Children, Trains, and Chocolate - Switzerland

I have spent the last few days of my trip in a fantastic, wonderful, magical place. It’s name is Switzerland. I cannot impress upon you just how spectacular it is, but throughout this post I will certainly try.

My adventures in Switzerland actually started out on a sour note, funny enough, though by no fault but my own. You see, I woke up nice and early in Valence, had a nice, leisurely breakfast of yogurt and muesli, and crossed the street to the train station with a reasonable ten minutes to spare before my train was to depart at 6:56. I certainly could have gotten there earlier, but what was the rush? I was hardly going to hit traffic walking fifty yards door to platform.

When I arrived at the station however, I noticed something strange. There was no train leaving at 6:56. There was a train leaving at 6:46, and… oh look! It was going to Geneva! But that didn’t make any sense. Surely I hadn’t…

Oh, but I had. I had copied down the time wrong when I was writing out my travel plans and reiterated it so many times in my itinerary, my calendar, and so on and so forth, that it had never occurred to me it might not be right. It took me a moment to get over my disorientation. That one moment that meant the conductor blew his all-clear whistler mere seconds before I reached the platform. And so I had to stand and watch as my train to Geneva pulled out of the station without me.

The conductor was very nice about it, using all the English he knew to try to figure out where I was going and if there was another train. There wasn’t. He looked very worried, but I thanked him and returned to the terminal. “C’est bien?” “Oui, bien.”

It wasn’t bien. I had been looking forward to Geneva more than any city since Granada. It wasn’t just one of those cities I studied in class either. It was a city I read about constantly in the news - a major hub of international diplomacy and thus, to me, something of a mecca. So I pulled out my phone and began searching furiously. There weren’t any direct trains from Valence to Geneva until the late evening, but there was a train from Valence to Grenoble, and then one from Grenoble to Geneva. It would get me there around 2:00, a full four hours later than I intended, but it would get me there. So I grabbed my bag and boarded a train.

Grenoble was actually a pleasant surprise. I couldn’t stray too far from the station with my bag, but I took a short walk and settled down in a cafe for an almond croissant and a coffee. I had a few hours to wait, but it gave me a chance to read and people watch. Before I had even say down though, I decided I liked the place. People in that northeastern region of France just seem… nicer: the girl behind the counter who served me with a blinding smile even after I had butchered her language while stuttering my order in French, the fellow traveler who sat down nearby and proceeded to painstakingly translate the fact that he had a long layover, just because I looked confused at his longer than usual greeting. There was a group of young friends we picked up on our way to Geneva as well whom I quite liked, even if I couldn’t understand them. Most large groups of young people get on my nerves, but I found myself actually wishing I could speak French so I could engage them. The one sitting next to me did ask me something, but I couldn’t respond. It didn’t seem to phase them.

The farther North we went, the more beautiful it became, until finally we made it to the sparkling city of Geneva. And it does sparkle. Not just the sunlight on the buildings, but the city seems to pulse with a light all its own. My original plan had been to head to the old town, explore the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre and the International Museum of the Reformation, as well as the surrounding area, before catching a bus north to the UN for a tour and heading back to the train station to make for Montreux.

You see, I had elected not to stay overnight in Geneva because it was just too expensive. Montreux, on the other hand, was the starting point for my alps tour the next day, and had a lovely internationally federated option. This choice, however, meant I now had barely four hours in Geneva. Something was going to have to give.

I’d thought about it long and hard on the train ride, and decided there was only one solution. As some of you know, I’m an absolute nerd when it comes to the Reformation. Just ask Katy who had to endure me grinning like an idiot every time the word came up in St. Andrews. Geneva is considered the Rome of the Reformation, the epicenter, where both Martin Luther and John Calvin completed most of their works. On the other hand, the Reformation has passed. It’s not about to change, whereas the UN I can see today may not be the UN I could see in ten years time. It’s current and constant and changing. It had to be the UN.

The only UN tour I could still make, however, and the last one of the day, didn’t start for two hours from the time my train arrived. Surely that was enough time to pop by the old town and see the cathedral at least? Well, it would have been, if not for the Fete des Ecoles, a parade of literally every school child in Geneva winding its way through the little cobbled streets. I didn’t know what was going on at first, and then I figured it out and didn’t know why, but I didn’t have the heart to be upset regardless. It was joyous and loud and full of laughter and music, parents lined the streets with smiles, waves, and cameras, and I didn’t even mind that it made it impossible to navigate.

So I got terribly lost, multiple times, but enjoyed it, only reaching Saint-Pierre’s Square a few minutes after I’d originally intended to leave it. So I had some decisions to make. Did I go? Did I stay? It had taken so long to get here. Was there even a guarantee I could make it back out? And so I had to let my dream of touring the United Nations, former headquarters of the League of Nations, go. It was a bitter parting, but so great is my love of the Reformation that still it didn’t ruin my day.

Even with canning the UN tour, that wasn’t quite enough time to do all the old town things I would have liked. I started with the International Museum of the Reformation, where the kind man who sold me my ticket and gave me my audio guide was able to answer my questions about the parade. They were celebrating the last day of school and had even rung the cathedral bells earlier. He also advised that I’d come a bit late in the day (as if I didn’t know >.<) and if I wanted to make the most of the combination ticket I’d insisted on buying, I should only spend about forty-five minutes in the museum.

Have any of you seen me in a museum? Recently? With an audio guide? I could be there for hours.

I definitely couldn’t be there for hours though, they closed in less than two. So I set about seeing things as quickly as I could, skipping the items I wasn’t positively enthralled by and finishing tracks early when I felt I’d gotten the gist. It took me an hour, and still felt like blasphemy. The things I could have learned! In a last attempt to assuage my curiosity, I picked up a couple of free books on my way out. At least they looked free. I hope they were free. They were tiny and in stacks by the door and didn’t have prices on them, so… I mean, no one yelled at me when I picked them up and walked out the door? I didn’t have time to worry about it though because part two of my combination ticket, the Archaeological Site, was closing in forty-five minutes.

Geneva is home to one of the largest and most diverse archaeological sites in Europe, buried beneath the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre. It has been excavated to the point that you can descend beneath the cathedral to see the remains of an Allobrogian warrior, the shrine built to him, the Roman shrine that replaced it, as well as a number of different cloisters and cathedrals that followed throughout the ages, all displayed at various levels in the earth’s crust as they were found. It was quite fascinating, though I’m glad I gave the hour to the museum and the forty-five minutes to the archaeology. I still had to hurry a bit, but I finished right on time at five o’clock.

The last part of the combination ticket, the cathedral towers, didn’t have the same strict closing time, so I explored them and the cathedral at me leisure. It was interesting being a Protestant cathedral again. Even compared to the ones I’d seen in Britain though, it was very plain and undecorated. I liked it. It allowed for more admiration of the architecture without seeming to imply that man is worthless and small. The towers, of course, also allowed for some spectacular views over Geneva

I had hoped to at least get up to see the UN building from the outside, but alas, when I was done at the cathedral time was still not on my side. I didn’t even get a chance to stop by the Reformation Wall monument in a nearby park. What I did think I had time for, however, was Geneva’s landmark Jet d’Eau. It used to be a pressure release valve for some factory that shot water into the air, but it eventually became such a Genevan landmark that the city decided to adopt it.

I’d assumed you could see the jet from anywhere around the lake, but the several times I’d passed couldn’t pick it out. On my final pass by, headed for the train station, I actually stopped to hunt for it a bit, eventually deciding it must be smaller than I thought and maybe not worth a look after all. No sooner had I started to cross my very last bridge though then I heard a titter from some tourists behind me and there it was, rising into the sky like the geyser I’d expected.

So I guess it’s on a timer or something, but it was my first stroke of tourist luck of the day and I appreciated it. I was in the perfect spot for lovely pictures and everything. And thus I arrived at the train station on a victorious note, retrieved my bag from left luggage, and boarded my train for Montreux, just a short ride around the lake from Geneva.

The train rides had been beautiful up to this point, but it was on the way to Montreux that they started to become so breathtaking you couldn’t look away. I think the entire experience is best summed up by the image of myself and the British girl sitting across from me, both attempting to read until we emerged from a tunnel, glanced out the window, and dropped our jaws in unison. She kept reaching across the aisle to tug at the sleeve of her friend, Rosie, who didn’t seem quite so impressed as the two of us. I just put my book away because I realized quite quickly that there wasn’t any point. Reading on a train in Switzerland is like trying to have an important conversation during a rock concert. There’s something bigger going on. You will be distracted.

Once we arrived in Montreux, it was a decent hike from the train station to the hostel. It was all along the lake though, so I really didn’t mind. Besides, Montreux is the perfect example of Swiss beauty and quirk. Along with the continuous view, the quai is lined with not only fragrant flowers, but music notes to commemorate the advent of Eurovision, and a strange lone statue of Freddie Mercury.

I enjoyed my night in Montreux. Even wished I’d had occasion to stay longer. According to a girl from North Dakota whom I met in my dorm, I missed a lovely castle just a little further along the lake, which is a bummer. Perhaps it’s just the reason I need to go back, though I’ll probably stay somewhere else. The hostel wasn’t bad, and breakfast was fantastic, but it didn’t really have wifi, which would become a recurring theme over the next couple of days.

The following morning I had a leisurely start to the day, but, a bit scarred from the day before, still managed to make it to the train station well before my departure time. In fact, I arrived so early I was able to catch an earlier train than the one I’d intended. See why not having to make reservations comes in handy? Catching that early train allowed me to catch my next three trains early as well. You see, this was my first Alps tour day, on which I just started taking trains from small town to small town, enjoying the view and ignoring the fact that there was a direct route from my departure city to my destination. And oh boy am I glad I did.

I have never seen anything as beautiful as the Alps. I still can’t quite believe it’s real. I don’t even have the pictures to prove it because none of them would come out through the train windows, and yet I can still see every peak vividly in my memory.

Endless inclines of sunlit green, wisps of cloud clinging to their tips. Every little bit you’d glimpse a tiny mountain stream, a miniature stone bridge, speckled about with the inevitable storybook houses. Now and then they’d come together to form towns, snaking around a sapphire lake or nestled on some high outcropping. Those were always surrounded by rectangle after rectangle of perfectly cultivated fields, built into the mountain without an inch of waste. And all around them, the mountains continue to rise like jagged puzzle pieces, fitting perfectly into the sky, taunting you to glimpse behind them to make sure they weren’t painted there by some master hand.

Snow still clung to the highest peaks. There was even a castle or two. It wasn’t until the last train, however, that the waterfalls started, bursting forth from the mountain face like wellsprings of majesty. That was the word for the whole experience really: majestic. And then we started to climb.

I’d thought maybe we would just wind between the mountains and not over them. We’d been through a couple long tunnels, and my guide book had warned me that tunnels were the train lines of the future in the Alps. Going over was too expensive, but apparently there were still a few over routes left, to one town at least, allowing us to twine around a single peak, getting a whole new vantage point of the cliff face across. I was giddy the entire time, and it occured to me somewhere along the way that I’m not sure I’d ever seen real, gigantic, majestice mountains like this before. Not that I can remember anyway. I’d decided I wanted to go back before I’d even seen the paragliders in Interlaken.

Now that I’ve made myself nostalgic, let’s return to the story, shall we? Anyway, thanks to all the early trains, I arrived in Lucerne a good few hours before I’d expected too, checked in to my hostel, and still had time to get a head start on some of the sights I’d wanted to see the next day. I decided to start with the Lion Monument and Glacier Garden, mostly because they were right across the street from the hostel. The Lion Monument is a statue carved into a rock face commemorating the contributions of the Swiss Guard to the French Revolution. I actually found it quite touching as a piece of artwork.

The Glacier Garden is a series of geological formations left by the glaciers as they made their way through the Alps however many million years ago. It was uncovered by a Swiss man while he was excavating a wine cellar and he wasted no time turning it into a tourist attraction. Apart from the rocks, there is also a lovely museum with a wealth of information about the climate cycle of Switzerland, including an interesting temporary exhibition on avalanches. My favorite part, however, was the traditional Swiss house for which they had originally planned to dig the wine cellar. It too has been preserved as a museum, all sweeping staircases and squeaky wood floors. I love old houses.

After the Glacier Garden, I ended up making eggs for dinner, because protein! And there was a grocery store just down the street. An expensive grocery store, because Switzerland, despite using the Franc (which is less than a Euro but still more than a dollar) has let inflation run wild of something. Prices are ridiculous. It’s probably because everything has to be shipped through the mountains. But I enjoyed going nonetheless because the Swiss are just so friendly!

I don’t speak any German. It was actually a surprise to me, after I’d gotten by so well with my history of Spanish and smattering of French, but I didn’t even know my pleasantries in German. Had to look them up. And yet I had multiple interactions with people at the store who I clearly didn’t need to understand to communicate with. First was the two ladies, less than a minute apart, who saw me eyeing the half price strawberries and came up to whisper in my ear about what pour quality they were. I smiled and nodded and bought some anyway, because they were half price, and only close to spoiling, meaning not spoiled yet.

The last was a frail, hobbly old lady who approached me as I was surveying the yogurt. She said something in German I didn’t understand and pointed at the case. At my confused expression she pointed again until I understood she wanted help getting a pack of yogurt off the top shelf, which I was quite proud of myself for retrieving for her - not because it was hard to reach the top shelf, but because I had been able to interpret well enough to make myself useful. I think that’s the hardest part about not knowing a language. I often feel useless in public situations where I would like to assist or contribute. Alas, if that’s my biggest problem, I think I’m doing pretty well.

Anyway, I made it an early night and too late realized I needn’t have set my alarm for the next morning. Too late meaning as I was having breakfast and revising my plans the next day. I’d intended to go to the Transport Museum despite it costing a ridiculous 30 francs only because I thought it contained the newly opened Swiss Chocolate Experience. I mean… from the name alone, clearly I couldn’t miss that. I had discovered the night before though that while the museum and the experience share a venue, they are separate attractions with separate tickets, so I ditched the overpriced museum despite it’s reputation as one of the largest and most diverse transportation museums in Europe and decided to save the Chocolate Experience for later that afternoon.

That meant my morning was free, so I decided to spend it enjoying the beauties of the old town. I’d been a bit disappointed upon arriving in Lucerne after my trip through the Alps. It didn’t look nearly as pretty as I had hoped, but I think that was just in comparison. Yes, it was more grey and urban than I would have liked after the quaint beauty of the Alpine cottages, but in the fresh morning sun it had a beauty all its own.

The first stop was the famous Chapel Bridge. If there’s a history to it, I’m not sure what that history is. Nevertheless, it is certainly an important Lucerne landmark, and quite nice to look at too.

The other major site I wanted to see was something called the Nine Towers that I’d read about online. Apparently they were connected by a long stone wall you could walk along with stunning views over the city. I followed Trip Advisor’s map to a tee only to arrive and find… well, not alot. It looked like just another city block, definitely without a tower in sight. There was a steep incline starting a block and a half over though, so that seemed like a decent place to begin my search, and there was a sign in German pointing up the path that, for all I knew, said “Towers this Way,” so…

Turns out that’s not what it said, but at least I had an adventure! I climbed the flights of stairs and vertical paths for the better part of an hour, getting a bright and cheery greeting from literally every person I passed, so at least I had guten morgen down by the end of it. I decided I wasn’t going to find the towers about the time I hit the tree line where the Alpine hiking trails began. I would have liked to go hiking, but I was in a dress, and decidedly non-hiking shoes, so… that will have to wait for another time. I turned around and began my trek back down, intent on heading back to the hostel for lunch before striking out for the Chocolate Adventure. And then, it happened.

I was just about the cross the river when I saw a tower a little further down. It was just one tower, and it was covered in scaffolding, but something told me to go take a look. Sure enough, as I approached, a second tower came into view, also covered in scaffolding, but definitely connected to the first by a wall. Could this be it? I wasn’t allowed to climb either tower and see, but I followed the wall until… yes! There was a third tower! And a fourth! These two weren’t covered in scaffolding, but neither could I get close enough to see if there was an access point, let alone climb them to the top.

It was when I hit the fifth tower, quite sure now that I had found the fabled nine in an entirely different part of the city than I’d been told, that I was finally able to climb to the top. The fifth tower, the center tower, was the clock tower, and the one everyone had been raving about online anyway. It was pretty cool inside, full of clockwork gears and pendulums. I explored for a bit, took a picture, and then decided I had to pee too much to go back and explore the towers I’d missed. Besides, while I was pretty sure I could get there by wall, a sign in the clock tower told me you couldn’t go inside three and four anyway, and as I’d seen, one and two were closed.

So I continued along the wall, rather than backtracking, only to find that the walking path did not continue past tower number six. Thus I descended and made my way back to the hostel for lunch. Oh well, at least the view was as spectacular as I’d read!

I had fondue for lunch. Apparently it’s a Swiss specialty, and there was a sign in the hostel kitchen advising you on how to make it cheap. (N.B. Cheap to them was eight or nine francs, but at least it wasn't the thirty you might have gotten it for at the bottom barrel fondue restaurants.) I made too much, as one does when cooking alone, and at it all anyway because I refuse to waste food. That left me wandering off to the Swiss Chocolate Experience stuffed as a baby bird that swallowed alka-seltzer. I did, however, have a lovely half-hour walk along the lake to work some of it off.

It was a beautiful summer day, with people jogging and boating and enjoying the weather in general. When I reached the park in front of the Transport Museum there were quite a few people sunbathing as well. I’m still on sun strike until my now peeling sunburn heals, but I bet the rays felt fantastic. Switzerland is just high and north enough that it’s not at all too hot, even in the harshest bits of sun.

I purchased my ticket for the Swiss Chocolate Experience, not quite sure what to expect other than something to do with chocolate, and was ushered into an elevator that took me down to a lower level of the building. I quickly gathered that the Swiss Chocolate Experience is an exact replica of the Scotch Whiskey Experience I did in Edinburgh, only with sweets instead of liquor. It’s a ride that takes you around in a little cart explaining how Swiss chocolate is made, ending, I presume, with a sample. I never got to find out.

You see, I chatted with Henrich, the kind ride operator, until my cart arrived, got in, learned all about cocoa production in Africa, how it’s shipped to Amsterdam, the testing process, how the milk and sugar components of the chocolate are sourced, and then was just about to delve into the aspects of production itself when all of a sudden, everything froze. Have I mentioned that the ride is new?

Well, something went wrong, a glitch in the system, and they had to come through and let everyone off manually. I didn’t mind so much. I would have liked to finish out the story, but Henrich snuck me some free chocolate anyway, and then I got a refund, so I’ll consider that a win any day.

Following the ride malfunction I still had quite a bit of time left in my day. I wandered the gift shop for a few minutes, only barely talking myself out of buying a Swiss army knife, and then decided I rather fancied some time outdoors. So I took my book and retired to that park I mentioned, getting a good way through despite the frequent distraction of “oh look, the mountains are still there!” I did eventually have to head back though.

I prolonged it as long as I could, wandering the streets despite my growing exhaustion. Unfortunately, that gave a creepy old Italian man from Zurich the chance to strike up a conversation while I was sitting on a park bench, and then use that conversation as a pretext for hitting on me. What is it with me and creepy old Italian men? I lied for the first time about having a boyfriend, and then felt guilty about it, but really… there’s hints and then there’s hints. It’s not like he took it, and eventually I just had to get up and walk away.

Not wanting to be inside for the night just yet, and knowing I’d be spending most of the next day on trains, I dropped by a local supermarket to purchase some snacks - rice cakes and cherry tomatoes, as is becoming my regular train fare - before finally going back to organize my things and get some sleep. The organizing bit took quite a bit longer than I would have liked. Turns out my shampoo leaked. It wasn’t a disaster though, just took a little cleaning, and I’ve been contending with leaky mouthwash all trip anyway.

The next day saw the final leg of my various alpine journeys. I was excited to see some of the same picturesque landscapes, and though that excitement was not to be fulfilled, neither was I at all disappointed. You see, heading south from Lucerne, into the Italian parts of Switzerland, is heading into the Alps proper. The stunning factors here were height as much as beauty. It was only as we were winding along cliff edges, beneath peaks that reached so far into the sky they seemed to hold up the clouds, that I realized this what what I had expected of the alps. This section, unlike those precious, was wild, full of dense forests and river rapids, and tunnels through the mountain face, interspersed with momentary glimpses of breathtaking heights before were plunged once more into darkness.

I liked it. I liked it a lot.

Eventually we hit Italy though, and while Italy is also beautiful, I would classify its naturalistic noteworthiness somewhere along with France. It’s nice, but there’s only so many fields you can look at before they start to lose their novelty. Which brings us to now, in sunny Italy. This post has taken me so long to write I’ve already been here more than a day, but you’ll have to wait for the next post to hear all about Pisa - for the sake of organization, you know. Ciao bellisimos!

Cote d'Azur

The first thing you need to know about the French Riviera is: it’s expensive. The second thing you need to know is: there is good reason for that. It’s so beautiful that of course everyone wants to come here.

When I went to check in to my hostel in Nice Sunday afternoon, my room wasn’t ready yet, so they asked me to store my bag and come back in a few hours. This was at the end of my three day travel marathon, so I was smelly and gross, but agreed readily enough, realizing this would be the perfect opportunity to pop over to Italy for those train tickets they insisted the couldn’t book in Spain. Well, maybe they couldn’t book them in Spain, but I am convinced that was a Spanish problem and not an Italian one.

The first train to Italy was cancelled because of the strike, so rather than waiting an hour for the next train to ride an hour there, book a few tickets, and ride an hour back, I figured I’d try my luck at the Nice station first just in case. And it’s a good thing I did. The ticket agent didn’t speak much English, but with her speaking French to me and me speaking a strange mix of Franco-Spanglish back, we seemed to understand each other fine. And now I have all of the tickets I need reservations for in the future. I hope.

By the time I was finished with that, my room was probably ready, but just in case, and because I have this insatiable need to explore, I decided to wander that extra hundred yards to the beach to see what there was to see. And there was a lot.

The entire city is like one giant water park. There’s the beach, of course, with water so clear it sparkles like diamonds, but I didn’t stop there. You see, beside the road along the beach there was a sign that read “Acropolis,” with an arrow. The original Acropolis, for those who don’t know, is the raised rock formation covered by the famous Greek ruins in Athens. So my mind went: “Ruins!” And thus we were off. I followed the signs for a good half hour, through fountains and water jets and street after street of families playing in the theme park that was really just a series of city blocks. Keep in mind, however, that I was well and truly exhausted, so sometime around that half hour mark I thought it might be a good idea to check just how much further this Acropolis was.

So I pulled out my phone, and it’s a good thing I did. Turns out the Acropolis was a good forty-five more minutes away. Not only that, but it was a conference center, and not ruins at all. I would have cried if I’d walked an extra hour and a half round trip in that state for a conference center. So I turned around there, went back to the hostel, showered, and went to bed. It was ridiculously early, but that did not stop me from sleeping through the night.

The next morning I slept in, finally, and woke up for a rather disappointing breakfast of pre-packaged plum cakes without any plum flavor to speak of. At least they had coffee though, and that’s the important part. Breakfast was followed by a beeline to the beach, where I lounged and read for the entire morning and a good part of the afternoon.

Now, this is a new experience for me, because usually I get fed up with the sand on the beach after less than an hour and have to retreat to a porch or cabana. The difference in Nice? Pebbles. Perhaps you’ve heard of the pebble beaches of Nice? And if you haven’t, you have now. The beaches are made of stones instead of sand, which are mildly less comfortable to lounge on, but eons less frustrating when it comes to aggravating particles in unwanted places. Whoever thought up this whole pebble beaches thing (nature?) was a genius. Seriously.

Needless to say, I got a nasty burn, but I’m hoping when it fades it will even out some of my tan lines. I even tried my hand at topless sunbathing later in the day, just for the experience. When in Rome, right? I’m not burned there, thankfully, but I have been tempted to send friends and family some inappropriate pictures of my rear end which is now, comically, the last remaining pasty part of my body.

When I left the beach, I headed back to the hostel to eat and watch some World Cup soccer. I managed to get a little trip planning done too before I decided it was time for another early night, both for more catching up and because I had an early train the next morning. Alas, it was not to be. No sooner was I showered and settling in to bed than the dorm room door swung open to reveal two of my rambunctious roommates from Florida. We hadn’t met yet, because they’d been out all night the night before and I’d been sleeping, but suffice it to say they were chatty. It was nice, but I mostly wanted to sleep. Still, I find it difficult to just roll over mid-conversation and nod off, so we talked and talked and talked some more, until they got a last minute text message inviting them to an all nighter in Monaco. I thought this was my saving grace. So I waited for them to finish their whirlwind preparations before settling in to finish the chapter I was on in my book and nod off. Or so I thought.

I had reached the last page of the chapter when that door swung open again. The girls, much to their chagrin, had missed their train, and no longer had plans for the evening. So they whined for a bit, and drank for a bit, and were generally distracting and chatty in a decidedly less upbeat way. And I tried to go to sleep, and would get pulled back into the conversation, and this went on for quite some time. Like… quite a lot of some time. Enough to the last roommate in our dorm, a nice Australian girl, to come in, join the conversation, duck out of the conversation, and go to sleep herself. I was jealous, and somehow managed to extract myself at that point, but it was late, which was not the best setup for my very early Tuesday.

I did manage to wake up for my early Tuesday train. I’d even thought ahead and bought Greek yogurt and muesli for breakfast. I could not, however, find a decently priced cup of coffee for the life of me, setting me up for not the best day. To recap: sunburned, running on little sleep, with no coffee. In my book, that’s a recipe for disaster. Not to mention Marseille was a furnace.

I don’t think it was the heat so much as the humidity that got me. My plan was to take the metro out to Basilica Notre Dame du Garde and then leisurely find my way back to the station in the five or so hours I had in the city, seeing things along the way. I would argue in hindsight it was a pretty good plan, because if I hadn’t taken the metro I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. I’d have taken three steps out of the station, abandoned all hope, and found an air conditioned cafe in which to read all day.

As it stood, however, I had taken the subway, but it was still a decent uphill hike to the basilica. I was dripping sweat by the time I got there, enough that I had to find the restroom and wash my face. I skipped the museum because I could tell from the outside all of the information inside would be in French, and headed for the church itself, which was a refreshing surprise. First of all, the basilica is dedicated to seafarers, and as such is decorated in landscape paintings, navy medals of honor, and even ships mobiles hanging from the ceiling. Second of all, they were just about to start a service when I arrived.

Perhaps its a bit voyeuristic, but I like observing religious services. They seem to be some of the most authentic cultural rituals that you can find on a regular basis. I watched the service at Notre Dame du Garde for a while. The hymnals were gorgeous. I was already a bit lightheaded from my walk up though and decided before long that I should go find some food and a place to rest. Well, I tried, but it took a bit.

First, there was the hike down, but then there was the fact that the harbor, or at least the touristy, restauranty, fun filled part I was aiming for didn’t start where I thought it did. I hadn’t necessarily intended to eat there, but I thought at least I could find some ice cream.

I ended up buying tabouli instead from a grocery store that seemed to rise out of the midsts like fate at the moment I wished to find one. I also sprang for a large bottle of water, because I was out and hadn’t found a tap, only to be hugely dismayed that it was actually sparkling. Sorry to those of you who like fizzy water, I have always found it unpalatable and gross. I drank it anyway, because hydration, but not as quickly or refreshingly as I would have liked.

Once I had my tabouli, however, the problem was where to eat it. I wasn’t exactly in a neighborhood full of park benches, but I was starting to feel beat. My next stop was supposed to be the Pharo Palace, an old palace turned mansion at the tip of the harbor, and it was supposed to have a garden attached, but I was so disoriented when it came to distances that I hadn’t a clue how close or far it might be. I eventually convinced myself to try for it, and ended up in the gardens not too much later.

The palace was pretty, but I didn’t go in. Nor did I go in to the Fort of Saint Nicholas a little further along. In fact, by that point, with the heat of the day and my preexisting conditions, I was more or less wandering like a zombie. I still had a few more buildings to see on my list, but I made the judicious decision to can them and headed back for the train station instead. That gave me time for a coffee before boarding my train away from the French Riviera.

Now, I don’t want to say that my less than stellar day in Marseille has anything to do with the city. Having had some time to rest, if not sleep properly, I realize it’s important to point out that the entire harbor area of Marseille is swarming with castle-like structures. The fort, as well as old stone fortifications at each entrance, and a small cluster of towers out on a nearby island. It’s all quite picturesque, and on a cooler day where I felt less like crap I think I would have enjoyed it thoroughly. Alas, not all days can be good ones.

Still, my day did get better.

That train away from the French Riviera brought me to Valence, my last stop in France before I hop the border to Switzerland in the morning. First of all, the route was astounding, following the calming meander of the Rhone River north through a valley watched over by breathtaking castles every little bit. Once I disembarked, however, the beauty didn't end there.

Valence is a tiny town in the Rhone Valley just where the Alps begin in the south, and horrible terrible no good very bad mood or not, I already adore it. I only stopped here because it made sense for the budget. Neither Marseille, nor Geneva where I’m headed tomorrow, had a wealth of hostels or cheap hotels, and Valence has provided me with a lovely little hotel room in between for not much more than a dorm. Nevertheless, in the short time I had to explore, I’m kind of in love.

I only made it down a tiny street of shops and through a lush park on the Rhone, but the little wooden bridges over romantic green canals surrounded by trees and bushes and flowers all set against the backdrop of the Alps is almost too stunning to exist. It’s definitely excited me for the days ahead. I even felt good enough to splurge on a baguette with Camembert for dinner. Still, I will feel better with a little (or preferably a lot) of sleep. So it’s off to bed for me. Good night!

Strike Three

And you’re… well, not quite out of France. But almost!

As I mentioned last post I was gearing up for a three day travel marathon that I am proud to say I’ve completed safe and sound. It wasn’t even all that bad. I’m a little tired, but not cranky or dying or anything. I think it’s worth documenting though, so I guess here it goes!

The overnight train out of Lisbon was about as eventful as the overnight train in. I arrived in Hendaye just inside the French border right on time at 11:30am. It was travel in France, however, that once again proved exciting, or at least not run of the mill.

You see, I don’t know if it’s made it to the North American news circuit, but it’s a big deal in Europe, and the European traveling community especially, that French rail workers have been on strike for a while now, as many of the French often are. That basically means chaos for anyone taking the train in France, which I was doing.

I actually got lucky. You see, the train I wanted to be on, the one that left right after my first one arrived, was cancelled, resulting in a hall full of stranded passengers waiting in endless lines for the few remaining rail workers to help them. I stayed out of it. The board claimed my train was still coming, albeit not for sox hours, and the waiting room off of the hall was much quieter and less headache inducing than being anywhere near that line. Just before one, however, a haggard looking young woman in a rail uniform poked her head into the waiting room to make sure “no one wanted to take the bus.”

What bus?

Well, I asked, and she didn’t speak great English, but it sounded like there was a bus headed for Paris at that very moment, and the wheels in my head started turning. You see, I was looking at pulling an all-nighter on the Paris metro because I couldn’t get a hostel in Paris, and the reason I couldn’t get a hostel in Paris was because none of the affordable ones would take me after ten o’clock. But if I could get in earlier… Sure, my train hadn’t been cancelled, but it looked like they had room on the bus, and it was free.

So I gathered up my belongings and hurried out to check. Turns out no. The bus was not going to Paris, just another station that had an earlier train to Paris. When did it get in though? A little less than an hour before my train, which still put it at past 10:30. I sighed and thanked the woman and went back to my seat.

I had stocked up in Lisbon on food for the trip. Rice cakes, tomatoes, and a bunch of perfectly ripe cherries. They held me over for most of the day, but about an hour before my train was do I expected I would be getting hungry soon, and at that point my legs could do with a stretch, so I hoisted my bag onto my back and went slogging through the nearby streets of Hendaye to find… nothing. I could see the actual city in the distance, on the complete other side of the station, but hadn’t the time to make it there and back. The only establishments in the vicinity were a dingy looking bar and two cafes selling overpriced ham sandwiches, so I returned to the station to buy a pack of cookies from the newsstand. Not exactly sustenance, but I hoped they’d hold me over.

When the train finally came, I was surprised to note how empty it was. I guess I wasn’t the only person who thought the bus was a good idea. I had the urge to get off at Bordeaux, the station from which I’d originally wanted to connect to Nice, but decided not to try my luck as long as I had other reservations. That meant riding the whole five hours to Paris, and conveniently finishing my novel set in the city along the way. It’s always nice to read about cities you’re in or going to. Being part of the lives of people who live there, even fictional ones, has a way of connecting you.

Once at the Paris station I quickly found a bench and decided to settle in. There were other travelers, like me, clearly planning to stay the night, but most of my fellow bench sitters were homeless men and women looking to get out of the cold. This surprised me at first. I had done my research and knew the station closed at 1:15. My plan was to sit around until then, hope on the metro that conveniently doesn’t close on Saturdays, and ride it until my departure station opened up at 3:30. In the wake of my novel reading, I was already starting to rethink this plan, but with so many people gathering with so little time left, I wondered if maybe they knew something I didn’t.

What they knew, it turns out, is that ‘close’ is a loose term. They definitely stopped letting people up to the platforms, but they definitely didn’t kick anyone out either, a fact evidenced by nothing so much as the constant stream of spectacular music coming from the public piano.

You see… that’s a thing I will say I love about Paris. Many of the train stations have pianos just sitting around for anyone to play, and the one in Montparnasse that Saturday night had been taken over by a large group of musically inclined friends with a video camera. They were belting show tunes like there was no tomorrow: RENT, Smash, Funny Girl, We Will Rock You, and so on and so forth. I moved a couple times to get a better view because they seemed to have dance routines too, and though it clearly annoyed many of the people trying to sleep, I couldn’t stop grinning. Long or not, it certainly made my night.

When they moved from the piano to start singing with the guitar, I decided it was time to move on. It was hard to hear them, and I was well past the departure time I had decided on in recalibrated my overnight plan. You see, it was the summer solstice, the shortest night of the year, and the last one that would occur on a Saturday. Spending that on the metro seemed like a waste. Clearly I wasn’t going to go out and join any parties with my backpack on, but I did want to see if there was anything going on, and I hadn’t had the chance to explore that part of Paris the first time I was there.

So I strapped on my backpack and geared up for the five and a half kilometer trek across the city to the next station. And I’m glad I did. Even at three in the morning, Paris was still going strong. It wasn’t every street, of course, but when you hit a crowd it was a crowd. People from all walks of life, stumbling around on a sea of broken glass, buying crepes and candy and ice cream, setting off fireworks in some places. And I’m not exaggerating about the glass. It was late enough that some of the city cleaners had come out to start sweeping it up, but you couldn’t go two feet in the busy areas without stepping on shards of a beer or wine bottle. I was glad I was wearing good shoes.

Other than the trash, I think I like Paris at night. There was a sort of life to it that wasn’t as deviant as what I’ve seen elsewhere. Yes, you had your drunk kids stumbling home from the clubs, but you also had cafes full of people deep in conversation, friends sitting along the Seine just looking over the water. It was lovely, all in all, and I wish I could have found a safe way to experience while I was here longer.

It took a little more than an hour, and of course a bit of attention over my giant bag, to get to the train station, but get there I did. To my pleasant surprise, there was someone playing a public piano there as well, so I bought a tiny cappuccino from on of the automatic machines they have in every station and settled in to listen again. I had about four hours to go, which saw me reading, people watching, and buying a spot of breakfast when the cafes opened.

I debated with myself about trying to change my train ticket to an earlier time. The Spanish man who had booked it had just picked one at random, assuming I would get a hotel in Paris, and it turned out there were two trains to the same city that left even earlier. I would have had to pay the reservation fee again though, and the reservation I had was for first class. That might have caught me up, considering my rail pass is only valid for second, but with the strike I figured they’d stopped checking tickets on trains altogether, and to be honest… I was curious to see how the other half lived.

Well, they did check my ticket, but if the conductor noticed the discrepancy, he didn’t so much as give it a second look, which is more than I can say for the proper French ladies sitting in a little clump one row up who kept giving me suspicious sideways glances. What can I say, by this point I hadn’t showered in a couple days. I probably would have been giving myself suspicious glances too.

Anyway, first class wasn’t all that much different from second class. The seats were a little bigger, there was an electrical plug, and the clientele were a bit better dressed. Beyond that? Nada. Anyway, it was a good chance to nap seeing as I’d been up all night, so I did that more or less all the way to to Marseille.

My layover in Marseille was a negligible half an hour in which I grabbed a bit of lunch to eat on the train; my first, as it were, unreserved train. Well, it turns out there are downsides that come with not having to make a reservation. Namely, massive crowding in rather older accommodations. Those accommodations, however, were in what I like to call Hogwarts style: compartments set along a single hallway. So I was excited. Luckily, I got on as soon as the platform was announced, so I had a nice window seat and plenty of luggage space. And then came the hoards.

I ended up with a full compartment. Eight people from three continents divided among five parties squeezing into not nearly enough space when you accounted for luggage. But everyone was friendly enough about moving and shifting and reorganizing, even if it had to be done multilingually. It was actually a much more intimate travel experience. Not that I spoke with everyone, but compartments make you share space with everyone, not just your neighbor.

Despite the possible downsides though, I should mention the major upside. No reservation means I didn’t have to pay a reservation fee, making all possible downsides irrelevant. I actually have a lot of these trains coming up in my future, so I should probably try to get used to it. If all the views are like the one to Nice though, I don’t think I’ll be having any problems.

In case you weren’t aware, Nice is part of the Cote d’Azure, commonly known as the French Riviera in English. As the train darted along, swaying this way and that, I was greeted on the left by lush green mountains and on the right by glistening blue seas. I’m still not entirely sure it was real. I have never seen water so blue in my life. And yet… this is the view from outside my hostel.

(The beach is like... a hundred yards away, if you can't tell.)

Before I depart for a seaside adventure though, I would just like to call attention to the title, which I thought was rather clever considering the French train strike and the number of times I ran into the number three. I was on trains for 24 hours (divisible by three) over the course of 39 hours (also divisible by three) spread across three days (given). The trip was split into three legs in which I crossed through three countries. The lengths of my layovers were always divisible by three. By coincidence, I left for my nighttime walk across Paris at 3am. And there are probably a bunch of other threes I’m missing too. So, three. It is the perfect number you know.

Lovely Lisbon

Another train another tribute to the city I leave behind. This time, I’m setting out from Portugal on a night train just like the one on which I arrived. It will be three straight days of travelling though, from Lisbon to Hendaye to Paris to Marseille to Nice, with unbearably long layovers in between. Should be an adventure though!

At least I’m well rested from my lovely time in Lisbon. Thanks to the overnight train, I arrived bright and early Tuesday morning before the hostel’s daily pancake breakfast had even begun. The manager was up at least, and being the only other person in the hostel awake, we got to chatting. It turns out the hostel just opened last week, taking over for a previous hostel that, while popular, had some trouble with the landlords. Considering it was called the G-Spot hostel, and some of the rooms still showed signs of names like “Morning Wood,” “Rusty Trombone,” and “The Tea Bag Room,” I’m not really surprised, though I did appreciate the sign remaining above the bathroom mirror proclaiming, “You look really damn beautiful.”

Under new management, however, the place had been cleaned up in many ways. Will, a New York real estate broker originally from Philidelphia, had tired of corporate life and decided to go in with some friends and buy the hostel which they have since turned in to one of my favorites so far. The entire vibe is relaxed and friendly without becoming lazy or deviant, the rooms, toilets, and common areas are clean, and as previously mentioned, there’s a pancake breakfast every morning. So I joined the hostel for a quick meal, checked in, brushed my teeth, and somehow became defacto navigator for a group from the hostel going to the walking tour I’d planned to do.

We only just made it because check in took longer than expected, but make it we did. Our guide, Pedro, led us around from place to place, explaining some of Lisbon’s history, but more about its people and culture. It was nice, but did leave me wanting to the point that I wasn’t sure I would return for the later tour through a different neighborhood. It turns out that wouldn’t end up being much of a choice.

A couple of my new friends from the hostel had a strategy for walking tours, that strategy being that they always asked the tour guides for a lunch recommendation after and usually ended up being invited to tag along some place local and amazing. Lisbon was no exception.

Thus we found ourselves winding through the streets of downtown Lisbon to a tiny little hole in the wall that’s whitewashed vaulted ceilings made me think it might once have been a church. And then came the food. Plate after plate of food. Because it was an all you can eat all you can drink “menu of the day.” There were four courses, wine and beer, and a little cup of espresso for everyone after. I couldn’t eat everything because much of it was meat, but what I could was delicious, and it just kept coming.

The smorgasbord took so long that Pedro had to leave halfway through. Turns out he was leading that second tour I’d been thinking about. I, however, was not about to miss the ending of the show. Because it was really enough food that it might as well have been a show. So well all keep eating and chatting and laughing until the restaurant started to clear out for siesta and we moved to pay our more than reasonable bill.

Even in the case of not taking the walking tour, I had intended to explore the neighborhood where it took place after lunch, but it being my first day I decided making friends was more important. We made our leisurely way back to the hostel, stopping a few places so the less budget conscious could shop, before I finally crashed into a lovely siesta of my own. When I woke up, it was no longer early enough to see any sights, but some of those same friends from the walking tour were going out for the night, so I decided to tag along.

We started at a local kiosk, an open air cafe based out of a little pavilion on the street. They were showing the World Cup on a big screen projector and Brazil was playing, so it couldn’t be missed. After the game, we headed up to Barrio Alto, the nightlife district of Lisbon known for having the highest concentration of bars in the world. In reality, it’s a collection of single room holes in the wall, and as a result the party itself is mostly in the street. Not being a nightlife person myself, it was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. There was plenty of great live music, and I got to dance a bit with a gay Frenchman from Avignon.

As expected, however, we got back a bit late, so I took the next morning to sleep in but found myself up around nine regardless. That meant pancakes again and then setting out to see the sights I’d missed the day before. First up was Sao Jorge Castle, up on the highest hill overlooking the city. Besides the view, it also had a nicely curated museum on ancient daily life. The only downside was that I seemed eternally stuck either just in front of or just behind a family of ‘ugly Americans.’ My first saw them as the father was holding up the little boy so his mother could take a picture of him spanking a nude statue and it only got worse from there. At least I had no urge to correct them when they started assuming all sorts of wrong information about the fortifications.

The castle was followed by a visit to Lisbon Cathedral and then Casa dos Bicos, an architecturally interesting house turned exhibition gallery. I didn’t go in to the exhibition, I only wanted to see the front, but then that put me right on the road towards the part of town housing the Fado Museum.

Fado is a type of popular Portuguese folk music, played on the Spanish/Portuguese guitar and usually accompanied by bawdy or subversive lyrics. The museum itself wasn’t big, but it came with a lovely audio guide that I found both interesting and informative, even if I spent most of the visit standing against a wall listening because there wasn’t much to see.

My last stop on Wednesday was the National Pantheon, a church turned monument to the heroes of the Portuguese nation, much like its inspiration in Paris. I don’t know as many famous Portuguese as I do French, but it was interesting to see the cenotaph to Vasco de Gama and read a bit about the old Portuguese political features. Note: Unlike the French, the Portuguese are much more likely to provide English translations.

After all of this, I was out a bit later than I had intended, but was still back to the hostel in time for dinner. They serve that too for a small fee, though I never partook - two nights because it wasn’t vegetarian and one because I was soooo full. It looked like the other guests were gearing up for another night out, so I took the opportunity to slip off to my room and study a bit for my Foreign Service Exam before calling it an early night.

I was determined to make the next night an early one as well, but also the day shorter and less exertion filled. Again I tried to sleep in, and again I was up at a reasonable time, but this time after breakfast I took a train out to Belem, a suburb of Lisbon that I am convinced means land of museums. I wasn’t there for museums, but you could stand in just about any spot and count near a dozen in your line of sight. It was ridiculous. There was the usual Archaeological Museum and a Science Museum, but also museum for marinas and rail cars and presidents and coaches and whatever else you could possibly think up.

I wasn’t there for the museums though. I went first to Jeronimos Monastery, the national pantheon before the Pantheon, and then on to the old military fortress of Belem Tower. Both were lovely, though I found myself particularly taken with the monastery. It was built in a style called Mauneline that I found simply breathtaking, all sweeping twisted arches full of elegance and grace. I can’t pinpoint what was so much more beautiful about it than other monasteries I’ve seen, but I definitely think it was my favorite.

Apparently I missed the real draw of Belem, the best tart shop in all of Europe. A guy at the hostel told me about it later that night. I’m not terribly fussed though, because instead of taking the train back, I decided to have an adventure and take the bus. Public transport is often my favorite part about visiting a new country. It’s where you see how the people really live. Metros are a part of that, but buses even more so. Because I got on further down by the tower and not the monastery though, I got a seat before all the terrified tourists got on clutching their bags and complaining about the crowding.

It was an interesting ride into town on which I decided when we got to the city center I was going to find some cod for late lunch/early dinner. Cod is a specialty of the Portuguese, living on the ocean and all, and I wasn’t disappointed. Apart from the bones inside and the onions and olives on top, the “Portuguese style” cod was almost exactly like British fish & chips, only better. The chips were sliced round ways instead of into sticks, but it was funny how many parallels could be drawn.

I went back to the hostel stuffed, studied a bit, called my mother to check in, and had another early night because the next morning was…. dun dun dun! The Foreign Service Exam.

Nevertheless, more interesting than the Foreign Service Exam, I think, is the morning that preceded it. I had every intention of waking up early, having a good breakfast, and taking the metro up to the Embassy. The first part of this plan went according the plan. Even the third part went out without a hitch. But the breakfast part, well… I woke up to find the kitchen locked, and no one around to fix that for me. I don’t do well without breakfast though, and I refused to let such a small thing ruin my test morning. So I took a step back, though about my options, and ended up climbing through the open kitchen window from the courtyard. I must have looked like a crazy person but, hey, no one was awake to see me.

The test, for those who haven’t heard, went alright. I am not certain I passed, but neither am I certain I failed, so we will just have to wait for the results in three to five weeks. Oddly enough, I was exceedingly nervous right up until I walked onto Embassy grounds, and then again when I walked off, but never while I was on the premises. Speaking of premises, it was interesting to see another Embassy. Lisbon has far more beautiful facilities than I had even dreamed of in Ankara. I was a bit starstruck to say the least. It still had that same Embassy feel though that I love so much.

After the test I decided to take the long way home, stopping by the Gulbenkian Museum to admire the international art collection of an old oil magnate. The museum was followed by cod, again. This time with cream, which let me say was even better. Like… I may be in love, and have a new favorite food. To Mom: It’s called Bacalhau com Natas if you want to look it up. <3 It wasn’t just the fish that made the lunch amazing though.

I stopped in again for the Menu do Dia, menu of the day usually including a drink, starter and/or dessert, and a final shot of espresso. It’s not unlimited in most places, but I still got my cod, a glass of wine, a fruit salad, and an espresso for €6.50. Thanks to the relaxed nature of Portuguese service, however, and my unwillingness to hurry them along, I sat there for a good three hours reading on my phone because I hadn’t brought my Kindle to the Embassy. It gave me a chance to digest between courses though, so I’m grateful.

After lunch I stopped to buy snacks for my overnight train, got terribly lost for about forty minutes, and eventually made it back to the hostel, where I finished packing up, officially checked out, and then sat around making phone calls until it was time to go.

I’m going to miss Lisbon, I think. Of all the places I’ve been it has had the friendliest people by far, and not just in the hostel. Even as a non-conversant tourist, I never felt like a burden to the Portuguese. Perhaps it’s because they get fewer tourists, but whatever the reason, Portugal is definitely on my list to visit again. I think I’ll be happy to visit anywhere after this long non-visiting trip ahead though. It looks like my coach is situated right behind the smoking coach, and the fumes that waft in when the door opens and closes are already starting to make me sick. Alas, hopefully I’ll be able to sleep soon and then maybe I won’t even notice. Goodnight all!

Metropolitan Madrid

It’s been a productive couple of days in Madrid, especially considering I took most of the second day off. Saturday evening, like most evenings on which I arrive in a city, I didn’t do much more than get my bearings and buy some food. There was a pub crawl, that I skipped, and a milonga that started too late for my exhausted self. I did partake of the hostel’s two euro paella night because I got there just in time to reserve a vegetarian plate, and that was delicious, then I watched some more of the World Cup, but for the most part it was a slow night. I couldn’t even travel plan because the hostel’s wifi wasn’t quite what I would call functional.

The next day, however, I hit the ground running. While the hostel served free churros and coffee in the mornings, it didn’t have what you would really consider breakfast. Anticipating this, I had stocked up on Greek yogurt and muesli. Too much Greek yogurt and muesli, truth be told. The muesli I could pack and bring with me, but I’ve had four large bowls of Greek yogurt today just to finish it up. So much for protein deficiency at least!

My first stop for the day was actually a local ticket office. I had debated with myself long and hard over it, but finally decided that while in Spain I should see a bullfight. It wasn’t something I wanted to take part in, or even give my money to, but I kept hearing so much about its importance to the culture that I felt I owed it all a try. I’d attempted to buy my tickets online, but as I mentioned before the internet wasn’t really cooperating, so to the office it was.

Ticket buying was simple enough that I arrived at the meeting point for my free walking tour with plenty of time to spare. That meant wandering the plaza, Plaza Mayor, for twenty minutes or so, which was good fun in and of itself. I don’t know if it was because I was there on a Sunday or if this happens every day, but the square was lined with tiny tables where merchants were selling their wares, wares which all consisted of coins and stamps. It was a collectors paradise, but since I don’t know anyone who collects either, I didn’t bother to look too closely. No point giving the merchants false hope.

The walking tour was a good one, done by the same company I’d gone with in Barcelona. I now fully intend to look them up in every city they have a presence. I don’t know if it’s just better management or what, but the guides seem to be consistently better, the information more in depth, and the tours longer. What was interesting, however, were the differences between the tour in Barcelona and that in Madrid.

Both tours, unsurprisingly, featured a broader history of Spain; ‘these were our kings at these times who fought these wars and saw these revolutions so on and so forth etc. etc.’ What was surprising, or at least worth a note, was the parts of history they featured. Barcelona spent most of its time on the Wars of Succession between the Bourbons, the Hapsburgs, and their respective allies, wherein Catalonia made its first major bid for independence. Madrid, on the other hand, never even acknowledged that these wars occurred, preferring to profile the various kings that came before and end with a vague ‘and then this guy died without any heirs.’ It was fascinating to see how the personalities of each city came through in the scripts, even without a Spanish guide in either. (The guide in Madrid was from Argentina, in case anybody cares.)

Anyway, the walking tour took three hours and several miles and ended right outside the royal palace and Almudena Cathedral. I bought a sandwich to eat on the steps of said cathedral and then poked my head inside. It was one of those newer cathedrals, so pretty, but no more than most of the rest. They were also gearing up for Corpus Christi next week, so all the attendants were on super intense tourist watch. I did appreciate the romanesque crypts beneath the church though, and the lady minding the entrance there was actually very nice. She made a point to pull me aside and remind me that I *was* allowed to take pictures, so I brought out my camera just to make her smile.

It was well into the afternoon by this time, and I was a little worried about time. I figured I could still spare a couple of hours for the palace though before heading over to the evening’s bull fight. And I could have, except as I went to approach the entrance a very surly female security guard greeted me with a firm and final, “closed.” There wasn’t much misunderstanding that. I don’t know why it was closed. The internet said it would be open. I wasn’t about to argue though, so I didn’t see the insides. I heard a rumor somewhere it was based on Versaille? That might just be the outside though.

WIth a few hours I hadn’t expected to have all of a sudden free, I quickly recalibrated my plan, wandering past the Sabatini Gardens attached to the palace and stopping by Plaza de Espana to see the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Neither of those took long, however, and then I arrived at the start of Gran Via.

As you may or may not have gathered from etymology and context, Gran Via is just a really big street full of restaurants, shops, and fun. I had only intended to walk a bit of it and then take the metro to the arena, but now that I had time… Suffice it to say, I walked the entire thing, took a mile or more detour to see the Crystal Palace in Retiro Park, and got hopelessly lost. (While my mobile internet was spectacular in Madrid, for some reason my gps was not.) And I was more tired than I had yet been for the entire trip. Add that to the fact that getting lost ate up all that extra time I had and I was not only tired, but hungry and running lat

Once I had figured out where I actually was, I quickly identified the closest grocery store on my handy dandy smartphone, bought a half kilo of strawberries, and rushed on to the arena, eating them at my seat with Greek yogurt as I waited for the spectacle to start. It was a good thing I ate before hand and not during. I would never have been able to get them down.

I tried to give the bull fighters the benefit of the doubt. Not all Spaniards love the sport, if you can call it that. It’s even illegal in Catalonia. But enough people have ranted to me about it being art that I wanted to understand. And I do, I think. I just don’t agree.

Bullfighting is a spectacle because it is hard, it takes bravery, and sometimes people die. From my perspective, however, it reminded me of nothing so much as a fifth grader who beats up a first grader on the playground. A fifth grader who beats up a first grader on the playground and then gloats as all his friends cheer. Sure, the bull is strong and dangerous, but from the start he doesn’t have a chance. Is the playground scenario any different if you give the first grader a sling shot beforehand? I saw three bulls die that day, and each one of them, everytime he lunged, disconcertingly resembled one of those little kids you hold at bay with an outstretched arm and a hand on his forehead - until you stab him through the heart anyway and hope you don’t miss.

That was the worst bit, really. Beyond the teasing, and then the torture, when it finally came to killing the bulls, they never died in one strike. The toreador would stab, and then wait. Would it die yet? Or would it just continue to suffer more until he stabbed it again? With each successive fight, I found myself rooting for the bulls more and more, actually hoping in a way that disturbs me now that they’d land a blow against their tormentors. When the kill shot came, however, was when the true hopelessness of the situation set in, and you just wanted to tell the animal it was okay to give up.

The second bull in particular must have been stabbed a half dozen times. Even when he fell he would struggle back up, lunging angrily, vengefully despite the fact he was as good as dead already. I was angry too, which is strange for me, because I don’t get angry at much. I’m glad it’s an experience that I’ve, but I didn’t enjoy it at all, and I don’t intend to have it again.

After that trying episode, I did have the good sense to take the metro back, but mostly because I was in a bit of a hurry to make the bad decision to go out again. First of all, I needed a drink, but more importantly, the hostel had advertised a flamenco show at only a couple euros more than the one I’d almost seen in Seville. Furthermore, the upside to this one was that I would be going with other hostel folk, which makes it much less awkward and/or dangerous to meet people, and someone even picks you up at the hostel precluding the possibility of being late or getting lost. It sounded like the perfect opportunity. A half hour into the walk, however, I was starting to rethink.

I’d just walked too much the day is all. I couldn’t really keep steady on my feet anymore, despite wearing comfortable shoes, and my veins had this sort of shimmery unreal feeling to them to boot. We did eventually make it though, and I sunk onto a stool hoping I would be able to enjoy the show in my sort of glazed over state.

I needn’t have worried. The show was fantastic. Miles ahead of that free one I’d seen the first half of in Cordoba. It was exclusive to hostel guests, from my hostel as well as a handful of others, and they not only performed for us, but explained what they were doing and took questions as well. We had two guitar players, two phenomenal dancers, a percussionist, and even a singer who didn’t smoke. I found myself riveted. I wouldn’t say it made up for the bull fight, but I certainly felt better after. Better, but not less tired.

So of course, as soon as I got back to the hostel, it was into the shower and then onto bed for me. That was the plan, anyway. I was distracted for a bit by some new arrivals to my dorm who were nice enough, but just getting settled, which it’s hard to go to sleep through. Then I had a hard time deciding whether or not to set an alarm. I had my own breakfast, and nothing I had to wake up for, but… coffee and churros… and free. Free is my favorite number, and has been for a while. In fact, I think I like it so much you might say we’re involved.

So I compromised. I woke up for the churros and coffee, but then I took it easy for most of the day. I didn’t go back to the palace, nor to one of the other cathedrals that had been on my list. I did stop by the Prado Museum, because it is a must see, but tickets were free for students under twenty five, so I saw the collections I was most interested in and decided I could probably skip the rest without feeling guilty. That led me through a temporary exhibition of El Greco’s Library, Rembrandt’s ‘Triumph of the Eucharist,’ a few pieces by Goya, the permanent collection of statues, French painters, and Diego Vasquez, as well a few incidental galleries besides.

I also got my laundry done. In case you haven’t noticed, the hostel I have is really good at providing services and amenities to makes traveling easier. Churros, paella, flamenco, pub crawls, tango lessons, and more, all at refreshingly affordable prices. These services even included the best laundry set up I’ve ever seen, wherein employees at their sister hostel will do just about any amount of laundry for only five euros. That’s less than you’d spend on a single load at the laundromat and you don’t have to worry about taking the time out of your own schedule.

All of this was completed by early evening, much of the lead up to I’d spent reading and eating yogurt. I had a few more hours before my overnight train left though, and took the opportunity to do something I hadn’t been able to justify before. I went the movie theater one block over to see Maleficent. It was fantastic, by the way. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a movie. Much longer since I’ve seen a movie in theatres. And the timing was perfect. I left the theatre, drying my eyes, picked up some snacks for the train on the corner, grabbed my bag from the hostel, and headed straight to the station. Or rather… a station.

You see, I think the universe had decided that this whole traveling thing was getting too easy and it was time for me to mess up. Up to this point, I had obsessively checked my train tickets two or three times a day for two or three days before using them, just to make sure I had all the details right. Not so with my ticket from Madrid to Lisbon, for the first time. So of course, this is the time I miss something. I arrived at the station, sore from having walked the half hour with my fifty pound backpack and ten pound purse, checked the departures board and realized… there was no train to Lisbon.

There was a train that left at the same time, but it was going to Toledo, and while destinations sometimes read differently if there are other stops, that made no sense. So I found a quiet corner to unsaddle my bag and dig out my ticket only to realize my train leaves from a different station. In half an hour. Dun dun dun.

I mean, at least it was half an hour and not like… ten minutes. But a quick check on my phone said the other station was a two hour walk and a twenty minute car ride in light traffic. There was a light rail connecting the stations, but at this point every minute was precious and I didn’t really have time to figure out how that worked, decide if it would get me there fast enough, and then buy a ticket. So I took a taxi.

The good news is, the taxi only took ten minutes, and my cab driver was very kind. It was only really touch and go getting to the cab because Spanish speed is not American speed, or any speed at all really - which I will come back to. The bad news is, it blew the budget I had only just gotten back within comfortable limits a day or two ago. Alas, the perils of travel. I will just have to go back to saving more stringently again.

On the speed comment, however, I always enjoy observing the paces of everywhere I go. I think most of you would expect Spain to be more laid back, and it is, in a pleasant way that means things still get done, but there’s laid back and unhurried and then there’s downright slow.

I know I am a fast walker. It is something I have come to terms with, and something I try not to impose on other people or let annoy me when others prefer to walk at a more moderate pace. I’m actually much more moderate myself when traveling because I like to enjoy the places I’m in, take in the sights, see the details. In Spain, however, even my moderate is a full throttle sprint.

Take, for instance, how fast I was going on my way to the bull fight before I realized I was lost. I thought I had plenty of time, that I would get there early even, and so long had I been walking that I was pacing myself at a solid amble, so slow that I felt the need to be conscious of everyone around me should anyone want to pass. Well, a few people did want to, but what was astonishing was that I ended up passing a few people too. Not just passing, but leaving in my barely cognizant dust. I could understand this in a park, or from the elderly, but from the young and healthy on a random side street such a pace baffled me.

Anyway, on my way to the taxis I was behind a pair of girls at this inexplicable pace on a narrow ramp, too narrow for passing, for three stories straight. It literally took me ten times longer than it would have, and I did not have ten times the amount of time to spare. I made it though, no harm no foul, and under other circumstances I’ve even come to appreciate the slower pace. I don’t know if I could ever walk it, but I’m charmed to know some people still enjoy just being. They are, after all, almost standing still.

Which brings me to the train. I wish I was asleep already. I wasn’t even going to write this at first, because in case you haven’t noticed being tired is becoming a theme. Unfortunately, there is a group of several American college guys who have just met and are getting to know each other over a couple bottles of wine. Not even my ear plugs can block them out. The lights have recently gone out though, so I’m hoping they’ll take the hint. The train is due to arrive in six hours or so and I’d like to hit the ground running. (Don’t worry though, I’ll be taking the metro much more in Lisbon.) At the very least, I suppose I can always get a good nights sleep tomorrow night. I’ve tried not to book my days too full because my exam is coming up on Friday, but that gives me nearly a week to catch up. Right?

Sunny Seville

So last we talked, I had just arrived to scorching Seville, and trust me, it is scorching. It hasn’t been less than a hundred degrees (that’s 37 for you non-Americans) any day this week. Besides, it’s impossibly humid. But the heat was a nice change, to be honest, especially once I learned to manage it better. I even walked *back* to the train station. It was just a matter of learning to never walk on main streets.

You see, Seville is made up mostly of narrow winding alleys lined with tall buildings decorated with matching facades. The facades have to do with the “Patrimony of the Humanities,” whatever that means. Basically, Seville is a historic town, and to keep it that way some authority or other has forbidden anyone to build a structure taller than the Cathedral tower or paint their property any color other than one of a specifically approved set. It sounds a little harsh, but it has preserved the quaint history of Seville well. Add that to the fragrant blossoms and orange trees planted in every nook and it’s one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen.

The narrow alleys have a more practical purpose. Thanks to breezes blowing in off the Sahara and its distance from the sea, Seville is the hottest city in Spain by far. Remember, this is June. It’s only going to get hotter. The tall, narrow streets, like the many trees, provide some much needed shade. Once I figured this out, my trip back to the train station via backroads and not thoroughfares was much more pleasant. I was still sweaty when I arrived, but not soaked through, thank goodness.

The whole sweaty but not soaked through was rather par for the course during my two days in Seville. I did a lot of walking, but made sure to keep to the shade when possible, and of course always ensure I was drinking enough water. Shortly after posting last, I wandered out onto the plaza in front of my hostel. I’d missed the accordian, but a short walk through the streets popped me out at the Cathedral of Seville and some beautiful nightime views. Keep in mind, night does not mean the sun was down, just that it was 10:00pm, and therefore should have been.

Though the streets were still fairly busy, in my book it was getting late, so I headed back to the hostel where I found Brazil squaring off against Croatia in the opening match of the World Cup. So of course I sat down and watched, and made a few friends in the hostel along the way. We didn’t talk much, there was football on, but there’s been a sort of comraderie in the hostel since that game that’s very nice to feel.

The next morning, I woke up even before my alarm, which is reassuring for me getting back to normal sleeping patterns. After the usual free hostel breakfast of toast and cereal, accopmanied by some Greek yogurt I’d bought the night before, I headed off to check out the two biggest sights in Sevilla: the Cathedral of Seville and the Alcazar.

Let me digress here for a moment to make a correction to my previous post. I called the palace fortress in Cordoba Alcazaba. It was, infact, Alcazar, which explains why it was such a pleasant surprise. Alcazars are not military structures in the same way that Alcazabas are, which means they tend to be prettier and better preserved. The Alcazar in Seville, in fact, is the world’s oldest royal residence still in use today - not full time, but when the Spanish royal family visits Seville at least. There are sections from the Muslims, the fifteenth and sixteenth century Catholics, and so on and so forth, all coexisting in perfect architectural harmony. That’s kind of the story of Adalusia, to be honest: civilization on top of civilization on top of civilization.

After Alcazar, I popped across the street to see the famous Cathedral of Seville, the third largest church in the Christian world. It was about as grand as you would probably expect; towering vaulted ceilings, and the largest alter piece of any cathedral in existence today. Apparently Christopher Columbus’ remains are also interred there, though I somehow missed that bit. To be fair, I was in a bit of a rush to make a one o’clock tour. I did, however, get to climb the old minaret turned bell tower for a lovely view of both the cathedral and the town.

The tour I was hurrying to catch was actually the first of three ‘free’ walking tours I would take over the next twenty four hours. Sevilla wasn’t a terribly monumental town as far as I could tell. It’s relevance lay in history more so than what remained, and I wanted to make sure I heard about it. Tour guides are good at making sure you don’t miss the important things. By coincidence, I actually had the same tour guide for all three tours. Her name was Maria Elena, a young girl from Monterrey, Mexico who lived in New Braunfels for a few years, came to Spain to do her Masters, met a cute Spanish boy and never left. Small world, isn’t it?

As nice as she was, the first tour was a bit of a let down. We went across the Guadalquivir River to Triana, the old residential part of town known for its once large population of gypsies and Inquisition jail. There wasn’t much to see really, and I think I knew more about gypsies from my studies under Professor Hancock than she did. I certainly knew a lot of what she was saying would have offended just about any Romani who heard her. It was a nice walk regardless, and I probably wouldn’t have made it to Triana otherwise.

The couple hour siesta between the walks gave me a chance for lunch. On account of the heat, I was far from hungry, but I made a point of stopping to try the local gazpacho and a few gluten free cookies from the supermarket. Have I mentioned I think I might be gluten intolerant? Thinking back, it would explain a lot of the problems with my skin, which is starting to clear up again now that I’ve scaled back on all the bread and cheese I was having for two meals a day.

The second tour consisted of a walk around Seville’s Jewish quarter, taking a closer look at the Inquisition and the people who suffered during it. This was when I really discovered the extent of the narrow, winding streets, especially considering how terribly lost I got on the way back. That’s what GPS is for though, and I did eventually make it back to the hostel where I found myself with a difficult decision to make.

I had opted out of the more expensive flamenco shows I’d seen advertised around, including one by the tour company running the free walking tours, but I had seen a sign advertising one that came with a free drink for only ten euros - less than half price. My other option was heading out to a Spanish bar to watch the next round of World Cup matches, wherein Spain was playing Holland. The problem with both of these options, however, was that after a full day of walking in the Sevillan heat, I was exhausted. When one of the Austrian girls I’d watched with the night before invited me to stay in and watch with them again then, that’s pricisely what I did.

In hidsight, it was better I didn’t go out to watch the match. Holland beat Spain 5-1, and I don’t imagine the atmosphere would have been very boistrous. As for the flamenco show, I actually regret not going to the one run by the walking tour more than I regret missing the cheaper one. When I showed up to the last tour this morning, I gathered from others’ conversations that there was a performance of select songs from the opera Carmen following the flamenco. For those of you who don’t know, Carmen is my all time favorite opera, set in Seville, and thus the perfect opera to see performed there. Alas, it is an oportunity passed.

On the other hand, I did get to see the old tobacco factory where Carmen worked on the tour. It has since been turned in to part of the University of Seville. The other major highlight from this morning’s tour would have to be the Plaza Espanya. The plaza was my original destination before I decided to do the last walking tour, and I’m glad I didn’t miss it. Built for the Iberian American Expo in the early twentieth century, it’s mostly a huge tribute to the nation of Spain. Huge, and absoultely beautiful. Maria Elena even gave us a few minutes to wander around and take pictures, so lookie what you get!

After the last tour, I headed back to the hostel for lunch and a quick shower before calling my father (Happy Birthday and Father’s Day to him!) and doing that much easier walk to the train station I’d mentioned. As you might expect, I am now once again speeding across the Spanish countryside, this time towards Madrid. We’ve passed out of the most mountainous regions already, but the plains are still lovely, as are the hills in the distance. It would be a most enjoyable trip if the woman sitting next to me didn’t smell so badly it’s making me nauseous, but alas, we can’t have everything. And it’s pretty near everything smell aside, because they’re playing Tarzan on the entertainment system, and what could possibly be better than practicing my Spanish with one of my favorite animated films and this spectacular view right outside?

Exploring Al-Andalus

Another train, another treatise. It has been four nights and five days since I arrived in Malaga, and I now sit settled on my train to Seville, waiting to depart. I found Malaga lovely; a little coastal city full cozy alleys and sunlight. It is a definite candidate for a return visit in the future, though sadly, as you will see, I did not spend many of my days here.

When I disembarked embarked from the train in early Sunday afternoon, I made a beeline for the hostel, well aware that many of the sights in Malaga are free on Sundays and eager to fit most of them in. Check-in was a painless procedure, and as soon as I had my bags stowed and my water bottle refilled, I headed for the monuments: Gibralfaro Castle and Alcazaba. Alcazaba, a term you will here often, just means a palatial fortress, more or less a military palace from the Moorish occupation of Spain. It is often referred to as “la” Alcazaba, or “the” Alcazaba, of whichever city it’s in, but that’s a bastardization of the Arabic, wherein the “al-” already means “the,” so I’m going to omit it and you all will have to deal. (Note: this convention will remain true for Alhambra as well.)

Alcazaba in Malaga is one of the oldest and best preserved in Spain, sitting on the lower plain of a large hill overlooking the sea. At it’s entrance was a small roman theatre that I poked around in for a bit before heading up to explore the twists and turns of Alcazaba itself. In short, it was gorgeous. It wasn’t heavily curated, but the entire structure was covered in plant life, flowers and vines of every shape and color that made the place as much a garden as a fortress. After lugging my 20 kilo backpack across town in the scorching Spanish sun, it was a wonderful chance to relax in the shade with little fountains and streams on all sides.

Following Alcazaba was Gibralfaro Castle, a fortification for purely military purposes built on the uppermost point of the hill when the Moors realized their enemies need only climb said hill to have a military advantage against Alcazaba. It was a long, hot hike up, but had stunning views over Malaga, the surrounding countryside, and the Mediterranean. Nevertheless, it was equally under-curated and I didn’t spend nearly as long there as I had expected. The upside to that development was that it gave me more time to see the rest of the city.

My next stop was Malaga Cathedral, a sight I only learned today, having not found opening times or prices online, is also only free on Sundays. That was a stroke of luck. The architecture, as in most Cathedrals, was lovely. The interesting thing about Malaga Cathedral, however, is that it remains unfinished, probably forever more. Only one of its two towers was completed when construction was stopped to help fund the American Revolution. The interruption lasted so long that Malagenios affectionately began to call the cathedral “la manquita,” or the one armed woman. Now, they don’t want the Cathedral finished, and so it remains with its single tower.

Now in most places, by the time I finished the cathedral most sights would be closing. In Spain it is not so. In line with my usually ambition travel behavior, I hurried across town, past the Picasso Museum, which I felt comfortable skipping, to the Picasso Birth Museum, which I did not. For those who don’t know, Pablo Picasso was born in Malaga, and the house he was born in has been turned into a museum of his early family life. As previously mentioned, I am not a huge fan of Picasso, but I do find him a fascinating character, and seized the chance to learn more about his life. Besides, the museum was free for students, and springing for the audio guide only cost me one euro.

Despite my quite successful whirlwind tour, it did have to come to an end eventually, so following the museum I finally headed back to my hostel for the promise of dinner and free sangria. It wasn’t the best run hostel, and they wouldn’t let me buy dinner without a drink, which made it terribly overpriced for what was essentially pasta. It served my purposes though, and it was cheap, so I can’t really complain. Besides, I ate my dinner that night with a lovely young Canadian couple from Alberta who seemed equally unenthused by the partying contingent in the hostel, so at least it was good company.

The next day began my whirlwind of day trips around Andalucia, the province of southern Spain. My first was too Granada, to see Alhambra, the famous Moorish castle including a separate palace and alcazaba. I woke up early to make the train, travelled three hours out including a short transfer, walked forty five minutes up a steep hill to reach Alhambra, and then realized I had a problem.

The ticket line was ridiculous, stretching out through the blazing sun without a bit of shade in sight. So I went to my backup strategy: purchase a ticket online. Well, that didn’t work. Apparently they don’t sell tickets online day of, and even if they had they appeared sold out for the next two days. In fact, they were already announcing that morning tickets (for entrance before 2:00) were sold out at the ticket booths. That would only give me two hours before I had to head back to the train, but there was nothing for it. I would just have to wait. And so I did, two hours in fact. I am happy to report I did not burn, but my ridiculous tan lines are largely a result of this particular experience.

I didn’t mind so much though. Even when I got my tickets and still had half an hour to wait I contented myself with an overpriced ice cream, only a little annoyed to discover electronic ticketing machines without a line behind the ice cream stand. Honestly, I was just excited to see Alhambra. This was a structure I had been hearing about repeatedly in Arabic history and literature since I was first told about it sophomore year. It was a huge deal to me, definitely in my list of tip three things to see. Besides, I knew the history, so it wasn’t like I needed a tour or an audio guide. I just wanted to go in.

Well, even that it seems was ambitious.

Perhaps I should have looked more closely at my ticket when I got it, but I’d only glanced across the top to see “Entrada: 14:00-20:00.” I had already come to terms with my two hour time limit since my train left at 5:00, but when I went to enter the grounds at 2:00, I noticed something else. Towards the bottom of the ticket, there was another time. “Palacios Nasrid: 17:00.” My heart dropped and a million options went through my head. Should I go back to the ticket counter? But I couldn’t wait another two hours. Ask the ticket taker? But I’d talked to him earlier and he didn’t speak English. Go to guest services? Did they even have a guest services? In the end it didn’t matter, because while all of this was going through my head my ticket was scanned and that was that. I was in. Null and void. I did look around for a guest services, because that seemed like the best option, but there was nothing to be found. At which point I started to panic a bit as the handful of people I was texting at the time can attest.

The Nasrid Palaces *are* the essence of Alhambra. It has an Alcazaba, and a smaller less famous palace further up the hill, but to go to Alhambra and not see the Nasrid Palaces is like going to Paris and not seeing Notre Dame, or the Eiffel Tower, or one of those other things you just have to see. After making the long trip out though, it was especially devastating. It wasn’t like I just had time to come back tomorrow. It was now or never, and I was in a pessimistic enough mood to expect the later version.

At any rate, I tried to pull myself together and not let my heartbreak ruin what I *could* see. It wasn’t really working, at least until I emerged from the remains of an old bath house to be slapped in the face with a giant sign that read “Guest Services.” So I stopped sniffling long enough to go in and explain my situation. They wanted proof of my train, which I had, but after making a copy of my ticket they changed my entrance time to the palaces like it was nothing and sent me on my way. On my direct way, in fact. The new access time was 14:00, which meant I had to rush straight to the palaces and even jump the line. It all happened quite fast until I was all of a sudden standing in the Nasarid Palaces a bit in shock. It was still crowded, of course, even with the controlled access, but I was eventually able to settle my nerves enough to wander through the rooms, taking in the architecture and the art and enjoying it very much - if less than I might have without all the extra hassle.

After the Nasrid Palaces I had just enough time to get a quick walkthrough of Alcazaba and the smaller, less impressive but also less crowded and therefore more enjoyable Generalife Palace and Gardens, and then it was time to rush back to the train, stopping only to pick up a sandwich upon realizing that in all the fuss I hadn’t really eaten that day.

That is becoming something of a theme actually, that I am working hard to correct. I realized at Alhambra that I really need to watch my nutrition intake more carefully as I am lacking in not only protein, but iron. I’ve started taking supplements again, and there should be kitchens at the next few hostels where I can make eggs and store Greek yogurt. I just need to keep reminding myself to stay on top of it.

When I arrived back in Malaga I tried to book some more train tickets, only to encounter much the same problem I had in Barcelona. It was looking like I might be stranded in Lisbon, which to be fair isn’t a bad place to be stranded, but I was a little stressed by it all the same. I returned to the hostel, made some phone calls, and finally went to sleep.

The following day, I am relieved to say, was much better. I had started taking supplements and bought some greek yogurt and muesli for breakfast, which improved my mood by leaps and bounds. When I got to Cordoba then, my destination for that day, I had much more energy for all the walking around. I even made it to the mosque, the major attraction in Cordoba, before 09:30 when free entrance ended before it opened to the public at 10:00. I did not enter immediately though, caught off guard by a nagging suspicion.

You see, the Great Mosque of Cordoba is a mosque no longer. It was converted into a Cathedral after the reconquest of Spain in the fifteenth century. I realized this meant I didn’t have to cover my head, but I wasn’t so sure about my shoulders, a thought that had not occurred to me when I put my tanktop on that morning. There were various women wandering the square with scarves and shawls, which made me wonder even more. I didn’t want to be turned away, or worse appear disrespectful, and there was a little sign on the tourist information panel that had a picture of shorts and tank top crossed out. I realized that might mean no underwear or bathing suits, but I decided to search the streets for a cheap scarf anyway. It would undoubtedly come in handy later anyway.

My search was successful, as it turns out, and I returned to the mosque square just as the bells began to chime 9:30. So I didn’t get my free entrance, and had to wait half an hour to pay, but I did feel better about my appearance entering the church, and now I have a lovely pink scarf that I can wear as a shawl or a skirt or a beach wrap or whatever else I can manage to turn it into.

The mosque was just about everything you would expect it to be - a grand melding of Christian and Islamic architecture. The entire structure seems to move and glow with the light, and the arches sometimes appear to go on forever. I wandered around for a bit, enjoying the beauty and atmosphere, but the other tourists did eventually get to me, so I decided to move on.

Stop number two was Calahorra Tower, a three story stone tower just across the river from the mosque and accessible by and old stone footbridge first built by the Romans. I didn’t realize before going that it had been turned into a museum, I had thought it was just another old building to look at, but I was pleasantly surprised. The Living Museum of Cordoba was just that, a living museum. Guests were given headphone that operated based on location and proximity to certain exhibits, including tracks on ancient Andalucian philosophers, the architects of Alhambra, Moorish diplomacy, and much on daily life in the region during the Moorish period. It was certainly three of the best euros I’d spent all trip.

After the museum I was starting to get hungry, but decided I could squeeze in one more sight before I absolutely had to eat. Alcazaba of the Christian Kings was just down the river anyway, and though I’d thought about skipping it, at two and a quarter euro I figured it worth a look. Again, I was pleasantly surprised. Unlike the two alcazabas I’d already seen, this one was built for, as the name would suggest, Christian Kings visiting the area. It was much more palatial than fortress like, and now includes extensive gardens that were a veritable treat to wander through. The only downside was the rambunctious group of Spanish school children I kept getting stuck behind, but I tried to keep my distance as much as I could.

After Alcazaba, it was finally time to eat. I was determined to find paella again, but when I saw a sign for a Spanish omelette, that quickly changed my mind. I was supposed to be watching my protein, wasn’t I? Well, the Spanish omelette was not what I expected. I don’t even think it had eggs in it. It was more like a potato based brick stuck on a Sandwich, much like that strange sandwich I’d had in Barcelona but blessedly free of ham. It filled me up, but it was a bit of a let down, made up for by the dessert that followed lunch.

I wasn’t looking for dessert this time, but a sign caught my eye as I was wandering announcing a free flamenco show at 2:00, which was a mere fifteen minutes away. The show was at a restaurant though, and I had already eaten, so I asked the host attracting people to the restaurant if I couldn’t just have postre, to which he responded with an enthusiastic affirmative and proceeded to lead me into the restaurant where he explained the layout, introduced me to the pastry chef, and asked me a lot of basic questions like my name and where I was from. This wouldn’t be so remarkable except it was all in very rapid Spanish that I only caught some of the time. Nevertheless, it was a very friendly welcome that made me feel less bad about a free show for the price of a vaguely tiramisu-like mouse concoction that Andres, the host, insisted was the best dessert in the house.

The show itself was also a lot of fun. It consisted of three people, a singer, dancer, and guitar player, all sharing the stage and taking turns at solos. The first half lasted just under an hour, at which point the singer had to stop for a smoke break. Have I mentioned how ubiquitous smoking is here? In all of Europe really. It’s started getting to me a lot, but nowhere more so than this show.

You see, there weren’t many free chairs with a view of the stage, and I had the bad luck of picking one next a couple who, after finishing their meal, began to smoke like chimneys. The first cigarette each was annoying, the second gave me pause, the third found me texting a friend who loves me enough to let me complain, and by the fourth, just around intermission, I decided I had to leave. My lungs were burning, and while the show was good, it wasn’t good enough for that. I think cigarette smoke in Europe is thicker too? Maybe there’s just more of it, but whatever the reason it bothers me more. Alas, the hazards of travel.

So I took to the streets for a bit more wandering, quickly realizing that it was, in fact, midday, which meant one thing: siesta. There was no one out, and I had found my way into a largely residential area. I could have kept wandering, the architecture was all pretty white plaster with cute little window boxes, but it was about that time that I happened upon the only open cafe for miles and thought: what’s the next best thing to a midday nap? Well, the answer is midday coffee. So I wandered in and passed siesta with a cafe con leche and my latest book about Obama and Afghanistan.

Siesta was a lovely break, followed by yoga in the park and an early return to the train station where I had my first success with an employee of the Spanish train system. I had recalculated my options out of Lisbon, though I was still running in to problems. Rather than telling me “no, no es possible” and sending me away like the others, however, he actually bothered to click the two extra buttons to check if there was an earlier or later train available instead. It’s not going to be pleasant, and I’ll be pulling an all nighter in Paris with my backpack in tow, but I will make it to Nice… eventually.

Anyway, the train back from Cordoba was as lovely as the train there. I’ve kind of fallen in love with the Spanish countryside. It is picturesque and riveting no matter the time of day. The best part of all these day trips by train is that I can just sit there and stare. And I have. Repeatedly.

That night I spent hurriedly trying to cobble together travel plans and booked hostels based on my new, if not necessarily improved, itinerary. I should be able to make it through Switzerland and into Italy without too much trouble, but I’m having some trouble booking Italy from Spain. I’ve taken a few days for a breather from that, but will probably get back in the ring on my way to Madrid in a few days.

My final day trip out of Malaga was to the British colony of Gibraltar, the oh so famous rock. For several reasons, least of which was timing, I took the bus this time instead of the train. The road runs along the coast though, so the views of the Mediterranean were equally picturesque, even if the weather was gloomy for the first time since I’d got to Spain. It just goes to show, cloud cover and intermittent showers follow the British everywhere.

The bus dropped me off in Spain just across the border, so I walked into Gibraltar, which has the absolute worst border security I have ever seen, and made for the town. It was only a ten minute walk or so, but it did involve crossing the airport runway, because when you have that little space you make the best use of it you can.

Walking in to town was like walking into London, and a bit disorienting for me at first. Much like it had in Northern Cyprus, British occupation had met local culture to produce a completely unique and otherworldly experience. There were British pubs serving paella and Spanish spoken as much as English in the streets. The difference, of course, was that the UK still controls Gibraltar, so the use of English is official rather than convenient. I certainly felt less guilty walking up to shopkeepers and breaking out my native tongue.

I didn’t linger in the town for long though, aware as I was that I had a limited amount of time before the return bus left at 4:30 or 7:00. Part of me said take your time, if you get back too early you will be obligated to go to dinner with the lonely British man in your dorm room (more on that later). The other part of me didn’t want to exhaust myself and then not get back until 10:00. At any rate, I wasn’t sure how long the Upper Rock Nature Reserve, which is the thing to do on Gibraltar, would take. So I started hiking the mountain until I came to a shack that looked vaguely official where they sold me a ticket to see the sights.

The sights, as it turned out, were a series of stops along the mountain road. The road was meant more for cars than walkers, as demonstrated by the number of vehicles I passed as opposed to fellow hikers, but hey, I have to keep in shape somehow! Besides, the weather started to clear up in the early afternoon, making the views on the walk spectacular, if accompanied by an uncomfortable level of humidity. Sights on the rock included: a small Moorish castle; a series of siege tunnels used in both the Great Siege of the Spanish against Gibraltar and in World War II; an exhibition on Gibraltarians’ life under siege; a Military Heritage Museum, an old lime kiln, a spectacular cave that has been turned into a theatre, and monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. In case you didn’t know, Gibraltar is famous for it’s monkeys. And we didn’t get along.

It wasn’t that they weren’t perfectly nice creatures, for the most part, but there was one. Let us call him my arch nemesis, because I consider him my arch nemesis, because he was evil. Let me explain why.

Shortly after exiting St. Michael’s Cave, I was faced with the decision of whether or not I wanted to attempt the top of the rock. It had been a steep climb thus far, and only got steeper. Furthermore, I had been hiking most of the day at that point, this before my new dedication to protein and supplements had fully kicked in, and I was beat. When I was honest with myself, I knew I couldn’t do it. Or if I did manage to do it, it wouldn’t be smart. Instead, I decided to recharge with an ice cream (have you guys been noticing how much I love my ice cream?) and let the sugar spike help me back down the mountain where I would seek out some real food. Preferably fish and chips.

I overpaid, because supply and demand, and there is a very small supply for a lot of people when you’re on top of a humid mountain. Still, I was happy with my decision as I left the shop to begin my procession down, taking a first delicious bite of my ice cream. I hadn’t made it more than two steps out of the shop, however, when I felt eyes on me. Beady little monkey eyes that I met for a moment before all of a sudden they were charging towards me at a rapid pace. I froze, of course, because what do you do with a charging monkey? And then they were on me as the monkey launched itself at my face, tore the ice cream from my hand, and proceeded to lope away with its prize, stopping just out of grasping range to gloat and lick at it in a disconcertingly human fashion.

I gaped for a moment as whispers broke out among the tourists around me. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether I was more upset that I didn’t have ice cream, or that I had overpaid for an ice cream I clearly wasn’t going to get to eat. There were strict warnings about antagonizing the monkeys though, and taking back my ice cream was surely antagonism at its finest. Then my mind flickered to the other warnings: namely, don’t feed the monkey’s under pain of exorbitant fines. A passing tour guide asked if I was alright. My only answer: As long as they don’t fine me.

If I committed a crime, surely I could claim coercion.

Still a bit befuddled by the whole episode, I began my ice cream-less trek down the mountain. It took the better part of an hour, though it popped me out in a less touristy part of the town where I found a most affordable plate of fish and chips with which to reward myself. It even came with salad and mushy peas, which is a major plus in my book because vegetables! By the time I’d finished eating and paid my bill, I had just under and hour to make it back to the 4:30 bus. Could I make it? Did I want to?

At this point, I should probably explain about the British guy. (I think he was living in Australia though?) He was staying in my hostel in Malaga, and while not at all threatening, he was clearly lonely. He was also older, probably late forties or early fifties, and didn’t fit in at all with the partying vibe of the hostel. I think he realized pretty quickly that I didn’t as well, though as a young twenty something I certainly navigate it better, and he chose me as a person with whom he could talk. For the first night or two, this mostly consisted of striking up a desperate conversation when I would come back to the room in the evenings. “What did you do today?” and “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Pretty standard hostel fare, all things considered.

I was friendly enough back. It’s me, I usually try to be friendly, but I also wasn’t feeling the whole older person thing. I support traveling at any age, but something about older people in hostels is just… weird. Like I said, it’s a vibe thing. Anyway, the night before Gibraltar he had asked me to dinner. Now, I don’t think he had any ill intentions. I really think he was just sick of eating dinner alone. Still, I was happy with what I was up to and didn’t really want to make plans outside of that. I explained that I didn’t know when I would be getting back the next day, and that it would probably be late. He countered that people ate late in Spain, and asked me to keep the option open. I agreed, because it was the polite thing to do, but had no intention of going to dinner with him, just in case.

If I took the 4:30 bus, that put me back in Malaga at 7:30, well within Spanish dinner time. The 7:00 service got me back at 10:00, well into the range where I could claim it was too late. We already discussed me not wanting to get back that late though, and I was already exhausted, so I took the 4:30 and decided I’d figure it out when I got there. My solution, as it turns out, was to be in Malaga and just not head back to the hostel.

I stopped first for chocolate and churros, a Spanish delicacy of fried dough dipped in something that resembles warm chocolate pudding. Call it a consolation for my stolen ice cream. I still had a few hours after that though, so I decided to see some parts of Malaga I hadn’t been before, read: the beach. The sun doesn’t even go down here until ten or later, so it was still nice out, and just starting to cool down.

My walk through a harbor-side park led me an impromptu band concert. I’m not sure if they were warming up or practicing or what. They didn’t look very serious, mostly students, one snare drummer pausing mid-song to take long drags on his cigarette. It wasn’t very good music either, but hey, it was background for my walk, that did eventually lead to the beach.

I sat at said beach for maybe half an hour, watching the joggers and dog walkers and tide rolling in. It was lovely, really. The perfect relaxing end to the day. I wanted to jog along the beach myself, but sadly that’s not really feasible with a bag as large as mine. Alas, one day.

My side trip bought me enough time that I didn’t get back to the hostel until after ten, as planned. The man didn’t seem too disappointed, and I was able to pack up for my departure in the morning and go to bed. Which brings us to today.

Since my train didn’t actually leave until the afternoon, I was able to get up, stow my bag, and have a leisurely breakfast wherein I finally managed to finish book Katy bought me in Scotland about Scottish castles. It was fascinating, but in true traveler fashion I have already traded it out for a collection by Stephen Fry.

After breakfast, I made a stop by one of those quintessentially Spanish markets that had been recommended to me by both Trip Advisor and Jess. The former comes in handy, but the latter makes sights absolute must sees. It wasn’t so much something to see, however, as things to buy. As per Jess’ instruction I purchased some ridiculously cheap strawberries and trail mix that I later ate for lunch. They were delicious. I am very sad I cannot now buy more.

Following the market, I did a strange sort of reverse exploration wherein I finished up my time in Malaga with a free (read: tip based) walking tour. Having already seen the sights, I didn’t learn a ton, but the company was lovely, and there were a few great fun facts. Our tour guide was a guy from New York who had moved to spain in 2010 because he’d been laid off and why not. He seems to be doing well for himself, and enjoying it at the very least. My tour was also populated by a lovely girl from Quebec and a friendly guy from Korea. They were nice to chat with while walking and on breaks. It only occurred to me after I’d rushed off at the end of the tour that we should have exchanged contact information. Alas, I was hurrying to catch my train, and there’s no point to regrets but to remember for next time.

It was a short train ride from Malaga to Seville: just under two hours. I made the exceedingly unwise decision upon arriving, however, to try to walk to my hostel. I had already research the transit system, knew which bus and tram to take and how much they would cost. But my phone said the walk was only half an hour, and even in the scorching sun… I had to work off all that trail mix, right? So I walked, arriving drenched in sweat to the point that my tank top was wringable. I’ve gotten a shower since though, and the hostel is lovely. It’s just my speed: clean and friendly with a wall full of books. I wasn’t too eager to head back out following my brush with the sun. Siestas are making more and more since every day. Now that it has started to cool down, however, I think I may venture out again. I hear music coming from the nearby square, and I would hate to miss Sevilla at night.

Oh my goodness! That’s “Yesterday” on the accordion! Definitely checking it out. Tootles!