After having a handful of people tell me that a few of the older posts “disappeared” (they haven’t, you just have to click on ‘Older Entries’ at the bottom of the page or the calendar to the right), I decided to create a post which would be a concise collection of Day Zero through Day Thirteen, with the cities visited on that day listed alongside the post heading. So to avoid any additional confusion for those who are late catching up…
Also, a special thanks to both Rich Sorensen and (THE) Rick Steves for including an excerpt of our experiences – complete with photo – in the Rick Steves’ Europe July Newsletter. That definitely made losing the guidebook worthwhile. You can check that newsletter out here.
head first, then foot. then heart sets sail… day zero
Arlington
the roar that lies on the other side of silence… day one
Madrid
shout into the darkness, squeeze out sparks of light… day two
Madrid
now the wolves are every passing stranger. every face we cannot know… day three
Toledo
i was lost between the midnight and the dawning… day four
Madrid
the future needs a big kiss… day five
Barcelona
… day six
Barcelona
i’m gonna fall down if i can’t stand up… day seven
Barcelona
how can you stand next to the truth and not see it… day eight
Córdoba, Algeciras, and Gibraltar
yesterday i spent asleep. woke up in my clothes in a dirty heap… day nine
Gibraltar and Tarifa
(there was no post for day ten)
Tarifa, Tangier, and Seville
from the womb my first cry, it was a joyful noise… day eleven
Lisbon
vision over visibility… day twelve
Lisbon
the people we meet will not be drowned out… day thirteen
London and the Atlantic Ocean
I’m sitting in seat 35H on flight 81 from London to Dallas/Fort Worth, writing what I intend to be the final post for this snapshot of a look at what has been a brilliant experience. And to know that this site was accessed over 1,500 times while on that experience is a special feeling; to know that there are people in my life who were interested enough to take the time to follow along made me want to make the days as vivid as I could. I hope you found this web address as worthwhile as I hope that I do when I stumble upon it, hopefully for years into the future.
It’s a humbling experience to spend two weeks in foreign lands. You can’t communicate. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. You can’t not get lost. And that’s the beauty of it. If you can communicate then you don’t learn your place in the world. If you can eat then you’re not as attached to your own culture as you think you are. If you sleep then you only saw the city as a tourist and not as a local. And if you didn’t get lost then you didn’t go anywhere.
We tried to communicate. We tried to eat. We tried to sleep. We tried to not get lost. And we failed at each of them. And I’m glad that we did. Sure, we did better in some areas than others, but we were far from stellar in any of them. We did a great job of having our questions planned out in Spanish, Portuguese, and Arabic, but if the answer didn’t come back as we had hoped then we were left standing with blank looks on our faces. On more than one occasion the food which landed in front of us neither looked nor tasted like what we expected. We never got more than six hours of sleep. And we spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out where the ‘you are here’ dot was on our maps.
Communicating – We tried our best. I refuse to use English as a crutch when in other countries. I’m in their country, so it’s ridiculous to expect them to speak to me as if I’m in mine. That doesn’t mean that you have to be fluent, but just a few words will go a long way. And sometimes just a few words will go a very long way towards getting some English to come out of their mouths just as a thank you for you trying. But you can’t beat watching a smile creep across a local’s face when he hears you attempting – and butchering – his language.
Eating – In America, we live on a diet that would make a typical European sick, in more ways than one. They eat healthier, later, and longer. Head to a restaurant at 7:00 and you just might be the only one there. And if you’re not, the only other people joining you will also be holding guidebooks in their hands. A €10 meal over there would count as gourmet on the west side of the Atlantic. We’re so consumed with the concept of “fast food” that we miss out on the simple joy of sitting down to a meal with family, friends, or both and using it as a simple excuse to enjoy life at its slowest.
Sleeping – There’s no room for eight hours of sleep on a trip like this. And if there is, then you only saw the tourist stops listed in the guidebook. The point is in the title – “guide” book. It’s not a doallbook. It’s not a havethetripforyoubook. It’s a guidebook, and nothing more. If the only schedule you follow is determined by hours of operation, then I assure you you missed out on the ebb and flow, the undercurrent and pulse of the real city. Why would you want to be heading for the hotel when the locals were just getting off of work? Stay out late and head out early. There’s time for sleep when you’re dead. Don’t cut your opportunities off at the knees. (Though granted, that doesn’t mean that you have to commit to keeping up with a blog that adds two hours to your nightafter you’ve finally gotten back to the hotel well after midnight.)
Getting lost – Don’t use the subway any more than you have to. Same for taxis. They’re nice to have when your feet are bleeding at the end of a day or when you’re so far lost that the street you’re on can’t be found on any of your maps. But aside from that, they’re nothing more than obstacles that stand in the way of seeing the real city you’re in. Everyone walks down the Champs-Élysées in Paris, but how many people see the street one block over, the one lined with houses that generations of Parisians have called home? There’s nothing challenging about taking the most direct route to that day’s museum. When your trip is over you will never again remember the pain in your feet or the limp in your step. But you will always remember the fruit you bought in a local market, the misguided directions you received from a shopkeeper, and the view afforded by a park that overlooks the museums and plazas.
If your travels don’t humble you, then stay at home. If the pace of an older world doesn’t make you wish you were a part of it, then stay at home. If the cobblestone streets don’t make you loathe the sidewalk in front of your house, then stay at home. Travel should change you. It should make you smarter and it should make you understand your place a little better. When you acknowledge that you’re standing amidst a city and a people that God has looked down on and watched the progress of for a millennia, you should feel it in the pit of your stomach.
Interestingly enough, we met a family from Portland at dinner on our last night that was also on their last night of a two-week trip through Spain and Portugal, having seen most of the same cities as us. It was odd to hear that someone else, from the same country as us, had, at just the same time, been experiencing virtually the same trip as we had. Because just when you start to feel that you’ve done something unique… you realize that you haven’t. And that is both sobering and wonderful. Because when the day comes when the decision to see the world is unique, well then that will be a depressing day.
Thanks to Erin for giving me someone to talk to. And thanks to you for coming with us.
Buenas noches… james
post scriptum – at random intervals over the next few days i may choose to add more pictures and video. i made nearly 100 videos and took hundreds of photos (though most are on film and not digital). though erin used only a digital camera so perhaps i’ll see what she is willing to loan me.
And then we said goodbye. All of us.
Our trip has come to an end. We leave tomorrow morning on an 8:15am flight that will take us through London and then on to Dallas/Fort Worth. We’re both a bit sad that the trip is over, but are also really looking forward to PF Changs, Chili’s, and Lucky Charms (all three of which will be magically delicious at this point).
Our final day was spent wandering the streets of Lisbon. As I mentioned yesterday, there isn’t a ton to do here, at least not in the typical sense of museums, galleries, etc. Lisbon and its people are more the sight to be seen. So that’s what we saw.
We started the day off with a vintage 1920’s style trolley ride through the old part of the town. Much of Lisbon was destroyed by a devastating earthquake in 1755, though certain neighborhoods still exist more or less intact.
Of those still-intact neighborhoods, today we meandered through the Bairro Alto and the Alfama, the latter of which housed sailors for 1,000 years and as a result is about as colorful of a neighborhood – both figuratively and literally – as you’ll find in Europe. One block had local teenagers playing soccer in the streets while the next would be filled with old men playing cards. We also stopped by a handful of locales that had plenty of history to offer. Below is a picture from the Convento do Carmo. This convent was nearly leveled in the earthquake but its gothic arches managed to stay standing. As a memorial of sorts to that day, the decision was made to leave these arches in place. It’s got to be the only nave in Christendom with nothing to support but an open sky.
We also spent a good amount of time (some of which was spent taking a nap on a bench) touring the grounds of São Jorge Castle. While this isn’t the most exciting place to spend an hour or two, it does provide some stellar views of Lisbon’s panoramic, multi-tiered layout and the Tejo River.
We capped off an early night (first night off the streets while it was still light out – it doesn’t get dark here until 10:30) with dinner at a well-known place by the name of Bonjardim. We actually ate there last night as well, but the food was so good we decided to go back. It feels kind of cool to have a “spot” in Lisbon to eat at. Being on the water, Lisbon gets fairly cold at night, even in the summer. We hadn’t really planned on cool evenings, so Erin chose to improvise. And yes, the napkin on the left would be mine.
So that’s it. Hopefully I’ll be asleep within an hour and won’t stay that way until some time after 8:15 in the morning. I’ll have one final post up tomorrow when I get back to the states; kind of a chance to get various thoughts I haven’t put on paper yet out of my head. So be sure and check back in either late Tuesday night or sometime Wednesday to finish this thing off.
Adeus, Lisboa. Don’t worry, for I’ll be thinking of you.
Plane. Metro. Taxi. Train. Boat. Bus.
The only thing we haven’t done is driven ourselves anywhere (and we gave that idea about three minutes of serious consideration at one point). All that’s missing is for one of us to be late for Thanksgiving and the other to have a job as a traveling shower ring salesman.
But on the bright side, we’ve made it to our final city, Lisbon. Albeit with one more city thrown into the mix – Sevilla. Actually, we’ve been in three different countries in the last 24 hours, which sounds pretty cool when you say it out loud.
The only option for getting from Tarifa to Lisbon was by bus, with a four-hour stop-over in Sevilla. So what’d we do? We stopped over. That proved to be a frustrating experience. Why? Because Sevilla is gorgeous. Probably the prettiest city we’ve seen on the whole trip. We were both disappointed to find out that such a city was right there for the taking and that we never really even considered seeing it. Oh, well. There are always other trips to Spain. We settled for a taxi to the city’s main cathedral and followed a self-guided walk through the highlights of the city. The cathedral’s bell tower, La Giralda, is definitely the highlight, being the tallest in Spain. The cathedral itself is the third biggest in Europe, behind only St. Peter’s in Vatican City and St. Paul’s in London. Below is that bell tower.
But in between Tarifa, Sevilla, and Lisbon has been one other city. And country. And continent. On Saturday we finally made our voyage from Tarifa, Europe’s most southern point, to Tangier, Morocco. It was definitely as impressive as I had hoped it would be. Granted, only visiting one city that a country has to offer, and especially when that city is a port city, you have to kind of take the experience with a grain of salt with regards to how well that will represent the country as a whole. But based on what I saw, I’m anxious to make a return trip; preferably one that goes deeper into Morocco and visits other North African countries.
The day started with yet another early rise and a brief walk to the harbor. We made our way onto the ferry and through Moroccan customs, which take place on the boat. After a little bit of a delay, we shoved off. It takes about 45 minutes to cross the Strait and you almost wish that it was longer, as nice as the ferry is. I was expecting something halfway between what Cubans come to Miami in and a really nice pontoon boat. Oh, no. This thing is massive. It looks more like a mini cruise liner. Really the only drawback is that most of the writing on the ferry is in Arabic or French (English is fourth on the depth chart in Morocco). As a result, we spent nearly a half-hour standing in the wrong customs line.
Once you dock there is a 200 yard walk from the Moroccan harbor to the first entry into the medina. While on that walk you are bombarded with requests from “guides”. Really, they’re locals who quickly go from an asking price of €30 a piece to €1 for both to show you the sights. Generally, mentioning that we would be purchasing nothing (and thus depriving them of a 20% commission on anything we purchased) got them to leave us alone pretty quickly. By the time we were inside the medina (and far from the typical route a tourist would take – would you expect anything less?) we were left hassle free for the rest of the afternoon.
One highlight of the day – perhaps the highlight of the entire trip – was when we entered a former royal palace and, being the good travelers that we are, we went out of our way to speak Arabic. Once one of the guards heard us, he then went out of his way to show us around the place. Granted, he spoke no English and our Arabic was limited to essential words along with Islamic terms, but nonetheless it was a very cool experience. He was taking us to places not part of the tour, turning on fountains in gardens, and even letting Erin take pictures even though there was no photography allowed. When it was time to leave I offered him a tip and he refused to take it! We even said goodbye with a traditional hand over the heart. Really, some of the friendliest people we’ve met in the last two weeks were in Morocco.
One of the benefits to seeing cities the way that I like to see them (little use of a map, etc) is that you sometimes stumble upon gems that no tourist ever comes across. At one point during the day we found a wall with a fairly small door in it. We decided to go through it and found ourselves in a courtyard, at the end of which was a perfect panoramic of the Atlantic Ocean side of Tangier. We later found out that tour groups get hurried through a similar spot closer to town, but one that is covered in debris and kids selling gum for €2 (not to mention the dozens of tourists in your group, all standing in the way of your potential souvenir photo). Note the video below of this moment. The only thing competing for our lens’ attention was a group of Moroccan women enjoying an afternoon together in the shade – with not a hint of, “This way to our next stop on the tour!”
Though seeing Tangier solo doesn’t mean that we didn’t succumb to the occasional opportunity to be a tourist, but some things are worth it.
After a few more hours of walking up and down the congested streets of the medina (think back to the previous “streets of Toledo” video and multiply it by five) we had had about all we could take. Shirts were soaked through, blisters were on our feet (pictures available upon request), and the sun was turning us more and more red by the minute. It was time to head back to the port, but not before one last attempt at refreshing ourselves.
We quickly make it back to the harbor, onto the next ferry scheduled to depart, and through customs. Going back to the afore-mentioned bus, we only had about 40 minutes to go from departing the ferry to getting on the bus for Sevilla. You basically have one shot a day to make it to Lisbon from Tarifa, and we had no interest in being given a second shot at it. So here we are, getting off of a ferry, running to our hotel, running to get our stored luggage, running to the bus station… while pulling said luggage behind us, of course. But we, obviously, made it. To tell you the truth, I’ve been pretty impressed with Erin over the last few days. She’s pretty much taken over the travel arrangements department. She’s gotten us from Barcelona to Gibraltar to Tarifa and to Lisbon (the expected stops), while adding in Córdoba and Sevilla (the unexpected stops) without getting us stranded. Granted, some of those connections have been pretty nerve-wracking, but even considering the seven-hour overnight bus ride from Sevilla to Lisbon last night, I really can’t complain.
So now here we are in Lisbon. It says a lot about a city when the top three highlights in the guidebook are walks. But we’re okay with that. You come to Lisbon to see Lisbon. After the last 12 days, we could use a relaxing end to the trip. We did have a nice dinner… though I’m not too accustomed to being able to make eye contact with my meal.
Though the best part about being in Lisbon? I haven’t lost my Rick Steves’ Portugal guidebook yet. Back in charge, baby!
Well, that, and I fulfilled my wish…
It’s 1:31 in the morning and I’m still awake. Writing a blog post. No telling what time it will be when I click the “Publish” button. And I’m just fine with that. We’ll be out the door (with our luggage being held hostage in some broom closet) at 8:00 in the morning, heading to the Tarifa port to catch the 9:00 ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier, Morocco. But we’ll get back to that in a few paragraphs.
Today was brilliant. One of the top days in all of my travel experiences. We checked out of our Gibraltar hotel around 10:00 this morning and walked across the street to the cable car which would take us to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar. Cable cars always freak me out, though perhaps I’ve just watched Moonraker one too many times and am just being paranoid. It’s a short ride up, maybe five minutes or so. And once you’re at the top of the rock (the real top of the rock; you won’t find Tina Fey at this one) it takes all of 30 seconds to be smacked in the face by Awe. Whether it’s the barbary macaques (monkeys, basically) or logo-worthy form of the actual mountain peak, it’s a stunning sight to behold. I brought about two-dozen rolls of 35mm film on this trip and probably used 1/4th of them on the Rock of Gibraltar within a five-hour span.
Nevermind the roll that this place played in World War II, there’s just a symmetry and motion involved that you can’t really put into words. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about. It’s nature and creation at its most careless but determined.
As far as the monkeys go, they’re everywhere. They’re clearly so used to people that they will hop on your back if you get close enough. While we were there more than one person had candy or some other type of food snatched from them. At one point I had a Snickers in my hand and forgot how interested in human food they were and ended up running away from one in an effort to avoid a potential £500 fine. And yes, we are now on to currency #3 for the trip. We’ll add #4 tomorrow in Morocco.
But seeing the Rock for the first time and having monkeys scuttle under your feet was hardly the highlight of this excursion. We decided that we would hike up the mountain as far as we could. As far as we could turned into, “Wow. We’re pretty high up here. And oh, look – a path down the back of the mountain!” That “path” turned out to be known as the Mediterranean Steps. This path hugs the Meditereanean side of the mountain (hence the name) and is generally hewn out of the side of the rock. At its widest, you’re probably looking at three feet. In some parts, the pathway is so small that the only thing that determines where the path ends and straight down begins is your own level of courage. It took us over two hours to make it to the end of this curving path, and by that point we were so exhausted that just swallowing hurt. It was probably that most dehydrated I’ve ever felt. I took a video of the walk down but it just doesn’t do it justice, so at least for the time being I’m not going to post it on here. But it was amazing. The views were like nothing I’ve ever seen. And to know that it’s something that probably less than 1% of people who make it to the Rock of Gibraltar do made it that much more special to have experienced. So in lieu of a video of the hike down the mountain, here’s a slightly more steady video of the most well-known peak.
Once we finally made it back down the mountain we quickly grabbed a taxi to head back to the border and the La Linea bus station. We had been told that the last bus for Tarifa left at 7:00 and it was now nearing 6:00. It turns out that the last bus to Tarifa left at 8:00 so we had plenty of time to spare. Which worked out well because we were both pretty hungry. So what’d we do? We threw our bags in a bus station locker, walked back across the Spain/Gibraltar border, took another cab to Casemates Square for dinner (where I had the quintessential fish & chips for the first time ever), and then took one final taxi back to the border again. So if you’re keeping score at home, that’s four border crossings in less than 24 hours. Were it not for the above photos you’d have to wonder if we actually saw anything in Gibraltar or not.
Our bus into Tarifa left right on time and within 90 minutes we were walking the streets of this surfing haven. After purchasing our ferry tickets for tomorrow morning’s departure, we took a brisk walk through the Old Town. I’ve never felt more like a character in Pirates of the Caribbean than I did tonight. I’m not kidding. This town is loaded with people from all over Europe; just walking down the ridiculously narrow but humble streets sounding like an audio edition of Scrabble (only no one had a dictionary). Since it was night when we arrived, I’m curious as to how the town will look in the morning, what with its many white-washed walls leering at us as we pass by.
Wish I had more to write today, but the day itself didn’t provide too many opportunities. And besides, some memories are best left for just yourself.
I won’t be updating tomorrow as we’ll be on an overnight bus ride to Sevilla. Almost to Lisbon! Wish us luck in Morocco. I’m hoping that it’s the highlight of the trip. I hope to get some great pictures and video of this gateway to North Africa.
Oh… and if you want to read something really cool, check out the last comment to the previous post.
Back in two days from Lisbon…
This should be the fun part of the trip, as we now get to experience cities that we’re still not sure whether we’re even pronouncing correctly. And in order to get to those cities, we had to spend eight hours on two trains today, finishing up with a 45-minute bus ride and then a three-mile hike. Though I gotta say, the trains on this continent are amazing. I would gladly spend 10 hours on an AVE train than three hours on a plane. More leg room, bigger seats, a smoother ride, and something other than blue to see out the window. And at 185 mph, you’re flying down the tracks. You even have a full service food car to spend your time at (seated or standing).
We left Barcelona on an 8:15am train to Córdoba with a five-hour ride. It turns out that Córdoba actually has something worth visiting, and since we had a four-hour wait between trains we decided to have a taxi drive us to it. The Mezquita, built in the 10th century, was once the center of Western Islam, and one of Europe’s great mosques (though today it is a Christian church). Able to hold some 20,000 Mecca-facing worshippers, it’s a massive sight at over 25,000 square feet.
During Europe’s Dark Ages, Córdoba served as a politcal, religious, and scientific wonder. While most of the European continent was losing its grip on civilization, Córdoba was gaining a foothold that would only be rivaled by Constantinople and Baghdad, both of which were far, far to the east. In 1236, when the Moors were driven from the city, the current church was built around the mosque. Fortunately, the decision was made to leave much of the structure intact. The video below is of the interior, which is held up by hundreds of marble pillars, each with a double arch for added support.
Once we were back on the train tracks, our next stop would be Algeciras. It’s a classic port city – dirty, cheap, and temporary. Fortunately there was a bus leaving for Gibraltar just as we were arriving so we made sure that the ‘temporary’ was the only part of the city we saw. But it was pretty cool to be winding our way through the hills and to suddenly see the Rock of Gibraltar appear in the distance. Tomorrow we’ll be ascending to the top of the mountain; the only place in the world where you can see two continents and two oceans at the same time. We wanted to make sure you weren’t left behind, so come across the border with us…
We’ve also reached the part of this trip where we have about a four day window with no idea of how to get anywhere or where to sleep. The train/bus ride from Barcelona to Gibraltar came together while standing in line to buy the train tickets yesterday morning; clutching a couple of maps and trying to figure out which way was west. As a result, we made an impulse decision to stay in a fancy hotel tonight in Gibraltar. After the abomination that was our Barcelona lodgings, we felt we deserved it. It’s night here, so a video wouldn’t do it justice. But tomorrow morning I’ll get a video of the Rock of Gibraltar and Mediterranean Sea from our multiple terraces.
Since not much else happened today, and as a result I wasn’t sure there would be much to tell you about, I decided to bring a guest writer on board. So here’s Erin with her first commentary on this experience…
(day seven, which the following references, can be found here.)
For a refreshing perspective on our European adventure, I will recount the last couple of days from my point of view. Let us begin with the morning after the concert. After we overslept (for two hours) I was forbidden from taking a shower, which is a huge inconvenience for any female, especially when you have twenty-four hours worth of the previous day’s heat, sweat, and rock concert on your body and in your hair. <Editor’s note: Erin had actually taken a shower the night before, right before going to sleep. She hadn’t washed her hair, though. And yes, seeing as how we were two hours late and on our last day in Barcelona, I thought that wasting another 30+ minutes was unnecessary. Especially when it was just going to be pulled back into a ponytail. Man, am I terrible.> Granted, I could’ve been stubborn and showered anyway, but in order to keep the peace, I opted to forgo the shower and avoid the Fidel Castro-like wrath of James. (I say Castro because of that stupid looking fascist hat he’s been wearing.) You can imagine my irritation with James during the first few hours of the day. You must also be able to imagine, then, my delight when he lost his beloved Rick Steves’ Spain guide book. Very early on, James silently declared himself the ringleader and sole executive decision-maker of the entire vacation, so watching him crumble gave me just the slightest hint of amusement. About fifteen minutes after La Sagrada Família “stole his book”, as he puts it, we were sitting on a bench in a lovely park – me, enjoying the surroundings, and James, lamenting the loss of his book. He had just bought a huge 1.5 liter bottle of water – clean, ice cold, and dripping with condensation. As we sat in silence, he suddenly dropped the whole bottle, and it rolled away for a good six feet – all the while becoming covered with layer upon layer of sand, dirt, cigarette ash, etc. It wasn’t until I looked over and saw him wilting in defeat that I started feeling a twinge of pity (through my giggles, of course). This was rock bottom for James, and my heart truly ached for him. However, this does not, by any means, negate the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed the change in roles. I, having my own copy of Rick Steves’ Spain, have become the one with all the power. For the next three days – at least – James is at my mercy. You should see his face whenever I let him hold it or touch the book. Pure joy. He’s even offered me €60 for my book (which is roughly 90 U.S. dollars), and I’ve denied his request. Don’t misunderstand me… I’m certainly not trying to be cruel; I let him use it any time he pleases, but when it’s time to put the book away, it goes in ERIN’S bag. James clearly hasn’t proven himself to be responsible enough, and we really can’t afford to lose our last remaining guidebook. We’d probably never make it back home.
That being said, we must always remember that pride goeth before a fall… literally. As we left our lodgings this morning to catch the early train, we made our way down a square-shaped (but spiral-style) staircase with slick white marble flooring. About six steps from the ground level, I somehow slipped and ended up sliding/bouncing all the way to the bottom on my rear end – my backpack and suitcase bouncing along with me. During the fall, I guess my right elbow took the brunt of it because it quickly started bleeding (and is still pretty sore). Immediately after my life-threatening and near-death experience, as I still lay sprawled out on the staircase, I gazed up at James in shock, hoping for some sympathy. Being the thoughtful, considerate guy that he is, he simply looked over his shoulder and said, “That’s why we don’t wear flip flops.” Just for that, I intend to make him drool over my book as much as possible for the next three days. Then, when we get back to Texas and he’s wishing he had the sentimental, weathered copy that navigated us all over four foreign countries, I’ll parlay it into something that I really want.
So there you have it. By this time tomorrow night we will be in Tarifa, Europe’s most southern point.
It has been an exhilarating, frustrating, and tiresome two days since I last posted. I guess I might as well explain those three adjectives in chronological order.
We made the decision that since Tuesday was concert day we wouldn’t do anything stressful. Just a lazy morning at the beach followed by an afternoon in the general admission line for the concert, and then finally the concert itself.
The beach turned out great. Until the 1992 Olympics, the area that is now Barcelona’s beach was basically a waste land. Knowing that they needed to clean various parts of the city up in anticipation of those summer games, this particular area was turned into a 3 mile stretch of pristine beaches, complete with a Frank Gehry designed fish along the promenade.
The sand was filled with locals and children. We only stayed for about two hours, but it was enough to feel thoroughly relaxed from the hurriedness of the past couple of days. While on the subway on the way back from the beach, two men got on who were covered in tattoo’s and other various attributes that would lead any woman to pull their purse in close. But oddly all these two guys were doing was clipping their nails. For about 10 minutes. After they got off at the stop before ours I turned to Erin and said, “They must have been from the nail clipping gang. ‘Oh, you want to join this gang, huh? Huh? Well then you’re gonna have to go over there and clip that guy.’” The dichotomy of the whole scene was pretty entertaining, at least to us.
The next order of business was the whole reason this trip existed in the first place: U2. After two-and-a-half years since their last world tour ended, tonight would prove to be quite the event.We wanted to be at Camp Nou (pronounced “new”) at least four hours before the gates opened up so that we would be ensured of a good spot on the pitch. We ended up being right in front of the mixing desk, dead center, about 30 yards from the stage. Couldn’t have asked for a better vantage point. We made “friends” with a few people from Austria and Holland in the six hours between the time we arrived at the stadium and the time that Snow Patrol (opening band) took the stage. Just before U2 came on, a few VIP guests were brought in to their viewing area, which just happened to be right next to where we were. Bono’s daughter was only a couple of feet away for the whole show. I point this out only because it was pretty interesting to glance over at her from time to time to see how she was reacting to the show (she was quite into it). Needless to say, I don’t think she probably has ever had that window of time where you think your dad is just terribly uncool.
Seeing your favorite band perform in front of 100,000 people in an open-air stadium is a pretty big rush, especially when the band just shuts up for a few measures and let’s the audience take over, as happened during this song…
All in all, it was a very worthwhile experience. If you have the opportunity to see this show and you don’t… well I just don’t know what to tell you. Erin, who four months ago couldn’t name two U2 songs, cried during one song! If for no other reason, go just to see the expanding video screen (designed by Chuck Hoberman, who you’ll know as the guy who invented the small ball that can become huge due to the scissor-like mechanism it is designed with).
The only real irritating part of the concert was getting back “home”. Apparently Barcelona shuts down their subways at night. This makes no sense to me. You’ve got a city of however many millions, many of which are dependent on public transportation, and you close said transportation for the night at 11:00? That makes no sense to me. Of course, it’s possible that I’m simply annoyed because, since every taxi within a five-mile radius was booked, we made the nearly two hour walk back and didn’t arrive until after 2:00am.
But moving on to today, wow. What a beating. Well. As much of a beating as a day in Barcelona can be.
To start with, we were both so tired (I guess the constant nights with four hours of sleep finally caught up to us) that we both just turned our cell phones off when their alarms sounded this morning and went back to sleep. We ended up heading out for the day nearly three hours “late”. And since this was our last day in Barcelona, we still had a lot of things to fit in. Having the first thing on the list end up being “spend another two hours in a train station to buy tickets for tomorrow’s excursion to southern Spain” didn’t particularly help, either.
But once that was taken care of we were off to La Sagrada Família, Barcelona’s top tourist draw and Gaudí’s most famous work. Though “work” is a bit of an understatement, as it’s a massive church that was begun in 1882 and isn’t expected to even be completed for another 25 years. As with all of Gaudí’s efforts, it’s borderline ridiculous looking. It pretty much looks like a giant starfish.
Towards the middle of that picture you’ll see a bridge connecting two towers. It’s on that bridge that I left my Rick Steves’ Spain guidebook. I didn’t realize it until we were done touring the church. Considering the cost to get back in, not to mention go all the way back up the tower just to hope that it was still there, it didn’t quite seem worth it. But I still almost cried. I’ve had Rick Steves in my pocket in every city in Europe I’ve ever been in. And having the old guidebooks on my bookshelf, all weathered and beaten, is like my own personal merit badge. There will be no Spain 2009 book on that bookshelf. I tried to find a replacement at a couple of local bookstores but was unsuccessful. In a way, that’s part of the beauty of Rick Steves. He’s not some mainstream travel writer, but rather a hands-on guide for those who want as authentic of an experience as possible. And I guess that you don’t find authentic next to Frommer and Lonely Planet. Nor should you.
But back to the church. It’s the entry fees and private donations that fund the building process. That’s a big part of the reason it’s taking so long to finish. Besides the exterior cranes that parallel the towers, the inside looks like a near-solid wall of scaffolding. You don’t get to spend one minute inside this place without listening to a power tool of some sort. What is interesting is that churches of this size and scale have, historically, taken decades if not centuries to complete. This one will be no different. And to say that you were around to see a portion of it actually being built is kind of cool. Even if it does look like a crustacean.
The last major stop that we hit was the Picasso Museum. Pablo Picasso lived in Barcelona from his early teens to early twenties, honing his skills in the local art schools. While I’ve never been a big fan of Picasso, cubism, etc., it was nice to see that in his earlier days he painted normal things and not Rubik’s Cubes with eyeballs.
To close out our final day in Barcelona, we took another slow walk down La Rambla, stopping for a sidewalk dinner along the way. As unique as this pedestrian boulevard is by day, it’s even more entertaining at night. Between dinner and a walk to the harbor and back, another three hours was shaved off of our day. In the morning we leave for Gibraltar, by way of Córdoba and Algeciras. With the two biggest cities of the trip and the concert out of the way, it definitely feels like we’re about to begin the lazy portion of the trip.
Oh yeah – Erin thwarted a pick-pocket attempt today, as she whirled around at the moment she first felt her backpack zipper being pulled open. The potential thief quickly turned around and power-walked the other way. Which is a good thing, too. I was in mid air drum routine and my knuckles were fully exposed and ready to bring a firm case of thejamesmiller.wordpress.com on that would-be helpless Spaniard. If only. If only.
As we walk out the front door of our lodgings early tomorrow morning, this will be our final view…
We’ve made it to Barcelona, and we brought you with us.
The train ride this morning couldn’t have been any easier. Just under three hours, as smooth as a warm knife cutting through warm butter. I spent most of the trip asleep, only waking up long enough to go to the food and beverage car to get a croissant and… Coca Cola. So sad.
Our lodgings are right on the western corner of the Plaça de Catalunya. This Plaça is the heart of Barcelona and a great location. You’ll notice that “plaza” was spelled with a funny looking letter. One quirk about Barcelona is that while Spanish is typically understood, it’s not the principal language. That would be Catalan. So just when we were getting pretty comfortable with our Spanish, the language changes just enough to make us question our word orders. Though apparently we Erin can converse well enough that we were Erin was asked if we she studied in Spain while in college.
The first direction we headed was south to La Rambla, Barcelona’s main boulevard and pedestrian-filled corridor that offers a crash course in both social intimacy and anxiety attacks. Simultaneously. There are people everywhere. And they’re all close enough to use their six-inch voice, though none of them do. I really can’t think of an accurate way to describe this quintessential stretch of Barcelona. It’s kind of Champs-Elysées meets flea market. But a nice flea market. La Rambla ends where the Mediterranean Sea begins. A massive column topped with a statue of Christopher Columbus greets you at the conclusion of the jaunt.
We also spent a fair amount of time walking through the Barri Gótic (Gothic Quarter). There isn’t too much to do in this area, but everywhere you look there is a building that is close to 700 years old. Barcelona’s cathedral was also certainly a highlight. You’re able to make it up on to the roof of this cathedral and the city-wide, panoramic view that vantage point affords is intense. (Possibly partially due to the fact that the only thing you’re standing on is a rickety piece of “sidewalk metal” that was installed by the lowest bidder.)
Something we took the time to see, though which bored both of us immensely, was Gaudí’s Casa Milá.
Antoni Gaudí was an architect who was committed to the Modernist style in the early 20th century, incorporating elements of nature into his work. His designs are everywhere in Barcelona, including 92 Passeig de Grácia, where the above pictured Stay-Puft marshmallow version of an apartment building can be found. Gotta say that I wasn’t too impressed. It’s just too weird for me, though I seem to be alone in that assessment, as this building is world-renowned. At least I can say that I wasted a whole roll of film on it.
After walking the back streets of Barcelona for a few hours, we decided to succumb to temptation and go hear U2 rehearse for one last night before the tour begins. (When performing in a 100,000 seat open air stadium you can’t help but be heard, no matter how low you try and keep the volume.) Just a random rehearsal and there were still 200+ people outside trying to listen in. We only caught the last few songs, but what we heard sounded pretty good. Tomorrow night will be my 20th U2 show and Erin’s first. I think she’s definitely starting to get excited. Here’s a brief clip of all those fans.
I won’t be updating tomorrow evening. I’m taking a full day off from all tourist activities and that includes blogging. We’re heading to the beach in the morning and then to the stadium in the afternoon. And nothing more. U2 takes the stage at 10:00pm. We have general admission field tickets and the earlier you get there, the closer to the stage you’ll be. So our afternoon will be spent practicing not only our Catalan, but also our German, Italian, and French with the other U2 fans in line with us who also don’t live in or near Barcelona.
A taxi back to the quiet of our lodgings and another day is done.
xoxo
“I hope to see you in passing as I go to Spain, and to be helped on my journey there by you…” – the apostle Paul; Romans 15:24
We don’t know for certain whether Paul fulfilled his intent to journey to Spain, but I’m of the opinion that he did. This morning did little to dissuade my opinion on that matter as we attended worship services with some 80-odd local saints. Everyone was extremely friendly to us. We were even invited to the preacher’s house for a meal, but had to decline due to this being our last day in Madrid and we had already made plans for the afternoon. We also met a professor from Pepperdine University who was teaching a summer course here; he gave us his phone number and said to call him with any questions about getting around Spain. It’s definitely nice to know that you can go virtually anywhere in the world and know that there is at least one place that you can go and not feel awkward.
The rest of the day had a slight change in it from what we anticipated. We thought that we would end up at the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia museum in an effort to see Picasso’s Guernica, however they closed too early for us to make it. Instead, we went to the other of the two well-known art museums not named Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza gallery. This gallery is generally described as a private collection of major works by minor artists and minor works by major artists. It has a phenomenal collection of pieces from the genre referred to as impressionism (my personal favorite). The collection actually extends from the 17th century all the way to Roy Lichtenstein, so there’s pretty much something for everyone.
Afterwards we decided to go back to Plaza Mayor for a late lunch. I think I’ve decided that this plaza is my favorite spot in Madrid. It’s just a great place to sit and watch the crowds go by. I read that you can still see long ago spilled blood on the ground from when bullfights used to be held there, though I didn’t actually see any. But yeah, I wasted a good 10 minutes looking for some. Here’s a video of the scene that you can generally expect on any given afternoon in the plaza.
The next item on the list was one that I had been looking forward to for a while – the bullfight. Now as I mentioned yesterday, I wasn’t sure what to expect from this. I have nothing against hunting so long as the animal is used for something beyond a decorative piece, which these bulls are. But I had some questions about whether death as entertainment was something that I could really get behind. Walking into the circular Plaza de Toros de las Ventas felt like stepping back in time 2000 years to a Roman carnival of self-aggrandizement. There are six fights spread over two hours, the first of which made me want to throw up. It was probably one of the most surreal moments of my life; the bull dropping to the dirt ground, flailing about as a sword is driven down its neck. One half of me was disgusted while the other half was mesmerized. But I’m here to say that the desensitization sets in fast, for me at least. By the end of the sixth fight I was on both feet giving a standing ovation to the matador (who had been gored and trampled only minutes earlier), shouting out “Oooh” and “Olé” along with the rest of the crowd at every charismatic pass and daring thrust. I even bought a t-shirt! (Sometimes I think that entire countries could double their GDP just by having me in town as a tourist for seven days.) Here’s a video of the end of one of the fights. Know that by clicking play you will see a bull die.
Well that’s all from me for now. It’s just past 2:30am local time and we have an 8:00am train to Barcelona. I’m starting to get really good at these four hour naps. Incidentally, I’ve been averaging over 125 hits a day on this blog… thanks for reading. If only seven people were reading this then I probably would have been asleep two hours ago.
