In Vigo, Spain, I met a Baker. He makes these Ginormous croissants. This place should be re-named Beirut, Spain. Looks all bombed out- The place is under deep construction--concrete slabs everywhere, jackhammers, Jersey barriers. There isn't a patch of green anywhere--I was the healthiest person walking the street. The guy next to me is 35 years old. I guess your life style will determine your death style: The whiter the bread, the quicker you're dead. I gave up on biking,after a near mid air collision. I was, in fact, the only person on a bike.
I hung out with my buddy Mike. We were on a Mission to Mars, looking for a Cigar store, between the hours of 2PM and 4PM--everything was closed. Felt like Prayer time in the Magik Kingdom, but it was just the usual Manana, Siesta time slice of Espana; part of the work less and do more strategy.
I haven't been here since 1988, and if it wasn't for the Euro, and The Olympics, Spain would still be like Starbuck, a third place--- not your work, not your home--a third place, The Third World. The smog, the open sewers, it was the power of positive stinking.
Jack Napier/The Joker, said it best---This town needs an enema.