I remember the first trips to Tijuana in the mid-90s, sampling at the infamously polluted Metales y Derivados, in the maquiladora-and-slum hell that is TJ. And I remember the first night out in the cheap glitz of la Revo. Bob was renting a room in Tijuana at that time, but it was not long after that he moved to Ensenada and I moved in with R. in LA. He would sometimes stop to crash on my couch on the way down, but often enough just talked me into going along. Bob’s indiscriminant enthusiasm for anything Mexico was infectious.

It was a good five years later, after I got back from my second stint in Nicaragua, moved to the Bay Area, and started the job on the border, that we became really close friends. There was his house on Whitney Street in North Oakland where R. and I eventually ended up living under his attic apartment in ’05 and ’06. It was the last place I lived in California or the U.S., for that matter). There were endless dive bars, innumerable games of pool and music ranging from shitty punk at Oakland’s Stork Club to Paulina Rubia in the big stadium by the TJ bull-ring. There was whale-watching with him and A. and her guy; she got terribly sea-sick but we did see whales and they were amazing.

Bob could drink me under the table any time, and I’m no piker when it comes to tequila. I could always plead the excuse of being the designated driver as long as driving was involved, but when it was a night at home, especially after he moved to the house north of town with the beautiful ocean view, he would quite simply do me in.

E. and I eventually browbeat him into retiring; I launched the campaign before I left the U.S. After E. and I discovered we’d both moved to Berlin in the same month (!) and became friends in our own right, he and I joined forces when Bob visited Berlin in 2007 (memories of E.’s squat near Frankfurter Allee and Bob’s discovery of the Absinthe Depot). He did retire soon after, at age 62, and threw himself heart-and-soul into the Ensenada scene.

The last time I saw Bob was back visiting Berkeley/North Oakland at the end of ’09. We decided to ring in the New Year with a big dive-bar tour, starting with our stalwart, the Stork Club, hitting bar after bar on the way up San Pablo Avenue, ending at the Hotsy-Totsy up in Albany. The requisite bad pool was well covered, but the Hotsy-Totsy, to which neither of us had ever been, turned out to not be the strip club I imagined. In the spring he finally sold the house on Whitney Street and dived 110% into the Ensenada scene. During my last visit to Northern California, a year ago, I didn’t see him, as he was doing one of his many long-term tours through Baja into central Mexico. I didn’t mind; he seemed so happy.

Those of us who lived or worked on the border were very conscious of the risk of being in that very dangerous part of the world. Bob’s many years in Baja finally added up. He was brutally murdered at his rental in downtown Ensenada last week, where he had just moved after years at the house on the north side. He sent me birthday greetings at the end of August, full of news about his new house downtown, planning to rent out the old one. The tenants, a young couple in their early 20s, have been detained in his murder. They have destroyed his life and probably their own.

But that won’t prevent those of us who cared for him (especially you, E. and A.) from guarding the memory of Bob, the altruist who tirelessly helped to bring the Ensenada bike path to fruition and continued to nudge the city on the path to sustainability, but at the same time, the hard-living man who should have by all rights partied himself into an early grave, as we all expected. He believed in Mexico when so many have given it up for lost. He was a gentle, kind soul on this earth which can so little afford the loss of such men. Que descances en paz, mi muy querido amigo Bob.

The city of Madrid is billing it as the Primera Ruta Multicultural de la Tapa. There are 31 venues, each with a special tapa on offer. Tonight (the first) was a good start; already I’ve won a coupon for a free tapa. However, by 10 PM some of the places had run out, so tomorrow it’s probably best to start a bit earlier, especially as it’s the weekend. I’ll keep a running summary of the places I visited here in this post along with my rankings (1 lowest to 5 highest).

Day I:
Museum Café y Más, Calle Argumosa (sushi): 2 stars
Alma Café, Calle Santa Isabel (tabouli): 3 stars
Automático, Calle Argumosa (salmorejo con bacalao): 4 stars

Day II:
La Chulapa, Calle Dr. Fourquet (pelota sorpresa): 2 stars
La Casa de las Tostas, Calle Argumosa (payés de jamón): 3 stars
Il Morto Che Parla, Calle Salitre (macha a la parmiggiana): 3 stars

Day III:
Ruedatape, Calle Miguel Servet (ceviche de camarón): 5 stars
Achurri, Calle Argumosa (kepe con tapenade): 4 stars
La Taberna Encantada, Calle Salitre (pisto encantado): 4 stars

Day IV:
La Inquilina, Calle Ave María (PAPAS CON MOJO): 3 stars
Maisha, Calle Argumosa (PANTARAS DE POLLO Y VERDURA): 2 stars
Lamiak, Calle la Rosa (BAKALAO AJOARRIERO): 3 stars

Day V:
Alabanda, Calle Miguel Servet (volcán alabanda): 3 stars

I’ll take this opportunity to mention another cuisine that I should have sampled long ago, which is Senegalese. This summer I tried the dish thiebou diene at Touba Lamp Fall (Calle Amparo 61). This savory rice dish with generous portions of vegetables and fish is a nice alternative to my usual cravings for Moroccan couscous. Lavapiés has a second Senegalese restaurant that I’ve yet to try, Baobab (officially at Cabestreros 1, which is on the far side of the plaza on Mesón de Paredes).

I can safely say my quality of life here in the last couple of months has gone up a good 25%; my friend R. finally shared the secret of the best Mexican restaurant in Madrid: Mi Ciudad at Calle Hileras 7. As soon as I step inside, I feel as if I’ve been magically transported to the California-Baja California border. The years of over-saturation and my vow back in 2005 or so, that I’d be happy if I never had to eat Mexican again in my life, are completely forgotten. I gobble down the taquitos de mole and tinga, happily sniffling as I’ve lost some of my tolerance for FUEGO in the meantime, and buy take-out for a couple more nights of left-overs. They cost only an euro and a half and two or three put me in a blissful chile-induced endorphin daze.

In stark contrast, Chinese restaurants are a horror in any place I’ve ever been in Europe, and Madrid is no exception. So it’s best to prepare Chinese food at home. The best Chinese grocery I’ve found to-date is Tian Ping Universal in Plaza de los Mostenses quite near to Plaza de España. It has a wide selection of East Asian spices and sauces as well as the usual canned bamboo shoots and water chestnuts. Its sign is only in Chinese, though, so just look in the doors on the plaza until you see a large grocery. Finally, in Spain, leeks (puerros here) are much more in evidence than green onions, which are hard to find. But if you’re persistent, eventually you’ll find a fruit/vegetable stand that carries them.

I’ll finish with a plug for preparing one’s own food here. Spain really excels with fresh fruits and vegetables throughout much of the year. The Almería region is full of greenhouses that provide fresh produce for Spain and much of Europe year-round. These, along with the fresh seafood (fish and shellfish), are absurdly cheap compared with my main point of comparison, Berlin. Basmati and other aromatic rices are relatively easy to find here (cheapest at the German supermarket chain Lidl which is ubiquitous here). When cooking Indian food, which I can’t recommend in Madrid, one can, however, pick up naan in Lavapiés, as the Indian restaurants do have tandoori ovens, in stark contrast to Berlin.

The next day was when the grassroots meetings were scheduled all over Madrid and throughout the rest of the country. I went to the neighborhood meeting which was called for Plaza Oporto, at the metro stop about 10 minutes’ walk from my house. The week has been warm, with temperatures approaching 30 degrees (mid-80s). I’d estimate there were at least 200 people and possibly even 300. They had a PA system and a sign language interpreter. I snapped a few photos and left; it’s not clear to me as an immigrant what my role could be.

My housemate stayed the entire time, which is a very good sign, given that he described himself as apolitical when I first met him. A thirty-something who represents a fairly uncommon sector in Spain: the well-read, his disaffection is likely similar to mine with the U.S. Both systems, through byzantine electoral rules have . Spain is not completely non-parliamentarian as the U.S. but does a good job at being non-representative, with the smaller parties gaining seats in parliament that are much lower in proportion to their percentage of the popular vote. Spain also has no wide-spread Green Party, which is pretty clearly what a large part of the twenty- and thirty-somethings would vote if given the choice. His report back to me is that the people were lamenting the absence of immigrant participation and diversity. Interesting; if it hadn’t been for this trip to Berlin, I might have reconsidered whether I could somehow get involved.

El Pais included pictures of six of the plazas including Oporto here.

As I’m pretty tapped into the green/anarchist left-wing in Madrid, I received the original call for a protest march for May 15th. That happened to be the last day of the DocumentaMadrid film festival (when they show the prize-winning films) and I had three cinema sessions planned plus an urban garden awaiting tomato plants that I’d germinated in my garden. So I said to myself (especially in the wake of May Day), “yeah, yeah, just another demo that won’t amount to anything”, and didn’t go. The next day of course I heard the demonstrators had camped out that night at Sol but again I said to myself that it won’t last. On Tuesday evening given that it wasn’t going away, I got my butt over there and really there were a lot of people, possibly a thousand with constant turn-over of thousands more because it’s the exact center of town so one can go by, then go about one’s business then easily circle back around.

Wednesday night I saw somewhat more participants but roughly double the police presence compared to Tuesday and I thought to myself, uh-oh. But even now, they still haven’t been thrown out of the square (I think the políticos originally didn’t dare given the proximity of the elections, but now I’m a bit surprised they’re still there). It poured buckets Thursday; the protestors were not deterred. By Friday night at midnight when they scheduled a moment of silence as the start to the Spanish “Day of Reflection” prior to the Sunday elections, Sol was totally packed. There was no way I could get in, and all the side streets (I think there are 10) leading to the square were packed to at least a half a block away. The police presence was much less than I’d seen either of the previous days, with them in a butt-scratching, putting-in-overtime sort of mood. So the vibe was, needless to say, super good, and the media had finally stopped saying it was only youth as frankly large sectors of society were out there.

This Sunday during the elections I was there again and it’s well-organized, with political meetings going on constantly with different themes in various side streets and the center of the square covered in tarps for several hundred people to camp out overnight. Today and the two previous days the temperatures have approached or exceeded 30°C; the protesters have not been deterred. However, all of us are discouraged by the elections (the privatization-crazy right has swept the regional elections across the country). The results were a terrible shock though not a surprise; the country is sadly well on its way down the slippery slide to a bi-party system and a protest vote means of necessity choosing the opposite party, no matter how awful it is, similar to what happens in the U.S.

So what does it all mean? Spain is special in many ways (underdeveloped but developing too quickly and at times simply not very European, facts about which the Spanish have a total inferiority complex). Democratic traditions are tentative and new (it’s important to remember there have been only 35 yrs of democracy, prior to which there was no right to associate — it was forbidden — meaning my little NGO could not have existed if I had immigrated to Spain in the mid-1970s). To go to Sol and see democracy being played out in the street (using a consensus process) is quite stirring. The other perspective I can add has to do with how groups organize themselves communally. Honestly, I have never lived in a country that is so communitarian; it’s the key to the very cool Tabacalera self-run (auto-gestionado) community cultural center that some of you who’ve visited me have come to know. After some two and a half years here, I think I can say it’s the thing I most admire about this country.

We’re entering mejillón season (according to Spanish seafood vendors that means months containing an “r”) but mussels are pretty easy to find throughout the year due to modern mariculture. This summer I was experimenting with ways to steam them. I’ve come up with a fusion recipe (the best thing about having lived and traveled world-wide is the interesting culinary influences one can bring to bear). It uses my secret ingredient: tabasco sauce. We North Americans rightly know a few drops improve the flavor of virtually any savory dish. So, ladies and gentlemen, here’s my version of mejillones al vapor which I’m dubbing “à la Tabasco” (with apologies for the liberties I’ve taken regarding French gender rules).

Into a big pot sprinkle a generous quantity of crush garlic, 6 or 8 drops of tabasco sauce and squeeze a quarter to third of a lemon (depending on how juicy it is). Add water, then fill the pot with well-rinsed mejillones and cover with a tightly fitting lid. To correctly prepare them al vapor, one should use a metal rack to elevate the shells off the bottom, but if you don’t have one, you can get away with just minimal layer of water in the bottom. During the steaming, the mussels will release some of the water they’ve retained and you’ll find your pot never goes dry. You needn’t steam for very long: some 5 or 10 minutes. Lift the lid and see if the majority of the mussels have opened up, then you’re done. Serve with bread to soak up the broth from the bottom of the pot.