First, an order of business, you can view all of my pictures from the trip pertaining to this week's blog-isode at photobucket.com
Follow along! If you have two computers, I suggest you use them for side-by-side awesomeness! Click on the album, too, the recent uploads is backwards-sauce
Ahem...
Just like every great adventure ever told and passed on, generation to generation, this one starts on a couch.
In a condo situated in a nice community outside of Cleveland.
Erm, not very epic. Would it help if it were known the couch was plush and comfortable? And that our hero slept a gracious few hours rather deeply upon its soft embrace? Probably not. Fine. I'll go on anyway.
I spent my last hours in America on my brother's couch because his place is closer to the airport and I figured my benevolent chauffeur/confidant, John, would appreciate the proximity. Of course, I thank him for helping to get me going on the trip. Also, I have to thank Kevin, Molly, and little Preston, of course, for putting me up and putting up with me for the night..and for the 24 years I've been on this planet. Most would agree that the latter is a hardship not wished upon even the most wicked. After all, I'm kind of a big deal. It can be embarrassing. I also throw tantrums and pudding and anything throwable. This doesn't exclude kittens with sharp claws, late sixteenth-century-vases, and fax machines. In my Jason Bourne-fueled-fantasy world, everything is a weapon.
Sorry, back to point. I went through the usual security measures and was soon boarded on the plane to Dallas. I then waited around Dallas International a while, counted 58 "yee-haw's," and exchanged some cash. The exchange rate was stupid. I lost about $40. I recommend you change out through your banks, because banks never, ever, ever, EVER, like to screw you...or the world economy. Soon after that, and my last burger in America (it still moo'd), I was on another plane. Destination? HELL.
No, sorry, that just sounds cool. It was actually quite the opposite. Instead, it was the very beautiful, very captivating, very Spanish, Madrid. And, that, ladies, gentlemen, and French people, is where this adventure truly begins...
Bienvenidas a Espana! I touch down in Spain and it's 10 AM. The flight was scheduled for 9.5 hours, but it managed to squeeze it all into 11 magical hours instead. Pre-flight and holding pattern shananigans ensured that. I was able to catch a little bit of sleep on the plane, but my knees, after years of abuse at the expense of heavy leg presses, decided to scream louder than the baby 6 rows back. It's cool, I'm a male, I can sleep through the wailing of a baby. Am I right, ladies? Oh, no he didn't! I did. I very much did. {Man card officially revoked}
Customs was negligible. I didn't have anything to declare, except, of course, HOLY EFFING AWESOME TAP-DANCING BEARS IN BIKINIS! I'M IN MADRID!! Nobody found that declaration very appealing and Spanish prison is very nice, too. Right, moving along.
With my wits barely about me, I had to immediately navigate the subway system in an effort to make it to my hostel before the next year. There is one very important thing that needs mentioning. I live in Ohio. The only subways we have are Subway Restaurants, fine purveyors of affordable, 100% processed, and unnatural deli meats. The only time I hear about the kind of subways that move you around are when it involves murder and drugs and homeless people engaging in the timeless "freak out the normal people" game of public masturbation. So, I was prepared for all of those things, if not more. Instead, I was let down. I found only general safety, general cleanliness, and easy navigation (even if it were in my non-native language). Oh well, missed out, then.
I stepped off of the Metro at Tirso de Molina, where Calle Magdalena runs along. The scene that welcomed me was an explosion of conflict between what I expected and what was real. Real Madrid. Old men, with thick accents, "rrrr's" that dripped from their mouths and spattered in your ears, young women, with innumerable piercings and dark hair, darker clothes, and darkest eyes, old women, with painted faces like clowns at circus, complaining and obstinate, and young men, with vibrant colors, popped collars, and GQ stylists. Everything, and everybody, just seems to have such a unique style. I feel like we all kind of fall into one of maybe 4 styles in America: Preppy, Alternative, Boring, or Lady Gaga. In Spain, and in many countries in Europe, everybody has their own flair.
So, I looped around a couple of times with my 40-pound backback/duffel combo and found Calle Relatores. I stood in front of #17, Way Hostel, walked in, pushed a button and let out a sigh as the door opened. I had found my Way.
The room wasn't ready so I stored my stuff and took my day pack out to begin exploring. First things first, lunch. I went up and down a few streets and chose Maestro Churrero, I'm still not sure what it means. Whale's vagina sounds right. It wasn't really exceptional, unfortunately, but it was protein and carbohydrates, pollo con ensalada, chicken with salad. I made it back to Way and learned that my room was officially ready. It was pretty nice! The lockers were weird so I had to rent a padlock for storage since mine were too big...that's what she said! I locked it all up, loosened up my day pack a bit, and set out for Madrid.
I started by attempting to find Plaza Mayor, only a few blocks northwest of my hostel. The streets were so alive! I was able to soak in the sing-song lather of the Spanish language as passers-by conversed with one another in person or on what I assume were fake cell phones, since mine didn't work at all in Spain. The Spaniards have wild imaginations! But,they also have generous hearts. One thing struck me as I maneuvered the capital's calles. It was a truck. I feel bad for the truck.
No, actually, what struck me was the regular occurrence of coin being given to the destitute along the small streets. It was done without remark (like, “Use it to get a job, not booze” or, “There you go, you poor dear”), as it often occurs in the States, and instead, it was done with honor. As coin fell into a hat, or a box, a hand, or a dish, a cup, or a piece of fabric, there was a silent exchange of compassion and gratitude. It was very nice. On the other hand, we tend to treat our homeless as scabs. Something unsightly that bothers and itches, and you just want it to go away. But, human beings aren't scabs. There is something to be learned there. I ignored that something and told the homeless Spaniards to get away from me, the disgusting lot!
I made it to Plaza Mayor, a people-watching Mecca. At one time, it had been a market, drenched in the Spanish sunlight. Now, Spider-man, Mickey Mouse, a matador with a paper mache toro, accordion players, tourists, cafes, and young people taking siestas in the sun all fill the square. The uniform architecture is beautiful; warm, red brick, and soft, cream-colored stone. It was like I was inside a layer cake, a weird simile, yes, but I'm the one writing here. Maybe I'm hungry.
After filling up on people watching, I became fairly disoriented while trying to navigate to Paseo de Prado, the street where many of Madrid's Museums are located. I found the street, discovering a bustling strip split down the middle by a park. All the while, people were handing out fliers, stopping for quick bites with tapas, and chatting passionately. I found long lines at the Museo del Prado, so I decided to save it for the next day and continued north towards the Fuente de Neptune and Fuente de Cibeles. Both fountains were classic examples of the serenity, the aesthetic pleasure, of seeing water move through art. Art as transportation, art as fluid as life. La Fuente de Cibeles is one of the most famous fountains in all of Europe. It's well-protected by a six, sometimes eight-car roundabout. It was difficult to get near. I only hurt a few of the tiny Spanish cars.
I next headed to Calle Alcala, where I was met with one of the most striking architectural pieces that I have ever laid eyes upon, La Puerta de Alcala. I love this arch! Angels perch atop it with one side adorned in war helmets, wielding swords, and faceless, while the other side is represented with cherubs, weaponless, but with expression. I thought a lot about this duality. The side depicting war was rigid, frozen (statue puns!), and with lifeless wings. The other side, perhaps depicting peace, was full of life, with wings stretched and airy, flexible and free. A statement about the nature of man, perhaps? That in aggression, we are grounded in base humanity and we lose that heavenly gift of freedom, of flight, while in peace, when our arms are laid down, we are free to live, to laugh, to smile, to be soldiers of light? War, peace, both aspects are depicted in this door to a beautiful city. We have both powers within us, they share a common vessel, a common soul, the door to a beautiful human being. I don't know. I was malnourished by this point. All I do know is that angels in war attire and clad with weapons are awesome! You can take that fact to your art history classes. Write it down.
Literally, right next to this monument lies the entrance to the equally captivating park, Parque del Retiro. It was tremendous! It must be much, much bigger than Central Park in New York City, because I truly believe I could have spent an entire day just exploring it (whereas, nobody really knows the size of Central Park, for they are inevitably stabbed in the first seven minutes). The entrance is haltingly modest, for the treasure that lies beyond its gates is priceless. Gravel paths, worn to dust, take you up green avenues, lined with trimmed topiaries and trees. Dogs and children run and play, some people jog or walk, couples enjoy picnics and kisses, the elderly sit, with canes like crosses in front of them, and watch life at play. The main avenue, Avenida de Mejico, leads to a huge pond with paddle boats and ducks vying for liquid real estate. On one side, street performers, like Mickey Mouse AGAIN, and even Midget Darth Vader, do their best to earn coin while passers-by enjoy ice cream and cotton candy. On the other side the Monumento Alfonso XII stands incredibly tall, watching over the pond, the people, and Midget Darth Vader. Dozens of steps ascend directly from the water to the monument. Visitors and locals laze around and teens joke and make out in front of the statue with three of its sides depicting Justice, Prudence, and Temperance, respectively.
The remainder of the park is filled with more paths, trimmed arrangements, unique horticulture, classic fountains, more Mickey Mouses, artistic pieces, beautiful flowers, singing Spanish wildlife, and some Egyptian stuff...for some reason. I felt as though I had discovered a secret treasure, no, a Secret Garden, only without the compulsory book report. It was a world unknown, belonging to me, if only for a short time. It was an incredible accident, I fell in love with Madrid.
The sun was setting, and dinner needed to be had. So, I headed back and ate along the way to Way. I get back in time to shower and hear about the bar crawl going out for the night. So, after hours of travel overseas with little sleep, walking around a city I didn't know and yet felt so at home in, and trying my best to speak Junior-Level Spanish, I decided to go on my first ever bar crawl.
And I wasn't heard from again for 10 days.
No, actually, it was a lot of fun! I met great people, as bar crawls tend to provide, and drank a lot of alcohol, again, as bar crawls tend to provide. A good many of the crawlers were American students on spring break at international universities, or, they were Canadian, yegh. Either way, it was pretty cool. There is this internal struggle that occurs whenever anybody asks me if it was a let down meeting Americans in that setting. Part of me says, “No, it's great! I get to speak English and share things in common.” The other part of me says, “Yes, it's weird! I get to speak English and share things in common.” Regardless, it doesn't ruin a trip or anything, it just provides a different experience than you may expect to have. Still, I had a great time, had drinks that had Speed in them, and kept running into these little stop-poles that are about a foot tall (so, short Spaniards can see them but tall Dave's cannot). No joke, I was bleeding down my shins. Espana es diferente! Well, Senor Gaone didn't warn me about that!
The next day, I bought my train ticket headed for Barcelona. I put my Eurail Pass to the test and made it a first-class affair. It only cost me 20 Euros. Amazing! Anyway, I still had some Madrid to take my fill of. Again, the Museo del Prado had long lines, so I skipped it, hoping to come back later. Instead, I headed towards Palacio Real. It was gorgeous! And huge! That's what she said! I'm serious, I felt like an ant. 2800 rooms are housed inside this palace and the 26 years it took to complete it were worth it. But, I would have done it in 22, just saying. Again, long lines plagued me as I rounded to find the entrance. So, I decided to skip going inside the palace, assuming there would be an inevitably embarrassing affair after they learned who I was and the fact that I had waited in line. Again, I'm kind of a big deal. I didn't want to see people hurt or lose their jobs.
So, I walked nearby to La Catedral de la Almudena. Hmm, there were no lines to get into a church, but there was an extensive line for the palace. Go figure. The cathedral was incredibly beautiful! Complementary color and gold, the aged scent of incense, strong wooden pews, and acoustics that explode in echo provide instant gratification for your senses. It was all at once open, cavernous, yet comfortable, like home. I said my usual prayer involving Arnold Schwarzenegger and the American Presidency, and lit a candle for mom and dad. Then, after having the religious batteries charged, I walked out and headed to San Francisco el Grande, just a couple blocks down Calle Bailen. Unfortunately, it was closed at the moment, but I was able to get a few pictures. I'm kind of bummed I didn't make it inside. However, my catholic-school friends and readers will be able to tell you that St. Francis is the hippy saint. He loved nature and animals and was known to plant a garden or two on this wonderful earth. So, conveniently, right next to the cathedral bearing his name is this wonderful garden with steps leading up to a beautiful view of the western side of Madrid. My camera didn't take the best of pictures for this moment, so you'll have to take my word on it.
I spent some quiet time in the garden, soaking in sunlight and drowning in thought, then realized I had a train to catch to Barcelona! I found my way back to Way, gathered my stuff, and headed to the Renfe station. There is still so, so much of Madrid to be seen. Next time, then.
The train to Barcelona was nice and pretty damn fast. I was in first class so I was served tapas and I went about writing in my journal. By the way, that was the last time I wrote anything about my trip in my journal. It's not even a journal, technically. It's like a rough draft for this blog post and this post alone. In fact, the last paragraph was the last pertinent thing I wrote in that notebook. Anyway, I arrived in Barcelona just in time to get completely lost during a cold drizzle while trying to find my hostel, Sant Jordi Alberg. I walked around with all that weight on my back for about an hour. Their directions were fairly inadequate and my phone was still deciding not to work. Anyway, all part of the adventure! I made it to the hostel, threw my stuff down and showered, getting out just in time to learn about another crawl. Of course, I crawled.
This crawl was one of the best I had in all of the European countries. I met great people, again, including a young man from Israel. He had been born in the States and moved to Israel when he was very young. I finally decided to step out on a limb and ask the burning question, “I know you are not saying this about me, so you can be completely honest, but what do you think about Americans, in general? Or, what does your country think?” Without so much as a flinch, he responded, “Naive, innocent, in a bubble, isolated, I'm sorry, I could go on...” I laughed and thanked him for his honesty. Generally, that sentiment was shared by other travelers from around the world when I asked that very same question. Their answers humbled me entirely. Here, a 200-pound American with a passion to learn, to grow, to become a better human being, asks a question of nearly 30 completely different individuals from completely different countries and cultures, and the same response is generated. Essentially, “you're naïve, little one. You're cute when you try, but generally, you don't.” I'm glad I didn't hear that we were stupid, I guess, or all like Paris Hilton and Burt Reynolds. Only once was I called a cowboy, though, a bit of a let-down. But, I'm not offended by this general regard. It spun me into such an interesting mindset, a new perspective cracking through the shadows of the old. I realized just how much growing up our country has to do. In every way. For two hundred years, we were naturally isolated, but with a global economy, a global threat/war, global resource abuse, and global GUTS (do you have it?), there is so much at stake if the following generations of children grow up thinking “We're number one, everybody loves us, or they're jealous, and we're better than anybody else.” We aren't. We're all human beings. We all need to eat, need to breathe, need to love, and be loved. And, even if we did father the likes of Chuck Norris, hero of the millennium, and George Clooney, the sexiest man in the Universe, and Oprah Winfrey, future pope, we're not yet finished in striving for greatness.
Another point about this, then I'll get off my 100% recycled paper, bio-degradable soap box. I asked every one of those brilliant individuals another question after they had fully answered the first. It was, “Now, having said that, would you drop everything to live in America?” The response was again universal. Yes. So, quite an interesting dynamic. We are in a bubble, but it's an appealing bubble. I met more individuals from European countries that had every line to every Friends episode memorized. I heard American music in every club. American movies were at the top of the box office, even in Paris. Our culture bleeds into the stream of most of the world's conscience. We have the Hills in the west and Jersey Shore in the east. We're a country where a slut can be rich and famous just for slutting around, and where an idiot with a giant clock for jewelry can have a dozen opportunities at picking a mate, a one-true-love, out of over a dozen wanna-be rich and famous sluts. There is something rather appealing about that, isn't there? First impressions are forever. Hm.
Okay, all that aside. I had an incredible night! I met some fellow Ohioans, and we shared in our inevitable, heart-breaking shame for being from Ohio. I also learned that I have some dancing ability because I had somehow reconnected with my hips after a ten-year break-up that occurred naturally at the onset of puberty. The music was incredible, the people were incredible, and I met one of the most impressive individuals I have ever had the good fortune with which to cross paths. Unforgettable!
The next day, I set about exploring the metropolis of two faces, the old and the new. First things first, I had to arrange for my train to get to Munich. Now, batten down the hatches, folks, because this is the first official snag I encounter on the trip! The French! Oui, the French are at it again with their devilish striking ability. They institute a nationwide rail strike that excludes any and all train transportation through and within the country. So, no night train that eventually terminates in Munich! Great! Fantastic! I'll only lose out on a cool 40 Euro if I don't make it to my hostel the following night. So, I was set into problem-solving mode and ran back to my hostel where I had internet access, albeit on a 56k modem, I'm pretty sure. I had to find a way to Munich. First, I looked up buses, assuming they would be cheaper than a plane. All of them were booked, or left two days later. No dice. So, with a trepid heart and wallet, I looked up some flights. I had no luck finding anything under 250 Euro. Then, as an angel, Barbara, from New York, struggling with Skype in an effort to reach her boyfriend from Holland, told me about skyscanner.com. Instantly, prices for airlines were dropping. I finally settled on a plane from Barcelona to Vienna, traveling with Niki Air. The cost was only about 75 Euro for a flight that was taking off the following morning! Amazing. Barbara saved my life.
So, after all that mess was figured out, I finally had enough time to go around Barcelona. Oh, wait. That whole mess took up over half the day! You could imagine my joy when I realized I had roughly three hours of daylight to soak up Barcelona. No worries, I humped it. My first destination was Las Ramblas, one of the most famous streets in all of Europe. It was sprawling with tourists (and their complementary pick-pockets), performers, market carts, cafes, and pigeons. The only word that comes to mind is vivacious! The street moved, pulsed like an artery, the heart of a city beating, sending wave after wave of rhythm, of life. A bunch of vendors were selling these bird-call-chirpy-whistle things that one puts in their mouth to do just that, make a bird-call-chirpy-whistle sound. Interesting, sure, but I had a mission. I then saw gargoyles and went about trying to eradicate them, using my specially-designed sun-torch that I brought on the trip for just such an occasion. The police confiscated it and let me loose again. To the two young men in gargoyle outfits, “Lo siento.”
Then, sun-torchless, yet while on Las Ramblas, I decided it was time to try some genuine paella.
Erm, then I decided that I needed a drink to go along with it. It was very good, but didn't have quite the oomph I was hoping for. Still, protein and carbohydrates, always good to me. I then looped around the southern tip of Las Ramblas, where the Mirador de Colom stands as a monument to Christopher Columbus. Thanks again for the whole “discovering” the land that would become my country, Chrissy Poo! I did my best to remember the whole grade-school song about the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria and recite it there...but the traffic was too loud and people were still eying me funny after the gargoyle thing. So, I took my leave and headed towards Barri Gotic, the old Gothic neighborhood. The architecture here was totally cool. I loved the juxtaposition of a modern metropolis, a fairly recent host of Olympic games, butting up against a labyrinthine assembly of small, quiet streets and tall medieval buildings. It was so unique. I'm pretty sure I saw a knight on a horse at one point. Also, there were all of these interesting boutiques and clothing shoppes that sold ancient-sounding garb like Abercrombie & Fitch and Diesel. Those dark-ages folk sure had some interesting names for things!
On the western edge of Barri Gotic is the Placa Reial. It was a quaint little plaza with a ton of children and pigeons running wild. Neither the children or the pigeons were supervised...it was basically like stepping into Neverland, only without Peter Pan as the rambunctious, good-hearted guide I needed. Instead, I got pigeon poop. Anyway, at this point, the sun was starting to set, I was completely lost in the maze of the small streets, and my camera decided that its battery was dead. After making my way towards modern civilization again, using the smell of McDonald's french fries as my compass, I found the subway and headed back towards Sant Jordi. And, this is the part of the story where I get jumped.
Or, sorry, let's get into this. See, Barcelona is much like New York with its incredible diversity. So many different cultures intertwine in the bustling city on the Mediterranean Sea. And, just like New York, or any other city/town/village/mole people civilization, there is the international experience of crime. I will admit, I didn't always feel safe in Barcelona. Nearly everywhere else, I felt completely fine. No worries, I was alert, but I also just felt safe. Except for Paris. But, in Barcelona, I noticed I walked a little bit faster and had my head on a swivel. Well, sure enough, I stepped off of the subway at the very same moment that about six young, short, Spanish men stepped off. The entire ride, we had exchanged those awkward glances that only two people who are attracted to each other or two people who want to eat each other tend to share. Well, I had six pairs of eyes to share that magic moment with. So, I puffed my chest up a bit, tried to find the phrase, “You want to step outside, friend?” in my Spanish phrasebook, and tightened my back pack about me. It was game time. I was actually excited! I knew I would get my ass kicked or worse, but, something inside me was saying, “Time to go America all over somebody's ass!” while “Desperado” played in my head.
Sure enough, they stepped off at the same stop and headed towards the only exit. I hung back a second, hoping other passengers were getting off, too. Nope. Just Dave and the six dwarves, Sleepy, or, sorry, Siesta-y must have stayed home. I made my way up the steps and down a few tunnels. There was a guitarist playing a Spanish-sounding tune. I'm serious, I felt like it was the old west, a newspaper was blowing, rolling, and floating down the tunnel. Sure enough, I see the six ne'er-do-wells, and they're eying me up like the hyenas in the Lion King. I search out the leader, the guy in front and I match his stare. My heart started pounding, the musician picked up his strumming, and a pigeon flew by John Woo style. Then, I let him have it! Like a gunslinger at high noon, I cracked a smile so friendly it could break your heart. Instantly, he started to smile back, a bit shocked, as it were. His friends looked confused. And, still, with a smile on my face I came within three steps of the group and said, “Brazos, mi amigos, brazos.” I then held up my flexed arms (brazos), patted the leader on the back, and excused myself through them and up the stairs. They didn't follow. They didn't laugh. They didn't yell. Best yet, nobody got their ass kicked, or worse.
I think it's important you know at this point that I have a Fight or Flex response to most intimidating stimuli. The parasympathetic system in most living organisms is that of the Fight or Flight. Mine is just more conducive to my liking. So, the flex saved the day and so did my well-trained smile. I know it's a completely ridiculous thing to say, “Arms, my friends, arms,” but, confusion can be a weapon, too. Just ask Airhedra, or Michael Moore.
After all that excitement, it was time for tapas. I found a place close to my hostel and snacked on about six different tapas. Oh, for those of you who don't know, tapas are cut pieces of bread with a topping of choice. They're like mini open-face sandwiches...kind of. Only, squid tend to be involved, not meat loaf. There are many rumors to their origins, but the story I like basically said they were used as a way to cover the beer glasses from getting dust in them. Taint the food, don't mess with the beer. You have got to love priorities!
I got back to Sant Jordi, found my bed, and tried to fall asleep as a dude from Taiwan listened to techno without headphones. Perfect. The next morning, I would wake up at 5 to get on a plane that would take me to Vienna. One chapter of the trip was soon to be ending. One country would be concluded. In 3 days, I had already lived a lifetime. Hell, if I were a mayfly, that would be three lifetimes. They only live one day. You should write that down.
Next post?
Somebody Schnitzeled On Or Around The Coats! Vienna, Munich, and Prague
