Thermal water

A crowd of foreigners of all colours laughs and drifts in circles. It's a moving map of mankind. The vapour elevates from the warm blue waters of Szechenyi bath in the freezing cold night and surrounds the sculpture of a woman.

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I drift and laugh as well while the drift gets faster and faster. A fat Russian full of tattoos gets on my way and I end up hitting the mosaic wall head on.

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The Szechenyi bath ondine smiles at me with her yellow eyes, grabs my hand and takes me through various tunnels of hot and cold water. We surface in the dark under the Szechenyi bridge. A group of cormorants stare at us. The ondine's skin is green. She has gills in her neck and scales in her feet. Her kisses taste like fish, I imagine.







‘I love to swim but am freezing’, I say, ‘how about a coffee?’. The ondine dives down taking me with her. There are creepy shadows in the Danube’s depths. We flow through murky waters and appear in the toilet of Müvesz Kafehaz.

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We walk in the cafe discreetly, sit in front of a huge mirror and order a couple of melange coffee to a blonde and tanned waitress. The melange is too milky. Frankly, it sucks, as does the not so hot Glühwein we drink later walking down Vaci utca.

‘Budapest is neither Prague or Vienna’, the ondine explains. She invites me to a Langos in the Central Market. I eat the fried buttery and shapeless specialty while she steels fresh mackerel and salmon which she swallows at once.

We walk back to the river. The ondine chats with the daughter of the empress, dressed up like a clown, down in the river walk. ‘Let’s go back to the bath, I need to be there before they close or I’ll loose my job’, we jump again in the black waters of the Danube.

The big tattoed Russian looks with anger at me. I apologize and leave the pool.




It’s cold as hell.

Excómunion vallecana

Fai un fríu que escaraballa el pellellu en la calle del Payaso Fofó, en Vallecas. Fuera de la sala Jimmy Jazz los músicos segovianos de Excómunion se preparan entre risas y sesion fotográfica para el concierto.

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Dentro les espera un pequeño barullo de admiradores entre humo, luces de colores, cubatas y tercios de Mahou. Arranca el batería Borha Ramone con una descarga llena de fuerza. El público vibra, olvidando la ola de frío, la crisis y el final de las vacaciones navideñas.

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El cantante se encarga de recordar el bombardeo de Gaza antes de la comprometida 'Si sale el sol' sobre la resistencia antifranquista en el Madrid del 36, que está -junto con la inspirada 'Flor de Diciembre'- entre lo mejor del primer CD de Excómunion (http://www.excomunionrock.com/).

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The Galway spleen

‘Save tonight, tomorrow I’ll be gone’, sings the Hungarian guitar player in Shopping Street. It is cold, surprisingly dry though. I take refuge in Cooke’s wine bar and have a few oysters. The best ones are sold on Saturdays -market day- on the Churchyard Street, right in front of Sheridan’s wine bar. The best are the native ones, older and smaller. Eating them is close to oral sex with the Atlantic Ocean.

Sheridan’s Wine Bar is the closest to nice wine and tapas you can get. Still, the prices (as everywhere else) are unexplainably unaware of the crisis. Guess the best is to drink another glass and forget about the stock markets as well. Then you may pass by The Crane, or The Roisin Dubh where there is brilliant live music every night, from a vibrant, unforgettable, live Cathy Davey to the ‘Irish Pink Floyd’ (yes, it’s almost like the real ones) passing by dozens of music bands, many of which have a tendency towards ‘fusion’ of all sorts of harmonies (I’ve seen a hip hop version of Irish folk and a group of Finns playing a folk version of Brahms’ Hungarian dances).






The Galway street fashion is kind of a mix between tough Connemara hills shepherds and post-11 September hippies. Indeed the place is a mix of cosmopolitanism and provincial atmosphere. You’ll hear a lot of Polish and Spanish, certainly. I have a sip of Guinness outside Tih Coilis while a group of Basques form a circle and chant some choirs. The scene would be most impressive if some the voices were not painfully out of tune.





A few meters away there’s Lynch castle. The owner, John Lynch, Warden of Galway in the late XIV Century, was either extremely just or really pissed off with his son, because he put a rope around his son’s neck (the hangman refused to do it) for the murder of a Spaniard –a bit of a womanizer it seems- in 1493.









Down in the prom, the sea walk, you may observe the unique phenomenon of horizontal rain. It rains sideways, avoiding the shield of your umbrella, in a demonstration of predatory evolution.

Galway Seagull Flying Manual

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I. Be a seagull in Galway.

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II. Place your self in the bridge in front of the Spanish Arch on a Sunday afternoon in November after the rain, not before sunset.

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III. Spread your wings.

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IV. Fly.

V. Land on the bridge.

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VI. Eat the breadcrumbs that an old man will offer you.

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VII. Repeat exercises III, IV , V and VI until you feel confident.




















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VIII. Stop and rest once it is dark or breadcrumbs are gone.

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Cormorant in the sun

A black arrow in the cold depths, terrorizing small fish.

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Mussels lay dark amongst the brown seaweed and the green moss of the stones.

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Men pick shells from the Galway bay shore. Awry shadows reflecting on a sea mirror.

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The cormorant resurfaces, stands on a rock, spreads its wings to the sun.

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Definitely prefers the sun.

Instructions for a walk on Galway bay (bad weather)

1. The Galway promenade swept by a silver wind full of salt and dead sea weed.

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2. Walk towards the northern wall. The seagulls will fly close to the water, fall down on the waves to catch small fish and be back on the air again.

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3. In the distance something black will rise and dive again. Nail your eyes in the water surface to see whether a delphin or a shark show up. Its the usual cormorant.

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4. Continue walking until you kick the wall at the northern end before turning around (that is the custom). In the way back you may be chased by hale (not by Hale Berry -who many dream of- just hale).

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5. Time to go home and have a hot sunday soup.

Tromost u Beogradu

I spend a morning of full irresponsible undeserved laziness in a sunny Novemberish Belgrade.

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It is hot. Perhaps its the Obama effect. Or global warming (Jose Maria Aznar would not agree here).

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People are wandering around Kalimegdan. My friend and I join a circle of middle aged dancers surround an Achordeon player. Folk dances in the Balkans are almost identical, and still Serbs, Croats, Albanians and others often claim their national authenticity. I've seen dancers in Budva, Pristina, Belgrade and other places which follow the very same steps with very similar clothes (save the egg-shaped Albanian hat, which definitely has a lot of personality). They are all 'nice'.

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Pity the world is not big or rich enough to allow a 'fatherland a la carte' for everybody. I continue the walk and pass by a monument to the partisans who fought the nazis. Smrt fazismu, sloboda narody. Death to fascism and freedom to the people. At that time, a common enemy united different people? Maybe.

Small kiosks sell Yugoslav parafernalia, key rings and popcorn. I buy a movie about the First World War in Serbian which am sure won't understand, but want to keep my faith on learning to speak the language without sounding like Chief Sitting Bull on a Balkan tour. I buy a red star, for the sake of nostalgy.

Later on, a walk on Ada Ciganlija with my Serbian host. The summer kiosks lay empty by the river side. I sit in the artificial beach made of small stones. It is a perfectly defined beach. Metal columns stick out from the water. They are lifts for water skiing. On the other side some people are swimming naked.

My Serbian friend and I can't find anything to eat but a kukuruc (boiled corn). We sit by the water, eat the kukuruc and engage in a perfectly unproductive activity: throwing stones to the corn cob. Whoever hits the corncob, which is floating in the water, wins.

I lay in the sun analysing the importance of laziness, its lessons, properties and probably very healthy effects on mind, body and soul. Unfortunately it is time to go.