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.

¡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?

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.

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.

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.)

Edinburgh: An Introduction

Some of you more literary types (for I am sure there are many!) may recognize this title as a bit of a play on Seymour: An Introduction by the catcher himself J.D. Salinger. Furthermore, I am sure that those types are also wondering why I would make an allusion to Salinger when, really, he had nothing to do with Scotland. Well, my loyal, beloved readers, I think I may skirt the issue and not necessarily answer your queries directly, but, I think, with more of an explanation. Not but a few days ago I was reading the aforementioned story and was completely infatuated with the prose and, more importantly, the idea of Seymour, the narrator's brother. The narrator showed an affection hardly seen on the printed page for his subject. In the beginning he felt that perhaps an introduction would be the first step at unveiling the person he loved so dear, that would, in turn, be followed by more intimate portraits entitled like such as (anyone?), Seymour 2 and Seymour 3. Thus an epiphany bestruck (Not a word? Whatevs.) me, in an attempted homage to two of the most lovely things I have experienced in my life, Edinburgh and Salinger, I will name this blog entry as such and put forth my ode to Edinburgh.

The first thing necessary in a story such as this is a intuitive quote, I believe.

"All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. "

This one is particularly pertinent, I think. If it were not for you, O Glorious Reader!, what would these words be? They would exist, sure, but as Robert Louis said (By the w, the quote can be attributed to RL Stevenson, which I thought was more befitting seeing as the man was from the, Glory Be!, land of Scots), they would only be a lifeless collection of letters. So, as a show of gratitude to the, O let's say, 5 of you, I offer this bouquet of parenthesis: ((((())))).
Now, if you've made it this far (you probably have because, let's face it, the majority, neigh! the whole, of my readership is family(still...)) without letting out a shaking-head-sigh and leaving the website, I will reward you by beginning my tale.

I remember it clearly. There were three of us that night, sitting in a Kitchen, chatting. I believe I may have had my foot upon my knee in a rather relaxed position. I remember mentioning, in a somewhat casual yet cavalier manner, that a bus trip to Edinburgh (say, sometime in November, for it was September back then) and back, if booked far enough in advance, could go for the low-low price of 10 pounds round trip. It was Tuesday Night, I believe. Annicka, one of the two to whom I was talking, nodded her head appreciatively, 'Mm-Hmm,' she said. 'What about next weekend?' 'What, you mean like 10 days from now?!' I asked in a supercilious manner (finally, a chance to use supercilious!), the kind of incredulous and condescending voice one uses to say things like, 'You mean you've never heard of Flaubert?!' or 'Are you saying Pollock is your favorite abstract expressionist? Gaah, how remarkably predictable!' She responded calmly, assumedly unaware of my pretension, 'No, I mean like the day after tomorrow.' I looked at the other man at the table, Henrik, with that famous smirk and eye-roll (Women.) and expected to be greeted with a similar expression, but instead I was surprised to find him slowly nodding. 'Well,' I said, looking back to Annicka now, 'I guess we could take a look at prices.'

I remember it clearly. There were four of us in the room, a small room, a room not necessarily fit for four people to fit comfortably. The fourth now was a girl named Teija, she sat quietly. I was sitting at Annicka's computer, looking at bus prices, looking at hostel prices. It was doable. We looked it over and discussed it. It took about ten minutes until we were all four nodding in unison. We would leave Friday night from London, stay two nights, return Monday morning. It was something like 30 pounds for the bus ticket and 26 pounds for 2 nights in a hostel. We decided to book an eight bedded room after we called four more people to confirm their interest. A one later decided to join our gang after we had booked the rooms and bus tickets bringing our total to a happy nine (you better believe there is going to be a Fellowship of the Ring reference in the near future). After the four of us aforementioned, there were three girls: Regina, Virva, and Maria, and two boys: Scott, and Georgios. We would leave Friday afternoon.

I remember it clearly. It was Friday. Afternoon. We were aboard the train headed to Waterloo. The bus would leave from Victoria Coach station. We were anxious. The tension was precipitously palpable (c'mon!) aboard the train. Perhaps I felt it more than others--portrayed, I think, most clearly by my incessant foot-tapping and my non-stop non-talking--because I'm pretty sure they were counting on me to get them to Victoria Station and I didn't really know where it was. And I didn't really have a map. We deboarded (Not a Word? Whatevs.) the train and to my surprise my apprehension did not Disapparate (Potter fans?), instead I felt more nervous with every step. What's worse, as my oblivion was more than obvious, I assumed someone would step-up and suggest something like, 'Nate, be calm, for I will take the lead of this fellowship (see?). I will show you the way to Morder (or Victoria Coach Station),' but no one stepped forward, and although worried, they seemed almost as oblivious as I! Perhaps not, because as I now recall I remember several instances when I would say something like, 'Okay, I think it is literally right around this corner,' or 'I think I see it right up ahead, is that it?' It usually wasn't. But at about the exact time of when the last threads of our hope string were set to fully unravel, we almost literally stumbled upon it. We looked upon the blue bus as a gift sent down from the heavens--it was our saviour, it would take us to the holy lands (maybe it would even turn some water into wine for us). We set about getting ready to board, anxious at the prospect of exploring Edinburgh for two whole days. Edinburgh Here We Come!

Oh, did I mention it was a nine hour bus ride?

(As I look back on that previous paragraph I realize that the tension felt by the, handsome, strapping, intelligent, incomparable protagonist must not be felt by the reader for the main reason that there was no real time frame mentioned. Well, to be totally truthful I don't really remember how much time we had left upon arrival at the Coach Station. It was close, that's all. If it helps, think of it as we arrived just as the bus was departing, banging incessantly upon the doors of our dreams, screaming for them to recognize us. Take a minute, read through it as such, and let me know if it helps. Or you can just keep reading.)

I remember it clearly. I have never in my life wanted to punt a child so much as I have on this bus ride. It started off innocent enough. The bus was not too full and I was fortunate to be sitting in a window seat next to a heater. A perfect spot, I thought. I will be warm and I get to lay my head against something that is not the back of the chair--which, in it's evil turn, affords you the wholly attractive chance to reach the edge of sleep and then have your head violently fall forward, snapping you out of your one or two winks. My seat mate, Henrik, was attempting to break the world record of head bobs as I put my head against the freezing cold window and moved my pants as far away from the heater as I possibly could as they were seconds away from catching on fire. And then the coughing began. A small child, innocent I presume, began toying with the idea of how long he could continually cough without covering his mouth and then abruptly stop just long enough to feel like you may actually get a chance to close your eyes long enough to slip to sleep and then start coughing again. He was incredibly successful at this. What was worse was it was not just an excuse-me cough or an a-hem like cough, it was as full of phlegm as a thermos full of phlegm (Calvin and Hobbes fans?). It was as if a 75 year old man had not coughed in all his years and then feeling he could not hold it in any longer let out the most prolific cough in the history of coughing (by the w, History of Coughing? Probably an awesome major--all those readers who are still unsure of what to do with their studies take a look). It was like this over and over until finally he was put to sleep (I know what I said). But by this time, light was beginning to enter my tightly shut eyes and I could feel we were nearing our destination. Was I upset? Hardly. And as we began navigating the streets of Edinburgh on the way to the coach station, all thoughts of chucking the child out the window flew from my head. And slowly a smile spread across my face. And slowly we pulled into the coach station. And slowly we descended those steps.

We had made it.

Insert Sequential and Possibly Alliterative Brighton Pun Here

From the Hotel we headed straight toward the Royal Pavilion, a building that is vaguely reminiscent of the Taj Mahal. What it is doing in the center of Brighton, one will never know (scholars maintain that it was built long before the conquering of the British empire by the anglo-saxons in1135, further suggesting it was built around the turn of a millennium, which one? one will never know (scholars suggest the year 1000 is as good an estimate as anyone is going to make))(note: for those of you unfamiliar with British History, I literally just made all that up).

As mentioned before, it was a beautifully sunny day. The air was of the perfect temperature and there was general good cheer all around. We looked around the Pavilion for a time, saw that there was an entrance fee of 32 pounds (slight exaggeration, but pshaw! nevertheless), and decided to sit on the grass and just enjoy the afternoon. We were surprisingly tired after the 3 minute walk from the Hotel D' Awesome and the grass felt cool and reassuring beneath us. It was a welcome treat. Nearby there was an outdoor cafe serving frothy cups of enlightenment, but these lazy legs could not be pulled from the spot where they were stuck. So, instead, we just sat around, in a bit of a circle, and watched the people go by.

I remember one moment quite clearly (indeed, I believe as it was transpiring I thought about how to word it in my blog (have I, then, lost all sense of reality? am I so lost in my own head that I have become detached from the normal world? is it I that is that pretentious egotist staring off into space concerning himself only with himself? is there any way I can add another meaningless rhetorical question to this already unimportant and, more than likely, sleep inducing digression? (that's enough))) Well, if you are still with me, let me relate. I was lying, quite angelically if I do say so myself, on my back with my hands placed behind my head staring into the trees that were just a few yards in front of me. The others, too, I think were lying silently around me as if a sleeping drug had been inserted into the deep fried shrimp (or maybe it was just a drowsy drug, because none of us were sleepy). The sun was slowly moving down toward the trees that my eyes had just become accustomed to. I remember watching the sun sink lower and lower and just thinking how quickly time moves. It was inescapable. Soon this moment would be gone. Soon these people would go. Soon nothing would be left but our memories (phew, I am getting awfully cornrifically reminiscent in these last few entries). I remember looking at the image now created as the sun sparkled behind the top leaves of those tall trees. It was such a beautiful image with such a depressing connotation. It signified the beginning of the end. It was soon that sun would fall. It was soon we would go home. It was startling then when I came out of my trance to see the rays of sun dancing on my colleagues smiling faces. Had they not just experienced a deeply profound realization? Had they not just become nihilist in the twenty minutes we were lying on the grass in silence? I suppose not. Thank God. My thoughts now diverted, I looked around to see them each enjoying this moment simply for it's simplicity. Satisfied, I put my head back against the grass and let the sun do it's dance across my smiling face. (I should note that as I wrote that last paragraph I was listening to Iron & Wine (for those who do not know, Iron & Wine is as soft as indie folk can get, and that is saying something), which may contribute to my introspective laziness. Also, perhaps for my pretentious tone. And most definitely for it's evocative sappiness. Maybe I'll listen to some funk.)

I was feeling particularly groovy when we removed ourselves from our hippy circle and decided to head to the Marina. It was a pretty significant walk from the Pavilion to the Marina, but we were up for it after sitting for about an hour, so we undertook it. We walked down to a path that leads to the Marina, and found it, as per usual, to be more than lovely. It was afternoon now, and the sun was just beginning to orange ever so slightly. It played beautifully with the waves of the sea, sparkling so spectacularly. It was no wonder our conversations were often hindered by our long longing looks out to sea. Sometimes I would walk along side another one of my fellow travelers, discussing this and that, often, though, I would fall back behind the group and just admire the beauty of the situation.

We made it to the Marina, which to me seemed more like it's own entity than a part of Brighton. It held a giant ASDA (Wal-Mart basically), a gas station, lovely looking flats, numerous pubs and restaurants, and the cheapest looking most expensive car wash I've ever seen (It was literally a guy with a hose and a bucket of soap charging something like 10 pounds (no exaggeration) for a 'DELUXE' wash). We procured a pint at a local pub and sat in the sunshine excited to enjoy the rest of the day.

The pint was put back hastily and we decided, though lovely, the marina was a bit too noisy and it was time to head back to the train station. We took our time heading back, nearly criss-crossing (Jump! Jump! (anyone?)) through the city. It was pleasant enough, as the sun was fulling fading now, it caused beautiful shadows from east facing walls to engulf us in their outward stretching. In time, we reached the top of a particular hill that overlooked the city centre and the train station. It was here we jumped onto a little wall and bit greedily into our store bought sandwiches and watched the sun fall behind the buildings that were situated across a little valley and atop another hill in front of us. We sat in relative silence. In a more than perfect symbol, the sun was slowly setting on our journey. It had been a more than congenial companion. And now, with its last grasp of light still reaching just above those buildings across the way, we wiped the crumbs from our hands and walked down the incline before us toward the station. I looked up during the descent and saw the sun, without pomp, slip behind the building, out of sight, but it's presence still known. I thought, without pomp, what a perfect way to end the day*.



*and a blog entry (I really wanted to put that in there but I thought a poetic pause (what?!) was called for)