Lisbon was followed by Lagos, a southern ocean town in the Algarve that offered much less frenzied a pace than the northern city of my flight lessons. It was breathtakingly beautiful, rocky mountain cliffs that dropped off steeply into the surf below. The Algarve beaches, which boasted both lovers’ alcoves and banana boats, were seasoned with tourists enjoying Europe’s high season. The expanse of sand on which my hotel had a slice of land was large and airy, rock formations set off in the distance, an Atlantic blue sea meeting a summer day’s blue sky, a swift and constant breeze making the heat bearable, even enjoyable. My days in Lagos were spent on a beach lounger, lazily heading into the town each night. A cobblestone maze of ups and downs, Lagos’ town is dotted with restaurants and cafes, all serving the finest seafood and spirits imaginable. It was a blissful three days, though, ANY day on a beach is a good day from my perspective. From Lagos, I quickly stopped back in Lisbon, en route to Paris. There I would meet my mother and sister for a week in the City of Lights. I must admit, I was a little apprehensive to meet up with them (of course, while simultaneously excited); having traveled for so long on my own, running to my own rhythm, indulging my own set of rules, plans, likes, dislikes, urges, I wondered how I would do with travel partners. FAMILY travel partners, no less. Uh-oh…
I got back to Paris, having spent 23 hours on a train, luckily in my own car for the duration, to a sleeping mother and sister in a teeny-tiny room that was stifling upon entry. They were wiped from their trip, while I, on the other hand, was rearing to go. After a quick change of rooms to a suite, a hasty unpack, and a survey of the “where to” question, we headed out, if to do nothing else than familiarize ourselves with the neighborhood. We were staying in the St. Germain des Pres area of the city, an upscale tree-lined shopping district, filled with historic restaurants and hot spots. First stop, Café de Flores, a favorite haunt of Hemingway, Sartre, et al… for a little sustenance. The allure of the Paris streets in summer makes me smile, seeing all the cafes grandly opening their arms to patrons, asking them to sit and linger over a coffee, a glass of wine, a baguette, while watching the passerby on the street. There isn’t a city that equals Paris in that regard, that energy of street life is unmatchable. But, alas, my mom wanted to sit inside. Air-conditioning, no cigarette smoke, away from the riff-raff. OK. We’re the ONLY people IN the restaurant. OK, no worries. It’s FINE. We eat. And, it all rushes back. You forget how good the bread is, how enticing the crepes are, how hearty the salads taste, how fragrant the cheese smells, how sweet the chocolate tastes, and how quickly the wine relaxes. Mmmm, Paris delicacies. Video killed the radio star. Europe’s killed my waistline.
In the past week, I’ve accumulated countless Parisian tales. They start in storied places like the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe, they ramble down streets like the Champs Elysses, Blvd de Montparnasse, and Rue de Bac, they quiet in places like Notre Dame and the Sacre Couer, they explore Pompidous and Orsays while getting rowdy at the Moulin Rouge and Buddha Bar, they spend lavishly at Longchamp and Bon Marche, they fall in travel love with beautiful French men named Antoine, and they all end at the Hotel Pont Royal. All of the things you know and love about Paris are on display in these stories, the bonus of course, is that THESE stories include family rows about where to dine, what each day’s schedule consists of, hurting feet, morning crankies, why so-and-so makes themselves gag when they brush their teeth, or so-and-so insists on using a French accent to ask for coffee. Other stories address why napping is a partial occupation for so-and-so, leisurely lazy meals vs. baguettes on the go, who holds the map, who had a tone in their voice over breakfast, and who picked a better area to go shopping. You get the gist. Sometimes being with family is really easy, sometimes it’s really hard, not bothering to censor and hold tempers when censoring and temper-holding is required. I know I’m guilty of NOT being the easiest girl on the travel circuit, and I’m a bit of a travel snob at this juncture of my life. I’m not totally patient when asked if the “inclusive ticket” includes “everything,” or if we should ask the information counter if we’re on the right line (when there’s ONLY one…) “just to be sure,” or something equally obvious. Yes, yes, yes. I know this. So, I’m sure you’re not at all surprised to hear that I was definitely pushed to my limits this week, then reeled back in by my equally tolerant family as I took them on the Marie tour of Paris (of course, I held the map…but, they let me). They were great, and all the bicker faded to grey. I took my moments to indulge in smoke-filled lazy lunches at overly-expensive restaurants that my mom thought “ridiculous,” read my paper each day, write in my journal, and cavort until the wee hours at Parisian clubs. So, the dynamic, though it took getting used to, worked. Yin-Yang. All in all, a terrific week…
Now back to NYC, where I have to figure out my next steps. I know they involve a return trip to Argentina and a few months in Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti, and Fiji. The order and timing of which remains to be seen… I’ll keep you posted.
More soon…
~M
Showing posts with label Europe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Europe. Show all posts
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Amelia Earhart lives in Lisbon
Warning: this is a long, but fun blog. Enjoy at leisure…
A city of seven hills, like San Francisco and Rome, Lisbon is a high-low adventure of altitudes (very hard to determine on maps: you start your walks fresh, you end them winded), rambling cobblestone streets (very bad for heels-wearing, being graceful), and stunning old buildings with elaborate tilework facades (very dangerous for gawking at, then tripping over the cobblestones b/c you’re wearing heels…), and a stellar view (no downside). More San Francisco than Rome, partly because of the mock-Golden Gate Bridge (really called the Ponte 25 de Abril, which commemorates the 1974 Portugese Revolution for democracy), partly the location to the western coastline of the continent, partly the good/cultural scene, partly the trolley cars that traverse the hills of the city, Lisbon was not what I expected. Not that I can actually conceptualize what I DID expect. Possibly, I thought it would be more sleepy, more small-town. Possibly, I expected it to be less cosmopolitan, more old-world European. Regardless, I was so pleasantly surprised by Lisbon, I wound up staying four days instead of two, and I couldn’t have been given a better welcome.
Lisbon felt a little bit like Ecuador did the first time around, thanks to Amy Abreu, a friend of Plum, Gina, and Longo’s, who made it her personal business to put me in touch with her husband’s family and friends in anticipation of my arrival. All men, not complaining. My first day was spent with João, Amy’s brother-in-law, who met me in Rossío (a central square full of fountains, cafes, shops, and for now, the cows from the cow exhibit that tours the world) who took me to the two extreme ends of the city. First, Belém, where we took in the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos (church) and The Monument of the Discoveries (in front of which is a large tiled map of ALL of Portugal’s colonial territories. Very impressive for such a tiny country. You tend to think the Spanish discovered the world, when in fact, much of the credit belongs to the Portuguese…), and then went to a little café that dates back to 1837 to have espresso (new thing, love it) and these custard-egg white mini-custard/tart/cakes that you douse in sugar and cinnamon and shove into your mouth. They were…divine. Then, we went to the modern side of the city that was completely refurbished for the World Expo in 1998. It’s an area full of seaside restaurants, a concert hall, aquarium, gardens and million dollar apartment buildings, settled into another café and chatted until his car was about to be towed, and we had to drop some Euros on the table and make a run for it…
Day two brought more exploring, this time of the Alfama district, specifically the Castelo de São Jorge, ala the Princess Bride, where phrases like “My name is Indigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and “Mawrige. Mawrige is what bwings us together today,” littered my head throughout. To think that people actually inhabited such a place once upon a time ago is hard to conceptualize, but fascinating when you are walking across stone passageways high above the city. Then, to ever-more beautiful churches, then to a late lunch. Fish is the thing here in Portugal. Makes sense. On a personal note, my body welcomed the contrast from the Spanish potato, bread, tapas overdose of last week. Evening brought André, cousin of João (the symbols are KILLING me…), who took me through Barrio Alto and Chiado, the older, now trendy parts of Lisbon, teeming with bars, restaurants, outdoor cafes, and throngs of people. We caught the sunset at a park overlooking the water, and chatted about Lagos and music, mostly Van Morrison, who he’s just getting into (!?!?!)
Day three brought a trip to Docas (the Docks), per João, where I lazily ate fresh sea bass under the “Golden Gate” at a promenade of outdoor restaurants, drank port (aaahh…) and made friends with the neighboring table of two Portuguese guys and an American girl, all of whom happened to be on my train to Lagos later in the week. Night introduced me to Paulo, Pedro’s friend who took me to dinner with him and his friends. Eight of us in total, it was like Ecuador all over again. Great company, food, wine, conversation, what could be better? We continued onto a waterside bar (they need more of these in New York – forget rooftops, waterside spots are the thing), and then Paulo and I went to Lux, “the” three-level club in Lisbon, where before we knew it…4:30 AM. Huh? How did that happen? I barely made it to Sintra the next morning, a UNESCO World Heritage city (I need to count how many of these I’ve been to, definitely double-digits) that is filled with more castles and old, winding streets, and of course, charm. It was in Sintra that things got interesting…
The night before at dinner, José, a friend of Paulo’s, was telling me about a friend of his, Luís, who is an aerobatic pilot. You know, the kind of pilot who does tricks in the air in a two-seater plane. Talk about a daredevil. Of course, I’m all, I would LOVE to do that, blah blah blah… Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with Luís, tentatively making a flight time for the next day. I didn’t REALLY think it would happen. However, on my way to Sintra, my phone rings. Paulo. Tells me that I need to be at the airfield outside Sintra at 2:30 PM if I want to fly. GULP. Um…well, I won’t have time to really SEE Sintra, then. Right? Right. But, it’s the chance of a lifetime, and why the hell not? So…I make a quick tour of the castle, then have lunch (bread, cheese, water – very light, I’m going to be a little queasy, likely…), and head to the airfield. Paulo meets me. GULP. Paulo, who is terrified of flying comes to actually watch me do this because he can’t believe I will... BIG GULP.
I meet Luís, who is eating SPAGHETTI CARBONARA, when we get introduced. IS THIS MAN ASKING TO BE SICK IN THE PLANE? He’s a robust, affable guy, thrilled to take me with him for the day. Turns out, MTV and Ford (the sponsor of his plane) are doing a documentary on extreme flying, aerobatics. Luís is one of the top aerobatics pilots in the world, so he’s their focus. So…….I fly with him to the shoot in full flying garb (with the hat that made me think of Snoopie, all I needed was the scarf), in his two-person-Red Barron-type-glass-sliding-over-the-top-of-your-head-plane, doing tricks along the way, chatting with him through my mouthpiece, receiving him in my headset. WHAT IS GOING ON? Then, watch him from the ground while they film. I must’ve lost my stomach about 10 times, but it was fucking unreal. Exhilarating doesn’t cover it. It’s indescribable. THEN, I go up in a 4-person Cessna with the guy filming and a pilot, while they shoot footage from the air (!!), open-door-Vietnam-war-helicopter-style. I’m taking photos, giving thumbs-ups to Luis, dying about what the hell my life is, all the while open-mouthed over the spectacular Portuguese coast. Talk about SEEING a country. This is the way to do it. Then we were to fly back to meet José, who was going to pick me up and take me back to Lisbon to make my train to Lagos.
Needless to say, I didn’t make my train to Lagos. Instead, I spent the day on a roller coaster in the sky, without a track, twirling, pirouetting, flipping and dipping, in a aerobatic aircraft, filming a kamikaze pilot messing around with gravity, and having the time of my life. I learned to fly a bit (I was terrified to be in control of that machine, but secretly loved every minute of it, knowing that if I did anything wrong, I had back-up), but every time I gave the controls back to Luís, somersaulting we went. My photos are half right side up (ocean underneath us), half upside down (ocean on top of us). Oh my god. The most AMAZING thing I’ve ever done. (Kar, I thought of Neal the whole time…) I now need to jump out of a plane, to skydive, I’ve decided. I think that’s likely the ONLY thing that can top this.
José met me on safe landing back on Earth. He took me to change, as we had dinner plans, of course. We went to Cascias (Lisbon suburb) to the Design Hotel there (each room designed by a different person), a boutique hotel of fabulous proportions, for dinner. Dinis, the owner of the hotel, restaurant and adjoining club, Nuts Club, was a friend of theirs and hosted 10 of us for sushi. He shared with me that Uma (Thurman) and Andre (Balazs) finally called it quits this week, and I shared him with him how to make a good saketini to accompany his sushi: “The drink of next summer, for sure. Thank you for that.” After a quick peek at Bob Sinclair, seemingly “the” world’s #1 DJ of the moment, who was playing at the club, and the rumor of Athena Onassis staying on premises, I had to call it quits. It was well after 3 and I had an 8 AM train to Lagos in the morning.
Think I made my train? Think again.
More soon.
xoxoxo
A city of seven hills, like San Francisco and Rome, Lisbon is a high-low adventure of altitudes (very hard to determine on maps: you start your walks fresh, you end them winded), rambling cobblestone streets (very bad for heels-wearing, being graceful), and stunning old buildings with elaborate tilework facades (very dangerous for gawking at, then tripping over the cobblestones b/c you’re wearing heels…), and a stellar view (no downside). More San Francisco than Rome, partly because of the mock-Golden Gate Bridge (really called the Ponte 25 de Abril, which commemorates the 1974 Portugese Revolution for democracy), partly the location to the western coastline of the continent, partly the good/cultural scene, partly the trolley cars that traverse the hills of the city, Lisbon was not what I expected. Not that I can actually conceptualize what I DID expect. Possibly, I thought it would be more sleepy, more small-town. Possibly, I expected it to be less cosmopolitan, more old-world European. Regardless, I was so pleasantly surprised by Lisbon, I wound up staying four days instead of two, and I couldn’t have been given a better welcome.
Lisbon felt a little bit like Ecuador did the first time around, thanks to Amy Abreu, a friend of Plum, Gina, and Longo’s, who made it her personal business to put me in touch with her husband’s family and friends in anticipation of my arrival. All men, not complaining. My first day was spent with João, Amy’s brother-in-law, who met me in Rossío (a central square full of fountains, cafes, shops, and for now, the cows from the cow exhibit that tours the world) who took me to the two extreme ends of the city. First, Belém, where we took in the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos (church) and The Monument of the Discoveries (in front of which is a large tiled map of ALL of Portugal’s colonial territories. Very impressive for such a tiny country. You tend to think the Spanish discovered the world, when in fact, much of the credit belongs to the Portuguese…), and then went to a little café that dates back to 1837 to have espresso (new thing, love it) and these custard-egg white mini-custard/tart/cakes that you douse in sugar and cinnamon and shove into your mouth. They were…divine. Then, we went to the modern side of the city that was completely refurbished for the World Expo in 1998. It’s an area full of seaside restaurants, a concert hall, aquarium, gardens and million dollar apartment buildings, settled into another café and chatted until his car was about to be towed, and we had to drop some Euros on the table and make a run for it…
Day two brought more exploring, this time of the Alfama district, specifically the Castelo de São Jorge, ala the Princess Bride, where phrases like “My name is Indigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and “Mawrige. Mawrige is what bwings us together today,” littered my head throughout. To think that people actually inhabited such a place once upon a time ago is hard to conceptualize, but fascinating when you are walking across stone passageways high above the city. Then, to ever-more beautiful churches, then to a late lunch. Fish is the thing here in Portugal. Makes sense. On a personal note, my body welcomed the contrast from the Spanish potato, bread, tapas overdose of last week. Evening brought André, cousin of João (the symbols are KILLING me…), who took me through Barrio Alto and Chiado, the older, now trendy parts of Lisbon, teeming with bars, restaurants, outdoor cafes, and throngs of people. We caught the sunset at a park overlooking the water, and chatted about Lagos and music, mostly Van Morrison, who he’s just getting into (!?!?!)
Day three brought a trip to Docas (the Docks), per João, where I lazily ate fresh sea bass under the “Golden Gate” at a promenade of outdoor restaurants, drank port (aaahh…) and made friends with the neighboring table of two Portuguese guys and an American girl, all of whom happened to be on my train to Lagos later in the week. Night introduced me to Paulo, Pedro’s friend who took me to dinner with him and his friends. Eight of us in total, it was like Ecuador all over again. Great company, food, wine, conversation, what could be better? We continued onto a waterside bar (they need more of these in New York – forget rooftops, waterside spots are the thing), and then Paulo and I went to Lux, “the” three-level club in Lisbon, where before we knew it…4:30 AM. Huh? How did that happen? I barely made it to Sintra the next morning, a UNESCO World Heritage city (I need to count how many of these I’ve been to, definitely double-digits) that is filled with more castles and old, winding streets, and of course, charm. It was in Sintra that things got interesting…
The night before at dinner, José, a friend of Paulo’s, was telling me about a friend of his, Luís, who is an aerobatic pilot. You know, the kind of pilot who does tricks in the air in a two-seater plane. Talk about a daredevil. Of course, I’m all, I would LOVE to do that, blah blah blah… Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with Luís, tentatively making a flight time for the next day. I didn’t REALLY think it would happen. However, on my way to Sintra, my phone rings. Paulo. Tells me that I need to be at the airfield outside Sintra at 2:30 PM if I want to fly. GULP. Um…well, I won’t have time to really SEE Sintra, then. Right? Right. But, it’s the chance of a lifetime, and why the hell not? So…I make a quick tour of the castle, then have lunch (bread, cheese, water – very light, I’m going to be a little queasy, likely…), and head to the airfield. Paulo meets me. GULP. Paulo, who is terrified of flying comes to actually watch me do this because he can’t believe I will... BIG GULP.
I meet Luís, who is eating SPAGHETTI CARBONARA, when we get introduced. IS THIS MAN ASKING TO BE SICK IN THE PLANE? He’s a robust, affable guy, thrilled to take me with him for the day. Turns out, MTV and Ford (the sponsor of his plane) are doing a documentary on extreme flying, aerobatics. Luís is one of the top aerobatics pilots in the world, so he’s their focus. So…….I fly with him to the shoot in full flying garb (with the hat that made me think of Snoopie, all I needed was the scarf), in his two-person-Red Barron-type-glass-sliding-over-the-top-of-your-head-plane, doing tricks along the way, chatting with him through my mouthpiece, receiving him in my headset. WHAT IS GOING ON? Then, watch him from the ground while they film. I must’ve lost my stomach about 10 times, but it was fucking unreal. Exhilarating doesn’t cover it. It’s indescribable. THEN, I go up in a 4-person Cessna with the guy filming and a pilot, while they shoot footage from the air (!!), open-door-Vietnam-war-helicopter-style. I’m taking photos, giving thumbs-ups to Luis, dying about what the hell my life is, all the while open-mouthed over the spectacular Portuguese coast. Talk about SEEING a country. This is the way to do it. Then we were to fly back to meet José, who was going to pick me up and take me back to Lisbon to make my train to Lagos.
Needless to say, I didn’t make my train to Lagos. Instead, I spent the day on a roller coaster in the sky, without a track, twirling, pirouetting, flipping and dipping, in a aerobatic aircraft, filming a kamikaze pilot messing around with gravity, and having the time of my life. I learned to fly a bit (I was terrified to be in control of that machine, but secretly loved every minute of it, knowing that if I did anything wrong, I had back-up), but every time I gave the controls back to Luís, somersaulting we went. My photos are half right side up (ocean underneath us), half upside down (ocean on top of us). Oh my god. The most AMAZING thing I’ve ever done. (Kar, I thought of Neal the whole time…) I now need to jump out of a plane, to skydive, I’ve decided. I think that’s likely the ONLY thing that can top this.
José met me on safe landing back on Earth. He took me to change, as we had dinner plans, of course. We went to Cascias (Lisbon suburb) to the Design Hotel there (each room designed by a different person), a boutique hotel of fabulous proportions, for dinner. Dinis, the owner of the hotel, restaurant and adjoining club, Nuts Club, was a friend of theirs and hosted 10 of us for sushi. He shared with me that Uma (Thurman) and Andre (Balazs) finally called it quits this week, and I shared him with him how to make a good saketini to accompany his sushi: “The drink of next summer, for sure. Thank you for that.” After a quick peek at Bob Sinclair, seemingly “the” world’s #1 DJ of the moment, who was playing at the club, and the rumor of Athena Onassis staying on premises, I had to call it quits. It was well after 3 and I had an 8 AM train to Lagos in the morning.
Think I made my train? Think again.
More soon.
xoxoxo
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
(Re)Seeing Spain
Madrid.
I’ve been here before. It’s semi-familiar, but I feel as if I’ve grown so much since that trip that I’m seeing Madrid through new eyes. Now that I have the knowledge to actually compare world cities (I’m loving that, obv…), I can say that Madrid is reminiscent of Buenos Aires, without the port side. Possibly, there’s a little more Soho in Buenos Aires, a little more whimsy. While the Spaniards live their nightlife with reckless abandon, they’re still a conservative people, by nature. The Argentines are a bit more easy-going. Given the choice, Madrid or Buenos Aires, I’d still choose BA. Amongst the many other reasons, starting with the way I felt when I was in BA, the other one essential one is: I can’t be more than an hour, max, from a coast.
Being that Madrid is the first foreign city I’m revisiting after the passage of years (how weird to think that I’ve never actually revisited any foreign city not counting, like, Caribbean islands), I decided that I would base in Madrid and take a day trip or two from here, being that Madrid is so big and there’s so much to (re)see. It started off on a difficult note, as I had to change hotels after a miserable 11-hour train ride where I was in a six-person car sitting up (no recline feature on these suckers...) with six other passengers. My situation was made worse by the fact that my luggage didn’t fit in any of the luggage specified compartments, so I had to sit Indian-style, for the duration of the ride next to two hooligans who were singing Shakira outloud (that Hips Don’t Lie is the song of the Spanish right now) for way too long. Not fun. When I got to my hotel, it was sub-par. Being 7 AM, I figured I’d walk around a bit, find another place, so I went to the café for the “included” breakfast to look over my guidebooks. The “breakfast” was a coffee machine, like you’d find in a hospital, with lit-up buttons from which you choose your hot drink and it mechanically pours out, and…bread and butter. I tried the machine, but didn’t want as much milk as was being added to make my café “con leche” and was rewarded with the milk feature of the machine shooting all over the floor, drenching me, the nearby table, the bread display (who takes THAT MUCH milk in their coffee?) I left immediately, smelling like a dairy farm girl, and wound up finding the little boutique hotel that became my home for the next four days. After wheeling my luggage through the Madrid streets to my new home, I was spent (read: fucking annoyed), and decided to just relax for the day, walk around, and learn my way around Madrid.
It was easy to shake off any annoyance, however, Madrid is amazing. There’s a very historical side (Palacio Real, Plaza Mayor, church upon church upon church, plaza upon plaza upon plaza – all the site of some bloody battle with the French) and it’s easy to get lost. There’s also a very modern side, full of museums, shopping, and parks to while away the hours of daylight, and fabulous restaurants, lounges and terraces to enjoy the nightlife. And, oh the nightlife! For all the quiet of the days, the nights kick into high gear and don’t let up until sunrise. It’s unbelievable. It’s like everyone is out once it hits 8 PM and doesn’t even THINK of turning in before 3 or 4. I partook in ALL of it. By day it was Museo, Museo, Museo. I hit the Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, the Reina-Sofia twice (I forgot HOW much I love to wander through museums), and was lucky to be here for a Picasso exhibit at both the Prado and Reina Sofia that celebrated the 125th anniversary of his birth, and the 25th anniversary of the return of Guernika to Spain from New York. I read in Retiro Park many afternoons, while watching the people in the rented rowboats lazily spend their own time (Nabi! Lukoff!) At night, I drank Riojas on the Plaza Santa Ana with an eclectic group of young professors from the university; I went tapas-hopping through the area of La Latina where I had to ditch a Frenchie and a Yugoslav by feigning tiredness, then danced ‘til dawn with a few Spaniards I met after the fake-out at a nightclub near my hotel; I went to a some new restaurant, the pride of an upcoming young chef (who looked like Eric Pellegrino) I had read about in a Bilbao magazine, who came out of the kitchen when I didn’t eat my soup (it was gross…some fish, ginger ale, cod gazpacho) and proceeded to serve me personally for the rest of the meal, pairing wines with each course. I then stayed while he closed up, sharing nightcaps and chatter in a deserted restaurant with him, at which point he walked me home, gave me the requisite double-kiss and said goodnight (I know…I wish it were a BETTER story than that!!!)
I took a side-trip to Toledo, an astonishingly beautiful old city that served as Spain’s religious nerve in the 1500-1600’s, tolerantly. A Jewish quarter, a Muslim quarter and the Catholic Church all lived in peace and harmony in the center, which was set up on a mountain, surrounded by three rivers, high above the other parts of the countryside. It was breathtaking to look up, or look down, depending on vantage point.
Of course, Madrid, like the Basque Country, wasn’t without it’s gastronomic rewards. Paella, Rabo de toro (oxtail), manchego cheese plates, freshly made gazpachos, sautéed prawns and albondigas (meatballs), all helped keep me feeling like a complete animal. Clara (a beer-lemonade concoction), sangria, and mucho vino kept me quenched. Gyms are only for those with memberships (makes sense, but unlike other cities I’ve visited…), so I was SURE to book my hotel in Portugal WITH a fitness center. I went to the Reebok Club for a mani-pedi, and oogled all the ladies with svelte frames (HOW do they live here and look like THAT?) I probably sound like a recovering Mary-Kate asserting just how much food she’s inputting daily, and just how many calories of sweat are needed to counteract the effects, and I apologize for that, BUT…I cannot stop stopping to eat here!!! And I cannot help being aware of it! ☺
That’s all for now. I’m sitting outside, having some “last day in Madrid” wine, and then will head off on my journey to Lisbon. IN A SLEEPING CAR…finally.
More soon…
~M
I’ve been here before. It’s semi-familiar, but I feel as if I’ve grown so much since that trip that I’m seeing Madrid through new eyes. Now that I have the knowledge to actually compare world cities (I’m loving that, obv…), I can say that Madrid is reminiscent of Buenos Aires, without the port side. Possibly, there’s a little more Soho in Buenos Aires, a little more whimsy. While the Spaniards live their nightlife with reckless abandon, they’re still a conservative people, by nature. The Argentines are a bit more easy-going. Given the choice, Madrid or Buenos Aires, I’d still choose BA. Amongst the many other reasons, starting with the way I felt when I was in BA, the other one essential one is: I can’t be more than an hour, max, from a coast.
Being that Madrid is the first foreign city I’m revisiting after the passage of years (how weird to think that I’ve never actually revisited any foreign city not counting, like, Caribbean islands), I decided that I would base in Madrid and take a day trip or two from here, being that Madrid is so big and there’s so much to (re)see. It started off on a difficult note, as I had to change hotels after a miserable 11-hour train ride where I was in a six-person car sitting up (no recline feature on these suckers...) with six other passengers. My situation was made worse by the fact that my luggage didn’t fit in any of the luggage specified compartments, so I had to sit Indian-style, for the duration of the ride next to two hooligans who were singing Shakira outloud (that Hips Don’t Lie is the song of the Spanish right now) for way too long. Not fun. When I got to my hotel, it was sub-par. Being 7 AM, I figured I’d walk around a bit, find another place, so I went to the café for the “included” breakfast to look over my guidebooks. The “breakfast” was a coffee machine, like you’d find in a hospital, with lit-up buttons from which you choose your hot drink and it mechanically pours out, and…bread and butter. I tried the machine, but didn’t want as much milk as was being added to make my café “con leche” and was rewarded with the milk feature of the machine shooting all over the floor, drenching me, the nearby table, the bread display (who takes THAT MUCH milk in their coffee?) I left immediately, smelling like a dairy farm girl, and wound up finding the little boutique hotel that became my home for the next four days. After wheeling my luggage through the Madrid streets to my new home, I was spent (read: fucking annoyed), and decided to just relax for the day, walk around, and learn my way around Madrid.
It was easy to shake off any annoyance, however, Madrid is amazing. There’s a very historical side (Palacio Real, Plaza Mayor, church upon church upon church, plaza upon plaza upon plaza – all the site of some bloody battle with the French) and it’s easy to get lost. There’s also a very modern side, full of museums, shopping, and parks to while away the hours of daylight, and fabulous restaurants, lounges and terraces to enjoy the nightlife. And, oh the nightlife! For all the quiet of the days, the nights kick into high gear and don’t let up until sunrise. It’s unbelievable. It’s like everyone is out once it hits 8 PM and doesn’t even THINK of turning in before 3 or 4. I partook in ALL of it. By day it was Museo, Museo, Museo. I hit the Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, the Reina-Sofia twice (I forgot HOW much I love to wander through museums), and was lucky to be here for a Picasso exhibit at both the Prado and Reina Sofia that celebrated the 125th anniversary of his birth, and the 25th anniversary of the return of Guernika to Spain from New York. I read in Retiro Park many afternoons, while watching the people in the rented rowboats lazily spend their own time (Nabi! Lukoff!) At night, I drank Riojas on the Plaza Santa Ana with an eclectic group of young professors from the university; I went tapas-hopping through the area of La Latina where I had to ditch a Frenchie and a Yugoslav by feigning tiredness, then danced ‘til dawn with a few Spaniards I met after the fake-out at a nightclub near my hotel; I went to a some new restaurant, the pride of an upcoming young chef (who looked like Eric Pellegrino) I had read about in a Bilbao magazine, who came out of the kitchen when I didn’t eat my soup (it was gross…some fish, ginger ale, cod gazpacho) and proceeded to serve me personally for the rest of the meal, pairing wines with each course. I then stayed while he closed up, sharing nightcaps and chatter in a deserted restaurant with him, at which point he walked me home, gave me the requisite double-kiss and said goodnight (I know…I wish it were a BETTER story than that!!!)
I took a side-trip to Toledo, an astonishingly beautiful old city that served as Spain’s religious nerve in the 1500-1600’s, tolerantly. A Jewish quarter, a Muslim quarter and the Catholic Church all lived in peace and harmony in the center, which was set up on a mountain, surrounded by three rivers, high above the other parts of the countryside. It was breathtaking to look up, or look down, depending on vantage point.
Of course, Madrid, like the Basque Country, wasn’t without it’s gastronomic rewards. Paella, Rabo de toro (oxtail), manchego cheese plates, freshly made gazpachos, sautéed prawns and albondigas (meatballs), all helped keep me feeling like a complete animal. Clara (a beer-lemonade concoction), sangria, and mucho vino kept me quenched. Gyms are only for those with memberships (makes sense, but unlike other cities I’ve visited…), so I was SURE to book my hotel in Portugal WITH a fitness center. I went to the Reebok Club for a mani-pedi, and oogled all the ladies with svelte frames (HOW do they live here and look like THAT?) I probably sound like a recovering Mary-Kate asserting just how much food she’s inputting daily, and just how many calories of sweat are needed to counteract the effects, and I apologize for that, BUT…I cannot stop stopping to eat here!!! And I cannot help being aware of it! ☺
That’s all for now. I’m sitting outside, having some “last day in Madrid” wine, and then will head off on my journey to Lisbon. IN A SLEEPING CAR…finally.
More soon…
~M
Friday, July 14, 2006
Trains, tapas, and tortilla espanol...
Hi, hi...
I'm back, sorry this took so long. I seem to have a lot of worried friends from lack of blogging, lack of photos.
I'm fine, I'm fine...I've just been in my own world since I got to Europe last week...
Northern Spain, Basque Country, La Rioja…the stuff of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Michener’s The Drifters, and my latest adventure. Having been in Spain almost ten years ago (gasp!), a mere twenty-one year old (gasp again!) college graduate, I went back and reread my journals before taking this trip to Europe. Not the best idea. Shock, dismay, brief bouts of nausea reading through each day’s entry. Who wrote that?!?! Me? Most certainly not. What a lil’ bitchy thing I was, full of impatience, lacking palate and appreciation of culture, food, and experience. My time in Spain was rife with intolerance of both Lukoff (sorry, lovey) and the ever-ADD-Nabi, as we made our way from Barcelona to Sevilla, Madrid to Logrono, and finally, to Pamplona where we proceeded to sleep in an ATM booth while Nabi took bong hits from Spanish strangers out of carved melons and I struggled with bronchitis. In the morning, after a good night’s ATMisery, we “watched Todd run” with the bulls perched high on fences above the chaos. Exactly… Spain didn’t leave the best impression. So, I was most eager to come back and reacquaint myself with this country, on my own terms.
After a very long plane ride that landed me in Paris at 8 AM, followed by a day spent endlessly wandering the streets of Montparnasse and St. Germaine du Pres, loitering in coffee shop upon coffee shop eyes wide shut until my 11 PM (yep…) train to San Sebastian (NOT a sleeping train, mind you…), I was very VERY happy to finally arrive. I most definitely blocked out what train travel, Eurail (Hello, 1996! Plum, Luke..where are you?) travel is like. Though, it’s certainly not your average, door-to-door-taxi-counter-check-your-luggage-5-hour-American-Airlines-flight-with-a-snack-blanket-and-window-seat-nook-for-a-good-nap-after-popping-an-Ambien, that’s for sure. It’s more like keep-your-eye-on-your-triple-locked-luggage-at-all-times-don’t-tangle-your-feet-with-the-person-sitting-across-from-you-or-make-too-much-eye-contact-during-the-10-hours-you’re-spending-together-go-hungry-and-thirsty-and-hope-for-the-best kind of a scenario.
Still, getting to Spain felt good. Familiar, even. I know I haven’t been to San Sebastian specifically, but Europe, even Paris earlier, and now Spain, felt familiar. I guess having spent the last nine months only being in places that were completely foreign, lacking anything you can liken to things in the States, Europe offers familiarity that felt different. Weird, almost. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s good or bad. I think I’ve gotten so used to novelty that anything partially comfortable is disconcerting. (I’m sure my parents are cringing reading that…)
Anyway, San Sebastian was a stunning seaside town, on par with Monte Carlo and Nice. It’s fabulous, you can feel it as you walk around; this is a European Hamptons, of sorts. Although, inherently Spanish. With MUCH better architecture. But not as good shopping. The glory of being a Spaniard… Aaah, that life. Sleep until ten or so (the cafes didn’t open until around 10 each day and, even then, they were scrambling to serve the waiting early-rise, mostly American tourists), work a bit, maybe until around 1. Take a long, wine-fueled lunch, have a siesta, start work again around 4:30. Stop around 8, grab some tapas, head to dinner around 11, linger longer, go out and dance. Sleep, repeat as needed. A good life, indeed. The streets of the old city – winding four/five storied connected buildings of browns, beige and rusts, terraced with potted begonias dripping off the green/blue/red shutters – pulsed with the tapas scene. Pinxtos, they’re called here. All day long, it’s just tapas bar after tapas bar after tapas bar (Lukoff! The bendy-match tapas bar!). You can find people at all times crowding around a bar, crumpled napkins strewn all over the floor (it took a while for me to just litter like that…), as they devour their pinxtos; sangria, wine or cava (their version of champagne) in hand, nibbling, sipping, and moving on. It’s all on the honor system, so you can have two tapas, walk away, go for a run, buy a shirt, come back and pay. I mean…. I will admit that I had to test the system JUST ONCE and walked off after a red wine and a seafood au gratin shell (Mom, it was coquille, delish!) and nary an officer (or bar-man) tracked me down. Dangerous to know. I kinda felt accomplished. I’m not a shove-your-face tapas’er that hovers at the bar, being obvious. I’m more picky as I’m not a huge fan of bacalao (cod), which is a staple, or anchovies (another hot topper), or mayo, which is a base for so many little treats. So, I would skulk through each potential tapas bar before I would commit to it. Sometimes more than once, just to be sure. I think I freaked people out a little. I stuck to the really healthy stuff: tortilla espanol, croquetas, chorizos, fried cheese/meat dumplings, stuffed pimientos. Right.... And, anytime I was slightly hungry, I just stopped off for a tapa, which became three, which became five, throw in a cava, SURE. Bad, bad, bad… And while tapas are fantastic and all, don’t even get me started on the actual restaurants…
I think my cholesterol has skyrocketed already because anyone who knows me knows that my absolute favorite food in the whole is my grandmother’s (and mom’s) potato and eggs. Which is, basically, tortilla espanol. I have about 4 a day. I already had two for breakfast (it’s 10 AM right now). Here they serve them on bread. Like you need bread to sandwich your potatoes! But hey, I’m not REALLY arguing. I spent a couple of days on the beach, people-watching; pondering the weird, weird hair cuts and colors of the Spanish teenagers (and adults) and adoring the little kids playing in their red-white little outfits in celebration of the Running of the Bulls. I spent a couple of days wandering the city, overhearing the shouts of World Cup’s finale, the gasps at the nightly newsreels of Pamplona’s injured, and the sighs after Nadal’s Wimbledon loss (a very sad day for Spain). My “wow” moment, I guess, was getting into my elevator, bleary-eyed at 9 AM yesterday as I made my way down to the gym, only to think I “knew” the crotchety, dirty old man in the elevator with me. Why do I know this skeevy grandpa beatnik? Um, maybe because it was Bob Dylan. He was playing a concert there the day I was leaving, I had read about it in the papers every day, I mean… It was the concierge, my man Carlos, who said when I asked him for a gym pass – you see Bob Deeelin? Aha! Right. Crotchety.
And, now onto Bilbao to see the Guggenheim. Cannot wait. I hear it’s amazing.
More soon.
xoxo
I'm back, sorry this took so long. I seem to have a lot of worried friends from lack of blogging, lack of photos.
I'm fine, I'm fine...I've just been in my own world since I got to Europe last week...
Northern Spain, Basque Country, La Rioja…the stuff of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Michener’s The Drifters, and my latest adventure. Having been in Spain almost ten years ago (gasp!), a mere twenty-one year old (gasp again!) college graduate, I went back and reread my journals before taking this trip to Europe. Not the best idea. Shock, dismay, brief bouts of nausea reading through each day’s entry. Who wrote that?!?! Me? Most certainly not. What a lil’ bitchy thing I was, full of impatience, lacking palate and appreciation of culture, food, and experience. My time in Spain was rife with intolerance of both Lukoff (sorry, lovey) and the ever-ADD-Nabi, as we made our way from Barcelona to Sevilla, Madrid to Logrono, and finally, to Pamplona where we proceeded to sleep in an ATM booth while Nabi took bong hits from Spanish strangers out of carved melons and I struggled with bronchitis. In the morning, after a good night’s ATMisery, we “watched Todd run” with the bulls perched high on fences above the chaos. Exactly… Spain didn’t leave the best impression. So, I was most eager to come back and reacquaint myself with this country, on my own terms.
After a very long plane ride that landed me in Paris at 8 AM, followed by a day spent endlessly wandering the streets of Montparnasse and St. Germaine du Pres, loitering in coffee shop upon coffee shop eyes wide shut until my 11 PM (yep…) train to San Sebastian (NOT a sleeping train, mind you…), I was very VERY happy to finally arrive. I most definitely blocked out what train travel, Eurail (Hello, 1996! Plum, Luke..where are you?) travel is like. Though, it’s certainly not your average, door-to-door-taxi-counter-check-your-luggage-5-hour-American-Airlines-flight-with-a-snack-blanket-and-window-seat-nook-for-a-good-nap-after-popping-an-Ambien, that’s for sure. It’s more like keep-your-eye-on-your-triple-locked-luggage-at-all-times-don’t-tangle-your-feet-with-the-person-sitting-across-from-you-or-make-too-much-eye-contact-during-the-10-hours-you’re-spending-together-go-hungry-and-thirsty-and-hope-for-the-best kind of a scenario.
Still, getting to Spain felt good. Familiar, even. I know I haven’t been to San Sebastian specifically, but Europe, even Paris earlier, and now Spain, felt familiar. I guess having spent the last nine months only being in places that were completely foreign, lacking anything you can liken to things in the States, Europe offers familiarity that felt different. Weird, almost. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s good or bad. I think I’ve gotten so used to novelty that anything partially comfortable is disconcerting. (I’m sure my parents are cringing reading that…)
Anyway, San Sebastian was a stunning seaside town, on par with Monte Carlo and Nice. It’s fabulous, you can feel it as you walk around; this is a European Hamptons, of sorts. Although, inherently Spanish. With MUCH better architecture. But not as good shopping. The glory of being a Spaniard… Aaah, that life. Sleep until ten or so (the cafes didn’t open until around 10 each day and, even then, they were scrambling to serve the waiting early-rise, mostly American tourists), work a bit, maybe until around 1. Take a long, wine-fueled lunch, have a siesta, start work again around 4:30. Stop around 8, grab some tapas, head to dinner around 11, linger longer, go out and dance. Sleep, repeat as needed. A good life, indeed. The streets of the old city – winding four/five storied connected buildings of browns, beige and rusts, terraced with potted begonias dripping off the green/blue/red shutters – pulsed with the tapas scene. Pinxtos, they’re called here. All day long, it’s just tapas bar after tapas bar after tapas bar (Lukoff! The bendy-match tapas bar!). You can find people at all times crowding around a bar, crumpled napkins strewn all over the floor (it took a while for me to just litter like that…), as they devour their pinxtos; sangria, wine or cava (their version of champagne) in hand, nibbling, sipping, and moving on. It’s all on the honor system, so you can have two tapas, walk away, go for a run, buy a shirt, come back and pay. I mean…. I will admit that I had to test the system JUST ONCE and walked off after a red wine and a seafood au gratin shell (Mom, it was coquille, delish!) and nary an officer (or bar-man) tracked me down. Dangerous to know. I kinda felt accomplished. I’m not a shove-your-face tapas’er that hovers at the bar, being obvious. I’m more picky as I’m not a huge fan of bacalao (cod), which is a staple, or anchovies (another hot topper), or mayo, which is a base for so many little treats. So, I would skulk through each potential tapas bar before I would commit to it. Sometimes more than once, just to be sure. I think I freaked people out a little. I stuck to the really healthy stuff: tortilla espanol, croquetas, chorizos, fried cheese/meat dumplings, stuffed pimientos. Right.... And, anytime I was slightly hungry, I just stopped off for a tapa, which became three, which became five, throw in a cava, SURE. Bad, bad, bad… And while tapas are fantastic and all, don’t even get me started on the actual restaurants…
I think my cholesterol has skyrocketed already because anyone who knows me knows that my absolute favorite food in the whole is my grandmother’s (and mom’s) potato and eggs. Which is, basically, tortilla espanol. I have about 4 a day. I already had two for breakfast (it’s 10 AM right now). Here they serve them on bread. Like you need bread to sandwich your potatoes! But hey, I’m not REALLY arguing. I spent a couple of days on the beach, people-watching; pondering the weird, weird hair cuts and colors of the Spanish teenagers (and adults) and adoring the little kids playing in their red-white little outfits in celebration of the Running of the Bulls. I spent a couple of days wandering the city, overhearing the shouts of World Cup’s finale, the gasps at the nightly newsreels of Pamplona’s injured, and the sighs after Nadal’s Wimbledon loss (a very sad day for Spain). My “wow” moment, I guess, was getting into my elevator, bleary-eyed at 9 AM yesterday as I made my way down to the gym, only to think I “knew” the crotchety, dirty old man in the elevator with me. Why do I know this skeevy grandpa beatnik? Um, maybe because it was Bob Dylan. He was playing a concert there the day I was leaving, I had read about it in the papers every day, I mean… It was the concierge, my man Carlos, who said when I asked him for a gym pass – you see Bob Deeelin? Aha! Right. Crotchety.
And, now onto Bilbao to see the Guggenheim. Cannot wait. I hear it’s amazing.
More soon.
xoxo
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