Thomas L. Friedman wasn't kidding around when he said the world was flat. Four years ago, when I was a wee young 'un in high school, an exchange student from Estonia came to my high school to spend a year experiencing the American culture and lifestyle (he was a big fan of Homecoming and Halloween in particular as I recall). His name was Marko and we ended up going to prom together that year. When he left for Estonia that summer (2009) we decided to stay in touch over Facebook as best we could.
Time passed, as usual, and Marko rarely used or visited Facebook--it simply isn't as popular in Estonia as it is in other parts of Europe and in the States. We fell more or less out of touch.
Then, sometime during the beginning of this semester, around mid January, I messaged him saying that I would be in Madrid for the spring semester and--fingers crossed--that hopefully we would have an opportunity to meet up. He thought that sounded like an excellent plan.
We both dropped the idea after that and didn't say another word to one another.
Until Tuesday last week (the 21st) when he messaged me saying that June 1st was coming up very soon and that soon I'd be home in the States and thousands of miles away . . . so could he come visit for the weekend to catch up and spend some time in Madrid? He'd never been here before.
Now, this is the beauty of being young. I have no obligations, no strings attached, nothing to keep me from practicing my independence and ultimate autonomy in all things. So of course I said, "Sure! Come crash on our couch for a few days!"
And that's precisely what we did. Here's where the flat world part comes in: we reconnected via Facebook, within a matter of hours Marko bought his tickets online, and on Friday he took a boat to Finland and a plane from Finland to Madrid, where I met him at the airport. Let the weekend commence!
I found it amazing that someone I hadn't talked to in four years came thousands of miles (2,300 in case you were wondering) to hang out in one of Europe's greatest cities for the weekend, and all in just a split second decision. I love being young. Viva la fiesta.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
All Hail the Bull
Due to its cultural significance and the rapid waning of our time here in Spain, my friends and I decided that we needed to experience the centuries old tradition of bullfighting. All four of us--Taylor, Tom, Melanie, and I--entered the Ventas stadium, Madrid's main bull ring, that towered above the pavement, all red brick with swooping Moor-style archways along the curved outer walls with a distinct sense of nervousness and foreboding. Outside the front of the stadium stood a cast iron statue depicting a slightly larger than life bull emerging from the iron; below him, a group of run-of-the-mill citizens stood looking adoring up at the figure raised far out of the metal sculpture, rising out above the bull: a heroic bullfighter, his cape in his left hand, flaring downward, and his right hand uplifted in a gesture of triumph.
After climbing what felt like thousands of stairs, we finally reached Grada 3 and found Fila 5, after the help of an old man and later, a security guard. The seats were nothing more than cement steps with numbers painted in black on the front, vertical side and spaced out about every two feet. Cushions were available for rent, but we're all young after all and don't require such creature comforts.
We ended up, by some stroke of luck, in a covered area on the penultimate level, only the top two levels being covered. This was a fact we had not known when we bought our tickets several days in advance (these matches sell out very quickly) but ignorance sometimes yields good results by accident.
The skies were that ominous cobalt-gray and several rumbles of thunder drew excited cheers from the expectant audience as the white-faced clock, silently standing vigil over the five story structure, showed that it was ten minutes to seven. The stadium was packed, mainly with adults and older couples, but there were a significant number of young children with their parents--a strange idea for a family night out, in this writer's opinion anyhow. But I suppose that's one of the definitions of culture.
Being round and multi-leveled, the arena reminded me of a baseball stadium, which I've only been to twice in my life--perhaps three times?--that I recall. But this spectacle resembled nothing like the nine inning, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" inspiring tradition from the States.
As the clouds gathered, a band began playing in a section to our right; this was not a national anthem however, as we first thought it might be, and nobody stood. This was the, "Attention, the show is about to start" fanfare. Drums, deep heavy warlike drums that recalled Native American ceremonies then began pounding somewhere down and to the left. The large clock perched atop the roof of the highest section now showed with its black hands that five past seven had arrived.
Something like a parade began then: first, two men dressed in black, colonial garb with a single long orange feather in each of their caps, came out into the ring on white horses, rode to the far right side (from our perspective) and swept off their caps in salute to the empty white box, which we felt we could safely assume would have been for the royal family if they chose to attend.
Next, the two horsemen rode to the gate directly in front of us, where then entered three bull fighters each in a shining white costume known as a traje de luces, or suit of lights. Seven or eight men in similar attire, but black, entered afterwards; all wore brilliant pink socks.
Next came more horsemen, these dressed in gold, their horses draped in thick, padded material and their eyes covered by black cloths so as to avoid their spooking later on during the fight. Their riders bore long spears.
Lastly came a team of three donkeys lashed together and toting a thick wooden beam with several small iron loops along it, which dragged behind them.
After this prancing about concluded, the ring was emptied, the drums pounded again, and the first bull was released inside.
Can you imagine the fear of the bull? Bright lights glaring in your eyes, thunder booming overhead, a strange roaring noise pierced by sharp whistlings all around you, red and yellow banners hung up everywhere--off every balcony and wall--and a searing pain in your back that you have no idea as to the cause of, but that, in reality is several colored ribbons attached to long pins, stabbed into the top back of your neck before the fight even began, to enrage you and to mark the target of your attackers.
The men dressed in black essentially served to weaken the bull for the main fighter in white, el torero. They would dash out into the ring, only a few feet away from the thick, wooden walls, wave their pink capes (not red, actually fuchsia) to anger the bull who would charge them of course. Then the men in black scampered back behind a door-like structure in the wall and the bull would either turn away or run into the wall. This would go on for awhile with the six or so men popping out of different barriers, forcing the bull to run back and forth. Recall the men in gold on horseback, los picadores, to whom the bull is directed, spear the back of the bull several times while the horse stumbles against the furious charge of the terrified animal.
Eventually, they would all coax him out into the middle of the ring, all together, where other men in black would arrive, one at a time. These secondary round of men dressed in black trajes would come with a pair of colored rods, the first two white and the last pair red and yellow for the colors of Spain. These rods must have had hooks in them because the men brandishing them at the bull would get charged and, at the last minute, sidestep so as to stick the rods in its back, which then hung down from the nape of his neck and swing around as the bull ran.
By this time, the poor thing had been run around for ten minutes and was now bleeding profusely. Its sides heaved.
Finally, the main fighter in white would come out, the crowd cheering ecstatically. He carried a sword and the traditional red cape. Whenever the bull would pass, he would slash at it with his sword. This would continue until the bull grew visibly weaker, declining to charge the fighter despite his waving of the red cape.
Several of those men in black costumes would come out with their fuchsia capes and all would harass the bull, attempting to wring the last dregs of energy and fury from him. At last, the main fighter would stab his sword into the bull's neck, from the top, and the creature's knees would buckle. It collapsed to the ground amidst whistles and cheers.
Then enter the team of donkeys with their lead, the bull was somehow attached to the harness and after being dragged around, the carcass finally was taken out of the ring.
People stood up between the fights to stretch their legs and chat while men below--and this too was reminiscent of a baseball diamond-- would rake the dirt flat and smooth, doing their best to preserve the two white circles of chalk that ran along the outer section of the ring. (The significance of these was never made known to us).
We stayed for only three out of the six bulls; three bulls being tortured to death for sport seemed like more than enough for us for one night. There are those who will defend this "tradition" as an art form; say what you will, I respect that some will view this as a part of their culture, having grown up with it, however I still firmly hold that it is cruel.
I don't really recall the third bull's fight so much. I think by then I was mentally checked out. The first however, was clearly a calm bull by nature. He never wanted to charge anyone. He simply stood there, looking at this aggressors until finally they would manage to anger him a bit. Angry cries of, "Venga, venga!" could be heard in the crowd. ("Come on! Come on!").
From beginning to end about twenty-five minutes later, that first bull clearly held pacifist beliefs. Even when routed towards the men on horses all in gold, even when they stabbed him with their spears, he still did not seem to want to fight. When he finally collapsed near the center of the ring, I was deeply sad.
When the second bull was killed, I was, contrastingly, furious.
This one came out fast and infuriated. Enormous in stature, he was enormous in courage as well. He charged his opponents fearlessly, including the man on the horse and in fact slamming into the side of the padded horse so hard that the steed almost lost his balance. The bull was stabbed long and deep by the picador for his retaliation.
People ate ham sandwiches in the stands, joked and chatted, clapped, shouted words of encouragement to the fighters, and smoked cigarettes. The ashes floated out from the level above us and fell like snowflakes.
The booming thunder rumbling overhead must have been a mighty knock at the gates of the heavens and those gates must have in consequence been opened because an absolute torrent of hail crashed down from the sky, falling in front of us like a waterfall of ice as a result of the floor above our heads. The hailstorm pelted the crowd below us in the uncovered section though with marble-sized chunks of ice.
Umbrellas of all colors sprouted up like flowers around the entire ring of the stadium. Some people abandoned their seats, but the vast majority remained to watch as the light brown dirt of the ring filled with hail and water puddled in the hoof-marks and the track where the first bull's body had been dragged out and where the dirt-rakers clearly had failed to make the ground level again.
When the man in white, glittering beneath the flashes of lightning in his sequined "suit of lights", the crowd seemed to double in size judging from the noise. We figured he must be something of a celebrity. As I noticed then, and for the third fight, the torero would always enter the ring with a black cap on, receive his applause, then lay the cap on the ground, which he collected after slaughtering the bull.
This second bull incurred many shouts of, "Óle!" from the crowd that seemed to be for every subsequent pass after the primary one. To be clear, the passes had to be in quick succession, which seemed rather difficult to do.
Finally, blood pouring down his sides--much more than the first, placid bull-- rib cage heaving, he found himself locked into a wall where three men in black trajes waved their capes in his face, as did the lead.
But the bull, despite his tremendous size and his desperate, furious attempts to ward off his attackers before now stood exhausted, incapable or anything more than a shake of his head, as if to swat away the capes. To please the crowd, the man in white did his best to reinvigorate the bull's fury: he stabbed its face with the tip of his glinting sword again and again while the poor beast merely tried to move his head out of the way.
Anger boiled inside me. The creature was breathing his last, racking breaths and those "fighters" accosted him relentlessly. Ceaselessly.
So the hail pounded, the cool breeze blew, the crowd screamed and clapped, thunder shook the metal framework bones of the stadium, and after three final stabs to the head and neck by the man in white, the bull took a few faltering steps in one last attempt at escape, then folded up and became an unmoving heap upon the ground. The white faced, black handed clock had cut through almost half of its own face by now, twenty-five minutes.
I knew only anger then. That noble animal had fought so bravely for his life and, in his last, agonizing, rasping moments, saw nothing but pink and red flaring before his eyes, heard nothing but guttural shouts, and felt nothing but the tormenting sting of silver cutting his face again and again and again.
So, with the deepest respect, I hail the hero of the night, that second bull that clung to life so desperately and so fiercely. On behalf of the humans in the ring and those that applauded as you were tortured and at last dragged through the mud and ice out of the stadium, I apologize.
After climbing what felt like thousands of stairs, we finally reached Grada 3 and found Fila 5, after the help of an old man and later, a security guard. The seats were nothing more than cement steps with numbers painted in black on the front, vertical side and spaced out about every two feet. Cushions were available for rent, but we're all young after all and don't require such creature comforts.
We ended up, by some stroke of luck, in a covered area on the penultimate level, only the top two levels being covered. This was a fact we had not known when we bought our tickets several days in advance (these matches sell out very quickly) but ignorance sometimes yields good results by accident.
The skies were that ominous cobalt-gray and several rumbles of thunder drew excited cheers from the expectant audience as the white-faced clock, silently standing vigil over the five story structure, showed that it was ten minutes to seven. The stadium was packed, mainly with adults and older couples, but there were a significant number of young children with their parents--a strange idea for a family night out, in this writer's opinion anyhow. But I suppose that's one of the definitions of culture.
Being round and multi-leveled, the arena reminded me of a baseball stadium, which I've only been to twice in my life--perhaps three times?--that I recall. But this spectacle resembled nothing like the nine inning, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" inspiring tradition from the States.
As the clouds gathered, a band began playing in a section to our right; this was not a national anthem however, as we first thought it might be, and nobody stood. This was the, "Attention, the show is about to start" fanfare. Drums, deep heavy warlike drums that recalled Native American ceremonies then began pounding somewhere down and to the left. The large clock perched atop the roof of the highest section now showed with its black hands that five past seven had arrived.
Something like a parade began then: first, two men dressed in black, colonial garb with a single long orange feather in each of their caps, came out into the ring on white horses, rode to the far right side (from our perspective) and swept off their caps in salute to the empty white box, which we felt we could safely assume would have been for the royal family if they chose to attend.
Next, the two horsemen rode to the gate directly in front of us, where then entered three bull fighters each in a shining white costume known as a traje de luces, or suit of lights. Seven or eight men in similar attire, but black, entered afterwards; all wore brilliant pink socks.
Next came more horsemen, these dressed in gold, their horses draped in thick, padded material and their eyes covered by black cloths so as to avoid their spooking later on during the fight. Their riders bore long spears.
Lastly came a team of three donkeys lashed together and toting a thick wooden beam with several small iron loops along it, which dragged behind them.
After this prancing about concluded, the ring was emptied, the drums pounded again, and the first bull was released inside.
Can you imagine the fear of the bull? Bright lights glaring in your eyes, thunder booming overhead, a strange roaring noise pierced by sharp whistlings all around you, red and yellow banners hung up everywhere--off every balcony and wall--and a searing pain in your back that you have no idea as to the cause of, but that, in reality is several colored ribbons attached to long pins, stabbed into the top back of your neck before the fight even began, to enrage you and to mark the target of your attackers.
The men dressed in black essentially served to weaken the bull for the main fighter in white, el torero. They would dash out into the ring, only a few feet away from the thick, wooden walls, wave their pink capes (not red, actually fuchsia) to anger the bull who would charge them of course. Then the men in black scampered back behind a door-like structure in the wall and the bull would either turn away or run into the wall. This would go on for awhile with the six or so men popping out of different barriers, forcing the bull to run back and forth. Recall the men in gold on horseback, los picadores, to whom the bull is directed, spear the back of the bull several times while the horse stumbles against the furious charge of the terrified animal.
Eventually, they would all coax him out into the middle of the ring, all together, where other men in black would arrive, one at a time. These secondary round of men dressed in black trajes would come with a pair of colored rods, the first two white and the last pair red and yellow for the colors of Spain. These rods must have had hooks in them because the men brandishing them at the bull would get charged and, at the last minute, sidestep so as to stick the rods in its back, which then hung down from the nape of his neck and swing around as the bull ran.
By this time, the poor thing had been run around for ten minutes and was now bleeding profusely. Its sides heaved.
Finally, the main fighter in white would come out, the crowd cheering ecstatically. He carried a sword and the traditional red cape. Whenever the bull would pass, he would slash at it with his sword. This would continue until the bull grew visibly weaker, declining to charge the fighter despite his waving of the red cape.
Several of those men in black costumes would come out with their fuchsia capes and all would harass the bull, attempting to wring the last dregs of energy and fury from him. At last, the main fighter would stab his sword into the bull's neck, from the top, and the creature's knees would buckle. It collapsed to the ground amidst whistles and cheers.
Then enter the team of donkeys with their lead, the bull was somehow attached to the harness and after being dragged around, the carcass finally was taken out of the ring.
People stood up between the fights to stretch their legs and chat while men below--and this too was reminiscent of a baseball diamond-- would rake the dirt flat and smooth, doing their best to preserve the two white circles of chalk that ran along the outer section of the ring. (The significance of these was never made known to us).
We stayed for only three out of the six bulls; three bulls being tortured to death for sport seemed like more than enough for us for one night. There are those who will defend this "tradition" as an art form; say what you will, I respect that some will view this as a part of their culture, having grown up with it, however I still firmly hold that it is cruel.
I don't really recall the third bull's fight so much. I think by then I was mentally checked out. The first however, was clearly a calm bull by nature. He never wanted to charge anyone. He simply stood there, looking at this aggressors until finally they would manage to anger him a bit. Angry cries of, "Venga, venga!" could be heard in the crowd. ("Come on! Come on!").
From beginning to end about twenty-five minutes later, that first bull clearly held pacifist beliefs. Even when routed towards the men on horses all in gold, even when they stabbed him with their spears, he still did not seem to want to fight. When he finally collapsed near the center of the ring, I was deeply sad.
When the second bull was killed, I was, contrastingly, furious.
This one came out fast and infuriated. Enormous in stature, he was enormous in courage as well. He charged his opponents fearlessly, including the man on the horse and in fact slamming into the side of the padded horse so hard that the steed almost lost his balance. The bull was stabbed long and deep by the picador for his retaliation.
People ate ham sandwiches in the stands, joked and chatted, clapped, shouted words of encouragement to the fighters, and smoked cigarettes. The ashes floated out from the level above us and fell like snowflakes.
The booming thunder rumbling overhead must have been a mighty knock at the gates of the heavens and those gates must have in consequence been opened because an absolute torrent of hail crashed down from the sky, falling in front of us like a waterfall of ice as a result of the floor above our heads. The hailstorm pelted the crowd below us in the uncovered section though with marble-sized chunks of ice.
Umbrellas of all colors sprouted up like flowers around the entire ring of the stadium. Some people abandoned their seats, but the vast majority remained to watch as the light brown dirt of the ring filled with hail and water puddled in the hoof-marks and the track where the first bull's body had been dragged out and where the dirt-rakers clearly had failed to make the ground level again.
When the man in white, glittering beneath the flashes of lightning in his sequined "suit of lights", the crowd seemed to double in size judging from the noise. We figured he must be something of a celebrity. As I noticed then, and for the third fight, the torero would always enter the ring with a black cap on, receive his applause, then lay the cap on the ground, which he collected after slaughtering the bull.
This second bull incurred many shouts of, "Óle!" from the crowd that seemed to be for every subsequent pass after the primary one. To be clear, the passes had to be in quick succession, which seemed rather difficult to do.
Finally, blood pouring down his sides--much more than the first, placid bull-- rib cage heaving, he found himself locked into a wall where three men in black trajes waved their capes in his face, as did the lead.
But the bull, despite his tremendous size and his desperate, furious attempts to ward off his attackers before now stood exhausted, incapable or anything more than a shake of his head, as if to swat away the capes. To please the crowd, the man in white did his best to reinvigorate the bull's fury: he stabbed its face with the tip of his glinting sword again and again while the poor beast merely tried to move his head out of the way.
Anger boiled inside me. The creature was breathing his last, racking breaths and those "fighters" accosted him relentlessly. Ceaselessly.
So the hail pounded, the cool breeze blew, the crowd screamed and clapped, thunder shook the metal framework bones of the stadium, and after three final stabs to the head and neck by the man in white, the bull took a few faltering steps in one last attempt at escape, then folded up and became an unmoving heap upon the ground. The white faced, black handed clock had cut through almost half of its own face by now, twenty-five minutes.
I knew only anger then. That noble animal had fought so bravely for his life and, in his last, agonizing, rasping moments, saw nothing but pink and red flaring before his eyes, heard nothing but guttural shouts, and felt nothing but the tormenting sting of silver cutting his face again and again and again.
So, with the deepest respect, I hail the hero of the night, that second bull that clung to life so desperately and so fiercely. On behalf of the humans in the ring and those that applauded as you were tortured and at last dragged through the mud and ice out of the stadium, I apologize.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Chicago for the Paint!
Madrid has plenty of excellent qualities, I think I've made that pretty clear throughout the creation of this blog, which nonetheless is sadly coming to a close pretty soon. I have only about two weeks left before I fly home so my friends and I are striving to make the most of each tick of the clock that we have left here.
On this past Friday, the 10th, Melanie, Taylor, and I left the residence hall at midnight to seek out the club known simply as Penelope, where our international student org had advertised that there would be a paint party.
I've only been to one such clubbing experience and it was in Chicago with a big group of amazing friends just last year, sometime during the beginnings of the spring semester. The memory of that night is one giant rainbow of paint--so much paint, shooting through the air, girls with enormous paint guns standing on the stage and pumping multi-colored awesomeness through the air, dousing everyone. My hair, by the end of that incredible night, resembled a helmet of crusted paint of every color imaginable, a twin to that of my friend Kelsie, the only other girl in our big group. Absolutely worth it, of course. The paint washes out very easily and I actually felt pretty disappointed when it washed completely out of the white v-neck that I'd bought for the occasion hoping that it would be entirely destroyed by paint and therefore make an excellent souvenir of the night.
That's not quite what happened. The only sign of that shirt having gone through some tremendous clubbing experience is that somehow, through some magical chemical reaction or other, both armpits were permanently dyed pink. Perhaps the sweat combined with the paint and somehow ended up in my armpits, amalgamating into this rosy-hued blotch of a hybrid of the two. Science may never know.
The point here, folks, is that THAT was a paint rave and I cannot wait to try that again once I'm home.
Madrid, at least in this instance, fell to second place. Instead of the paint being shot from all directions such that any slightly reluctant participants could not hold onto even the tiniest sliver of hope of escape, the staff at Penelope handed out small tubes about the size of a tube of Carmex to random people in the club, including Melanie, whereupon everyone decorated themselves and their friends. And then went off to find victims to smear.
While this was no doubt an interesting variation and while I give Penelope credit for the glowing paint and the black lights, a nice effect overall, I have to give Chicago the blue ribbon here. When I went out, much fun as I had with my chicas, I was counting on being soaked in paint to the point of being unrecognizable to even my roommate.
Ahh well. The night was still an excellent one: the drink of choice for the three of us was vodka orange (yum) and Melanie scored top points for the evening when a tall, tanned, and handsome mid-20's Spanish guy couldn't resist dancing with her virtually the whole night. Being the heart breaker that she is, Melanie declined to give him her name or number and so poor hot Spanish man had to fade back into the night when his group decided to leave the club around 3:30 in the morning. There are other fish in the sea, hombre.
And there are also other paint raves in the sea, which I look forward to most avidly. Until we paint again.
On this past Friday, the 10th, Melanie, Taylor, and I left the residence hall at midnight to seek out the club known simply as Penelope, where our international student org had advertised that there would be a paint party.
I've only been to one such clubbing experience and it was in Chicago with a big group of amazing friends just last year, sometime during the beginnings of the spring semester. The memory of that night is one giant rainbow of paint--so much paint, shooting through the air, girls with enormous paint guns standing on the stage and pumping multi-colored awesomeness through the air, dousing everyone. My hair, by the end of that incredible night, resembled a helmet of crusted paint of every color imaginable, a twin to that of my friend Kelsie, the only other girl in our big group. Absolutely worth it, of course. The paint washes out very easily and I actually felt pretty disappointed when it washed completely out of the white v-neck that I'd bought for the occasion hoping that it would be entirely destroyed by paint and therefore make an excellent souvenir of the night.
That's not quite what happened. The only sign of that shirt having gone through some tremendous clubbing experience is that somehow, through some magical chemical reaction or other, both armpits were permanently dyed pink. Perhaps the sweat combined with the paint and somehow ended up in my armpits, amalgamating into this rosy-hued blotch of a hybrid of the two. Science may never know.
The point here, folks, is that THAT was a paint rave and I cannot wait to try that again once I'm home.
Madrid, at least in this instance, fell to second place. Instead of the paint being shot from all directions such that any slightly reluctant participants could not hold onto even the tiniest sliver of hope of escape, the staff at Penelope handed out small tubes about the size of a tube of Carmex to random people in the club, including Melanie, whereupon everyone decorated themselves and their friends. And then went off to find victims to smear.
While this was no doubt an interesting variation and while I give Penelope credit for the glowing paint and the black lights, a nice effect overall, I have to give Chicago the blue ribbon here. When I went out, much fun as I had with my chicas, I was counting on being soaked in paint to the point of being unrecognizable to even my roommate.
Ahh well. The night was still an excellent one: the drink of choice for the three of us was vodka orange (yum) and Melanie scored top points for the evening when a tall, tanned, and handsome mid-20's Spanish guy couldn't resist dancing with her virtually the whole night. Being the heart breaker that she is, Melanie declined to give him her name or number and so poor hot Spanish man had to fade back into the night when his group decided to leave the club around 3:30 in the morning. There are other fish in the sea, hombre.
And there are also other paint raves in the sea, which I look forward to most avidly. Until we paint again.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
My Name is Bagel
The semester wraps up to a close here in Madrid and free time abounds. Unlike in the US, at least unlike at my home university, finals here are not one or two days after the class period. We have about two weeks off between the end of classes and the beginning of the academic gauntlet known with fear throughout the land as Final Exam Period.
It's a scary time, but here the judgment day of such tests has been postponed. My last class was May 9th and my first final isn't until May 22nd, which is far more time than I need to prepare.
Oh what is a person to do in the azure skied, golden sun, metropolis of modern and historical beauty known as Madrid? Well, folks, we make like Lewis and Clark and explore.
Thursday was a holiday in Getafe, the Madrid suburb where our campus is located so everyone had off, even those who had classes through the 10th. As such, Tom, Melanie, Taylor, and I all decided we need to head out to Gran Vía, grab some Frappuccino's from Starbuck's (again? Yes, yes I know, but they are so good) where I discovered an interesting thing.
Granted, they've never gotten my name right on any order here in Spain. To a native English speaker, "Megan" doesn't seem like such a ridiculous moniker, but to the Spanish it is apparently an exotic mangling of syllables because I've gotten everything from "Magui" to "Magei" to "Maeg" written on my cups, receipts, and such.
But this was new. As we lined up our four Frappuccino's for their photo shoot, I noticed that on my cup the word, "Bagel" was written. Bagel? I can only imagine the conversation that went on in the mind of the barista who took my order.
"Oh Dios. What did she say? Ma--- no Ba--- no . . . crap. Everyone's looking at me with those 'hurry up' expressions. Mierda. Okay, okay, um, what sounds close to the garbled sound that came out of that Americana's mouth? Uhhh . . . what did I learn in English 101? Um, bagel? Yeah. Vale. Bagel. Perfect."
In his defense, his spelling of Bagel was flawless. I'll give him props for that.
The day included a stop at H&M so that Melanie could buy a white t-shirt for the paint party that we all were going to on Friday night (I'll try and do a separate post on that) and while there, Tom decided to try on some clothes. Sporting some very spiffy Ray-Bans (expensive sunglasses, for those of you who don't know) he took them off in the fitting room to try on a shirt, forgot them there, and when he went back to pick them up-- gone.
The second secondhand robbery I've experienced here in Spain. I'm only hoping that I can come through unscathed, but all of us pitied poor Tom. Those were some sleek shades and I have no doubt that all the girls will agree he pulled them off like no other. Don't worry, Tom. Somewhere out there is a Spanish man wearing contraband Ray-Bans who doesn't look half as good as you. I only hope he knows.
After all this madness and our wonderful Starbuck's-- I'm really not being paid; I'm simply a homegrown enthusiast-- we made our way down side alleys, around roundabouts, running across streets as the 'do not walk' sign came on, up hills, down stairs, over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house essentially, until we discovered, about five hours later, Teleférico, a cable car ride 12km through the air over the enormous Casa de Campo park. Fun fact, Casa de Campo is five times the size of New York's Central Park. Incredible. We decided we would have to have a picnic there at some point so hopefully we can manage to fit that into our next three weeks before the adventure is over. Fingers crossed!
The ride cost only 5.75 Euro for round trip (so 24km) and also showed off the skyline of Madrid. I took a bunch of photographs of course and they're posted up under April & May Pics. Melanie did as well but I haven't been able to digitally nab any of them because, due to technical difficulties, she can't post any of her pictures until she gets home. Ah well. I suppose I will have to shoulder the personal responsibility of continuing to chronicle my trip.
We arrived home exhausted after all the walking, but satisfied. There is something beautiful in the interconnectivity of this city, it's small streets and big streets, its mega-stores and it's little thrift shops. There's something wonderful about thinking you are absolutely lost in a city of over three million people and then, turning the corner, discover that you know that plaza and hey, remember when we drank at that cervecería two months ago and it was pouring rain?
You find that you can't be truly lost in Madrid, because everything is a part of everything else. And maybe that's not only in Madrid, you think. Maybe that's the case everywhere.
At least, these are the late night musings of a young lady named Bagel.
It's a scary time, but here the judgment day of such tests has been postponed. My last class was May 9th and my first final isn't until May 22nd, which is far more time than I need to prepare.
Oh what is a person to do in the azure skied, golden sun, metropolis of modern and historical beauty known as Madrid? Well, folks, we make like Lewis and Clark and explore.
Thursday was a holiday in Getafe, the Madrid suburb where our campus is located so everyone had off, even those who had classes through the 10th. As such, Tom, Melanie, Taylor, and I all decided we need to head out to Gran Vía, grab some Frappuccino's from Starbuck's (again? Yes, yes I know, but they are so good) where I discovered an interesting thing.
Granted, they've never gotten my name right on any order here in Spain. To a native English speaker, "Megan" doesn't seem like such a ridiculous moniker, but to the Spanish it is apparently an exotic mangling of syllables because I've gotten everything from "Magui" to "Magei" to "Maeg" written on my cups, receipts, and such.
But this was new. As we lined up our four Frappuccino's for their photo shoot, I noticed that on my cup the word, "Bagel" was written. Bagel? I can only imagine the conversation that went on in the mind of the barista who took my order.
"Oh Dios. What did she say? Ma--- no Ba--- no . . . crap. Everyone's looking at me with those 'hurry up' expressions. Mierda. Okay, okay, um, what sounds close to the garbled sound that came out of that Americana's mouth? Uhhh . . . what did I learn in English 101? Um, bagel? Yeah. Vale. Bagel. Perfect."
In his defense, his spelling of Bagel was flawless. I'll give him props for that.
The day included a stop at H&M so that Melanie could buy a white t-shirt for the paint party that we all were going to on Friday night (I'll try and do a separate post on that) and while there, Tom decided to try on some clothes. Sporting some very spiffy Ray-Bans (expensive sunglasses, for those of you who don't know) he took them off in the fitting room to try on a shirt, forgot them there, and when he went back to pick them up-- gone.
The second secondhand robbery I've experienced here in Spain. I'm only hoping that I can come through unscathed, but all of us pitied poor Tom. Those were some sleek shades and I have no doubt that all the girls will agree he pulled them off like no other. Don't worry, Tom. Somewhere out there is a Spanish man wearing contraband Ray-Bans who doesn't look half as good as you. I only hope he knows.
After all this madness and our wonderful Starbuck's-- I'm really not being paid; I'm simply a homegrown enthusiast-- we made our way down side alleys, around roundabouts, running across streets as the 'do not walk' sign came on, up hills, down stairs, over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house essentially, until we discovered, about five hours later, Teleférico, a cable car ride 12km through the air over the enormous Casa de Campo park. Fun fact, Casa de Campo is five times the size of New York's Central Park. Incredible. We decided we would have to have a picnic there at some point so hopefully we can manage to fit that into our next three weeks before the adventure is over. Fingers crossed!
The ride cost only 5.75 Euro for round trip (so 24km) and also showed off the skyline of Madrid. I took a bunch of photographs of course and they're posted up under April & May Pics. Melanie did as well but I haven't been able to digitally nab any of them because, due to technical difficulties, she can't post any of her pictures until she gets home. Ah well. I suppose I will have to shoulder the personal responsibility of continuing to chronicle my trip.
We arrived home exhausted after all the walking, but satisfied. There is something beautiful in the interconnectivity of this city, it's small streets and big streets, its mega-stores and it's little thrift shops. There's something wonderful about thinking you are absolutely lost in a city of over three million people and then, turning the corner, discover that you know that plaza and hey, remember when we drank at that cervecería two months ago and it was pouring rain?
You find that you can't be truly lost in Madrid, because everything is a part of everything else. And maybe that's not only in Madrid, you think. Maybe that's the case everywhere.
At least, these are the late night musings of a young lady named Bagel.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Experience Springtime, Madrid Style!
Saturday, May 4th, my roommate Melanie, our friend Taylor, and I went and explored Parque Retiro, Madrid's more or less Central Park sister. Most of the time we had absolutely no idea where we were, but that's the way exploring ought to be.
In the process we found the Crystal Palace, several sets of children's play equipment that Melanie couldn't resist, ducklings in need of rescue from a harassing three year old (no worries guys; Melanie stepped in), an exercise park, a few hot men rollerblading shirtless, and a great experience running across a highway in the attempt to make it to Starbuck's before the half-off Frappuccino happy hour was over.
We didn't make it.
But we still bought Frappuccinos. Anyhow, enjoy the pictures!
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Final Hand
The old Horner bank building is about to
be demolished until a ghostly presence alters the course of events. Jack, Sam,
and Rene's lives begin to unravel after finding a worn leather journal from the
1920's, a journal belonging to a reluctant mobster, a man who finds himself
thrust into the seedy underbelly of the Prohibition era. In it he details his
ordeal and a curse that has altered time forever.
He crosses paths with Charles, a vicious gangster whose blood lust and hunger for power lure him down a dark road to control the curse and manipulate time. The rough ride he takes will change his life forever as well as those of people in the future.
He crosses paths with Charles, a vicious gangster whose blood lust and hunger for power lure him down a dark road to control the curse and manipulate time. The rough ride he takes will change his life forever as well as those of people in the future.
A
ruthless 1920's mobster, a level headed accountant from 1986, and a playboy
project manager from 2007 become entangled in a series of bizarre ghostly
events that distort the boundaries of reality and time.
To Charles killing people was just part and parcel for the life of a 1920's gangster. That is until somebody tries to take him down. If only he could see it coming or did he? A déjà vu event sets him to question if time could be manipulated.
Tim was often accused of having his head in the past, collecting all kinds of twenties memorabilia. He was particularly fascinated with the 1920's, however becoming a gangster wasn't what he had in mind. Reality sure didn't mesh up with the allure of his imagination.
Jack is a hard living young womanizer whose life is suddenly turned upside down after a new job forces him to relocate from New York to Minneapolis, where he encounters a new love, old friends, and an ancient curse. The discovery of an old journal from a 1920's mobster may hold some of the clues. Jack will have to attempt to put the pieces together in order to fix his unraveling life.
To Charles killing people was just part and parcel for the life of a 1920's gangster. That is until somebody tries to take him down. If only he could see it coming or did he? A déjà vu event sets him to question if time could be manipulated.
Tim was often accused of having his head in the past, collecting all kinds of twenties memorabilia. He was particularly fascinated with the 1920's, however becoming a gangster wasn't what he had in mind. Reality sure didn't mesh up with the allure of his imagination.
Jack is a hard living young womanizer whose life is suddenly turned upside down after a new job forces him to relocate from New York to Minneapolis, where he encounters a new love, old friends, and an ancient curse. The discovery of an old journal from a 1920's mobster may hold some of the clues. Jack will have to attempt to put the pieces together in order to fix his unraveling life.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
The Heist
Crowded, noisy, hot.
The brain stimulus overload of colors and people and shining objects and buildings with restaurants along the streets of the marketplace crammed with people--it's enough to jolt anyone out of a reverie and into the present heart beat by heart beat moments of sidestepping the thousands of people all invariably going a different direction than everyone else. It's a sweet madness.
Squeaking raucously, the wandering vendors who sell various cheap products all over the city, not exclusively el Rastro by any means, make high pitched squeals with plastic toys held hidden in their palms while moving their lips so that it seems the shrieking non-syllabic gibberish is pouring from their own lips. Pleasanter sounds greet the ears as well, five man bands who smile as though the whole world is theirs when their fingers caress the strings of their bass or the buttons of their trumpet--but whom, one can tell, own little more than the instrument in their hands and the clothes on their backs. Parents comfort toddlers, teenagers poke fun at one another, lovers hold hands and point at decorations for apartments owned or dreamt of, and bargains are struck left, right, and diagonal.
Hot in the absence of the wind and with the sun bearing down beneath the buildings, funneled now as though intent, focused on our trio of brunettes winding through the streets of el Rastro, my aunt Chris finally ordered a halt. "I'm so thirsty. Where can we find a Coke?"
Pulling ourselves out of the steady stream of el Rastro would be a task equal to only the most confident race car drivers, accustomed to dealing with out of the ordinary driving maneuvers such as immediate stops, crash collisions, and no hesitation moments where you have to clutch the wheel, gun the gas, and go for all your worth. The thronging multitudes of endless people that Rastro bears witness to every Sunday morning and early afternoon present such a heart-rate-elevating challenge and, though none of the three of us have ever even followed NASCAR on television, we somehow managed to veer out of the human river onto the safety of a shaded sidewalk and find an Alimentación, or snack shop.
They're fairly common and very cheap so we all grabbed a bottle of water (me) or Coke (Chris and Annette).
Annette went into her purse for her wallet, but kept fumbling around in the giant bag pit until Chris finally took out her own wallet and asked me to dig around for the right changed. We paid and made our way back to the street, but something was wrong.
"Stop! I need to check my purse out here."
"What's wrong, Annette?"
She didn't answer, kept rummaging about her bag, zipping and unzipping pockets, rifling through goodness knows what with a growing air of panic about her. I have a purse; I understand the mysterious depths of a woman's handbag as well as any of the female sex, but I have not had the years to hide the myriad treasures that surely hide in the abyss of the vast majority of purses. I am young yet, but I'm sure there will come a time when a map with a big red 'X' to mark the spot will become necessary to find my car keys, not to mention the less commonplace items of that sacred female cache.
After conducting a thorough search and rescue however, Annette came up empty-handed. "My wallet's been stolen." She ducked her head down toward the bag again briefly, seemed to confirm some dark suspicion, and amended, "My wallet and my phone have been stolen."
"Oh . . ." Chris and I fell silent, then attempted a barrage of "I'm really sorry", "This is terrible", and "How could this even have happened?" type questions until Annette cut us off and said, "Well, nobody was hurt so it's not really a big deal."
"How much did you lose?" The million dollar question (or some other denomination between that and zero). Chris looked expectantly at her sister.
"Well, I had $550 in USD and 250 Euros." I nearly swooned. Once you do the conversion that's not too shy of $1000 in USD. For a college student such as myself, that is an incredibly high sum of money to just lose. And then to be so calm about.
"You're really handling this way better than I would be," I admitted to her.
Annette shrugged, let out a sigh, and said, "Well, when you've been in a serious, almost fatal, car accident like I was six months ago, stuff like this doesn't seem to matter as much. At least I'm alive, here, and able to lose money."
But the trail was not yet cold, at least not in the minds of we three Drewry/Markin/Webster family sleuths! (Yes, we all have a different last name; makes writing moments like this difficult). Based on the clues, we pieced the crime together . . . .
The people were beyond the counting; a shouting, chanting mass of politically charged youths, middle-agers, toddlers, grandparents, and any in between sector of society one can imagine. Almost everyone bore a red, yellow, and purple flag and waved it proudly above their heads. Others carried homemade signs strewn with slogans about the horrific cuts the government was making, about the corruption, about spreading the ideals of the PCE, the Partido Comunista de España, whose rally this was, after all.
Three of us made our way through the viscosity of that crowd, pausing at the beauty of the flowing fountain in the center of the roundabout where Calles Alcalá, Prado, and Recoletos converge: the Lady of Cibeles, glorious in her stone chariot drawn by two lions. We did not pause here long however, but instead made our way along the edges of the enormous rally that we'd found ourselves in the middle of, and over to the Banco de España metro stop. That we paused for several minutes to take videos of this chanting, massing mob as the throng bulged in front of the bank building with the clear intent of marching up Calle Alcalá despite the growing number of officers and police vans, may have made all the difference.
Our intent was el Rastro, the street market that any Madrid visitor must see, and to get there, we need only travel one stop by metro to La Latina; the market sprawls forth from there like some haphazard flower that took root in this sunny capitol and opened its petals in between the crooked turning twists of alleys and old brick buildings.
Making our way down into this older section of the metro system, we felt the heat from outside radiating into the tunnels, absorbed seemingly by the white ceramic tiling of the walls. Not long to wait now; the board overhead announced: Próximo tren llegar en 4 minutos (next train arrives in four minutes).
From a distance away in the dark tunnel, we three could hear the low rumbling thunder of the train coming up the track. It would quiet for a moment or two, then the roar would begin again, growing louder and louder, dying suddenly, then after the calm before the storm, the noise would swell throughout the darkness and two glowing orbs would appear and expand until the entirety of the white and blue train car came rushing past the platform, metal tracks shrieking as the reins were pulled in and the people began to crowd near the doors.
The cars were all packed solid and virtually no one stepped off when the doors opened, but we were determined--the three of us and all the waiting passengers on the platform. So we crammed on, holding on to the overhead bars for dear life, fighting to get a little bit of room for our lungs to expand.
Chris and I made it onto the train, but Annette stood yet on the platform, hesitant to shove and elbow the way that is necessary to board in such conditions. "Annette! Come on!" we called to her, urging her forward as the doors began to beep their warning of impending closure.
Two men also still on the platform who desperately wanted to get on began shoving and they pushed Annette in the back, forcing her onto the train. Her hand shot up and she grabbed the overhead bar for support. Chris gave her sleeve a tug to make sure that she was all the way on.
But the beeping had stopped and the train car remained where it was, stuck in some kind of inexplicable metro purgatory that has more than once stranded me at El Bercial for several minutes on end--of course only on the mornings where I'm rushing to class, as this stop is en route to the university.
The two gentlemen who'd been so desperately pushing to get on the train looked around, confused and began to consult with one another in harried, hushed Spanish that I couldn't make out over the din of the jammed car. Finally, they jumped back off, onto the platform and one pointed to the right, the other following his lead. Meanwhile, the beeping had resumed and now the doors sealed closed and began to speed us off into the darkness towards La Latina . . .
A look of dawning realization swept across Chris' features, but it was Annette who spoke first. "I had my wallet at the Prado because I bought some souvenirs in the gift shop, so I know I had it. And I called Megan with my phone--"
"Do you think it happened at the protest?" I suggested, looking to the enlightened Chris to see if my conjecture equaled her own.
"No," she shook her head, "it was on the metro. I'm positive now that I think about it. In retrospect, it's obvious." I exchanged a dubious look with Annette, but our homegrown Kenoshan sleuth continued, "Those two men who shoved Annette-- one was probably pushing her in the back to distract her, the other was reaching into her purse, which she never would have noticed with all the pushing and with how packed it was."
"And her purse--" I began.
"--was exposed because she had to hold on overhead!" (I'd been telling both of them to keep one hand on their purse at all times, just for precautionary measures). "And then the two jerks hopped off the train and got away."
"That's why they left! Not because they got on the wrong train, but because they'd just robbed Annette--"
"Exactly!" Chris was emphatic.
We had figured out the crime, but not much could be done about it. Although we returned to La Latina metro stop and inquired about a floral-print wallet and an Android that had recently gone missing, we found no leads. We were chuckled at and brushed away at La Latina, given a business card with some international hotline number at Banco de España and sent on our merry way.
Even for Chris, our private eye, the trail had gone cold. Wherever the perps are, they're probably living it up on Annette's wad of cash, despite that the phone has long been cancelled and is now only good for sale on the black market.
But as for the floral wallet, we never saw it again . . .
The brain stimulus overload of colors and people and shining objects and buildings with restaurants along the streets of the marketplace crammed with people--it's enough to jolt anyone out of a reverie and into the present heart beat by heart beat moments of sidestepping the thousands of people all invariably going a different direction than everyone else. It's a sweet madness.
Squeaking raucously, the wandering vendors who sell various cheap products all over the city, not exclusively el Rastro by any means, make high pitched squeals with plastic toys held hidden in their palms while moving their lips so that it seems the shrieking non-syllabic gibberish is pouring from their own lips. Pleasanter sounds greet the ears as well, five man bands who smile as though the whole world is theirs when their fingers caress the strings of their bass or the buttons of their trumpet--but whom, one can tell, own little more than the instrument in their hands and the clothes on their backs. Parents comfort toddlers, teenagers poke fun at one another, lovers hold hands and point at decorations for apartments owned or dreamt of, and bargains are struck left, right, and diagonal.
Hot in the absence of the wind and with the sun bearing down beneath the buildings, funneled now as though intent, focused on our trio of brunettes winding through the streets of el Rastro, my aunt Chris finally ordered a halt. "I'm so thirsty. Where can we find a Coke?"
Pulling ourselves out of the steady stream of el Rastro would be a task equal to only the most confident race car drivers, accustomed to dealing with out of the ordinary driving maneuvers such as immediate stops, crash collisions, and no hesitation moments where you have to clutch the wheel, gun the gas, and go for all your worth. The thronging multitudes of endless people that Rastro bears witness to every Sunday morning and early afternoon present such a heart-rate-elevating challenge and, though none of the three of us have ever even followed NASCAR on television, we somehow managed to veer out of the human river onto the safety of a shaded sidewalk and find an Alimentación, or snack shop.
They're fairly common and very cheap so we all grabbed a bottle of water (me) or Coke (Chris and Annette).
Annette went into her purse for her wallet, but kept fumbling around in the giant bag pit until Chris finally took out her own wallet and asked me to dig around for the right changed. We paid and made our way back to the street, but something was wrong.
"Stop! I need to check my purse out here."
"What's wrong, Annette?"
She didn't answer, kept rummaging about her bag, zipping and unzipping pockets, rifling through goodness knows what with a growing air of panic about her. I have a purse; I understand the mysterious depths of a woman's handbag as well as any of the female sex, but I have not had the years to hide the myriad treasures that surely hide in the abyss of the vast majority of purses. I am young yet, but I'm sure there will come a time when a map with a big red 'X' to mark the spot will become necessary to find my car keys, not to mention the less commonplace items of that sacred female cache.
After conducting a thorough search and rescue however, Annette came up empty-handed. "My wallet's been stolen." She ducked her head down toward the bag again briefly, seemed to confirm some dark suspicion, and amended, "My wallet and my phone have been stolen."
"Oh . . ." Chris and I fell silent, then attempted a barrage of "I'm really sorry", "This is terrible", and "How could this even have happened?" type questions until Annette cut us off and said, "Well, nobody was hurt so it's not really a big deal."
"How much did you lose?" The million dollar question (or some other denomination between that and zero). Chris looked expectantly at her sister.
"Well, I had $550 in USD and 250 Euros." I nearly swooned. Once you do the conversion that's not too shy of $1000 in USD. For a college student such as myself, that is an incredibly high sum of money to just lose. And then to be so calm about.
"You're really handling this way better than I would be," I admitted to her.
Annette shrugged, let out a sigh, and said, "Well, when you've been in a serious, almost fatal, car accident like I was six months ago, stuff like this doesn't seem to matter as much. At least I'm alive, here, and able to lose money."
But the trail was not yet cold, at least not in the minds of we three Drewry/Markin/Webster family sleuths! (Yes, we all have a different last name; makes writing moments like this difficult). Based on the clues, we pieced the crime together . . . .
The people were beyond the counting; a shouting, chanting mass of politically charged youths, middle-agers, toddlers, grandparents, and any in between sector of society one can imagine. Almost everyone bore a red, yellow, and purple flag and waved it proudly above their heads. Others carried homemade signs strewn with slogans about the horrific cuts the government was making, about the corruption, about spreading the ideals of the PCE, the Partido Comunista de España, whose rally this was, after all.
Three of us made our way through the viscosity of that crowd, pausing at the beauty of the flowing fountain in the center of the roundabout where Calles Alcalá, Prado, and Recoletos converge: the Lady of Cibeles, glorious in her stone chariot drawn by two lions. We did not pause here long however, but instead made our way along the edges of the enormous rally that we'd found ourselves in the middle of, and over to the Banco de España metro stop. That we paused for several minutes to take videos of this chanting, massing mob as the throng bulged in front of the bank building with the clear intent of marching up Calle Alcalá despite the growing number of officers and police vans, may have made all the difference.
Our intent was el Rastro, the street market that any Madrid visitor must see, and to get there, we need only travel one stop by metro to La Latina; the market sprawls forth from there like some haphazard flower that took root in this sunny capitol and opened its petals in between the crooked turning twists of alleys and old brick buildings.
Making our way down into this older section of the metro system, we felt the heat from outside radiating into the tunnels, absorbed seemingly by the white ceramic tiling of the walls. Not long to wait now; the board overhead announced: Próximo tren llegar en 4 minutos (next train arrives in four minutes).
From a distance away in the dark tunnel, we three could hear the low rumbling thunder of the train coming up the track. It would quiet for a moment or two, then the roar would begin again, growing louder and louder, dying suddenly, then after the calm before the storm, the noise would swell throughout the darkness and two glowing orbs would appear and expand until the entirety of the white and blue train car came rushing past the platform, metal tracks shrieking as the reins were pulled in and the people began to crowd near the doors.
The cars were all packed solid and virtually no one stepped off when the doors opened, but we were determined--the three of us and all the waiting passengers on the platform. So we crammed on, holding on to the overhead bars for dear life, fighting to get a little bit of room for our lungs to expand.
Chris and I made it onto the train, but Annette stood yet on the platform, hesitant to shove and elbow the way that is necessary to board in such conditions. "Annette! Come on!" we called to her, urging her forward as the doors began to beep their warning of impending closure.
Two men also still on the platform who desperately wanted to get on began shoving and they pushed Annette in the back, forcing her onto the train. Her hand shot up and she grabbed the overhead bar for support. Chris gave her sleeve a tug to make sure that she was all the way on.
But the beeping had stopped and the train car remained where it was, stuck in some kind of inexplicable metro purgatory that has more than once stranded me at El Bercial for several minutes on end--of course only on the mornings where I'm rushing to class, as this stop is en route to the university.
The two gentlemen who'd been so desperately pushing to get on the train looked around, confused and began to consult with one another in harried, hushed Spanish that I couldn't make out over the din of the jammed car. Finally, they jumped back off, onto the platform and one pointed to the right, the other following his lead. Meanwhile, the beeping had resumed and now the doors sealed closed and began to speed us off into the darkness towards La Latina . . .
A look of dawning realization swept across Chris' features, but it was Annette who spoke first. "I had my wallet at the Prado because I bought some souvenirs in the gift shop, so I know I had it. And I called Megan with my phone--"
"Do you think it happened at the protest?" I suggested, looking to the enlightened Chris to see if my conjecture equaled her own.
"No," she shook her head, "it was on the metro. I'm positive now that I think about it. In retrospect, it's obvious." I exchanged a dubious look with Annette, but our homegrown Kenoshan sleuth continued, "Those two men who shoved Annette-- one was probably pushing her in the back to distract her, the other was reaching into her purse, which she never would have noticed with all the pushing and with how packed it was."
"And her purse--" I began.
"--was exposed because she had to hold on overhead!" (I'd been telling both of them to keep one hand on their purse at all times, just for precautionary measures). "And then the two jerks hopped off the train and got away."
"That's why they left! Not because they got on the wrong train, but because they'd just robbed Annette--"
"Exactly!" Chris was emphatic.
We had figured out the crime, but not much could be done about it. Although we returned to La Latina metro stop and inquired about a floral-print wallet and an Android that had recently gone missing, we found no leads. We were chuckled at and brushed away at La Latina, given a business card with some international hotline number at Banco de España and sent on our merry way.
Even for Chris, our private eye, the trail had gone cold. Wherever the perps are, they're probably living it up on Annette's wad of cash, despite that the phone has long been cancelled and is now only good for sale on the black market.
But as for the floral wallet, we never saw it again . . .
Saturday, April 27, 2013
The Travel Day From Hell
I have been hardened, toughened like authentic leather, made ready for the battlegrounds of departing and arriving, incoming and outgoing, security labyrinths, and all modes of veritable torture that one is put through to get from point A to point B. After the day that Nick and I were put through upon leaving Rome--a day that I think I can fairly say will live in infamy, at least for the two of us who experienced it in the trenches--we have risen up, beginning as humble young travelers with stars in our eyes and a glowing halo of innocence above our heads, filled with dreams of golden wanderings and transforming, out of desperate necessity into the Peregrination Marines.
That sentence was probably worthy of Charles Dickens. In that it alone causes a comma shortage in the world of literature. Although I most certainly do enjoy Mr. Dickens' writing, which is perhaps why I try to emulate his style for certain pieces, and I tip my hat to him most fondly. Please, if you haven't yet, read "A Tale of Two Cities". Brilliant.
5am dawned dark when the alarms screeched forth into to the quiet Roman hotel. Dark and hot. We'd at last found the thermostat last night after sweating to death the previous two nights. Ironically, it was located on the radiator. Yes, the side of a metal radiator that echoed a 1940's Philadelphia home, or so I can imagine. Still, it seemed that we had not figured it out entirely because I for one woke up with the covers half thrown off my body, covered in a light sheen of perspiration and cursing the physically painful, but necessary act, of opening both my eyes.
"Nick, come on," I croaked, sounding like Eartha Kitt in her role as the old fortune teller in "Holes". Or like Louis Armstrong on any day.
"Nooooo . . . ."
Amen to that, but we had no choice. So we dragged ourselves up and made our way down to the front desk to check out. Things went smoothly and we were leaving the Hotel Arcadia behind forever by 5:30am. A walk down the narrow road in the pre-dawn grayness of the world, everything a blur in that morning haze, that sleep that clings and won't quite recede back to your subconscious where it belongs. We crossed the road, passed that minuscule gas station, and stood at the bus stop, the faint memories of dreams still drifting like ghosts before our eyes.
Twenty minutes later we arrived at the metro station and hopped aboard, shipping out of the suburbs of Roma to the city center where we bought a shuttle ticket to take us to Ciampino Airport. We waited in a long line of other exhausted-looking tourists, everyone bearing a heavy suitcase. The bus filled up and we were told to wait for the next one.
So we stood there, at attention, our nerves on end. We knew we would not be able to relax fully until we were sitting before the correct gate.
The bus came. My suitcase was loaded onto the bottom of the bus. As he was only carrying a backpack, Nick had nothing to stow away below decks. The ride was a long one. Nothing looked familiar.
"Are you sure we need to go to Ciampino?"
"Yes. I'm 100% positive," I answered tiredly. I was in no mood for any kind of debate.
"100%? Not 50% or even 80%?"
"No, Nick."
"Okay, just checking." Then we lapsed into silence and I ate my rations: an apple from the breakfast offerings of the day before and a granola bar, the last of the five that I'd brought from Madrid.
We arrived at the airport, disembarked with all the other passengers, reclaimed my luggage, and then made our way inside. Our itinerary said Terminal 3, but the building that we'd just entered wasn't labeled. The line inside was atrocious, enough to scare anyone. A few select curse words may or may not have been flung out into the open; I will neither confirm nor deny this.
Nick insisted that we go to the information desk before blindly getting into a line that stretched all the way back to the Persian Empire and it was a lucky thing too. The man at the front desk scowled up at us when we asked where Terminal 3 was located.
"There's only one terminal here."
"Yes, but our itinerary says we need to get to terminal 3. Do we need to take a shuttle?"
"What's your airline?" he growled.
"Uh . . . Swiss," I said, double checking our paperwork.
"We only fly Ryan Airlines. You need the other airport."
$@?!
I need to take one moment here to show an ounce of humility and gratefulness at the graceful tact of Nick not mention my 100% guarantee at this given moment. I don't know what I would have done if he had. Bravo though to a good friend for letting that one pass. I must mention here, lest we both look like total buffoons, that our itinerary did not say the airport on it; only the terminal number. One question for you, Expedia: why?
We hurried outside and saw a cluster of cabbies standing together. In Spanish, I addressed them and asked how far the other airport was away from Ciampino. There are only two major airports in Rome, the other being Fiumicino.
"About 30 minutes," was our answer. By our calculations and from previous taxi reconnaissance, we knew the going rates were about 1 Euro per minute. Ergo, 15 Euros each for a ride to the correct airport wasn't so bad; the bus shuttle here had only cost 6 Euro, so total travel cost from hotel to airport at just over 20 euros sounded pretty much like a bargain. And we desperately needed it too. Both of us were a wee bit depressed about the amount of wallet vacuuming that had occurred whilst in Rome. Granted, however, we both now knew what the deepest, innermost corners of said wallets looked like and they were quite tidy and uncluttered.
We climbed into the cab after my luggage was loaded in the trunk. Mistake. But I'll get to that.
Drizzling and fairly cloudy now, the pavement was slick, but this somehow did not deter our driver from acting like we were in the Indianapolis 500. Blinkers forgotten, passing on curves, speeds of 130+ km/hr . . . rest assured I was weighing to myself the benefits of not having to pay for the cab ride since we would all be in a ditch somewhere very shortly. Even if we survived that, surely there would have to be a "I'm sorry I rolled over the cab into a muddy field because I couldn't make logical, safe driving decisions" discount. So we didn't panic much.
Screeching to a stop and drifting into a parking place along the drop off section at the airport, we arrived, just as promised 30 minutes later.
"Ok," said the driver, "79 euros."
"Excuse me, what?" Cotton must have become lodged in my ear at some point during the trip, surely.
"79 Euros."
"For a 30 minute cab ride? You realize that was 30 minutes? It should be around 30 euros."
He turned around then, his olive complexioned features stern. "You took express."
Now that, we couldn't argue. However, we were clearly in the process of being robbed. Had I known then what I know now, I never would have put my luggage in the trunk. That cab-thief would have held no collateral and I simply would've thrown down about 40 euro, hopped out, and said, "Sue me."
Alas, this was not the case. Nick and I rummaged through our emaciated wallets and scrapped together, by some miracle 65 Euro. "This is all we have," Nick assured him. Close enough right? You two poor young college kids can have a break this once.
"Go inside and find a cash machine then," the cab driver shot back.
How can I describe the stress then bottling up inside of me? My throat had become a bottlenecked traffic zone of profanities and curse words that most likely weren't even real, but lodged as they were in my efforts to hold back tears of frustration, I leapt out of the taxi and ran inside, even as I heard Nick saying, "She'll go get the money, I'll stay here, ok?"
Legs pumping, hair flying, I soared across the shining tiled floor toward the overhead sign that, at the opposite end of the check in area, bore the Euro sign. I surely must have borrowed Hermes' winged sandals as my tan boots barely skimmed the surface of the gray flooring. At the ATM, my hands were shaking, a mixture of anger and also knowing that I had to hurry. Our flight left in 45 minutes and we still had to check in and go through security and find the gate--
A fifty spat out of the machine. I crumpled it in my fist--hell if I was going to lose anymore money on this trip--and ran back again, dashing out to our cab where I paid the driver, made the mature choice not to tell him what I thought of him, and grabbed my luggage.
At check in, I was told that my carry on would have to be checked. Ahhhh the inescapability of it all. Lady Luck was indeed with us that day, but they are identical twins perhaps better known as Good or Bad, and we had the less desirable of the sisters in our company that Thursday.
Security went well . . . until Nick was held up for having a full water bottle, which he was made to chug to prove that there was nothing flammable, harmful, or otherwise poisonous inside. Ugh. So much water in less than a minute. We were cleared then, only to make our way to the "D" gates area where we had been instructed to go at check in and discover that not only did our flight not have a specific gate number assigned yet--even though it was due to take off in less than 20 minutes-- it also was delayed for 45.
"This means we didn't need to take express," Nick tried to joke lightheartedly.
"Right." The was all the numbness in my head could come up with; my brain was on leave.
The flight to Zurich was uneventful. Until the end of it. Nick and I were scheduled to fly out of Zurich at 12:25, just one hour after landing. Yet, our flight from Rome took off 45 minutes later than originally anticipated due to air traffic control problems in Zurich so now we would have 15 minutes to find our gate and board.
The flight attendants flitted around the plane, handing out maps of the airport to passengers who were to be boarding connecting flights with nearly overlapping landing/take off times. Our gate was approximately a 15 minute distance from where we would be landing (trust the Swiss to have an airport map with measured walking time estimations between all the gates; a gold star for efficiency!).
As soon as the plane touched down, we bolted. Down the aisle, off the plane, Nick clutching the map and quickly taking the lead with those impossibly long legs of his--"Keep going! I'm right behind you!" I yelled out as though we were fleeing an airstrike--up one of those moving walkways to a sub level, then up another. The civilians waiting patiently at the neighboring gates stared at us as we thundered through like a pair of wildebeests spurred on by ravenous hyenas, skidding to a halt, breathless, as we found our gate.
We'd done it in five minutes. It was a tad bit anticlimactic handing in our boarding passes with ten minutes to spare and the stewardess raising a skeptical eyebrow which clearly questioned our rationality and right to be traveling alone. If only she knew. I get that look every time I propose that I want to create the 100% efficient solar cell. They tell me it's impossible and that I'm an idiot with those eyebrows of theirs. That's also what they said when Tesla predicted global warming.
The flight back to Madrid was uneventful, thank goodness. For one and a half hours, I simply vegetated as I listened to my iPod.
When we landed, the two of us of course made our way to baggage claim to await my poor carry on that had been torn away from me. Taking up strategic positions at the conveyor, we waited as the belt looped its ceaseless way around and around its deep U-shaped track. Little kids squealed excitedly when their brightly colored luggage passed beneath the plastic black flaps and into view. Adults pointed and gestured at certain bags, disappointment cresting on their faces when the little logo on the outside or the color of the ribbon tied onto the handle didn't match up.
Eventually all were satisfied though. All but me. Nick laid down on a non-active belt and stared at the ceiling. I stood my watch, vigilant as ever, staring down those vertical black flaps that led into the great expanse of the unknown from whence all luggage came, mysteriously, transported by clandestine airport workers, possibly somehow connected to Narnia. The world may never know.
The belt finally chugged to a stop.
A weak sigh escaped my lips. "All right, Nick. Let's go to lost and found."
He sprang up with some inexplicable source of energy and we made our way to the lost baggage desk where, after scanning my corresponding luggage ticket, the woman behind the counter informed me that my bag had yet to leave Switzerland but would arrive within approximately four hours.
"Would you like to wait for it or would you like us to ship it to you?"
Hell if I was going to let them ship it to me. I could kiss all my souvenirs, electronics cords, clothes, and the blue flats that I stole from Mom the day before I left from Spain, all goodbye.
"No I'll wait."
"Okay, you can head back over here--we're in Terminal 2 right now--in about 4 hours. Until then, I suggest you go to Terminal 4. There's more restaurants and shops over there."
So we proceeded to Terminal 4 via shuttle, where we hung out, eating airport food, playing cards, reading, and drinking tea for the next four hours. I had a fierce headache and it was all I could do to remain in an upright position. My mood was blacker than strips of burned tire rubber on the runways outside. I had promised my mother to call when Nick and I arrived back at my dorm, telling her that at the latest we would be home by 5pm. However now we would be lucky to be back by ten o'clock and I knew she would worry.
My phone would not work. I tried everything short of building my own personal cell tower to get that thing to make a single 30 second call but the universe would oblige me nothing that day. Luckily, I had my kindle however so Nick and I went to the wifi hot spot so that I could email her.
"Uh, Meg?"
"Yes, Nick?"
He was holding my kindle at the moment. "It says we have to pay to use the internet . . ."
What was holding me together at this point, I'll never know. Robbed by a cabbie, forced to pay for a bland lunch at the airport when we could have had lunch at the residence hall, forced to pay for wifi, and we would inevitably miss dinner at the res hall as well so that meant plain toast once back home. The money situation was killing me, as I'm sure every college kid or blue collar worker can relate.
Finally 8:30pm came, the appointed hour. We dragged ourselves back to the shuttle and rode in silence to Terminal 2. We were told to stand by the "Paris" baggage claim, but the belt never started. A new crowd of passengers was milling about the same area and small clusters of them began to break off from the main group to go to the baggage information counter and interrogate the workers, who seemed to have no idea what was going on, based on the myriad different answers everyone was getting.
Nick and I each took up a post near one of the two moving baggage belts that finally came to life and--at long, long last-- my black, nondescript bag with the tiny metal oval that says, "American Tourist" in blue lettering circled around the corner and into my awaiting arms.
Taking no chances however, I opened it and verified that the contents were mine.
In a display of modern chivalry--which, despite the cynical beliefs of some is not extinct, only endangered-- Nick offered to carry my bag, but I would have none of it.
"After all that, I kind of just want to hold it," I told him. Somehow he understood.
Shuttled back, for the last time thank goodness, to Terminal 4, we then caught the train back to the residence hall. It was an hour and a half long ride, but it felt good to finally be on track, all possessions in hand, worries abated for the time being.
After that terrible drudge of a Thursday, I don't think there's anything that the world of traveling can throw at me that I cannot handle. Absolutely nothing worked out right to the point where we simply had to beat a retreat into the flat-lining world of unquestioning acceptance. Even there though, I had a bit of passport trouble; it seemed that I had a long history of struggles regarding simply accepting things so the security officials didn't want to let me in. Said I presented a real threat to those who simply wanted to follow the robed figure with the crook around the ever-green pasture in the valley known as Everything is Fine where runneth the River Complacence.
So even that presented difficulties. Ahhh well. Nick and I are now Peregrination Marines as I said before, decorated callouses hardened to the strains of the traveling life.
Nothing can stop us now.
That sentence was probably worthy of Charles Dickens. In that it alone causes a comma shortage in the world of literature. Although I most certainly do enjoy Mr. Dickens' writing, which is perhaps why I try to emulate his style for certain pieces, and I tip my hat to him most fondly. Please, if you haven't yet, read "A Tale of Two Cities". Brilliant.
5am dawned dark when the alarms screeched forth into to the quiet Roman hotel. Dark and hot. We'd at last found the thermostat last night after sweating to death the previous two nights. Ironically, it was located on the radiator. Yes, the side of a metal radiator that echoed a 1940's Philadelphia home, or so I can imagine. Still, it seemed that we had not figured it out entirely because I for one woke up with the covers half thrown off my body, covered in a light sheen of perspiration and cursing the physically painful, but necessary act, of opening both my eyes.
"Nick, come on," I croaked, sounding like Eartha Kitt in her role as the old fortune teller in "Holes". Or like Louis Armstrong on any day.
"Nooooo . . . ."
Amen to that, but we had no choice. So we dragged ourselves up and made our way down to the front desk to check out. Things went smoothly and we were leaving the Hotel Arcadia behind forever by 5:30am. A walk down the narrow road in the pre-dawn grayness of the world, everything a blur in that morning haze, that sleep that clings and won't quite recede back to your subconscious where it belongs. We crossed the road, passed that minuscule gas station, and stood at the bus stop, the faint memories of dreams still drifting like ghosts before our eyes.
Twenty minutes later we arrived at the metro station and hopped aboard, shipping out of the suburbs of Roma to the city center where we bought a shuttle ticket to take us to Ciampino Airport. We waited in a long line of other exhausted-looking tourists, everyone bearing a heavy suitcase. The bus filled up and we were told to wait for the next one.
So we stood there, at attention, our nerves on end. We knew we would not be able to relax fully until we were sitting before the correct gate.
The bus came. My suitcase was loaded onto the bottom of the bus. As he was only carrying a backpack, Nick had nothing to stow away below decks. The ride was a long one. Nothing looked familiar.
"Are you sure we need to go to Ciampino?"
"Yes. I'm 100% positive," I answered tiredly. I was in no mood for any kind of debate.
"100%? Not 50% or even 80%?"
"No, Nick."
"Okay, just checking." Then we lapsed into silence and I ate my rations: an apple from the breakfast offerings of the day before and a granola bar, the last of the five that I'd brought from Madrid.
We arrived at the airport, disembarked with all the other passengers, reclaimed my luggage, and then made our way inside. Our itinerary said Terminal 3, but the building that we'd just entered wasn't labeled. The line inside was atrocious, enough to scare anyone. A few select curse words may or may not have been flung out into the open; I will neither confirm nor deny this.
Nick insisted that we go to the information desk before blindly getting into a line that stretched all the way back to the Persian Empire and it was a lucky thing too. The man at the front desk scowled up at us when we asked where Terminal 3 was located.
"There's only one terminal here."
"Yes, but our itinerary says we need to get to terminal 3. Do we need to take a shuttle?"
"What's your airline?" he growled.
"Uh . . . Swiss," I said, double checking our paperwork.
"We only fly Ryan Airlines. You need the other airport."
$@?!
I need to take one moment here to show an ounce of humility and gratefulness at the graceful tact of Nick not mention my 100% guarantee at this given moment. I don't know what I would have done if he had. Bravo though to a good friend for letting that one pass. I must mention here, lest we both look like total buffoons, that our itinerary did not say the airport on it; only the terminal number. One question for you, Expedia: why?
We hurried outside and saw a cluster of cabbies standing together. In Spanish, I addressed them and asked how far the other airport was away from Ciampino. There are only two major airports in Rome, the other being Fiumicino.
"About 30 minutes," was our answer. By our calculations and from previous taxi reconnaissance, we knew the going rates were about 1 Euro per minute. Ergo, 15 Euros each for a ride to the correct airport wasn't so bad; the bus shuttle here had only cost 6 Euro, so total travel cost from hotel to airport at just over 20 euros sounded pretty much like a bargain. And we desperately needed it too. Both of us were a wee bit depressed about the amount of wallet vacuuming that had occurred whilst in Rome. Granted, however, we both now knew what the deepest, innermost corners of said wallets looked like and they were quite tidy and uncluttered.
We climbed into the cab after my luggage was loaded in the trunk. Mistake. But I'll get to that.
Drizzling and fairly cloudy now, the pavement was slick, but this somehow did not deter our driver from acting like we were in the Indianapolis 500. Blinkers forgotten, passing on curves, speeds of 130+ km/hr . . . rest assured I was weighing to myself the benefits of not having to pay for the cab ride since we would all be in a ditch somewhere very shortly. Even if we survived that, surely there would have to be a "I'm sorry I rolled over the cab into a muddy field because I couldn't make logical, safe driving decisions" discount. So we didn't panic much.
Screeching to a stop and drifting into a parking place along the drop off section at the airport, we arrived, just as promised 30 minutes later.
"Ok," said the driver, "79 euros."
"Excuse me, what?" Cotton must have become lodged in my ear at some point during the trip, surely.
"79 Euros."
"For a 30 minute cab ride? You realize that was 30 minutes? It should be around 30 euros."
He turned around then, his olive complexioned features stern. "You took express."
Now that, we couldn't argue. However, we were clearly in the process of being robbed. Had I known then what I know now, I never would have put my luggage in the trunk. That cab-thief would have held no collateral and I simply would've thrown down about 40 euro, hopped out, and said, "Sue me."
Alas, this was not the case. Nick and I rummaged through our emaciated wallets and scrapped together, by some miracle 65 Euro. "This is all we have," Nick assured him. Close enough right? You two poor young college kids can have a break this once.
"Go inside and find a cash machine then," the cab driver shot back.
How can I describe the stress then bottling up inside of me? My throat had become a bottlenecked traffic zone of profanities and curse words that most likely weren't even real, but lodged as they were in my efforts to hold back tears of frustration, I leapt out of the taxi and ran inside, even as I heard Nick saying, "She'll go get the money, I'll stay here, ok?"
Legs pumping, hair flying, I soared across the shining tiled floor toward the overhead sign that, at the opposite end of the check in area, bore the Euro sign. I surely must have borrowed Hermes' winged sandals as my tan boots barely skimmed the surface of the gray flooring. At the ATM, my hands were shaking, a mixture of anger and also knowing that I had to hurry. Our flight left in 45 minutes and we still had to check in and go through security and find the gate--
A fifty spat out of the machine. I crumpled it in my fist--hell if I was going to lose anymore money on this trip--and ran back again, dashing out to our cab where I paid the driver, made the mature choice not to tell him what I thought of him, and grabbed my luggage.
At check in, I was told that my carry on would have to be checked. Ahhhh the inescapability of it all. Lady Luck was indeed with us that day, but they are identical twins perhaps better known as Good or Bad, and we had the less desirable of the sisters in our company that Thursday.
Security went well . . . until Nick was held up for having a full water bottle, which he was made to chug to prove that there was nothing flammable, harmful, or otherwise poisonous inside. Ugh. So much water in less than a minute. We were cleared then, only to make our way to the "D" gates area where we had been instructed to go at check in and discover that not only did our flight not have a specific gate number assigned yet--even though it was due to take off in less than 20 minutes-- it also was delayed for 45.
"This means we didn't need to take express," Nick tried to joke lightheartedly.
"Right." The was all the numbness in my head could come up with; my brain was on leave.
The flight to Zurich was uneventful. Until the end of it. Nick and I were scheduled to fly out of Zurich at 12:25, just one hour after landing. Yet, our flight from Rome took off 45 minutes later than originally anticipated due to air traffic control problems in Zurich so now we would have 15 minutes to find our gate and board.
The flight attendants flitted around the plane, handing out maps of the airport to passengers who were to be boarding connecting flights with nearly overlapping landing/take off times. Our gate was approximately a 15 minute distance from where we would be landing (trust the Swiss to have an airport map with measured walking time estimations between all the gates; a gold star for efficiency!).
As soon as the plane touched down, we bolted. Down the aisle, off the plane, Nick clutching the map and quickly taking the lead with those impossibly long legs of his--"Keep going! I'm right behind you!" I yelled out as though we were fleeing an airstrike--up one of those moving walkways to a sub level, then up another. The civilians waiting patiently at the neighboring gates stared at us as we thundered through like a pair of wildebeests spurred on by ravenous hyenas, skidding to a halt, breathless, as we found our gate.
We'd done it in five minutes. It was a tad bit anticlimactic handing in our boarding passes with ten minutes to spare and the stewardess raising a skeptical eyebrow which clearly questioned our rationality and right to be traveling alone. If only she knew. I get that look every time I propose that I want to create the 100% efficient solar cell. They tell me it's impossible and that I'm an idiot with those eyebrows of theirs. That's also what they said when Tesla predicted global warming.
The flight back to Madrid was uneventful, thank goodness. For one and a half hours, I simply vegetated as I listened to my iPod.
When we landed, the two of us of course made our way to baggage claim to await my poor carry on that had been torn away from me. Taking up strategic positions at the conveyor, we waited as the belt looped its ceaseless way around and around its deep U-shaped track. Little kids squealed excitedly when their brightly colored luggage passed beneath the plastic black flaps and into view. Adults pointed and gestured at certain bags, disappointment cresting on their faces when the little logo on the outside or the color of the ribbon tied onto the handle didn't match up.
Eventually all were satisfied though. All but me. Nick laid down on a non-active belt and stared at the ceiling. I stood my watch, vigilant as ever, staring down those vertical black flaps that led into the great expanse of the unknown from whence all luggage came, mysteriously, transported by clandestine airport workers, possibly somehow connected to Narnia. The world may never know.
The belt finally chugged to a stop.
A weak sigh escaped my lips. "All right, Nick. Let's go to lost and found."
He sprang up with some inexplicable source of energy and we made our way to the lost baggage desk where, after scanning my corresponding luggage ticket, the woman behind the counter informed me that my bag had yet to leave Switzerland but would arrive within approximately four hours.
"Would you like to wait for it or would you like us to ship it to you?"
Hell if I was going to let them ship it to me. I could kiss all my souvenirs, electronics cords, clothes, and the blue flats that I stole from Mom the day before I left from Spain, all goodbye.
"No I'll wait."
"Okay, you can head back over here--we're in Terminal 2 right now--in about 4 hours. Until then, I suggest you go to Terminal 4. There's more restaurants and shops over there."
So we proceeded to Terminal 4 via shuttle, where we hung out, eating airport food, playing cards, reading, and drinking tea for the next four hours. I had a fierce headache and it was all I could do to remain in an upright position. My mood was blacker than strips of burned tire rubber on the runways outside. I had promised my mother to call when Nick and I arrived back at my dorm, telling her that at the latest we would be home by 5pm. However now we would be lucky to be back by ten o'clock and I knew she would worry.
My phone would not work. I tried everything short of building my own personal cell tower to get that thing to make a single 30 second call but the universe would oblige me nothing that day. Luckily, I had my kindle however so Nick and I went to the wifi hot spot so that I could email her.
"Uh, Meg?"
"Yes, Nick?"
He was holding my kindle at the moment. "It says we have to pay to use the internet . . ."
What was holding me together at this point, I'll never know. Robbed by a cabbie, forced to pay for a bland lunch at the airport when we could have had lunch at the residence hall, forced to pay for wifi, and we would inevitably miss dinner at the res hall as well so that meant plain toast once back home. The money situation was killing me, as I'm sure every college kid or blue collar worker can relate.
Finally 8:30pm came, the appointed hour. We dragged ourselves back to the shuttle and rode in silence to Terminal 2. We were told to stand by the "Paris" baggage claim, but the belt never started. A new crowd of passengers was milling about the same area and small clusters of them began to break off from the main group to go to the baggage information counter and interrogate the workers, who seemed to have no idea what was going on, based on the myriad different answers everyone was getting.
Nick and I each took up a post near one of the two moving baggage belts that finally came to life and--at long, long last-- my black, nondescript bag with the tiny metal oval that says, "American Tourist" in blue lettering circled around the corner and into my awaiting arms.
Taking no chances however, I opened it and verified that the contents were mine.
In a display of modern chivalry--which, despite the cynical beliefs of some is not extinct, only endangered-- Nick offered to carry my bag, but I would have none of it.
"After all that, I kind of just want to hold it," I told him. Somehow he understood.
Shuttled back, for the last time thank goodness, to Terminal 4, we then caught the train back to the residence hall. It was an hour and a half long ride, but it felt good to finally be on track, all possessions in hand, worries abated for the time being.
After that terrible drudge of a Thursday, I don't think there's anything that the world of traveling can throw at me that I cannot handle. Absolutely nothing worked out right to the point where we simply had to beat a retreat into the flat-lining world of unquestioning acceptance. Even there though, I had a bit of passport trouble; it seemed that I had a long history of struggles regarding simply accepting things so the security officials didn't want to let me in. Said I presented a real threat to those who simply wanted to follow the robed figure with the crook around the ever-green pasture in the valley known as Everything is Fine where runneth the River Complacence.
So even that presented difficulties. Ahhh well. Nick and I are now Peregrination Marines as I said before, decorated callouses hardened to the strains of the traveling life.
Nothing can stop us now.
Monday, April 15, 2013
What Happened at the Vatican
Wednesday morning began with a quick shower and a breakfast of several pastries, a bowl of cereal, and some espresso--one of six options from a boxy chrome machine on the juice and coffee counter--before heading out into the Italian capitol.
During the daylight, the side street of Campo Romano seemed harmless enough; the night before, however, Nick and I had felt quite differently, walking past empty cars parked along the chain link fence on the right hand side, the graffitied and crumbling brick wall off to the left. A large shed in the middle of that field did not help our nerves either. Plus, the hour was late--just a bit before midnight.
Yet this morning, in the sunshine again, everything seemed golden and wonderful. There was a sort of romanticism to the non-bourgeois surroundings of our "hotel" and our conversation was light and airy, making plans as we are forever doing. Today's first stop would be the Vatican.
As you walk up the road toward the Vatican, you are accosted by scalpers, more than you care to count. "Are you going to the Vatican today?" they question you as they rush up with stacks of flyers and brochures in their fists. When you keep walking and pretend not to hear them: "Do you speak English? English? O italiano?"
These scalpers possess a willful determination that is not to be denied by merely walking away so you have to tell each and every one of them, "No thank you. No we're not going to the Vatican." Even though you of course are walking directly towards it.
We arrived to find massive stone pillars and gates between these pillars. Some people, coming from the inside already, were hopping over these gates, but although Nick suggested that we just sneak in for a free visit, I decided that I would rather not run the risk of being caught and possibly fined or deported, if we were seen as a security risk. Nick and I can come across as a pretty fierce pair. I would not have been able to blame the Italian police for their decision.
But we continued left, walking around the arcing path of the pillars until we found an open space between their horse-shoe configuration where the gates were open and people entered and left freely. Police and security guards milled about, but no one seemed to be demanding tickets or payment at the gate so the two of us made our way in and pulled out our cameras.
It's hard to take in the Vatican all at once simply due to the enormity of its size. Perhaps if I had compound eyes like a fly and could look at more than 180 degrees at a time . . . but anyhow.
Gray stone pillars reach up high into the clouds, which that day looked like fluffy cotton balls on the backdrop of a blue sky. The sun beamed down, warming the entire plaza in front of the Vatican. A fountain stood on either side with beautifully clear running water shooting up into the warm air and cascading back down into the pool of the cream colored basins. An obelisk, towering high above the crowds, stood at the center of the plaza.
It did not take long for me to notice the crowds either. So many people were gathered in the plaza, and many stood all in the front half of it, the closest to the actual building of the Vatican. Then I noticed high platforms with news cameras and a single man on each platform working the camera. Behind us, at the top of the curve of pillars, another expensive looking piece of filming equipment perched, pointing at the magnificent domed building across the plaza.
"Hey Nick?"
Distractedly, taking another thousand photos of every possible angle of the fountain, he answered, "What's up?"
"I think something's going on here. There's an awful lot of people for a Wednesday."
"Nah," he brushed it off casually. "It's the Vatican. It's popular with tourists. And this is the week before Easter so it's holy week or something."
"Yeah, but the cameras?"
He shrugged, coming over toward me now. "I don't know. It's the Vatican. They like filming it."
So we walked around, headed over by a fence where hundreds of people jammed themselves up again to see . . . nothing. All I saw were about a score of nicely dressed officials on the upper most steps of the Vatican and couple of those Swiss guards with the bright yellow, maroon, and blue costumes. I snapped a couple more photographs.
We moved around more toward the center and that's when I noticed that there was chairs in the front half of the plaza and that everyone within sight was either standing on a chair now or climbing up to get on one. Nearby, a group of nuns started clapping and--sounding like a group of overexcited cheerleaders--started shouting, "Papa Francesco! Papa Francesco!"
"Hey Nick?" I called again. He was taking photos of the giant obelisk now.
"Yeah?"
"Isn't the name of the new Pope, Francesco?"
"Something like that."
He looked at me, I looked at him. Once we made eye contact we knew. "Holy shit!" I said running toward the back of the crowd and jumping up on the nearest chair. People were screaming and clapping now. Some were climbing on each other, the fences, to get a look at . . .
THE POPE! Papa Francesco himself!
And cue the cameras. Although he was a small white dot no larger than a pencil eraser from our perspective, Nick and I indeed saw the Pope. By accident. Out of the thousands of total people in the plaza, at least hundreds had probably come hours in advance, well aware of his visit and titillated beyond belief to see the new Pope, planning days ahead of time, whenever they found out he was going to make his appearance.
Nick and I, two American college kids on a spring break vacation, happened to choose to come to the Vatican on Wednesday, happened to go in the morning, and happened to be there for the ten minutes that he made his appearance before exiting with the Swiss guard. There's no word for that kind of luck! I mean, how many people can say that they saw the Pope? Accidentally?
After the Vatican, we spent the day wandering about, eating gelatto, seeing castles, parks, and walking along the Fiume River. The river is the color of chocolate milk with a tinge of Statue-of-Liberty green. In a word, lovely. (Did I mention that it was to be a sarcastic word?). The bridges traversing the river, of white and gray stone with statues of angels and saint, were beautiful however and these I photographed eagerly, all the while trying to avoid the river in most of my shots, although I did take one picture of a derelict barge, covered in debris and quite possibly one of the most bedraggled watercrafts I'd ever seen.
Throughout the day, and in fact the whole trip from our first visit to the el Rastro street market and on through the entirety of our Rome vacation, Nick proved himself to be a bargainer that would have put traveling merchants of the Renaissance period to shame. He oftentimes would go up to a stall with some object or other in hand say nothing more than, "Tres?" and what was once a 7 euro product became his for 3 euro. It was almost magical to watch, as he did this a handful of times in both Spain and Rome.
Emboldened by Nick's success, a wooden magnet caught my eye at a small outdoor stall in Rome and I took it to the old man running the place saying, "Este por dos euros?" ("This for two euros?"). He corrected me, saying that the price was 3.50. So I tried again, repeating myself, smiling, pointing at the magnet, hoping that my clear touristness and being a young lady would help me win him over.
No. He launched into a stream of what I can only assume were Italian curse words. Yelling and gesticulating wildly, I realized that I must have deeply insulted his family pride or his country or God or something by accident so I silently put the magnet on his counter and left, driven out by the brisk wind of heated swears urging me forward like a ship caught in a good strong ocean breeze.
Ah well. Sorry, Mom. That magnet was intended for you.
I gave up on my bargaining days after this, having only had a brief but traumatic foray into the world of haggling. I suppose I leave it to the professionals. Some people just have the gift.
The evening concluded with a supper of pizza--Nick ordered seafood pizza which ended up being soggy and gross whilst I ordered mushroom pizza with a side of spinach, which I put on top of the pizza and liked pretty well. It's strange to this American girl, but no where could you find sausage pizza. They'll make you anchovie pizza, seafood, vegetable, just cheese, ham, "pepperoni" (which I highly suspect is simply another kind of ham and not the pepperoni that we United States citizens would expect), and a host of other fun flavors.
We collapsed into bed that night, having walked a total of ten hours that day and only sitting down on the Spanish steps for five minutes and at dinner for about 45 minutes. How we did it, I can only refer back to what I said two posts ago: intrepidity. Boldly pushing through the stinging feeling in your feet, the thirst in the back of your throat, the ache of your back and legs, you--the intrepid, true wanderlusting traveler!--push forward beyond any limitations that previously had existed and defy the comprehension of the word 'fatigue'.
At least we slept well that night. At 5am, our alarms went off and, groggy and leaden with the weight of an incomplete sleep, we rose to face what would come to be known forever as the Travel Day From Hell.
But that's its whole own post.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
When the Moon Hits Your Eye . . .
Tuesday morning dawned cool. Over the city of Rome a sky of pale blue, mottled with full, rounded clumps of gray cloud, smelled of spring on the tiny forgotten via de Campo Romano, a side street only a block away from the Campo Romano bus stop that sat situated next to a gas station which echoed the full service stations of mid-20th century America.
Nick and I--dressed light in expectation of the warm day to come, which we had gauged by leaning out our room window and which required holding the heavy black vertical shutters open above our heads--approached the gas station to ask for directions, commenting on the tiny shack that served as the station's "store". A woman dressed in a navy blue work suit waiting to fill up the tanks of customer's manual vehicles pointed us down the sidewalk after we questioned, "Estación de autobús?"
Following her pointing finger, we found our stop and waited no more than five minutes in the slight breeze with the several silent Romans who awaited a ride to the city center as well. The softness of that morning breeze felt good on my skin; our hotel room did not have a thermostat and had easily risen to well over eighty degrees during the night, before we'd woken up in a sweat and propped open the shutters with the plastic hangers in our closet.
The bus arrived shortly after we did. There were not many seats so we stood, uncertain of what to do with the 4 Euro bus tickets that we'd purchased at the front desk. And in fact we never were destined to find out what one needed to do with these tickets. Some passengers stepped up into the bus and ran the ticket through a shoe box sized contraption yet others did not. Several times Nick and I punched ours, but no one ever seemed to notice either way so we generally disregarded the yellow box and kept our tickets tucked in our pockets for the "just in case" moments.
The bus took us to Anagnina metro station and from there we rode 15 stops (roughly 45 minutes) to Termini, the hub of Rome's public transportation from which trains, buses, shuttles, cabs, and metros alike spur outward like the spokes of a wagon wheel--although considerably less geometrically.
We arrived at Termini, which landed us straight in the heart of Rome. Once outside the terminal, we began walking down Via Cavour, meandering in the light mist that began to fall from the pale gray clouds that now obscured the sunshine from earlier in the morning. That we had learned our lesson in Madrid in terms of expecting the wettest in regards to weather was irrevocably proven when we both pulled out umbrellas as cool as you please and continued on with snapping photographs of nearly every building--now from underneath a purple and a black hexagon.
Time carried us along that same road for a ways until we turned left and saw, from between the buildings and looking as though it was rooted in the gray, shining pavement of the street leading up to it, the Colosseum. At the same moment we both stopped and gravity took possession of the lower half of our jaws. Even the cameras lie quietly forgotten in our palms for a moment in the presence of the centuries old colossus. It may even have taken my breath away; I can't rightly remember. I wasn't so much preoccupied with my breath that particular moment.
Soon the cameras were brought out though and I can't say how many of the week's pictures were taken on that street alone as with each step the arena loomed closer and closer.
Patiently, we waited in line behind hundreds of others to purchase tour tickets, which we finally did at around two o'clock (having arrived at Termini at around eleven) for 17 Euro a piece. We opted for the tour in addition to the 12 Euro entrance fee. However, the tour would not begin for another hour and a half and our stomachs began to grumble like small children pulling on the hems of parents' shirts as the family passes by a wonderfully rainbow-colored candy store . . .
A small outdoor cafe situated across the street from the Colosseum, shielded from the fairly heavy rain now by large overlapping white umbrellas and heated by steel pillar space heaters with bright orange flames jumping straight up in their glass upper halves, looked idyllic and we made our way there. As luck would have it, a table opened up directly next to one of the pretty "fire pillars" and we ordered ourselves some pizza and pasta while admiring the view.
Admittedly, for I cannot be dishonest to those reading this blog, I was dissatisfied with the pasta: ordinary penne noodles with a plain marinara sauce and no seasons nor meat to boast of. Not to mention that the portion was too small even to fill me up and cost me 12 Euros. Nick thought his pizza deserved at least a C+ (the upper end of average for those whose grading scale does not consist of letters) but wasn't dazzled by our first foray into the world of Italian dining either.
We finished our mediocre repast with time to burn yet--both dishes had come out within ten minutes of placing our orders, ergo all but proving my conjecture that this was not authentic, handmade Italian cuisine--and so Nick pulled out a deck of cards as we so often did when presented with a comfortable place to sit and a bit of free time.
At half past three, we found ourselves standing in a group of about fifteen people ranging from the nine year old boy with his parents to Nick and I to other college students who we later found out were studying in Germany and who were also on spring break. Several of them were quite attractive and this no doubt enhanced the tour.
Our guide was a classic 'mumbler', barely speaking loud enough for those of us who have only twenty-one years under our belt and no hearing problems to speak of. Many times I gave up and began taking as many pictures as I could. At one point, the sun broke through the clouds for a good twenty minutes and lit up the ancient stones and all the tourists crowded on the multiple levels, marveling at the relic of one of the most glorious of men's empires. Strange to think that spectators and emperors alike sat in that self-same stadium, never dreaming that one day their civilization would be an intangible one--surviving in language and art and philosophy, but gone as they themselves knew it. It reminded me that someday our civilizations will be gone and that perhaps one day, the people of the future will walk the steps of Chicago's Soldier Field or Madrid's Santiago Bernabéu Stadium and take tours that speculate on the peoples who once frequented those places.
The Colosseum was a beautiful place and a thoughtful one as well. It was not a sad place, not the picture of a ruined empire of an era forever gone, but a place that proved the perseverance of culture and the power of our memories as a collective species. Those old stones stood against wind and heat and rain and Time. They were the chance to walk through that old photo album that sits on the top shelf in the bookcase and remember times that were not ours nor never will be but that yet, somehow, belong to us still.
Over an hour later, Nick and left, strolling down a mainway where, cold and shivering from a combination of the drop in temperature brought by the rain and my light clothing, I broke down and bought a hoodie to wear for the rest of the evening. We stopped also to take pictures with a five man band playing on the street. Although we had only intended to stop a moment on the street and take a few pictures, the men motioned us towards them and one gently grabbed my arm and pulled me next to the young bass player. Another of them offered to take Nick and I's picture with the band so I acquiesced my camera figuring I could always run him down if need be (he was an older, heavier gentleman carrying a violin to boot).
As Nick and I tried to leave, they began to pester us for tips. We gave several coins, myself a 2 Euro piece, but the older man who'd taken our pictures held out his hat and took a ten euro bill from his own pocket which he threw into the hat emphatically. Thank goodness I'd already taken my camera back as Nick and I repeated over and over again that we had no bills and could not therefore give him a ten because he eventually gave up, took the coins from the hat, and threw them rather angrily down into the guitar case that the band had laid open on the street to collect tips.
Ah musicians.
The night concluded with a visit to Trevi Fountain. Glowing in the ambiguity of the twilight, the white sculptures of the fountain rose far over our heads from the cerulean waters of the pool below the fountain. It was crowded there. So many people milled about the steps leading down to the fountain, posed for pictures as they paused with coins in their left hands, then threw them laughing into the fountain. A bit of copper for a wish if you please, good fontana.
We lingered there for a time, soaking in the sounds of the people and the running water, meshed together in an avant garde symphony. The streetlamps shone softly orange on us all and the night grew darker around us. In the absence of daylight though, la Fontana di Trevi became all the brighter, its waters lit from below their rippling surface and the light cascaded up, even as its waters cascaded down, to highlight those statues which have reposed over the fountain for so many years.
And who perhaps--and it was not at all difficult to believe that night--might grant a few wishes.
Nick and I--dressed light in expectation of the warm day to come, which we had gauged by leaning out our room window and which required holding the heavy black vertical shutters open above our heads--approached the gas station to ask for directions, commenting on the tiny shack that served as the station's "store". A woman dressed in a navy blue work suit waiting to fill up the tanks of customer's manual vehicles pointed us down the sidewalk after we questioned, "Estación de autobús?"
Following her pointing finger, we found our stop and waited no more than five minutes in the slight breeze with the several silent Romans who awaited a ride to the city center as well. The softness of that morning breeze felt good on my skin; our hotel room did not have a thermostat and had easily risen to well over eighty degrees during the night, before we'd woken up in a sweat and propped open the shutters with the plastic hangers in our closet.
The bus arrived shortly after we did. There were not many seats so we stood, uncertain of what to do with the 4 Euro bus tickets that we'd purchased at the front desk. And in fact we never were destined to find out what one needed to do with these tickets. Some passengers stepped up into the bus and ran the ticket through a shoe box sized contraption yet others did not. Several times Nick and I punched ours, but no one ever seemed to notice either way so we generally disregarded the yellow box and kept our tickets tucked in our pockets for the "just in case" moments.
The bus took us to Anagnina metro station and from there we rode 15 stops (roughly 45 minutes) to Termini, the hub of Rome's public transportation from which trains, buses, shuttles, cabs, and metros alike spur outward like the spokes of a wagon wheel--although considerably less geometrically.
We arrived at Termini, which landed us straight in the heart of Rome. Once outside the terminal, we began walking down Via Cavour, meandering in the light mist that began to fall from the pale gray clouds that now obscured the sunshine from earlier in the morning. That we had learned our lesson in Madrid in terms of expecting the wettest in regards to weather was irrevocably proven when we both pulled out umbrellas as cool as you please and continued on with snapping photographs of nearly every building--now from underneath a purple and a black hexagon.
Time carried us along that same road for a ways until we turned left and saw, from between the buildings and looking as though it was rooted in the gray, shining pavement of the street leading up to it, the Colosseum. At the same moment we both stopped and gravity took possession of the lower half of our jaws. Even the cameras lie quietly forgotten in our palms for a moment in the presence of the centuries old colossus. It may even have taken my breath away; I can't rightly remember. I wasn't so much preoccupied with my breath that particular moment.
Soon the cameras were brought out though and I can't say how many of the week's pictures were taken on that street alone as with each step the arena loomed closer and closer.
Patiently, we waited in line behind hundreds of others to purchase tour tickets, which we finally did at around two o'clock (having arrived at Termini at around eleven) for 17 Euro a piece. We opted for the tour in addition to the 12 Euro entrance fee. However, the tour would not begin for another hour and a half and our stomachs began to grumble like small children pulling on the hems of parents' shirts as the family passes by a wonderfully rainbow-colored candy store . . .
A small outdoor cafe situated across the street from the Colosseum, shielded from the fairly heavy rain now by large overlapping white umbrellas and heated by steel pillar space heaters with bright orange flames jumping straight up in their glass upper halves, looked idyllic and we made our way there. As luck would have it, a table opened up directly next to one of the pretty "fire pillars" and we ordered ourselves some pizza and pasta while admiring the view.
Admittedly, for I cannot be dishonest to those reading this blog, I was dissatisfied with the pasta: ordinary penne noodles with a plain marinara sauce and no seasons nor meat to boast of. Not to mention that the portion was too small even to fill me up and cost me 12 Euros. Nick thought his pizza deserved at least a C+ (the upper end of average for those whose grading scale does not consist of letters) but wasn't dazzled by our first foray into the world of Italian dining either.
We finished our mediocre repast with time to burn yet--both dishes had come out within ten minutes of placing our orders, ergo all but proving my conjecture that this was not authentic, handmade Italian cuisine--and so Nick pulled out a deck of cards as we so often did when presented with a comfortable place to sit and a bit of free time.
At half past three, we found ourselves standing in a group of about fifteen people ranging from the nine year old boy with his parents to Nick and I to other college students who we later found out were studying in Germany and who were also on spring break. Several of them were quite attractive and this no doubt enhanced the tour.
Our guide was a classic 'mumbler', barely speaking loud enough for those of us who have only twenty-one years under our belt and no hearing problems to speak of. Many times I gave up and began taking as many pictures as I could. At one point, the sun broke through the clouds for a good twenty minutes and lit up the ancient stones and all the tourists crowded on the multiple levels, marveling at the relic of one of the most glorious of men's empires. Strange to think that spectators and emperors alike sat in that self-same stadium, never dreaming that one day their civilization would be an intangible one--surviving in language and art and philosophy, but gone as they themselves knew it. It reminded me that someday our civilizations will be gone and that perhaps one day, the people of the future will walk the steps of Chicago's Soldier Field or Madrid's Santiago Bernabéu Stadium and take tours that speculate on the peoples who once frequented those places.
The Colosseum was a beautiful place and a thoughtful one as well. It was not a sad place, not the picture of a ruined empire of an era forever gone, but a place that proved the perseverance of culture and the power of our memories as a collective species. Those old stones stood against wind and heat and rain and Time. They were the chance to walk through that old photo album that sits on the top shelf in the bookcase and remember times that were not ours nor never will be but that yet, somehow, belong to us still.
Over an hour later, Nick and left, strolling down a mainway where, cold and shivering from a combination of the drop in temperature brought by the rain and my light clothing, I broke down and bought a hoodie to wear for the rest of the evening. We stopped also to take pictures with a five man band playing on the street. Although we had only intended to stop a moment on the street and take a few pictures, the men motioned us towards them and one gently grabbed my arm and pulled me next to the young bass player. Another of them offered to take Nick and I's picture with the band so I acquiesced my camera figuring I could always run him down if need be (he was an older, heavier gentleman carrying a violin to boot).
As Nick and I tried to leave, they began to pester us for tips. We gave several coins, myself a 2 Euro piece, but the older man who'd taken our pictures held out his hat and took a ten euro bill from his own pocket which he threw into the hat emphatically. Thank goodness I'd already taken my camera back as Nick and I repeated over and over again that we had no bills and could not therefore give him a ten because he eventually gave up, took the coins from the hat, and threw them rather angrily down into the guitar case that the band had laid open on the street to collect tips.
Ah musicians.
The night concluded with a visit to Trevi Fountain. Glowing in the ambiguity of the twilight, the white sculptures of the fountain rose far over our heads from the cerulean waters of the pool below the fountain. It was crowded there. So many people milled about the steps leading down to the fountain, posed for pictures as they paused with coins in their left hands, then threw them laughing into the fountain. A bit of copper for a wish if you please, good fontana.
We lingered there for a time, soaking in the sounds of the people and the running water, meshed together in an avant garde symphony. The streetlamps shone softly orange on us all and the night grew darker around us. In the absence of daylight though, la Fontana di Trevi became all the brighter, its waters lit from below their rippling surface and the light cascaded up, even as its waters cascaded down, to highlight those statues which have reposed over the fountain for so many years.
And who perhaps--and it was not at all difficult to believe that night--might grant a few wishes.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
The Beginning of the Nine
Ahhh the life of a traveler . . . at once exhausting and exhilarating. Both have negative and positive connotations in this instance. I shall let the reader be the judge for the follow tales of Spring Break 2013: Nine Days of Intrepidity.
The trip begins with a character other than myself--surprise beginning, I know. Nick, my friend from back home, flew from our home base of O'Hare to London Heathrow only to be taken to the wrong hotel, forced to take (and obviously pay for) another cab to the correct hotel, only to get there in time for three hours of sleep before drudging back to the airport for another several hour flight to Madrid's Barajas Airport, the world's 19th busiest airport based on number of passengers served and according to the 2012 statistics.
From there, the lucky guy was picked up by moi and therefore permitted to lapse into what I call the traveler's "post advanced Calculus exam" mode. If you've never had the displeasure of taking an advanced Calculus course and then been subjected to sitting in a 90 degree rigid chair-desk-connected contraption for three hours plus then watched in a haze as you turned in your paper and wondered vaguely what the burning wetness around your eyes was all about--tears of agony, you would later come to realize--
If, as I said before, you've never been through all that, then I suppose "zombie mode" will have to suffice although I do insist that something is lost in this translation; no one is more brain dead and guide-less than an overworked collegiate trooper who just had to find the volume of a squiggly cone type shape on a 3D coordinate plane.
I digress. For more on Calculus, especially for a more positive outlook, in all seriousness check out the Khan Academy. You can Google them and find thousands of free videos on math, physics, etc. Extremely helpful resource that I used countless times, I can't even tell you.
Back to Nick-- the lucky devil followed me in a haze along two legs of Cercanías Renfe trains,
then to the metro, then one long walk across the empty sand field where now handfuls of large anthills are beginning to crop up as our weather starts to take a turn for the warmer.
That Saturday was an easy day; we both napped, took a slightly cold dinner at the residence cafeteria (we didn't realize that the dinner times had changed for the holiday weekend and so arrived late enough not to be able to receive hot food, but early enough to get something). Still, it wasn't satisfying so we boarded the metro and found our way through the steady, cool rain to a tapas bar named El Tigre and which Nicole only just recently introduced me to. For 3.50 Euro on weeknights and 6 Euro on weekends, you can order a large jarra (jar) of sangría and get two big plates of fairly typical tapas to split between your group. It's a great deal and as such, we found the joint so crowded that we counted ourselves blessed to stumble upon--and then claim like 15th century explorers-- a tiny card table shoved in the corner by the mop buckets and haggard brooms.
Nick fell in love with sangría, a love at first sip type experience, and for the rest of the trip searched for it at nearly every restaurant we visited.
Sunday we visited El Rastro, the enormous and ever lively street market that Madrid hosts across various streets and alleyways (see former post, "El Rastro and the Prado" for more on that, I won't repeat myself here). The weekend was a peaceful one.
Monday not so much. We were up at about 8:30am and never stopped running for the duration of the day. Quick showers, quick breakfast, finish up packing then bam! on the metro, from there rush to the Cercanías, transfer lines, bam! to the airport, oh but you're at the wrong terminal, shuttle, oh you missed your terminal, shuttle back, security lines, find the gate--please can we stop to go the bathroom, dear goodness--, oh and there it is, get in line, "Boarding passes and passports ready please!", through the never-seems-altogether-stable-tunnel-leading-to-the-plane-but-we're-okay-with-it pathway, oh look we're sitting together that worked out well, buckle up!
Then we arrived in Zurich Airport. The Swiss really have transportation down to a T. That was the cleanest, most efficient, friendliest airport that I have ever had the pleasure of sitting in for three hours while awaiting a flight to Rome.
Quite a prestigious title!
After making our way through security, during which I was frisked because apparently my new boots have metal in their soles, Nick and I found ourselves a nice restaurant in the center of the airport, and, thanks to his generous grandfather who dropped Nick off at the airport and handed him a 100 with a, "Take Megan out to a nice meal", we ate very well: beef, sauteed mushrooms, red cabbage, scalloped potatoes, carrots, and to cleanse the pallet, a glass of pinot noir for me and a white wine for Nick. With the traditional Spanish toast of, "Salud!" (health) we drank to our benefactor, to our trip, and to lots of other things, past, present, and future. Simply said, out of the entire nine day trip, that moment witnessed the height of my contentedness.
We left Zurich regretfully, wishing to explore Switzerland, but as happens so often to so many, Time was not on our side. Makes you wonder whose side Time is actually on and whether or not they're taking advantage of it. One hopes.
Roughly two hours later we landed in Rome. Tired, but still a long way off from our hotel, we made our way through the airport to find a line of cabbies, the first who informed us that it would cost 90 Euro to get to our hotel with his excellent service, but 60 Euro by shuttle if we were so inclined.
In neither direction were we inclined, but, being savvy, world-wise young folk we made further inquiries, discovered a shuttle service that would get us to the center of Rome and charge only 4 Euro a piece. From there, yes, we would have to take a cab, but the rate would be infinitely cheaper from there. Thank you woman behind the desk at the bus company stall.
An hour later we were dropped off at the shuttle's only stop, Termini, the center of Rome's metro and train life. Practically dragging ourselves around, we found another line of cabs, asked our typical price and time limit questions, and finally agreed to the 35 minute, 30 Euro estimate of one particular gentleman.
I should mention our extreme luck that Italians seemed to, for the vast majority of our trip, understand my Spanish as English was not as prevalent there as it seems to be in Spain. It was a good thing too since neither one of us knows a word of Italian.
Another 35 minutes went by and in the darkness we drove down a small graffitied alleyway, up the street a block or so until we stopped in the parking lot of the three star Hotel Arcadia. We paid and went inside.
Check in was uneventful; we absorbed almost nothing the front desk clerk said, it being past eleven o'clock at night and given our day of metros, trains, shuttles, planes, and cabs. Finally he gave us a key attached to a large rubber knob of sorts with the number '303' written on a white sticker in black pen on the top of the knob. One elevator ride later, we arrived on our floor, found our door, the knob of which did not turn and was located in the center of the door, unlocked it, and veritably stumbled our way in.
Oh the adventures we were to have. Oh those nine days of ups and downs and of course, required of every world traveler, Intrepidity.
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