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. 

Chilling Song . . . Because Everybody's Got One

"Invisible Empire"

Nobody can soothe me like my favorite artist, KT Tunstall whom I discovered in high school and have followed faithfully ever since. I've only seen her live in concert once in Chicago with my family when she played near Lincoln Park, but I intend to see her many times in years to come. 

Grandpa, this is the woman that I keep meaning to introduce you to via mixed CD's and for some reason always forget to make them before coming over to your house. Let me know if you like her style/sound and I promise to make it a priority to get you some of her music when I come home in June. 

Everyone, enjoy the music and expect stories from Rome and spring break escapades in the next few days or so. Keep smiling. 

Two Parents Abroad: Final Episode

Our longest day began, for this young world traveler, at 6 o'clock in the morning once again; my parents were up even a little bit earlier because they were three metro stops away from me and needed an extra half hour or so to meet up with me at my room. Ouch.

That particular morning's breakfast consisted of 2 mini slices of toast each (the toast that I buy is pre-toasted because they have that here in Spain and also because I don't have a toaster nor do I have access to one in the residence; the slices are the same area as a deck of poker cards) and an apple divided three ways. Plus, another cup of coffee to split. We ate relatively quietly, like we had Saturday morning, because Melanie was asleep on the other side of the room. Dad and I sat on the edge of my bed, Mom in my desk chair. It was certainly a strange weekend for breakfasts, but memorable and quite fun. It was almost like I was cooking again.

God I miss my kitchen.

Back to the Plaza de España we went and back again to the little cafe next to the travel agency for two coffees this time and a croissant. Let's not also forget the complimentary bathroom. (Seriously future entrepreneurs - think cafe alongside travel agency. It cannot fail!). 

By 9am we were off again! It was a 1 1/2 hour drive to Ávila, our first destination; we passed through a 3km long tunnel carved through a mountain to get there and also suffered a slower journey when the bus began to break down and couldn't reach speeds of over 40 miles an hour or so. Still, we managed to chug along to our Ávila where we were assured that, upon our return, the bus driver would've fixed the bus. Dad had his doubts about the mechanical abilities of the bus driver, but if there's one thing I've learned during my time here in Spain, everything travel-related has a way of working itself out be it getting lost in Sevilla, winding your way through the streets of Córdoba at 4 o'clock in the morning, a little bit tipsy but in the middle of a pack of other tipsy giggling girls, the drunkest one of which is leading us home through a maze of tiny winding streets (I tip my hat to you Nicole, I still have no idea how you did that), or your bus breaking down at a truck stop on your way south leaving you stranded for two hours. 

It all ends up okay in the end. Fair warning, some patience is required. 

One of the most interesting if admittedly macabre sections of our visit to the palace at Ávila were the royal tombs. 

You walk down stairs into this marble hallway which leads into a large alcove of sorts with a tall ceiling and you are surrounded by an octagonal room. On the opposite wall you see four large shelves, about six feet long and four feet high. Inside each shelf is a large marble coffin with gold lions' feet, one on each corner. Then you spin and realize that seven walls in total have four such tombs. The one that you walked through has just two above the doorway so a total of 30 tombs. 

There are many generations of monarchs inside. Only kings and queens that gave birth to a Spanish prince may be buried here. The current King of Spain is Juan Carlos I; both his parents have tombs prepared and those are the two just above the door. Both of them are dead but they're still in what is called the "rotting room". Royal bodies for hundreds of years have been deposited in similar rotting rooms and left to well, rot, for forty years at which point nothing remains but the bones and these are put into the prepared tombs. 

Juan Carlos I however will not have a spot here with his parents. First of all, there's just no more room for him. Second of all, the Spanish government feels that he is a very different King and doesn't really belong with the other Bourbon kings. This is how our tour guide delicately explained it to us. Juan Carlos I will be assigned a different final resting place when the time comes, although this has yet to be decided.

Moving on, we boarded the bus again (fixed!) and took another one hour trip through the constant rain--the gray light of the clouds bathed the countryside in a gauzy haze, but still the green fields and cartoon-ishly rolling hills dotted with black and brown bulls drew the attention-- finally arriving at Segovia, site of one of the few intact Roman aqueducts and also a cathedral. 

We stopped at the aqueducts where our guide gave lots of facts and information that most likely would have been interesting had we been listening, but we were busy posing for photos and scoping out the bustling little town square that we found ourselves in. 
Lunch followed, but it was a shambly-thrown together affair provided through the tour company: white bean soup with an unidentifiable meat in it that I had the great misfortune of accidentally scooping up in one of my spoonfuls, followed by some microwaveable mixed veggies accompanied by thin slices of sub par pork, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream about the size of a large pocket lighter. Not to mention, they charged us for the water. For water. 

Dad and I decided to showcase our displeasure to the management in a very dignified and adult like way. To express our frustration with the low quality of the repast, we each took a spoonful of our ice cream and mashed it into the table cloth with our spoons while Mom tried to decorously avoid looking at our "artwork". 

Societal convention tells me that I ought to add the addendum: I can't say I'm proud of this . . . [insert ill fitting excuse here] but I have never lied on this blog yet and I don't intend to start now. Dad and I with our use of ice cream as a mode of expression makes me glow with pride just thinking about it. There. 

Afterwards it was up to the cathedral we went, through narrow sloping streets where we arrived at a plaza in front of the cathedral that afforded an expansive view of the country side and where many tourists were stopping, despite the constant icy cold rain, to take myriad pictures. Why we all take five shots of the same thing, I'll never know. 

The cathedral did not offer much in the way of warmth; in fact, it felt like the inside of a meat packing plant. Now, I've never been to a meat packing plant, but the one in the Rocky movies where Paulie works certainly looks cold and I believe Paulie even comments on the frigidness during one of his drunken altercations with Rocky. Check with my brother Tom on that. 

We left the cathedral about an hour later and it was a long slog through the sheets of rain to the tour bus where at last, cold and wet, we found a warm shelter. I took off my soaking shoes and put my stocking feet on the heat vent that ran along the side of the bus near the floor. Mom sat next to me and we curled up for an hour nap while Dad's head bobbed in sleep in the seat directly in front of us. 

Home again, home again to Madrid by 6pm. We had no intention of going back for several hours quite obviously, but my shoes were still drenched and my now dry socks quickly absorbed whatever had been dried out of them by that beautiful bus floor heater so I was back to square one. 

Now, I had been dying to get some boots for several weeks, but had not been able to justify the purchase. I saw an opportunity and seized on it. "Would you guys mind if we made a pit stop so I could buy some dry boots? I can't stand having my feet wet like this for another who knows how many hours."

"Sure thing, sweetheart." We decided to divide and conquer. I took us all to commercial strip between Sol and Gran Vía where I set them loose to find me socks while I hunted down the perfect pair of boots. When we reconvened, I'd spent 40 euro, but was pleased with my purchase and they had electric blue and yellow high socks for me.

We stopped at McDonald's for a pit stop and so I could change my shoes, then moved on to my favorite Starbuck's location to all warm up with a coffee and grab a slice of carrot cake, in the case of my parents, and a blueberry muffin, in the case of me. While we whiled away a pleasant hour, my parents commented on the variety of makes and models of strollers going by. There are quite a few when you stop and look around. I personally look at people's shoes when I'm bored on the metro. I don't think I've seen a repeated pair since I got here. Incredible how many products we manufacture when you really think about it. 

Then it was time for dinner and I'd already scoped out a place that I was dying to visit. The interior was a warmly lit cave of wood and mirrors and orangely glowing old-fashioned lamps. Despite the aesthetic beauty, however, the dinner turned out to be an epic fail. We ordered drinks, but as we were trying to put in our order for dinner, we were informed that several of the primero plato options (first plate--you typically get two and then a dessert/coffee/booze) were no longer available. As luck would have it, those were the ones we'd been eyeing up--namely lasagna and a few other recognizable dishes. My parents were ready, after our terrible lunch for a taste of something familiar. So was I, truth be told. 

So we informed the waitress that we would finish our drinks and could we please have the bill because we were no longer going to be eating here. She wasn't very talkative after that. 

During one of our bus tours, we had stopped at a Hard Rock Cafe for a soda break; that was where we directed our shoes (and metro trips) to now. When we arrived at 9:30pm, we were told it would be a little over an hour wait. 

"Don't care, put us on the list," my dad affirmed. 

Then we headed over to an open patch of wall and began to wait. Europeans can say whatever they like about Americans or our country in general, but not one of them can deny that they love our food. The place was wall-to-wall packed. At 9:30pm on a Sunday night. Granted, the Spanish typically eat dinner from 8 to 10:30 ish, but still, for a Sunday night, with work on the horizon the next morning, we were astounded at the crowds of people eating, waiting, and drinking at the bar. 

Say! A drink at the bar . . . 

We moseyed on over and waited until this couple sitting at the end left--only about a twenty minute wait. Then it was cocktails all around and, half an hour later, Mom insisted that we all take a shot. 

Have I mentioned that my parents are amazing?

At the one hour mark, I went to the hostess and asked about the wait. She said it would be another fifteen minutes or so, but surely no more than that. We were within the top three on the waiting list. I went back to the bar to find a giant platter of chicken nachos and round two of cocktails awaiting me. "We decided to get an appetizer, Meg. Here, have some nachos, they look delicious."

Have I mentioned that my parents are amazing?

So are "Sex on the Beach" cocktails, a new favorite of mine that my parents introduced me to during their stay. Before my staple drink was a vodka cranberry, which is still very good of course. 

Another hour later, our buzzer finally went off and we were led to a table. "I am so sorry about the two hour wait; none of the tables were opening up," our waiter, a skinny little balding man, apologized profusely. 

After two large cocktails and the best chicken nachos that I can definitively say were the best in my life--oh and the shot Mom had us all take-- we were all in the best of moods and waved it off with a, "No, it's fine! Don't worry about it."

11:30pm Sunday dinner. There's a first time for everything. 

After my parents split chicken fajitas and I got myself some lime chicken with grilled corn and saffron rice (yum!) we headed back once again to our old friend the metro, a little tense about getting everyone back on time before it closed at 1:30am. It was a little after midnight when we left the restaurant and it takes me and hour to get back to my stop, my parents another fifteen tacked on to that. It was going to be a close call. 

Luckily, we didn't hit any particularly long waits between trains and my parents ended up telling me the next day that after seeing me off at my stop and catching the next train to finish their own journey, that they caught the 1:25am train (whoo, close call) and arrived at their hotel at 1:45 in the morning. The doors were locked and they had to be buzzed in. 

For my own part, I waited up to receive their customary "We're back! Love you and see you tomorrow!" email, which I did and then jumped into bed just before 2am. 

*     *     *

The alarm clock blared at 7 o'clock. Groggy with lack of sleep, I got up and made a quick breakfast, electing to skip the shower for now so that I could move at the speed of a sloth. It was a good choice. 

I met Mom and Dad at the metro station and from there we connected to Cercanías and took a 1 1/2 hour train trip to the airport. That was not a fun trip, but we arrived without incident and with time enough to spare after checking their bag for a stop at McDonald's for a coffee, quick breakfast, and a 2 euro cup of freshly squeezed orange juice. 

We dawdled, sat there toying with our wrappers, and making distracted commentary, avoiding the looming topic of departure. But the time came when Dad had to say, "All right, we should probably get going." 

I walked with them to the security check, watched them put their belongings in bins and luggage on the conveyor belts to be scanned, watched them pass through the gates and recollect their things, then watched as their silhouettes, tiny now across the vast expanse of stanchions and scanners and empty floor, turned and waved one last time. Then they were off, into the wild blue yonder. 

I was sad then. I hated to walk away alone; it was too quiet now. But I knew that it would only be another two months until I too would be going off into the wild blue yonder and headed for home. So I put my hands in my pockets, directed my gaze up and off towards the exit elevators, and worked my way back through the suitcases and families and business travelers to the Cercanías station. 

After all, there are still two months of adventures left to be had. 

Two Parents Abroad: Day 3

6 o'clock AM.

No one should ever have to get up at that ungodly hour. It's still dark out, the floor is yet cold, and your eyelids feel like weighted sandpaper. It's animal cruelty is what it is.

But I struggled up and out of bed, showered, then made breakfast for my parents. See, my residence hall serves breakfast from 9 to noon on weekends and we had a tour at 8:30. My parents' hotel didn't serve breakfast until 8am so they came over to my place where I made them peanut butter toast and the three of us split an orange. I also made a cup of coffee for them to split and we wandered out into the soft morning light a little before 7:30 in the morning.

Off to Plaza de España we went where we found Julia Travel, the company we were going through, with enough time to buy a 2 euro coffee and take a quick bathroom break at the cafe next door.

TIP: To those of you who dream of opening a cafe/coffee shop/bakery, open it next to a travel agency and you will make millions on all the people who want to take a quick pee before they jump on a bus for a several hour trip. Just tell them, like we were told: no purchase, no bathroom. 

It was rainy and freezing cold when, after an hour, we arrived at El Escorial monastery. There we toured ancient medieval bedrooms once belonging to the Hapsburg family who ruled Spain before the current dynasty (which is the Bourbons if you were wondering; yes that's a French family, but that's how royal European marriages work). We were shown religious areas as well, and also several tombs. Apparently it's a must to visit tombs when you do mini day trips like this.  

When we left El Escorial, it was time for a bus ride up a mountain to the Valle de los Caídos, or Valley of the Fallen. It was made to commemorate the soldiers who died in the Spanish Civil War. An estimated 500,000 Spanish lost their lives in the bloody three year war (1936-1939) that preceded World War II.

That Saturday that we visited though was beautiful. It was softly snowing as we drove into the clouds perched around the peaks of this and the surrounding mountains. A light layer of snow lay on the grass between the trees along the sides of the road. 

Getting off the bus we saw, at the tip of the mountain an enormous cross. And cue the snapping of thirty tourists' cameras all at once. Our guide informed us that this is the highest cross in all Christendom. Good for you, Spain. 

We walked about five minutes up this small path that roped around the side of the mountain and, turning the last curve, found a wide expanse of flat, open stone, a huge plaza the size of about 2 football fields by my estimation. Still snowing, we took pictures and video clips (to be posted in a few days) and then did a 180 to look at the larger than life monastery that was carved into the side of the mountain. Gray stone pillars formed an arch that met beneath a several hundred foot statue of Mary holding Jesus after his death. Below this famous mother-son pair were oaken double doors that we entered to view the commemorative monument to Spain's most tragic war. 

I have no idea how far back the tunnel went; probably more than five hundred feet straight into the mountain and it was about four stories tall. It had taken three generations to complete and it was not difficult to see why. We stood in awe of the place, commenting on the tapestries hung on the walls and the chiseling patterns on different parts of the ceiling. 

Our time was limited though; we were given only 30 minutes to admire the Valley of the Fallen and then we were all loaded back onto the warm bus. We arrived back at 2pm to Madrid where we were realized for a 50 minute lunch break; after that, the touring would resume!

I took Mom and Dad to a cafe that I knew of in the area called Cafe Jamaica. After filling up on ham and cheese sandwiches (staple Madrid fare) splitting an apple muffin, and sipping warm coffee, we headed back to the bus stop for a 2 hour bus trip around Madrid. 

Can I confess something? We all started falling asleep on the bus tour. Thus, when we stopped at Hard Rock Cafe for a 15 minute break half way through the bus ride, me and the parents bailed, booked it to the metro and went to Sol to do a little shopping at the stores between that plaza and Gran Vía. 

At 5:30pm I led my parents to Museo Chicote, a bar that first opened in 1931 and that I'd been dying to try as soon as I read that Ernest Hemingway himself had not only written there, but also dubbed the place "the best bar in Madrid". Decorated in lounge style with green leather half circle benches and no food just booze, it was exactly the type of place that I could envision Hemingway in. Exactly the perfect place to grab a few very strongly made drinks (thank you bartender) and warm up for a bit. 

We were plenty warm when we left Museo Chicote and headed a few blocks away to a restaurant that my Dad had spotted from the one of the bus tours and had made a mental note to try at the next opportunity. We got there around 7ish and spent the next two hours having a leisurely dinner, splitting a French onion soup, getting one more drink each, and then it was burger for Mom, steak for Dad, and chicken paella for me. Yum! Probably the best meal of the trip. 

Moseying back home amidst more protests, we arrived home around 11pm and collapsed into bed, knowing that only one full day together was left. Not knowing that it would be a 17 hour escapade that would begin, once again at the crack of dawn. 

To Be Concluded . . . 

Two Parents Abroad: Day 2

Friday morning and no classes. What a wonderful feeling although strangely unfamiliar to this science major as all my biologist and physicist etc compatriots back home know.

Scheduled to meet up at 10am at my dorm, I was not at all surprised to find that, at 10:05 my parents were not yet here. Ahh the sin of being a whole five minutes late. Did their audacity know no bounds? So I decided, rather than sitting around in my room to just go outside and start walking towards the metro, calculating that we would have to cross paths on the large empty expanse of land directly across the street from my residence hall.

As I was leaving, and just as I'd put my hand on the door to empujar (push), one of the four women sitting at the receptionist desk went, "Pssst!" I looked up and she was motioning for me to come over; I obeyed. In Spanish, of course, she asked me if it were possible if she and a few of the other ladies took a few photographs of Melanie and my room for a promotional brochure for the dorm.

I nodded. "Claro, pero estoy saliendo ahora y mi compañera no regresa de sus clases hasta que tres horas más o menos. ¿Está bien?" (Sure thing, but I'm leaving now and my roommate isn't coming back from her classes for another three hours or so. Is that ok?)

The woman insisted she take the pictures now, just really quick before I leave. Stifling an exasperated sigh and wondering where my parents were, I agreed and walked with her back to my room. I opened the door and motioned her inside. Stepping in, she glanced around, laughed aloud, turned to look at me and said, "No." 

Still chuckling to herself, she made a quick exit back down the hall. 'No?' I shot a quick glance around the room. Sure I had a pair of jeans flung across my ill-made bed and Melanie had a few Slim Jim's wrappers on her desk, but it certainly didn't look like the Armageddon implied by her emphatic, No. 

Crushed at my unsolicited dreams of school residence life brochure fame, I locked the room once again and made my way outside, past a desk of now four giggling women. Why four today? There's normally only one!

My parents were crossing the land plot as I crossed the street and it was following a cheerful reproach at their tardiness that I conveyed Melanie and my failures as housekeepers. Oh the woe and misery that would surely follow us now until the end of our days. Dad just laughed. 

We metro-ed it to Sol where I educated them in the uses of chain restaurant's easily accessible public bathrooms (thank you, Museo del Jamón; Museum of Ham).  Then we stopped at Dunkin' Donuts directly next store for a caffeine pick-us-up and 2 donuts between the three of us. 

There's nothing quite like sharing 2/3 of a donut with your parents on the sidewalk of Calle Mayor because the tour bus lady told you no food on the bus and now you'll have to wait ten minutes or so for the next one. We were doing a "hop on, hop off" tour, which I highly recommend. My parents did one in San Francisco and the whole family did the Chicago version a few summers ago. They're reasonably priced, double decker bus rides that take you to all the main sights of the city; you can get off at any stop, stay as long as you want, and then go back to the stop to catch another bus from the same company and continue on the route. The buses come about every 10 minutes so it's highly convenient and much cheaper than taking a taxi everywhere. For booking details, talk to my mother. 

We stopped first at Parque del Retiro, which served as a place of emotional/mental refuge for the highly stressed monarchs and nobility during the 18th and onwards centuries. Oh the difficult life of the extremely wealthy. 

The park was beautiful, flowers already in bloom despite it being mid-March only, lots of sunshine that day, mid 50's for us, and lots of people. That's what I love about parks and big cities in general; so many people passing every which way at any given time. We saw grandparents with their grandkids, boyfriends holding hands with their girlfriends, vendors selling magnets, jewelry, and hand puppets (yeah Dad and I bought a stuffed duck that squeaked when you squeezed it; we named him Parker--get it?) 

Dad's particular favorite was this saxophone player; every time he started making a warm old tune with that gold jazz machine, this little old man complete with a cane and green suit jacket would start dancing this one-two skipping step. We figured they were in cahoots. 

After lots of picture taking, we paused for a moment at one of the park's cafes. A glass of red wine for each of us and a gofre to split. A gofre is essentially a waffle and you can choose from a variety of toppings; we chose chocolate syrup. Taking two bites or so (Dad, we all know you were consistently taking three) we would pass it around the table and mull over the sweet dark chocolate taste that lingered even after a sip of wine. What a lovely way to spend the noon time. 

After taking our time in true Spanish style we paid the bill--the padres were astounded by the "no tipping" concept, but didn't seem to mind much--and hopped back on the bus. This time we got off at Gran Vía and made our way up one of the offshoot side streets to a small Cuban restaurant named Zara. 

Lunch at 3pm was already an adjusted concept to my parents so we didn't mind when the food took awhile to prepare. Meanwhile, we enjoyed the bustling atmosphere of the tiny several hundred square foot place that seemed to be the favorite of a handful of locals, judging by the way a small group of men and women in the back corner were chatting animatedly with the woman who owned the place. Or so I gathered by her demeanor. 

Anyhow, the chicken soup and white bread (of course) that arrived was delicious. The entrees were honestly just average though, but the fare was fair and the decor quaint so when we left Zara's we gave it a B-. Not too shabby. 

Next it was Return to the Bus: Episode 4 and this time we rode it to the Temple of Debod stop. The Temple was a gift from the Egyptian government to Spain in the late 1960's (so during the Franco dictatorship, if that implies anything) and the 2,200 year old stone structure was dismantled in Egypt, shipping to the southern coast of Spain, trucked up to Madrid and reassembled in a little park all its own that boasts a nice view of the back of the Palacio Real. 

Ever moving, we went next to the Bilbao metro stop and I introduced my parents to a favorite stop of mine, Cafe Comercial. Opened in 1887, the interior of the cafe is all mirrors, stone tables, real wood, and towering pillars. There we decided to put up our feet for a bit, ordering my mom a Hawaino (coffee spiked with black rum) which was very strong in my opinion. It literally tasted like rum with a hint of java after taste. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? And is this the classy version of a jager bomb?

Philosophers, have at it. 

We all split a crepe that honestly sucked, but the vanilla ice cream that topped it was yum and consequently devoured. After that we played a few hands of cards until it was time to head back to Sol for our walking tapas tour. 

Getting off at Sol, Mom and Dad saw their first Madrid protest in the station! It was a big one too and the group was ringed by police officers intent on keeping the peace. Madrid riots don't get violent, not that I've ever seen or heard of. However, the government likes an accentuated police presence to reassure tourists of their safety; hurting the tourist business in Madrid right now would be quite injurious to an already smarting economy, but more on that later. 

The tapas tour was led by a Dubliner who shall remain nameless for reasons soon to be revealed. We were led, along with two couples from Toronto and one couple from London, to the Asturian (northern Spain) bar, El Escarpin. 

Several glasses of malted apple cider, bits of empanadas, sausage pieces and patatas bravas with paprika, patatas alioli (like potato salad), and ham and cheese cubes, Dubliner guy announces that in order to go to the next three stops on the tour, we'll all need to pay several euro; this first place was on him. 

Ummm, what? This was a prepaid tour that included four stops . . . .

After making our excuses and bailing on the group we put our Webster heads together and came up with this: not only is Dubliner making whatever his wage from the tour company (also nameless here) he's also collected a little extra on the side by saying that the last three stops must be paid for separately. Pocketing just a little extra dough with that smooth Irish accent couldn't be too tricky. I tip my hat to you, sir. But I won't be tipping you. 

We were tired and full anyways so we made the one hour metro trek back home. It would be a 6am start the next day and we had to be prepared for anything. 

To Be Continued . . . 

Two Parents Abroad: Day 1

Thursday, March 14th began much like any other day in Spain for this college student. Up at 8:30am, shower, breakfast in the residence hall, then off to my one class for the day: Contemporary History of Spain. Not too shabby.

But for my parents, it would be a day of flying for over 7 hours, coming into Barajas Airport on the edge of Madrid, catching a cab with an old driver that spoke not a word of English, and dealing with a six hour time difference jet lag. And all this before lunch.

I was to go to class, which ended at 12:15pm; they arrived at 8am in Madrid and figured I ought to go to my last class for the week (no Friday classes! First and only time ever for this science major!) while they managed a way to their hotel, got settled, and took a bit of a nap. The plan was that I should call them when I returned to my dorm at 1pm and we would make plans to meet up for the afternoon.

However, being the sweet, lovable, caring daughter that I am, I decided to call them at 8:30am, knowing they'd landed roughly an hour before. That I wanted to ensure they'd had a smooth flight, found their way to their place, and had no trouble checking in seemed the right thing to do; best case scenario, I could go to class with peace of mind; worst case scenario, I could find a way to help them out of whatever traveler's ditch they'd stumbled into.

Yet, no response. From either phone.

A little unsettled, I shot them an email, which they said they would check in the event our phones weren't working. All throughout my history class, I continued to turn on my Kindle every ten minutes to log into my email and check for messages. Nada.

By this point, I was starting to run through disaster situations in my brain: okay, they flew into the wrong airport because the plane had to make an emergency landing and they're too distracted to contact me; no . . .  no . . . more like they caught a cab, but couldn't speak enough Spanish and now they're in the middle of nowhere on the side of the road with their luggage and there's no cell service or Wifi where they are; no . . . they've been kidnapped and there will be a ransom note waiting for me when I got home!

Or, they were just kidding and aren't actually coming to Spain.

Honestly, I think the last one's the worst.

So of course my history professor wants to talk to me after class about my final project and of course it's a ten minute plus conversation where all I'm thinking is, "I could have hit three metros by now . . . there goes another one . . . yes, I will write my paper on Anarchism, whatever you say--can I please go now? I have two little lost parents waiting for me somewhere undetermined and they need me more than you need my paper, I promise."

Finally I was released from the academic bondage and half power-walked/half ran myself to the metro station, then across the empty plot of sand to residence, then to my room. Still no email and no phone call, but I knew where their hotel was so I dropped off my school books, slung my trusty purse over my shoulder, and ran to rescue my poor helpless parents!

I arrived at the hotel, confirmed that they'd checked into their room, rushed up the stairs to the fourth floor--the elevator wasn't working! Now of all times!--clambered breathless to the top of the last flight, dashed down the hall, pounded on door number 430 awaiting god knows what horrible disaster--

"Hi sweetie," Mom says opening the door with a smile.

Hi sweetie?! No grand escapades of lost and found, no thugs assaulting them on the road, no plane malfunctions, no--

"Sorry we didn't call you back. Our phones don't work over here. Come on in, hon. Close the door." I quietly obeyed. Of course the American phones didn't work in Spain. Trust the intelligent college student to put 2 and 2 together. "Oh and we were taking a nap so we just got your email. How are you?"

Ahhh. A nap. Just like we'd all agreed days ago. Sometimes I have to wonder. Perhaps it's the overactive imagination of a writer in me. Think I'm gonna go with that . . .

Hugs were of course exchanged and I heard all the details about how smooth the flight was, how they easily got to the hotel, how they were taking a restful nap while I silently swore at my Kindle and my Whitewater email account for not showing me a new message from my parents. Maybe this post should have been called, "How I Thought My Parents Were Lost and Conjured Up the Most Terrible Ideas About What Could Have Possibly Gone Wrong When in Fact They Were Sleeping Peacefully at a Nice Hotel."

It has a nice ring to it, you must admit.

Anyhow, we dawdled around while they unpacked, then I introduced them to the metro and gave them the grand tour of my dorm room, at which point we realized it was 3pm and none of us had eaten since breakfast. So we metro-ed it downtown, which takes about an hour and we enjoyed a lazy strolling pace through Plaza Mayor where we eventually found a small diner-like place to have some lunch (by now 4:30pm so late even by Spanish standards).

It was a nice, quiet afternoon of taking pictures, stopping to watch street performers, enjoying the sun and, towards the early evening, stopping for some coffee and a quick snack in Starbucks before I took them to Ópera station where we toured the Royal Palace gardens by twilight. Then it was onto a bus for a two hour tour which finished at 10pm. 

Ready to call it an evening and none of us being very hungry, we made a quick stop at Pans and Company for a bocadillo each, then rode the metro back home. We stopped at my place so I could write up instructions for them to get back to their hotel, only 3 metro stops away but a good ten minute walk from the nearest metro, and despite making a wrong turn in the dark, they somehow managed to retrace their steps and find their way back to the hotel by 11:30pm. 

This time they sent me a quick email: "We're back! Love you and see you tomorrow!" 

Thank goodness! I rested easy, which was an excellent thing because Day 1 was by far our easiest and least busy day. It was after that that things got intense. Tune in for more on the epic Mom and Dad series, same blog, same page. 

To Be Continued . . . 

Fresh From the Windy City!

The parents arrived on Thursday and already it's been an adventure-packed two days--which I will have to chronicle later.

At the moment, I'm simply giving a teaser. And also writing in my five minutes of free time before my parents arrive at my dorm, here at 7am, so that we can all have coffee (thank you Natalie!) and peanut butter toast, plus my last orange divided between the three of us before we head out for another 12 hour day--this time to the west! I've never been there before so this will be new for all three of us musketeers.

I would also like to take this chance to give a huge shout out to our fourth, amazingly wonderful musketeer, Tom, my brother, who is holding down the fort back home. We all miss you buddy!

Well, the intrepid padres will arrive soon. Time for me to pick out a shirt and get ready for the day!

Write soon.

Among the Brokers

On Friday the 8th of March, Melanie, Tom, and I went with ESN to visit the Spanish Stock Exchange! Our tour guide however, referred to it as the 'Palace' and it's really not surprising why. All original glass windows, decorated with minutely detailed etchings of crests and other highly meaningful symbols, surround the exchange floor from above, which is itself entirely floored in several varieties of real wood. 

I'll be posting up the pictures soon, but in the meantime, enjoy a few fun facts:

• Beginning trade in 1831, the stock exchange in Spain had no permanent residence. It was held in houses, public buildings, and once even a circus. 

• By 1893, the official Stock Exchange 'Palace' was open for use, only 62 years after Spain began trading. Better late than never.

• There are four official stock exchanges in Spain: Barcelona, Madrid, Valencia, and Bilbao. 

• In the Madrid Exchange, the original furniture was retained where possible--wood, chairs, rugs etc. Some things had to be refurbished of course, but for the most part, everything inside is original. Melanie sat down on the chair where the King presides over meetings--before we were told "that is forbidden!". Whoops. 

• Only 80 total employees work at the Madrid Stock Exchange currently. 

• Remember that the original glass from the 1800's has been kept? During the Spanish Civil War the building was at one point attacked and the bullet holes were left in the glass as a commemoration of the war. Be sure to check out the pictures I took of those. 

A Barcelona Kind of Weekend

Barcelona is not the city that I expected. Originally, I had wanted to live and study in Barcelona for my semester abroad, but the figures ended up showing that it would be double the cost and therefore, wildly unattainable. I instead turned my sights on Madrid and it is a decision that I will never regret. More on that later.

Barcelona lies right on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, which in and of itself was amazing to this native Midwesterner. Growing up, I'd been to Lake Michigan and various small lakes (or large ponds in most cases) in Wisconsin. That we'd gone to Florida four times as a family did not mean that I had ever seen the ocean-- while in the Sunshine State, we partied it up in Orlando at Disney World.

As such, I had never seen the ocean a fact which amazed my three friends from Australia. They had no concept of someone never seeing the ocean before. (I told them I'd seen pictures and video clips. That didn't seem to count). I kept crossing my fingers on the eight hour bus ride there that we would stop at the ocean side at some point.

We left at midnight on Thursday from Madrid. Most of us, including myself, spent the next several hours getting bits of broken sleep here and there, waking up to chat, rub our eyes and yawn, make a quick pit stop at a gas station here and there, the usual road trip madness. About 9:30am we arrived to find Barcelona cloudy, raining, and perhaps in the lower 50's (Fahrenheit). Cue a seventy-person groan.

The day was a good one though, despite Mother Nature's gray mood. We did a walking tour of the city, which included a visit to the amazing Sagrada Família.  I know that some people complain about seeing at least one church on every trip, but everyone that I've seen so far has a different vibe, a different mood to it so to speak. La Sagrada Família was my absolute favorite though, by far. The famous architect, Gaudí, began the project in 1883 and it STILL IS NOT FINISHED. Current speculation by analysts-- architects and directors of the project-- speculates that the whole church as Gaudí imagined it, will be completed by 2026. Our tour guide said that was a wee bit optimistic in her opinion and judging from the economic downturn that Spain has unfortunately found itself in, that she did not expect the church to be done before 2030. Some of us, myself included, decided we would come back upon completion to see the finished work.

The interesting thing is that, since the beginning of its construction, the church has been built by degrees solely based on the donations it received from citizens, organizations, etc. The entire church then represents charity, community dedication to architecture and culture, and what I consider an estimable amount of determination. 

The church itself looks completely modern, mainly because Gaudí employed the use of organic architecture. Support columns around the church are not simply straight rods; they branch out like tree branches. Or, as our guide put it, like the fingers of a waitress holding up a tray. Either way you slice it, the construction is breathtaking, especially lit up by the rainbow of stained glass windows, also still in progress. 

That night, we pre-gamed at a bar whose name I've forgotten (not due to excess alcohol, but simply because no one ever told me and I don't remember seeing a sign anywhere) and then, at just after 1am, we moved on to Razzmatazz, Barcelona's "it" club. Quite honestly, although the design inside with its somewhat arena-like shape and the lighting were cool, the group essentially in its entirety agreed that we "weren't feeling" the house music. Basically it was all bass and a couple of mechanized sounds intermittently mixed in. Every track sounded identical. But we love to dance, we international students, and you never pass up a chance to party while you're abroad for only 5 months so my friends and I stayed until about 3am, when we caught a cab back to the hostel. I was in bed by 4am, up at 8am the next day for breakfast and a shower before the nest round of tours and exploration began. 

Saturday dawned sunny and warm: upper 50's and not too windy until later in the afternoon. Lots of members of the group slept in since many had stayed out until 6am or later and therefore couldn't wake up by 10am for the start of the next tour which was . . . .

The Beach!

Yours truly, goaded on by my three Australian buddies, took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and ran into the ocean for the first time in my life! (One of the girls said this was the sea and did not count as my first ocean visit, however I pointed out that the Mediterranean connects to the Atlantic by the Strait of Gibraltar and ergo was indeed part of the ocean. Go geography!). 

Later, we made our way to a park, also designed by Gaudí. My favorite part was easily the highest peak of the park where Audrey and I made our way when given a free hour to wander. At the top of the peak we found a thirty foot stone tower of sorts with little stairs carved into the side that was literally crawling with visitors. We saw why when we got to the top: there awaited an amazing panoramic view of Barcelona, the sea, and the surrounding hills. All you could hear for the next several minutes was the sound of camera shutters. 

That night consisted of a prom-themed party that merged many ESN groups (Erasmus Student Network) together, resulting in a giant 1,500 person party. This music was phenomenal. All the old pop hits, including a mash-up of songs from "Grease" that made me think of my Mom (we like watching musicals together) roared through the giant speakers set up around the tent that had been set up for us in a velodrome-like building. At first it was freezing cold and we danced with our coats on. But as the other groups began streaming in, the place heated up, and so did the party. 

Again, another in-by-4am night. Up at 8:30am this time (no way could I have dragged myself up at 8; that extra half hour was crucial to my sanity). Today was check out from the hostel and a short drive to a picnic ground outside a university where we watched what I can best describe as a co-ed cheerleading group in karate uniforms. There'll be a video posted of that soon. Maybe one of you can come up with a better moniker . . . Post a comment if you do. 

At about 2:30pm we headed back for Madrid and commenced another 9 hours on the road, coming back in at about 11pm. Caught the train back and was home by 11:45pm. Success. 

Madrid has my heart though. As romanticized as Barcelona is in movies, books, and things, it didn't have the same depth in my opinion. It's hard to put into words, but I felt that Barcelona--despite La Sagrada Família and the quaint boulevard that ran about a mile or so long and that made up the lively little downtown-- does not have the same richness of Spanish character or culture that Madrid has. Everywhere you go in Madrid, you can feel the history of the stones beneath your feet and hear the echoes of the laughter, of the protests, and of the music of generations gone by, all blending with the beauty of the generation that is here and now. 

In Barcelona, I expected to find a metropolitan city, the center of art and all things avant garde in Spain. What I found instead was a pretty harbor city with myriad sailboats docked at the piers, a wonderful view of the sea, a park and church designed by a brilliant architect, and a landscape of rolling hills that reminded me of our family drive through the Appalachians years ago. So let there be no mistake: I enjoyed myself immensely and Barcelona is a nice city to visit. 

To visit. But to live in, to be a part of, to sleep and eat and learn and make friends and grow in--I choose Madrid hands down, every time. This is my city.