Soooo…continuing from the last post…

Sunday our tour guide hostess had clients, so we were left to our own devices, a thought that after the previous night’s metro-stop-missing debacle, left us a little unsure…

Never ones to be dissuaded by our own ignorance, however, we confidently set out for the Parc Güell, another of Gaudí’s architectural masterpieces. The park is situated almost directly northwest of the medieval quarter, which, conveniently, was mere steps from our hostess’s apartment. And by “mere steps”, I am of course referring to the 5,384 steps leading straight up the hill from the street level, the ascension of which is necessary to reach the park. The magnitude of this daunting challenge gave us pause, as we are not at our pinnacle of fitness (come on…high school track was a long time ago, and beer is just so, so good. Well, not here in Spain, but in general, yes.), but in the name of culture, we pressed on. We were relieved, however, when we rounded the corner and noted that the 5,384 steps were actually part of a moving escalator, which through the miracle of powered-stair technology, brought us to the top of the hill with minimal effort, agreeing perfectly with our corn-fed Midwest expectations. After winding through a hilly, pine tree-lined path, we discovered the main sculptural area of the park, which was impressive in its color, construction and vista. The main feature is a large, raised, gravel-covered park / sitting area, held aloft by a series of pseudo-Doric columns and tiled in the typically Gaudí-an broken tile style. Surrounding this raised park was a continuous undulating bench resembling some kind of freak serpent. Below the gravel area was a forest of altered Doric columns, between which concave domes with bright blue and green mosaics rose and fell, giving the impression of looking up at the rolling surface of a body of water from below. Surrounding this central park were a few small gingerbread-inspired houses, originally summer homes for the Barcelonan elite who commissioned the park as a getaway from the downtown summer heat. Overall, the place looked like Phidias and the Witch from Hansel & Gretel went on a bender with Timothy Leary and decided to build their “Happy Place”. We totally dug it.

From here we headed back to the Metro (making careful note of at which stop we were supposed to get off) and made our way across town to the Montjuïc hill, site of the remains of the 1929 World’s Fair. Our goals were to see the Mies van der Rohe-designed German pavilion—one of the harbingers of the modern International Style and a Mecca of sorts for design junkies like myself—and to check out this little nearby place called “Poble Espanyol”, a collection of quintessential Spanish architecture. The German pavilion was more-or-less (or less-is-more) a religious experience, as it embodies pretty much all the tenets of modern design and paved the way for design to become an integrated part of business and social development, instead of an ancillary afterthought of adornment. The space is very sparse and clean, constructed of marble, glass and steel, its flat planes intersecting at the sharp right angles to be expected of German precision. It is the physical embodiment of the “less-is-more” ethos and a revolt against the overwrought adornment of the Art Nouveau, seeking, in a way, to clarify the machine-inspired lines of Art Deco and the Streamlined movements. I could continue to bore you with lurid details of my experience, but suffice it to say it’s a good thing I brought along an extra pair of clean shorts…

Poble Espanyol was an interesting little diversion, the source of the title of these posts, and one which we immediately regretted spending €16 to get into. It’s not that it was all that bad for any particular reason. In fact, after we got over the idiocy of our decision, we kinda enjoyed ourselves, and we had a decent lunch and some ice cream, which can soothe the pains of any tour book-inspired folly. Here’s the back story: Basically, Poble Espanyol is a one-stop quintessential shop for all the architectural variation of the entire Iberian peninsula, created to give visitors to the 1929 exhibition a sense of what the rest of Spain was like, assuming that they had neither the time nor fiscal ability to actually visit each of these diverse places. It’s a little like Disney Land, except that everything’s in Spanish (which, come to think of it, is exactly like Disney Land…). You walk through a turreted portal in a large stone wall (reminicent of the Medieval city wall of Toledo), into a quintessential Plaza Mayor (like in Madrid), which is surrounded by buildings featuring stores and restaurants on the ground floor with apartments and offices above (just like Madrid), then stroll down narrow whitewashed streets (Sevilla), pass Mudejar cathedrals and bell towers (Cordoba, Granada), through open-air markets (Valencia, Barcelona) and past little white thatched-roofed pueblos—all within a 20-minute walk from end-to-end. In actuality, it was well done, and being designed and built by Spainards in Spain, it retained a fairly high degree of authenticity. The stupid part of the whole thing—as Al so graciously pointed out to me amidst her fits of laughter at the lunch table—was that we just spent €16 to walk through fake versions of the real cities we’ve spent the last 10 weeks wandering through. I attribute our decision to the fact that we were starving and light-headed prior to entering, facts which clouded our judgement. Upon leaving the place, we made a pact not to tell our tour guide hostess of our waste of time.

"Oh wow! Fake Spain!"

After a stroll past the nearby art museum (which was closed), we headed back to the Old Quarter, intending on visiting the Roman Museum. Barcelona was a major outpost in the Roman era, and as such, there is a great amount of their architecture and infrastructure still remaining. In fact, the Medieval cathedral is built on the foundations of the old Roman walls and, nearby, there are Roman columns standing the middle of an apartment block’s courtyard (they had previously been built into the buildings, but were “exhumed” during some recent reconstruction), among numerous other examples. Though both the tour book and our tour guide assured me that the museum would be open all day on Sunday, it in fact was not, having closed at 3pm. We got there at 4pm. Mierda.

This was a minor inconvenience, as the Picasso museum was just around the corner and was in fact open, contrary to the listing in the guide book. Go figure. We did take a wrong turn somewhere, however, and ended up in an open plaza near city hall. As we paused here to consult our map, we were approached by a hip-looking young woman who politely asked us in subtly-eastern-European-accented English if we spoke English. Not immediately taking her for a bum, we said “yes”, at which point she began her ploy, asking for money. Wising up, we said we didn’t have any, at which point she stormed off, curing us and calling out over her shoulder, “You guys are wires! Wires! You have monies!”

We were flattered. Even despite our escalator-taking habits to Parc Güell, we still appeared lean and fit enough that this young lady felt compelled to compliment our slim physiques. The day was lookin’ up.

We got back on track and found the Picasso Museum, which was a great retrospective tour, showcasing a great wealth of his early work and evolution to abstraction; the parts of the story that rarely get told in most museum settings. The collection was especially robust due to Picasso’s own donations as well as those of his widow, making it one of the premier groupings of his work in the world. The biggest lesson here: the man could draw. Like REALLY draw. And he could mimic just about any style he wanted. And once he was bored with mimicry, he would just invent a new style. Not a bad way to make a living.

After our nearly three-hour tour of Picasso’s mad genius, we turned for home, ultimately enjoying dinner and drinks with our hostess before crashing into bed.

The next morning found us fighting through protesters at the Ave high-speed train station in order to board our car for the journey back to Madrid. Apparently they were irritated that they weren’t getting enough of the subsidies from the government on the profits from the train…? I’m not really sure. Having just gotten a hold of basic 5th-grader Spanish, I was a little under prepared to read train-related political jargon scrawled on bedsheets being waved about by overly-energetic, whistle-blowing Spanish college students. Especially at 8 in the morning. I still was at a loss when we returned to Madrid to find another group with nearly identical bedsheet slogans awaiting us at the disembarkation platform. If nothing else, though, I was commended their level of coordination. I mean, to get us coming and going? That’s a lot for college kids.

So that rounds out our 2.5 days in Barcelona. We’re nearing the end of adventure, with only a week of class left and two more cities to hit before we leave. Next up: Córdoba & Granada with more (somewhat) Big, Tall American friends (these ones are different though…and one’s a doctor and really knows what antioxidants do)!

More photos are up,
-bdmc

Ok, enough horsing around with this “job search” thing. It’s become clear from our protracted expiscation and a distinct lack of options from you, dear readers, that, really, we’re just not meant to be employed. Rather than fill out yet ANOTHER resume submission page on a bassackwards corporate application site, I’ve decided instead to write the conclusions to our Iberian saga.

I know you’ve all been waiting at least a month (judging from the timestamp on the draft of this post), and I’m sure you’ve all just been dying to know how it wraps up. It’s ok to admit that your lives have been cold and empty without our somewhat irregular and unsolicited recaps of random strolls through foreign cities, and you’ve cried yourselves to sleep every night longing for our poetic genius to dance across your screens. It won’t affect your position in our eyes. And if you’re chiding us for our delay, don’t forget, even some of history’s greatest pieces of literature were written over protracted periods: Great Expectations was crafted in installments over several years appearing as segments in a weekly London serial, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was only finished decades after Twain started it, and there’s no way that Tolstoy finished War and Peace in anything under what? like 20 years? So consider yourselves lucky for reading potentially great literature. And I stress potentially.

Anyway, here goes the Barcelona recap (keep in mind this was started back in June, when we were actually returning from Barca):

As mentioned in a previous post (before all the poop talk and threats of arson), we just returned from an exceptional trip to Barcelona this past weekend. As far as all the places we’ve visited, this one comes damn near to topping the list (and does in some cases, depending on your criteria). It has the modern energy of Madrid, the laid back seaside culture of Valencia, the ancient texture of Toledo and Segovia, the artisanal creative buzz of Sevilla, and best of all, their soccer team is the arch nemesis of Real Madrid, which just makes me giggle with glee.

Our journey started off a tad ominously. As we were sitting on the train (the awesome hi-speed train, mind you) moments prior to our departure time, a sudden raucous ruckus developed behind us, near the door between our car and the one to our rear. It seemed to grow nearer, then fade away, only to return again and continue to amplify. Quickly realizing that it was the foreboding sound of children’s laughter, we began to panic, praying to Real Madrid that they would intervene and put the little bastards on another car. Our cries, however, were in vain. Within moments, our car was overrun by a wild herd of screeching tweener girls and a second onslaught of ADD-afflicted 10-year-old boys, both groups all jacked up on Mountain Dew and accompanied by one or two…”adults”, which, just like at summer camp, seemed to be just five minutes older than the oldest charge for whom they were responsible. It was like a swarm of locusts devouring our peaceful pre-departure silence. And for the next two hours it continued unabated, with girls sitting in seats right next to each other screaming at the top of their lungs to each other and the boys racing up and down the aisle with a soccer ball while the “adults” stared blankly at each other and occasionally made a barely-audible “shh” sound to the one kid on the train that was asleep thru the whole disaster. Nice work, doofus. It actually got so bad that I, for a second time, violated my “try not to be obnoxious in another country” policy and yelled at them to “shut the expletive up!” while glaring at the chaperon nearest me. That bought us exactly 2 minutes of peace. Hi-speed train my ass. Couldn’t get there fast enough at that point. Fortunately, however, there was an intermediate stop before Barcelona and all the little cretins got off there, giving us about an hour to put ourselves back together.

We snagged a cab to our family friend’s apartment, a great joint on a winding backstreet situated north of the middle of the Old City. Promptly passing out, we slept like the dead, waking at about noon the next day.

Said family friend just so happens to be a world-renowned Barcelona city tour guide and expert on all things Barcelonan (? Barcelonian? Barcelon?). She’s the gal they call when Chelsea Clinton and Mel Gibson come to town. She speaks seven languages (including Russian). She owns her own tour company and is asked for by name. In short: she’s good.

As it turns out, Saturday was her day off and she generously volunteered to take us around and both show us things that aren’t on the map and get us into the big touristy places by bypassing the lines using her Super Tour Leader Badge of Power. Not ones to turn down such an opportunity, we began our trek in the Old City, strolling down the sprawling street market of Las Ramblas, basically a tree-lined avenue and former creekbed with a large median studded with stalls and street vendors hawking their wares (mostly pets) and freakishly dedicated street performers scaring the crap out of little tourist kids. We’re talking people dressed up in such a way that they make Kiss and the guys from Gwar look like a bunch of amateurs. And unlike Kiss and Gwar, they all stand still for hours, adding to the suspense. From there, we turned into the ancient open-air market, one so large and robust, it makes the acclaimed one in Valencia look like a cheerleading club’s grocery-store bake sale. The aisles seemed miles long, with every possible variety of food for sale. The egg vendor didn’t just have chicken eggs; there were ostrich, goose, robin, quail, etc. Basically any egg from anything that lays eggs—maybe even platypus—I’m not sure. The fishmonger had an equal variety of bizarre seafood and the spice vendor’s stall was a floor-to-ceiling visual and olfactory kaleidescope. The place also included the reportedly best bar in the city, which was so packed we couldn’t even get close to it. We did, however, get to the butcher stall, where the 11-year-old daughter of our tour guide (and a lovely gal herself), requested—nay, demanded—an 18″ sausage to gnaw on. American kids demand ice cream or lollypops; Spanish kids want meatsicles. It says a lot, doesn’t it? After fighting through the crowds for a little while longer, we decided we’d had enough and snuck on out the back.

Our adventure had made us hungry, so our guide took us to an ancient butcher shop / bar (an odd combination, we know), situated in the street / 1/2 basement level of a Renaissance-era building. The ceiling was lined with row after row of hanging jamon (the cured pork leg) and you could barely see the guy behind the counter through all the sausage that was hanging in front of him. The butcher shop part of the store was maybe 1/3 of the total space, with the remainder dedicated to a small bar, featuring 3 tables, 2 barstools and a floor-to-6′-ceiling, corner-rounding wine cabinet with every conceivable varietal. We enjoyed some small tapas and a couple of drinks until 3pm, when the owner hollered at us to leave, as he was closing the store for the daily 3-hour dominoes tournament he and his aging friends took part in, customers be damned. He then brought us another round of drinks and some more to eat. We were somewhat confused. A little while later, he blinked the lights and said that the next time he was serious, so we packed up and ducked out under the half-closed roller door out front, passing the incoming geriatrics ready to school each other with little white tiles. It was a unique experience not to be found in any tour book. The only unfortunate aspect is that they owners, nearing retirement, couldn’t find anyone to take over the business, so once they quit, the whole thing dies. Kinda made us want to reconsider our career plans. Hell, I could totally run a meat-and-liquor shop that closes for three hours a day!

As the day was waning (as such will happen when you get up at noon), we figured we should use the Super Tour Leader Badge of Power to get us into something other than a backstreet bar (cool as it was). Thus, we made a beeline to the Sagrada Familia, the still-evolving dripping cathedral that is the lingering masterpiece of Antoni Gaudí, and cut past all the loser tourists standing in the ever-increasing rain. Inside, we were given an in-depth tour of the museum in the church basement which discusses the construction process, Gaudí’s life and death—he was hit by a streetcar and left to die in the street because everyone thought he was a bum due to his eccentric and shabby clothing, the result of his living in his studio for years on end, focused on his work—and the model shop where they cast scale models of the custom pieces which are then read by computer and cut from stone. The most awesome part of the whole museum for me was a wire-and-sandbag model of the church Gaudí had built to test the weight and stress of the building on its various joints, that kicks the crap out of any CAD rendering. Unlike your standard architectural model which is basically a small version of the finished building, this was a thin wire skeleton of the church, built upside-down, with small sandbags attached to the joints and scaled in such a way that Gaudí could extrapolate the strength and massive forces with which he was working. To date, all the calculations he made in this way have proven accurate and solid, an amazing feat, considering the times and materials.

Once inside the cathedral, it was a religious experience of an entirely different order. First, to even be inside an under-construction cathedral was just ridiculous, especially when you consider that the last time that happened with any regularity no Europeans even knew America existed. Second, despite the fact that there was no roof, only 2.5 walls and a hint of stained glass, the effect was stunning. You could imagine the finished product, with its array of towering columns in geo-organic forms supporting a ceiling punctuated with little portholes to allow in sunlight, illuminating the space in a subtle glow. And the entire interior adorned with brightly colored mosaic tiles. Basically, you have to go and see it yourself. I can’t do it justice.

Keeping hot on the Gaudí trail, we then hit up the Casa Milá, a turn-of-the-(19th)-century apartment block on the corner of the south end of Las Ramblas and some other side street. This is the one with the undulating façade and seaweed-inspired steel balconies. You’d know it if you saw it. Inside it was an Art Nouveau enthusiast’s wet dream. Everything undulated in colors and textures that mirrored the sea and nature, all swirling around a well-lit central courtyard adorned with tiles that gradiated in color from dark to light blue as you ascended the building. The impression was one of looking either up from the bottom of the sea or down into the deep from above depending on your vantage point. The rooftop terrace continued the undulating seascape experience, with fantastical sandcastle-like chimneys and archways. Up here I discovered the quintessential Gaudí photo op: the Sagrada Familia in the distance viewed through one of said archways with a twisting chimney flute to the side (Idiot tourists, however, refused to cooperate, constantly lingering in the archway or otherwise screwing up my shot. Bastards. This one could have been Pulitzer-prizeworthy. Do they give that for photos? If not, it would have won whatever they do give for it. Anyhow, I’ve got about 5,000 others to cull through and maybe there’s another one worthy in there…we’ll see.). Just below the roof, inside the attic level of Casa Milá, one felt like Jonah, striding among parabolic arches and recesses of dimly-illuminated reddish-pink brick resembling the the cavernous ribs in the belly of the whale. There were also a variety of well-conceived video presentations highlighting Gaudí, his work and the times he was creating, along with small scale models of the entire building. Overall, it was well done, very interesting and beautiful, especially when viewed in context of the other stale architecuture surrounding it.

Finishing up our Gaudí trip, we swam across the street and into a couple of gigantic beers with some olives and croquetes before getting on the metro back to the apartment. Our vigilant tour guide had to leave us at the door of the Casa Mila, as she was exhausted. This didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, until we boarded the metro and realized we had no idea what stop we needed to get off at. Picking one that seemed right, we exited the tunnel and, realizing that nothing looked familiar, went directly to a pay phone (for the first time in 15 years) and called for help. After our gracious host recovered from her explosive laughter at our huge whiff, she set us on the right path and we finally joined her for dinner with some neighbors about an hour and a half late. Oh well. At least the train was nice and clean.

So that concludes day one of the Barcelona Brouhaha. As we had a full two-day weekend there, and our tour mommy had to work on Sunday, we struck out on our own, yielding a string of tales that require another post. I’ve already exceeded the legal character limit on this one.

-bdmc

BDMC and I are currently in Chicago interviewing and looking for apartments. Unfortunately it’s a little hard to choose an apartment when you have no idea where you’ll be working, how much you’ll be making, etc, etc, etc. Anyone out there have a job for a graphic designer and an accountant and a beautiful apartment in a great part of the city that you’ve been saving for that perfect couple to rent?

This really has been a heavenly summer - we’ve been spending time in Northern Michigan on a gorgeous lake in between jaunts to Chicago for interviews. I actually have a little bit of a tan for the first time since…hmmm…when did I graduate from college? But it would be much more enjoyable if we didn’t have that whole job thing nagging us.

Anyway, BDMC promises me that he really does have the final Spanish episodes and will be putting them up soon. We’ll see…..

-cuptastic

So let’s see…judging by the ‘blogstats’ thingy on WordPress dashboard, it’s been about 3 weeks since our last post…just despicable on our part.

We’re about eleventy-billion articles short…there was Barcelona and all of it’s magnificent Gaudí-ness; then Córdoba with it’s Candy Land-inspired mosque, and Granada, home of the Alhambra; then the horrors of lugging eight overloaded suitcases through the Madrid Metro, only to get two hours of sleep prior to landing in London’s Heathrow Airport (the 7th level of hell, btw, especially when you accidentally get stuck in the TSA screening line staffed exclusively with brain-dead mouth-breathing trainees intent on swabbing everything—EVERYTHING—in your carry-on, including business cards, forcing you into 30 minutes of rage-suppressing tongue-biting to the point you nearly pass out from the pain, just as an escape method). Then there’s the obligatory encapsulation post summarizing our experience and what we learned, what we miss, what shocked us, how the hell we managed to gain back all the weight we lost over there in three days back in the States, yadda, yadda, yadda. We could then go on to bore you about the discovery of $1600 worth of broken down cars in the driveway upon our return and the arduous necktie-laden schlepping through the steamy streets of Chicago in search of jobs and our subsequent jaunts from the north of M*ch*g*n to the south of Georgia and get everyone caught up.

But, there’s no time for that now. We have a family road trip coming up and must go pack for that. So, we just wanted to let you know that we have not abandoned you, dear readers, and will update more fully when we get to a static residence. Thanks for your patience and dedicated readership; we love your comments.

Anybody wanna hire a crack graphic designer and accountant tag team of fury? We’re available after the 4th…

-bdmc

Got back into the US yesterday. We have tons of updates to write about Barcelona, Cordoba, Granada, etc., but we’re a little busy selling ourselves on the street in order to pay for BOTH cars to be fixed. That’s right, we got home yesterday at around 10:30pm from a 24-hour trip (flight from Madrid to London, flight from London to Chicago, drive home from Chicago) having had about three hours of sleep in a 48-hour period, to find both of our cars broken. They are currently at the shop being worked on, and MC and I are stranded at a cafe (thank goodness there’s free wifi!) until one of them gets fixed.

We’ll be updating soon!

-cuptastic

So we all remember Mr. NoLoSiento, right? Well, he’s decided to exact his revenge (in addition to his elevator-lobby berating of yours truly) on us—and the entire building, for that matter—by redoing his bathroom. In any normal building, this would not be a problem, and would most likely go unnoticed by the other tenants of the building, but in cheap post-civil war Franconian prefab constructions, every mouse fart is  clearly audible throughout the entire complex. Translate that mouse fart into the regular pounding of 20lb sledgehammer tearing down a wall, and that means that it sounds like a coal mine at blasting time in here.

Touché, good sir, touché.

-bdmc

We just now returned from a great long weekend spent with family friends in Barcelona (story forthcoming) to find our apartment (home to us, three wretchedly filthy early-20’s Swedes and formerly an 18-year-old German girl who thought that she owned the bathroom with the one functioning shower) in a state of disaster so foul that we are actually glad we only have four more days in it (and actually wish it was fewer). It is truly a sad state of affairs that our living conditions are such that they make us want to leave an otherwise gorgeous and perfect country…. If we had more cash and a better exchange rate, believe you me, we might actually consider staying here indefinitely….

Rather than bore / disgust you with the nasty details of said filthiness, I figured I’d give you a summary, using the process of going #2 (yes, I just said #2…Fourth Grade RULED!), to illustrate where we’re coming from.

Going Dookie in 5A: A Summary
01. Leave your bedroom and walk to the far bathroom near the kitchen because it is slightly cleaner than the other—closer—bathroom, which has so much muck built up on the toilet that the €10¢ piece that’s been sitting on the no-man’s-land between the tank and the bowl for at least 6 weeks has started rusting and fusing with the porcelain.
02. Try and bypass the kitchen, but still end up noting the sink overflowing with 4-day-old dirty dishes and pans on the stove encrusted with last week’s attempt at homemade Carbonara.
03. Enter the bathroom. Try not to touch anything.
04. Kick the filthy towel that’s been used as a bathmat for the past 11 weeks and is now so wretchedly filthy that dousing it in gasoline and setting it on fire is the only safe way to dispose of it (and even that’s not guaranteed).
05. Check that there’s TP (there’s usually not and unless we put it in there, it goes for days without being refilled…and they aren’t using the bidet…). If not, go procure some from private stash.
06. Test-flush the toilet. Will it work? Who knows! It’s toilet roulette, and the house (literally) always wins!
07. If it works, dust off seat (SEAT, not rim) to remove ass dander and other debris. If it looks questionable, pause, return to bedroom to procure secret industrial strength cleaner, return to bathroom and spray down toilet.
08. Wedge bathroom door closed. The handle doesn’t work, so do your best to ensure that it closes, but ensure that you can still get out when your task is complete, cause Lord knows you don’t wanna get stuck in there.
09. Initiate bidness. Be careful when sitting, however, as toilet rocks and you could fall off. Also take care too, that your pantlegs don’t drag on the floor as who knows what you may pick up
10. PUSH! The quicker the better. No time for reading. As you scan the room, searching for distractions, try not to be too disgusted by the crusty dust covering every nook and cranny or the giant hairball in the drain of the shower, which is just inches from your feet.
11. Complete the bidness and WASH YOUR HANDS! Oh, wait, there’s no soap! There should be soap, cause we just bought a new one a week ago and put it in there, but oh, it’s disappeared. Figure out how to unwedge bathroom door with minimal amount of handle contact, then race to kitchen, try to find spigot (which may or may not have already rotted through the decaying fiberboard countertop and fallen into the cupboard below), search for dish soap (if there’s any left) and wash hands.
12. Look for paper towels (which you also have solely supplied for the last 12 weeks) to dry hands. Realize dirty-ass roommates have used them all up and not replaced them, even though they’ve had four days to do so. Return to bedroom to use bath towel to dry hands.
13. Swear up and down that you are actually going to follow through with your plan to stage a grease fire that’ll burn down the apartment after you leave, but not implicate you as the culprit.
14. Double check that you have your return tickets and passport. Count down remaining days until return flight. Wish that you had won lottery prior to departure and money was no object such that you could afford a single apartment together. Leave apartment do go do something cultural to take your mind off the rash forming on your butt from shitting in such a wretchedly filthy apartment.

-bdmc
P.S.: State of filth of our apartment has been independently verified by our Tall, White American friends, two of whom have…uh…intimate knowledge on the subject of living in filth; even they were disgusted.

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