In All My Glory

I was walking on the beach in Valencia, Spain this morning, enjoying the weather, the sun getting warmer on my back all the time.
"There is an uncanny amount of aging Spaniards in spandex," I thought to myself.
And I walked for maybe a half a mile before I thought, "what the hell, I am on vacation, and I haven't been swimming yet, so now is the time."
I hadn't been swimming up to this point in part because I didn't bring my suit (or Speedo), and also because the water always feels so damn cold.
But I decided to go for it, so I found the most secluded part of the beach that I could and I stripped down to my civvies (which I know is not the proper slang use, but I am changing it here to mean boxer briefs).
I realized, standing there in all my glory, that I was slightly embarrassed, and figured, logically, that I need to find cover in the water as soon as possible.
So I ran.
30 feet from the beach, "I'm close."
20 feet, "Shit, this is going to be cold."
10 feet, "Here we go."
2. feet, "..."
And let me take this opportunity to give you a little background information. About 10 days into my trip I did something to my right leg while playing soccer. I thought it was just a pulled muscle, and then I met a nurse in Barcelona and showed her my trick, which is to sit in a chair and place both feet on the ground and then try to raise the front of the foot and the toes up towards the ceiling. I just can't do it, not with my right foot, anyway. I have, essentially, no movement in my toes, and the shin muscle doesn't seem to be doing much of anything. She said it is probably a pulled ligament, and that it might heal once I stop moving so much, but I might need some physically therapy.
Let me continue.
I hit the water, and with each step it is getting noticeably harder to run, which is normal, but also with each step I am losing more and more control of my right foot, which is not normal. It felt (and most likely looked) as though I was running with one of those huge Scuba flippers on only my right foot.
I made it about 10 feet out - which was about 2 and a half feet deep - before my foot just couldn't support my weight vertically, and I just kind of fell.
Which wasn't terrible, just salty.
I continued to swim, tried to enjoy the cold, tried not to think about wet, clinging underwear.
And then I got out, and I made it to my pile of belongings before I realized that a.) I have no towel with me, and b.) I have no pair of dry pants waiting for me at the hostel.
So I stand there on the beach that is growing more popular with the rising of the sun, waiting for my boxer briefs to dry at least a little, like a pale beacon of humanity.

(Insert Polish Words Here)

I don't think that it is an understatement to say that I love music. I truly do. It is one of my passions. I listen to it often, and when I am around Ryan Parish playing it quickly resurfaces as one of my favorite things to do. I miss Ryan Parish, by the way. If you see him, tell him.

This morning I found myself standing outside of a small, independently owned (I think, but I am strictly going off of the aesthetic feel) Cinema shaking hands with Sylwester. They are always called Cinemas here, not theaters, which I find endearing.

I was introduced to Sylwester at Mass on Sunday morning. The mother of the family I am staying with served as translator, as his English is poor and my Polish is nonexistent. He is a music teacher here at a community center, and upon hearing that I play the guitar he became quite excited to play music together.

It was arranged. Tuesday morning, 9:00am, at the Cinema. I didn't quite know what to think, but was excited about all of the potential.

So I was dropped off and was met immediately by Sylwester and his outstretched hand.

We went inside and it is pretty much what I expected: a high, ornate ceiling, a balcony (which was a bonus to my expectations), red velvet seats, and a stage. We were on the stage. Sylwester invited a friend of his along, too, who plays the electric upright bass.

One of the things that draws me to music so much (and, let me add, visual and audible art in general) is that it goes beyond language. You don't need to speak Italian to appreciate the visual art of da Vinci. Nor do I need to understand Icelandic to love what Sigor Rós does with melodies, instruments, and violin bows.

On the stage, each holding an instrument, not speaking, it was beautiful. I never thought that I would be playing music on this trip with two Polish musicians who spoke little English, but here I was, enjoying myself, my surrounding, and my company immensely.

The way that life happens intrigues me to no end. So many times on my trip thus far I have felt like a small child, staring at wonderment at a fish bowl for the first time.