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.
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