Amigos, compatriots, mates

Ive been a bad, bad girl.

I mean, yeah, I have done a few peoples’ shares of drinking and slept about 12 hours total. But I also have neglected to blog or write anything except for the contact info for new friends. No blogging. No story proposals.

Eh. I am not super concerned and instead have resolved to give myself a free pass (hope you do too) for now — afterall Paris and Rome and Barcelona dont stop so that you can log onto the Net.

That having been said I thought I would give an apertif of the wonderful folks who have come into my world. The funny thing about traveling is that you become great friends with people in such short times and then just as quickly they leave your existences and hopefuly you are a bit better for it. Anyway, here are a few:

In Rome I met a fantastic couple on my last night from Australia named Gemma and Chris ( I later found out his last name is Brown. don’t worry, not that girlfriend beater however). They bravely quit their jobs and are hitting the globe for half a year in search of adventure. We were scheduled to go on a Pub Crawl offered by some guy name Eddie through our hostel. Turns out that Eddie is a shady character just after the 10 euros you shell out to him. You are promised an authentic Italian meal, as much of the best red wine you can drink and extremely exclusive rights to get into a stellar club. This is what you actually get — a pretty good spaghetti dinner the size of something a 6-year-old would eat after waiting more than an hour and a half, the equivalent of boxed wine and a cancellation on the club because Eddies not feeling well. Thank god I had Gemma and Chris to drink and play B.S. with and all the while put up with the shenanigans (and a sketchy fellow Aussie who spilled wine and refused to clean up and almost got kicked out of the hostel for yelling at the staff). Phew!

In Florence I was hosted by Aldo, a typical Italian womanizer who is obsessed with his speedy car. The first night was terrific as he took me to the best pizzeria in the city and introduced me to an Italian alcoholic concoction called Spritz. Then he must have gotten the hint that the California girl (as he called me) would not get into my pants and that if he tried walking around pretty much naked I would hide under the covers on the couch. That’s when he ignored me, and I was forced to check out the city on my own while he spoke in only Italian to his friend. No biggie.

That brings me to Feta, my 60-year-old boyfriend of sorts. This plump, short older gent witnessed me trying to read an Italian newspaper while sipping on cappucino and waiting for my museum appointment. His quick response was to mock this American who clearly doesnt know Italian. Then after some ribbing in broken English Feta insisted on buying me another drink. No cappucino, though, he insisted. It was time for whiskey and some advice that I never marry. Afterall, Feta told me, you can see things in people when you first meet them. And in me, apparently, he saw freedom. Well I’ll be darned.

Lastly I befriended a group of Germans in Valencia in between the fireworks and drunken debauchery that is Las Fallas. Basically I latched on to Tina and her buddies who are on a long weekend from universities throughout Spain. They took me to the greatest dance club in that Spanish city and put up with the fact that I only speak English and some Spanish compared to each of them who must speak about 18 languages apiece. I now equate Germans with hospitality.

Ok, off to try to meet more new buddies in Paris. Kisses!

Highways and byways

Whoever coined the term traveling should be hung by their underwear.

The part of the process that is tedious and timeconsuming and encourages hair pulling (both of ones self and others) is the getting there. Once at said location, that is the nirvana, the part we write about in postcards. So why in Sam hell do we call it the part we hate!

At the moment I am trying the best I can to solve some transportation puzzles of sorts. Literally I´m in some dodgy call center because it´s the only place around that has internet. Funny, I thought I was in Barcelona, the home of the 92 Olympics. But I guess world sporting event does not equate to world wide web. I need internet to book a Ryanair flight to Rome. Have I lost you yet!

Originally my plan was to head to each destination by rail in search of a Before Sunrise type of glamorous, life altering experience. Then I went online and read the prices to do that. Whoah, mama, I´m not Donald Trump. That brings me to my current dilemna of getting to Rome. I was all set to go to the airport early and take the first thing available. Then I discovered that Barcelona´s airport is 60 km away and it means having to take a bus. Flash forward to me running to make a 730 bus and missing it. You get the picture. So I´m stranded until 3 am with a huge backpack. Sounds like a bad sitcom, I suppose.

This, by the way, is not the first travel snafu in my journey. Heading from Valencia to here I missed my train and was screaming at a security guard to let me in because I had paid for my ticket but had to watch the other passengers board while they prohibited me from entering. Oh, good times.

My guess is that the process is a test. I have to be resourceful and adjust. All I have is me, my backpack and my Spanish skills. Wish me buena suerte so that I can have lunch in Italia tomorrow.

Paradise village

When I told my friends that I found a deal where, in exchange for simply talking to Spaniards in English, I would get free accommodations for a week, many theories floated around.

It’s a scam, was the general idea. “You’ll end up on the side of a road,” one compadre said with certainty. “Call me when this falls through,” another responded quite cynically.

Sorry, guys; knock on wood. But so far you were wrong. Avila, where the program is held, is an oasis of mountains and peacefulness — and lots of cows on farms. For this city girl it has been a needed luxury in what will be a spontaneous and decidely unluxurious trip.

The basic drill is that about 15 Anglos and 15 Spaniards are here, drinking great red wine, talking for hours on end and enjoying private rooms with jacuzzis. I’ve learned so many great lessons in the one and a half days that have passed at this early point in the program. For example:

Women are more sensitive to bulls. Not so much to Spanish men. (this is a quote that sadly I did not make up).

Americans truly are assumed to be Paris Hiltons in the flesh. Eye roll.

I’m much easier to understand than Australians and Brits. Apparently, though, according to Spaniard Imanol, I’m really only completely comprehensible on a conference call pretending to be a reporter. Yup, that’s right, pretending.

Jacuzzis are dangerous pieces of equipment that should not be used as washing machines.

If I don’t open my mouth I can pass for a Spaniard. If I do try to talk, the absolute second the words even form on my lips a sticker with the word “tourist” somehow appears on my forehead. It’s amazing.

Flamenco is something I MUST learn.

And lastly I have to perform comedy tomorrow. I like to think I’m at least slightly comical but — yikes — that scares me.

Ay dios mio.

Surprises around every calle

There’s something beautiful in the unexpected. At least to me.

It’s why I created this trip for myself. More than anything, I wanted suspense and new experiences and unplanned spans of days where you get lost in conversation and places.

Today I got a slice of those desires. Waking up with no phone contact and scant internet connection I wasn’t really sure where I was headed. All I knew was I would be waking up early to get a head start on Madrid. Well, that didn’t happen when a group of three girls stumbled into my hostel at 4, turning on lights, mumbling “lo sientos” and — the only facet I really cared about — accidentally unplugging my alarm. That meant I woke up hours later than hoped, raced down the stairs to make the tail end of free breakfast croissants and took a 30-second shower to get to a tour an acquaintance invited me to.

That’s the hectic part of the story. The wonderful part is I met my first international friends on this journey. First there were Tersea and Lisel from Germany at breakfast who engaged in a long conversation with me about languages and schooling and orange juice. You know, the important stuff. Then, during the tour, I befriended a Japanese girl and guy  named Yuta (like the state, I stupidly pointed out) and Yukaka who were eager to rehearse their English on me, as we ate jamon sandwiches and guzzled beer in between posing for pictures at palaces.

Connecting to these great folks — even momentarily — put a grin on my face and made any rushing worthwhile.

Later on that night, I had planned to go out on the town with an American friend living in Spain’s capital. Indie rock or dancing at gay clubs were promised so that I could get the local’s perspective and get hammered. Well, that didn’t happen nor did we make it into the free entry to the Prado Museum.

Here’s what did ensue: Miriam, Marc and I slipped into a tiny tapas joint to refuel and take advantage of a 5 euro deal involving patatas, cerveza and — we thought — calamari. Pure, fried goodness! As we readied to head out I asked, in my best Spanish, the name of a drink Miriam said I HAD to try which incorporated lemon lime something-or-other with wine.

Before we knew it our server Santiago brought us some to try gratis. Only he didn’t stop there. Santiago served round after round. And the nearby chef, who was chain-smoking cigarettes while his sous chef handled the comida, also took a liking  to us. I guess that’s why he brought us extra plates of ham and — when Marc inquired about  the calamari and suggested that the breading was overpowering — squid freshly sauteed in a way that was not even on the menu.

Santiago assured us that he wanted to make us feel welcome and that he had left a previous restaurant job because the staff was rude to tourists who were only trying their best at speaking Spanish, as we were. Despite their kindness, after hours and piles of tinto veranos had piled up, the three of us worried about whether we had the euros to cover the bill.

That’s when Santiago brought us a check that left off all of the additional food and drink and came to a mere 15 euros. We tried to give him extra money as a thank you. But he refused.

“Today’s my birthday,” he explained. “In Spain for our birthday we include other people and share it with them. I wanted to share with you.”

Ah, the unexpected. The end of the evening also was, well, unplanned. Arnell, our friendly chef friend, took us to more bars nearby. It was a nice gesture, only not so nice when he fell over his stool in sloppy drunken elegance and then awkwardly called Marc out of the pub for a private drink at a different locale without the ladies.

Oh well, it was still a beautiful day.

Great and exciting things

 

leaving on a jet plane. supposed to be back April 1.

At this time tomorrow I will be in Espana. Iy yi yi. How great it is to say that.

In case you don’t know, for the next four weeks I’m backpacking around western Europe. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for, gosh, practically a decade. But then life got in the way. No vacation time at work. New job. College. In January I decided no more excuses.

Here’s my plan, if you want to call my smattering of ideas of places to hit a plan.

I begin in Madrid staying at a hostel and hopefully meeting up with a friend of a friend as well as my roommate. Then for five days I embark on the uh, luxurious, and organized leg of the trip — Vaughantown. The program began seven years ago and basically creates an English-only village in Avila where  Spanish business elite can come and immerse themselves en ingles. Program organizers are always in search of native English speakers who make it their job to rigorously speak and listen to these Spaniards. For our troubles we get free room and board, food, entertainment, the works. Fairly sweet wouldn’t you say?

I heard about the arrangement during the holidays and finally got in for one of the March sessions. Once I did I thought to myself, “Why stop at a week in Spain?” I’m not. From there, I’ll make my way to Valencia, Barcelona, Rome, Florence and Paris. At each stopping point I’ll get 3, 4 or 5 days, and I plan to make them count.

So we’ll see what happens. No matter what, I know it’ll be an adventure and one that excites me to my core.