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San Luis Obispo, CA 93401
CODE NAME:
JULIO
wrapper. Using slurred hand gestures and
unusual perseverence, somehow the
rumored destination is reached. There's a
crowd of hundreds waiting there, antici-
pating these travelling skaters who are com-
pletely surprised because they don't know
where they'll be from one day to the next.
It is at this place that they are rejoined
by Caballero, the Gonz, Roskopp and
Mountain.
I've never witnessed such harmony of
spontaneous human combustion, but there
it was on terrain constructed specifically for
this kind of activity. Its cement construction
provides a variety of riding surfaces. One
area is the center of activity. It is large and
rectangular, about four feet deep with
approximately 45° banked walls, and a
steep radius transition area which rises.
considerably above the ground to vertical.
The frenetic skateboarding activity
appears roughly choreographed, but, at the
same time, reckless and haphazard. At high
speeds they chase each other across the
banked walls, then pound, launch and slash
the vertical section.
The local enthusiasts are very friendly. An
added bonus is that many of them under-
stand English. The interpreter, Charlie,
speaks more languages than Charles
Bronson, making him a major aid to the
cause. Also, there's Francisco Jose Burgos
Villarubia. Between those two and "Juan
the Driver," the energy-filled Americans are
able to evenly spread their brand of havoc
across Madrid. It is no overstatement to say
"they left no stone unturned."
The day Steele tells Caballero, Mountain
and Roskopp that it was about time they got
some real culture rammed down their
throats, I can't help but tag along.
"Museo del Prado," was all Steele said
to the cab driver. The Prado Museum
houses some of the finest art in the world,
including an extensive collection of Goya
and Velazquez pieces. We find ourselves
entering an annex to the main museum,
which is dedicated exclusively to Picasso
and houses the still-controversial painting
"Guernica." Painted in 1937, it's about the
merciless bombing of Guernica, Spain, by
the Nazis during the Spanish Civil War.
When questioned by government officials
as to whether or not he painted the obvious
protest piece Picasso replied, "No, you did."
Now it's behind glass and under guard.
After exiting the museum the small group
crosses the street and begins to skate the
marble structures surrounding a large
grassy area.
It's been two days since I have attempted
contact. If one of these guys is the agent,
he must be lying low. It looks as if the time
is nigh. At a large sidewalk cafe, Roskopp,
Lance, Caballero and I lunch very tourist-
style. Shorts, black socks, the works. Up
walk two gypsy girls who begin to beg
money off Roskopp. Mountain raises his
camera to capture the moment. Looking
through the viewfinder, he witnesses the
taller of the two cupping her hand under
Roskopp's nose while the other unzips his
waist-pouch. Like a jack-in-the-box, Lance
grabs the ketchup off the table and squirts
the gypsies in a blaze of red Zorro glory.
Mopping up the ambush is a nearby waiter
who grabs the big one by the neck and
throws her to the sidewalk.
By some miracle, or something suspi-
cious, Pat Ngoho turns up at the hotel. He
says a guard at the train station told him
where to go.
The levels of achievement are forever
amazing. The night of June 11 we all find
ourselves inside a large private country
club, rubbing elbows with 'royalty, 'politi-
cians, and members of the 'stinking rich,
at a celebration of the Four Roses thrown
in honor of the Inauguration. Somehow, we
are invited. We are even expected. It is elec-
tion day, and we didn't even vote. The
Spanish Turbo-upperclass are priviledged
to witness a rare, aggressive way to do 'the
Twist, when "Let's Twist Again" by Chubby
Checker blasts out of the sound system. The
Americans leave a lasting impression by
clutching full mugs of beer in each hand
while twisting down to the floor, and spray-
ing it all around when twisting up. One even
did a two beer-mug handstand.
Juan the driver relates a tale of transport-
ing the Gonz, Roskopp, Caballero and
Lance the day of their arrival; they weren't.
twenty minutes on the road when somehow,
the large side window of the van got
knocked out, crashing onto the freeway. "It
just fell out," he was told.
Madrid, the capital of Spain since 1606,
is truly a beautiful city. While passing Puerta
Alcala, a large archway, Francisco informs
us that the holes on its thick walls are shell
holes from the Spanish Civil War. Puerta
Alcala is the remains of a large wall that
used to encircle Madrid.
The day comes when many of the group
are eager to move on; arrangements are
made for a night train to Barcelona, which
lies on the Mediterranean coast of Spain.
"Why Barcelona?" the whole group asks
Steele.
"I don't know, I've got a feeling. Or gas."
BARCELONA
Some say that Barcelona is a city that has
to be seen to be believed. I'll never know.
Half an hour after arrival, Steele announces,
"You guys remember that feeling I told you
I had about Barcelona?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, I don't got it no more. It left. If we
stay in Barcelona, something bad is gonna
happen. Someone's gonna get arrested,
hurt or, worse, I might fall in love. We're.
catchin' a train in forty minutes. Be there,
or don't."
A whole forty minutes to spend anyway
they wanted is more than the athletes.
could've hoped for. Not wasting a split-
second, their finely-honed senses click into
auto-exposure and detect some one-and-
a-half-foot high, 60-yard long, two-inch
square metal railings all the way across a
large parking lot. As if threatened, they
spare no strength zeroing in on the target.
I can't anticipate what they are about to
do or what they are so excited about.
The exercises performed bear resem-
blance to a military drill. Pushing parallel
alongside the rail they pick up speed then
pop themselves up onto the bar, landing bet-
ween the two sets of wheels, and slide as
far as they can until flying off the end (more)
often than not into a 'Raggedy Andy' heap).
Laughing as they get up, they return to start
over. There they go, one after the other, lan-
ding on each other, contorting in funny
poses, grabbing themselves in funny ways
and laughing a new kind of laugh.
The train comes and leaves. We are on
it. The train begins to follow the coast. The
coves, small bays, stocked with yacht after
yacht are postcard material. There's the
occasional old coastal fortress from
medieval days, the Crusades and the
occassional coastal bunker from WWII.
Upon seeing the Mediterranean blue, the
California boys break out in a blood-curdling
chorus of a noise that cannot be spelled or
translated.
One short train ride, and then another
train ride twice as long as the first should
put us in Nice (pronounced Neese), in the
south of France. The six-hour train ride ends
with a breathtaking view of the southern
French coast.
CAN YOU SAY NICE?
Inside the Nice station, Steele digs deep
into his pocket, extracting an intricately fold-
ed chewing gum wrapper, along with some
Spanish pesetas and a prophylactic.
He fiddles with the paper and curses his
lack of understanding the French. Dis-
gusted, Dick the Navigator returns to ponder
"plan B,' since 'plan A' obviously went down
the toilet.
During all this 'grasping for straws,' the
Gonz has taken the opportunity to strike up
some chat with two college girls from the
United States. They tell the Gonz that
they're attending a nearby university. The
Gonz asks for assistance in placing a call
to Australia. Instantly, Steele commandeers
the fawns with one hard glance.
Contact is made locally with Fernando,
one of the few skateboarders in town, and,
boy, is he surprised when he learns that at
handful of the world's top professional
skateboarders just decided to drop in on him
and say, "How's it goin'?"
Fernando becomes instrumental in aiding
the group and informing them of local
skateable terrain. A half-pipe is mentioned,
as well as a 'near-skatepark. Plans are ►