Extreme Telecommuting -- An Office Odyssey


these weeks in the odyssey
2.28.00 -- 3.13.00
tarragona, madrid




Salad Days On The Odyssey

Like an aged Henri Matisse playing with colored paper cutouts or a graying Metallica releasing double albums recorded with a full symphony orchestra, the Office Odyssey is finally lurching into the self-indulgence and gratuitousness that traditionally characterizes end stage artistic calcification. All the signs are there -- the two to three weeks between updates, the sprawling lack of editorial self control, the all night games of Parcheesi with flocks of scantily clad Regis Philbin lookalikes -- clearly we are tap dancing dangerously near the borders of bloated self-parody.

This week, we reclaim our mantle. This week, we put away our childish preoccupation with bad puns and bathroom humor and return to the moral high ground we so boldly staked in the first edgy days of the Odyssey. This week, we pull the Sword of Total Commitment from the Stone of Utter Laziness and brandish it in the Face of Unmitigated Sloth. Yes, this week, we...play golf with my brother, Russ?




He ain't heavy...well, actually he is.


Tarragona's got culture if you want it.

Hmm. The more waggish among you might be remarking that the "moral high ground" is traditionally found somewhere other than the tenth tee. Of course, the more waggish among you would also be forgetting that I still have the Sword of Total Commitment and that I'm not afraid to use it on waggish louts like yourselves. So, I guess what I'm saying is that you're pretty much wagging at your own peril, if you know what I mean (and if you do, please drop me an email and let me know since I'm kinda lost myself...thanks).

Oddly resonant extended Arthurian metaphors aside (as they most definitely should be), this week on the Odyssey features the latest in a seemingly unending series of special guest stars -- my brother Russ (pictured above -- he's the bald...umm, balder one), fresh off the plane from Seattle and ready for action. Now, when Kristanne and I think of action, we think of one thing and one thing only -- old churches and lots of 'em (like that one in Tarragona pictured at left). Actually, when I write "we" there, you might want to interpret that as what I like to call the Married Guy 'We.' The Married Guy 'We' is the 'we' you use when you really mean "my wife" except that she'll make fun of your haircut, tell all your friends that you secretly enjoy "Oprah," or maybe even make you watch the World Wrestling Federation (ouch) if you just say "my wife." Here are some common examples of the Married Guy 'We' in action:

  • "Why yes, we would love to help you select your china patterns this weekend!"
  • "When we saw that antique brooch, we just couldn't help but think of you."
  • "There's nothing we would love more than to watch a triple-feature of 'Beaches,' 'Steel Magnolias,' and 'How To Make An American Quilt.' Thank you for thinking of us!"

As you can see, the Married Guy 'We' is a very subtle and quite powerful tool for applied marital harmony. Used with panache, elan, and other French words, it can provide years of faithful service.


Back to the churches! Since Russ was coming all the way from Seattle to Spain, we figured he'd like nothing better than to take in a bit of the local culture, see how the Spanish live, maybe even visit a museum or two. This was wrong. Our first clue that perhaps Russ was not as interested in Spanish culture and history as we were came when he phoned us two days before his arrival to let us know he'd be flying in to Madrid and, hey, what's the fastest way to Tarragona from Madrid? After explaining to Russ that the fastest way to get to Tarragona from Madrid is to get on another airplane and fly to Barcelona, we decided to throw caution to the wind and just go ahead and ask Russ why the heck he'd chosen Madrid as his destination in the first place when even the most casual glance at a map would show you that Madrid is approximately the same distance from Tarragona as USA Today is from insightful journalism (which is to say, light years). His answer, though brief, lent a great deal of insight into Russ' expectations for this trip.

"Well, dude, it's like this -- I know Madrid's in the center and I figured, hey, how far can it be, right? So, yeah -- Madrid. Anyway, you guys got any beer or should I bring some?"

Clearly, Russ was taking a somewhat laissez faire attitude towards his trip preparations. Our second clue that he had his own ideas about the purpose of his Spanish Sojourn came when his first action upon arrival was to stake out our couch and conk out for twelve hours. Apparently, the Spanish Sojourn we had envisioned for Russ was actually more of an Iberian Idle in his sleepy eyes.


Could Russ possibly...

Russ' persistent drowsiness gave us ample time for reflection and self-analysis. Was Russ' somnolence more than the jet lag? More than the time zone changes? Was the Office Odyssey in fact some sort of advanced soporific for otherwise eager-beaver travellers? The signs were all there: Keith & Tanya -- sleepy. Marcus -- sleepy. Russ -- catatonic. Good god, man -- what were we doing to people? Clearly, we needed something to put a stop to this. Something to kick out the cobwebs and get our visitors jumpstarted. Something to...light a fire under them?

...sleep any more?

Faster than you can say "arson is illegal, though sometimes useful," Kristanne and I were down at the local paint factory pouring kerosene on heaps of shop rags and igniting them into an incandescent conflagration calculated to get even the sleepiest traveller back on his feet. It worked. I mean, sure, we burned down half of Tarragona, and the respiratory problems from all the smoke inhalation are a bit of a bummer (check out those plumes pictured at right), but the important thing is that it worked. After the firemen carried Russ off the couch and down the ladder (and gave him a little bottled oxygen), he was more or less awake and responding well to most external physical stimuli. Arson saves the day once again!

Okay, I'm lying. Arson didn't really save the day. Arson is illegal and dangerous and we do not condone it in any way. Other things we do not condone here on the Office Odyssey include aggravated assault, armed robbery, and Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. In addition, we're also beginning to have second thoughts about condoning the renascence of John Travolta's career. Further bulletins on that as events warrant. You'll know when we do.

Let me stand next to your fire.

Is this too Extreme for you?

With Russ finally out of bed, we got down to the serious, strenuous business of everyday life here on the Odyssey. Fainthearted visitors usually aren't prepared for the barely orchestrated mayhem that awaits them on a typical day in Odysseyland. It can overwhelm you. For example, we like to start most days with a nice cafe con leche and a croissant down at the Cafe di Roma (pictured at left). Sometimes, we even order juice. If you're the kind of person who can't stand coffee, or cafes, or croissants, well, this is exactly the kind of the Extreme behavior that can drive you right over the edge of insanity and into a curled up lump of mewling jelly on the cafe floor. We know -- we've seen it happen and it isn't pretty.

If by some miracle of fate you manage to survive breakfast at the Cafe di Roma, you're still not out of the Extreme woods -- there are other tests that await you. For example, after breakfast, we typically walk down La Rambla Nova to the newsstand where they carry the International Herald Tribune. The walk in itself could topple a grown man, fraught with pigeons, baby strollers, and old men as it is. Once you've navigated those hazards, you're just getting to the really tough part -- buying the paper. No matter how many times you buy the paper from the old lady there, paying with exact change and carefully putting just the right amount of lisp into the "c" in "gracias" so as to indicate your sympathy and attunement to the local Catalunyan accent, she will still openly scowl at you, refusing to be civil. This can really hurt your self-esteem if you don't have a strong sense of yourself and haven't been to years of costly therapy. Fortunately, Kristanne always pumps me up with a little, "You're good enough, you're smart enough, and I don't care if that scowling old newspaper lady doesn't like you," before sending me in to buy the paper. This gives me the requisite fortitude to buy the paper and then head back up La Rambla to the Balcony of the Mediterranean to take in the daily vista.

At the Balcony of the Mediterranean, you meet your next challenge -- reading the newspaper. The International Herald Tribune is full of calamitous events, anxiety-inducing editorials, and distressingly multisyllabic words. Thank heavens that it also has Calvin & Hobbes or the burden of perusing its polysyllabic paragraphs could paralyze me with panic. Just a little irrelevant alliteration for you, there. No extra charge for that, by the way!


So far, Russ was doing just fine with your average Office Odyssey day. Oh, to be sure, he looked a little green around the gills when we ordered our second cafe con leche, and he definitely didn't want to say hello to the newspaper lady, but other than that he was hanging tough. He's a real trooper when it comes to Extreme travel. In fact, he was doing so well that we decided to initiate him into the Third Circle of Extreme Fellowship, treating him to the rarely-seen-though-justifiably-legendary Double Secret Super Extreme Toenail Clipping Ritual. Though not an everyday occurrence on the Office Odyssey, we thought Russ might appreciate the delicate intricacy that surrounds this operation. Basically, the ritual entails me going to the bathroom, getting the nail clippers, and then sitting down on the couch to trim my toenails. Oh, sure, it sounds simple, but you're not picturing the little song and dance number I put with it, sung to the tune of, "Ruby Don't Take Your Love To Town" (sample lyric, "Toenail, Don't Make Me Cut You Down"). It's actually quite disturbing, especially when it all goes as horribly wrong as it did right in front of Russ' disbelieving eyes. Right in the middle of the climax of the whole number where I finish off my big toenail with a wicked flourish while doing a little scat-singing doo-wop ending, I gave a little too much torque to the clippers and snapped them right in half (that's the outcome pictured at right). O, the horror! O, the humanity! I have scarred my brother's tender eyes for life!

Fortunately, Russ' constitution proved firm enough to withstand even this degradation (translation -- he slept through the whole thing). With this latest example of his unusual ability to withstand the sensual assault that is the Office Odyssey Experience, we figured Russ was ready for the big guns. Ready to put away the sleeping, the coffee drinking, the newspaper buying, and the toenail clipping, and go for the full meal deal, the big boy, the piece of resistance. Yep, he was ready to go the beach.

Toenails are extreme, too.

Going to the beach in Tarragona is no simple matter. To be sure, it looks simple -- you pop out your door, head to the Balcony of the Mediterranean, and ba-da-boom, there it is spreading out below you, golden and glistening in the afternoon sunshine. You'd think it would be a simple thing to just walk down the hill, spread out your blanket, and take a nice little siesta. You'd think that, but you'd be wrong since you'd be ignoring those railroad tracks at the foot of the Balcony of the Mediterranean, stretching out parallel to the beach in both directions as far as the eye can see. There is no easy way of getting around these railroad tracks. We know -- we've tried. Oh sure, getting down to them is no problem. It's just that once you're there you have to hike approximately to France before you reach a crossing and can get out to the beach. Then, you have to hike all the way back down the coast to Tarragona just to get to the stretch of beach you had your eyes on. It's a pain in the keister. Midway through our arduous six hour trek to the beach, we stopped in the town of Sitges to replenish our food and water with supplies we'd cached there the month before. While refilling our packs, we began to think that it's just a dang good thing that Columbus didn't try to sail out of Tarragona when he left for the New World -- he would've never been able to make it across the railroad tracks and out to the harbor to pick up the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. Now that I think about it, though, I suppose he could've just taken the train to France and met them there. Columbus was probably much smarter than we are.


No, we're not back in Zurich.

After a few days recovering from our expedition to the beach, we were all ready to leave the apartment again. Smelling of Ben-Gay and doped up on ibuprofen, we reentered the outside world only to find that Tarragona was now under siege by a bizarre tribe of costumed devils (pictured at left), monsters, and mysteriously weeping women, all accompanied by fire-spitting dragons and bulls and plenty of loud dance music. Were we just in the middle of the film shoot for the latest "Limp Bizkit" video, or was something far more exotic going on? Enquiring minds were more than a little bit frightened.

Since Limp Bizkit was thankfully nowhere to be seen, we soon deduced that what was going on was in fact Carnival, the weeklong series of parties, parades, and general madness that precedes Lent. This deduction took place in large part in the form of me asking someone, "Hey, is this Carnival?," and that person answering, "Yes." Sometimes, "deducing" is actually a pretty simple process.


Each night of Carnival has its own particular brand of mania, ranging from the children's parade, to the coronation of the king and queen, to the big parade, all the way up to the giant bonfire in the main square that concludes at midnight when Fat Tuesday turns to Skinny Wednesday and Lent begins. Our first major taste was the big parade on Saturday, spilling along main streets, down La Rambla, and finally up into the Old Quarter and concluding near the Plaza de Ayuntamiento. The parade features tons of societies dedicated to creating some sort of performance for the purpose of the parade. Over the course of the year, the societies design their costumes, choreograph their routines, and build their floats, all leading up to the big night of the parade where a sort of goodhearted competition takes place between the various societies. Prizes are eventually awarded to the best society, but the main thing is just having fun and getting crazy on the streets of Tarragona. It's quite a spectacle, especially with the liberal use of fireworks and sparklers without much regard for spectators' safety (check out those people cowering against the wall at the right side of that picture at right).

Fire spitting bull that rules the night.

Thanks for licking me clean Mr. Scary Pterodactyl Guy.

Saturday's parade was reprised completely on Sunday afternoon for those who missed it, complete with the same dancers, same fireworks, and same pounding dance music. Finally, on Fat Tuesday night, a smaller parade led from La Rambla up to the Plaza de Ayuntamiento where the big final party before Lent took place. What sounded like small sticks of dynamite burst through the air as two different drum corps kept up a steady primal beat. Meanwhile, throngs of costumed devils pranced about in circles while waving giant sparklers above their heads, creating a feeling of utterly primitive power. Then, a fireworks show burst up above the dancers from atop the town hall (ayuntamiento...you're welcome, JoAnn), lighting up the night sky and showering the assembled revelers with sparks. Finally, while the erupting dancers stomped around the square to the insistent beat of the drums, a giant bonfire consumed a large papier mache' figure. It was all very powerful, very primitive, and somewhat disturbing...in a good way. Kind of like the same feeling you get when you run a red light and get away with it...not that I've ever done that or even condone it. Other things I don't condone include check forgery, Riverdance, and Ben Affleck as a sex symbol. And pterodactyls licking my head (like that one at left). The jury is still out on the resurrection of John Travolta's career -- just keep reading.


As soon as it had begun, Russ' visit was already drawing to a close. Packed as it was with golf playing, beach hiking, coffee getting, newspaper reading, beer drinking, and, well, sleeping, it was no wonder the time just flew by. Since we'd already done nearly everything else we normally do with Office Odyssey visitors, we decided to conclude his stay with our traditional Freestyle Rap Session (pictured at right), wherein everyone gets a chance to get on the mike and bust a few choice rhymes. Things, however, came to an abrupt halt as I spent some twenty five minutes trying to come up with a rhyme for the word "pterodactyl." Though I did eventually come through -- "When a bird licks your head, it might be a pterodactyl/ You say 'sense of touch,' but I say 'tactile'" -- it was generally agreed that I made absolutely no sense and, more importantly, had completely lost my street cred. Alas, these things can happen when you fail to keep it real.

Since Russ' flight was still leaving from Madrid, we put him on an overnight train from Tarragona so he could get there in time to catch his 8:50 AM flight the next morning. With a hearty recommendation to "look at a dang map next time, dingaling," we sent him on his way with our best wishes for a safe, speedy return. Well, as speedy as it could be, anyway, given that he was going to be in transit for at least the next twenty-four hours. Keep this in mind, gentle readers -- Spain is a big country.

Umm, word to your mother's uncle?

In the Navy.

The next morning dawned surreally. Tarragona is a very tranquil town, populated by a refined mixture of families, older folks, and tons and tons of babies. So, it came as some surprise during our morning walk to the Cafe di Roma to see that the streets were literally festooned with young, short-haired men in baseball caps, jackets from American professional sports teams, t-shirts with slogans, and lots and lots of white bell-bottomed pants. Yup -- the U.S. Navy was in town!

Since Kristanne spent large parts of her youth growing up around U.S. military bases in Germany and Japan, she was immediately able to suss out what was going on.

"Yeah, Sid, looks like a carrier is in town, probably the Kennedy judging from the amount of pilots I'm seeing. See the forearms on that fella? Yep, that's from loading ordnance, probably for the 72mm cannons you'll see on these larger carriers. Kennedy's a good boat, you betchya, used to know the skipper back when were staying in Okinawa. You want another cafe con leche there, honey?"

Despite her alarming lapse into milspeak, Kristanne was sure enough right -- the aircraft carrier Kennedy (pictured at left) was in town, along with all her sailors out on the streets for 72 hours of leave. They were already spilling out of every bar and cafe on La Rambla, the telltale empty Budweiser bottles giving us a rough idea of how long they'd been there. McDonalds and Pizza Hut, too, were definitely doing a land office business for the next three days, long lines of sailors snaking all the way out to the street.


Happily, the sailors were pretty well behaved with the few exceptions you'd expect out of a giant group of nineteen year old males out on the streets of a foreign town for only 72 hours. Equally happily, the Spaniards didn't seem to resent their presence at all. During the few conversations I had with locals while they were in town, they were all more than willing to write off any rudeness or indiscretions to youthful exuberance and went out of their way to mention that they thought the Americans were doing just fine. Though the Spaniards might have had different opinions had they actually been able to understand some of the obscene songs we heard various groups of drunken sailors singing at the tops of their lungs while drunkenly lurching down La Rambla at 3:00 in the morning, we were happy to know that they weren't giving undue offense. This also begs the question of what do you do with a drunken sailor singing at the top of his lungs? Apparently, according to the Tarragonans, you just ignore them.

Some sailors, though, you can't ignore. Some sailors just stand up and demand your attention. Such a sailor is the Lone Cowboy of the Apocalypse, striding out of the rose-colored dawn for another day's toil with his faithful male attendant (pictured in full serious stride at right). We first took sight of this apparition when we walked down to the wharf to tour the Kennedy. Though we weren't able to get on to the tour (the line was already several hours long when we got there -- that's part of it shown in the picture above), we did receive a glorious glimpse of the Lone Cowboy, purposeful and austere, his hat set at an angle that only a fool would call jaunty. There's nothing jaunty about that hat, m'boy, and if you dare to think so, well, I'm guessing you just opened up your own can of Personal Whup Ass, courtesy of the Lone Cowboy of the Apocalypse. The set of that hat, my friend, is either stern, severe, or grim, depending on his mood. Let this be a lesson to the wise.

The Lone Cowboy of the Apocalypse.

Oh, Susana!

Just as time was running out on the sailors of the Kennedy, so -- unbelievably -- was time running out on the Extreme Telecommuters in Tarragona. Though difficult to believe, we'd already been in Tarragona for two blissful months, soaking up the sunshine and living life on Spanish time. Now, it was time to head off to Madrid and Toledo before flying on over to London for the last few weeks of the Odyssey. First, though, we needed one last night in our favorite little Tarragonan cafe, La Tertulia.

In Spanish, "la tertulia" means "place to express second thoughts on the rebirth of John Travolta's career," so naturally it's a real favorite of mine. I could go in there every night and express second thoughts on a variety of subjects but since the bartender has long since grown tired of me and my second thoughts, I pretty much just keep them to myself now. This has made both the bartender (pictured at left with me and Kristanne) and Kristanne much happier.

Okay, so that's not really what "la tertulia" means. It really means "the conversation," and that's just what Kristanne and I were having when Kristanne made the fateful mistake of introducing herself to one of the sailors from the Kennedy. Naturally, she picked a time while I was off in the bathroom (expressing my second thoughts to the assorted patrons therein) to catch the eye of a passing sailor and say, "Where you from, sailor?" In retrospect, this turned out to be a somewhat questionable decision on Kristanne's part. When I returned from the bathroom, our table was surrounded by now fewer than four sailors, all remarking with sheer incredulity on the absolute oddness of running into a fellow American so far from home. This incredulity took the form of statements like, "Godd*@#!," and "No s*#@!," and my personal favorite, "No f&*$in' way, dude!"


Seeing no easy way out of what was shaping up to be an incredibly uncomfortable conversation, I decided to make the best of it and asked the nearest sailor how long he'd been in the Navy.

"Oh, I been in about seven years. I been to Greece, to Venice, to U.A.E., to Spain...I been all over!" Though amazingly friendly (and quite well-travelled), this particular sailor was also amazingly drunk, hanging on to the nearest chair for support.

"So," says I, "what did you think of Greece?"

"Greece? Yep, I been to Greece, I been to U.A.E., I been to, umm, to, umm..."

"You've been to Venice," I chimed in.

"...to Venice, I been to Greece, I been to U.A.E., I been to, umm, to, umm..."

"Spain. You've been to Spain, too."

"Yup, I def'nitely been to Spain, and to U.A.E., and to, umm, to..."

At this point, I realized further input from me was not really necessary to keep this conversation going, so I started listening in on the other sailor who was apparently trying to hit on Kristanne by slurring nonsensical syllables and drooling on himself. Though she remained outwardly polite, Kristanne did not seem overly impressed by this tactic. I made a mental note to myself never to drool while trying to charm Kristanne -- it just doesn't work.


Though I could've talked literally all night with our newfound friends in La Tertulia, we decided that it was perhaps in our best interest to get back to the apartment and get some sleep before hitting the road to Madrid in the morning. Bidding a fond farewell to La Tertulia (and its bartender, Susana), we headed off to sleep, wondering if perhaps we shouldn't go to the U.A.E. at some point, too.

Morning broke with one last cafe con leche down at the Cafe di Roma (pictured yet again at right) before leaving Tarragona and hitting the road to Madrid. It was hard to leave -- we'd really come to love Tarragona during our two months there and did not particularly want to say goodbye. Also, neither one of us particularly felt like driving the six hours to Madrid on three or four hours of sleep. Nonetheless, schedules needed to be kept, so we gritted our teeth, pointed the rental car southwest, and headed for Madrid.

This would turn out to be a somewhat less than rosy experience. So far, we'd managed to do most of our driving in Spain on the large, well-kept toll roads along the coast. Though a little pricey, they are also modern, smooth, and conducive to some really fast driving. Not so the road to Madrid. For whatever reason, there are neither tolls nor improvements. It's an incredibly bumpy, potholed two-laner, snaking its way unpredictably through mountain passes and over goat trails. My head began to get sore from bumping into the roof of the car so often. For her part, Kristanne began to say things like, "Today, my entire life sucks. Everything about it sucks." As if to prove her own point, when we stopped for gas, she spent no fewer than five minutes trying to throw a single empty soda can into the garbage. After 12 consecutive misses from inside of two feet, she finally hit the jackpot, only to watch the can sail through the opening on one side and out the opening on the other side, rattling to the pavement. It was at this point that Kristanne burst into tears and ran into the bathroom to bang her head against the wall for a few minutes.

There will never be cafes con leche like this again

After making a mental note to sedate Kristanne before we arrived in Madrid, I successfully threw away Kristanne's empty soda can (only took me three tries) and shaved in the parking lot in preparation for our eventual arrival. A somewhat subdued Kristanne eventually emerged from the bathroom and slumped into the passenger's seat, ready to go again. An hour later, we rolled into our latest rest stop about a half hour from Madrid, ready to check the directions to our friends' (Kristin and Miguel) house. Unfortunately, as we discovered, we'd neglected to write those directions down. Fortunately, they were still on Kristanne's laptop computer. Unfortunately, the battery on Kristanne's laptop computer is dead. Fortunately, there was an electrical outlet in the men's bathroom at the rest stop cafe. Unfortunately -- boy, am I ever getting tired of that whole "Fortunately\Unfortunately" thing. I bet you are, too. Let's just knock that the heck off right now and tell you that I was only too happy to boot up Kristanne's laptop in the men's room (much to the amusement of the assorted men's room visitors) and get the directions to Kristin and Miguel's place. On the road again!


Yes, you're cute but, no, you can't have my supper.

Kristin and Miguel are something of an Office Odyssey institution. The really attentive readers out there in the audience (you know who you are) will no doubt recall Kristin and Miguel's original star turn as the young international lovers (they played themselves) getting married in a lovely ceremony in California. Reasoning that every good original deserves an equally good sequel, we were excited to reunite with Kristin and Miguel in Madrid on our European Odyssey.

Thanks to Kristin's excellent directions, we were soon installed in Kristin and Miguel's lovely new home, enjoying the pleasures of cats, and cats, and cats, and dog while getting reacquainted (that's the positively effervescent Cappuccino pictured at left). Kristin is sort of the Dr. Doolittle of Spain, finding homes for every wayward cat or dog that crosses her path. It's great! Like us, however, Kristin and Miguel are all about action. So, before I'd even had time to introduce myself properly to Charlie The Dog, we were into the car and off to the monastery at El Escorial, a lovely site in the hills outside Madrid. After a pleasant walk through the cathedral and grounds, we settled into what is officially the Smokiest Cafe In Spain (no small feat) for an appetizer. I suppose the waiter wearing the gas mask should have tipped us off, but we somehow missed that vital clue. After twenty minutes spent straining our vision to see one another across the table, we covered our eyes and mouths with wet rags and made for the exit. Time to head back down to the town where Kristin and Miguel's house is located (Villalba) for a pleasant dinner before heading back home to finish our introductions to the waiting animals.


The next day dawned with a bee in the Extreme Telecommuting bonnet. We had a whole Madrid out there to see in the single day we'd allotted ourselves. So, with scarcely a pat on the head to Charlie and a scratch under the chin to each of the cats, Kristin had us down at the train station, ready to head into the big city to see what needed to be seen. In keeping with our usual plan of trying to see things on the most dangerous possible day to see them, we decided to hit most of Madrid's major monuments on election day. Yes, that same election that ETA had been heralding with car bombings across the nation (one of which was even in Madrid). We started off with a quick romp through the Reina Sofia, lingering for a few moments to savor Picasso's masterpiece, "Guernica," before heading off to the Prado. We had two hours to work with and four mammoth floors of Prado to see. Adopting the grim stare that she so often does in situations like these, Kristanne set her jaw, studied the map of the museum, and after a moment's consideration set off at a dead sprint for the other end of the museum without a word to me. "Hey," she remarked later, "if you can't keep up, that's your problem, ya big art museum sissy." Kristanne gets tough when it comes to the treasures of the art world.

Two strenuous hours later, we stumbled past the last of the Riberas, Goyas, and El Grecos just as the guards began to herd us toward the exit. Unfortunately, they were herding us to the exit opposite the one where we'd left our bags checked. Despite our best efforts to outflank them and head towards our bags, they kept cutting us off at the corners, nipping at our heels, barking at us in Spanish. Don't kid yourself -- the guards at the Prado are quick.

For whatever reason, the Prado has decided that it's best to make everyone leave out of a single exit and then just ferry everyone's bags down to that exit once they're out of the building. So, after a fifteen minute wait (during which we took that picture of Kristanne in front of the Goya statue you see at right), we finally found ourselves as the last people to get our bags (natch) and headed off to the Puerta del Sol for a little sightseeing and refreshment.

Statue pictures rock!

This is one mayor plaza, baby.

After a cursory glance at the Puerta del Sol, we headed into Plaza Mayor (pictured at left) to give the word to Kristin and Miguel that we were done with the museums and ready for Madridian action. After phoning them back in Villalba, we set up shop at an attractive cafe at the side of the plaza to take in a cool drink and do a little peoplewatching while we waited for Kristin and Miguel to arrive. Before I even had a chance to shoo away the fifteenth panhandler who'd approached us in the last twenty minutes, Kristin and Miguel appeared out of the mist like some sort of Spanish dream and took us by the hands, eager to show us the surrounding sights.

Ever the gracious and knowledgeable hosts, Kristin and Miguel took us over to the Royal Palace, the big cathedral, and then on over to the Plaza de Espana for a refreshing ice cream (which, miraculously, Kristanne managed to keep eating for something like two hours...she's an amazing woman).


The Plaza de Espana featured a big statue of Cervantes' hero, Don Quixote along with his faithful companion, Sancho Panza. That's Kristin, Miguel, and Kristanne posing comfortably in front of that very statue. Note the ice cream cone perched in Kristanne's right hand. Note also the utter absence of similar ice cream delivery vehicles in anyone else's hands. I kid you not -- this picture was taken a full week after we actually bought the ice cream. Kristanne seems to take some sort of perverse pleasure in husbanding her ice cream to its maximum life expectancy while the rest of us can only salivate in wide-eyed wonder, having long since devoured our own portions. Kristanne is sort of like her brother, Chuck, in this regard. Reputedly, Chuck would hoard his Halloween candy over a period of six to eight months after the actual trick or treating was done, doling himself out a meager square of chocolate per night in full view of his jealous brother and sister. That kind of family tradition can be hard to buck in later life, though we're all hoping that Chuck and Kristanne can make some positive strides with all the intensive experimental therapy they've both been undergoing. Let the healing begin, guys -- it's never too late to eat your food.

After our pleasant stroll through the highlights of Madrid's central area (including the statue of the bear eating the strawberries and the famous point at the Puerta del Sol from which all Spanish roads are measured), we were all feeling a little big hungry. Oddly, we were also all feeling like we could use just a little bit more of Madrid's culture. It's at times like this when you need only one thing.

Will someone please steal Kristanne's ice cream?

I have never been so happy as I am at this exact moment.

Yup -- The Museum of Ham. This is perhaps the only museum in the world where the art on the walls is all edible...and tasty, too! Check out that attractive wall display pictured at left -- nothing but acres and acres of cured hams waiting for our immediate delection. I was so happy that I knelt and wept right after that picture was taken. Meanwhile, everyone else pretended they didn't know me, a strategy I neatly foiled by shouting loudly across the room, "Hey, get a load of these hams, honey! That's sure enough some prime pork, ain't it! Woo-hoo!" What can I say -- ham kinda excites me.

Alas, my love affair with cured ham is shared with almost exactly no one so my suggestion of staying in the Museum of Ham "all night if we have to," was loudly rejected as being "just plain ridiculous, and a little bit gross to boot." So, back into the car we went for a quick tour of those sights we hadn't already seen. After that, there was nothing left to do but head back to Villalba for a delicious home-cooked Spanish meal, done up by none other than Miguel himself. Miguel is an excellent cook, whipping the kitchen into a frenzy of varied delights, from Spanish tortilla, to chorizo, to octopus, to cheeses, to an excellent tomato and vinegar salad. The man can flat cook.

Too soon, our time in Madrid was coming to a close. We only had two days before our flight and we needed to get to Toledo to take in the sights there...an undertaking that we had scheduled to take at least two days. So, with hearty smiles we bade a fond Office Odyssey farewell to Kristin, Miguel, and all the assorted cats and dogs for all their hospitality. Thanks a lot, guys!


And so ends another week on the Odyssey! Be sure to check back next week as -- amazingly -- the Odyssey races into its final stages. In addition to action shots from Toledo, we'll also be featuring the first departure of an Extreme Telecommuter from the continent, returning back to the States for the foreseeable future. Will it be Sid or will it be Kristanne? Is there trouble in Office Odysseyland, or is this something they had planned? Only our mothers know for sure! Be sure to tune back in next week and find out for yourselves! See you next time on the Odyssey.



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Get this pigeon off my head before I throw you all to the lions.

As for that picture at left, that's a fond last look at Tarragona with the justly famous Roman statue of Emperor Augustus Headus Goiterus figuring prominently in the foreground. I'm kidding. There was never an Emperor Augustus Head Goiterus -- that's just a pigeon on the statue's head. There is also no Santa Claus, no "talented" Backstreet Boy, and no way to get around the fact that George W. Bush is the Republican Party's nominee for the next election. Finally, "Twinkies" are not good for you. Neither is beer. This has been an Office Odyssey Public Service Announcement.

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