San Sebastian

There are two ways to travel from Bilbao to San Sebastian, the Basque province’s less industrial, more inherently beautiful tourist city. There’s a one-hour bus ride, which favors brevity over beauty and cuts down a major highway, or there’s the EuskoTren, which lazily careens for two hours and 45 minutes through mountain and coastline, making a quick stop at nearly every village it passes through on its way. The choice was easy enough. We bought our tickets in the afternoon and boarded excitedly. Riding along with Genevieve and I was Ben, a friend from my program in Granada who had met up with us the night before after flying in from his adventures in Barcelona. As the train rolled on we passed through some 36 Basque towns, many with outrageous names like Unibertsitatea and Toletxegain. Each town also seemed almost surprisingly different than the next in appearance, due to the regions ability to change landscapes very quickly and dramatically from mountain to field to coast to hills in a geographical crossroads the likes of which I’d never seen before.

As our hostel manager, Anders, told us once we arrived in San Sebastian, there are two things that the city has to offer in spades: beaches and really, really great food, and since we were visiting in the middle of December, the latter was going to be our chief pursuit during our stay. And so, after profuse recommendation from our hostel manager and a bit of pressure from Gen, Ben, and the other hostel-stayer’s who’d be going with, my first night in San Sebastian brought me to Nestor, three-star Michelin rated restaurant. What business a broke student like myself has at a place like this I’m not sure, and at this point in my travels I was really, really broke, because I was nearing the end of my travels, and thus the end of my funds, but regardless there I was. Although I didn’t think about it while I was there, the place was very casual and cramped for such a prestigious eatery. We all ate standing up, crowded around a small circular table and surrounded by other clientele who were constantly bumping into us and also had no seats. In other words, it was like any other tapas or pintxos bar in Spain. No concern about appearance and every concern about the food was the apparent motto, and Lord was the food good. For round one we dug into some tomatoes, all smothered in olive oil and great flakes of salt. I hate tomatoes, and yet ate every last bite of these delicious green guys. Round two brought us pimientos de Pardón. These peppers come from, if you can believe it, a town called Padrón in Galicia, Spain, and if there was one Spanish food I could bring back to the states with me, it would be these. They’re not sweet peppers, and they’re not hot peppers, they’re just good, especially when they’re covered – like the tomatoes before them – in olive oil and salt. It’s important to note that with each round our group also ordered bottles of Chokoli, a very crisp, sweet and dry white wine, which must be poured from at least two feet above the glass, so that you look impressive and cultured, or like an idiot when you miss and spill super expensive wine all over the table as many of us, including myself, did. And then there was round three, the largest hunk of prime rib steak I’ve ever seen, seared so as to keep in flavor and served extra rare. We ordered round three twice. You could chew on this stuff for however long you wanted, and it would never lose its flavor. Reckoning came when the bill was brought to us. I’m not going to say exactly how much it was, but it was more than I had expected, and I had expected a lot. As my face started to go from wine-flushed to pale, Ben shrugged at me and simply said “merece la pena,” and he was absolutely right, it was well worth it. It really had been the best meal I’d had at least since I came to Spain.

The next morning Gen and I woke up early to scale the large hill that lies between San Sebastian’s old town and the sea, at the top of which is a giant statue of Jesus Christ, known as the statue of the Sagrado Corazón de Jesús. Along the way we passed through woods, old battlements and cannons that once protected the town a centuries ago, and some very intense weather. Storm clouds had been hovering around the area all morning and finally decided to let loose about a half hour into our ascent to the Jesus statue, in the form of air-soft pellet sized balls of hail. With the wind whipping and hail falling noisily all around us, Genevieve jokingly groaned that “it’s always a hard road to the Lord.” I had to laugh. By the time we reached the top, the weather had ceased, giving us a spectacular and hail-free view of San Sebastian’s colorful architecture in front of us and the green sea in behind us.

For lunch we dined on fried goat cheese, risotto, foie gras, or duck liver (which is apparently illegal in Chicago!?), rioja wine and a banana stuffed croqueta for dessert – basically a lot of things that I will not be eating again for a long time. It was delicious, exquisite, de puta madre. They say not to be cheap in San Sebastian and to spend those extra euros to really experience the culinary wonders it has to offer. This might be partly a tourist pull, but at the same time it’s hard to argue against; the food is incredible.

We returned to the hostel and to the amazingly diverse group of characters that were now putting themselves up there for the weekend, which included a South Korean who said absolutely everything that was on his mind the minute it hit him and was learning to play Beatles songs on his guitar, a culinary student from Venezuela and a culinary student from Boston (apparently San Sebastian is a good place to learn about food as well as eat it), an alarmingly bubbly girl who goes to a university back in the states that "doesn't have grades" and a film editor from LA named Waldo. Yes, it was quite the mix, and at the very least conversation sure as hell was never stale.

In the evening a group of us went out for pintxos, which of course ruled, and then Gen, our new friend Waldo and I headed to bar that we had heard was “local,” and “non-touristy.” The place ended up being pretty cool, with a good mix of tunes and muy buena gente. Gen and Waldo chatted, and as the brother reflex kicked in I found myself only wanting to contradict things he said or find holes in them. In all likelihood he wasn’t trying to hit on her, but I couldn’t help being a bit on guard anyway. Soon I found myself in a conversation with a fellow smoker (I often find myself meeting strangers over cigarettes), a Basque man, native to San Sebastian named Borja. Borja was tall, long -haired, loud and liked whisky, so we had some whisky shots. Apparently he had been raised in the area, had moved to Poland when he was around my age to work for a trucking company, and had now returned indefinitely. Like Marijose, he openly talked about the people and the culture of the Basques, stating that they can be the most evil and most kind people in the world at the same time, because of their compassionate and yet bold, uninhibited and brutally honest nature. I certainly liked this idea a lot. It made me sad, because since I was leaving Spain in two days, I knew this would be the best my conversational Spanish would be at for some time. As the night grew older, snow began falling outside, giving us that wonderful sensation you feel where you can watch winter’s beauty from a window and not have to suffer it because you’re nice and cozy and drunk inside.

The night ended with just Waldo and I back at the hostel (Gen had gone to sleep), chatting and listening to tunes on my travel I-pod player, which I bring everywhere. I’m not sure what time it was, but at some point, in the middle of a National album, the Swedish hostel worker stormed up to us and exclaimed “this is not ok,” repeatedly as she motioned at my I-pod player. I guess it was a little too late to be rocking tunes in a shared sleeping environment.Trying not to wake Gen, I climbed up my bunk and dreamed off peacefully.

In the Basque Country

The final leg of my journey with Gen, and of my adventures in Spain as a whole, brought me to the Basque country, a fascinating place in a lot of ways, but mostly for me because of how very different it is from the rest of Spain. I remember thinking that this difference was at least as clear, if not even more so, than that which was apparent in Lisbon. Everything from the landscape, architecture and of course the language and culture was unique. What’s more, this proud apartness and tradition survived (or at least a lot of it has, it seems) the rule of Franco. Before that it survived persecution from the religious zealousness of Spain’s Catholic Church, which has apparently in the past called the Basque language “the language of the devil.” And before that, it survived 800 years of Moorish rule in Spain. And before that, well who knows. The bottom line is, this place, and these people, are old.

To travel to the Basque region from Logroño we used train, which was eight euro well, well spent. The two hour ride took us out of La Rioja, or Spain’s wine region, and into the more rugged and diverse scenescapes of the Basque region in what I have to say was one of the most beautiful rides of my life. A few times I tried to wake Gen, who began nodding off within the first few minutes of the trip, but to no avail. I’d wake her, my eyes half crazy I’m sure with excitement at the view around us; she’d stir, look around and smile dreamily, and then cash back out immediately. And so I took to simply staring and contemplating. Hill after hill of redish clay earth, each covered in vineyards and later snow, stretched out all around the tracks until reaching jagged peaks in the distance. Small villages at times populated a hill or two, consisting of red roofed homes encircling an old castle or church, which of course rested at the highest point. The relatively smooth clay and grass hills were at times interrupted by jagged yellow and white rocks and cliffs, which looked as if they had been eerily peeking out, untouched and in the same position for thousands, tens of thousands of years or more. The land grew more mountainous and green as we drew closer to the coast and to Bilbao.

Exiting the train station, we were immediately taken with the architecture of the place. Despite the cold air and overcast weather, we strolled out of the station along the Casco Viejo and up the Paseo Campo Volantín toward the Guggenheim in relative bliss, being surrounded by these very handsome, very modern Basque buildings. After dropping our bags off at our unimpressive hostel, we grabbed lunch at a random café, the owner of which happened to be one of the kindest people either of us had ever met. Marijose was her name, and she owned the quaint little café with her husband, who sat in the corner reading the paper fixedly and contently. Immediately seeing Gen and I’s general confusion and unfamiliarness with ordering food in basque cafes, Marijose told me we needn’t worry, and that she’d fix us up a cheap and healthy mix of some of her best pintxos (pronounced peen-chos). And she really meant it; within minutes she had served us up a mixed salad with loads of vegetables and chicken kebabs to go along with some tortilla española and coffee, all for next to nothing. I translated for Genevieve as all of this occurred, making sure she was ok with the food and then relaying that everything was wonderful to Marijose. Keeping with the blunt character of the Basque’s, Marijose exclaimed that she could see that I was the translator or informant and that Gen held most of the decision making power in our little traveling pair. A bold statement, but not totally off the mark. I had a hard time translating it for Genevieve. Within no time, whether because of my sometimes overly prying questions or because of her naturally open nature, Marijose began talking about her upbringing in the Basque country. Her parents were both Basque, one raised in Bilbao and one in a small village away from the city. Shockingly enough, despite the fact that both had been raised with the language in a region that, if I’m not mistaken, is smaller than the state of Illinois, neither could understand each other’s Basque perfectly, because one spoke a rural dialect and the other a city dialect. Compounded with this problem was the fact that during the rule of Franco, people were not allowed to speak the language, let alone teach it to their children, unless they wanted to face brutal and totalitarian consequences. Marijose, who lived in the city with her parents, was not allowed speak her native tongue throughout her entire upbringing, and so never learned it, while her sisters, who lived in a village outside of the more easily policed city limits, were taught in secret. And so to sum up, Marijose was sadly one of the only members, if not the only, member of her family who could not speak the ancient language. After Franco’s end, she had tried to pick up the language but, as she explained, you can’t really study Basque. It’s not a tongue well kept in literature or texts, and is apparently almost entirely oral. By the time she could finally try to learn, she was no longer young enough to pick up a solely oral language. However, this did not prevent the woman from having a wonderful disposition, or from talking our ears off in Spanish. She soon began talking to us about politics, and with a far more serious tone. After telling her we had indeed voted for Obama, she put her arms around us and spoke with a sudden conviction about health care reform (among other things) that almost shocked me. “When you return to the states,” she said. “You must talk about these things, you must tell all your friends and everyone you know and be unafraid to encourage change.” We nodded and agreed in earnest. If Marijose was a good example of Basque hospitality and culture – and I think she was – then it means care and concern, but more importantly perhaps a lack of fear to speak openly and bluntly. I liked this a whole lot.

From Marijose’s café we headed to the Guggenheim. Of the exhibits here, one that stood out a great deal, both literally and personally, was Richard Serra’s “The Matter of Time.” Composed of enormous, seemingly free standing steel sheets and taking up an entire exhibition wing, the “art” at first glance seems like nothing more than a series of inconsistent, although big, brown steel shapes in a plain looking hall. But once you enter these statues, and yes, you can enter them, this perspective absolutely changes. The metal sheets are placed in great spirals and snake like patterns in such a way that, when you pass through them, you become completely disoriented and almost entranced. The steel sheets seem perfect and random at the same time in their shape and scope once inside them. Serra’s intention was apparently to alter the exhibitionist’s sense of time and space, and I’d say he accomplished this pretty damn well. For the next three hours we passed through Picassos’s, Dali’s and, one of my personal favorites, Juan Gris. Genevieve, who doesn’t just like modern art, but really seems to appreciate it, was savoring every moment. I'm not sure if I can totally say the same for myself about my taste for the modern, but I certainly enjoyed the hell out of the Guggenheim.

Logroño

The “trenhotel” train tickets I had so proudly booked from Lisbon to Madrid turned out not to be much of a hotel at all, but two regular coach seats for the duration of the 11 to 12 hour ride. And so I at that moment realized the reason they had been only 24 euro. Gen and I’s mood however was too grand to squash, and we happily reclined our seats until they were almost completely flat and in bed position, and were without complaint. We had been drinking a bit at the bar across from the station, Santa Apolónia, in Lisbon while waiting, in which they had put up a giant “boas festas” sign with wreathes on the wall – a charming place, or at least as charming as you can get across from a major train station on the outskirts of town. Along with recommending the “trenhotel “ night train in general, I recommend having a couple drinks before boarding. I slept in peace as we clattered back to Spain, only being woken up a few times by commuters to Madrid and then falling right back into a dream.

In a whirlwind of metro metro rides, cigarettes and coffee we managed to run back to Heidi’s, freshen up and repack there, then catch our bus to Logroño with time to spare. Being trumped only by our train ride the next day from Logroño to Bilbao, the ride was gorgeous. At times the landscape was almost too reminiscent of the Midwest – brown, flat farming fields dusted with snow, endless grey highways and the occasional gas station, pit-stop or what have you. Then suddenly the land would shift, reminding us that we were in fact in Spain. Around a bend and suddenly below us the land would drop abruptly, into a deep valley, and then rise up again farther and farther until reaching cloud piercing peaks in the far distance.

We arrived in Logroño and were surprised to find that it was a much bigger and more charming than we had imagined. “Like the Spanish version of Peoria,” we kept saying in reference to our hometown in Illinois, which is roughly the same size. Upon entering Chris’s apartment, located comfortably in the middle of town, we were greeted by his tirelessly outgoing roommate, Caitlin. She was a talkative, very kind Australian Jew (half I think (Jewish that is)) who had assembled a sort of makeshift Menorah in the living room out of wine/beer bottles and candles. Caitlin ran a load of laundry for us, talked our ears off with her hilariously dirty mouth and even made us some tortilla española. For an Aussie, she had apparently mastered the whole Spanish hospitality thing pretty damn well.

By the time Chris arrived from work at his school, it was time to start drinking. We opened up the bottle of porto that Gen and I had graciously brought for him from Lisbon as thanks for letting us crash (or not so graciously, because we had every intention of drinking it with him). The porto finished, we headed out for tapas. A few days later in Madrid, after all of my travels were over and I was awaiting my flight back to the states the next morning, a man told me that Logroño is one of the best places to get tapas in the entire country, and judging from the night we had with Chris and Caitlin, I think this man was absolutely right. We feasted on chicken and avocado, vegetable and shrimp kebabs and calamari rings, each slightly larger than the one stacked on top of it and so thus making a delicious, greasy calamari pyramid. We did them in Chris’s systematic, no-time-for-lollygagging tapa eating style, meaning one bar after another, only stopping in shortly and then quickly moving on. “We have to try the chicken and avocado at this place,” he’ll say, and so we will, and then we’ll have to head a few blocks down after just one drink because “you guys have to try the number 3 at this other place.” This way of doing tapas, which is more like a strategic campaign than a dining experience, has its advantages in that you can get the best of each place and don’t have time to get too drunk.

Finally we did settle down at a bar, and spent the rest of the night with cheap cañas, some of Chris and Caitlin’s friends, and a good mix of rock and punk, highlighted for me by a few Hives tunes. I at some point attempted speaking Spanish with a Spanish looking girl, and was slightly embarrassed to find out that her Spanish was worse than mine (thus making conversation impossible) because she was not Spanish, and had been born in Germany.

A free place to stay with good people along with incredible food, Logroño had treated us well.

Lisbon

The flight from Madrid lasted all of two-hours, which is about the amount of sleep we had gotten before from our sort of marathon night in Madrid. When we arrived, we were pleased to find that a cab to our hostel, Next, cost only ten euro. The cabs, which were all extremely ununiform (quite charmingly so) and ranging from old 80’s and 90’s Mercedes to old equally old Fiats or Seats, were not the only thing that was noticeably cheaper here in Portugal. Not only was this place beautiful, but very inexpensive. This became most clearly apparent to me two days later when I headed out to the grocery store to buy proper breakfast food to have in the hostel. I was floored and a little suspicious to find that four yogurts, eggs, French bread, bananas and oranges rang up at about 2.50 euro. Our hostel, a private triple in a great area with free cereal and coffee, was only 10 euro a night for each of us –Heidi, Gen and I that is. Alghough drinking and eating out was pretty much equally expensive to other cities, paying so little for these other necessities made a huge difference.

But what I loved about Lisbon most was not its affordability; it was the architecture, culture and general ambience that the two created together that led me to end up falling in love with the place, and almost immediately I might add. A few minutes’ walk out of our hostel and the contrast between here and the Andalucian towns I’d spent the majority of my semester in was clear. In place of little white-washed homes, caves and winding roads with floral patterning were bold, colorful buildings and wider cobblestone streets. The infrastructure, with its underground metro, magnetic trams whizzing about above ground and of course the giant wrought iron tower, known as the Elevador de Santa Justa, which takes you from the town’s central neighborhood, Baixa, to the Bairo Alto, seemed to me like the forgotten dream or discarded schematics of some eccentric industrial age architect more than something that could actually exist and function today. Some of the city lights, like those running up the Elevador and those that comprise the giant, color changing heart that rests over the Praca Luís de Camoes in the Bairo Alto, seemed to be permanent fixtures for the city at night. And since we were traveling during the Christmas season, we had the added charm of even more lights, wreathes and strange glittering balls strewn over street after street.

Our first night in Lisbon, we took the Elevador up to Bairo Alto (I couldn’t get over the idea of an elevator that took you from one neighborhood to another, but there we were riding it), ate and began cruising the bars, which there were a whole lot of. We were lured in by the one that had the sweet sound of live Brazilian folk pouring out of its door. Inside, the guitar player, singer behind the mic was half bantering, half singing in a sort of spoken voice reverie that, accompanied by his melodious licks on the guitar and a drummer with brushes and a simple amped floor tom, two-cymbal and one-snare set up, sounded fantastic . Perhaps the most impressive aspect about the music was the curly haired, wide-faced singers ability to add horn accompaniment out of his own lungs and voice-box. Pursing his lips and closing his eyes, he created what sounded uncannily similar to an alto sax. After some hours of this intoxicating stuff, we stepped out to find the streets filled with revelers. Ambling down the light strewn blocks, we passed wave after wave of plastic cup carrying bar hoppers (the disposable cups apparently made it easy to go from bar to bar without hassle), each speaking loudly and emitting sweet smelling clouds of hash. In a conversation with a couple sitting outside a bar that had lived in the area for some time, a man responded to my astonishment by simply stating: “it’s magic isn’t it.” I couldn’t agree more with this simple and yet totally adequate description. Sometimes the atmosphere or general sights and sounds of a place cut into you much more than any specific events that occurred while you were there. For me Lisbon was one of those places. In the dead of December, her Bairo Alto was alive with voice and music and, yes, magic.

We awoke lazily the next morning and then washed and breakfasted even more lazily. It had been a long night I guess. However finally we headed off to the metro and caught a line to the Belem district of Lisbon, farther west of the city proper and closer to the open Atlantic. Besides the monuments and historical places of interest in this area, of which there were several, I think what Heidi what most or perhaps even more so excited for was its famous puff pastries. As for me I’m not much for sweets. We got them, and they were pretty tasty. So they came from a recipe perfected in the nearby monastery and were made for us just as they would have been in 1827…I’m sorry but I think I’d rather have some chorizo or better yet, a Chicago hot dog. Anyway, Heidi seemed to enjoy hers a whole lot, and that was good to see.

We entered the sprawling, gothic Mosteiro Dos Jeronimos, or at least its church, which was impressive enough. Inside was the tomb of Vasco de Gama, epic explorer, with his statue laying flat, hands erect in prayer to the heavens, miniature lions holding up his great marble casket. Across the street from the monastery, we went up the 50m tower in the plaza of discoveries, which commemorates Prince Henry the Navigator’s death some 550 years ago. From the tower’s top, a spectacular aerial view of the very bay that these long-buried explorers set out from could be had. Gen and I were feeling some of the explorer's spirit as we pointed out to the open Atlantic challengingly.


But apparently neither of us would have made very spectacular explorers, because we couldn't even find the Torre de Belem, a historic defensive outpost of old Lisbon. In fact, we thought we were on the Torre de Belem as we pointed out to the sea so proudly, but only later found out that we had in fact been on top of the Henry the Navigator monument in the plaza of discoveries, and that the Torre de Belem, albeit surprisingly small, had been right in front of us just a bit farther down the bay. Because of the great size of the monument, we assumed it must be the Torre Belem without reading any further into the situation. This is like when Columbus arrived at what he thought was India but was in fact in the Americas, except on a much smaller scale and a bit dumber. Actually, this wasn't like that at all.

From Belem we headed back down the metro and caught a train to Sintra, the UNESCO World Heritage awarded village about an hour outside Lisbon. The place could be described as sharing a lot of the colorful and romantic architecture of Lisbon, but amplified and with a touch of something like Brothers Grimm thrown in. Once again, the atmosphere of the place hit me harder than any specific events, but that might have something to do with the fact that we had arrived too late to see any museums or exhibits. Regardless, taking a stroll and relaxing in cafe's here was a dream. The last train back to Lisbon wasn't until around midnight, so we weren't pressed.

Madrid

A small slice of hell was served up for me the afternoon I left Granada and had to lug my entire life, or at least the items I had considered necessary for living for four months, through Madrid’s metro system. Madrid’s metro is actually surprisingly easy to understand, so I didn’t end up hopping on the wrong line or anything, but like many major city public transportation systems it was crowded, sweaty and unforgivingly prompt – not the kind of place you want to haul 150 lbs or so of your most valued possessions. While moving through the hustling throngs, I a few times found myself at junctions where I had to transfer lines and could find no escalator or elevator to get there and so, surely looking halfway insane, I sort of dead-lifted my enormous load of luggage step by step up the staircases. Twice some friendly souls came to my aid, picking up the bottom end of my suitcases for me and helping me move up much quicker. This sort of kindness was not something I had heard that Madrileños were particularly known for (in fact I had heard the exact opposite), but I most definitely welcomed it.

From the stop I was to exit according to my directions, Argüelles (very fun word to repeat over and over), I exited the Metro. I found Heidi’s apartment, rang the buzzer and was greeted by her very kind roommate Mamen. After a quick conversation she called Heidi, who was already at a café with Genevieve, told her I’d arrived and also that there had been no communication problems because I spoke Spanish “perfectamente bien.” This was nice to here, because I had just finished spending four months and all money to my name for the explicit purpose of learning to speak the language.

I went out to meet Heidi in the street, and she led me to the café, called Thoma’s, which was only about a block away. Genevieve was waiting inside and seemed to be at first a bit taken aback to see her brother who, after being four months in a foreign country, was skinnier (I had lost 10 pounds since august, and I’m not the kind of guy who has 10 pounds to lose) and freshly sweaty from the Madrid metro system despite the freezing weather. However, her surprise was only momentary and we were obviously delighted to see one another here so far across the Atlantic. I’d been looking forward to this since she first told me she booked here flight some two months prior.

After a coffee, a few cigarettes, and a quick shower at Heidi’s to wash of the sweat and dust of traveling, we strolled out for dinner and drinks. We began in a very crowded bar a few stops down the metro. Once inside, we could hardly move or raise our arms as we dug in to a communal helping of huevos rotos (fried eggs, fried potatoes, pimientos de padrón and tangy red sauce). This style of eating, which is done standing up and is very social (because there’s no seats, all must weave in and out of each other to order food and drinks, and you and your friends eat from the same shared platter), I find to be very, very Spanish and had experienced it several times in Granada as well. We traded off digging our three forks into the delicious mess, and I was glad to see that Genevieve was clearly enjoying her first Spanish eating experience. Two madrileños, both friends of Heidi, met up with us soon enough and more food and red wine was ordered. Gonzalo and Xavier, as they were called, were extremely kind. The former was an ex-hedge fund investor/current philosophy student and the latter was the owner of a pharmacy. Gonzalo’s story was a little more interesting, or at least he seemed to like talking about it more. He had apparently climbed the ladder of financial mega-success and high-risk investing/high amounts of unaccounted for spending at Lehman Brothers, become sick and guilty from the corruption and excess that surrounded him and which ultimately seems to have led to our current global financial climate, quit work, walked the famous and ancient pilgrimage of Santiago (St. James) and, upon arriving, decided that his soul was cleansed and returned to Madrid where he currently studies philosophy. He truly did seem like an honest guy, and I respected him quite a bit. The night passed on smoothly as we moved from bar to bar. Although at each one saying at each one that it would be our last stop, we pressed on until finally it was 1:30 or so and we had successfully allotted ourselves about 3 hours of sleep before our 6:00 am check in at the airport the next day. Throughout the night, Gonzalo and Xavier paid for just about everything after the first bar, and since they were both about 15 years or more my seniors and clearly not lacking in money, I was just fine with it.

What I was most pleased about this night was the fact that I was more or less fluidly conversing in Spanish with Madrileños. These guys, in stark contrast to the thick-accented, consonant eating Andalucians that I had grown accustomed to, spoke clearly and calmly, allowing me to understand just about everything without much difficulty. When I explained to Xavier that he was worlds easier to understand than most of the Spaniards I had encountered thus far in Granada, he responded that that makes perfect sense, because they don’t know how to speak down there. I mean this as no slight against Granadinos, but the man had a good point.

Pt. 2: some vistas, some bad tapas

Friday I awoke abruptly from an approximately six hour sleep. Juanito, my two year old little bro here in Spain, was already lively and crying, running around and throwing toys seemingly all at once. After laying in bed for about an hour, hoping he would shut up, or that the paper thin walls in our apartment would magically become soundproof, neither of which occurred, I got out of bed. I had a resaca (hangover), but not a resacón (huge hangover). After a few hours I called Chris, found out why he and Maria had left Vogue so abruptly, found out a little bit more about what his puke consisted of, and then invited him and Maria to check out Carmen de Los Mártires later in the day.

The garden of Carmen de Los Mártires, situated conveniently enough for me just 15 minutes uphill from my neighborhood, is a truly wonderful place. The handful of times I’ve been there, it’s always been to relax, get a great view of the city and maybe have some “deep thoughts.” To top it off, the place is free, and open every day. I suppose I’d describe it as an almost labyrinth of deciduous, Mediterranean and tropical trees (they all seem to grow pretty well here), ponds, statues and pavos reales, or peacocks, but which literally translates to “royal turkeys.” There’re not many better places to be after a long night like the one we’d had. From there it was back down the giant, steep hill that looks over Granada and off to a teteria (arab style café). There’s such an abundance of these on la calle Calderería that we usually just end up walking up the narrow, sweet smelling alley and simply picking at random which one we’ll drink tea in this time. We settled on the one that looked the “most plush” to us, with pillowy seats by a window and a warm, dimly lit atmosphere.

Three cups of Persian tea was exactly what necessary to kill the hangover and regain the energy I’d lost walking all over the gardens. Chris wanted to show Maria the Alhambra, so we ended up heading back up to the Alhambra and gardens area to see if there were still night tickets. Sure enough, we ended up snagging some 12 euro tickets for an unguided tour of the Nazarí Palace, Palace of Charles V, other surrounding areas. On the way to and while walking through the Palace of Charles V, Chris and I occasionally traded off pretending like we knew the history of the place, throwing out disconnected pieces chunks of information at Maria about Carlos Quinto or the differences between Arab and Christian architecture that were probably only about 50 percent true. However, the three of us were pretty much completely silenced upon entering the palacio narzarí, immediately feeling the sacredness and beauty of the place. Although I’d been there before during the day, I’d been meaning to come again to see it at night, and so now that moment had finally arrived. It was just as wonderful as I had hoped. Walking through the pillared hallways and tranquil courtyards in the dim light or near total darkness really adds to the ancient, mysterious feel this nearly 1,000 year old monument . We passed through the room after room, walls lined with intricately carved patterns and poetry in white stucco. Like the first time I came, I once again found myself staring for what felt like a century at the stalactited, honey-comb like ceilings found in rooms of importance. I was in a daze...

From the palaces of the last Arab kings in Granada it was off to our favorite tapas bar, El Nido Del Buho (the owl’s nest) – a complete change of atmosphere but a necessary one, because we were hungry as hell from doing the sightseeing thing all day. The Buho is noisy, crowded, slightly dirty and strangely charming. You can never sit down immediately, but rather have to stand and wait at least five minutes or so until a table opens up in the cramped L-shaped bar. Once one does, fast action is the key thing, because it’s sort of a free for all as to who gets it. You must shout at the waitresses to order you drinks and tapas, and they sort of ignore you if you can’t pronounce things right or don’t spit it out fast enough, which caused problems for me a few months ago. The tapas are fantastic, and more importantly, huge. On this particular night, with my two euro beers I got avocados filled with tuna and mayo with toasted French bread on the side, and for round two a tortilla española with alioli. A lot of the tapas bars here baffle me as to how they stay in business giving out so much free food, but none as much as the Buho; it’s a feast. We ate two rounds there (which pretty much equates to a full meal), and then went two blocks down to another place Chris used to go to. This happened to be a bar that served – of all things – hamburgers with lettuce and onion as tapas. I downed one of those and then proceeded to attack Maria’s beef with red sauce and potatoes, which she couldn’t finish (I would pay for the amount of cheap, not necessarily sanitary food I had just eaten in the morning). We finished off the night at Loop, enjoying the good tunes that they invariably play there, and that was that. Waving goodbye, I felt like Chris and Maria had just gotten in. A fast 48 hours it had been indeed.

I woke up the next morning with something evil churning around in my belly, and it didn’t go away completely until much later that night. Bars like the Buho are great, but you’ve got to be careful, which my gluttonous self was not on the previous night. I suppose anytime you’re getting that much food for almost no money, something’s up. Anyway one day in bed and I was no worse for the wear.

Acción de Gracias/Danksgiving

Despite the fact that I was an ocean away from my family during a holiday that, more than any other, is all about family and togetherness, it ended being one of the better weekends here in Granada without a doubt. For one thing, the good people at CEGRI University had set up for us American students a thanksgiving feast, complete with a 16-pound turkey, stuffing, pies, mashed potatoes (although they were a bit on the runny side, como liquido), and bottles of wine. We’d be eating this wonderful feast in a little pueblo just outside of Granada, after a 15 minute bus ride. As if this wasn’t enough, Chris came to visit once again, and to take part in the CEGRI dinner, which he had attended when he studied there two years ago. Along with him he’d be bringing Maria of course, also one of my great friends from school. And so although I wouldn’t be with family on the day of many thanks, I’d be with people I’ve known for years and really care about, which was more than I could ask for. A good weekend it would be indeed…

Although none of the students were required to, we were all encouraged to get together and make dishes to bring to the dinner. And so naturally Eddie and I were scrambling around in Supersol (the grocery store in my neighborhood) about two hours before the bus left to the dinner, trying to find ingredients for our “dish.” But, naturally as well, we were not actually making a dish, but a beverage – alcoholic cider to be exact – as we figured there’d be plenty of food but, considering this was a university affiliated event, perhaps a shortage in the drinks department. We snagged some brown sugar, apple juice, cinnamon sticks, and coconut rum. We also picked up a bottle of wine for during preparation drinking. Next we headed to hipereuro, the Spanish version of a dollar general store, and picked up a plastic pitcher for 2.50 (this place almost always magically has exactly what you’re looking for, just of very low quality). We quite power-walked to his señoras, where we began preparing our concoction. We boiled it all up together, poured in all the rum (after taking a shot each), poured in a ton of brown sugar and, in a moment of buzzed spontaneity, peeled an orange and threw the skin and meat in too. The end result was, by our very low standards, a masterpiece.

As we were finishing up, Eddie’s señora, Ana, showed up and immediately began laughing at the sight before her: here were two skinny Americans – both at least twice her height – hovering over a large, steaming pot with empty cartons of juice and brown sugar and empty bottles of rum and wine scattered about her kitchen. Thank God she has a sense of humor, and after a good laugh she immediately began helping us clean up and transfer the cider into the 2.50 euro plastic pitcher. She also helped us wrap foil and rubber bands around the top, because part of it had already broken off. Ana is the quintessential Andalucían woman, or at least what I think is the ideal of a typical Andalucían woman. She’s short, stout, has a surprisingly raspy voice and commands an incredible amount of energy, working 3 or so jobs and taking care of a foreign student. She’s got motherly instinct in spades, and seems to be always ready to aid Eddie in whatever way she can, whether that means making him more food or giving him a foot massage after he’s gone for a long run. Her three sons (the youngest of which is now approaching thirty) still make sure to take advantage of her endlessly giving nature, and come over often to eat dinner, make fun of Eddie (all in good fun of course), or ask for a ride to the bars. She’s also seems to have a very strong sense of that southern Spanish hospitality, and is constantly inviting me over for dinner, during which, on the one occasion so far that I’ve obliged, she made sure that I’d eaten enough sopa, lomo, pan y fruta hasta el punto de que no podía moverme. After straightening Eddie and I’s collars evenly over our sweaters, we bid her goodbye, but not before she invited me over for dinner once again.

Arriving at the bus stop, I saw that Chris and Maria had not yet arrived, and so told Yanira (my conversation professor) that I was going to look for them closer to the intersection and to wait for me. About five minutes late, my good friends emerged from the corner of Gran Via. I gave them an excited holler and led them to the bus. One again, the same surreal and altogether wonderful sensation emerged upon seeing friends from the states here in Granada. Dinner was a bang up success, and so was Eddie and I’s “cidra” which, after being poured generously around our table, had other students lining up to try the brown sugar and rum loaded libation. We feasted, caught up and killed two bottles of wine on top of the cider. After having a good hour or so to settle mountain of food and drink we’d just consumed (I was the only one to go for seconds, which felt a bit strange on a holiday where I’m used to seeing everyone go for seconds or maybe even thirds), we took the bus back down to Granada and headed to the discotheques to continue the mild amount of dancing that had begun at the restaurant. El club Vogue ended up being the choice, just of La Calle Gran Capitan. Waiting in line, I was pleased to see that not only the majority of the CEGRI students were in action, but a good chunk of our professors as well. I’d been out with Elsa (culture of Islam professor) a few times and Yanira once, but had never seen Nerea (escritura y gramatica) or Monica (arte y cultura) ready to rock before. After a bit of slightly uncomfortable milling around and conversing, Elsa resumed the dancing (not surprisingly) by taking over the empty dance floor and beginning a head-banging, hair-flying, limbs-flailing solo mosh to Rage’s “Kiling In The Name Of,” (a little surprising). I followed suit with my own nerdy hopping around and a few moves I’ve still got from my hardcore days, and before long almost all of CEGRI’s student body and at least half of my professors had taken over the dance floor, shouting and grooving in unison. So I guess that’s the difference between your relationships with your professors in the states as opposed to in Granada…

We spent the rest of the night more or less in this manner, although the music quickly took on a much mellower ambience, dominated by 80’s alt and new wave pop the likes of The Smiths and The Cure. AJ and I exchanged our best “Charlie Brown” dances for quite some time. At some point Chris and Maria disappeared completely. Chris had eaten “some bad salad” or something and had to very suddenly quit dancing and rush to his hostel to puke his guts out. Apparently, and slightly miraculously, Chris only vomited out the salad, and maintained most of his delicious thanksgiving meal where it belongs. Anyway, feeling a bit put-off (I only found out that they had left for this reason the next day), I continued to groove it down, take down Estrella Damn, and display my notorious fist-pump/foot-stomping dance moves hasta las altas horas de la madrugadora, o casi la madrugadora. Ben and I, the final two, ended up leaving the joint at about 4:30. True to the Spanish custom of partying very, very late into the night, the place was just getting cracking…