juanzqui

Barcelona, April 27, 2011
At the Granada airport, those waiting to board the flight to Barcelona were asked to wait outside the terminal as the passengers on the incoming flight deplaned. I was at the front of the line and behind me was a young mother with her son, about two or three years old. He was excited as hell about getting on the plane and kept asking over and over when they could board. His mother patiently kept saying, soon, soon.
After about five minutes of waiting, the kid decides he needs to pee and so the mother does what any mother would do in a similar situation: she takes him behind a nearby hedge and pulls his pants down. And just as she does, the airline person signals for us to proceed to the plane.
We do. And the little peeing boy, his little pants down to his little knees and his little white butt exposed for all to see, notices. And he starts to scream, jumping up and down, his pee forming quick graceful arches and some of it falling in his clearly agitated mother. Some of it falls on him, but he keeps on screaming: ¡Quiero volar! ¡Quiero volar!
Mercifully, within seconds his little thing stops its flow and his mother is able to pull up his wet pants and together they run to catch up with the rest of us.
When he finally sets foot on the plane, he proclaims proudly, ¡Voy a volar! ¡Estoy en el avión!

Wednesday, April 27, 2011
WELL, I SPOKE too soon. It’s raining gatos y perros. It’s around 4 pm and my flight is not until 9:30 tonight, and I’ve already checked out of my hotel, so I can’t go to my room to take a nap.
Not to worry, in Spain, the gods provide. I found a nice bar not too far from my hotel. I sat outside under a giant umbrella but the waitress warned that I would get wet and invited me inside. I ordered a beer and thought about ordering some food but before the waitress came around, the bartender placed a small plate in front of me. On it was a small sausage sandwich with a marinara-like sauce and a handful of potato chips. I started to protest that I had not ordered anything but instead kept quite and began to nibble at the food. I did not think I was hungry but apparently I was because that sandwich tasted great. Despite my nibbling, the sandwich and chips were gone all too quickly. So was the other beer. I waited a while and then ordered another one. A few minutes after the beer arrived, the bartender put another small plate in front of me. This one had a bunch of green olives ant two small ham croquettes, which is what I had been thinking of ordering.
They to are gone now. Gone also are the olives.
My second beer is about half gone. I want it to last. But I wonder: if I order a third beer, will I get more food? I may find out soon, as the rain is not showing any signs of letting up.
I love Spain.

Granada, April 27, 2011
So, Granada. I haven’t told you very much about this city yet, have I? That’s about to be remedied.
It’s about 10 am on my last day here and I’m sitting on park bench in a small plaza a block or so from hotel, enjoying the warm morning sun. In a couple of hours, sitting in the sun will no longer be the desired thing to do.
I love this area of the city, and I wish to thank Hotels.com for picking this hotel for me. It’s called Hotel Navas and it’s on a relatively short street, Calle Navas that is lined with similarly modest hotels, small shops, bars and restaurants. the last two all have outdoor sitting areas, and most of their tables are filled until closing time, sometime after midnight. It’s a narrow street and the crowd’s noise echoes against the walls and is amplified as it rises. Even with my windows closed, the noise penetrates. But it doesn’t really matter because I’ve gotten to my room so late and so tired both nights that I have fallen asleep right away.
Last night, however, I was startled awake around 2 by a loud jarring noise. A garbage truck had backed into the street and workers were dragging large plastic garbage containers from behind the hotel, hooking them up to the truck, which lifted them up into the huge garbage collection compartment. Every item in the containers banged against the metal sides of that truck as it tumbled out. It went on for about 15 minutes, and it took place right beneath my open third-story window (I had opened it after the nose of the crowd had ended because my room was too hot).
I had trouble going back to sleep after that even though hardly a sound could be heard (the street is closed to vehicular traffic), and I kept waking up every few minutes when I did doze off.
The result was that I didn’t wake up early, as planned, to see if I could get in line for one of the few tickets doled out to at the Alhambra for stupid people who do not read guidebooks that explicitly recommend buying tickets ahead of time. So I will leave tonight for Barcelona not having visited the one sight everyone recommends you see here. Several guidebooks and articles I’ve read have al said the same thing: “It would be foolish not to visit the Alhambra.”
Color me foolish.
Oh well, that only means that I will have to return one day. I love Granada. It is my favorite Spanish city so far. I could live here, and if I ever win the lottery, I will. It is beautiful and pleasant and so full if life. The people appear to be generally friendlier than in the other cities, although it just could be that, after more than a week in this country I am feeling more at ease and people just seem friendlier.
Even though it’s a relatively large city, it still has a small-town feel, if you stay in the center of town. More than any of the other cities I’ve visited, Granada reminds me of my favorite cities in Mexico.
But you know what has stood out the most for me? The fashion! Everywhere you go, every alley you turn into, has several small clothing stores where some of the most beautiful dresses and shoes I have eve seen are displayed. I have never been a follower of women’s wear and I could never figure out why people got so excited about it (until I started watching Project Runway). But this place has made a believer out if me. I have found myself wanting to take picture of the outfits in the windows. They are that good; they are works of art.
There are a lot more arts and crafts shops here also. The crafts shops offer mostly touristy stuff, but even there you can find some beautiful items. I bought a small bowl yesterday – the only one of it’s kind in the store- for 5 euros.
I also bought a small Jesus-on-the-cross sculpture in bronze by a local well-known artist that I can’t wait to display at home. It was my second choice. My first was a graceful, beautifully sculpted bronze male torso, but it cost much more and it probably would have cost a lot more to have it shipped home, it was so heavy
I fly to Barcelona tonight, but my flight is not until 9:30, so I have the rest of the day and part of the evening to just roam around, hoping to find new streets and alleys and plazas. I’ve taken a lot of photos so I think today I’ll concentrate on sketching some of what I see.
I just looked at the forecast for Barcelona and it calls for one day of sunshine followed by three days of rain. Damn. But maybe it’s the Gods’ way of telling me that I belong in Granada, the only place where there hasn’t been any rain during my stay.

Granada, Spain | April 26, 2011

TRAVELING ALONE, IN another country especially, can be an interesting experience. I know a lot of people who would never consider it, especially those who are no longer college students or recently out of college. And I know of some older single people (or married persons whose spouses can’t or don’t want to travel with them) who join organized tours so they can get to see the sights but not have to do it alone.

I do not mind traveling alone. I have traveled with friends before, and with family, and I have for the most part enjoyed that. The problem is that unless you and your friend or friends or family are very close or have very similar interests — or are secure enough in your relationship to be able to say, look, I’d like to go off in my own for a while — the trip can become quite stressful. And even when everyone is in sync, there can be some awkward, tense moments. Not good if you are sharing a room.

(I’m writing this while dining outside — under a canopy because it’s starting to sprinkle — and I just ordered the most delicious half-bottle of red wine: Luis Cañas 2008 crianza. Should go well with the mango and avocado salad and the roasted pork in garlic sauce I ordered)

Inevitably, in any trip involving more than one person, one person assumes or is assigned the role as leader. That works out fine when the non-leaders are willing to be led, and when the leader is comfortable in that role.

I’ve traveled with non-Spanish speaking friends in Mexico and each time I’ve automatically been assigned the leadership role. If we had been in an English-speaking country, I doubt that would have happened, for my natural tendency is to follow (that’s why I never wanted to be a manager in any job I’ve held). Although I never heard any complaints from my traveling companions, and they never showed any indications of irritation, I was always second-guessing myself. Would he rather to this? Would she rather go there? Does he hate what we are doing?

Even with my family, who are perfectly willing to go to and do whatever I suggest, I always wonder if they are happy with my choices.

I must say that some of the most enjoyable trips I have taken have been with family. One time I took four of my sisters to Guadalajara and we had a hoot. The highlight was a visit to a nearby town known for its artisan shops. While three of my sisters and I wandered around the shops, the older of my sisters, Delfina, decided she would spend the time at a table in the plaza enjoying the mariachis and the beer. When we returned we joined her for more music and more beer and by the time we got ready to search for a taxi to take us back to the city, Fina was, as we say in Texas, poco pedita.

Finding a cab that would take all five of us proved a bit difficult. We finally found one that seemed roomy enough. It wasn’t. But Fina, who was in her mid- to late-60s at the time, was getting impatient. She wanted to get back to the hotel, so she told the rest of us to squeeze into the front and back seats. Then she told the driver to open the hatchback door and help her climb into the trunk area, where she lay down and rode dreamily all the way back to Guadalajara.

ANYWAY, BACK TO traveling alone. There’s a lot to be said for it. You can do what you want when you want. You can go to sleep as early or as late as you want, and you can get up and get going whenever you want.

But I won’t lie to you: if I had the perfect traveling companion, I would gladly give up this lone-traveler thing.

One of the drawbacks to traveling alone is that sooner or later loneliness does set in. Sooner or later you yearn to be able to share with someone — anyone — what you just saw or heard. Sooner or later you’ wake up to the realization that there’s not going to be anyone you know around the rest of that day. And when you’ve spent most of your life chatting, daily, with family, friends or coworkers, the knowledge that the hotel reception guy will be the only familiar person you’ll see that day, it does something to you. (It all depends on the person, of course if i were like my brother, who will speak to and make instant friends with anyone anywhere, I would already have made 100 friends by now on this trip. But I’m not like him and never will be. Unless other people reach out to me, I do not reach out to anybody.)

It goes away, of course, once you’re up and about, exploring and poking around here and there. And don’t get me wrong: I thoroughly enjoy being totally alone and lost in strange environments, especially if those environments are as beautiful and intriguing as this country.

SO, FINALLY, THIS is what I was getting to with all this rambling:

On my train ride from Sevilla, I shared a car with, among many others, a baby-boomer couple from California and a beautiful young Italian couple with their two young boys, about 9 and 10. We got to know each other because we were the first ones on board and the Italians asked us if we also had two separate tickets to Granada. Apparently their travel agent got them tickets to Granada that required them to get off at one if the stops and wait a couple of hours to board another train here. Both the Californians and I informed them that we were booked straight through to Granada. In the exchange, the Californians learned I spoke American English, so they San Diego and that she had two sisters in Texas and he had been based bear Lubbock in the service. But that was the extent of our interaction.

My interaction with the Italians would have ended there also except that en route, Mr Italiano asked the train ticket person about their strange tickets. In response, she wanted to tell them that they didn’t have to get off the train where the tickets said they were supposed to, but that if someone got on board there and claimed their seats, they would gave to give them up. They could either get off and wait for the next train, or stand for the rest of the trip — two hours. But she couldn’t tell them that because she spoke no Italian and they spoke no Spanish. So she asked if anyone spoke English. I signaled that I did and so she asked me to translate, which I did. The Italians were very grateful. And I was pleased.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, someone did get on at the assigned stop and claimed the Italians’ seats, and they dutifully gave them up. Any hope that they would be able to find other seats vanished when all the seats were claimed. And if they wanted to get off to wait for the next train, their plans were thwarted when the train started moving. So there they were, two adults and their two kids, standing in the aisle as the train sped towards Granada, two hours away.

They had a look of bewilderment on their faces but they were otherwise calm. They seemed to accept their fate. I, on the other had, was overwhelmed with guilt, as if I were responsible for their fate. It was I, after all, who had told them they could remain on the train. Shouldn’t I give up my seat? But doing so would have meantforcing the woman on the aisle seat next to me to get up so I could get up to allow the wife to sit. And doing so would not find seats for the other three.

And, after all, wasn’t I only the messenger?

So I sat while they stood. All two hours. And when we got to Granada, both husband and wife said, “thank you.”

And the Americans? Well, the Americans put on their headphones and got lost to the world for the entire trip. Their conversations were way too loud, typical of people wearing headphones. Several times she chastised him for talking too loud but she did the same thing. Worse, she started singing to whatever it was she was listening to through her headphones. Weird sounds. People started looking at them with bemused, confused smiles. At one point, she removed her headphones and said to him, “What a trip.” I thought she was referring to the train ride, but then I heard his response. “Yeah, I know, the Moody Blues never let you down.”

And she went back to her singing. I was embarrassed by what was happening: my fellow Americans were making fools of themselves and, by extension, of me also. Until I realized that as far as the other passengers knew, I was not an American. I was not one of these singing fools.

And so I forced myself to relax and enjoy the beautiful scenery that sped by me.

The odd thing about it was (see, I told you there was a point to all this) that when we finally got to Granada and we were all gathering our belongings and wishing each other a pleasant stay in this city, I suddenly felt a strange sadness at being separated from these crazy Californians and these stoic Italians. In the three hours between Sevilla and Granada, they had become my friends, my family, and I was now bidding them farewell. And it did not feel good.

Granada, Spain | April 26, 2011

IF YOU’VE EVER been to Spain, you know that wherever you go, you will find tiles. Tiles on the walls, tiles on the floors, tiles on the ceilings, tiles on furniture, and hundreds and hundreds of souvenir tiles in tourist shops. All are colorful and many are beautiful and intricate. Granada, especially, has an interesting variety of tiles, incorporating Moorish design because of its long occupation by the Moors.

I’ve been tempted to buy some tiles, and I still may, but I haven’t really found any that I found particularly intriguing. Until today. Unfortunately, the tiles aren’t for sale, for they are in the men’s restroom in a restaurant below the Alhambra. I stopped there for lunch (beans with ham, bread and olives, and a beer) and after eating, I went to the restroom before continuing my exploration of this intriguing city, and it was there that I found the tiles. Black, or deep gray, and a brownish red. A simple design, one that I haven’t seen anywhere else, and which I won’t even attempt to describe because you can see the attached photo. Judging by the look of the building, those tiles have been on those restroom walls for years and years. I fell in love with them and wished I could rip at least one off the wall. What I can’t figure out is why they are so unlike all the other tiles I have seen here.

Sunday, April 24, 2011 | Sevilla

WHEN I WENT to Paris a number of years ago, I was struggling mightily with the language. What little French I remembered from college didn’t help me get understood when I tried to communicate with people. And the French were not very patient people. Ordering food at restaurants was particularly painful, so when, on my last day there, I saw a Spanish restaurant, it didn’t take me more than a few seconds to decide that was where I was going to eat my first comfortable meal since my arrival. And all went well. Until it wastime to order wine.

“Vino rojo,” I said confidently.

“Vino tinto,” the waiter corrected me, as haughtily as all the French waiters I had encountered.

Humiliated, I nodded, yes, I wanted the vino tinto. And I swore I’d never make that mistake again. Yesterday, when I stopped at my first tapas place in this city, I told the waitress what I wanted and added that I wanted a vino tinto. You should have seen the look on her face. Imagine Margaret Thatcher looking down her nose at Jimmy Carter. Or Arrianna Huffington doing the same with that Grudge guy. You get the picture.

“Un riojo,” she said with a slight but not happy laugh. Bitch, I said after she walked awayand swore that from now on, I’m sticking with, “una cerveza.”

And I have, for the most part. Until now. I’m sipping on a riojo while waiting for my food at an outdoor cafe on the edge of Santa Cruz, the ancient Jewish quarter (until Spain decided Jews were evil and tortured, murdered or exiled most of them).

But believe me, in sticking with beer I’m not denying myself any pleasures. I love Spanish beer. It is served ice-cold, in relatively small glasses, which makes it easy to down one in a few minutes after you’ve been trudging around for hours in the spring heat. (Yes,we finally had a warm and relatively dry day. Some heavy showers blew in late this afternoon but by then I was in my room, soaking my aching body in very hotwater.) That’s what I did at lunch today. After I had wandered around the old section of town and walked along the river to get a close-up view of two magnificent graceful modern bridges over the Rio Guadilquivir, built for the 1992 Expo, my feet were demanding a rest and my stomach was demanding sustenance, so I sat down at an outdoor tapas place.

When the waiter came, he informed me that the kitchen didn’t open until 1:30 but that since it was already 1:20, I was welcome to sit there and have a beer. The beer lasted all of three minutes. I have never tasted better beer in my life. The waiter had brought a bowl of green olives and some bread, and I soon devoured all of that also. When I first arrived, only one other table was occupied, and I was beginning to worry that I may have chosen a bad restaurant, but at exactly 1:30, people started arriving and soon all the tables had patrons, and there were people waiting in line for seats.

(One of the interesting things about Spain is that restaurants can have outdoor eating areas even if they have no room for them; if there is a plaza across the street, they can set up tables and chairs there. If, as was the case at Duo Tapas, where I ate today, there is heavy traffic separating the café from the plaza, the waiters play an interesting game of dodging cars and buses to get food and drink to customers.)

It took forever for my food to arrive, but every time I ordered another beer, it was delivered within a few minutes. I think, but I won’t swear to it, that I ended up having four. The food was great, although the waiter or the kitchen forgot one of my tapas, until after I had ordered la cuenta. What did arrive was very good. The first tapa was a seared tuna with vegetables and a lemony sauce. The tuna was almost raw, which made me hesitate a bit because I have always been averse to raw fish, but I forced myself to try it, and I am glad I did.

The second dish was equally as scrumptious. I’d love to tell you what it was but I can’t remember. So, before I forget this too, I’lltell you what I’m having for dinner: artichoke hearts with shrimp and ham in a lemon sauce. And ham croquets. Yum.

The meal is so good that I am not letting an ugly old Austrailian at a nearby table spoil the experience. He is loudly practicing all the Spanish words and phrases for goodbye with the waiter. Hasta la vista and adios are his favorite, the latter uttered in an obnoxious John Waynish drawl.

(Oh, now I remember: my other dish at lunch was a creamy risotto with mushrooms. Double yum.)

Although I must have walked about eight miles today, I didn’t really do much. I dropped in on the high mass presided over by the archbishop and listened for a while to the lovely saved music, but I wanted to get to a certain plaza where artists display and sell their work every Sunday morning. It took a while but I found it. I asked for directions twice and both times I was told the same thing: walk that way a bit and ask somebody else. I think I’ll try that trick the next time a tourist in Washington asks for directions. That is probably the best advice anyway, given that mist people are probablylike me: they nod their head as if they understand every direction when what’s going through their mind is, I’ll never remember any of this anyway so I’ll stop paying attention right now.

I found the plaza and the art, but I wasn’t moved by any of it. Or rather, by any of the pieces I could afford to buy and were small enough to carry home with me. I spent the rest of the day roaming around and getting lost (remember what I said about Toledo? It is no different in this city’s old section, especially Santa Cruz.

The highlight of the day was when I stumbled into the Antiquarium, the city’s new historical and archeological museum. I didn’t go inside but I must have spent more than an hour staring at the exterior from all angles, in complete, total awe. Hard to describe this building. First of all, it is huge, covering about two city blocks, and it floats above the plaza, supported by five or six giant columns. And unless you look very closely, you can’t really see the circular buildings because they’re hidden by the intricate latticework structure that extends, like melded-together giant parasols, above it all. I’ll try to p

ost a picture later so you can get an idea. I guess what stunned me about this structure was that it was totally unexpected. It isn’t mentioned in any of the guidebooks or newspaper articles I read, and it isn’t on the tourist maps. It’s that new!

ONE FINAL THING: I finally did get to see a Holy Week procession, last night. I was roaming around in the area near the cathedral when I heard the music of a brass marching band. I made my way to the cathedral and got there just in time to witness the departure of one of two floats from the massive church, preceded by penitents dressed in black hooded outfits and followed by the band. Unfortunately, it was too dark and I was too far away to be able to get any good pictures, but I captured some of it on video using my iPhone. Again, I’ll try to post that later.

Saturday, April 23, 2011 | On the train from Madrid to Sevilla

A COLLEAGUE suggested, after reading a recent post in which I complained how much my feet hurt after a day of walking, suggested that I get new shoes. New shoes is not what I need. What I need is a thinner body. The best shoes in the world will not make carrying around 500 pounds any easier.

The truth is that my feet hurt only the first day or two, and once I get used to being on my feet all day, the pain disappears. And an even greater truth is that I am wearing the world’s best walking shoes. They are a pair of Timberland shoes I bought many years ago with inch-thick soles. They fit comfortably, and I they have been my faithful companions in Paris, Florence, Venice, in the Swiss Alps and elsewhere.

The shoes came in handy when I was in Venice a number of years ago. On the morning I was supposed to take a train to Milan to catch my flight back home, the city was experiencing one of its frequent floods. There was high water everywhere, rising even above the planks that are set up to allow people to walk over the flooded streets. And for a while it appeared that I might not be able to make my train, for no matter which route I took, high water blocked my way.

Finally, as the hour of my departure neared, I found a location where the water appeared to be no more than an inch deep, and I decided I had no choice. I tip-toed across and, to my relief, did not get my feet wet at all, and I made my train. They are good shoes, these traveling companions, and I hope they will accompany on many more trips

Saturday, April 23, 2011 | Toledo

AT THE TRAIN station, waiting for my 12:25 train back to Madrid, where I will hop on another train to Seville. It is a beautiful sunny morning. No rain in sight, although some ominous-looking clouds loom in the distance. For the thousands of tourists who remain, and for the hundreds more who just arrived by train, I hope the rain stays away. Maybe they’ll get to see some pageantry tonight.

I have no idea what awaits me in Sevilla. I have done no research about it. I will read my guidebook and other material on the train. Whatever it is, I know it’s going to be good. Unless it’s more rain.

I feel a bit of sadness at leaving Toledo, but that’s not unusual for me. Being a homebody, I always feel a degree of reluctance to leave any place that has been a home for me, even if just for a day or two. But I think it’s more than that: it’s a reluctance to leave a comfort zone and a fear of the unknown, of what lies beyond. The domesticated nature in me wants to know, if it’s so good here, why leave? Why explore new horizons? Why take on new challenges? I have yet to have a real bad experience in any of my travels, so my fear of the unknown is not really based on reality, but there it is, sitting on my shoulder and nibbling at my earlobe.

Friday, April 22, 2010 | Toledo

LAST NIGHT I went to bed without dinner. I wasn’t that hungry and I didn’t want to go out in the rain, so I stayed in my room to read and write my last blog post. The TV in my room would not work and I didn’t feel like listening to my iPod music, so I spent the evening in blessed silence, enjoying half of the bottle of cheap red wine I’d bought at a nearby store.
This morning I woke up hungry. All I’d had the day before was a modest lunch, a muffin and a pastry, but the hotel restaurant wasn’t open for breakfast until 8, so I took a short walk to capture some more images of this beautiful city with my camera. When I stepped outside I found nearly clear skies and cool crisp air. And quiet. The tourists were still in bed, apparently.
When I returned to the hotel, breakfast was already being served so I hurried down there, expecting to find the kind of buffet breakfasts found in most cheap tourist hotels in Paris or Italy. What I found instead was a pleasant and delicious gastronomic surprise. Nothing fancy, mind you, but a good, full breakfast. It had the cold hams and cheeses I expected, but it also had oh-so-creamy scrambled eggs, bacon and several kinds of sausages. And about four different kind of rolls as well as pastries and cookies of various varieties. And nice strong coffee. Oh my, breakfast never tasted so good. I stuffed myself and took some bread and cheese and pastries with me, to snack on during the day.
With stomach full, I was ready to explore Toledo once more, hoping that the rains would stay away. I had about an hour of roaming the mostly empty streets befor the tourists started streaming out of wherever they’d been hiding. And even though I was trying to get somewhere else, I ended up at the cathedral again. I went inside to discover a men’s chorus singing, as part of some Good Friday ceremony. Not quite Gregorian chants, but just as soothing. A great way to start the day.