Dispatch from the European Front Vol 5: The Dream of Reason

[Efrim]

The dream of reason produces monsters
- Francisco Jos?© De Goya

Dispatch from the European Front Vol. 5

The Spanish train system is a bulky monster. An ancient dinosaur of cheap metal parts and rigged plastic seats. The impossibly accurate 1970's pea green /shag carpet orange decor suggests that while certain countries receive out-of-date US military supplies, Spain gets out-of-date wallpaper and color schemes. Taking a night train from Barcelona to Madrid was a true test of endurance that set my spine back at least three evolutionary steps.


A test of endurance on the body, but a true visual delight. Spain is not like the rest of Europe. They make fewer concessions to English speakers here. They are stubborn like us and can,Äôt be bothered to learn another language.


Even with the somewhat steeper language barrier Spain is worth it in every way. Madrid and Barcelona are both full of culture and all manner of enjoyable things and beside that, they are different enough for one to consider them different countries.


After a few days in Barcelona that I can recall only because my train ticket says I went there (I suspect this forgetfulness  is due to the thriving pub crawl economy and overly friendly drug dealers of Barcelona) I arrived in Madrid with my new traveling companion Douglas the surly Irish literature expert (see dispatch 2) who I recruited into the tzaddkim.


I had managed to lose most of my belongings in Barcelona (god help them if someone manages to  translate my journal) and Douglas had nothing with him except his volume of collected Joyce, a copy of The Sun Also Rises (regional reading), brass knucks and a pint of chocolate hazelnut ice cream that was not long for this world.


Lacking quick access to any booze we headed out in search of a bar shortly after riding the metro into the heart of town. Douglas had a cousin living in Madrid who had moved there years earlier to satisfy his inexplicable curiosity regarding the Duke of Wellington. Lifted of the responsibility of finding accommodations, things promised to get interesting.


We found our way to a bar off of Plaza Mayor called La Torre del Oro. The bar is a serious bullfight bar. The walls are decorated with the heads of bulls famous for being killed especially well or for simply being killers. On a hot day like the day we were there they sweat and small cans are placed to collect the droplets.


Douglas and I sat and drank Sangria. My order of spicy Gambas (shrimp) was blistering, so I was enjoying the Sangria even more then usual. Douglas talked about Hemingway in Spain with a sort of glint in his eye and informed me with everything he knew about bullfighting that he had learned from Mr. Hemingway. If the ear of a bull is cut off it means the kill was especially well executed, even more so if both ears are gone.


After some unknown amount of time sitting in the bar we became aware of some commotion out on the street. We decided to investigate so we paid our tab and walked the few blocks to Sol, the center plaza of downtown Madrid.

In the coarse of our whirlwind travel we had forgotten a very basic fact about our surroundings. ,ÄúShit, look, it,Äôs a labor day rally,Äù said Douglas. Indeed. We had both forgotten it was labor day. As we walked through the crowd we eventually found Douglas,Äô cousin Stephen, who was finishing up taking some pictures of the rally. We felt much more confident with Stephen in tow, he knew the city inside out and spoke fluent Spanish.  


Stephen was very much like Douglas except that Stephen,Äôs intellectual indulgence was for all things related to Spanish history. There was an underlying tension between them. I suspect this was because Douglas felt such fierce loyalty to Ireland, a place Stephen had not seen in over 15 years. Stephen had his heart broken by his first love at 18. After that, Stephen left his life behind and heeded his inner calling  to go Spain and never once looked back.


After a few hours chanting slogans for justice and equality, the rally began to wind down and the groups split into much clearer factions. All the communists were wearing read and had gathered around a rented flatbed truck, we started talking to them and after I quoted a bit of Trotsky and some Orwell from ,ÄúHomage to Catalonia,Äù (with Stephen translating) they decided we weren,Äôt oppressors and let us have some of the wine they were passing around. After we realized the communist party was heading to a house in Stephens part of town we hitched a ride with them.


The communists were interesting and fun, but I,Äôm not sure the majority really qualify as a political group. It was much more social then that. A bunch of people who really needed something outside the norm to associate with...Their ideas were half-baked and they tended to not have great aspirations for their party.


We sat on that flatbed late into the night and watched the starts come out, opening bottle after bottle of wine. Late in the evening I became involved in a conversation with a guy about 19 who spoke English and seemed more dedicated to change then the rest of his comrades.


As it always does my nationality came up and the obligatory conversation about my elected leaders began....but it was different this time.  He spoke of them with a sense of regret as opposed to the typical self-righteous rage. After talking about it for a few minutes he started looking up at the stars and becoming withdrawn, so I asked him what was wrong.


This, is (about) what he told: These men....These men, are they blind? Can they not see past the money and their own glory? I just don,Äôt understand....how can they send these poor people from your country to die in a needless war? How can my government simply go along with it? They...they have tied their own hands against the real monsters...my sister died in the train bombing and I can,Äôt change that no matter what else I do now. I think now that maybe she could still be alive if this sick war didn,Äôt tie our hands. Nothing is simple, you know? There are more dead from this then the dead in Iraq...,Äù


It seemed like he had more to say but he just didn,Äôt seem like he could go on. He apologized and said he had to leave. I hugged him and told him the quote I have at the top of the page. I,Äôm not sure he understood, but he nodded and walked off to his house.


The dream of reason produces monsters. When lives are seen as statistics and collateral damage, when the value of a soul is measured  in oil, simple reason and logic make monsters because these things have no conscience. Our actions have effects far beyond what we can predict and there is a great cost to recklessness.



I didn,Äôt sleep well that night.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

This, is (about) what he told: These men....These men, are they blind? Can they not see past the money and their own glory? I just don,Äôt understand....how can they send these poor people from your country to die in a needless war? How can my government simply go along with it? They...they have tied their own hands against the real monsters...my sister died in the train bombing and I can,Äôt change that no matter what else I do now. I think now that maybe she could still be alive if this sick war didn,Äôt tie our hands. Nothing is simple, you know? There are more dead from this then the dead in Iraq...,Äù

It seemed like he had more to say but he just didn,Äôt seem like he could go on. He apologized and said he had to leave. I hugged him and told him the quote I have at the top of the page. I,Äôm not sure he understood, but he nodded and walked off to his house.

The dream of reason produces monsters. When lives are seen as statistics and collateral damage, when the value of a soul is measured  in oil, simple reason and logic make monsters because these things have no conscience. Our actions have effects far beyond what we can predict and there is a great cost to recklessness.

I didn,Äôt sleep well that night.

9.877777/10.

Well done.

The Good Reverend Roger,
Doesn't sleep well most nights (too many of the doomed walking around).

[gnimbley]

I would really like to say something wise or witty here. But after reading
your piece, Efrim, all I can say is I really liked it. Thanks.

[Chef]

The dream of reason produces monsters
- Francisco Jos?© De Goya

Dispatch from the European Front Vol. 5

The Spanish train system is a bulky monster. An ancient dinosaur of cheap metal parts and rigged plastic seats. The impossibly accurate 1970's pea green /shag carpet orange decor suggests that while certain countries receive out-of-date US military supplies, Spain gets out-of-date wallpaper and color schemes. Taking a night train from Barcelona to Madrid was a true test of endurance that set my spine back at least three evolutionary steps.

THIS IS YOUR PROBLEM, SON.  TRAVELLING WIT DA PLEBES.

GOING TO SPAIN, DO IT RIGHT.  60' CATAMARAN, HALF A DOZEN HOTTIES, A CASE OF 50 YEAR OLD WINE.  9MM FOR ANY EURO-OPIEZ THAT TRY TO MUSCLE IN.

H2D!!!

[Trollax]

The dream of reason produces monsters
- Francisco Jos?© De Goya

Dispatch from the European Front Vol. 5

The Spanish train system is a bulky monster. An ancient dinosaur of cheap metal parts and rigged plastic seats. The impossibly accurate 1970's pea green /shag carpet orange decor suggests that while certain countries receive out-of-date US military supplies, Spain gets out-of-date wallpaper and color schemes. Taking a night train from Barcelona to Madrid was a true test of endurance that set my spine back at least three evolutionary steps.

Sounds like fun...

other than that, life sucks, "oh well, then stop."