We take it easy our first day, since we’ll be traveling the next morning, and get sandwiches at Cien Montaditos as an introduction to chorizo, jamón and tortilla española. Then we brave the neighborhood shops and their mid-holiday sales in search of forgotten sundries before stepping into Tipos Infames, a bookstore, café and wine bar. As we enter, Trevor thinks he recognizes someone. “Is that...?” It is indeed Janel, fellow Fulbrighter, friend and former pisomate, who has also paused from playing tour guide for her visiting family to tomar unos cafés con leche. We sit with them for awhile, catching up on travel stories and comparing cameras, cars and sound equipment.
The next morning we’re back at the airport and Barcelona bound on Trevor’s first experience with European bargain airlines, thus we land in Girona (which Ryanair claims is Barcelona) and catch a bus to the city, Trevor engrossed in capturing the countryside of Cataluña with his new Christmas camera. Unfortunately, after we arrive, drop our bags, and are enjoying a filling brunch of footlong bocadillos de tortilla, the shutter sticks and simply will not open despite all attempts at troubleshooting. Undeterred, we set off for Montjuic, a hillside park armed with my camera.
Our climb up Monjuic proves an exercise in pubic transportation: the metro to the funicular to the cable car. We spend the afternoon wandering the castle we find at the top, admiring the views, and guessing at when and what the fortress would have protected, since the vague information we find says little. For dinner, we find Trevor his first of many kebaps. Meat roasted on a spit, served in a pita with sauces, lettuce and tomato, döner kebap is fast food only better.
The next day, surprisingly warm, we explore Barceloneta, the former fishing village of Barcelona. Sand sculpture artists work the beaches, and kids play on a rope climbing structure while adults work out on the outdoor gym equipment, and we lounge on a modern artsy bench. On our way out of the neighborhood, we grab lunch (mejillones en salsa marinera and a caprese salad), and make our way through the park near where we’re staying. That night we make our way towards Las Ramblas, grabbing pizza on an outdoor terraza and drinks at Cactus Bar, where Trevor has the bartender convinced that he can speak Spanish. We find Café de la Opera for chocolate con churros, and find ecstasy at first bite.
But Trevor’s concerned we don’t know the real Barcelona, so the next day, we rent bikes. What better way to get to know a city than weaving between its traffic and its pedestrians, praying to neither be run over nor run anyone over? To be fair, Barcelona has a better bike culture than Madrid. It has viable bike paths and even bikes that residents can grab from bike racks sprinkled throughout the city. However, though our bikes wear classic ding-a-ling bells, they really need a horn. Bells merely say, “Hi, I’m behind you, please move over.” A horn is needed to say, “No, REALLY. You’re in the middle of the bike path. MOVE.”
Despite near misses on my part, we have no accidents, and make our first stop at the Sagrada Familia, the church Antonio Gaudí designed that has been in construction since the late nineteenth century. We find it touristier than expected with a pricey entrance fee, so we stick to checking out the facade. Then we wind our way back through Barceloneta, around the port and up the hill of Montjuic. By sunset, we’ve reached the Olympic Village, and begun our way back down for more kebap and more churros.
We’re flying to Amsterdam the next day, this time on EasyJet, the other cheap airline, and get stuck on the runway for two hours with a fuel leak and a screaming baby. By the time we get to the Netherlands, I’m hungry, tired, coming down with a cold and not enamored of our hostel, which lacks the charm of the place we stayed in Barcelona for the same price or just a bit more. But we only have two days here, and I don’t want to waste my time complaining, so we go out for lunch, stopping at the first cafe we find for sandwiches of brie with apples and caramelized onions and chicken, bacon and other equally delicious toppings. The mint tea with honey I order to soothe my throat arrives, and it’s fresh stalks of mint in hot water, exactly what I need. It’s cold, so we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening exploring, popping into places when we get too chilly: a cheese shop with free samples, a cafe for some much needed caffeine, pastry stands in one of the squares, a bar with a cute little loft in the top. When we almost fall asleep on their couch, we know it’s time to take a break.
We both lament the fact that we only have two nights in Amsterdam. Our last day, we aim to see it all, again renting bikes. Amsterdam, at least, is meant for bikers. We begin the day with hearty Dutch pancakes with soft, savory bacon and apple slices cooked into them. Orders of the day: more pastries, more tea. We pedal down some tranquil canal-side streets, through some crowded thoroughfares, eventually searching for a Dutch dinner. Those we question on the streets seem a bit hesitant. “Dutch food, hmmm, no one here goes out to eat Dutch food. It’s quite basic.” Finally, though, we meet a woman who points us toward Moeders’: traditional food in a kitschy dining room covered in pictures of mothers. Hodgepodge and spare ribs fill us up, and make the seemingly endless bike trip through the cold on an empty stomach that proceeded the meal all worth it. And by some strange miracle, Trevor’s camera shutter has opened today, and the camera is cooperative once again.
But vacations only last so long, and I have to be back at school on Tuesday, so we fly back to Madrid. The Amsterdam Airport is the one that finally confiscates the bottle of mousse I’ve been traveling with. I wouldn’t mind as much if only they sold travel size bottles of mousse for the curly haired. As it is, I’m forced to either smuggle contraband sizes of liquids through security, pay as much as the flight itself to check a bag, or live with frizzy hair for the duration of my travels. (A side note: I know of someone who unintentionally made it onto a flight and through security at the Vatican with a decent sized pocket knife. It would seem prudent that security checkpoints might focus more on improving their metal detectors and less on swiping hair products.)
When I see Madrid from the air, it feels like home. For the next few days, Trevor gets to see my life here. We partake in a wine and cheese night at the piso of a couple other Fulbright friends, wander the parks as the wintry weather has finally warmed up slightly, share roast chicken, Spanish side dishes and cider with a few other friends, eat our way through the Mercado San Miguel, go out for tapas. And he comes to school with me one day, joining in my cuarto and segundo English classes. The cuartos ask questions about American universities, engineering, politics. The segundos are a bit rowdier, and the teacher decides that introducing Trevor as my boyfriend would be too much. Instead, she presents him as “a special guest here from the United States to observe your behavior, so please be polite.” Eventually, the kids see through it. (This week, the first time I’ve got them on their own, they ask me, “Did that boy, what’s his name, go back to Boston?” “Trevor? Yes.” “Oh, poor Emily.” “I know...it’s sad. But do you know what would make me happy? If we could all be reading this story nicely together when your teacher gets back.” Surprisingly it keeps them quiet for a bit.)
The day before Trevor leaves we make a trip to Toledo, 45 minutes outside of the city by bus, thinking it would be nice to have a quieter day away from Madrid. I don’t expect Trevor to love the town as much as he does. He’s in awe that towns like Toledo actually exist full of sword shops, marzipan, Medieval accoutrements, and narrow roads that lead to the top of hills with views overlooking tiled roofs and a river. We end up catching the very last bus back.
Our last day, while Trevor’s in the bathroom, I check on his flight, just to make sure we know where to go in the airport, and realize that the plane leaves two hours earlier than originally supposed, which means we should have left already. For a minute I consider not saying anything. Would it get us one more day together? But no, we throw his stuff in his bags, race for the metro, and somehow he makes the flight. It’s back to skype convos and email for another few months.
(All pics are Trevor's. It's nice to travel with someone else who can play photographer and navigator for awhile.)
No comments:
Post a Comment