(Ok, so I've been really busy- sorry this has taken so long)
Johnny and I decided to take a road trip so he could see a bit more of Spain. Marc and Nuria had mentioned that Costa Brava was fabulous and told us about a tiny town that starts with a C (I could never pronounce it, let alone spell it), but we needed to stop in Girona for lunch first.
Getting out of Barcelona was a bit harrowing, thank God Johnny was driving, I wouldn't have been able to do it. We only made a few wrong turns and we were on the road to Girona. We arrived and were immediately unimpressed. But I've learned town centers can be surrounded by as much suburban bullshit as American cities, so we kept following the signs to the town center. After crossing the river through the town gates, we were instantly in love with the ancient stone village. We wandered through the church (ok, I'm getting a little sick of churches at this point, but it was still cute) and up around the ancient city walls, where we stopped for a kiss till I heard, eeww, gross, and looked down to see two 8 year old British boys being hushed by their mother.
We stopped for a well deserved glass of wine and decided we liked this city and we should find a hotel. The deal was sealed with another glass of wine and we started looking for a hotel. We found one that wanted $150 euro a night, it was a bit much so we told them we'd be back. Couldn't find another hotel that had availability so we went back to bite the bullet. Then a second hotel clerk pushed in front of ours and said- Oh you meant TWO people- That's actually $220 euro. Bullshit, I know when I'm being had, I wanted to storm out but Johnny was in the bathroom. Storming out two minutes later really doesn't have the same effect as immediately storming out. But damn it, I stormed anyway.
We finally found a hotel who had a hysterical front desk clerk (really, if all people had this guys sense of humor and willingness to help the world would be a better place). He didn't have rooms either, but called his friend and sent us over. We paid and asked for the key, and left the bags at the front desk without even seeing the room we were so hungry and went back to the old town for dinner.
We shared the snails in Catalyn sauce (which is an incredible sauce), I also had over done rabbit and nasty french fries as is traditional in catalyn cooking. But we had fun with the owner who was very happy to give Johnny tastes of whiskeys from the region.
We stopped at a little bar that was empty on our way home and ordered a beer. It quickly filled up, complete with a Gironan girl who LOVED America. She latched on to us like crazy, telling us how much she loved New Jersey. Um what, have you been there? No, but Bon Jovi and the Boss are from there, I can't wait to go. Um, yes you can.
The next day we drove towards Costa Brava but noticed the signs that said
France 36 KM. Oh, screw Costa Brava, let's go to France, so we headed north. We landed in Porta Vendres. Just too cute for words, found a very unassuming hotel overlooking the port and went for lunch. The only place open at the point was a pizza place. I was a bit disappointed, but then we got the pizza with carmalized onions, sauteed mushrooms, ham and creme fraiche. God bless the French. It was amazing.
The day brought hail and rain which we watched from our balcony. It came as fast as it went and we watched an incredible rainbow over the port.
Dinner that night, was incredible. We though we wanted to go to a certain restaurant and walked there, but nobody was there, so we went back to our hotel restaurant that was packed. (by the way, screw reviews, just go to the one that's packed). This place was amazing (way nicer than our hotel). We had the menu of the day which consisted of lobster bisque, roasted duck breast with a sauce that was amazing...and then they brought out the cheese tray and set it on our table. It was this huge amount of cheese and we waited for them to come serve it for us. They didn't, finally the Frenchman sitting next to us asked the waiter if he was going to serve us our cheese. No, it's all for them, take what you want. Oh my, now I'm in heaven. They had real Roquefort cheese, that is the most amazing cheese I've ever had. It so lives up to the name, too bad they can't import non-pasteurized cheese into the states. Actually maybe it's a good thing, because I would weigh 300 lbs if they did.
I asked for whatever was chocolate on their desert menu. They brought me a bowl of strawberries. I looked at Johnny like a 6 year old girl whose ice cream just fell off the cone. He quickly got the waiter and rectified the situation. And all was right in the world.
The next day we had breakfast in Couliers, which is just charming. AND I actually got to see a 65 year old man in a g-string- Viva La France! I have the picture to prove it. Then we drove along the cost down to the town that was named with a C. We found it after a bit and were once again thrilled. Found an amazing B&B overlooking the port and went exploring. Found a great bar filled with Spanish fisherman. We asked where there was a French restaurant (we figured we were so close to the border there had to be one- there wasn't). So we went to a cute little Italian restaurant in a cave or a basement or something. Then we walked around looking for something else to do. There wasn't anything.
The next morning I woke up at sunrise hearing people singing and went to the balcony to see crowds of people walking towards the beach singing and dancing. I couldn't figure out if they were like the 7 Dwarfs heading out to sea or had just come from a party.
At breakfast that morning I ask the hotel owner. He said, but I have double paned the windows- I'm not complaining just curious as to what all these people were doing. To which he let out an exasperated breath- Some people in this town only live at night!
I guess Johnny and I weren't out late enough to see the disco. We drove down the rest of Costa Bravo on our way back to Barcelona. It was nice, but I also knew when we got there that he'd have to leave, and that made it a little less nice.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
My First US Visitor!
I reconnected with an old friend from high school, Johnny Smith last fall on FB, and when I'd come home we'd meet for drinks. It was nice, in a strictly platonic way (I'm moving to Europe for a year, what else could there be?). Until we kissed on New Year's Day, and things changed. We kept in close contact after I left and he finally came to visit me at the first of April.
He was taking a taxi from the airport and I was waiting on my balcony for him to arrive. My apartment is on a pedestrian only street that runs diagonal to the main road. It has tiny one way streets going up and down the hill, and I knew he'd be dropped off about a block away on the street that goes away from the main street. I finally saw a taxi with somebody in it looking up the street and knew it was him. The taxi pulled out of view, and I knew he'd be coming from around the corner, which he did two minutes later, dragging his suitcase. I was so excited, but wait- are those skinny jeans he's wearing? The man is almost 40 he can't be wearing skinny jeans. Oh my, does he really walk like that? Oh God no, how could I have been so wrong? Is that a fauxhawk? - This guys a tool! How am I going to spend two weeks with this idiot?
And then I looked down and the taxi was stopped right beneath my balcony, with the real Johnny Smith paying the driver and looking amazing, dressed like an adult with gown up haircut and everything. He looked up and smiled and my heart skipped.
It was so much fun to show somebody around, and be reminded of all the little differences between Spain and the US, that I just don't see anymore. It was also nice because Johnny speaks Spanish fluently. Actually the first time he started speaking Spanish I exclaimed- "Now THAT's what Spanish is supposed to sound like!" There's just such a difference between Mexican Spanish and Spanish Spanish.
But as Johnny soon found out, Catalonian's don't like speaking Spanish. And if you speak Spanish, well then you should speak Catalan too. So they'll just answer you in Catalan. I don't know how many times I'd ask Johnny what people were saying, and he'd have no idea.
The most important place for Johnny to see was the Familia Sograda. Still my all time favorite building in Spain. Johnny had mentioned that he was uncomfortable with heights. So I realized that taking the elevator to the spirals was not going to happen. I'm not afraid of heights, but the staircase is so small and twisty and there's so many people trying to get views that I had to take the elevator backdown. With all those people it was just nerve racking. So we walked around and I saw the secret elevator that goes up had no line. (the one when you first walk in had a 40 minute wait). I thought oh, well then it won't be bad, there's nobody up there to freak you out. So we got on the elevator, by ourselves (you're usually crammed in with 8 other people)and went up.
So we started walking up the staircase and all of a sudden I noticed Johnny was getting closer and closer to the stairs, oh my god is he on his hands and knees? It was like watching the evolution of man, in reverse. He turned around and sat down, "I think we should go". Ok, we can do that, as he butt bumped the way down the stairs, all I could think is "there's a big difference between uncomfortable and debilitating fear". But he was able to laugh at himself and I learned that maybe I should listen to what people tell me.
And to think, he was going to take the gondola ride because I wanted to go. We went for an amazing dinner at a 5 star restaurant, ate a bunch of tapas and cooked really nice meals at home. Shopping here for specific items is an all day adventure- but it was fun to pick out the perfect cut of tuna at the markets, haggle with the vegetable vendors. I took him to my favorite wine store in the market and he had a great time with the shop owner (Johnny is a beverage distributor- so he can talk with any bartender or wine expert there is).
Oh, did I mention Johnny brought me supplies from home? 12 boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese (Thick & Creamy), American measuring cups (2 sets- one for my friend Marc), a jar of Peanut Butter (also for Marc), Listerine Strips and two Secret Solid- Powder Fresh. Isn't it Romantic? Actually the best thing ever too, Season 2 of 30Rock! It was like heaven to be able to watch some American TV. And I couldn't wait to get into the Mac & Cheese.
The weather was on and off, so we kept our options open. One day it was finally nice out so we jumped on the train to Mount Serrat, which is an 11th century monastery in the mountains outside of Barcelona. We arrived at the train station and we looked up to see the gondola which takes you up. Johnny looked at it extra hard. My God, I'm such an asshole. I saw him at Familia Sograda, now I'm taking him a mile up a hill in Gondola?
He's was amazing good with this one, he did let out a big breath when he finally got out of it, The monestery is pretty cool, but no monks. Go figure. After spending a couple hours checking it out. We took the gondola back down and went for a drink at the bar at the base. The bar, is actually in a farmers backyard and we were the first to arrive. The family was having lunch and their 12 year old kid jumped up and poured our wine for us. More people came in, but then they heard the train and they all took off running. I looked at our hosts and said, the train doesn't arrive for another 30 minutes right? She laughed and said, right, that was a different train, we'll let you know when you have to go. Another farmer that had been there gave me plant that he grows. It's a hybrid between Rosemary and Heather. he explained that it was good luck and you get to make one wish from it. So I did.
He was taking a taxi from the airport and I was waiting on my balcony for him to arrive. My apartment is on a pedestrian only street that runs diagonal to the main road. It has tiny one way streets going up and down the hill, and I knew he'd be dropped off about a block away on the street that goes away from the main street. I finally saw a taxi with somebody in it looking up the street and knew it was him. The taxi pulled out of view, and I knew he'd be coming from around the corner, which he did two minutes later, dragging his suitcase. I was so excited, but wait- are those skinny jeans he's wearing? The man is almost 40 he can't be wearing skinny jeans. Oh my, does he really walk like that? Oh God no, how could I have been so wrong? Is that a fauxhawk? - This guys a tool! How am I going to spend two weeks with this idiot?
And then I looked down and the taxi was stopped right beneath my balcony, with the real Johnny Smith paying the driver and looking amazing, dressed like an adult with gown up haircut and everything. He looked up and smiled and my heart skipped.
It was so much fun to show somebody around, and be reminded of all the little differences between Spain and the US, that I just don't see anymore. It was also nice because Johnny speaks Spanish fluently. Actually the first time he started speaking Spanish I exclaimed- "Now THAT's what Spanish is supposed to sound like!" There's just such a difference between Mexican Spanish and Spanish Spanish.
But as Johnny soon found out, Catalonian's don't like speaking Spanish. And if you speak Spanish, well then you should speak Catalan too. So they'll just answer you in Catalan. I don't know how many times I'd ask Johnny what people were saying, and he'd have no idea.
The most important place for Johnny to see was the Familia Sograda. Still my all time favorite building in Spain. Johnny had mentioned that he was uncomfortable with heights. So I realized that taking the elevator to the spirals was not going to happen. I'm not afraid of heights, but the staircase is so small and twisty and there's so many people trying to get views that I had to take the elevator backdown. With all those people it was just nerve racking. So we walked around and I saw the secret elevator that goes up had no line. (the one when you first walk in had a 40 minute wait). I thought oh, well then it won't be bad, there's nobody up there to freak you out. So we got on the elevator, by ourselves (you're usually crammed in with 8 other people)and went up.
So we started walking up the staircase and all of a sudden I noticed Johnny was getting closer and closer to the stairs, oh my god is he on his hands and knees? It was like watching the evolution of man, in reverse. He turned around and sat down, "I think we should go". Ok, we can do that, as he butt bumped the way down the stairs, all I could think is "there's a big difference between uncomfortable and debilitating fear". But he was able to laugh at himself and I learned that maybe I should listen to what people tell me.
And to think, he was going to take the gondola ride because I wanted to go. We went for an amazing dinner at a 5 star restaurant, ate a bunch of tapas and cooked really nice meals at home. Shopping here for specific items is an all day adventure- but it was fun to pick out the perfect cut of tuna at the markets, haggle with the vegetable vendors. I took him to my favorite wine store in the market and he had a great time with the shop owner (Johnny is a beverage distributor- so he can talk with any bartender or wine expert there is).
Oh, did I mention Johnny brought me supplies from home? 12 boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese (Thick & Creamy), American measuring cups (2 sets- one for my friend Marc), a jar of Peanut Butter (also for Marc), Listerine Strips and two Secret Solid- Powder Fresh. Isn't it Romantic? Actually the best thing ever too, Season 2 of 30Rock! It was like heaven to be able to watch some American TV. And I couldn't wait to get into the Mac & Cheese.
The weather was on and off, so we kept our options open. One day it was finally nice out so we jumped on the train to Mount Serrat, which is an 11th century monastery in the mountains outside of Barcelona. We arrived at the train station and we looked up to see the gondola which takes you up. Johnny looked at it extra hard. My God, I'm such an asshole. I saw him at Familia Sograda, now I'm taking him a mile up a hill in Gondola?
He's was amazing good with this one, he did let out a big breath when he finally got out of it, The monestery is pretty cool, but no monks. Go figure. After spending a couple hours checking it out. We took the gondola back down and went for a drink at the bar at the base. The bar, is actually in a farmers backyard and we were the first to arrive. The family was having lunch and their 12 year old kid jumped up and poured our wine for us. More people came in, but then they heard the train and they all took off running. I looked at our hosts and said, the train doesn't arrive for another 30 minutes right? She laughed and said, right, that was a different train, we'll let you know when you have to go. Another farmer that had been there gave me plant that he grows. It's a hybrid between Rosemary and Heather. he explained that it was good luck and you get to make one wish from it. So I did.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Marrakech
I arrived home from Switzerland at midnight on Sunday and caught a plane at 2pm on Monday. Just enough time to do some laundry (well, actually not, it was cold and the clothes didn’t quite have time to dry) and repack for warmer weather.
I met Greg (my French friend from earlier posts) at the airport and we took a cab to our “riad”. We were staying in the Medina or the old section of Marrakech. The taxi dropped us off at the entrance of an alleyway and a kid grabbed our suitcases and took us down these narrow windy alleys to a wooden door. I was a bit scared and this did not look like anyplace I would want to stay. But once the door opened and we stepped into the courtyard I felt like I was staying in one of the buildings in the Alhambra. It was absolutely stunning and after much paperwork to fill out for the government, they took our bags up these tiny stairs to the second floor and into one of the most beautiful hotel rooms I’ve ever stayed in, it wasn’t huge, but enough room for the two of us. There was a slight issue though- the bathroom doesn’t have a door- no, that’s not going to be awkward. But we figured out a routine, and there was a nice terrace to hang out on when it was some elses turn in the bathroom. We dropped off our bags and met the host on the rooftop terrace for a pot of Morrocan tea. It was ser ved in a purple tent with purple silk couches and lots of pillows. Greg said he felt like he was in a theme hotel, I said this is what the themes are based on, but it’s the real thing.
We went to dinner that night. Because Greg actually researches cities before he shows up, he had a very specific restaurant he wanted to go to. A man asked us if we needed directions, and assured us he knew the restaurant we wanted to go to and he’d take us there. Well he took us to completely different restaurant, that was our first lessonn in Morrocan hospitality, they all have an agenda. But it was cool and too late to turn back. We were greated by lines of people all clapping and rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring while we walked in. There were musicians and dancer going around, and the entire restaurant was done with the Moroccan plaster that is just breath taking. We decided to have an aperitif and I wanted champagne. Greg ordered me a glass and the waiter came with a small bottle and said the price was $220 Durham for a glass or $315 for the entire bottle. I said I’d take the whole thing, and he kept repeating the price and confirming that was what I really wanted. Please I’m going to nitpick between $2.20 or $3.15. for champagne just give me the whole tiny bottle. I mentioned how cheap it was to Greg and he said, actually, you have your exchange rate wrong, it was $31.50 for the bottle. Oh, um sorry. The food was amazing, and there was so much of it, I just couldn’t stop eating. (by the way, I realize after Morrocco and Switzerland, that I’m not really a picky eater, I just don’t like most Spanish food). Greg was not impressed with the belly dancers, “they’re fat”, well of course they are- give me a month with this yummy food at my disposal and I’ll be fat too, and they’re all wearing Berkas- who cares if they’re fat. When the bill came it was then Gregs turn to goof up the math. The waiter said that 10% was a fabulous tip, and Greg tipped him. The waiter asked him three times if this is what he meant, he waived them off saying, of course. Then he sat back and thought. Shit, I just tipped 20%. We must have looked like the most stuck up rich people ever to the waiters. Dinner cost $1,600 Durhams, about $160 euro, or $208 U.S., not cheap by any means. Might have been cheaper if we hadn’t been such idiots.
We left the restaurant around 11pm and the streets were deserted. We found out why at 4am when the prayer sirens went off for a half an hour and the streets were filled with people around 5am starting their day. We too were up early and went to the terrace for a yummy breakfast. We were the only ones there and sat down. I have no idea how they knew when we’d get up, but almost instantly they were there were piping hot pastries, fruit, juice and coffee. One of the pastries was a thick tortilla like thing, that I just couldn’t get enough of. It was the closest thing to tortilla I had had since January and it was good. If it had been thinner I would have sworn I was in South Tucson.
We set off to explore the Medina with plans to be back for the Hamman (traditional Morroccan bath) they have at the riad at noon and for my massage at 1. The market was everything you would expect, with people everywhere and those awful “direction” people. You couldn’t stop to look at anything or get your bearings without somebody wanting to give you the history or take you someplace, or course for a fee, that was never discussed up front.
It took us a couple hours after our “spa” and a shower to find the restaurant Greg wanted to go to. He was really annoyed with the people at this point and wouldn’t talk to anybody.
And fair enough, Morroco’s second language is French, so he had to do most of the talking and negotiating, and he’s really not used to negotiating- as much as I tease him about being a nasty Frenchman he really is very polite. When I asked him to come to Morrocco with me, it was because I didn’t want to be a single woman in an Islamic country on my own, I had no idea that he would have to be the translator too. So he was more than allowed his bitching, and it was usually pretty funny too.
Dealing with that market and trying to figure things out really did exhaust us, we went back to the Riad to have a couple beers, and take a quick nap before we went to dinner. We never made it to dinner- and once again were woken by prayer sirens at 4am. You’d have thought, that meant we’d be up early, but we still slept in till 9:30, but still in time to get up for breakfast on the terrace. Seriously, this town is exhausting.
We left the riad to go find one of Greg’s friend’s older sisters. I guess she used to be a famous teen actress in France, and moved to Marrakech to open an art gallery. It took us awhile to find it, and kept meeting old women that wouldn’t let us go down their streets, kept saying “it’s closed, it’s closed” (meaning don’t come down our street). Fair enough, how much of your life can be a tourist attraction? When we finally found her gallery it was in fact closed.
By the way, I really do like being lost in cities with Greg, it’s pretty funny. We got suckered by another kid who knew where we wanted to go and ended up at an herb store. He was talking to Greg about how he liked the French and the Brittish, but hated Americans. Greg smiled and pointed to me and told him that I was American. Without blinking he said, “Yay America! Bush Bad, but Obama Good!” The salesman at the store I didn’t want to go to, was so good that I spent $55 euro there. What can I say, I’m a salesperson and I loved to be sold to.
We then walked 45 minutes out of the Medina through the new part of the city to the Jardins. Greg was not impressed, “this we walked 45 minutes to? It took us 10 minutes to see it all. I’m going to buy a big piece of land outside of Paris, plant some crap then expect people to pay $3 euro to walk through it.” But we did have yummy treats at the café there.
On our way back I asked Greg if we could go back to the Medina so I could buy the gord I had seen. He put his hand on my shoulder and said sweetly “of course, my horse”. I gave him a funny look and he said, “this is a phrase yes? I have heard this before.” (Have any of you ever had the recurring dream that you were walking African streets discussing talking horses to a Frenchman?- oh just me then?)
After being lost in the Medina for a few more hours trying to find the Espices square where I had first seen the goard, and a little bit of play acting by Greg and me (I don’t want this awful thing in our apartment- why do you want this?) I was finally owner of the goard I coveted at the price I wanted to pay.
Walking back to the riad we were trying to cross the street and waiting for the city bus to pass. All of a sudden it stopped in our way. I looked, there was nothing blocking it, and it was holding up traffic. Then I looked at the bus and noticed the driver and a few guys around him were waving madly at Greg with big huge smiles. I looked at Greg who was staring at them trying not to smile. Um, what the hell was that? Greg was shaking his head while he explained that they were just letting him know that they were impressed with his choice of companion. Are you kidding me? Do you know how pissed I would be as a passenger on that bus? Up until that point I was very impressed with how unlike the Spanish they were in this regards. I hadn’t even felt as much as a leer (thank Allah). I guess in Islam they just don't leer directly at you. (oh, and by the way people when you do visit an Islamic country, please wear some clothes. Short shorts and tank tops without bras are fine in Mexico, they are just lack respect here)
We changed our clothes and took off for a restaurant I picked out (but not before Greg consulted the guide book to make sure it was worth it, he’s a bit like an old man that way). That one was pretty easy to find and we found a policeman to guide us there, so it didn’t cost us anything.
This restaurant was even more amazing than the first one. And as Greg pointed out the belly dancers not as fat. He all of a sudden was interested in the entertainment. Go figure (oh, that’s a funny pun). I’m not sure how dinner last 6 hours but we didn’t get home till the sirens were going off. Greg had to leave at 8am to catch his flight and I stayed in bed and enjoyed the riad till I had to leave at 11:30.
I really did love this city, I loved the outfits, the sounds, the smells, the negotiating, the being pissed off, the almost being hit by scooters every 5 minutes. They only serve beer at hotels and expensive tourist restaurants- which is a good thing, because you need every wit about you while traversing these streets, but somehow you become intoxicated just being there.
I met Greg (my French friend from earlier posts) at the airport and we took a cab to our “riad”. We were staying in the Medina or the old section of Marrakech. The taxi dropped us off at the entrance of an alleyway and a kid grabbed our suitcases and took us down these narrow windy alleys to a wooden door. I was a bit scared and this did not look like anyplace I would want to stay. But once the door opened and we stepped into the courtyard I felt like I was staying in one of the buildings in the Alhambra. It was absolutely stunning and after much paperwork to fill out for the government, they took our bags up these tiny stairs to the second floor and into one of the most beautiful hotel rooms I’ve ever stayed in, it wasn’t huge, but enough room for the two of us. There was a slight issue though- the bathroom doesn’t have a door- no, that’s not going to be awkward. But we figured out a routine, and there was a nice terrace to hang out on when it was some elses turn in the bathroom. We dropped off our bags and met the host on the rooftop terrace for a pot of Morrocan tea. It was ser ved in a purple tent with purple silk couches and lots of pillows. Greg said he felt like he was in a theme hotel, I said this is what the themes are based on, but it’s the real thing.
We went to dinner that night. Because Greg actually researches cities before he shows up, he had a very specific restaurant he wanted to go to. A man asked us if we needed directions, and assured us he knew the restaurant we wanted to go to and he’d take us there. Well he took us to completely different restaurant, that was our first lessonn in Morrocan hospitality, they all have an agenda. But it was cool and too late to turn back. We were greated by lines of people all clapping and rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring while we walked in. There were musicians and dancer going around, and the entire restaurant was done with the Moroccan plaster that is just breath taking. We decided to have an aperitif and I wanted champagne. Greg ordered me a glass and the waiter came with a small bottle and said the price was $220 Durham for a glass or $315 for the entire bottle. I said I’d take the whole thing, and he kept repeating the price and confirming that was what I really wanted. Please I’m going to nitpick between $2.20 or $3.15. for champagne just give me the whole tiny bottle. I mentioned how cheap it was to Greg and he said, actually, you have your exchange rate wrong, it was $31.50 for the bottle. Oh, um sorry. The food was amazing, and there was so much of it, I just couldn’t stop eating. (by the way, I realize after Morrocco and Switzerland, that I’m not really a picky eater, I just don’t like most Spanish food). Greg was not impressed with the belly dancers, “they’re fat”, well of course they are- give me a month with this yummy food at my disposal and I’ll be fat too, and they’re all wearing Berkas- who cares if they’re fat. When the bill came it was then Gregs turn to goof up the math. The waiter said that 10% was a fabulous tip, and Greg tipped him. The waiter asked him three times if this is what he meant, he waived them off saying, of course. Then he sat back and thought. Shit, I just tipped 20%. We must have looked like the most stuck up rich people ever to the waiters. Dinner cost $1,600 Durhams, about $160 euro, or $208 U.S., not cheap by any means. Might have been cheaper if we hadn’t been such idiots.
We left the restaurant around 11pm and the streets were deserted. We found out why at 4am when the prayer sirens went off for a half an hour and the streets were filled with people around 5am starting their day. We too were up early and went to the terrace for a yummy breakfast. We were the only ones there and sat down. I have no idea how they knew when we’d get up, but almost instantly they were there were piping hot pastries, fruit, juice and coffee. One of the pastries was a thick tortilla like thing, that I just couldn’t get enough of. It was the closest thing to tortilla I had had since January and it was good. If it had been thinner I would have sworn I was in South Tucson.
We set off to explore the Medina with plans to be back for the Hamman (traditional Morroccan bath) they have at the riad at noon and for my massage at 1. The market was everything you would expect, with people everywhere and those awful “direction” people. You couldn’t stop to look at anything or get your bearings without somebody wanting to give you the history or take you someplace, or course for a fee, that was never discussed up front.
It took us a couple hours after our “spa” and a shower to find the restaurant Greg wanted to go to. He was really annoyed with the people at this point and wouldn’t talk to anybody.
And fair enough, Morroco’s second language is French, so he had to do most of the talking and negotiating, and he’s really not used to negotiating- as much as I tease him about being a nasty Frenchman he really is very polite. When I asked him to come to Morrocco with me, it was because I didn’t want to be a single woman in an Islamic country on my own, I had no idea that he would have to be the translator too. So he was more than allowed his bitching, and it was usually pretty funny too.
Dealing with that market and trying to figure things out really did exhaust us, we went back to the Riad to have a couple beers, and take a quick nap before we went to dinner. We never made it to dinner- and once again were woken by prayer sirens at 4am. You’d have thought, that meant we’d be up early, but we still slept in till 9:30, but still in time to get up for breakfast on the terrace. Seriously, this town is exhausting.
We left the riad to go find one of Greg’s friend’s older sisters. I guess she used to be a famous teen actress in France, and moved to Marrakech to open an art gallery. It took us awhile to find it, and kept meeting old women that wouldn’t let us go down their streets, kept saying “it’s closed, it’s closed” (meaning don’t come down our street). Fair enough, how much of your life can be a tourist attraction? When we finally found her gallery it was in fact closed.
By the way, I really do like being lost in cities with Greg, it’s pretty funny. We got suckered by another kid who knew where we wanted to go and ended up at an herb store. He was talking to Greg about how he liked the French and the Brittish, but hated Americans. Greg smiled and pointed to me and told him that I was American. Without blinking he said, “Yay America! Bush Bad, but Obama Good!” The salesman at the store I didn’t want to go to, was so good that I spent $55 euro there. What can I say, I’m a salesperson and I loved to be sold to.
We then walked 45 minutes out of the Medina through the new part of the city to the Jardins. Greg was not impressed, “this we walked 45 minutes to? It took us 10 minutes to see it all. I’m going to buy a big piece of land outside of Paris, plant some crap then expect people to pay $3 euro to walk through it.” But we did have yummy treats at the café there.
On our way back I asked Greg if we could go back to the Medina so I could buy the gord I had seen. He put his hand on my shoulder and said sweetly “of course, my horse”. I gave him a funny look and he said, “this is a phrase yes? I have heard this before.” (Have any of you ever had the recurring dream that you were walking African streets discussing talking horses to a Frenchman?- oh just me then?)
After being lost in the Medina for a few more hours trying to find the Espices square where I had first seen the goard, and a little bit of play acting by Greg and me (I don’t want this awful thing in our apartment- why do you want this?) I was finally owner of the goard I coveted at the price I wanted to pay.
Walking back to the riad we were trying to cross the street and waiting for the city bus to pass. All of a sudden it stopped in our way. I looked, there was nothing blocking it, and it was holding up traffic. Then I looked at the bus and noticed the driver and a few guys around him were waving madly at Greg with big huge smiles. I looked at Greg who was staring at them trying not to smile. Um, what the hell was that? Greg was shaking his head while he explained that they were just letting him know that they were impressed with his choice of companion. Are you kidding me? Do you know how pissed I would be as a passenger on that bus? Up until that point I was very impressed with how unlike the Spanish they were in this regards. I hadn’t even felt as much as a leer (thank Allah). I guess in Islam they just don't leer directly at you. (oh, and by the way people when you do visit an Islamic country, please wear some clothes. Short shorts and tank tops without bras are fine in Mexico, they are just lack respect here)
We changed our clothes and took off for a restaurant I picked out (but not before Greg consulted the guide book to make sure it was worth it, he’s a bit like an old man that way). That one was pretty easy to find and we found a policeman to guide us there, so it didn’t cost us anything.
This restaurant was even more amazing than the first one. And as Greg pointed out the belly dancers not as fat. He all of a sudden was interested in the entertainment. Go figure (oh, that’s a funny pun). I’m not sure how dinner last 6 hours but we didn’t get home till the sirens were going off. Greg had to leave at 8am to catch his flight and I stayed in bed and enjoyed the riad till I had to leave at 11:30.
I really did love this city, I loved the outfits, the sounds, the smells, the negotiating, the being pissed off, the almost being hit by scooters every 5 minutes. They only serve beer at hotels and expensive tourist restaurants- which is a good thing, because you need every wit about you while traversing these streets, but somehow you become intoxicated just being there.
Family Ties- A Very Special Episode
After arrving back in Chur I went to book a ticket to Sufers, the ticket agents were intrigued with my story and grabbed my paper work and started searching on the internet. They couldn’t find Margrith, but they did tell me exactly where I should go for the restaurant. I wasn’t sure if I should book the ticket back after two hours or three hours. I decided to go for three hours. When I arrived in Sufers, it was even tinier than Tamins and up much further in the mountains and filled with snow and overlooking a crystal clear glacier lake. Obviously a skiers dream, and there was even a hotel with the restaurant. It took me about 10 minutes to check out the town and I headed to the restaurant. I sat down and asked the woman if she knew Margrith. Sadly, Margrith passed some years ago. I asked if Margrith had any children that were still there and explained to her that I thought Margrith may be my family. She mentioned her daughter, Annalis, but she didn’t speak English, so she’d be no help. Um, that’s kind of not the point. There were only two other people in the restaurant, so she was not busy, so I kept asking her questions- I had three hours to kill. She finally called the daughter, Annalise, who didn’t seem too interested. Then Paula would call with another question and the more we dug, the more interseting it became. Annalis was calling with new questions and information as frequently as Paula was calling her. There was one conversation where Paula I think was telling her not to bother coming because I only spoke English (which kind of bummed me out). And one huge conversation while Paula told Annalis that Anna had gone to Africa. She was not as interested to hear that Anna had became a very wealthy and respected woman in her community in MN.
Her English was very limited, and we spoke with charades and pictionary a lot. At one point, Paual saw the incrspiction I had written down from one of the headstones and I asked her what it said. She said God, then looked frustrated, and grabbed a pen to draw a stick figure with a hat, and a sheep, to which I exclaimed, “The lord is my shepard and I shall not want”. We had a good fit of giggles over that one. The more we dug into it, the more exciting it became for both of us, and she pulled out a phone book to start calling people.
Finally Paula pantomines that Anna had been pregnant and was forced to leave Switzerland. During one of the phone calls she wrote down “Von Werdenberg”, and I immediately knew this was the name of the baby’s daddy, of course seeing the Von, I also knew what that meant. Von signifies higher class, or “Lords” of the area. Anna got knocked up by the local gentry’s son, and instead of him taking any responsibility, just let her get kicked out of the village to fend for herself. All of these years of questioning Anna’s story, we now had a reason for the unexplainable beginning.
But what surprised me even more, Annalis was not a descendent of one of Anna’s siblings, but rather Anna’s first child that was left behind in Switzerland to be raised by her mother while she was shunned. I asked Paula what they did with unwed mothers at that time, she was ashamed when she said, they were just kicked out with any money or resources. She was quick to add that they no longer did that today.
So this explains, why Anna traveled throughout Europe and Africa frequenting mining towns. She was a 16 year old girl in the 1860’s with no family, and no resources, she did what she had to do. But she never let it stop her from anything. Family stories paint her as a woman of taste, beauty, refinement, determination, culture and intellegence, she also learned eight languages. She probably didn’t have these traits in Tamins, as the daughter of a cobbler who had died when she was young and must have learned them through the trials she endured. I have to say I’m very proud to have such a strong woman in my lineage. I’m also really proud that I come from a country that no matter who you were, or what you came from you could reinvent yourself so completely with no prejudices. I’m sure if she hadn’t been kicked out she would have continued to live her life in the class she was born into, instead of becoming the amazing woman she became.
I had to run to catch my bus, Paula and I were having so much fun we lost track of time. I could have stayed hours more. I promised I would go visit the two elderly sisters that may be my relatives that are in the nursing home in Churs tomorrow. I spent the next day tracking them down, but couldn’t find them. They were a lot older than Margrith so they had probably passed on too. But if I retire I’m retiring in Switzerland, those homes are swank and the food looked amazing.
I have to admit I’m even more intrigued with this story now and can’t wait to go back with a translator to get the details.
Her English was very limited, and we spoke with charades and pictionary a lot. At one point, Paual saw the incrspiction I had written down from one of the headstones and I asked her what it said. She said God, then looked frustrated, and grabbed a pen to draw a stick figure with a hat, and a sheep, to which I exclaimed, “The lord is my shepard and I shall not want”. We had a good fit of giggles over that one. The more we dug into it, the more exciting it became for both of us, and she pulled out a phone book to start calling people.
Finally Paula pantomines that Anna had been pregnant and was forced to leave Switzerland. During one of the phone calls she wrote down “Von Werdenberg”, and I immediately knew this was the name of the baby’s daddy, of course seeing the Von, I also knew what that meant. Von signifies higher class, or “Lords” of the area. Anna got knocked up by the local gentry’s son, and instead of him taking any responsibility, just let her get kicked out of the village to fend for herself. All of these years of questioning Anna’s story, we now had a reason for the unexplainable beginning.
But what surprised me even more, Annalis was not a descendent of one of Anna’s siblings, but rather Anna’s first child that was left behind in Switzerland to be raised by her mother while she was shunned. I asked Paula what they did with unwed mothers at that time, she was ashamed when she said, they were just kicked out with any money or resources. She was quick to add that they no longer did that today.
So this explains, why Anna traveled throughout Europe and Africa frequenting mining towns. She was a 16 year old girl in the 1860’s with no family, and no resources, she did what she had to do. But she never let it stop her from anything. Family stories paint her as a woman of taste, beauty, refinement, determination, culture and intellegence, she also learned eight languages. She probably didn’t have these traits in Tamins, as the daughter of a cobbler who had died when she was young and must have learned them through the trials she endured. I have to say I’m very proud to have such a strong woman in my lineage. I’m also really proud that I come from a country that no matter who you were, or what you came from you could reinvent yourself so completely with no prejudices. I’m sure if she hadn’t been kicked out she would have continued to live her life in the class she was born into, instead of becoming the amazing woman she became.
I had to run to catch my bus, Paula and I were having so much fun we lost track of time. I could have stayed hours more. I promised I would go visit the two elderly sisters that may be my relatives that are in the nursing home in Churs tomorrow. I spent the next day tracking them down, but couldn’t find them. They were a lot older than Margrith so they had probably passed on too. But if I retire I’m retiring in Switzerland, those homes are swank and the food looked amazing.
I have to admit I’m even more intrigued with this story now and can’t wait to go back with a translator to get the details.
Family Ties
In 1862 when my great great grandmother, Anna Ruedi, was not yet 16, she left Tamins Switzerland to travel throughout Europe and Northern Africa, eventually finding her way to Fairbolt MN at the age of 21. There she met my great great grandfather and they were married within weeks. It’s a story that’s always intrigued me, and has left many unanswered questions. Why would she leave her home when she was so young, why are the majority of cities in her passport mining towns, why did she marry so quickly in America, why did she never go visit the friends she supposedly traveled from Cairo to see that were only 15 miles away in the next mining town? My fabulous Uncle Dave had researched her and studied her records, so I had some clues as to who she was, but without a doubt the things he would uncover just led to more questions
When I found out I was going to St. Moritz I took a look at the map and realized that Tamins was in between St. Moritz and Zurich, I decided to stop for a couple nights to check it out.
Tamins doesn’t have a hotel, in fact when I mentioned to the stoner ski rental guy that I was going there, he asked me why. The train ticket guy in St. Moritz also explained that I would not find much, but he became very helpful when I explained it was where my family was from.
I was staying at the near by city of Chur (pronounced Khur), in the morning I took the bus to Tamins (it doesn’t even have a train station). When we arrived at the stop that had Tamins written in flowers I looked around and my heart dropped, it was worse than I imagined, nothing but condos from the 80’s. Oh well, at least this will be a quick day and started to get off the bus. The driver stopped me and said that I had one more stop. Then we went up these tiny windy roads into the hills and into this beautiful hillside village that looked like something out of a Swiss story book. I walked around some, there was the occasional people on the street, but not many and I realized they were not used to tourists with cameras and eyed me suspiciously. The mailman spoke to me, and I asked him if there were any Ruedi’s left in town, he said no.
I made my way up to the church on top of the hill, hoping it was the one where Anna was baptized, but it had been replaced by a new church in the 1880’s and the graveyard was very new. But I did find two Ruedi’s who had died, one in 1993 and one in 1995, one was 87 and the other 74 when they passed. Well, at least that’s a start. I spoke to the baker (whom I bought a piece of rhubarb pie from, but it wasn’t rhubarb pie, it was rhubarb quiche, and surprisingly, not as disgusting as you would have thought) she mentioned a Ruedi and wrote down a name for me, but she didn’t speak English and I’ll have to figure out what she said. I spoke to another man who didn’t know of any Ruedi’s either. At this point, I figured it was time to give up and go back to Chur. As I was making my way down the hill I noticed a restaurant, I figured I might as well have lunch before I go.
I walked in, and you could tell they weren’t quite sure what to do with me. I stood there waiting for somebody to help me, finally a woman who was eating lunch with a large group got up from her meal and approached me. She spoke some English and guided me to a seat and said she’d be back with a menu. She came back and explained that there was no menu today they were only serving one dish I had no idea what she said it was, but I told her it was exactly what I was in the mood for. The group next to me kept looking at me, but I knew they didn’t speak English so I’d just nod. But for the most part I was left in peace to read my book. After lunch (which was pork with bernaise sauce, once again not as disgusting as you’d think) I decided to go for it and showed the history my Uncle Dave had written down and pointed to Anna’s name to the woman who had seated me. She said “yah I know, one moment let me go get my mom.” In the mean time all the customers are just going behind the bar and getting what they wanted, a few were doing dishes.
The mom came over and her daughter translated (daughter happened to be there on vacation with her 9 month old son and had lived in London 20 years ago, so it was her job to serve me as she was the only one who knew English). They knew my family and started telling everybody who I was and much discussion started happening. She smiled at me and said they are talking about your family. We have all been here hundreds of years and know your family, the postman and the others are not from here, we are. Her mother gave me a name of Margrith Ruedi Streil and told me she owned a restaurant in the town of Sufers and I should go meet her, they would tell me about my family. At one point, an old dyky woman gave me the multiple kisses on the cheek and then snuck a kiss on the lips. It was rather awkward and I was not expecting it. My new friend then walked me to the Ruedi’s house on the hillside. A very unassumming house that had the year 1970 painted on the chimmney. I mentioned that the house was new, so maybe the last house a Ruedi inhabbited, but couldn’t have been where Anna lived. She said no, 1970 was the last year it was rennovated, but the house has always been here.
We walked back down the hill she mentioned that the man who kissed me was one of the greatest ski trainers in Swiss Olympic history and is from Tamins. I exclaimed, Oh my, that was a man, I’m so relieved, I was really kind of creeped out. We had to stop in the street to catch our breath from laughing so hard. (his hair was amazing).
I said, I should go back to Chur to catch a bus to Sufers, she said the bus didn’t show up for another 30 minutes, so I should have a beer first. So I came back in, the group was really in full swing with drink at this point, and I was the center of Swiss attention. The ski trainer was in full swing trying to flirt, as far as I could tell the only English phrase he knew was “you have a nice body”, which would bring cheers and laughs from the rest. Oh and one woman was wearing a check blue and white shirt, with long black braids. She looked just like Heidi would have if Heidi was 40. They wouldn’t let me pay for my beer, and sent me off with business cards and promises to let them know what I found.
When I found out I was going to St. Moritz I took a look at the map and realized that Tamins was in between St. Moritz and Zurich, I decided to stop for a couple nights to check it out.
Tamins doesn’t have a hotel, in fact when I mentioned to the stoner ski rental guy that I was going there, he asked me why. The train ticket guy in St. Moritz also explained that I would not find much, but he became very helpful when I explained it was where my family was from.
I was staying at the near by city of Chur (pronounced Khur), in the morning I took the bus to Tamins (it doesn’t even have a train station). When we arrived at the stop that had Tamins written in flowers I looked around and my heart dropped, it was worse than I imagined, nothing but condos from the 80’s. Oh well, at least this will be a quick day and started to get off the bus. The driver stopped me and said that I had one more stop. Then we went up these tiny windy roads into the hills and into this beautiful hillside village that looked like something out of a Swiss story book. I walked around some, there was the occasional people on the street, but not many and I realized they were not used to tourists with cameras and eyed me suspiciously. The mailman spoke to me, and I asked him if there were any Ruedi’s left in town, he said no.
I made my way up to the church on top of the hill, hoping it was the one where Anna was baptized, but it had been replaced by a new church in the 1880’s and the graveyard was very new. But I did find two Ruedi’s who had died, one in 1993 and one in 1995, one was 87 and the other 74 when they passed. Well, at least that’s a start. I spoke to the baker (whom I bought a piece of rhubarb pie from, but it wasn’t rhubarb pie, it was rhubarb quiche, and surprisingly, not as disgusting as you would have thought) she mentioned a Ruedi and wrote down a name for me, but she didn’t speak English and I’ll have to figure out what she said. I spoke to another man who didn’t know of any Ruedi’s either. At this point, I figured it was time to give up and go back to Chur. As I was making my way down the hill I noticed a restaurant, I figured I might as well have lunch before I go.
I walked in, and you could tell they weren’t quite sure what to do with me. I stood there waiting for somebody to help me, finally a woman who was eating lunch with a large group got up from her meal and approached me. She spoke some English and guided me to a seat and said she’d be back with a menu. She came back and explained that there was no menu today they were only serving one dish I had no idea what she said it was, but I told her it was exactly what I was in the mood for. The group next to me kept looking at me, but I knew they didn’t speak English so I’d just nod. But for the most part I was left in peace to read my book. After lunch (which was pork with bernaise sauce, once again not as disgusting as you’d think) I decided to go for it and showed the history my Uncle Dave had written down and pointed to Anna’s name to the woman who had seated me. She said “yah I know, one moment let me go get my mom.” In the mean time all the customers are just going behind the bar and getting what they wanted, a few were doing dishes.
The mom came over and her daughter translated (daughter happened to be there on vacation with her 9 month old son and had lived in London 20 years ago, so it was her job to serve me as she was the only one who knew English). They knew my family and started telling everybody who I was and much discussion started happening. She smiled at me and said they are talking about your family. We have all been here hundreds of years and know your family, the postman and the others are not from here, we are. Her mother gave me a name of Margrith Ruedi Streil and told me she owned a restaurant in the town of Sufers and I should go meet her, they would tell me about my family. At one point, an old dyky woman gave me the multiple kisses on the cheek and then snuck a kiss on the lips. It was rather awkward and I was not expecting it. My new friend then walked me to the Ruedi’s house on the hillside. A very unassumming house that had the year 1970 painted on the chimmney. I mentioned that the house was new, so maybe the last house a Ruedi inhabbited, but couldn’t have been where Anna lived. She said no, 1970 was the last year it was rennovated, but the house has always been here.
We walked back down the hill she mentioned that the man who kissed me was one of the greatest ski trainers in Swiss Olympic history and is from Tamins. I exclaimed, Oh my, that was a man, I’m so relieved, I was really kind of creeped out. We had to stop in the street to catch our breath from laughing so hard. (his hair was amazing).
I said, I should go back to Chur to catch a bus to Sufers, she said the bus didn’t show up for another 30 minutes, so I should have a beer first. So I came back in, the group was really in full swing with drink at this point, and I was the center of Swiss attention. The ski trainer was in full swing trying to flirt, as far as I could tell the only English phrase he knew was “you have a nice body”, which would bring cheers and laughs from the rest. Oh and one woman was wearing a check blue and white shirt, with long black braids. She looked just like Heidi would have if Heidi was 40. They wouldn’t let me pay for my beer, and sent me off with business cards and promises to let them know what I found.
St. Moritz
My cousin Stephanie had contacted me to let me know she was going to be in St. Moritz with a group of skiers. I immediately told her I’d be joining her, I was so excited to snowboard in the Alps. Seriously, if you’re going to live in Europe for a year, how do you not ski the Alps at least once? This was an idea lost on my Barcelona friends.
So I caught a flight to Dusseldorf then on to Zurich. I forgot how big men could be while I was in Spain, and was quickly reminded of it in Germany. They were huge and they all looked like they could be a relative. Everyone spoke English and they were all in a hurry. On the plane from Dusseldorf to Zurich I was staring out the window, when I heard and very sweet and very yodely YaHOOoo! It was the attendant trying to catch my attention. It took me all of my might not to just start giggling. Did she really just Yahoo me? Do they really say that?
I arrived in Switzerland and was met with customs who asked where I was coming from. I said Barcelona, but my flight came through Dusseldorf. He searched my passport and said, neither country has stamped your passport. I shrugged and said, but you can, I like the stamps. He then said “it is not an option, countries are supposed to stamp the passport so we know where you are coming from, if they don’t the system doesn’t work, this is unacceptable”, and I knew I had arrived in Switzerland.
Ok, so this is totally my bad, but I didn’t realize that the Swiss don’t accept the Euro, they’re on Francs. So the 15 minute ride from the airport to the train station cost me $47 euro. The driver tried to keep the change from y $50. Um, no. Sorry, $47 euro for 15 minutes, you don’t get a tip, he reluctantly gave me back a $5 Franc. Um, what the hell is this coin? It wasn’t till I got to the hotel that I found out the Franc is worth 40% less than the Euro, so the ride should have just cost me way less. Bastard.
But I got to the train station at 7:30 for the last train that left at 7:37. Got my ticket and on the train in the nick of time. Arrived in St. Moritz at 11pm and found Stephanie.
It was so good to see her, and I met my new friend Dorey who was sharing a room with Stephanie. The next day we woke to go snowboarding. Stephanie said she wanted to snowboard (I think she may have been doing it just for me) while Dorey continued to ski. We figured Dorey ditched us after awhile, so we headed to the kids slope to practice a bit. Once we got kicked out of there, we headed to have a beer. We decided to go for the large one, when we finished the waitress asked if we needed more, we said no we have to snowboard and should have our wits about us. To which she said, if you’re new to snowboarding you need one more half beer, it is just the right amount to keep your wits but give you courage. So we had a half beer. Who are we to argue with the experts?
Don’t even get me started with the T-bar lift. I never got the hang of that thing, and at one point they had to shut it down as I was being dragged up the hill by my legs with it. Oh, and it turns out Dorey didn’t ditch us, we ditched her. She was a little perturbed when we found her at the hotel, but a Minnesota perturbed so not that bad. (Sorry Dorey)
The next day we decided to wander around town. We stopped at the ski shop to pick up something and found our friends John and Argentina boy. These kids were hysterical, the typical stoner ski bums, but they giggled at everything we said, so we liked them. We decided to have a drink of water and Stephanie went to the dispenser, it was kind of difficult, but she finally got one out and poured herself a glass. Then she noticed that they had extras and said it would be easier just to use those, and passed them out to Dorey and I. When we finished an older ski guy came up and took the cups from us. He promptely put them into the dispenser Stephanie had got hers from. There was a moments pause before we all just turned around and walked out, we weren’t even capable of saying a decent thank you or goodbye. Dorey, couldn’t make it up the stairs she was laughing so hard. Steph, you just drank out of the trash!
The town was fabulous, everyone spoke English, it was like being in one of those little towns that the model train maker make. Of course everything was overpriced, it’s Switzerland, and the most ritzy ski town in Switzerland, but still cheaper than Aspen.
One of the ladies in the group broke her pelvic bone the first day, so we visited her in the hospital. Ok, if you’re ever going to break something skiing do it in St. Moritz, the place was like a high end spa. And the cost was $6000.00 francs (about $5,500) for a four day hospital stay, for cash that’s a pretty good deal.
The Alps were pretty intimidating and on the last day I finally gave up snowboarding. The day started out perfect, but after about 6 runs, the clouds came in and you couldn’t see the snow from the sky and couldn’t tell there was a hill till you were already going down it. I gave up and hit the Heineken tent, I had nothing to prove. Steph and Dorey continued on. Steph got stuck in a ravine and had to climb up an ice wall. Thankfully a man stopped to help pull her up. But of course Steph, the nicest person in the world and from MN, hanging from an ice cliff said, “oh no, that’s ok I don’t want to bother you.” Thankfully he insisted. I hit her when I heard that one. There is a point where manners are not longer relative.
We went out one night. I got hit on by a young German who when he heard my age said very creepily, “oh, 39, so you know what you want”. Um, yeah that’s not you. At least the 28 year olds in Spain that hit on me don’t voice that opinion.
All in All St. Moritz is definitely an experience I’m glad I could share with James Bond, I wish I was more athletic, but I’m not, so I can say I did it and be happy.
So I caught a flight to Dusseldorf then on to Zurich. I forgot how big men could be while I was in Spain, and was quickly reminded of it in Germany. They were huge and they all looked like they could be a relative. Everyone spoke English and they were all in a hurry. On the plane from Dusseldorf to Zurich I was staring out the window, when I heard and very sweet and very yodely YaHOOoo! It was the attendant trying to catch my attention. It took me all of my might not to just start giggling. Did she really just Yahoo me? Do they really say that?
I arrived in Switzerland and was met with customs who asked where I was coming from. I said Barcelona, but my flight came through Dusseldorf. He searched my passport and said, neither country has stamped your passport. I shrugged and said, but you can, I like the stamps. He then said “it is not an option, countries are supposed to stamp the passport so we know where you are coming from, if they don’t the system doesn’t work, this is unacceptable”, and I knew I had arrived in Switzerland.
Ok, so this is totally my bad, but I didn’t realize that the Swiss don’t accept the Euro, they’re on Francs. So the 15 minute ride from the airport to the train station cost me $47 euro. The driver tried to keep the change from y $50. Um, no. Sorry, $47 euro for 15 minutes, you don’t get a tip, he reluctantly gave me back a $5 Franc. Um, what the hell is this coin? It wasn’t till I got to the hotel that I found out the Franc is worth 40% less than the Euro, so the ride should have just cost me way less. Bastard.
But I got to the train station at 7:30 for the last train that left at 7:37. Got my ticket and on the train in the nick of time. Arrived in St. Moritz at 11pm and found Stephanie.
It was so good to see her, and I met my new friend Dorey who was sharing a room with Stephanie. The next day we woke to go snowboarding. Stephanie said she wanted to snowboard (I think she may have been doing it just for me) while Dorey continued to ski. We figured Dorey ditched us after awhile, so we headed to the kids slope to practice a bit. Once we got kicked out of there, we headed to have a beer. We decided to go for the large one, when we finished the waitress asked if we needed more, we said no we have to snowboard and should have our wits about us. To which she said, if you’re new to snowboarding you need one more half beer, it is just the right amount to keep your wits but give you courage. So we had a half beer. Who are we to argue with the experts?
Don’t even get me started with the T-bar lift. I never got the hang of that thing, and at one point they had to shut it down as I was being dragged up the hill by my legs with it. Oh, and it turns out Dorey didn’t ditch us, we ditched her. She was a little perturbed when we found her at the hotel, but a Minnesota perturbed so not that bad. (Sorry Dorey)
The next day we decided to wander around town. We stopped at the ski shop to pick up something and found our friends John and Argentina boy. These kids were hysterical, the typical stoner ski bums, but they giggled at everything we said, so we liked them. We decided to have a drink of water and Stephanie went to the dispenser, it was kind of difficult, but she finally got one out and poured herself a glass. Then she noticed that they had extras and said it would be easier just to use those, and passed them out to Dorey and I. When we finished an older ski guy came up and took the cups from us. He promptely put them into the dispenser Stephanie had got hers from. There was a moments pause before we all just turned around and walked out, we weren’t even capable of saying a decent thank you or goodbye. Dorey, couldn’t make it up the stairs she was laughing so hard. Steph, you just drank out of the trash!
The town was fabulous, everyone spoke English, it was like being in one of those little towns that the model train maker make. Of course everything was overpriced, it’s Switzerland, and the most ritzy ski town in Switzerland, but still cheaper than Aspen.
One of the ladies in the group broke her pelvic bone the first day, so we visited her in the hospital. Ok, if you’re ever going to break something skiing do it in St. Moritz, the place was like a high end spa. And the cost was $6000.00 francs (about $5,500) for a four day hospital stay, for cash that’s a pretty good deal.
The Alps were pretty intimidating and on the last day I finally gave up snowboarding. The day started out perfect, but after about 6 runs, the clouds came in and you couldn’t see the snow from the sky and couldn’t tell there was a hill till you were already going down it. I gave up and hit the Heineken tent, I had nothing to prove. Steph and Dorey continued on. Steph got stuck in a ravine and had to climb up an ice wall. Thankfully a man stopped to help pull her up. But of course Steph, the nicest person in the world and from MN, hanging from an ice cliff said, “oh no, that’s ok I don’t want to bother you.” Thankfully he insisted. I hit her when I heard that one. There is a point where manners are not longer relative.
We went out one night. I got hit on by a young German who when he heard my age said very creepily, “oh, 39, so you know what you want”. Um, yeah that’s not you. At least the 28 year olds in Spain that hit on me don’t voice that opinion.
All in All St. Moritz is definitely an experience I’m glad I could share with James Bond, I wish I was more athletic, but I’m not, so I can say I did it and be happy.
Burning Down the House- Las Fallas
My friend Dave I met in Valencia (the political science teacher from Flint) wrote to ask if he could come to Barcelona so he didn’t have to deal with Las Fallas. I asked him what Las Fallas was and he explained it to me. I said of course you can come up for a couple nights, but I’m coming back with you so I can check this out. He ended up not being able to come to Barcelona and I had to finish up my Eurail, so I hopped on the train to meet him for the night.
I arrived at the train station and was not ready for the crowds that greeted me. The sleepy little town I had visited the month prior had been transformed into one giant party. There were people everywhere and fireworks going off constantly, and this was at 3pm.
Las Fallas is the largest firework festival in Europe. One night they compete to see who is going to do the fireworks for the Olympics and other worldwide festivals. I wish I had been there that night, but I arrived for the burnings, that were maybe more spectacular.
I told Dave I would just take a taxi to his apartment, he laughed and said that wasn’t going to happen. So he picked me up from the station and we walked through the crowds to his apartment. (He was right, there was no way a taxi was getting through this) dropped off my bags and we quickly hit the streets to check it out. Pasadena has nothing on this city. Huge 30 foot tall paper mache statues that are just beautiful, funny and intricate, that people have spent a year planning and building to the cost of sometimes a million euro, all ready to be set ablaze. And they’re everywhere. Every neighborhood has one, and since neighborhoods are only sometimes a block or two, you can’t look anywhere without seeing one.
Around midnight they light the “statues” with fireworks, there’s a huge shift backwards as the people in the front rows try to get out of the way of the heat. You try to catch as many burings as you can, but most are set off at the same time to avoid this type of confusion. There’s beer in the street and everyone is just having a huge party. We hit a bar that Dave had many friends in, so it was a good time. Then we took off and hit another bar, when we were walking home at about 5am the city looked like a war zone.
The next morning (afternoon?) we woke up and went to get something to eat. The streets were quiet, they were absolutely clean and there was absolutely no sign that any of this had gone on the night before. It was a little bit like the Twilight zone.
So of course it was only 1pm and none of the restaurants that serve the good paella were open yet, so Dave and I went to the bar that we first met in and ordered a beer. Oh my, I was not ready for that, but the second one went down a lot faster. Finally it was 2pm and we could go get our paella, the good stuff Dave had told me abou the first time I was there- no tiny crabs, actually I ordered the rabbit version, as my stomach really couldn’t handle fish at that moment. We ordered another beer with lunch. Then Dave had to go teach a class and I wandered around Valencia for a bit more, dragging my suitcase behind me. I had another beer at the train station and thought, perfect, I’ll be able to sleep the whole way home. But then somebody committed suicide on the tracks, so the trains was delayed by two hours, and I had to stay awake for it, then my buzz was gone so I was up the entire time on the train. Ugh.
I made it home at 11pm with barely enough time to shower and change for Andre’s going away party. I was tired, but caught my second wind around 3am, just in time for the bars to close. Thankfully Marshall has an apartment so we moved the party there. I once again got home between 5 and 6 am, oh and let me tell you how well I slept that morning.
I arrived at the train station and was not ready for the crowds that greeted me. The sleepy little town I had visited the month prior had been transformed into one giant party. There were people everywhere and fireworks going off constantly, and this was at 3pm.
Las Fallas is the largest firework festival in Europe. One night they compete to see who is going to do the fireworks for the Olympics and other worldwide festivals. I wish I had been there that night, but I arrived for the burnings, that were maybe more spectacular.
I told Dave I would just take a taxi to his apartment, he laughed and said that wasn’t going to happen. So he picked me up from the station and we walked through the crowds to his apartment. (He was right, there was no way a taxi was getting through this) dropped off my bags and we quickly hit the streets to check it out. Pasadena has nothing on this city. Huge 30 foot tall paper mache statues that are just beautiful, funny and intricate, that people have spent a year planning and building to the cost of sometimes a million euro, all ready to be set ablaze. And they’re everywhere. Every neighborhood has one, and since neighborhoods are only sometimes a block or two, you can’t look anywhere without seeing one.
Around midnight they light the “statues” with fireworks, there’s a huge shift backwards as the people in the front rows try to get out of the way of the heat. You try to catch as many burings as you can, but most are set off at the same time to avoid this type of confusion. There’s beer in the street and everyone is just having a huge party. We hit a bar that Dave had many friends in, so it was a good time. Then we took off and hit another bar, when we were walking home at about 5am the city looked like a war zone.
The next morning (afternoon?) we woke up and went to get something to eat. The streets were quiet, they were absolutely clean and there was absolutely no sign that any of this had gone on the night before. It was a little bit like the Twilight zone.
So of course it was only 1pm and none of the restaurants that serve the good paella were open yet, so Dave and I went to the bar that we first met in and ordered a beer. Oh my, I was not ready for that, but the second one went down a lot faster. Finally it was 2pm and we could go get our paella, the good stuff Dave had told me abou the first time I was there- no tiny crabs, actually I ordered the rabbit version, as my stomach really couldn’t handle fish at that moment. We ordered another beer with lunch. Then Dave had to go teach a class and I wandered around Valencia for a bit more, dragging my suitcase behind me. I had another beer at the train station and thought, perfect, I’ll be able to sleep the whole way home. But then somebody committed suicide on the tracks, so the trains was delayed by two hours, and I had to stay awake for it, then my buzz was gone so I was up the entire time on the train. Ugh.
I made it home at 11pm with barely enough time to shower and change for Andre’s going away party. I was tired, but caught my second wind around 3am, just in time for the bars to close. Thankfully Marshall has an apartment so we moved the party there. I once again got home between 5 and 6 am, oh and let me tell you how well I slept that morning.
Friday, March 13, 2009
San Sebastian Part 2
So Gavin and I woke up the next day, he went to his room to get ready and I showered. Then him and Daryl met me at my room and we went in search of lunch.
That was really hard. We went to a fabulous restaurant on the walk (the only restaurant on the walk) looking over the bay and life was good. But they wouldn't serve us. I'm not kidding we sat for 30 minutes before we got menus, and at the hour mark without anyone taking our order we finallly left.
I pointed out the cutest little village to the left and suggested we just walk down that way. It was a beautiful walk, but when we got to the cute little village we realized it was just 80's condo's done up in the appropriate fashion. But we were too hungry to care and sat at the one restaurant in that area. That waiter was much faster than the other, but not by much.
Lunch, not all it could be, especially not on hungover tired stomachs. Then we spent the rest of the day just exporing the city. It really is amazing, with fountains at every turn, victorian architecture and the best dressed people in all of Spain. (In Barcelona they do not dress well, here they did).
We finally went to dinner. We did find a great restaurant that had good food (thank god). We were all so exhausted though I think we were home by 10pm. Gavin once again took up residence, and he's a 30 Rock fan so we watched a few episodes then turned to our books. Next thing I knew it was morning and my book was still in my hands.
Oh, and one of the Spaniards from the night before Facebooked me and sent me a message. It was the cutest message you've ever seen, complete with jeje's (which are Spanish for hee hee). Turns out they're all taking an English course and wanted to have lunch with us the next day so they could practice they're English. Now the mystery is complete.
Gavin and Darryl were leaving that day for a barbeque in France, and I was leaving to go home, so we parted and I went to do more exploring before my train left.
Had the most mediocre lunch in the most fabulous square ever (actually I think this was a circle) with a huge fountain in the middle. I think I spent 2 hours there reading my book and sipping coffee and eating. The sun was shining and it was glorious.
I got on the train (I booked first class) and they served me my champagne and then nothing. They didn't talk to me again for 4 hours, while they served other people sandwiches. I have to admit I was feeling a bit put out.
So we're about 2 hours from home and all of a sudden the train stops, in the middle of nowhere. We sit there for 10 minutes, I'm thinking, what is wrong? Then the train starts to go backwards, Ok, maybe there's a malfunction and we're going back to the last train station, which was like 40 minutes before. But then we quickly arrive at another train station.
People board. Including a fabuously gorgeous man who sits right in front of me. Not much you can do here to strike up a conversation, so I go back to my computer. Then the crew comes through and makes everyone stand up so they can switch their seats around so everyone is sitting forward. Well, I'm on the end, I stand up thinking they're going to switch my seat, but my seat doesn't turn, so all of a sudden that handsome man is facing me. Um hello.
So we both work on our computers (turns out he's fluent in English) and then they serve us a complete hot dinner with wine. We had no choice but to put our computers down and face each other. It was like Insta-date.
He runs the online department of a Spanish newspaper, so of course we had things to talk about. And I had fun. I have to admit it was like something out of Sex and the City, I mean who really gets thrown into these things with handsome, charming, intelligent Spanish men just with the turn of a seat?
He was meeting friends, and I went home to blog. It feels good to be home.
That was really hard. We went to a fabulous restaurant on the walk (the only restaurant on the walk) looking over the bay and life was good. But they wouldn't serve us. I'm not kidding we sat for 30 minutes before we got menus, and at the hour mark without anyone taking our order we finallly left.
I pointed out the cutest little village to the left and suggested we just walk down that way. It was a beautiful walk, but when we got to the cute little village we realized it was just 80's condo's done up in the appropriate fashion. But we were too hungry to care and sat at the one restaurant in that area. That waiter was much faster than the other, but not by much.
Lunch, not all it could be, especially not on hungover tired stomachs. Then we spent the rest of the day just exporing the city. It really is amazing, with fountains at every turn, victorian architecture and the best dressed people in all of Spain. (In Barcelona they do not dress well, here they did).
We finally went to dinner. We did find a great restaurant that had good food (thank god). We were all so exhausted though I think we were home by 10pm. Gavin once again took up residence, and he's a 30 Rock fan so we watched a few episodes then turned to our books. Next thing I knew it was morning and my book was still in my hands.
Oh, and one of the Spaniards from the night before Facebooked me and sent me a message. It was the cutest message you've ever seen, complete with jeje's (which are Spanish for hee hee). Turns out they're all taking an English course and wanted to have lunch with us the next day so they could practice they're English. Now the mystery is complete.
Gavin and Darryl were leaving that day for a barbeque in France, and I was leaving to go home, so we parted and I went to do more exploring before my train left.
Had the most mediocre lunch in the most fabulous square ever (actually I think this was a circle) with a huge fountain in the middle. I think I spent 2 hours there reading my book and sipping coffee and eating. The sun was shining and it was glorious.
I got on the train (I booked first class) and they served me my champagne and then nothing. They didn't talk to me again for 4 hours, while they served other people sandwiches. I have to admit I was feeling a bit put out.
So we're about 2 hours from home and all of a sudden the train stops, in the middle of nowhere. We sit there for 10 minutes, I'm thinking, what is wrong? Then the train starts to go backwards, Ok, maybe there's a malfunction and we're going back to the last train station, which was like 40 minutes before. But then we quickly arrive at another train station.
People board. Including a fabuously gorgeous man who sits right in front of me. Not much you can do here to strike up a conversation, so I go back to my computer. Then the crew comes through and makes everyone stand up so they can switch their seats around so everyone is sitting forward. Well, I'm on the end, I stand up thinking they're going to switch my seat, but my seat doesn't turn, so all of a sudden that handsome man is facing me. Um hello.
So we both work on our computers (turns out he's fluent in English) and then they serve us a complete hot dinner with wine. We had no choice but to put our computers down and face each other. It was like Insta-date.
He runs the online department of a Spanish newspaper, so of course we had things to talk about. And I had fun. I have to admit it was like something out of Sex and the City, I mean who really gets thrown into these things with handsome, charming, intelligent Spanish men just with the turn of a seat?
He was meeting friends, and I went home to blog. It feels good to be home.
San Sebastian
I arrived in San Sebastian and was immediately blown away. It is by far the prettiest city in Spain and now I know why Hemmingway loved it so much. I arrived at the hotel and asked the front desk what time the restaurants closed. He said 11pm (ok, now this is like going from Hollywood to Santa Barbara). So I dropped off my bags and headed out. It was barely 8:30 and all the shops and cafe's were closed. A few bars were open, but that was it.
After much seaching I found one that met my requirements and went in for a couple of beers and read my book. Nobody talked to me besides the bartender and I went back to the hotel room about 11:30pm. My room was beautiful, it was on the 6th floor with crown molding, jutting balconies and a large double bed. I sat on the edge of my bed and my sister Skyped me. We had a nice conversation while I drank a couple of the tiny beers from the fridge. I went to sleep about 12:30 knowing that times were different here and I should be up early.
When I awoke at 9am I started getting ready and was almost complete when I tossed back the covers to put them in place. There was a large pair of men's leather ski glove exactly where I had been sitting the night before talking to my sister. It took me a moment of pondering as to what exactly this meant. Then I inspected the room more, nothing was missing (and yes I counted my panties- I've had them stolen before) but there was a large cigarrette ash on my side of the bed kind of near the center. My heart just stopped.
I finished getting ready and went down to the front desk carrying the glove in the tissue. While trying not to cry, I explained what I had found. There was a sales manager as well as the front desk clerk that were just staring at me with horrified eyes.
He asked if I wanted to call the police, and I said I thought he should (my spanish not enough in the circumstance). He made me immediately change rooms. When I pointed out the ash he did not look happy at all.
So I sat in my room waiting for the police to come and they never did. I finally left word with the front desk that I would be back in a couple hours once I had lunch (which I never ate) if the police need to speak to me. I came back and hung out in my new room, which was not half as nice my old one, and instead of a nice big double bed had two twins (I didn't realize how handy that would come in).
I e-mailed Marc in Barcelona and told him what happened. He told me to call the front desk, immediately and have them send over an English speaking officer. Instead I went to the police station myself. They were very nice and concerned, but I don't think they knew what to do with this. From all accounts San Sebastian is the safest place in Spain and returning lost wallets might be the most they know how to do.
But the woman who spoke English (and sat behind a desk in plain clothes, was this the detective or the secretary, I didn't know) was totally appalled and an officer who spoke better English was called in off the street. Angeles bought me a coke, it was going on 6pm and I hadn't eaten yet, oh that coke was needed. After much discussion between them I finally said, look, here's the deal. You can't do anything for me, you need to make a report. The report comes in handy if there's another case such as this, then you have a trail. That's all I want. Much more discussion, they decided to make a report. Like I said, they weren't the best equiped to handle this (oh, why couldn't I have been this forceful with the front desk?)
So I left them, and wandered some more. I hear the tappas are great here, but unlike the rest of Spain they just keep them out in the open and not under sneeze gaurd. I was finally getting used to food not being refrigerated, but now people are laughing, smoking and coughing over it. I just couldn't do it. I found myself back in old quarter looking for a restaurant I had seen earlier, when I saw a German band on the street, I passed them and threw them a coin, and took off. Got turned around and found the German band again, started to get annoyed and walked away, when they started playing "Roll out the barrell", which was my father's all time favorite song, so I stopped and I knew he was with me. Seconds after it finished (and I threw them a couple euros) I found the restaurant I was looking for and sat down for a well deserved dinner.
When I finished dinner it was 9:30pm, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to my hotel room. I decided I wanted to actually talk to people and I broke my cardinal sin and went in search of an Irish bar. I couldn't find one and gave up. As I was walking home I saw it, the beckoning light of the Guiness sign.
The bar wasn't crowded but there were two Brits sitting at the bar and I asked them if I could join them, and then quickly unloaded my burden on them. One was an ex-cop and he was horrified, I just felt so much better.
I finally got sick of feeling creeped out and decided to have some fun, they were nice good guys. So we went to another bar, exactly like all other bars, but people danced in this one. So we danced too. After a while a group of early 20 something Spanish boys showed up and took an unusual interest in us, they barely spoke English, but just kept talking to us. I was taking pictures and they kept posing, then the fabulous international word was spoken- FACEBOOK? Yes, YAY FACEBOOK! So we exchanged names.
After a lot of dancing the Spaniards grabbed us and told us to come with them. Neither the Brits or I had any idea of what was going on but we followed. They took us to the river and pulled out a trumpet (trombone, trum something) and one started playing music at 3am in the morning with no one around to take coins from, just for the shear joy of playing music by the river. We all danced and it was good.
Gavin, one of the Brits agreed to sleep in my room (turns out they were staying in the same hotel as me). I told you that twin bed would come in handy, and it was nice that he was there.
After much seaching I found one that met my requirements and went in for a couple of beers and read my book. Nobody talked to me besides the bartender and I went back to the hotel room about 11:30pm. My room was beautiful, it was on the 6th floor with crown molding, jutting balconies and a large double bed. I sat on the edge of my bed and my sister Skyped me. We had a nice conversation while I drank a couple of the tiny beers from the fridge. I went to sleep about 12:30 knowing that times were different here and I should be up early.
When I awoke at 9am I started getting ready and was almost complete when I tossed back the covers to put them in place. There was a large pair of men's leather ski glove exactly where I had been sitting the night before talking to my sister. It took me a moment of pondering as to what exactly this meant. Then I inspected the room more, nothing was missing (and yes I counted my panties- I've had them stolen before) but there was a large cigarrette ash on my side of the bed kind of near the center. My heart just stopped.
I finished getting ready and went down to the front desk carrying the glove in the tissue. While trying not to cry, I explained what I had found. There was a sales manager as well as the front desk clerk that were just staring at me with horrified eyes.
He asked if I wanted to call the police, and I said I thought he should (my spanish not enough in the circumstance). He made me immediately change rooms. When I pointed out the ash he did not look happy at all.
So I sat in my room waiting for the police to come and they never did. I finally left word with the front desk that I would be back in a couple hours once I had lunch (which I never ate) if the police need to speak to me. I came back and hung out in my new room, which was not half as nice my old one, and instead of a nice big double bed had two twins (I didn't realize how handy that would come in).
I e-mailed Marc in Barcelona and told him what happened. He told me to call the front desk, immediately and have them send over an English speaking officer. Instead I went to the police station myself. They were very nice and concerned, but I don't think they knew what to do with this. From all accounts San Sebastian is the safest place in Spain and returning lost wallets might be the most they know how to do.
But the woman who spoke English (and sat behind a desk in plain clothes, was this the detective or the secretary, I didn't know) was totally appalled and an officer who spoke better English was called in off the street. Angeles bought me a coke, it was going on 6pm and I hadn't eaten yet, oh that coke was needed. After much discussion between them I finally said, look, here's the deal. You can't do anything for me, you need to make a report. The report comes in handy if there's another case such as this, then you have a trail. That's all I want. Much more discussion, they decided to make a report. Like I said, they weren't the best equiped to handle this (oh, why couldn't I have been this forceful with the front desk?)
So I left them, and wandered some more. I hear the tappas are great here, but unlike the rest of Spain they just keep them out in the open and not under sneeze gaurd. I was finally getting used to food not being refrigerated, but now people are laughing, smoking and coughing over it. I just couldn't do it. I found myself back in old quarter looking for a restaurant I had seen earlier, when I saw a German band on the street, I passed them and threw them a coin, and took off. Got turned around and found the German band again, started to get annoyed and walked away, when they started playing "Roll out the barrell", which was my father's all time favorite song, so I stopped and I knew he was with me. Seconds after it finished (and I threw them a couple euros) I found the restaurant I was looking for and sat down for a well deserved dinner.
When I finished dinner it was 9:30pm, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to my hotel room. I decided I wanted to actually talk to people and I broke my cardinal sin and went in search of an Irish bar. I couldn't find one and gave up. As I was walking home I saw it, the beckoning light of the Guiness sign.
The bar wasn't crowded but there were two Brits sitting at the bar and I asked them if I could join them, and then quickly unloaded my burden on them. One was an ex-cop and he was horrified, I just felt so much better.
I finally got sick of feeling creeped out and decided to have some fun, they were nice good guys. So we went to another bar, exactly like all other bars, but people danced in this one. So we danced too. After a while a group of early 20 something Spanish boys showed up and took an unusual interest in us, they barely spoke English, but just kept talking to us. I was taking pictures and they kept posing, then the fabulous international word was spoken- FACEBOOK? Yes, YAY FACEBOOK! So we exchanged names.
After a lot of dancing the Spaniards grabbed us and told us to come with them. Neither the Brits or I had any idea of what was going on but we followed. They took us to the river and pulled out a trumpet (trombone, trum something) and one started playing music at 3am in the morning with no one around to take coins from, just for the shear joy of playing music by the river. We all danced and it was good.
Gavin, one of the Brits agreed to sleep in my room (turns out they were staying in the same hotel as me). I told you that twin bed would come in handy, and it was nice that he was there.
Pamplona
On Sunday I took the train to Pamplona. Very uneventful, I arrived and went searching for dinner. The streets were empty (I was willing to give it to them that it was Sunday night, they're usually dead in most towns) I finally found a bar that fit my requirments - not too crowded, not completely empty, there's a seat at the bar and the lighting isn't too bright. Of course this bar was called Bar Arizona. I kind of liked that. The tappas were to die- seriously the best I've had so far, with 4 beers and three tapas my bill came to $10. And don't think I'm a total lush, their beers are something like 6 ounces. The bartender friendly even if his English as worse than my Spanish :). Then back to my hotel. The next day my timing was completely off. I was using Barcelona rules- that's kind of like using New York rules while, well, in, Cleveland. Their siesta was earlier and longer, and during their siesta most restaurants are closed. In Barcelona and the south that's when restaurants are at their busiest. Now the town center of Pamplona is beautiful, it's not all that big and like Valencia, the surrounding parts are just 70's apartment complexes. I was starving for lunch and tried this one place, but of course they were closed till after siesta. So I tried another that had a picture of a "mama" in an apron aparantly trying to say "home cooking". I sat on a wooden bench and asked for the menu of the day (have I mentioned by law they have to serve a menu of the day with starter, entree, desert and drink somewhere in the $10 to $20 range). Yeah, this place didn't have one and was super expensive. I was the only person in there.
I had seen from the other menus in the city that "tacos bacalas" were very prevailant here. I was curious, what exactly are Spanish tacos? So after being annoyed that I couldn't order a menu of the day, I decided just to suck it up and go with the tacos for $23 euro. I really wanted some starch, I knew they wouldn't have tortillas, but I was really curious what they would serve them in.
I got a piece of fish.
That's it, a piece of fish in some cream sauce. They charged me another $2 for a roll I didn't order, but was so thankful I had it. And another $4 for the two cokes I ordered (but at least they were large cokes and it was the best deal I've yet to have on cokes). There was another $5 euro thown on the bill for something, so I paid $32 euro to have lunch on a wooden bench with waiters ignoring me, oh and it was freezing, so much so I had to put on my gloves. Really the Romanians that ripped me off $150 were a better deal than this place.
Turns out tacos is the cut of fish, the other half of the fish is called the burrito, hence my confusion. I did not like that restaurant at all.
Most people here do not speak English, so there weren't any friends to be made or conversations to be had and I was quickly bored. The churches were all locked (unlike other cities who leave them open to come in at any time) and there were no museums.
The next day I pretty much wandered waiting for my train. It took me forever to figure out where to eat. Once bitten twice shy. About 4pm I finally settled on a little restaurant that was next to the one I had spent an hour walking back to but was closed.
Oh, God Bless them. My starter was fried foie with pear, then a brocolli rellano (they use onion instead of chili) then a red pepper rellano, and then a mini filet with more foie. (have I mentioned foie may be my most favorite food in the world, don't like pate, but foie is heavenly). The waitress was wonderful, the place was warm and lunch cost me $16 euro.
Pamplona was redeemed.
I had seen from the other menus in the city that "tacos bacalas" were very prevailant here. I was curious, what exactly are Spanish tacos? So after being annoyed that I couldn't order a menu of the day, I decided just to suck it up and go with the tacos for $23 euro. I really wanted some starch, I knew they wouldn't have tortillas, but I was really curious what they would serve them in.
I got a piece of fish.
That's it, a piece of fish in some cream sauce. They charged me another $2 for a roll I didn't order, but was so thankful I had it. And another $4 for the two cokes I ordered (but at least they were large cokes and it was the best deal I've yet to have on cokes). There was another $5 euro thown on the bill for something, so I paid $32 euro to have lunch on a wooden bench with waiters ignoring me, oh and it was freezing, so much so I had to put on my gloves. Really the Romanians that ripped me off $150 were a better deal than this place.
Turns out tacos is the cut of fish, the other half of the fish is called the burrito, hence my confusion. I did not like that restaurant at all.
Most people here do not speak English, so there weren't any friends to be made or conversations to be had and I was quickly bored. The churches were all locked (unlike other cities who leave them open to come in at any time) and there were no museums.
The next day I pretty much wandered waiting for my train. It took me forever to figure out where to eat. Once bitten twice shy. About 4pm I finally settled on a little restaurant that was next to the one I had spent an hour walking back to but was closed.
Oh, God Bless them. My starter was fried foie with pear, then a brocolli rellano (they use onion instead of chili) then a red pepper rellano, and then a mini filet with more foie. (have I mentioned foie may be my most favorite food in the world, don't like pate, but foie is heavenly). The waitress was wonderful, the place was warm and lunch cost me $16 euro.
Pamplona was redeemed.
Another week in Barcelona
My days here are mostly filled with running errands (they take so much more time here then you'd think was possible) and checking out the sites in Barcelona
On Wednesday I was on the far side of town when I got a message from Silvauna to meet her at the BMAC- but her phone was dying so she hoped I would come. I had no idea what the BMAC was, and I didn't notice her text for an hour, but I decided to try and jumped in the cab. Turns out BMAC is the Barcelona Museum of Art Contemporary (I always expect those to be MOCA's, hence my confusion). I got there and of course she was no where to be found, so I gave up and started to walk around more. As I was passing this cafe a gust of wind knocked down a sign and I took that as my cue to sit and get a glass of wine. Once I had ordered I heard an American voice and turned to look. It was my friend Dustin and his new girlfriend Marie. Quinky, so they invited me to join them. As we were talking all of a sudden Silvauna appeared in front of me. She was sitting two seats over having a glass of wine with her roommate Valentina (a lovely Italian girl).
She was trying to also get a hold of Miguel but since Silvauna's phone was dead she couldn't reach him. Dustin had the number, but he didn't answer. We gave up and went to the museum. Who was the last in line there- Miguel and his girlfriend Anna. Talk about timing.
After the museum we went for dinner. The place Miguel wanted to go had a 20 minute wait and it was cold and he had 4 hungry girls that were tired. I thought I knew where we were so they all followed me. As they were all following me I realized I had no idea where in the world I was, so I just picked a door and said, I think this place is good. Turns out it was and Dustin and Marie were there- double quinky dink. It was just like Tucson.
A couple afternoons later while doing some more exploring I stopped in a bar that was almost empty. I like them that way, but it quickly filled up with Brits. Ugh. Oh well, the bartender is nice and you have your book. Then an American man was ordering beer, the bartender asked him where he was from and he said Atlanta. I piped up, he may live in Atlanta but he's not from there. He was from Cleveland, but is now a pilot based in Atlanta. He was there with the airline crew on the Atlanta to Barcelona flight. So he invited me to dinner with the rest of the group.
The captain knew a place, that I have been trying to find again, but for the life of me can't. We arrived and the captain recieved a warm greeting from the owner. When it was mentioned that there were 8 of us the owner paused and then loudly exclaimed "UPSTAIRS!" while dramatically throwing his arms heavenward and we were ushered to a private room. This room was cool, I guess it had been used by a Catalyonian Rebel to plan his strategies, a little bit of history I wasn't expecting. The captain ordered for us- "Bring us wine and appetizers". (I should think of this when I can't read the menu). Dinner was easy to order- monkfish or lamb. I went with the monkfish. The captain told everyone who had ordered lamb to share their fried artichokes with the monkfish orderers because they were so delicious. But I noticed that they really didn't have that much on their plates, so as I was saying, they didn't have to share, I suddenly said "Wait!..." and I turned to the waiter and said "Bring us more artichokes!". Everyone at the table applauded and they were quickly brought out. Wine glasses were never empty and when one of the attendants and I went to have a cigarette in another private little room, the waiters made sure we had a bottle with us.
Then came desert, we ordered individual deserts, but they also brought us chocolate truffles and homemade donoughts, as if the huge servings weren't enough and as they were serving us they also brought champaigne that we didn't order. They filled each of our glasses and then started decanting another two bottles. My brain was screaming, you can't decant champange! I didn't notice that the decanter also had a spout and the owner was suddenly teaching us how to do champagne shots. It was a bit like Mexio and tequila shots, as they stood behind you and poured it straight into your mouth. Thankfully they did not shake our head or twirl you around on their shoulders. That's when, with the party was in full swing, some Spaniards sat down with us. It tooks us all a second as they just started drinking our wine and smoking cigarettes (which we had not been doing in the room). They had heard of this famous room and wanted to see it, so they just joined us. At that point it was a free for all anyway, with the owner and waiters all drinking champange and cognac with us, so what were two more?
The bill came and the cost? $40 euro a person. My God I love this city. So the group walked me home, oh those are some great pictures. I had never done more than nod at the armed guards outside the Catylonian capital, but according to the pictures they are more than happy to pose with drunk American women.
The crew said that usually crews were not this much fun and most people went their separate ways. I don't know if that's true or not, but I sure am glad that I found the crew that clicked and was open to the Catylonian way of dining.
On Wednesday I was on the far side of town when I got a message from Silvauna to meet her at the BMAC- but her phone was dying so she hoped I would come. I had no idea what the BMAC was, and I didn't notice her text for an hour, but I decided to try and jumped in the cab. Turns out BMAC is the Barcelona Museum of Art Contemporary (I always expect those to be MOCA's, hence my confusion). I got there and of course she was no where to be found, so I gave up and started to walk around more. As I was passing this cafe a gust of wind knocked down a sign and I took that as my cue to sit and get a glass of wine. Once I had ordered I heard an American voice and turned to look. It was my friend Dustin and his new girlfriend Marie. Quinky, so they invited me to join them. As we were talking all of a sudden Silvauna appeared in front of me. She was sitting two seats over having a glass of wine with her roommate Valentina (a lovely Italian girl).
She was trying to also get a hold of Miguel but since Silvauna's phone was dead she couldn't reach him. Dustin had the number, but he didn't answer. We gave up and went to the museum. Who was the last in line there- Miguel and his girlfriend Anna. Talk about timing.
After the museum we went for dinner. The place Miguel wanted to go had a 20 minute wait and it was cold and he had 4 hungry girls that were tired. I thought I knew where we were so they all followed me. As they were all following me I realized I had no idea where in the world I was, so I just picked a door and said, I think this place is good. Turns out it was and Dustin and Marie were there- double quinky dink. It was just like Tucson.
A couple afternoons later while doing some more exploring I stopped in a bar that was almost empty. I like them that way, but it quickly filled up with Brits. Ugh. Oh well, the bartender is nice and you have your book. Then an American man was ordering beer, the bartender asked him where he was from and he said Atlanta. I piped up, he may live in Atlanta but he's not from there. He was from Cleveland, but is now a pilot based in Atlanta. He was there with the airline crew on the Atlanta to Barcelona flight. So he invited me to dinner with the rest of the group.
The captain knew a place, that I have been trying to find again, but for the life of me can't. We arrived and the captain recieved a warm greeting from the owner. When it was mentioned that there were 8 of us the owner paused and then loudly exclaimed "UPSTAIRS!" while dramatically throwing his arms heavenward and we were ushered to a private room. This room was cool, I guess it had been used by a Catalyonian Rebel to plan his strategies, a little bit of history I wasn't expecting. The captain ordered for us- "Bring us wine and appetizers". (I should think of this when I can't read the menu). Dinner was easy to order- monkfish or lamb. I went with the monkfish. The captain told everyone who had ordered lamb to share their fried artichokes with the monkfish orderers because they were so delicious. But I noticed that they really didn't have that much on their plates, so as I was saying, they didn't have to share, I suddenly said "Wait!..." and I turned to the waiter and said "Bring us more artichokes!". Everyone at the table applauded and they were quickly brought out. Wine glasses were never empty and when one of the attendants and I went to have a cigarette in another private little room, the waiters made sure we had a bottle with us.
Then came desert, we ordered individual deserts, but they also brought us chocolate truffles and homemade donoughts, as if the huge servings weren't enough and as they were serving us they also brought champaigne that we didn't order. They filled each of our glasses and then started decanting another two bottles. My brain was screaming, you can't decant champange! I didn't notice that the decanter also had a spout and the owner was suddenly teaching us how to do champagne shots. It was a bit like Mexio and tequila shots, as they stood behind you and poured it straight into your mouth. Thankfully they did not shake our head or twirl you around on their shoulders. That's when, with the party was in full swing, some Spaniards sat down with us. It tooks us all a second as they just started drinking our wine and smoking cigarettes (which we had not been doing in the room). They had heard of this famous room and wanted to see it, so they just joined us. At that point it was a free for all anyway, with the owner and waiters all drinking champange and cognac with us, so what were two more?
The bill came and the cost? $40 euro a person. My God I love this city. So the group walked me home, oh those are some great pictures. I had never done more than nod at the armed guards outside the Catylonian capital, but according to the pictures they are more than happy to pose with drunk American women.
The crew said that usually crews were not this much fun and most people went their separate ways. I don't know if that's true or not, but I sure am glad that I found the crew that clicked and was open to the Catylonian way of dining.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A day with another Tourist
I met Greg outside his hostal the next day for lunch. He wanted a diner so he could get an omlette with lots of cheese (I knew that wasn't going to happen, melted cheese not so big here and have yet to see a "diner"). I pointed to one and he thought it was a bit scary looking. So then he had to make the choice. So he picked out a cute little restaurant with a patio.
Greg speaks no Spanish (in fact the first night I met him I called him mi amigo and he exclaimed- oh awesome you know Spanish!) He asked if they had any omlettes and the waiter said- NO. So I ordered him a tortilla (in spain tortillas are omlettes) he asked for extra cheese and the waiter said NO. Nothing on the menu looked paticularly interesting so I ordered the cream soup. But before that came the bread. Now, they don't serve butter with bread, but rather a few whole cloves of garlic and two whole tomatoes. Greg was just looking at it confused and I was able to show off my new skills. I quickly unpeeled the garlic, and rubbed it on the bread, cut the tomato in half (with Greg pointing out that all the tourists were staring at me) and spread that on the bread, then drizzled some olive oil on it and sprinkled a dash of salt. Just like a native. He admitted it was good, but wondered how many plate of tomatoes and garlic were just left untouched by the confused tourists. He assummed it was probably about 80% and he might be right.
Then our food arrived. Greg eyed his "tortilla" questionably but admitted it was pretty good. My "cream" soup on the other hand was the subject of much interest and scorn. It was broth with mushy spaghetti and chunks of uncooked bacon, garbanzo beans and other unidentifiable objects that Greg would point too and say "what is that?". Oh my, I was so hungry and it was so terrible. Then I have Greg saying-- "Do you remember when you said, maybe we should try this patio, and I said no, this looks good, then you said we should maybe try the next patio and I said no, I think this place looks the best. I bet you do not forget that conversation for a long time."
So then we decided to go to the Pablo Picasso museum. It took us 2 hours of trying to find it (and it was in the neighborhood) and many awkward conversations. Greg wouldn't even try to speak Spanish, just walked right up speaking English. They wouldn't talk to him, so I would ask in Spanish and they'd be helpful, but since of course my Spanish really sucks I could never understand the directions, and don't try and count on Greg to remember the hand signals ("They are worse than the French! Don't they know everyone is supposed to know English, it is how we are able to travel!" On a side note: I have heard this from many Europeans that speak English, they get very frustrated that someone does not, they learned it so they could communicate everywhere and when others don't it just ruins the whole concept)
Of course Picasso museum was closed, so we hit the Dahli instead, but not before getting some scrumptious looking deserts at a bakery and taking a break to listen to a trumpet player in a church square.
My friend Eduardo from Madrid was in town that evening. So I told Greg that we should have a glass of wine, then I would go home and take a nap before I met Eduardo for a nice dinner. And him and Silvauna would meet Eduardo after dinner. I thought it was a nice plan, I really like hanging with Eduardo. But then Silvauna called in the middle of drinks. She was with her friend Sandy (a Canadian currently living in Amersterdamn), so we went in search of them. Yeah, if we could not find the Picasso museum, there was no way in hell we were finding a bar in a neighborhood we had never been too. But we tried!
I stopped to ask a cute old couple where Born Square was. Surprise they knew no Spanish, because of course they were French. So I waived Greg over and he was very patient as this old couple pulled out every map and guide and tour book they had looking for a very unfamous square. About 30 seconds into the conversation we realized they were going to be no help whatsoever, but boy were they nice, unfortunately it took them about 5 minutes to figure out they knew nothing. Greg was being as polite as he could possibly be, but he looked like he was talking to his grandmother while she extolls the virtues of wearing clean underwear.
We called Silvauna defeated and she says they're on their way to meet us. That's when Greg came up with the idea of becoming street performers to pass the time. After much discussion of what kind of performance would be best (we settled on singing punk rock) and Greg starting to go into the souvenigier store to get a hat (to collect the money, the bet was we had to perform until we got a euro) Silvauna thankfully showed up and saved us from ourselves.
I called Eduardo who, being fabulously Eduardo, was not disappointed at all and met us at the bar, as did Sandy's husband (boyfriend?) who was German. It was determined that none of us had to work the next day (even Eduardo, it was travel day for him, he usually has to be back at his hotel room by midnight) so we went dancing. Now that was fun. Too bad Greg got mugged while we were leaving, still not sure how that happened. (see I told you I was tougher than him).
We put Silvana back in the cab and walked home. The next day Greg had to be out of his hostal at 11am, so my buzzer woke me up at 11:15 with him at the door. Which was good because I had to meet Luci for coffee. He slept on my couch while I went and I promised to pick up some food for lunch when I got back.
I knew I had some fondue in the fridge, so I picked up a couple apples and a loaf of bread. "You brought me an APPLE? What the hell am I supposed to do with an APPLE? You promised me lunch!"
Here I am trying to be all European and it's the Frenchman that insists we get Pizza Hut. (weird cheese of course)
We just recovered that day, but I think I turned Greg into a 30 Rock fan and he finally left to catch a bus to the airport for his flight to Athens.
It really was fun and since Greg is also traveling extensively, I hope not my last time in a strange city with him.
Greg speaks no Spanish (in fact the first night I met him I called him mi amigo and he exclaimed- oh awesome you know Spanish!) He asked if they had any omlettes and the waiter said- NO. So I ordered him a tortilla (in spain tortillas are omlettes) he asked for extra cheese and the waiter said NO. Nothing on the menu looked paticularly interesting so I ordered the cream soup. But before that came the bread. Now, they don't serve butter with bread, but rather a few whole cloves of garlic and two whole tomatoes. Greg was just looking at it confused and I was able to show off my new skills. I quickly unpeeled the garlic, and rubbed it on the bread, cut the tomato in half (with Greg pointing out that all the tourists were staring at me) and spread that on the bread, then drizzled some olive oil on it and sprinkled a dash of salt. Just like a native. He admitted it was good, but wondered how many plate of tomatoes and garlic were just left untouched by the confused tourists. He assummed it was probably about 80% and he might be right.
Then our food arrived. Greg eyed his "tortilla" questionably but admitted it was pretty good. My "cream" soup on the other hand was the subject of much interest and scorn. It was broth with mushy spaghetti and chunks of uncooked bacon, garbanzo beans and other unidentifiable objects that Greg would point too and say "what is that?". Oh my, I was so hungry and it was so terrible. Then I have Greg saying-- "Do you remember when you said, maybe we should try this patio, and I said no, this looks good, then you said we should maybe try the next patio and I said no, I think this place looks the best. I bet you do not forget that conversation for a long time."
So then we decided to go to the Pablo Picasso museum. It took us 2 hours of trying to find it (and it was in the neighborhood) and many awkward conversations. Greg wouldn't even try to speak Spanish, just walked right up speaking English. They wouldn't talk to him, so I would ask in Spanish and they'd be helpful, but since of course my Spanish really sucks I could never understand the directions, and don't try and count on Greg to remember the hand signals ("They are worse than the French! Don't they know everyone is supposed to know English, it is how we are able to travel!" On a side note: I have heard this from many Europeans that speak English, they get very frustrated that someone does not, they learned it so they could communicate everywhere and when others don't it just ruins the whole concept)
Of course Picasso museum was closed, so we hit the Dahli instead, but not before getting some scrumptious looking deserts at a bakery and taking a break to listen to a trumpet player in a church square.
My friend Eduardo from Madrid was in town that evening. So I told Greg that we should have a glass of wine, then I would go home and take a nap before I met Eduardo for a nice dinner. And him and Silvauna would meet Eduardo after dinner. I thought it was a nice plan, I really like hanging with Eduardo. But then Silvauna called in the middle of drinks. She was with her friend Sandy (a Canadian currently living in Amersterdamn), so we went in search of them. Yeah, if we could not find the Picasso museum, there was no way in hell we were finding a bar in a neighborhood we had never been too. But we tried!
I stopped to ask a cute old couple where Born Square was. Surprise they knew no Spanish, because of course they were French. So I waived Greg over and he was very patient as this old couple pulled out every map and guide and tour book they had looking for a very unfamous square. About 30 seconds into the conversation we realized they were going to be no help whatsoever, but boy were they nice, unfortunately it took them about 5 minutes to figure out they knew nothing. Greg was being as polite as he could possibly be, but he looked like he was talking to his grandmother while she extolls the virtues of wearing clean underwear.
We called Silvauna defeated and she says they're on their way to meet us. That's when Greg came up with the idea of becoming street performers to pass the time. After much discussion of what kind of performance would be best (we settled on singing punk rock) and Greg starting to go into the souvenigier store to get a hat (to collect the money, the bet was we had to perform until we got a euro) Silvauna thankfully showed up and saved us from ourselves.
I called Eduardo who, being fabulously Eduardo, was not disappointed at all and met us at the bar, as did Sandy's husband (boyfriend?) who was German. It was determined that none of us had to work the next day (even Eduardo, it was travel day for him, he usually has to be back at his hotel room by midnight) so we went dancing. Now that was fun. Too bad Greg got mugged while we were leaving, still not sure how that happened. (see I told you I was tougher than him).
We put Silvana back in the cab and walked home. The next day Greg had to be out of his hostal at 11am, so my buzzer woke me up at 11:15 with him at the door. Which was good because I had to meet Luci for coffee. He slept on my couch while I went and I promised to pick up some food for lunch when I got back.
I knew I had some fondue in the fridge, so I picked up a couple apples and a loaf of bread. "You brought me an APPLE? What the hell am I supposed to do with an APPLE? You promised me lunch!"
Here I am trying to be all European and it's the Frenchman that insists we get Pizza Hut. (weird cheese of course)
We just recovered that day, but I think I turned Greg into a 30 Rock fan and he finally left to catch a bus to the airport for his flight to Athens.
It really was fun and since Greg is also traveling extensively, I hope not my last time in a strange city with him.
New Friends
After Carnivale I spent another two days I spent running erands, such as returning the costume and dealing with Vodafone, but I walked for miles during these days.
On Wednesday I woke up and my feet hurt, I mean just hurt even after a nights rest, so I decided to stay in (the weather was nasty too), Thursday morning they still hurt, so I entertained myself with a good book.
Friday I invited Silvauna out for lunch. We had a really nice one at an upscale restaurant with a bottle of wine. Then we walked to her neighborhood for desert and oh, another glass of wine, ok, two more glasses of wine. She was supposed to meet Marshall and Miguel for drinks. Miguel was bringing another girl and I really didn't want to impose on this "double date". But Silvauna insisted I walk her to the bar and then Marshall wouldn't let me leave either, so I stayed.
But I think this dating thing is a bit casual here, as Miguel brought his friend from France too, so yay, I had somebody to talk to. And I'm so glad I stayed, the French guy, Greg, was way too much fun. When the party broke up Greg invited me to the disco, but it was already 2:30am so I flipped a quarter and it was heads, my cue to go home.
As I was walking home (on a large street, with people around) a sanitation worker bumped into me. I thought, that's weird, there was nobody near us, why would he have to bump me? Then he did it again. I said, no agusta! Vamoose! And he just kept following me. I'd scream Vamoose louder and he'd keep coming I finally went into a bar and the bartender told him to scram and said I'd be fine. But I know that guy, he wasn't being deterred that easily. So I took the bartender out to the street and found the sanitation worker hiding in a door way. So the bartender told me to go back inside and somebody poured me a drink while the bartender had it out with the sanitation worker. I actually had fun with all the old guys that were trying so hard to speak English, and I taught them how to flip a quarter. About 3:30 I finally made it home. (When I met Luci for coffee a few days later she explained that Vamoose, does not mean go away, it actually means "let's go") I almost spit my cafe con leche out of my nose.
Saturday had drinks by my house, more old Spanish guys trying really hard to speak English, but it was fun.
Sunday I met up with Marc and Nuria to go to the photo exhibit at the Cultural Center then walked around some more and stopped for Turkish tea. Greg, the Frenchman, finally met up with us about 5 (he had facebooked me at 5:30am saying he had just gotten home from a party, so I knew I wouldn't be seeing him much before then). He was still a little green around the gills, but a cup of espresso and a couple Heinekens and he was fine.
So we walked over to Gracia, with me showing him the Gaudi buildings along the way. He was happy with the walk so he could tell people he actually saw some sites. Silvauna met up with us then we went back to our neighborhood to meet the Chileans that Greg was sharing a hostile with. Ugh, it was the Spanish equivalant of O'Malleys, filled with college kids. Silvauna was saying she was too old for it and tried really hard to stay away. Silvauna is 27, so you can imagine how I felt. We drank sangria, which I did not enjoy, it was like drinking jungle juice. Thankfully Greg noticed the look on my face and ordered me a Heinekin. That so went against the game we were playing - "Which country can be the rudest?"- the French, the Portugese or the Americans. Silvauna really wanted to play and assured us that the Portugese were very rude people - but she really was just no match and Greg and I were quickly in a tie.
The Chileans and Silvauna all started speaking Spanish, I at least had Greg to talk to. I don't know how the Australian guy one of the Chileans picked up on was doing it. But from the looks of him conversation was not his strong suit, so he was probably just releaved. (I had mentioned to Greg the theory of Senior abuse, you know when the unattractive Sr. can get a cute freshman just because he's a Sr. and the girl knows no bettter? I think the Australian was pulling "blonde" abuse. Greg assured me that was the case, but we should not mention it because the Chileans left the next day and she's would be happy and no wiser)
We put Silvauna in a cab and Greg walked me home. But I was still hyper so I walked him back to the street his hostal is on. He stopped and said, what is the point of this? I walked you home so you would be safe. I said, Oh, no I'm much tougher than you, it's much better you not walk by yourself.
And America takes the lead.
On Wednesday I woke up and my feet hurt, I mean just hurt even after a nights rest, so I decided to stay in (the weather was nasty too), Thursday morning they still hurt, so I entertained myself with a good book.
Friday I invited Silvauna out for lunch. We had a really nice one at an upscale restaurant with a bottle of wine. Then we walked to her neighborhood for desert and oh, another glass of wine, ok, two more glasses of wine. She was supposed to meet Marshall and Miguel for drinks. Miguel was bringing another girl and I really didn't want to impose on this "double date". But Silvauna insisted I walk her to the bar and then Marshall wouldn't let me leave either, so I stayed.
But I think this dating thing is a bit casual here, as Miguel brought his friend from France too, so yay, I had somebody to talk to. And I'm so glad I stayed, the French guy, Greg, was way too much fun. When the party broke up Greg invited me to the disco, but it was already 2:30am so I flipped a quarter and it was heads, my cue to go home.
As I was walking home (on a large street, with people around) a sanitation worker bumped into me. I thought, that's weird, there was nobody near us, why would he have to bump me? Then he did it again. I said, no agusta! Vamoose! And he just kept following me. I'd scream Vamoose louder and he'd keep coming I finally went into a bar and the bartender told him to scram and said I'd be fine. But I know that guy, he wasn't being deterred that easily. So I took the bartender out to the street and found the sanitation worker hiding in a door way. So the bartender told me to go back inside and somebody poured me a drink while the bartender had it out with the sanitation worker. I actually had fun with all the old guys that were trying so hard to speak English, and I taught them how to flip a quarter. About 3:30 I finally made it home. (When I met Luci for coffee a few days later she explained that Vamoose, does not mean go away, it actually means "let's go") I almost spit my cafe con leche out of my nose.
Saturday had drinks by my house, more old Spanish guys trying really hard to speak English, but it was fun.
Sunday I met up with Marc and Nuria to go to the photo exhibit at the Cultural Center then walked around some more and stopped for Turkish tea. Greg, the Frenchman, finally met up with us about 5 (he had facebooked me at 5:30am saying he had just gotten home from a party, so I knew I wouldn't be seeing him much before then). He was still a little green around the gills, but a cup of espresso and a couple Heinekens and he was fine.
So we walked over to Gracia, with me showing him the Gaudi buildings along the way. He was happy with the walk so he could tell people he actually saw some sites. Silvauna met up with us then we went back to our neighborhood to meet the Chileans that Greg was sharing a hostile with. Ugh, it was the Spanish equivalant of O'Malleys, filled with college kids. Silvauna was saying she was too old for it and tried really hard to stay away. Silvauna is 27, so you can imagine how I felt. We drank sangria, which I did not enjoy, it was like drinking jungle juice. Thankfully Greg noticed the look on my face and ordered me a Heinekin. That so went against the game we were playing - "Which country can be the rudest?"- the French, the Portugese or the Americans. Silvauna really wanted to play and assured us that the Portugese were very rude people - but she really was just no match and Greg and I were quickly in a tie.
The Chileans and Silvauna all started speaking Spanish, I at least had Greg to talk to. I don't know how the Australian guy one of the Chileans picked up on was doing it. But from the looks of him conversation was not his strong suit, so he was probably just releaved. (I had mentioned to Greg the theory of Senior abuse, you know when the unattractive Sr. can get a cute freshman just because he's a Sr. and the girl knows no bettter? I think the Australian was pulling "blonde" abuse. Greg assured me that was the case, but we should not mention it because the Chileans left the next day and she's would be happy and no wiser)
We put Silvauna in a cab and Greg walked me home. But I was still hyper so I walked him back to the street his hostal is on. He stopped and said, what is the point of this? I walked you home so you would be safe. I said, Oh, no I'm much tougher than you, it's much better you not walk by yourself.
And America takes the lead.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Carnivale
I arrived back in Barcelona in time to start preparing for Carnivale. Which is not as big as it is in other European cities because they have only recently been allowed to celebrate it, (that dictator was such a buzz kill.) I found the costume store, but had trouble because they really only sold the accessories, and not the full pre-packaged outfits you find in the states. And since I am traveling with only two suitcases, it's not like I could dip into my costume stash (which had been huge, I love a costume party). So I checked out the rentals. Now, those are kick butt, I want one of those! So I tried on a few dresses and finally settled on a black and white dress with huge sleeves and skirt trimmed with a huge amount of feathers. But the back was ripped. So now came the haggling. The store owner kept saying NO DISCOUNT it is Carnivale! The seamster was looking a big stressed when I told him what time I needed it at the next day. He finally took me in a corner away from the owner and offered me a $50 discount if I sewed it myself. Deal, now I just have to learn to sew. (by the way, the most beautiful man ever who really looked like the lead of any romantic movie about a woman alone in Europe was getting a prince costume, oh, I would have loved to see him in that and he helped me with a lot of the translations - sadly in all the commotion I lost him).
That night I went Marc's house to help him with the baking for the party. He was celebrating his 40th birthday and the menu included all of his favorite foods throughout his life. And one of those was chocolate chip cookies. Now this is going to sound blasphemous to some of you- they don't have chocolate chip cookie in Spain, or even chocolate chips. So we just pounded up a couple chocolate bars, used granulated brown sugar, oh and Marc has no American measuring cups, so we guessed at the amounts, then burned the first batch. They really were horrible and I am sure that no Spaniard was swung over to our American ways. Even the kids were not impressed.
So the next day I show up in this huge feathered dress. Not many costumes at the party (once again, this is Barcelona, not Venice). A few of the Brits showed up in costume, not as big as mine, but the Spanish just really had a hard time understanding this all. (You RENTED a costume?) Sigh. But the party was fun, I had the camera and cameras allow you to have really fun conversations with people who do not speak your language, and the dress was a huge conversation piece.
About 8 we went to go find the parade. Now, that was cool and lots more people in really cool costumes. They don't have people standing on the side walk watching like we do,rather everyone just jumps in the parade and starts dancing up the street till you finally hit the square and start having the party there. Then hit the bar. Those bartenders were a blast! Drunk as skunks and just determined to have a party. They finally closed the place with all of us in it. I told this 21 year kid at the bar that I liked his afro and he then followed me around the rest of the night, which was awkward.
Then we went back towards Marc's place. I was walking with Miquel (the portugese man from the other night) and Marshall (the American from an ealier post), who had been hitting on a woman all night long, grabbed us and told us that we need to stop and get another drink. So we did, and that turned into dinner (tapas). Then it was decided that we would go back to Silvaua's (the object of Marshall's desire) house in Gracia. Ok, that's cool, I just need to stop by Marc's apartment because he has my house keys. Marshall wouldn't let me, kept saying Marc was asleep by now and I couldn't disturb him. Silvaua offered to loan me clothes, so I finally agreed and we grabbed a cab.
We stayed up the rest of the night talking politics (basically me defending my country- "our founding fathers, that's such a cute phrase- but you elected Bush TWICE!) and finally fell asleep about 9am. I woke at noon and just wanted to go home. I promised Silvaua that I would bring her back her clothes that night, grabbed that huge dress with all the feathers and took a cab back to Marcs. Now while, not officially a walk of shame, it sure as hell felt like one.
I had never wanted to get to my house so badly and brush my teeth and shower (actually that's a lie - but not since my 20's). So I get to Marc's house and he's not home! So I call Silvaua and they try to reach Marc for me. They can't get a hold of him and that's when I remember him telling me that they're going to Nurias parents house for the day, and OMG, Nuria has Monday and Tuesday off. Oh, when will they be home? Wait, Nuria's cousin lives with them, he'll be home this evening. Ok, now just entertain yourself till this evening. So I wandered Barcelona with the filthiest mouth ever, no sunscreen, really ugly clothes, no phone, and the largest Carnivale dress the city had ever seen in my hands, leaving a trail of feathers the whole way. I went to the beach and had to do a huge duck as the guy that had tried to pick up on me the Saturday before at the beach rode passed me on his bike. Really? Him I run into? Why couldn't I have run into Luci, my landlord? Not surprisingly, he didn't recognize me at all, and now I must remember he's there every weekend and only go to the beach on weekdays.
About 9pm I ran into the kid with the afro, but still no Lucy. Finally about 10:30 one of Marcs neighbors lets me into his building. I had seen the light on in their apartment and knew somebody was home, just not answering the buzzer. Got to his apartment and Marc answered the door, with a THANK GOD! I thought you were dead! He'd been trying to find me all day.
Turns out they hadn't gone to see Nurias family and had been home all day. I had been ringing apartment 2,2 - not 2,1. 2,2 is empty and nobody lives there. We all had a big laugh. You know, if I had gotten into my apartment I would have just slept the day away and it was a beautiful day. I just wish I had enjoyed it with a toothbrush and sunscreen.
Valencia Part 2
The next day I walked over to the city center. Oh my, now this is what Spain is supposed to be. Windy streets, Medieval meets Gothic meets Baroque, meets Colonial etc. It was just the prettiest town center I have seen so far. (too bad the rest of the city is absolute crap). The cathedral was really cool and I spent way too much time in it. About 4 I finally sat down to get some food and a glass of wine.
Well, the cafe I chose to sit at because it was just the best place to sit with lots of sun shining down (oh, was I thankful for that beautiful sun) didn't actually serve food and I was not leaving that spot, so I just had a glass of wine.
I went inside to use the bathroom and hear a guy speaking Spanish to the bartender. But I stopped, there was something completely off about his accent, something that reminded me something I couldn't put my finger on. So I asked him where he was from. Flint Michigan, of course you're from Michigan I can spot a Michigan accent a mile away and even in Spanish. Martin my friend who had called me the day before lives just outside of Fint (we grew up together in Detroit). So I sat down and talked with my new friend Dave. He's a political professor at the University there. This was his favorite bar and I assumed that he probably ran into many American women in it. He said actually, they're either 20 or 60, never 40. Which has been my experience too (ladies, you all need to start traveling more, take a vacation). Then a Romanian joined us. Then another Romanian. By this time I was starving and Dave had to go teach a class (what a life, sit at a bar all day long then go preach your political opinions to bunch of college kids, I need that gig).
So the Romanians took me to dinner, then to a Romanian bar then to a disco. They bought all the drinks and my meal and we had a lot of fun. Not much English spoken, but enough and who needs to talk while you're dancing. I finally decided I had enough and kept refusing the shots and got in a cab. When I went to go pay the cabbie, I realized that all my money was gone, $150 euro! Those bastards didn't buy all the drinks and dinner, I DID! Oh well, I've spent more and have had less fun and thankfully the cabbie took American Express (they did leave all my ID and credit cards, thank god)
The next day I walked to the train station and bought my ticket home, but the train didn't leave until 8, so I took the metro to the beach to get some paella. Dave explained to me that the best paella was at the beach, I needed to look for a place that served a minimum of 2 persons and used the big pans, so you get all the good crispy stuff.
I finally found a place that was just like Dave had explained and sat down. But then came the trouble. I explained which paella that I wanted and that I knew it was for 2, but I'd just pack up the leftovers and take it home, or give it to a homeless person. NO! The paella is for 2 people. Yes, I understand that- I will pay for 2 people. No, it is for 2 people. Ok, look lady, I'm from America and this is probably my only time in Valencia, you all have the best paella and I'm not missing out on it just because I'm by myself. I AM eating paella.
She huffed and pointed to one and said, that one, we'll make you that one for one person. I don't want that one I want this one. That one is for 2 people, you get this one. Sigh, fine.
It was soupy and didn't have any good crispy stuff people talked about, but at least there were no tiny crabs, and the flavor was good.
By the way, the beaches in Valencia are crap too, surrounded by horrible looking project type buildings that look like they're going to fall down at any second. I couldn't wait to leave the beach area, so I hopped on the metro back (and I only got lost once on the way back, not too bad).
I found myself back in the city center and just wandered for hours. It's just amazing that this beautiful city center can be surrounded by such a horrible city, remember that in Valencia it is all about location.
Well, the cafe I chose to sit at because it was just the best place to sit with lots of sun shining down (oh, was I thankful for that beautiful sun) didn't actually serve food and I was not leaving that spot, so I just had a glass of wine.
I went inside to use the bathroom and hear a guy speaking Spanish to the bartender. But I stopped, there was something completely off about his accent, something that reminded me something I couldn't put my finger on. So I asked him where he was from. Flint Michigan, of course you're from Michigan I can spot a Michigan accent a mile away and even in Spanish. Martin my friend who had called me the day before lives just outside of Fint (we grew up together in Detroit). So I sat down and talked with my new friend Dave. He's a political professor at the University there. This was his favorite bar and I assumed that he probably ran into many American women in it. He said actually, they're either 20 or 60, never 40. Which has been my experience too (ladies, you all need to start traveling more, take a vacation). Then a Romanian joined us. Then another Romanian. By this time I was starving and Dave had to go teach a class (what a life, sit at a bar all day long then go preach your political opinions to bunch of college kids, I need that gig).
So the Romanians took me to dinner, then to a Romanian bar then to a disco. They bought all the drinks and my meal and we had a lot of fun. Not much English spoken, but enough and who needs to talk while you're dancing. I finally decided I had enough and kept refusing the shots and got in a cab. When I went to go pay the cabbie, I realized that all my money was gone, $150 euro! Those bastards didn't buy all the drinks and dinner, I DID! Oh well, I've spent more and have had less fun and thankfully the cabbie took American Express (they did leave all my ID and credit cards, thank god)
The next day I walked to the train station and bought my ticket home, but the train didn't leave until 8, so I took the metro to the beach to get some paella. Dave explained to me that the best paella was at the beach, I needed to look for a place that served a minimum of 2 persons and used the big pans, so you get all the good crispy stuff.
I finally found a place that was just like Dave had explained and sat down. But then came the trouble. I explained which paella that I wanted and that I knew it was for 2, but I'd just pack up the leftovers and take it home, or give it to a homeless person. NO! The paella is for 2 people. Yes, I understand that- I will pay for 2 people. No, it is for 2 people. Ok, look lady, I'm from America and this is probably my only time in Valencia, you all have the best paella and I'm not missing out on it just because I'm by myself. I AM eating paella.
She huffed and pointed to one and said, that one, we'll make you that one for one person. I don't want that one I want this one. That one is for 2 people, you get this one. Sigh, fine.
It was soupy and didn't have any good crispy stuff people talked about, but at least there were no tiny crabs, and the flavor was good.
By the way, the beaches in Valencia are crap too, surrounded by horrible looking project type buildings that look like they're going to fall down at any second. I couldn't wait to leave the beach area, so I hopped on the metro back (and I only got lost once on the way back, not too bad).
I found myself back in the city center and just wandered for hours. It's just amazing that this beautiful city center can be surrounded by such a horrible city, remember that in Valencia it is all about location.
Valencia
After I was settled in I realized I was starting to run out of time with my Eurail pass and should take a trip. I decided on Valencia. So I hopped on the train, and for the first time sat in first class. They were sold out of coach and first class was only $10 euro more, so I took it (I really wish my keyboard had the Euro sign).
First class is definitly the way to go. They greeted you with champange and orange juice, offer you a newspaper (which is the custom on planes here too, they come through with a rack with a large selection of papers from which to choose, unfortunately, none in English so I always have to miss this part). The seats are huge, only three to a row. They pass out hot towels before they serve you your meal with a little bottle of wine. This I could get used to.
I arrived at the train station, and if you've ever been to Valencia, they have one of the most beautiful train station and the immediate area is just to die for. Unfortunately, I was not staying in that area and hopped a cab to a really disappointing part of town. The hotel was uber modern and very nice with a large balcony, but the neighborhood was just disappointing. It took a 10 minute walk through large empty asthetically unpleasing streets to finally find a restaurant.
The explaination of the tapas took a while as there was very little English spoke there. It consisted of them pointing to the English menu then the item. They were patient and we had fun with it. When two Brits came in and I was able to then in turn explan the menu to them.
The next day was of course rainy, so I decided to head over to the City of Arts & Science, I figured I could spend the day inside the museums. Ok, the CAS is really cool. It's this huge complex of 4 buildings (one still being built) a garden walk and the largest aquarium in Spain. It is completely modern and looks like something out of Star Wars, really I felt like Obi Wan Kenobi and expected a Syth to drop from the sky at any moment.
So I did the aquarium, cool, but you know if you've been to one aquarium, you've really been to them all. The science museum, which is a little difficult in Spanish (but they did try to get as much English up as they could, so it was not all lost on me) and then the Imax movie (about a trip up the Nile, which now makes me want to go to Africa really badly)
When I left the Imax it was twilight and the deep blue behind these striking white futuristic buildings was just too beautiful to leave. So I wandered around a bit more. When I heard a funny sound. What is that? Oh, it's my cell phone, who could that be? So as I'm standing in what feels like the year 2050 and it's my best friend from childhood Martin Renel whom I hadn't spoken to in 20 years. It was so completely surreal to be talking to this voice from the past while I was standing in the future. (his wife had tracked me down on Facebook a few days before, Martin's not into typing, so I told him about Skype and threw in the cell phone, thinking he'd probably just sign up for Skype, who knew he'd actually call Spain) It was really cool.
Went to dinner later that night. I kept hearing how Valencia has the best food, but once again I had no luck. My area just not huge on cafes and bars, I finally found a really expensive sushi restaurant. I paid too much for dinner, but at least it was really good sushi.
First class is definitly the way to go. They greeted you with champange and orange juice, offer you a newspaper (which is the custom on planes here too, they come through with a rack with a large selection of papers from which to choose, unfortunately, none in English so I always have to miss this part). The seats are huge, only three to a row. They pass out hot towels before they serve you your meal with a little bottle of wine. This I could get used to.
I arrived at the train station, and if you've ever been to Valencia, they have one of the most beautiful train station and the immediate area is just to die for. Unfortunately, I was not staying in that area and hopped a cab to a really disappointing part of town. The hotel was uber modern and very nice with a large balcony, but the neighborhood was just disappointing. It took a 10 minute walk through large empty asthetically unpleasing streets to finally find a restaurant.
The explaination of the tapas took a while as there was very little English spoke there. It consisted of them pointing to the English menu then the item. They were patient and we had fun with it. When two Brits came in and I was able to then in turn explan the menu to them.
The next day was of course rainy, so I decided to head over to the City of Arts & Science, I figured I could spend the day inside the museums. Ok, the CAS is really cool. It's this huge complex of 4 buildings (one still being built) a garden walk and the largest aquarium in Spain. It is completely modern and looks like something out of Star Wars, really I felt like Obi Wan Kenobi and expected a Syth to drop from the sky at any moment.
So I did the aquarium, cool, but you know if you've been to one aquarium, you've really been to them all. The science museum, which is a little difficult in Spanish (but they did try to get as much English up as they could, so it was not all lost on me) and then the Imax movie (about a trip up the Nile, which now makes me want to go to Africa really badly)
When I left the Imax it was twilight and the deep blue behind these striking white futuristic buildings was just too beautiful to leave. So I wandered around a bit more. When I heard a funny sound. What is that? Oh, it's my cell phone, who could that be? So as I'm standing in what feels like the year 2050 and it's my best friend from childhood Martin Renel whom I hadn't spoken to in 20 years. It was so completely surreal to be talking to this voice from the past while I was standing in the future. (his wife had tracked me down on Facebook a few days before, Martin's not into typing, so I told him about Skype and threw in the cell phone, thinking he'd probably just sign up for Skype, who knew he'd actually call Spain) It was really cool.
Went to dinner later that night. I kept hearing how Valencia has the best food, but once again I had no luck. My area just not huge on cafes and bars, I finally found a really expensive sushi restaurant. I paid too much for dinner, but at least it was really good sushi.
Getting Settled In.
The next day I called Luci to tell her that I decided to stay in Barcelona and rented the apartment for two more nights. She couldn't meet me till that night and was worried "oh my, you're not just walking around Barcelona homeless are you?" Um, actually I am, but my bags are at the hotel and I tend to just wander around a lot anyway, so don't worry too much about it. I went to get a cell phone at Vodafone. "What's your address?, Um, I don't have one. "Well what hotel are you staying at?", Um, I'm not. "You don't have a home? You must come stay with me, my mother won't mind!" I assured the sweet little 22 year old that I did have my means and I would be just fine, but he was very worried.
I spent the next day trying to find somebody to talk to about renting another apartment, Luci's is nice, but I was looking for something with just a bit more amenities and wanted to make sure I was getting a good deal. I figured the best way to do this was to actually go to the offices listed. With my trusty laptop in hand I would use Google Maps, find the address and not the office. I tried 4 offices that Google had suggested and none of them have store fronts. So I gave up.
The next day I tried a different tactic and tried contacting people by e-mail and phone from the names off the internet. Had no luck there either and realized that I really liked Luci's apartment so arranged with her to stay till the end of April.
Now, I just have to stock the house. Grocery shopping, not as easy as it sounds. The supermercats aren't really all that super. They're more like really big 7/11's. To get a real selection of what you're looking for you must go to the individual markets like the butcher, the cheese shop, the produce market and even (and this surprised me), the frozen market. Seriously, there are little stores devoted to selling nothing but frozen food, they're kind of cool.
Then the other issue you have is transportation. You can only buy at one time what you can carry four blocks and up four flights of stairs. So you go home as soon as the weight limit has been met, drop it off and go back out. Which on a daily basis is not a big deal, people go grocery shopping every day (which I did in the states too, because I never knew what I was going to want to eat that night), but stocking up on basics took an entire day.
And of course, there's still the language problem to contend with. And that gets really interesting when you go to prepare a prepackaged meal (and yes, on occassion life is just easier to eat prepackaged food even when you're in Europe, do not judge me - I'm here a year, not two weeks)
Thankfully my landlord Luci, meets me for coffee often (she's freelance) and helps explain a lot to me, as does Marc.
Oh, and want to hear a quinky dink? Luci was Marc's first landlord when he moved to Barcelona, he rented a room from her! The only two people I know in Barcelona and they know each other. It's a lot like Tucson that way.
I spent the next day trying to find somebody to talk to about renting another apartment, Luci's is nice, but I was looking for something with just a bit more amenities and wanted to make sure I was getting a good deal. I figured the best way to do this was to actually go to the offices listed. With my trusty laptop in hand I would use Google Maps, find the address and not the office. I tried 4 offices that Google had suggested and none of them have store fronts. So I gave up.
The next day I tried a different tactic and tried contacting people by e-mail and phone from the names off the internet. Had no luck there either and realized that I really liked Luci's apartment so arranged with her to stay till the end of April.
Now, I just have to stock the house. Grocery shopping, not as easy as it sounds. The supermercats aren't really all that super. They're more like really big 7/11's. To get a real selection of what you're looking for you must go to the individual markets like the butcher, the cheese shop, the produce market and even (and this surprised me), the frozen market. Seriously, there are little stores devoted to selling nothing but frozen food, they're kind of cool.
Then the other issue you have is transportation. You can only buy at one time what you can carry four blocks and up four flights of stairs. So you go home as soon as the weight limit has been met, drop it off and go back out. Which on a daily basis is not a big deal, people go grocery shopping every day (which I did in the states too, because I never knew what I was going to want to eat that night), but stocking up on basics took an entire day.
And of course, there's still the language problem to contend with. And that gets really interesting when you go to prepare a prepackaged meal (and yes, on occassion life is just easier to eat prepackaged food even when you're in Europe, do not judge me - I'm here a year, not two weeks)
Thankfully my landlord Luci, meets me for coffee often (she's freelance) and helps explain a lot to me, as does Marc.
Oh, and want to hear a quinky dink? Luci was Marc's first landlord when he moved to Barcelona, he rented a room from her! The only two people I know in Barcelona and they know each other. It's a lot like Tucson that way.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Barcelona Part 3
So turns out in Spain, being locked in a mausoleum is not cause for concern. If anything, is just a really lucky thing, because then you'll have a great story! I'm not sure I like this attitude. Just one ounce of sympathy would have done my heart good.
But I decided to extend my stay even longer, as I finally have people who will speak to me here. The hotel I was staying at had a great rate, during the week, but it was astronimical on the weekends. That's where my new friend Hamid stepped in. He was one of the front desk agents when I checked in with the flu, who told me to take a cold shower and put cold rags on my head and tried to find a farmacia for me. Hamid is Algerian with an English girlfriend Luci. Luci has an apartment in Barclona that she rents out to her friends and would be much cheaper than staying at the hotel. So I decided to go for it. It was one of the stops I made between finding my way to safety and the Dutchmen. I rented her flat for two nights the day after my mausoleum trip, but needed to meet with her that night for her to give me the keys. Hamid put me in a cab to meet her. I suggested I buy her a drink and she took me to a bar, I have yet to find again. We saw the apartment and it was perfectly acceptable, so I took it. Luci, a 40 year old casting director (whom I think I can be friends with) said, if you pay me now I'll buy you a drink so I took her up on it before I went back to my hotel for the night and found the Dutchmen.
Her place was a little small but more than acceptable for Friday and Saturday night, my last days in Barcelona. Friday night I cooked for myself for the first time in a month and really enjoyed it, and stayed in to talk to my friends on the internet.
Saturday I walked a four miles to the Familia Sograda. So worth it. It's one of the last large "temples" that's being built. It's massive, with attention paid to every detail. It's a "naturalist" church, designed by Guadi, who is one of my favorites. It's been under construction since the 1880's and has about 40 more years of construction left. The idea that something this beautiful and this massive is still being built today brought tears to my eyes. The thought that there are still people who care about building a monument to life's spirit and will spend lifetimes doing so is so overwhelming that words can not start to explain. And as this thought was in my head, and my heart was pounding, a stupid British twit started to have a freakout. "She said it was beautiful, with tons of candles and light and things. But it's all underconstruction, it's just shit really". Ok, be patient, maybe she doesn't understand that this is the last great church ever built and the fact that we can be there during it's construction and in a 1,000 years it will still be here with people walking around in awe, hasn't hit her yet. So I gently said, you realize they're not finished yet? To which she looked at me in horror and stormed out. Her boyfriend gave me an "I'm sorry" look and ran after her. Oh, the Brits.
That night Marc introduced me to his Spanish fiancee Nuria. Supposedly she doesn't speak much English, but we had great conversations and I really liked her. We then met up with the "Expat" group. Only one of which was American, which was surprising. The Bolivian, you would have sworn grew up in New York and the Austrian should have been in LA shooting movies. There was also a Portugese fellow that was new to the group and Flo, an amazingly beautiful young man that had bartenders buying us rounds at every bar we went. The other American was Marshall, he reminded me much of Anthony Taye, a friend of mine from High School. He had been in publishing, but the industry went to shit, so now he's here teaching English. We went to several bars and clubs and had a really good time. It was about 4am when I finally arrived home.
The next day I met Marc at his apartment. Nuria had left to go visit her family in a small town near Barcelona, which is her custom on Sundays. Marc usually goes with her, but since his Cattylon is near inexistent, he chooses to stay home some Sundays.
Marc had already become a friend, but this Sunday he became a hero. He taught me how to download my pictures (yeah, I know, it just takes a long time), taught me about Skype, so I could call my family and taught me how to download Lost and every other program I could possibly ever want to see. Yay Marc, I no longer just have to watch Brittish CNN. (US channels do no allow their internet downloads to be broadcast outside the US so you have to do some tricky things that is comprised of thousands of abroad internet geeks to get the job done).
Then he took me to the most fabulous Spanish Tapas bar ever! It was a dive, but the bartender and owner made my heart rejoice. The bartender refused to serve three men who walked in because they didn't have smiles. "When you come back with a better attitude, then you can have some beer". Kept saying he was in love and when asked with whom, "Life, aren't you in love with life? Good friends, Wonderful Family what more could I ask for?" The owner told me I should open his bar in he US. I asked if he would give me the recipes so I could. He responded that I didn't need the recipes, it was all about the heart. Of course Marc was translating this all for me or I never would have had such a wonderful time. Then it was time to close. So we paid our bill ($30 euro for lunch and homemade vermouth, well worth it), but we couldnt' leave. Don't you know when they close it just means the bartender is ready for drinks and if the door is closed can't accept cash, but can keep pouring. So a few more drinks ( I thankfully changed from vermouth to beer) and we headed back to Marcs place to pick up my computer and my new download of Lost.
I went back to my street and sat in cafe next door to the apartment owned by Domicans to wait till my train to Malaga was ready to leave.
Oh, did I mention? When I arrived in Barcelona I decided I would settle in Malaga. The air was warm and the flowers blooming, and it was cheap and pretty. I though of course fell in love with Barcelona and had a decision to make. So I flipped a coin. It was Barcelona. I ignored it because it was easier to travel than to set up shop.
So I got to the train station and realized as soon as I walked in with all of my bags. That 21:45, does not mean 11:45, but rather 9:45pm. So I had missed my train by 2 hours. A great wall of relief fell over me. I had never been so excited to miss anything in my life!
But it was almost midnight and I had given up the keys to the apartment. Now what to do? Well, I didn't actually lock the apartment as the keys were in it, so maybe I can buzz somebody to let me in and got a cab to drive me back. I got the one apartment I had met to buzz me in (hola, me La Americana), but the door, I now know, locks automatically. So I walked to the closest hotel and got a room.
As soon as I was at the train station I knew, that this was my new home for a while. There's so much to explore and see and do that I can't even wait to get started, but maybe I need a day of downtime too. And I'm ready to start cooking.
But I decided to extend my stay even longer, as I finally have people who will speak to me here. The hotel I was staying at had a great rate, during the week, but it was astronimical on the weekends. That's where my new friend Hamid stepped in. He was one of the front desk agents when I checked in with the flu, who told me to take a cold shower and put cold rags on my head and tried to find a farmacia for me. Hamid is Algerian with an English girlfriend Luci. Luci has an apartment in Barclona that she rents out to her friends and would be much cheaper than staying at the hotel. So I decided to go for it. It was one of the stops I made between finding my way to safety and the Dutchmen. I rented her flat for two nights the day after my mausoleum trip, but needed to meet with her that night for her to give me the keys. Hamid put me in a cab to meet her. I suggested I buy her a drink and she took me to a bar, I have yet to find again. We saw the apartment and it was perfectly acceptable, so I took it. Luci, a 40 year old casting director (whom I think I can be friends with) said, if you pay me now I'll buy you a drink so I took her up on it before I went back to my hotel for the night and found the Dutchmen.
Her place was a little small but more than acceptable for Friday and Saturday night, my last days in Barcelona. Friday night I cooked for myself for the first time in a month and really enjoyed it, and stayed in to talk to my friends on the internet.
Saturday I walked a four miles to the Familia Sograda. So worth it. It's one of the last large "temples" that's being built. It's massive, with attention paid to every detail. It's a "naturalist" church, designed by Guadi, who is one of my favorites. It's been under construction since the 1880's and has about 40 more years of construction left. The idea that something this beautiful and this massive is still being built today brought tears to my eyes. The thought that there are still people who care about building a monument to life's spirit and will spend lifetimes doing so is so overwhelming that words can not start to explain. And as this thought was in my head, and my heart was pounding, a stupid British twit started to have a freakout. "She said it was beautiful, with tons of candles and light and things. But it's all underconstruction, it's just shit really". Ok, be patient, maybe she doesn't understand that this is the last great church ever built and the fact that we can be there during it's construction and in a 1,000 years it will still be here with people walking around in awe, hasn't hit her yet. So I gently said, you realize they're not finished yet? To which she looked at me in horror and stormed out. Her boyfriend gave me an "I'm sorry" look and ran after her. Oh, the Brits.
That night Marc introduced me to his Spanish fiancee Nuria. Supposedly she doesn't speak much English, but we had great conversations and I really liked her. We then met up with the "Expat" group. Only one of which was American, which was surprising. The Bolivian, you would have sworn grew up in New York and the Austrian should have been in LA shooting movies. There was also a Portugese fellow that was new to the group and Flo, an amazingly beautiful young man that had bartenders buying us rounds at every bar we went. The other American was Marshall, he reminded me much of Anthony Taye, a friend of mine from High School. He had been in publishing, but the industry went to shit, so now he's here teaching English. We went to several bars and clubs and had a really good time. It was about 4am when I finally arrived home.
The next day I met Marc at his apartment. Nuria had left to go visit her family in a small town near Barcelona, which is her custom on Sundays. Marc usually goes with her, but since his Cattylon is near inexistent, he chooses to stay home some Sundays.
Marc had already become a friend, but this Sunday he became a hero. He taught me how to download my pictures (yeah, I know, it just takes a long time), taught me about Skype, so I could call my family and taught me how to download Lost and every other program I could possibly ever want to see. Yay Marc, I no longer just have to watch Brittish CNN. (US channels do no allow their internet downloads to be broadcast outside the US so you have to do some tricky things that is comprised of thousands of abroad internet geeks to get the job done).
Then he took me to the most fabulous Spanish Tapas bar ever! It was a dive, but the bartender and owner made my heart rejoice. The bartender refused to serve three men who walked in because they didn't have smiles. "When you come back with a better attitude, then you can have some beer". Kept saying he was in love and when asked with whom, "Life, aren't you in love with life? Good friends, Wonderful Family what more could I ask for?" The owner told me I should open his bar in he US. I asked if he would give me the recipes so I could. He responded that I didn't need the recipes, it was all about the heart. Of course Marc was translating this all for me or I never would have had such a wonderful time. Then it was time to close. So we paid our bill ($30 euro for lunch and homemade vermouth, well worth it), but we couldnt' leave. Don't you know when they close it just means the bartender is ready for drinks and if the door is closed can't accept cash, but can keep pouring. So a few more drinks ( I thankfully changed from vermouth to beer) and we headed back to Marcs place to pick up my computer and my new download of Lost.
I went back to my street and sat in cafe next door to the apartment owned by Domicans to wait till my train to Malaga was ready to leave.
Oh, did I mention? When I arrived in Barcelona I decided I would settle in Malaga. The air was warm and the flowers blooming, and it was cheap and pretty. I though of course fell in love with Barcelona and had a decision to make. So I flipped a coin. It was Barcelona. I ignored it because it was easier to travel than to set up shop.
So I got to the train station and realized as soon as I walked in with all of my bags. That 21:45, does not mean 11:45, but rather 9:45pm. So I had missed my train by 2 hours. A great wall of relief fell over me. I had never been so excited to miss anything in my life!
But it was almost midnight and I had given up the keys to the apartment. Now what to do? Well, I didn't actually lock the apartment as the keys were in it, so maybe I can buzz somebody to let me in and got a cab to drive me back. I got the one apartment I had met to buzz me in (hola, me La Americana), but the door, I now know, locks automatically. So I walked to the closest hotel and got a room.
As soon as I was at the train station I knew, that this was my new home for a while. There's so much to explore and see and do that I can't even wait to get started, but maybe I need a day of downtime too. And I'm ready to start cooking.
Barcelona Part 2
So even when I slept all day in Barcelona from the flu, I still had enough energy to get up and go meet a friend Tom Zoellner told me to look up, Marc Herman. Marc picked me up at my hotel and took me on a tour of the city knowing all sorts of interesting facts that normal tour guides don't even discuss and took me to a great bar in his neighborhood for tapas. Oh, was I ever glad. He finally explained to me what all this food was and it was really good. He also explained to me that most bacon was, in fact, cooked and I just got screwed over in Seville (I knew that wasn't right). The next night my friend Eduardo (APK from Madrid) was in town for business so he took me to this incredible restaurant, Tusset, in the heart of the financial district. The filet with foie gras almost made my eyes water it was so good, but there were no people there. Seriously, we were the only ones in the restaurant. Then we walked around the Ramblas looking for people. It really seems as though the economy has taken a huge dive here and it shows in the restaurants and bars. It's kind of sad. The next night Eduardo and I went out for tapas and I learned even more about the really good local food here.
I then realized I was running out of time in Barcelona and had not even begun to see the city, so I extended my stay for another night and the next day met Marc to walk his dog. He took me up Montjuic (Jew Hill), the site of the Olympics and around the King of Aaragon's Palace and showed me where the Joan Miro museum was so I could go back (I had mentioned, he was one of my all time favorites). We had a cup of coffee in a little shop with a huge patio over looking the city and it really couldn't have been nicer. Then he left me to my own devices so he could go work (Marc is a freelance reporter) and I hit the museum. When I left it was once again raining, but I decided to make the trek up a huge hill to see the castle.
I can officially say I'm over castles. It was my fourth, they're all on huge hills and they're really just armories. Give me a Palace any day.
So then through the rain I trekked over to the cemetary, that I had seen in the distance and Marc explained it dated back to the 11th century or something. It was really like a big outdoor mausoleum, with buildings and roads. I really was curious.
It was probably about 2 miles from the castle, but I thought worth it. I got there and the only entrance is this really big modern gate. It was 5:10 and the hours said it closed a 5:30. I thought I had enough time to take a quick peek. I kept going in further and further looking for the really old tombs that Marc had assured me were there. I thought, maybe if I go down this road and look high the old ones will be there. But no. Couldn't find anything older than 1958. But I think I did find the worlds largest collection of miniture crucifiction statues. But at least the rain had finally stopped and there was actually sun peaking through the clouds.
The cemetary is on a hill over looking the ocean, at one point at top I thought this would be the most fabulous place in the world to view a sunset. But then thought better of that because well, then the sun would be down and you'd still be in this creepy place with towering walls and streets that went nowhere. So I headed for the gate.
On my way I passed a groundskeeper who as heading up from the gate, he waved to me and I thought, good he's not mad that I'm a little late. My feet were killing me, I was hungry and needed a glass of wine when I arrived at the gate.
Well the gate was locked and 10 feet tall solid metal. Okay, don't panic, the groundskeeper saw you, he knows your in here, he'll be back. So I waited patiently. Turns out the groundskeeper is a dick. I'm sure he was at a cafe at that point laughing about the American he locked in the mausoleum.
Ok, don't panic, assume he's not coming back- what do you do? There was a low wall on the one end I noticed when walking around the outside, go check it out. So I tredged back up three flights of stairs and the wall wasn't as low as I had thought. But there was a tree against the wall. That's an option, but maybe I should look for a better one, and headed back towards the gate. There was construction work going on, maybe I should head towards that. Oh, that's a cliff, maybe not. I finally found the service entrance. An 8 foot high metal door (which by the way, was locked from the inside- so somebody was there, just ignoring me) but there was a ledge half way up. That I could climb, but what happens if the ledge isn't on the otherside? Better keep moving. Then I found it! A perfectly climbable wire fence with large square holes that was tops 7 feet. Oh, my heart rejoiced as I quickly threw my purse over it. By this time the sun was almost set and I had to navigate my way down a hill with no path, but seemed a minor inconvenience to spending the night in a cemetary/mausoleum.
Now, I only had another 2 mile walk back though the hill to get where Marc told me I should leave the hill. It was night by now, but the hill was teaming with athletic types all in water wicking fabric and running shoes so I didn't feel too unsafe. I found the cafe Marc had taken to me and stopped for a well deserved glass of wine over looking the city at night. I then found the stairs Marc had told me about. Now, during the day, when Marc thought I'd be descending them, I'm sure they are not at all scary. But at night with a half moon and no lights at all, they are a bit terrifying. I kept my gaurd up and was somewhat pacified by the athletic types that would occasionally run up them.
I got about half way down, the view of the city was amazing by the way, and saw a man just standing on the steps. Shit, are you kidding me? What's up with this? He spoke to me in Spanish, I quickly assured him I did not speak Spanish, as I was trying to pass him with a wide berth. He changed to French, I shook my head and he then started speaking English. He asked what I was doing on the stairs alone and that a woman by herself shouldn't be walking down such a dark passage. Um, thanks professor. He then started talking to me about poor people. ???? Turns out he is of Indian descent (I actually got that from his English) but is a correspondent in France for a Mumbai newspaper and was in Barcelona for his cousins wedding. He is also writing a book on the differences and similarities between the poor and the rich and wanted to know my opinions on why the poor were poor, and the rich were rich.
Dude, I've been walking for 8 hours in the rain, up and down hills, am on a really scary stairway with no one around and I was just LOCKED IN A MAUSOLEUM! I have no thoughts on the subject at this particular moment. He then invited me to dinner which I really just had to decline.
It took me another two hours to get to my hotel with a few stops and I quickly sat myself at the bar next door with two Dutch men and proceeded to drink. Not as much as the Dutchmen, but darn close.
I then realized I was running out of time in Barcelona and had not even begun to see the city, so I extended my stay for another night and the next day met Marc to walk his dog. He took me up Montjuic (Jew Hill), the site of the Olympics and around the King of Aaragon's Palace and showed me where the Joan Miro museum was so I could go back (I had mentioned, he was one of my all time favorites). We had a cup of coffee in a little shop with a huge patio over looking the city and it really couldn't have been nicer. Then he left me to my own devices so he could go work (Marc is a freelance reporter) and I hit the museum. When I left it was once again raining, but I decided to make the trek up a huge hill to see the castle.
I can officially say I'm over castles. It was my fourth, they're all on huge hills and they're really just armories. Give me a Palace any day.
So then through the rain I trekked over to the cemetary, that I had seen in the distance and Marc explained it dated back to the 11th century or something. It was really like a big outdoor mausoleum, with buildings and roads. I really was curious.
It was probably about 2 miles from the castle, but I thought worth it. I got there and the only entrance is this really big modern gate. It was 5:10 and the hours said it closed a 5:30. I thought I had enough time to take a quick peek. I kept going in further and further looking for the really old tombs that Marc had assured me were there. I thought, maybe if I go down this road and look high the old ones will be there. But no. Couldn't find anything older than 1958. But I think I did find the worlds largest collection of miniture crucifiction statues. But at least the rain had finally stopped and there was actually sun peaking through the clouds.
The cemetary is on a hill over looking the ocean, at one point at top I thought this would be the most fabulous place in the world to view a sunset. But then thought better of that because well, then the sun would be down and you'd still be in this creepy place with towering walls and streets that went nowhere. So I headed for the gate.
On my way I passed a groundskeeper who as heading up from the gate, he waved to me and I thought, good he's not mad that I'm a little late. My feet were killing me, I was hungry and needed a glass of wine when I arrived at the gate.
Well the gate was locked and 10 feet tall solid metal. Okay, don't panic, the groundskeeper saw you, he knows your in here, he'll be back. So I waited patiently. Turns out the groundskeeper is a dick. I'm sure he was at a cafe at that point laughing about the American he locked in the mausoleum.
Ok, don't panic, assume he's not coming back- what do you do? There was a low wall on the one end I noticed when walking around the outside, go check it out. So I tredged back up three flights of stairs and the wall wasn't as low as I had thought. But there was a tree against the wall. That's an option, but maybe I should look for a better one, and headed back towards the gate. There was construction work going on, maybe I should head towards that. Oh, that's a cliff, maybe not. I finally found the service entrance. An 8 foot high metal door (which by the way, was locked from the inside- so somebody was there, just ignoring me) but there was a ledge half way up. That I could climb, but what happens if the ledge isn't on the otherside? Better keep moving. Then I found it! A perfectly climbable wire fence with large square holes that was tops 7 feet. Oh, my heart rejoiced as I quickly threw my purse over it. By this time the sun was almost set and I had to navigate my way down a hill with no path, but seemed a minor inconvenience to spending the night in a cemetary/mausoleum.
Now, I only had another 2 mile walk back though the hill to get where Marc told me I should leave the hill. It was night by now, but the hill was teaming with athletic types all in water wicking fabric and running shoes so I didn't feel too unsafe. I found the cafe Marc had taken to me and stopped for a well deserved glass of wine over looking the city at night. I then found the stairs Marc had told me about. Now, during the day, when Marc thought I'd be descending them, I'm sure they are not at all scary. But at night with a half moon and no lights at all, they are a bit terrifying. I kept my gaurd up and was somewhat pacified by the athletic types that would occasionally run up them.
I got about half way down, the view of the city was amazing by the way, and saw a man just standing on the steps. Shit, are you kidding me? What's up with this? He spoke to me in Spanish, I quickly assured him I did not speak Spanish, as I was trying to pass him with a wide berth. He changed to French, I shook my head and he then started speaking English. He asked what I was doing on the stairs alone and that a woman by herself shouldn't be walking down such a dark passage. Um, thanks professor. He then started talking to me about poor people. ???? Turns out he is of Indian descent (I actually got that from his English) but is a correspondent in France for a Mumbai newspaper and was in Barcelona for his cousins wedding. He is also writing a book on the differences and similarities between the poor and the rich and wanted to know my opinions on why the poor were poor, and the rich were rich.
Dude, I've been walking for 8 hours in the rain, up and down hills, am on a really scary stairway with no one around and I was just LOCKED IN A MAUSOLEUM! I have no thoughts on the subject at this particular moment. He then invited me to dinner which I really just had to decline.
It took me another two hours to get to my hotel with a few stops and I quickly sat myself at the bar next door with two Dutch men and proceeded to drink. Not as much as the Dutchmen, but darn close.
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