Joshua Zamrycki's Weblog

August is here once again and that means that I, like every other good Spaniard, am now on vacation (not that I work all that often anyway). Destination of choice for the year 2001: Mexico! That’s right, folks. In fact, I’m here right now. Yes, this is Josh writing to you from the city of Merida on the Yucatan peninsula. Jan and I decided to hop a flight to the Caribbean and do it in style: four weeks in a tropical paradise, traveling all around the south of Mexico. I won’t ruin the fun by telling you all about it just yet. We’ve only been here for five days and there’s still a lot to experience. But you can look forward to all the Mayan ruins, sandy beaches, jungle resorts, and lazy hammocks in my next installment of… The Barcelona Bulletin!

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,
Josh

I like volleyball. I mean I LIKE volleyball. A LOT! Many of you already know this. It is by far my favorite sport and I’ve been playing for the past 10 years. I’ve been playing on the sandy Barcelona beaches ever since I arrived here almost three years ago but I haven’t really played indoors like I used to do back when I was in school. I tried out for a team here two years ago, but they already had a full roster of players. They invited me to train with them, but I couldn’t play in any of the games. So last year I tied out again… and the same thing happened. But soon after, my boss asked me to start working more hours so I had to give up on indoor volleyball all together last year. Well, needless to say, I tried out again this year and, proving the theory that the third time’s a charm, I made the team! Now, this isn’t just a bunch of crazy Catalans getting together every Friday night for a little exercise and a few beers. This is a serious team and I’m playing in the league just three levels below the national level. I don’t realistically ever see myself rising to any levels higher than where I am now, but that’s ok because I’m more than happy to be where I am now. We train every Monday and Thursday night and we have games every weekend. Home games are always fun because a few friends always show up to support us (very few, actually), but traveling is really where it’s at. We’ve played in a small town called Tortosa, about three hours south of here on the Catalonia / Valencia border. We’ve traveled all the way north to Andorra for a match. We have even played in the quaint little sea town of Vilasar de Dalt. And so far we’re doing well. We only lost two matches in the first half of the season and we were confident we could beat the two teams we lost to if we meet them again in the playoffs. Yes, the team’s doing just fine. It a shame I wasn’t able to play with them for six weeks when I brutally sprained a muscle in the side of my left foot about eight months ago while practicing. I knew it was too good to be true. I just landed on someone else’s foot and my ankle twisted, ripping the muscle on the outside of my foot to smithereens. To shreds! In a matter of two minutes, my foot proceeded to blow up to approximately three times its normal size. I had never seen a foot that large before. It looked like there was a baseball inside and it wanted to get out. I had never suffered any sort of sports related injury that kept me from playing before so I didn’t know how serious it was. A couple guys from the team, after carrying me off the court, told me I could expect to be out for “two to three weeks at least”. It was the “at least” that scared me most. Well, besides the size of my foot that is. Oh yeah, and the excruciating pain. Anyway, those six weeks passed ever so slowly while I sat on the sidelines with my poor old bandaged foot and watched my team play. I eventually felt confident and strong enough to return to the court. When I returned we went undefeated! Well, until the semi-finals of the playoffs when… in the first few points of the match… I was up at the net on defense… I jumped up for a block… and landed on the foot of one of the opposing players who had crossed the centerline… and I dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. It happened again! The same exact way to the same exact foot! Only this time it was worse. I ended up with a fat old cast on my foot and was forced to sit in my bedroom for two whole weeks with nothing to do but mess around on my computer. I guess it could have been worse. Anyway, I’m back on my feet now just in time to have missed my team win the championships. Oh well, there’s always next year. Note to self: buy ankle braces.

Amsterdam has a very strange vibe about it. It’s a very relaxed and comfortable city, but at the same time somewhat pathetic. The problem lies somewhere between a lame obsession with legalized drugs and the red light district. But apart from certain people’s priorities, Amsterdam really is a beautiful city. After riding into town, I went straight to the tourist information office to look for a place to sleep. It was there where I met Sonia, Pilar, and Pere – three Catalans off traveling through Holland. Catalans love to travel and it’s hard to voyage anywhere in Europe without running into some. These three stooges were great fun and we ended up spending most of our time exploring Amsterdam together. I was especially useful when they found a boot on their car and my English came in handy talking their way out of a huge fine at the police station. Other than our exciting run-ins with the law, we explored the Van Gogh Museum, hopped on a few trams, crossed the grid of canals that define the city, learned about Amsterdam’s deep rooted Jewish history by means of a Portuguese synagogue and the Ana Frank house, and searched for some good space cake in one of the many “coffee shops” to no avail. I also explored many of the local parks and pubs with my new Dutch friends Annemarie and her sister Margot (a lovely pair). A good time was had by all. My train was preparing to leave in an hour or so and I found, in the back of my head, a nagging curiosity beating the stuffing out of my moral fiber. Upon my arrival in Amsterdam, I had never so much as experimented with any drug stronger than aspirin (OK, maybe ibuprofen a couple times, but I’ve stopped cold turkey). Call it curiosity and forgetting what it did to that poor cold cat (he probably had it coming to him) I decided to set off on another adventure. With glowing recommendation from my friend Bob (thanks Bob) I make a quick stop at a little coffee shop to pick up some Space Cake. To my dismay there was no Space Cake, but the kind gentleman behind the counter suggested a Space Brownie instead. I kindly thanked him, bought myself a chocolate Space Brownie and a cup of vanilla tea, consumed my pre-boarding snack, and set off for the train station. What a strange sensation of anxiousness, wonder and curiosity came over me as I took my seat in the crowded car. What would happen to me? Would I notice when it started? Would anyone else notice? I think I was about 15 minutes outside of Amsterdam when I faintly noticed a grin slowly creep its way onto my face. The grin soon blossomed into a full-blown smile that I couldn’t seem to hide. I may have even giggled. My neck transformed into a heavy rubber spring that couldn’t seem to support the now cumbersome weight of my head, which was bouncing between genius, foolishness, and paranoia. So I allowed my over-active mind to gently lean back and observe the blurred passing landscape while I meticulously developed maybe three or four ingenious inventions to make everyday life easier. They were truly incredible. I honestly impressed myself. It’s a shame I can’t remember a single one. The transfer from the train to the plane in Brussels proved to be more challenging than I had expected – something to do with left versus right and an incompetent staff not knowing the difference between the two. Both the plane and I came down gently into Barcelona airport under the warm morning sun, marking the end of another fantastic voyage.

Now down to the nitty-gritty. I strapped my bags and tent on to the back of my bike and headed north through the back streets of Belgium. Psyched and ready to go, I was a man with a plan and nothing could stand in my way. I got hopelessly lost within an hour. Getting lost in a land in which you do not speak the language does different things to different people. Personally I go through stages. At first I get nervous. I’m very big on planning. I enjoy drawing maps and writing itineraries and researching points of interest. Getting lost is a monkey wrench. But then, when the adrenaline kicks in, I begin to love it. The challenge. The chance to test myself. To test my resourcefulness. I inevitably get my act together and feel renewed and proud when all falls according to Hoyle. So on through industrial Machelen, ghost-like Zemst, quiet Mechelen, soft Rumst, retro Edegem, and sprawling Hove I rode on my way to Antwerpen – a beautiful city with a romantic sunset over the river and a nice chill atmosphere that made me feel comfortable and happy. With fietskaart (bicycle map) in hand I ventured onward through Borgerhout, Merksem (I almost didn’t make it out alive!), and Woensdrecht before I got lost again in frighteningly suburban Bergen op Zoom where, in case you’re ever there, they WILL NOT accept Belgian Francs in the supermarkets. I advise you to exchange your money BEFORE filling your shopping cart and waiting on line at the counter – especially if you haven’t used your ATM card in over a year and can’t remember your PIN number. Anyway, some places do take credit cards and campsites are really cheap. After waking up and greeting the plentitude of bunnies and turkeys that had apparently slept beside my tent I set off through the vast countryside of hills and woods that is collectively known as Halsteren, Dinteloord, and Stampersgat. I actually rode through Stampersget three or four times because I apparently found a magical road that makes a HUGE circle and is impossible to escape from without breaking down and crying. Needless to say, I quickly escaped and headed on to Niewemolen, Driehoek, and Heijningen before two things happened: 1) I got lost again and 2) I realized I couldn’t pronounce the name of a single city I had cycled through. I crossed beautiful bridges, slept in cozy campgrounds, learned a bit of Dutch from some friendly beer-guzzling natives, soaked up the summer sun, witnessed spectacular fireworks over the never-ending beach of The Hague, swam, read, ran, ate, and rode that bicycle of mine until it begged me to stop. Six days and 300 kilometers later I arrived in Amsterdam.

Summer had arrived, I had just finished shooting the video, my bank account was overflowing, I was happily unemployed and in much need of a vacation. It was time for another adventure. The summer before, I had explored England and Scotland on my bicycle and thoroughly enjoyed it. This year I continued the tradition and went to Belgium and Holland. I think exploring a country by bicycle is one of the best ways to really get to know a place. You meet more people, discover hidden gems off the tourist track, test your survival instincts, truly discover what you’re capable of, and get some good exercise to boot. Well what better place to cycle than Holland? So off I went on a 10-day trek of northwestern Europe. On August 6 I turned my steering wheel, deflated my tires, removed my pedals, and flew to Brussels. All my pesetas now appearing in the form of Francs and me now appearing in the form of a blond, I set out to take full advantage of everything the European Capitol had to offer. Brussels is a beautiful and surprisingly mellow city. They even have (what they refer to as) the most beautiful plaza in the world. The “Grand Place” is the size of a football field and is bordered on all sides by majestic, gold-trimmed buildings that, if they could speak, would gladly tell you the war-torn detailed history of the city. Once a year they line every inch of the floor of the plaza with flowers creating a tapestry of petals that is nothing short of breathtaking. Unfortunately, they were planning on doing this flower-laying the day after I was scheduled to leave. Oh well. In my three days there, I explored the city, befriended a couple fellow ex-pats, quietly sat through mass at the Saint Goedelepl Cathedral, blushed in front of the oh-so-small Mannekenpis (boy taking a piss), and washed down some mussels from Brussels with a long tall Belgian beer.

Just before the summer hit Spain with its usual brilliance, I was sent on an audition in some swanky little apartment in L’Eixample. They were casting a video for a language academy called Opening School. Never being one to turn down an invitation I, needless to say, auditioned. The video was to be used as part of the curriculum for their business courses that they offer in five different countries in Europe. They called me a few days later and offered me a small part in the film! I was soooo excited (that’s with four o’s)! I was scheduled to be in front of the camera for two days of the twenty-day shoot earning close to a month’s salary for each day! Couldn’t get much better, eh? Well, get this: when I went to pick up the script, they informed me that they had been doing some thinking and had decided to shuffle around some of the parts and asked if the changes were alright with me. Instead of the pamphlet-like script I was expecting, they handed me something closer to a dictionary! Instead of a two-day shoot, I was now scheduled for a mammoth 12-day shoot! They wanted me to be one of the main characters! They explained that I’d be making a bit more per day seeing as though the part was more demanding. With all of the composure I could muster, I gracefully thanked them and accepted the part. I then proceeded to dance, scream, run, and sing my way home down the sidewalks of Passeig de Gracia. The job itself was actually quite grueling. I had never worked in front of a camera before (at least not in a professional setting). For two weeks I did nothing but show up at 8 am, shoot until 8 pm, go home and eat dinner and fall asleep on top of the next day’s script. Not only did I meet a bunch of great people, but I learned a lot from this job – one thing being that I don’t enjoy working in front of a camera. It’s not a bad way to support my not-for-profit theater addiction, but I couldn’t see myself doing it every day. There’s just something about performing in front of a live audience, a rush if you will, that can’t be replaced with all of the makeup, special effects, retakes, and artificial lighting in the world. So we finished shooting, had a huge cast party, and we all went our separate ways. It turns out that everything we filmed is going to be incorporated into an interactive CD Rom and I’ve been doing some of the narration for the exercises. And thanks to the sweet bank account buffer that I received, I can now travel a bit more and happily survive without teaching (every English speaking foreigner’s dream).

Some of you may have seen it coming for years now, but this past summer I had the opportunity to play Puck in my very first production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And what a dream it was! I got to shave my head, jump from a 20 foot tree, and prance around topless with a bunch of fairies! We performed the show outdoors in Barcelona’s Parc de la Ciutadella (kinda like New York’s Central Park). When about a hundred and fifty people showed up to opening night, we were happy. We had expected a bit more, but that sure was a nice size audience. When a little over two hundred people showed up to the next night’s show, we were very happy. Now this was the type of audience we had been hoping for. But when over three hundred people showed up to closing night, we were euphoric. Amongst the cheering throngs was an agent who approached me after the show an asked if I was interested in being represented. I kindly accepted and now am sent on dozens of castings in which I sit in waiting rooms with millions of incredible looking actors and listen as my self-esteem slaps its face against the cold tile floor. Oh well, so is the life.

If the last time I wrote was in January last year, then I probably haven’t had the opportunity to mention Jan. Jan is the woman to whom I have devoted myself this past year and then some. We met soon after I moved here when we were in a production of Volpone together, but we didn’t really get to know each other (wink wink) until we met again working on Brave New World. Let’s see… How to describe Jan? Ok, quick bio: 32 years old, originally from the north of England but considers Brighton her home, she’s an ex-gymnast, a dancer, actor, art buff, who loves cycling, dancing after downing a few beers, going to the films, and kicking my butt in backgammon. She has short ginger hair, a crooked chin, and gorgeous blue eyes. She’s thoughtful, impressively stubborn, strong, punctual to a fault, and somewhat spacey. But most importantly I love her. We’ve been together for about a year and a half now and life is good. Neither of us is thinking about leaving Barcelona any time soon so we’re just enjoying the ride. Currently, Jan has been spending much of her time here at my place taking good care of me seeing as though I wasn’t allowed to walk last month, but I’ll tell you all about that in a little bit.

Wow, I guess it’s been about a year since I last sent out one of these Barcelona Bulletins! It just goes to show you how much can happen in one year. Well, I guess this email will give you somewhat of an idea as to what can happen in only twelve months. Telling you that I quit teaching English, saw my dad pick up and move to Florida, and am looking forward to going to my mother’s wedding next year now that she’s engaged would only scratch the surface. I won’t try to make it all fit in one sitting. Since I wasn’t able to leave my room for the entirety of last month, I had all the time in the world to prepare another one – but I’m getting ahead of myself. OK, let’s travel back through time…