The reason I group these three cities together is mainly out of laziness. We have seen so much it is impossible for me to tell a captivating (like each and every one of my previous blogs! (I am in an exclamation point mood of late(!))) and interesting story for every stop on our trip of dreams and wavy memories. Thus I will simply say the following (and perhaps save some of the words earned at these cities for oral retelling rather than the printed format):
(Also nothing completely crazy or cunningly compelling occured)
Have I mentioned it was cold? In Brugges it was this snow/sleet/rain/wind/torture from the moment we arrived. We walked around a bit, took a pretty cool (literally (c'mon everybody!)) brewery tour, tasted some excellent Belgian Beer, did some more walking, saw some sight, attempted to avoid the rain, went to sleep, awoke next morning, did something, and then headed in the direction of Brussels.
Brussels is a fine city with genuine and in most instances, very friendly people. The only drawback to Brussels was it was cold (bet you didn't see that coming (exclamation point)). Like Brugges, Brussels would be a lovely city if the sun was shining heavily and happily and if it was, O I don't know, warm. Full of parks and terrific architecture and art nouveau, Brussels seems like an excellent walking city. Unfortunately for us it was snowy, we had a nice hotel room and an abundance of delicious Belgian beer, and that mother of all sinners, that killer of all energy, stealer of all souls (what is it with me and souls of late?): a TV. Mix that with museums and some other outdoor activities when it wasn't raining/sleeting/spitting on us, and that nearly sums up our Brussels experience. At least to my already fading memory.
Amsterdam was...well. It is tough to describe Amsterdam from our view point. The weather was lousy, our hotel was insufferable for the astronomical price, the museums were expensive and, in my humble opinion, terribly (ok not terribly) overrated, everything was touristy or seriously sketchy, and what was that smell? Perhaps I will waste my breath in my later days with retelling some things we did in Amsterdam (like the sub-par Rijksmuseum and the ok van Gogh museum) but I will not waste time or energy here and now on this place I did not care for.
For there exists a much a better place I wish to tell you about in Holland, a much friendlier place, a much more exciting place. A place where one feels at home. A place they call Groningen.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
Friday, 28 March 2008
The train ride to Brugges
It was our plan to go from Brussels to Brugges on the night of the 20th, stay the night in Brugges then come back the next evening to Brussels and stay two nights in Brussels. This worked fine, and some would say, now with hindsight, almost to perfection, except for one thing (that we'll get to in a moment (and all of you know by now what happened so this suspenseful cliffhanger is purposeless (but I enjoy it anyway and for those of who don't know be prepared to be shocked!))).
We arrived in Charleroix airport from Girona, which like Girona is its own city--seperated from Brussels by a rather large distance. This being the case we got a fairly good deal that consisted of a bus ride from the airport to Charleroix station, then a train to Brussels Midi, then a train to Brugges. A simple journey for us, already seasoned travelers. It would prove otherwise.
Where Spain was sunny, Belgium was rainy; where Spain was warm, Belgium was freezing; where Spain was cheap, Belgium was expensive. Let the fun begin!
All rolled smooth, besides the frigid rain that pounded against our waterproofed chests and weather-worn faces, until the train from Brussels to Brugges. The boys were tired, I could see it in their faces. It had been a long journey and our thoughts were on beer and bed. The train stopped in Brugges and we yawned our way out. We got outside and were met by rain, wind, and cold (a Belgian greeting I'm told (I've never actually told that but it sounded good)). We walked a little way with the other departees--I behind the talking Dave and Scott--towards the taxi/bus stands. As I listened to the clitter-clatter of the rolling luggage wheels bounce along the cobbled streets I looked directly before me and asked, 'Dave, where's your bag?' (A question that will live in infamy)
He looked nonchalantly to his back and answered my query with a, 'Why, it sits upon my back, as you currently see it,' look. But then his right hand made an involuntarily grasping motion as if searching for a luggage handle to a black Osprey roll along/backpack, and suddenly the realization came to his face. His eyes became wide as they met mine, an O formed his lips and a disgruntled gurgle protruded painfully from his mouth. 'What should I do?' His eyes wild with fear, anguish, anxiety, excitement. He searched my eyes quickly for some answer of hope, of reassurance. 'Run, Dude.'
He walked quickly at first, unsure of himself and his surroundings. Another, 'Run, Dude,' excited his engines and he moved slightly quicker. His lonely backpack swung back and forth as he 'sprinted' 'speedily' down the wrong corridor. We caught up with him on foot and quietly asked, like most civilised and helpful people, 'Where are you going, Dude?' A shrug was the answer, followed by a somewhat depressed and seemingly despondent, 'I don't know.' Scott, meanwhile, ran up to the platform nearest to our train only to see the train slowly amble away (of course). He came back with a smile (for, God help us, we could not help but enjoy this, it had been cold and bleek since we arrived and a hearty chuckle was needed) and said with a satisfied and a touch disstainful (I suppose) sigh, 'It's gone dude.'
We stood silently and looked around. A light flickered in our hallway, eerily enhancing the extreme emptiness of this train station of stolen dreams. (Poetry? Yes please.)
Looking around this station so void of human souls, what little hope Dave had of finding his bag that night flickered and died like the last gasp of a waxed out candle. To interrupt our stunned silence, intermitenly there would exist the slow tap-tap of high heels hitting the hard floor and echoing off the lofty ceilings. It was ingratiatingly creepy. And I loved it.
We went outside to the cold. A strong wind sprinkled with the lightest of mists leaned cold and wetly against our faces. We decided on a Taxi to our hostel to save Dave further embarassment and to lessen the chance of him leaving his backpack on the bus. The taxi ride was quiet but only for a moment--Scott and I smiling sheepishly from ear to ear, Dave wallowing listlessly in a bit of self-pity--when finally the question was asked: 'How did that happen?'
I remember it quite clearly my dear Watson. Our destination had been announced and I rallied the troops to, 'arise, grab your packs, and deboard!' or something similar to this nature. Scott and I proceeded post-haste and were ready and able. Dave removed his bag from the top shelf, placed it in the chair across from the aisle beside him, and promptly sat down. 'Tired?' I wise cracked, as we had been sitting for nearly 6 hours on the day (thus the wise crack was a stunning supercilious success!). 'My feet,' he explained with a point, a tired, agonizing point, and for a moment he and I were lost--lost in the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind--staring at those shoes. The train stopped, I took my eyes from his feet, turned round, and was out the door, he behind me. He without a bag.
There it went on that train to who knows where. There it went on that train of captured souls. There it went, not yet to return. But a bag did not stop our journey (nor could much else!) and we were in Brugges. It was cold but we were in Brugges.
What shall we see?
We arrived in Charleroix airport from Girona, which like Girona is its own city--seperated from Brussels by a rather large distance. This being the case we got a fairly good deal that consisted of a bus ride from the airport to Charleroix station, then a train to Brussels Midi, then a train to Brugges. A simple journey for us, already seasoned travelers. It would prove otherwise.
Where Spain was sunny, Belgium was rainy; where Spain was warm, Belgium was freezing; where Spain was cheap, Belgium was expensive. Let the fun begin!
All rolled smooth, besides the frigid rain that pounded against our waterproofed chests and weather-worn faces, until the train from Brussels to Brugges. The boys were tired, I could see it in their faces. It had been a long journey and our thoughts were on beer and bed. The train stopped in Brugges and we yawned our way out. We got outside and were met by rain, wind, and cold (a Belgian greeting I'm told (I've never actually told that but it sounded good)). We walked a little way with the other departees--I behind the talking Dave and Scott--towards the taxi/bus stands. As I listened to the clitter-clatter of the rolling luggage wheels bounce along the cobbled streets I looked directly before me and asked, 'Dave, where's your bag?' (A question that will live in infamy)
He looked nonchalantly to his back and answered my query with a, 'Why, it sits upon my back, as you currently see it,' look. But then his right hand made an involuntarily grasping motion as if searching for a luggage handle to a black Osprey roll along/backpack, and suddenly the realization came to his face. His eyes became wide as they met mine, an O formed his lips and a disgruntled gurgle protruded painfully from his mouth. 'What should I do?' His eyes wild with fear, anguish, anxiety, excitement. He searched my eyes quickly for some answer of hope, of reassurance. 'Run, Dude.'
He walked quickly at first, unsure of himself and his surroundings. Another, 'Run, Dude,' excited his engines and he moved slightly quicker. His lonely backpack swung back and forth as he 'sprinted' 'speedily' down the wrong corridor. We caught up with him on foot and quietly asked, like most civilised and helpful people, 'Where are you going, Dude?' A shrug was the answer, followed by a somewhat depressed and seemingly despondent, 'I don't know.' Scott, meanwhile, ran up to the platform nearest to our train only to see the train slowly amble away (of course). He came back with a smile (for, God help us, we could not help but enjoy this, it had been cold and bleek since we arrived and a hearty chuckle was needed) and said with a satisfied and a touch disstainful (I suppose) sigh, 'It's gone dude.'
We stood silently and looked around. A light flickered in our hallway, eerily enhancing the extreme emptiness of this train station of stolen dreams. (Poetry? Yes please.)
Looking around this station so void of human souls, what little hope Dave had of finding his bag that night flickered and died like the last gasp of a waxed out candle. To interrupt our stunned silence, intermitenly there would exist the slow tap-tap of high heels hitting the hard floor and echoing off the lofty ceilings. It was ingratiatingly creepy. And I loved it.
We went outside to the cold. A strong wind sprinkled with the lightest of mists leaned cold and wetly against our faces. We decided on a Taxi to our hostel to save Dave further embarassment and to lessen the chance of him leaving his backpack on the bus. The taxi ride was quiet but only for a moment--Scott and I smiling sheepishly from ear to ear, Dave wallowing listlessly in a bit of self-pity--when finally the question was asked: 'How did that happen?'
I remember it quite clearly my dear Watson. Our destination had been announced and I rallied the troops to, 'arise, grab your packs, and deboard!' or something similar to this nature. Scott and I proceeded post-haste and were ready and able. Dave removed his bag from the top shelf, placed it in the chair across from the aisle beside him, and promptly sat down. 'Tired?' I wise cracked, as we had been sitting for nearly 6 hours on the day (thus the wise crack was a stunning supercilious success!). 'My feet,' he explained with a point, a tired, agonizing point, and for a moment he and I were lost--lost in the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind--staring at those shoes. The train stopped, I took my eyes from his feet, turned round, and was out the door, he behind me. He without a bag.
There it went on that train to who knows where. There it went on that train of captured souls. There it went, not yet to return. But a bag did not stop our journey (nor could much else!) and we were in Brugges. It was cold but we were in Brugges.
What shall we see?
Monday, 24 March 2008
Goodbye Barcelona
We awoke to the slamming of doors. Our australian room-mates had decided to build a chest in our hostel room and fill it with an endless supply of plastic bags at 7 in the morning. I had set an alarm for 10, so to get a restful sleep but also so as to seize some of the beautiful daylight. But with the Ruckus caused all early-morning, sleep was far from omni-present, indeed the girls in our room finished their chest of drawers (packing) and went out the door at exactly 10. So I was awake but sleepy, but a shower and an Emergence-C fixed all that and I felt ready (listo, if you will). Our first feat was La Sagrada Familia.
To say it in three words, It is Striking. To behold such a monument of sheer brilliance, of sheer liveliness, of sheer inescapable beauty, leaves one feeling small, unimportant, and out of place. No matter what angle you take with the creature (for the building is a living breathing being, so full of the architect's life and sacrifice) it completely overwhelms you. To my mind, however, the interior is a bit of a disappointment, the majority of it is still under construction (and won't be finished until 2020 at the earliest!) and what could be seen was not small (in now way is it so), not stunning (for surely it will be stunning) but just a certain je nais c'est quoi that mind has misplaced at the moment. We spen a couple hours around La Sagrada and Scott and Dave decided to pay the €2 to go up the tower elevator and down the spirally stairs. I opted out and went into my own private hell.
Dave's was the mountain the day before, Scott's was a certain Metro ride in Madrid, and mine (as so often is the case, it seems) was children.
I waited outside La Sagrada for a time as I waited for Scott and Dave to move an inch in the stationary queue in which they were standing. As I posed uninterested on a railing, a shrieking sound pierced my ears. It continued at different pithces from all around the slight inclined walkway in which I was standing. I first thought it was a murder of baby crows lost from their mothers, desperately attempting to destroy the eardrums of all that were near for their cruel attmepts at revenge. But instead of pleading birds, I saw a group of ill-dressed children creeching at each other. I rolled up the short-history of La Sagrada Familia pamphlet I was holding and thought quickly how many of these children I could strike over the head with it, before they overtook me with their tiny little hands and squeeling yelps. I counted 3, maybe 4, that I could take and figured it wasn't worth it as there were 17 of them that I could see, but hundreds, maybe thousands of them, that I could hear.
I walked away from their shrilling and into the museum--escaping into the peaceful serenity of a well-lit collection of fact-feeding rooms. Is trolled through slowly to delay any chance of another encounter with these bird-children. I exited the museum feeling slightly better, my head-ache subsiding, when, of a sudden, there they were again, chirpping to each other in a new and most ear-splitting way. Aggrevation (that's for you grandma) was all I could think of as I attempted to give them that eye that says, "Please shut up before I strangle you with that stupid necklace that you're wearing around your neck." But it didn't work and the sparrow calls continued. I walked away as fast as I could and found my serenity in the streets away from La Sagrada for 40 minutes or so before I head back and meet Dave and Scott. And, of course, near to the second I returned to the arena IT began again.
They were surrounding me. Trying to confuse me by running behind me to different benches all the while making their evil war calls. I nearly broke down and gave in (probably in some cinematic gesture (a la Charlton Heston) falling to my knees and shouting to the heavens, 'You've won!' 'You monsters!' 'You've won!') but I became strong and walked away to meet Scott and Davewho were shouting glorious praises about the elvator ride, the view, and the staircase down, while I silently listened. When they asked waht I did, I looked around, added that O so important pregnant pause, and responded, 'Not much.'
We left La Sagrada to meet with Scott and my friend from Barcelona, Marina. She gave us a quick tour around her proud city and then escorted us to a lovely and lively little Tapas Bar near the city center. we feasted on an excellent meal, one that rivaled many I've had in the past months, and with my rosy cheeks (from the beer and the heat) I smiled a most satisfied boyish smile. After dinner she took us to Gaudi's houses in the rain. It was a rather somber moment as we would have to say goodbye to our kind host (as she is not returning to Guildford in April) and the rain fell gingerly upon, almost tepidly, upon us as we stared up at these creations. It was time to go.
We parted ways in a metro station. All through the metro to the Hostel we raved about how great marina was, what a shame it was she was not returning the next semester, and what a kind person she waa. It would have been a touching moment to overhear, but now those words are lost forever, resounding in the tunnels of the Metro.
Next we went home. Next we went to sleep. Next we woke up. Next we checked out. Next we took the Metro to the bus station. Next we took a bus to Girona. Next we got to the airport. Next we boarded a flight. Next we were in Brussels.
Then Dave lost his bag.
To say it in three words, It is Striking. To behold such a monument of sheer brilliance, of sheer liveliness, of sheer inescapable beauty, leaves one feeling small, unimportant, and out of place. No matter what angle you take with the creature (for the building is a living breathing being, so full of the architect's life and sacrifice) it completely overwhelms you. To my mind, however, the interior is a bit of a disappointment, the majority of it is still under construction (and won't be finished until 2020 at the earliest!) and what could be seen was not small (in now way is it so), not stunning (for surely it will be stunning) but just a certain je nais c'est quoi that mind has misplaced at the moment. We spen a couple hours around La Sagrada and Scott and Dave decided to pay the €2 to go up the tower elevator and down the spirally stairs. I opted out and went into my own private hell.
Dave's was the mountain the day before, Scott's was a certain Metro ride in Madrid, and mine (as so often is the case, it seems) was children.
I waited outside La Sagrada for a time as I waited for Scott and Dave to move an inch in the stationary queue in which they were standing. As I posed uninterested on a railing, a shrieking sound pierced my ears. It continued at different pithces from all around the slight inclined walkway in which I was standing. I first thought it was a murder of baby crows lost from their mothers, desperately attempting to destroy the eardrums of all that were near for their cruel attmepts at revenge. But instead of pleading birds, I saw a group of ill-dressed children creeching at each other. I rolled up the short-history of La Sagrada Familia pamphlet I was holding and thought quickly how many of these children I could strike over the head with it, before they overtook me with their tiny little hands and squeeling yelps. I counted 3, maybe 4, that I could take and figured it wasn't worth it as there were 17 of them that I could see, but hundreds, maybe thousands of them, that I could hear.
I walked away from their shrilling and into the museum--escaping into the peaceful serenity of a well-lit collection of fact-feeding rooms. Is trolled through slowly to delay any chance of another encounter with these bird-children. I exited the museum feeling slightly better, my head-ache subsiding, when, of a sudden, there they were again, chirpping to each other in a new and most ear-splitting way. Aggrevation (that's for you grandma) was all I could think of as I attempted to give them that eye that says, "Please shut up before I strangle you with that stupid necklace that you're wearing around your neck." But it didn't work and the sparrow calls continued. I walked away as fast as I could and found my serenity in the streets away from La Sagrada for 40 minutes or so before I head back and meet Dave and Scott. And, of course, near to the second I returned to the arena IT began again.
They were surrounding me. Trying to confuse me by running behind me to different benches all the while making their evil war calls. I nearly broke down and gave in (probably in some cinematic gesture (a la Charlton Heston) falling to my knees and shouting to the heavens, 'You've won!' 'You monsters!' 'You've won!') but I became strong and walked away to meet Scott and Davewho were shouting glorious praises about the elvator ride, the view, and the staircase down, while I silently listened. When they asked waht I did, I looked around, added that O so important pregnant pause, and responded, 'Not much.'
We left La Sagrada to meet with Scott and my friend from Barcelona, Marina. She gave us a quick tour around her proud city and then escorted us to a lovely and lively little Tapas Bar near the city center. we feasted on an excellent meal, one that rivaled many I've had in the past months, and with my rosy cheeks (from the beer and the heat) I smiled a most satisfied boyish smile. After dinner she took us to Gaudi's houses in the rain. It was a rather somber moment as we would have to say goodbye to our kind host (as she is not returning to Guildford in April) and the rain fell gingerly upon, almost tepidly, upon us as we stared up at these creations. It was time to go.
We parted ways in a metro station. All through the metro to the Hostel we raved about how great marina was, what a shame it was she was not returning the next semester, and what a kind person she waa. It would have been a touching moment to overhear, but now those words are lost forever, resounding in the tunnels of the Metro.
Next we went home. Next we went to sleep. Next we woke up. Next we checked out. Next we took the Metro to the bus station. Next we took a bus to Girona. Next we got to the airport. Next we boarded a flight. Next we were in Brussels.
Then Dave lost his bag.
Hello Barcelona
We arrived in Barcelona days ago now. Back when we were younger, perhaps more naive (perhaps not). Back when the sunlight patted the top of our heads like a caring mother, and rain did not splatter our eyes our cloud our thoughts. It was smoother, perhaps easier back then.
Plus, Dave still had his bag.
I do not remember getting off the train. It seems, perhaps, I thought it never ended, but exists as a constant happiness in my mind. But surely it ended for there exists a formidable smell in my sub-conscience of the first breath of air I inhaled upon stepping foot into the sunshine of Barcelona.
Our Hostel was nice and flashy. helloBCN it called to us and a greeting we returned to it. We dropped off our bags, took a look around, and ventured outside. Our first feat was to scale a mountain.
We decided to have a look around what we thought was a nice park full of curious buildings and forts that was quite near our hostel. We started walking up an incline in the direction of our park and the sun beat down hard upon us--the (momentarily) happy travelers. We came to a set of steps that led up to the heavens, it seems, and could only think to scale them. As our faces got closer to the sky (for a kiss, perhaps), we felt the burn. Our legs were a bit weary from the endless train ride and thisexcursion awoke them sharply from their dreamless sleeps. But the soreness was worth it. The first view when we reached the first precipice was a panorama of ecstasy. We were completely content with ourselves and with sunny Barcelona. So, after breathing it in for a moment, there was only one thing to do.
Go higher.
Scott and I pointed upward, Dave pointed downward. "You'll hate us now but love us later," was the essence of our words to poor heavy-breathed David. He could only look at us in red-faced anger, slowly shaking his head in disgust as the incline continued in front of him. Scott and I had to stay at least two steps in front of him to prevent him fromm physically strangling us.
And so we climbed.
We climbed up. Up to the top. The top. It was worth it. Astounding views would be easily overtaken by stupendous views, which, in their turn, could only be followed by breath-taking views (especially in Dave's case (Heyo!)). And as the day waned, and our photos closed in on their own end, we began down the mountain toward the Contemporary art museum. It was closed, we would find out, but that did not keep us from it's beauty. The sun was orange in the sky and struck it in just such a way, just (put finger tips of fingers up to mouth, kiss, spread apart, and utter a satisfied sigh).
We left this perfection of beauty for a night of sub-par paella, a stock market bar, €3 liters of beer, late-night chess. a kebab of perfection, and a broken plant vase. Al stories in themselves, worth, perhaps, endless retellings, but no time now because the next day came (and of course, by now, has gone) and it was a magical one. (I'm not sure if magical is the word, but I didn't want and underappreciative understatment or, really, an overindulgent overstatment, so, I suppose you could say it surprised us with its subtle trickyness.)
Get ready, Senor Gaudi, Here we come!
(Cheesy awesomeness wins awards!)
Plus, Dave still had his bag.
I do not remember getting off the train. It seems, perhaps, I thought it never ended, but exists as a constant happiness in my mind. But surely it ended for there exists a formidable smell in my sub-conscience of the first breath of air I inhaled upon stepping foot into the sunshine of Barcelona.
Our Hostel was nice and flashy. helloBCN it called to us and a greeting we returned to it. We dropped off our bags, took a look around, and ventured outside. Our first feat was to scale a mountain.
We decided to have a look around what we thought was a nice park full of curious buildings and forts that was quite near our hostel. We started walking up an incline in the direction of our park and the sun beat down hard upon us--the (momentarily) happy travelers. We came to a set of steps that led up to the heavens, it seems, and could only think to scale them. As our faces got closer to the sky (for a kiss, perhaps), we felt the burn. Our legs were a bit weary from the endless train ride and thisexcursion awoke them sharply from their dreamless sleeps. But the soreness was worth it. The first view when we reached the first precipice was a panorama of ecstasy. We were completely content with ourselves and with sunny Barcelona. So, after breathing it in for a moment, there was only one thing to do.
Go higher.
Scott and I pointed upward, Dave pointed downward. "You'll hate us now but love us later," was the essence of our words to poor heavy-breathed David. He could only look at us in red-faced anger, slowly shaking his head in disgust as the incline continued in front of him. Scott and I had to stay at least two steps in front of him to prevent him fromm physically strangling us.
And so we climbed.
We climbed up. Up to the top. The top. It was worth it. Astounding views would be easily overtaken by stupendous views, which, in their turn, could only be followed by breath-taking views (especially in Dave's case (Heyo!)). And as the day waned, and our photos closed in on their own end, we began down the mountain toward the Contemporary art museum. It was closed, we would find out, but that did not keep us from it's beauty. The sun was orange in the sky and struck it in just such a way, just (put finger tips of fingers up to mouth, kiss, spread apart, and utter a satisfied sigh).
We left this perfection of beauty for a night of sub-par paella, a stock market bar, €3 liters of beer, late-night chess. a kebab of perfection, and a broken plant vase. Al stories in themselves, worth, perhaps, endless retellings, but no time now because the next day came (and of course, by now, has gone) and it was a magical one. (I'm not sure if magical is the word, but I didn't want and underappreciative understatment or, really, an overindulgent overstatment, so, I suppose you could say it surprised us with its subtle trickyness.)
Get ready, Senor Gaudi, Here we come!
(Cheesy awesomeness wins awards!)
Sunday, 23 March 2008
A train ride of awesomeness
Our earliest morning in Spain proved to be the most, well let's call it, Interesting. We went to the Madrid Train Station to buy a ticket for the next train to Barcelona, a presumably easy feat. Upon arrival, however, the tourist class (2nd Class) was sold out until 3 o'clock in the afternoon. This was no good as we had a limited time in Barcelona as it was. So Scott suggested the next class up (Preferente (Business)), to see if there were earlier seats. "Arriba Clase," I said with an unsure grimace. The man looked us over briefly and then checked his computer. He said (more like pointed to his computer) there were tickets available on an 11.30 train for €160. After a brief choking fit I looked at the other two with as much a pleading face as I could muster. But budge they would not, and "I think it's okay,' passed seamlessly from their lips. 'Alright let's do it,' was finally administered and the purchasing process began.
My Spanish somewhat escaped me in the heat of the moment and I could only find the words, "Solo, no juntos," in my vast English-Spanish Dictionary in mi cabeza. These words were uttered in an attempt to explain we wanted to pay seperately, not together. "Seperado" he finally said, which made me nod my head slowly, but proved another meaning than I had anticipated. I gave up my (parent's) credit card and waited for the receipt. When it came back at €479 I nearly keeled over in sheer unabated agony. "No" I practically screamed (slight exaggeration, as in reality it was more a soft anguished whisper). But when he saw Dave get his credit card out as well and my shocked disgusted face, he realized his mistake and fised the bill. Though €160 still seems broken to me.
However much we paid, one could almost (almost) say it was worth it. The seats were comfy and the train was fast and smooth. I was not too happy, though, at the fact that I had to sit across from a giant businessman who consistently tried to overtake my leg room. Meanwhile Scott and Dave had seats to themselves (a fact we realized on route to the train after purchase was Scott asked what seat I had. "16A," was my number, "2A," was Dave's, "3A," was Scott's; behold the meaning of "Seperados"). But by the time the free (free) lunch came (and after my colosses of clout scarffed it down in the time it took me to butter my bread) I was as happy as a fish, or maybe a duck (wait for it).
Our meal was served most genially and it consisted of a rather edlictable duck mousse with an orange sauce, a superbly cooked and not altogether surprisingly tasty Hake with a marinara sauce and wild rice and fesh peas, a touch of soup, nice fresh bread, and lovely creme puffs comleted the ensemble with perfection. Then a choice of beverage enlightened me and I could not help but smile at the country side that flew by.
My Spanish somewhat escaped me in the heat of the moment and I could only find the words, "Solo, no juntos," in my vast English-Spanish Dictionary in mi cabeza. These words were uttered in an attempt to explain we wanted to pay seperately, not together. "Seperado" he finally said, which made me nod my head slowly, but proved another meaning than I had anticipated. I gave up my (parent's) credit card and waited for the receipt. When it came back at €479 I nearly keeled over in sheer unabated agony. "No" I practically screamed (slight exaggeration, as in reality it was more a soft anguished whisper). But when he saw Dave get his credit card out as well and my shocked disgusted face, he realized his mistake and fised the bill. Though €160 still seems broken to me.
However much we paid, one could almost (almost) say it was worth it. The seats were comfy and the train was fast and smooth. I was not too happy, though, at the fact that I had to sit across from a giant businessman who consistently tried to overtake my leg room. Meanwhile Scott and Dave had seats to themselves (a fact we realized on route to the train after purchase was Scott asked what seat I had. "16A," was my number, "2A," was Dave's, "3A," was Scott's; behold the meaning of "Seperados"). But by the time the free (free) lunch came (and after my colosses of clout scarffed it down in the time it took me to butter my bread) I was as happy as a fish, or maybe a duck (wait for it).
Our meal was served most genially and it consisted of a rather edlictable duck mousse with an orange sauce, a superbly cooked and not altogether surprisingly tasty Hake with a marinara sauce and wild rice and fesh peas, a touch of soup, nice fresh bread, and lovely creme puffs comleted the ensemble with perfection. Then a choice of beverage enlightened me and I could not help but smile at the country side that flew by.
Madrid Ends
Internet was scarce in our latest stop, Belgium, so I apologize for delays, but here comes a bunch. Get ready for the ride of your life (Sir Nate does not guarantee this will be the ride of your life).
After a night of relative wandering in the city of Madrid, we awoke bright and early to seize another beautiful day. It was one o'clock and we were out the door headed toward the Reina Sofia. Our pace was slow and laboured on account of a relatively late night, but eventually, and after great pains, we made it to Atocha station and let the roar of the traffic overtake us.
We walked a short distance to the museum and stood put in another queue for a few minutes. It was warm but the air breathed friendly breezes upon our faces, putting us at an unbeknownst ease.
The temporary exhibit at the Reina Sofia was a colossal collection of works by the master Picasso. It consisted of four floors of non-stop artistry. From his period of realism, to everything cubic, it had it all. Including his great masterpiece, Guernica. We glanced at it from an adjacent gallery, and knew what it was. We did not wish to ruin the savor we would soon take in it. We looked without seeing at everything else on the floor until, finally, we moved in front of it. It is truly astounding, and no doubt without equal. Measuring about 35 feet by 25 feet it is a giant in which everything and nothing happens. There are very few things in this world that truly inspire awe, but Picasso has accomplished this feat with great aplomb (one of my favorite words, dedicated readers will note) and serious ingenuity. It is a sight to behold.
we left the Picasso exhibit feeling somewhat satisfied and wandered around the rest of the museum, exploring the ins and outs of spanish surrealism. After a half hour or so we to the conclusion that spanish artists (I'll save you the psychological and over-pretentious babble) are friekin' crazy. (A sentence any literature teacher would be proud of, I'm sure (but we were a bit tired and our minds were full of everything else so this was the best we could do))
We left the museum and after a decently priced lunch (Dave, that's for you) we headed (Dave and I, for Scott was feeling, O let's say, a bit ill from a certain Metro ride and went back to the hostel to sleep) to the nearby park, whose name escapes me for the moment. As afore stated it was a beautiful day, so Dave and I strolled easily and let the sun shine upon our smiling faces. We said little, but nothing needed saying, the grass was green, the sky was blue, all was right in the world. The afternoon drifted away into a happy memory as the sun began to fall. We got back, exhausted, to the hostle to find a wide awake Scott who was antsy for an evening of delight. We relented only for a moment and soon, again, we were in the frsh air of the night. We strolled along the Boulevards as the sun eased behind the horizon. It was a pleasant evening and one that will keep in my mind for a long time to come.
(Okay that is not completely true as a t the time of writing I pretty much forgot what we did that night, well maybe not what we did but more so the names of the places we saw (though Scott I'm sure (in fact I know) remembers). But I like the sincerity of the sentence, even if it is faux sincerity (but at least it is some form of sincerity) and so I will keep it as is.)
We slept well that night. Ready for Our next stop on the journey of life (wow!). Barcelona.
After a night of relative wandering in the city of Madrid, we awoke bright and early to seize another beautiful day. It was one o'clock and we were out the door headed toward the Reina Sofia. Our pace was slow and laboured on account of a relatively late night, but eventually, and after great pains, we made it to Atocha station and let the roar of the traffic overtake us.
We walked a short distance to the museum and stood put in another queue for a few minutes. It was warm but the air breathed friendly breezes upon our faces, putting us at an unbeknownst ease.
The temporary exhibit at the Reina Sofia was a colossal collection of works by the master Picasso. It consisted of four floors of non-stop artistry. From his period of realism, to everything cubic, it had it all. Including his great masterpiece, Guernica. We glanced at it from an adjacent gallery, and knew what it was. We did not wish to ruin the savor we would soon take in it. We looked without seeing at everything else on the floor until, finally, we moved in front of it. It is truly astounding, and no doubt without equal. Measuring about 35 feet by 25 feet it is a giant in which everything and nothing happens. There are very few things in this world that truly inspire awe, but Picasso has accomplished this feat with great aplomb (one of my favorite words, dedicated readers will note) and serious ingenuity. It is a sight to behold.
we left the Picasso exhibit feeling somewhat satisfied and wandered around the rest of the museum, exploring the ins and outs of spanish surrealism. After a half hour or so we to the conclusion that spanish artists (I'll save you the psychological and over-pretentious babble) are friekin' crazy. (A sentence any literature teacher would be proud of, I'm sure (but we were a bit tired and our minds were full of everything else so this was the best we could do))
We left the museum and after a decently priced lunch (Dave, that's for you) we headed (Dave and I, for Scott was feeling, O let's say, a bit ill from a certain Metro ride and went back to the hostel to sleep) to the nearby park, whose name escapes me for the moment. As afore stated it was a beautiful day, so Dave and I strolled easily and let the sun shine upon our smiling faces. We said little, but nothing needed saying, the grass was green, the sky was blue, all was right in the world. The afternoon drifted away into a happy memory as the sun began to fall. We got back, exhausted, to the hostle to find a wide awake Scott who was antsy for an evening of delight. We relented only for a moment and soon, again, we were in the frsh air of the night. We strolled along the Boulevards as the sun eased behind the horizon. It was a pleasant evening and one that will keep in my mind for a long time to come.
(Okay that is not completely true as a t the time of writing I pretty much forgot what we did that night, well maybe not what we did but more so the names of the places we saw (though Scott I'm sure (in fact I know) remembers). But I like the sincerity of the sentence, even if it is faux sincerity (but at least it is some form of sincerity) and so I will keep it as is.)
We slept well that night. Ready for Our next stop on the journey of life (wow!). Barcelona.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Photos for Madrid
I don't have time to upload many photos to the blog, but you can view them here. Or click on the photos to the side and click on My Public Gallery. That should do it.
Monday, 17 March 2008
¡Ole!
The morning treated us kind enough and we were out the door at the crack of dawn (quarter past eleven). We were unnourished but feeling good. Our feet gently struck the pavement as we ambled toward the Sol Metro station. The sun felt good against our pale white skin. We breathed the air in deep and let the not unclean air fill our lungs. It was refreshing. Our first stop this "morning" was El Museo Del Prado.
The Atocha metro station is located near the center of everything of importance in Madrid--Train Station, Scores of Museums, Botanical Gardens, One of the most impressive parks in Europe, and some of the best shopping around--and it was the first stop of the day for us. We ascended the stairs of the station into the bright sunshine and smiled at the hussle of the city goers and the roar of the cars going by. We are made our way to the Prado and, as people are wont to do in every city world wide since the beginning of paid entry into museums, formed an orderly queue. After waiting only 35 minutes we had tickets in hand and we were ready to experience one of the most impressive collections of classical art, mainly Spanish, in the world. After waiting another 10 minutes for entry we were in...and I was unimpressed. Though beautiful, to me, classical art lacks a certain je ne se quois that certain other contempary artists possess in spades. It seems lifeless in detail and unimportant in scope. I yawned my way through frame after frame of some unattractive Royal smirking back at me, content at being an object of affection. I was discontent...until I saw Goya. Although his earlier work is very similar in form to the classical style, his later work is insanely progressive. I speak, of course (since my readership is mainly made up of art history majors), of his "Pinturas Negras." Truly the birth of Modern art and a reference point for any budding surrealist, these portraits are breathtakingly, stupendously, hauntingly beautiful. They are poignant and incomparable. To describe them using my weak words and unimpressive language would do them a disservice. Just see them...ahora!
From the Prado we made our slowly and anxiously to la Plaza del Toros.
We arrived relatively early to the stadium and, like any sporting event, paid too much for nuts. We were nervous about getting in, but upon seeing the "security" and the fact that others had tickets similar to ours, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We made it through the first gate with heavy smiles. We walked slowly to our seating area and when the ring was revealed to us we let out a slow in sigh in awe of its beauty. The sun was shaded from us but it shone nicely on the seats on our opposite end. It was a beautiful stadium and fulfilled nearly all of my expectation. The crowd was not too bg and the excitement was palpable. There was a steady buzz throughout the stadium when the clock struck 5.oo and the horns began to blare.
Out first came the Matadors to a steady ovation, then a procession followed, showing all those that would be involved in the bullfight. Soon the procession cleared and a hush fell over the crowd. A number reading 615 was put up in the center of the ring and the bull doors were opened. He came out confused, and immediately I felt sorry for him. He was to die soon and he had no idea why. The matadors began with a few oles and the crowd was relatively unimpressed. After a few swipes of those pink capes, there came two men on heavily padded horse back holding spears of serious weight. They aligned themselves at opposite ends of the stadium and one ready himself for what was to come. He pointed the spear at the hard breathing bull, and it charged. With the force of a car wreck and a sickening muffled collision sound, the bull drove itself head first into the side of the padding on the horse and the horseman drove the spear into the back of the charging bull. The first sight of blood shocked me intensely and I felt unsure of this sport. The bull was pried from the horse and it was again sullied into position by the matadors. The horseman again steadied himself for the onslaught, and again the bull rammed itself into the horse, knocking the horse forcefully sideway and pushing its front feet into the air. But the horse stayed hard and the spear was driven deep into the bull's back. The bull was led away and the horsemen exited to applause. Next more blood.
After more, let's call it, oleing, it was time for more spears to be shoved in the back of the bull. The bull is led near the center of the ring where a matador with two frilly spears faces him. The bull charges, the matador prances and they meet in a dance of equal parts anger, equal parts precision, and equal parts grace. At this point the matador leaps into the air and forces the two spears deeply into the bull's back, from where they hang as frilly brightly colored mementos of impending death. This is repeated two more times to (near) perfection. The bull at this point is breathing heavily and saliva draws loosely from his lips, his mouth is sadly agape and his tongue is asking for forgiveness. It is time for the Matador.
The Matador shows his respect to the crowd with a polite bow and briefly basks in the affection shown to him. He carries a bright red cape and a silver sword. He parries the exhausted bull for show. It is merely to become the better of the beast that he shows him the cape and the bull follows without hesitation. Soon, though, it is time for a finale. The bull is lulled into the security of the cape and the Matador points his sword at the back of his foe's head, preparing and steadying himself for the coup de grace. With force and precision the Matador shoots himself at the bull, the bull, surprised, moves forward, the two movements collide and after a split second the Matador stands at one end, triumphant, and the bull stands at the other, defeated, with a sword driven deep into his body. The bull moves around unsteadily and the Matador basks--he has succeeded and glory is his. The Matador once again faces the Bull each for the last time. The bull breathes heavily and uneasily, standing in a steady gaze with his batter. The Matador assumes his position and stares into the bull's eyes, forcing him to succumb, and after thirty seconds of tense silence, the bull falls to his knees and lays to his side. The Matador smiles in his triumph. The crowd erupts. It is over. It has just begun. It is to happen 5 more times.
After the final bull is killed and dragged from the stadium by horse, we stand up in our own triumph. We made it through a Bull Fight with valor and courage, and our intial shock and distaste had dissapeared. We felt one with the remaining crowd and worried when the bull got too close to the matador, and were always hoping for a good show, and a clean kill (aspects not guaranteed and indeed not to be expected with every bull). We had lost sympathy with the bull, and instead viewed it as an object, a sport. We had been desensitized. But soon these thoughts were free from our mind and instead we turned to what to do next.
What are we going to do next?
The Atocha metro station is located near the center of everything of importance in Madrid--Train Station, Scores of Museums, Botanical Gardens, One of the most impressive parks in Europe, and some of the best shopping around--and it was the first stop of the day for us. We ascended the stairs of the station into the bright sunshine and smiled at the hussle of the city goers and the roar of the cars going by. We are made our way to the Prado and, as people are wont to do in every city world wide since the beginning of paid entry into museums, formed an orderly queue. After waiting only 35 minutes we had tickets in hand and we were ready to experience one of the most impressive collections of classical art, mainly Spanish, in the world. After waiting another 10 minutes for entry we were in...and I was unimpressed. Though beautiful, to me, classical art lacks a certain je ne se quois that certain other contempary artists possess in spades. It seems lifeless in detail and unimportant in scope. I yawned my way through frame after frame of some unattractive Royal smirking back at me, content at being an object of affection. I was discontent...until I saw Goya. Although his earlier work is very similar in form to the classical style, his later work is insanely progressive. I speak, of course (since my readership is mainly made up of art history majors), of his "Pinturas Negras." Truly the birth of Modern art and a reference point for any budding surrealist, these portraits are breathtakingly, stupendously, hauntingly beautiful. They are poignant and incomparable. To describe them using my weak words and unimpressive language would do them a disservice. Just see them...ahora!
From the Prado we made our slowly and anxiously to la Plaza del Toros.
We arrived relatively early to the stadium and, like any sporting event, paid too much for nuts. We were nervous about getting in, but upon seeing the "security" and the fact that others had tickets similar to ours, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We made it through the first gate with heavy smiles. We walked slowly to our seating area and when the ring was revealed to us we let out a slow in sigh in awe of its beauty. The sun was shaded from us but it shone nicely on the seats on our opposite end. It was a beautiful stadium and fulfilled nearly all of my expectation. The crowd was not too bg and the excitement was palpable. There was a steady buzz throughout the stadium when the clock struck 5.oo and the horns began to blare.
Out first came the Matadors to a steady ovation, then a procession followed, showing all those that would be involved in the bullfight. Soon the procession cleared and a hush fell over the crowd. A number reading 615 was put up in the center of the ring and the bull doors were opened. He came out confused, and immediately I felt sorry for him. He was to die soon and he had no idea why. The matadors began with a few oles and the crowd was relatively unimpressed. After a few swipes of those pink capes, there came two men on heavily padded horse back holding spears of serious weight. They aligned themselves at opposite ends of the stadium and one ready himself for what was to come. He pointed the spear at the hard breathing bull, and it charged. With the force of a car wreck and a sickening muffled collision sound, the bull drove itself head first into the side of the padding on the horse and the horseman drove the spear into the back of the charging bull. The first sight of blood shocked me intensely and I felt unsure of this sport. The bull was pried from the horse and it was again sullied into position by the matadors. The horseman again steadied himself for the onslaught, and again the bull rammed itself into the horse, knocking the horse forcefully sideway and pushing its front feet into the air. But the horse stayed hard and the spear was driven deep into the bull's back. The bull was led away and the horsemen exited to applause. Next more blood.
After more, let's call it, oleing, it was time for more spears to be shoved in the back of the bull. The bull is led near the center of the ring where a matador with two frilly spears faces him. The bull charges, the matador prances and they meet in a dance of equal parts anger, equal parts precision, and equal parts grace. At this point the matador leaps into the air and forces the two spears deeply into the bull's back, from where they hang as frilly brightly colored mementos of impending death. This is repeated two more times to (near) perfection. The bull at this point is breathing heavily and saliva draws loosely from his lips, his mouth is sadly agape and his tongue is asking for forgiveness. It is time for the Matador.
The Matador shows his respect to the crowd with a polite bow and briefly basks in the affection shown to him. He carries a bright red cape and a silver sword. He parries the exhausted bull for show. It is merely to become the better of the beast that he shows him the cape and the bull follows without hesitation. Soon, though, it is time for a finale. The bull is lulled into the security of the cape and the Matador points his sword at the back of his foe's head, preparing and steadying himself for the coup de grace. With force and precision the Matador shoots himself at the bull, the bull, surprised, moves forward, the two movements collide and after a split second the Matador stands at one end, triumphant, and the bull stands at the other, defeated, with a sword driven deep into his body. The bull moves around unsteadily and the Matador basks--he has succeeded and glory is his. The Matador once again faces the Bull each for the last time. The bull breathes heavily and uneasily, standing in a steady gaze with his batter. The Matador assumes his position and stares into the bull's eyes, forcing him to succumb, and after thirty seconds of tense silence, the bull falls to his knees and lays to his side. The Matador smiles in his triumph. The crowd erupts. It is over. It has just begun. It is to happen 5 more times.
After the final bull is killed and dragged from the stadium by horse, we stand up in our own triumph. We made it through a Bull Fight with valor and courage, and our intial shock and distaste had dissapeared. We felt one with the remaining crowd and worried when the bull got too close to the matador, and were always hoping for a good show, and a clean kill (aspects not guaranteed and indeed not to be expected with every bull). We had lost sympathy with the bull, and instead viewed it as an object, a sport. We had been desensitized. But soon these thoughts were free from our mind and instead we turned to what to do next.
What are we going to do next?
A Slight Error
It seems, for some unknown reason, I have been saying we are in Barcelona when in fact we are In Madrid. I can only attribute said malfunction to stupidity or, perhaps, to the fact that I saw the ç symbol and felt I had to use it. Please accept my sincere apologies Madrileños y Barcelonians y other people who actually read this.
So just to clarify; we are in Madrid, we were in Madrid yesterday, we go to Barcelona Tomorrow. I hope this clears up some confusion and, you can be sure, I will get back to writing (and making god-awful and insanely embarassing mistakes) presently.
P.S. It's two days in and I'm already exhausted. This does not bode well.
So just to clarify; we are in Madrid, we were in Madrid yesterday, we go to Barcelona Tomorrow. I hope this clears up some confusion and, you can be sure, I will get back to writing (and making god-awful and insanely embarassing mistakes) presently.
P.S. It's two days in and I'm already exhausted. This does not bode well.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Madrid
I thought I would get this one off before today's string of events.
It was morning earlier. It was dark. It was time to leave. It was 5.45. With a somewhat steady head the Three Amigos (literally just thought of that (Brilliant!)) hopped in a Taxi headed for the Train Station. It was to be a relatively easy day of travel. The train to Gatwick was smooth and on time, a nice start to any trip, the queues at Gatwick were non-existent, another refreshing start, and we had 2 hours to kill in the terminal before our gate was announced. Hey is that Bailey's? Yes, my Two amigos thought it was a good idea to start the day off witha nice refreshing, ice cold, cup of Bailey's. They purchased the Bailey's and I stood in a McDonald's line for three hours (slight exaggeration) and got three cups with ice. We had a pleasant sit down discussing, as always, politics, religion, and puppies, you know, guy stuff. Our gate was announced and the first bottle of Bailey's was finished (yes I said first (if you were to look at me right this instant, well not this instant but the instant when I wrote "the first bottle of Bailey's was finished," you would probably see me sighing, smiling, and shaking my head.)) and it was time to board.
Have you ever been in a sardines can? It was kind of like that. EasyJet, was. Scott suggested the emergency exit rows for suitable seats, and I being in the lead heeded his advice and went straight for them. But when the time came to sit in said seats, and I noticed that oneo or two people already occupied some of the seats, I panicked and just kept walking, my mind blank. Finally, I turned into the tightest row I could possibly find and we took our seats. Luckily there was a touch of an effect from the Bailey's and I drifted off into a sweet and insanely uncomfortable sleep. The plane ride was smooth, as far as I know, and soon our feet were touching the Tarmac in sunny Spain.
The weather was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. So, this being the case, we took the first two hours of our time in España in the airport terminal and the underground. After said duration we arrived at the metro station at which our hostel was near and stepped out into the sunshine, and into a horde/throng of people. People People everywhere, so much People so much fear ( I know that doesn't really fit, and indeed is a bit of a downer, but I sort of like the sound of it). We walked through said horde/throng to our hostel.
We dropped our bags off and went, almost, immediately to the Plaza del Toros for, O let's call it an adventure.
Scott's main reason for coming to Spain, or so he said, was to see a Bull Fight. So he was particularly excited when he found out there would be one on Sunday in Madrid (today/yesterday). We got off the metro in the Plaza and went slowly and unsurely toward the ticket counters. Looking as much like tourists as we possibly could, we stood about three feet away from the windows and looked at the big board of ticket prices, trying to decipher their meaning. While we were standing looking, obviously, thouroughly confused, an old Spanish man in a smart corduroy blazer came up to us. My spanish is a bit rusty (I've been out in the rain for nearly two and a half years) so I was pretty much unable to understand what he said. But through a few gestures and points and the words "lo mismo" I got the idea he wanted to help us buy more expensive tickets. We walked with him, slowly and cautiously, toward his yellow stand about 330 feet away. In it a woman sat with a smile and showed us the tickets. All throughout their explanation came the words "es oficial" which put me at ease and made me nervous at the same time. Finally after some of the best bargaining ever seen on my part while trying to talk to someone who did not understand us nor we them, we wound up with three tickets in the 10th row in the Sol y Sombre (Sun and Shade) section for 30 euros. It was not a bad deal and if the tickets were real it could be a very good deal. We left feeling uncertain and agreed that if we had been swindled, we certainly had been by a nice guy. We went towards the stadium again to take a few pictures, when our friend came along again to help us. After a quick photo, some unpronounceable banter, and a fistful of smiles, he asked us, quickly, where are we from. Americanos, came the answer, and with it a smile. "Hillary o Obama," was the reply from our amigo, who goes by Miguel (or so he said). "Obama?" I said, merely repeating the last word I heard, and with that he put a finger into my chest and with a smile full of rugged teeth responded, "Yo? Hillary." We smiled and said goodbye, he seemed happy with his swindle, and we departed ways.
We walked around the stadium a little, thinking about the days to come. It was going to be a good trip.
Will the three amigos make it into the stadium? Will the amicable Miguel, turn out to be a great guy or an evil genius? Will they make it to Barcelona? Will the adventures ever end? and Whatever will they do next? Find out next time on (pause) Nate's Blog.
It was morning earlier. It was dark. It was time to leave. It was 5.45. With a somewhat steady head the Three Amigos (literally just thought of that (Brilliant!)) hopped in a Taxi headed for the Train Station. It was to be a relatively easy day of travel. The train to Gatwick was smooth and on time, a nice start to any trip, the queues at Gatwick were non-existent, another refreshing start, and we had 2 hours to kill in the terminal before our gate was announced. Hey is that Bailey's? Yes, my Two amigos thought it was a good idea to start the day off witha nice refreshing, ice cold, cup of Bailey's. They purchased the Bailey's and I stood in a McDonald's line for three hours (slight exaggeration) and got three cups with ice. We had a pleasant sit down discussing, as always, politics, religion, and puppies, you know, guy stuff. Our gate was announced and the first bottle of Bailey's was finished (yes I said first (if you were to look at me right this instant, well not this instant but the instant when I wrote "the first bottle of Bailey's was finished," you would probably see me sighing, smiling, and shaking my head.)) and it was time to board.
Have you ever been in a sardines can? It was kind of like that. EasyJet, was. Scott suggested the emergency exit rows for suitable seats, and I being in the lead heeded his advice and went straight for them. But when the time came to sit in said seats, and I noticed that oneo or two people already occupied some of the seats, I panicked and just kept walking, my mind blank. Finally, I turned into the tightest row I could possibly find and we took our seats. Luckily there was a touch of an effect from the Bailey's and I drifted off into a sweet and insanely uncomfortable sleep. The plane ride was smooth, as far as I know, and soon our feet were touching the Tarmac in sunny Spain.
The weather was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. So, this being the case, we took the first two hours of our time in España in the airport terminal and the underground. After said duration we arrived at the metro station at which our hostel was near and stepped out into the sunshine, and into a horde/throng of people. People People everywhere, so much People so much fear ( I know that doesn't really fit, and indeed is a bit of a downer, but I sort of like the sound of it). We walked through said horde/throng to our hostel.
We dropped our bags off and went, almost, immediately to the Plaza del Toros for, O let's call it an adventure.
Scott's main reason for coming to Spain, or so he said, was to see a Bull Fight. So he was particularly excited when he found out there would be one on Sunday in Madrid (today/yesterday). We got off the metro in the Plaza and went slowly and unsurely toward the ticket counters. Looking as much like tourists as we possibly could, we stood about three feet away from the windows and looked at the big board of ticket prices, trying to decipher their meaning. While we were standing looking, obviously, thouroughly confused, an old Spanish man in a smart corduroy blazer came up to us. My spanish is a bit rusty (I've been out in the rain for nearly two and a half years) so I was pretty much unable to understand what he said. But through a few gestures and points and the words "lo mismo" I got the idea he wanted to help us buy more expensive tickets. We walked with him, slowly and cautiously, toward his yellow stand about 330 feet away. In it a woman sat with a smile and showed us the tickets. All throughout their explanation came the words "es oficial" which put me at ease and made me nervous at the same time. Finally after some of the best bargaining ever seen on my part while trying to talk to someone who did not understand us nor we them, we wound up with three tickets in the 10th row in the Sol y Sombre (Sun and Shade) section for 30 euros. It was not a bad deal and if the tickets were real it could be a very good deal. We left feeling uncertain and agreed that if we had been swindled, we certainly had been by a nice guy. We went towards the stadium again to take a few pictures, when our friend came along again to help us. After a quick photo, some unpronounceable banter, and a fistful of smiles, he asked us, quickly, where are we from. Americanos, came the answer, and with it a smile. "Hillary o Obama," was the reply from our amigo, who goes by Miguel (or so he said). "Obama?" I said, merely repeating the last word I heard, and with that he put a finger into my chest and with a smile full of rugged teeth responded, "Yo? Hillary." We smiled and said goodbye, he seemed happy with his swindle, and we departed ways.
We walked around the stadium a little, thinking about the days to come. It was going to be a good trip.
Will the three amigos make it into the stadium? Will the amicable Miguel, turn out to be a great guy or an evil genius? Will they make it to Barcelona? Will the adventures ever end? and Whatever will they do next? Find out next time on (pause) Nate's Blog.
Saturday, 15 March 2008
A New Dawn
I regret to inform those adament readers that I will not be able to finish Edinburgh at this time as I amcurrently on an adventure of note. Thus I will postpone the shocking conclusion to Edinburgh in lieu of the fact that as I type I am in the España of Spains: Spain. This lovely country is Merely the hub of an ever-on-going journey throughout Europe. I will try my best, O Wonderful, Wonderful Reader, to keep you up to date as much as I can with my goings on about towns. However, my friends (and enemies, I suppose ( for somebody must be reading this)) I must warn you that many times I will write these after a long day of, let´s call it, adventuring and I will have what is known in the adventuring world as tiredness, thus my writing will inevitably suffer (look to previous parenthetical aside (and previous sentence for that matter) for reference). So please be kind (indeed, feedback is welcome!).
I travel now with Dave Bergerson, whom many of you, I am sure, have some recollection of and a fellow by the name of Scott Walkington, whom, perhaps, some have an inkling of. I shall mention them in intimacy from here on out so it would be good to get to know them. They are dudes. I am dude. We are dudes. Enough said. To the cities....
The cities I think will be much more interesting. we will be spending time in: Madrid, Barcelona, Brussels, Brugges, Amsterdam, Croningen, Hamburg, Berlin, Prague, Mannheim, Paris, Stockholm, Turku, and Helsinki. So look forward to glowing portraits of some of Europe´s finest cities, or to, the more likely of the two, a glowing mans incoherent and stumbling attempt at a rough stained picture that probably fell out of the back of a truck somewhere and then the author stumbled upon it, dusted it off a bit and then said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and then took it to a dealer and said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and the dealer said, "Looks a bit rough around the edges, but Hey I bet you could sell this," and then they both nodded, shook hands, and the author left with a smile on his face and the dealer was left standing nodding his head in content. Something more like that, I think.
Well, it´s late. I´m tired. And I will stop. Tomorrow, you will, hopefully, discover the reason for my acute tiredness at time of publication, and, thus, the cause of the incoherent rambling. For today it was Madrid tomorrow Europe!
(Actually tomorrow we will be in Madrid again.)
I travel now with Dave Bergerson, whom many of you, I am sure, have some recollection of and a fellow by the name of Scott Walkington, whom, perhaps, some have an inkling of. I shall mention them in intimacy from here on out so it would be good to get to know them. They are dudes. I am dude. We are dudes. Enough said. To the cities....
The cities I think will be much more interesting. we will be spending time in: Madrid, Barcelona, Brussels, Brugges, Amsterdam, Croningen, Hamburg, Berlin, Prague, Mannheim, Paris, Stockholm, Turku, and Helsinki. So look forward to glowing portraits of some of Europe´s finest cities, or to, the more likely of the two, a glowing mans incoherent and stumbling attempt at a rough stained picture that probably fell out of the back of a truck somewhere and then the author stumbled upon it, dusted it off a bit and then said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and then took it to a dealer and said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and the dealer said, "Looks a bit rough around the edges, but Hey I bet you could sell this," and then they both nodded, shook hands, and the author left with a smile on his face and the dealer was left standing nodding his head in content. Something more like that, I think.
Well, it´s late. I´m tired. And I will stop. Tomorrow, you will, hopefully, discover the reason for my acute tiredness at time of publication, and, thus, the cause of the incoherent rambling. For today it was Madrid tomorrow Europe!
(Actually tomorrow we will be in Madrid again.)
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