Website!

I've got a website up and running for all things acting: www.SandyYork.biz. I've got a long way to go, but there's lots up already--especially for past stage productions. Stop on by!!!

for prospective English Village Edutainers in Paju, South Korea

A quick tag for anyone looking for info on applyling to be an edutainer English Village in Paju, South Korea. Go to the September archive link (scroll down and it's on the right); my resignation letter is the first post and sums up my experience.

SPAIN: Madrid-El Escorial-Avila-Segovia-Madrid

SPAIN: Madrid
Once in Madrid, I bought a 10-trip metro ticket (cheap!) and easily navigated the convenient, fast and clean system to the stop nearest the hostel where I’d made a reservation. It turned out to be a pretty big but very well-run place (Los Amigos) and I joined up with some people who were going out for tapas and beers. I should have stayed in, however, as it turned out to be a scene of too many people not making decisions and not doing much of anything but trying to think of what to do. Duh. I got to see Plaza Mayor at night, though, which was neato.

I got up on Sunday and got info on upcoming bullfights and tickets (cheaper to buy at the ring), then went to El Rastro, the Sunday flea market that takes up a big stretch of street in the center of the city. I bought a few accessory-type items and marveled at the crowd, then walked to Museo Del Prado, one of the big three museums in Madrid, with tons of European and Spanish art. Lots. Oodles, even. I spent three or four hours there (which is a quick trip), then took the metro to Plaza de Toros, where I followed the stream of spectators to the fights. I got a cheap ticket in the sun (warmer at this time of year is fine), and took in the evening of six slaughters.

Yes, bullfights will bring up the mixed bag of emotions. Of course it’s terrible to watch the animals killed, and pretty much tortured on the way, in what is hardly a fair fight. On the other hand, I eat meat, and were I to be given the choice of being a bull destined for the ring (about 4 years of a totally cushy life, then a really crappy half an hour) or for the standard meat market (about 2 years of a generally crappy life), well, I’d take choice A. So who am I to be morally indignant? In the face of art, sport, culture (granted the first two are arguable)? There was definitely a theatrical element to the matadors’ performances, including a sense of dramatic timing and gauging the audience’s reactions. One guy just didn’t know when to quit, like an actor indulging himself in ‘moments’ for his own emotional wallowing. Others knew exactly when an exciting move was needed, or when to milk a pass. Regardless, I had my own internal monologue going, from the bull’s point of view: “Hey, guys! Guys? Hey…what the… Did I do something? What’s the deal? What’s with those pink things? And the poking?!?! Dude, that HURTS! Everything was going so good…” and on the bull’s behalf: “Get him! Get that cowardly @#*&^%er!”

I asked a Spanish woman near me (our section wasn’t nearly full) what was going on at one point (a bunch of white/brown bulls were brought out, and they essentially cornered the bull that was going to be fought until he bolted via the empty gate; apparently he was deemed unworthy of the fight), and she asked me what I thought of it. I told her that I didn’t like to see the animals killed but that I appreciated the cultural/traditional aspect and had seen a fight 20 years before in Mexico. She said she’d last seen one in Madrid, also 20 years ago, and that she didn’t like it at all. Later an older guy—old school--chatted us up on all the things we should appreciate about it, but understanding why we had difficulty enjoying it all. I’m glad I went, but once every 20 years is plenty!

By the time I left, I was starving, as I’d not eaten much at all that day, and got a quick snack of dried fruit and nuts for the walk back, on which I tried to investigate zarzuela performances (no luck) and a LP restaurant (no luck). Instead, however, I found exactly what I needed: a salad bar/buffet place, loaded with veggies. Hooray! I ate and ate and ate. And ate. Mmmmmmmm.

I found an internet place on the way home and dealt with my photos for the last time and checked my email, then finally got back to the hostel and collapsed. (“Where did you GO all day???”)

Got up and partook of the included breakfast (bread, cereal and hot beverages) before running around Parque Del Buen Retiro, which is big and beautiful. I also passed the famous Plaza de las Cibeles en route—the glorious Palacio de Comunicaciones (post office) and statue of Cybele and her chariot. These people do not mess around with their public spaces.

I got back to the hostel via the tourist office in Plaza Mayor, showered, and went out on a walking tour of “historic” Madrid. Unfortunately, it being Monday, lots of sites were closed or had weird hours. I started at Puerta del Sol (de obras), then Iglesia de San Gines (de obras), then Plaza Mayor (beautiful and enormous and happenin’!), Plaza de la Villa (with the Ayuntamiento, or City Hall, Casa de Cisneros and Torre de los Lujanes), the tower of Iglesia de San Pedro el Viejo, Iglesia de San Andres, Basilica de San Francisco el Grande (closed-bummer!), the view from Las Vistillas en route to Catedral de Nuestra Senora de la Almudena, which is next door to the very grand Palacio Real. I spent plenty of time there in the main complex, the armory and the pharmacy, and overlooking the surrounding gardens. Beyond that was Plaza de Oriente which contains Teatro Real (closed), and then Plaza de Espana, with the famous statue of Don Quixote and Sancho. At the far end of my tour was the Templo de Debod, a 4th-century BC Egyptian temple in the Parque de la Montaña. Huh!

Knowing that the last stop on this tour, the Monasterio delas Descalzas Reales, was closed, I walked back through a trendy shopping district, then through the Plaza de Canalejas (cool buildings on every corner!) on the way to the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia—the impressive modern art museum, where I spent 2 or 3 hours until they kicked me out.

I followed my stomach and ate dinner at La Musa de La Latina in the little Plaza de la Paja—a chicken salad, bread, and fabulous albariño wine. I detoured by Calle de los Cuchilleros in order to check out the restaurant mom had frequented 40 years ago, which she described as “a marvelous dump with great food.” It is now a very expensive restaurant with great food… The staff got a kick out of my checking the place out, though, and invited me to take a tour, despite it being crowded and not easily navigated with extra people milling about (fabulous cavy-brick-arches-passages-lots of rooms). I took the menu they gave me and said I’d make a reservation when I figured out which night I’d be able to return (this was going to be my splurge meal!).

Upon return to the hostel, I packed up my stuff and made arrangements to lock it up for the next 2 days, as I’d planned daytrips outside of the city and would spend a night elsewhere. (at this point, my sandals are still unbelievably comfortable, but they stink, and I mean STINK, to high heaven. Remember TEVA stink? This is SO much worse. I tried leaving them outside the room, and then realized that they had to be out the WINDOW so as not to stink up any enclosed environment. This continued for the rest of the trip. In Avila, I even saw a TV commercial for the brand as “the shoe that breathes,” which had me howling in disbelief)

SPAIN: El Escorial / Avila
I took a bus west to the huge monastic complex of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, where the temperature was MUCH colder. I walked to the site amidst pretty autumnal foliage, and toured the Museos de Arquitectura and Pintura, the Palacios de Felipe II/los Austrias, la basilica, and mausoleums. All kinds of art was displayed throughout, from tapestries and sculptures to frescos and oil paintings, plus lots of intricate woodwork.

After much planning and strategizing, I decided not to go to Valle de los Caidos, a memorial to the fallen of Spain’s civil war, as there was only one bus to and from and would severely limit my time anywhere else. Given the bus and train schedules, my best bet seemed to be to go to Avila first and then Segovia the next day, so I caught the next train to Avila (had a terrible burger while waiting)(I sat on the upper level and had a great view of the pretty scenery with lots of dirt roads through mountains that had me itching for a run), where, because we arrived ten minutes late, the tourism office was closed. I FINALLY found the main one in town, in spite of lots of bad signage and lots of people pointing me in wrong directions. I just missed getting into places that closed at 6, but got to walk the city wall (the highlight of a trip to Avila) and take lots of photos, then walk around the old city.

An interesting recent addition to the city is a terrorism statue by the Alcazar gate in the Plaza de Santa Teresa with the Iglesia de San Pedro. The statue is an enormous human being sitting with his arms pulling his knees into his body and his head tucked in. It’s quite impressive and daunting and moving.

I saw the outsides of many places of note, such as the cathedral, which is built into the city wall, the Basilica de San Vicente, the Convento de Santa Teresa, and the Iglesia de Santiago. I was experiencing my first Spanish rain (and I wasn’t even on the plain!), so I busted out the little poncho I’d bought in Asia, which served me perfectly. Having seen many, many signs for “Yema de Avila,” I finally went into a store and asked what it was—a bite-sized pastry of a little crust, a cooked egg yolk, and a chocolate or other sweet shell on top. A mini heart attack! I bought four, not yet knowing exactly what I was in for…

Not having wasted any daylight on finding a pension, I came to that task in the evening and got lucky with a place I’d noticed on my walk in from the train station. I got a cheap room (with a TV, no less!) with a shared bath, and my hostess was a lovely woman with whom I had an extended chat about our backgrounds. She pointed me to a great little cafeteria, where I over-ordered (tapas came with the wine, and I asked for two what-I-thought-were side dishes…turned out to be huge orders of grilled veggies and tuna empanada) but had fun with the guy behind the counter, whose cousin was getting married in New York later in the year. I had lots of leftovers, but it was cold enough (altitude!) that my window ledge was an adequate refrigerator. The bus station was nearby, so I checked on departure times to Segovia for the next day—and they were all about 15 minutes earlier than what the tourism office had told me. Eeek!

I had a good long stretch in my hotel room, with “House” in Spanish on TV, then slept, slept, slept. I got up and out on Wednesday to see three of the sights I’d not been able to see the day before, carefully ordering them according to their opening times so that I could fit them all in before catching my 12:45 bus (nothing opened before 10). Unfortunately, the Monasterio de San Tomas wasn’t open as listed, and I didn’t have the 45 minutes to wait for it to open—and it was out of the way, so I’d not be able to return. I saw the catedral, but the basilica was closed until 12:15 for a private ceremony (which no one could post or tell me about the day before, of course), so I had a 5-minute peek there. ARGH! It was raining again, too—until I got on the bus. Ah, well…at least Avila’s walls were worth the trip…

SPAIN: Segovia
Also cool, and now windy, Segovia was at least sunny, and I had just enough clothing to be comfortable—as long as I kept walking! The tourism office was MUCH better organized than in Avila, and was huge and helpful and easily found. On the walk into town, stunning churches appeared around every corner, until I caught my first glimpse of the Acueducto—astounding! It’s absolutely gigantic and dominates the landscape and seems otherworldly—probably because it is! I need to read up on exactly how those work, because I have no idea. But I dutifully sang “Aquedu-u-u-u-u-uct” a la Jethro Tull for my running pals back home (we run along an aqueduct on the Rockefeller trails).

I toured the gorgeous catedral, Plaza Mayor, and the Alcazar (fairyland castle), then went off the beaten path down from the wall to the outlying areas. I found the Casa de la Moneda (Mint--oldest industrial building) and the Monasterio de Santa Maria del Parral, then walked along the Paseo de la Alameda del Rio Eresma back to town and some of the puertas in the wall. I took a different, winding route back through town for another gape at the acueducto before heading back to the bus station (I picked up a sandwich and beer on the way), then waved adios to Segovia.

SPAIN: More Madrid
(side notes: if you want red wine, order vino “tinto,” not “rojo.” The word “vale” gets a lot of use, as in “sure, right, okay” and also “que vale?” as in “cuanto cuesta?” Only the tourists asked the latter. Hmmmm. Not sure if I mentioned that daylight lasts from about 7:30am-8:30pm)

Our bus stopped on some random alley of some random station, and it took me a while to figure out where on earth I was, but it turned out I was relatively close to home. I checked back into the hostel, into a new (nearer the entrance and much noisier, alas) room, and set myself up before going to a flamenco performance at Las Tablas. Another crappy seat!!! I was way off to the side of the stage, and everything was directed to the front (I think those people also had dinner reservations, and the mere spectators-with-included-beverage get shoved to the side). Some lovely Kiwis in front of me saved me from the awful Americans behind me, and I enjoyed my laterally- experienced performance. This brand of flamenco was classicalish with a moderny dance flavor mixed in. The performers changed into various modernly styled but clearly flamenco costumes throughout. One of the singers was great, the other was producing sound only from his throat and not resonating anywhere, and it was painful to listen to, ‘cause it wasn’t healthy.

Thursday: it took a while to get organized, but I went to the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales and had to wait in line for an HOUR to get in. It was a good tour (only in Spanish, but our guide was excellent and spoke very clearly), but I missed seeing El Teatro Real and the Basilica because of it. Bummer. I met two great Americans from Pasadena in line, though, and we had fun both in line and quipping during the tour—they even paid for my ticket (“we always wanted a daughter”)!

After the tour, I investigated theater options for the night, then made a dinner reservation at Sobrino de Botin (10pm was the earliest available…ouch!—but not that late for Spain) before taking the metro to mom’s old neighborhood. I went in search of her former home, but the address number was only a hardware store and didn’t have enough floors for her 6th floor apartment. So…I took a lot of photos of nearby buildings with enough floors and shots of things that looked like they might have been there 40 years ago.

I hopped back on the metro to Plaza de Cibeles for photos (I’d seen it while running) and to mail postcards, then to Plaza de Neptune, next to the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, which I also enjoyed—a huge collection of art from medieval to present times, in all styles. (O’Keefe, Freud, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Kandinsky, Lichtenstein, Rauchenberg, Rothko, Miro, Magritte…) Whew! 3 major museums!

I bought a ticket at Teatro Español for that night’s performance of “Mujeres de Lorca,” a flamenco performance based on Lorca’s plays. I went back to the hostel quickly to pack up all my stuff and to change, as I’d have a late night and an early morning to get to the airport, then back to the theater. The show was wonderful, and I was able to follow most of the stories because I’m familiar with enough of his work. It was fascinating to see flamenco as storytelling theatre beyond the one-song-at-a-time form, especially having seen the other performances. This was a company that clearly had strong classical training, with a lot of balletic and very controlled choreography, but also allowing for the big emotions of the characters through much wilder dancing—closer to what I’d seen in Granada. At times it also brought Irish step dancing to mind. The whole production was very theatrically creative, and of course the dance was outstanding. It was a real highlight of my trip, and I wish I could get a copy of the lyrics from the songs… (3 guitars, percussion, 4-5 singers, 8 dancers, featuring Carmen Cortes. They got the very extended applause they deserved!

At this point, I was quite ready for a big meal, and I went to the Botin, where people were now being told that 11:30 pm was the next available opening. On the way, I realized I’d need more cash, then decided to use my credit card, then remembered that I had, for emergencies, MOM’S credit card! Heh, heh—that’ll teach her to send me to dumps! I was seated and well-attended by the waiters who seemed enjoy my reason for being there, especially the guy who’d met me the first night—I think he was a little disappointed not to be assigned to my table! He checked on me regularly and brought me souvenir wooden spoons (one for me and one for my madre).

I had an enormous meal: gazpacho, served with a platter of fresh ingredients for me to spoon in as desired, a half bottle of wine, bread (even here they charged me for it!), roast lamb, and cheesecake (I wasn’t going to have dessert but the waiter and I concluded that mom would want me to). Ooooooof! I done the Eaters’ Club proud.

I had a long chat with a couple from Puerto Rico at the table next to me, which kept us there late enough to hear the university students who came by with their traditional stringed instruments and costumes and big voices. They were really good, and added to the fun of the whole experience. (Before and during my meal, I was browsing through some arts info, and saw that the “Tiger Lilies” would be performing their version of “The Match Stick Girl,” and that it was a musical theatre band. Now, I happen to know a musical theatre-type band called “Groovelily” with a show called “Striking 12,” which is based on the same “Match Stick Girl,” and they do tour, and I’d been out of the loop…so I thought it was entirely possible that there had been some confusion in back-and-forth translatings and that they’d be in Madrid that coming week. And after a half bottle of wine, it seemed even more possible and freaky… Turns out it isn’t the same group, and that I’d almost seen a show that the first group was in in NYC last year).

I took my stomach back to the hostel and tried to be quiet getting to bed (about 1am), then up at 7. It took much longer to get to the airport than I’d been told, and THEN you have to wait for and take a bus to the terminal, which was extremely FAR AWAY—as in 15 minutes at about 40mph. By the time I got to check-in I only had an hour and the line was HUGE, so the woman at the Iberian info desk said to take both bags as carryons, which was no problem except for my Swiss Army knife. Unfortunately, they don’t do what they do in Asia, which is to just stick it in an envelope and send it off to the checked luggage pile--they confiscate it, supposedly for destruction. I was bummed, since I’d bought it in Switzerland in ’98. Boohooo!

I deplaned in Dusseldorf for my connecting flights, and had totally forgotten that I’d be in a German-speaking world and would have to contend with another language, even if only briefly. I was completely unprepared, mentally, to switch gears again. I got my bag, transferred any liquids and other stuff deemed inappropriate by G.W. to my big bag, walked around a lot and bought a nasty breakfast pastry, and finally went to my gate. Those guys who go through every last thing in all carryon luggage must see some pretty weird stuff. I don’t know how they contain their curiosity or commentary.

I slept a little, but not much amidst a big chatty German group, probably going to NYC for the first time. But it was great to get off at Kennedy, haul ass like a New Yorker to the baggage claim, realize that the M60 bus I thought I’d take to 125th street only runs from LaGuardia, and be able to ask the guy at the transportation desk how much the airtrain cost. His answer: “Fidallah.” Hooray! I’m HOME! (I made him say it again and proclaimed my love for him). Well, that train is not well marked, and some other NYers who’d never taken it before and I figured it out together, bringing a few foreigners with us. I was pretty giddy at this point, running on some form of adrenaline, but I got to Grand Central and on a train to Old Greenwich. I borrowed a cellphone to call mom, and enjoyed a LONG sleep on my very own flannel sheets! Woohoo!

I do believe I have successfully scratched the travel itch for the time being…

So now I’m home and slowly getting back into show biz, catering a lot during the holidays, and enjoying the people and things I’d missed. I definitely made the right choice in leaving EV, even before hearing all the ridiculousness that has happened since I left. Now, I just have to get through the battle of getting the last of the money they owe me, which has been ongoing since I returned on Oct. 6th. But I am determined, for myself and the others who have left, none of whom have gotten their money yet, either.

Happy Holidays! Now I gotta get to work on the letter…

SPAIN: Cordoba-Toledo

SPAIN: Cordoba
Friday: up and early and schlepped much farther than I’d realized I’d need to to get to the train station, but got a relatively cheap one (the varieties are confusing) to Cordoba, where there was more confusion and a few hassles regarding bus and train schedules, baggage storage lockers and tourist info. I caught a bus to the area with the must-see stuff, and passed an old Islamic water wheel on my way to the Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos. The highlights there were the views and the gardens, but it was crowded, partially due to it being a no-admission day and partly because there were a few weddings there for photos (with BITCHY women, I might add).

I had an overpriced falafel lunch and walked on the far side of the Rio Guadalquivir, by the Torre del la Calahorra and Puente Romano (under construction and impassable) to and around the far side of the city wall. Next up was the much-renowned Mezquita, which was a vast maze of endless candy-cane arches; I kept expecting giggling elves to pop out from behind pillars or hang from the ceiling. ‘Twas a wondrous mixture of Muslim and Christian architecture.

After that, the rest paled in comparison. I could only see part of the exterior of the sinagoga, the Puerta de Almodovar was like the Alcazar, and Casa Andalusi was a quaint home crammed with stuff supposedly of note. Spanish plazas never fail to please, though, and the Plazas de las Tendillas and de la Corredera were both lovely. The ruins of a roman temple were a funny find amidst the contemporary traffic.

SPAIN: Toledo

I got photos from my camera transferred to a CD (as many as would fit…) then walked back to the train station to hop a choochoo to Madrid, as there was no direct anything to Toledo, in spite of its being on the way. In Madrid I caught another train to Toledo, and arrived there after dark. Fortunately, I immediately found the bus that dropped me in the center of town, and I found my pension quickly. I was tired but went out for a caña (Mahou beer) and free tapas (rolls with oil, tomato and maybe eggplant, with fries and mayo, salsa and parsley—rock on!). I finally got to bed at 12:30 and slept in instead of running, as I’d be on my feet all day and had a lot of territory to cover.

The Mezquita de Cristo de la Luz (de obras=under construction) was a nifty old mosque with views beyond the city’s walls. I traded the unintelligible English writeup for the Spanish one. I probably shouldn’t have bothered finding the main tourist office after that, but I got a decent map and rode the huge remonte peotonal (escalator) to get there.

Moving on, I found my way (which isn’t easy in Toledo, as all the streets are twisty-turny, not so labeled, and lookalike) to the Monasterio de Santo Domingo el Anterio, where I saw (a copy of) El Greco’s “Acension,” lots of catholic stuff, and nun-made marzipan (I bought a little box—yum!). The Iglesia de San Roman and its Museo de los Concilios y Cultura Visigoda and tower (with what seemed like centuries’ worth of pigeon poop), was a quick stop before Iglesia de Santo Tome, with El Greco’s famous “El Entierro del Conde de Orgay.” Amazing and beautiful, and the tourists pay and are herded through to see this one thing the church has on display.

The Casa-Museo de El Greco offered more, including many portraits and “Vista y Plano de Toledo.” I checked out the Mudejar decoration of Sinagoga del Transito and its Museo Sefardi, then the Sinagoga de Santa Maria La Blanca, with white Almohade arches. The cloisters and sanctuary of San Juan de los Reyes were light-filled and beautiful, with eerie chains of former Christian prisoners adorning the exterior walls.

I turned back towards the center of town for lunch, and settled on a more out-of-the-way place with less crowded outdoor seating, and enjoyed a lunch of partridge with stewed beans and black pudding sausage (partridge is a Toledo specialty, and they don’t mention the sausage in the description, but you can always expect some pork of some kind to make an appearance), accompanied by a delicious pint of Schlosser Alt beer. Mmmmmmm.

Thus fortified, I braced myself for the crowds of Toledo’s famous Catedral. And it was crowded, as it was Saturday and also I think a special tourism day—many sites were free. But the Catedral was glorious, especially the unique Transparente: an elaborate sculpture- and fresco-decorated window above and behind the main altar. The coro, capilla Mayor, Puerta del Reloj, Sala Capitular (500-yr-old Mudejar ceiling), sacrista, cloisters and Custodia de Arfe were all of different styles, from Islamic to Renaissance to Gothic…quite the mishmash.

I passed by the Alcazar, which was under construction and closed, and was happy that the Museo de Santa Cruz had extended hours that day, as I’d heard it was fabulous—and it was! There were tons of El Grecos and works of other masters, plus a special exhibit on seeing all the underlying drawing with whatever their newest technology is.

I went back to my pension via the Arco de la Sangre in the city walls, guarded by a statue of Cervantes, and Plaza de Zocodover, which is seemingly always a-bustle. I picked up my belongings and caught a bus to the train station, where the next two trains were sold out! So I walked to the bus station and caught a slow one, but got to Madrid before it was very late. Whew! A big day!

SPAIN: Ronda - Sevilla

SPAIN: Ronda
La Ciudad Soñada is a lovely little city straddling an ENORMOUS gorge (El Tajo), with stunning views that mysteriously eats huge chunks of space on camera memory sticks. Houses and hotels and fortress walls perch at (or extend over) the very edge of sheer dropoffs.

My hotel room was ready when I arrived at 10am, so I set myself up and did some laundry, taking advantage of having my very own bathroom. I contemplated a nap, but of course couldn’t waste time on mere sleep when there was stuff to see, so out I went. I was tired from the trekking and the lack of sleep, and Ronda is small, so after some churros y chocolate (with smoke) I made my way lazily from sight to sight, window shopping (I even found some Geox sport sandals on end-of-season sale) and gaping at the scenery at all the viewpoints.

I wandered to la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Socorro, Plaza de Toros’ ring and the museum, the Plaza de España, and Puente Nuevo, then was ready for some real food. I had some unremarkable Valencian paella (where they brought me bread and charged me for it) in a pretty square with la Iglesia de Santa Maria La Mayor, which fueled me for the hike down into the gorge from Plaza Maria Auxiliadora and back. The Palacio de Mondragon, containing the city museum, was lovely and interesting, and I chatted with some Americans whose son was about to pursue acting in LA.

I walked south from the city center to the outer fortress walls, then along the eastern wall to the Arab baths and Puente Viejo. Iglesia de Nuestro Padre Jesus was the last church I visited, then I strolled through town in search of a souvenir, as mom had not been to Ronda, and dinner ideas. Most of the tourist shops in Spain seem to have the same ceramics, except for the different towns’ names, but I bought a little vase for our Spanish collection anyway. No menus were calling my name, and I was fading fast, so I bought some gelato and walked to the western walls to see the sun set over the surrounding valley. I found a grocery store near my hotel and bought a little prepackaged salad and a bag of plain mixed greens to add to it, as I was craving some serious greenery. Alas, they had no cold drinks, so I bought a mini bottle of red wine, which turned out to be pretty bad. But the combo in my hotel room, while organizing my stuff and thoughts with a Spanish telenovela on TV before bed, was perfect.

I had hoped to go for a run around the valley surrounding town the next morning, but clearly needed the sleep and my legs were still pooped from the hiking. I took a bus to Sevilla (which was sitting in the station but left 20 minutes late; nobody was in a rush), and I was the only non-locally-dropped-off passenger for the first hour (I’d contemplated going to the Costa del Sol for the day, but the transportation schedules sucked and it seemed like it would be more hassle than it was worth).

We passed the stunning Plaza de España before pulling into the station, and I got off the bus into the beautiful sunshine (it’s always sunny here!!!), crossing my fingers that I’d find a place to stay easily, as calling around the day before had gotten me nowhere. I found some 20Euro rooms pretty quickly, but they weren’t very well attended and were easily accessible, and I wanted a little more security, so I kept moving on. The cheap places recommended in my book were full, but one sent me to La Gloria, where they gave me a double (barely) for 25Euros, with a shower and sink but no toilet (?). Manolo (the first of three who worked there), was a father hen figure who gave me a map and marked out the best places for cheap bocadillos, nightlife and museums, and implored me to be careful with my bag while sightseeing. He was very happy that I spoke Spanish, as was everyone there during my stay; I don’t think we ever used English.

I was starving at this point, and finally settled on lunch at La Habanita, where I had gazpacho and then pork in sauce with raisins and bacon. On the walk over, I’d passed through Plaza Nueva and Plaza de San Francisco, both of which were under construction—as most of the city, I soon discovered, was (Granada had been, too, but not as pervasively). Bummer.

After lunch I went to see la Catedral, which is on the glorious end of the cathedral spectrum, including a beautiful coro, capilla mayor, Patio de los Naranjos, and views from la Giralda (tower). Unfortunately, my photos came out crappy, and it closed much earlier than I’d realized, so I mis-paced myself and didn’t get to see everything. Across the Plaza del Triunfo, however, the Alcazar was open much later, so I took in the huge complex of rooms and patios and beautiful gardens.

Having had a proper dose of architecture and landscaping, I went to the barrio de Santa Cruz for tapas, where I finally had a true tapas experience. I bellied up to the bar, ordered a caña (small glass of beer) and asked what I should try, which prompted an immediate answer, so that’s what I had. A ham-n-cheesy mini-sandwich deal, which was very good. This approach served me well most of the time; only once did I have a server who didn’t want to deal with making a recommendation. Otherwise, when they see that you’ll take them up on whatever they suggest, they have fun, and it doesn’t cost them any time during rush hour. They keep your tab in chalk on the barspace in front of you and tally it up when you’re ready to go. Several times, since I was alone and hearing other people’s conversations, I ended up helping tourists with little or no Spanish to order drinks and food, which led to a few fun conversations. I also got a useful review of a flamenco performance.

After a few tapas, I went off to find a club where there was supposedly regular and free flamenco dancing, but at 10:30 it was still EMPTY, and I wasn’t going to wait around for hours for the action to begin, so I went home via another tapas place (meat o’clock is always in effect when dealing with tapas, although I did have one of chick peas and spinach). While there is plenty of nightlife and lots of tourists in Sevilla, the late stuff happens in concentrated areas, some tucked away, and the trip back to the hotel involved walking through areas that were pedestrian-only and safe but not very well trafficked, so I didn’t go out late-night. When I got back to the hotel, Jose, who was of the same mold as Manolo #1, was on duty and so very happy to meet me and find out what I’d done that day. Hilarious.

I slept in (Wednesday) and then went on a longish run (1:15) across and down the river Guadalquivir, then back through the park de Maria Luisa…and only got a little lost making my way back home (On the way out, I met Maonolo #2, who observed that I was off to do something sporty and pointed out the black-and-white photos of him in his former pole-vaulting glory days on the wall). I had a huge bocadillo at a ridiculously non-Spanish hour in the late morning, then went to the Museo de las Bellas Artes, which was well worth the trip for paintings by many a Spanish master in a former convent.

I walked down the city-side of the river, picking up some transportation info (and a carnation) at a tourist office, past the bullring and Torre del Oro, then crossed town (construction, construction, construction) to Plaza de España. On the way back, I stopped to listen to a guy playing some amazing guitar along the Alcazar wall, and bought his CD. I sat at an outdoor restaurant table for a glass of fino (sherry), which wasn’t really to my taste, then had some tapas and summer wine at Patio San Eloy before going to the late flamenco show where I’d made a reservation (another crappy seat!). The show was, again, brief, but still enjoyable. The style here was much different than in Granada: much more formal, technical, and severe, and the costumes were all black and more modern. The singer had a ridiculous tenor range but with HUGE vocal tension that made me wonder how long he’d have that voice.

I went back to the hotel, where I was greeted by Jose, who was “SO GLAD!” to see me and solemnly offered me these words of wisdom: “Sleep a lot, eat well, and don’t walk too fast.” OKAY, Jose. I wrote a few postcards on the (bleak) rooftop terrace before bed.

On Thursday, I went to the Thursday flea market, but it didn’t seem to be happening, as only a small, seemingly daily market was going on. I checked out the nearby Macarena Basilica, which was tacky, then took a bus to Santiponce to see Italica, the eerie and weird site of the first Roman town in Spain (206 BC), which included ruins of houses and a huge amphitheater. The nearby monastery was closed, so I took a bus back to Sevilla and walked through La Triana, a neighborhood noted for ceramics (still siesta time, though, so everything was closed).

The hospice Caridad was a bit of a waste, since the main feature, the sculptured altar, was covered. There were some pretty tiles and a few Murillo paintings, though. I made up for it with gelato, then went to the post office for postcard stamps, checked my email at Western Union, had a glass of wine on the Plaza de San Francisco, shopped around and bought a bunch of jewelry at a fun (and BUSY) store, investigated transferring some photos onto a CD, and went out for…tapas. At my first stop, within half a beer, a boisterous Irish guy was chatting me up: he’d lost his cellphone and rental car’s keys, and couldn’t get in touch with the friend with whom he was staying (part-time girlfriend and mother of his son) or find a cab. He claimed to be a psychiatrist with homes in Lima, Huelva, Phuket and Brooklyn, and good-naturedly labeled himself a “prick”, “asshole,” and “bastard” at various points in the conversation, during which he kept ordering beers and close-talking me so that we slowly migrated six feet down the bar. People. Takes all kinds. The bartenders and I were entertained by the situation (This guy did explain that this was Spain’s year for getting allocated EU money, which was why everything was under construction all over the country). I let him leave WITHOUT me, then went to another spot for a taste before calling it a night. Manolo #3 was greatly disappointed that I’d missed the magnificent flea market.

SPAIN: Malaga-Granada-Capileira

SPAIN: Malaga
Fortunately, getting to the city center from the airport was a no-brainer, since very few of my brain cells were functioning at this point. I took a train into town and left my big bag in a locker at the main station (baggage all goes through screening @ RENFE for anyone entering), then summoned the energy from some mystical place to see what I could of the city. Hungry, my first thought was to find some food. Upon turning the corner away from the station, I happened upon a “Chocolate y Churros” stand, which was exactly what I needed: fried, sugary comfort food! And since my first Spanish textbook in the 7th grade was titled “Churros y Chocolate,” I took it as a good omen!

As for those Spanish studies, they were clearly going to serve me well. Suddenly, I could read signs! Communicate in complete sentences! Even express the occasional complex thought! Really, it was the first time in seven months that I’d been in a country whose language I spoke. Oh, it was so good and easy—and then I thought: “wait ‘til I get home—it’ll feel like I’m cheating when everything happens in English!” I even blend in a little bit here, not only because there are so many tourists, but because Spaniards have all different haircolors, so I can even pass as a native if I don’t have to talk too much…

I made my way to the pretty and colorful city center, where I took in the excellent new Picasso Museum, which was first on my to-do list. I walked next to the Cathedral, which was standardly cathedral-y, and then on to the Alcazaba, an impressive Muslim palace-fortress with pretty views over the coast. By then I was hungry again, and the only nearby quickfix was a Subway, and while it’s pretty much against my traveling religion to eat at a western chain, I wanted something I could get fast and carry, so I got a sandwich and a Pepsi Light (Hooray! I must be back in the west, where diet sodas abound!). I hiked above the Alcazaba to the Castillo de Gibralfaro, of which not much remains but the ramparts. They are vast and walkable, however, and afford almost 360 degrees of city views. I tried to descend on more foresty and less touristy paths, but they kept dead-ending, so I turned around instead of opting for the steep, cactus-ridden hillside.

Determined to dip my toes in the Mediterranean Sea, I walked to la Playa de la Malagueta and strolled the shore with my shoes off. The beach was pretty if not stunning, but it was nice to have sand in my toes and salt air in my nose. Of greater interest was the topless factor. I realized that I’d never been to a topless beach, and let me tell you, it’s distracting! I can look at boobs anytime I want, nudity is all good with me, and yet I still had to work hard not to stare. I was surprised at how the unfamiliarity of the scene was such a shock. I’d see a guy and a woman talking, she was beautiful and tanned and had darned nice breasts, and I just didn’t know how he could be carrying on a conversation AND keeping his eyes up. I guess he’d had practice.

I headed back in the direction of the train station, and along the way got info as to bus departures to Granada. I took photos and window shopped en route to picking up my bags and schlepping them to the bus station, where I got a snack (basically a huge meatball and fries) for the ride on what was a very comfy bus. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall asleep, as I’d been in serious danger of doing so while walking at several points during the day.

SPAIN: Granada
From the main bus station, I caught a city bus to the center of the old city, then shopped around for what seemed like forever before I sucked it up and paid for a double room (shared bath), as no singles seemed to be available anywhere. I treated myself to a trip to the ice cream place I’d seen, then collapsed, exhausted, for a good, long sleep!

Finally rested, I began the next day with breakfast of a Spanish omelet and coffee in a nearby café, got then walked down Calle de Reyes Catolicos, the main drag. I did a little window shopping and bought some excellent spring-green shoes, then found a single room for the next two nights and moved my stuff there.

I got some basic information and a map (it turns out that the office of tourism in Spain really has its act together, and every office has good maps, all in the same style) from one of the tourist offices, then began my mission to see everything I could, aside from La Alhambra, which I’d have to get up early for the next day. In the Albayzin neighborhood of narrow and winding cobblestone streets lined with white buildings, I saw La Iglesia de Santa Ana, La Colegiata del Salvador, Arco de las Pesas, Alminar de San Jose, and Mirador San Nicolas, an excellent viewpoint overlooking the town to La Alhambra. Then I headed up to Sacramonte, the gypsy neighborhood, to investigate flamenco performance sites and wander around. Strangely, my book made almost no mention of this area, where there were more astounding views of La Alhambra and more white buildings scrambling up and caves burrowing into the hillsides, all bordered by a huge wall running to the west. I had been told that you could walk along the wall, but a gypsy I met when hiking toward it (“you’re in my home,” –as in on his property–oops!) advised me against it, as it was a poor area that had seen some recent conflicts. Oh. OH. But it was a happy accident that I’d trespassed, as I learned a lot about their lifestyle and artistry and history, and he was pleased that I could speak well (I was having a good language day…) and forgiving of my honest error.

I went back through the Albayzin and the main street of tourist shops (a lot of the handicrafts sold seem to be souvenirs of the world that I’d seen all over Asia. Other items are newer versions of things that mom already collected forty years ago!). I was starving, so I didn’t stop to browse, and made a beeline for a falafel restaurant in Plaza Nueva. I enjoyed a bursting sandwich outside, made a reservation for flamenco that night, then went to see La Catedral, which was gorgeous and white and sunlit inside, and La Capilla Real, an elaborate mausoleum for the Catholic monarchs—kindof ooky. El Monasterio de San Jeronimo was a ways west, but worth the walk for its stunning colors and lack of tourists.

Somehow I found my way to a student-populated area, complete with trendy thrift shops, so of course I spent time there and bought a bunch of fun clothes, including a light leather jacket. Having accumulated even more bulk, I got info at the post office (mailing the box was going to be MUCH easier here) about shipping overseas, then tried new ice cream flavors on the way back to my hostal, where I changed for the flamenco performance. Downstairs, I met up with four Seattle women (Kim, Amy, Shauna—vascular techs, and Kitty—events planner at a golf club) waiting for the same shuttle to the show in Sacramonte, and had a beer (from the vending machine!) with them (of course beverages weren’t allowed on the shuttle that showed up as soon as we’d cracked them open, so the American girls all chugged on the sidewalk).

It took us forever to get to Sacramonte, as we seemed to take the longest, least direct route possible to what would have been a twenty-minute slow walk from the hostal. We got to the cave and got the last seats (we were on the back of the bus) the farthest from the action, and it was completely touristy, but I still loved every minute of it. Art with balls! They had the fabulously loud dresses you’d expect, and sang and stomped up a storm. I was a little bummed that there weren’t any male dancers, and it was way too short—well under an hour. The bus wended its indirect way back to town, and I joined the girls for tapas, but at that point it was too late to get food at the bar (?!?!), so we had beers while the local college guys hit on us. The gals hadn’t eaten anything and were going to be out all night, so they got falafel sandwiches and I went home early at 2am.

The next morning, I was lucky to get a ticket for morning admission at La Alhambra, as I’d not gotten there as early as I would have liked, due to the previous evening’s outing. But they had a single ticket left, so I was able to go right in (after about an hour in line. There are TONS of tourists and big tour groups here, but I think that’s always the case). I got an audioguide and first went to see the Summer Palace and Generalife garden, which wasn’t as impressive as I’d expected. It seemed unkept, actually, although it was pretty. Following the audio tour, I walked through the Medina, Garden of San Francisco, Calle Real, and la Iglesia de Santa Maria.

The main attraction at La Alhambra is the Palacio Nazaries, which is huge and a stunning example of Islamic architecture. Tiles and carvings in amazing patterns and colors abound, and the sacredness and utility of water is incorporated throughout. The audio guide provided commentary on each room/area: Mexuar, Cuarto Dorado and its patio, Palacio de Comares, Patio de los Arrayanes, Sala de Barca, Salon de Comares, Palacio and Patio de los Leones, Sala de los Abencerrajes, Sala de los Reyes, Sala de Dos Hermanas, Estancias del Emperador, Patio de las Reja and Lindaraja, Jardines del Partal, Palacio de Portico. WHEW. That took a while, jockeying amongst all the camera-wielding tourists.

The much less crowded Palacio de Carlos V felt almost like a bullring, and included a Museum of La Alhambra, but the Fine Arts Museum upstairs was under renovation. I passed through the Puerta del Vino to La Alcazaba, another important site, which is mostly impressive walls and towers, including the big (watchtower) Torre de la Vela, which had great views.

I had to go all the way back to the entrance to return my audioguide, so I passed through Puerta de la Justicia and walked along one of the outer walls, then turned around for the (downhill—hooray!) walk back to town. Happily, I spotted some newly discarded and unscathed cardboard boxes, and I grabbed one for mailing my formalwear and souvenirs, which I packed up at the hostal, where I also washed most of my clothes and hung them on my little balcony. I mailed the box (YIPPEE!) for a mere 50 Euros, checked my email, unsuccessfully shopped for walking sandals, then stopped back at the hostal to see if the girls from the night before were still going out for tapas. I missed them, though, and foolishly went out to dinner instead of going straight to bed. Oh well…the chick peas and spinach and sausage plate was good.

I slept hard and got up in time to pick up some fruit (I had to get a pomegranate!) and a traditional pastry for breakfast before packing up and leaving for the bus to the bus station, where I had to wait forever in line to buy my ticket. Walking to the departure area, I realized that my ticket didn’t list which bus platform I needed to be on, and none of the postings had my destination, and no one could tell me which one to go to. I’m no mass-transit novice, and I can speak and read this language, and in ten minutes I couldn’t get anyone to point me in the right direction, so I missed it. It took me another 15 minutes afterwards to find out where it had left from, which is ridiculous. At any rate, this meant that I’d lose half a day in Las Alpujarras, and that I had five hours to kill during siesta, which meant that all stores were closed. Grrrr.

So I walked. A lot. I found one big department/grocery store that was open and explored that (no sandals), and basically made my way back to the old city. I did find a pension that would be a good place to stay between my next two destinations, as the bus and train schedules all had huge gaps that would leave me with over three hours between, but I could arrive late and leave early… I had some pizza for lunch, but couldn’t taste it, as I’d developed a cold and my sinuses were a mess, although I felt okay otherwise.

Other observations after a few days in Spain:
These people SMOKE. A LOT. I think ALL OF THEM. EVERYWHERE. It’s killing me! Whenever given the option, I’ll pay the extra money to sit outside; otherwise, I try to choose my seat carefully. There are a few places where it’s supposedly prohibited, but the rules aren’t exactly abided by. Blech.

It’s great to hear Spanish music, especially the solo guitar guys sitting along castle walls or in Arabic gardens, IN Spain. Talk about atmosphere! In the plazas, however, they have a tendency to play Spanishized versions of western standard songs: Autumn Leaves, My Way, Blue Moon, Strangers in the Night, and lots of 1970-1990’s American pop music.

I’m enjoying the return to beverages to go in cups, vs. the plastic bags of Asia, and am surprised by traffic that stops for pedestrians and pedestrians who wait at intersections.

I hadn’t stopped to realize how pervasive the Arab/Muslim influence would be here in Andalusia, and of course it is. Nor had I expected the scruffy brown desert-like landscape that far outweighs the greenery. It all makes sense, but I hadn’t considered it all beforehand.

There is a lot of graffiti art here, and much of it is quite beautiful. I even saw some people at work, looking like they’d probably been hired to do it, possibly for a good fee. Huh.

SPAIN:
Capileira (Las Alpujarras)

I caught the later bus and arrived in Capileira in Las Alplujarras, at the base of the Sierra Nevada, via insanely curvy (those guardrails would not keep a bus from a serious plunge) and narrow (pull in your mirror!) roads before sunset. I was DYING for some cardiovascular exercise, but it was too late at that point, so I left my stuff at the hostal I’d reserved a room in and then walked at dusk through the little white town--twisting and skinny cobblestone streets dappled with colorful floral windowboxes--that somehow wasn’t sliding into the valley below. Many of the craft stores were still open, and some were quite nice and actually unique. I’m still regretting not buying a pair of earrings and a candle holder… I watched a man and two dogs bring their goats in from a distant pasture to the stable area, at one point standing at the downstream center of an SUV as the herd divided around it and me and merged again, inches in front of me.

The surrounding valleys and mountains were vast and extreme and dramatic, rugged and beautiful. Capileira is the northernmost of three (Capileira, Bubion, Pampaneira) white towns of Barranco del Poqueira (total population of 1270), at an elevation of 1440m. The highest peak in the Sierra Nevada is 3479m. I met some people at the tourist booth who had just climbed it and said that it was absolutely frigid, and they were wearing serious gear, so I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do that hike—which was fine, because that isn’t one to do solo, anyway. It was already much cooler here than in Granada, and I actually wore my fleece.

I woke up feeling much better, enjoyed the included breakfast (cocoa, juice, bread with butter and jam) in the sweet kitchen, then went on a much-needed run. Basically, I ran uphill for 35 minutes on the main road in the area where the Natural and National Parks overlap, then for about 10 minutes on a foresty trail, then downhill for about 25 minutes. I even saw a few mountain goat-type creatures.

I stretched, showered, packed, checked out, and grabbed some snacks before a 3 ½-hour hike to Cebadilla, along the sides of a big valley. It turned out to only take 2:20, and I had stopped to take a zillion photos. I ordered a traditional plato Alpujarrano at a little restaurant with patio seating, and enjoyed the meal of a fried egg, potatoes and onions, jamon Serrano, chorizo, black-pudding sausage and bread. Meat o’clock! Hearty, rich, and fortifying for the rest of my hiking day.

The second hike I chose was one that linked the three towns of Barranco del Poqueira. I made it easily to Bubion, not totally via the route on my map, through town to the trail to Pampaneira, which was far less straightforward and equally poorly marked. The towns are close enough together that you always have one in sight, and often two, but the paths dead end or split off or turn into impossible-to-follow goat trails. I made it to Pampaneira, but with enough difficulty that I wanted to leave plenty of time to get back to catch my bus, so I didn’t explore the village.

I got back to Bubion, then found what I figured to be the main path that I’d missed leaving from the southern part of town—and two men confirmed that it was the path to Capileira. Well…not so much. It went in that direction, more or less, but then ran into fences or veered off well below town. I dead-ended several times, used all fours climbing up the critter paths (after all, they have to get back to town, too) in hopes of being able to see where I was supposed to be, but kept running into fences. Any paths that seemed to head for the main road also disappeared or ended at impasses. At this point I was exhausted from the tough morning run plus all the hiking, and out of water and THIRSTY, not having refilled at the third town and not getting back in three times the amount of time it should have taken, and facing the likelihood of missing the bus—which would seriously screw up my plans, as not so many buses pass through these parts. I decided that my best bet was to run back to Bubion the way I came and to try to catch the bus on its way to Capileira, where I could pick up my bag and get back on.

I made it to the village, saw three people in a car leaving the tiny lot by the path, and asked if they were by any chance going my way, and then where the bus stopped. I had clearly been physically exerting myself in the effort to get there and was obviously flustered, and the woman in the back convinced them to take me to Capileira (a 5-10 minute drive, during which she offered her phone number for the next time I visited). I thanked them profusely (in Spanish—mis angeles!) and told them what had happened in greater detail than the original panicked version. They acknowledged that a lot of the paths did dead end, and that none from that starting point would have gotten me there. ARGH! Thank goodness for nice people doing their good deed for the day, though, and I promised to do nice things for future strangers in return.

I made it in time for the bus, which was late anyway, but didn’t have time to return for the souvenirs I’d wanted to buy (the stores had been closed at lunchtime), and which I should have had at least an hour to get. Alas. So much for maps… I marveled that I was actually on the bus after the day’s adventures during the hair-raising ride back to Granada, where I slept (after the owner got the singing drunk to shut up and turn down his TV next door) at the pension near the train station.

ITALY: Milan

ITALY: Milan
We pulled into Milan around midday, and I went straight for the extremely helpful tourist office, who said that there was a bit of a housing shortage due to a trade convention that week. As my flight the next morning was insanely early, and the bus to the airport left from the train station, I sucked it up and spent 50Euros on a room nearby. That’s by far the most I paid for a room in all these travels, but I was expecting Milan to be the biggest hotel expenditure.

I spent a little time emailing about the box and refunds and reimbursements, then set out, on my 7th or so wind, on the pretty town (with awesome mass transit). I picked up some yogurt and fruit at a grocery store and took the subway to the Duomo, which is enormous and beautiful, constructed entirely of pink marble from Candoglia. Many paintings were hung from the ceiling in the middle; I’m not sure if it’s always like that or if they’re there because the museum is closed this year. The most unique aspect of visiting this cathedral, however, is the access to the roof, where one can wander amongst the spires and peer through them over the square and city. It’s another spot where you just can’t stop taking pictures.

On the perimeter of the Piazza Duomo are several important buildings, including the city hall to the west, twin fascist structures with balconies where Mussolini delivered speeches to the south, and Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, a huge, glass-domed arcade abustle with shoppers, to the north.

At the other end of the Galleria is Piazza della Scala, with a statue of Leonardo da Vinci that celebrates his many talents and achievements. I treated myself to gelato and meandered through the area before going into La Scala Opera House and its museum. The museum is crammed with a collection of opera goodies: music, instruments, costumes, paintings, sets, etc. Included in the museum’s ticket is access to two little booths overlooking the orchestra seats and stage. I was sad that there was no performance that evening, but there was a rehearsal going on, which was exciting to watch—and honestly, I wouldn’t have lasted through a performance that night!

I walked the length of Via Dante, a long pedestrian-only boulevard, which led to Sforza Castle. All of its several museums were closing, but the grounds were big and castle-y, and there was a pretty park beyond. I walked around there for a while, then took the subway to Brera Art Gallery for a quick visit. Lots of paintings by prominent Italians, and well worth the trip.

They kicked me out at 7:30, and I bought a green and a pasta salad before taking the subway back to the hotel. I realized that my cheap-o flight allowed for only one checked piece of luggage, so I repacked and squished everything from The Box into my two bags and a little carryon extra. I FINALLY fell into bed around 11, totally exhausted, with the alarm set for 4am. Ooof. The shuttle was great, though, and got me where I needed to be. Ciao, Italy! Grazi! (except for FedEx)

ITALY: Venice

ITALY:
Venice, for the wedding of Mary Kallaher and Matteo Perale

Woohoo! Katie and Craig (Evashevski/Sovka) and Andrew and Ellen (Richardson/Denny—the first 3 are P’92) met me at the apartment, where I was thrilled to shower and collect my wits. We called the apartment office to arrange our picking up the box of my formalwear, other wedding stuff, and stuff for my travels in Spain that Don had FedExed from Korea, but it wasn’t there. After all those hours of hassleful travel and no sleep, that didn’t go over so well, and I didn’t take it so gracefully. This was Friday afternoon, and their office was closed on Saturday, as was FedEx’s. I dropped a bunch of money on internet and phone cards and started frantically running around Venice in search of phones and internet cafes, but couldn’t get in touch with Don, who’d emailed that he’d sent the package but hadn’t included the tracking number. None of us could find FedEx in the yellow pages, storekeepers didn’t know what we were talking about (of course there was one just outside the square)…PANIC. I finally had the genius idea to ask mom to get on the case, and she took heroic measures from the U.S. to find the thing. She was given all kinds of conflicting info, and we were hopeful that it might somehow be collectable on Saturday, but that proved to not be the case. Apparently two big deliveries in Italy had gotten switched, so it wasn’t going to get to me until Monday at the earliest—and by then I’d no longer be at the hotel it was addressed to, and it was addressed to Katie, who’d no longer be in the country. And it had cost over $150 to send. And I now had nothing to wear but shorts, t-shirts and sneakers to a semi-formal dinner, formal wedding, and nice brunch (I’d sent a fabulous traditional Vietnamese tunic/pants outfit I’d bought in Hanoi—where else am I going to be able to wear that?). This ordeal and all the stress that went with it got dragged out through the whole weekend, as we had to sort out whether and when and where and how I might be able to pick it up eventually, and stop it from being delivered to the hotel, let alone sending it on to the US, since I’d not be able to use most of it—and I was using phonecards and trying to find open internet cafes with available computers between events and meals. Let’s just say that I didn’t get to see nearly as much of Venice as I should have. Sigh. FedEx is not on my list of favorites.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to spend a ridiculous amount of time or money shopping, as Katie had packed an extra dress that fit well enough for me to get away with. I borrowed a skirt from Ellen, and wore plastic flip-flops to the dinner and Katie’s flats (with toilet paper stuffed in) to the wedding, and my cheap-o travel dress to the brunch. I was more or less presentable, if not particularly comfortable. Doh.

We did somehow manage to see the Basilica (gorgeous and big and impressive, of course!) and its museum before we went to the rehearsal “sagra” (peasant feast). Cocktail hour included bellinis (prosecco and peach juice) and special Paduan (groom’s family is from Padua) cocktails that tasted like Triaminic to me. I was pleasantly surprised at all the friends from Princeton who were in attendance: Hilary Malcarney, Becky (Jones) Betts, Alison Brower, Stacey Rukeyser, Ed Eglin, John Granholm, Laura Jo, Ben Richardson, Enoch Huang and Roya Monsouri, plus Mary’s family and friends whom I’d met before. It was most excellent to see everyone and know that I’d see ‘em again the next day.

We eventually sat down to several courses of tasty Italian food, then were treated to a fun slideshow about Matteo’s shady past, courtesy of his best man. Many speeches and toasts were made to bride and groom, and the party was still going when we left at 2am (47 hours up and awake for me…). We got reamed again by a water taxi, but got a cool ride under lots of little bridges and down back canalways, so it was worth it.

Thankfully, I slept like a rock, and we all got up and out for food and meandering and food…then home to prep for the wedding. Katie, Craig, Andrew and Ellen, who’d traveled in Italy for the week previous to the wedding, had a running joke about all the meat they’d eaten. Mealtime was “meat o’clock,” and if anyone ever proclaimed to be hungry, we all knew what time it must be…or whenever we were served meat, we knew what time it must be…etc.

We found our way on foot to the astounding church (Santa Maria Gloriosa del Frari), which is a must-see in all the tour guides, and for good reason. Beautiful and lush inside and out, and indeed the tourists were snapping all kinds of photos at the emergence of the real live wedding. Teehee! The service was all kinds of Catholic (but thankfully not as long!), half in Italian—they stated their vows in each other’s language, which was very sweet. We were all stifling hysterical laughter at some of the readings, which lauded the wife who is silent and submits to her husband…which ain’t a-gonna happen! They both looked stunning, of course, and the whole thing was magical.

For the reception, we paraded, often single-file through the alleys, to the Palazzo Pisani Moretta, which was old and beautiful and on the grand canale. Lots of cocktails, a multi-course sit-down dinner (I had a fun table of rowdy Princeton and Columbia singles), and a 1980’s disco-themed hullaballo. Andrew and I were the last of our team standing, and we left to stumble home in the rain at 4:30am. I slept from 5:15 to 6:15, then lay awake, exhausted, until just past 9.

We had to be out of the apartment by 10:30, so we scrambled in hungoverness to get ourselves cleaned up and packed, then schlepped all our stuff through a DOWNPOUR to the brunch, getting lost a few times on the way. We arrived, drenched and bedraggled, at least an hour before anyone else, and the groom’s parents ordered us out of our clothes so they could dry them. I managed to air dry, and Katie and Ellen dug a change out of their bags (Mrs. Perale is impossibly thin), but Craig and Andrew ended up wearing Mr. Perale’s pants…and all kinds of off-color humor went along with that, you can be sure (a quote from Katie: “Craig is prancing around, freeballing in Mr. Perale’s pants!” quotes from Mr. Perale: “Give me your underpants!” “Take off your pants. I must see you naked!”).

Yes, the Perales are a hoot. They’re old-school Italian charming—they chatted away about everything, including the fabulous house and its history, as if we hadn’t arrived horrendously early and disheveled to their party celebrating their son’s marriage. Eventually the rest of the crowd trickled in and it was a fun afternoon (aside from post-party pain) of more chatting with college friends and comparing notes on Venice (like Pontes Tete and Labia) and on the events of the night before.

Post-party, I brought my stuff to Shnook (Enoch) and Roya’s hotel (still pouring rain—I had a big blue plastic poncho over myself and my backpack and frontpack, and seriously looked like an Oompah-Loompah, so we waddled and sang the song a lot). I’d not had the time to find a place to stay Sunday and Monday nights, as I’d been spending every spare minute dealing with the FedEx box situation. We checked out a couple of places without luck, then decided to try again after we saw the Doge’s Palace, which was big and grand and art-ridden. Fortunately, the hostel that had been closed earlier was open and had a bed for at least one night, so I went back for my stuff and we went our separate ways, as we (especially me!) were super tired, and planned to meet for lunch the next day. I grabbed a panini and went to bed early, in a cool converted church—there was a fresco on the ceiling of my room (and I forgot to get a photo)!

The next morning, I went to the hostel’s breakfast (bread, butter, jam, cereal, coffee, cocoa—perfect!), then was all set to arrive at FedEx at opening, but was told that there was some plumbing problem at the hostel and that I couldn’t stay there that night and would have to get my stuff out of the room by 9, which meant doing it before I left. So I went to call FedEx, but realized that Shnook and Roya had the paper with the tracking number on it, which meant that I had to get to an internet café again, as the hostel’s service was out. Fortunately, mom had sent an email that the box would be at the FedEx office on San Marco by noon, so I could stop freaking out for two whole hours.

As it was (finally!) a gorgeous day, I walked around and snapped photos and even had an hour in the Accademia, which, as expected, had lots of astounding Italian art. I went to FedEx to get the box, and had to pay another 50 Euros in customs fees to pick the &%$@ing thing up. I got to the place where Shnook and Roya and I had agreed to meet for lunch, but they didn’t show, so I figured they were in the throes of some uninterruptible sightseeing (which we knew was a possibility). I left them a note at their hotel, suggesting a possible evening meeting time. Then I went to the hostel, where I’d left my stuff in the luggage room, and repacked the box, as it was pretty beaten up and I needed my Spain guidebook. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to think that I’d easily be able to mail it from Italy. I inquired at the post office and they said it would cost 120 Euros to mail to the US, which seemed a tad steep. I decided to wait until I got to Spain, where I could speak the language and where common sense is more widely practiced.

I sightsaw my way to the train station, keeping my eyes peeled for walking sandals, bought my ticket to Milan for the next morning, then scouted out another hostel nearby, as the train was an early one. Somewhere in there I emailed mom that I had the &%$@ing box and got a message from Shnook and Roya confirming dinner plans. Somehow, from the other end of Venice, I got turned around so many times on my way back to San Marco that I was REALLY late meeting S&R, but they had waited and we had a great night of wine in a plaza before dinner at a fabulous restaurant (Mascaron), where we got chatted up by a local hotelier/bookshop owner and a Japanese-Italian travel writer, and then dessert and bellinis at Harry’s, where a bottle of water was 10 Euros, and you can just imagine from there what the food and drink cost.

We managed to stay out well into the night, and it was late by the time I got my bag and box from the hostel and toted them to the other hostel, where I tiptoed so as not to awaken my two Asian (Korean?) roommates. I then did the sleep-for-one-hour-then-lie-awake deal (could it be prosecco?) until it was time to get up and out (and there was some crazy pedestrian traffic RIGHT outside our window for the last hour of lying awake) and on the train. Sleeeeeeeeepy. Very sleeeeeeeepy.

So, yes, Venice is very pretty, and was not at all stinky for our visit. Perhaps we were just there at the right time of year (aside from the rain). The city of canals is truly unique, especially in certain lights, and there are gazillions of tourists there to prove how noteworthy it all is. And because the streets are narrow and impossible not to get lost amongst, the tourists are always blocking traffic—either window shopping or map consulting. All you can do is try not to be one of the worse offenders… Sadly, I didn’t have time to wander outside the touristy area to where I’d heard it was a little less Times-Squarey. Hopefully I’ll get back for a more relaxed visit someday…

IN TRANSIT—OY!

IN TRANSIT—OY! (Sept 14-15)
Arrived at the LP airport with plenty of time to sit around before my flight to Bangkok, made it to Thailand without incident, and after much transportational ado, made it into the city for my 7-hour layover. Of course, in order to leave and reenter the airport, one must go through immigration both ways and pay the exit fee to get out of the country. Ridiculous: as often as not, layovers in Bangkok are several hours long—it’s not like anyone wants to sit around the airport for 7 hours. Whatever. I’d decided to do a couple of things I hadn’t done on my Thailand trip, like ride the skytrain (nifty and new), see the main train station (like a little Grand Central), and probably shop en route. There was a big promotional something-or-other happening outside the Siam Center, and I tried to figure out what all the lines people were in were for. Next door, at the HUGE MBK mall, I picked up some basic nice t-shirts and an ipod case and had some yummy thai food.

It was raining by the time I needed to get to the train station, so I took a cab. Of course, while at the airport I’d been told that there were trains every 30 minutes to the airport, they really meant every 90 minutes, so I had to wait around and get to the airport with only an hour to re-check in. …which would have been fine, except that I was sent to two wrong and long lines at opposite ends of the airport before I was finally given correct instructions. So by the time I got to the line for Passport Control, my plane was about to board. I asked my way to the front of the line and promised to repay 14 good deeds to the universe, and got to the gate, where they were at least a half an hour behind and nowhere near boarding yet. (Not that anyone at checkin could have given me that info…)

The flight to Zurich was long, and I slept very little, but had a great little personal TV screen with fun selections, including the Tour de Suisse, so between that and my journal and my reading, it passed quickly enough.

In Zurich (my bag had been checked from LP through Zurich, but not to Venice), my Tevas were missing from the outer pocket of my bag, where I’d had them strapped in. The strap was broken and the pocket ripped. I reported it all, and there was a SYSTEM! And they checked with both airlines—NATURALLY! And the woman in the other Lost and Found office, where I’d been told to check one last time before I flew again, knew all about it—so they must have COMMUNICATED! Oh, no, we’re not in Asia any more, kids! The airport even made sense! And people waited IN LINE!

Alas, the flight to Venice was delayed by over an hour—but at least they made regular announcements. It was quite a shock to be hearing romance languages, to see blond hair, to have personal space, and to get looks of “nice legs” instead of horror at the sight of flesh above the knees. Unfortunately, that all came with the return to loud, fat, tacky, American tourists traveling between tour buses, who manage to make English sound downright ugly. One of the great perks of traveling in Asia is the mix of nationalities (Asian and otherwise), and the hardy, usually younger, souls trekking around. I think Americans are probably less intrepid and more amenity-demanding than all other westerners. I suspected I’d see a lot less of the sturdy backpacking crowd in Europe, especially since summer was coming to a close.

(Suisse Air had my bag repaired and gave me $50 for the sandals—but I was still sad because they were the only shoes I had aside from my sneakers, they were fabulous walking shoes, they’d seen a lot of places, and heck, I had great Teva tan lines on my feet!)

At long last, our plane to Venice boarded and took off. When we arrived, I got my bag and got into the lost luggage line, as I’d been told to check there in case the Tevas had been found and forwarded on the flight. I waited for 30 minutes (Delta—“Don’t Expect Luggage To Arrive”-- had left an entire plane’s worth of luggage at JFK), and the lady at the counter just yelled at me—what did I expect her to do?!? How could she know?!? Oy. The phones in the airport weren’t working, and the buses and vaporettos were on strike, but, after many false directions, I managed to get a ticket for and board a bus that actually did take me to Piazelle Roma. Once there, I had to take a water taxi with a very high fixed price (they LOVE it when mass transit goes on strike) to Piazza San Marco. Finally in the neighborhood of the apartment where we (college pals—more info soon) were staying, I took off my shoes to wade through the flooded square (“I’m not walking through pigeon shit, I’m not walking through pigeon shit…”), found a tobacco shop with phone cards, and managed to contact my roommates. WHEW. This feels more Asian than European, except for the architecture… but 32 hours later…I’m in VENICE!

LAOS: Luang Prabang

LAOS:
Luang Prabang:
We arrived at the bus depot outside of Luang Prabang, and I gathered a group of people (2 English, 2 French) with whom to negotiate a tuk-tuk ride into the center. The French couple was rude in the tuk-tuk, rude to guys who tried to get us to look at their guesthouse, and when we arrived at the hotel the other three of us had noted in our guidebooks, they got out first and took the last room with a bathroom. Grrrr! The other couple (Helen and Robin) and I found another place quickly enough, though, and agreed we’d love to have a drink together later if it worked out.

I dumped my stuff and went out to see what I could in the remaining daylight: Wats (there are 66 temples from pre-French colonization) Saen, Sop, Sirimungkhun, Si BunHeuang and Xieng Thong (external only; it was closing), and a whole lot of well-preserved and less well-preserved French provincial and traditional Lao architecture (the city is a UNESCO World Heritage site for those reasons). The natural beauty is also to be appreciated: the surrounding mountains, interior wetlands and the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Khan. The mix of Lao people, tourists, monks, novices, and hill-tribers make for a people-watching extravaganza, too. (one fun thing I saw everywhere: checkerboard-tables with bottlecaps for pieces—right-side-up or upside-down)

In visiting any temple, because most of them are in active use, tourists will always be approached by novices eager to practice their English. This is how their half of the conversation ALWAYS goes, very slowly and with varying degrees of grammatical correctness: “Hello! How are you? Where are you from? How long have you been in Luang Prabang? How long will you stay? Where do you go next?” The questions were unfailingly in that order. I felt like I was back in auto-English Korea.

I knocked on Helen and Robin’s door, but missed them; they were going to rest first and then go out, but I’d wanted to take advantage of the light and of sites being open. I went to the riverside for traditional Luang Prabang cuisine: steamed veggies with jaew bawng (chilli sauce and dried buffalo skin—um, yuck) and khao kam (local, sweet, fizzy rice wine-good, although I had a bad glass the next day). I wasn’t particularly satisfied, but figured I’d find snacks at the night market, which was next on my list.

The night handicraft market was indeed a street full of handicrafts, and 100% touristy. “Madame, buy scarf, buy something, lucky, lucky…” UGH). I did buy a few things, as I was at the end of my Asia tour, and I sampled some fun snacks (a grilled chicken breast on a huge skewer, desserty coconuty tapioca-ey balls) before calling it a night.

On Wednesday I went for a morning run over a pedestrian/bike/moto-only bridge into an area of villages and small farms, and it seemed that I was quite a novel sight. I got smiles all around, though, and an occasional cheer!

I swung through Wat Maisuwannaphumaham before picking up a baguette sandwich (tuna, a foil-wrapped triangle of soft cheese, chili sauce, carrots, cucumbers, watercress and pepper—great!) en route to Talat Dala, the oldest market, which turned out to be closed and under major construction. So I moved on and saw Wats Wisunerat, with its ‘watermelon stupa,’ Aham, with two huge banyan trees, Pattuak, of ‘Buddha’s footprint,’ and Thammothayalan, halfway up Phu Si (huge hill in the center of town), where I had excellent views of the Nam Khan. I continued up to That Chomsi (a stupa at the peak) and back down to Wat Pa Huak, which was small but beautiful and very old.

Across the street, I took many photos of the National Museum, but had to wait until later to enter, as it was closed in the middle of the day. I tried to get info on evening performances at the theatre there, but it, too, was closed and seemed to have no regular hours.

Disappointed that the big market was gone, I took a long walk to Talat Phoysi and a Chinese market, both of which were pretty uninspiring. I had a detour through a small village in between before I realized that I couldn’t get out the other side, but found my way to the main road and enjoyed the scenery there.

On the way back into town, I finally found a recommended restaurant I’d wanted to try, but it was closed, so I ended up at another spot along the Mekong and ordered another LP dish, aw lam (spicy-bitter root, lemongrass, chicken, veggies—excellent). By that time, I’d missed the small window of time that the National Museum is open in the afternoon, so I browsed the neighborhood of silversmiths and craft shops. In the early evening, I tried a glass of the khao kam at a different restaurant on the water, and it wasn’t so good…but I sipped it and wrote a bunch of postcards as the sun went down.

A second trip to the theatre proved unsuccessful, and I met other tourists who’d also been stymied, so I picked up a few last souvenirs at the market, dropped them off at my room, then went to a restaurant for bamboo-fried spring rolls and BeerLao and more postcard writing.

On Thursday I got up and out early and picked up some expensive postcard stamps (about 85 cents!), got a fruity goodness shake, FINALLY got into the National Museum (some great wall decoration, lots of artifacts and history) and the Sala Pha Bang pavilion, then followed a little map I’d picked up to take the recommended ‘wetland walk’ that wasn’t mentioned in my guidebook. I saw lots of village nooks and crannies, lotus ponds, cool architecture and unique natural scenery. I’d never have known it was there if I hadn’t by chance looked at a random brochure and spent too much to buy it.

I stopped back at the guesthouse to shower, pack, check out and arrange for a ride to the airport, then went to Wat Xieng Thong to see the interiors I’d missed on the first night. This is the big-deal Wat of LP, and it included a reclining Buddha sanctuary, sim, and royal funerary carriage and carriage house. I picked up another fruit and yogurt shake (I’ll miss them!) before my ride to the airport.

All in all, Luang Prabang is certainly beautiful and unique and worth seeing, but yet it wasn’t all I’d expected it to be. It was interesting to be in a place where there were as many orange-robed Buddhists as otherwise-outfitted folk, fun to see the moto drivers also holding umbrellas for shade, wonderful (mostly) to try the food unique to the province, and otherworldly to walk around amidst all the wonderful architecture, but I was anticipating more majesty and more respite from tourists. To be fair, I was also somewhat Buddhaed- and watted- out.