The Doors

No faithful followers, the Deputy has not magically become engrossed in the light rock sensation, but is merely here to discuss the doors that open, those that close, those that lead to different directions and those that lead to a brick wall.  But the good thing about the door with a brick wall, is that you know never to open that door again.  But is such a beautiful door, with a bright blue paint job and a brass handle newly shined.  There is white trim around the edges that frame this door in such an inviting and alluring way.

But oh that brick wall behind the door, do you dare confront it again.  As it leers at you since it knows that it has presented your fate with an unexpected hurdle. 

Not all hurdles are doors with brick walls behind them.  No, there are doors that we enter and look through and have a lovely visit.  Maybe a door to a park in mid-autumn with a light breeze and a Hilfiger family wearing chunky sweaters who beckons your all too-shined loafered self over to enjoy some tea sandwiches.  You engage and enjoy and never look back.  But as the fall turns into winter and you attempt to go back through that pleasant door, you realized it has shut and it forces you to look for another door.

You weather the weather and it turns bleak and cold.  The leaves have all shriveled and the floor is unrecognizable under the sheer of white.  Winter is fun with a nice cool hat and a wooly scarf, but for some reason, you only came expecting fall and now have to deal with winter.  You are ill-equipped, you thought that the fall could last forever. 

You wander, take paths, over fallen logs and through a thorny thicket.  At the other side you see a lake that has been frozen over.  You walk towards it and gently tap your toes on the ice to test its strength.  The water seems fine and you pounce onto the ice thinking that if you are going to make a plunge, might as well get it over with.  But the ice holds and you patiently meander further towards the center of this lake.  You notice a hole not too far off.  You are intrigued and go further.  You are freezing now and wonder whether you should have ever enjoyed the autumn when it brought such a baltic winter.  You venture further and gaze at this hole in the ice. 

At the lip of the hole, at first you see a deep dark blue, manifesting the freezing cold underneath the ice topped layer.  Then, for some reason, you realize that no water is passing through the deep blue and that there is actually a space for someone to pass through.  You cock your head in wonderment and look around as if the hoax to be played was crafted just for you.  Again, you gently tap your toe, since for some reason this has become the childhood, full-proof testing device.  Your toe does not get wet.

Without a sign of life on the horizon, you decide to take a chance.  A chance that may freeze you to death or reward you with an unexpected surprise.  You grab your nose and close your nostrils and close your eyes. 

You jump.

The hole has stripped you of all of your autumn sweaters and pants and dropped you into a dark, warm, blue lagoon with illuminescence all around.  You swim to another surface and look back to where you came from.  You realize that the little hole was actually a round door that had opened.  A door that has led you here.  You swim to the shore and slowly emerge from the warmth of the lagoon to the warmth of the accompanying shore.  You dig your toes into the sand and stretch your neck out in circles, clockwise.  You hear a splash and quickly whip around since, for some reason, this journey has been entirely too solitary.

A local approaches, whom you have deemed a local since he dropped from a boat and tied the boat to an all-too convenient rocked shaped as a post.  He comes forth since his journey seemed to have been similar.  You inquire as to the nature of his business and he back to you.  After telling him of the little round door in the little round hole in the ice, he tells you that you have found the only way to this tropical paradise, for no other door exists.  In fact, he and his wife met after both dropping through the hole after a pleasant picnic with the Hilfiger family.

In sum, dear readers, sometimes the road to where we would love to go is linear, but the journey itself is a tumultuous adventure of feeling.  The sporadic nature we find our future and fate is forever changing color and season.  We must find the purpose for our visit, and never fear to gently tap our toe into the awaiting abyss before we jump feet first with our hand on our nose, gripping our nostrils tight.

Fare thee well my travelers, my faithful wanderers.

Things

There are so many theoretical interpretations of the burdensome quality that "things" bring to a human life.  They tie us down, the create clutter, they free us from the bondage of everyday life.  But, there is a difference between the materialistic consumer, hoarding his Wal-mart possessions in some sort of trophy display case and the artist or the one who wants to create a sense of "space".

The Deputy has been a rolling stone for most of his life and therefore has had to cast off ties to most of his belongings in order to speed up the roll and ensure that he gathered no moss.  But then a point came in this stone age that brought Deputy a new scence of the aforementioned philosphies of "things".  He found himself collecting goods on the streets and bringing them home, palettes and discarded jewels.  After careful reflection and pontification, the Deputy noticed that it was a sort of nesting, a creation of comfort, an establishment of home. 

Now that the Deputy has engaged in a quest to set roots in foreing soil, he attempts to surround himself with things that nuture those roots.  So the "things" have become a comfort blanket, a sense of belonging and security.  As every traveler knows, no matter how much you are on the move, the comforts are the things that really bring relaxation.  Like a backpacker who picks up a candle whose smell reminds him of home, the Deputy is creating a 360 sense of self in his new surrounds.

So dear readers, though the Deputy advocated for years about the importance of being without belongings, he found that belonging sometimes is only created belongings themselves.  Hm, the word itself both exists as a noun to constitute a possession, but whose etymology aligns with the verb to be a part of something else.  Interesting, may the message spread.

A Smile Goes a Long Way

The Deputy had a very spontaneous and interesting weekend.  One that became scheduled on a series of whims and turned out to be quite a fortuitous endeavor.  The Deputy specifically wants to account this one Christmas party he went to at an apartment on Saturday night.  With the smell of Swedish Christmas glögg in the air and a number of 20/30 somethings milling about, the Deputy entered as he does every party, with the intent to conquer and win over each and every person at the event.

Some people enter rooms with different agendas.  I know some that enter a room and plan on continuing the conversation with exactly whom they came to the party with.  Encircling their social prowess amongst the familiar, these people tend to either be too shy to engage or too full of themselves to share the love.  Others enter a room and experience intimidation or self-consciousness.  The Deputy enters a room with a goal and a determination as a hunter enters the forest on the first day of the season.  Gun wielded and hunting dogs in place, the hunter flanks his first kill of the season, rendering them helpless and without any hope to find another fate.  Though this analogy has gone severely off course, at the heart of the issue is the essence that the Deputy seeks to win over people, rendering them helpless but to love the Deputy in all his wonder.  This is not an ego-trip or even an ode to the Deputy from the Deputy, since this can also play to a fault.  With every hunt that does not succeed, the Deputy does not react well to it and will actually compromise some very sincere core values in order to restore order, to lure the hunt back into the thickets and start again.

Consider this a lesson.  Full-proof almost, depending on the execution.  You first have to read the crowd.  What kind of party are we at?  A bourgeois gathering of social elite, wishing to rub off culture and finesse with others like their own.  Perhaps it is an alternative array of misfits, celebrating individuality and jagged edges.  Or even a party of burn-outs, wishing to recount war stories on the mushroom battle fields or of trips traveled through acidic means of transportation.  Either way the scene is set for your arrival and one's ability to adapt and camouflage will, as any good hunter knows, mean life or death.  The scene on Saturday night was of the first category.  A bunch of higher ups, dressed to the nine's, and an agenda to see and be seen.

In these type of situations, the Deputy must first find the host.  Since he was invited through a friend, it is always best to establish personal contact with the host or owner of the house so that you are not seen as a threat, as a variable, causing a whisper inquiry of my identity or motives of attending.  Once the host is met and the compliment is paid to the abode, there must be a quick attack at the heartstrings of the host.  A personal connection that only you too share.  The host is the key to the party, they know where the alcohol is but also know the who's who of the party.  Can be beneficial for later hunts.  But the host is a clever hare, one that cannot stay put too much, so the Deputy only holds the conversation for a few minutes unless prompted to continue.  Let the host wander, the contact has been made and impressions are setting.

Do a lap.  Make one round through the party to spot the key items that will make the hunt a success.  Like a ninja knowing his surroundings before a fight, the Deputy spots the cliques and reads them to know exactly where to strategically place himself to maximize party potential.  The Deputy quickly spots an upstairs, which one friend of the guest graciously showed as part of a tour.  The Deputy sees couch and bed dwellers in an upstairs bedroom.  Spotted.  There are bottles to spare and the leisurely, supine nature of the hang shows that these people are not as stuffy as those downstairs on the main stage.  A perfect nesting ground for a visitor who is not too known by the crowd.

As the Deputy is introduced, he always smiles and shakes hands firmly.  Without a smile, the hunt is lost, the prey starts doubting the trust of the attacker and steps back and to the side until behind a large shrubbery and requiring extreme care of the hunter to bring him or her back out to the open field.  Exposed.  Smile and contact made, the Deputy enlists the help of a few talkative targets to show the room that the Deputy came to befriend and not to beguile.  The talkative ones are never the highest targets, as the Deputy knows all to well that on his home turf, he never seems overly engaging to the new kids.  Their spot must be earned.  So once the talkative ones have landed and begun a conversation show-piece, an exit strategy is immediately planned.  It buys time to look around and determine the next target.  Though this target will not be attacked directly at all, an indirect step or two places the Deputy in a chess game where he must be two steps ahead.  "Oh funny meeting you here," he sneers while pondering that the calculated coincidence has manifested.

The night ended with a pass around of a few business cards and a few friend requests on the Book.  For an hour at a very stuffy, "pinky's up" type of party, the Deputy may have locked some key social pieces for later fun.

Do not think, trusted readers, that the Deputy is using this as a mere manipulation maneuver, in fact it is quite the opposite.  The fault that runs with such social calculation is that it is motivated by the genuine desire to engage, to meet and to later conquer.  Though this hunter does not serve his hunt for dinner to a family of four waiting at a local cabin.  The hunt in this case becomes a dear companion to the Deputy.  And knowing that the Deputy provides the utmost in friendship and loyalty, the hunt becomes all too excited to oblige.  Perhaps one would say it is Stockholm Syndrome.

Until next time, or until the next hunt...

2012: The Year of the Deputy

Every year is rung in with bells and fireworks, with hollering and celebration, yet few really know what the fuss is about.  Instead of empty shouts, the Deputy attempts to bring in each new year with a newfound optimism and respect.  For life, for the future, whatever may be striking the Deputy's fancy at that time is then wished upon and thought about for the year to come.  There is a tale however, for those interested in folklore, witchcraft and wizardry that states that a poor New Years celebration brings in the best of years.  It is funny to think of this tale since usually people equate a good start with a new beginning and a good omen for what is to follow.  Set the tone as you will.  But the Deputy had to lend his faith to this tale so as to make sure that his awful start led to a most fortuitous year.

The New Years:
The Deputy's longest and dearest friend came to Sweden to visit him and the both of them embarked on a journey of exploration and adventure.  The setting was Istanbul, Turkey, where the East and West come together in a clash of culture and livelihood.  A place where one bridge shows two sides of enormous history and a bumbling culture that allows it to live on.  On the eve of the celebration, a few friends gathered together to ensure that the setting was just right in order to ring in the new year to the extent that would make others green with envy.  As the small group set themselves amongst a throng of male guests, they awaited the countdown and the future.  Minutes before, rain started to pour onto the most unprepared visitors, dampening their all to prepared New Year's outfits and desires for a fun and light-hearted evening.  The rain, though, added a sense of whimsy to the exotic destination and even increased the drama as the countdown hit 0 and the immense crowd began to circle and dance and cheer.  The Deputy and his small group of explorers joined in the frenzy.  Fast forward to an hour later. The group decides to clammer out of the crowd and down a street towards a strip of drinking establishments.  In an effort to shield the New Years garb from the downpour, the Deputy grabbed at a broken umbrella strewn on the sidewalk.  Fighting with the contraption and attempting to salvage any of the instrument's use, the umbrella writhed free of the Deputy's grip and shot to the floor.  In a flash, the umbrella managed to break free of its closed position and flap wildly and release all of its wings to unfurl ground-facing.  The impact of the release propelled the umbrella directly upward, plunging the jagged end of the broken metal handle deeply into the hand of the Deputy.  The rain continued to fall and the Deputy's tears added to the wetness.  The pain and lack of solution on how to fix the problem, caused the deputy to delve into his pockets and search for a solution.  As the Deputy made his way to his wallet to find whether there could be something to MacGuyver into a band-aid, the Deputy felt nothing.  The wallet had escaped.  The scene closes and the curtain falls with the Deputy in a foreign country, without a wallet and a hand gushing blood under the downpour of Istanbul skies.

The Year to Follow:
So as the tale suggests, the ensuing year became one of the most grand events in the Deputy's life.  He returned to Sweden with his tale between his legs.  He graced through and graduated his masters program with the accolades of a Moot Competition in which he dazzled on-lookers and judges alike.  The trips around Europe and friends to accompany him along the way was nothing short of perfection.  Then, the trip seemed grim.   The Deputy would have to return from his rise to international success to Los Angeles where he would have to prepare himself for a future.  A week after his return to Los Angeles found the Deputy answering the phone to a restricted number.  The number belonged to a Swedish woman who was a part of a law firm and called to communicate a job offer.  The job was the Deputy's dream and could not stifle his girlish excitement as he giddily accepted the position.  The following summer allowed the Deputy to spend long-needed time with family friends without the stress of having to rush back to some internship or a year at school.  The summer was ever sweetened by the Deputy having to take a bar exam in California in an effort to appease his parent's concern that the Deputy's future would not include being close to his family.  The Deputy just found out he passed!  So with titles and jobs and friends to spare, the Deputy has taken the bleeding hand and the walletlessness to its full potential and has had the year that will change all others.  The Deputy has also found love but this will be expounded on to its faithful readers in more detail.  The trial of this love is tested at the moment but the Deputy always looks to that New Years day and the tale to be followed.  That the poor conditions during an Istanbul winter cleared a path for victory and fortitude.  The Deputy leaves his readers with well wishes and thoughts as they plan their next years plans.  The path is set, but for those who see rain and blood, know that the beaches of Los Angeles may be your reward if you work hard and stay focused.

Linguistics 101 With Professor Deputy

I was sitting in a café with a Swede living in Brussels discussing the quirks and charismatic draws of Sweden when the topic of linguistic metamorphoses arose. Some background is necessary to continue. In the north of Sweden there is a dialect of Swedes that, in order to say "Yes", they simply purse their lips and briskly inhale so as to imitate a caricature of a vacuum. Whoop! Also, in order to agree with someone, a simple grunt suffices lacking any intonation whatsoever. My new acquaintance commented on the fact, keep in mind he was all to opinionated of the most mundane topics to the point of ranting for the sake of hear his Swedish accent resonate throughout the café all-to-forgiving acoustics. He aptly stated however, that the more urbanized a city becomes, the more linguistic differentiations it's population must make in order to effectively communicate.

This got the Deputy to think, which after a few Chimay beers at 9% and a Belgian hugh, did not agree kindly with the Deputy. But contemplate he did.

What an interesting assertion and one that the Deputy would love to see either confirmed or denied. Is the world we live in become so complex that a more diverse language is required to communicate in an accurate manner. Obviously some words had to be invented to keep up with the times, such as "type" and "fax", but before all of that, does the word "yes" and the different intonation we subscribe to these words come from our urbanization. If you think about a farmer on a 100 acre plot of land, his breadth of vocabulary is somewhat underutilized compared to an Ad salesman on 5th Avenue trying to pitch a new scent to Kim Kardashian. How would a farmer in the north of sweden, who lacks a word to even affirm a comment, later pitch a new fragrance to a ditsy celebrity?

"Um, it smells like my cow does after a good wash and then paraded through my wife's daisy garden" versus "the undertones of rich magnolias encapsulate the bursting hints of jasmine mixed with a flirty strawberry". It just doesn't compare. But is this extension necessary? Does fo-shizzle need to be added to the dictionary? No. But doesn't a vocabulary mirror the changing times and inventions of its creators?

Interesting to think about.

Scene from a Movie

The Deputy often equates circumstances in his life to a soundtrack or vignette of a popular Blockbuster movie. Usually it turns out to be a coming of age biopic about a young boy making his mark in the world. When these moments occur, the Deputy often steps out of his first-person perspective and experiences this out-of-body sensation of an outsider looking in. It just happened yesterday.

There was a huge storm in London and I was lugging my baggage into the reception desk. After checking in, I had to drag my stuff up three flights of stairs because this place did not have an elevator. It is not the nicest place, but serves its purpose for my means and needs.

A small violin engages the rest of a string quartet...

I pictured this young, 20-something at the curb of finding his success and way in life. He is going through the paces of coming to this success and must first experience what it is like to make it. The saying "to make it" implies a certain amount of effort and due diligence, or else the saying would be "to be made for you". With that said, I pictured myself in this old, wooden London property and a kid bringing his suitcase up a couple flights of stairs getting prepared for his big interview the next day.

They are these moments of which I will remember with fondness in my Park Avenue corner office. I will look down my nose at a 20-something coming into my office, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and account my war stories of what it took to bring me to this stage in my life. For it is a moment where you get dressed in a suit in a shared bathroom with other hostel guests, that really bring to a stage of humility. No one should ever be too satisfied with their place, for stagnate waters go nowhere.

I love it though, I thrive off of this story. It is almost my version of a rags-to-riches, knowing that the story gets better but just not having flipped ahead to that chapter of the book. It is exciting because I do know that there will be an upswing, a change, an improvement. It may be misplaced hope or unfounded confidence, but it is also that hope and gleam in my eye that will catch the attention of some employer. And when the cards fall as they may, I know that I have done my darndest to make them fall in my favor.

Check it

Irving Penn and Lars Tunbjork and Alexis Rockman.

Daily Choices

Everyday I make a series of choices, ones that occur and have formed my daily routine and after pondering the intricacies of its formation, I found it mesmerizing how it detailed so much about me and therefore would like to expound on it for my faithful readers to pontificate.

I wake up with about 45 minutes to get out the door. I set my alarm for a soothing tone that ascends into some crescendo of bells, but in a melodic tone so as not to startle my REMs and gift me into everyday the easiest way possible. I snooze about 3-4 times, of which I have allotted for the night before.

I take my breakfast in the kitchen, something about breakfasting where the food is made is better for me than eating at a table. Plus, considering I shovel my food faster than a hoover on overdrive, I find it will waste time and put me in complacent mood if I choose to sit. I turn on the lights of my closet and stare at my clothes, sometimes I even take a seat. I have been doing that for years. It is something that I do, like an artist who takes a step back at a huge white canvas and allows the canvas to paint itself in some imaginary pattern so that all the artist does is paints by numbers. I don't mean to catastrophically overindulge my view of my own fashion, but the gesture derives from that medium of thought.

As I run out the door, I hit the elevator button even though my shoes are not on. I absolutely detest the morning rush out the door just to sit and wait for the slow elevator to ascend in its routine speed, as though it sensed my rush and decided to taunt my quest. I walk out the door and always wrinkle my nose and squint my eyes. I have no idea why, but it is what I feel I would do if I were an actor in a big blockbuster movie and this was the scene where the ex-football star just exited a strip club after hours of indiscretions. It presents myself as not over-eager for the day, yet with a whiff of perseverance.

I rarely play music on my commute. I find it to disconnect me from my favorite character trait, my ability to observe. If I play music, I engage and sway and even dance micro-choreography so the trained eye would know that I am rocking out some isolations, but unnoticeable to the casual street passer-by. I enter the first subway car, since I know that my final exit to the University is at the near side, so I pre-plan my exit. This is probably paying tribute to my anxiety that my mother so graciously imposed on my at a young age, where a minute late was a minute I felt to be more important than someone else. Considering my life lessons revolved around me becoming more compassionate, I really felt this one.

I switch stations at a station that has an outdoor platform, even in the dead of winter. I find the few minutes with some breaths of fresh air to be perfectly timed and always welcomed. Also, I get a great view of Stockholm at a great sunshine angle. I also take this stop because the doors open at the opposite end of the train from this stop on, so if I am the last to enter the train, I will never be disturbed by boarders and exiters until my stop.

I get off my stop and am immediately confronted by a mountain range of escalators. It is Swedish custom to stand on the right and take that 5 minute ride. But never one to shy away from a 30 second workout, I usually stomp my boots up the left hand side, become a little winded and sore and show everyone that they should have kept to their new years resolution of losing weight.

I stop off at my usual coffee spot where I am greeted everyday by Thomas. I hate when you go to a coffee shop and the person taking your order has already drank their coffee and talk to you as if you had as well. Screaming in your face with a beaming smile and disappointed that you don't engage even 50% of what they give out, these employees make me want to shove a mocha in their pie hole and ask for their order. Thomas, oddly enough, is the worst at doing that as I have ever encountered but it doesn't bug me. Probable because I get every other coffee for free and he usually throws in a banana. The Deputy found out, actually, that Thomas is so engaged for his shift that usually runs about 9 hours, that he returns home to his apartment and sits in silence and darkness for a few hours in order to regain balance in his life. Rough gig.

Our choices we make to define who we are should not stop at how we dress ourselves or what music we listen to, we should create a persona so authentic and true that each phase of your life should emulate that person you want to be. Some may criticize the Deputy and say he should relax and hold off on manipulative gestures that place his audience where he wants them, but he disagrees. For these choices are not for others, they are for yourself and every moment should be an opportunity to express yourself and make you feel the most comfortable.

See you on the outdoor platform faithful followers~

Home Is Where The Roots Are

I was on the subway on my way back from an evening soiree at a new friend's place when I was overcome by this sincere weight of displacement and frustration. It was the type of situation where a caricature representation on the silver screen would represent something of a Alice in Wonderland cut-away, with myself as a small figurine amongst flying buffalo or elephant balloons. It had this destabilizing effect where, in a moments notice, I abandoned all plans and jumped out of the next subway stop, which luckily was my own.

In a blind effort to put my finger on this sentiment, I realized this newfound emotion. I have been traveling since I was 17, living abroad, constantly traveled becoming rolling stone of the new century, a caballero andante of sorts. I have never looked back and never, ever looked down. It was my motto to expose myself to as many things as possible, from meager new foods to extravagant parades. I was functioning under some immature infatuation with the ability to recall forlorn adventures to the far east, starring absurd characters in some tangential interference with my life. But, when I return to look at a cast of characters, everyone seems to be guest starring and only I retain the headline as a starring role. So who is there to share in the box-office reviews?

But I digress. I finally find no problem with returning home and guest starring in the role of my family, in growing roots and nourishing the relationships I started with. I always find that I am comparing and contrasting to my roots, so why not just return to the roots and find out for myself.

My new year's resolution has been to become more authentic, in fact it has been for the past two years, in fact it probably has become more of a life goal. But the essence of that goal has been where I had least expected it, at home, with family and old friends. The more I stay out in different countries and meet different people, the most attractive thing about it is what makes me who I am, all things that I have learned growing up. I wore a Lakers jersey the other night to a bar and became a total hit.

It is ironic since the past few years I have tried desperately to fit in and immerse myself in a culture the was never mine, when all along the attractiveness I possessed came from red-white-and-blue self. My ex-pat friends who have lived abroad for years still feel, especially in time of need, that they are never fully embraced. That when a Christmas or New Years comes around, they are always invited under pity votes. So why do we continue to force ourselves? For the story? Who cares? My story is that I am going to have a family and group of friends with deep roots that grow to an unwavering tree.

So let's go back faithful followers, let's venture into known territory, let's stir a home-cooked meal and kick our feet up. Let's take grandma out for dinner and kick the ball around with Uncle, let's get latin on our families and local on our friends.

So school started, AGAIN!

Considering the Deputy's life is filled with closing one book and opening another, why should this year be any different. School started a few weeks ago and, after ogling the beauties that grace my campus in their scandanavian grandeur, I love it. My professor is basically this juggernaut in Swedish arbitration and international arbitration as well. She is attracting some HUGE names to come give guest lectures that is unheard of.

Arbitration is an "I scratch your back, you scratch mine" type of industry. So if I am meandering through Zurich and you are teaching a PhD course in law, and we are friends, why not stop by for a little two hour gab session? That is what the lives of these diesels are like. It was awe-inspiring to have two of the biggest names in the field come into my class of 25 and stretch their synapses right in front of me. Not to mention, my class is comprised of 25 different countries from around the world. So taking comparative education to a whole new level, you talk about the odd witness examinations in Germany and then have my friend Gunnar tell you about his native legal regime first hand. It really puts this entire course into context.

The last lecturer, Johnny Veeder, ended the class by talking about the importance of arbitration. Granted he started his speech by saying that this was going to be severe propaganda, but color me group-think because I was sold. It all came in order to promote international trade, and talk to anyone in world who knows a thing or two about anything, and trading is what makes the world go round. It all started with bartering systems of the ancient tribes of the globe, and now there is just a suit on it. People need passion to become successful or else it isn't going to happen, to a degree for which I wish to strive. And for me, it comes with the fact that I need to do something that makes a difference. To be a part of a bigger machine that actually provides a fundamental screw to the overall production, that is what makes me life the comforter and run water on my face in the morning instead of moaning and hitting snooze 10 times.

I have met some great people in the class already. Some fast friends have formed and I am very excited to see it all evolve. Establishing these connections is crucial, since who knows who you are going to sit across from at the arbitration table. I love that I am making my world smaller, placing social nodes at different points of the globe in hopes that there will be some magnetic attraction, pulling to towards some center sphere from some centrical force of light and love.

Thoughts?

Where is the CONTROVERSY!?

You know how the characters in Stepford Wives go loco when they realize that when everything is perfect, it sometimes sucks the big one? Well, that is kind of the situation in Sweden. Everything is so....right.

For example, to say hello to someone is "Hej" or "Hej, hey". And for those that do not speak this Scandanavian tongue and/or know how to pronounce a word that ends in a "j", you pronounce it as if you were saying "Hey!". Not that I am a cunning linguist or anything, but the US uses such salutations as a greeting between friends, often after a brief term of absence. It demonstrates longing, surprise and genuine glee. Well that is how everyone greets everyone here. Imagine walking around and the grumpy plumber walks up to the disgruntled motorcycle gang and they say, "HEY!". That would be weird right? You would say, "how are they such fast friends? and why are they saying something so un-masculine is hey?". It's like the joke we have,

"What does a gay horse eat?..

...Hayyyyyy".

So that is just a teaser of what it is like. Everyone is equal here, egalitarianism is public frenemy #1. Cross the street only when it shows green, take a number at the electronics store so everyone is served in the exact order they came into the store, only buy alcohol at government regulated stores, only rent your apartment if you have authorization from the housing authority. These are the rules they live by. And sure, it is nice to walk around at 3a.m. with the only fear of crime is that someone might j-walk, but in the end the Deputy often finds his inner monologue screaming, WHERE IS THE CONTROVERSY!

Where is the black market? Where are the secret sales? Where's the cheap mexican taco stand that doesn't have a permit, ergo is CHEAP? Where are these things? Not here.

But oh the deputy may complain, but only for as long as it takes a beautiful Swede to pass him by. I'm talking beautiful, like models. Tall, blonde, in shape, tan (but like pale people that actually can tan, see it's perfect here). They are all fashionable and care about their appearance. You have to wear a blazer to go to the grocery store or else people are going to be wondering what welfare plan you are on. But in actuality they won't! I could walk past a Swede with a giant sex toy taped to my forehead screaming, "Macaroni and cheese ate my grandmother's pet eel!" and no one would even blink. It is because, along the same vein as this egalitarian mantra, nothing phases a Swede because they don't care. They don't care about differences because they don't care about differences. SO PERFECT! Ugh.

I feel like the Deputy needs to pollute some waters a la Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville, turning the blonde masses into horrifically tainted zombies. Thoughts?

Dystopia to Utopia

THE DEPUTY IS BACK! I had no idea that I would have the distinct pleasure to be able to blog again from a different country and with a different experience before me. I write you from my new, slightly quirky apartment in downtown Stockholm, specifically Soldermalm, after a plethora of problems and a slew of solutions.

I arrived in Arlanda airport early in the morning with the all-to-common realization of how ill-prepared I was to start this experience. Dragging 20 kilograms too much of luggage, an extra carry-on, without any clue, I pushed a cart outside of the airport to meet the cabs that would take me to a hotel. One bag short, because I guess Delta really wanted to try on all of my clothes for a couple of days until they relinquished my belongings, I made my way to the airport. I arrived at a hotel that was way too far outside of the city, not to mention the airport I landed in was way too far outside the city. Great start. Bagless and city-less, I checked in and got settled. I decided that the only way to get this out of my system was to be productive.

I got a phone, went to school, saw the grounds, met my professors and aids, registered and did a walking tour of Gamla Stan, the old city. I decided to wait to look for an apartment until the next day since I was exhausted and knew that I would not be able to perform an efficient search in such a state. That night I met a friend of a friend who lives in Stockholm and we went out for a welcome beverage. Fighting off sleep and stress of my homeless state, I called it a night early and tried to regroup for the oh-so-famous search the next day.

Tell someone in Stockholm that you are looking for an apartment and see what they say. They probably won't say anything, they'll just put on this face and smirk as if they are consoling you because you just soiled yourself in public on a date in the middle of rush hour. "Oh, it's okay, you will only be disgustingly dirty and embarrassed for a little while. Basically it is a city-wide epidemic. There is only so much housing available and the competition is tight. The search must consist of you sitting at your computer clicking refresh on 4 housing websites and a tab for google translate open so that you can jump at any opportunity. Then, on top of that, tell a Swede you are looking for an apartment with a Turk, because then the reaction will just be uproarious laughter.

The Swedes are nice, but just a LITTLE racist. A Russian girl in my program had trouble signing a lease because anybody that did allow her to see the apartment would say, "N0, I don't want someone who is going to be drinking a lot of vodka." So here I am, bags strewn across the floor, money fleeing from my pockets on a hotel and I have no end in sight. I am one bag down, outside of the city and having a wee-bit of a breakdown.

Days pass and I can't even go to lunch without feeling guilty that I am not glued to my computer screen, tormented by the refresh button and stupefied why it can't refresh itself and contact people itself and speak swedish itself and just call me when it's ready. NOT HAPPENING. So as I walked the 15 minutes to take a bus, to get to the subway, to take the subway a handful of stops to finally get off and INTO THE FREAKING CITY CENTER, I decided there needs to be a change.

I went to the gym, I booked another hotel, I took 89 deep breaths and forced some Miss Cleo positive thinking. Luckily it was also the weekend, so I took the Friday and Saturday nights out as "networking events", see if I can find an apartment in the club. You know, bump, grind, "Hey, have an open room", fist pump, twirl, "No anyone that does?, okay cool, have a good night". Seemed possible, right? Well it didn't really work, but I had a really fun time at least? Anyone? Cool. It was a good way to recharge my search. Okay, I need to stop rationalizing. Oh, but Saturday night after one night out, some Swedes said they wanted to show me Stockholm. I thought it was a bad translation, since I obviously had eyes and was currently residing in the aforementioned location. They took me in a cab around the city and up this hill. After crossing my legs to give them an outward manifestation that I was not going to be used a Swedish meatball, they took me through an alley to this park. The park led up this dark hill and BOOM! Skyline. Jawdropping, pantydropping, Skyline. The entire city at our fingertips and you just sat on a bench, on top of the world, absorbing the love. What a great stress reliever.

Luckily there was Sait, my friend of a friend. He was so supportive and understanding and invited me out to get me out of my bed and my head. We went to this bar that is a floating bar on the river outside of the city. It was the most picturesque spot. Imagine: couples, singles, friends and families all sitting on the restaurant/barge that was floating with amazing drinks and food and watching the sunset under the crisp air right outside the monumental City Hall building. But yet, I would look around and see that every other person sitting at the restaurant had a place to go home to after. They sat enjoying the weather and company without any preoccupation of a basic need of accommodations.

To bring the readers out of an ennui of my depressive beginnings in Stockholm, let's just skip to where I write you from. So one day, I literally opened the lid of computer and click the proverbial Refresh button. The first ad was a HUGE apartment in the best area of the city center and it was posted minutes before. I called Anna and told her who I was and that I could be there within the hour. I ran over to the apartment and walked in and it was heavenly. Not that African hodgepodge decor with enough plants to singlehandedly save the rainforest, but the space itself lent the most amazing opportunity for a successful year. I tried my best to lock down the apartment right then and there, but Anna wasn't budging. A short girl, elfish almost, with a jaded sense of consumerist society and an underlying need to hit bongos in a reserve in Namibia with chewing tobacco and Jamison.

I ended up having to stay with Sait for a couple of days, which the invitation in itself was an amazing gift during the process, when I got a call from Anna. She said that I had got the apartment!! She interviewed 10 people and I got it. And why did she choose me? Because it was down to me and a couple that would rent the entire apartment and her Mom, who is a MEDIUM, didn't trust the couple. That's right people. Miss Cleo liked Brian and that is how it all went down.

I write you from my living room, fighting off overgrown plants but listening to The Clash on a record player hooked up to surround sound in DOWNTOWN Stockholm. Deep breaths oh faithful readers, for the Deputy has set up shop and is sittin' pretty.

Clara and Crew Say Goodbye

Brian,

Estoy muy muy triste. Conocerte y compartir estos dos meses contigo ha sido absolutamente genial. Eres increíble y sólo espero que el tiempo haga que nuestros caminos se vuelvan a cruzar....Ay, que pena más grandeeee!Mucha suerte con todo Brian!! Esta tarde voy a cargar tu cd en el iPhone para escucharlo siempre que venga a trabajar!

Clara Ruipérez
Baker & McKenzie Madrid SLP

Isn't that so nice! You have no idea the benefits that have come from knowing a native madrileña, let alone sit across from one 55 hours a week. She told me about the pools to check out, the bars not to miss, the food to explore and the parks to relax. Yesterday, me, Clara and Javi (the IT genius that has become a good friend of mine) went to a park on our lunch break to eat and decompress before heading back indoors. I finished my sandwich when Clara hands me a toiletry-tote bag that has "Madrid" printed on the front. "A gift for you" they said. I was so taken aback, I don't even get gifts from my friends on my birthday and now I am getting a good-bye present from my co-workers? I opened it up and there were two things.

1. A t-shirt that says, in Spanish, "I, too, saw Spain win the World Cup". So perfect for me. They both signed small messages at the bottom of the t-shirt.

2. A CD of Joaquín Sabina that has a song that Clara and I have been talking about for a while.

You go through this abroad experiences and internalize how much certain locals have touched you throughout your experience because you are unaware as to whether it is a reciprocal feeling. I almost feel as though I am hyper-emotional given my displacement and foreign surroundings, so I almost keep a guard up so as not to impose my "traveler's nostalgia" onto their everyday life. But then I get a gift and a good-bye and it shows me that although we are interacting in this tangential moment in our lives, it meant something for both parties. They, too, met an American who loves hip-hop and is always in for a laugh. We exchanged invitations to stay at one another's respective houses during any consecutive visits to countries. It was really cool.

That night, Clara helped me get some troops together to go out for a beverage as a little going away get-together. I decided to hold it at this very, very American restaurant, Foster's Hollywood. I thought it was a fun take on my leaving party and about 10 people showed up. Clara, Javi, Vanessa (my "let's go to the vending machine buddy"), Ana (my second boss), Gloria (the other IP intern that came a month after me from Cataluña), and three other interns from different departments. Our conversation mostly consisted of making fun of our not-so-sharp waiter, but my Spanish really held up. I was telling jokes, dropping jabs, ordering food; a great way to wrap up the profesional side of this experience.

Later on, we met up with another going away party down the street and we just stayed for another beverage. We were talking pictures and Gloria had me rolling on the floor. She has this dry, stoic sense of humor that is British yet Spanish. For example, in response to my lame email telling them about the American restaurant, she responds, "LET'S SET MADRID ON FIREE!!!" Just so out of nowhere, super wierd, but gets you chuckling.

I went home and burned Javi and Clara mixes of rap that I like and gave it to them this morning. They really enjoyed it and I hope they continue listening to it and remember the loco americano that came like a hurricane and rustled the feathers of their life.

Always leave a footprint.

GoCar Tours

Hey bloggers,

Charlotte and I went on this crazy tour the other day and I totally forgot to tell you about it. First of all, just picture two grown adults with helmets stepping into a Go Cart. The cart has GPS and you take it around the city and it guides you around and tells you about the sites (something beneficial to someone like me who goes, "Oh that's cool, I wonder what it is", and keeps walking. Anyways, we got it for two hours and drove all over the city, even to the bull fight arena. We got so lost, but luckily I knew my way around to eventually get us back to the rental shop.

The best part: we were the hit of the road. Everyone was honking at us, waving, asking us where to rent the thing. Too bad I looked like I just fell off the retard bus with a helmet or else I would have capitalized on 15 minutes of Madrid fame.

It was super hilarious and they have them all over Europe.

Check out the link and imagine me and Charlotte driving this down the biggest city roads of Madrid.

http://www.gocartours.es/

Holla!

Confidence vs. Arrogance

Walking down the street, be arrogant. At an interview, be confident. In a relationship, be confident. Dating, be arrogant.

A socially successful person should always struggle between finding the happy medium between confidence and arrogance. People want to associate with other people that are comfortable in their own skin. Nothing is worse than someone who puts himself down or never takes risks. It is more attractive to me to have a mediocre looking person with the personality and confidence, than to have to constantly reaffirm the beauty of a great-looking, self-hating basket case. Internally, you have to exude a sense of confidence, for that is what going to attract a potential mate or friend.

But when does confidence become arrogance and when is arrogance acceptable? To me, casual encounters require sincere arrogance. I am talking off the wall, get out of my way, you bother me, I am so much better than you, etc. That mentality manifests in the way you walk, the way you talk, the way your face sits, the way your brow furls, and for some reason it suits you like a great, new, real tan. Especially, for the everyday casual encounters, there is never enough arrogance to go around. Throw it across the street by peering into a someone attractive's eyes, or jab it at someone walking past you by looking down your knows at them but in a flirtatious way. People subconsciously eat that up and subconsciously want more. They will react, it's funny almost.

Then you have to reel it in when things get a little more intimate. Exude the arrogance that your plans are never dependent on others, but the confidence to let someone else take the lead sometimes. The arrogance to start a new conversation topic, but the confidence to allow other people to speak. The confidence to leave a party early without saying goodbye, but the arrogance to know that you will be missed.

It also comes in different species. For example, in a relationship and dealing with someone's checkered past or ugly ex's. You need to have the confidence that you yourself have not had the cleanest record and should only judge in the way you would want to be judged yourself. But at what point does that mentality become this blind arrogance that harbors your common sense and separates it from this ilusory promise to the world that "it's different with me".

It is a tough battle, and though the Deputy never dates, he constantly struggles with balance. The bottom line is that everyone should be a little arrogant, but just a little.

Ay! Qué Calor!

Walking home last night after a long day at work and having a beverage or two with Clara and Ana, I passed the best Donor Kebab in town. I had already eaten something light (a.k.a. a Spanish dinner) so I just decided to window shop for cured meat. I look inside and see one of Manny and Victor's friends that I had met several times. I go in and tap him on the shoulder and we end up having a typical Madrid night, sipping on a beverage in the park neglecting all references to time or stress. We covered a gamut of material, considering that we didn't know each other too well, and an interesting topic surfaced, the weather. Now slow down faithful followers, I am not about to recount a horrifically boring story about how we superficially commented on weather patterns. He said that Europe is now going to create a unified education system: same credits, same courses, same grades, same exam schedule. It sounded crazy but made sense considering the ultimate goal was to create a seamless transition of human capital. Anyways, he commented on how unfair it was that the exam schedules were similar because they were to take place in the summer because, and I quote,

"It is too hot for exams in the summer".

Bueno, chico, por favor, how are you going to reject a continent-wide campaign just from a little sweat of the brow. Supposedly, this is a thing, it is too hot for these people that they cannot handle it. Then, I started to connect the dots.

The coffee shops stopped putting out milk because...it is too hot.

My entire office leaves in August because...it is too hot.

Everyone leaves Madrid in August because...it is too hot.

Summer vacation is extra-specially long because...it is too hot.

The city just becomes paralyzed because of the heat. Now the Deputy has been to New York in the summer and spent a summer in the Valley of Los Angeles, so I know a thing or two about heat. It's hot here, but not that hot. It is like the entire population is coddled, the entire population "can't handle it". Could you imagine if the someone in a U.S. office said, "Ugh, I just can't work, it's too hot". Umm, ok Mr. Smith, the get the $·%·$" out of my office.

Just when you think you came to a European country, you are back in Latin America. When they say people don't change, cultures are only a stone's throw away.

Bye Bye Birdie of Paradise

I came home from work yesterday, to find Ollie with a look of instability. I ask her what is wrong and she tells me she is in a place of instability. She is extremely preoccupied about returning to the States. She said that in the US, you can give and give the love and sympathy that welcomes everyone into your world but it will never be returned. But Madrid, for her, loves you back. There are no friends lists to be too full, no snobby hierarchal attitudes, just a sincere sense of passion. It got a little heavy, so we stepped out onto my Juliette balcony that looks over our street and recounted our times like the ending montage of Set It Off where Jada Pinkett Smith is the only left after the big bank heist. That time when I....when you fell...when we ate...how about when...or if we would have...and the stories flowed.

I warned her that she would get a reverse culture shock. That is when you step off the plane and cry at how robotic and fundamental the States can appear. A place where we confuse a "hodge podge" of culture with a "watered down mess". I then said it is very easy to slip back into that life, for it is what we know best. The best thing to do to cope with it and to make sure that this summer experience was not completely in vain, is to take small mannerisms or habits that have developed abroad back to the States.

Coming back from Argentina last summer, I felt the same thing. So incorporated the word "obvio" into my daily vernacular. I bought a bottle of Argentinian liquer to remember the taste. I wear my crotch-drop pants to remember my renegade style. Little things.

Still thinking what to pick to bring back from Madrid. Ideas?

The United States of Fat

I tell Clara that I am going to go to one of the public pools to wash off the summer grime. I tell her the pool I had planned on going to and she furrows her brow and her top lip lifts to one side in an unknown source of disgust. She redirects my route immediately to go to the local University campus and to go to their pool. It costs only about 5 Euro but "worth it". I head there after work (last Friday with Charlotte). We go into the separate changing rooms that end up leading out to the pool deck, and nothing short of an oasis awaited us. We walk out to diving boards over a deep end, an Olympic size pool and the entire complex surrounded by a grassy border. That alone would have sufficed for a relaxing evening by the pool, but that is had it not been for the people in attendance.

I am happy in my skin and feel that, although not super fit and chiseled, I have been working out here at least three times a week. However, and that is a big however, I would say that 95% of the men and women in attendance (~200) had FAR better corporal structures than I. And, on top of that, as if the spectacle of summer envy was not enough, the bathing suits that the Spaniards get away with further drove the needle into my eye. It was seriously censory overload as man and woman came out of the garden of Eden and into the University pool at Moncloa. I thought back to the United States and cringed at having to compare the anomaly that I was witnessing to a US public pool, or even a country club pool for that matter.

There should be some government intervention into the culture of the US. A calorie cap or a parole type ankle band that everyone has to wear monitoring intake. How is it possible that a random amalgamation of the Spanish public could exude such physical turpitude. I have noticed that my stomach and appetite has become a lot smaller in these few weeks, I cannot gorge my face nor feel the need to. BECAUSE IT IS NOT IS WHAT IS AVAILABLE. I remember going to a restaurant in Barcelona and ordering, and the waitress stopped me and said, "that is going to be too much for you". That would never happen as four teenagers pull up to a McDonald's drive-thru window after a night of partying and order the entire dollar menu, two of each. Could you imagine? Middle America, farmhand after a day on the tractor, rolls his cinnamon buns out of the Cracker Barrell just in time to hit McDonald's breakfast, hits the drive thru window and the employee tells him that he "is ordering too much"!!?? That person would get fired.

And it is not like food is not important to these people, in fact it's the opposite. They prize the time spent around food. Someone eating something to go or on the way will get a look or two. It just so happens that this is coupled with the culture of no one being in a rush. There is no need for fast food because the person waiting for you on the other side of the meal, almost expects you to be a little late. Clara told me that if you are early to a meeting, it is considered rude. Like the fact that you are pressing in on their time, is rude. HOW FANTASTIC IS THAT? I then told her how I showed up 30 minutes early on my first day. Oops!

In coming back to the States, there are certain things I always try to incorporate from abroad. And NOT shoving my face on a super sized something is going to be one of them.

I'll Trade You a Charlotte for an Ollie

With the World Cup celebrations winding down, one would think that so would the energy of Charlotte and me. But whenever Charlotte and the Deputy are together, there is a defiance of normalcy and physics. Without redundantly accounting a night out on the town of Madrid, I feel it would better suit the loyal reader if I were to just describe how Charlotte and Brian seem to find the most odd situations.

We were in a smaller bar, chatting it up with ourselves and the people around us. We happen to meet a French guy and girl that were passing through Madrid. The onda is positive so we decide to join forces for the next couple of locales. I am not sure if they knew what they were getting themselves into, but Charlotte and I felt it almost incumbent to make their short stay in Madrid a bender for the history books. The Frenchies are walk down a cobble stone street and Charlotte and I bring up the rear. We turn a corner and Charlotte and I find an abandoned shopping cart, hibernating outside a local restaurant. Some people would see that and have a five minute discussion on whether they should get in and ride it, others would walk past it while they commented on the filth of Spanish streets. Charlotte and I, without uttering a single syllable, make eye contact and immediately assume our positions, her pushing as I rode. We speak in unsaid harmonies, for our minds are all too similar to waste time communicating. I think and she reacts, she thinks and I react, for we both know that our thoughts are transparent to one another.

Riding down a side street near the Sol neighborhood, the French toasts have got a little bit ahead of us and end up meeting a local to help them with directions. The French fries turn around to introduce the new companion to their new friends Charlotte and Brian, when swooping down the street comes a Scott pushing an American in a cart. Charlotte loses the handle as fate takes the wheel and steers me into a jutting street pole. The cart crashes, Charlotte approaches, I tuck and roll and get up in an almost choreographed dismount. We jump to our unspoken positions and in unison present ourselves to the local in a sort of flashdance, jazz-hands dance ending. It was all too natural and organic to happen to another pair of people but just indicative of how our short but profound friendship had become.

The week with my Scottish enabler ended wildly and filled with glee. I told her my weekend would have been the same if she had walked into my room, picked me up, spun me around a hundred times, threw me to the floor and left. It felt like Hurricane Chaz had her way with my life and I loved every second.

Sunday morning rolled in and Charlotte was out the door. Ollie came back from two weeks of traveling and she needed a place to crash, so the Deputy was sure to oblige. Ollie slowly saunters up my infernal staircase of no elevator and into my room. I swear there was an air about her, as if her traveling exposed her to so many things that she had come back a different person. Her voice a bit lower with a sporadic raspy tone; her seated posture was such a way that exuded wisdom of the academia of the streets. We shared stories in a two hour fit of laughter as Charlotte and Ollie met on some very unique terms. Charlotte sadly left, but Ollie is here for a couple more days.

It is storm season in the Deputy household, but all will calm as now Hurricane Ollie has only one more day to wreak havoc. Very excited.

Deputy and Dan...WHAT A COMBO!

Do not fear Tripper, for one Deputy did not forget to compartamentalize our insatiable desire to be rowdy in an 8" computer screen. Luckily, Tripper was able to escape the island of North America and trip over the Atlantic into Madrid for a weekend, but the Deputy was too caught up in World Cup fever to be able to properly document the transgressions.

I run out of the office on Friday afternoon, overwhelmed with the fear of missing out, for Tripper is in Madrid and it is only a boss's glare that keeps me from seeing him. I make it home and, within an hour, I get a buzz at my front door. It almost buzzed, "bzzz...I am Tripper...bzzz" or maybe that's just what I heard. He and his guuurrrrlllfriend make it up my five flights of stairs without an elevator and into my apartment. We have an air conditioning worshipping session and then head out to see my fifth bullfight of the "season". I am excited to just sit with sunflower seeds and a bag of candy while I watch the preparation of half of Madrid's dinner. In an effort to avoid boring the fans, I will say that it was amazing as always with the added bonus of seeing a torrero carried out in the hands of eight of his friends while bleeding from the head and unable to keep his head afloat and numerous head turnings in disgust at the blood lost and the reality of the situation revealed. (What an awful sentence, but the Deputy hates abbreviating unless it is in Greta's living room).

We make it back in time for a great tapas pick-and-choose in my favorite plaza, Plaza Santa Ana. A little bit of everything Spanish and some Sangria is enough to entice any foreigner to stay another day. After filling our stomachs with anything but bull meat (because we are classy as such), we approach Hotel Me at the end of the plaza. Some may know this chain of hotels but the one in Madrid is breathtaking. An amazing façade (see a Spanish keyboard can do that çñºªà and that too) and an uplighting of purple, the hotel boasts the best view of the city. I heard the plan is to pretend that you are a patron of the hotel and just mosey your way upstairs, but the problem comes with the fact you need a keycard to go up. So we come in, Ray-Bans blazing and Rainbows flopping, and make our way to the back. Casually, we file into some forming line and easy as pie make it inside the elevator. A "fellow patron" swipes his card and I, in my best English say, "oh...ahem...top floor please...terrace". The door opens and David Guetta walks into my ears. We make it to the terrace and it is the BEST VIEW OF THE CITY. With a 180º view of what Madrid has to offer, I sat back and basked in the sea of Good Hosting. What a great experience.

That night we head to Pacha, a chain of clubs that never ceases to please. Deputy heads to the abode of Tripper and GF in order for a pre-fiesta. We head out at an un-motherly-approving hour. Heading inside to further gloat my host-itude, I walk in as if showing my grandchild off to my friends at the retirement home. "Look at her, she's a beauty." We have a dance or two and I decide to make things interesting. I am a fan of putting my head down and dipping it in false ignorance and seeing where it can take me, sometimes letting yourself lead itself without ensuing doubt of consequences can lead to amazing things. I walk up to the stage where there are big, overstuffed couches and other luxurious arrangements. I walk behind a group of girls past a bouncer as each girl raises their right wrist robotically in order to be adorned with some band of sorts. I follow, Tripper and GF in tow, and I mimic the disposition of the girls. Right wrist raised with an air of annoyance at the formalities of having to prove my invitation to the stage party. The three of us receive wristbands and, BAM, we're in folks. We get a personal second floor to view the rest of the peasants on the dance floor that have to, it pains me to say, be, ugh, cramped at a club. We sit on the couches as one would do in the house of a legend, touch everything just to say you touched it. The night ended righteously with chocolate, churros and fun.

Saturday I met Charlotte at the airport, brought her back to my place to "drop off her bags". Just kidding readers, the Deputy and Charlotte are only the best of friends, she did actually come to just drop off her bags. Keeping you on your toes, making sure you are attentively reading. I go to the grocery store to further the Spanish experience, ham and cheese in Retiro park. I pack a blanket, a baguette and some essentials and meet Tripper and GF at the museum, Reina Sofía. We head in to the park and decompress, the best. There is nothing better than a park decompression, no sound, no stress, no expectation of grandeur. You just sit, and relax, and that is your expectation. When we fill ourselves with such expectations, false ones of seeing the best and brightest, we are set up to fail. Not to say that we should not set our sights high, but in terms of our day to day desires and wants and feels, is it so hard to be content with park relaxation? So many Americans these days will complain at the thought of stagnation, I must bring the virtue of standing still back to the States.

Then Kapital, see posts below in order to grasp the absurdity. Charlotte was not let in because she was stumbling, but the hilarious part is that she decided to wear heels for the third time in her life and literally could not walk straight, didn't have a hint of alcohol. Oh clubs, how I HATE YOU SO.