The Problem with Bar Crawling
Well, the problem is you sometimes have one drink too many, and think it's a good idea to steal things. I saw the above poster on the wall of a bar, and just
had to have it for my website Pulp International because the image used is by Peter Driben, a famous pulp artist from the 1930s and 1940s. Really, grabbing it was no big deal because it's just a poster. The worse that could have happened is a scolding from the owner. But as an early indication of what the weekend held in store, it was pretty clear I'd end up looking like this at some point:
That's what people look like when they stay out until 5:30 in the morning. It is my birthday week, though, so I have an excuse. Everyone who knows me knows the hair never comes out of its restraints unless I'm having a really good time, and the scene of this particular crime was a bar called Etxe Kalte—probably my favorite place in town. But we'll get to that later.
Labels: Donostia-San Sebastian, Etxe Kalte
Everywhere You Look There's Another Monoblock Chair
I've decided I like this chair photo. I shot it from the promenade above Playa la Concha, one Sunday afternoon when I was out wandering. You see the bay and the island and the old quarter to the upper right, which is where I live. And you have the happy, middle-aged guys sunning in a row, and one of them giving me the eye. All very interesting. But the detail I like here is the blue chair right in the center of the shot. The lesson here is, just when you think you've exhausted the possibilities of monoblock chairs, something new appears. I will be sure to add this image to the chair gallery in the sidebar.
Labels: chairs, Donostia-San Sebastian
The Ultimate Bar Crawl, Part 2
This will be a short one. Wandered into this joint just outside the old quarter on the Boulevard called Dickens. Without putting too fine a point on it, it should have been called Dicken' You, because the midget-sized, shit-vintage airplane wines were twelve euros and the Heineken bottles were six. To put it in perspective, you can get a beer for two euros almost anywhere in town. But the idea with Dicken' You wasn't that the customer would receive value for his/her euro, but that the riff-raff would be kept out so that wealth could mix with wealth.
I've been to so many of these places, from St. Barth to St. Petersburg, and I can spot them immediately. And they can spot me, too, because never once have I been treated respectfully in such places. But even for those designated as worthy, the service really isn't that special, and the drinks aren't any better than in other bars. The value in these places derives from the fact that anyone who resides for more than a couple of obscenely overpriced rounds has money—and that means they can feel safe with each other. At least in theory.
Sounds strange, perhaps, but there's an entire worldwide bar/club culture based upon helping rich meet rich without risking their entire fortunes. It's what country clubs, for instance, are about. How do I know this? That's another story. But I can tell you from my personal observations that for the rich there's no love deep enough, no lust powerful enough, to override their fear of losing their money. Dicken' You is one of the places where they don't have to worry about it so much. But in any case, you should give the joint a pass, because it's the least interesting bar in San Sebastián anyway.
Labels: bars, Donostia-San Sebastian
The Ultimate Bar Crawl, Part 1
I may have mentioned before that Donostia-San Sebastián has, according to various travel guides, the highest density of bars in the world. For no other reason than that I have the time, I've decided to catalog these places. My goal is visit every bar in town. It may not be possible, sort of like counting to a million, but nobody can say that I've ever backed down from a bar-related challenge. Last night I met some friends at the Paulaner München cervecería, so I'll start with that one.
The Paulaner may be the only German-themed bar in town. It's in the Parte Vieja or Old Part on Calle San Vicente, opposite the gothic Iglesia San Vicente, which you see in the shot below. The owner of this place is one of
those big, jolly Basques who could moonlight as Santa Claus, if they had that myth here. He called the girls I was with "guapas," which means he's probably thinking about them even now. His bar is obviously named for the German beer, and I guess if they gave me all the branded gear in my bar I'd name it after them too.
The Paulaner is moderately local—the times I've been there my friends and I seemed to be the only tourists, but it isn't an intimidating place by any means, like many locals-frequented places can be. There's music, but not very loud music, a tray of snacks, but no bona fide pintxos, and only one television, which means this is a place where you converse. The clientele are late-twenties and up, normally. In the winter it's rarely crowded, but
during the summer they set up their outdoor tables and with that view of the church it suddenly becomes one of the better outdoor spots in town, a good place to meet up early before heading out into the night. I rate it as take-a-pass during the off-season, and must-visit during the summer. Here's their
website.
Labels: bars, Donostia-San Sebastian
The Dying Art of Artistry
As Americans we’ve lost any artistry we once had, and you see that in the above photo. It’s a shot of Loew’s Grande Theatre in Cincinnati, Ohio, circa 1925. I went to that theatre when I was growing up in Cincy in the 70s, and it was torn down while I still lived there. It was an impressive building, with its cornices, arched window wells, and columned 3rd and 6th stories, but it was by no means unique. Most buildings erected in the early part of the 20th century, even those destined for the most prosaic of uses, looked just as... well, grand as the Grand Theatre. But not anymore.
You see this architectural decline everywhere you look, and you have to wonder what happened to us. Sure, there are still artful projects, but they are celebrated precisely because of their very strangeness, as if raising a ruckus over the odd structural gem somehow makes up for the fact that our urban spaces are losing their souls. Is this happening because the devil of capitalism has made builders beholden solely to profits? Ornamentation costs money, so for the sake of cash it’s gotta go. But why did citizens allow this to happen? We no longer expect beauty from our edifices. It’s enough these days to have convenience and perhaps safety. Inspirational design? Forget it.
The problem is most severe in the States, but isn’t confined there. Here in Europe I can see the same process altering the low skylines of the Basque country. Like a mouth losing a tooth, a perfectly integrated old block will lose a building, which is then replaced by some blank pale structure of cast concrete and polished marble. Only the French seem resistant to this process—not immune, but resistant, somewhat. Their urban spaces remain the most carefully crafted in the world. The hundreds of square miles that make up the vast center of Paris retain their character even as they evolve. And because of that, the city remains a living museum.
Anyway, the shot of the Grand Theatre came from a website called Shorpy that shows my birth city of Cincinnati, Ohio—and many other cities—around the 1920s and 1930s. The photos I've posted below aren't about architectural wonders, but the shape of the past. It was only the Grand shot that got me wondering why our civilization has reached the point where it expects so little nourishment for the brain, and respects nothing save the quest for capital. It seems a prefect encapsulation of a future that is to be dreaded. As for the other images, I think my father will get a kick out of them, since he may recognize some of the spots. And maybe, after he sees them, he can explain why we’ve changed so much, and the art in our souls has withered and died.
Labels: art, Cincinnati, Paris
Pamplona Calling
When I began reading about the world outside my little house in a little ghetto in Cincinnati, I learned of places like New York, London, Paris, and Rio, and they all seemed quite interesting, so I began traveling and I eventually saw them all. But thanks to Ernest Hemingway, another place I heard about at an early age was Pamplona, Spain. And I just went there last week.
Of course, this is not a big deal. I live in Spain. It takes an hour to drive to Pamplona from where I am. But, it was still a thrill. I had not seen photos of anything other than the bull run, so I had no clear idea what the place would look like. I knew the town was Basque, so I figured it would look like my town. Yes and no. It was similar, but the architecture was better preserved in the city center. That isn’t because Pamplonistas are more civic-minded than Donostiarras. It’s because the center of Donostia burned down two-hundred years ago and had to be rebuilt. They did it in a hurry, and sacrificed charm.
I walked the route of the bull run, which happens during the Festival of San Fermín. The bulls run through the oldest part of town and into the impressive old plaza de toros. I knew Spike Lee had made a Nike commercial of himself running with the bulls, and I learned from a Basque friend that Dennis Rodman had done it too. I watched both videos, and I think, at this moment—which is months before the festival begins—that if Spike and the Worm can run the bulls, I can do it too.
So that’s the goal for spring. I’ve done lots of things more dangerous than run with some bulls. If you’ve read this blog you know that. And though I’m not in top shape, nor in the prime of youth anymore, if I don’t have enough physical ability to manage this, I pretty much deserve to die. In the Rodman video, he laments not starting farther back in the pack. The bulls never got near him. So I know that to make the event worthwhile I’ll need to start back in the pack.
If I survive this, it’ll be like a constant gift to my fiancée. Anytime she gets mad at me, I can say, “At least I’m alive. That certainly doesn’t have to be the case.”
Honestly, the hardest part will be the fact that I’m making a spectacle of myself. Around friends, I will do anything. I mean anything. But around strangers, I am pathologically low key. The idea of being (almost certainly) the only black American making the run worries me more than the bulls. But fuck it—you only live once. If I do this, not only will I have another deathbed memory (possibly the same day)—it might actually help me with my fear of being observed.
Yeah, just keep talking yourself into it, dumbass.
My Six Best Photos
Or maybe they aren't my six best. But I was prompted to enter a photo contest, and the entry fee was waived because one of my semi-jobs is sponsoring the thing. I got six free entries, and if I'm extremely lucky (in a way I have never been in my entire life), I could win a trip to the Bahamas. Winning supposedly involves some skill, too, something about actually shooting a good photo, whatever. Most of these pix appear either in the sidebar at right, or in earlier posts, but here they are again. I know nothing about photography, but I like doing it. It's kind of like sex that way.
On another note, this is indeed my first post for the better part of a year, but only because I was focused on getting my website up and running. Now that it's getting a couple of thousand page views a day, I'm going to write for pleasure again for no readers at all. But that's the fun of it, right? Whereas with the website I am acutely conscious of people reading my stuff, el blog here is a sort of primal scream into an empty digital wilderness.
Labels: photos
That's what people look like when they stay out until 5:30 in the morning. It is my birthday week, though, so I have an excuse. Everyone who knows me knows the hair never comes out of its restraints unless I'm having a really good time, and the scene of this particular crime was a bar called Etxe Kalte—probably my favorite place in town. But we'll get to that later.
