiting for, and no better opportunity would have presented itself.
Nervously preparing her drink I almost fumbled the egg whites, nonchalantly trying not to embarrass myself in front of our customers. Carefully mixing her poison, I fix myself a shot of gin and tonic before I take the plunge; I figure there is no better friend in the possibility I fail miserably.

The Spanish tune continued and David smiled devilishly from the bar. What a life this was, the thought of home, my family and the other life was a mere blemish on my brown skin. All those thoughts of my Father and the conservative life back home could wilfully take a back-seat, because all my guilty pleasures and spontaneous thoughts would be indulged this evening, all without a care in the world.

Merely ten steps away from her booth my heart begins to race, what do I say? Do I practice it in Spanish beforehand? Flamenco music racing through my ears and fear elevating in my chest, apart of me wants to turn back.

“Oye, Camarero! Come over here quickly.”

A powerful voice with a sense of urgency demanded my attention, I looked up in the hope it was her, requesting my services.
She was talking to me; herein laid my passageway to heaven, my grace.

“Si, Senorita? I nervously ask.

“How can I help you?”

How could I help her? Me, a mere plebeian bartender, conversing with a goddess of dance, I was the one in need of help. Who knew where the rest of the night lay, I was in no mood to do any other work, unless it was at her bidding.

It is amazing how us men react when the concerns of a female are at hand. That longing for romance, the respect and adoration of a beautiful woman, the emotions I would feel at trying to achieve my goal fuelled my intentions and provided the impetus for a perfect night.

She again wore red, without her extravagant frock, she was as simple as she was beautiful. Dark blue denim so tight, they fit her body like a glove, contrasting elegantly with her red polka-dotted blouse.

“You dance Australia?”

Her English was broken, but I love her for trying, watching her lips move as she pieced words together was a priceless image, for some reason, the sound of European’s graciously trying to speak English was attractive. The feeling of the unknown, embracing the ability to experience something entirely different to what we know and hold dear to us, her accent and broken English reminded me of everything I was going through right now, that common feeling of mystery.

After twelve months of Latin dancing back home, my arrogance tells me I would be at one with her on the dance floor, I stupidly followed her trying to focus on what lay ahead, despite being mesmerised by her long brown hair and strut you would liken to a Milanese catwalk.

“Wait.” I said vehemently. “Your name. Como se llama?” Confused between the Spanish and English.

“Jordana,” she replied, smiling.

Wow I thought, talk about a cliché. “Wait, you don’t want mine?”

“Aaron, no?” Emphasising the ‘double-A’ in my name.

Immediately I thought wow, she knows me, how? Then she affectionately pulled at my shirt, flicking my name badge with her index finger, smiling.

“Now, dance Australia.” Her Andalucian accent careened wildly through each word she strung together.

Frantically trying to remember basic Latin steps, my head is filled with old dance lessons. Jordana’s soft fingertips run through my hair and across the collar of my shirt, forcing the hair on my forearms to stand up tall.

Repeating the steps in my head, every so often Jordana would nudge my forehead with the tip of her nose. I was torn between her beaming smile and stepping on her delicate feet all in an effort to avoid coming off as an imbecile with two ‘left feet.’

Jordana eased my fears however and we slowly connected naturally. The closer she was, and the more I felt her touch, I felt relaxed. The sound of the music faded in my head; I immersed myself in her touch and smell, feeling the contours of her body in my hands and the minty scent of her breath through my nose.

Taking control, Jordana spontaneously pulled me closer to her, the physicality on the dance floor allowed sweat to course off her nose. Her scent was provocative, evoking hints of jasmine and lavender, and keeping my body close to hers, she drew me into her web, entangling me in her world.

We danced deep into the night, she moved gracefully across the floor, taking me on a journey. She understood the beats and mood of music, forcing me to feel emotions unfelt, enticing me with her deep gaze, locking her brown eyes into mine.

I wanted to know everything from bone to sinew about Jordana; the night was what I wanted it to be. Conversation, cocktail and dance ran through the course of the evening and my deepest fear was approaching, the overdue feeling of guilty pleasures was coming to a halt.

My time with Jordana was concluding, all my preparation, all my thoughts or feelings could never ready myself for what lay ahead. Saying goodbye would prove difficult, but the old adage of good things coming to an end began to infiltrate my head, my time in Seville was up. Humphrey Bogart once said ‘we will always have Paris,’ but we had far more than Paris. Jordana and I have Seville.

Spanish Cocktail

From that night I had eyes for no one, I wanted to know her dance, her life, and her name. The power of Flamenco was infused in my mind, as the music played on I would toss my Boston Shaker’s higher, flip my ‘Waiter’s Friend’ a little longer, dishing out my cocktail’s, longing for her attention, yearning for her dark brown eyes to miraculously meet mine.
Fuelled with passion and love, she moved slowly, allowing her audience to gaze in wonder at what was next. From the moment the guitarist began, the music was systematic, starting slow, the vocalist, concentration etched across his brow worked together in sync with the dancer. Without eye contact, the pair emotively cast their skill upon the audience not losing character as sweat coursed off their face and the beat picked up.
Riffs occurred, the guitarist began to thrash at his acoustic strings, the movement felt deep into the audience. The steady hands of the dancer would clap vociferously; in tandem her feet would pound the dance floor; her blood-red frock swivelled as the sounds of guitar and vocalist played on. Sending shivers throughout the crowd, the floor shook powerfully as her feet connected with it. Filled with emotions such as sadness and grief all through the power of dance, this was incomparable. This was beauty and romance, this was dance, and this was Seville.
The old Moorish dwelling where the influences of Morocco, Palestine and Western Europe come together on their narrowed cobblestone avenues and ancient architecture. Local shopkeepers, thriving this time of year musically tell me “old Moroccan families still keep the keys to their long-lost houses here in Andalucía,” such is the influence and love these locals have of their heritage, their town and culture.
There I was, uneducated tourist by day and Cocktail Bartender by night, I searched for this place of belonging. Slaving away at nightclubs back in Melbourne, yearning for the end of my degree, hoping for that escape route, where I could simply draw my curtains and bask in the Spanish sunshine.
Commencing my day much earlier than the locals, I found myself wandering the streets, familiarising myself with everything from their markets to high-end retail chains. I was facing a dilemma, I didn’t want to leave this life, and I knew reality would come calling or in my case, my Father would. “Come home now son, enough partying in Europe, you have had your fun.” That notion of fun is a peculiar one; people always seem to think fun has to have an end. Why can’t people live their life full of fun, without the expiration date? Either way, the conservative boy of Sub-Continental parents would eventually kick in, but not today.
She was back; ready to face an enormous crowd, but more importantly I was ready to meet her. Nothing would stop me this time; I had it all planned out to a tee.
The entrance to Seville’s Flamenco club was tainted with the drawbacks of Moorish history; two large bi-fold doors would retract allowing everyone inside. The first stop was young Celia Serrano, her morbid facial expression would greet you, mixed with looks of disdain and disappointment, she realises its just me, the foreign bartender, no longer flavour of the month. She yearned for those handsome tourists to come strolling through, countless numbers of them hitting on her whilst she soaked it up like a ‘Chux’ Handy-Wipe. “You’re early man!” With a huge smile stretching from ear to ear I quietly tell her about ‘extra work’ for ‘extra guests.’ She slips back into her depressed look, ignoring my comment, sifting through her ‘Vanity Fair’ magazine.
I was alone in the bar, my supervisor, David, was due in any moment, so I quickly pre-made her drink, I vividly remembered her choice, it was I who recommended it after all. Not wanting to over-do it, I kept it on ice. Two egg whites, three wedges of Lemon, two shots of Vanilla Vodka, Pomegranate liquor and a dash of ‘Molasses.’ Iced, shaken and mixed to perfection, awaiting the arrival of its consumer.
The night wore on, again the club was full, the bar lines seemingly endless and their she was, sitting in a deep corner enjoying the company of no one. Without wanting to seem overly creepy, I tried abysmally to distract myself with work, anything to take my eyes away from her. The guitarist and vocalist had left, she was alone, basking in her brilliance and recovering after another arduous performance.
Everything felt like a Hollywood script, the world slowed down, all you needed was a fan blowing her long brown hair into the wind as she slowly removed her shoes, in excruciating pain after laying into the dance floor, I could feel her pain and her relief at completing another show.
“Just go talk to her man,” yells David from the other end of the bar, waking me out of the funk I was caught in.
“You only live once Chico.”
David was right, this was the chance I had been waiting for, and no better opportunity would have presented itself.
Nervously preparing her ‘Pomegranate Sour’ I almost fumbled the egg whites, nonchalantly trying not to embarrass myself in front of our customers. Carefully mixing her poison, I fix myself a shot of Gin and Tonic before I take the plunge; I figure there is no better friend in the possibility I fail miserably.
The Spanish tune continued and David smiled devilishly from the bar. What a life this was, the thought of home, my family and the other life was a mere blemish on my brown skin. All those thoughts of my Father and the conservative life back home could wilfully take a back-seat, because all my guilty pleasures and spontaneous thoughts would be indulged this evening, all without a care in the world.
Merely ten steps away from her booth my heart begins to race, what do I say? Do I practice it in Spanish beforehand? Flamenco music racing through my ears and fear elevating in my chest, apart of me wants to turn back.
“Oye, Camarero! Come over here quickly.” A powerful voice with a sense of urgency demanded my attention, I looked up in the hope it was her, requesting my services.
She was talking to me; herein laid my passageway to heaven, my grace.
“Si, Senorita? I nervously ask. “How can I help you?” How could I help her? Me, a mere plebeian bartender, conversing with a goddess of dance, I was the one in need of help. Who knew where the rest of the night lay, I was in no mood to do any other work, unless it was at her bidding.
It is amazing how us men react when the concerns of a female are at hand. That longing for romance, the respect and adoration of a beautiful woman, the emotions I would feel at trying to achieve my goal fuelled my intentions and provided the impetus for a perfect night.
She again wore red, without her extravagant frock, she was as simple as she was beautiful. Dark blue denim so tight, they fit her body like a glove, contrasting elegantly with her red polka-dotted blouse.
“You dance Australia?”
Her English was broken, but I loved her for trying, watching her lips move as she pieced words together was a priceless look, for some reason, the sound of European’s graciously trying to speak English was attractive. The feeling of the unknown, embracing the ability to experience something entirely different to what we know and hold dear to us back home, her accent exuded seduction.
After twelve months of Latin dancing back home, my arrogance told me I would be at one with her on the dance floor, I stupidly followed her trying to focus on what lay ahead, despite being mesmerised by her long brown hair and strut found on a Milanese catwalk.
“Wait.” I said vehemently. “Your name. Como se llama?” Confused between the Spanish and English.
“Jordana,” she replied, smiling.
Wow I thought, talk about a cliché. “Wait, you don’t want mine?”
“Aaron, no?” Emphasising the ‘double-A’ in my name.
Immediately I thought wow, she knows me, how? Then she affectionately pulled at my shirt, flicking my name badge with her index finger, smiling.
“Now, dance Australia.” Her romantic Andalucian accent was just the beginning as her voice careened wildly through each word she struggled to string together.
Frantically trying to remember basic Latin steps, my head is filled with old dance lessons, whilst Jordana’s soft fingertips run through my hair and across the collar of my shirt, sending the hair on my arms into an intense frenzy.
‘One, two, left, cha-cha-cha’, repeating in my head, every so often Jordana would nudge my forehead with the tip of her nose. I was torn between her beaming smile and stepping on her delicate feet all in an effort to avoid coming off as an imbecile with two ‘left feet.’
Jordana eased my fears, as we slowly connected naturally. The closer she was, and the more I felt her touch, I felt relaxed. Always falling back on her wide smile and beady brown eyes, Jordana had successfully begun to melt the heart.
Taking control, Jordana spontaneously pulled me closer to her so I could feel the warmth of her touch and the smell of her perfume. Her scent was sexually provocative, evoking hints of jasmine and lavender, keeping my body close to hers, drawing me into her web of beauty and seduction.
We danced deep into the night, she moved gracefully across the floor, leading me on a journey. She understood the beats and mood of music, forcing me to feel emotions unfelt, enticing me with her deep gaze, locking her brown eyes into mine.
I wanted to know everything from bone to sinew about Jordana; the night was what I wanted it to be. Conversation, cocktail and dance ran through the course of the evening and my deepest fear was approaching, the overdue feeling of guilty pleasures was coming to a halt.
My time with Jordana was concluding, all my preparation, all my thoughts or feelings could never ready myself for what lay ahead. Saying goodbye would prove difficult, but the old adage of good things coming to an end began to infiltrate my head, my time in Seville was up. People say one ‘will always have Paris,’ but we had far more than Paris. Jordana and I will always have Seville.

Bloody Sunday

The young man approaches the bar stool, looking exhausted. He slumps into it and smiles, a mixture of relief and apprehensive content smeared across his face.

Young Vasquez: I guess that’s why I am always at loggerheads with them. The black sheep they call me. “Where were you last week? Ramon showed up! My goodness, how have your parents raised you boy!?”

Forget the endless family functions organised, the countless errands run, it amounts to nothing unless I front up Sunday. Bloody Sunday!

These damn days where I want nothing more than appreciation, I never forget those months. Toiling in the sun, hoping we make it out alive.

“Just do it Chico. Get them off your back and conform, it makes life much easier!” Ramon Vasquez. Tall, dark and handsome, every Latino family loves him and every ‘Muchacha’ wants to know him. Back in school we would slug it out on the courts every lunch wondering how my cousin Ramon came locked and loaded. He schooled me on the basketball court then and as much as it pains me to admit, he schooled me throughout life.

I guess I’m relatively jealous. He is my flesh and blood; I know we would take bullets for each other. Growing up together, sharing bathtubs as babies all the way through our early twenties getting through the gruelling training.

He shifts in his seat. With a steady hand he leans over his seat and pours himself a small shot, courtesy of Martin Miller. After nonchalantly squeezing lime wedges inside the glass, he sips slowly, absorbing the aroma. Placing the glass down, he raises his head slowly. You see his eyes and furrowed brow.

Young Vasquez: “C’mon ‘Primito’,” I hated that. ‘Little Cousin’ in English, but with my head sweltering and Ramon soldiering ahead, I could sense it. Another beating. Why on earth have we signed up for this? Did I think I could get one up on him here?
Quite the opposite it seems. Hell, if it weren’t for him I would have bailed like Judas on Christ.

I recall the shells cracking, guns ablaze, and local kids screaming, locating in vain for their loved ones. “Get to the rendezvous” yells Ramon; I could sense his tone was mixed with frustration and authority. Poor guy. He found it hard to distance the emotional attachment with the locals. I would often question why we were there, lazily completing missions, relying on my stronger cousin at every stage. I knew he didn’t want to be there, but we knew what we signed up for; I guess Ramon being so diligent automatically applied work ethic, which was non-existent for me.

That final mission couldn’t come any sooner. Ramon and I could smell discharge in the air and the final flight home was soothing.

So here we are, you would think our lives have done a complete three-sixty. But some things never change, Ramon, forever loved, and I, forever scorned. They are probably still trying to figure how I can be fixed. Hurry up and end Sunday.

Love, relocation and all that jazz

Ok so I have been awfully quiet over the last few months. But contrary to popular belief my mind has been racing. Hard at work, and forever contemplating, my latest dilemma is yet to occur but with the impending move abroad, completion of my studies and the reason behind my impending move, well you can imagine it’s a fair bit to process. So here goes, I figure I have to announce it all sometime, so as they say “read all about it.”

I am nervous. Terrified. Who knows what one can expect. Many people say life is about taking the plunge into the unforeseeable. Nose-diving into that sea of surprise, hoping to whatever God you pray to that your prior excitement will provide enough fuel to spur you on your journey not just temporarily, but in its entirety. What if you fail? What if you come back to square one with your tail dangling between your legs? Do you really take that chance and hope that you prevail?
Looking at myself that morning in the mirror I was confident. I am confident. I may sit and dwell for hours on end, procrastinating longer than a broker tossing up between pork bellies or orange juice. Nothing in life can prepare me for what I am about to embark upon. Nothing can control what may happen. If I take the chance the tunnel’s end seems so far. But if I don’t take this chance, then will I regret it?

In life it seems the fuel that provides the most fire is love. Corny? Tacky? Cheesy? I know right, all the aforementioned are highly likely to run through your heads, but believe it or not, its fucking true. As human beings we are nothing without it and some may say that everything we do in our lives revolves around it. I don’t think nothing is scarier than the fear of losing love. The love of a best friend, family member or partner.

We make decisions in life and it is said, we are defined by our actions, providing the nucleus for whom we turn out to be. If this is who I am, then why the fuck am I so petrified? Is this natural?

All around me I see the negativity of love. The cons seemingly outweighing the pros, questioning every fabric of my being. Why am I going ahead with this? Why walk away from the comfort of home, family and friends? Am I that insane? Do I think I know why? Or am I that sure of this decision? I can always return home right? Surely it is this simple? All these questions and more constantly run through my head like a London tube service.

Plunging into that abyss may be exciting, sliding down the spiral almost like it is another time warp, whisking away everything that is so monotone in my life. Everything that has become predictable and downright boring. But beneath it all, I feel fear beyond anything I have ever experienced. I cling to the feelings I have to keep me moving forward. I yearn for her sweet smell, hearing her laugh everyday, even though it may be at my expense. It eases the fear, calms the nerves. It gives me a purpose in my sordid and uneventful life thus far. I look forward to those moments where I can share the successes of our lives together. One day, looking back on this decision and having no regrets, hoping that all this apprehension and fear was a mere afterthought, nothing more than commitment jitters.

I cling to all of this. I know my tiresome journey to find ones cataclysmic counterpoint ends here. The feelings are jubilant and euphoric, giving me all the pleasure I previously hid from and disobeyed like a serial felon. Doing whatever necessary to ensure we are successful, no more pain or suffering. Far too much tears have been shed thinking about this. I have made my decision. I wont give up. I won’t surrender to what is merely simple and convenient. This decision will shape not just my entire life, but also any thought of adding an ‘our’ to life rests purely on this decision. This is life and my journey, however uneven it may be, it will lead to light at the tunnels end.

I sit patiently at the airport. Back to present day, the realisation of my decision. I immediately think, “oh fuck me.” But this time, a smile begins to form; I privately extend my mouths end towards my ears and chuckle. Wondering about the complexities of life and what tomorrow will bring. Again I am scared. Fear starts to race through me once again, almost like it’s running the second heat for Olympic trials.

I think of nothing more than twirling her in my arms in the arrivals hall, depleting the fear I feel. Holding her so close that her lightly scented perfume rubs off on me. I take that plunge with gay abandon, oblivious to the weeks ahead and those strange faces beaming my way in the arrival hall. I contemplate everything from what I will do when I see her again to what will be when the time comes to take that plunge into the unknown.

Love. The most enigmatic of emotions, but the most satisfying one that can sear through the human heart and I love her. I will not let her go.

Romancing Andalucia

It may have seemed so cliché but think about it, there I was in the European Summer of 2009 with my three best friends from high school, finally doing what we had mulled over in the twelfth grade. This was it. After years of study and endless shifts at the pub, it had arrived, that ‘Euro trip’ with the boys where the mood would flow, alcohol consumed and ladies engaged.
Imagine my irony when the end of our time together would become the catalyst for this trip. After two months of shacking up in hostel bed or hotel room, sometimes clueless, wondering whether or not it was even my room, awakening in what became a daily drunken stupor. Two months of hangovers, tourist sights, nightclubs, drugs and alcohol, I was sad to depart Milan and my three best friends.
We had the time of our lives and looked forward to going home and boasting about our ‘Euro trip.’ But for me my next stop was the south of Spain, my European adventure was just beginning. The inner ‘geek’ in me was ready to be unleashed on the streets of Andalucía. Eager to soak up a city rich with plots, colonisation and history.
Southern Spain and I immediately fell in love. After four years I had studied their language, learned their nuances and now I was here in Andalucía, the old Moorish dwelling of Spain where the influences of Morocco are everywhere in their architecture and narrow cobblestone streets.
My first afternoon in boiling Seville where the temperatures soared above 40 degrees Celsius, a local shopkeeper tells me in musical Spanish that “old Moroccan families still keep the keys to their long-lost houses in Andalucía.” Explaining the monuments and palaces around the city that scream Northern Africa.
An area of Spain I took great interest in during university, Andalucía was home to a brilliant civilisation at a time when Europe was considered barbaric. The Moors, a race with a mixture of Berbers and Arabs moved into Southern Spain in the early 700’s and within a decade they began to conquer the Iberian Peninsula. Eventually however, the Spanish regained control of their own land and despite trying to eradicate anything remotely Moorish, much glorious architecture remains. It was hard to believe that architecture and monument alone would be motivation enough for me to visit somewhere, but Andalucía is definitely an exception to my rules of travel.
Andalucía, more than any other state in Spain has continued to embrace the mark that the Moors once left behind. In a country notorious for domestic strife, little did I realise what existed outside the glitz and glamour of Madrid and Barcelona. Venturing the streets of Andalucía saw me visit Seville, awestruck by the Mezquita Gardens and the Torre del Oro, which translates loosely to the ‘Tower of Gold.’ This great compound was once the largest mosque in the world after the Kaaba in Mecca, showcasing the grip the Moors had on Spain.
But it was in Granada, where the monument and motivation behind my travel lived, the commandeering Alhambra Palace. Home to the King of the Moors and ironically this was a place where Arab and Jew coincided, living harmoniously amongst one another, something I struggled to fathom in today’s world. Personally, the Alhambra Palace under all its splendour was a peaceful and serene place where I felt all my European travels culminate at once. It’s not very often that one has an epiphany when they travel, but wandering the halls and private quarters of the Alhambra seemed to put me at ease with myself. After spending two months chasing busses, consuming alcohol and worrying about the after-effects, the Alhambra was that release where I simply enjoyed and enveloped everything from the sights and sounds of people scurrying about to the plain natural Granada air, a real throwback to an era that has been lost in the sands of time.
It was here in the foothills of Granada that my ‘Euro trip’ came to a close. The Alhambra Palace, with her stone red walls and long towers glowing in the evening sun, this was a remarkable sight. An architectural wonder, I couldn’t help but be encapsulated by its symmetry, oozing specifics and grace in Islamic Moorish design.
Entering the Palace, I felt like an imposter, manoeuvring my way through the ‘Gates of Justice’ surrounded by decorated gardens, water features and pathways leading me to all avenues of history and culture. The palace, filled with its archways, lead through arcaded courtyards and pavilions, according to a gatekeeper, he tells me that everything was built entirely of wood and stucco. Technology and application well ahead of its time, the Alhambra is decorated with exquisite arabesque patterns, surrounded by calligraphic inscriptions from the Koran. This truly was a place where culture and history coincide, and I felt at home, for once I didn’t feel the need to yell ‘Calma te’ to anyone or even myself.
As with most heritage-listed sights around the globe, there are many restrictions on tourists in order to help conserve the beauty of such a landmark. However I was able to thank my lucky stars that day, as it turns out speaking ones local tongue proved beneficial. People talk about the arrogance of the French and the unfriendly nature of the English, but the Spaniards really took things to a new level. Smiles were rare, laughter was kept amongst friends and general service was determined on the size of my wallet. However from the moment I set foot in Spain, I would nervously break into Spanish ‘lingua’ and the smiles would spill and the warm nature of Spain came into fruition.
Her name was Jordana, and she showed me a side to Granada and the Alhambra that I can guarantee no other tourist would have envisaged. For the next four nights I was treated to home cooked meals, dining with mixtures of Tapas, Paella’s and other varied ‘Arroz’ (Rice) dishes mixed with a plethora of seafood. The real Spain at my fingertips, I almost felt guilty for the hospitality Jordana and her family poured on me and I was stumped as to how I could possibly repay her. Not a word of English was spoken other than my failed attempts at helping Jordana with her English coursework and I could not have asked for anything more.
Jordana was a young and vibrant Flamenco dancer. Following in her Mother’s footsteps, and together with her Father they all contribute to the local family business. ‘La noche de Granada’ which translates to ‘Granada nights’ was their own thriving Flamenco bar in the heart of Granada town and Jordana and her Mother, Rosa, were regular performers. With the bar full almost every night throughout the Spanish summer, Jordana would perform in front of a surfeit of tourists and local Granadians whom indulged in Tapas and San Gria all night long.
I had only seen Flamenco on the television, but what I witnessed from Jordana was fuelled with passion, love and effort. From the moment the ‘Guitarista’s’ began, the music was almost systematic. Starting off slowly, vocalists and Jordana would work together in sync, never making eye contact with each other; Jordana simply understood the beats and mood of Flamenco. Eventually the beat would pick up, riffs occurring randomly, the real movement can be felt in the distance. The steady hands of Jordana would clap in tandem, but as the guitar began to strike its chords, Jordana’s feet would pound the dance floor; her blood-red frock swivelled from side to side as the sounds of guitars, maracas and bongo drums played on. One could be forgiven for thinking the floor would cave in beneath them, as Jordana tapped dynamically, sending shivers throughout the venue and its keen observers.
Seeing this in motion was a staple of Andalucía, and being in the company of Jordana and her family made me feel apart of this culture, right in the heart of Spain. Tearing up the dance floor that night with Jordana elevated my spirits, almost like someone out of a Robin Thicke ballad.
Attaining restricted access to the Alhambra Palace insides, VIP entry into Granada’s favourite Flamenco bar and ending my days with the Andalucian sunset from Jordana’s balcony. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined such an experience in Europe, but little did I realise just how valuable this became. What started as an adventure with the boys, boozing our nights away turned into a perfectly scripted romance, I likened to a Bollywood film. This was my Europe, and never will I forget a moment from these two months, as I sat patiently on the arduous flight home from London, dreading going back to the reality of Melbourne and my monotonous lifestyle. But to say I didn’t return home with a new vigour and motivation to excel would be a lie. I came home to commence my Masters in Journalism, a new man, grown up, educated and mature. Here I am today, documenting these experiences, these moments that inspired me to chase my dream, to write and inspire others.

DELHI. For real

Little did I realise what the next six weeks would bring to me, not just in terms of travel, but an all-round life experience. India is called home to over a billion people, and many more thousands of Indians abroad would ideally still like to call it so. Getting away from the monotonous lifestyle of Melbourne and the everyday boredom I found within my everyday life was my initial motivation for embarking on this adventure, a chance to prove that I can travel amongst the best of them and not cry for Mummy once.

It was approximately 2am and before I exited the aircraft, a mild-mannered gentleman tells me excitedly that we are lucky. “It’s the cooler time of year, so you picked a great time to travel through Northern India.” Stepping onto the tarmac of Delhi International Airport however proved to be anything but cool. I was met immediately with a swirling hot wind and humidity that made me want to strip into my underwear and race to the baggage carousels.

Exiting Delhi International Airport, my stubbornness was already starting to cave, but I knew what I had gotten myself into, and there was no way on Earth I was going to complain about it all. “Are you sure son? I can organise hotel transfers in Delhi for you.” My Father’s diligent travel agents voice ringing through my head as a plethora of families were met with personalised vans and signs directing them toward their vehicle, taking them to the comforts of their hotel rooms. Feeling as though my triumph gave in, I wanted to call my Father and tell him about my predicament, but I soldiered toward what I likened more to a domestic warzone as oppose to a taxi stand.

Fighting for every rupee and hustling for every customer was the way of life in India, and unlike the bureaucratic modernity of the west, there was no rules, no queues and most importantly no exceptions. Even though Indian people probably saw me as a naïve 21-year-old tourist, little did they realise about how much this was of no concern to me. My deep, driving desire to immerse myself in the way of India remained at the forefront of my mind. I came here with many voices in my head, friends questioning why I would want to explore the confines of a country swept with pollution and crowds, and family forever concerned about my safety. But people must realise that I was not seeking one’s typical ‘holiday,’ filled with man-made tourist sights, golden beaches and 5-star resorts.

After spending some time in Delhi, visiting the predominantly Islamic oriented streets of Old Delhi and being overwhelmed by the Red Fort, I immediately realised the impact of this trip. Travelling throughout India not only gives you an appreciation for the life you live, but it provided me with a culture shock that I have never witnessed before. Delhi is a city like no other, it is everything you read about, but no matter what you hear from people or read about, nothing can compare to actually seeing it in living colour. The everyday hustle for people of Delhi trying to make that extra rupee, the chaos of everyday traffic and people constantly in your face, one would automatically think that personal downtime would have to be paid for.
Scything through traffic, horns blazing and total disregard for general road rules are all commonplace in the city streets of Delhi, but to say that I didn’t fall in love with this pandemonium would be a lie. Playing chicken with busses and 3-wheelers merely in an attempt to cross a road as well as trying to source authentic meals without being duped by shopkeepers purely for being a tourist are all experiences that I wouldn’t trade for the world. At first I felt out of place and generally useless. It is a disconcerting feeling as an individual away from home, feeling helpless to my own cause, struggling to find a place to stay. But adaptation is the first step in travelling, adapting to one’s surroundings and having that initial epiphany that you are in fact on someone else’s home ground. With this stark realisation, all these daily occurrences with shopkeepers and roads began to feel like an everyday theme.

The wonder of Delhi is more than breath taking; it’s a city that provided a moment in life where I genuinely grew up. Amidst the beauty of Delhi, the largest metropolis in India, I was constantly awash with emotion. Various corners were home to beggars and homeless families that struggled to form something of a life not just for their children, but them as well. Living in Australia these are things we are not accustomed to witnessing, so you can imagine the shock once you see this, but this is India. With that in mind, besieged with mixed emotions, the happiness in their eyes is highly noticeable. This could be my naivety, but they seem genuinely happy at the sight of people like me, now whether this is because of their perception of the size of my wallet is unbeknownst to me, but it was my goal to interact with these people, the real India.

Many travellers go to India wanting to conquer their ferociously busy nature, however from experience, I have encountered many who fail miserably at this and fall into that trap of experiencing India at a tourist’s level. No disrespect to people who visit India under such pretence, but this is not what I came for. Pacing the streets and alleyways of Delhi at my own leisurely pace, I won’t lie, it was not easy to achieve my goal and I think I will forever question whether I achieved my goal. I guess this is why I am headed back there at years end. I was yelled at by Heroin addicts for impeding their ‘downtime,’ I interacted with kids wondering whether their parents thought I was some raging paedophile and the mere sight of my camera immediately made locals shudder at the thought of what my intentions were.

By Delhi standards, I woke to a rather cooler temperature, as per normal the daily chaos around my guesthouse was loud, and in your face, but something else caught my eye in a nearby park. It was cool in temperature, but the sun was shining over Delhi’s eastern district, it was a Saturday morning and little did I know how this day would shape the rest of my trip, and in some ways, my life.

The real Delhi, where the begging on Connaught place brought tears to my eyes, the smiles on children’s faces whilst I taught them how to perfect their cover-drive was uplifting. Never have I met children so appreciative of information, beaming away with pride at correcting their skills, all wanting to replicate their idol, Sachin Tendulkar. Cricket is more than a sport to Indian boys, the adoration they pour on their sporting heroes, one could be forgiven for thinking cricket is another religion over there. My travels and interaction with these Delhi children will never be forgotten, waking up early for days, teaching them the finer points of the game, and their appreciation at an Australian teaching them cricket is priceless. Before leaving Delhi, I had attached myself to this group of kids. Dhruv with his lanky frame, bowling each delivery on the harsh concrete like his life depended on it. Rahul and his bucktooth smile, displayed diligence and patience that I had never witnessed in Children back home, on and off the cricket field. Finally, Little ‘Mo’ became my best friend in Delhi. So much so, he invited me to dine with his family just before I left, a mere thank you for the interaction we had over the course of two weeks. Being able to run around the streets without a care in the world was made possible because of this interaction. Some afternoons after the school bells would sound, Little ‘Mo’ and the ‘Delhi kids’ would crowd around, fighting over who got to bat first, craving and valuing anything I had to say on the game and in turn they gave me that experience of India that I could not have gotten any other way.

The city of Delhi opened my eyes, and this is not the kind of eye-opener that one experiences after learning something new. Delhi introduced me to a new world, India and its capital metropolis, waking up every morning to the sound of 3-wheelers buzzing around the streets, hawkers commencing another business day and the kids running around. The humidity reaches soaring heights, even though I try to convince myself to sleep another 5 minutes, I awaken jubilant at what India will provide me with today. In 2 hours I head south to Agra and the Taj Mahal, the mausoleum constructed during the rule of the Ottoman Empire, rich with history and culture, India down to a tee.

Why so glum old chap?

Buenas Dias to you all!

Now I understand in the last 3 weeks since I previously filled in this space, I have seen my readership increase by a whole 1 person, so KUDOS to you Blow Job Campbell, your following warms my heart quicker than that hot cup of Coco you had this morning.

As pleased as I am that BJ Campbell is my new best friend, I am however somewhat rattled. So much so, that my basketball game tonight not only saw me curse in disgust at the teams (My own actually) performance but actually got me excited about the upcoming cricket season. Something I usually dread more than that tense moment where you are sitting in the waiting room at the doctor's, only for him to tell you that NO you do NOT have an STD.

But why am I so rattled? Well last evening, not only did I witness an amazing Turkish Grand Prix, but also witnessed Lewis Hamilton at his conservative best. Watching Lewis race is something I liken to visual brilliance. Everything from his aggression on the track, to his inability to manage a set of tyres and YES I would be lying if I said the guy wasn't the epitome of handsome *cue Homosexual remarks* but Hamilton makes Johnny Depp look like a side show freak. But why? Why am I so rattled!?

Well after an amazing race which saw the Red Bulls ruin their own race and consequently blame it on one another, Jenson Button and Lewis showed the true values of the sport, conducting in safe and exciting overtaking in the dying laps. Regardless of their cars being inadequately fuelled, gave the spectators a dose of life, doing what the Red Bulls should have done. Button's move on Hamilton was calculated and precise, characteristics of his driving style whereas Lewis was tenacious and aggressive in returning the favor and making the move stick, with both drivers realising that F1 is a team sport and not doing anything that could be deemed too dangerous.

Ecstatic with another Mclaren win for the season, I was naturally jubilant. But was Lewis? I mean the guy has just completed his first win of the season and has potentially boosted his hopes of a shot at a second World Championship. But his reaction after the race and his conversation with the race engineer's were subdued and reserved. Why? Could life in F1 and with Nicole Scherzinger (excuse the spelling) not be enough?

Being a fan of Lewis however, I wasn't not going to be a detractor. In fact I thought about it, and well not only was his reactions perfect, I thought it was the perfect 'up yours' for all his critics. Here is a guy who has achieved so much in such a short time in the sport, no matter what the guy is to achieve, you just know that people who may despise him, will always do so.

Lets start with the incident in Melbourne, being a citizen of this great country, I am the first to say that I love Australia and Melbourne. BUT! Are we a sensitive society? Are we a society of numb and conservative nature? Lewis did the wrong thing, but really the way the press here are continuing to grill him over his 'hooliganism' on the road is dispicable, and I put this down to the fact that we are so far away from this sport, that their was nothing better to report on. Oh and the small matter of our Tabloids being some of the most boring news items on the globe. What a kick in the face it must be to us, when Lewis tells us we need to 'get over it.' Clearly we do, clearly F1 has, so much so, Hamilton and his friends are not even attending the hearing. I mean seriously the guy did 'Doughnuts' on the road to please his viewers, now there is not a weekend that goes by where I don't find a Douschebag in a VL Commodore doing exactly the same. A hearing? For doing 'Doughnuts.' Ridiculous.

Add to this the comments from one, Nigel Mansell last week. Calling Hamilton spoilt and lucky to be where he is? Claiming the kid had millions of quid at the age of 7? His Grandfather worked on the London Underground for goodness sake. You are more likely to find the Crack Whore in Camden earning more money from welfare than him.

Finally, the daft comments of his peers that he is a dangerous driver? Because Michael Schumacher and Ayrton Senna were just amazing disciplined drivers who never stepped out of the square, let alone the racing line?! They are the two greatest drivers to ever grace the sport and their attitude and desire to win made them so, and do I see Hamilton achieving similar heights? I most certainly do. Give the guy a break, he is a rare talent with a penchant for speed, sit back and observe. Learn something or just simply admire the kid, without concentrating on his attempt to be squeaky clean to the media and that pathetic book he wrote. The guy is a racer, please do not turn him into anything but that.

GO MCLAREN! F1 is a team sport Sebastien Vettel.