7 posts tagged “spain”
Installment, the last! Let's just start off with one picture.
Do you see this? This was the line at the taxi stand. Do you see the start? Neither did I! Do you see that bitch in the white dress? She weaved impatiently and teased me with the hope that she was hopping out of line with her huge cart of luggage. No such luck. This was 12.30 - 1 AM, Barcelona airport. And then we go.
Our cabbie was not helpful. Our cabbie did not know where he was going. I was sitting in the death seat. Again. He drove us downtown, where I pointed helpfully to hotels I might be able to call in the morning for vacancies. Already, I had no good feelings about this 'apartment' *cough* dorm *cough* that WB and J were consigned to live in for the next month. WB, was not so amused. J, was more amused.
He dropped us off on a dark, barely lit curb. He pointed in the direction we were meant to go. He passed the address by two blocks, and was too much of an assmonkey to go in reverse on the deserted street. No chivalry! But we got off. I cursed silently. We trudged forth.
Let us talk about this place. Heeeee. I get the giggles just thinking about it. We are buzzed in, and I notice that there is no air conditioning. Strike one. I think she might have tried to prepare me for this, but still, strike one. She checks in, we get on the elevator. I ignore the musty smell, J ignores the overwhelming urge to burst into tears. The elevator shakes. I let out a bark of laughter. WB is on the sixth floor. J has the luxury of the first floor; we don't quite realize how lucky she is until we visit it. Later.
The room, is a gem. It's a wee rectangle about...oh, generously speaking?...12x8. There is a narrow bed covered in white linens -- it ain't Egyptian cotton -- and a blue blanket. Other amenities and furniture? A compact armoire, a desk with a shelf, a table and chair set, a small stove with two burners, and a mini fridge. Oh! I forget the best part. The en suite bathroom. It's..maybe a 4x3 space, with an accordion door to separate the room. Standing tub, small sink and toilet...none of it anything I'm comfortable touching. Her window only opens to half size, and there's a metal shutter than rolls down. HOLY FUCK. Strikes two through fourteen.
I'm not prissy, but I'm prissy. I laughed again. I couldn't do it. Every fiber of my being screamed out that I wasn't 18 anymore. I couldn't live like this, if even for two days. Sweet WB had been so good as to drag around a rollaway sleeping bag so she could give me the bed. I wouldn't take away a bed from my friend....please. I calmly informed her that I would be seeking a hotel at first light, and that she was welcome to stay with me. J did have a breakdown moment in her own room, but it wasn't nearly so badly situated. Her window allowed a breeze in. Her room was somewhat bigger. I had a fleeting thought that WB ought to kill her so she could steal her room....
So at 4 am, in the computer lab of the building, I found a hotel room. I decided to sleep a couple winks then make my way when the girls left for class. I had to find Fly, after all! This hazy part of the morning, incidentally, was when I got the best news of the summer: WB was coming home. She was saying fuck you to the West Coast and transferring to a school at home...where she should have been in the first place. We hugged like weepy bitches do, and bemoaned the fact that life was shit when she was that far away. At least now she'd be in state, and now I could drive down to visit and we'd eat like queens and gossip and be stupid in the same time zone. Huzzah!
9 AM. I waved goodbye to the girls, wish them a good day of class, and promise to come back to grab them for lunch. I have a vaguely centrally located hotel, a map, and a dream: I was going to walk the 1.5 miles to get to the hotel, dragging my rolley luggage behind me. This lasts about three blocks, when I see a taxi dropping off a passenger, and decide to have him take me the rest of the way. This, is my genius plan of the morning. I get to the AC Diplomatic, which is sleek and pretty, and chain-like, and I fall in love...even before I know there's a vague golf theme to it. They try to tell me that they don't have my reservation. I die a little inside. I look around forlornly at the dark wool, the leather furniture, the zen-like layout...I start to miss the cool touch of A/C on my skin even before I've really gotten used to it. I tell them that I booked directly on the hotel website. He tells me to leave my luggage, take a look around Barcelona, and he'll have it sorted by the time I get back. I decide to love the hotel a little more.
This is when I decide to walk to Fly's office/flat. I see that it's on a big road, and that it's only...13 or so blocks away. This was also the guilt from the taxi talking. Even though the old cabbie was sweet and engaged me in conversation, in spite of my broken mangling of his language. So I walk. I get tired. I stop at Starbuck's for a fruit slushie thing. It's delightful. I walk more. More energy flagging. Sweat starting to gather in my joints. Fuck. I actually manage to get to the right block, and end up walking into the wrong building. A nice man corrected me. I missed by one door.
I finally find Fly, and then I hug her. She is in an adorable summery tank top, and looking very freshy and airy. The entire place is fresh and airy. I am not. She gives me the grand tour, and shows me what she brought me from London. Sweet mother. A haul of Fanta, Thornton's and Walker's crisps. I love her more now than I did the day before. This is not a surprise. So she does her office wrap up bit, and I sit happily on her balcony, finally enjoying the Barcelona sunshine.
This slideshow includes views from her balcony and walking about...
I am okay now. Because now I've found my friend, and now I have a sherpa. Except she's a bad sherpa! She doesn't speak Spanish and she is guessing almost as much as I am about where to go! So we decide to catch the metro back to my hotel...where we proceed to layabout in the cold room and munch on crisps while we catch up on stuffs and marvel at the prettiness of the room. See:
It is pretty. Except for the picture...which I need someone to tell me what it is. Is it fossilized dung? Is it an interpretation of something else? The hell? Regardless, I love this room. I'd live in it if I could. The bathroom is lovely, the guest soaps are golf balls. GOLF BALLS! The tv has a golf channel. The bed is soft and comfy. Oh, love. This is why we fell asleep for a spell before we had to go gather the other girls.
We rest of the day was lost in trying random restaurants, finding our way to Las Rambla, wending down Passeig de Gracia and walking through something I call the Coffin, or just the trendy bits of town. I got a dress, which is at the end of the first slideshow...I love me some Mango...and we burned ourselves out just walking. We had dinner at an Italian place where I had way too much ceviche, and decided to part ways at a metro station. Little did WB and J suspect, this is when Fly and I decided we needed more. Our immediate thought: Dunkin Donuts. Shut up, it's good stuff. Unfortunately it was closed. Fortunately, the gelato place next door was open. And how. It was dose two of gelato for the day.
Fly and I vowed to come back to Dunkin Donut the next day, and that was that. I had her for the morning and part of the afternoon, so time was short, but we'd get doughnuts.
Clearly there was very little planning for Barcelona too. I knew the girls would be starting their classes, so I had plenty of time to crap around in the morning. Fly and I went to Cortes de Ingles to buy some Lacasa chocolate. It is fab, though I have to say, not as fab as Milka. Which I had. Heeeeeee. Anyhow, and then we thought we were meeting the girls after their class. We'd said something about it when we parted last night, little did I know, WB told me they'd be calling me after class was done. So Fly and I waited for eons for them. We people watched -- which is the fun part of any vacation -- and had some color commentary. We watched the faux purse hawkers put out their wares...not so good reproductions...by 3:30, I had to hug my girl goodbye. She had to go home to the UK, then catch another flight to Lake Como. Because her life is fabulous, and I am more jealous than words can express. I think I might see her in December again when she comes to NYC to shop, but now it might run into the DR wedding extravaganza, and I might be confused. Aiy me.
When she left, I stuck around for another half hour, then gave up and walked back to my hotel, which was about five blocks away. Not bad by any means. But this is why life is difficult overseas and on vacation: limited mobile phone abilities. I couldn't find another place to buy a SIM; mine had been tapped out in Valencia. So I couldn't call on a mobile, and call me stupid, but I couldn't figure out the pay phones by Moviefone. I'm way beyond stupid.
Happily, though, I encountered a Chinese takeout place one block from my hotel. Of course I was meant to stop here and buy tons of food I wasn't going to finish by myself. I had a feeling. And it was good. Not fifteen minutes after I got back to the hotel, WB called, and all was sorted, and we'd decided to meet again a little later to go to the market and finish off my last day in Barcelona.
Back at rendezvous point, we have a new member to the gang: A. He is fellow student at WB and J's school. He is our protection and our sucker for the night. We walk down Las Rambla, get lost, but then find ourselves at the market. But not before we had the hugest damn sangrias I've ever seen. Very good tasting, if not very good service. Regardless. Fruit. Veg. Meats. So pretty. I love food. LOVE IT.
And we protect J from seeing a skinned goat head. And we buy fresh smoothies and fruit, and it's delightful. It kind of reminded me of the markets in my country. Very colorful, very good fruit. Which is when we realize that we need real dinner. Now is the time I decide that we need to find the restaurant Fly was talking about that we failed to reach the night before. We know it's in the coffin, and I remember the street. We won! We found it!
It was tiny, and packed, but we got in there just before another group of four, so we got seated quickly, and started going to town. This is where we had the bulk of the sangrias and, if I recall correctly, a really strong shot of alcohol that the waitress tried to pass off as a dessert beverage. It tasted like ouzo, but by that time, it went down smoothly. I'm pretty sure we had about 3 L of sangria each by this point. At one point the waitress tried to tell us that she couldn't give us anymore because they were out of fruit...we told her we didn't care...and miraculously, it came out with some strawberries in it! Success!
Dinner was followed by gelato, drunk wandering, and skipping across roads, cars and motorbikes to get back to my hotel. WB pointed out to me later that we walked quite a distance...but it seemed like mere minutes, especially when you're inebriated. I don't think poor A knew what to do with us, or even me. J was used to me crossing mid-traffic by now, and WB had had nearly ten years of me...so he thought I was going to die a couple times, but you don't stop drunk women from running across roads at night. No, you don't.
We went back to my haven to finish off the cold Chinese takeout...yes!...and decided to go out for more. We found a tapas place that served us more alcohol and very good croquettes. Mmm!
The night ended with all of us squeezing into my bed. There was much collapsing and falling asleep to be done. J lost her pants some time during the night...I ended up waking up at 6 to take a shower and try to sober up. My flight was in five hours. I looked at the wreckage, and made a mental note to pack up and be tidy before deciding to go out and get trashed on my last night in a town for future reference.
Barcelona ended in hugs, in stealing more supplies off the housekeeping cart for WB and myself, in hope for the fall, and a massive headache. Thank god for Advil, water and sunglasses. These were my last pictures of Barcelona:
I was now at the mercy of the airports again. Which isn't so bad on return trips, in theory, but I had to be back at work the next day. Of course it started with a delay in Barcelona. It seemed like it would be fine -- I had time to shop at the duty-free (I bought a tote and lots of chocolate) and buy a sandwich -- but I was thinking too soon. The Air France guy let us know on the plane that the pilot had decided to sleep in before his first flight of the day, which meant that subsequent flights were delayed as well. This boded well for the rest of the day.
I arrived at Charles du Gaulle. I had 45 minutes to get through customs and get to my gate. Flights that had 30 minutes were rushed through customs. I felt cheated. But not as cheated as the woman behind me in line who had been delayed by eight hours. EIGHT. We commiserate in line with the rest of the people about how much we hate this airport. But I do make it in time to buy some yummy Gold Label for my pop and some eau de vie for my mom.
We landed at Dulles an hour late, but like I cared, because I had to go hunt down a car in a parking lot that I didn't park. This was a fucking nightmare. I also did something really gross: I popped my huge foot blister and it leaked all over my flip flops. So disgusting walking in squishy shoes...
But then I was home, and I was showering, and I was watching my tivo, and I was realizing that life, was brilliant. This is what I love most about trips: how much I really appreciate home once I'm back. The driving, the cursing, the strip malls, the lack of culture, the gorgeous mess, the clusterfuck that is suburbia. Mmm, delicious. And yet, I try to run away at any chance I get. What does this mean? :)
And so it ends, the spanish holiday.
In theory, Valencia had very little room to start out as traumatic as Madrid. Madrid turned out to be fantastic, but it was still an inauspicious beginning. But let us remember how we woke up in a dead panic on Friday morning. By the time we were sitting at our gate waiting, the girls were still unable to sustain a normal heart rate. I think I was fine, but they were still skittish. I thought it was hilarious. I am insensitive.
So while we got to Valencia in one piece, and not very delayed at all, it did not start off with a bang or lots of energy. It might have been the crazy beginning. It might have been the early hour. Yeah. By the time we got into a cab and started driving into the city, I was starting to think things were very bleak. The town kind of reminded me of a semi-industrial wasteland, and I hadn't spotted ocean. I wanted ocean!
We arrived at the street where our hotel was located -- because our cabby couldn't be bothered to drive us closer even though there was road! -- and dragged our luggage to a gorgeous haven of air conditioning and a semblance of civilization. I can't help that I hold so much store in good hotels.
This hotel tried to upset me from the start. While it was nice, it didn't want to give us a room at 10:00 in the morning. The concierge tried to get us to leave our luggage and go exploring, but we opted to camp out in the lobby. I'm sure the girls were doing it out of exhaustion, but I did it to be belligerent. We did leave for a spell to have breakfast -- where it cost us an arm and a leg, but I stocked up on cereal, fruit, yoghurt, packaged cakes and jams..yes, I am a hoarder! -- but were back to loitering like riff raff asap. We were bedraggled, we were broken. I fell asleep. We were in a room by 11:20. And there we stayed until dinner time. The happy room:
When we went out, we had no plan. It's not like we had a plan for Madrid, but at least we had a map. There was no map for Valencia. My only plan was to find the water. And stay there. But that was a day away. For now...where the hell were we going to find grub?
We found it two blocks away. I usually take the approach of finding a crowded place. This place was crowded. But it had foul gummy paella, oily squid and the craziest batshit french fries known to man. Why? Because they were drenched with a bastardized version of sriracha and...mayo? They didn't have the common decency to put it on the side. Noooo. They just screwed with our carbs by covering everything with foul sauce!
The balm for our wounded souls post-dinner? Gelato, of course! Like everywhere else, this gelato was quite nice. However, the guy in the store, not so much. I came off as very beleaguered for having to deal with us. :) Pobre cito.
With sugar in our bellies, we started wandering. I figured that Valencia looked quite extensive from the mini map I jacked from the concierge at our hotel. Bwah! I was wrong. But we did find a mini mart that yielded what? Oh yes. English language girl magazines! And soda. And passing cameraderie with other American tourists. A hoot!
Now that I've learned this business of embedding, a slideshow proper of the random buildings I took pictures of, but can barely identify. Forgive the night pictures. I determined that there was a lot of me walking about snapping pictures while not entirely sober:
Valencia, as far as I could tell, was shaping up to be a bit charming, kind of quiet, and easy to walk. Not too bad. Better than the morning, anyway. I mean, when we walked to the Plaza de la Reina, I determined from the loud, obnoxious tourists, that it was a good town for getting drunk and being happy. And then something awkward. We walked beyond the Basilica...following the masses...only to find ourselves at a Mass. Yes. This is what lemming behavior got us. It was interesting to watch, because there appeared to be some sort of idol or something on a paladin-like structure. Lots of people were chanting at the same time...and as a non-Catholic, I was impressed by the synchronicity. It's the same feeling I get when I find myself in a Buddhist temple listening to the monks. But the Buddhist devotees are not nearly as good as chanting. Unsettling. The only thing that helped me recover from the unsettling? The promise of a good restaurant menu...suckling pig! However, for the day, we were done. Relatively uneventful. Which is how a day ought to be.
...I forgot a shameful (somewhat), yet awesome incident. Our night actually ended with us trying to find Chinese takeout...because I swore that I'd see a Chinese restaurant not far from the hotel. I was wrong. We walked circles, and managed to spot the chic stores and financial area, but no takeout. So we trudged onward to McDonald's instead (this is the shameful bit), where I found delicious chicken nuggets. Like better than stateside. And that's also where we discovered the belligerent woman who was definitely cursing out someone (to herself) as she marched down the street. It was amazing. She didn't even pay attention to any of us. She walked a straight path and we got out of dodge. We knew crazy when we saw it.
Day two. Ah, the day did not start until well into lunch. And for lunch, I had a plan. After being denied Chinese yesterday, I made a front desk person tell me where I could find a place and we went. We didn't get lost. We just found it. Let me tell you, it involved lots of paging through two reference books, and still, the meal selections were a serious crapshoot. There was chicken and pineapple, lemon chicken, wontons, har gao, chicken stir fry, and a lot of random other bits I wasn't sure about. Oh! And my first encounter with flat spring rolls. It reminded me of a hot pocket, now that I think about it. Just odd. I wonder if it's because the Spanish people reject properly round rolls? It just doesn't make sense! Meh. Not a bad lunch. They gave us ice cream. Good enough.
After lunch? The beach! Can I tell you that WB and J thought that the metro would be a bad idea? They thought it would be more prudent to take the bus. They are silly. We tried several buses at one station, and none of them let anyone on. It made no sense. I made them go on the metro. And we persevered. And we got there in one piece. I win!
The first thing I notice is that the boardwalk appeared to have restaurants that were serving food well after normal lunch hours. I felt cheated. Did beach tourists get better food treatment? I longed for the five star hotel I was eyeing on the internet. It was somewhere on this beach!
The second thing I noticed was a topless person taking a shower on the beach. I thought it was a guy. Nope. A chick. It was a topless beach. I did not do my research. I still have not done my research. Perhaps all beaches in Valencia are topless? Eh. I made note of this and tried to scope out seats under an umbrella. We succeeded. And we didn't have to pay...probably because half the day was long gone. I was still happy.
The beauty of a beach is the ability to lay about and not think about anything. I had my Sansa. I had my camera. There was water and soft sand. WB will contend that the sand was nothing compared to that which she has experienced in the Bahamas. I was glad that this was the first real beach I'd been on in well over a year. Hell, the last time I was near a body of water I was willing to swim in, I was in Vegas. That doesn't count! So I thought this was wonderful. I had time to read my Cosmo. *sigh*
The beach excursion wound down with us standing on the beach and staring into the water. WB pointed out that we were very much old women now, because only old people do what we did. And we also got to puzzle over a fella making some mad attempt at capoeira not ten feet from us. Another group of guys were watching him as well. We thought they were going to beat the crap out of him. I hope it would just be an awesome dance off. No such luck in either direction.
We went back and prepared to find some dinner. LA LOLA! The restaurant with the suckling pig! It's hidden in a back alley and we thought it sketchy until we caught an eyeful of the decor. I don't want to pin a name on it...but there was a photo of a woman weeing on the wall inside the restaurant. I don't think that's avant garde. Just ew.
Dinner was yummmmm. We were the first ones in entire joint, and were sad that no one else was eating dinner there. They were such a nice group, we thought. Why no love? Yeah, 8:30 was way too early for dinner. It filled up by the time we were winding down and a bunch of people were waiting for empty tables. For good reason. It was a great dinner. It was my first time eating kangaroo, and it was gooooooooood. Sweet. Tender. Not gamey. Just a gastronomic delight. Mmmm. I crave it a little right now. I also sampled both of my companions' meals as well, and I was still happiest with my selection. WB's risotto was excellent, confirming my decision to hold risotto in higher regard than any paella I had or ever would eat. It was intensely satisfying, and my best Spanish meal to date.
We ambled home with more gelato in our hands...only to find ourselves at McDonald's again for a midnight snack. I got to argue over patatas fritas versus patatas deluxe, and WB figured out not only what sweet and sour sauce was in Spain, but also that it cost 0,50 euros to get extra sauce beyond the first packet. Lame.
Our stomachs rebelled at our decisions to eat more. But we did. And I got us a later checkout time. And we felt a little better about going to bed without packing. This might have also been the night where I tortured the girls with the random porno channel on our television. What was regular television by day was apparently hardcore porn at night. I was sitting in the other direction, so I was less at the mercy of the dirty, but I was punishing the girls and making them watch it. I can't recall why now...but fuck. Who the hell? How the hell? That is not something you need to be running across by accident when you're just hoping to find Family Guy en espanol. WB paid me back with the Mika video. That bitch.
Day three. So inauspicious. We did pack slowly. We did lay about as long as possible, because we knew we had no plan. We left our luggage with the concierge and started walking with two simple maps. I had some idea about wanting to see the Mercado Central, and that was all. What followed was a walk through the ghetto and into the wood. To the botanical gardens we did stumble. I rather enjoyed it, but we walked waaaay too far for no reason.
I will note again the randomness of running across our waitress from the Chinese restaurant along one of these roads. She apparently lives in one of the apartment buildings we passed, and she sped away quite fast on a moped before I could snap her picture and note the bizarre coincidence.
And now, the garden. Where we sat. We walked. We stopped. We enjoyed the shade.
It was a nice finish to Valencia. Except it didn't end at the garden!
We went and stumbled into a bookstore where we found some respite in the AC. NO STORES ARE OPEN ON SUNDAYS! Because for some reason the Spanish like their families and want to spend time with them? Such a baffling notion. So we found books. This is normally a good thing, and this time was no exception. We had a terrible and amusing time translating spanish children's books for each other and sucking royally at Where's Waldo.
We then had to find dinner, and actually shamefully and not a little disconcertingly, we ended up in McDonald's. Again. Where we might have enjoyed a simple if ignominious meal at our domestic staple. Except I don't eat nearly this much McDonald's at home.
Anyways [sic.] This is where we encountered the gross teenage couple making out hot and heavy on the top floor of the establishment. I, again luckily, was turned away. It was just a show for the other two. :D Needless to say, it was disgusting. I could tell this just by their expressions alone. It was confirmed by the knowledge that they didn't come up for air for over half an hour and someone had to rebutton their mini skirt when they stood up.
Did anyone else vomit a little in their mouth? I did.
This was my lasting impression of Valencia. Because then we were sitting in an airport. We were delayed. I had to have another experience with Barcelona airport, and we had to experience an outrageous taxi stand. So much more. A long night ahead. Ah, part three.
Have I killed you yet with too many slideshows? I hope so. There are so fewer pictures in the Barcelona installment. You are lucky!
I am feeling v. full after taking advantage of Restaurant Week. I tried to stay on the healthier side by eating lots of fish. However, when that fish comes with something called corn butter, it's hard to keep the calories down. I had salmon, I had tilapia. I had flounder, I had sea scallops. I had pate, I had duck crepes. I had eggplant ravioli, I had shitake. I had sausage wrapped pork, I had...isn't that the most brilliant thing you've ever heard of? MAN! I had a whole lot of veg, and a whole lot of death on a plate. I was never so happy to eat so much protein. I also managed to douse myself with lots of bourbon, wine and tequila whilst I was out as well. My god.
Did anyone else enjoy a fruitful Restaurant Week? I know DC wasn't the only area celebrating it this week. Although...maybe Lorelei also went out and had some good grubs?
And after handing off some doughnuts to WishBear tonight, I'd told her that I was so full from the garden rolls I'd made for lunch (also healthy penance for eating sticky toffee pudding) today, I proceeded to eat two doughnuts myself around midnight. I am going to die fat and happy. But for now, I remain bleh and guilt-ridden.
On the upshot, I've managed to upload the rest of my Spain pics and will be posting soon (I hope.)
Preview!
And I also saw yummy Matt Damon at the movies this weekend. I heart his silver screen abilities to kill efficiently so very much. It certainly makes me want to learn some sort of deadly art. Because you know, I need more skills to add to my resume. And what better, than 'have the ability to kill someone with a towel'? This is the same sort of feeling I got after watching Gross Pointe Blank. Why shouldn't I be able to be a killer for hire? The salary, benefits and hours look awesome. And it looks like he traveled a lot. Perfect! My morals are flexible...
Now that I've lazed around and can't remember half of my
trip, I'm gonna post! Not all at once, clearly, as even without half my
memories, I'm a long and rambling narrator. Bah.
We start logically, at the beginning of the trip.
I always enjoy holidays, from start to finish. From the pre-trip purchases (travelsized toiletries and items bought in the name of acting as a transatlantic courier) to the hours waiting at the airport to the actual relaxing and eating. This was (in theory) no exception. I arrive three hours ahead of time to a short security line and a comfortable wait in B terminal reading my new seedy romance novel and listening to my new travel-happy playlist of music. I was positive even though I was still feeling the discomfort of surgery. I pushed it aside.
This joy lasted until hour 7 on the plane. Suddenly I was burning hot, needed to pee, and was trapped in a window seat. My way out was blocked by two sleeping behemoth boys. I suffered in silence for the last bit of the plane ride to Paris...well, except my backseat neighbor might have noticed me throwing myself against my seat and trying to stretch and fan myself frantically. This is why I request aisle seats usually. They couldn't accommodate me. Bah again.
Paris is where I discovered that I had a new airport to hate: Charles du Gaulle. Their sins? Annoyingly slow customs officers who are also snotty as fuck. Misdirecting travelers to the wrong security lines. Making me go through security even though I just needed to make a transfer in 1.5 hours. Clumping me with the huge tour group from China -- just because I managed to get in between them -- when they were stalled at security for some question or other. Balls. Almost making me miss my connection. I don't care that 'They're Gallic' is normally an acceptable excuse. No fucking excuses!
So I grabbed my luggage (yay!) when I arrived in Barcelona. I figured out that I needed to change terminals to check-in at Spanair -- it's cheaper to go roundtrip out of Barcelona and catch a domestic flight to Madrid than it is to fly one-way to Madrid then one way back from Barcelona to home. It wasn't busy where I was, so I didn't anticipate the clusterfuck in Terminal B. It took me 2.5 hours to get to the check-in counter. I arrived at 9:10 am, and had to catch a 12:20 pm flight. That's ridonkulous. I also learned that the Spanish do not respect personal space, lines, feet, each other, or deodorant….So it was that I learned what it felt like to be that person that runs onto a plane last minute, because the board flashed BOARDING as I ran for my gate…Except I wasn’t that person. What I was running for was the bus to take me to my plane. So good. - It was good until I got to Madrid and found out that my luggage, along with half the flight’s luggage had been left in Barcelona by accident. Drink in my pain with me. Drink it! At this point, I had been in transit for over 24 hours. I barely checked my rage.
Two hours and one lost soul later, I had reported my lost luggage – they assured me that it would arrive on the 5 pm or 7 pm flight that night – and full-on panicking about how I was supposed to meet up with WishBear[WB] and her friend [J] hours ago. Hours ago…somewhere in the airport. Yeah. We had a lengthy discussion later about how we have great plans, but no ability to follow through. Was it a Simpson’s thing? The underwear eaters episode? There’s a step one, and a step three, and the step two? we figure out along the way. So step one was, go to Spain. Step three was, meet up in Spain. Step two? Please.
I took the bus to Terminal 4. I took the
bus back to Terminal 2. I walked around, felt broken, and decided to take
a taxi to the hotel. Clearly she would be smart enough to write down the
hotel information that I sent to her aeons ago, no? And she was!…sort
of. She had to find an Internet kiosk to look up the info again, but she
made it to our hotel! Yes she did! And our room was adorable, yes
it was. This picture isn't quite representative of just how cute, but I wasn't going to adjust for light or take a fresh picture while it was tidy. And no judging me for taking bathroom pictures. I'm fascinated by bidets! I digress....
They were both appalled by my lost luggage. I suspect WB mourned her Skippy and Welch’s jelly (both trapped in my lost luggage) more than anything. ^_^ But more importantly? We were hungry. This is where they recalled that the Europeans have no sense of time, and ate at horrible hours…and drank the rest of the time. So we cooled our heels for a spell before taking to the streets, where we wandered around deciding on nothing, where a portly fellow tried to sit on top of J, where WB made us walk up a mountain to see Plaza Major and Puerto del Sol…Here is a mishmash of initial outside tourist pictures:
I had my first Spanish paella – not great, but edible – and I bought my first ‘I need clothes or I’m going to die!’ outfit of the trip: a light cotton tank top with green crochet straps and liberal bedazzling, and a vibrant citrus orange skirt, also bedazzled. The picture doesn't do justice to the color. Let me see if I can find a better color swatch...Too lazy. Imagine it a little brighter. :)
I had to have something to sleep in! I wasn’t going to sleep naked, and I wasn’t sleeping in my black trapeze top and khakis. No sir.
I went to sleep that night quite soundly, but not before finding out that our hotel TV was awesome. They have a FOX channel with dubbed over shows like House, Roswell, Smallville, Boston Legal, Brothers & Sisters, etc. Roswell, ya’ll. Not to mention the German MTV channel. Score! Of course there were even more craptastic shows, like The Ghost Whisperer, Cold Case and Close to Home….I don’t know why. They don’t even work at home…why would they import it? - The next day dawned with clear intent: shopping, food, and maybe some sightseeing…as if we knew where we were going. We had a fun!map, and that’s all we went with. We are awesome and clearly deranged.
We crawled out around noon? They were both concerned about the heat after suffering through Greece and Italy, but I poo-pooed their wariness and went about jauntily. Hey, I was in repeat clothing! I had wet underwear hanging off a hook to dry!
We ended up walking up to the nearest plaza and
sitting down in a little restaurant called Natur Bier. Clearly, natural
beer. Go go gadget four year of German! I tried to order everything
on the menu, but the man cut us off. He eyed us as sissy girls who couldn't
eat, and we took his advice, but vowed to prove him wrong. He was not
wrong. He brought out the chorizo and the croquettes and the
calamari. And the Sangria! Fantastic Sangria. Sweet,
delicious nectar of life... Mmmm....Sidetrack! Anyhow. So he
brought that all out, and we faltered. My tummy was full -- traitorous
mofo. So by the time the paella (round two, Madrid) came out, I was
terrified. Couldn't possibly do it. Neither could J, really.
WB looked at us both with a mighty dose of shame, and stepped up to do her
duty. Witness:
She schooled us both. Do not judge her by the leftover bits. She decimated more than half of it herself. And she is wee. Also note the gigantic lemon wedge...it would have served better in my drink.
After ye good olde satisfying lunch, it was off to do some more shopping to clothe my tired and sweaty ass back. I hadn't been whinging that much (I hope), but the promise of more was on the horizon, lest I get clean with new clothes!
I struck joyous gold at Zara. I bought two dresses --
both of them happily not too out of place with the rest of my wardrobe.
See:
Prior to Zara, we had gone into a Bershka, which
was...no. Seriously. Well, I'm not being fair. Anyone who
thinks the Lily Pulitzer color scheme is their cup of tea needs to go to
Bershka. The colors make Miami seem muted by comparison. No
joke. Go. See. Be attacked by the fluoro (as Fly
calls it. Hee!) just like my damn retinas. Crazy, ya'll. Here, go visit their website. I'll admit, the intro is interesting...okay, it might give you vertigo...but go anyway: Bershka!
I saw maybe two scraps of black fabric in the whole place. WB was happily rummaging for some sweater, J was wandering with a scared look on her face, so I ran for the hills and a bottle of Coke. Then, the haven of Zara, where they were confused as well. Bother. But not me!
Happy with my purchases we wended our way down the Gran Via. This road, by all accounts has a lot of shopping. It isn't as grand as Salamanca, but it is still clogged with people and cars and traffic and all that is horribly messy about humanity. We stayed to one side and giggled our way down the road.
We noted that there was a TGI Friday's here. This will come into play the next day... There were also restaurants a plenty and some shops too. It was a pleasant sloped hill...I was only afraid that we'd have to walk back up. Of course. That's my concern. Hee. So lazy.
We found ourselves at the bottom of the hill, and subsequently the Plaza de España. This is where we saw the statue of Cervantes and Don Quixote. We saw the crazy drunk woman lounging in the fountain -- this does not mean that only crazy drunk people lounge in fountains! Sane people do it too! We saw people sunbathing, and some fun tourists, and wacky stupid graffiti. Not worth a mention. Mini pictorial:
It was very pretty. Not the fountain lady -- she changed her pants in front of us. Not a show I wanted to see. I don't think J and WB wanted to see it either. So we left. And we had a plan. No climbing up the hill for us. No! Now that we were down here, we could cut through the plaza and see the Palacio Real and the Almudena Cathedral. Score! The weather was nice, dinner was hours away. And we had to give the old college try at being a tourist in truth. I think I did better than the other two. Pictures!
And that was the Palacio Real, the Campo del Moro and the Almudena Cathedral. So exquisite. I went in and snapped pictures galore, the girls were more subdued. Hello. Pretty colors! Catholics know how to pretty their holy houses, ya'll. Alas. By now the sun was setting, so time to book it home to siesta. Which is what we did. Except I couldn't, because I finally got a call from sweet sweet lovable favorite hotel guy ever Cesar, telling me that my luggage had arrived. Huzzah! I rejoiced. I drew out everything from my luggage. The only damage was a slightly leaky oil that made everything smell like camphor and eucalyptus. Success! So happy I threw on my green dress and we went back for more goodness and sangria in the plaza.
This would have been nice, had there not been a man with an accordion, and a man with a recorder who walked circles around us and made us want to commit murder. Although I believe one of us pointed out the inconvenience of having to leave the country and a whole extradition nightmare. But seriously. Nothing could improve the smelly Eurostinky recorder player. Seriously, ya'll. Who expects money for playing a recorder? I did not go around with my recorder when I was ten expecting tips for playing Hot Cross Buns...No euros for you! Asshat. Still. Mission accomplished. Drinks in belly, another night pleasant.
The next day was the Fourth of July. We apparently slept in, and paid for it. It was almost four by the time we went out, and we panicked. We were going to miss the food window. Fuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkk. So we decided that maybe, just maybe, we would make the window at TGI Fridays. We wanted to celebrate the holiday, so what better way than at an American franchise and with free refills? I fail to mention that at this time we had already bypassed restaurants called Nebraska, Texas and Iowa. Let's not question it. Ah, and we had also passed through two or three Bershkas, because WB was still on her hunt.
We made it to Friday's, and ya'll, it was everything we hoped for and more. Potato skins, salads, burgers, chicken fingers, ice cream, huge mojitos, and all the soda you can drink. Sooo good. Had we the inclination, we might have gotten some Jack Daniel's sauce. Oh, yum.
I think my girls could have died
happy right there, because even the soda tasted the same. I personally
think the Coke in Spain is a little sweeter than at home, so seriously, I can
tell. Up until now, I'd been a junky for Fanta Naranja, which
coincidentally isn't as sweet as Fanta Orange here...hmm....anyhow, but for
this meal, it was glass after glass of Coke. Le sigh.
P.S....J totally shined in the Friday's experience. She killed her plate of skins and strips and fries and mojito and ice cream and too many glasses of soda to count. :)
Full of food and feeling sassy, we chugged back up the hill, because it was time for more shopping. I think by this point, the womens were tired of their dirty (and even less dirty) clothes. I wasn't the only one on a shopping mission. Heee. So we stopped at H&M - where it was a fucking zoo. I was afraid for my life. No joke. I left them to fend for themselves and waited patiently outside. I shudder. That makes my fourth country where I attempted to shop at an H&M. This is the only one where I've been unsuccessful. I know. Shameful. We stopped at yet another Zara where I got another dress:
We stopped at Sfera, where we were horrified by the proliferation of rompers. The most offensive? A purple velour one...that we incidentally saw this skinny hag pulling onto her body in plain view. I was so disturbed. Alas. We also went into several more shops I can't recall, but I know I also had to run into a Starbuck's for a recharge. So much shopping, so little time.
We made it to the end of Gran Via only to circle around the Ministry of Defense and the Cibeles.
WB said that her friend said we ought to go through Chueca -- supposed great shopping. So we got lost, but got there, and it was not all it should have been. It was some high end retailers mixed with electronic stores and lots of ghetto. We were saddened, and they learned that they wouldn't be able to trust this girl again. :) At least not with shopping.
We were all in with the tourist bit that day, so we decided to go all the way. We went to Hard Rock Madrid, we went to the Jardines del Buen Retiro:
Wouldn't that frighten you as a child? A headless mouse?
Anyhow, this day winded down with dinner at a tapas restaurant that had hard liquor behind the bar but didn't serve cocktails. We were so speechless when the waitress told us that we couldn't even be bothered to call bullshit. Such a waste. WB remained sober in protest. I am not so strong. I ordered my cava sangria and got muzzy. This led to a not so steady walk back to the hotel, which was a block away, and some drunken emails. I made poor Cesar plan us a trip to Sevila -- we thought we were going to be ambitious and do a day trip -- bus schedules and all, but it was not to be.
The last full day in Madrid dawned with excitement. We were going to have Thai for lunch and shop and sleep and drink our way to Friday. The restaurant was less than stellar, but I had to give it credit for using the right ingredients. But they did not seem Thai. I know my Thai people. One of my relatives in my tree is definitely Thai. They did not seem Thai. And he did not give us dessert on our menu del dia. Lying fucker.
P.S. This is the meal where I redeemed myself. I polished my plates and helped WB finish hers! Huzzah!
No matter. We still had shopping. A little trip to TopShop...success!...and jaunt to Sephora...where (because of WB) I had to pay thrice...although to be fair, twice was me. Hah.
I'm sure we did more, but the day was fairly a haze. We stopped by another restaurant on the way back to the hotel to have a drink, but then we had a mini-siesta. The rest of the night had to be my favorite night in Madrid. Because we went out for the night and found the most adorable smoky bar on the next street over...Calle de Lupe Vega?...and we had the strongest damn caiprinas and mojitos ever. EVER. The proprietor made them himself, took forever, and I have to believe, with gusto. Old Elvis songs filtered in just as frequently as music from -- no joke -- my playlist from freshman year in college. Including what song? The best song ever in high school: Ironic by Alanis. Sweet Jesus. And I must have eaten a whole bowl of sunflower seeds and peanuts on my own. WB laughed at me because I only had two drinks, and for the second drink I tried to get something that the man told me was non-alcoholic and I shook my head, "Nooooooo....Something with lots of alcohol please!" Seriously.
I will call it my favorite bar ever. In Spain. So sweet. Look how kitschy that is!
Next up? A stroll down the street where everyone was trying to get the passersby to come in. We passed up many restaurants and bars, and landed where? Oh yes, Cher's Bar, a karaoke joint, after being shafted by a Doner Kabob joint. It was not even midnight yet! But still. We (J and I) got drinks and belted out bad songs in Spanish...Como yo te amo??? Como yo TE aaahhhhmmmmo.....It turned awfully angry awfully quick. In the song and in the bar. Yowza. Their songlist was amazing and bad. We lasted a couple more songs, dodged another man trying to sell us roses, and left. J left the sweet karaoke boy with a kiss, and we found ourselves trying to find a disco.
The girls, for some reason, let me drag them to a disco that thought itself awfully cool. The drinks were 14 euros. No way. So we danced. And I had made it all the way to YMCA before I realized it was a gay disco. Lots of men dancing in groups, gyrating together, and girls in random clumps. It was fantastic. I almost got pulled on stage, but leapt off after getting my feet up there. Best comment by the girls: "I don't know what to do with this music. I can't whore dance to this!" Yes, these songs wanted us to actually use our feet to dance. Silly, I know. I adopted my time honored bad wedding dancing style. They laughed. I had fun, I hope they did too.
We got in around two? Three? We smelled of smoke, sweat and stink, and we had to leave the hotel by 5:30 am to get to the airport. We were having a taxi pick us up at that time, so all was in motion. Then they had the bright idea of staying awake all night. I agreed, but they also wanted some Internet time, as they had had to pay for too much Internet time across Europe, and it was free here. So they went downstairs to the lobby, and I took a shower and packed it all in. By the time they came up, it was 4 am. They thought they could sleep for half an hour then wake up to pack and shower. I said, okay.So guess who didn't wake up until the front desk called up to tell us that the taxi had arrived? I went down to stall, but I have never been more proud of these women. They packed in five minutes and were downstairs in a jiff. It took them hours to recover from the shock, and J may have broken her luggage, but we were down in time. Our cabbie was a little agitated because he had to be somewhere at 6.30 am, but he was nice in general, and scared at the shit out of me driving at super speed. I was luckily in the death seat and had a prime view of all of the glorious bad driving. He made me seem tame. No matter. We got to the airport in one piece, and now we had Valencia to look forward to.
Ah, dear readers, that is for part two....
Have been home for about two hours -- mind you, the first hour was spent trying to find a car. I have showered. I have pondered the suitcase full of clothes that smell like Europeans in the summer, as well as the ridiculous numbers of pictures I took that include almost no humans that I actually know. But my feet are recovering from the blistered that popped as I walked to the airport garage. My sausage toes are slowly deflating as well -- fuck 12+ hours of travel!! I'm alone. I'm tired. I can't possibly do a blargle fargle on Spain justice. Although I think I just recovered from my hangover while I was standing in line, pissed off in Paris.
Ah, Paris, or specifically Charles du Gaulle Airport. That rant I can do. Quick, satisfying. Everyone in line felt the same way. I'd even be so inclined to include Air France, but really, I do enjoy them and hope to be frivolous and rich enough one day to enjoy their first class beds...Fuck it. My first pilot slept late...subsequently making me late and almost missing my connection.
I don't know why the French hate us (everyone) so much. It's an airport. I get it that people aren't happy in airports, especially not the workers. But if you make the conscious decision to be that sort of miserable human being, could they not make me as miserable? Fly says she has fond memories of being stranded at CDG, but I am not inclined to agree. They delivered me from Barcelona forty minutes late. They then sent me to check my passport with a regular line even though they fast forwarded three flights that were departing within fifteen minutes of my flight. They only had two workers -- TWO WORKERS -- check in an asslong line of people holding passports not of EU or Swiss origin. That's stupid. So many angry people in my line. Sooooo many.
So I made it through the line only to get into the most retarded security check ever. The guy took my purse to put on the belt only to...keep it aside for four other peoples' belongings ahead of mine, thus letting me stand awkwardly waiting for my bag while other people went around me and found me too much of a nuisance for words. Arrrgggh!
My solution was to then go to Duty Free and buy three bottles of alcohol. :D Only bright spot.
Now: boarding. I recognize that boarding is a bloodsport. But also recognize, that in the US, boarding is much more civilized than any other country I've been in. In particular: Spain. The Spanish will line up for anything. They don't actually call for people to board. They don't even stand in order. People enter in line willy nilly, cutting people off, acting like it's their due. I also saw that the Germans and the French do the same thing. Fuck 'em. But in CDG, there is a line. A line that is taped offfffff....and doesn't move. Some people were actually frisked. To board a plane. After having gone through one, if not two, security check points. Seriously? What happened to make it this unmanageable? There were maybe twenty people in line to get on the plane at this point. It took me twenty minutes to board the plane.
Ahhhhhhhh. CDG makes Heathrow look efficient and fuss-free. Think about that.
Mmmph. I'm going to bite the bullet and do a load of laundry.
More ranting, storytelling, and pictures later. :)
Since Wednesday I've been drifting around being supremely pathetic and looking the part. I don't know if it's the kidney stones, or the virus, or what, but I've been in pain, have not been able to keep anything down, and have been very agitated about the whole thing. I've laid about with ice packs, curled up for a nap under my desk, coated myself in eucalyptus oil, popped pill after pill...I didn't think it would end, this random ill.
Of course it's 90% gone now. This morning I woke up miraculously without pain, and with the sudden recognition that I hadn't held any food of substance in my stomach since Wednesday night. I mean, I did have some plain rice congee last night, but that was congee and salt for the love. Consequently, I ran way too quickly with this newly acquired appetite. Since the morning I've eaten two Haagen-Daaz chocolate ice cream bars, two granola bars, a box of Stove Top (because nothing says love like pre-fab stuffing), a coconut, lychees, and now I've gone and gorged myself on green mangos dipped in kapi and sugar. My stomach protests because I tried to scarf down a second mango. It was a hard fight, because I lurve green mangos. LOVE. Give them to me over ripe ones any day. I prefer their scent, their taste, the texture, even the chore of peeling the skin.
*sigh* I feel like I should plot my next meal while I rest.
Meanwhile, who has tips for what I should do while I'm in Madrid? Besides Fly, because you need to focus on amusing me (and I suppose WishBear and friend) in Barcelona! Squeeeeeeeeeeee!
I had a relatively uneventful day. Spent my entire morning in a meeting, then celebrated its closing with a giant plate of breakfast food. Subsequently, I was unable to enjoy the bits of food at a ribbon cutting I attended this afternoon. It was for a bank, and of course the rain did wonders for delaying the fucking ceremony. In the interim, I clutched my bottle of water (I stupidly chose to drink water instead of the wine they offered) with a death grip as I endured round after round of small talk with old white men. Because old white men run banks. Vice presidents. Presidents. Regional managers. Lenders. Everyone! They all had soft hands like old people tend to do, and were clad in sober suits. If they didn't have salt and pepper hair, then it was all kosher salt or shiny pates staring back at me. Gah. I suppose this is why I will never fit, nor shall want to fit in with the finance crowd. Today's asshole ibanker is tomorrow's old white man with soft hands. They were all the same. This is another reason I'm terrible at networking. I can't remember anything for shit. Especially when they're all carbon copies...oh! It reminds me of the old white guy on that adult swim cartoon....with Xander Cruise and....what cartoon is that? Damn. Sidetracked. Not coming back.
Meanwhile: tickets for Spain purchased! Huzzah! July 2007? Europe or bust!
