Sunday, May 18, 2008

first impression

Lisbon definitely takes the award for creepiest first impression.

We arrived late by bus, catching a cab to our downtown hotel. Which was a great idea at the time, except the guy drove like he was in a Ferrari on the autobahn – a Ferrari with squeaky breaks. When we got out, the first person we saw tried to sell us pot/hashish/marijuana as he quickly called it, hand cupped and outstretched with a really disgusting looking brown lump balled inside. We politely declined. And we walked right past our hotel because it was a four-foot wide gated entrance wedged between a wedding dress shop and a dingy souvenir store. And the hotel was full of old leather – not classy Bogart leather, but dusty storage-room leather. And green felt wallpaper.

You know those movies with the dimly lit hotel and a slightly odd attendant and creepy music playing in the background – the kind of hotel that usually attracts zombies? – yeah, well minus the music, this place was the inspiration.

So we went to sleep in our smoke (and urine, in that one corner) smelling room with sticky carpets and one outlet hoping the paper-clip thin latch on the door would deter whatever living dead happened to have checked in that night.

beauty in dance

The flamenco performance I have just returned from was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It was incredible. And I am now convinced that flamenco is, without question, the most passionate and moving thing man has ever created.

The three guitarists took the stage, seated against the wall, and started playing – softly, back and forth, goading each other on. The oldest with long grey hair played with his right eye half closed, as if he could do it in his sleep. And the vocalists had raspy, rough voices – voices shaped by sand paper. One sang with his tongue out – as if the thing was a stopper which, when pulled, let the music flow freely from the pipes within. They sang those words with such raw emotion and power – as if (and this may very well be the reality of it all) there was no other way to sing.

And the dancing was so passionate – so full of energy, and so focused. One woman wore a red and ruffled dress, and when she twisted around she looked like an inverted rose, her body the stem – her arms the thorns. And the way she danced – you knew that to grab her would leave your hand pricked, and bloody.

It was the most beautiful thing I have seen – and even though I did not understand a word of what was sung, I felt like I understood it all. And I hope to spend the rest of my life discovering such beauty – beauty in music, in art; in words and in people. And I will hold on to what I find – because in this fickle fickle world there is nothing else really worth taking.

Monday, May 12, 2008

day trippers

Looking back on things, it seems that I’ve – with the exception of Florence – failed to mention any of the daytrips we’ve taken. There have been three – to Versailles, Mont St. Michel, and Altea.

Our day to visit Versailles turned out to be rain-drenched and miserable. We waited in the downpour for an hour-and-a-half while groups of travelers cut in line and pushy Germans (not stereotype, reality of the day) wedged themselves between people to get closer to the door. And this was the reservation-in-hand line. Things got no better inside: the floor was slick, and despite the vast grandeur of the palace, there were so many people crammed into the thing that I felt like I was in some anachronistic French aristocracy mosh-pit. Oh, and don’t get me started on the audio guide. 8 euro I think it was, and the person basically read aloud the placards in each room. Thanks. If I can get to Versailles by train and identify 8 euro to pay, chances are I can read. And the hall of mirrors I found somewhat dull. And the gardens were wonderfully designed, but nothing was in bloom. Versailles is much more impressive in film, and I’m happy to leave any future interactions with the place to that medium.


Mont St. Michel, on the other hand, was incredible. Seen from miles away, it rises out of the flat Normandy coast like the unfinished base of Babel. It looks dropped – as if the giant delivery man of abbeys and castles, bag slung over his shoulder on his trek east to the German Rhineland, unknowingly lost one along the way. It is a thing that should be admired from a distance, because it is truly amazing so: within the walls I thought it lost much of its grandeur and majesty. But it was still fun walking around the cobbled streets. A word to the wise: the omelets there, while famous, are not quite what you might be expecting. More like an eggy foam. And the special apple omelet: eggy foam with apple slices. The drive was long – four hours each way – and we booked with a tour company and it was just the two of us and the guide, so it was interesting – but worth it.



The town of Altea was a short drive outside of Benidorm on the Costa Brava. A very quiet town in sharp contrast to the swarming and loud tourists of Benidorm. The beaches were rocky and abridged, but still topless. But it was actually somewhat relaxing, and had we more time and better weather we probably would have visited more of the coastal towns.



So there you have it. The daytrips.

but i've never seen anything quite like this

Granada is a beautiful city. The most beautiful I have seen on the trip so far – perhaps the most beautiful I have ever seen.

The drive in was breathtaking. The Sierra Nevada mountain range rippled from the earth like sets of large, muscular shoulders supporting weight – while the lesser hills curved sensuously below, dotted and draped as they were with orchards like thighs wrapped in fishnet stockings. And between the hills and mountains lay vast and sweeping plains – stretching for miles around – and from an elevation you might think the valley was paved, cobbled with the clay tile rooftops of the houses below.

And Granada itself – what a place of poetry and prose. It’s no wonder that Washington Irving found inspiration here – it’s no wonder that Lorca found within its gardens the ink for his pen. There are the more industrial, residential areas, but – having walked most of the city; having seen the stark difference between the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish quarters divided now by rivers of tire and metal – I was struck by how well these areas blended, and if they were less beautiful, how little I cared.


It may be the artistic contrast between the lush and vibrant foliage and the whitewashed walls and the earthen tile roofs. Or it may be the charming, narrow alleys and the winding roads that so appeal to me. Or it may just be the architecture – the mixture of Moorish and Muslim design – something that is, in my mind, so singular and unique.

And if Granada is where Beauty makes her annual pilgrimage, then the Alhambra is the temple in which she prays. The endlessly intricate wall carvings, the poetry inscribed in stunning layer upon layer, the amazing arches and beautifully designed and populated gardens and courtyards. And the views onto Granada from above – nothing quite compares.

These pictures hardly do any of it justice – but hopefully they are enough to inspire a trip, at some point, to Granada.




Saturday, May 10, 2008

baby you can drive my car

Seeing how the Costa Brava is basically a string of small coastal towns, with Benidorm being one of the larger hubs, I thought it would be fun to rent a car in Alicante and drive around a bit, then knock out the 4 hours to Granada and get back into the whole train thing. And I knew going into it that I’d be driving a manual, seeing how there are NO affordable automatics in all of Europe, and though it had been about 5 years since I was last behind a stick, I practiced a good ten minutes before leaving (thanks, Mike).

And I assumed that it would be rough at first, but that I’d get the hang of it. And I assumed that a few people would stare as I peeled out and/or stalled. Fine. But these assumptions were also based on my impression that Benidorm and the surrounding coast was relatively flat: an assumption that turned out to be very wrong.

I soon discovered that Benidorm, and – in fact – many of the smaller coastal towns, are a good 75% of the “hills-leading-down-to-beach” variety. Sort of a milder San Francisco combined with the cramped, narrow streets of Taiwan. Terrain on which, I also soon discovered, is not good for someone with ten minutes of refresher after a five-year hiatus from driving a manual transmission (once) to get back into the swing of things. Hills are evil.

AND, as I mentioned previously, the population of said towns were a good 90 odd percent elderly – so not only was I trying to drive up hills, but I was also trying to drive up hills without breaking into an old lady with a tennis-ball walker. How could I, in good conscience, go into geriatrics after that?

But you know, I did ok. Yes there was this one insane hill (seriously, a right angle incline – I should know better than to drive up walls). Yes, I stalled (twice). Yes, it was a busy street (and fast). Yes, cars backed up (but they were nice). Yes, I burned a LOT of rubber going up (and scared a few of the elderly). But we made it to the top. And we made it around the coast. And we made it to Granada, all in one piece.

Nothing quite like a trial by fire. But it was kind of fun. And honestly, the hardest part was not the driving but the navigating in a foreign city. But there was no honking, and no gesturing. The Spanish, I think, are too laid back for all that.


There she is. Sexy, no? A two-door Citroën C2, with a 0-60 in about seven minutes under my foot. Kind of fun to drive I guess.

Would have preferred a smart car, though.

the times they are a-changin'

I’ve developed a number of things while on this trip. An appreciation for art. A love for Amsterdam, and Paris. A respect for different cultures, and a far more honest acknowledgement of my own comforts. And a pressing need, I’m told, to shave.

And, most recently and unexpectedly, a taste – it seems – for shellfish.

I used to eat the stuff all the time as a kid: shrimp, lobster, crab – I’d eat it all indiscriminately. But then, after my time in Japan, I went cold turkey – no one in the family really knows why (it has, in fact, been a subject of some debate and contention) – and these twenty years in between have been shellfish-free. And it never bothered me – I still think shrimp are strange, strange creatures. And I never thought I was missing out.

But then I figured – well, since I’m here seeing/doing/trying new things, why not re-examine the whole no-shellfish rule? So I did. And I suppose it didn’t hurt that I was on the coast of Spain, ten feet from the Mediterranean. Or that I was superfan starving. Or that I’d had more than a few glasses of sangria.

Or that the paella looked like this.


It was pretty amazing.

Shrimp, I think, is still low low low down on the list of things I’d order in a restaurant – and if it comes whole, I don’t think it’s worth the effort of de-shelling.

But I guess it’s just one more way I’ve changed - since way back when.

in this issue

Benidorm is a nice change from the hectic, gatling gun check lists of Paris and Barcelona. There’s really nothing to do here but eat. And lay out on the beach. And eat. Which, at this point, is a welcome evolution in our travel.

Forty minutes outside of Alicante on La Costa Brava, Benidorm is – for all intents and purposes – the Key West of Spain. It is Shell Beach realized. People from all over the EU flock here (but mostly from the UK), walking the boardwalk, packing the beaches and the bars. And like many parts of Florida, the population here is 90 odd percent advanced in years. But unlike many parts of Florida, the beaches here are topless. And I’ll speak no more of that.

But it’s generally pleasant.







And I’m starting to wish I hadn’t charged my way through Moby Dick – I would have liked to have read some of it on the beach, so I could dive into the water when my eyes grow tired and taste the salt and think and float.

Now all I have is Nina’s Vogue. With its special on wedding dresses…