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.
Sunday, 23 March 2008
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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