Check out my photos of Spain and Morocco at your leisure. You may want to take some time with these--there are a lot of them!
Hasta luego! Over and out!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Djemaa el Fna
"The beating heart of Marrakech" is a square in the old medina full of sights and sounds--drummers, snake charmers, henna painters by day; storytellers and musicians by night. Everyone is out to make a buck (welcome to Morocco), and here it is the most obvious of anywhere. Sitting in the shade of their big umbrellas, snake charmers wait for tourists to walk past before blowing a whining note on their horns to see if they will take the bite and look. If they do, they rush over to loop the snakes round their necks, demanding money for a photo. Troupes of dancing men in colorful robes and hats with tassels stamp and sway in time to drum beats, running after passing tourists who so much as glance in their direction, holding out their hat for tips. Women henna painters, heads swathed in colorful scarves and faces masked so that only their eyes show, call, "Madame! Madame!" from beneath their circle of shade. La shokran, or no thank you, is a good phrase to know here. I have learned to ward off would-be tip collectors by keeping up a purposeful pace and eyes straight forward. Otherwise I'd be hounded every ten paces.
Like many tourists, I've discovered that the rooftop terraces of the surrounding restaurants and cafes are the best spot to view the spectacle below without the constant harrasment. From there I can watch the dancers and drummers hounding the tourists, hear the drums and the horns, and watch the troupes of men that every so often start up a whole-hearted dance, and not just a five-second ploy to trap a tourist. Gowned in blue with tassled red hats, they step in time to the drums, spinning, kneeling, and popping back up. Watermen, come down from the mountains with leather skins of snowmelt, peddle glasses of cold water to the locals and photos to the tourists. They wear conical hats in bright red and green, with metal cups hung about their necks.
At the sides of the square are stalls selling fresh squeezed orange juice, only 3 dirhams for a tall glass, and others selling dried figs, dates, and nuts. The men call out to passing tourists and ladies.
The ground is full of milling people. Tourists--some women stripped down to tank tops, men in shorts--and locals. Both men and women in jellabas, the long, shapeless, dress-like garment with pointed hood. They come in all different fabrics and colors. The women's range from solid-color to fancy, brightly-colored patterns; the men's come in drab tones in light cotton or warm wool, even in suit material for the particularly dapper gentleman. Most women cover their heads with scarves. A few of those even cover their faces, revealing only their eyes, while some older ladies tie the scarves just below a pointy nose! And some of the young women are westernized, wearing tight jeans, boots to their knees, and bareheaded. It's quite the mix. And amongst all of these weave cars, bikes, horse-drawn carriages (caleches), and mopeds, each tooting a squeaky horn.
At sunset, these sounds combine with the haunting call to prayer from the high towers, or minarets, of each of the mosques. This is the sound I will miss the most of Morocco. It comes five times a day, first at dawn, when they add the admonishment, "prayer is better than sleep" to the usual call, twice during the day, then at sunset, and finally an hour after sunset. Few here seem to answer the call; many more go about their business, but passing the open doors of mosques you can still see men kneeling and bowing in prayer, their shoes abandoned in piles around the door.
By night, the square is full of men, gathered in circles around storytellers and musicians. I wish I could understand the Arabic and Berber stories, but it seems a men-only event, and I understood why after one particular guy followed me to three different circles, pressing casually against me in a way that one might at first take for an accident in a crowd. (And I wasn't even alone, but was there with another guy!)
There is a spot on the square for open-air restaurants that they set up and take down everyday. There, local Moroccans and tourists gather at tables and order food that is almost in front of them. Lamb and steak kebabs, fries, and the ubiquitous Moroccan salads of spiced cooked vegetables, served cold and oh so delicious!
Djemaa el Fna is a bit full-on, as the Aussies would say, but Marrakesh wouldn't have nearly as much magic without it. This is Morocco, in some ways at its worst, certainly at its most touristy, but also at its richest and most magical. Marrakech without its square would be like Morocco without mint tea...certainly not Morocco!
Like many tourists, I've discovered that the rooftop terraces of the surrounding restaurants and cafes are the best spot to view the spectacle below without the constant harrasment. From there I can watch the dancers and drummers hounding the tourists, hear the drums and the horns, and watch the troupes of men that every so often start up a whole-hearted dance, and not just a five-second ploy to trap a tourist. Gowned in blue with tassled red hats, they step in time to the drums, spinning, kneeling, and popping back up. Watermen, come down from the mountains with leather skins of snowmelt, peddle glasses of cold water to the locals and photos to the tourists. They wear conical hats in bright red and green, with metal cups hung about their necks.
At the sides of the square are stalls selling fresh squeezed orange juice, only 3 dirhams for a tall glass, and others selling dried figs, dates, and nuts. The men call out to passing tourists and ladies.
The ground is full of milling people. Tourists--some women stripped down to tank tops, men in shorts--and locals. Both men and women in jellabas, the long, shapeless, dress-like garment with pointed hood. They come in all different fabrics and colors. The women's range from solid-color to fancy, brightly-colored patterns; the men's come in drab tones in light cotton or warm wool, even in suit material for the particularly dapper gentleman. Most women cover their heads with scarves. A few of those even cover their faces, revealing only their eyes, while some older ladies tie the scarves just below a pointy nose! And some of the young women are westernized, wearing tight jeans, boots to their knees, and bareheaded. It's quite the mix. And amongst all of these weave cars, bikes, horse-drawn carriages (caleches), and mopeds, each tooting a squeaky horn.
At sunset, these sounds combine with the haunting call to prayer from the high towers, or minarets, of each of the mosques. This is the sound I will miss the most of Morocco. It comes five times a day, first at dawn, when they add the admonishment, "prayer is better than sleep" to the usual call, twice during the day, then at sunset, and finally an hour after sunset. Few here seem to answer the call; many more go about their business, but passing the open doors of mosques you can still see men kneeling and bowing in prayer, their shoes abandoned in piles around the door.
By night, the square is full of men, gathered in circles around storytellers and musicians. I wish I could understand the Arabic and Berber stories, but it seems a men-only event, and I understood why after one particular guy followed me to three different circles, pressing casually against me in a way that one might at first take for an accident in a crowd. (And I wasn't even alone, but was there with another guy!)
There is a spot on the square for open-air restaurants that they set up and take down everyday. There, local Moroccans and tourists gather at tables and order food that is almost in front of them. Lamb and steak kebabs, fries, and the ubiquitous Moroccan salads of spiced cooked vegetables, served cold and oh so delicious!
Djemaa el Fna is a bit full-on, as the Aussies would say, but Marrakesh wouldn't have nearly as much magic without it. This is Morocco, in some ways at its worst, certainly at its most touristy, but also at its richest and most magical. Marrakech without its square would be like Morocco without mint tea...certainly not Morocco!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Local Hammam, A Real Moroccan Experience
Yesterday, I was scrubbed like a pot.
Seriously, I think that hand mitt scrubber was originally designed for removing caked-on grease better than Palmolive! It certainly removed my skin in rolls like little bits of rice stuck to the bottom of a pan.
A hammam is a public bath. In the days before running water, they were necessities for hygiene. Today, they are still important social places, especially for women, who spend most of their time at home. But I got the impression that, running water or no, these women still come to the hammam for their weekly bath.
Women may cover themselves in public, but among other women, they have no Western squeamishness. The four other girls and I were taken to a room where we stripped to our undies--no bras allowed!--then walked into a steamy room. It was filled with Moroccan women, some completely nude, scrubbing themselves while sitting on small stools, most just wearing underwear. There was so much flesh! More than I have ever seen, even on the beach in San Sebastian where some European women sunbathed topless.
A buxom women (I truly have never seen such a large chest!), who clearly had spent most of her time in the hammam and without the support of a bra, came and motioned for us to sit down in a corner of the room. She spoke no English, and only one of our group spoke French, but mostly we managed with gestures. She brought a large bucket of warm water, and splashed us down. Then we lathered up with some black olive soup we had been given when we entered. After steaming for about fifteen minutes, opening up the pores, we were taken to another room, told to lie on plastic mats. That's when the scrubbing began, or what they rather optimistically call a "massage."
They scrubbed everywhere: chest, arms, face, back, legs, pushing and pulling underwear--you almost wondered why they didn't just make you take that off, too! Afterwards, my skin was glowing and soft as a baby's bum.
Next they tied us in knots. Arms across chest, and PULL! Legs pressed to chest and PUSH! I didn't feel any bones cracking. I didn't feel more loosened, either. I was just glad to be in one piece at the end.
The ladies got quite a kick out of us. Our squeamishness, refusing to remove bras, grimaces of pain at the scrubbing. The lady certainly had no problem with full-body contact, bracing my hand between her breast and armpit as she scrubbed.
The other local women looked at us with interest, but they were all intent on their own ablutions. Washing hair, brushing teeth. Little girls walked around hand-in-hand, completely nude, or sat on benches as their mothers ran combs through their hair.
When we went back out to change into our clothes, the air was cold! Quickly into dry clothes and out into the cold air with wet hair. Too bad I wasn't covering my head with a scarf!
There are expensive tourist hammams with saunas, western-style massages, and quite a bit less flesh, but this local experience was something I wouldn't have missed for the world. Still, I was glad to have a group girls to share it with--and laugh about it afterward.
Seriously, I think that hand mitt scrubber was originally designed for removing caked-on grease better than Palmolive! It certainly removed my skin in rolls like little bits of rice stuck to the bottom of a pan.
A hammam is a public bath. In the days before running water, they were necessities for hygiene. Today, they are still important social places, especially for women, who spend most of their time at home. But I got the impression that, running water or no, these women still come to the hammam for their weekly bath.
Women may cover themselves in public, but among other women, they have no Western squeamishness. The four other girls and I were taken to a room where we stripped to our undies--no bras allowed!--then walked into a steamy room. It was filled with Moroccan women, some completely nude, scrubbing themselves while sitting on small stools, most just wearing underwear. There was so much flesh! More than I have ever seen, even on the beach in San Sebastian where some European women sunbathed topless.
A buxom women (I truly have never seen such a large chest!), who clearly had spent most of her time in the hammam and without the support of a bra, came and motioned for us to sit down in a corner of the room. She spoke no English, and only one of our group spoke French, but mostly we managed with gestures. She brought a large bucket of warm water, and splashed us down. Then we lathered up with some black olive soup we had been given when we entered. After steaming for about fifteen minutes, opening up the pores, we were taken to another room, told to lie on plastic mats. That's when the scrubbing began, or what they rather optimistically call a "massage."
They scrubbed everywhere: chest, arms, face, back, legs, pushing and pulling underwear--you almost wondered why they didn't just make you take that off, too! Afterwards, my skin was glowing and soft as a baby's bum.
Next they tied us in knots. Arms across chest, and PULL! Legs pressed to chest and PUSH! I didn't feel any bones cracking. I didn't feel more loosened, either. I was just glad to be in one piece at the end.
The ladies got quite a kick out of us. Our squeamishness, refusing to remove bras, grimaces of pain at the scrubbing. The lady certainly had no problem with full-body contact, bracing my hand between her breast and armpit as she scrubbed.
The other local women looked at us with interest, but they were all intent on their own ablutions. Washing hair, brushing teeth. Little girls walked around hand-in-hand, completely nude, or sat on benches as their mothers ran combs through their hair.
When we went back out to change into our clothes, the air was cold! Quickly into dry clothes and out into the cold air with wet hair. Too bad I wasn't covering my head with a scarf!
There are expensive tourist hammams with saunas, western-style massages, and quite a bit less flesh, but this local experience was something I wouldn't have missed for the world. Still, I was glad to have a group girls to share it with--and laugh about it afterward.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tarifa to Tanger?...or maybe not
Tarifa is known for two things: kitesurfing and a fast ferry (35 minutes) to Morocco. I went to Tarifa thinking I was going for Morocco, but almost as soon as I got there, I decided I was leaving.
Tarifa is the most southerly town in Spain. It has a promontory, on one side of which is the Mediterranean Sea, with the Atlantic Ocean on the other. You can see the coast of Africa from the beach, mountainous and only 14 km away. It is crazy windy--good for kitesurfing.
I chickened out on the crossing. Tanger, Morocco, is supposed to be a shifty place. A port town, it doesn´t have a whole lot to offer in the way of sights, and it is full of touts and pickpockets. My plan was to cross in the morning, then catch the next train to Fes to stay with a Moroccan lady, a member of a women´s travel hospitality group. I´d stay there for a couple of days, then take a train to Casablanca to join the Intrepid Travel tour that starts Sunday.
It probably would have been fine. An experience. Probably good, for the most part. But, isn´t there a saying, discretion is the better part of valor? At the moment I feel just as happy to experience the sights and smells and ...well, experiences...of Morocco from the relative safety of a tour group.
I´m really looking forward to it, too. Not having to make all the decisions, do all the planning, ask for directions when I´m lost ´cause there´s no one else to fall back on. Just to relax and go along with the group, going where someone else tells me to go. Ha! Sounds like a vacation! Not that I haven´t loved traveling independently. I´m already planning my next, longer, European adventure (which I hope will include Egypt and Turkey, as well). Staying in hostels, talking with people from all over Europe and the world, has been unlike anything else. A little like college--a bit cut off from real life in the same way that college is, but likewise a great way to learn lots about the world and myself.
I don´t expect to be writing much from Morocco, so here´s a brief itinerary: Casablanca, Meknes, Fes and Volubilis, Midelt, the Sahara, Tondra Gorge, Dades Gorge, Ait Benhaddou, Marrakech. Fourteen days, starting November 2. I´m taking Easy Jet from Madrid to Casablanca on Sunday, then taking a train to the city center and a taxi to the hotel that is our meeting point.
It is strange to be backtracking to go to Morocco. I was so close this morning--just 14 km!--but now I am back in Sevilla for two nights, then Madrid for another two. Honestly, I´m anxious to get moving, but I have some things to do to get ready. Four more days, and I´ll be in a new country! After a month and a half in one country (which is quite some time for a backpacker!), I´m both nervous and excited at the prospect. I´ve seen quite a bit of Spain.
Tarifa is the most southerly town in Spain. It has a promontory, on one side of which is the Mediterranean Sea, with the Atlantic Ocean on the other. You can see the coast of Africa from the beach, mountainous and only 14 km away. It is crazy windy--good for kitesurfing.
I chickened out on the crossing. Tanger, Morocco, is supposed to be a shifty place. A port town, it doesn´t have a whole lot to offer in the way of sights, and it is full of touts and pickpockets. My plan was to cross in the morning, then catch the next train to Fes to stay with a Moroccan lady, a member of a women´s travel hospitality group. I´d stay there for a couple of days, then take a train to Casablanca to join the Intrepid Travel tour that starts Sunday.
It probably would have been fine. An experience. Probably good, for the most part. But, isn´t there a saying, discretion is the better part of valor? At the moment I feel just as happy to experience the sights and smells and ...well, experiences...of Morocco from the relative safety of a tour group.
I´m really looking forward to it, too. Not having to make all the decisions, do all the planning, ask for directions when I´m lost ´cause there´s no one else to fall back on. Just to relax and go along with the group, going where someone else tells me to go. Ha! Sounds like a vacation! Not that I haven´t loved traveling independently. I´m already planning my next, longer, European adventure (which I hope will include Egypt and Turkey, as well). Staying in hostels, talking with people from all over Europe and the world, has been unlike anything else. A little like college--a bit cut off from real life in the same way that college is, but likewise a great way to learn lots about the world and myself.
I don´t expect to be writing much from Morocco, so here´s a brief itinerary: Casablanca, Meknes, Fes and Volubilis, Midelt, the Sahara, Tondra Gorge, Dades Gorge, Ait Benhaddou, Marrakech. Fourteen days, starting November 2. I´m taking Easy Jet from Madrid to Casablanca on Sunday, then taking a train to the city center and a taxi to the hotel that is our meeting point.
It is strange to be backtracking to go to Morocco. I was so close this morning--just 14 km!--but now I am back in Sevilla for two nights, then Madrid for another two. Honestly, I´m anxious to get moving, but I have some things to do to get ready. Four more days, and I´ll be in a new country! After a month and a half in one country (which is quite some time for a backpacker!), I´m both nervous and excited at the prospect. I´ve seen quite a bit of Spain.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Hippies and Gypsies in the Sacromonte
What is in Granada? The Alhambra, of course! It is, indeed, a beautiful, enchanting place. Full of courtyards and fountains, columns and arches, orange trees and blooming flowers. There are ceilings of magnificent inlaid wood, or plaster moldings. It is quite the romantic palace where one can imagine eastern princes gathered, smoking from a hookah, and the women hidden away in the harem.
It is definitely a place you should see. But you can hear about it from anywhere. I´d like to tell you about the Sacromonte.
Granada is in the Sierra Nevada (of Spain, of course, not of California...). The Albaicín, or old moorish part of the city, is built on the foothills of one small peak, while the Alhambra crowns an adjacent hill. The modern part of the city spreads out beyond with its highrises and office buildings to the foothills of another nearby peak.
The Sacromonte barrio is higher up the hill beyond the old Albaicín. If I understand correctly, this is the area that once housed the gypsy population (perhaps still does, to an extent), but which now is largely overtaken by the hippie crowd.
This morning I walked up the hill to the top of an old wall that runs along the hillside. What a great view of the city! There were some other tourists up there with their cameras; some locals, perhaps, with a picnic lunch; and a hippie with his dog, who had stopped to read for a bit on the wall. I stopped, as well, to take in the view and to write in my journal. When I continued on, I discovered, that behind the wall were some paths through the hills. Some were horizontal, zigzagging along the hillside, while others climbed upward. I wandered along a few, through some short pine trees, reveling in the whisper of the wind in the pines (probably my favorite sound) and enjoying a pine-tree-spicy, dusty smell that I don´t think I´ve smelled since the Sandia mountains of Albuquerque. Indeed, the landscape, as in many parts of Spain, reminded me of New Mexico. I saw many patches of prickly pear cactus, as well as clumps of plants with wide, thin, pointy leaves, that look like something related to yucca.
My wanderings back down to the city took me through a part of the Sacromonte known as the "caves." This is the part where the hippies, and before them, the gypsies, live. I had´t seen them up close before. They are a little like caves, but more like huts built into the side of the mountain. Some have brick walls, some just earth. They seem to be in varying states of disrepair. Some have trash or rusting metal chairs in the front. Some have tattered fabric screens blocking the front. As I walked along the dusty path in from of these dwellings, I passed by groups of people gathered in front of the doorways, sitting, drinking, talking--all in good Spanish fashion.
These people certainly look like hippies, with their dreadlocks, and their clothes--here very Moroccan-inspired with colorful baggy pants gathered around the ankle with elastic, clashing shirts, scarves, one or two dogs at their side. The guy at the hostel tells me that these people aren´t the hippies of the 60s; they have a different philosophy. They don´t do anything productive, nor do they live off the land, he says. It´s hard to say. Many are buskers in town, and I passed by one place today with a sign that said "productos orgánicos," organic products. Certainly, they have an alternative lifestyle.
At any rate, it is something I have not encountered before. The dirt-floor caves in the mountainside overlooking the city have a certain mysterious appeal, though. What is it like to live there, I wonder? Are there still traditional gypsy hold-outs among the dreadlocked new arrivals? At night, when I have been warned one should think twice about venturing up there, are there still traditional flamenco gatherings, where the wailing songs and the strummed guitar strings meet the stomping heels and graceful swaying hips of the dancers?
I´m idealizing of course, but haven´t you ever dreamed of running of with a band of gypsies?
It is definitely a place you should see. But you can hear about it from anywhere. I´d like to tell you about the Sacromonte.
Granada is in the Sierra Nevada (of Spain, of course, not of California...). The Albaicín, or old moorish part of the city, is built on the foothills of one small peak, while the Alhambra crowns an adjacent hill. The modern part of the city spreads out beyond with its highrises and office buildings to the foothills of another nearby peak.
The Sacromonte barrio is higher up the hill beyond the old Albaicín. If I understand correctly, this is the area that once housed the gypsy population (perhaps still does, to an extent), but which now is largely overtaken by the hippie crowd.
This morning I walked up the hill to the top of an old wall that runs along the hillside. What a great view of the city! There were some other tourists up there with their cameras; some locals, perhaps, with a picnic lunch; and a hippie with his dog, who had stopped to read for a bit on the wall. I stopped, as well, to take in the view and to write in my journal. When I continued on, I discovered, that behind the wall were some paths through the hills. Some were horizontal, zigzagging along the hillside, while others climbed upward. I wandered along a few, through some short pine trees, reveling in the whisper of the wind in the pines (probably my favorite sound) and enjoying a pine-tree-spicy, dusty smell that I don´t think I´ve smelled since the Sandia mountains of Albuquerque. Indeed, the landscape, as in many parts of Spain, reminded me of New Mexico. I saw many patches of prickly pear cactus, as well as clumps of plants with wide, thin, pointy leaves, that look like something related to yucca.
My wanderings back down to the city took me through a part of the Sacromonte known as the "caves." This is the part where the hippies, and before them, the gypsies, live. I had´t seen them up close before. They are a little like caves, but more like huts built into the side of the mountain. Some have brick walls, some just earth. They seem to be in varying states of disrepair. Some have trash or rusting metal chairs in the front. Some have tattered fabric screens blocking the front. As I walked along the dusty path in from of these dwellings, I passed by groups of people gathered in front of the doorways, sitting, drinking, talking--all in good Spanish fashion.
These people certainly look like hippies, with their dreadlocks, and their clothes--here very Moroccan-inspired with colorful baggy pants gathered around the ankle with elastic, clashing shirts, scarves, one or two dogs at their side. The guy at the hostel tells me that these people aren´t the hippies of the 60s; they have a different philosophy. They don´t do anything productive, nor do they live off the land, he says. It´s hard to say. Many are buskers in town, and I passed by one place today with a sign that said "productos orgánicos," organic products. Certainly, they have an alternative lifestyle.
At any rate, it is something I have not encountered before. The dirt-floor caves in the mountainside overlooking the city have a certain mysterious appeal, though. What is it like to live there, I wonder? Are there still traditional gypsy hold-outs among the dreadlocked new arrivals? At night, when I have been warned one should think twice about venturing up there, are there still traditional flamenco gatherings, where the wailing songs and the strummed guitar strings meet the stomping heels and graceful swaying hips of the dancers?
I´m idealizing of course, but haven´t you ever dreamed of running of with a band of gypsies?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Rainy Andalucian Days and Nights
Today it was gray--all day. Rainy off and on. This evening around 8 the heavens opened and it rained for forty days and forty nights. I was happy to be safe and dry in the hostel common room. Reading.
Since there's no beach to lie on here, I can't say that I mind a quiet, rainy day or two. Not when I'm armed with some delightful light reading and cups of tea. I've been in need of some quiet days, anyway. And at the hostel I found a lovely "art history mystery"--Death and Restoration, by Iain Pears. If you want an easy read, check him out. His characters are delightful. And the whole idea of crime novels surrounding works of art is a wonderful development of the murder mystery industry that the British have been perfecting since Sherlock Holmes. So, for the past three days, I've been spending delightful, quiet evenings, in a quiet hostel (off-season, you know) assiduously reading.
Finished tonight. Just in time for my departure tomorrow. I didn't want to carry yet another book, since I've got a couple with me already--The Kite Runner (fabulous book), which I'm saving for the bus ride to Granada tomorrow, and another book, The Queen of the South, which I'm considering ditching since my newly-acquired sleeping bag has made my pack a little overstuffed.
The sleeping bag story is this: another thing I've done during my five days in Sevilla is arrange a last-minute tour in Morocco with the company Intrepid Travel. It is 14 days, beginning in Casablanca and traveling through Meknes, Chefchaouen, Fes, Midelt, traveling to the Saharan desert and some Gorges, finally finishing in Marrakech. Doesn't it sound wonderfully romantic and exotic? And since it is an organized group tour, I will have the luxury of sitting back and enjoying it, letting someone else figure out the details. I'm quite looking forward to it. And since Morocco isn't known for its advanced views in regard to independent young women, my belonging to a group will put some parties concerned with my whereabouts a little more at ease--including myself.
So I called up and got myself booked for this trip that leaves November 2 and finishes the 15. One of the things they recommend bringing for this trip, if taken during the winter months--defined as November through April--is a good sleeping bag. I wasn't quite sure where I would manage to find one until one guy at the hostel suggested El Corte Ingles. Of course, El Corte Ingles--the wonderful Spanish department store, purveyors of everything imaginable, from kitchen spatulas to bike helmets!
They seem to have one in every city of any size, each one several stories, and the one in Sevilla is comprised of four buildings, all within a couple of blocks of each other. It took a little while to find the right one. The first one I found had kitchen wears on the ground floor and small appliances on the first floor (note the European floor numbering system). Across the street was the furniture store. A third building was the bookstore. It took a while to find the fourth, but I came across it after some wandering down a couple of commercial streets filled with stores like Sfera, Zara, Footlocker, and the Body Shop (and, strangely, a group of World Wildlife Fund canvasers, one dressed in a panda suit and the others sporting black grease paint animal noses and whiskers. They picked me out right away to talk to--must have been that Indian style woven shoulder bag, skirt, and sports sandal combination, not particularly Spanish-style high fashion, though I'm lacking the dreads of the local hippie population. (Sorry I can't contribute! I'm a penny-pinching traveler at the moment!)).
The fourth store was fashion, "la moda," which also included, on the floor with the kid's clothing, the sporting goods section--los deportes. And, indeed, they had sleeping bags! Not as great a selection as I would find at an REI or EMS in the States, but sometimes limitations can be blessings. I was looking for a small bag (not too much extra space in my small pack) that I could afford. It wasn't cheap at 69€ (small bags always cost more), but I had been prepared for worse, and I was willing to pay for convenience.
I've managed now to squeeze the bag into my pack with my clothes wrapped around it, and I'm still considering if I can get rid of something. Thus, the thoughts of donating my book to the hostel bookshelf.
In spite of the rain we've gotten here everyday, I have also managed to see the Sevillan sights during the sunny bits. The cathedral is the largest Gothic church in Europe, my guidebook tells me, and it certainly seems quite large. And the Alcazar is larger and more beautiful than the one in Cordoba. Walls of colorful tile and moorish-inspired, lobed arches. The gardens are huge--courtyard upon courtyard of orange and palm-trees, fountains, pools, flowers blooming in October. All quite magnificent and fully satisfying every image I have of southern Spain.
The Sevillan streets are quite lively, too--full of tourists and street performers, quite talented ones, at that. There's a puppet master who makes a small woman play a small cello, so well-timed that you almost think that the music is coming from the cello instead of from the hidden speakers. And there's the Belgian with his homemade kangaroo costume, complete with ingenious bouncy stilts made to look like kangaroo legs, who juggled and breathed fire, even swallowed it!
And there are gypsies, begging forlornly on the ground, or seeking alms from tourists eating ice cream cones. Some try to give tourists small sprigs of rosemary, somehow expecting to get money from the transaction. There are street vendors who turn out bracelets by the dozens as the sit behind their wears spread out on towels spread out on the sidewalks. It's a happening place, and also seems to be full of American students. I've heard more American accents here than in the university town of Salamanca.
Tomorrow I'm off to Granada, my third Andalucian town, and home of the famed Alhambra. Will it live up to the hype? Some have warned me of disappointment. I hardly expect that, but I do hope it won't rain.
Since there's no beach to lie on here, I can't say that I mind a quiet, rainy day or two. Not when I'm armed with some delightful light reading and cups of tea. I've been in need of some quiet days, anyway. And at the hostel I found a lovely "art history mystery"--Death and Restoration, by Iain Pears. If you want an easy read, check him out. His characters are delightful. And the whole idea of crime novels surrounding works of art is a wonderful development of the murder mystery industry that the British have been perfecting since Sherlock Holmes. So, for the past three days, I've been spending delightful, quiet evenings, in a quiet hostel (off-season, you know) assiduously reading.
Finished tonight. Just in time for my departure tomorrow. I didn't want to carry yet another book, since I've got a couple with me already--The Kite Runner (fabulous book), which I'm saving for the bus ride to Granada tomorrow, and another book, The Queen of the South, which I'm considering ditching since my newly-acquired sleeping bag has made my pack a little overstuffed.
The sleeping bag story is this: another thing I've done during my five days in Sevilla is arrange a last-minute tour in Morocco with the company Intrepid Travel. It is 14 days, beginning in Casablanca and traveling through Meknes, Chefchaouen, Fes, Midelt, traveling to the Saharan desert and some Gorges, finally finishing in Marrakech. Doesn't it sound wonderfully romantic and exotic? And since it is an organized group tour, I will have the luxury of sitting back and enjoying it, letting someone else figure out the details. I'm quite looking forward to it. And since Morocco isn't known for its advanced views in regard to independent young women, my belonging to a group will put some parties concerned with my whereabouts a little more at ease--including myself.
So I called up and got myself booked for this trip that leaves November 2 and finishes the 15. One of the things they recommend bringing for this trip, if taken during the winter months--defined as November through April--is a good sleeping bag. I wasn't quite sure where I would manage to find one until one guy at the hostel suggested El Corte Ingles. Of course, El Corte Ingles--the wonderful Spanish department store, purveyors of everything imaginable, from kitchen spatulas to bike helmets!
They seem to have one in every city of any size, each one several stories, and the one in Sevilla is comprised of four buildings, all within a couple of blocks of each other. It took a little while to find the right one. The first one I found had kitchen wears on the ground floor and small appliances on the first floor (note the European floor numbering system). Across the street was the furniture store. A third building was the bookstore. It took a while to find the fourth, but I came across it after some wandering down a couple of commercial streets filled with stores like Sfera, Zara, Footlocker, and the Body Shop (and, strangely, a group of World Wildlife Fund canvasers, one dressed in a panda suit and the others sporting black grease paint animal noses and whiskers. They picked me out right away to talk to--must have been that Indian style woven shoulder bag, skirt, and sports sandal combination, not particularly Spanish-style high fashion, though I'm lacking the dreads of the local hippie population. (Sorry I can't contribute! I'm a penny-pinching traveler at the moment!)).
The fourth store was fashion, "la moda," which also included, on the floor with the kid's clothing, the sporting goods section--los deportes. And, indeed, they had sleeping bags! Not as great a selection as I would find at an REI or EMS in the States, but sometimes limitations can be blessings. I was looking for a small bag (not too much extra space in my small pack) that I could afford. It wasn't cheap at 69€ (small bags always cost more), but I had been prepared for worse, and I was willing to pay for convenience.
I've managed now to squeeze the bag into my pack with my clothes wrapped around it, and I'm still considering if I can get rid of something. Thus, the thoughts of donating my book to the hostel bookshelf.
In spite of the rain we've gotten here everyday, I have also managed to see the Sevillan sights during the sunny bits. The cathedral is the largest Gothic church in Europe, my guidebook tells me, and it certainly seems quite large. And the Alcazar is larger and more beautiful than the one in Cordoba. Walls of colorful tile and moorish-inspired, lobed arches. The gardens are huge--courtyard upon courtyard of orange and palm-trees, fountains, pools, flowers blooming in October. All quite magnificent and fully satisfying every image I have of southern Spain.
The Sevillan streets are quite lively, too--full of tourists and street performers, quite talented ones, at that. There's a puppet master who makes a small woman play a small cello, so well-timed that you almost think that the music is coming from the cello instead of from the hidden speakers. And there's the Belgian with his homemade kangaroo costume, complete with ingenious bouncy stilts made to look like kangaroo legs, who juggled and breathed fire, even swallowed it!
And there are gypsies, begging forlornly on the ground, or seeking alms from tourists eating ice cream cones. Some try to give tourists small sprigs of rosemary, somehow expecting to get money from the transaction. There are street vendors who turn out bracelets by the dozens as the sit behind their wears spread out on towels spread out on the sidewalks. It's a happening place, and also seems to be full of American students. I've heard more American accents here than in the university town of Salamanca.
Tomorrow I'm off to Granada, my third Andalucian town, and home of the famed Alhambra. Will it live up to the hype? Some have warned me of disappointment. I hardly expect that, but I do hope it won't rain.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Flamenco!
"Explosive!" -Andalucian Times "Fiery!" -Seville Enquirer "All the passion of hot Spanish nights!" -Flamenco magazine
Since flamenco is one of the main tourist draws for southern Spain, I really wanted to find an authentic flamenco place. We saw some dancing on the street--a young group: a guitar player, a singer, and a dancer, all in their late 20s--dancing for practice and publicity and whatever tips they could get (which, with many appreciative tourists, is probably a fair amount). They were quite something, each one giving it her all, but the performances were short. Five minutes at a time, then requests for tips, which most were happy to give.
The most authentic performance you can probably get is one of the local flamenco bars where local musicians and dancers might show up sometime after midnight. I may check one of those out in my remaining days in Sevilla, but to be ensured a show (and in a pleasantly smoke-free environment), my new Aussie friend Clara and I got in on a show last night at a flamenco theater recommended by the hostel staff.
Wow. What a show! It started off with just the guitar player and the singer. The intricate finger-work of the guitarist was amazing, and combined with the woman's resonant voice in a wailing, tremulous song of lost love, I guessed, it was just beautiful. Next, a man walked on, sat down, and joined his clapping to the voice of the singer and the rhythms of the guitar. A woman walked on, dressed in a long, black flamenco dress that she could wrap up around her legs and hips to show off her feet when she started up tapping and stamping. She started slowly and quietly. It was hard to discern exactly when she added her tapping to the rhythms the others had started. It grew imperceptibly, and then she exploded! Stomping and stepping, quick swishes with her feet. The group rose together to a crescendo of strumming, stamping, clapping, and wailing, then-- crashing to a halt, with just the soft tip-tapping of the dancer's heels. Then she was a graceful swan, hands and arms twirling as she swished and spun across the platform, until she took up the staccato rhythm once again, and the musicians joined in, following her lead.
Then a break with just the guitar player--beautiful--before the rest rejoined, this time to accompany the dancing of the man. If the woman was a swan, this guy was a peacock--but don't get me wrong, this guy was one sexy peacock. He stood with chest thrown out, one hand lightly covering a hip and the other on his chest. And meanwhile his legs just flew! Tapping, stamping, and twisting, faster and faster, until his legs truly were a blur under his still upper frame. He commanded the stage. After some enthusiastic applause, he silenced it by softly but firmly beginning the tapping again, and the musicians were quick to join him. He strutted on the stage, then finished with a bang, at the peak of the rhythm, stamping with a flourish off the stage--returning some moments later, of course, to acknowledge the applause.
During the last five minutes they allowed photos, and the man and woman did what appeared to me to be a choreographed sequence of moves, but not lacking in passion and interplay. It is supposed to be a spontaneous dance, the dancers responding to the musicians, and the musicians, it seems, also responding to the dancers. Except for the ending, it did seem to be spontaneous, the musicians carefully watching and responding to the movements of the dancers, and the dancers once in awhile directing their stamping and strutting to the musicians. Never mind that it was an organized company, with shows in theater every night. I really seemed to be witnessing a bit of magic.
Since flamenco is one of the main tourist draws for southern Spain, I really wanted to find an authentic flamenco place. We saw some dancing on the street--a young group: a guitar player, a singer, and a dancer, all in their late 20s--dancing for practice and publicity and whatever tips they could get (which, with many appreciative tourists, is probably a fair amount). They were quite something, each one giving it her all, but the performances were short. Five minutes at a time, then requests for tips, which most were happy to give.
The most authentic performance you can probably get is one of the local flamenco bars where local musicians and dancers might show up sometime after midnight. I may check one of those out in my remaining days in Sevilla, but to be ensured a show (and in a pleasantly smoke-free environment), my new Aussie friend Clara and I got in on a show last night at a flamenco theater recommended by the hostel staff.
Wow. What a show! It started off with just the guitar player and the singer. The intricate finger-work of the guitarist was amazing, and combined with the woman's resonant voice in a wailing, tremulous song of lost love, I guessed, it was just beautiful. Next, a man walked on, sat down, and joined his clapping to the voice of the singer and the rhythms of the guitar. A woman walked on, dressed in a long, black flamenco dress that she could wrap up around her legs and hips to show off her feet when she started up tapping and stamping. She started slowly and quietly. It was hard to discern exactly when she added her tapping to the rhythms the others had started. It grew imperceptibly, and then she exploded! Stomping and stepping, quick swishes with her feet. The group rose together to a crescendo of strumming, stamping, clapping, and wailing, then-- crashing to a halt, with just the soft tip-tapping of the dancer's heels. Then she was a graceful swan, hands and arms twirling as she swished and spun across the platform, until she took up the staccato rhythm once again, and the musicians joined in, following her lead.
Then a break with just the guitar player--beautiful--before the rest rejoined, this time to accompany the dancing of the man. If the woman was a swan, this guy was a peacock--but don't get me wrong, this guy was one sexy peacock. He stood with chest thrown out, one hand lightly covering a hip and the other on his chest. And meanwhile his legs just flew! Tapping, stamping, and twisting, faster and faster, until his legs truly were a blur under his still upper frame. He commanded the stage. After some enthusiastic applause, he silenced it by softly but firmly beginning the tapping again, and the musicians were quick to join him. He strutted on the stage, then finished with a bang, at the peak of the rhythm, stamping with a flourish off the stage--returning some moments later, of course, to acknowledge the applause.
During the last five minutes they allowed photos, and the man and woman did what appeared to me to be a choreographed sequence of moves, but not lacking in passion and interplay. It is supposed to be a spontaneous dance, the dancers responding to the musicians, and the musicians, it seems, also responding to the dancers. Except for the ending, it did seem to be spontaneous, the musicians carefully watching and responding to the movements of the dancers, and the dancers once in awhile directing their stamping and strutting to the musicians. Never mind that it was an organized company, with shows in theater every night. I really seemed to be witnessing a bit of magic.
Friday, October 17, 2008
¡Por fin, Andalucía!
Now, this is what I really came to Spain to see. Sure, the other parts were nice--Barcelona, with its modernisme architecture, has so much to see and do; San Sebastian has a sandy, golden, perfect beach; the constant flow of pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela lend it an atmosphere unlike any other spanish city; Madrid has its art museums--but when I dreamed of Spain it was everything Córdoba has to offer. Moorish architecture, orange and palm trees, flowers blooming in mid-October. Particularly the moorish architecture.
Córdoba is a smallish city, with only a few sights, but they are quite outstanding, I think. (Although perhaps I speak too soon--this is only my first stop in southern Spain. Perhaps greater sights await me--but so much the better!) The Mezquita, in particular, is enchanting. Originally a mosque, when the Christians reconquered the land from the arabs, they created a cathedral inside it. Thankfully, they left most of the original architecture. The building is quite large, and inside it grows a forest of columns. The thin marble trunks support a canopy of red and white striped double arches. There are rows and rows of them, surrounding the entire high altar in the center of the cathedral. The Mihrab still exists on the eastern wall, pointing the direction to Mecca. It is a niche in the wall underneath a horseshoe arch and surrounded in magnificent blue and gold tiles decorated in arabic script. Parts of the building show their years, but this only lends to the charm.
I went to the Mezquita yesterday morning during its hours of free entry between 8:30 and 10--during mass. You could enter through one door to attend mass, or through another and tour the rest of the building as the muted chanting of the mass filled the not-quite-empty, darkened aisles. It was moving to walk beneath all those stiped arches. The pictures, though stunning, don't quite do justice to the experience of moving through them.
I liked it so much that I returned this morning.
I also returned to the gardens of the Alcázar, a palace-fortress. It was free today, and it was a beautiful place to while away a couple of hours, reading in the shade of the orange trees, cooled by pools and fountains, surrounded by the blooming flowers so that it felt more like spring than mid-October.
I could spend more time here. Even my hostel has a beautiful rooftop terrace where I spent a few hours hanging out with some other backpackers last night. But tomorrow it is on to Sevilla, a larger city, perhaps with grander sights.
Córdoba is a smallish city, with only a few sights, but they are quite outstanding, I think. (Although perhaps I speak too soon--this is only my first stop in southern Spain. Perhaps greater sights await me--but so much the better!) The Mezquita, in particular, is enchanting. Originally a mosque, when the Christians reconquered the land from the arabs, they created a cathedral inside it. Thankfully, they left most of the original architecture. The building is quite large, and inside it grows a forest of columns. The thin marble trunks support a canopy of red and white striped double arches. There are rows and rows of them, surrounding the entire high altar in the center of the cathedral. The Mihrab still exists on the eastern wall, pointing the direction to Mecca. It is a niche in the wall underneath a horseshoe arch and surrounded in magnificent blue and gold tiles decorated in arabic script. Parts of the building show their years, but this only lends to the charm.
I went to the Mezquita yesterday morning during its hours of free entry between 8:30 and 10--during mass. You could enter through one door to attend mass, or through another and tour the rest of the building as the muted chanting of the mass filled the not-quite-empty, darkened aisles. It was moving to walk beneath all those stiped arches. The pictures, though stunning, don't quite do justice to the experience of moving through them.
I liked it so much that I returned this morning.
I also returned to the gardens of the Alcázar, a palace-fortress. It was free today, and it was a beautiful place to while away a couple of hours, reading in the shade of the orange trees, cooled by pools and fountains, surrounded by the blooming flowers so that it felt more like spring than mid-October.
I could spend more time here. Even my hostel has a beautiful rooftop terrace where I spent a few hours hanging out with some other backpackers last night. But tomorrow it is on to Sevilla, a larger city, perhaps with grander sights.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Hay amigos en todas partes -- There are friends everywhere
Traveling is a world in itself, especially, I think, in a place like Europe that is so well-equipped with train networks and youth hostels so that there are travelers everywhere. It is so easy to start the morning in one city, and spend the evening in a different city, or indeed, a completely different country! And each place is filled with travelers--some in groups, but many completely on their own.
About a month ago I began my travels, and landing in Barcelona, I had some second thoughts about my choice to travel alone. It took me a week and a half to adjust to the idea of being on my own for nine weeks in a different country. Really, I feel that I am still adjusting. Each time I leave one city and move onto the next, say goodbye to the friends I have met for so brief a time, I feel a little bit of sadness and just a touch of worry about the next new place. But each time it becomes easier to pull up the stakes and move on.
When I boarded the train in Santiago de Compstela last week to come back to Madrid, I said goodbye to my new Kiwi (New Zealander) friend Romy. But thinking back on all the people I have met at each place I have stayed, I realized, there are friends already waiting for me at the next place. I don´t want to sound cheesy or trite, but this has been quite the realization for me.
Traveling is a little like the first two weeks of college, I think. There are a bunch of people in a new place, outside of their comfort zone, and open to meeting new people. There is no established social hierarchy--there has not been enough time for that. So people greet each other (if there isn´t a language barrier--or even when there is, gestures are universal), join each other for dinner or sightseeing, or just for an evening of chatting over a bottle of wine. And since each person or group has plans of his own, and each person or group eventually moves on to somewhere new, the group of people is continually new. There is an ever-renewing chance to be someone new, to meet new people, to be a social butterfly or to be a wallflower, without the risk of becoming that label. And this is how it is different from college. Eventually the social machine sorts everyone into groups and cliques, and then there is the danger of stagnation.
The travel world, on the other hand, is a constantly moving stream, always stirred up. With each new place, even sometimes each night at the hostel, there are new people to meet. And I have met quite a few! The Germans in Barcelona, and the group of five of us that went out for tapas--Gail from Scotland, 29, with bleach blonde hair and a great sense of humor; Catarina from Germany, 20s, quite and refined and very nice; Janine from Ohio, 20s, dark brown hair and olive skin so that you might think she was a Spaniard herself, and another English major; and Dan from Seattle, mid-40s, a bit flamboyant and demonstrative. Then there were the two American girls , attending college in Barcelona for the year, weekending in Zaragoza. There were the Australians in San Sebastian, the Kiwi in Santiago de Compostela, and here in Madrid, the two Indians and the Australian man that all went with me yesterday to El Escorial. You make friends quickly, exchange email addresses, or friend each other on Facebook, and then move on.
There are the coincidences, too. Sue was an Australian women that was staying at my hostel in San Sebastian. Sunning myself on the beach one afternoon, I was keeping my eye out for someone I could ask to watch my things while I went for a swim. As I turned over, I looked up and saw Sue sitting only feet from me! The next day we took the bus together to Bilbao to see the Guggenheim Museum. She gave me her name and told me that in her Facebook picture she was wearing a sombrero. When I got to Madrid, I looked her up, but out of all the Sue Wrights all over America, Canada, the UK, and Australia, I didn´t see one wearing a sombrero. I felt so sad, but what could I do? Well, I was standing in line to board the train in Madrid to go to Santiago, and there she was at my side! She had just gotten off her train coming to Madrid, and we were on the platform at the same time! The first words I said to her were, "I couldn´t find you on Facebook!" I guess we were meant to stay in touch. She told me her email, which I repeated to myself until I got on the train and wrote it down.
When I returned to Madrid, I came back to the same hostel. I already knew the location, and it serves a decent breakfast, included in the price. I ended up in the same room, though my roommates were new. But there were two people still here that I met earlier: María from Zaragoza, come here to find a job and a place to live, and Pablo from Argentina. María dresses in vibrantly-colored clothing, is friendly and loves to talk. She speaks quickly, too! So fast that sometimes her words just wash over me. Pablo is a sweet guy, bearded and laid back like some hippie, Northland College kids I know. His Argentine accent is so different I have trouble understanding him. Between he and María, I feel that my Spanish skills are only marginal, but they are both so warm and welcoming, that I feel quite at home. With them, I mostly just laugh at my lack of understanding of their conversations, but when we meet, they exchange the Spanish air-kisses, right cheek, then left. They seem almost like old friends now, I have known them for so long on this travel adventure.
So, what´s next? Tomorrow I´m off to Salamanca for two days, then down to Córdoba and the rest of Andalucía, and I hope a couple of weeks in Morocco. But that is as much as I know. From my travel guide I know which sites to visit, but really the surprises come from the people I meet. The person I talk to at breakfast in the morning becomes my friend for the day, and perhaps for longer. But either way, it opens me up like nothing else to the world as a whole. I went to Spain to practice Spanish, but really I have come to open up my heart to the grand possibilities of life. Traveling, anything seems possible. I could go to Paris tomorrow, if I chose! So, why don´t I? The possibilities are endless, and one thing I keep thinking is that there are no incorrect choices. Any decision will lead to some new and wonderful (and sometimes not...) experience. And even though I have limited myself to Spain and (my plans get more and more firm also to go to) Morocco, each place shows me the possibilities of each place are endless.
So, I go forward expecting great things, and hope that when I return to the comforts of the familiar and the steadiness of home I can keep at least a grain of openness to the friendships and possibilities of the world.
P.S. Have you noticed the map at the very bottom of this blog page? I´m trying to keep adding new markers as I visit different cities. If you click on ¨view larger map¨ you can see my brief notes for each marker.
About a month ago I began my travels, and landing in Barcelona, I had some second thoughts about my choice to travel alone. It took me a week and a half to adjust to the idea of being on my own for nine weeks in a different country. Really, I feel that I am still adjusting. Each time I leave one city and move onto the next, say goodbye to the friends I have met for so brief a time, I feel a little bit of sadness and just a touch of worry about the next new place. But each time it becomes easier to pull up the stakes and move on.
When I boarded the train in Santiago de Compstela last week to come back to Madrid, I said goodbye to my new Kiwi (New Zealander) friend Romy. But thinking back on all the people I have met at each place I have stayed, I realized, there are friends already waiting for me at the next place. I don´t want to sound cheesy or trite, but this has been quite the realization for me.
Traveling is a little like the first two weeks of college, I think. There are a bunch of people in a new place, outside of their comfort zone, and open to meeting new people. There is no established social hierarchy--there has not been enough time for that. So people greet each other (if there isn´t a language barrier--or even when there is, gestures are universal), join each other for dinner or sightseeing, or just for an evening of chatting over a bottle of wine. And since each person or group has plans of his own, and each person or group eventually moves on to somewhere new, the group of people is continually new. There is an ever-renewing chance to be someone new, to meet new people, to be a social butterfly or to be a wallflower, without the risk of becoming that label. And this is how it is different from college. Eventually the social machine sorts everyone into groups and cliques, and then there is the danger of stagnation.
The travel world, on the other hand, is a constantly moving stream, always stirred up. With each new place, even sometimes each night at the hostel, there are new people to meet. And I have met quite a few! The Germans in Barcelona, and the group of five of us that went out for tapas--Gail from Scotland, 29, with bleach blonde hair and a great sense of humor; Catarina from Germany, 20s, quite and refined and very nice; Janine from Ohio, 20s, dark brown hair and olive skin so that you might think she was a Spaniard herself, and another English major; and Dan from Seattle, mid-40s, a bit flamboyant and demonstrative. Then there were the two American girls , attending college in Barcelona for the year, weekending in Zaragoza. There were the Australians in San Sebastian, the Kiwi in Santiago de Compostela, and here in Madrid, the two Indians and the Australian man that all went with me yesterday to El Escorial. You make friends quickly, exchange email addresses, or friend each other on Facebook, and then move on.
There are the coincidences, too. Sue was an Australian women that was staying at my hostel in San Sebastian. Sunning myself on the beach one afternoon, I was keeping my eye out for someone I could ask to watch my things while I went for a swim. As I turned over, I looked up and saw Sue sitting only feet from me! The next day we took the bus together to Bilbao to see the Guggenheim Museum. She gave me her name and told me that in her Facebook picture she was wearing a sombrero. When I got to Madrid, I looked her up, but out of all the Sue Wrights all over America, Canada, the UK, and Australia, I didn´t see one wearing a sombrero. I felt so sad, but what could I do? Well, I was standing in line to board the train in Madrid to go to Santiago, and there she was at my side! She had just gotten off her train coming to Madrid, and we were on the platform at the same time! The first words I said to her were, "I couldn´t find you on Facebook!" I guess we were meant to stay in touch. She told me her email, which I repeated to myself until I got on the train and wrote it down.
When I returned to Madrid, I came back to the same hostel. I already knew the location, and it serves a decent breakfast, included in the price. I ended up in the same room, though my roommates were new. But there were two people still here that I met earlier: María from Zaragoza, come here to find a job and a place to live, and Pablo from Argentina. María dresses in vibrantly-colored clothing, is friendly and loves to talk. She speaks quickly, too! So fast that sometimes her words just wash over me. Pablo is a sweet guy, bearded and laid back like some hippie, Northland College kids I know. His Argentine accent is so different I have trouble understanding him. Between he and María, I feel that my Spanish skills are only marginal, but they are both so warm and welcoming, that I feel quite at home. With them, I mostly just laugh at my lack of understanding of their conversations, but when we meet, they exchange the Spanish air-kisses, right cheek, then left. They seem almost like old friends now, I have known them for so long on this travel adventure.
So, what´s next? Tomorrow I´m off to Salamanca for two days, then down to Córdoba and the rest of Andalucía, and I hope a couple of weeks in Morocco. But that is as much as I know. From my travel guide I know which sites to visit, but really the surprises come from the people I meet. The person I talk to at breakfast in the morning becomes my friend for the day, and perhaps for longer. But either way, it opens me up like nothing else to the world as a whole. I went to Spain to practice Spanish, but really I have come to open up my heart to the grand possibilities of life. Traveling, anything seems possible. I could go to Paris tomorrow, if I chose! So, why don´t I? The possibilities are endless, and one thing I keep thinking is that there are no incorrect choices. Any decision will lead to some new and wonderful (and sometimes not...) experience. And even though I have limited myself to Spain and (my plans get more and more firm also to go to) Morocco, each place shows me the possibilities of each place are endless.
So, I go forward expecting great things, and hope that when I return to the comforts of the familiar and the steadiness of home I can keep at least a grain of openness to the friendships and possibilities of the world.
P.S. Have you noticed the map at the very bottom of this blog page? I´m trying to keep adding new markers as I visit different cities. If you click on ¨view larger map¨ you can see my brief notes for each marker.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Pilgrimage
I spent a good bit of time this morning sitting in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. This is the destination of a medieval pilgrimage route--one that is still popular today. People come to venerate the remains of St. James, that legend says is buried here.
I sat inside the nave of the church, looking at the grand, golden altar, and watching the hordes of visitors that passed through. Some are pilgrims, trekkers, still carrying their packs, some sporting the scallop shell, traditional emblem of the Santiago pilgrim. Some are well-groomed tourists, frequently part of a tour group.
It is a strange and strangely moving experience to see all the people who have traveled so far to pay homage to Santiago, St. James. Walking in the plaza fronting the church this morning, seeing the pilgrims toting packs and trekking poles, I felt like something of an outsider. These people all projected a feeling of elation. A couple of pilgrims that walked onto the square for the first time let out great shouts--half groan, half laughter--of fulfillment, of weariness, of relief at having finally arrived. People greeted one another with triumphant waves, with hugs and smiles--perhaps other pilgrims they met up with on the road. Groups took pictures, set down packs and smoked cigarettes in the sunshine. They had walked several hundred miles for several weeks (the German group in my hostel said it took them five). On such a journey they had experienced something that my seven-hour train ride from Madrid--however cramped the quarters may have been--cannot compare to.
Inside the cathedral, there is a bustle of pilgrims and tour groups. Signs ask for silence and forbid photos, but no one seems to pay attention or take offense as people stop to kneel before the high altar and cross themselves before snapping a photo.
The high altar is qutie magnificent with gold encrusted sculpture depicting three incarnations of Santiago: Santiago the Moorslayer, astride a white horse; Santiago the pilgrim with black cape, wide-brimmed hat, staff, and scallop shell; and Santiago the saint. It is this final and lowest figure that people line up to kiss. From the pews, I can see people walking in a continuous stream behind the altar. Some put their arms around the statue to embrace it from behind.
Even amidst all the visitors, the church functions. Priests installed themselves in confessionals to hear the confessions of the faithful. Robed priests made their way through the crowds to give mass in a side altar. A nun entered the roped-off area of the high altar with a feather duster! (I wonder how many tourist photos show Santiago being tickled by a feather duster?)
What makes people take this journey, walk so many miles, to finally end their journey here, at this church? Is it the tradition, the historical significance? Are there still believers who come to expiate their sins by worshipping Santiago? Is it the beautiful countryside that attracts people, or the camaraderie; the personal fulfilment?
And am not I a pilgrim myself, with the destination and the journey one and the same?
I sat inside the nave of the church, looking at the grand, golden altar, and watching the hordes of visitors that passed through. Some are pilgrims, trekkers, still carrying their packs, some sporting the scallop shell, traditional emblem of the Santiago pilgrim. Some are well-groomed tourists, frequently part of a tour group.
It is a strange and strangely moving experience to see all the people who have traveled so far to pay homage to Santiago, St. James. Walking in the plaza fronting the church this morning, seeing the pilgrims toting packs and trekking poles, I felt like something of an outsider. These people all projected a feeling of elation. A couple of pilgrims that walked onto the square for the first time let out great shouts--half groan, half laughter--of fulfillment, of weariness, of relief at having finally arrived. People greeted one another with triumphant waves, with hugs and smiles--perhaps other pilgrims they met up with on the road. Groups took pictures, set down packs and smoked cigarettes in the sunshine. They had walked several hundred miles for several weeks (the German group in my hostel said it took them five). On such a journey they had experienced something that my seven-hour train ride from Madrid--however cramped the quarters may have been--cannot compare to.
Inside the cathedral, there is a bustle of pilgrims and tour groups. Signs ask for silence and forbid photos, but no one seems to pay attention or take offense as people stop to kneel before the high altar and cross themselves before snapping a photo.
The high altar is qutie magnificent with gold encrusted sculpture depicting three incarnations of Santiago: Santiago the Moorslayer, astride a white horse; Santiago the pilgrim with black cape, wide-brimmed hat, staff, and scallop shell; and Santiago the saint. It is this final and lowest figure that people line up to kiss. From the pews, I can see people walking in a continuous stream behind the altar. Some put their arms around the statue to embrace it from behind.
Even amidst all the visitors, the church functions. Priests installed themselves in confessionals to hear the confessions of the faithful. Robed priests made their way through the crowds to give mass in a side altar. A nun entered the roped-off area of the high altar with a feather duster! (I wonder how many tourist photos show Santiago being tickled by a feather duster?)
What makes people take this journey, walk so many miles, to finally end their journey here, at this church? Is it the tradition, the historical significance? Are there still believers who come to expiate their sins by worshipping Santiago? Is it the beautiful countryside that attracts people, or the camaraderie; the personal fulfilment?
And am not I a pilgrim myself, with the destination and the journey one and the same?
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Where are all the Aussies? In Spain, of course!
It was old-home week for the Aussie´s at David Quinn´s hostel in San Sebastian. Each of them swore they hadn´t met another person from Down Under in their whole travels through Spain and other parts of Europe. But there they all were, collected in a small beachside resort town in Basque Country. It was all ¨blokes¨and ¨mates¨, protests that no one but Queenslanders used the term ¨crickey¨, and at breakfast, good old Vegemite, a thick paste the color of chocolate that had a bitter, salty taste. They spread it on toast; some even admitted to eating it on a spoon!
I swear, I learned more about Australian culture in San Sebastian than about Basques. Sure, I saw some of the old men walking around in Basque berets and sampled some fine seafood tapas. I saw the signed written in Euskadi with its plethora of Xs, Gs, and Ks. But I didn´t delve into the secrets of their language and culture. I sunbathed on beautiful sandy La Concha beach, swam in the cold Atlantic waters, and ate Vegemite on toast with the best of them!
I swear, I learned more about Australian culture in San Sebastian than about Basques. Sure, I saw some of the old men walking around in Basque berets and sampled some fine seafood tapas. I saw the signed written in Euskadi with its plethora of Xs, Gs, and Ks. But I didn´t delve into the secrets of their language and culture. I sunbathed on beautiful sandy La Concha beach, swam in the cold Atlantic waters, and ate Vegemite on toast with the best of them!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Quiet, Friendly Girona
I spent my last day in Girona today. Girona (pronounced with a "J" sound) is a smaller town north of Barcelona. It has a small, walled medieval town, which is where my hostel is located. When I saw the beautiful place, I thought, "I get to stay here? And for only 17€ a night?!"
Alberg-Residencia Cerverí is a youth hostel\de facto dorm for students of the University of Girona, just a few blocks away. Living in the room I´m in for three nights is a girl from the university who comes from a small town--muy pequeñito--without a university. We met for long enough to have a conversation this morning when I came back to the hostel to exchange my fleece for a sweater (it´s getting chilly here!). She asked what language I speak. I answered English, but I´ve been learning Spanish for three years, so the rest of our conversation was in Spanish (though, around here, they speak Catalan, which is quite different from Castilian Spanish, really, but somewhat decipherable when written). I introduced myself, and she told me her name as well, ...Leda?... I really don´t remember, I´m afraid. Anyway, I was getting ready to shake hands, but then we kissed cheeks instead! I had forgotten the traditional greeting here! She´s studying biology. She is very nice and very pretty with curly dark brown hair and an olive complection.
The facilities here in the hostel are certainly not luxurious, but they are functional. There are two bunkbeds in the room, and while they are not as comfortable as at the last hostel in Barcelona (which was furnished completely from Ikea) they have served for two good night´s sleep so far. The shower, like the sink faucets, is the kind where you push in the button and water comes out for about a minute before shutting off. It took several times to fully rinse off, but the water was warm. I had been braced for cold!
The breakfast, included in the price, is a hearty breakfast of artisan bread, meats, cheeses, tomatoes, a few cereals, and fruit juices. And of course, coffee and tea. Not bad, at all.
The nights have been quiet, and I´ve gotten the best night´s sleep here since I´ve landed in Spain.
The people are friendlier here than in Barcelona (I guess that´s a small town for you.) I´ve actually gotten several smiles!--from waiters, shopkeepers, and the gentleman whom I asked for directions. I´ve spoken in Spanish more, too. In Barcelona, I´d try to speak Spanish, but everyone insisted on English! I felt so defeated. But here, even when I ask for the English menu or museum guide, I´ve managed to converse in Spanish.
I´ll be sorry to leave tomorrow morning. It´s such a beautiful place. Back to Barcelona, and from there on to Zaragoza! That is in Castilian Spanish territory, so no more Catalan.
Until more, ¡adios!
Alberg-Residencia Cerverí is a youth hostel\de facto dorm for students of the University of Girona, just a few blocks away. Living in the room I´m in for three nights is a girl from the university who comes from a small town--muy pequeñito--without a university. We met for long enough to have a conversation this morning when I came back to the hostel to exchange my fleece for a sweater (it´s getting chilly here!). She asked what language I speak. I answered English, but I´ve been learning Spanish for three years, so the rest of our conversation was in Spanish (though, around here, they speak Catalan, which is quite different from Castilian Spanish, really, but somewhat decipherable when written). I introduced myself, and she told me her name as well, ...Leda?... I really don´t remember, I´m afraid. Anyway, I was getting ready to shake hands, but then we kissed cheeks instead! I had forgotten the traditional greeting here! She´s studying biology. She is very nice and very pretty with curly dark brown hair and an olive complection.
The facilities here in the hostel are certainly not luxurious, but they are functional. There are two bunkbeds in the room, and while they are not as comfortable as at the last hostel in Barcelona (which was furnished completely from Ikea) they have served for two good night´s sleep so far. The shower, like the sink faucets, is the kind where you push in the button and water comes out for about a minute before shutting off. It took several times to fully rinse off, but the water was warm. I had been braced for cold!
The breakfast, included in the price, is a hearty breakfast of artisan bread, meats, cheeses, tomatoes, a few cereals, and fruit juices. And of course, coffee and tea. Not bad, at all.
The nights have been quiet, and I´ve gotten the best night´s sleep here since I´ve landed in Spain.
The people are friendlier here than in Barcelona (I guess that´s a small town for you.) I´ve actually gotten several smiles!--from waiters, shopkeepers, and the gentleman whom I asked for directions. I´ve spoken in Spanish more, too. In Barcelona, I´d try to speak Spanish, but everyone insisted on English! I felt so defeated. But here, even when I ask for the English menu or museum guide, I´ve managed to converse in Spanish.
I´ll be sorry to leave tomorrow morning. It´s such a beautiful place. Back to Barcelona, and from there on to Zaragoza! That is in Castilian Spanish territory, so no more Catalan.
Until more, ¡adios!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Small town, smoke, and funiculars
Things I like: Small town feel.
Yesterday I went to the top of Montjuïc, a part of Barcelona on top of a hill. I could see all of Barcelona, spreading out for miles to mountains on three sides and the Mediterranean on the fourth. It´s a big city! And there are so many people in the center of town, speaking all languages, walking the Ramblas filled with cafes, restaurants, shops. But, when I get back to the neighborhood where my hostel is, it feels like a small town.
My first night here, the kind people at the hostel directed me to a grocery in the neighborhood and the nearest tobacco shop so I could pick up a calling card. On my walk, one of the streets was blocked off by a small, raised platform. Some ladies all dressed up in vibrant, flowered, ruffled dresses, with their hair done up. They gathered in a circle, and when the music started, danced a lovely flamenco dance. People from the neighborhood were gathered around watching. Neighbors and friends greeted each other, waving across the small audience. They kept time clapping, and when each dance ended, shouted "¡Olé!"
This relatively quiet area of Barcelona is filled with houses and apartments. Every few buildings, the ground floor hosts a small shop. I´ve seen peluquerías (hair salons), panaderías (bread shops), carnicerías (meat shops), grocerías (grocers). I´ve even seen tiny auto shops. Above these are apartments, perhaps where the shopkeepers live. Having everything mixed in together gives everything a small town, neighborly feel.
I found the tobacco shop I was looking for and bought my phone card. A little further down was a little square surrounded by some cafes and restaurants. People sat on park benches and chatted, or sipped cervezas at cafe tables. I bought a lime gelato and ate it on a bench, people-watching. I stopped at the grocery and picked up some apples and yogurt for breakfasts. As I passed by the stage on my return, the flamenco dancers had finished, and couples were dancing together to music. Older couples, and even pairs of ladies, danced the foxtrot together in the middle of the street. Talk about a blockparty!
Things I dislike: smoke.
The guidebook was right: people do smoke a lot in Europe. I had to leave the hostel´s common room last night, it was so bad. Sometimes I can even smell it coming through the window in my room at night from people out on the patio.
Things I´ve learned: funiculars.
A funicular is two cars, one at the top and one at the bottom of a hill, joined by a cable. There is one track that splits into two in the middle for the cars to pass. The one at the top pulls up the one at the bottom as it goes down.
There´s one taking you up to Montjuïc, though you have to take cable cars to get to the very top. There´s also one taking you to Mount Tibidabo, where there´s a church and an amusement park.
Yesterday I went to the top of Montjuïc, a part of Barcelona on top of a hill. I could see all of Barcelona, spreading out for miles to mountains on three sides and the Mediterranean on the fourth. It´s a big city! And there are so many people in the center of town, speaking all languages, walking the Ramblas filled with cafes, restaurants, shops. But, when I get back to the neighborhood where my hostel is, it feels like a small town.
My first night here, the kind people at the hostel directed me to a grocery in the neighborhood and the nearest tobacco shop so I could pick up a calling card. On my walk, one of the streets was blocked off by a small, raised platform. Some ladies all dressed up in vibrant, flowered, ruffled dresses, with their hair done up. They gathered in a circle, and when the music started, danced a lovely flamenco dance. People from the neighborhood were gathered around watching. Neighbors and friends greeted each other, waving across the small audience. They kept time clapping, and when each dance ended, shouted "¡Olé!"
This relatively quiet area of Barcelona is filled with houses and apartments. Every few buildings, the ground floor hosts a small shop. I´ve seen peluquerías (hair salons), panaderías (bread shops), carnicerías (meat shops), grocerías (grocers). I´ve even seen tiny auto shops. Above these are apartments, perhaps where the shopkeepers live. Having everything mixed in together gives everything a small town, neighborly feel.
I found the tobacco shop I was looking for and bought my phone card. A little further down was a little square surrounded by some cafes and restaurants. People sat on park benches and chatted, or sipped cervezas at cafe tables. I bought a lime gelato and ate it on a bench, people-watching. I stopped at the grocery and picked up some apples and yogurt for breakfasts. As I passed by the stage on my return, the flamenco dancers had finished, and couples were dancing together to music. Older couples, and even pairs of ladies, danced the foxtrot together in the middle of the street. Talk about a blockparty!
Things I dislike: smoke.
The guidebook was right: people do smoke a lot in Europe. I had to leave the hostel´s common room last night, it was so bad. Sometimes I can even smell it coming through the window in my room at night from people out on the patio.
Things I´ve learned: funiculars.
A funicular is two cars, one at the top and one at the bottom of a hill, joined by a cable. There is one track that splits into two in the middle for the cars to pass. The one at the top pulls up the one at the bottom as it goes down.
There´s one taking you up to Montjuïc, though you have to take cable cars to get to the very top. There´s also one taking you to Mount Tibidabo, where there´s a church and an amusement park.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
First Impressions From a Tired Traveler
What do I say in the fourteen minutes of computer time from my hostal? Especially when I´m trying to figure out a european keyboard?!!ç
I´ve made it to my hostal in Barcelona. I haven´t slept in...what? 27 hours? I´m ready for bed now, but in keeping with some excellent advice from my previous trip abroad, i´m trying to stay awake until a decent bedtime. i´m thinking nine pm sounds good...and that in España (that actually have a key for ñ here!!) España, the country of all night partying! My impression of Barcelona so far has been a train ride from the aeropuerto through ramshackle highrise apartment buildings, each with its rows of green awnings. They look tired and dirty, like how i feel. The region is dry and lacking in vegetation. There are mountains all around in the distance. So far nothing glamorous, but I suppose even Europe isn´t all castles and palaces and olive groves.
So far, as far as I can tell, I´ve only heard Castillian spanish, no catalan, though I´ve seen it on signs. And I´ve heard British, French, German, and a few unidentifiable languages. i´m rather surprised i havent heard more catalan, from all that i´ve read of its resurgence in the region since franco. But, perhaps I have heard it, but haven´t realized it. I suppose I´ll need to venture beyond the tourist districts to really hear it.
I´ve made it to my hostal in Barcelona. I haven´t slept in...what? 27 hours? I´m ready for bed now, but in keeping with some excellent advice from my previous trip abroad, i´m trying to stay awake until a decent bedtime. i´m thinking nine pm sounds good...and that in España (that actually have a key for ñ here!!) España, the country of all night partying! My impression of Barcelona so far has been a train ride from the aeropuerto through ramshackle highrise apartment buildings, each with its rows of green awnings. They look tired and dirty, like how i feel. The region is dry and lacking in vegetation. There are mountains all around in the distance. So far nothing glamorous, but I suppose even Europe isn´t all castles and palaces and olive groves.
So far, as far as I can tell, I´ve only heard Castillian spanish, no catalan, though I´ve seen it on signs. And I´ve heard British, French, German, and a few unidentifiable languages. i´m rather surprised i havent heard more catalan, from all that i´ve read of its resurgence in the region since franco. But, perhaps I have heard it, but haven´t realized it. I suppose I´ll need to venture beyond the tourist districts to really hear it.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Getting Started
Yesterday morning I looked through my journal and saw entries from a year ago when I first began to seriously consider some travel. At the suggestion of my Spanish teacher, I had been thinking at first of teaching English somewhere like South America. But as castled-Europe had filled my travel dreams from an early age (and with the consideration that a primary purpose of my travels would be to practice a foreign language), Spain quickly became the destination of choice. Especially southern Spain, Andalusía--spiced land of heel-stamping flamenco dancers, Moorish architecture, the Alhambra. Hmmm...exotic.
But, with nine weeks why not see all of Spain? And so, I begin in Barcelona, capital of Catalunya. Here they speak Catalan, not Castilian--which appears to me as something of a combination of Castilian Spanish and French, but not quite either. This is the home of Pablo Picasso, and just to the north in Figueres, the home of Salvador Dalí. There will be much to see and explore. I don't know that five days will be enough!
All summer I have been preparing for this trip: buying a travel pack (which I love!); determining which clothes will pack, wear, and line dry the best; researching the sites and the history; learning how to pack. I've been collecting items to take in a basket in the corner of my room: travel clothesline, travel journal, 3 oz bottles, maps, compass, astrolabe, star chart, travel guide, portable encyclopedia for research along the way. Traveling light is going to be tough!
As travel day approaches--heck! even as my last day of work approaches--I feel more and more the truth of Steinbeck's observation that "In long-range planning for a trip, I think there is a private conviction that it won't happen." Before I have even left it, I am beginning to miss my daily rhythm of early morning walks to the train station, the hectic or slow days of work routine, study and reading time on the hour-long train rides. There's nothing like impending change to make us nostalgic!
So here's the countdown: four more days of work, twenty-five days till I fly. Yikes! I'd best get packing...
¡Buen viaje!
But, with nine weeks why not see all of Spain? And so, I begin in Barcelona, capital of Catalunya. Here they speak Catalan, not Castilian--which appears to me as something of a combination of Castilian Spanish and French, but not quite either. This is the home of Pablo Picasso, and just to the north in Figueres, the home of Salvador Dalí. There will be much to see and explore. I don't know that five days will be enough!
All summer I have been preparing for this trip: buying a travel pack (which I love!); determining which clothes will pack, wear, and line dry the best; researching the sites and the history; learning how to pack. I've been collecting items to take in a basket in the corner of my room: travel clothesline, travel journal, 3 oz bottles, maps, compass, astrolabe, star chart, travel guide, portable encyclopedia for research along the way. Traveling light is going to be tough!
As travel day approaches--heck! even as my last day of work approaches--I feel more and more the truth of Steinbeck's observation that "In long-range planning for a trip, I think there is a private conviction that it won't happen." Before I have even left it, I am beginning to miss my daily rhythm of early morning walks to the train station, the hectic or slow days of work routine, study and reading time on the hour-long train rides. There's nothing like impending change to make us nostalgic!
So here's the countdown: four more days of work, twenty-five days till I fly. Yikes! I'd best get packing...
¡Buen viaje!
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