Shortly after the crack of dawn on April 1, I groggily rolled out of bed after one hour of REM-less sleep, threw some remaining toiletries into my suitcase, and ran out the door to catch my 7:30am bus to Madrid. Although accustomed to the almost three hour ride, I was happy to immediately fall asleep and not wake up until the bus was rolling through the outskirts of Madrid. As I sleepily stirred in my seat, my Murcia-bound friend Ana said to me, "Good morning." "Buenos días,*" I replied, fluffing my matted hair. We got off the bus, retrieved our luggage from the bus's gaping belly, and sat down for a coffee before heading our separate ways: me to the Salamanca neighborhood and Ana to Pinar Chamartín to catch her train to Murcia.
It being the very beginning of April, good weather was still fairly scarce, so I was thrilled that Madrid was sunny and warm. I spent the day in El Retiro, stopping in Thyssen-Bornemisza for a couple of hours to see the Monet exhibit as well as some Hopper, Kandinsky, and 16th century Flemish art. My night ended early due to my lack of sleep the previous night. Paris tomorrow, I thought excitedly as I fell asleep. My francophone adventure was about to begin.
After a delicious lunch of falafel with a friend in Puerta del Sol the next day, I headed to Barajas Airport, all my thoughts centered on one: that Ryan Air won't make me check my bag for an extra 35E. Upon getting my boarding pass stamped, getting through security while balancing two bins, my shoes, and my suitcase, and walking ten miles to my boarding gate, I decided to attempt to repack my suitcase in hopes of eliminating as many lumps as possible and fitting the suitcase into the carry-on luggage size checker, thus avoiding the possibility of having to check my bag and paying 35E. After several tries, I had the brilliant idea of stuffing as many bulky items as would fit into my coat pockets. My plan succeeded and I basked in my own genius the entire flight to Beauvais, concocting appropriate Facebook stati regarding the matter, my suitcase resting safely in the luggage bin above my head.
Paris Beauvais Airport is tiny. I walked out of the gate practically right into the shuttle bus to Paris, eliminating all my worries about getting lost and not finding the shuttle. Phew. The bus arrived at Port Maillot in Paris a touch before 9pm. Port Maillot is completely on the opposite side of the city from where I needed to be, the Latin Quarter, so I had a good 40 minutes of metro surfing ahead of me. Finally, after almost losing my right arm to the malicious metro doors in Port Maillot, transferring lines, and getting slightly lost upon getting off at Censier-Daubenton (lost enough to have to employ my very best je cherche rue Larrey** with a couple who turned out to not be French), I made it to my mom's friend's apartment, memories of staying there nine years ago rapidly coming back to me. After two metros, a plane, a bus, and two more metros, I was finally in Paris.
*good morning
**I'm looking for Larrey Street
Friday, April 30, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Sevillian Civilians Part III
Lesson of the day: cheat the system by joining a group tour. You may also learn something. Arriving at the Alcazar, I was greeted by a line of tourists that seemed to stretch for miles towards I don't know where. The line seemed to be longer than the two lines that are permanently, and randomly, etched in my memory. The first line, which I had the pleasure of standing in for a good hour or so in the scorching, dry St. Petersburg summer sun, was for the observation deck on the St. Isaac's Cathedral. The second line, and I have no idea why this has made a comfortable and permanent home in my memory, was in some park in Russia where I waited 45 minutes in a line surrounded by chatty Russian ladies to use the bathroom. But I digress.
Fortunately, my experience with this particular line did not last long since my program director quickly ushered me and the other two girls into the hands of a tour guide with whom we only waited ten minutes to enter the mudejar* palace. Walking into the Alcazar was like walking into a smaller version of the Alhambra.
Look familiar? Tiled walls, herradura** arches, stone carvings, immaculate gardens. Having spent almost ten hours at the Alhambra back in October, I felt very much at home walking through the splendid rooms of the Alcazar.
main patio:
stucco etching and tiles
gardens:
*Arab design applied to Christian architecture
**horseshoe
Fortunately, my experience with this particular line did not last long since my program director quickly ushered me and the other two girls into the hands of a tour guide with whom we only waited ten minutes to enter the mudejar* palace. Walking into the Alcazar was like walking into a smaller version of the Alhambra.
Look familiar? Tiled walls, herradura** arches, stone carvings, immaculate gardens. Having spent almost ten hours at the Alhambra back in October, I felt very much at home walking through the splendid rooms of the Alcazar.
main patio:
stucco etching and tiles
gardens:
*Arab design applied to Christian architecture
**horseshoe
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Time Heals All Wounds
With the weather getting warmer and the sun working longer hours, I have been spending a considerable more time outside. Walking 30 minutes to the center is no longer a miserable task; instead of digging my gloved hands into my pockets for some extra warmth, I look at the dandelions and daisies and think of sundresses and ice cream (and then I go purchase said sundresses and ice cream). Subsequently, I think of Boston during its first days of good weather. The esplanade, the BU Beach, the Commons.
A few days ago, I was taking my time walking back to campus from the center because all of Burgos was ablaze with the mid-spring sun and everything was gorgeous. I swallowed fresh air peppered with the sight of the frothing river and colorful houses. Spain is beautiful, I told myself, as though the two previous months of rain had made me believe otherwise. I love Spain, but I seldom stop and tell myself that I physically am in Spain. I avoid that existential confrontation because acknowledging that I am in Spain pushes my overly sentimental heart down a road I do not want to traverse. I don't want to acknowledge the fact that I will leave Spain, and fairly soon, too.
I am perfectly adept to living in different cities. I started at the tender age of four, so why should I stop now? I cannot imagine spending my entire life, especially the last three years, in one place. Nevertheless, the necessity of leaving and bidding farewell to people does not get any easier for me. The thought of it depresses me and my last few days in any place are filled with a certain heaviness that never ceases to end in a catastrophic sobfest that I cannot control. I fall in love with people and places so easily that I later have to pay the price. Dwelling on these facts as I walked back to the dorm, I tried to force myself to accept my slightly nomadic ways as mere parts of life, which alleviated some of the melancholy that I had inflicted upon myself. But these things take time.
A few days ago, I was taking my time walking back to campus from the center because all of Burgos was ablaze with the mid-spring sun and everything was gorgeous. I swallowed fresh air peppered with the sight of the frothing river and colorful houses. Spain is beautiful, I told myself, as though the two previous months of rain had made me believe otherwise. I love Spain, but I seldom stop and tell myself that I physically am in Spain. I avoid that existential confrontation because acknowledging that I am in Spain pushes my overly sentimental heart down a road I do not want to traverse. I don't want to acknowledge the fact that I will leave Spain, and fairly soon, too.
I am perfectly adept to living in different cities. I started at the tender age of four, so why should I stop now? I cannot imagine spending my entire life, especially the last three years, in one place. Nevertheless, the necessity of leaving and bidding farewell to people does not get any easier for me. The thought of it depresses me and my last few days in any place are filled with a certain heaviness that never ceases to end in a catastrophic sobfest that I cannot control. I fall in love with people and places so easily that I later have to pay the price. Dwelling on these facts as I walked back to the dorm, I tried to force myself to accept my slightly nomadic ways as mere parts of life, which alleviated some of the melancholy that I had inflicted upon myself. But these things take time.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Sevillian Civilians Part II
Leaning back in the thick, wicker terrace chair, letting my tired bones and muscles relax from the morning journey from Madrid and afternoon sightseeing, I breathed in the still, warm air. Despite it being overcast and every moment on the brink of rain, it felt like summer, a wonderful feeling in the middle of March, especially since Burgos was still cold, rainy, and required a winter coat. After indulging my senses for a few moments, I directed my attention to the matter at hand: lunch. Being part of a group of six people, I agreed that tapas would indeed be the easiest solution to ordering. Minutes later, our jolly Andalucian waiter brought out plates of olives, fried fish, calamari, gazpacho, paella, and cheese. Dribbling drops of fresh lemon onto some fried bacalao*, I wanted to stay in Seville forever.
Following the overly hearty lunch and obligatory turrón** ice cream, I made my way to the bank of the River Guadalquivir, where the breeze cooled the air slightly and ruffled the trees, tousling their leaves. I put on my cardigan. At six o'clock, I boarded a tour boat that took me on a leisurely, one-hour ride down the river. I did not pay attention to the pre-recorded, multilingual, robotic voice that was narrating the tour. I leaned over the rail and watched the motor churning the water, creating swirling foam patterns. I did not think about anything particular as I stared into the horizon. Same people, same feelings, same thoughts.
The day turned into dusky evening as everyone returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for flamenco later that evening. A couple of hours later, four dressed and coiffed girls exited the hotel into the dark streets illuminated orange by the street lights and faint glow of old, brown buildings. What began as an enjoyable stroll to the flamenco venue quickly evolved into a frantic dash through the streets of old Seville. The guidebooks say that one of Seville's charms is its crooked little streets that you should get lost in to truly experience the atmosphere of the city. Personally, I do not elect to get lost in any kind of street when I have to be at a performance in ten minutes, but that is exactly what happened. Realizing we would be incredibly late, we started sprinting, nice clothes be damned, yelling permiso*** to the crowds in front of us, diving in between people. As luck would have it, not only were none of the people we asked for directions from Seville, but the street we were looking for had no street sign, which is quite normal in Spain. Typically, the street you are looking for is always the one without a street sign (why is that?). I do not quite remember how, but we finally arrived at the old synagogue, panting and sweating, where the entire house staff was waiting just for us to begin the performance. All I can say is, now the Spaniards know what it feels like to wait for other people.
*cod
**nougat
***excuse me
Following the overly hearty lunch and obligatory turrón** ice cream, I made my way to the bank of the River Guadalquivir, where the breeze cooled the air slightly and ruffled the trees, tousling their leaves. I put on my cardigan. At six o'clock, I boarded a tour boat that took me on a leisurely, one-hour ride down the river. I did not pay attention to the pre-recorded, multilingual, robotic voice that was narrating the tour. I leaned over the rail and watched the motor churning the water, creating swirling foam patterns. I did not think about anything particular as I stared into the horizon. Same people, same feelings, same thoughts.
The day turned into dusky evening as everyone returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for flamenco later that evening. A couple of hours later, four dressed and coiffed girls exited the hotel into the dark streets illuminated orange by the street lights and faint glow of old, brown buildings. What began as an enjoyable stroll to the flamenco venue quickly evolved into a frantic dash through the streets of old Seville. The guidebooks say that one of Seville's charms is its crooked little streets that you should get lost in to truly experience the atmosphere of the city. Personally, I do not elect to get lost in any kind of street when I have to be at a performance in ten minutes, but that is exactly what happened. Realizing we would be incredibly late, we started sprinting, nice clothes be damned, yelling permiso*** to the crowds in front of us, diving in between people. As luck would have it, not only were none of the people we asked for directions from Seville, but the street we were looking for had no street sign, which is quite normal in Spain. Typically, the street you are looking for is always the one without a street sign (why is that?). I do not quite remember how, but we finally arrived at the old synagogue, panting and sweating, where the entire house staff was waiting just for us to begin the performance. All I can say is, now the Spaniards know what it feels like to wait for other people.
*cod
**nougat
***excuse me
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