Catalan Creativity

So it looks like this whole me not posting until I take the night off to pack might become a regular thing. Those seem to be the only nights I don’t get distracted with figuring out what I’m going to do the next day, unless, like tonight, I start looking at what I might do the days following. Where does all the time go? Anyway, for those of you following along, I am finishing up my third full day in beautiful Barcelona and I’m quite sad to leave. It’s an amazing city that somehow manages to come across as laid back without being lazy. Everything is gorgeous and warm and welcoming, and there’s a beach! (Note: I wrote that opening and about three paragraphs before getting distracted by people in my dorm room. They were lovely, and I will talk about them later, but I didn’t actually finish this post until I boarded the train for Malaga. Go figure. -_-)

My first day in Barcelona consisted primarily of modernism, one of the city’s many claims to fame. The famous modernist architect Antoni Gaudi spent most of his career in Barcelona so I passed the morning touring two of his buildings. The first, Casa Batllo, was an old apartment building that a wealthy Barcelonan commissioned him to remodel and it is stunning. To be honest, I didn’t think I was a fan of modernism going in, but the building so perfectly evokes pictures of the sea that I couldn’t help myself. In fact, all of Gaudi’s work seems to have its roots in nature, which might explain why I liked it so much.

The second building, Casa Mila or La Pedrera, was a bit more extensive than Casa Batllo, but tours were only allowed on the roof, in the attic, and in the uppermost apartment. I imagine people are still living in the other apartments, but I’m not entirely sure. Regardless, I would love unlimited access to that roof. This time, Gaudi’s inspiration was wind, and the sculptural elements he incorporated looked like nothing so much as the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia. I did wonder if perhaps he’s seen them and been inspired, but no one seemed able to tell me if he’d ever been to Turkey.

The final stop on my self-guided tour of Gaudi’s modernist contributions to the Barcelonan landscape was La Sagrada Familia. Now, I am embarrassed to admit that I did not know enough about La Sagrada Familia to really prepare myself for what I was about to see before I went. I knew it was a church, I knew it was famous, but I didn’t realize it was so new. Gaudi lived in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and La Sagrada Familia was a project of this time as well. So grand is the scale, however, that it remains unfinished. The church only opened for visitors in 2010, and throughout my visit the cacophony of continued construction kept blaring through the knave.

Perhaps that was why I was less touched than I’d like to admit?

Don’t get me wrong, the place is stunning. Keeping with the theme of nature Gaudi designed the church to look like it is being held up by trees. The stained glass windows are full of greens and blues and reds and the arches in the ceiling are blatantly fashioned after leaves. I’ve never felt more like I was standing in an absolutely genius piece of art. But it didn’t feel like a church.

Regardless, I very much enjoyed it, especially considering I got in with another of my smartphone work around I learned to pull in Versaille. The line wasn’t moving too slowly, but on my first day in the city I was feeling ambitious, wanted to squeeze in as much as I possibly could, and so I bought a ticket on my phone and slipped right in with almost no wait at all. That left me enough time following La Sagrada Familia to go to a park, hop down to the beach, get lost, get unlost a very long way, drop in at Barcelona Cathedral, and wander up La Rambla before arriving back at my hostel. I even stopped for paella on the way.

La Rambla, for those who don’t know, is a bit like the Atlantic City Boardwalk. It’s just a very long street with a lot of shops and street performers that has since been turned into an absolute tourist trap. I still bought my paella there, but it was pretty reasonably priced without the alcohol that tourists seem to think is required.

With all that walking, and it was a lot, I was beat by the time I got back to my hostel, not that that stopped me from staying up far too late travel planning. I was still tired the next morning, but I sucked it up to take a ‘free’ walking tour since I knew less about the history of Barcelona than I’d like. Now, I put the word free in parentheses not because they made me pay anything, but because it’s a commission based tour - a new business model that couple companies I’ve run into have been trying out. The tour itself is free, but then at the end you are asked to tip your guide whatever you thought the tour is worth. That way it can be adjusted to all sorts of interests, types of guides, and most importantly, budgets.

I was on a tour with a nice British girl named Ruby, who was young and fun and full of energy, just like a tour guide should be. She’d moved to Barcelona with her family as a teenager roughly ten years ago and fallen in love with the city. Now, she speaks fluent Catalan and Spanish and gives tours when she’s not doing translation work because she adores Barcelonan history, and the adoration showed. It was a wonderful tour, full if dragons, incest, and lots of hairy men (and women). I tipped her as much as I thought I could afford. Works out nicely, yeah?

After the tour, I had planned to check out some museums, but over the course of the tour I had kind of made a friend. Michelle, traveling from Australia, had introduced herself to me while I was waiting for the tour in the lobby of our hostel. We chatted for a bit on the way to the tour, and then more in between stops, and she more or less decided we were going to be friends in that way that often happens when traveling. It’s hard to meet people sometimes, and you never know when you’ll find the next person to keep you company, so you get people who are really assertive about the whole thing. I didn’t mind. Company is nice. But when Michelle just sort of assumed we’d be hanging out after the tour, I got the distinct impression she didn’t want to do museums, so I changed my plans.

One of the other must sees on my list was Montjuic, a mountain dedicated to Jewish suffering with a pleathora of gardens and an old defensive castle on top. Michelle seemed a bit more interested in that, so we began the hike up through the gardens, past a few restaurants and hotels, as well as what I think was once the Olympic swimming pool when Barcelona hosted the games in 1992. We eventually made it to the top, much sweatier and one episode of peeing in the bushes for lack of public restrooms later. The castle wasn’t one of the larger ones I’d seen, but was blessedly empty, and it came with a veritable book for an historical pamphlet that I pretty much devoured, much to Michelle’s confused amusement.

Following the mountain, the plan was dinner, but Michelle really wanted to wash up first. I can understand that, even if I find it a waste of time when we’re just going to get sweaty again on the way to dinner. We didn’t end up making it back to the hostel for a while though. As our chief navigator, I led us up La Rambla, past a shopping district we’d passed on the tour that Michelle had expressed interest in. I pointed it out, she asked to stop, and let’s just say that it took us several more hours to get back to the hostel. I did manage to find a suitable dress over the course of the voyage, but I’ve never quite found shopping without money to be tons of fun. Not for more than a shop or two anyway. Still, how often do you get to go shopping in stylish Barcelona? I made the best of it.

We did eventually get back to the hostel too, though it was nearly eight and me and my eat at five or six stomach that was going on nothing but the apple I’d had for lunch were beyond hungry. We agreed to reconvene in the lobby in forty-five minutes, so I took the opportunity for a quick shower and a charge boost to my phone. When I got to the lobby after that forty-five minutes, however, Michelle was nowhere to be found. So I sat down to wait, and wait, and wait. It was around half an hour into waiting that I considered bailing. I was feeling a bit lightheaded, with hunger or exhaustion I wasn’t quite sure, but I expected a combination of both. I just resolved to wait another ten minutes and then find food on my own when she finally showed up, apologizing that the showers had been full. That was fine and all, I just really wanted to eat. Still, it would be a bit before I got my wish.

In addition to the shopping area, we’d also passed through an up and coming trendy restaurant center on the tour that morning and agreed it would be a nice place for a meal. I could have eaten McDonald’s at that point, and the neighborhood was a fair walk away, but we made it, and I think I’m glad we did? We went to a little hole in the wall that charged more than I would have liked to pay to begin with, and Michelle insisted on appetizers and wine, which are a big no no on my budget at all times. Then there was overpriced dessert after, and all in all I ended up spending far too much - which in my experience is usually the trade off for company.

The upside then was that I did get to experience Barcelona dining, which was nice. It also gave me an opportunity to try something new, even if that hadn’t been my intention. You see, I ordered the vegetable paella again, because it was good the day before and it’s the regional specialty and when in Rome, right? As I was glancing through the menu, however, I saw that they also offered paella with black rice, which sounded tasty. I like brown rice, and my philosophy with grains is always the darker the better, so when the waiter came to take our order I asked for it.

He gave me a surprised sort of look, said something I didn’t understand in Spanish that sounded vaguely like ‘calamari,’ and pointed at the menu. No, no, I corrected. Vegetable paella, just with black rice. He gave me that odd look again, sort of waved it off, and bustled off to give our orders to the chef. Well, in case you hadn’t guessed already, he was saying calamari, but not because they were going to put that in the paella. They were going to put it on the paella. Black rice, it turns out, is not black rice at all. It is white rice, covered in squid ink, which makes it… black. While this hadn’t been clear in the picture, is was unmistakable when the dish finally arrived, and at that point there’s nothing to do but eat it. So I did. In all honesty, I wouldn’t order it again, but I will say it wasn’t half bad.

By the time we finished dinner it was quite late in my book, though for a Friday night the city was only just waking up. Michelle, though she had expressed interest in going out earlier, had either changed her mind or picked up on the fact that I wasn’t about to go anywhere but to bed. We headed back to the hostel, stayed up a bit to socialize and try this Spanish/Brazilian cocktail made with fermented cane juice I’d been told about, and then went to bed. Because I am honest, I will admit I might have avoided her the next day. It was nothing against her as a person, but sometimes I need me time too.

So my last full day in Barcelona incorporated those museums I’d wanted to see. The first wasn’t exactly a museum so much as an opera house, the Palace of Catalan Music, but it offers guided tours through the phenomenal architecture. As you might have guessed, I was trying to cut down spending in Barcelona, so I stopped in at the gift shop before buying a ticket to see what all there was on the inside. According to the guidebooks, not all that much. I read the history there in the shop, and saw a few pictures of the grand entrance hall, but the most exciting bit it seemed was the facade outside, which as a facade was, of course, free.

So I opted out of the tour and headed back to the street to round the building and get a look for myself. On my way around the corner, I even found a pair of cheap canvas shoes that I think will replace my Paris shoes as sneaker alternatives. At just over $10 and comfortable all day they were an absolute steal. Plus, the canvas keeps my feel cool, and they were wrapped in a rubber bracelet band thing that says “Nada es impossible.”

Following the Palace, I headed down the Picasso Museum. Pablo Picasso was actually born in Malaga, where I’m headed now, but he spent a great deal of his career in Barcelona, where his friend set up a museum in his name. I’m not a huge Picasso fan, if I’m honest. I like some of his early work, but the more abstract it gets the more it gives me an unpleasant headache. I hadn’t much considered going to the museum then until Ruby called it hands down the best museum in Barcelona (and there are a lot), but such a glowing review drove me to at least look up prices. As it turns out, university students get in free, so it was definitely worth checking out.

It was a nice exhibit after all, and included an interesting exhibition on Picasso’s influence on more modern artists. My favorite piece was a short film of half a dozen children analyzing a Picasso painting out loud. It was fascinating to see how they approached the artwork and built off or challenged each others ideas, and to see the emotions on their faces as they did it was even better. I also particularly enjoyed this installation, for those of you familiar with Banksy.

I spent my final afternoon then sitting on the beach, or at least a hill just above it. I was starting to feel weak with a need for protein, so I bought a tub of peanut butter to accompany my apples and looked out over the ocean as I ate. I didn’t actually venture onto the beach though. It was packed, in a way that makes me wonder how this isn’t yet the highest season. You didn’t even have to be terrible high up for the scene to resemble ants at a picnic, and speaking of ants…

I mentioned earlier getting distracted by my dorm mates. I had returned to the hostel to pack and write after the beach, and was actually getting a something accomplished, even if it was only half blog and half planning, when I heard a gasp from the girl climbing in to bed above me. I was just about to stick my head out to see what was wrong when I felt her climb down again and heard her leave the room. Assuming she had forgotten something or the like, I went back to work, but only for a few minutes until a couple guys from the hostel staff came bursting into the room unannounced.

It turns out the girl, also named Michelle I later found out, had left juice in her bed and it had attracted an entire swarm of ants. So the hostel guys sprayed down her bed with ant killer and gave her some fresh sheets. No one bothered to think what this would mean for the bottom bunk, where I later found a number of dead ants and probably inhaled a fair amount of poison too, but whatever. I was tired. Mostly because apparently ant genocide is a type of dorm bonding experience.

I don’t think Michelle, who goes by Gibbs, had had much in depth human interaction in the past week. She was born and raised in London, lives in Cardiff, and had never been outside of England and Wales until she flew into southern Spain last week without a word of Spanish and proceeded to get around by pointing a lot, walking everywhere, and often sleeping in a tent. It was her first time in a hostel, and she had that wild eyed look of someone who still can’t believe they’re doing what they’re doing. She was nice to talk to though, and I think glad that we all spoke English. I say all because this was Saturday night, and most of the dorm was getting ready to go out for a wild night. In case you hadn’t guessed, I did not. Clubs in Barcelona don’t even open until two, and in my old age with an early train to catch that is well past my bedtime. I was actually waking up this morning as two of the girls were getting home.

Everyone else’s wild Saturday, however, did make for a fun show this morning. I was actually up much earlier than I expected, especially considering how late I had stayed up. The problem, you see, was that just as I was about to go to sleep the night before, the power went out with my phone nearly dead. I wasn’t sure what little charge it had would last the night, but I figured the power outage would be temporary, so I plugged it in anyway and went to sleep. I think the girls getting back a bit past five might have woken me up, or just the anxiety I’d gone to sleep with that my phone would die before the alarm went off. Either way, I woke up to check my phone at 5:11, literally two minutes before the battery died, and realized there was now no way I could go back to sleep without missing my train.

I did dose for a half hour or so more, listening to my drunk dorm mates negotiate their own way around the no power problem. It occurred to me though, as they finally settled in to sleep, that if they hadn’t realized there was no power… it must not be a hostel wide thing. With that in mind, I finally got out of bed to check, and sure enough it was just our room. No wonder no one had bothered to get it fixed - no one probably knew. With that in mind, and the knowledge that I could still charge my phone elsewhere, I packed up the last of my belongings and headed down to reception to report the problem, charge my phone, and wait for breakfast at 7:30.

In that time I saw so many people in so many varying states of inebriation. There was the guy with the bloodshot eyes who insisted he must have partied so hard he’d knocked out the power, the girl who wanted drunk breakfast so badly she was literally dancing for it, and the group of Spanish guys I’m not even sure were staying at the hostel but seemed to be waiting for breakfast because they knew it would be filled with a bunch a still drunk girls. It was a little sad, but at least entertaining.

When breakfast did finally open I tried to eat quickly, but I must not have eaten quickly enough. My train left the station at 8:30, and I planned to be gone by 7:45 to give me plenty of time to get there. I made it out the hostel doors at roughly 7:55, and with the exact kind of delay on the metro I’d been trying to allow for, I ended up only barely making my train. I did make it though, and I’m now whisking across the Spanish countryside at nearly 200 mph.

It’s some of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. The mountainous greenery of the north has given way to rocky plains and scattered hills. It reminds me a bit of Texas, actually, with a lot of brown grass and scrub brush. The big difference of course is that every little bit you see a castle on the hillside, setting off all the beautiful stone buildings that populate the towns between. I should arrive in Malaga in a couple hours, where I will be setting out for some castle touring because it’s Sunday and they’re free. We’ll see when I manage to get another post up, but here’s hoping it’s not too long!

Trains!

So… today was one of those journeys that needs to be documented. Even Jess says so, because texting, and trains.

I woke up this morning to the first truly bad weather I had seen in Paris. It was pouring down rain, which was beautiful to watch on the canal while I ate breakfast, but horrible to walk through to get to the metro. I was soaked from the knee down by the time I got to the station, because as most of you probably know, umbrellas can only do so much. At least there’s no air conditioning on the metro though, so it was nice and toasty and warm.

I made sure to get to the train station early to activate my Eurail pass. This was technically my first day traveling with it, and you just have to check in at a ticket counter so they can validate it and things. The line to the ticket counter took about thirty times as long as the actual validation process. Go figure. I had been to French train offices before though, so at least I knew what to expect. And then came the waiting for the train, which thankfully didn’t take long.

The harder part than waiting, however, was deciphering my ticket. Train travel is so common in Europe that it’s not really necessary to cover the platforms with staff members to ask. Everyone just knows what they’re doing. And I mean… I thought I knew what I was doing, but there were more numbers than I expected there to be, because for some reason TGV numbers coaches by ranges rather than letters or digits even though those ranges have no correlation to the seats found inside. I could figure that much out with my limited French though, and did eventually find a seat that looked like mine. I figured if it was the wrong one the conductor would tell me when he came around to check tickets, so I might as well assume it was the right seat until then. And it was. Just on the wrong train.

Now, before you think I’m a complete idiot, I was at the right platform. They post departures on big screens and then when the train arrives they tell you which platform it’s at and you go and get on and it’s all very organized and easy to follow. What I hadn’t been told, or at least hadn’t heard in all the French, was that that there were two trains connected to each other going to Montpellier, there the train I was on was going to detach while the train I was supposed to be on kept going to Perpignan. You would think they would used different numbers on the coaches to make that clear. Excuse me, different ranges. But no.

At least I my conductor theory worked. He took one look at my ticket, glanced up, and asked rather doubtfully, “Parlez vous Francais?” When I said no, he proceeded in slightly broken English to tell me I was on the wrong train. Which train did I need? The first one. Of course, I didn’t know there were two yet, so I had no idea what that meant. I was quite confident of my platform navigating abilities, and I’d been on the train a full ten minutes early. I couldn’t have missed it. I had heard about separating cars though, so I asked if he meant there was a train up front I needed to move to.

“No. No. Transfer. Montpellier.”

From which I concluded maybe my platform navigation wasn’t so good after all. Or there had been a second train. At any rate, I knew I needed to get off at Montpellier, so I did. Only for the sign to tell me the train to Perpignan was leaving from the same platform I was already on. In three minutes. At this point, I would just like to say thank goodness for Brits.

It seems that a group of four or five British travelers were having the same problem I was, and one of them had managed to find someone who spoke enough English to explain. Had just found them I might add. With that three minute leeway that had already become two. And now they were sprinting down the platform towards the front of the train. So I followed, and quickly found the display on the side of the train reading Perpignan, and not Montpellier. Well, they piled into the space between the cars and I piled in after them and it seems there were already two French people in there and then the doors to the coach opened and another one came out and I don’t know if you realize how small that space is but the answer is very. And now there were nine people squeezed into it, most of them with very large luggage.

And then the train started to move.

Well, this drew shouts of outrage from the Frenchman who had just emerged from the coach. I gathered a few moments later that he was meant to get off at Montpellier and had just been too slow. As for the Brits, they had far too much luggage to even begin maneuvering with that many people in the area, and they were all between me and my correct coach, and there wasn’t any luggage space left on that deck, so I eventually I gave up and decided I was just going to move up the stairs (which were right behind me) until everyone got their stuff sorted out.

The upper deck seemed pretty empty. Lots of luggage space, where I left my bag, and even a few empty seats in the coach. A glance downstairs told me they weren’t much closer to figuring things out, so I decided to take one of the seats. This was my first encounter with The Italian.

I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew was that there was a man in a very designer looking blazer wearing large reflective sunglasses with his hand/arm/thing in a sling. But the two seats across the table from him looked open, so I decided to try to take one. He immediately gave me this funny look and said something indecipherable that started withe “pardon,” and ended in something more difficult.

I assumed from the context that the seat was taken, mumbled something that I hope sounded like an apology, and embarrassedly hurried out of the coach determined to sit in the seat I’d actually reserved. The Brits had started to figure themselves out by then. One of them was transferring bags up the stairs to the emptier space, so I stood out of the way and waited for them to be done. The conductor came by and checked my ticket somewhere in there, so at least I was on the right train, but the seat… well, I would see later.

Once the downstairs space between the trains was more or less cleared with the exception of the man who has missed his stop, I thought it was safe to retrieve my bag and head back down, except what I had assumed was merely not enough space for the Brits’ giant suitcases was actually not enough space for my much more reasonably sized backpack either. So I put it back upstairs again and attempted to find my seat. A seat, it turns out, that was occupied by a toddler. A toddler accompanied by her parents and infant sister in the three other seats around the table.

Again with the language barrier I stopped, scrunched up my brow to display confusion, and pointed at the seat. They all gave me blank stairs. At which point the lady across the aisle from them tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the empty seat next to her, which was definitely not my seat, but I was not about to complain. Far be it from me to split up a family when I wasn’t even being asked to sacrifice my space by a window.

So I settled in for more quiet viewing of the French country side, finishing up my book on the Career Foreign Service in between until we finally made it to Perpignan, a French border town where I was meant to transfer to my train for Barcelona.

Now, it was nearly a two hour layover, and there weren’t any lockers for me to check my bag and go exploring, and it was still raining, so I bought some tabouli from a nearby supermarket for dinner and settled in to wait. Wait and watch, I suppose, because you see some of the most interesting people at train stations.

The first was a man asking for money so he could buy a ticket. I don’t know if he actually planned to buy a ticket, but I pretended not to understand his Spanish or his French and went back to my reading. The second was the Italian man, who first wandered over to harass a pigeon that was scavenging behind my bench with rapid cooing and loud hand gestures. As the pigeon rounded the bench, he followed it and struck up a conversation when he saw me watching. I explained I don’t speak French and he switched to the limited English he seemed to know; which, when he found out I was from Texas mostly consisted of Bush, petrol, chapeau, and a very confused face as he pretend to ride a horse while trying to remember the word cowboy. He was funny, but a little creepy, and didn’t seem too offended when I went back to my reading.

Then there was the the group of college aged boys traveling together whose origins I couldn’t pinpoint for the life of me. From across the platform I had them pegged as American based on body language and style choices, but when they ended up in line behind me to board the train they were definitely speaking not English. It sounded vaguely like Dutch, but it was hard to pinpoint as they were only using it in between cringe worthy examples of their dreadful Spanish, consisting primarily of “gracia” and “un cerevaza por favor.” [sic] My final judgement is German, but eh, what does it really matter.

The final character I didn’t happen across until I actually boarded the train. She was sitting in my seat, in fact. I know because it was the window and I had gotten super excited about the window because do you know what’s between Perpignan and Barcelona? Lots of pretty things, that’s what.

When I arrived, however, she wasn’t just in my seat. In fact, she was more or less splayed across both seats, shoes off, feet hanging into the aisle with her hand in a bag of crisps like she was on the couch at home. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that, it was just a bit of a surprise after the rigid structure of Britain and France. And she moved graciously when I showed up, but into my seat by the window, not hers. Moved, I say, and then started to laugh.

It caught me off guard the first time, until I realized she had her headphones in. But then it happened again, and again. It was rather disconcerting to be honest, and not a little annoying, especially considering it was fairly loud while the rest of the train was near silent. That was around the time I realized her headphones were connected to the console between our seats, tapped into the in flight movie. It must have been a funny one, but she was the only one watching it.

I momentarily entertained the idea of getting out my headphones and attempting to join in, language barriers be damned, but even from my not window seat I was having a hard time getting over the beauty. Though I had a rather obstructed view, the sunlit landscape of the Pyrenees mountains was breathtaking. Oh Catalonia… is it really fair for anywhere to be this gorgeous?

Eventually I gave up trying to follow the rules and just moved to an empty window seat. It was one of those half windows where the wall starts, but it was still lovely. I was distracted enough that it was only after I sat down that a brief exclamation of surprise drew my attention to The Italian who was conveniently enough seated across the aisle. He didn’t say anything, probably because I was clearly preoccupied with pressing my nose to the window like a five year old, and when he started adjusting his sling with much groaning and fanfare, I was careful not to look lest I get drawn into incredibly uncomfortable conversation again.

The train did arrive eventually though. I was so excited to be in Spain I almost forgot that I’d planned to stop by the ticket counter to make sure to book a few trips only reservable from Spain. It was a nice test of Spanish I hadn’t used in ages, though compared to France everyone was far more patient and kind. (Note: The French weren’t unfriendly, but as per the stereotype they weren’t about to go out of their way.) When I couldn’t find the appropriate line, the security guard I’d asked even walked me over to the ticket kiosk and got me a number himself. 764.

They were serving 688.

I considered leaving, but it’s summer in Spain and it wasn’t like the sun was going down anytime soon. Besides, I was going to have to do it sometime and then was as good a time as any. So I went to the restroom, taking long enough for them to make it up to 703, and then settled in to wait. A little more than an hour later my number was finally called, by an elderly gentleman at window number 16.

As has become my custom as of late, I greeted him and kindly asked, in Spanish, if he spoke English. “No,” was his confused reply, “but you speak Spanish,” said with a smile and a gesture as if to point out I had addressed him in Spanish after all. And thus began the game of broken languages and charades in which I tried to communicate that I wanted to reserve a bunch of random tickets and he kept telling me it was too late, which I knew wasn’t true.

I’m still not sure where we got turned around. He would ask where I was going, I would tell him, he would ask when, I would tell him, he would tell me it was too late, and I would get confused because the people in France had offered to book the same ticket for me earlier that same day - an offer I refused because I thought it would be easier to book them all at once. I should point out they were Spanish trains too, so if anyone should have access it was this guy.

Anyway, he kept asking the same questions, and I kept giving the same answers and pointing to the paper where I’d written all the information down so things like this wouldn’t happen. This went on for maybe five minutes before I pulled out the tickets I had booked in France, several for dates sooner than the ones I was trying to get from him, and showed him that it was, indeed, somewhere in the realm of possibility.

At which point he went, “Oh! Where are you going?”

And this time when I told him he actually booked me a ticket. Perhaps it is just leftover anxiety from Egypt that makes me suspect he might have been trying to get out of work. It didn’t help though that at five to eight, five minutes before the office was due to close and with only one of the something like eight tickets I wanted booked, he tried to tell me he had to shut his window. I had enough Spanish to refuse to accept that, and he continued until I had the five I need to complete my journeys in Spain. Then I gave up, because really?

Anyway, you would think such an entrance might have hurt my opinion of Spain, but it hasn’t. I haven’t seen much more than the train station and the metro, but there’s a sort of energy in the air that’s just… pleasant. And the weather is spectacular. I’m going to have to buy myself a skirt tomorrow it’s so lovely and warm. Oo, or maybe a sundress. I do love a good sundress.

Speaking of the metro though, can I just boast for a minute that I made it all the way to my hostel this evening without so much as consulting a map? I mean, I looked at it beforehand of course, but I feel like I have a reached a whole new level in cartographic navigation. It’s a very nice hostel, one from the same chain I was staying in in Paris because they gave me a discount, but I think I mentioned before that it’s not the best place for meeting people. Lots of kids here to drink and party, a couple large school tours, very few of the types of travelers I like to meet. Alas, I’m sure I’ll find some eventually. And if all else fails, there’s always the next hostel.

Until then I can’t wait to explore Barcelona. Now if only I could convince my body to get some much needed sleep!


P.S. Just thought it worth mentioning, apparently I may not be getting any passport stamps this trip. Silly EU and their relaxed intra-union border policies. Looks like the stamps I have will just have to stay in there lonely.

Grand Paris

Ugh. So. I was really trying to keep up. I promise. Promise as in I have intended to sit down and write this post for the past four days, but every time I turn on my computer I get sidetracked with travel planning because that is a thing I do. Good news though! It means I have reservations all the way to Lisbon in mid-June (and a few more places I’ll share later), which is a bit of a weight off my shoulders, because as long as I make it to Lisbon for my exam, nothing else is really important. It was a bit touch and go there because the French train system isn’t as friendly to Eurail as everybody else, but as soon as I figured out a route to Barcelona it was all downhill from there.

Anyway, enough about the future. I’m sure you’re all curious about what I’ve been up to in Paris the last week or so. It’s been jam-packed, as usual when I travel, but in a rare turn of events I haven’t been leaving too early in the mornings. I usually wake up, have a free breakfast of yogurt and baguettes at the hostel, knick a a baguette and a few slices of cheese so that it becomes free lunch as well, and then head out around 9:30 or 10:00. By usually I actually mean every day though, so… always.

Anyway, Friday started out with doing battle at the train station and the Barcelona drama. Basically, they made me buy a ticket. Or wanted me too. I actually bought it online the next day for like… two-thirds the price they quoted me. But that’s taken care of now, so moving on.

Even though my hostel isn’t exactly close to the city center, I’d decided to spend my first day walking to get a better feel for the city. The train station was about half an hour from my hostel. The Paris Story Cinema and Palais Garnier, better known as the Paris Opera House, was another half hour from that. A third half hour would bring me to the Ile-de-la-Cite: the island not far from the Louvre containing Saint-Chapelle and La Conciergerie and Notre Dame. It sounded like a nice walk, but in actuality… I wasn’t terribly impressed. It also didn’t take an hour and a half, but that wasn’t the walk’s fault.

First and foremost, let me make it clear that I in no way got lost. I was actually right on course the entire time. No sooner had I arrived at the Opera House, however, than I was asked for directions to the Louvre. Now, you would think that would only be a distraction of a few seconds, but you would be wrong. The man who had asked, in English, then asked about my accent and somehow struck up a lovely conversation that lasted for something like two hours… His name is Orvil and he teaches religion and philosophy to high schoolers in Putney, London, the neighborhood where I went to that comedy show last week. He also loves the NBA. So we had a long talk about basketball and politics and education and got a bit distracted, then exchanged emails and went on our separate ways. It was one of those strange interludes that only ever seems to happen when traveling.

Anyway, I did eventually make it to the Paris Story, even if it was no longer morning. I got there on the half hour though, and the show only started on every hour, so I took the opportunity to eat my packed lunch on the steps of the opera and buy an ice cream cone from the Lindt Chocolatier before heading into the cinema. The Paris Story is an hour long film about the history of Paris, which I thought would be a good introduction to the city. It was very French, to be sure, narrated as a conversation between some unidentified “great poet” and the personified city herself. Being told the history of Paris from “Paris’” point of view was a bit excessively artistic and avant garde to my American tastes, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Afterward, I continued my walk to the Louvre, thinking I would just skip Ile-de-la-Cite and see it another day, except I got to the Louvre a bit earlier than I intended. You see, this day had been precisely planned for the Louvre. While youths (under 25) from the EU get in free to the Louvre at all times, all the other youths (like me) only get in free on Fridays after 6:00pm. Since the museum doesn’t close on Fridays until 9:45pm though, that still gives you nearly four hours free if you’re willing to skip the parties to see some awesome art. And I am.

But it wasn’t 6:00 yet. So I weighed my options and decided I could make it to Notre Dame and back in time. In hindsight, this might not have been the best decision. Did I mention I was wearing my Paris shoes? By which I mean the hand-crafted suede ones I bought in Cyprus so the Parisians wouldn’t judge me for wearing sneakers. They’re very comfortable... except when you walk long distances. Alas.

I did make it to Notre Dame though, and through the line, and through the Cathedral. I did not, however, pay the extra money to go into the Treasury. I liked the freeness of it all, and while I had enough time to take a leisurely stroll through the Cathedral, I didn’t want to push it with relics from which I would feel I needed to get my money’s worth. Besides, the Cathedral was more than enough. Grand and gothic and gorgeous. It would have benefited from fewer tourists talking less, but it bothered me less there than most places, probably because of how much I adore a good old church.

Following Notre Dame, I booked it back to the Louvre for my 6:00 appointment with free entry. Have I mentioned how much I love free things? I had heard the Louvre would take two full days, but I also have a limited time in Paris and a limited amount of money, so though I had set aside a second day if necessary, I was kind of hoping to speed my way through, stopping only at the requisite pilgrimage sites and where something caught my attention to the point I couldn’t pass it by. That, it seems, is easier said than done.

I was actually proud of the time I was making. For those of you who don’t know, I get distracted easily by pretty things. And the things at the Louvre? They’re the prettiest. I particularly enjoyed the French painting and Greek sculpture areas. People aren’t exaggerating when they say it’s the best museum in the world. The thing is, I’m not even sure it’s all about the art. For those who don’t know. the Louvre is called the Louvre because it is located in the Louvre Palace, one of the old seats of the French monarchy. I would just like to say that palaces are where art is meant to be seen. I realize that the whitewashed plainness of galleries today is meant to highlight the art and not its surroundings, but there is something far more breathtaking about a row of masterful statues lining a grand gallery of marble lined in towering arches and intricate capitals.

So it was beautiful, but there was one problem; it was also a maze. Needless to say then, I kept getting lost. Which in and of itself is fine, because who doesn’t want to be lost in a maze of stunning art? The problem with the maze though was that it meant a lot of walking. And I mean a lot. And did I mention I had been walking all day? In my bad shoes? So I was a bit cranky. But art! Anyway, I wandered in pain for a while until I happened upon the Venus de Milo, which was a nice surprise, and gave me an idea. Not a particularly inspired idea, but an idea nonetheless.

I decided, lost as I was, to try to find the Mona Lisa, enjoy what I saw along the way, and then try to make my way out. Again easier said than done, because I was so far away that the Italian painters section wasn’t even on the maps I was running into. That’s how big the Louvre is. They can’t even fit all of the sections on one map. So I wandered until it started showing up, and then made my way in that direction, started noticing that while still beautiful, I didn’t like the Italians nearly as much as their French counterparts, and finally found the Mona Lisa. It was nice? Maybe I wasn’t as impressed as I should have been. Maybe I was just tired. If I could have found it easily I would have taken another round with the French gallery though, tired or not, so I’m airing on the side of not just tired.

At any rate, the Mona Lisa seen I decided I was done. When I checked the clock though, it wasn’t as late as I might have expected, and it was still my first full day in Paris. So I made another stupid decision. That morning at breakfast I had met a Canadian guy who had the most brilliant idea. We were talking about the Eiffel Tower, and how much I wanted to climb the stairs, and he suggested I do it at night as well as during the day, because it was beautiful at night too. I didn’t want to pay for two climbs. His response? “So climb it just before sunset and get both.”

Well, by my calculations, I had just enough time to walk to the Eiffel Tower and up it before sunset. Keep in mind, the sun sets late here, and the Eiffel Tower wasn’t exactly close. But once I had the idea I was determined. Besides, the walk was along the Seine! I started to really regret my decision about halfway there, but I kept going, passing a monument to Thomas Jefferson, stopping to take a picture for a French couple who didn’t realize I knew almost no French until afterwards, and giving wrong directions to an Indian guy who hit on me. I still maintain he deserved it.

When I finally did make it to the Eiffel Tower, exhausted and thinking my feet might be broken, I had a rude surprise. Either everyone had the same idea I did or else it’s always that busy. I expect that latter, but after a quick poke around in which I could see very little through the throngs of people, I joined a line for tickets up the West Tower, where I could clearly see a set of stairs. The good news is I had estimated sunset a lot earlier than it actually was, so I had time to wait. The bad news - nay, the heartbreaking news - was that an hour later, when I’d made it two-thirds of the way to the front of the line, I was finally at an angle that allowed me to see *drum roll* the sign for the stairs.

As it turns out, I was in an elevator only line, with enough time to make it up the elevator before the sun went down, but not near enough time to wait again through the equally long stair line and climb said stairs while it was still light out. And if I had to choose, I would rather see the view during the day. So I was in a bit of a pickle. Did I leave and come back another day? Sacrifice my day view for a chance to climb the stairs? Just suck it up and buy the more expensive elevator ticket I didn’t even want? Well, I went with the last one, because maybe that was the universe’s way of telling me I was too tired for however many hundreds of stairs there were. I went with the cheaper ticket to the second floor instead of the top though, because at that point I was in a terrible mood and the crowd was getting to my anxiety and it was another hour wait for the elevator (no stairs available) from the second floor to the top anyway.

Is it a given that I didn’t really find it all that spectacular? I took some pictures, and picked out some sights, but I think panoramic views of cities have gotten old for me. I like the climbing up to them bit, and I especially like sitting at the top of like… cliffs and things. But man made structures like towers and ferris wheels have started to get less and less exciting for me with every successive ascent, no matter where or how high. Alas, at least I’m learning these things about my preferences, yeah?

So I took the stairs down at least, because that was an option, even if not as fun of an option as stairs up, and set out across the river for the metro station on the other side. I had made a lot of stupid decisions that day, but walking home was not going to be one of them. On the opposite bank of the river I stopped for a moment to take a picture and no sooner had I turned on my camera than, without any warning, the tower started flashing. I learned later that’s something it does at the top of every hour once the lights come on at night, but it was a nice surprise. I took it as an apology and went on my way feeling slightly better.

Before I could actually make it to the metro station as planned, however, I got distracted again. Are you noticing a theme? It wasn’t a person this time, but rather an event. There was a large plaza between the Eiffel Tower and metro station that had been filled with lights and tents and things. I’d seen it from the tower, but it was only once I got closer that I found out what it was: the World Slalom Series.

So if I had thought about it, I probably would have expected this to be a sport, but I hadn’t thought about it. See how traveling opens up horizons? What I gathered from watching is that there are two types of inline skating slalom, freestyle and speed. The first of which is a bit like figure skating through and around a series of small cones without hitting any of them, and the second of which is pretty much what it sounds like. If you’re interested, I highly recommend looking it up on youTube. I was certainly interested, and so I stopped to watch. And watch, and watch, and watch.

So, a couple hours later after I had seen skaters from France, Poland, Russia, Korea, China, Spain and probably a few other places besides, the title went to a French skater and I decided midnight was far too late for me to still be out. It was all very exciting and official, but I had spent ages there when, as we know, I was already exhausted. So I finally caught the metro home, and I don’t think anyone wonders why I didn’t post that night. In truth, it’s for the best I didn’t, because my outlook on Paris would have been bleek. I’d seen some pretty things, but I had yet to discover why so many people loved the city so much. That was what I discovered on Saturday.

My day Saturday started with a trip to the catacombs. Now, I knew embarrassingly little about the Paris catacombs before going, but I had enjoyed the ones I’d been to in Alexandria and Rome, and the tickets weren’t too expensive even before my student discount. (Please nobody tell the French I graduated.) Even so, when I arrived to find that the wait to get in was three hours long I almost abandoned the idea. I’d already made the trip out though, and most of my plan for the day consisted of visits to graveyards and parks that could be cut or shortened, and the wait was outside anyway, and it was a gorgeous day, and I had the forethought to wear my sneakers instead of my Paris shoes, and I had my kindle in my bag. So I read State Department prep stuff for three hours while the line inched its way 360 degrees around an entire city block.

I’m really glad I did.

What no one told me, and what I had not taken the initiative to find out beforehand, was that the Paris catacombs contain the largest concentration of human remains in the world; six million people in roughly 1.8 square kilometers. I read this on one of the info panels on the way down and my mind made that funny face a puppy makes when it doesn’t understand why you’re upset. I had seen catacombs, and there was no way six million tombs would fit in 1.8 square kilometers. Even if you combined tombs for families, let’s say large families of an average of six, there’s no way one million tombs in that space either. Well, the solution I was soon to find was that they didn’t build everyone a tomb. The entire catacomb was the tomb, and they were all sharing.

The bones were stacked, piles upon piles stretching for ages, more or less forming the walls of the path you were walking, no barriers in between. It was disconcerting at first, but then kind of… personal, despite the anonymity and with a few exceptions. The first of these was one of the employees who sat in the catacombs in case anyone needed help or tried to damage the bones. He had found me in the tunnel on the way down and told me some stories and showed me some of the things I would have seen anyway and then tried to ask me out. Except he was twice my age and really creepy - so I said no. The second was a pair of girls who came sprinting through shouting about how it was the worst most boring thing they had ever done and ugh couldn’t it just end already. I understand not liking the experience, but six million dead people? Have some respect. From their conversation, which I had no choice but to overhear, creepy guy had hit on them too. I didn’t have much sympathy.

Overall though, the catacombs were definitely worth it, and definitely worth skipping the graveyards and lengthening my day. So what if I’d meant to call it an early night? I was enjoying myself again, and so set out to explore Paris with a new and improved attitude. This might have had something to do with the weather too, which was only getting better, and the fact that my first stop after the catacombs was a park. I love parks. And this one was definitely in my top three parks ever.

Luxembourg Gardens, just a few short blocks north of the catacombs, surround Luxembourg Palace, now the seat of French Parliament. The park gardens far more than politicians though. I was there on a Saturday, and the park was crowded beyond belief. The way it was structured however, accompanied by the massive amounts of greenery, flowers, and well planned space, meant even me and my crowd anxiety didn’t mind. There were children racing rented remote control boats on a large pond, a reggae band throwing a free concert in a public gazebo, even a Glee tribute flash mob, all amidst some of the most beautiful sculptures I’ve ever seen in a public space.

I could have stayed there all day, and indeed I spent a great deal more time than I had planned. Mostly because I got lost looking for the bathrooms, speaking of which! So, I know they say Paris is the city of love, and the French are more liberal and things like that, but being here does provide some entertaining examples of precisely how that is. The bathroom, for instance, is a much more unisex space. The bathrooms in the park, as well as several other places I’ve been, are more like two ends of the same room than they are separate areas. Women usually have stalls, or cabines, but the men still use urinals in the bright light of day. The number of men I’ve seen peeing here…

The other interesting and obliquely related thing that has made me laugh: there are condom vending machines all over the place: in the streets, on the metro, everywhere. I mean, accessibility to safe sex is important, but Paris takes it to a whole new level. Anyway, interlude over, back to my day.

Stop number three was the Pantheon, a grand church meant to rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, commissioned by King Louis XV and dedicated to Saint Genevieve, the patron saint of healing, for curing him of a long and dangerous illness. Unfortunately, the building was undergoing restoration, so much of it’s beauty was covered in scaffolding. Due to the scaffolding, all tickets were reduced to student prices for the length of construction. It was my bad luck that an inattentive cashier followed by a language snag meant I ended up paying a bit more.

Regardless, I was excited to go inside, not for the masked beauty so much as the people on the inside. You see, following the foundation of the Republic, someone (it might have been Napoleon?) decided that the Church of Saint Genevieve should become a church of the nation. The building was secularized, renamed, and the state began to bury important national icons in the crypt beneath. It’s a large crpyt, still mostly empty, but does at the moment contain a number of French icons, including many revolutionaries, military heroes, artists, writers, and philosophers such as Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Jean Jacques Rousseau, and Voltaire. Even Marie Curie is buried there, the first woman to receive the honor.

As much as I enjoyed seeing the tombs of famous writers, I was still far more disappointed by the closure of the Pantheon’s last great attraction. The dome of the Pantheon to this day holds the famed Foucault’s Pendulum, a device that I remember thinking was just about the coolest thing ever in seventh grade science. It was devised by the physicist Leon Foucault, not to be confused with post-structuralist Michel Foucault, to demonstrate the rotation of the Earth. The dome where the pendulum is set up, however, was the exact same dome getting restored. So alas, no physics for me.

I finished up at the Pantheon only shortly before closing, which was actually great timing because my last stop for the day didn’t have a closing time. The Bastille Monument, on the site of the old revolutionary prison, was about a half hour walk from the Pantheon, so I geared up for a mini hike and began to wind my way through the, much to my surprise, extremely pleasant streets.

Somehow, my luck that day was on a constant rise, restorations excluded. Without even realizing it, I found myself wandering the streets of the Latin Quarter, the intellectual hub of Paris. It was full of cozy stone buildings and quaint cafes and window after window or antique books. Books seem to be a thing in Paris, stalls line the river selling volumes new and old, but this was something else. Needless to say, I felt very much at home - a feeling only heightened when I finally rounded a corner to come face to face with the Institute of the Arab World.

I had heard about the Institute as a modern architectural landmark, but I hadn’t planned to seek it out. Still, I’m glad I got to see it, as well as the original Orient Express set up out front as an exhibition. It had closed for the day by the time I got there, but seeing the original train was still nice because… trains. And the Orient. And this is me we’re talking about…

Anyway, from the Institute of the Arab World, the Bastille wasn’t too far away. I went, paid my respects, and caught the metro back to my base neighborhood where I realized I hadn’t eaten anything other than bread and cheese for two days, bought some tabouli because I have somehow ended up in a hostel in Little Arabia again, and took it back to my room to eat on that balcony I pointed out in the canal picture. It was quite a lovely day.

After fiddling with my plan a bit on Saturday night, I decided Sunday would be a good day for Versaille. As one of the most popular tourist destinations in or around Paris, it was about what you would expect: big, beautiful, and an impossible hassle.

I missed the first train out by maybe 15 seconds, which meant I had to wait another half hour to ride out to the village with about a million other loud and confused tourists. As soon as we got out of the train station, we were ushered into an endless line for tickets that I realized a few minutes in were actually being sold by a travel company and not the palace at all. They would have gotten me in, I’m sure, but only after several extra hours of waiting and a bunch more money than I needed to pay. So I ditched that line and continued on to the palace myself.

They’d warned me at the tourist office that the wait to get in was two hours, and the line for tickets longer than that. I figured they were exaggerating a bit to try to sell their own tickets, which they refused to admit wouldn’t save me time anyway, but their arguments did give me an idea. On my walk up to the palace, I pulled out my smartphone, the same one that I have begrudgingly come to love, and purchased a ticket online. That meant I only had to wait in the entrance line, which only took one hour, not two, and gave me more time to read up on the Foreign Service.

It was a mad house on the inside (again, expected), but I got through the staterooms without too much problem and only a moderate amount of frustration and annoyance. That was followed by a walk in the gardens, which I kept getting lost, repeatedly and for seemingly longer and longer lengths of time. They were nice gardens though, so I didn’t mind too much, except all the waiting and train missing meant I was a little pressed for time to see Marie Antoinette’s domain on the opposite end of the gardens from the palace.

I did get to her domain eventually, consisting of the Grand Trianon, the Petit Trianon, and a series of gardens including Marie’s very own farm. I wouldn’t have expected her to have a farm, but have one she did, and it was by far my favorite part. I like nature, so sue me. The little complex even still keeps its own chickens and cows. The funny thing is, I almost didn’t even make it to the farm. The day was growing late, and the grand finale fountain show at the entrance to gardens was due to go on in half an hour. It was easily going to take that to walk comfortably back, even if I didn’t get lost. Something told me to at least go check out the farm though, and while I rushed over there, I certainly didn’t rush exploring. I had kind of decided I liked the farm enough to make it worth missing the fountains, but by the time I was done I felt like challenging myself to try to make it anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

So with my remaining 15 minutes I began to book it back across the gardens, and lo and behold I arrived at the front fountain just as the opening music of the show began. To be honest, I could have missed it, but it was a nice little victory to close out my day. Or at least a victory until the ordeal of getting home.

As you might imagine, if the train was crowded on the way in, everyone leaving at the same time made it even worse on the way out. The train station was mobbed, literally, to the point that the authorities actually closed it down. That sent several hundred people wandering through the streets of Versaille to find another station, because at least the city has three, but it was a major inconvenience either way.

So I hiked another half hour, got to another train station, got in a rapidly growing line for a ticket, and hit another stroke of luck. Probably anticipating another mob like the one at the first station, one of the train workers came out of the office and announced that the train running to Paris was going to be free. They then opened up the turnstiles and let us all pour through, so yay for saving money.

Because I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the free trip, I was actually one of the earlier people on the train and got a comfortable seat for the ride back to the city. In another stroke of luck, because we were leaving from a different station, we also arrived at a different station in Paris; one of the stations where I can reserve my bookings for Eurail. So Sunday night saw me reserving my trains to Malaga, Granada, Cordoba, Sevilla, Madrid and Lisbon. Barcelona was taken care of before hand, and I have hence started charting out trains beyond, but it’s nice to have a couple weeks set. Booking hostels for those is what distracted me from blogging that night, so apologies again, but aren’t you glad I’m a good planner?

Monday I decided to take it easy. In case you hadn’t guessed, I was kind of running myself ragged and I decided I could use a slow, shorter day. I took the metro into the city in the morning to see a couple of the smaller must see sights. Saint-Chapelle Cathedral, a church in the oldest French palace now housing the Court of Justice, has been said to rival Notre Dame. It used to house relics of the Passion of the Christ, including the crown of thorns, though they have since been relocated to Notre Dame Treasury. Learning that made me rethink my decision not to visit said Treasury. I even walked the five minutes from the Court of Justice over to Notre Dame later in the day, but the line was very long, and I had said I wanted a shorter day.

Next to the Court of Justice, which I’ll admit I poked around in a bit because it was open to the public and why not, was La Conciergerie: the only remaining part from the first original palace built however many hundred years ago. It is called La Conciergerie because it was the seat of the power of the King’s Concierge who ruled the court when the French royal family, following the assassination of some king or other, moved out of the city for fear of their lives. Later on, the area was converted into a prison that eventually held Marie Antoinette a few days before her trial and execution, as well as the revolutionary Robespierre before his death from wounds sustained just prior to his arrest.

From La Conciergerie, I followed the river west back past the Louvre and a labor protest to Tuileries Gardens. Like Luxembourg, the park used to be the gardens of a palace, though unlike Luxembourg this palace is no longer standing. Though not quite as spectacular as Luxemborug, it was still a nice park. What it lacked in breathtaking greenery, however, it made up for in overpriced fancy ice cream.

The opposite end of Tuileries Gardens is a square called Concorde, where Marie Antoinette lost her head. The square also marks the beginning of the Champs Elysees, so as my final sightseeing for the day I walked said champs up to the Arc de Triomphe and took the metro back to the hostel. Let me just say, the walk was deceptively long, especially considering I was wearing my Paris shoes again, but I am glad I did it anyway.

This all brings us to today, my last full day in Paris. I wanted it to be a short one as well. I have laundry to do, as well as packing, and I wanted to make sure I had enough time to finish this blog post after I started it last night and got carried away by other things. I headed first for Basilique du Sacre Coeur, a grand basilica commissioned to unify the country after the wars of the Republic. I quite liked it, as I do most churches, as well as the much smaller, much older Saint Pierre de Montmartre church next door. What I adored, however, was the district of Montmartre itself.

Isobel had guessed when we discussed my time in Paris that Montmartre was my type of place. When I first got off the metro I wasn’t sure. It reminded me a bit of New York in that it was dirty and smelled and there was graffiti everywhere. I think it was mostly the street I was on though, because the thirty minute walk I took from Sacre Coeur to the Moulin Rouge wound through streets on which I wouldn’t mind living.

Montmartre is considered the Bohemian part of town, made famous by places like the Moulin Rouge and films like Amelie. It’s the only place I’ve seen in Paris that fits what I see as the French stereotype; narrow cobbled streets lined with little cafes and shops and markets. It’s not boutiques and restaurants, but rather bakeries and florists and butchers and greengrocers, patisseries and soap makers and vendors selling crepes. At one point I turned a corner to see a father and son striking up an up tempo duet on twin guitars that just seemed to complete the whole picture and couldn’t stop myself from grinning like an idiot.

Of course that’s not the only side of Montmartre. I did eventually make it to the Moulin Rouge, which is in a more risque part of the district to be sure. It was worth a stop and a picture though, and it was right around the corner from the cemetery, so you know the old adage about two birds and one stone. I hadn’t been in the cemetery long though before I started to feel the first drops of rain. I’d known it was supposed to rain this afternoon, and I didn’t want to be caught out, so I booked it back to the hostel to finish this post and take care of my tasks for the night.

Before I move on to that however, I do have some news to share. So, the thing that carried me away last night, when I had actually started and fully intended to finish this post, was a travel reservation much bigger than these day to day trains I am taking. Mark your calendars, I have a return date, at least to the states at any rate. It’s much earlier than I expected, I’m far from ready to head home, but as I was writing last night I happened upon a last minute deal for a two week cruise from London to Boston leaving August 31.

I know I was thinking of going to Thailand, but circumstance being what they are the discount was too good to pass up. I’ve been dreaming of a trans-Atlantic cruise for years now, so when the deal popped up with dates that made sense I pounced. Everything is booked and I will be arriving in Boston early on the morning of September 14. Chances are I will head from there up to Toronto, because I like to see my long distance friends when I can. As for what I will do between the end of my rail pass August 5 and the cruise on August 31, I’m still working it out, but have no fear, there are plenty of options on the horizon.

Anyway, my train to Barcelona leaves early tomorrow morning. I hope the internet there will allow for phone calls, but we’ll see when I arrive. Until then, au revoir to and from Paris! It’s been a blast.

Crossing the Channel

I made it to Paris! Not that I've really seen anything that most people would think of as Paris yet, other than a far off glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, but I am here and ready to get started in the morning.

The bus ride was long, and exhausting, and long, but we expected that. And really, for the dirt cheap price I paid it's all that can be expected. The bus trip was split in to two legs: Edinburgh to London, and London to Paris. I'd intended to sleep as much of the first leg as I could seeing as it left at 11:00PM, but even with a window seat at the front of the bus just in front of the staircase so I could recline without bothering anyone, that didn't work out so well. I got a few naps in, but the driver was a bit erratic, and it certainly wasn't a restful journey.

I had a two hour layover in London which I used for breakfast and a bathroom break. I got another window seat near the front in the second bus, and was apparently so tired that I didn't need to recline because I kept nodding off while trying to learn French. At any rate, half sleeping and half studying meant I didn't succeed much at either. I did, however, succeed in a nice long think about bus travel.

It's a strange feeling travelling internationally by bus as opposed to plane. Planes always give me this sense of a sort of out of world experience. The plane is, by definition, international territory, so flying is in a sense putting yourself in limbo until you touch down and then BAM. You're in another country; maybe not legally because airports are considered international territory too, but you know what I mean. There is something resonant about borders and crossing them, and while airports may have border control, those borders are metaphors more than anything.

The bus gave me a sense of wending my way ever closer to France, but then an introductory period as well after we'd crossed the border and were continuing on to Paris. Due to the nature of airports, they're usually built in common final destinations; hubs, if you will. You touch down and you're there, versus my leisurely viewing of the French countryside went on for a good five hours before that happened. I even got a decent look at Boulogne when the bus called there along the way. It was a lovely little seaside town, full of children on fair rides and teenagers playing in the ocean.

There were only to real downsides to the bus trip. The first was that we took the tunnel, and not the ferry. I was under the impression that the bus would be loaded onto a ferry at Dover to cross the English Channel to Calais, but instead it was loaded on to a train and sent through the tunnel under the Channel instead. I was very disappointed not to get my water fix for the day, but I do imagine the process was much faster.

The second disappointment was that there was little to no border control. Now, don't mistake me for minding not having to be grilled by border agents about why I'm in France and how I'm paying for it and what's going to happen if there's an emergency and I'm not going to turn to a life of crime am I? Note: I don't know if France does that, but the UK certainly did. The sad part was that I didn't get a passport stamp. We went through a series of booths labeled "Passport Control," but we only stopped for a moment and then the bus continued on like we needn't any passports at all. Now, our passports had been checked by bus company staff at the station before we boarded, but still... They're not state employees! And I really wanted my stamp.

Anyway, disappointment aside I am proud to report that I managed to navigate the Paris Metro without a hitch and am now nestled away safe and sound in one of the nicer hostels in which I've ever stayed. It's a twelve bed dormitory, but there's still enough room for a table and chairs and a bunch of floor space for organizing bags. There's also a laundry room, which I will be taking full advantage of at some point, and a room full of computers for guests if necessary. The best part I think though is the view. We're right on a canal, and while I didn't have the forethought to take a picture out my window before the sun went down, you can get an idea from this.

My hostel is the building on the left, and my room is on the top floor facing the camera, so we have a perfect view all the way down the canal. It's quite breathtaking, much like you might imagine Paris to be. I took the first opportunity I could to stroll down it and get a feel for the neighborhood, because I needed to get Euros out of an ATM and figure out how I'm going to feed myself for the next week, but also just for the atmosphere. Apparently my whole dress to fit in strategy is working out as well. I was stopped by a guy asking for... I think it was a cigarette? Or maybe the time. At any rate, I didn't speak enough French to catch it, but at least he thought I did! 

See, I told you guys you would get more updates when I started traveling alone again!

Old Friends in Edinburgh

So I promised my parents a post on my way to Paris, but Laura and I have retired to a cafe, so it seems you all may get a peek into my adventures in Edinburgh a few days early. For those of you who aren’t aware, Laura was my roommate in the Arabic House for a semester and is currently finishing up her Master’s at the University of Edinburgh. This means that she has been more generous than I have any right to deserve in allowing me to stay with and distract her while she is working on her dissertation. Nevertheless, we’ve had a lot of fun these past few days I am happy to report.

It all started with Laura meeting me at the train station Sunday night. I didn’t take the train, trains are expensive, but the train station is a much more easily accessible structure than the bus station. She showed me around the University neighborhood a bit, but we were both pretty tired, so we ended up buying sandwiches and heading back to hers for dinner, the last twenty minutes of Ratatouille, and a lot of sleep.

The first full day was a treat for both of us though. School has been taking up a lot of Laura’s time, as it is wont to do, and she hasn’t gotten a chance to see much of Scotland yet. When she suggested going for a day trip to Loch Lomond then, I was all on board. Now… keep in mind that Loch Lomond is about ten minutes from Katy’s place, but it’s gorgeous, and was entirely worth the backtracking. Besides, expensive or not, we got to take the train and I love trains.

Loch Lomond is a big deal for two reasons. First and foremost it is the largest body of freshwater in the United Kingdom by surface area. Second and more importantly, however, it is the title of a classic Scottish folk song that you hear everywhere and I have grown to love. I’ve been singing it nonstop for the past three days.

When we got to Balloch, the little village at the southern tip of the loch, we had a quick lunch of pub food and headed for a walk in the park that dominates the southeast bank. The park was gorgeous, full of greenery and creek beds. It was a little wet and muddy, and my shoes definitely soaked through, but its Scotland; one expects to be wet 85% of the time. We stopped by Balloch Castle, which is really just an old castle-like house under restoration on the sight of an old castle on a hill in the park, but eventually decided the water was too tempting and headed off for a boat ride on the water instead.

Following the boat ride, which was, of course, relaxing, we broke for a drink at the local inn to rest and debate whether we wanted to explore the west bank or just go home. Consensus settled on walking up the west bank to try to find a docked steam ship left from bygone days on the loch. It was supposed to be repaired to working order for the Diamond Jubilee in 2012, a date that was postponed to summer 2013. We’d seen it from the boat, however, and wanted to figure out what the story really was.

As it turns out, the boat is now a cafe; one that closes at five. We got there at 5:37, but lucky us hadn’t any interest in cup of coffee or tea. While the cafe was closed, they hadn’t quite gotten around to shutting up the deck yet, so we popped on for a look around and a couple pictures. Please note, much like Lisa has all the pictures from London, Laura has most of the pictures from Edinburgh. Hazards of a broken camera I suppose. Anyway, after the steamship we finally caught the train back to Edinburgh, had a dinner of sandwiches again, and went to bed watching Moulin Rouge in preparation for my trip to Paris.

Tuesday, we had already agreed, would be a day of exploring alone. Laura, in addition to having to work on her dissertation, also had a doctor’s appointment and a job fair. We decided, therefore, to have breakfast together at the Elephant House - aka the Birthplace of Harry Potter - and go our separate ways.

I headed first to the Edinburgh Dungeons, partly because I wanted to compare them to the London and Warwick Dungeons, but mostly because Katy had suggested them again. They had a few additional stories of interest, including the incestuous cannibalistic family of Sawney Bean and the body selling murderers Burke & Hare, but also repeated more or less the same torture and execution bits. As much as I enjoyed it, I’m glad that’s the last one I’ll be visiting. I think I’m all dungeoned out.

After the Dungeons I booked myself a time at Mary King’s Close before heading on to the Writer’s Museum, which surprise, surprise I loved. It’s dedicated to three famous Scottish writers with links to Edinburgh: Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson. I hadn’t read much of anyone besides Robert Louis Stevenson, but I very much liked the sound of Walter Scott, and enjoyed the first few pages of his first Waverley novel which was available for perusal in a small reading area. It is unfortunate I did not have more time to linger and read, but I did have a booking to make, so after a quick glance through the gift shop and a lot of self control I continued on to Mary King’s Close.

Mary King was a merchant and exceptional female burgess in seventeenth century Edinburgh who became so successful that they named a close after her. A close in those days, and today for that matter, was an alleyway, usually running off the High Street. Explaining the High Street would take more explanation of the civil engineering of Edinburgh than I am willing to get into right now, but suffice it to say the hilly geography of the city meant that when buildings were levelled to make way for the new Royal Exchange, they only levelled those even with the high street and left the others as foundation. This well preserved foundation is still fully intact today and someone has had the enterprising spirit to stabilize it, open it to the public, and offer guided tours. It was fascinating to see first hand where the people of seventeenth century Edinburgh lived, and there was even some new history that hadn’t been covered on other tours.

By the end of my tour I was getting a bit tired, but I found the energy to poke my head into The People’s Story, a city museum chronicling civilian life in Edinburgh, and climb Calton Hill. Calton Hill and the Writer’s Museum were really my two must sees this time in Edinburgh. It’s a city park on, no surprise, a hill, where Edinburgh has built a series of beautiful memorials and monuments. I would have liked to stay a bit longer, but I was meant to meet Laura, and my exhaustion meant I was in no shape to climb to the top of the Nelson Monument.

I met Laura at the National Library of Scotland where she had been studying all day, had a cup of coffee, and then headed out for dinner: Indian takeaway in the park. It was cheap and delicious and perfect. After a quick stop back at her flat, we then continued out for a drink with Laura’s friends at one of the University bars. I’d been eager to meet them, and the bar was decorated like a library, so… win win. After getting back for the night I spent far too long researching Paris and then settled in for another good night’s sleep. I really do have to thank Laura. I’ve never felt like I have a problem sleeping in hostels, but I clearly sleep better in a private room with just the one friend.

Good sleep or not though, this morning tired me out all over again. We slept in a bit because I think we both needed it, but did eventually wake up and head out to climb Arthur’s Seat. Arthur’s Seat is one of three large hills in Edinburgh, the other two being Calton Hill and Edinburgh Castle. It has some legendary connection to King Arthur and Albion that I would love to research a bit, but no one has been able to provide me the details thus far.

Being somewhat larger and much less developed than Calton Hill, Arthur’s Seat took quite an effort to climb, though the view from the top was spectacular. It is unfortunate that the weather today was also quite drear. I am thankful that the morning was merely overcast and windy, as it has since started to rain quite heavily, but that didn’t stop the summit from being freezing and, like most things in Scotland, damp. The dampness made it slippery, hence our not spending too long at the top. We were not, however, deterred enough to pass up climbing Salisbury Crags: the rocky cliffs beside Arthur’s Seat. It was a good workout, and one I’m going to need considering I will be spending nineteen hours on a bus starting tonight. Nevertheless, we’ve taken the evening off.

We headed back to Laura’s flat for lunch, showered, made granola bars out of the leftover muesli I’ve been having for breakfast, and headed out to a cafe to work. Laura has the pesky school thing, and I wanted to read. It occurred to me, however, that this post might be even better than reading. Certainly it will make more people happy. And now I will l have the entire ride to Paris to do… other things. I’m not sure what yet, but we shall see. Since all that’s left in the plan for Edinburgh is fish & chips and a trip to the bus station, I don’t anticipate having anything more to report. As such, happy week to all of you and you shall hear from me next in Paris!


Addendum:
It occurred to me talking to Laura that I left out an important event that happened in London. Namely, Lee and I saved a man’s life. So I apologize for the delay, but I thought a few of you might like to know.

I don’t remember what day it was, nor do I feel it necessary to go back and figure it out, but there was an evening on which we were coming back on the underground from somewhere, got on the escalators to exit the station, were riding up chatting away like we do, when suddenly Lisa who was standing behind me goes white and screams “somebody stop him!”

Turns out an elderly man, whom she had seen sway as if he’d had a stroke or a small seizure and fall while my back was turned, was sliding down the escalator head first on his back. So we rushed up and grabbed his shoulders to stop the continuing trauma to his head. There was blood everywhere, and some person trying to be helpful stopped the escalator, so there we were stuck with a prostrate man bleeding heavily from a giant hole in the back of his skull. At that point a medical student further down who had seen the whole thing came rushing up to help and the man himself came too. He didn’t understand that he was hurt, or indeed that anything had happened, but he was able to walk the rest of the way up the stairs where the transportation employees quickly shuffled him off to a private room, took our statements, and sent us on our way.

It felt like it all happened very quickly, and in the end we were both very shaken and a little in shock. Perhaps that’s why I forgot to mention it. I had little spatters of blood all over the front and sleeves of my jacket, so we headed to the restroom to try to wash them out. That was a success at least. Except I later noticed a few speckles on the back that had dried and don’t seem like they’ll be coming out ever. It was seeing those speckles yesterday that prompted me to tell Laura, and now to share the story with you. It’s after the fact now, but still one of those anecdotes I imagine I’ll be telling in years to come - reminiscing with Lee if nothing else.

Cathedrals, Crypts & Castles - Glasgow & St. Andrews

So I was going to wait until I’d finished Scotland to post again, but I am stuck on a bus with something like ten Mexican travelers talking so loudly I expect I could hear them all the way in England. This means I have no chance of sinking far enough into a book to read without getting sick, nor of sleeping, nor of doing anything that requires an actual thought process. As such, here I am, ready to dump a list of what I’ve been up to these past two days.

Last we parted ways, I was on the road to Glasgow where the lovely Katy picked me up from the bus station and escorted me my hostel. It wasn’t quite the kind of hostel to which I was used: a big house where none of the guests seemed to talk to each other. It was nice though. Fancy almost. And it was the only place I could get because BBC’s Radio 1 was hosting a music festival in Glasgow with headliners like Katy Perry and One Direction, meaning literally everywhere else was booked solid. I couldn’t even get a bed at the weird stepford hostel for Saturday night, but that was okay, because out back up plan was even better. More on that later.

Anyway, once I was all checked in, Katy took me up to her village for dinner and a drink at the new fancy bar in town - mostly because it wouldn’t be overflowing with drunk and disorderlies I think. I got to meet one of her bartender friends, as well as her dog Benson, who I am absolutely in love with. He’s a bit of a dope, but I swear I have never met a sweeter dog in my life.

After an uneventful night in the hostel, Katy also picked me up the next day to set out exploring Glasgow. My must see was St. Mungo’s Cathedral and necropolis. Little known Harry Potter fact: St. Mungo of St. Mungo’s Hospital is the patron saint of healing as well as Glasgow. He has a cathedral, museum, and yes, hospital in the city, so naturally I had to see. The Cathedral was lovely, and perhaps the friendliest volunteer I have ever met at a tourist sight greeted us as we came in and proceeded to explain more about the history and stories of Glasgow Cathedral than I ever could have expected. Over the course of the rest of my visit, Katy and I would routinely turn to each other and remark how much we had liked him. Kind old men who are super into history are the best.

Following the Cathedral, we hiked up the great hill behind it to wander through the gravestones of the necropolis. For those of you who don’t know, I’ve always found graveyards rather pleasant and calming, and one containing a bunch of spectacular Victorian monuments and mausoleums with a view of the city was no exception.

Just those two sights actually took a good deal of time. (Probably because we kept getting lost in conversation and taking wrong turns, but who’s complaining?) Katy had suggested a pretty spectacular art museum, but it was a bit of a ways away and we weren’t sure we’d have enough time to get there, see it, and get back in time to make our evening bus, so instead we went to St. Enoch’s Square for a cup of coffee at a chain cafe in a classic old clocktower-esque building. All of this before heading to the bus statoin to catch the service to…

*drum roll*

St. Andrews!

This was our solution to my inability to find a place to stay in Glasgow Saturday night. Don’t stay in Glasgow! St. Andrews is one of Katy’s favorite places in the world, and for those of you who aren’t familar with it, well worth the visit. In addition to being a beautiful little coastal town on the North Sea, it is also famous as the ancient seat of Christiatinty in Scotland, the birthplace of golf, and the home of St. Andrews University where William and Kate, the Duke and Duchess of Cambrdige, met. We got in late Saturday evening, checked into a hostel, and went for Indian food, because that’s what one eats in Scotland. We also stopped by the beach, just so I could see the sea, before heading back to the hostel and calling it an early night.

When we woke up, we struck out to see the sights properly. The first stop was St. Andrews Cathedral, the oldest and grandest cathedral in Europe at the time of its construction. Following the reformation, it was ransacked and left to ruin, but the massive remnants interspersed throughout what has become a graveyard were absolutely stunning, and full of fascinatin history to book. We ever got to climb a St. Regulus/Rule’s Tower!

After the Cathedral came the castle, and we all know how much I love castles. St. Andrews Castle is also a ruin, but the entrance includes a museum that gives a detailed history of St. Andrews and its importance in the Reformation. Cardinal Beaton, who ruled from the castle in 1546, executed Protestant preacher George Wishart in front of the castle, so a bunch of Wishart’s friends raided the castle and killed the Cardinal in retaliation, taking over and successfully defending the castle against the Scottish Regent’s forces by building a counter mine to defend against their attempt to tunnel into the castle. The Protestants were eventually defeated and taken prisoner by French reinforcements the following year, but it was still their leader, John Knox, who eventually returned to bring the reformation to St. Andrews for good.

We were on our way to ice cream after the castle when we came across a sign we’d seen the night before for a St. Andrews Ghost Tour leaving in five minutes, and seeing as Katy and I are both a bit into stories and the like, we decided we couldn’t pass it up. A local writer showed up to walk us around town pointing out haunted buildings and telling us stories of ghosts and ruins. I don’t think either of us bought many of the supernatural reports, but the stories themselves were fascinating, and there was a lot of good history in them too. For instance, the oldest currently inhabited building in St. Andrews is the old Knights Templar building where Mary Queen of Scots used to play archery. Also, the bones that sometimes wash up on the shores are not those of witches thrown into the sea hundreds of years ago as rumor would have you believe, but rather the bones of plague victims whose graves in the cliffs are being slowly eroded by the waves.

The tour ended just outside a well known fish and chips restaurant, so we ate there, went for that ice cream we’d been wanting, and headed back to the bus station. Katy got her bus back to Glasgow, I mine on to Edinburgh, and so here we are with another post! Many thanks to Katy for her warm hospitality and unparalleled city guiding skills. For those of you at all familiar with my college friends, I will be meeting up with Laura next - my one time roommate from the Arabic House. She has spent the past year working on her Master’s at the University of Edinburgh, and honestly I can’t wait to see her again. We’ve just passed the picturesque Fife Railway Bridge (at sunset, and me without my camera at the ready), so we should be to Edinburgh shortly. I will try to be in touch soon!