Madrid

Hello to all of our followers. Now, I know many people who were reading this blog consistently will not have hung around to see this final blog on Madrid. The fact of the matter is that after so many weeks of non-stop traveling, we were exhausted. So when we returned, we allowed a few weeks to go by before feeling that nagging urge to finish what we started. This blog will do just that.
I, Whitney, didn't have very high expectations for Madrid. We heard it was going to be outrageously hot, very touristy, and lacking in things to keep us busy with. So when we arrived in the capital of Spain on the 11th and final leg of our Busabout trip, we weren't terribly excited to be there. Too, we had just left our favorite city on the trip, Barcelona, and it would be hard for Madrid to beat that.
The first night, we got to our terribly cramped hostel and set up camp, but we soon found that there were somewhat upscale hotel rooms available for the same price, so we quickly made reservations and planned to end our stay at Mad Hostel in Madrid as soon as possible. We ate a cheap dinner at a pizza place down the street from the hostel and went upstairs to the terrace atop the hostel to see what and whom we would find. To our happy surprise, we met our roommate Kevin with whom we shared 5 nights in Nice. He and acquired a few other friends along the way, and after chatting a while about our pets back home, he told us that he and his friends were on their way to see the Red Light District in Madrid.
Well, Collin and I never pass up an opportunity to take a look-see at scantily clad femmes, so we invited ourselves to tag along, which was met with a hearty "of course!"
We wandered the well-lit streets after night had fallen in the busy capital city. We wandered, picked up a few souvenirs, and tried to find the right street.
In Madrid, the Red Light District is poorly named. It should really be called the Lamp Post District because the ladies are lined up by trees and lamp posts and any other vertical object until they find another that better suits their needs.
Unfortunately for us, it was a Sunday, and heaven knows that even working girls need to observe the sabbath. So we went home only having seen a few girls in sky-high heels and barely-there skirts. But we knew that that night would be the last we spent in a hostel and the last we would be able to connect with other travelers our age--especially those with whom we had developed a friendship. We meandered down the city streets until we found ourselves back at the ranch. We parted ways and vowed to keep up on Facebook, which we made sure to do.
Collin and I went upstairs and held a conversation in both French and Spanish with our French roommate before climbing into our tiny bunks and sleeping in a hostel for the last time.
In the morning, we checked out and devised a transit plan to get to our hotel. After a few minutes on the internet, Collin, yet again, whisked us down the metro routes and landed us at the nicest place we'd stayed all summer.

Finale De Barcelona

During our travels throughout Europe, we have experienced the beautiful, the romantic, the historical and the artistic, but there are experiences that deserve their own special label: the "Wow" category. The Eiffel Tower at sunset, walking through the Holocaust Memorial, and seeing the Colloseum in person were all experiences that made an impression that will last a lifetime. Our last night in Barcelona deserves to be in that category.
We had put off going to the Magic Fountain for reasons of fatigue or convenience so that we had only our last night to go see it. The fountain is not so magical most of the week, but on Thrusday through Sunday nights, starting at 9:30 p.m. the fountain gives a "performance" coreographed with colored lights and classical music. The fountain is situated between the end of a main street and the National Palace (which also has a fountain in front of it, about 200 metres from the Magic Fountain). We approached the end of said main street just at 9:30 so we got to walk towards it as it was changing from blood red to lemon yellow, all the while feeling like moths heading towards some hypnotic bright light.
There are five shows lasting a half hour each and ending at midnight. We thought we would stay for maybe two shows, but because they kept changing the music and colors, we stayed until around 11:30. The evening began to feel even more like the culmination of our trip when we met friends that we had been travelling with since Paris. We had planned to meet them at the fountain but after seeing that roughly 1-2,00 people were gathered around, we quickly gave up hope. The crescendo of sound and light and saying goodbye to our friends for the last time felt like the capstone to an absolutely incredible and unforgettable experience.
We ended the night by returning to our new "hostel" that we got for the last night because the hostel we had been staying at was all booked up. Hostel is in quotations because it was basically just a large apartment; but it was comfortable and centrally located. Another bonus was that the owner was from Rosario, Argentina, where I spent five weeks last summer. We happened to support the same Rosario soccer team so we got along just fine. After a brief passport scare in the morning, we got on the bus to go to Madrid.
After that last night, along with a relaxed and fun-filled week, we both agreed Barcelona was our favorite city. As for now, we travel to the true Spain, the heart of the country in Madrid. Although we won't go to a bullfight or drink sangria, we will be sure to take in the spirit of Spain as much as possible.

The Catalan Heartbeat

Ah Barcelona! What a beautiful city. Not necessarily because of its colorful, dramatic, and untraditional Gaudi architecture, nor its breezy mediterranean coastline--the beauty of Barcelona may be best described as intangible. The passion of the Catalan culture blows through the narrow streets that, although filled with tourists, maintain a very authentic ambiance. At every turn, a street musician is playing classical music on a cello or a violin. Impoverished locals engage the people around them and speak a language that is foreign even to the Spanish.

Bullet holes litter the sides of buildings from a time when Catalan culture was oppressed by Francisco Franco, the fascist dictator who ruled Spain from the 1930s until the 1970s. For the Catalunyans, his dictatiorship represents a tragic time in their history, a time when, despite their best efforts, their intense, passionate, and distinct way of life was threatened with extinction. The holes on the bulidings' walls remain to remind the Catalan people of the resistance leaders who were peppered with bullets for fighting to keep their culutre alive. In 1975, Franco died, and Catalan culture rose--bringing us the very distinct Catalan capital city: Barcelona. Today, children of Barcelona play in squares with bullet-chipped walls, but it is said that their laughter, happiness, and freedom to live as Catalunyans show that the Catalan leaders did not die in vain.

After Franco's death, King Juan Carlos liberated the Catalan people. In celebration of this monumental time in Catalan history, Barcelona submitted a bid for the 1992 Olympics and won. Much of the city's charm comes from vast renovations that were initiated in order to present the best Barcelonian face to the world after such a long, painful part of their history. Palm trees were shipped from Hawaii and began to fill the city's squares, sidewalks, and beaches. Buildings and monuments were erected, and a beautiful Olympic park still stands as a symbol of Barcelona's rise to the status of an internationally significant city--as well as the Catalan people's ability to overcome.

Tonight, we had the privilege of eating tapas and enjoying a Flamenco show. Tapas is a very general term that could mean sauteed chicken livers to potato wedges with garlic fry sauce--luckily, they saw us coming and turned on the deep-fryer. Our first dish was a plate of meats, cheeses, olives, and "tortilla," which is a potato omlette in Spain, and was by far the tastiest part of that dish. Next came the potato wedges, and it was to our pleasant surprise that the sauce was pungent with garlic and made the dish seem slightly more sophisticated than it was. Finally, the most authentic Catalan tapas were served. In one dish, we had a whole baby octopus, which was terrible and felt like rubber. The second was a set of two sausage meatballs covered in a sweet and mildly spicy sauce. The third: two flame-grilled peppers with a hint of spice, a deep smoky flavor, and lightly covered in olive oil. And finally, paella. Paella is a dish whose name comes from the Spanish phrase "para ella" or "for her." It is said that one evening, a gentleman was supposed to serve his lady a meal, but hadn't prepared. The moment of truth arrived, and as a last resort, he pulled together everything he had on-hand, and created the most famous Barcelonian dish: paella. It was served as yellow rice with various chopped and grilled vegetables, tossed with various shellfish and shrimp. It was pretty underwhelming. The shrimp had its legs and three-inch tentacles, and the mussel shells were cracked into the undercooked rice. This platter of four dishes was distinct because the food was unpolished--and thus, probably most authentic. The shellfish still had barnacles, and no one bothered to pick out the tentacles. It was very different, and we tried it all, but sometimes you can't be as cultured as you would like to be.

But that wasn't our last opportunity to take in Catalan culture for the evening. After the four other people at our table finished the second pitcher of Sangria, we were led down the streets of Barcelona at sunset until we arrived at the Flamenco club.

Deep red lights filled the otherwise dark space with a romantic, sexy air. People had filled the seats in front of the stage, and there was just enough space between the hypnotized audience that stood around the bar that we felt like intimate strangers maintaining a mysterious distance in the shadows. A band of five men filled the chairs on stage and began to play, and the red lights went down. Their soulful, emotional voices silenced the whispering crowd. Spanish men began to lightly clap their hands to the rapid beat of the music, surrounding us with a rich sense of their connection to the music.

As we celebrated their performance, a large, sensual woman came out from behind a black curtain, silouetted by the red light from backstage. She was followed by a man whose presence just couldn't compete with her. She filled the stage. Her face sharp and deep with emotion, she began to tap her heels against the floor; leading with her wrists, she slowly drew her arms toward the ceiling. Then, she began to swing them, pulling the rest of her body around with them--now, clapping her heels. Her expression intensified, and she began to throw her large frame around the stage until it was all she could do to keep herself upright, all the while stomping her feet with fierce precision.

When the man performed, it seemed to only serve as a moment's rest for the star performer. After he finished his short, skilled, yet relatively unimpressive performance, the woman took her position at center-stage. She began to move again, this time with more intricate foot work. The tapping, clapping, and stomping created a rhythmic beat that ebbed and flowed with the emotion that contorted her ethnic face. Finally, after touring the stage, craning the curves of her hips and thighs, and powerfully capturing the audience with demanding armwork, she slammed to a stop. Her chest heaved while she proudly breathed through her nose. Her chin was pointed at the audience in an indignant expression that we couldn't help but admire. The crowd got to their feet and praised her wildly; the men around us said, under their breath, "estupendo!" As the red lights came up again, Collin and I agreed that we couldn't have spent a better evening in Barcelona and cherished the exquisitely authentic experience we were so lucky to have.

After the show, we went back out to the Plaza Reial.

Although every European city we've been to has numerous squares, it seems that each of Barcelona's is buzzing with life. Although most people are smoking, sitting, and enjoying conversation, the deep Catalan heartbeat feels electric. As night falls, the beat becomes stronger, faster, and almost audible. While we were walking around the plaza, I could hardly move my feet. Our business was done there, and we weren't interested in the bars or clubs, nor the trinkets being sold by street vendors, but there was a magnetism that drew me into the center of the square. We sat at the fountain in the middle that is surrounded by imported palms, and just felt the life eminate from the cafes, bars, clubs, restaurants, and most of all, the people, humming around the square like slow, yet sharp bumblebees. That's it. The pace is slow, the people mellow, but simmering beneath the surface is always that pounding Catalan heartbeat that shakes and awakens the spirits.

When we finally began to make our way home, we crossed the familiar Ramblas. Las Ramblas is a large boulevard that is lined with street vendors and performers day and night. The feeling down this enormous street was the same as those in the squares. All of the people move slowly, but have never been more alert. Although we've all seen a "tin-man" and portrait artists, something about Barcelona slows you down and lets you soak in the electricity flowing through the streets. At the end of Las Ramblas, when we came to the monument to Christopher Columbus, we reluctantly turned around and headed back toward our hostel.

After feeling like a slug in Nice, I thought that I was done traveling, that I was exhausted with Europe, that I was burnt out. I was wrong. All I needed was a dose of Barcelona to reawaken my spirits, enliven my interest in different cultures and foreign histories, and sharpen my desire for more. More time, more knowlege, more flavor, more Barcelona.

Barthelona!

Hello from Barcelona! Our first day in Barcelona was as fact-filled and interesting as we could've hoped for. We've learned through our travels to do the walking tour first when we get to a city and we are certainly glad we did that in Barcelona. Our guide was a master's student in urban development and what he lacked in charisma he made up for with history and education.

First of all, Barcelona is not in Spain; most people think it is, I know I did, but it is in fact in Catalunya. They have their own flag, their own language, a distinct culture and a dislike for Spain that stretches from rivalry to hatred. The most recent World Cup was, as our guide told us, one of the first times the Catalan people rooted for a Spanish national team and it was only because the team had so many Catalan players. They have fought wars against the Spanish, they have their own parliament and they fly the Catalan flag of independence (different than the Catalan flag) even though it is illegal to do so. They even chose the donkey as their national animal instead of the bull, and one of the more popular T-shirts is one depicting a donkey doing indecent things to a bull, representing just how they feel about the Spanish.

The Catalan pride is even more distinct because it was banned until 1975 when Francisco Franco died. They were not allowed to fly their flag or speak their language for so long that now they celebrate their freedom like a 21 year-old celebrates drinking after waiting so long to do so legally.

People told us that Barcelona is "such a vibrant city", and "Barcelona is so alive!" After assuming that meant colorful food and late-night parties I now know what they mean. It starts with the art and architecture. Gaudi's unorthodox, surreal, and even dark style is seen on churches and houses throughout the city. Picasso, Dali and Miró have their work displayed throughout the city and people draw (well, I might add) on everything from Gelatto shops to sidewalks. All sorts of ethnic groups can be found and all types of cuisine can be sampled, making Barcelona 'colorful' and 'vibrant' in other ways as well.

On the walking tour, we saw some old churches (I don't think you can take a walking tour in Europe without seeing at least one), some cool Plazas, incluiding Plaza de George Orwell, and a statue of everyone's favorite mass-murdering discoverer who didn't actually discover anything, Christopher Columbus. There are nice sandy beaches and palm trees, but both are imported. We are a 5 minute walk from Las Ramblas which is the city's main market, essentially a mile long street of Saturday-market style shops.

We are going to see the museums, beaches and churches on a bike tour soon, so I will have more to report then, but check back for more from the most non-Spanish city in Spain.

Well, Whitney's last blog about Nice is pretty much where the action ended for the two of us. I got pretty sick and didn't feel like getting out of bed the last two days. However, I can definitively say that I liked Nice better than Paris. The scenery was incredible and the whole feel was much more relaxed and friendly than the big-city vibe we got in Paris. Hiking to the top of the Colline du Chateau and looking down at the city was truly breathtaking. I know Whitney already described that day but I wanted to reiterate just how beautiful it was.

Our second to last night was spent watching Twilight 3, and our last night was spent relaxing/recovering before making the longest leg of our journey from Nice to Barcelona. For those of you waiting for more, there truly isn't any. I should mention that we found the most delicious pastry of all time. It is a donut called a "Chichi" (pronounced sheeshee) and it looks like an ordinary cinnamon twist, but it is so much more. The donut was cooked/fried in such a way so that when you bit in, it wasn't so much moist as almost wet with grease. Coated in cinnamon-sugar, the Chichi proved to be the single most irresistable food item in all of Europe (so far).

Now, we have a full week in Barcelona and we expect to enjoy this vibrant city in the most leisurely of fashions. Thanks for reading and tune in for more.

Bonjour de Nice!

Hello from Nice!

Collin and I got here a few days ago, and we've been taking it pretty slowly. Coming in, we knew that there was nothing important to see while we are here. True, they do have a few museums, but they're almost just for good measure. Nice is really just about tropical flora and the cote d'azur.

Our hostel is not as nice as the one we had in Florence, which has been a little hard to get used to now that we've been in what would stand for a 5 star hostel. But at the end of the day, all that matters is that we have a personal bathroom and air-con (as our Aussie and Kiwi tripmates call it). The neighborhood we're in is filled with cheap ethnic food and trash in the streets, but just 10 minutes down the main street is the gorgeous bright blue Mediterannean Sea. Just before you hit the stoney beach (which is a pain in the ass) there are beautiful pastel colored buildings with typical French architecture--intricate details around the windows and tiny iron balconies. The last two days, Collin and I have laid on the beach and swam in the cool water and tried to relax on the stones. Afterward, we come back to the hotel and read our books in the air conditioning.

Yesterday, we walked through Old Nice, which is filled with tons of little shops along streets that are about ten feet wide. The buildings have old shutters and pastel paints, and everything is expensive. It was a charming walk through a typical old district of a European town. But today we were treated to a climb up the Colline du Chateau, which is a butte at the east end of the Nice beaches that is covered with tropical flowers and trees. It was hot but there were water fountains sporadically along the trail along with charming viewpoints that overlook the miles of beach that curve toward Cannes, the site of the international film festival, where we will venture tomorrow!

We were promised a misty waterfall when we arrived at the top, but when we got there, there were two man-made holes about two-feet in diameter in some rock with water trickling from it. It was pretty, but small and unimpressive after being promised a cool, misty waterfall. Having seen the "cascade," we sat on a ledge that overlooked the sea and picnicked on baguettes, brie, and salami that we had picked up from a grocery store on our way to the butte. After that, we had spent so much time in the sun that we were ready to jump into the cool, turquoise waves, so we descended the hundreds of stairs that led down to the shore and looked into some of the private beaches because there were chairs instead of stones and umbrellas that wouldn't blow away in the wind. After looking into three different private beaches, we realized that we would have to pay between 30 and 40 euros, which was out of our budget to say the least, so we decided that we would spend another afternoon enduring the stones and the sun. But when we got to the beach, I asked the lifeguards about getting "un parasol," and we realized that we could rent one for 5 euros! So we enjoyed another warm afternoon on the Cote d'Azur. When we got home, our Kiwi roommate Kevin was euphoric after an afternoon driving a Ferrari in Monaco. Apparently, for 90 euros, you can, with a trained driver as a passenger, drive a 300,000 euro vehicle for 15 minutes going 120 kilometers per hour along the roads that line the Cote d'Azur in Monaco! Something only for car enthusiasts or men in their 60s (yes Dad, I thought of you and thought that you might enjoy such an experience). But even our roommate in his early 20s got a bang for all those bucks he spent on it. He was still swooning after coming back to Nice and talking about it for three hours.

Tonight, we plan to read ourselves into a comfortable night's sleep in the air-con, but we're planning to go to Monaco and Cannes in the next two days before we head to Barcelona for 7 nights!

Farewell to Florence

Tonight we are reluctantly getting ready to leave Florence in the morning. Collin and I have agreed that Florence may very well sit as number 2 on our list of favorite places we've seen while in Europe--second to Amsterdam, which still seems like the most surprisingly impressive city and interesting culture we've seen so far.

Today, we wanted to see the Boboli Gardens, which were one the private gardens to the Pitti family, but has become public. Unfortunately, again, we tourists weren't given quite enough information, and when we trekked as far as we have since we arrived in Florence to go see what promised to be a beautiful, natural break from even a mellow city life, we found that (according to our luck) the gardens are closed the last Monday of every month... So we turned right around, and strolled back through the city, where I had a date with a leather salesman.

After going through the leather market yesterday, I realized how badly I would like to have a nice Italian leather bag, but most of the things I liked were way out of what I considered reasonable on a backpacker's budget. But after talking it over with a few concerned parties (i.e. those who are acutally paying for everything) it was decided that having a very nice souvenier that would always represent one of my favorite destinations on a trip that I would remember forever was not such a frivilous purchase.

I spent a long time looking at as many leather booths in the market as I could--trying to find just the right bag at a price that made me feel as though I was getting a relatively good deal. After nearly an hour of searching and scrutinizing numerous handbags, having to set a back back in a kiosk that a man wouldn't take back from me--convinced that it would force me to buy it, I decided on the smaller of two bags of the same style. While I was looking, I found that I was most attracted to two-toned leather bags, so I chose a black leather bag with light brown straps and details. It is fashionable, which if you know me very intimately, you know that I carry quite the utilitarian purse while at home, and having something fashionable for once made me feel special. Ah the power of the handbag. For the rest of the walk home, and actually for the rest of the evening, I've been giddy with the thought of my new Italian leather bag. To whom it may concern: thank you so much, and I hope you know how much I will always cherish it!

The day was not even close to finished because after skipping the last two tours, Collin and I had a walking tour with a leather factory tour and a four course meal paid-in-full, and this was the last night to do it.

But as we have found througout the trip, it doesn't take much to tucker a traveler out, so we planned for a little siesta between outings. We headed back to the hostel and did a little laundry, a little reading, and a little napping before getting dressed and ready to go learn a few things about our beloved Florence.

We went down and found one of our familiar tour guides from Busabout, whom we've had on a few of the legs of our journey. She was going on the walking tour too; the tour was quick and easy and taught us a few facts about the beautiful buildings and sights we've been taking in for the last four days.

Then we went to the leather shop and saw a faux demonstration of how Italian leather goods are made. It was a mock presentation because for every one layer of leather used on an item, the leathersmith needs one week to prepare it. The demonstrator had a New York accent, so when we got a chance we prodded him into telling us that his mother is from Buffalo but married an Italian--thus our demonstrator was born and raised in Florence, but his English is plainly 'New York.'

After a few minutes of poking around the leather shop, we headed to "The House of Sizzle," which worried us because all we heard when we were told the name was "Applebees." But! EUR 20 had covered our walking tour, the leather factory tour, and a four course meal, and we were not going to complain about such a good deal.

We walked the block to the "Sizzler" and were enormously surprised to find our good friend Kendel, whom we had traveled from Paris to Amsterdam to Berlin to Prague with. She had gone off to the Greek islands, and we weren't expecting to see her again, but there she was, in the Italian version of an Applebees. Because she had already finishedd her meal, we quickly hugged and planned to meet back at the hostel for an evening of catching up on the terrace.

Collin and I sat down and were immediately served our appetizer, which was a nice slice of bread with fresh tomatoes and basil on top. Then came out a serving of rottini pasta--half with pesto (which was better) and the other half with marinara. As we waited for the "secondi," we chatted with the girls at our table and compared our experiences with the Busabout destinations. The main course was also good. The fries were seasoned with garlic, and Collin had a beef goulash, and I had a chicken leg and thigh. The only let down of the whole experience is when they served what we supposed was Dryer's chocolate ice cream....hello? We know better than that now...that's almost unacceptable in a place that is the Mecca for all ice cream connaisseurs.

Anyway, we quickly picked up and went back to the hostel. We took a few streets that we hadn't walked down before and enjoyed another fresh look at Florence at dusk.

When we got to the hostel, we changed and met Kendel and her friends on the terrace and caught up on all of the shenanigans we'd all had since we'd seen each other last.

Finally, the sun had set, the lights had come up to illuminate the Duomo, the mosquitos had started to bite like crazy, and we had to pack before our 8 a.m. bus. We said our goodbyes, promising to see Kendel again in Barcelona. And headed into our glorious hostel room with more air conditioning than one summer traveler could want.

I could have spent two weeks here, relaxing and enjoying this very important, yet surprisingly mellow Tuscan city. We've loved it, and we hate to go. On the other hand, perhaps a more relaxing destination rests on the horizon. Tomorrow, we head for Nice.