To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair.

Walker Percy

Any "big" adventure of mine should not be discussed in a family paper such as the Zephyr. The bullfight in Barcelona might sneak past the censors, but involves baby octopus, three young sojourners who were never seen again, and an American cartoon show overdubbed in Spanish. That I didn't get arrested, or become violently ill, is quite remarkable. There was gunfire, a small stampede, martial law, and a sickly dash for the border, of which I have scant recall.

The year was 1976. These were slovenly times and it was every man for himself. But let’s stick to the facts – assuming "facts" still have merit in this strange world of ours.

I was in Europe thanks to my dear Grandmother, who felt a young man should "tour the Continent" as a an adjunct to a decent education (which I didn’t possess, having become a college dropout the moment the U.S. military no longer had dibs on my scrawny ass. By the luck of the draw, literally, I was exempt from Vietnam. Lotto Draft was stupid then and seems stupid now; but, by God, I was right where I wanted to be – "a free man in Paris," to quote the song).

My running buddy, who I’ll call Willie to protect the guilty, decided to join me, which was handy, seeing as he was willing to read Europe on $25 a Day in its entirety as preparation for our journey. Little did we know that drunkards couldn’t begin to appreciate life in the Old Country on a paltry 25 skins a day. I’m willing to bet that half our budget vanished in the first week alone, mainly on cigarettes and giant mugs of beer.

A massive heat wave stalked Europe that summer, and dank basements, such as the one beneath Amsterdam’s Paridiso Café, were good places to dwell. Especially if said cavern was laden with the best of what Morocco had to offer. It was here that I began to realize how wise my Grandmother actually was. I always believed a good education should be a hands-on experience, and Amsterdam seemed like the place to begin.

After a few days in the south of France, Willie suggested we venture into Spain for sangria. So off we went, lugging backpacks, our precious guidebook, and the remnants of the Paradiso stash. For now, suffice it to say that we were a pair of idiotic Americans in short supply of common sense or rational acumen.

Which seemed perfect at the time.

Barcelona was "fast and bulbous," as Captain Beefheart might say: Hulking grey buildings lined up like battleships as far as the eye could see; traffic to beat the band; stinky sewers; cheap hotels and lots of alcohol. It was only a matter of hours before we hooked up with a trio of young Americans who agreed that a bullfight was par for the course. That two of these people were female didn’t hurt matters. Visions of Hemmingway danced around us like phantoms from some lost generation.

Thanks to Willie’s keen research, we found a splendid bullfight not far from the hotel. A total of six snorting animals were destined to meet their Maker for the sake of what the locals considered Grand Entertainment. Picasso, who knew a good bullfight when he saw one, would be proud. That we had the foresight to fill a bota bag with cheap wine proved our worthiness as initiates into the complexities of animal sacrifice. Behind every Episcopalian lurks the vestige of an atavistic paganism; I was ready for the kill!

And kill they did, various matadors practicing the ancient art of slaughter with a gracility the likes of which most of us have never witnessed. I knew we were on the cusp of societal evolution when the final conquistador of the day flung a dead bovine’s ear into the stands, to the tumultuous screams of his adoring fans. As a touching retort, a lovely senora gave the hero her shoe, which he politely sniffed and returned to its owner.

As my man, Shakespeare, once penned: "The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on." And, as we all know, this is true. Even in Barcelona.

Here’s how it went down –

The five of us emerged from the coliseum and swung down a wide boulevard, buzzing on wine and pumped from an afternoon of serial murders. A crowd of hippies, amassed in a park at the end of the street, appeared to be chanting Ole! Which seemed appropriate in light of the circumstances. Following natural impulses, our troupe joined the action, fists raised in sympathy with the revelers. Ole!

It’s amazing how similar the words ole and amnesty end up sounding in Spanish. This became glaringly apparent when a squadron of military vehicles sped onto the scene and began discharging tear gas and anti-riot guns. Dead bulls are one thing, but political mayhem in a foreign country is another matter altogether. The thought of being bushwhacked by the Spanish militia jogged my brain into action and I did what any red blooded fool would do in my situation:

Run!

Night found the city under martial law; a curfew and a quiet pall settled over us like a light fog. Not to be denied dinner, we found a bistro off the main drag and ordered a pitcher of sangria. The barkeep, after much wrangling, finally agreed to our demand and suggested we begin our repast with a plate of baby octopus. Let me warn you now, if you’re squeamish about eating weird shit that requires lots of chewing, skip the octopus. The tentacles are particularly annoying.

I am the only witness to what went in that sangria, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Generous pours of vodka, gin, and rum were chased by a handful of grapes, and an orange (with peel), all topped off with plenty of cheap red wine. The barkeep figured we’d get drunk and run up a fat tab. What he didn’t count on was that we’d witnessed a violent blood ritual in the coliseum, seen what appeared to be the makings of revolution, and were already well under the influence. Alas, with only one glass of his noxious petrol in their veins, our newfound trio of Yankee comrades promptly passed out face-down on the table. This was a bad sign.

Willie filled the bota bag with whatever was in the pitcher and we requested the check, which turned out to sport a figure substantially more than our hotel room. To make a long story short, we did what we were getting good at and ran for it. I can still hear that son of a bitch screaming at our backs in a tongue I know not.

In 1976, Hal Holbrook starred in a TV commercial warning young Americans not to get busted while trekking in Europe. He made sure we all understood that mom and dad wouldn’t be able to spring their chickens from the innards of a Spanish jail. I had seen this advert several times and was keenly aware of its meaning. Yet, the moment is often more powerful than the message. Thus, it was at this point that whatever sanity had traveled with me from Alabama now decided to return from whence it came and leave me to my own devices, under the eye of an angry militia with zero tolerance for foolish hooligans from the United States of America. I vaguely remember clouds of smoke, nodding out in an alley behind our hotel, my feet up against a column of some sort and thinking that tomorrow was going to be one of those days that gives pain a bad reputation. Viva la Paradiso!

Cut to coffee and Daffy Duck speaking Spanish on a small television. There were young men in uniform on every corner, carelessly wielding machines guns. The train rolled through one of the worst ghettoes I’ve ever seen. And then we were in France and glad of it. What became of our friends is anybody’s guess. Spain lived on, largely intact, and the rest is just the noise of history.

I ended up traveling alone to Rome, where I met the kind of characters Charles Dickens would’ve appreciated. The juxtaposition of street whores to the Vatican was about as ironic as I ever need things to get. And it was lucky for me that the last vestige of Amsterdam made it to Italy, lending added depth to my 30 seconds beneath Michelangelo’s famous mural in the Sistine Chapel. I’ve been an art lover ever since.

Youth knows no barriers. But even the most seasoned fool understands when it’s time to quit. Thus it was that I stumbled into a TransWorld Airline office and suggested that we’d all be better off if they’d change my ticket and put me on the next jumbo jet for the lovely USA. The cute blonde behind the counter took one look at me and said "How about tomorrow?"

Salut!