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.
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