Posts Tagged ‘Spain’

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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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