Travel

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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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Drinking and Eating (in that order)

If I’ve given any impression that Ken and I are using this vacation as an excuse to drink alcohol, allow me to point out that, unlike the locals, we are waiting until the afternoon to get our drink on. Apparently, beer is a breakfast beverage here. Not just beer, though. Wine and cava (like champaigne) seem also like a matter of course when workers stop by the bar for a pastry and a sip before shuttling off to work. The only local we’ve been able to hit up with our questions about this (and any other matter) has been Estafania (E), whom—you may recall—we met in Seville. We described to E how, back home, working for our employer, ordering a beer with lunch would reflect very poorly. She expressed surprise in hearing that, and explained (because we asked) that there was no restricted drinking age when she was growing up—she seems to be around our age. She said that now the legal drinking age is 18 but that it is not strictly enforced. If teens want to buy alcohol, they’ll just as easily find a place that will sell to them. We agreed that attitudes between our two cultures regarding alcohol are very different.

Today marks our last morning in Barcelona before we hop a flight to Bilbao.

This morning’s meanderings led us to two markets. The markets here are truly wonderful affairs that fill me with jealousy. A lot of the stalls repeat what’s around them. You find the usual suspects—butchers, fruit & veggy stands, cheese stalls, nuts, & the like. It’s not so much the variety but the specialization and preparation of what’s available that blows me away.

Let’s talk specialization. What I’d never seen until this trip is all the market stalls devoted to just eggs. Eggs in every variety (chicken, duck, phesant, ostritch, or emu; speckled, white, yellow, blue, or brown; dirty or clean; hard boiled or fresh) stacked up in numerous stalls in each of the large markets we’ve visited.

Wandering the neighborhoods, it seems the shops frequently follow a model of specialization. We’ve passed many stores in the neighborhood devoted to fresh fruits and vegetables, something I’ve never seen in the states. There are, of course, a lot of butchers around everywhere, too—Spanish being the carniverois cuisine that it is. Supermarkets are few. Folks wheel tall totes to the various neighborhood specialty shops and market stalls to check everything off their grocery lists. Supermarkets are harder to come by than in the states and are far less expansive where they do appear.

Back to the market and its meat stalls. They make no attempt to cover up the source from whence their wares come. The animals on display are recognizable. We passed by many suckling piggies and the disembodied heads of their parents. Offal is on offer. Skinned rabbits abound. The chickens have not lost their heads. I love to browse the meat stalls, and clearly there are not too many to support demand. While I remain abivalent about my own willingness to process the animals I eat, I’ve long found our own grocery store meat counters conspicuously sterile. I have to remind myself that beef and pork come from cows and pigs. In the states, conscious eating is making a comeback. In Spain (and, I’d wager, much of Europe) it would seem no one needs reminding what real or slow food is.

One final word about the markets on what makes me covet them: the fruit stalls offer prepared fruit and juices. Why aren’t the produce stalls in Pike Market hip to this brilliance?! Confronting you as you approach is a wall of grab-and-go containers filled with differing, delectable mellanges: coconut pieces, cactus flower slices, papaya, strawberry, pineapple, cheeries. We ate them all this morning pre-breakfast, arranged in one container with a little fork—a cornicopia of fresh fruit for 2 euros. Later we sprung a couple euro more for fresh juice made from one fruit stall’s inventory. (I had coconut pineapple, and I’m ruined forever from enjoying the bottled stuff!) Usually, I can’t buy fresh market foods on these trips because I lack the means to prepare it myself. We did buy this morning because the stall had prepared it. Even cured meat stalls and cheese stalls have this notion, some of them arranging little paper jackets of sliced sausages or cheese curds.

To sum up, I will not tire of these markets and look forward to comparing these Catelonian markets to their Basque brethren when we arrive in Bilbao and San Sebastian for more drinking and eating.

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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.

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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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This Spain Fling

It’s our first early night back at our hotel since we arrived, and wifi in the room gives me a chance to add a word or two. Unbeleivable, all– in a good way– that’s how it’s going. Ken gets high marks for navigating city streets and attractions alike. Unlike in Italy, the tourists we’re among seem more mixed. We’re surrounded by many different languages, and Americans are less the rule. In other words, it’s easier to lose myself in being somewhere else. Somewhere other than where we’re from.

Now we’re relaxing at the end of our romp around Granada. The pomagranate being the symbol of this city (so sayath Rick Steves) we postulate grenadine must be named for this place. But I swear I’d always known the name Granada. I just can’t remember how.

To the lady at the shoe store who gushed at the very mention of this town: you were right. The Alhambra is magical. Mythic-seeming, it had been conquered so long ago, I can’t relate to the timline. It’s a contradiction too. A palace of impossibly intricate design, it was ruined and restored by a culture that simulaneously rebuked yet revered its past. All that to say: it is worth a trip around the world and back again.

So the Alhambra. Yes. Sublime romanticism for the taking in a modern world. Not to forget, we’re not the only ones discovering this daily. Tourists outnumber locals in such places. And lest I sound too high-falootin’, I are one. Well, we are a tour group of four. Before this trip, and for the first time, I abandoned all pretense of blending.

Because I don’t.

Shoe fashion here includes Greek-style sandals with buckle anklets. I’ve never seen harem pants worn on the street before coming here. I’m wearing tennies (my feet are thanking me for it) and wearing my backpack across my front (thieves beware). I really don’t care how I look; I’m here to see–not to be seen. It’s just…8,000 tourists a day hit this town by storm. The town don’t mind; tourism is important for business. I only wish we could relate better to the place we’ve come so far to visit. Being a tourist, that can be quite a trick.

So to Warren: Thank you for connecting us with Estefania whom I very much look forward to meeting tomorrow night. Before we rendezvous with her in Seville, we’ll sample Ronda with its bullring, its street cafes, and its scenic bridge.

Let me end with a callout to my favorite food and drink which is to be recreated on the otherside of This Spain Fling. Last night’s tail of toro was a melty geletin carnivore’s delight. Salmorejo will be prepared (by me) in the dog days of summer with Spanish (I-can’t-remember-the-proper-name-of-them-now-but-the-sell-them-jarred-at-Trader-Joes) peppers. And… Sangria, why had I forsaken you?! Never again, O paramour of the parched and palid pilgrim. Never again.

The salvation-giving banos arabes will forgive me for not telling about our 2-hour-long soaks and quarter-hour massages. And I’ll remember the double-scoop of coffee and pistaccio ice cream from Los Italianos around the corner from the Chris Columbus statue, even without blogging about it.

I do detest travelers who go on and on expecting others to read about their vacations. Don’t you agree?

Hasta luego!

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