9. 'On the Ground' (Part I): Serendipities

(Continuation of Chronicle 8. ‘In the Air’: From Menorca to Cincinnati)

They say that when you go out partying and alone is usually when you have the best time, and sometimes, I would add, the best of all magic happens. 

It was Friday, August 4, 2023, and my second sunrise in Kentucky. The moment I opened my eyes, I remember not even knowing where I was. It was only a few seconds of absolute confusion. I was stunned, dazed by the surprise of observing a space I did not recognize. Suddenly, a spontaneous -‘what am I doing here?‘- came out of me, in the room of a hotel, alone and in…, North America. I instantly understood that this was very much for real, because I was not at home. All of it was nothing but the effect of a cause I myself had set in motion, seven months earlier and on the very last day, with thirty minutes to go before the registration deadline closed. Incredibly, the Visiting Teachers Program (see chronicle 4. ‘Down to the Bone’ (Part I): countdown to inscription) was beginning at that very instant. The thought that if I pulled it off I would get to tell the tale moves me now, seeing that this is exactly what I am doing: ‘living to tell the tale‘, as Violadores del Verso say, or the great Caballero Bonald.

I remember it was the second night in a row that I slept like a log again, since I was still dragging the grogginess and the jet lag from the previous day full of planes, police officers and airports (see chronicle 8. ‘In the Air’ (Part IV): from Menorca to Cincinnati). But as they say, I had only just arrived. I was a brand-new Kentuckian and everything tasted like an opening night to me.

One of the first images I keep of Newport is the one offered by the glass walls of the dining room of the hotel where I stayed for my first fifteen days, contemplating the calm waters of the Ohio River while I had breakfast. The tasty brunch helped give the views even more charm: first an orange juice, then some ‘bagels‘ with a creamy cheese I would spread on them, seasonal fruit, then a yogurt with its nuts, and to round it all off a good American coffee in America — never better said. You had to eat a hearty breakfast to face that second morning of ‘personal business’: the search for a rental, stopping by the school, opening a bank account, buying an American phone card, applying for a ‘social security number‘. Too many things for a single morning and for starting to become an American citizen.

So I grabbed my backpack, left the hotel and headed to what would be my new school: the Newport Intermediate School. I went to introduce myself and give notice of my arrival. I had let them know I would come that day, and there they were, waiting for me. I arrived around 11:00 in the morning. I met the custodians; the principal, Ms. Snipper; the superintendent, Mr. Bolt (see Kentukiana 1: On ‘classroom management‘); his secretary; and the man who would become my mentor and later one of my best friends, Nick Dehnam, the music teacher. After that he drove me in his car to Covington, his district, to savor a delicious rice dish at an Indian restaurant and have our first good long talk. We continued it at the Wooden Cask, one of the best breweries in Newport, where I tried my first beer with bourbon, the famous Kentucky spirit.

I was quite surprised that almost all the music playing in the background was the same music I used to put on in my car when I drove alone around Menorca, with the volume turned up as it should be. Wasn't it splendid not to have to endure reggaeton again while you drank a beer, or the repetitive playlist of hits they always put on in almost every bar? They were playing 90s gems like the spoons of Soundgarden, the incredible timbre of Shannon Hoon in Blind Melon, the catchy riffs of Colective Soul, the spell of Alice in Chains, the one-of-a-kind voices of Eddie Vedder with Chris Cornell in Temple of the Dog, the hypnotic funk rock of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, the remedy of the Black Crowes, or even the new super-lineup of Krist Novoselić with Kim Thayil, Matt Cameron and the mesmerizing voices of Jillian Raye and Jennifer Johnson in 3r Secret (2023). Besides, they usually weren't the typical commercial tracks, which made it all even more interesting and the beer even tastier. Some songs were so unknown to me that I had to resort to the Shazam app to ‘hunt down’ the discovery: -Does this even exist?-, was my constant reaction.

A new round of beers was more than guaranteed, so we bet on some new IPAs on tap, and house-brewed at that. The bitter taste of the hops soon gave way to a sweeter, fruitier one that instantly resurrected my whole palate. I spent the entire day with the great Nick and, as you can see in the photo below, we began to hit it off. Similar temperaments, a shared taste in music, and the enormous heart he possesses worked enough effects for the alchemy to set into a simple and beautiful friendship. 

During that morning Nick came along with me to visit my first rental option, the ground floor of a house still in the middle of renovations. Located on 12th Street and about a fifteen-minute walk from the school, the first impression I got did not please me: it had two poorly laid-out bedrooms and a kitchen yet to be assembled. It had no good views or shopping areas nearby, and on top of that, from 1,150 dollars they would only bring it down to 1,100 for me. It was one of the first rejects.

After having lunch with Nick, I went back to the hotel, where I took the rest of the day as rest. In my room, number 222, the coolness of the air kept me silent company through my readings of the few books I had brought from Spain, and when I grew tired I turned to writing. I had gotten hooked on recounting the most appealing and novel things, which happened to be almost everything. In fact, it turned into such a pleasant habit that it continues to this day. At first I drafted the pieces in a notebook, then I moved on to the notes app on my phone, and finally I settled into a light MacBook Air that the school lent me as soon as I arrived. I grew used to it without effort or obligation. It went from being a mere hobby in which I collected simple texts to giving them cohesion and coherence by housing them in a blog.

The thing is, it must have been close to 10:00 p.m. when I decided to change the ending of that day. I was lying on the room's wide, luxurious bed when suddenly a feeling of immense calm washed over me, and I began to be fully aware of the great moment I was starting to live. That whole space had become my haven of peace, with the largest bed I had ever enjoyed, ‘king’ size, covered in soft sheets and with more pillows than a Bedouin tent. I felt like a reclining maharajah, like a Roman emperor. All I was missing were the grapes and a cherub playing the harp for me. From the walls, camouflaged lights cast phantasmagoric shadows that blurred the surroundings, making them even cozier. The coolness of the air, accompanied by the hypnotic, almost imperceptible sound coming from the duct, kept me weightless as fog and sunk in a kind of hibernation I did not want to leave, utterly carefree. Everything invited peace and stillness, inaction and sleep, which, by the way, came quickly in those days. And yet, the street was shouting my name and I could not leave it unanswered. 

the street was shouting my name and I could not leave it unanswered. 

Not far from there, about a twenty-minute walk away, stood a mysterious building I felt an extreme curiosity about. Nick had told me it had once been a church, though a somewhat cursed one, since tornadoes had destroyed its bell tower on several occasions, and after it was finally abandoned, someone back in the 1980s decided to buy it and convert it into what is today the celebrated Southgate House Revival, the perfect nightclub for the best parties and concerts.

Southgate House Revival

It was Friday, and it was more than obvious that some band had to be playing at that very moment. I waited no longer. I jumped out of bed, put on my Martens and some black jeans, and in my T-shirt of the Menorcan metal band Cathequesis I marched toward the dark and cryptic place.

I put on my Martens and some black jeans, and in my T-shirt of the Menorcan metal band Cathequesis I marched toward the dark and cryptic place.

Anyone would have said I was off to the confessional and then to take communion. In fact, I was going to do just that, but with all the pagan and carnivalesque spirit of the singular masquerade ball I would find there, in the house of another Lord of mine, where the parish priests were now old bikers and the altar boys, members of some rock band delighting the faithful parishioners who, gathered there in happy communion, drank the fresh blood of some god, now transmuted into beer.

Meanwhile, the majesty of a small organ watched over the demure sisters serving the foamy chalices that, from behind the bar, quenched the thirst of the newly arrived visitor. Off to communion I went, drawn by that halo of excitement and uncertainty pushing my body and my steps toward the aforementioned temple, church, club, dive, concert hall or den of perdition — whatever I might find there. By then it was more a whim than anything else, an entrenched craving, an unconsummated desire, a premonition that would soon become all too real. What kind of music? What bands? What cast of characters would I find in the sacrilegious sanctuary?

Right away, other examples came to mind of churches that had also been converted into restaurants or nightclubs, like the Paradiso in Amsterdam, or into skate parks, into libraries or even into homes, like the ones dwelling in one of the poems of Javier Benítez:

Yesterday I read
in the homeless newspaper
that all the churches in the country
are going to be converted into homes
for us, decorated
by us, painted
by us
(…)
provided these gentlemen
do not go back on their word,
decide something else
and I never see you again.

                        Javier Benítez Láinez.

I kept walking in search of the enigmatic temple when suddenly a certain music reached me — apparently a live show. The imprecise sound came from a bar on a corner. It even annoyed me that at that very instant there was another concert going on there, because if I went in I would surely stay, and I would thus lose the chance to get to know the Southgate House Revival, as it was already somewhat late. I inevitably had to pass by, so I approached one of the windows to snoop. I ran the risk of the band being good, in which case I really would sacrifice the church for the bar, since good bands weren't found every day, and even less so live. From outside the sound was good, and I finished confirming it when someone opened the door of the place and, for a few brief seconds, I could make out what before had been confusion and canned sound. A certain guitar riff started to hook me, but just as I had almost decided to go in, something changed in what they were playing and it stopped captivating me. There was a kind of drastic turn in their music and I said -not this way-. And thank goodness, because what would happen a few meters further ahead would change the course of that night and of many others. Although who knows — I might have walked in and found Metallica there with Sabina and Rosalía holding hands and performing a new version of «Motomami», who knows. The scrutinies of the universe are as possible as they are improbable. What was clear is that in that moment there occurred what came next: a magical serendipity.

I continued up the street and at the corner of Sixth Avenue I turned right, but the area was quite dark and lonely, so I began to wonder whether I should redirect myself to the left instead. Could I have gotten disoriented? -I thought-. On top of all this, I still didn't have the American phone card, so there was no GPS, no ‘Siri‘, no ‘Sara’ to guide my steps — only my sense of direction. In short, I felt like I was in one of those classic red gamebooks from the 80s in the Altea Junior collection, or the green Lone Wolf saga, in which you were the hero and decided your own adventure with some dice, a pencil and a sheet of paper.

As I went on my way, I suddenly came across two guys chatting amiably in front of what appeared to be a tavern specializing in bourbon, the most traditional drink of Kentucky. I looked at them, they returned my looks, and I kept to my course. I went on without stopping, but I had the impression they might be able to help me, so I retraced my steps to ask them, with my best possible accent, whether I was on the right track toward the sacred place. To improve my pronunciation I pictured a potato inside my mouth and tried my luck: –Excuse me, I’m looking for Southgate House. Could you please tell me if I’m at the good direction?–

They were very friendly and told me I was headed the right way and would find it shortly. However, something gave me away and they noticed I was not American. At that moment my alert levels switched on. I don't know if it was my look of a fair-skinned blond European with a bun on his head, Gareth Bale-style, or my obvious foreign accent, or even the sum of the two, but the first question one of them asked me was whether I was German. Hahaha! The laughter almost came out of my ears, though I managed to disguise it with my best smile, answering that I came from Spain and had just arrived. There I go, giving out more information than necessary — I never learn. We introduced ourselves, chatted for a bit, and then they offered to walk me there. They were Jeff and Seth, just like Phineas and Ferb but in Kentucky. I could perfectly well be Perry the Platypus now. The impression they gave me was positive. In fact, they gave off very good vibes, so I let myself be guided by my most instinctive senses and let them come along.

A month later with Jeff (black T-shirt), Seth (green T-shirt) and the rest of the crew.

We reached the aforementioned temple in a matter of minutes, and I figured that at least I would no longer be murdered in the middle of the street. Perhaps they would do it inside the venue, or perhaps outside — who knows. My mind kept swinging from one extreme to the other, imagining all kinds of fates at the hands of those two characters, who could well have stepped out of a Tarantino movie like «From Dusk till Down» (released in Spain as «Abierto hasta el amanecer»), does that ring a bell? I could already see myself inside the movie.

(To be continued…, next Saturday, January 27).

– Next installment, chronicle 10. ‘On the Ground’ (Part II): Serendipities (January 27, 2024).