Holy Toledo

Shaun's Post:



Feb 28, 2007

In the morning I awoke with a sour stomach, suffering some of the same ill effects as on my first day in Paris. So, I thought it might be dehydration, which has been a constant foe to ward off whilst traveling (usually to success). But when I went upstairs to have a little breakfast before our departure for Toledo, I knew this was something more and different. It was all I could do to dash back to the basement, that sour bubble pressing up into my throat. Fortunately, the body is well adept at ridding itself of toxins, and after this one somewhat violent episode, I felt immediately better, though a tender stomach plagued me all day. It must have been a touch of food poisoning. I don’t know the exact source, so I can’t warn anyone off of anything...

Nonetheless, I was feeling a little better and we had to go on this day trip. It would be the only chance we had to go to old Holy Toledo, as we would be flying to Rome the following day. So we went. The train ride was a quick half hour and before long we were out of the bustle and sprawl that surrounds Madrid and into the wide, open countryside of Spain, so evocative of Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Toledo was truly an ancient city and even the ground seemed to seep a sense of its deep history. The station, for instance, was ornate with Moorish design, and from there we followed a number of other travelers down the street to the old city gate which allowed pilgrims access to this once-fortified city on a hill.

We found a tourist office near the main square and got a town map. We then proceeded forthright to a café for some breakfast. We opted for the traditional menu, what Madrileños would eat after a night out partying: coffee with churros (fried bread twists with sugar). Considering my tender stomach, I felt like maybe I had spent a night out on the town. It was a pleasant enough café, though, with a slightly smoky air and the din of chatty locals at the bar which comprised virtually all of the café’s table space. It was interesting to hear their different accent and try to decipher what was being said.

From the café we strolled to the Great Cathedral, which was more impressive to Mandy and me than Paris’ Notre Dame (Sorry, Paris). The stonework was almost white and much natural light was admitted through the stained glass windows that soared high above near the nave. Everything was ornate - stonework, woodwork, glasswork, artwork. Restoration was underway, too, in an adjoining chapel with work underway to repair a beautiful but crumbling medieval fresco. In the center of the property stood a tranquil courtyard full of orange trees and the cheerful twitter of birds. I could have been happy here as a monk, I remember thinking.

As the day was pressing on and we had only a short time to visit the town before our return train, we moved on from the cathedral with the goal of seeing both a synagogue and a mosque in order to get a sense of the history of this place where the three religions had coexisted peacefully for some time - quite a feat for the Middle Ages. Finding our way to these other locations was quite a feat, too. The narrow, twisting passages of Toledo’s streets are a veritable maze, demanding glances at the map at every intersection. It certainly would have been difficult for any invading army to conquer. We conquered it as best we could, weaving this way and that, pressing close to walls to avoid flattening by persistent drivers who either had more patience with their cars or more disdain for walking than I do. Eventually we found both the synagogue and mosque. The first was fairly simple on the outside with a modestly ornate interior, including beautifully carved wood molding in the central prayer hall and women’s loft, replete with Hebrew characters. There was also an interesting display on the history of Jews in Spain (called the Sephardi) and the unique culture that had developed among them, including a local language. The mosque was still more modest (and more difficult to find), consisting now of only an empty space with beautiful brick vaults and arches - a simple place of prayer where one could no doubt still come to pray if wished.

Of the three, the mosque was the only site at which we did not have to pay. Almost all of the old churches and synagogues - and there were many more we did not visit - perhaps even the other mosque in town, required an entrance fee. It reminded me a little of walking through Lourdes where every other shop seemed to be selling prayer candles, rosaries, icons, plastic dolls, etc. If you haven’t heard, there’s big business in religion! Yet the souvenirs sold in Toledo were a little less “Oriental Trading Company” than the mass of trinkets sold in Lourdes, offering instead ornate swords and knives and fancy silk scarves for which the region is well known. Of course there were the usual tourist trinkets as well. (Consumerism is a different kind of religion, one could say)

After a sampling of the town’s history, we found our way back to a lovely park that sat on the rocky hill above the river overlooking landscape where Don Quixote might have rode his mule - where a monk, a rabbi, or a cleric might have sat in contemplation. There were lizards sunning on the steps below the town’s grand library and Mandy ran about trying to capture one on camera. A golden light in the valley, an ancient city at our backs, and our train soon approaching, I was convinced that our spontaneous coming to Spain, even our very decision to travel around Europe for six weeks, was not just tilting at windmills, though a quixotic journey all the same.

Madrid

La Movida y Madrid

Feb 27, 2007

We entered Madrid like many other cities we've visited, leaving Barcelona around midday on the 24th by express train. But our reception was wholly different. Waiting for us at the station was Anna Nagel, an old friend and long-time correspondent of Mandy's mother. She kissed us on both cheeks in the Spanish fashion and set immediately into friendly conversation while leading us to her car. Our decision to drop into Spain had been a spontaneous one and Anna and her family had graciously offered to host us if we should come to Madrid. And with little forenotice, here we were.

Gradually we got better acquainted as we drove the thirty-odd kilometers to their residence in the urbanization (like a suburb or planned/gated community) of Ciudalcampo. In all honesty, my first impression of the city of Madrid itself was of low interest. Everywhere the city was sprawling, spilling out into suburban areas with highrise apartments sprouting like weeds. You could see probably a hundred cranes dotting the horizon, all evidence of a rapidly expanding urban center. There were billboards and even American-style shopping malls, which we had thus far been able to avoid. And so it was nice to leave the center and enter the green space of Ciudalcampo with a view to the distant snow-covered mountains across a broad green lowland. There were heavy clouds hanging low in the sky and a cool wind stirred in the trees - in short, the kind of weather that I can find refreshing, as a boy from the country, the wind blowing away the pollution and constant thrum of the city.

We were first to meet the old and placid German Shepard, Zimba, and in short order the rest of the family with more kisses from daughter Laura, and handshakes (for me, at least) from Daniel and Anna's husband Paco. We were given a cozy guestroom in the basement, complete with internet access (a treat out here on the European backpacker trail). We were made to feel even more at home when we were served a delicious light dinner and invited to go out that night with Dani, who was suffering from a cold but was excited to show us the city. It was a pleasure to sit at the table with the family, as we would do most other nights there, and experience the multilingual aspects of their home. Because Anna is originally from Germany a good portion of the conversation was in German. Yet this would change just as quickly to Spanish, as Paco was a native Spaniard. It was fun just to listen to their exchanges even if we could understand much of it. Of course, they would sometimes translate for our benefit.

Night fell and after a short nap on my part, we climbed into Dani's small Ford and took off for Madrid. During the drive into the city, we chatted and Dani selected a suitable soundtrack for the evening. The pulsating, driving grooves of the electronic/industrial band Goldfrapp poured from the speakers and proffered an apt aural counterpart to the nighttime neon-lit urbanscape. The closer we got to the city, the more Dani cranked the music, and I felt that youthful intoxication surging through my body. We were hitting the town; we were alive; we were free. Historically speaking, Madrileños have been partying like this since the fall of Franco, a continuing celebration of life called la movida. But it's a universal language.

We stopped to pick up a good friend of Dani, named Sebastian, who had German-Spanish heritage as well. With a quick look at the car's engine after a mysterious new sound appeared, we were off into the busy streets of late night Madrid. Actually, it is hard to say "late night" because most people begin going out around 11pm or midnight and often stay out until morning's light. We drove around for a long time in futile search of a parking space near the center in Plaza del Sol. Every possible place had been taken, and then some, with driver's parking illegally in driveways or doubleparking others in. Scooters were jammed into every possible space on the sidewalks and Smart Cars were parked perpendicular in parallel spaces. And still people poured into town, the night young. We finally decided to park in an underground garage, with both Dani and Sebastian agreeing they had never seen it so busy. La movida, along with Madrid, was growing.

We walked to Sol, passing many people all dressed to kill and be seen doing it, the four of us not really fashionistas. Sebastian led the way to a little bar near the square after we had been shown the tile marking kilometer zero from which all streets and roads in Spain (or just Madrid?) extend. The bar was a flourescent-lit no-frills kind of space and there were many locals all crowded around tables smoking, drinking cerveza, and all eyes glued to the television set hanging in the corner. It was football night in Madrid, with both hometown teams - Real Madrid and Atletico Madrid - vying in what is called a derby game. Passions were high in the city and in this bar, people rooting for either side.

Neither Dani nor Sebastian were avid sportsfans, though, so we felt a little more in like company. Still, it was fun to be in that charged environment, to start with surprise when the gathered crowd burst into cheers at a scored goal. The Spanish love their football and we discussed it for a time over a pitcher of beer and tapas, answering many of the same questions we had fielded with Alec, our one-time travel companion from Liverpool, about how football (soccer) is not so huge an event in the U.S. and how American football is perhaps the most significant sport, culminating in the spectacle of the Super Bowl.

It was enjoyable to speak about life at home, how it may differ or how it may be similar - to be ambassadors of our own culture. I had been on the inquisitive end of such questioning many times before in asking my international friends and acquaintances about their home countries and cultures. It's nice to set people straight or to provide a clearer picture from the perspective of a native. In the process you learn much about your own country and even come to consider it a destination, worthy of travel itself.

Once the game had ended (in a tie) and the people began to trickle back out into the streets, we followed suit and moved on to another bar, this one more stereotypical with loud rock music, dim purpleish lighting, and loads of cigarette smoke that left my throat feeling raw by night's end. We were introduced to four lovely ladies, who have us los besos (kisses) on each cheek, and we sat around a small table and soaked in the atmosphere. There were rapidfire exchanges of Spanish and the music was too loud for me to make out most of what was said anyway. But it was a pleasure to be in the company of Spanish peers. The girls were giggling and kept reading a cellphone screen, and we wondered why. Dani and Sebastian tried to decipher: "It's like Sex in the City." And one of the girls closest to us explained further that the others were reading a long three-part text from a Scandinavian guy they had met recently and all liked. Yep, Sex in the City .

Because Dani had paid for drinks and food at the last bar, I volunteered to buy a round and received the welcome assistance of Sebastian in ordering our drinks (though my Spanish was returning as time went on). The drinks were terribly expensive at around 22 euros for 3 mixed drinks and one regular bottle of beer, which has proven fairly true of European establishments I've encountered - whatever the reason may be. However, there is an upside (if you view it the following way): I ordered a rum and coke and was given a tall, slim glass half full of rum and a small bottle of coke to add to it. There can be no contesting the potency of a mixed drink in Madrid. Dani said this bar was where they had come as teenagers as a first experience with alcohol in a public setting. It was interesting to consider how different this was from the more prudish attitude towards alcohol in the United States. In this way the overall culture was different. But the jovial atmosphere and upbeat attitude were the same. Dani and I discussed one of his current web design projects, which seguewayed into a conversation about big business, media and globalization. I was impressed with his nuanced outlook, as I have been impressed by many of my European friends. It is a delightful thing to so easily find political allies, especially international ones. It gives me great hope for the future of our world.

Eventually the girls left, again with an exchange of kisses, and we too departed. We made one made one more stop in a park after returning to the car and met two other friends of Dani. One had travelled to the U.S. somewhat recently, working for the U.S. Women's Hockey team and had visited Las Vegas at some point. Two days there were more than enough for him, he said. And we had to agree: Las Vegas is too much. In this and other conversations, it gave us pause to think about what perception of America a European or other foreigner may have. Often, it seems, there is the assumption that the United States is all New York Cities and four-lane freeways, a reality which obviously clashes with Mandy's and my own smalltown upbringings. It also caused us to question our own perception of Europe: Were we forming a narrow picture of life here by mainly visiting only the famous cities - Paris, Barcelona, Madrid? It wise perhaps to keep an open mind and not arrive too readily at any concrete conclusions. Ours are subjective experiences after all...

We returned home around 4am and fell into a somewhat restless sleep, awakening finally after 10am to gray skies. We were provided a hearty breakfast by Anna and given information on how to take the bus into Madrid and from there the Metro to where we would want to go. We found Madrid's Metro system to be wonderfully organized and efficient, taking it the long distance from the bus station to the center of the city. Though we had been warned several times about pickpockets, we never did have any such incidents.

We used the late morning to walk through downtown Madrid, taking in its more stately and older architecture, which we found more attractive than the newer high-rises. We passed by the Palacio Real and lingered in the Plaza de Oriente, a park full of statues placed there after Queen Sofia had a nightmare that they would collapse the roof of the palace. Next, we meandered back through the streets towards Museo del Prado, passing a still-functioning cloistered convent in the middle of the city. When we arrived at the Prado, we discovered a long line of people awaiting entry, which was free Sundays. Instead of waiting and squandering the day - which had cleared to sun sometime that morning - we opted to visit the nearby Botanical Gardens, where entry was an affordable euro apiece. It was a pleasure to be surrounded by so much green space after trekking through the city. We strolled the garden paths until the first signs of dusk appeared and the garden closed, whereupon we returned to the Prado to find a much more manageable line. After a slight wait, we were inside - and for free! - looking at such famous works as Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” Velásquez’s “Las Meninas,” and others by the likes of Salvador Dalí, Tintoretto, and Picasso. Afterwards, we met up with Anna and Laura and rode back to Ciudalcampo with them, where we were treated to another fabulous dinner full of regional specialties.

The next day began in much the same fashion, though we were more well-rested, and we rode with Dani into Madrid. He suggested a walk through the large Parque del Buen Retiro would be a good way to spend the late morning, as it was proving to be a nother gloriously sunny day (indeed, Dani’s father had predicted as much the night before by reading the barometric pressure on a specialized wristwatch). We took his advice after a break for coffee at a funky little café bordering the park in which sand art was displayed, lending an almost Southwestern Native American feel to the place. Sufficiently caffeinated and bathroom-breaked (since it can be difficult to find a public restroom), we sauntered through the park, weaving a course past the central pond where people lazily rowed boats, past a man playing accordion and a costumed street performer portraying the graceful movements of a tree. We happened upon the Crystal Palace, a long glass and iron structure which currently houses modern art exhibits on the theme of “habitats” and the concept of “space”.

Once we had “retired” long enough to the sunny green space of the park, and after a filling meal packed for us by Anna (she really did too much for us!), we loped our way to the Museo Reina Sofia, the city’s modern art gallery. It was great to walk through the gallery space and see so many original, avant-garde pieces, so refreshing to see after innumerous classical works in the Louvre and the Prado. The most stunning piece, and truly the highlight, was Picasso’s timeless anti-war painting, “Guernica”. To see it in person far exceeds any experience of it made possible by reproduction. Its monochromatic composition is so striking, the blacks, grays, and white stirring and evoking such pathos, screaming out the carnage and devastation of war. I found it almost overwhelming in its intensity and I must have spent ten minutes studying it. We also saw a good number of sculpture and video works as well, all of which were interesting and intriguing in their own right.

In the evening we followed the suggestion of our Let’s Go guidebook, after unsuccessfully trying to reach Dani about heading home, and went to a little restaurant full of locals and students called Achuri. It had a definite political bent, with leftist posters on the walls, and a casual albeit intellectual atmosphere that we found enlivening. Plus, the prices were cheap. I ordered a sausage sandwich and wine, and Mandy had a large goat’s cheese salad. After this filling meal, we were able to contact Dani and ride with him back home. We then spent the rest of the evening, doing idle tasks and posting on the internet, though not without a second, late dinner. And it was with this fullness - of experience and hospitality - that we retired contented and awaiting the next day in Spain.

Barcelona: Beauty and Joy

Feb 24, 2007

Ahhh, Barcelona... City of vivid contrasts and joie de vivre, of Gothic and Modernist architecture, of street performers and lively people. Here is a city I could be content living in. Such mystery and eclecticism: funky boutiques in narrow medieval streets next to ancient cathedrals buried in the Gothic Quarter (Bari Gòtic) and, not fary away, buzzing streets with wide diamond intersections ornamented with the work of Gaudi and other famous architects, with many more whose buildings speak much more to their talent than any recognition of their names.

Admittedly, we were a bit frazzled when we arrived at last in Barcelona. We parted ways with our short-time travel companion, Alec, who quickly found a good number of other Liverpool fans come to see the big game. We struck out on foot to the heart of the city, the Bari Gòtic, in search of a hostel in which to stay the night and, more immediately, in which to drop our packs. It was a further walk than expected and we became still more fatigued and flustered as we tried to locate the hostels mentioned in our Let's Go guidebook (the map it provides does not have or even display the names of all the twisting passageways that comprise this pedestrian-centered part of town). Finally, though, we gained out bearings and were able to find one of the listed accomodations: Hostal Rembrandt.

Hostels in Spain are invariably marked by flags outside the building, typically on the second story balcony, as there is usually store space below on the ground floor. In addition to the sudden change in language from our time in France, this was yet another noticeable difference - one has to look up the buildings in order to find a hostel. Ours was actually on the fourth floor, a long climb up steep stairs which was proceeded by a glass door at which we had to be buzzed in. Though a little more expensive than others listed in Let's Go, I immediately felt confident of its quality when the owner, an Indian man, asked without solicitation if we should like to see the rooms he had available. We chose a modest room with a comfortable double bed and opted to pay for two nights up front, as the owner informed us that there was a good chance he would otherwise fill up.

The hostel was quiet and welcoming. There was a breakfast area that doubled as a lounge, and there was a phone and internet station. Our room had a set of doors that opened into a Spanish-style interior courtyard with a few potted plants. The bathroom and shower were down the hall and our room had only a sink, wardrobe and bed. This spareness has been welcoming and is found much more often, perhaps, in European accomodations than American ones. What use have I for a TV in my room when an exciting city awaits just beyond my door? What need have I for a private toilet and shower when there is one merely steps down the hall? Sometimes we wall ourselves in as Americans. It is a fortunate thing, I think, that it is harder to do so in Europe. A community of strangers is formed because of it.

Our wanderings through Barcelona - a bit more focused this time than before with a free map from the tourist office - took us past several of Gaudi's architectural masterpieces: Casa Batllo, a dragon-like building that ripples and shimmers in the light with its purplish-blue-green tiles; La Pedrera, a seemingly plain tan building that mimicks the sea, with its coral-like construction and black ironwork resembling seaweed; and, of course, the absolutely stunning La Sagrada Familia, still under construction but awe-inspiring all the same with its Modernist decorum blending with Gothic sensibility and eight of a planned eighteen towers completed, stretching over 200 feet into the deep blue Spanish sky. We strolled the tranquil grounds of the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau, which still functions. We were amazed that a hospital could remain so relaxed and inviting and agreed that we would like to have more like this in the United States. We also walked through the Parc de la Ciutadella and visited the Picasso Museum, which gave interesting insight into the painter's development as an artist.

Our culinary exploits in Barcelona were interesting and varied. All throughout our trip the first meal of the day has been a true continental breakfast: coffee or tea, orange juice, and bread with some type of jam or a croissant. This we experienced here again with varying quality, depending on where we were eating. The best breakfast - best because it was healthy, delicious and inexpensive - was at a little place called Croissanterie del Pi (or something like that). We had two light, flaky croissants, yogurt, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, all for under ten euros (which has been the benchmark price). Our lunches were often sandwiches and we enjoyed a number of perfect cups of coffe (espresso and cafe con leche is the norm; I don't even know if you can find brewed coffee). One night we had a cheap but fairly substantial and tasty meal at a little place called, "Organic is Orgasmic." The food was better than the name. A quick and forgetful dinner was had at Pans, a bit like a Spanish Subway. And, we had an unexpectedly expensive dinner at a place called the Attic.

Here's the story: Upon entering the Attic, we realized how chic it was attempting to be. It had an open and multilevel dining area with wood floors, the tables set with expensive china and linens and crystal glassware, all reflecting the ambient orange glow of the mood lighting. In addition to the waitstaff, there were men in dark suits running around with earpieces in their ears. They looked much like Secret Service agents and I almost want to say they had on sunglasses, too, but I doubt they did. What their function was I'm still not sure. Our waiter was very nice and he brought us bread after taking our order. I did notice there were a few others around us who were visibly unhappy with either their meals or the whole dining experience. I had to wonder why. We ourselves were surprised when the entrees arrived - they were so small! Truly this place fancied itself a gourmet restaurant, so that while the presentation was great, the portion size was stereotypically small. (I had roast ox. Yes, ox! With zuchinni and goat cheese. Mmmm). The one thing that was generously portioned, besides ultimately the bill, was the sangria I ordered. Knowing my limits, I elected not to finish it (though it cost me 11 euros!) and I still had quite the buzz...

When it came time to pay the bill we realized just how fancy the meal had been. And we deduced that we had been charged 4 euros for an equivalent number of average dinner rolls. I asked the waiter about this and he tried to explain, but I didn't understand his Spanish. Then he took the receipt and left, and when he returned he had removed the item from the bill. So, we paid and escaped into the night, a little poorer and amazed at our accidental extravagance. But more or less satisfied. I think I know what those other people had been feeling: it's that fear and embarassment and frustration of finding yourself somewhere partway into the meal, where you discover that everything will cost you more than you wished to spend. So you persist through the meal (and you have to enjoy it since you're spending so much on it) and though the food really is quite good you are still left wanting something - to spend a little less maybe. Let's coin a term. Let's call it gourmet shock.

On our last night in Barcelona, we attended a concert by the reknowned classical guitarist Manuel González, a native of the city. The venue was the beautiful Catedral del Pi, a gothic church whose interior was open and simple. The nave soared above at almost 100 feet and its construction, without the typical supportive flying buttresses, allowed the sound to resonate. There was the warm smell of candle wax in the air as the crowd sat hushed in the wooden pews and Señor González masterfully played a number of classical and Spanish compositions, among which were "Variations on 'The Magic Flute' by Mozart", "Recuerdos de la Alhambra", and "Romanza".

As a guitarist, it was amazing to watch him play, to see and hear his approach. He used the fingers of his picking hand (the right) to their full capacity, sometimes using two fingers to sustain a tremolo while plucking a bassline simultaneously and in polyrhythm with his thumb. Other times he would ply his fingers across the strings in arpeggios, or rake the strings with a flamenco flavor. The most amazing were the harmonics that he coaxed from his instrument in delicate moments and at the exquisite finale of one piece. It was beauty enough to make one weep. As for his left hand, on the fretboard, he positioned his fingers into interesting, constantly changing shapes that reminded me more of playing piano than the guitar styles to which I am accustomed. I have wanted to learn to play more classically and this performance will no doubt provide lasting inspiration. Manuel González slay his audience, like he was the bullfighter and we the bull. He plays the kind of guitar to which you hold your breath, until the last note has died away, for fear of crushing such a delicate sound under the weight of air.

Barcelona

02-24-2007

We had a lot of fun in Barcelona, staying three nights. There is a lot to do and see there, so we could not do everything, of course! My cold hung on, and I was a bit worn out because of it, so napping took some of our time, too.

03-02-2007

On Thursday, we set out to see the sights in Barcelona. The Gaudi buildings were just amazing, really lovely and colorful mosaics and flowing organic lines. What might seem slightly ridiculous or fantastical in a picture really works well in real-life, not seeming silly or out of place at all, but instead really spectacular and a reflection of nature. The cathedral is so detailed and amazing. Unfinished, you can see the work in progress which is interesting. Understanding its beauty and complexity requires one to see it first-hand. Next, we saw a hospital, designed by the Modernists. It still appears to be funtioning as a hospital, and the grounds are so relaxing in the middle of a large city.

It was dark when we walked back toward the Hostel Rembrandt, and we came upon a bunch of older men playing Boules. It looked serious (though friendly and good natured), and each seemed to have their own set of game balls. Also, there were no women playing, and Shaun tells me that this is traditional - no women allowed. It was fun to see a seemingly authentic aspect of traditional culture persisting even now - a game we'd read fondly of in Peter Mayle books.

On Friday, we a wonderful breakfast at a croissanterie, then visited the Picasso Museum. This was really great to see - an artist I particularily like. It's a great experience to see the life and development of an artist through his/her work. Next, we walked through the gardens - beautiful, though not entirely in bloom. There was a really large, wonderful fountain, and many artists painting or drawing here or there. Also, a man performing sun salutes in the gazebo. Tired, we walked back to the hostel for a siesta. In the evening, we enjoyed the art of Manuel Gonzalez, classical guitarist, in the Cathedral de Pi. He was amazing.

Trouble with Getting to Barcelona Is...

Feb 21, 2007

I should have seen today coming, what with yesterday's troubles, how could it be any different this time trying to get to Barcelona? We awoke at six and hurried to get out of the hotel to make the 6:50 train. At 6:40 we stumbled down the stairs to reception and found no one there... Because we had paid the night before - a welcome custom with many European hotels - we needed only return the key anyway. Pas de probleme, we thought. But then we discovered we were locked in! And I had told them of our 6:50 departure time! We fumbled with the door, searched frantically for anyone that might be about, and finally escaped when I managed to open the door.

We dashed to the train station, and to be sure I checked at information that the 6:50 train would go to Barcelona. It wouldn't. She said, You need to take the train towards Marseille and change at Narbonne. Well, that actually gave us a comfortable seven minutes more to spare. But the inconsistency with what I had earlier been told was troubling. (Now, mind you, all of this interchange has been in French, and I have been left wondering if I understand fully, if I haven't missed some subtlety)

Nonetheless, we got ourselves aboard the train and rode to Narbonne where we disembarked with several other people, all confused in their own way about getting to Barcelona. There were the Spanish women, who had tickets but were confused at how Barcelona was not appearing on the departures screen on the platform. There was a (French?) man with similar confusion, ourselves with railpass questions, and a young Englishman who couldn't speak a bit of French to save him. Again to the information desk... This time we learned that while there is a train to Barcelona from Narbonne, it wasn't running today! Meanwhile, the Spanish gals - who spoke some English - had been told they would ride a bus which was included in their ticket purchase. On the other hand, our presented option was to travel by train to Cerebere, the last French town on the Spanish frontier, from where we would take a taxi into Spain and catch a train again once in the Spanish town of Port Bou. Need I say it: The inconsistencies were troubling...

But how nice to have a new travel companion! Alec, the Englishman spoken of before, was by his own words "desperate" to get to Barcelona in order to see his hometown Liverpool football team (that's soccer to you provincial Yanks) play that same night. So, we all agreed - in that support group fashion common to foreigners abroad who are linked by a shared language which is not the local one - that we would ride to Cerebere, split the fare for a taxi and proceed on to Barcelona. Barring any other unexpected discoveries or information, of course.

It truly was a beautiful voyage into Cerebere. The landscape, which had been giving way all the time to more wine fields, palm trees, rocky hills and colorful houses with terracotta roofs, was coming to life with the morning sun breaking finally through an early haze. The light is different in the South, as Van Gogh and other painters have asserted when working in France. By the time we reached the Mediterrannean coast and almost Cerebere, all the little difficulties of the past hours seemed humorous again, and worth it.

There was a taxi waiting at the Cerebere station and its driver was a charming and vibrant older French woman. She asked our nationalities and we gave over our passports, as we would be crossing national boundaries. We piled into her Renault and as soon as we settled she took off like a shot.

Peter Mayle has said that all the French think they are racecar drivers. And now I believe it. She zoomed through the narrow streets of Cerebere and tossed the car back and forth as she wound us through the twisting hillside along a thin ribbon of two lane highway. She cut across the center lane on lefthand turns and pressed close to the low brick wall when making rights. She answered her cell phone and adjusted the radio as she dodged pedestrains and road workmen. She flipped through a handwritten notepad on the dash which had times written and issued forth a series of French profanities. It was evident at first that she wanted to get us to the next train leaving from Port Bou. But then when it was equally evident that we wouldn't beat the train, she pressed on as fast anyway.

Oh, yes, and the whole time Frank Sinatra was serenading the four us, all characters in an absurdist James Bond. He was blasting from the speakers at a decent volume as we blasted through the countryside at a decent rate. "I - love - Frankie - baby" she cooed in a comical American accent, part Brookly, part deep France, narrowly missing a huge contingent of bicyclists coming up the hill soon after. She issued forth a string of profanities. "It's not safe for them to be on the road" she complained, "C'est trés trés dangereuse."

And finally - after insulting a slower driver whom she identified as being from Bordeaux and declaring the supremacy of her birthplace, the coast - we arrived in Port Bou, a little French whirlind blown into Spain. We paid the fare and walked away, still in amazement at our high speed chase - all without the chase.

Toulouse or Bust!

Feb 20, 2007

What a day! In leaving Cauterets we experienced a wild bus ride down the mountains and back into the valley, after which we wandered through Lourdes while waiting for our train to Toulouse. It was a beautiful day - the kind that lends itself to travel. We explored the famous basilicas in Lourdes, stood at the foot of the town's old fortified castle, and picked up a few things from a market. Then we boarded a train for Toulouse and arrived after some time hungry and tired as dusk was falling. We toyed with the idea of heading on to Barcelona, but decided that before we made any such maneuvers we ought to have some sustenance first.

We tried one cafe in the station - but they didn't have what we wanted. We went to another eatery, said good evening to the waiter and sat down - but he never came to serve us. Fed up (and not fed), we decided to try the train and possibly get some food on board. But we would need cash, so we sought out the ATM and discovered it out of order. I asked about a train to Barcelona at information and was told there were none that night. How about tomorrow? Something garbled in response. The woman at the ticket counter certainly spoke a different French than I do. I detected a Spanish accent, so that may have complicated my understanding her. She also wasn't eager to make me understand. She told me about a train the next morning only to then say it wasn't taking any more reservations - so no possibilty of us taking it. I asked about another and she showed me that there was one early the next morning: 6:50am. Uggh.

So, we left the ticket counter and found a map of Toulouse with the intention of finding accomadations for the night. While trying to decipher the strange map, a drunk man approached me and breathily asked for money "to get a ticket." (Yeah, right. I'll bet that's what he wanted.) Next, we went across the street to look at the prices of the hotels near to the station (prices are posted outside hotels in France). As we walked a little further from the station, they were cheaper. Of course, we had to wonder if we were in the best part of town, as we passed a sex shop in an alley. We were eyeing one hotel´s prices when an old man approached and spoke to us. He seemed to be miffed about something - perhaps another hotel? - and I asked if he spoke any English so that I could better understand. He said his English was terrible, but that he spoke Castillian, and Catalan. And then it was a contest to see who spoke more languages, only I wasn't playing... If I was to take him at his word, he would win, with Basque and Italian skills thrown into his lingual prowess. Though I tried to speak with him in Spanish (Castillian), his own skills in that were humorously poor. Eventually we (he) gave up talking and we went inside (we had decided silently that any place an elderly man would stay couldn´t be too bad), thus having settled on the Hotel Chartreuse, which was strangely devoid of that arresting color.

We paid the 35 euros for a double room which promised a grand lit (a huge bed). As directed, we walked up to the fourth floor and opened up our assigned room, to find the lights wouldn't work and someone's clothes and luggage were already there! Quickly we walked back down and I explained the situation. The receptionist swore ( Merde!) and we were apologizingly given a new room, this time without the other possessions already present. And the huge bed? A queen - big by European standards.

After sloughing off our packs in the room, we hit the streets again in search of an ATM and some late dinner. All of the days troubles were by now weighing upon us and we were ready to eat and get to bed. I found an ATM and withdrew some money while Mandy was approached by a somewhat drunk woman hoping for money. She seemed quite nice, but strange, and asked Mandy if she spent her days like she spent her money. A strange question... Soon after we wandered on and found a place to eat at a bistro along rue Bayard, with some big salads and quiche. The food was delicious and, to compliment it, I ordered a rosé, which came in a petite bottle. The waitress with protective foil and cork still in place, and left. I turned the bottle about, wondering how to get into it. I suggested that maybe it was standard issue to bring your own corkscrew to a restaurant. Mandy suggested it was a screwtop. And as I sat turning the bottle, studying it, something like a cave man and ready to crack it against a rock like one, the waitress reappeared - with corkscrew in hand - and gave a hearty and friendly laugh at our confusion. We had to laugh, too.

We finished our meal, stuffed full by the generous portions, and returned to our hotel to sleep and make ready for our early morning train. Lying in bed, we watched the end of a CSI episode, dubbed in French (which worked surprisingly well), and we found it a fitting close, the last of the day's absurdities.

And it would have been, if as we turned out the lights and prepared to close our eyes our upstairs neighbors had not determined to grace those below with what seemed like rain but clearly wasn´t, streaming from the balcony and weaving its way down our window - artificial precipitation. And the color was vaguely chartreuse.

Little Known Facts

Merde du Chien

You have to watch your feet in some French towns. Such has been my experience in beautiful Cauterets, where every 50 meters there seems to be a pile of dog poop on the sidewalk, nearest to the buildings (usually enough out of the way of pedestrians to be avoided - usually). And there must be some different dog chow here because some of that feces is down right brick red! I had to warn Mandy about several piles as we promenaded and she gawked at the houses along the rue. Moi? I kept my head down, and avoided all these canine landmines. But still I was ready with the ironic and a propos exclamation, Merde!, should I have stepped into that red deposit.

Toilets

I'll bet that France has the most diversity of toilet styles in the world. You´ve got your "normal" toilet that an American is used to; the pseudo-American toilet without liftable seat; the train toilet which cannot take toilet paper; the quasi-American toilet with garbage-disposal-like drain which also cannot take toilet paper; any number of toilet styles with a flush button split in two parts, a smaller 1/3 part for quick flushes and, indeed logically, a larger 2/3 button for larger flushes; the pit toilet (which I know is out there but have not seen yet); and probably more that I haven´t encountered. It´s a strange feeling to not know how to use a toilet and to try to figure it out. "Do I poop in this one or don´t I?" You almost feel childlike, as though you're starting over learning the most basic things. Let me tell you, that is an adventure itself. And don´t get me started on the mystery of bidets...

Cauterets

Feb 17, 2007

What a trip from Lourdes and what a change from the bustle of Paris. Our bus ride to Cauterets was gorgeous! We passed through several small towns and lauded the driver's ability to steer the autocar up such winding mountain roads. Thank goodness for smaller cars coming the other direction. If we'd have met a Hummer, we'd surely have been done for.

As we venture further south from Paris - now near to the Spanish border - we notice a change in the topography and a change in the dialect. We're at the foot of the Pyrenées, which have so far been shrouded in mist revealing only the rocky pleats of their skirts to us. And we've noticed a change in the price too. Our hotel tonight - Hotel le Chantilly - is half what we paid in Paris. Cauterets is a resort town with a gondola that carries winter sports enthusiasts up to the pointed peak of Cirque de Lys. The town is hilly and streets are delightfully narrow, offering up secrets and discoveries at every turn, not to mention crazy Fiat drivers unconcerned with unwary pedestrians. Hotel le Chantilly is warm and welcoming with an Irish couple (originally from Galway) as owners. It's refreshing to speak our native tongue freely with others and to thus strike up a conversation.

After arriving and walking around town, we went to les thermes (hot springs) which Cauterets had originally been known for (in the Middle Ages, a distinction that has given way to hiking and skiing). After a long wait in line and an embarassing failure of my French skills to ascertain whether there was a student discount, we gained access to the pools and the sauna, all to the tune of 22 euros. Ouch. It wasn't what we expected. The "pools" were a normal swimming pool at best, actually a quite small one, cool and full of children. And we learned that we were prohibited from entering the warmer pool with hyrdojets which was right along side of the other. (It seems this other pool costs more...) Why do they call it les piscines (that's plural pools) if they mean you may only go into one? Fortunately we made it into the sauna for a little bit and got to sweat it out. This was relaxing, but all in all, the whole 30 minute affair wasn't worth the euros. And as for the wait beforehand, my theory is that they stress you out by making you wait so that you that you can't possibly feel anything but relief when you finally get out of line and into the pools, er, I mean pool.

Anyway, tonight, after a satisfying meal of galettes, we plan to read in the cozy study of the hotel. And maybe we'll strike up a conversation with owners.

02-18-2007 (Amanda's Post)

We reached Lourdes last night and easily found Hotel Ibis, which we later found to be a chain of hotels throughout Europe. A bit more than we would normally pay, but the hostel in town was closed. We had dinner at a pizzeria down the street - think Rocky Rococco, with a rugby theme! The owner was really friendly and pizzas were 8 euro, enough for 2 people, though they wouldn't say so. This morning we bought bus tickets to Cauterets, a 45 minute ride for 6,50. Across the street from the train station was a nice cafe with internet access, so we used that for a while before we caught the bus (typing very slowly as the keyboard was set up much differently!). The ride to Cauterets was scenic: small towns nestled in the green mountains, a mist in the air. This is what I love to see and experience - the rural landscape and rural folk.

Cauterets seemed larger than the 1300 people proclaimed by our guidebook, Let's Go. We found during our stay that it is very much a resort town, with skiing in the winter and hiking when the snow's gone, so perhaps the small number refers to the permanant citizens. We reached the town at a time when both activities were possible, and were attracted by the hotsprings as well. Walking around town, we were taken by the old, pretty buildings, the narrow cobble streets, and the mountains that rose on both sides into the fog. We saw where the hiking trails take off into the hills. I look forward to coming back some time to hike the Pyrenees in warmer weather, when I can camp or stay at gites or refuges. It is possible to hike between the small towns and villages. We tested the hotsprings, which turned out to be very modified, a very expensive health spa. (Even liposuction was available!). We tried the pools/sauna for 11 euro each, and the experience was not really worth the money as the pool was small and not that hot, and the sauna was nice but we had to compete for space. Overall, we were only allowed 15 min in the pool and 15 in the sauna. For richer travellers, massages and other benefits of the spa could be a real treat, and in the future they plan to build a larger community pool. However, we were disappointed to not find the small primative hotspring we envisioned.

We stopped at a cafe to taste the almond crepes Mom had told us she loved. They were really delicious, a sweet treat complemented with an espresso. Thanks, Mom! Later, we had dinner at La Creperie du Molleau, where the highest item was 9 euro! Most of the menu consisted of Breton-style crepes, with the edges folded over, and with a variety of fillings available. I had La Creole, with chicken and pineapple curry and cheese, and Shaun had tomatoes, cheese, and basil, and both came with a bit of basil. They were just the right size and price, and really good. We are staying at Hotel Le Chantilly, run by an Irish couple, so it is easy to communicate with them. At 34 euro total per night for a double bed with toilet (shower down the hall), it's a great place to stay. We'll remain here two nights, so tomorrow we can ride the gondola to the ski area and do a bit of hiking.

02-21-2007

Monday was a great day in Cauterets. We were up a bit late for breakfast (I had slept terribly the night before), but our hosts were very kind to accomodate us anyway. They also recommended Pont d'Espagne in the National Park for hiking (or snowshoeing as it had snowed there the night before). It sounded beautiful, but we later found it a better use of time and money to simply hike out one of the trails leading from Cauterets itself, avoiding a bus fare and ride, and snowshoe rentals, etc. We rode the gondola from town to the ski area above and it was nice to see the hill from that vantage point. Back in town, we ate at the Ski Bar and checked out the Pyrenees information office before we headed up the steep mountainside toward Lac d'Estom, a 3hr 45min trek (one way). The trail evened out after a while as we began to walk cross-hill. We chatted somewhat with an older man who shared the trail with us for a while. He commented on the beauty of the place, and we agreed, but couldn't understand much more as he admitted his English was terrible, and of course our French was not on par with his! However, we felt enlivened by our friendly encounter with the man. We walked about three hours and made it to Le Fruitiere, an empty restaurant sitting alone where the trail meets a small road. The trek was absolutely wonderful, and I can't wait to return to do more hiking someday. Upon returning to Cauterets, our hosts recommended places to find the local stew, Gabure, made with potatoes, carrots, roast duck, and pork, among other ingredients resulting in a delicious, hearty meal. Paired with Basque cider, it was especially good.

Tuesday, we made it to breakfast on time, then said good-bye to our hosts who had been so gracious and friendly. We let them read the excerpt about their hotel in our Let's Go guidebook, as they'd never seen what the girl who visited only a year ago had written. They chuckled at the phrases, "charming" couple and "sleepy" town. They also recommended some spots near Galway to see, where they are from in Ireland. Then we headed out to use the internet, send postcards, and pick up some food at the market. We took the bus back down the narrow, windy valley to Lourdes, where we walked about and explored the basillicas and viewed the fortress from its base. Lovely buildings and architecture, and a sense of peace as the day was again beautiful and the place serene (even with a good number of tourists peaking about).

We didn't stay long in Lourdes as we were catching the train to Toulouse. I began feeling ill, with a headache and dry sinus, so the night grew more and more unpleasant as it went on. At Toulouse, we discovered we could not catch a train to Barcelona that night as we'd hoped, so we found a hotel near the station. We had a great dinner, conversation, and lots of laughs and release from the evenings flustering events. To top it off, Shaun tried desperately to figure out how to open the small bottle of wine he'd ordered, which the waitress had left on the table as if that was all she planned to do. As he turned it about confusedly in his hands, she returned laughing heartily, saying no!, no!, and revealed the corkscrew she'd brought to open it.

Later, we watched a bit of CSI a la Francais. The morning came quite early (6:50 am), and we rushed to the station and were directed to the train to Marseille. We left this train at Nabonne, along with other travelers trying to get to Barcelona, and found a train to Cerberre, near the border. We traveled with a Brit from Liverpool who spoke no French or Spanish and was "desparate" to get to Barcelona to see the futbol game taking place this evening. It was nice to have a new travel companion for a time. We shared stories and a compartment to Cerberre, then went in together for a taxi across the border to Port Bou. The ride was quite memorable...

Our driver was a petite woman looking about 60, but with a spitfire personality! She was lively! We shot out of the narrow enclosed parking lot at Cerberre, but I really knew it would be a wild ride when she turned up the radio and belted, "It's the light Fandango..." passionately at the top of her lungs. She whipped around tight corners, making comments and gestures at other drivers, which we couldn't quite understand, but somehow made sense. Another song began to play, and she cooed, "I lo-ve Frankie, baby!", with an accent somewhere between Spanish and French, and we laughed. She joked with our friend, Alec, that we'd picked the best driver, "speedy Gonzalez", and around another blind corner, we about ran into a huge pack of bicyclists, at which she swore endlessly. She slapped our passports against the window as we were waved through the French border, and again the Spanish, and she thought it helped that Alec had thick dark eyebrows and looked Spanish. She remarked that he looked like the guy from Top Gun. "Tom Cruise", I said. "OuI!" Then she dropped us at Port Bou station.

At Barcelona, Alec took off to join up with the many Liverpool fans, noticable by their red jerseys. We had a long, tiring walk trying to find our hostel, but finally were relieved of our packs and grabbed some dinner to eat on the street (a place called Organic is Orgasmic). We watched people as we ate, mostly Liverpool fans who had long since been drinking, singing, and whooping it up before the big game. We wondered later if some of these fans would even make it to the game as there were still some wandering around Ramblas, well away from the stadium, during game-time. We enjoyed the spirited atmosphere, and later, had tiny espressos and ate gelato before making our way back to the hostel.