Travel Adventures of Author Erica Ridley
There is no security check-through on international trains. No X-rays, no wandings, nothing. This is because of the EU, which, due to its “open boundaries” policy, makes such precaution illegal.
Also, so far I haven’t seen any fountain drinks anywhere. Unless you count beer on draught. Just cans and bottles. And don’t think you can get a bottle of Welch’s Grape, either. The closest juice-like concoction I’ve found is Orange Fanta.
I get up and head out. Venkat and I walk to the tram, take the tram to the Metro, and the Metro to the train station. All of this took maybe 10 minutes, so we possibly could have walked, but what’s the fun in that?
Venkat heads to work, and I head to the train station. For some reason, I decided that I’d buy my Amsterdam ticket to save a Eurail slot (I only get 15). So we go to the ticket counter, and the guy asks “26 or under?” “Um, sure,” I respond craftily. He sells me the ticket for $20. I had already purchased a reservation for $10 when I had planned to use the Eurail, but this was still less than the 50 Euro price. Of course, once I got on the train, they checked my passport, and busted me for being over 26, so I had to pay the difference, which was 35 Euros. So I screwed myself out of 10 Euros. And then later that night, as I was leaving Amsterdam, I realized I had to use today as one of my days anyway on my Eurail ticket, so I should have just kept my original Eurail reservation to start out with. So I actually screwed myself out of 50 Euros. All of which leads to the moral of the story: Don’t try to cheat the system. The system is Master. I did not win.
So anyway, I’m on the train to Amsterdam, and I forget what I said to the woman next to me, but I must’ve startled her by speaking, because she jumped about a mile. In doing so, I noticed she was clutching a long strand of dark brown, wooden beads. I wonder if they were religious and I caught her mid-prayer?
Today I’m wearing my “Toro Beso” shirt, featuring a (cartoon) bull kissing a cow. Naturally, I start to overanalyze it. The toro is black (as one might expect) and the cow is black and white spotted (also as one might expect.) However. Kristin, who lives on a milk farm and therefore ought to know about such things, told me that the color represents the type of cow, meaning that there are all-black cows and bulls that are black-and-white spotted, and that generally like sticks with like. In other words, my cow and toro are doin’ the mixed-race thang, which is funny (for me) on many levels.
Sooner or later, the train arrives and I discontinue contemplating the jungle fever of spanish cows. I detrain (or whatever the rail word for “deplane” is) and immediately head off in search of the Monday Morning Market, which I learned about from the lady next to me on the train. (And with whom I did *not* share my cow musings, else she might have strangled me with the prayer beads.)
First, let me give you some background info. Relevant, I swear. If you know nothing about the topography of Amsterdam (much like myself before I showed up on the train) then what you ought to realize is this.
Amsterdam is mostly water.
It is a city lined along the banks of several horseshoe-shaped canals, each nestled inside the other, so that the outermost canal is very long indeed. The train station is in the middle of this Chinese box. The market is on the outermost canal. Luckily, it is possible to weave your way across the canals through a series of (unconnected) bridges.
Amsterdam is also singular because for every person you see, you see at least twenty bikes. There were multi-level parking garages, all of which were packed with bikes. 10-speed type bikes, not motorcycles.
Each traffic light has a car light, a pedestrial light, and a bike light. The bridges are lined with bikes. The lamps and signposts are tethered with bikes. The streets are strewn with bikes. And you’re likely to get taken down when crossing the street if you don’t keep your eye on the bike lane. It’s absolutely crazy, but in a very cool way.
So anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the market. I was directed to the right location by a very nice gentleman sporting dreadlocks and the traditional Amsterdam Scent. He said he was on his way there himself and I would be welcome to follow him. He made it about three blocks before stopping by the canal for a smoke break (yes, a “smoke break”) but by that point, I could see the next bridge and the market across the water, so I went on ahead.
The market was very cool. The first part was ultra flea-market-esque. My mom would’ve really liked it because most of the tents were true flea market material. (In her words, “I want to see other people’s junk, not tables of beanie babies.”)
Toward the other side were tents with food. I don’t know what it was that I ate, but it was a hot, fresh, bread-ish thing, and very tasty. (I didn’t recognize anything in any tent, but as long as it was vegetarian, I was game to try it. Although, with the pastry, they asked me if I preferred hot sauce only, or sweet and sour sauce (???) and they stared at me like I didn’t know good eats when I said, “Um… neither?”
Next, I went to the Anne Frank house. There was a sign posting “No Bags Allowed”, so I couldn’t go in since I was backpacking. I probably wouldn’t have made it in anyway, since the line wrapped down the block, turned the corner, and kept on going. (I’m told this is the usual way of it.)
Next I went by the Westerkirk Church. I am assuming “kirk” means “church”, since I think “kirsche” means chirch in German. But who knows.
Besides lots of signs for Heineken, Amstel, and various herbal cafes (including the “Energy” cafe, which at first seemed to be a bit of an oxymoron, until I learned that in addition to the usual marijuana options, they also served their own brand of energy drink, and for this reason posted a large sign with a can of Red Bull in an red circle with a line through it.)
Anyway, in addition to all this, I noticed that Amsterdam was very gay and lesbian friendly. Many European cities are gay and lesbian friendly, which is nice, but Amsterdam *especially*. There were souvenir kiosks that catered to this demographic, and lots of streets with buildings titled things like “Hotel Rainbow Palace”.
Speaking of palaces, I did see the Palais in Amsterdam as well as the Nieuwe Kirk, and the National Monument, Waag, and Mme Tussauds. I also saw a cop cruise by on a bike. Not a motorcycle, as I mentioned, but your ordinary, pedal-pumping bike. I actually never saw any cops *not* on bikes… none on foot and none in cars.
A public restroom was very difficult to locate, and I ended up banking on KFC on the supposition that all American fast food chains have bathrooms. I was not disappointed. (Where else can teenagers express their angst in magic marker graffiti?) This bathroom cost 50 cents and I had to check my bag before I could go in. Shockingly (although pleasingly) this just might be the nicest and cleanest bathroom of my European experience thus far.
After this little side trip, I wandered around some more, and came across a tall, old church. Only in Amsterdam would the other side of the street contain a coffee shop and a sex shop, side by side, facing the church. (I guess that makes it more convenient. Head into the sex shop, and when you wake up the next morning, stumble next door for some coffee, then across the street to repent your wicked ways.)
Back to the bathrooms. (I apologize for all the toilet talk in this particular post.) Near this church is also where I came across a guy urinating in the street. I couldn’t exactly see him (although I could unfortunately smell him) because he was inside some kind of spiral shaped metal wall. The wall extended from about knee level to shoulder level–covering the necessities, I suppose–and the opening overlapped enough that you wouldn’t accidently glimpse the genitalia of the person inside. From the nonchalant way other people were standing around (and from the smell of the street) I can only assume he really was supposed to be peeing on the sidewalk, and that that is what the metal circle was for.
Another thing I noticed about Amsterdam (I swear this has nothing to do with bodily functions) is that in general, prices are not posted. When cruising past a souvenir stand, if I see a postcard I like, I have to go in and specifically ask. Likewise with the Internet cafe and anything else.
I ducked into a soup kitchen and ordered some soup. They asked if I preferred white or brown bread (brown) and if I wanted butter or pesto (um…pesto?) and then they served up a steamy cup of spinach soup, but not before putting a healthy scoopful of tomato soup in the middle of it. It turned out to be really good, although halfway through the soup I felt my cheeks and forehead heating up (sigh… add pesto to my ever-growing list of food sensitivities.)
So I headed on down the street and decided what I really needed was some coffee. I go into a coffee shop and order a caramel mocha. The guy behind the counter says, “Where are you from?” “Florida,” I answer. He then says, “You don’t look like you’re from the States. Your eyes are like chocolate and your skin is like caramel. I can’t look at you too much or I’ll want to eat you.” I bared my teeth in a smile, said, “We’re all colors there,” and asked, “How much is the coffee?” Two other women came in shortly after, and as soon as his attention was diverted, I escaped.
Amsterdam, I might add, is not as fashion forward as France, for example. I saw many bizarre outfits such as jean miniskirts with moon boots. (Guess they didn’t go out with the 80s here) or knee-high fur boots complete with furball tassels (???) and lots of clunky cowboy boots with otherwise trendy dresses. (Also not having died with the 80s here is the colored mascara. I saw many a woman with bright blue eyelashes. And like in France and Spain, Manic Panic is making a mint–women of all ages sport hair in unnatural shades, especially cherry, magenta, rust, and grape.) I later met someone from Holland who said you can always tell an American because he’s wearing tennis shoes, rather than some flavor of boot.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking yourself, “So what do they speak in Holland? Hollandaise?” No, my friend! What they speak is Dutch. And I don’t understand a word of it. The same guy who informed me about the boots also said, “In Amsterdam, we don’t say ‘Cheers’. We say, ‘Cheese’.” Or something like that. I told you I can’t understand Dutch.
I sat on the waist-high stone bank of a sidewalk flower bed for about an hour, trying to will my cell phone to work (no luck, then or ever) and pretending I could feel the sun on my (idiotically) bare legs. Naturally, Florida girl only packed one pair of khakis and loaded the rest of her suitcase with shorts. It’s August! How can people live in a country that’s cold in August???
All that sitting around (and failed mind-control) worked up an appetite. I have no idea what they eat in Amsterdam, so I slipped into an Indian restaurant. (No, I don’t think Amsterdam is in India. I just like the food.)
The waiter came up to me with a huge grin, and I was immediately wary. “Let me guess,” he says, and closes his eyes. “You are from… Florida. And your name… starts with… an E.”
Humph. As if I didn’t know that i’m lugging around a bright blue bag with a name tag the size of Texas. Single women, beware. Amsterdam men live to flirt. And they’re not very clever at it.
Once again, I flash a tolerant smile (which kills him–he’s dying for me to ask how he knows, and I’m not even going to mention it) and I order the vegi biryani.
Every time I bit into a white raisin, it surprised me. It was kind of funny. Mine also had maybe cashews or almonds in it. I’m not sure because I’m not very nutty (no comments please) so I admit I ate around those bits. I know, I know, vegetable biryani clearly indicates that I fell off my “I’ll only eat European food in Europe” high horse. What can I say. It was next door to Tio Pepe’s Mexican Restaurant, but I wasn’t too sure about Mexican food in Holland. This place at least had employees that could conceivably be from India. Plus the meal came with free aloo mater. What more could you ask for?
So that night I take the train to Vienna. The train station bathroom costs 50 cents (here I go again with my bathroom diatribes) and there was a man in it, which confused me. Come to find out, he was manning the station, which at the time I found to be odd. (But, as my travels continued, I realized this was the norm.) This is also where I got yelled at for my shoddy German. “Sprechen sie Englisch?” I asked, wanting to find out what he was doing in the ladies room. “No, I don’t speak English!” he screams at me in rapid-fire German. “If you want to speak English, go to England!” He glares, then adds, “Or America!” as if it’s some horrible insult beyond all imagining. “You are here, and here we speak German! So speak German!” At this point, he stops to catch his breath, red-faced, hands on hips.
“Um, okay,” I answer brilliantly. “Uh… danke.”
We checked out of the hotel and made it to the Metro with all our luggage. Some guy helped me get my suitcase on board, which I thought was nice at the time. (FORESHADOWING!!) Danielle’s train station was the stop before mine, so we hugged goodbye and she went on her way.
When my stop came, that guy from before materialized from out of nowhere. I thought he was just carying on with the Good Samaritan bit, but that is because I am slow to catch on.
He had actually decided to turn stalker, and followed me through my subsequent metro connections all the way into the train station. Since my departure was much later than Danielle’s, I had a little over three hours to kill. When he plopped down on the bench next to me and grinned, I was more than a little creeped out. He wrote down his address and phone number and told me to come over (which was both creepy and bizarre, since clearly I was getting ready to leave on a train) but when he asked if he could take my photograph, I had had enough.
I sprang up and went to the ticket counter and exchanged my ticket for the very next train out of there. They were really nice about it and let me exchange free of charge. I knew Venkat and Anjali weren’t expecting me for another 3 hours, but by this time, I decided I’d rather wait for them in Brussels by myself rather than sit here getting photographed by this weirdo.
So, I make the next train (one leaves every hour for Brussels) and as soon as I land, I call Venkat and Anjali, who luckily were not far away. Boy was I ever glad to see them! They had found a great parking spot on the curb, and we threw my luggage inside, then walked over to the market, where I ate a… well, I forgot what it’s called, but it was surprisingly good, considering it was a naan-like bread filled with feta and honey. (Venkat’s also contained olives.)
We went to their apartment next, which is really nice, with big rooms. Anjali said I could leave my shoes in the hall and I must have made a weird face, because she quickly added, “but you don’t have to.”
“It’s not that,” I was forced to admit. “It’s that I’m wearing the same psychedelic socks I used for my Evil Clown costume last Guavaween and I didn’t want you to see them.”
We snacked on some leftovers (they have the best leftovers in the world. I would eat nothing but leftovers if my leftovers were anything like theirs.) and then set out to walk about town. I saw the Palais de Justice and a WWI/WWII monument. We walked by the atomium, the music conservatory, the Parc du Bruxelles in front of the Royal Palace, and the Eglise Notre Dame du Sablon.
I saw the Museum of Musical instruments, whose building looked so cool that I totally want to go back and explore. The Palais des Congress has a clock tower, which plays a different song every 15 minutes. I saw a lot of Tin-Tin memorabilia and comic books, as well as some for Betty Boop, although I’m not sure why she was so popular.
Brussels is known for more than beer and chocolate (and sprouts)–they are also known for eating fries witih mayo, and mussels in a pot, neither of which I sampled.
I *did* gobble up a waffle, of course, and it was topped with strawberries, bananas, and chocolate. Venkat tells me that’s tourist-style, but all the same, it was delicious.
And, in case you’ve always wondered, Brussels actually has three official city names. Brussel (Flemish), Bruxelles (French), and Brussels (English).
I also felt the golden lady from head to toe, which is supposed to bring good luck. There were a ton of people crowded around the statue, so it must work. I forgot to ask Venkat what the story is behind that, sorry.
I also saw the infamous Mannekin Pis, and Venkat took a classic photo for me. Then we stopped for drinks. Brussels has eating tables and drinking tables. (We sat at drinking tables.) You can tell the difference because drinking tables don’t come with menus. Also–at the drinking tables, at least–you are expected to pay for each round as you go.
Everyone from the college program left today, either to go home or to embark on subsequent travels. My plans don’t really unfold until tomorrow when Venkat and Anjali are expecting me. Danielle had a limbo day, too, since her dad and grandmother are driving to Lourdes to meet her tomorrow.
So, we got around and went to the Louvre again.
When we think about ancient civilizations, we tend to think of them as primitive or at least inferior in some way. But I think it’s obvious that they had a much greater appreciation of art than we do today, and consequently, they were surrounded by much more beauty.
Sure, they didn’t have the technology and mass production that we do today, but that only makes my respect for that time period even deeper. All the intricate detail and opulent decoration had to be done by hand. Slowly, carefully, purposefully.
And we are lucky they took the time to do so, so we can still see what architecture/craftsmanship used to mean, now that we live in a time when the most ornate we get is crown moulding.
OK, enough waxing philosophic. Let me tell you more about the Louvre. We started in the oldest section (hence the above rant) and more or less worked our way forward through time. I saw an astrolabe, which was pretty neat, Puget Statues, and the code of hammurabi, which dates back to ancient Babylon and was the first written code of laws.
(We also saw some guy get pickpocketed by a teenager, right in front of the Mona Lisa.)
I saw works by El Greco, Rubens, Goya, Boticelli, Raphael, da Vinci, De La Croix, and–one of my personal favorites–Giuseppe Arcimboldo. If you have no idea who this is, but you live in the state of Florida, bop on over to the Ringling museum, which I believe has several other of his “still lifes”. I “quote” it, because although he typically paints fruit, it always looks like something else. Usually a portrait. And unlike Dalí, who is not above melting or morphing something to achieve an effect (and whom I also like immensely), Arcimboldo’s fruit are really fruit, although you can’t help but see the other image, especially from a distance.
We only stayed a few hours, but Danielle says if you looked at each individual item in the Louvre’s extensive collection for only one second each, it would take three solid months to get through everything. I can’t wait to come back!
We also had a little adventure in the Louvre when we were stopped by a security guard named Lakpar, who thought we were Italian. He discovered we were not, tried to put the moves on us anyway, and finished his speech with a diatribe about how you can’t trust a woman and you better not leave her alone if you have to work late or she’ll be sleeping with your neighbor. (He gave us his phone number, but we did not reciprocate.)
After the Louvre, Danielle and I walked around Paris. We saw the Bastille, which reminded me of Siegessaule in Berlin.
We also went to Invalides and Madeleine before calling it a night. We went out later in search of Wedding Crashers, which we saw advertised all over town, but all we could find was Mr and Mrs Smith (which we decided to pass on) and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We ended up getting dinner and relaxing on the Champs Elysees.
I took the Metro to the train station. Here let me briefly describe the Paris Metro system. There are two networks, the numbers and the letters. The alphabet lines are more expensive, and run inter-city. The numeric lines are cheaper, and run intra-city. For some reason, the train station, like the airport, is not “in” city proper, so it took me one of each ticket to get there. (At least it was still in France, seeing how the Cincinnati, OH airport is actually in Kentucky.)
Each Metro stop is not only clearly marked, but also cleverly themed. The stop for the Louvre actually has art in glass cases in the Metro stop. (That would be stolen or spraypainted in about 5 seconds flat in the U.S.)
So, I get to the train station, wander around a bit, and come across the reservations room, where I go to buy my upcoming tickets. I wait in line for the International counter, and when I get there, what do you know–she doesn’t speak a word of English, so I had to explain everything in my pitiful French. She was very patient with me and everything worked out fine until I mentioned Budapest. “Where’s that?” she asks. “Um, Hungary?” I answer cleverly. (I had no idea how to say Hungary in French.) Nope, never heard of it, she says again, and hunts it up in her book. There it is–Budapest, “Hongrie”. “There it is!” I point, excitedly. She shrugs. “I don’t know where Hongrie is. You’ll have to buy that ticket somewhere else.”
Now. First of all, she’s a freaking travel agent for international sales. Secondly, it’s only two countries away, on the same continent. It’s not like I said Mozambique or anything. And lastly, who cares if you can find the place on the map! If it’s in the book, why can’t I get a freaking ticket?!?!
(Unfortunately, my remedial French prevented me from saying a single word of this snappy diatribe, so I smiled, said thanks anyway, and left.)
I hopped on the Metro for Line Yellow C (alphabet=out of city, remember?) and headed for Versaille. It was pretty easy to get there, but the doors to the train opened way before the train actually stopped. I cowered back in horror as people jumped out the doorway anyway, having to hit the ground in a stumble/run so as not to fall face-first to the ground. I was the last person off the train since I (very uncool-ly) waited for it to stop before disembarking. (Years of themeparking has brainwashed me. I cannot exit until the train has come to a full and complete stop.)
Versaille was beautiful, but very expensive. Each room in the palace cost 8-12 Euros to enter, and although there was a day pass I could have purchased, I didn’t, and contented myself with wandering around the outside. The gardens were pay-to-enter, too, although you can walk along the perimeter without a ticket.
The bathrooms, though, were the last straw because they were *also* pay-per-use!
When I left the palace grounds, McDonald’s was a welcome sight for the first time since outgrowing happy meals. No matter where I am in the world, the golden arches only mean one thing to me–public restrooms.
Also, this was the first time I tried to use my cell phone outside of Spain… And calls didn’t go through. I tried Florida, I tried Brussels… nothing.
At this point, it’s safe to say I was less than pleased. The store swore to me it would work in any European country. And sure, it does… if by “work” you mean that the power button turns the screen on.
To save you the suspense, I was only able to use the phone in one other country–Belgium. And that was only for in-country calls to Brussels from Brussels. No, I don’t get it either.
We began the day with a Paris city tour. Paris was founded by a Celtic tribe, and nowadays has a population of two million within the city limits, 11 million when counting the outskirts. Paris alone is 1/5 of France’s entire population.
Paris has 20 districts. The streets are generally wide avenues lined with trees. There are no big parks in the city, but there are two large parks just outside the city. Like Spain, menu prices are less expensive when seated at the bar than at tables.
At stops for loading/unloading passengers, tour buses kill the engine (and therefore the A/C). This isn’t to torture tourists–this is because there are strict anti-pollution laws, and if they don’t turn off the bus, they will get a ticket.
First I saw a Russian cathedral, then Montmartre which is called the Mount of Martyrs because of the legend of a Paris bishop who was beheaded here by Romans.
Next, I got to see Sacre Coeur, and although I didn’t go inside (I plan to do so later) it is beautiful on the outside.
Nearby, there is a square packed with vendors of all types (and, I’m warned, pickpockets) and their in-you-face hustle reminded me of Morocco. (Luckily, this was the only place in Paris that struck me this way.)
Paris is seperated by the river Seine and the people on each side are distinct, with their own different customs. We went down Rue de la Paix, an expensive strip, and Rue Saint Honore, and saw a statue of Napoleon. We also saw the Latin Quarter, and the Roman baths, which have pools of different temperatures (really hot, warm, and ice cold. M. Saint Michel, if you’re interested.)
I learned that the Louvre was a fortress in the 12th century, and that Notre Dame is the center of the city. This is also where Napoleon crowned himself emporer in 1804. I also learned that Notre Dame used to be colorful, with bright blues and reds. It would have been neat to see it in its original condition.
Place de la Concorde is the square where in 1793, Marie Antoinette was beheaded. At the time, it was known as Revolution Square.
We went by a 3000 year old Egyptian tower, then Invalides, then went to the Arc de Triomphe (me, for the second time). This is the biggest arc in the world. This area is also known as Star Square, because the streets intersect like an asterisk, with the Arc de Triomphe on a roundabout in the center. One of the friezes is of Napoleon dressed in Roman gear. In the middle of the arc lies the tomb of the unknown soldier from WWI, with its eternal flame.
Next we got to see the Eiffel tower. It was built out of iron in 1889 and at the time was the biggest monument in the world. People who lived nearby began moving away because they were afraid it would topple over.
The girls and I sat on a bench with a view of the tower and noshed on some crepes. It was the first surreal moment I’ve had since I left the U.S. Just standing in the sunlight, warm chocolate crepe in my hand, Eiffel tower towering in front of me. Sunlight for a moment, anyway–then the sky opened up and the rain came. Apparently, it’s not unusual for Paris to rain every afternoon.
That night, we dressed up and went back on the town for a night tour, to be followed by an evening performance of the Moulin Rouge cabaret.
We saw the statue of Napoleon as Caesar, and the square with the Ritz, next to the Ministry of Justice. We went by Cartier (a place to window shop for jewels) and the Paris Opera House, built in 1860. We went by the Louvre, whose modern art glass pyramid structure is comprised of 85 tons of steel. An interesting fact: the surface area of the Louvre is greater than that of the Vatican.
We went by Le Port Neuf (The New Bridge) which, in fact, is actually the old bridge–the oldest one in Paris. It used to be said that the bridge was so crowded, that on any given crossing, you were bound to run into a monk, a white horse, and a loose woman.
We went by the contemporary arts building, city hall, the Institut de France, the Latin Quarter, and of course Notre Dame. (No, not the one in South Bend, IN. The one from the 12th century, with the rose windows and bell tower.)
Next we hit the Place de la Concorde, which is one of the largest squares in the world. Its fountains were inspired by those in St. Peter’s square in Rome.
Then we rolled down Champs Elysees, which was the product of Louis XIV’s designer, who also created the gardens at Versailles. Here you’ll find the Grande Palais and the Petite Palais, as well as the oldest Metro station. The Paris Metro was begun on October 4, 1898 (two days after my birthday… if I were 107 years old. Which I’m not.) The Paris Metro runs three times the circumference of the Earth, every single day.
Champs Elysees is also the street with Fouquets, the oldest restaurant in Paris, where movie stars are often seen (and the menu prices prove it). We passed the Arc de Triomphe again, and I was amused to find out it exists out of luck–Napoleon had originally wanted to build a giant elephant instead. (And if Parisians could talk Napoleon Bonaparte out of an elephant, why oh why could no one talk George Lucas out of Jar Jar Binks???) The Arc de Triomphe was inaugerated on July 29, 1836–30 years after construction began. Napoleon was buried nearby in Les Invalides, also near the Church of Glory. (Magdalene/Madeleine)
The Eiffel Tower was created much like a giant puzzle, and the last piece clicked into place on February 24, 1889, and not to rave reviews. Besides the fact that everyone was sure it would collapse on their houses at the slightest provocation, it was also higher than Notre Dame, which made it unclerical as well.
Moulin Rouge. How can I describe it? The best I can do is this: The Moulin Rouge is Broadway meets Cirque du Soleil. But topless.
An overabundance of champagne was served at every table, the costumes were amazing, acts included strong-man type acrobatics and awoman diving into a tank with a boa constrictor, and dancing–of course!–included the famous French can-can.
Today was finals. The art class was slide recognition, which wasn’t too terrible, although the professor did throw in a few sneaky ones, like slides that he never showed in class. It was of a place we did visit, yes, but in the daylight and from the ground level, not from a night-time aerial perspective like the slide. (Tricksy he is.)
I later zipped over to the Corte Ingles to get the receipt form for Customs–not sure how that whole tax-back thing works yet, but it seems like something to investigate.
That evening, we got dressed up and went to Casa Botín, the oldest restaurant in the world. (Also in the Guinness Book of World Records). We had a couple pitchers of Sangria, really tasty meals, and then we each ordered a different dessert off the menu, so that we could pass them around counter-clockwise and try everything. I’m glad we did–the desserts were awesome!
Lisbon, Portugal! First of all, Portugal is one hour earlier than Spain because for some reason, it is on UK time. Also, Portuguese is more unlike Spanish than I had suspected. For example, “thank you” is “obrigada”, which in no way resembles “gracias.” (And if you’re a man, “obrigado”.) I also saw a sign with “chocolate” spelled with an X instead of the “ch”. (?!?!?!)
The first thing I noted when I landed at the train station was that I had to pay to use the bathroom. (I would soon learn that outside of Spain, this is actually the norm. Carry change.)
The area around the train station is a little sketchy, and at first I thought I had made a Bad Mistake. Everything seemed dirty and trashy, with lots of graffiti and bums, some of which were sleeping in actual broken cardboard boxes.
However, as I kept walking, the neighborhoods kept improving. The walk was very pretty, with the river/port to my left and the city to my right. I passed a US Coast Guard pirate ship thing – no idea what that was about.
The woman on the train had told me to never start out speaking Spanish to the Portuguese. She said that they have some sort of inferiority complex with the Spaniards and if they meet someone from Spain, they will assume that person is going to snub them or insult them, so the Portuguese are likely to put on their attitude first, kind of as a defense mechanism.
So, she said to first ask if they speak English, and when they say no, *then* ask about Spanish. So, that’s what I did, and everywhere I went I spoke Spanish – but as the “second choice”.
So I’m in the center of town, which is a square with the river to one side and a statue in the center. It’s called the Praça do Comércio, “praça” being Portuguese for “plaza”. (Very frequently “r” was where I expected “l” and “ç” where I expected “z”. “Ç” is not even a letter in Spanish.)
I go to get on the trolley and the lady says “two”, which I took to mean two Euros so I forked over a 5, and she just gave me some loose change in return. Apparently, she was asking if I were paying for two *people*, and by smiling and nodding, I inadvertently bought the way of the guy behind me. So, if you don’t speak the language, don’t smile. Or nod. Very expensive habit.
The trolley was a crazy trolley (much like the crazy taxi, if you’re familiar with arcade games) and if I hadn’t held on with both hands, I wouldn’t still be here now. (Why don’t we have opposable toes?)
The first thing I did (once I got off the trolley and kissed the ground beneath my feet) was to visit the Monasterio de Geronimo. It happened to be free on Sunday, which was cool, and it was the 500th anniversary, which was even cooler. Apparently, people were allowed to touch all over everything and use flash photography, neither of which I felt was cool, so I abstained from both, keeping my hands and flashbulbs to myself.
I loved how gothic it was – it was the most gothicky monastery I’d ever been in, and it is awesome. (Not that I’d been in any monasteries prior to this trip – the most goth you’ll find in the US is Marilyn Manson.)
Next, I ate at the Pastéis de Belém. Mmm. I don’t know why I’m not still there, getting fatter and fatter. Run, don’t walk, to the nearest airport, fly to Lisbon, go to the original 1800’s blue-tiled Pastéis de Belém restaurant, order yourself a cappuccino and as many pastéis as the table can hold. This is now officially my favorite food in, I think, the world, and I am discovering it across the freaking globe. (Can I open a Tampa franchise??) I started with two and when the people next to me at their first and asked for a carryout box, I just ordered some more. (As my pal Ashley would say, “Get it in me!”)
The café Pastéis de Belém looks small, but don’t be fooled. It is secretly massive, and has lots of rooms that you go through one to get to another, so you’re never really sure how many there are.
Random people keep thinking I’m speaking Portuguese when I’m forced to mumble some Portspañol. I’m doing a lot of vague smiling, then wandering away when it seems opportune.
I went into the Coach Museum (or carriages, depending on how you look at it), which was celebrating its 100th year. It was wild to see all the golden, ornate coaches and imagine being carted about town secreted inside one. On my way out of the museum, I passed a vending machine – a KitKat machine! Be still my heart! Nothing but varieties of Kit Kat bars! Who knew there *were* varieties of Kit Kat bars?!
I ducked into a gift shop to scope out the shot glass selection for my collection, and on the counter I see this very sketchy iced-tea jug with something other than iced tea inside. It has a hand-made sign taped to it: “Ginja. Com chocolate: 1€”. Thanks to the book I borrowed from Danielle, I knew that ginja was (quoting here) “Portuguese firewater”. I had no idea about the chocolate, but hey, you only live once, right? So I slid my euro across the counter and the lady pours me a shot of ginja into a chocolate cup. And when I say chocolate cup, I mean a teacup – with handle and all – made completely of chocolate! It was an alcochocoholic’s *dream*. (And yes, before I went back to Madrid, I had another one. How could I not?)
The next place I went to was the Porto de Lisboa, which had a fabulous view of the boats and the bridge. Next, I went to the Monumento des Descobertas, or Discoveries monument, where my English/Spanish ploy completely fell apart. No English, no Spanish, no French – she spoke German. I managed to stumble through a “Would you please take my photo here?” in my broken German, which punctured my self-confidence a bit and I stopped talking for a while. (German?? I should have studied more!)
An interesting quick about Lisbon is that the roadside vendors have all the indulgences – everything from ice cream to hard liquor. (I didn’t have either one, because as you’ll recall I was quite stuffed with pasteis and ginja at this point.) I saw a lot of free public roadside parking, although I also saw a guy running a hustle where he flagged cars into (free) open spots for tips/money.
Next, I went to the tower of Belém, which was very cool. It had a dungeon with bars, and barred “windows” in the ground floor above which I imagine you could drop in prisoners or food or snakes or whatever to the dungeon below. I climbed the skinny, winding staircase to the top of the tower and was rewarded with an awesome panorama of Lisbon.
I saw the giant cross on the hill known as the Cristo Rei (I assume “Christ the King”) and I learned that Portugal is roughly the size of Indiana.
I walked through the Museu de Marinha (Maritime Museum) which had every manner of model ship and maritime relic, and was therefore probably a much more complete museum than really necessary for my taste. (That’ll teach me to go into Maritime museums. Everything’s all maritime-y.)
Next I hoofed it 4 miles to El Corte Ingles, forgetting it would be closed because it was Sunday. I’m glad I walked it, though, because I passed all sorts of cool views, and a street filled with vendors and sidewalk artists. The Corte had an open movie theater, so I flashed my student ID and got to see War of the Worlds on the cheap. Before the movie (which was in English) there was a preview for the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which was in Portuguese, so I didn’t understand a single word. I’ll be glad to see that one back home.
After the movie, I caught a taxi back to the Santa Apolonia railway station. Europe is big on roundabouts – most are two to four lanes wide. If you’re not a roundabout fan, don’t rent a car – take the metro or a taxi.
What is this, terrorist season? Today the ETA had apparently attempted – and failed – to bomb the Italian Embassy in Barcelona for some reason. I know they want their independence from Spain, but what does Italy have to do with it? The world is getting a little too bomb-happy. Since when is mass murder and civilian deaths the only answer to disagreements?
In the morning I had class and in the afternoon I worked, but in the evening I managed to break away for a spot of fun. A whole mess of us (Ashley, Danielle, Kristin, Alison, Isabel and I) went to the vegetarian restaurant for dinner, then prowled Plaza Mayor in search of good deals. The cops must have been by earlier, however, because there weren’t too many vendors out, but there were all manner of clowns, gypsies, actors, mimes, and even a pickpocket. How do I know? Because she tried to pick-pocket me. I was walking along, following my friends, when I got the eerie feeling someone was following right behind me. I turned to my right and caught her just as she was slipping her hand in my purse. (which, I’ll admit, was not the securest sort, as it was more of an open bag type purse, with no zipper or latch.) Nonetheless, I was so shocked that I couldn’t even make a sound. She was shocked too – that I caught her in the act – and she snatched back her hand and took off. It was crazy. The freakiest part was that she looked like just anybody – maybe late twenties, early thirties, stylish blond hair, preppy outfit.
I have not since taken that particular non-latching purse anywhere. (Get me once, shame on you. Get me twice, shame on me.)
Also, I want to give a big up to the metro system and their campaign “Ni un día sin poesía” when means, “Not even a day without poetry” (and, in Spanish, it rhymes.) There is at least one poem with accompanying color illustration on the wall in every metro car. I rarely saw the same poem twice, and that was only on the 6 Circular, which I take practically four times a day. Although subway windows are typically scratched up with graffiti (strange stuff, too – “Jamón”, “Agua” and “Leche” were popular, as if Madrid runs amok with food gangs, or grocery store wars) but the poems were always in pristine condition. I never once saw one marked up or torn in any way.
Today, I spent the morning in class and the afternoon and evening tethered to my laptop. While I was inside, Paula was outside – unfortunately getting pickpocketed.
It was so fast and so smooth that she didn’t even know it happened. She was getting off the Metro (I believe) and a lady said, better watch yourself – your purse is open. Paula looked ddown in trepidation because she had definitely closed it – and yes. Pickpocketed. 50 or 60 euros and all her credit cards. I felt so awful for her.
(Luckily, she was able to contact her bank right away, and they immediately shipped her new cards.)
History time: Before the 60s, there was almost no industry in Madrid. Then, the government gave permission on condition of no pollution. So, most factories make furniture, kitchen appliances, etc.
Spain has lots of olive trees and is famous for both the olives and the oil. Green and black olives come from the same tree. Black olives are used to make olive oil, and green olives are mixed with spices to soften them. Olives are harvested between December and February.
Madrid also has the Temple of Debod, an ancient Egyptian temple from the 4th century BC. It was brought here stone by stone, as a gift and a thank-you from the Egyptian people for lending a hand when they needed help.
Copyright © 2012 Erica Adventures