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There is a sound that cuts through the bird calls and the barking dogs. It drifts high above the other cars, not louder, per say, but more persistent, more familiar as though this sound belongs here more than all the others. It is the sound of the local bus drifting near. It is a reminder that you should be ready, stationed at the pole that marks its brief interlude. 

On Joan Maragall, west of the sights and smells of Barcelona, a yellow-framed bus eases up the slope of the street searching for passengers. The buses here are not like anywhere else in the world. They weave through streets barely two car lengths wide. There are cars parked on those streets, some pressed up so high against the sidewalks that pedestrians must turn sideways to get by. 

The bars inside are to be held, even when sitting, for these buses are known for taking hair pin curves like their smaller and lighter F1 cousins. On the downhills the back wheels might leave the earth, spinning freely for a second or two gripping fruitlessly at the air. Pebbles spray from the sidewalks of the nearby embankments, clanking down steep ravines rolling towards the clear blue ocean.

If you were to look out the window and over the edge towards the ocean you would see trains slithering by, sparking on rails that hold them in place. The buses of Castelldelfels are tethered only by their will and a desire to reach the designated stops on time. 

Sometimes they drift off course, meandering into the track of a different bus with a different name or number. When this happens a passenger will call out loudly to the driver. He or she will call back, and a heated conversation will begin in rapid-fire Catalan. Throughout the bus, passengers gripping the rails or seated with their hands folded neatly in their laps will nod along and murmur, always taking the side of the passenger. In time, the driver will relent and draw the bus back to its appointed route, never apologizing, but always correcting in time for you to make your stop.

When the sun grows heavy and slips from the sky, the dogs cease their barking. The cars fade from the road. The sound of laughter and music rises from households stacked in the hills like steps. Underneath it a separate sound persists long into the dark. It is a familiar sound. Persistent. It reminds you that there will always be a way home.

I was supposed to write microfiction here, but I just don’t have it in me. I am having one of those days where a momentary spat with the lady of my life casts a pallor over the rest of the day. Moreover, it highlights all of the bad things that came before it–from the bus crashing into another car, from seeing a giant cockroach clinging to the wall of my favorite coffee shop in Spain, on to recovering from a week of sidequesting that has left me entirely depleted. Add in a chapter that is in utter disarray, and I am having a classic bad day. So much so that it is making me wonder if this is like that moment in the theater when the lights go down briefly to let you know that the show is going to be startign soon and you need to take your seats… except in my warped nightmare the drop in lumination says, The real shit is about to go down, so buckle up.

In short, this has been a very bad week. This has been a very bad day to compliment this very bad week.

On the up side, I’m feeling a small inkling to craft again. Not a heavy tug, but an inkling. I’m searching for a seed I can use to generate a ton of loot in order to then generate whatever amazing structure I’ll build in that world.

I am in a particularly difficult place in my story. This is the area where my editor said the story fell completely apart, because the plot made no sense. The specific issues I cannot get into, but I can summarize it by saying that the characters could’ve saved themselves a lot of hassle by having a conversation. There was no reason not to. There was no reason for the rest of the story to take place as a result. So, now I am trying to fix this error and make things make sense without forcing things to make sense, all while trying to craft a handful of realistic character arcs that align with the story and the people in that story.

So, I’m stuck. I am locked down on a particular scene that could reframe the way the story is told, because of a handful of character choices. There needs to be a confrontation here, and there needs to be some action. I don’t entirely have a smart plan to leverage both of those things together, but as I write this blog I am realizing that it needs to happen in the singular moment, which means I am slowly coming up with a plan to do that in my mind.

Part of this will mean starting the arc of one of the primary characters (100 pages in) who has been at the most a secondary character or foil to the group throughout. He needs his moment and meaning, and this is the two-chapter area where it can go down. If I am good enough I will try to portray this as two primary characters moving in separate directions as a result of what is initiated in this chapter. We will see how it goes.

Storytelling is a lot like knitting. You are brings disparate threads together in order to create something beautiful and tangible. As I work back across this novel I am realizing how much I still need to learn about doing that, but also how close I am to seeing the full picture of what the story threads look like on their own and how they could fit together in any story. When I finally get around to writing my version of “the book on writing” I feel like I ought to call it Story Weaving (or Story Threading) and carry that metaphor forward.

It just makes sense as to how I see it.

I’m thinking about football with my kid’s college games less than 100 days away and high school possibly less than that. They’re both trying to get to the next level–one trying to get to a power 4 FBS and one trying to get to the college level. This year is big. Every year is big, but this is Sophomore college season and High School Jr. year. The time for excuses are over. This is the time to shine. While both are starters at their positions, there is room for growth beyond that. Both will have chances at Special Teams while the younger may get chances on an offense with a thin receiving corps and no big body speedsters to go up for the rock. So, I’m saying there is a chance for both of them to be successful, because the opportunities are there for the taking.

The Lady Talis and I have been discussing a quote “Act as if it were impossible to fail” with me arguing for this ideology and her arguing that it is more interesting if you act as if it is possible to fail. Her way makes sense because you have to recognize that this is your shot and you need to take it all the way seriously. You cannot act like there will be another chance. There won’t be. I know this from personal experience. Athletics doesn’t offer a ton of chances and even less now in the money driven ecosystem created by flashy NIL deals. You have to pop when you are given the shot or else you will no longer get the shot. The older one gets that. The younger one has a lot of work to do with growing into confidence and growing up in general in terms of understanding what it takes and what you must sacrifice to be successful. I believe he’ll get there. I believe both will succeed. My belief is positive energy swirling in their direction, but it won’t get the job done. That is on them.

Travis Hunter is getting the job done. Bro is already notching plays on both sides of the ball in practice. Oh how I wish it wasn’t the Jags, but here we are and this is what we need to accept. Hunter is the guy. In a magical world the Browns trade Sanders for Lawrence (and give up like 7 number ones…) and we get to see those dudes keep going, but that isn’t where its at right now. I don’t know where it is at with Sanders short of OTA Hype, but even in that he’s not taking many (if any) reps with the ones.

So, that’s football, and that is this blog. I’ll leave you with this parting sports note: Yankee hats are universal. I have been traveling for years and have never gone a day overseas without seeing someone in a Yankee cap. Here in Spain I see a slew of knockoffs, as well as a New Era store in Madrid that is almost entirely filled with Yankee ball caps. I don’t get it. Madness, I say. Pure madness.

Tossa de Mar sucked. It represents the first (and thereby worst) miss in the history of my relationship. It was a trip so bad that the stink of it followed us home by way of a series of travel mishaps entirely reflective of the journey to even get there. Nothing went right. The morning we left a lady staying next door to us was carted out on a stretcher after moaning (loudly) for a half hour. The beach was rocky and crowded with terrible humans. Yet for all of that, we managed to find moments. We also managed a few decent showers.

I say all of this as preface to the main point of the blog, which is reviews. At the end of any stay, you’re offered an opportunity to write a review. Ostensibly the goal is to create an ecosystem of feedback that raises the level of the establishments that want to do so, and to warn consumers of those that do not. I do not participate in the review process. For one, I’m lazy. Secondly, and most importantly, I’m scared.

Let’s take, for example, Airbnb. If I were to write a review of the place we are presently staying, it would not go well for the place we are presently staying. When we looked through the numerous reviews for the location prior to booking, none of them pointed out the issues that I find most troubling. I’m going to list them below and let you decide if these are worth being concerned about:

1. If you are above 5’10, you will be forced to stoop whenever moving around the loft area, which is where you sleep, bathe, watch TV, etc. None of these activities can be accomplished without stooping because the roof is too low. If my 6’3 self lifts my head, I hit my head.  That is made worse by the fact that the bathroom doorway is built for a hobbit. The 5’7 Lady Talis has to duck. Can you guess what happens when she doesn’t?
2. The floor directly above the space is where the kids hangout. Loudly. With a lot of late night tv and pounding of feet. This is mostly relegated to the weekends… Which is when the parties may happen.
3. No blinds on two windows that look directly into your sleeping area and bathroom respectively. It’s creepy.

There’s more but not a lot more time to wrap this up. The point is this: If I said all of that in a review (like nobody else did) I would end up as one of those Airbnb clients who has bad reviews on places. Who wants to have that client come to your spot? I’m scared of not being allowed to stay places. So I deal with this by not writing reviews.

I have this blog though… It isn’t connected to Airbnb at all. It also gives me space to voice my… opinions.

frankly, it terrifies me how much an entire group of nations are willing to look the other way when atrocities are being committed so long as the perpetrators are on their side. In fact I’m less surprised that a people that were decimated by racism would commit such atrocities. That part, at least, tracks: it’s a classic bullied kid becomes school shooter situation there. Yet in the situation I’ve outlined nobody stands by silently while the shooter takes lives or marks victim and sympathetic protests as anti-Semitic on spec.
You can believe what is happening in Gaza is an atrocity and a genocide without being anti-Semitic. Not standing by the destruction of the Palestinians doesn’t mean I hate Jewish people. Not basing or justifying everything off October 7 doesn’t mean I hate Jewish people.

I don’t hate Jewish people. I do strongly object to what is being done in the name of Jewish freedom and advancement. This is a clear atrocity that has lasting consequences and implications the majority of the US press is choosing to ignore.

An entire people are being displaced and slowly destroyed. All the while Israel is voicing intentions to seize more territory in the interest of safety. Civilians are being massacred at food lines, often in retaliation for the death of a soldier elsewhere. This behavior is codified. This behavior is known and while being broadcast, is being denied by the Israeli government, who refuse to let press anywhere near Gaza… so it’s their word vs the victims and the victims are people we are taught not to trust or care about. This is the lowest a people can go, given how their nation was formed.

Yet we arm them. We give them money. We support their war for military, political, and religious reasons. We ignore the evil because we don’t want to see them as anything but good. They are clearly anything but good. We know this, at least subconsciously. Thirty years from now I wonder if we will reconcile with that knowledge

Yesterday’s freewrite was an assignment I was completing for a class on microfiction. It wasn’t perfect. It might not even have been the proper prompt. However, once I began I was going to go down that road, because why waist the moment. That is how I am beginning to feel about the concept of acceptance. The past few days in Tossa de Mar have been extremely low tier. Tossa de Mar reminds of of Atlantic City at its most desperate and without the draw of Casinos. Everything is outdated and the crowd is the lowest of the low yet pretending to be of a higher status than they really are. We are eating full board, which translates as cafeteria food. Each meal the hundreds of elderly people cue up minutes before the spot opens and fill the tables with sadness and disdain–mostly towards myself and the Lady Talis. We do not belong in their eyes–not together and certainly in their sight.

I accept their disdain. I accept this place and moment. Acceptance helps me carry forward with my day. Today, for example, I had an amazing morning and afternoon. Come time for the return to the hotel, things fell apart. I discovered that I could not find a decent meal anywhere and the cafeteria slip that had been sustaining me isn’t available till much later this evening. I accepted that this is the case. I picked up a yogurt. Forgot the spoon, but I went back and bought one of those eventually. It was more steps, but was it terrible. No. It was meh.

Just like Tossa de Meh.

The nurse called back and told us to use bleach on anything we touch. I touched Carlos, my black glove leaving a wet smear on the hairs of his arm. I sprayed the spot playfully. He jumped back, almost hitting the edge of the sphere. He yelped. I giggled. I kept giggling, hearing the sound of my voice cascade off of the sphere.

I’ve never understood how echoes work. People say it has to do with space and curvatures. It probably has to do with dryness too. The large sphere at the center of the room probably wouldn’t force echoes if it were wet. I touched it with my gloved hand, imagining the hundreds of years and thousands of people who came to this place to watch the waters bubble up from the center of the sphere, cascading down the side like skin.

when I pulled my gloved hand away now it left an imprint in the dust. Carlos stood beside me, watching. His spray bottle hung limply in one hand, pointed at the rubble strewn floor of the cavern. The nurse was much further up ahead where Timothy had tripped over the loose stone and lost his balance. He’d scraped his hand badly on the side of a dusty wall. He’d hurt his head worse. Her tending to him meant she couldn’t watch me set my bottle down and place both hands on the sphere, moving my fingers through the thin layer of dust like an artist.

I wandered with my hands and wondered at how all things grow old and forgotten. In the dust the outline of a face took shape, emerging like an expression. Carlos watched me, quiet, his own hands opening and closing as if wanting to join me through a will of their own.

“paint with me.” I said.
he shook his head.
there is an invisible line between exploring a thing and defiling it. I don’t know when I crossed that line, when the face became a caricature of my own. I only noticed once I stepped back from the sphere, observing my work on the cold white marble. By then it was too late. The others were turning back, having reached as far into the cavernous temple as they dared, and now returning to collect the stragglers.

Carlos looked at me and giggled, the echoes of his voice breaking over the loops and twists I’d left in the dust of the sphere. I giggled too. Then I lifted my bottle and sprayed. I kept spraying until the bleach made a new skin on the marble and the trickle of it dashed away the echoes of the past.

This is the first time things with the airbnb have gone really badly. We’ve been building to it. Internet going down, water going out, but now we are one story below a teenage weed smoking party where the majority of the guests have already walked by our space and stared in the window like we’re on display.

Some things to know: The location is the first floor of the family home and has sub-basic screening. The family needs to walk by our space to get in and out of their space. There is a window looking in on us right in the path of their walk and it does not have a curtain. There is another window in the bathroom, unavoidable when entering the property and that too does not have a curtain. All of this has been manageable because the family is pretty good about not getting in our business. However, tonight there is a party for the young people–teenagers hovering around the age of 19. They are smoking and having fun and have little concern about our privacy. I want to close the blinds I can close and turn on the AC but that thing is pumping out heat. So, I’m trapped in a heat box with windows I still cannot cover.

To make matters even worse, they’ve activated lights that haven’t been on the entire time we’ve been here and those are shining in our one uncovered window. So, this is what it means to stay in a rental where the family is still there. The unpredictability and uncomfortability of the situation is absurd. Thankfully we’re in the section of our trip where we travel to other places (sidequesting) and stay elsewhere. So, once we make it through tonight we will be off this for a few nights.

I can use the reset.

I might want to live here.

There is the beach, there is the relaxed flow of life, there is the sun that doesn’t set till long past 9pm. I feel completely relaxed and refreshed in this space. I feel like I get everything I need here in Castelldefels. I don’t know the language, and this is of course a problem, but I would be willing to learn as a way to spend more time in the space. Its this or Italy thus far, and both present themselves as excellent options, though I’ve had far worse luck with Italian beaches–for one they are generally pay to play and crowded. Also, the beach culture here is more relaxed in every possible way.

Putting these male proclivities aside, the measure of these places thins a bit. Italy has its own magic. Pizza and magic. And pizza. That being said, the other contrast is that we’ve found ourselves in a small suburb that we can move about easily and is bustling with energy where we need it to be and always chill on the walk home. I like that, said the old New Yorker. I like being able to control what sort of pace I am getting into. That isn’t a New York option for the most part. It is more of a Italy option, but living in the margins in Italy is a harder sell. Perhaps the key is to have more experiences.

We spend our summers in exploration. I’ve considered and discussed the possibility of coming back to this place to see if we like life here. I know we like this city, but Barcelona doesn’t hold a candle to Italy. This is where the real separation occurs. I don’t know what we would do if we lived here. Perhaps the key is to live in Italy and discover what wonders lay coastally?

These are wonderful problems to have. First world problems I never thought I would measure my life by. Yet here I am on the first leg of an extended summer vacation which will bring me from Spain, to Tennessee, and eventually to wedlock in British Columbia. Sometimes it’s good to be the Talislegger.