stuck to the sticky dirtiness of the over night train seat,i awoke with glued eyes in madrid,spain. i headed to my hostel, it was properly grosse, damnit . but after a kip, a dry croissant, and cawfee in a plastic cup,madrid and i became nearly buddies.my usual buttered moonw
alk left me in the city of madrid. my heavy boots weighed me down as i lugged my battered weary body through the large boulevarded landscape and past stately white buildings, skirting red light districts, plazas, city centres,sunday markets scrapping my jersey on walls, all without a hint of recognition. ive never felt more alone,although i was riding Han Solo.allthough as pap as an over used tennis ball that's done its rounds
in garden cricket, i did manage to unearth one of the greatest art galleries id ever been to. it was the Museu Nacional Centro
De Arte Reina Sofia. jean nouvel added an add-on which was fire engine red,my kinda red. it wasn't the architecture that left me flashing my pearly's but rather the art.the surrealists left my face screw ball, dali left me scratching my nose on my knee and picasso left me 
patting the bull i never had and the geometries of josef and annie albers left me on the straight and narrow. the architects Legoretta and Barragan commended the Albers,and the shivers raced at knots down my spine. shawoweelike sand through the hour glass so monday the 18th was a day of my life. unlike a sunny-side up fried egg,it began in a bus. a dry cheese baguette added the excitement and arrival in a wee northern city called Bilbao simply was the gift the tooth fairy gave me for that 3rd incisor i lost on the log ride at gold reef city. bilbao is basque country, th
is was not the spain barcelona nor madrid offered me. the home region of eta and the master piece that is frank gehry´s guggenheim museum left me mute,for english they dont speak.the best way to understand the nature of local inhabitants is to rendezvous with them after sunset.and so im walking in an easterly direction and thousands bedecked in red and white scarves, in the other.
with my Moses super powers i simply could not part the ocean. so in a classic case,of 'cant beat em join em' me and my flashy
adidas' did a pirouette baryshnikov woulda gaped at and followed the hoards. to the home of atletico bilbao the piece of drift wood that i had become, settled.there was a party and i hadnt rsvp'd, mind you i hadnt as yet been invited. so i bought my invitation and settled in to watch spanish premier league football.the bar coded red and white strip of athletic bilbao had mountains of bird seed,bird seed that the supporters crack with their two front gnashers and spit for-wards, to climb. the supporters were an active bunch,smoking and grilling hash browns under the nostrils of pigs, shouting 
the names of pizza,puta for instance.it was a donut for each side. i think bilbao came out the better for it.at the end of the
boulevard it sat. frank o gehry, on a coffee-ring-stained serviette had scratched his tin foil 25th century masterpiece, and there it was before me. its titanium skin shiny shimmery,and more glossy than the gazillions of publications it's emblazoned. i had pitched tent in bilbao for 3
days,and for 3 days i oggled over this thing. it cannot be classified as building for other than a front door it holds none of the characteristics of building. i circumvented this building a million times,i climbed beneath bridges-my fear of heights couldn't hold me back, i climbed on bridges, and went long and came in short to photograph it. its cavernous bowels forced me into spelunking, touching, feeling, riding every obscure surface. its sheathed in splintered glass,sand stone and art so large it dwarfed me. this thing blew me away,blew me outta the rice paddies that are the principles of architecture and left me sprawled, unconscious and dazed.my final day in this fantasmagoric city saw me walking through the streets of the old town. there i bumped into about 3000 people cueing up for a cupla hogs on the spit.the blood-sausage-wrapped-in-a-
tortilla stains on the city dwellers would take more than OMO to cleanse them of their jo
ys. for some reason the whole town just didnt pitch up to work that day.they drank and munched and wore green scarves. it was weird, 3rd nipple weird.bilbao was a total surprise.i ventured there for a piece of architecture and what i found was frodo's shire.
a day arrived,it stuck me on its back, and galloped me into San Sebastian.i dont know what the hell san sebasti
an was other than a beautiful town,rusted landscape art,crazy humans swimming in the sea and a tennis club named Wimbledon, but a hard court version.and so like bubble wrap in the hands of my sister, what was going along as the perfectly planned vacation,went pop.i had built in 4 hours to do a 20 minute journey to Bilbao airport. price for the journey:1 euro 20,time to airport without
glitches:20 minutes,what happened to chaito:priceless.on the bus front the dot matrix read AEROPORTO, now i aint no spaniard, but that means airport to me. when i said aeroporto to the driver he replied SI,now i aint no spaniard, but that means YES to me. with backpack on back i squeezed through the bus aisle like mashed animal through a mincer. that was clue one that this bus wasnt going to the airport. clue 2: the bus driver charged our hero 3 euro. clue 3, the road signs pointing to the airport were facing the other way.and
finally clue 4: after 45minutes i again asked the driver if this bus was taking me to the airport. his head swinging my way and with a look-ma-no-hands action 
he said, 'no no',and so did the 20 or so fellow passengers. it was an hour to the next city,an hour back. my driver drove like a bat outta hell to get me back to the bus station. it was a riot.i chased and hunted the airport bus down and to it i arrived with time to spare. oh and did i mention there was a 4 hour take-off delay?
oh folks what a journey it was,what a piece of architecture and what a life i live. hope alls well my far flung friends.stay cool, stay fresh, keep walking.yours in home made custardthe chaito man,russian bear hunter,master swordsman and action figurine who is billed to compete with the Playstaion 3 for the hearts of kids.
so come on folks,if the pakistani cricket team can scratch,then why the hell can't you, SCRATCH
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