The Bali Reunion in London

Will and me in London - St. Paul's Cathedral in the background
Shot by Daisie

In Camden Town, London, I moved my arm, which was on the table, from the table to my body, while the metal music was blasting from downstairs, and when I did so, I spilled Ericka's glass. The beer poured all over the table and onto Theodore's crotch; it looked like he wet himself. Erika demanded a new beer. Will said, "Good one, Paul." The table laughed.

I looked at Theodore and said, "I'm sorry." He laughed and said, "This hasn't happened in awhile." He started laughing. He put his arm on my shoulder and said, "No worries. Let's get another beer."

We were sitting upstairs. Ludo and Eleonra came back to London, to see me and other friends. I really pushed for Will and Daisie to come. We all met a year and a half ago in Bali. And I really wanted to see them again. So, we all had a little reunion, at a metal bar, in Camden Town.

Eleonra's best friend, Ericka, a pretty blonde, also lived in London. She brought her friend Theodore. Will brought his friend too. I can't remember his name; I just remember he came from Liverpool. And I would make fun of his accent and say in a high pitched voice, "I"m very Liverpool."

He would say, "OH! OH! Like I haven't heard that one before."

Then he would say, "Oh my God," in a valley girl accent, "I'm from Los Angeles."

Will would say, "Come on, Paul. Let's go down for some smokes." Will's friend and I went outside. They would smoke. It was cold and drizzling outside, a typical London night. They rolled their own cigarettes because they couldn't afford the commercial ones, which are highly taxed.

Then I'd tell his friend, "You know, in Los Angeles we have running water. Do you have running water in Liverpool?" (If you don't get it, youtube a Liverpool accent. Yes, it's a proper city, but they have such a strong country accent.)

He swore at me. And when he finished smoking his cigarette, he flicked the butt against my coat. The cherry burnt a thread. I smelled it. And he swore at me again. Then we all started laughing.

When we returned upstairs, Ericka said, "It's our turn now." Then they went downstairs to have a smoke.

At the table on my left, there was a chap, who looked nice and normal enough, except he poured out of a tube some white powder. He poured some on his thumb. He snorted it.

I asked, "What's he doing?"

"Coke," someone from my table said.

He snorted a few. He kept scratching the inside of his nose. Someone from my table said, "Can I have some?"

"No," he said. "That's all I got." He joined his friends. He kept scratching the inside of his nose.

We stayed at the bar until they closed the upstairs and kicked us out. We had to say goodbye to Will and Daisie and his Liverpool friend.

Then, Ludo and Eleonara had to go back to Italy. I hugged them. I was going to miss them. I said good bye Ericka and Theodore too.

I went back to my hostel alone to sleep at 03:00AM. The hostel manager and I argued. He thought I was breaking in. I was not. Then, I immediately tucked myself into bed and went to sleep.

* * * *

The next morning, I woke up at 10:30AM. I cleaned myself up and went to the war museum in London, where I learned a lot, but it's a topic for another day.

Around 04:00PM, Will and Daisie text me and say to come meet them. They just woke up. Around the same time, Ericka told me she just woke up too and if I'd like to join them.

Will, Daisie and I walked around London and caught up. I never forgot the two. Even though they can be like an old couple, I always remember their sweet and compassionate hearts.

In Bali, I was down and stressed on my first night. They were in my room. They took a liking to me. I told them I was too old to travel with them. I was 32 then. They refused to believe it. I told them it was the truth.

Then the two kids said I was going to travel with them, and that was the end of the matter. It was on the trip, that ten of us met and some of us stayed in touch. Then ten of us spent 10 days together. I was always grateful to them that they forced me to come and bled the sadness out of my spirit, which brought a new life in me.

Daisie, Will and me sitting on the art gallery floor

As we walked through London at night, we caught up on what happened over a year and a half. They're artists too. Daisie is a painter. She likes to paint vaginas now; she said it makes her feel free. Will is an illust rator.

I see a random guy passing by. I take a photo out of Daisie's newest vagina painting. I ask him what he thinks of it.

She says, "Paul!!!!"

I remember what the Italian lady told me: My face is my ass. (It means you have no shame.)

We find an art gallery, still open, along the River Thames. We all look at the art. Then, eventually, I sit down with Will and have a chat. There are chairs at the gallery, but I'd rather sit on the floor. So, he sits on the floor. Then, Daisie sits on the floor. Then we all chat.

I feel like we're in the television show Skins, which is an English show about the outrageous lives of teenage Londoners. It's something the characters would do. Sit on the floor of an art gallery and discuss all of life's problems. So, I have Daisie take a picture of us. Too bad Will and I came out blurry.

Then, Daisie says she's hungry. They both tell me they have no money. I lecture them on how they're being wasteful with their spending.

They both say, "Yes, Mum. We know."

I sigh, breathing out hopelessness. I don't even know why I tell them this. Are they even going to listen?

"Come on, then. We're going to China Town. I'm buying you cheap Chinese food. You two need to eat."

So, we walk to China Town. I ask Will, "How do we know, when we're at China Town?"

He says, "Believe me, you'll know."

When we arrive in China Town, there's a great big and ugly Chinese gate. And I said, "I think we're here."

Will says, "I would say you're right."

We find a cheap Chinese place. It's 5 pounds per person, but we can't eat inside. So, I buy three. We then decide to go to Leicester Square. We find somewhere to sit, but the stone we sit on is cold. We eat our food. We watch all the hustling and bustling and busy people. It's cold outside. When we talk, clouds of cold smoke fume from our nostrils and mouth. They finished their food. I finish half of it and take the rest to my hostel.

 We walk back to my hostel at Oxford Circus, which is an amazing location, in central London. After we finish, Will and Daisie take me through the dark and dirty alleyways to get back. I saw things, I shouldn't have seen.

As T.S. Eliot once wrote:

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

When we get back to my hostel, I go to my room. I get them their gifts.

I give Will a rare book on American cartoons. I give Daisie some American cashew chocolates. I tell them how I wish we could have had more time together. As the poem says, And indeed there will be time . . . Time for you and time for me[.] But that time will not be now, I think.

She says, "I know," in a bit of whiney way.

Will says, "Come back to London."

"I guess I'll have to."

I give them both a hug. I walk them out.

The lady at the front desk, who is from Italy tells me, "I almost felt like crying, when you said bye to your friends."

Well, that deserves a chit chat, I thought. So, I talk to her a bit, until I know I can go back to my room.

When I go to bed, I think to myself, I wonder if all this was meant to be.

Local Business Owner Sues the City of Baldwin Park for Violating His Free Speech Rights - Special Report

Greg S. Tuttle, local business owner, filed a lawsuit yesterday agains the City of Baldwin Park, for violating his Free Speech Rights, because it has threatened and issued a citation for having a sign that criticizes Baldwin Park's Council Member Ricardo Pacheco for being corrupt. The lawsuit asks the court to strike down Baldwin Park's laws on signs, because it violates both the state and federal constitution, which guarantees free speech rights to individuals. It also asks for a temporary and permanent restraining order, which would seek to stop Baldwin Park from citing residents whom wish to hang the Pacheco sign. Finally, the lawsuit asks for damages and attorney's fees.

The public officials have had a hostile stance towards the residents' rights, which guarantee them the freedom to speak out against public officials' corruption. In July of 2014, Mayor Manuel Lozano attempted to get a restraining order against the attorney and activist, Paul Cook, who was leafleting at Morgan Park against the Director of Parks and Recreation, Manuel Carrillo. The court criticized the City of Baldwin Park and specifically told it, "You know that he [Cook] has Free Speech Rights." The Mayor's lawsuit was dismissed against Cook.

Then, Cook sued the City of Baldwin Park in federal court for retaliating against him for his exercise of Free Speech, because the City arrested him, had a woman officer strip search him, and threw him into jail. After the filing of the complaint, the City settled with Cook for $67,5000.

Then, when Greg Tuttle began investigating the City's business practices in luxury hotels and restaurants in Santa Barbara, Council Member Ricardo Pacheco also filed a temporary restraining order in order to halt his investigation and discredit his findings. Mayor Lozano and Council Woman Monica Garcia followed. Cook defended Tuttle in court and had all three lawsuits dismissed. The court told Ricardo Pacheco to his face, that being a politician comes with such criticism, and that he needed to grow up or move on.

Since then, a number of residents have been angered over a number of votes that Council Member Pacheco has cast, which they believe has been fueled by receiving bribe money. As a result, these residents have been plastered banners on their building with a portrait of him as a donkey. The banner has stamped on top of it the word: "Corrupt."

(Not only have residents been complaining, but former women employees and two Council Woman are also complaining that they have been either physically or verbally assaulted, because they were women, by Ricardo Pacheco.)

In response to the plastering of the sings, the City of Baldwin Park then ordered code enforcement to warn everyone with these signs to take them down or be fined. When they did not take them down, code enforcement fined these residents. And when they did that, Tuttle's attorneys: Carol Sobel, Fred Zelaya, and Monique Alarcon, filed a lawsuit in federal court to protect Tuttle's and other residents' Free Speech Rights.

The Mayor and City Attorney have stated that these lawsuits hardly affect the City because the insurance company pays the damages anyways. Therefore, it appears that the City has taken a stance that they're going to violate law, until an actual lawsuit materializes and results in a court order. And even when the court issues an order, like in the Casas' lawsuit, the City has still chosen to violate them.

Nonetheless, it doesn't appear that the City's strategy is working. In the last few years, the City has been deluged with lawsuits. What's special about this lawsuit is that it's the first lawsuit in the City's history attempting to invalidate a law the City has enacted. In other words, if Tuttle prevails in the lawsuit, the court will effectively tell the City it doesn't have the right to make illegal laws or enforce them.

The next step is that the City will now have to respond to the lawsuit. We'll see what happens.

[Update on Dec. 14, 2016, San Gabriel Tribune writes a story on the case. Lawsuit alleges Baldwin Park code prohibiting political signs violates free speech]

My Days in Copenhagen, Denmark

Kongen Nytorg, Copenhagen, Denmark
Shot by Paul Cook

All of this happened while I was walking around cold in Copenhagen – the strange city no one leaves from, until she has left his mark on him. I took a break from London and flew into cold, Copenhagen.

I liked the hostel I was staying at. It reminded me of staying in an old hotel, that was centuries old. The bottom floor was restaurant and tavern, where they served alcohol. But it wasn't like an American bar. It felt more like a living room downstairs, and the tables were long and grand. And you can imagine vikings used to seat there, after coming back from their voyage, and drink their liters of mead, laughing and telling stories. And upstairs, there were the bedrooms.

I didn't feel like talking to people now. I met so many people in London and Italy, and I felt like I needed my own time and space. I chose to come to Copenhagen instead of Paris because it was supposed to be sunny. And it was. Even still, Copenhagen got dark early. It got dark at 04:00PM.

I heard that Denmark was the happiest country in the world. I could see that the land of ice was a good place to live. I could see that the people of ice, with their golden hair and their icy blue eyes, were also polite. (They kind of all look the same, though.) But, it lacked that fire inside, the fire I found in Spain and Italy.

If Italy was a great lover, Denmark would make a great wife, except she's very expensive and demands a lot out of you. That's one thing that wore on me. It was so expensive in Copenhagen.

I spent $30 on a Danish lunch. I had one Christmas beer, which was $10. Everyone was drinking it. So, I thought I should have one too. It wasn't worth the price. Money is hard to make. And to waste it like that, made me feel guilty. The sandwich, which was just one piece of bread with trout eggs on it, cost $12. The waitress said I should have a half shot of Danish Christmas liquor to finish my meal. Everyone else around was drinking it. But that too, cost $6. I spent $30 on a Danish lunch, and I felt guilty about it.

Coffee is expensive. Food is expensive. Everything is expensive. So, I told myself to suck it up. I was on in Denmark for a few days.

When I was in Denmark, I didn't want to talk to travelers. So, I walked to the Danish Parliament alone. I was in awe of the Parliament, only because I saw it so often in a Danish television series called Borgen. I was thought to myself: Wow, I'm really here.

Danish Coat of Arms

And there, the guards let me in. I did however talk to the guards. I asked them about the Danish coat of arms and what it meant. I love the Danish coat of arms. It's of three lions and hearts. (Courage and love in my view.) When I saw the crest stamped in red wax and with red ink, it just struck me as so regal.

Inside, I walked up the flight of stairs, all the way to the top, and saw an open session of parliament. (It would be like watching Congress in Washington D.C.). And even though I generally can't stand politicians, I was also in awe of watching the politicians argue. The ones engaged in the conversation were stately and noble. The other ones not paying attention, were on their cell phones and reminded me of my Baldwin Park council people - whom in my view are all shameful.

But then, I even saw the Danish Prime Minister. I don't know why I was impressed to see him, because I could care less for public officials. But there was something interesting about watching him speak to his cabinet members, and they looked like they were talking about something very important indeed. What were they talking about? I wondered.

When I returned back to my hostel, I took off my boots and set them aside, while I sat in the comfortable recliner. I watched the people talking in the dimly lit hall, until the Italians in my room approached me.

The Italian girl started up a conversation. She told me she was having a problem with her travel documents. (Do they know I'm an attorney? They must have a sixth sense about it.) I do engage her. I tell her I just came back from Italy. She's actually from the same region as Ludo and Eleonara. She introduces me to her friends. We chat. They tell me they have to go to the airport. I told her if she has problems and come back, I'll be here to help her out. I never told her I was a lawyer.

She says, "Gracis."

I say, "Praigo."

She didn't come back. She must have made her flight.

On my last day in Copenhagen, it got dark and gloomy. The northern arctic winds start blasting. And even though I was wearing many layers of clothes and a scarf, it started getting bitterly cold. The winds pierced through all my layers of clothing, and chilled my skin. It chilled my bones. It chilled my marrow. It chilled my blood. And the chill stayed in me. I shivered and hated it. I hated it and shivered.

I thought to myself, I can never live here. It's way too cold.

On my last day in Copenhagen, the Court of Appeals asked me for more information regarding one of my motions I filed. I responded by asking for more time. I even wrote on my application for an extension, "Happy holidays to the court from Copenhagen, Denmark." I don't know if attorneys generally do that, but the court needs to be wished well too, from time to time. (The court eventually granted the extension; so I could enjoy the rest of my winter holidays.)

Upon having to leave the City, some of me wish I had seen more in Copenhagen. A part of me just wanted to leave the land of ice and salty sea. A part of me loved their bread, which was freshly baked, which had a crunchy crust, but was soft and buttery inside. A part of me resented their high prices and their heavy taxes.

In any event, my final conclusion is that Copenhagen left it's mark on me. 

The Christmas Party in London

Big Ben, London, United Kingdom

During a Christmas party in London, I told several New Zealand guests that I was going to one day become prime minister of New Zealand. I told them it wouldn't be that hard; I would just have to unite the explosively growing Asian population together and have them vote for me. They laughed. Then one of them said that he would have to oppose me, because I may bring Donald Trump's ideas to New Zealand.

After Italy, I flew into London to meet an old friend named Ilya, and his wife, Mandy, in London. Although Ilya is Russian and Mandy's Malaysian Chinese, both are New Zealand citizens. I haven't seen Ilya in eight years, which was when I was living in New Zealand. So, I was excited to see Ilya and he, me. It's been a long time.

From the airport, I took the train into London. It was the same train that I rode 15 years ago. (I was studying my physics then, in the South of England, under a Scottish professor who was skeptical of everything.) I couldn't believe the tickets had the same design and color. The route was the same. The only difference was that the demographics of London has seemed to change a lot; there are a lot more foreigners. It appears that the foreign population is larger than the native one.

It was a bit of shock to come into London from Italy. In Italy, we were living the slow and relaxed way of life. At the train station and the Underground (which is the name for their subway), it was so busy and hectic. People were rushing to get to their next location. The whole place seemed to be moving at a much faster pace. And in that rush, while I dragged my luggage down the stairs to the Tube, I cracked one of the wheels. It set me back 30 pounds.

And I felt sorry for London, because although it's advancing, I asked myself what it's losing to advance so fast. Ilya and I ate at an Indian restaurant for lunch and next to me was a young student, eating alone. Because he was eating alone, I introduced myself, eventually. He told me he was studying at one of the best schools in the United Kingdom, the London School of Economics. But he seemed lonely.

I wanted to invite him to our party. But I never got the chance.

When I told Ilya my scheme, he said, "Paul, you can just invite random people over."

I said, "Why not? He seemed lonely."

Ilya shook his head. I think they think I'm crazy. Maybe, I am.

I told him, I need to bring him a stray cat, then. He said that would be even worse. I protested that it'd be lucky for him. He didn't believe me.

While I was in London, I was lucky, though. The glorious sun came out and warmed the cold air. Nonetheless, the yellow smoke still slid along the streets.

Did you know that in Shakespeare's Henry IV part 2, the King of England tells Prince Hal that he should only appear in front of commoners once in awhile, because the King is like the sun in England. If you appear, only once in awhile in front of the people, they're happy to see you, as they're happy to see the sun. It's a difficult play to understand without knowing the history, but I love Henry IV. It has so much insight, like when Henry's partying friend, Falstaff pretends to be dead in the war, so as to not get killed. Falstaff believes better to be a coward and survive than be brave and die, though of course it's not royal conduct.

Back to be being in London. I didn't do much sightseeing in London. It's expensive. Almost everywhere you go, except for museums, they charge you.

Ilya and Mandy were hosting a Christmas party for Kiwis. There were 11 Kiwi guests. I'm half a Kiwi, since I have permanent residency but not citizenship. They wanted to make a turducken, which is a chicken stuffed into a duck, which is stuffed into a turkey.

I helped. I told them to bring the turkey, since turkey is generally bland. I also took the skin off the duck and blanketed it over the turkey, so the turkey skin would cook in duck grease. The roasted duck skin was crispy, fatty, and to die for.

During the Christmas party, we played pass the parcel (package). The parcel is wrapped ball of strips of toilet paper. Every once in awhile, when you remove a strip, a joke or instructions or a gift comes out. It's like hot potato, and if the parcel lands on you, you unwrap a part of the parcel.

When I unwrapped my parcel, it told me to lick my elbow. I looked stupid. Everybody laughed. Everybody drank too, mainly mulled wine, which is spiced red wine. Ilya, being Russian, also passed the shots of vodka around.

After the party ended, around 02:30AM, we all slept. We all slept in.

The next day, I went to the British Museum. I didn't do much sight seeing, but I loved the British Museum. I loved seeing the Egyptian sculptures of the pharaohs and the sphinxes. They were huge. They were grand. They were so impressive!

I also saw the mummies, and I felt like a kid again. I imagined that they would wake up and chase after me in the museum. Oh, they were so wicked to see. Do you think they really have curses and can become ghouls? Who knows?

Well, after British Museum, I took the Tube to the airport. I was flying to Denmark. I'm just spending my time there, until Ludo and Eleonora come to London. Then, it's time to continue the good times. 

Eating, Drinking, and Loving in Northern Italy

View from Piemonte, Northwest Italy

In the forest, high up in the hills, we were eating freshly baked pizza and drinking red wine made by Ludo's uncle. We toasted; the glass rang; I thanked my hosts for their hospitality; and we ate. I could see their old, white dog, wandering in the cold forest. It was a Sunday, and we were feasting on some of the best pizza I had; it was really good because it was made with love.

Eleonora, Ludo's sister, captured some wild yeast and spent several days to grow the culture. Then she pounded and kneaded the pizza dough with wholemeal flour. When she pounded the dough, and smashed it into the counter, you could hear the bang.

Ludo and Eleonora told me for days they were going to make me pizza. I didn't know it'd take so much time to make. I didn't know it'd taste so good. Eleonora preaches to everyone she meets the importance of using wild yeast instead of the commercial kind, both for health and taste purposes. She's right - you know?

I'm convinced I found my heart in Italy. At one point, I couldn't help but tell Ludo and Eleonora the truth. I told them, they had such big hearts. And truly, their hearts were forged from the same furnace, because they were made of gold.

When I arrived into Northern Italy from Madrid, it was grey, dark, rainy, and gloomy. Ludo and Eleonora drove an hour and a half to pick me up from the airport. Gasoline (or petrol) is twice the price in Italy than the United States. I tried to pay them for the fuel, but they wouldn't let me. It's been over two years since I've seen Ludo.

I met Ludo on one of my trips. If you're an avid reader of my blog, you can figure out which country I met him in. I didn't think I'd get along with him too well. Never thought we'd be unfriendly to each other either, but we're very different from each other. It's like pairing a bookworm, wallflower with a party animal.

One time, Ludo came back to the hotel from partying until 05:00AM. I woke up at 09:00AM to get breakfast, and he said, "Wait, Paul, I'm coming with you." Then, Ludo wouldn't sleep again and party until 05:00AM again, and then get breakfast with me all over again.

But Ludo says, I'm really crazy inside. That's why we get along. Could be?

I stayed with Ludo and his sister in their big Italian house. (It's a flat, but it feels more like a house, since it's so large.) One of his female flatmates is studying to be a sex therapist. Another female flatmate studies philosophy. His male roommate is studying design. Ludo is studying psychology. And Eleonora is an artist. (Incidentally, Ludo gave up his bed for me to sleep on, while he slept somewhere else.) (And for reasons I won't go into in my blog, I called his flat the love-flat.)

Living at his flat for a few days, brought back memories of my days in college. It also gave me the experience of living with artists, which I never did in college. I loved my roommates back in college, but I believe they were all scientists. Although I was a scientist too, I think a part of me sees the world as an artist and part of me wished I lived with artists during my younger days.

And as artists and Italians, they're always eating together and drinking together. Almost every night, they cook dinner for each other. In fact, on the first night, I cooked risotto for them. (I bet, they didn't know that I could cook Italian food, even though I'm Korean-American.)

During those days, when we ate and drank together, we talked about everything, from politics to art to literature, and they especially liked to talk about love. (And Eleonora likes to tell everyone about her newly found passion about wild yeast.)

I keep complaining that the Italians feed me too much. Once, after returning home from wandering through Europe's largest open flea market, the sex therapist's mother was in the flat. She invited me to sit next to her.

They fed me an Italian rice dish. She said, "My English not good. But I try." She then explained that even though her English is not good, that she's Italian and knows how to use her lively hands to talk to anyone.

She then said in Italian, "My face is my ass." The people at the table laughed. I'm told it means that she has no shame in trying. When she leaves, she hugged me and kissed me on one cheek then the other. She's a wonderful woman. I love her.

And after she feeds me, another flatmate asks if I want more food. And they always ask, "Paul, do you want a coffee?" They make me a coffee before the meal and during the meal and after the meal. Then they tell me, "Paul, you drink a lot of coffee." And I just laugh to myself, thinking, Yeah, because it's so good.

Did I tell you, all they do is feed me and give me drink? When we visited Ludo's father, he made a hunter's pasta for us. It had pieces of meat and vegetables. They serve me wine, made by Ludo's uncle. It's rich and nice. But I've ate so much food and drank so much wine, I feel so tired. I walk up to Ludo's room and nap.

When I wake up, they say, "Come on, Paul. We're going to visit a friend for dinner." Aye, more food and drink. The feasting, the drinking, and the love never ends.

In that region, they were celebrating on a Sunday a truffle festival. It's one of the few regions in the world that sells white truffles. Truffles are a sort of mushroom that grows deep in the earth, in the forest, around oaks, and dogs or pigs are required to find them.

The shop owner lets me smell one. It smells nutty and strong and pungent and oh-so-good. I never ate a white truffle. We don't have them in Los Angeles.

So, I buy a small one, which costs about $15 and is the size of small chestnut. In the States, it would cost upward of a $100. It's for the flat.

Later in the week, they make pasta. Ludo slices the truffle thin. They look like tiny sheets of paper. We throw it into the pasta, while the pasta is still hot. We add fresh olive oil and salt with it. We mix it. And eat.

It tastes wonderful. The girls bought both red and white wine today to drink it with.

Well, I have more and more stories of food, drink, and conversations. But all in all, I was sad I had to go. So sad, I realized that I couldn't let Ludo or Eleonora go.

I looked into my mileage bank account. And for a few days, I talked to Ludo about going with me to London. Ludo would say, "Paul, I have finals; I have to study for them."

I replied, "Don't worry. I'll make sure you study. I'll take you to a cafe. I could read. You could study."

A wicked grin surfaces. I could feel it. And it belies my words.

"I don't think I'll study if I'm in London. I have finals."

. . .

Ludo says, "When Paul wants something, he really pushes it so strongly."

I say, "You have to fight for your ideas."

He says: "Remind me not to go against you." (Remember; Ludo is an Italian. They're lovers, not fighters.)

But after relentlessly talking about what could be, he finally agreed to come with me to London. I looked at my mileage account and had enough to book him a flight from Italy to London.

When he agrees, I tell Ludo, "Contact all the people we know in the UK. Tell them we're coming to London."

He says, "I will."

Eleonora found out. She thought about coming.

Then she said, "I want to come too." So, I booked her a ticket too.

And had they refused, I'm sure I would have plotted a way to kidnap them and take them with me both to London.

I asked myself, Why should the feast stay in Italy? No, it should go, wherever we go.

My time in Italy reminded me, kindness makes more kindness, generosity makes more generosity, and love makes more love. I'm convinced, living like this could cure almost anything. 

The Bully of Baldwin Park - Ricardo Pacheco

Ricardo Pacheco in a jumpsuit

According to dictionary.com, a bully - Boo l ee - is "a blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people." Does Council Member Ricardo Pacheco qualify?

Over the last few days, Ricardo Pacheco has ordered city employees to fine people who have signs, which accuse him of corruption. On Sunday, there was a truck that displayed such a sign, and even though he was not authorized to, he attempted to tow the truck away. But without the authority to do so, he could not.

Let's not forget that Pacheco also attempted to sue a small business owner, Greg Tuttle, for a temporary restraining order because Tuttle was attempting to find out what Pacheco was doing with corporations in Santa Barbara. Pacheco spent $52,000 of city money to file this lawsuit. How that money relates to city business is still in question.

If that's not enough, Pacheco, Lozano, and Garcia have made a decision right before Thanksgiving (hoping that no one would discover it) to put a halt to an investigation into Pacheco's misconduct. Specifically, Council Woman Cruz Baca has accused Pacheco of assaulting her. Lozano halts investigation of Pacheco

Just so that we're clear: Pacheco is a heavy man, who is shoving and shouting at a woman. Citizens are wondering why the investigation was halted, because if he did nothing wrong, what's there to hide.

Steady reports are also coming in that Pacheco has threatened to put people out of business for displaying the signs that accuse him of corruption.

Pacheco's behavior reminds me, of a child who is out of control. We've all seen one. The child doesn't get his way, he starts kicking and screaming at others. Well, it seems like unfortunately, Mr. Pacheco has not grown out of this phase. The sad part is that when people behave like this on other's people's money and with the police force, they tend to amplify the harm that could be done to others.

Mr. Pacheco, if you or your friends are reading this, I have to repeat what the judge has already told you. It's time for you to grow up and move on. The majority of people in the City don't know you, and I think that's good thing, because if they did, they wouldn't like you. And the only reason you were elected again as that I'm convinced that you cheated the absentee vote.

You have to accept the truth: People don't want you representing them and don't appreciate the harm that you're doing to us now. You're a shame for us all and an example of what the worst of the human spirit looks like.

We know that without your title or position, you'll be washed up and have nothing left. Perhaps, in that period you can reflect on all the harm you've done and mature. To avoid ugliness for all of us, we'd hope that you would step down quietly. But knowing you, you probably want to leave in the most unpleasant of ways. 

Seeing Guernica in Madrid, Spain

Picasso's Guernica

During my days in Madrid, I got lost over and over again, and in that lostness, I was able to eat great food and see great art. It seemed like Madrid was just one big maze, and in that maze, I could not find my way out. (Nor, did I want to.)

Being in such a maze led me to different tapas bars, and I would stop inside and order a Spanish champagne called Cava, and order some food.

There was one place called the Serafina, and I went there six times. The owner got to know me.

The first night I ordered risotto (Italian rice) with duck and truffle oil. I threw some salt on it and each spoonful was rich and fatty and bursted with flavors of robustness.

Another dish I enjoyed was these pieces of squid, which were cooked in champagne and served with caramelized onions over thin french fries. It tasted sweet and salty and from the sea.

I ate alone each time, but I did not feel lonely. Often times, I would just sit and eat and daydream about a life that could be. Other times, I would reflect on all the art I saw.

Often, I'd read from The Old Man and the Sea. It was the first time I read the novella. I was drawn into the story.

If this is what it's like to be lost, then I hope I'll never be found. Because, after one's found, can one be lost again? And if this is what it means to be lost, then I don't need to be found either.

I went to the Prado again. The first time was better, two years ago, but only because everything was new then. And because it was new, it was all exciting.

This time around, however, I noticed myself studying the paintings and trying to understand what the artist was trying to say. I could see what messages the artist was trying to stress, clearer than last time.

Hemingway stated that studying drawings and paintings helped his writing. Being at the Prado, I could see why.

Fighting Cats by Goya

One new painting I found, was one of Goya. He painted fighting cats. I so wanted to bring it home.

I thought that Jeh Pan, my cat, would appreciate seeing his European relatives on the wall. I think the right one looks more like him.

The day after I went to the Prado, I went to see Picasso's work. It was in seeing his works, that I knew the dead spoke to me. And I understood what they said.

I saw his famous Guernica. When I saw it, I could feel the awakening of a force inside of me; I could feel the great force of his human spirit.

To understand Guernica, you have to understand the Bombing of Guernica. During World War II, the Nazis bombed the tiny village of Guernica, in northern Spain, where women and children were mainly living. The affair horrified people, as the military attacked helpless civilians. The artists of the time were particularly in shock.

Picasso, then living in Paris, read the accounts of the Bombing of Guernica and decided to do something about it. He decided to paint what is now known as the great Guernica.

It's a 25 foot by 11 foot painting (which is very large indeed), done in black and white, in a cubist style, representing the horrors of war through fragmentation and fracturing and splintering and splitting of realities. It took him only 35 days to complete.

In preparation for the painting, he drew several sketches, which I saw as well.

Those sketches spoke to me. In those few lines, it was as if I was touching the pulse of a master artist. You could see the control and power in the drawing, and you could feel the force behind the artist.

But nothing could prepare me for seeing the final and actual work. I was in awe.

In Guernica, one piece, I could see the fragmentation, the incoherency, and the horrors of war. I could see how people in power destroyed the lives of the innocent, only to maintain and gain control. I saw the destruction of realities, and the pain and the torture of humanity. For me, if there was any main message, it was this: Is there any meaning behind this quest for control? 

You could see the brokenness of the bull and the horse (both Spanish national symbols). The whole work, echoes to its viewer, whether any kind of reality is left. You could see the horrified mother, who lost her baby in the bombings. And if you study the painting hard enough, you could see the secret harlequins and symbols of death, imbued into it. Nonetheless, it's very present (even if one can't see the themes consciously).

And lost in that hopelessness, though, the artists of that museum spoke to me, even though they're dead. And their message was very clear to me.

Although they have guns, germs, and steel, we can fight back by capturing the animus of the human spirit. These artists did so with their paintings.

I realized I can do so too, and have been doing so, with my words, words that capture the truth of the human essence. For they may have guns, germs, and steel, but we have something more: the expression of the soul - which rages and wages on, even when the guns have been shot, germs have been eradicated, and the steel has been pitted, rusted, and melted.

Picasso and the artist of his time are dead. But they still live on and have a conversation with us.

And they're able to do so, because they gave of themselves and their lives and their energy to stop the present evil of their days. And even if they considered themselves to have failed, they gave everything of themselves to try and fight on.

For certain, I was inspired, inspired by the dead, inspired by the dead, whom still live on in and through their works.

The story goes, that an SS officer entered Picasso's building in Paris (because he couldn't return to Spain), and upon seeing Picasso's picture of Guernica, asked him, "Did you do that?"

Picasso replied, "No, you did."

I was inspired. And that inspiration, gave me great hope in knowing that the work I've done (and will do) is not in vain. For even after my flesh and bones rot away back into earth, I know that an artist's work will live on.

While reflecting upon all this, in a tapas bar in Madrid, drinking my cava, I was reading Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, who incidentally had conversations with Picasso. I found my favorite line.

In it, it says, "But I will show him what a man can do and what a man can endure." That's right: I'll show them what a man can do and what a man can endure. And the people watching will shout: "Olé! Olé! Olé!"