My Confession [MAY 21, 2006]

The way those large, erect cylinders draw my gaze from afar. The way they gleam in the sweaty, hot sun. The way that smooth surface, the closer you get, reveals itself to be marked with the slight imperfections inevitably associated with the passage of time... Hello, everyone. My name is GC Philo and I’m hear to admit that I have a problem. I’m a "Roman ruins" junkie.


Oh yeah, baby. Let me see those columns. You KNOW how I like it!

It all probably started back in my early teenage years, that time of constant change and self-reflection when we all try to discover who we really are. My parents flew the whole family over to Greece one summer and took us around those famed centers of Hellenic Antiquity – Athens, Corinth, Olympia and even Delphi. As we wandered the scattered stones and rubble occasionally interspersed with a pristinely preserved mosaic or engraving, I felt my imagination run wild. I was no longer in an age of video games and blue jeans, but one of Olympic olive wreaths and togas. I could see how those people – the most civilized Europe would witness until the High Renaissance some 1500 years later – lived and worked. I also saw how cruel history could be. It had the power to change a once mighty civilization, one that had dominated the known world for centuries, into a heap of marble that now only commands the attention of Japanese tourists’ cameras.



Lovely, lovely mosaics... Especially the ones that show little midgets with huge penises shooting storks.
You complete me - You had me at Hello.

Somehow, though, the Romans always interested me more than the Greeks. I mean, even though the Greeks started it all, the Romans did it more grandly, more enduringly, and more erotically. This healthy interest in Roman orgies, in fact, eventually developed into my Bachelors Degree in History. Okay, okay – I won’t lie to you. It’s even one of the main reasons why I moved to Europe in the first place. If this is going to be a true confession, I need to let it all out... I had to get my "Roman ruins" fix somehow and when the oldest thing you can find back home is a crappy Indian arrowhead from 1600, Philadelphia just doesn’t cut it anymore. Here in Spain, I’ve got enough smack to hold me over for a lifetime.


You can't find something like this back home in America.
Then again, I've never been to California.

I try to visit every Roman, or the rarer Greek and Phoenician, ruin no matter where I am and usually spend hours wandering through what was once the heart of these great towns. But, like I said, I’m a junkie and junkies don’t just look at the sights and snap a photo or two. No, they always go overboard in their strange and delusional ways and I’m no exception in the way that.... (I knew these "Roman ruins" Anonymous confessions were going to be tough, but not this tough.) I guess it’s time to come completely clean. You see, I actually adopt a Latin name for myself and those who are traveling with me each and every time I set foot on an archaeological site. Worse yet, throughout our visit, I only refer to the others in my party with these names. I know, I know... I need help. That’s why I’m here.


Sometimes I just hide in the shadows of Roman ruins and stare at tourists.
I call that my "special" time.

My Latin name is Testicles (emphasis on the last syllable just like in "Japanese"). My fiancée has grudgingly come to accept hers, Breasticlina, as well. But these are by no means the limits of what is indeed the sick and twisted reality within my head. I have wandered through Roman ruins in Morocco with Forgetfulcus. I have scaled the interior of the Colosseum with my ex-girlfriend Alcoholica Maxima only to see her change into Cunnilinga as we walked through the Pompeii city gates later on that very same week. I have witnessed the power of my old room-mate Flatullus Extremis as he expelled those famed noxious fumes within the very walls of the Athenian Acropolis itself. Even my own brother, Testicles Major, made a brief appearance in Cologne, Germany when I least expected to see him... Not to mention my father, Baldicus Maximus, and my friend from high school, Fat Fuckicus (who coincidentally happens to be a bit overweight), when they both decided to visit us here in Spain last spring.


"I assure you, Baldicus Maximus. There's no way THIS citizen
is casting his vote for Fat Fuckicus as next Roman Pro-Consul!"

However that, dearest support group, is not the extent of my dilemma. If only it were! You see, I also feel the need to speak in an antiquated fashion each and every time I visit these archaeological sites. I can almost remember the first time my lovely finacée and I stepped foot in a Roman theater together:
"What ho, Breasticlina?"
"What?"
"‘What ho?’ I say!"
"Are you calling me a ho?"
"Surely you jest. ’Tis I, Testicles. Forsooth, your heaving bosom knows no bounds. ’Tis no mere coincidence that your moniker bears witness to such a claim!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tut, tut. How you amuse me so! Such unfound modesty from a goddess whose brassiere can but barely contain the awesome fury within. Aphrodite herself shudders with envy!"
It kept going on like that for about ten minutes until she eventually started to ignore my crazed ramblings. Afterwards, once we stepped foot past the exit gate, I explained to her what had happened and only then did she fully understand.


So you already knew the Romans could build temples to last, but did you also know they had underground heating?

Breasticlina, though, has since learned to live with my illness. She humors me now every time we walk under an aqueduct or through a temple, and sometimes even cracks a joke. But I know that, under that smile, she’s actually crying. It is for her that I need to break this addiction and for her that I’m giving you this confession. I need to nurture the GC Philo she once fell in love with... not the Testicles I have grown to become.


"Very funny and imaginative, dear. Calling me Breasticlina because I have large breasts.
But why are we calling you Testicles, then? Those midgets in the mosaics had a bigger package!"

Breaking this bad habit, though, isn’t going to be easy here in Spain. The land of Hispania, as most of modern day Spain and Portugal were known to the Latins, contained some of the most peaceful and prosperous provinces in the entire Roman Empire. For this reason, Spain (along with Italy) is home to some of the best preserved two thousand year old sites the Western World has to offer. In the south of Spain alone, there are the extensive ruins of Italica (a few kilometers outside Seville) which was the birthplace of both Emperor Trajan and Emperor Hadrian and is home to the third largest amphitheater in the Roman Empire with a seating capacity of 25,000. There is also Mérida, once known as the "Rome of Iberia" and current capital of the Spanish region of Extremadura, which was more populated two thousand years ago with over 100,000 Latin-speakers than it is today with a bit under 50,000 Spanish-speakers. In fact my current home, the port of Cádiz, claims to be the oldest city in Europe having been founded by the Phoenicians, who named it Gadir, some three thousand years ago. A couple of the sights in Cádiz include a Roman theater nestled between a few modern apartment buildings and a Roman military wall that runs through the city center and fuses with whichever random building that happens to cross its path. How am I supposed to kick this nasty habit when the ghost of Testicles haunts me from every corner and I know that, no matter where I step, there are countless layers of un-excavated artefacts below my feet?


"Where do you live in Cádiz?"
"Go past the supermarket and, across from the basketball courts, make a left at the Roman theater. You can't miss it!"

That’s why I’ve come here today to this "Roman ruins" Anonymous meeting and decided to give this confession. I know that I need help and I also know that, by letting my addiction be known and admitting it to myself, I’m one step closer to finding a cure. It may not be easy and the journey will most likely be long and arduous, but it’s one that I’m willing to take in order to stop the suffering that I’m putting my loved ones through. They deserve better, especially my lovely Breasticl – I mean, fiancée. Just as importantly, I deserve better than to live life from one fix to another. That’s why I’ve decided to give it all up. Cold turkey. Come July, I’m saying my farewells to this land of unending Latin temptations and dashed orgiastic dreams. The only way to put that final nail in the coffin of Testicles and silence him, once and for all, is to deny the filthy beast the one thing he craves. In two months time, I’m off to ruin-less Prague and leaving this Spanish whore behind... You see, the Romans never made it as far north as the Czech Republic. I hope that it’ll work.

The Gypsy Blues [MAY 14, 2006]

Friday night. A crowded, smoked filled bar in the working district of a nameless town on the Andalucían coast. (Well, actually, it’s Cádiz but "nameless town on the Andalucían coast" just sounds a lot more travel-romantic, doesn’t it?). The clientele have been ordering their wine by the bottle for the past hour or so while nibbling on such typical Spanish tapas as jamón serrano, queso manchego, and tortilla. The once hushed table chatter has now built up to such a volume that you can’t even make out the strange language being spoken at that single table to the dimly-lit back... the one under that stuffed and mounted bull’s head. The only thing that’s for sure is that they’re the only ones not speaking Spanish in the joint.

"No way. Quantum Leap blew Fantasy Island away. Hands down!"
"Listen, all I’m trying to say is that is was a pretty creative idea. Don’t you think? I mean – An island where your fantasies come true. That is damn creative," my friend responds.
"OK. I’ll give you that much. But Quantum Leap was just as creative if not more. Some of those leaps. Like, like the time he became Marilyn Monroe was..."
"Hold on. I don’t think he ever became Marilyn Monroe. He turned in to someone who knew her. I’m pretty sure it was a chauffeur or something."
"Whatever. That’s besides the point. What I’m trying to say is... Forget it." I turn to my girlfriend, "What do you think, honey? Quantum Leap, right? A much better show, right?"
"I don’t know. What the hell is a quantum lip?" she contorts her puzzled Czech face.
"Oh right, the whole Communism thing. You guys never got those shows in the Eighties. Well, it was about this guy, a scientist actually, Doctor Samuel Beckett, who entered..."
"Enough already," she interrupts. "Will you two shut up? No one cares about your stupid Fantasy Island or Quantum Lip television programmes. Besides, something’s happening on the stage. I think they’re starting."
"Oh, sorry, dear..." I grab my glass of wine, lean back into the wooden chair, and take a sip before mumbling, "Quantum LEAP not Quantum LIP," to no one in particular.

As everyone at our table silently directs their attention to the motley crew of well-dressed Gypsies and slick-haired Spaniards who have now walked on stage, the tables around us continue their idle chitchat. The young guitarist plucks his first strings and the rhythmic clapping coming from the three others standing to his right slowly builds pace. The patrons surrounding us keep up their drone-like conversations, almost completely ignoring the performing musicians. Not many books have been written on Spanish manners – probably because there aren’t any. But that’s besides the point. Eventually, once the guitar and choral clapping reach what seems to be their climax, a heavier-set, middle-aged, Gypsy women to the guitarist’s left rises to her feet and belts out the first verse of a ballad of unfulfilled desire. Everyone in the bar instantly stops what they’re doing and turns their interested heads to the stage. The passion in her voice grabs the attention of the seated masses and doesn’t let go. She soon breaks into an elegant dance – the ripples of her multi-colored dress undulating in its wake – and draws the occasional "¡Olé!" from random, spellbound onlookers. A night of flamenco has begun.


Work it, baby... Work it!

Gypsies get a lot of grief here in the Old World. Their nomadic background and centuries-old reputation as swindlers and con-artists has done little to help the modern European perception of these cultural outsiders. Historians estimate that this ethnic group first migrated onto this continent from the Indian subcontinent during the first half of the last millennium (that’s 1000–1500AD for all of you high school drop-outs or unsuccessful GED candidates). Ever since, they have consistently formed the poorest and least educated sector of society. Gypsy literacy levels throughout the continent hover at an astonishingly low 40–50% which is even more shocking when you take into consideration that, except for Albania at 87%, not one European nation has a literacy level below 98%. This poverty and lack of education, obviously, also leads to a disproportionately higher rate of crime in the Gypsy community. I recently read a study, for example, that stated even though Gypsy women only make up about 1.5% of the Spanish population, they account for over 25% of Spanish prison inmates. Anyway you look at it – from Portugal to Russia or Norway to Moldavia – there’s a lot of work to be done in the Gypsy community.


Baby Bigot-Gomez finally realizes the wrongs of her ways, "Stinkin' Gypsies.
What d'ya ever give Spain?! Oh... right. The whole flamenco thing."

Outside of Central Europe, Spain boasts the largest population of Gypsies and Andalucía, with nearly 60%, is home to most of them. Spanish Gypsies, or gitanos, are no exception to the European norm. They are perceived as being lazy, thieving and government-leeching. They are discriminated against in interviews, schools and the media. They are the one neighbor that no self-respecting Spaniard would ever want to live next to. But despite all of this blatant racism and outright bigotry, no matter how much they are spat on or looked down upon, there’s one reason why a gitano always walks with a head held up high – Flamenco. The gitanos invented Spain’s most renown music and gave it its passionate dance and ostentatious dress. They started it all in their poor ghettos centuries ago – nurtured it, perfected it – and then eventually handed it over to the Spaniards confident that they would never be able to produce a national style of music that could ever rival their own. And the gitanos were right. Today, Spaniards from every walk of life dance, sing, and enjoy the flamenco rhythm. They perform it on stages and in bars throughout the country while blaring it proudly on home stereos. Flamenco encompasses what it means to be Spanish and is España at the very heart of the proud nation’s name... except that it really isn’t. It’s actually gitano and everyone knows it. Ask any Spaniard to tell you who plays the best flamenco in town and they’ll all agree: "Those dirty, filthy, thieving Gypsies down the road. God bless ‘em!"


"Damn. Those gitanos really know how to shake that booty."

My fiancée and I are fortunate to be living in one of the world’s foremost flamenco centers. Cádiz has been a hub of guitar making and innovation for centuries. In fact, some historians claim that the famed Pagés brothers actually invented the first modern guitar here in 1803. And, no, it probably wasn’t a Stratocaster Electric. Spanish guitars (which include most modern acoustic guitars) weren’t originally designed to play Blue Suede Shoes or Smoke On The Water. They were meant to accompany the passionate songs and exquisite dancing of the flamenco elite – of which we have no shortage of here either. The Province of Cádiz has been home to some of flamenco’s greatest performers throughout the ages. Just to mention modern times, the internationally-known Paco de Lucía, considered to be the best living guitarist, was born and raised here as was the greatest flamenco singer to ever walk the earth, El Camarón de la Isla. El Camarón, unfortunately, died in 1992 at the age of 41 after years of an uncontrollable lifestyle and heroin abuse. He was, of course, a dirty, filthy, thieving gitano... but that still didn’t stop the estimated 100,000 people that turned up at his funeral.


Granny Gomez is dancing the flamenco...
And she's lovin' every minute of it!

One of the results of this proud Cádiz tradition of flamenco is that one can see and hear it nearly everywhere. Young kids who just got their driving licences don’t cruise down the beach in dad’s car and ogle bikini-wearing babes while pumping out hip-hop on the factory-installed stereo. No, they do it while pumping out flamenco. When locals go out with friends just to chill out on a park bench, shoot the breeze, and drink a bottle of beer or two, it’s never long before the rhythmic clapping of a flamenco tune takes over. When mothers are trying to lull their babies to sleep, they moan and wail a flamenco song at the top of their lungs into the baby’s ear – well, I haven’t actually witnessed it but I’m sure that happens every now and then. What we have witnessed, though, was a flamenco "Christmas Carol" show this past December. A bunch of gitanos on stage started dancing and singing away about how a baby Gypsy had just been born in a manger in Bethlehem as everyone in the audience clapped away and threw in the occasional "¡Olé!" I had no idea Jesus was a Gypsy... I always thought he was Black.


The stage is set for the Gypsy Blues...

So, where does all of this leave me and my lovely fiancée? Well, when we first arrived in Cádiz about two years ago, we were eager to go and sit through as many flamenco shows as we could. By the time Christmas came round, and we found out that Jesus was actually a Gypsy, we were already sort of getting tired of the whole thing. Now, we’re lucky if we go to a flamenco show once every couple of months. The problem is, no matter how creative, lively, and passionate flamenco may be, it’s still something foreign to us. I guess it just either grows on you or it doesn’t and, after spending countless nights in seedy flamenco joints, the entire novelty of the thing has just worn out. At the end of the day, we’re not Spanish and we’re definitely not gitano... we’re just adventurous foreigners with a penchant for traveling. So how could we ever come to love this local art form as fervently as the people of Cádiz? The simple answer is that we can’t. Oh well, I guess we’ll just have to amuse ourselves somehow else. Now that I think of it, someone told me the other day that they’ve already released most of the Quantum Leap seasons onto DVD. Screw flamenco, it’s time I taught my fiancée some of the benefits of not living under Communism in the 1980s – quality television programming. Well, that and the whole freedom of speech thing.