Monthly Archive

This one’s a little late in coming, mostly because I was busy writing my magnum opus about the Iberian Invasion (which, according to Pete’s count, is 7,456 words long…move over Tolstoy), studying for my surprise third and final exam and looking for jobs while halfway around the world. No matter; we’ll try and make it interesting.

Last weekend we took the train down to Sevilla, Spain’s fourth largest city and, historically, a key economic, cultural and artistic hub for the country and Europe as a whole. Located on the Guadalquivir river, it is a major oceanic port, despite being fairly far inland and has a rich maritime legacy, including being the departure point for both Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci. Not bad, eh?

We arrived late on Friday night, checked in, and passed out, rising about 12 on Saturday morning. After skimming the guidebooks, we realized that basically everything worth seeing closed between 2 and 7 pm, so we streaked out of there and made a bee-line for the Torre de Oro (Tower of Gold), a turret of the Moorish curtain wall that formerly surrounded the city, as it was the first thing to close. As part of the Moorish defenses of the city, the Torre worked in concert with an identical tower situated directly across the river, between which was strung a heavy chain that could be raised out of the river to prevent enemy ships from sailing past that point. After the Reconquista, the Torre was used variously as a prison, watchtower, and ultimately as a repository for all the plunder of the New World—hence the name. It’s design is unique among Moorish construction as it is a dodecagon (or a 12-sided polygon…I just wanted to say “dodecagon” because it sounds intelligent and pompous), and this indicated its importance in the overall scheme of Sevillano city defenses: each tower that was successively closer to the river had more sides; 12 is the max. We learned all these interesting facts from the audio tour, which, in a desperate attempt to extend the interest of the tower tour (once you get to the top, it’s about 5 minutes of interesting views, and that’s about it…), presented the facts in an anecdotal format, complete with characters pretending to be Moorish kings and queens, American tourists and a British guy who fell in love with a girl he met one night outside the tower:
“Theah she was, a beautiful shadow cast upon the golden aura of the Torre. A piece of papah fell out of her portfolio and floated to the ground. I bent down to retrieve it and upon rising, was captivated by her beauty. It was then she began to tell me all about the majesty of the tower and its history.”
“A triumph of engineering, the Tower is 20 metres tall…”

A little ridiculous and over the top, but you gotta give them credit for trying.

After another Long Leisurely Lunch, which ended about 3pm, we hit the maaaaasssssiiiivvvveeee cathedral, which, although advertised to be open till 5pm, actually decided to close at 4, giving us about 30 minutes to streak up the bell tower and do a sprint circuit around the interior. Overall, it was pretty impressive, as it’s the largest Catholic cathedral in the world, with the largest altar and the longest nave in Spain. According to the guidebook, it was built over the site of the old mosque, its sponsors hoping to build “a cathedral so large that all those who look on it will think us mad.” The interior was lavishly decorated (a lot of gold) and the tomb of Columbus is in one niche (though its veracity is in question as he’s supposedly buried in about 5 different places). The bell tower, a former Moorish minaret (as was the bell tower of the Valencia cathedral), is named Giralda, or weathervane, in tribute to the huge statue of Faith at the top holding a sail to indicate wind direction, and is visible across the entire city.

We then took in the Real Alcazar, yet another royal palace, which was formerly a Moorish palace / fortress. It was a huge complex, complete with gardens and interesting geometric spaces, with construction spanning nearly all of the post-Roman history of Spain. After the Reconquista, it was expanded and converted for regal Christian use, though the building still retains a surprising amount of Moorish / Islamic content, beyond tiling and horseshoe arches to actual Islamic inscriptions, which seemed odd, given the Christian kings’ ferocity in destroying all things Moorish. The only clear Spanish changes were the addition of the symbols of the castle and the lion to the various patterns where Moorish symbols once were. We wandered among the corridors for about 3 hours, taking a ton of photos (very few with people in them, cause let’s face it, archaic architecture is SEXY and people just ruin it), and found a cool exhibit on Islamic calligraphy in one of the other buildings of the complex.

As we left the Alcazar to stroll the back streets, we stumbled upon a little cultural center holding flamenco performances that night and bought the last two tickets. Oddly enough, this was the same place in which my folks had seen a performance almost exactly a year earlier, and the male flamenco dancer at the show was the same one that we saw perform in Columbus when we went with Al’s mom back in March. Ain’t it weird how everything comes together? The show was really cool; a little more interpretive than classic flamenco, but of outstanding quality. It started with the singer and guitarist getting everyone warmed up, then the girl danced, then a guitar interlude, followed by the male dancer, then a duet, capped off by a sing-a-long. It all took place in this small inner courtyard (it held maybe 100 people in chairs surrounding an 8×8 platform) lit by candlelight and featuring a wall covered in a rose thicket that grew downwards from the top. It was hot.

That night at about 3 in the morning, a trio of retardedly drunk Tuna players—a band of Spanish university students playing traditional songs on guitars, lutes and tambourines—went stumbling down the narrow alley outside our hotel window, singing and playing with remarkable skill and clarity considering their state. Al was rousted by their serenade, convinced they were swooning her and complaining that I never do anything romantic. I figured it wasn’t the time to defend myself and rolled over and went back to sleep. In retrospect, it was almost too cliché, but given that the guys were just playing for themselves and not for tourists, the event somehow maintained its distinct romanticism. Ahhh, Sevilla. (They were NOT playing for themselves, they were serenading me! -Al)

Sunday morning, we rose late and barely made it to the museum before it closed. Though not stellar, it did have a nice Byzantine / Early Christian collection and a ton of Murillos, to the point that it seemed that some anonymous donor threw the Murillos at the city and they scrambled to put a museum together around them. But art is art and we enjoyed ourselves. After lunch, we decided we needed to relax, so we hopped a tourist boat going up and down the Guadalquivir, which was scenic and calming. Ya know, cause we were so…uh…harried from doing nothing. After disembarking, we strolled the riverside and chatted it up for a couple hours (nothing like doing nothing next to a body of water) before getting some dinner at the little bodega near the hotel where we served by a very animated waiter who spent the majority of his time at our table making fun of me, much to Al’s glee. Oh, and he started getting us into Sherry, which is more or less Spain’s version of Port. We’ll be getting into more of it when we get back and get jobs to fund our explorations. Keep you posted.

After dinner (and its requisite bottle of wine) we decided it would be a good idea to go to the Plaza de España (it was about midnight, mind you, and we had no idea where said plaza was), site of the 1929 Ibero-American Fair. There was a grand brick and tile exposition pavilion featuring traditionally tiled benches showcasing all the major cities and regions of Spain. Even in the dark with the minimal security lighting it was impressive, and since we were the only ones there it was quiet and peaceful and we felt like it was ours. I of course ruined that feeling when, the next morning, I went back over to get some photos of it in daylight. Idiot.

Monday morning traffic barely allowed us to catch our train back, but we did finally make it and all was well. And they were playing the Stones over the loudspeaker in the train, which immediately calmed my rage.

This weekend, we’re heading to Barcelona, staying with a family friend. More posts to follow.

-bdmc

The final chapter. If we could make the type yellow and read at an angle so that it appeared to vanish into deep space, we would. But we can’t, so use your imagination…

Despite all the train shenanigans, we arrived in Madrid the next morning, pulled ourselves together and got everyone back to the hotels before Al and I headed off to class. That’s right: despite getting only 4 hours of sleep and having to endure a head-splitting exchange of ignorance, we still had the fortitude to get our money’s worth from the escuela. I hate us sometimes.

After class, we met up with everyone and did a survey of the west end of town, intending to go to the royal palace, but because there was yet another city-wide fiesta of some sort, it was closed. No biggie, as we were able to stroll around the gardens and hit Plaza de España, home of the Cervantes monument, complete with the big bronze statues of Donnie Q and Sancho. Obligatory photos taken and posted.

At the end of the day, we returned to check on Poor Friend Jenny—who, though markedly improved, wasn’t up for going out. Additionally, by this time we also figured out that aforementioned city-wide fiesta was still the Festival of San Isidro, and there was going to be a big fireworks display in the park that night. Seizing this opportunity, we hit up the market and grabbed a bunch of Mediterranean picnic supplies (olives, wine, bread, cheese and a variety of cookies and chips—come on, we’ve been here for a while, but we’re still Americans), snagged a blanket and set off to have an awesome sunset picnic with fireworks set to classical music on a quaint little knoll in the middle of the park. It was on the order of the 4th of July fireworks on the Mall we did every year as a kid. Good times.

The next day, Al had a test in class, so we couldn’t skip (well, I could have, but got guilt tripped into going). Afterwards, we met up with everybody at the Reina Sofia Museum, the modern art gallery which, in concert with the Prado and Thyssen Bournemiza, forms the trifecta of Madrileño museums. After “appreciating the sh!t out of some art” as Pete put it, we then waited around for Dear and Beloved Friend Adi, whose watch was still on Portuguese time, making her a full hour late for our predetermined rendezvous. Like I said, this trip had a very distinct theme. From Reina Sofia, we went up north to tour the Bernabéu Stadium, the aforementioned Ohio State practice field, er, I mean, home of Real Madrid, the team that invented God. By now starving, we set off on our regular Friday night circuit, including the tapas bar where you get a full plate of food with every tiny beer you order, a slightly classier wine bar, and finally the old timers restaurant / bar where we know two of the bartenders, and they take really good care of us every time we visit. Due to a miscommunication at the tapas bar, we ended up with 12 cañas of beer at once, rather than the six we needed, resulting in a smorgasbord of food and cerveza, but since O and Paddy were there, it ended up not being a problem at all. It was a divide and conquer scheme: Paddy on beer, O on food, Poor Friend Jenny on plates. Go team.

Saturday, we rose early to get everybody to the school bus that was taking us to El Escorial, where we had gone earlier, but the guys wanted to see as well. During roll call, my former teacher (the Brack Peet one) was having a little trouble pronouncing the American names and called out “Pee-ter? Pay-ter? Wheesh wun ees correcto?”

“Pay-ter”.

Of course.

Well, it was either that or, “Me llamo Mike.”

The trip was great, and though the subject matter was a tad heavy (despite the alliteration, Franco is not fun), it seemed like everyone enjoyed themselves, so we’ll consider the day a success. Upon returning, we all passed out in Paddy and Dear and Beloved Friend Adi’s hotel room (except for Al and O, who went running), and Pete, who sat quietly in a corner and drank for two hours while the rest of us slept. Let’s hear it for dedication, people! After everyone rose / got back / puked and rallied, we went out for dinner at another, slightly more upscale tapas place, then did some bar hopping, ending up at an Irish bar.

Of course.

Sunday morning was the beginning of the Exodus, as Paddy, Peter and Poor Friend Jenny left early. Dear and Beloved Friend Adi’s flight wasn’t till later, so we hung out for a bit, grabbed some lunch and then escorted her up to the airport terminal, mostly to help her carry the awkwardly large and ghetto-fabulous plastic bag full of paintings she had acquired in Lisbon. The jerry-rigging was phenomenal.

After dropping Adi off, O (whose flight wasn’t till the next day), Al and I stopped by the stadium to see if there were any tickets left (there were) and then to procure the necessary fan regalia (at obscenely over-inflated prices). Upon arriving home, we got a text message from Adi saying they had canceled her flight and she couldn’t get out till the next day and she was coming back to the apartment. This ended up being awesome, because it extended the fun yet another night. Granted, that night meant that there were 4 people sleeping in a room barely big enough for 2, taking us to truly tenement levels, but oh so cozy!

At any rate, they left the next morning as we went to class, and we cried all they way to, thru, and home from class. It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime gathering, and, as Pete put it in a follow up email: “[it] Confirm[ed] that we are indeed all best friends by spending 10 days with each other with almost zero sniping (I got cranky about tardiness on Friday…my bad).” We’ve come a long way from the Outer Banks beach week beach house…

And so concludes the Iberian Invasion by Tall, White Americans. We hope you enjoyed this adventure; we sure enjoyed embellishing otherwise boring events. Tune in next time as our heroes set off on new and exciting exploits, taking on towns such as Sevilla, Barcelona, Granada and Córdoba!

Editor’s Note: Though neither government has issued any official statements on the matter, we’re fairly certain that none of us will ever be allowed back on an overnight train from Lisbon to Madrid, nor anywhere near Santiago Bernabéu Stadium (that last one isn’t really that big of a deal).

-bdmc

The continuing saga of the train ride to Lisbon and the shenanigans that ensued.

So let’s recap: we’ve taken Lisbon for all she had to offer, are completely satisfied with our experience and are now at the station waiting for our train while figuring out how to get our various doctor friends to throw their soon-to-be-abundant cash into the kitty to pay for an apartment block that, given their ridiculously busy schedules, they’ll never be able to visit but we’ll appreciate in their stead, and that Peter can decorate with Stars and Stripes tile patterns. Cause that’s his idea of “blending in”. Oh yeah, and Poor Friend Jenny is on the floor of the dirty-ass train station bathroom making long distance calls on the porcelain receiver.

Trainside, we’re greeted by the same lovely Portuguese hottie that checked us in back in Madrid. Because of our unexpectedly good behavior on the train over, she remembered us, saying “Ahh! The family is back! Have a good trip?” complete with big smiles. We were SO in. We got Poor Friend Jenny tucked in and then, as before, headed to the bar car. Cause, really…what else do you do on an 8-hour train ride?

In the bar car, seats are randomly occupied, so some of our group congregates at one end, while Paddy, Big O and I take three contiguous stools between a tall, very cute brunette (so I’m told by the predators in our group; I only have eyes for Al…pause for collective groan) and a very-low-talking-but-seemingly-American-
but-we’re-not-sure-because-we-can’t-hear-what-they’re-saying-and-we’ve-figured-
out-that-German-tourists-tend-to-look-American-and-we-don’t-want-to-be-wrong couple. As the single gents are marveling in their good fortune, Brunette starts chatting O up about what we’re doing here, where we’re from, etc. O replies with our circumstances, adding that they’re all here visiting Al and I, and we’re here learning to speak Spanish. Brunette is intrigued, asking me “Do you speak Spanish?” I shrug and reply “un poco”, which prompted O to ask what I really DID say when people asked me if I spoke Spanish, which is a logical and appropriate question. This drove Brunette to question O, “Why would anyone ask him if he spoke Spanish?”

I swear to Real Madrid / God that the train actually lurched to a stop for a minute at that one.

O recovered first, sputtering, “but you…you just…just…didn’t you just…?” “Yeah, like, but why would anyone ask him if he spoke Spanish?” countered Brunette. A sly one, this fox. I immediately excused myself, drifting over to a recently vacated stool next to Al and the rest of the gang.

And none too soon. The conversation continued to degrade, her vacuous, Valley Girl voice filling the cabin with “uh hUHs”, “likes” and “oh my GODs”. Our end of the bar could barely hold it together. Shortly thereafter O popped up from his wingman post with “Weeeellll, I’m going to go check on Poor Friend Jenny” which really only involved him getting up, turning around, opening the door of the bar car, pausing, coming back in and sitting down at the other end of the bar with the rest of us, which meant that Paddy was now left alone with this intriguing 5′11″ stack of…interest…

Judging from his continuing line of questions and replies to her fractured logic, combined with his distinct lack of a “somebody freakin’ rescue me please” look (which could have been the result of the steady stream of beers he was quaffing for survival), we figured he was doing fine and returned to faking like we were minding our own business. All the while, however, we kept an ear open to hear such gems as:
Brunette: “You want some chocolate? It’s from Belgium. It’s got lots of antioxidants.”
Paddy: “Oh yeah? Now what exactly are antioxidants?” (this was not at all a patronizing question; the girl had just said she was in med school, and Paddy figured she could shed some light on the topic)
B: “I uh…I’m not…I don’t know what antioxidants do. I think…I think they’re in chocolate and red wine has a lot, too. I should know this. If I had my computer…. Oh, I shouldn’t say things I don’t know the answers to…”

How very true.

Though the beer is nearly coming out our noses, Al and Dear and Beloved Friend Adi, remained ever vigilant, keeping a steady eye out for signals and debating as to whether or not Paddy needed rescued:
“Should we save him?”
“I dunno, he seems like he WANTS to be there; I haven’t seen any signs or indications…”
“Like what? Him trying to throw himself out the window?”

It was at this point that Big O decided that the only way to extricate one’s self from such a situation was to light one’s self on fire, and since Paddy wasn’t doing that, we figured we should use his pocket video camera to document the carnage. Super-spy Al obtained some Oscar-worthy footage by filming the reflection in the window, complete with sound. It’s stellar. It’s like watching a plumber at work on his knees under your kitchen sink. You know you shouldn’t look, but you can’t turn away.

The conversation continued for a while longer, until a comment about bad beer prompted Paddy to comment, “see, now that’s why people don’t like Americans” (I think the context was something about the big American beers not having any flavor or something like that; either way, that’s not the important part, what follows is). All the sudden out of nowhere, formerly Quiet Talking Couple at the other end of the bar erupted into “What’d you say ’bout ‘Mericans?” in a Southern accent as thick as deep-fried breaded bacon rind dipped in a mayonnaise and butter reduction. This got Paddy dragged into a debate about the merits of American beer; how the US is better than, well, everyone; how Formerly Quiet Guy’s wife can’t eat any of the food in Spain and they just wished there were a freakin’ Applebees somewhere; and other assorted tourist faux pas. Exactly which ones, I’m not really sure, as we weren’t paying full attention due to the fact that we were frantically searching for the emergency exits while trying to quiet Pete who was lobbing conversational Molotov cocktails like, “No, no, no…we like Americans. Hell, WE’RE Americans! We just don’t like Southerners!”. Luckily, Paddy was able to use his charms to placate the dude, just before we were about to pull the “In Case of Emergency Only” lever.

It was about this time (1:30a, maybe) that a rather large gentleman rolled into the bar. It was clear from his rotundity that he was American, and Formerly Quiet Southern Guy—who’s still occasionally trying to restart the battle with Paddy—catches on that he’s American too and tries to get him on his conservative Amero-centric bandwagon. Surprisingly, Gordito was a bleeder from Oregon and the two of them begin going back and forth about politics and Europe versus America and all other sorts of topics that you don’t talk about at the dinner table with family, let alone in the bar car of an overnight train with strangers. This now means that Paddy is caught in betwixt all this madness, with Brunette prattling on about how she “can’t eat poppy seed muffins because the little black things get stuck in her teeth” in one ear and a Bush / Obama / Hillary battle raging in the other. The rest of us, still sputtering over previous comments and trying not to laugh outright over current ones, saw the fuse to the powder keg burning low, and excused ourselves, leaving Paddy, Brunette and the trio of pundits to solve all the world’s problems.

Though we normally subscribe to the Navy SEAL credo of “Leave No Man Behind”, in this case, we couldn’t help ourselves as self preservation took precedence.

About an hour later, Al was in the hallway, coming back from the bathroom and saw Paddy wandering around in a dazed stupor, looking for his cabin….

Will Paddy find his cabin and recover from his intellectual beat down? Will Poor Friend Jenny ever get out of the bathroom? Will our heroes do anything else in Madrid besides get drunk together (again)? Find out with the next and final installment of this thrilling saga!

-bdmc

Continuing from the last post…and we’ve uploaded pix

So, the aforementioned Lisbon Lounge Hostel (awesomest place ever!) is on a quaint little pedestrian side street not too far from the main square, and is flanked by great cafés with plenty of outdoor seating. Since we had a few hours until we could check in, we took advantage of one of these and had L³ #2 (though at 9a really makes it more of a breakfast), which was most satisfying. And since it was Lisbon, dirt freakin’ cheap. Can’t beat that.

Upon departing the restaurant, we were immediately confronted by a grizzled, yet somehow seemingly well-kempt gentleman in a suit who growled in a Cheech-like voice “hasheeeesh? Mareeewannaaa?” while holding what looked to be dog crap wrapped in tin foil close to his waist. He then reminded us that, “eets leegal een Portugal…” Oh, well, if that’s the case, I’ll take a kilo! Chowderhead. Side note: we continued running into this same guy, with the same routine, throughout our stay, sometimes multiple times a day and within minutes of just having passed him (we made a lot of wrong turns). We figured that since he kept holding the merchandise below his waist, it must be legal to partake, so long as you keep it below the waistline. None of us being flexible enough to make that work, we politely declined. Admired his tenacity though. Overcoming our contact highs, we strolled around the streets, stopping to admire the great Praça do Comércio (Commercial Square), a major architectural element of the “new” city. “New” is a relative term, especially because most of the “new” city was built in the mid-1700s following a huge earthquake, tsunami and fire that nearly consumed Lisbon entirely (they really went for the trifecta there). We then headed to the “old” city, which is truly old (like Phoenician and Roman old), and hiked to the top of the fortress there, which provided amazing views of the city. It was here that we were reminded just how paranoid Americans are of being sued: unlike American archaeological sites, which—if they allow you inside at all—are protected and reinforced with guard rails, chains, ADA-compliant ramps, etc., this ancient castle offered the opportunity to scale 20′ high towers using only worn, slick, 900-year-old steps set at a ridiculously steep angle, with no handrail or other restraining elements. Needless to say, we climbed every single one of them.

Upon descending from the hill, the dynamic duo of Al and Dear and Beloved Friend Adi strove—successfully—to find a restaurant for lunch, searching for the one that was highly recommended in the guidebook. A challenge for sure, as the streets in Lisbon are as tangled as a hippie’s dreadlocks and about as impassible, with names changing every doorway or so and small open spaces that you wouldn’t think would count as a new street being designated as such. Given a solid team effort, however, we found the winding side street, and upon ascending the route, were pleasantly surprised to see it open up to a small courtyard with four or five tables set up in it, with the restaurant on the side. It was picturesque. Hemos comido bien.

Three hours later—with bulging stomachs—we started heading back to the hostel, only to be sidetracked by a plaza with a cool looking church, next to which was a great little hand-crafted ceramics store where we procured a few charming, though very fragile, physical reminders of our experience. We then wound our way back to the hostel, basking in the ever-improving weather and taking in the sights along the route, especially noting all the different tile patterns that adorn the exterior walls of nearly every building in the city. Each facade is a unique, intricate pattern, and the juxtaposition of these patterns from one building to the next is a feast for the eyes. The sidewalks, too, are a mesmerizing tapestry of black and white patterns, with each block and square having a unique and complex design. We could only imagine the bricklayer’s response to the work order: “You want me to do WHAT?”

After a nap, we hit up a great restaurant not too far from the hostel and, like all our other dining experiences, had a great time. Since Portugal, and Lisbon especially, relies heavily on tourism for sustenance, the service everywhere was exquisite, and from our perspective, genuinely friendly, especially if you tried to use some Portuguese (even though everyone spoke English or Spanish). In anticipation of our journey, we strove to break the ignorant American stereotype and picked up the essentials: falla inglés? (do you speak English?); obrigado (thank you); desculpe (I’m sorry) and mammas (boobs). Cause ya never know. And it’s funny. In a gross kind of way.

Tuesday morning broke with gorgeous weather, so we figured a trip to the nearby Cascais beach was in order. Unfortunately, getting 7 people to move with any sort of vitesse proved to be a bit of a problem, which became clearly evident an hour and a half later when we were still sitting at an outdoor café precisely 15 feet from the door of the hostel. By then, the weather had cooled significantly and clouded up, so we abandoned the idea of actually swimming, but figured we’d check out the beach anyway. Oh, and Paddy and I ordered beers, but since our comprehension of the metric system is a bit faulty, we ended up with a full on LITER of beer each (I don’t want a large Farva! I want a goddamn literacola!). Quaffage time further set us back from our plan. Oh well. Numb is fun.

After a 30-minute walk to the intercity train station and a harrowing purchasing of tickets with the unsolicited and very pushy assistance of some local gypsies, we finally made it to the beach town of Cascais, about 45 minutes from Lisbon proper. The town was a quaint fishing village with several inlets and small beaches bordered by soaring cliffs, the bays cluttered with anchored fishing boats. It really didn’t get more romantic than that. But since we couldn’t actually go in the water (it was freakin’ cold, in both Celsius and Fahrenheit) we decided to go to a cliffside bar and admire the view. It was at this juncture that we came to the realization that as we get older and continue getting together as a crew, we really only end up looking for more and more expensive places to drink together. Eh, could be worse.

Returning home, we regrouped and hit up the hip end of town, dining in a great Argentinian steak house and stopping by a bar afterwards. There was, uh, good conversation…

Wednesday was more schlepping around, hitting the sites and stores we missed the previous days. We took a ride in the Santa Justa Elevator, which links the lower part of Santa Justa Street to Carmo Plaza, found atop a hill apparently too steep to access any other way. It’s basically an Eiffel-Tower-esque structure with two 20-person cars that take you up and down with a café on the roof. Great views. At the top of the hill, adjacent to said plaza, is the Carmo Convent, basically a Gothic cathedral that has been partially rebuilt following its collapse during the aforementioned earthquake. Partially basically means that it has no roof, only the stone ribbing that would support it and is about as Romantic / “ruins of a former empire” flavor as you can get. It was an awesome experience to explore the grounds and the adjoining museum, as we were standing in grass where the floor of a mighty cathedral once stood. Just check out the pix because the description won’t do.

Another L³ followed, though this one ended up with unforeseen negative consequences as poor friend Jenny ended up getting food poisoning, which we didn’t realize until much later, about an hour before we boarded the night train to head home. Most unfortunate. She handled it like a trooper, though, despite the adverse situation and locations in which she had to…uh…pretend she was a post-fiesta college student again. But since we didn’t know she was contracting bowel death at the time, lunch was great!

Post-lunch we continued exploring, basically whiling away the hours before our train left at 10p. We hit a bunch of Port stores (in accordance with our abundant whiteness, we’re now officially into Port, having attended several tastings and even buying a few bottles ourselves) and other souvenir shops and I think a bar or two. No, wait, definitely a bar, because that’s where Jenny realized she shouldn’t have had the omelet and like the rest of us, gone with the waiter’s recommendations. Yup. Definitely at the last bar. That was unfortunate.

Anyway, it’s at this juncture that we must again pause, as the final segment of our adventure (the train back) requires its own post. Quite an adventure.

So, overall, you could definitely say that we freakin’ loved Lisbon. The city has a great Old-World charm about it, with an intriguing—though never pathetic—sense of being the functioning ruins of a crumbled empire. Monuments to former glory are everywhere and the kind of suspended decay of the buildings, combined with the plethora of trams make you feel like you’re in some sort of ridiculously authentic European historical theme park. The civic and national pride is evident and the people are warm and friendly, especially when trying to sell you weed. The architecture and visual textures are so diverse and interesting that you could live there forever and never see the same pattern twice. We all mentioned numerous times how fun and easy (and again, so freakin’ cheap!!) it would be to buy an old building downtown and rehab it and have it be our official gang hangout for summer trips and such. We figure if we get our various doctor friends to chip in, the dozen or so of us could totally pull it off. We’d be great Lisbians. Or Lisboners? Not sure what you call ‘em, but both are pretty funny. God, I’m so 13…

Will our heroes make it back to Madrid on time and in one piece? Will the night train pass without incident? Will our valiant travelers get their passports back at the end of the trip? Is there enough beer on the train? Find out with the next installment!

-bdmc

We’re taking a slight pause in the Tall, White Americans saga to relay this important message about Real Madrid, Madrid’s regal soccer team, as we are experiencing writers block on the TWA story and after viewing some pix we took, realized that the following story needed to get out.

Despite our best (and believe me, they were our supreme) efforts, we finally succumbed recently and went to Santiago Bernabéu stadium, home of Real Madrid, to both visit the stadium and later, to see a game. We don’t know if you’re aware, but apparently Real Madrid is the greatest team in the world at every sport, and basking in its glory and achievement is the sole reason this world and all its inhabitants exist. And possibly God, for that matter.

And that’s not hyperbole on my part; it’s more-or-less a direct quote from the numerous information panels within the Real Madrid Museum and Hall of Self-Gratifying Glory. A couple choice quotes:

“Real Madrid is the best team in the 20th Century, which is like saying that it’s the best club of all time: the best club in the history of soccer.”

“The European Cup would be meaningless without Real Madrid.”

Now, being rabid Ohio State football (the only football that matters, etymology be damned) fans (go to hell, SEC, you bunch of over-hyped weenies), we understand the tendency to over-inflate your team’s self-worth and impact on the game (thought it’s hard to beat 7 Heismans and 7 National Championships). This sense of self-awareness, however, seems to have bypassed Real Madrid. Nowhere in any part of the tour nor the game was there any sense that they could lose, have lost, or ever will lose, or that they themselves are not the reason for God’s existence. It was ridiculous.

Unimpressed.

The stadium, in a word, was cute. With a capacity of 80,500, it was so cute, in fact, that it prompted me to ask our tour guide “es para practicar?” and another friend to inquire “donde esta el estadio para los hombres?”. For being the team that invented God, it was a little underwhelming. The press room and visitors locker room, both stops on the tour, paled in comparison to the facilities of most NCAA women’s fencing programs, while the overall stadium was decorated in orange and blue, neither of which is found anywhere in the Real Madrid brand ethos (their colors are white, gold and purple). Makes one question where all the money goes.

Oh, that’s right, it goes to the overpaid players. Basically, Real Madrid is the New York Yankees of European soccer, which means they can pretty much buy anyone they want to virtually ensure that they at least get to the finals in any league in which they play. And when you consider that a large portion of the players aren’t even Spanish, it undermines their nationalistic claims all the more (not that US football teams are all Americans; there’s a Samoan and maybe Canadian or two in there, we know). Whatever is left over goes to provide the La-Z-Boy-like armchairs in which the teams sit on the sidelines. While lounging in them at one stop of the tour, another buddy leaned over and asked “why don’t our professional athletes have such comfortable equipment?”. It’s because our professional athletes are men. With the exception of pro basketballers. They’re princesses.

Alright, enough bashing. Every team has the right and board-mandated obligation to win games and turn a profit. So be it. Doesn’t mean we can’t laugh at them.

The game itself—which by coincidence was the last game of the Spanish La Liga season—was fairly interesting and passionate (at least on the part of the fans). Real Madrid played some podunk team and completely thrashed them, which didn’t matter anyway because they had already locked up the title a few weeks ago. The post-game festivities and presentation of the trophy was as ostentatious as the team that invented God would demand: music; a procession around the stadium accompanied by confetti cannons at each section; an hour-long multimedia presentation and summary of the season; and probably more, though I can’t say for sure because by that point it was getting on midnight and we’d been up for 2 days and were exhausted, so we left. Overall, it was akin to a Superbowl Championship presentation, for which I have equal disdain.

We (and by “we” I mean Al) did do our part to support the Team that Invented the Universe by purchasing 2 €45 nosebleed tickets (I will point out, however, that we were able to acquire these tickets a few hours before the game, at the ticket office, without a line, a fact that would never stand at an Ohio State game, regardless of the opponent; a truly disheartening anecdote that calls into question the true level of devotion of Real Madrid’s fanbase), a Champions scarf and replica game jersey (both for our nephew, who is, with out a doubt, being indoctrinated with this dreck as we type). It pained me to think that we were, in essence, actively supporting the European version of the M*ch*g*n Wolverines.

May God (should he be an independent creation from Real Madrid) have mercy on our souls.

Photodocumentation of our transgression available on flickr.

Final note: the fans (however deluded) were really nice.

-bdmc

Edited to add: I truly enjoyed the tour of the stadium and the game. The stadium does not have a bad seat, and the fans were extremely friendly and entertaining. The Real Madrid museum was completely charming in its unabashed self-glorification and I truly think I’m getting into soccer. I think BDMC’s post might have been influenced just a little bit by his love/hate relationship with a certain rabid Real Madrid fan-in-law we know
-cuptastic

Apologies for the long pause in posts; we know you’re crushed. As previously mentioned, a horde of our very tall, very white and very close friends descended on us last weekend and since then, we’ve been putting the Iberian peninsula through its paces. And it has been tremendous, yielding a veritable tome of mostly humorous anecdotes, some of which are recorded below for your imaginative pleasure.

The Iberian Interlude began last Saturday when we collected our chums at the airport at the buttcrack of dawn (an obscene part of the day which Al and I haven’t seen in nearly 2.5 months; it was sheer horror, especially with the 2 hours of sleep we managed to achieve between onslaughts of Swedish party outbreaks). After schlepping around and into hotels thru the rainy downpour—which, of course, started immediately after our friends arrived, continuing until immediately after their departure—we took some time to collect ourselves before enjoying our first of many Long Leisurely Lunches (L³’s from now on), after which we did a quick survey of the Prado. It was during this time we established the theme for our trip: “Waiting for Our Dear and Beloved Friend Adi Who Somehow Without Intending or by Virtue of Unforeseen Third-Party Actions is Curiously Late on a Number of Occasions”, or more succinctly, “W”Ad”ing”. It was always funny, however, and she knows we were just kidding…we hope.

Jet lag claimed two victims that night, while the rest of us went to get the other half of the group checked in to their hotel and catch up while we waited for our other friend—who had arrived earlier in the week and immediately went to Barcelona to meet an old roommate—to return (grammatic simplicity be damned!). Their room was cozy and well designed, though the door to the bathroom was clear glass. Made for interesting deposits.

Sunday morn found us at El Rastro, one of the largest flea markets in Europe, where you can find pretty much anything you could ever not need, with the exception of your wallet, which was probably ganked three stalls back by one of the sly and nefarious pick-pockets who frequent the area. We emerged unscathed, however, and came away with a cool etching of a toreador toying with a bull that will adorn some wall in our as-yet-undiscovered Chi-town apartment. Plaza Mayor was next on our list, where we got to see some of the San Isidro shenanigans, as last week was the festival in his honor as the patron saint of Madrid. It was after this that we ended up at the aforementioned cerveceria from which we were dishonorably ejected (again, for no apparent reason…still steamed over that one).

Following our dismissal, we headed home to pack, then journeyed to the train station to catch our night train to Lisbon. Due to an overestimation on my part of the amount of time it would take to get on said train (imagining it would be similar to the ridiculous rituals at airports), we arrived at the train station about 2.5 hours early (it says on the tickets you just need to be on the train 2 minutes before departure…must have missed that). Fortunately this gave us plenty of time to eat and drink at the terminal cafe (which, by the way, kicks the soy byproduct right out of the fried patties available at American transportation hubs: I got a real pork tenderloin feast with salad, bread and an icy cold beer and Al got half a roast chicken meal for about €14 total, which, even with the exchange rate, is fan-freakin’-tastic) before boarding. Despite our early arrival, however, we found ourselves experiencing Data Point Two in support of the blog title as Dear and Beloved Friend Adi suddenly felt the urge to go, necessitating a trip to the other end of the terminal that took so long that we barely made it on the train. Again, it was funny the whole time, right Ad?

The night train was great, and due to the graciousness of another pair of travelers, we were able to get everyone into two neighboring cabins, which, in the near future, would greatly facilitate our finding our bunks after stumbling back from the bar car several hours later. Needless to say, we spent most of our time in said bar car, becoming fast friends with the bartender, who, in his graciousness, allowed us to remain in the car as long as we wanted following its closing at 2a. Which, of course, we did. Till about 4a, I think…. Arrival at 8a sucked.

Post-arrival, and after a good looooong pee, we strolled the winding streets of Lisbon to find The Lisbon Lounge, quite possibly the hippest, cleanest, coolest, least Eli Roth-est hostel in the entire world. It alone demands a trip to Lisbon. We snagged a huge 8-person room for 3 nights for what amounted to $65/person TOTAL, including the fact that we bought out an extra bed to ensure that we got the whole room to ourselves (our American love of personal space knows no fiscal limit).

What ensued will be covered in another post, as this one is already ridiculously long, and although WordPress space is free, there’s no need to be gluttonous.

Will our heroes have a good time? Will they fully explore the cultural opportunities afforded by the city? Or will they just end up getting drunk together again like they always do? Tune in next time and find out!

-bdmc

We returned from Portugal on Thursday morning and since then have been going nonstop to make sure our guests saw everything Madrid has to offer. This morning the last of our friends left, so MC and I are feeling very lonely but so thankful they were able to come visit. We have so many stories to tell of train rides, hostels, soccer games, and a very special, educational post that will all have to wait a short while because……we’re currently searching for jobs. Aaaaaahhhhh!!!!!

-cuptastic

It’s a good thing we’re leaving for Portugal tonight, as, apparently, we have less-than-endeared ourselves to the Spaniards this weekend. It’s only Sunday afternoon, and already I’ve been berated by a VERY pissed off neighbor and later (in an unrelated incident) got less-than-courteously asked to leave the sidewalk bar at which we were sitting. Stellar.

It started on Friday night when our Swedish roommates decided to have an impromptu party which included floor-stomping sing-alongs to ABBA (how cliché!) that lasted till 3a, after which, they migrated to a bar, only to return just as loudly 3 hours later, just in time for us to get up to go to the airport to pick up our dear friends who had flown in for the week. Again, stellar.

After we returned from the airport, we happened to meet our downstairs neighbor, an older gentleman in his mid- to late-60’s while waiting for the elevator. He sidled up to us (at this point, we didn’t know who he was) and asked if we lived in such and such apartment, to which, I stupidly responded “Yes, we do.” He responded that it was “quite a fiesta last night” to which I replied, “yeah, I think it was, sorry”. Why I apologized for a party of which I had no foreknowledge, no part in coordinating, nor in which I participated, I haven’t the foggiest. Trying to appease, I guess. This appeasement strategy backfired horribly, as I was subsequently berated—long enough for the elevator to arrive and pass 3x—about how I can’t be sorry (or sorry wouldn’t cut it) as this was the third time this has happened and “you northern Europeans and Swedes and North Americans come over here and do things you wouldn’t do in your own countries”, and how next time he’s going to call the police and yadda yadda yadda, to the point that I: a) lost track of the number of points to which I needed to respond and b) lacked the speed of thought to respond to said points as I had only enjoyed 2.5 hrs of sleep the night prior, and c) even if I did have the speed to think of words, my vocabulary is unable to allow me to express that “It wasn’t me, it was my Swedish roommates, and PLEASE, the next time they piss you off CALL THE POLICE because then WE will get some sleep too!”

His torrent continued until the elevator arrived a third time, upon which he entered it, and subsequently encouraged us to join him. I’m not sure what drugs he was on at the time that made him think we would actually get in the elevator with a screaming geriatric, so I told him no thanks, we’d take the stairs. As we reached the fourth floor on foot, the elevator opened and he emerged, continuing to yell at us as we climbed the next flight and slamming his door with a building-echoing thud. Stellar still.

That was yesterday.

Today, after a decent day of touring and hitting the big flea market, Plaza Mayor, and Sol, we ventured to an off-the-beaten-path plaza known for its numerous cervecarias in order to get off our feet and enjoy a cold one. Though there were 7 of us, we found tables at the far end of a cafe line, conscious of our potential to annoy other diners and subsequently taking all pains to avoid such offense. After 2 rounds of ordering both drinks and food (IN SPANISH!) we suddenly, for no apparent reason, received the check—from a different waiter than we had had all afternoon—who subsequently waited over our shoulders until we paid up.

Now, in the States this is a normal thing; in Spain however, they generally wait for you to ask for the check before they bring it to you (which can be hours if you’re not aware of the policy), considering it rude otherwise. Caught off guard, and under the steady gaze of the waiter #2, we paid up, questioning the whole time what offense we were guilty of to cause them to essentially ask us to leave. Though louder than a twosome, we were much tamer than our capabilities: we were nothing but polite to the staff; we spoke only Spanish; we weren’t camping, as we continued ordering; it was a FREAKIN’ SIDEWALK CAFE and not some intimate high-end restaurant; and though our particular topic of conversation at the time of check-receipt was a tad racy, we took pains to mask it in code and exercise some degree of class (which is a lofty goal for this group). Our only assumption was that the stodgy-looking couple next to us bitched about it and since we weren’t speaking Spanish to each other, the waiters had no issue telling us to leave.

So, just to recap: I got bitched out by a very pissed off neighbor for the noise of someone else’s party, and then got kicked out of a bar for being American (cause, bet yer boots, had we been habloing in Español, they would not have been so bold).

So, I guess it’s a good thing then that we’re heading to Portugal this week. It’ll give the locals a chance to calm down and realize, “hey, those tall white Dutch / German / American (?) kids are gone and it’s still loud here…it must be those damn Swedes!”

A man can dream…

Irritated by my lack of fluency
-bdmc

Our good friends have been arriving this week one by one and as of 9:30 yesterday morning, the American takeover of Madrid is complete! Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Actually, it’ll have to start for real in a few days after they all get over the jet lag. And we’ll be in Lisbon, Portugal until Thursday, so the actual takeover will probably have to wait until we get back to Madrid. And since we’re taking an overnight train back and will be arriving in Madrid around 8:30am on Thursday, we’ll probably be pretty tired so we won’t really get started until Friday. The American takeover of Madrid is coming this Friday!!!

Anyway, we’re so excited to have our friends here and we’re taking off for Portugal tonight, so we probably won’t be posting until we get back.

By the way - Happy Mother’s Day to our wonderful mothers and Happy Birthday to my awesome dad!

-cuptastic

That’s right, folks, I have once again valiantly surmounted the linguistic obstacles set before me and triumphed, scoring a class-high 91.5% on my most recent / second-ever Spanish test, enabling me to enter the coveted Level 2. It will be nice to look down upon all the tongue-tied imbeciles in Level 1 from my lofty throne.

Though the written part a touch difficult—it consisted of tests of our comprehension of 5 different verb tenses, including 3 past tenses (they don’t just “did” things in Spanish…they “did” things differently depending on when, for how long and whether or not it repeated…realllllly annoying)—I aced the oral section. It went something akin to this:

A quick post to say that we have reacquired internet access at the apartment and are now back in business. Let the bells ring from on high!

This technological miracle is just that, as it came not through any action on the part of our landlady nor with any technical assistance from the service provider. Rather, the system miraculously self-corrected after we decided, on a whim, to give it one more go. I can’t explain it, nor do I care, so long as it doesn’t happen again.

New useless posts and photos forthcoming (and fifth coming if we get around to it). At any rate, off to wander wikipedia, er, I mean study for my exam tomorrow…

hating Preterito Imperfecto,

-bdmc

As our time here is winding to a close, we have taken great pains to maximize our our remaining weeks to ensure that we get to see as much of the ridiculously and intriguingly varied Iberian peninsula as is possible under our time and budget constraints (I say again: Damn exchange rate!!). We’ve already covered the greatest hits of the central plains, including Madrid, Segovia, Toledo, and El Escorial. We hit the north side (San Sebastián) and the central east coast (Valencia). That leaves the south, the west coast and Barcelona, all of which we’ve made plans (as in booked trains and hotels) to visit.

Just so our mommies can keep track of us, here’s the remainder of the weekend plans:
A horde of our inordinately large (as in height, not necessarily weight) friends are coming this weekend, and we’re taking the night train (sans James Brown) to Lisbon, Portugal, for 3 days, which checks the west coast off our list, and after that we’re going to Sevilla, then Barcelona and wrapping up our final weekend in Granada / Cordoba before returning to Madrid and flying back to Chi-town. Should be a good time. Those four destinations pretty much ensure that we’ve seen all that Spain has to offer (at least in a cursory sense), with the exception of the north west, which we’ll just have to hit on a return trip.

The Lisbon trip promises to be fun, though I’m interested in how Spain and Portugal are going to react to a group of seven 6-foot-plus whiter-than-white kids roving their narrow streets (we’ll probably have to walk single-file and sideways to avoid getting wedged…). They’ll probably think we’re Dutch.

Here’s to not getting deported.

-bdmc

P.S.: Anyone know any useful Portuguese? Like, “I’m sorry I just offended everything you stand for. I didn’t mean it. America does rule, though…you know that, right?”

Good news everyone! We just figured out (after 7 weeks) that the school (with all it’s free wifi glory) stays open late on Tuesdays (and I think Thursdays). That means we can once again torture you with unsolicited stories of our adventures! Yay!

But I digest. Here’s the real post:

This past weekend was a 4-day marathon of public spectacles in observance of May Day (the European equivalent of Labor Day, which basically means that all the French and German tourists on the continent flock to Spain) and the 200th anniversary the events of the 2nd / 3rd of May 1808 when Napoleon stormed Madrid (for no apparent reason) and the townspeople fought back, eliciting severe retribution by French troops the next day. These are the events depicted in Goya’s famous paintings, The 2nd of May and The 3rd of May 1808 (on display at the Prado. We saw them. Next to each other in a special exhibition. They’re HUGE. And super awesome. And no photo in any art history book comes close to doing them justice).

Overall the weekend was really interesting, as there were several events held throughout town to honor the anniversary (6, actually, hence the name of the weekend, 6 Goya 6). These included a free symphony concert in front of the royal palace (nice vista; made me long for my aforementioned royal holdings); a play involving gigantic marionettes (unfortunately we overslept and missed that one); and two bizarre interpretative presentations: one about the 2nd of May held in the Plaza Mayor consisting of a north African traditional band (presumably representing Napoleon’s Mamluk troops), juxtaposed against a series of junk bands mounted on truck beds, assumed to represent the rabble of Madrid; and another in Plaza Cibeles, which seemed to reenact the retributions of the 3rd of May, through the allegorical use of a pair of star-crossed lovers who lived thru the event. At least that’s what we could gather from the visuals, which, all bizarre weirdness aside were pretty cool. In the Plaza Mayor, there was a huge wheel mounted with pre-tuned guitars which was manually rotated around a stationery pick to produce a song…interesting; in Cibeles, there was a huge metal truss from which a number of people were suspended, all dressed in the white tunic and yellow pants of the hero of Goya’s painting, who were then metaphorically shot by a series of bright lights and machine gun sounds coming from the building behind them, leading them to writhe and wriggle in mid-air. Rather impressive. Oh, and there was a 30-foot tin foil woman who had a person sitting in her chest cavity that opened up to reveal him. We never actually saw the final production of the Cibeles show as we were at the palace, but we stumbled upon the dress rehearsal the night before and it looked pretty interesting. And we figured that was enough.

As cool as all these things were, the truly impressive aspect of the weekend—and of all the Festivals we’ve experienced so far—is the amazing speed and stealth with which the Madrid Department of Fiestas sets up and tears down the sets in the hours surrounding the events. For example, the Cibeles show had a huge 3-part stage, 4 smaller stages, a full light / sound show, 2 enormous construction cranes and a highwire strung between two adjacent buildings and anchored to the street below (not to mention the Aluminum woman and the truss of dead guys). All this went up in a matter of an afternoon and was torn down by noon the next day. Ridiculous. Same thing with the Real Madrid victory party: we walked thru the Plaza at 9p, there was nothing. By 1130p, there was a stage, 6 light / sound towers, a huge PA system and a dj, along with miles of retaining fence which closed off 3 main thoroughfares. And this achieved by a culture not renowned for its vitesse. Now that’s mindbottling.

Additionally, there were a ton of people out in the streets and general joyful pandemonium throughout, though the hordes of French May Day tourists all seemed a bit skittish, and probably for good reason…probably should have done your research, Messieurs…

Viva la Revolución!

-bdmc

Last night Real Madrid won their 31st league championship. We didn’t even realize they were playing until we heard a lot of yelling and honking coming from the street. Our roommate poked her head outside her door and asked if Real Madrid had won. Of course, we stared blankly back at her with no answer. After a short time listening to the shouts from the streets, we figured that they must have won, so we decided to head down to Cibeles (a main intersection / roundabout / plaza near the Prado where fans congregate following a Real Madrid victory). We walked the short distance to Paseo del Prado, which had been shut down to traffic in anticipation of the large crowds of people walking to Cibeles, and made our way up to the plaza. For anyone who hasn’t been to Madrid, Paseo del Prado is a MAJOR THOROUGHFARE in a large city. And they SHUT IT DOWN for a soccer game. MC said to me as we were leaving the apartment, “I want to see some burning couches and overturned cars, or I won’t be convinced that these soccer fans really know how to riot.” Although we didn’t see anything burning or even any cars in the vicinity, let alone overturned cars, we decided that completely shutting down a major road and plaza is a pretty good start to celebrating a victory.

When we got to the plaza, it was already pretty full, and more and more people kept coming. According to the Real Madrid website today, almost 200,000 people packed into the area. The city had set up a big “stage” for the players and there was a dj playing pop music and also what seemed to be the “hang on sloopy” of Real Madrid. We danced a little with the madrileños, but it was a little difficult to sing along since we weren’t sure what the words were. In fact, we spent our entire time in the plaza trying not to make it too obvious that not only did we not even know that Real Madrid was playing, we also know nothing about soccer and we didn’t even really understand what exactly Real Madrid had won. (After hearing “campeones! campeones!” and “treinta y uno! treinta y uno!” over and over again, we finally figured it out.)

We arrived at Cibeles around 11:30pm, and at 1:30am, when the team had still not appeared, we decided to head home. I was hoping to get some pictures of the team for my madrileño brother, but alas, I had no staying power. And, after reading the Real Madrid website this morning, I’m glad that we left when we did. Apparently, the game wasn’t even in Madrid, and the team didn’t return to their own stadium until 2:30am, where they were seen exiting the team bus and entering the locker room with bottles of champagne. Which means that they couldn’t have gotten to Cibeles until around four in the morning. Which means that a plaza full of 200,000 people waited at least three hours for the team to show up. Now that’s dedication. I’m still not convinced that soccer is a better sport than football (americano, that is), but I am pretty impressed by the fans.

* or maybe the idea of soccer

-cuptastic

Our internet access went out at our apartment last Wednesday, sending me into a dimension of pissed off I didn’t even know existed. And not that a lack of internet access is all that worrisome; when compared to quadriplegia, it pales. And significantly.

I know this.

But when in the midst of job / apartment searching and finalizing plans for the remainder of our stay here, a sudden, inexplicable lack of internet access is a big freakin’ deal. Especially when it is your sole form of communication with the outside world (we don’t have cell phones, the apartment phone doesn’t work and there’s no TV). And when viewed as the only self-controllable aspect within our less-than-ideal living environment consisting of a troupe of college-age Swedes content with living on the edge of such squalor that the health department is considering condemning the entire 40-unit buildling on account of their filth, and who are intent on getting ripped to the nines every weekend night and reaffirming for the umpteenth consecutive time that, no, the paper-thin walls of the apartment STILL don’t muffle your raucous 6 AM return and subsequent hour-long drunken recap of the night you just experienced, then, yeah, the lack of internet access suddenly became a big deal.

At any rate, after Al talked me down off the ledge, she kindly reminded me that, despite all my proclamations to the contrary, I—unlike Richard III—had no kingdom to give in exchange for a return of my internet access. Or for anything else for that matter. She then refreshed my memory of all the things for which I have purportedly offered my supposed kingdom during our visit thus far, thereby leaving me in no state to offer it yet again. These include (in no particular order):
• A clean apartment
• A normal-size shower
• Hot water that doesn’t cut out in the middle of said shower
• A clothes dryer
• A clothes washer that holds more than a pair of jeans, a sock and one t-shirt at a time
• A vacuum cleaner
• Thicker, sound-proof apartment walls
• A complete grasp of the Spanish verb structure and all its permutations
• Our own apartment
…etc, etc, etc, all of which, I felt at the time of utterance, were worthy exchanges for my imagined regal holdings.

Upon realizing that I, in fact, HAVE no regal holdings (as yet…working on that one), I was forced to reevaluate my position and clarify the real reasons we’re here, namely: the Prado, the park, the monuments, the food, the language, the sun, the culture, the friendly (though wrong-side-of-the-sidewalk-walking) people, the wine, the cheap (but realllly cold) beer, the history, the smells and the otherwise FREAKING AWESOME TIME we’re having. Could be worse, eh?

-bdmc

P.S.: Please note that all kingdom-worthy aspects are related to our apartment or its state, indicating my overall pleasant contentment with our situation in general. I think, as a 28-year-old veteran of communal collegiate living / previous study abroad experiences, I am officially done with living in student housing with other students. And not like I haven’t given it a fair shake. Now I’m just certain.

P.P.S.: The internet currently remains out at the apartment, nearly a week later, thanks to our oh-so-easy-to-get-a-hold-of landlady…get this: she gives us her land line and her cell number, but doesn’t answer her land line and the apartment phone only calls its voicemail…work that one out. Good thing nothing’s caught on fire. Come to think of it, that may be a great way to get her attention….

P.P.P.S. (and yes, I just went there.): We are spending the bare minimal amount of time (awake) in the apartment, so our actual interaction with aforementioned internet-less squalor is fairly minimal. The kicker is that when we WERE using the internet, it was late at night when we weren’t missing anything outside. Now that we have to forage for free wifi, it’s cramping our style a bit. That’s the only down side and the reason for a lack of recent posts…we know you’re all crushed.

Our internet connection in our apartment is broken right now, so it has been a little difficult to post. This weekend is a big holiday weekend in Madrid also, so I doubt we’ll be able to get anything fixed until next week. Today is the 200th anniversary of the uprising in Madrid against Napoleon’s troops. It’s the subject of one of Goya’s most famous works and a pretty big deal here, of course. MC and I decided to stay here for the weekend since we figured it would be somewhat like what it might have been to be in Washington, D.C. on July 4, 1976, and since we missed that one by a few years…

There are all kinds of activities planned throughout the city today and we are planning on going to three or four. Last night on our walk home we ran into what looked like dress rehearsals for one of the events. Plaza de Cibeles is completely closed down to traffic and they were rehearsing what looked like a story about two people during the uprising. There were tight-rope walkers and a couple of cranes that were used to make people fly through the air and lots of music and dramatic lighting. We left as they were getting ready to lift a giant aluminum woman into the air. Not sure exactly where she fit into the story, but she was very impressive-looking!

So for today, we’re going to try to study a little bit (I just started subjunctive last week! Aaah!) and then head over to see a few of the planned events. Hopefully our internet connection will be fixed soon and we can post a little more consistently. We have a lot of exciting things coming up, including friends coming to visit, a trip to Portugal and more trips to other parts of Spain. It’s hard to believe we only have five more weeks!

-cuptastic