If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you?

I would, apparently.

There's this bridge on a pier at La Caleta, the beach in the old part of Cádiz, and people seem to enjoy jumping off of it into the water. Seeing as it's my last day in Cádiz, and I hadn't jumped off the bridge yet, I figured it was now or never.

I'm normally a wimp about both heights and cold water, but it was brutally hot today and looking down at the water from the bridge, I decided nothing had ever looked more refreshing. Or more potentially dangerous.

There were large shadows under the water that looked suspiciously like rocks and my better judgment was begging me to reconsider. But there was a small crowd of young people jumping off the bridge today and no one had died yet.

So I went ahead...

...and jumped. I don't remember much about the first jump. I just remember suddenly being in cold, cold water. Very cold water. But within seconds, it felt as refreshing as I had hoped it would.

I wanted to jump again, though, and really focus on the sensation of falling. Also, this time around I wanted to plug my nose, because my nasal passages had just been flooded with salt water. Not exactly pleasant. So anyway, I jumped again.

If you ever jump off a bridge, don't focus on the sensation of falling. It's terrifying. My second jump went something like this:

Nose? Plugged. Ready? No. Jump anyway. Okay, focus on the falling. HolycrapI'mfalling. Here comes the water. Is this gonna hurt? Did it hurt last time? This is going to hurt, isn't it? SPLASH. Water up my nose.

It's been a surreal semester. I mean that, too. Even today, my last day in Cádiz, I can't quite wrap my head around the fact that I'm in Spain. In Europe. I don't think it'll hit me until later how much I miss this city and all of the people I've met here. For what it's worth, to everyone here and at home, who read or didn't read this blog: Thanks.

View of La Caleta from the pier.

LONDON: Kensington Gardens

An elderly man guides a blind woman's hands over the intricate Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens, London

Spanish People Know Where It's At

Today is the last day of the medieval market in Plaza de San Antonio. I went for a quick visit this morning and despite my efforts to prevent it, this happened:

So that was pretty horrifying.

I also spent 3€ on this:

You probably can't really see them because of the giant green pepper obscuring them in the picture, but there are nine french fries on this plate. I counted.

I suppose I shouldn't be complaining; I'm sure the vendors were only thinking of my health. Then one of them got up and told me I'd have to order something else if I wanted to eat at the tables in the shade.

I have a feeling the inclusion of this thing in the festivities has more to do with its awesomeness than with its medievalness:

Spanish people seem to love Spider-man. I see him everywhere. It's just more support for my "Spanish People Know Where It's At" theory.

Annoying Anachronisms

These guys are hanging out at the medieval market today. Every five seconds or so one of them shoots their gun up into the air, creating a sound that's deafening even on the far side of the plaza. It's pretty annoying.

I was hungry, so I grabbed a chicken kebab and got out of there.

A Beautiful Day for A Medieval Market

This week there is a medieval market in Plaza de San Antonio near my apartment. There are all sorts of booths set up for selling artwork, food, desserts, trinkets, jewelry, soap, cheese and more.

Today, I headed down to the plaza to grab some lunch. I had a pinchito de pollo, which is basically a chicken kebab, a piece of bread, some potato chips and a beer, all for 2,50€. They were also giving away free chicharrones, pieces of dry, salty and spicy meat.

Here's a picture of my meal. It was taken as an afterthought partway through eating, I suppose because eating tends to be higher on my list of priorities than taking pictures.

Since it would be hard to recreate the atmosphere of the market in writing, I'll let my amateur photography do the talking:

Also, this happened:

Spanish Horror Flicks

Okay, it's been quite the hiatus, but I'm back. I don't really have an excuse for keeping everyone waiting, but here's what I've been up to lately.

1. I went to Berlin. It was awesome. It had a really young, artsy vibe to it.
2. I watched religious processions during Semana Santa, Holy Week.
3. I went to Easter Mass in the cathedral in Cádiz.
4. I got sunburnt.

I also got together with some friends recently and watched REC, an excellent 2007 Spanish horror movie. I think it's probably my new favorite movie. I wrote a review of it, which I'll share with you guys now. I feel like it needs a title, but, as usual, I'm drawing a blank. Any suggestions would be appreciated (but not necessarily used).

Here's the review:

When faced with a zombie apocalypse, the biggest challenge seems to be finding shelter. This theme repeats itself ad nauseam in the zombie genre. Our heroes hole themselves up in a building previously dedicated to something harmless (or at least totally unrelated to bloodthirsty undead cannibals), something like a house or a bar or a prison, until the safety of the place is somehow compromised and the survivors must pack up (if there’s time, which there never is) and seek refuge elsewhere. The goal is: you’re inside, the zombies are outside.

2007’s REC turns this motif on its head and the result is true nightmare fodder. This time the goal is not shelter, but escape. While attempting to document local firemen on a typical night of work, a reporter and her cameraman follow their subjects on what seems to be a routine call, only to find themselves in an apartment building slowly filling up with infected people-eaters. Of course, they could just leave, if it weren’t for the sudden, unexpected quarantine placed upon the building. The reporter and her cameraman friend decide to film everything as they try to get from inside (where the zombies are) to outside (where there are no zombies), against the wishes of the unnervingly composed health officials outside, whose calm voices can be heard via megaphone throughout the movie, discouraging the protagonists from trying to escape and reassuring them that the situation is under control.

Despite borrowing from movies that came before it, REC manages to surprise and terrify. The idea of a zombie virus is nothing new and neither is the Blair-Witchesque raw-footage-style camerawork, but directors Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza employ the latter effectively, maximizing the horror inherent in the scenario they’ve concocted. This type of cinematography lends a realistic feel to a movie that already feels too realistic in a world where seemingly every year brings with it a new potential epidemic. It also has the advantage of bringing the viewer close to the action, giving the illusion of firsthand experience. It’s almost as if said viewer is trapped in the building with the movie’s characters; the claustrophobia they experience is more contagious than the zombie virus that started everything.

One of the reasons zombie movies like REC are so frightening is that the monsters are average, everyday people—in this case, the woman who lives on the third floor or the little girl who’s sick with “tonsillitis.” Casual acquaintances suddenly become vicious killers with an appetite for blood and brains. But after viewing REC, one is left with the creeping suspicion that these zombies are merely a distraction from the film’s real monsters: the faceless, indifferent health officials surrounding the building, who not only refuse to help but in a sense are actually responsible for the plight of the protagonists. Of course, one imagines that they're trying their best and doing what they think is right, but it doesn't make their inaction any easier to digest. Human beings deciding that other human beings are dispensable—that’s what’s really scary.

How did I get here?

WARNING: The following post is whiny and self-indulgent. A proper post about Berlin is on its way, but I'm posting this because I think homesickness is relevant to a travel blog and because... well, because I took the time to write it, dammit.

I hate to admit it, but I think I might be homesick. Or at least that's part of it.

Today I learned that Mr. Drahos passed away and I became unreasonably upset. I didn't know the man well; I've probably spoken five words to him in my whole life. In fact, if you had asked me yesterday whether or not he was still alive I would have casually admitted ignorance and I wouldn't have thought twice about it after that. But knowing he's dead is different. For me, I think he was one of those two-dimensional characters that stay put in the background, but nevertheless influence your path through life in small, incalculable ways. The namesake of the street I grew up on, the old man I was unnecessarily frightened of when I was little, a man I later respected for his refusal to let old age limit him, who embodied for me the adage "It's not how old you are, it's how you are old"...

Maybe grief is always selfish, but mine feels especially selfish. Selfish and also superficial, but nonetheless real and painful. I'm sad not because I loved the man, but because his death is one more broken tie to my childhood, where things were, if not necessarily any better, at least simpler. His passing is another sign that life is stuck in fast-forward, a morbid reminder that everything ends. There's something awful and egocentric about simplifying another man's life that way, but it's hard to shake myself out of this gloom.

Life is, as I often joke, mysterious. I sometimes wake up here in Spain expecting to find myself in my bedroom at home on Drahos Drive. I quickly adjust, but somewhere in my subconscious, the question repeats: How did I get here? How did the little kid I was in elementary school end up... here? The series of circumstances and events that have pulled me through life thus far seem completely and utterly random. A comprehensive list of my life experiences would be incomprehensible. Here's a taste: In kindergarten, my teacher disappeared halfway through the year; later, I heard talk of emotional problems. In the third grade, I received my black belt in Tae Kwon Do and promptly quit. In the sixth grade, I tied my shoes together in detention and my English teacher had to console me when my inability to untie them triggered a meltdown. In the ninth grade, I took up pole vaulting and consistently failed to clear seven feet at meets.

And now here I am, in Spain.

Everyone has limited control over their life, but now and then I get the feeling that I've never really taken advantage of what little control I do have. I've been floating along because I'm too lazy or scared to swim. I want to live deliberately, but I can never seem to find the time or energy.

In the end, it's easier to blame feelings of helplessness on the things you can't control, like the death of an old man or the frenzied pace time seems to prefer in its ceaseless march forward. I want to swim, but swimming is difficult. It's easier to sit around and feel sorry for yourself and wonder how the heck you got here.