Travel
Jun 13th, 2010
Madrid with Friends
Last night we were treated to a night out with Jośe (with whom we are aquainted through Ken’s brother Jeff, who met Jośe recently during Jeff’s stint volunteering at a language academy outside of Madrid), Jośe’s lovely wife Marisol (who speaks as much English as I speak Spanish), Marisol’s cousin Laura (who is on her way to speaking English after a recent study program of her own), and Laura’s husband Jośe Louis (whose name I think I’ve ruined).
They showed us Madrid like only locals can, and it was truly awesome! After meeting up, we walked through Retiro Park on the final day of the annual national book fair, which stretched farther than my eye could see. To give our legs a rest, we were then treated to a chaufered personal tour down the main vein of the modern center, Paseo de la Castellana. We passed Spain’s Stock Exchange, the Treasury, Tax Collection headquarters, and major banks.
Even though it was raining, we detoured to have a look at the Temple de Debod, and caught sight of a rainbow near sunset for our troubles.
Next came the Fiesta de San Antonio de la Florida. Afterall, what could be better than a look in at one of Madrid’s annual festivals, and it was great. We started in toward a food spot well known to locals (we were told) and neighboring the Chapel where El Greco rests his painterly bones. On our way there, I got talked into sharing what I was told is a specialty of Madrid, fried pork intestine.
Do you care to know what I thought of breaded & fried poop shoot, as Anthony Bordain puts it? Well I’ll tell you. Having grown up in Arkasas, I think I can testify that anything breaded and fried pretty much shares that breaded-and-fried flavor profile. It was quite rich and salty with crunch, not unlike fried chicken skin, but with added chew. Bread was a good accompaniment, and—as Jośe pointed out—some wine (acidity) would help to cut the richness of it. Did I like it? Sure. I enjoyed it. Though I’m probably not in need of getting it again all too soon, it was fun to give it a try. (I’m still saving blood sausage for another time, however.)
Back to our preordained tapas stop: as I said, it was right next to the Chapel of San Antonio de la Florida—a big wooden tavern of a place that reminded us of a Munich beer hall—where we all enjoyed chiorzo braised in hard cider, washing it down with—what else?—hard cider. Others of us (Ken wasn’t up for trying the pork bowel sandwiches, either) enjoyed tuna-laced ensalada pimentoes and empanadas to share, as well. With the slightest shred of appetite still remaining, we headed out toward the festival.
The festival was much like you might imagine. It featured various food stalls, carnival rides, a rock band performance, and a few folks in traditional costume. At Marisol’s prompting, we got our picture taken with the traditionally clad folks, and they were most obliging. Super fun! O! And I should mention that we tried soaked chuffa nuts (such as are used to make horchata) and pickled eggplant (which was something I would definately eat all the time if I could find them like this at home).
For one last tapas stop, we were back in the car toward our hotel and Puerto del Sol. Jose told us how the place was part of a chain, but that the food is good. It was. It was Las Bravas at the intersection of Calle de Alvarez Gato and Calle de la Cruz, just a few blocks past Puerto del Sol. They ordered for us some croquets, a tortilla, and (damn, I can’t remember what else, but it was good).
Thanks so much to this group for showing is a memoriable and authentic night. It was a blast. We hope for the chance to return the favor sometime
Jun 8th, 2010
Wait Time in Salamanca
It’s early in Salamanca, and we’re in the in-betweens. In between when everything is closed and when it opens. In between awake and asleep. A living limbo in the train station. You know… You’ve been here. Now it’s our turn. This morning started at 4:15 when I stepped out of my sleeper, and Ken stepped out of his. No co-ed sleeper cars for us out of Basque country. My roomates for the evening were (I surmised) two adult sisters and their mother. When I opened the door into the sleeper (to which I was directed by the uniformed attendant), Mama sounded off like an alarm. All I could do while she was overcoming my injustice in loud, protesting Portgese is stand in the doorway as unthreateningly as possible and hold my ticket and my ground. Eventually, I understood that it was less my filling a bunk as my filling a bottom bunk that got her going. I pointed at myself and then at the top bunk. Polite smiles exchanged with the daughters, and I was presented with the ladder to climb to the top bunk. That was somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00.
I slept. Ken seems not so lucky. He looks tired. A 24-hour coffee shop inside the train station is our salvation. The weather turned during our daytrip to San Jean de Luz yesterday. We got caught in the rain, and thus kicked off our waiting time earlier than expected. Whereas now we’re waiting for a reasonable hour when other businesses will be open, last night we were waiting out the rain and waiting for transport back across the Spanish-French border to San Sebastian earlier than we otherwise would have been. As we arrived here this morning, we saw that we brought the rain with us.
So, I’m glad to be at least partially-rested, warm, dry, safe, and caffeinated. I’ll take this moment to extol the utter fantastic-ness of traveling with a smart phone. Ken and I tend to compose these little ditties during the inevitable wait times that accompany travel and upload them when a wifi opportunity presents itself. This is the first trip of its kind where I’ve had my own snazzy gadgetry, and I’ve really enjoyed keeping up with the news, writing emails (without hunting down any Internet cafés or navigating funny keyboards), uploading pictures to Facebook, and posting my few entries to this blog. Being this connected changes the way it feels to travel.
Speaking of the news, Spain is in the headlines in the US because public workers here are threatening to strike over wage cuts due to take effect this month. We’ve heard a lot of protests in many of the places we’ve visited. I assume they’re all focused on the economic situation, which I only vaguely understand. Other than the seemingly frequent protests (and the increasingly favorable—for us—exchange rate converting dollars to euros) our personal experience as foreign tourists has not called real attention to Spain’s economic hardship. I personally hope it stays that way for us and that we continue to avoid inconveniences (such as a strike by public workers) for the remainder of our stay. That the country and its people are struggling is clear. Reading about concerns that the EU and/or its currency could fail bother me a lot. I’d always thought the whole notion of the EU was/is lofty. I wish I knew more about the situation here (in Spain particularly) but much more than that, I wish it fixed, rapido.
That about taps my tired brain for this early morning. We’re going to try for a bus into town where we’ll occupy more wait time getting breakfast. Hola from Salamanca!
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Jun 5th, 2010
Jun 3rd, 2010
Viva la Barcelona
The thing about having crap accomodations is that, instead of returning to the hotel room to relax, you make more stops for beer. That is, if you’re us. What happened—you may ask—to all that red, red rioja you were intending to consume on your Spanish vacation, Irene? It’s not served cold. Beer is served cold. Sangria is served cold (and with ice!) Wine is served as it should be: at room temp. The temp for us visiting Seattleites is Hot. Actually, Bacelona is refreshingly cooler than the south of Spain proved to be. Still we are seeking the shade and religiously applying our sunsceen daily. But cold beer helps, too.
We have an Art Pass. Like gluttons at an all-you-can-eat buffet, we are out to get our money’s worth. This afternoon’s cerveca was tapped at the Joan Miró museum, at which (even before the beer) I gained a modicum of respect for him and his work.
Yesterday was spent in the company of Gaudi (Sagrada Familia and the Park Güell) and Picasso (Picasso Museum). I’d like to think everyone appreciates the work of these artists. Visiting Barcelona feels a little like a pilgrimage, for Gaudi’s sake! But visiting these places reminded me how true artistry can come off as obvious and easy-looking while it is based on a profound mastery of one’s craft. Miró, it seemed, never excelled at representational art before turning his visual language into play. I don’t know if this has anything to do with how I’m just not into him. But this is what I think—of those who respond to practical questions about their work, their health, their relationships, “…you just don’t understand! I’m an ARTIST!”—they’re full of shite. You got to know your craft. Artists are craftsmen. And craft means discipline. That said…It’s their whimsey that moves. And, after our lineup with the Art Pass, I’m inspired to play.
But right now, I’m inspired to sit. Still composing this little ditty of a blog entry, I’m sitting with Ken now in the evening waiting for the Font Màgica to do its Thing. We walked (till our legs nearly mutinied) to land at the only indoor eatery within blocks and blocks and blocks to offer a bright and inviting, nonsmoking space in which the waitstaff looks at us funny when we even attempt Spanish. In the cool of the evening in this air condiditioned place, we order Rioja, and it comes ice cold. After the show at the Magic Fountain, we’ll take the metro back to our hyper cool neighborhood (The Born) to our hovel of a hostel, check in with the world via wifi, and pass out in our unairconditioned room while the locals start their evening meals. Viva la Barcelona! We love you. Sincerely, me.
May 30th, 2010
V is for Valencia!
Today was our first full day in Valencia. Love this place. The streets of the central historic district are paved in shiny marble, which feels so decadent! We’ve encountered fewer tourists here, so the place feels more authentic.
We spent the day at the modern Arts and Sciences complex. It’s huge. Beatiful too. We discovered while there that the traditional thing to have with authentic Valencian horchata is a brioche-like pastry called fartons, which we ordered twice at the complex (and both times we were told they had sold out).
Valencia being the place of origin for paella, we have a couple of foods to try during our final day here (which will be tomorrow). There should be no trouble finding fartons to go with our horchata tomorrow since cart vendors sell the stuff on every other corner of the city near our hotel.
I will say too that we got lucky with this hotel. A steal at 60€ per night, we double-checked our information when we read the sign posted out front that it is a 4-star. I don’t want to sully our reputations by admitting this, but Ken and I don’t typically stay in 4-star accomodations. If we can squeeze in one star, we get to feeling pretty luxurious.
Ken is sacked out as I write this. Of course I’m not bothering him as I am in my separate bed in our double room. I suspect there is some European code that looks unfavorably on matrimonial double beds. We can’t so much figure it out. Only one bed have we shared on this trip so far, and that was the first. After I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping apart, it will be time to get used to sharing the covers again. O the hazards of vacationing in Spain!
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