Okay, this isn’t really relevant to my whole travel adventure, but I picked up a pair of Sennheiser headphones (honestly, they’re earbuds) in Dublin that were, by my usual standards, outrageously priced, especially since I was paying in Euros. However, I have to say as I sit here in my apartment that’s on the first floor, right on noisy little street, that not only is the sound quality light years above and beyond anything I’ve experienced in portable audio before, but it is blocking out everything but “Enjoy the Silence” right now, and my iTunes volume is only about a third of the way up.
Oh, the pleasure.
Anyway, today was a day of lesson learning. I was already a crankypants because I slept too little yesterday.
As was implied in my last post’s subject, I went to the beach yesterday, which wiped me out entirely, as it tends to do. I should take this opportunity to mention that it’s agreed upon in both my guidebooks and by everyone I’ve talked to here so far, while the beach I was at yesterday is one of the better ones in the city, none of the city beaches compare with the ones that are about an hour out. (The guy who handled the exchange of funds for the apartment , who’s a really sweet Italian guy called Junior, gave me a map, and at my request, circled places I should go, tourist traps I should avoid, and wrote the names of places off the map that I should go see).
I should also say that despite this consensus, for someone who’s spent the majority of her beach experiences at the Jersey shore, it was still a massive improvement. The Mediterranean is beautiful and warm and the perfect color entirely. Walking up to it felt like wonder and home at the same time, because though I’ve seen it before, by this point in my life, I figured my impression of its loveliness must have been embellished by nostalgia and the fuzziness of a memory so far faded. And maybe, even just yesterday, even now, the near-overwhelming feeling it inspired is skewing my perception.
It’s not an exact thing, this feeling; there was some inexplicable feeling of rightness in it for me, some feeling that this was what water meeting earth is supposed to look like, feel like. There are too many facts in my head about this sea for me to let myself believe that there is some ineffable and transcendent connection between me and it. Surely my understanding of the as the sea from which I am descended, on both sides of my family , is a recognition of the mind that has wended its way through my body. It must be that knowing that this sea was once a desert, and that every part of my known heritage leads back to it, that made me feel quieter, more humbled, and somehow perfectly placed in its presence than perhaps I ever have before. (The Spanish ancestry of my Cuban grandfather leads back here – his family were Catalán, from Barcelona. And certainly, the fact that no less than three people have asked me for directions since I arrived here only reinforces this strange sense.)
I did not come here for this; I did not expect this.
In any case, yesterday was a day of enjoyment and reflection, of warming myself in the sun and moving with the waves.
But like I said, that wears a girl out; so I took a nap when I got back to the hotel.
A nap that went way long.
So, long story slightly less long, ended up staying awake until five AM, then waking up at eight to pack up all my stuff, shower, etc.
I’d met with Begoña, my landlady, yesterday, and she was extraordinarily sweet, welcoming, and apologetic about the problem with the apartment. She explained that the last tenant had suffered a heatstroke, and that was why the apartment hadn’t been available – the doctor had told him he should delay traveling a few days. I would have felt more than a twinge of guilt for my behavior in light of this knowledge, but I still don’t quite understand why I hadn’t been told this from the beginning. In any case, she gave me the key, welcoming to come stay at the apartment as soon as I liked. I’d opted to stay at my hotel specifically because I’d been told the beaches in that part of town – at Poble Nou – were better than the ones near where I’m staying, at La Barceloneta.
So okay. I got to the apartment a bit earlier than noon – the time I’d set up with Begoña – to meet with the Check-In Manager, Ahmed, to pay for the room, set up the internet, and do whatever else needed doing.
The first issue was that the air conditioner isn’t working.
This was not a great tragedy, as the high today was 77 degrees. It got quite warm in the apartment as I unpacked (and took pictures! To follow when plausible), but I figured Ahmed would fix it when he arrived (with my USB modem).
The second issue was that Junior arrived instead of Ahmed.
Maybe people are more trusting in Spain; it’s obviously more laid back here than the States in most ways I’ve been able to perceive. But clearly, when a different man than I’d been told to expect arrived without me having heard from Begoña about it, I was immediately on guard.
But Junior had the exact same paper Begoña and I had looked over together, with her writing still on it where she’d adjusted the price to compensate for the four days I hadn’t been in the apartment. So I let him in and told him about the air conditioner, which he promptly tried to fix, but couldn’t. There were phone calls; there was lament; there was the promise that his boss would come to look at it later in the afternoon. Also, Ahmed hadn’t told him that I’d needed internet, and so he hadn’t come with the USB modem Begoña had assured me I’d have, though he promised to return on Monday. In good faith, and because he promised me, despite my reticence, I gave him my credit card and paid the remainder of the balance on the apartment, as well as the deposit. We ended up talking for a long while about America, Italy (where he’s from), what he’s doing in Barcelona, what I’m doing in Barcelona, the problem with the ways universities work, and politics. It was a great conversation, and put us both at our ease, I think. He went on to circle locations of interest on my map, to warn me about pickpockets and where they’re most often found, and to tell me I had less to worry about than a German or a Swede, because I look like I’m from here.
So, as he advised, while I’d waited for him to call and let me know his boss was coming over, I went out into my neighborhood to pick up some things for the house (they totally don’t refrigerate eggs or milk here! BANANAS. Also, Kinder Joy is just that – a joy!). He was supposed to have called at 4:30, and meet his boss here at 5:00 (which I’d already taken to mean 5:30 based on my experience with Spanish timekeeping thus far – HA!).
When I got back at twenty after six, though, the air conditioner still wasn’t working, and no one had called me.
So I called Junior, and raised – well, maybe not hell, but purgatory, maybe. I was maybe kind of a bitch – certainly unyielding and not the pleasant conversationalist I’d been earlier in the day. He was extremely (and I think sincerely) apologetic, and told me his boss was coming with fans; he explained that everything in Spain is closed on Sunday, and so truly, there wasn’t anything they could do until Monday. Still upset, I called Begoña and informed her of the situation, and she reassured me of the same. Junior’s boss, Rafael, came shortly thereafter with two fans in tow, as well as an explanation and a USB modem (!).
Okay, so that’s cool. The modem had a disc for setup, and I was so eagerly excited for my internet connection, I failed to remember that my netbook doesn’t have a CD drive. By the time I realize this, Rafael was gone, and my pre-paid cell had run out of minutes. Shit.
So I’m trying to get in touch with Vodafone, my cell provider, and the automated system I’m trying to buy more minutes from isn’t understanding me, or won’t take my card, or something. After four attempts (one of which with a very impatient dick who obviously had no interest in helping someone who was not Spanish, and probably American, and hung up on me), I finally got to talk to someone who could help me, only to discover that they can’t accept my debit card because of some American legal issue with what people are allowed to use debit cards for. So what I have to do, apparently, is go to a Vodafone store, or recharge my card at a cajero (which I think may be an ATM, but damned if I know). Anyway, by this point, I was exhausted, so I’d just given myself over to dealing with it tomorrow (today). If I find a cajero today where I can recharge my card, great. If not, it’s fine – a communications blackout till Monday won’t kill me, and it’s not like I can’t write during this time (clearly – HA!).
[As it happened, didn't get connected till today - and only 3G, not wifi! Sadface! I will try to work out my wifi situation - but tomorrow. LOL)
What’s good about this, though, is that I’m thinking less and less that this is about deception or getting over, and simply a cultural hiccup. Back home, when shit goes wrong, we’re taught to expect it to be taken care of now – right now, twenty minutes ago, now. In Spain , the pace is simply more leisurely, less urgent. This is really cool when it comes to chilling out and enjoying oneself – it can be pretty distressing when plans go unexpectedly awry. But once everything was done, and I’d settled in for an early night (I am more and more rejecting this idea of “you’ll sleep when you’re dead” – I’m on vacation, and my capacity for enjoyment is exponentially greater when I’m well-rested), advice a Spanish-Portugay friend gave me came to mind – to just go with the flow. What that meant didn’t crystallize until I’d just given over to my situation, put away the modem to stop trying to make it work, put away my phone so its lack of functionality would stop tormenting me, and just read some things on my netbook and my magazines.
I’d really like to get my phone working again this morning, since I’ve made plans with a friend of said Portugay’s for this evening – but if it doesn’t happen, I’m not going to die.
As an aside, I totally just saw the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen scurry across the floor of my bedroom. I can only assume that this is as much how things go in Barcelona as it is in New Yawk. LOLOL Man, that is the one thing I hate about city living!
[In cockroach news, I haven't seen another of the damn things yet - though I'm being extra careful now with dishes, crumbs, moisture, and other roach-bait. Oh roach!)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
La Sagrada Familia (for real this time), My Apartment/La Barceloneta, the Beach
Okay, so I promised to talk about La Sagrada Famila last time - the unfinished and ever-under-construction cathedral that Antoni Gaudi designed. First of all, it's insanely gorgeous, and none of the pictures I took were at all able to capture just how much so. It's impressive, it's grand, and it's different - it's all very unexpected for a cathedral, and I think because of that some greater testament to the greatness of what it's meant to worship. I don't know what Gaudi's religious beliefs were, but he definitely knew from inspiration.
La Sagrada Familia is another tourist haven, and we visitors from other lands waited in line to catch an elevator to (almost) the top of one of the four immensely tall spires. The view was incredible, as one might guess - you could see all the way to the mountains or the sea depending on what direction you were looking in. The amazing part, though, was in the details; the huge nativity that serves as the face of the cathedral; the windows inside; the stained glass. I don't know the architectural terms for the shapes this man intended stone to be carved into, but it was quite incredible.
Afterward, I met a Canadian backpacker and chatted for a few minutes before I went back to the hotel - the day really took it out of me, but I ended up staying up too late anyway. Damn you, jetlag!
But today, I went to see the apartment I'm renting this month, that one in La Barceloneta. The neighborhood is not at all fancy, and maybe it could even be a little shady - I think if I'm coming in late at night, I'll be taking a cab. There was a swastika spray-painted on the concrete of the plaza across the street. I didn't know what to think of that; I still don't. Is there a strong neo-Nazi movement in Barcelona? In this neighborhood? Was it just a bunch of kids being assholes? There was (maybe there still is) a swastika spray-painted (or something) on the sidewalk of the bridge from New Brunswick to Highland Park in New Jersey, where I used to live - and honestly, it's hard to imagine anyone having the balls to act on it in that kind of environment. But I'm in a different place, and I don't know what it means here. I don't know what to think.
My thoughts on this matter are further complicated by the neighborhood itself. It's quite lively, and I don't mean that euphemistically. The streets are narrow, and many of the buildings look like they could use a fresh coat of paint, but there's something like a bustle to it - not a hustle and bustle, mind, but just an energy that I really enjoyed. People live there - there were old people and little kids, and all ages in between. There were lots of smiles, and people talking to each other in ways that are familiar and comforting/comfortable to me. It is not the sanitary, posh, impersonal atmosphere of this hotel, or of other places I've stayed when traveling. In fact, there is nothing at all impersonal about La Barceloneta that I could see. On my way to the apartment, I asked a little old man where the street I was looking for was (as it happened, I was on it). On my way back from my meeting with the landlady, I saw him again, and he smiled at me as I smiled back with a little wave. I made three stops on my way back to the Metro; one at the pharmacy to get some sunscreen (and, since I saw it there, some after-sun spray. It's supposed to prevent peeling and prolong tans. I don't know if it works yet, but it smells nice), one at a children's bookstore where I bought the first Harry Potter book in Spanish (Castillian), and one at this little bodega for a snack.
(By the way, the Spanish? Not really into snacking the way I'm used to. Nary a granola bar or even a bag of trail mix to be found, but about fifteen different kinds of meat and seven different kinds of cheese, displayed next to little bottles of wine, in a store about the size of my bedroom.)
Everyone I met was totally sweet, charming, and helpful - friendly, warm, and welcoming. (Even the toothless old man hanging out and tormenting the Indian clerk at the bodega.) I already felt at home. On top of all that, there are tons of restaurants and little shops all around; the neighborhood has character, and a vibrant pulse that I love.
So why is there a swastika on the concrete of the plaza across the street from my apartment?
The apartment itself is lovely. Tiny, on the first floor, with just a teeny bathroom, a kitchenette, a small living room, and a bedroom. Everything looks brand-new; the exterior of the building looks recently renovated, as does the inside. I think I'll be quite comfortable there.
But what about that goddamn swastika?
La Sagrada Familia is another tourist haven, and we visitors from other lands waited in line to catch an elevator to (almost) the top of one of the four immensely tall spires. The view was incredible, as one might guess - you could see all the way to the mountains or the sea depending on what direction you were looking in. The amazing part, though, was in the details; the huge nativity that serves as the face of the cathedral; the windows inside; the stained glass. I don't know the architectural terms for the shapes this man intended stone to be carved into, but it was quite incredible.
Afterward, I met a Canadian backpacker and chatted for a few minutes before I went back to the hotel - the day really took it out of me, but I ended up staying up too late anyway. Damn you, jetlag!
But today, I went to see the apartment I'm renting this month, that one in La Barceloneta. The neighborhood is not at all fancy, and maybe it could even be a little shady - I think if I'm coming in late at night, I'll be taking a cab. There was a swastika spray-painted on the concrete of the plaza across the street. I didn't know what to think of that; I still don't. Is there a strong neo-Nazi movement in Barcelona? In this neighborhood? Was it just a bunch of kids being assholes? There was (maybe there still is) a swastika spray-painted (or something) on the sidewalk of the bridge from New Brunswick to Highland Park in New Jersey, where I used to live - and honestly, it's hard to imagine anyone having the balls to act on it in that kind of environment. But I'm in a different place, and I don't know what it means here. I don't know what to think.
My thoughts on this matter are further complicated by the neighborhood itself. It's quite lively, and I don't mean that euphemistically. The streets are narrow, and many of the buildings look like they could use a fresh coat of paint, but there's something like a bustle to it - not a hustle and bustle, mind, but just an energy that I really enjoyed. People live there - there were old people and little kids, and all ages in between. There were lots of smiles, and people talking to each other in ways that are familiar and comforting/comfortable to me. It is not the sanitary, posh, impersonal atmosphere of this hotel, or of other places I've stayed when traveling. In fact, there is nothing at all impersonal about La Barceloneta that I could see. On my way to the apartment, I asked a little old man where the street I was looking for was (as it happened, I was on it). On my way back from my meeting with the landlady, I saw him again, and he smiled at me as I smiled back with a little wave. I made three stops on my way back to the Metro; one at the pharmacy to get some sunscreen (and, since I saw it there, some after-sun spray. It's supposed to prevent peeling and prolong tans. I don't know if it works yet, but it smells nice), one at a children's bookstore where I bought the first Harry Potter book in Spanish (Castillian), and one at this little bodega for a snack.
(By the way, the Spanish? Not really into snacking the way I'm used to. Nary a granola bar or even a bag of trail mix to be found, but about fifteen different kinds of meat and seven different kinds of cheese, displayed next to little bottles of wine, in a store about the size of my bedroom.)
Everyone I met was totally sweet, charming, and helpful - friendly, warm, and welcoming. (Even the toothless old man hanging out and tormenting the Indian clerk at the bodega.) I already felt at home. On top of all that, there are tons of restaurants and little shops all around; the neighborhood has character, and a vibrant pulse that I love.
So why is there a swastika on the concrete of the plaza across the street from my apartment?
The apartment itself is lovely. Tiny, on the first floor, with just a teeny bathroom, a kitchenette, a small living room, and a bedroom. Everything looks brand-new; the exterior of the building looks recently renovated, as does the inside. I think I'll be quite comfortable there.
But what about that goddamn swastika?
Things I Love About Europe
* The Half-Flush. Back in the States, when you potty, you have but two choices - either flush down five gallons (maybe four, if you put a full two-liter bottle in your tank) of perfectly good water whenever you use the bathroom, or let whatever you just left behind sit there being nasty. This conundrum has led to extraordinary levels of water waste, as well as what I consider to be the truly gross (and unhygienic) solution of "If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down." Here in Europe, they've resolved this conundrum (or at least, come up with what I consider to be a better solution than the hippie "let the pee fester" method) in the half-flush. The toilets in Dublin and here in Spain both had little half-buttons - if you press one, you get a little flush; if you press both, you get a big ole flush. I think this is a brilliant step toward eco-friendlier potties - and light years ahead of leaving a toilet full of pee constantly sitting in your bathroom.
* Pedestrian-Friendly Cities. It's not only because I am a lifelong and avid pedestrian that this is so great to me. I realize that cars have their uses even within the borders of the most walkable city, but what it comes down to for me is that I like walking. I like dealing with the elements, I like not being in constant climate control, and I like actually seeing the city I'm in from time to time without being separated from it by a windshield. I like to know what a city sounds like and smells like (okay, not always - but generally! LOL). Now I know that the U.S. has its share of pedestrian-friendly cities, but I've never seen a subway system like Barcelona's Metro before. Sweet Jesus, it's amazing. Clean, well-marked and mapped-out, efficient, fast; plus, it runs very frequently, even at off-peak hours, and is open late as hell on the weekends and holidays! Further, there are little signs telling you where stuff is everywhere even on the street; things are clearly marked, there are bike paths (which counts, as I consider bicyclists as close cousins to pedestrians) everywhere, and wide, well-paved sidewalks abound.
* Multilingualism. In Barcelona, in particular, this is really cool. I realize that English is supposed to be the new international language or something, and it just happens to be my advantage that it's my first language - but it's nice to see signs in English, Catalan, and Spanish - and in some places, several other languages, as well. It's simple, but it gives the sense of a smaller world, and is a little reminder, multiple times a day, that there are other cultures all around, and that we're all moving in the same spaces.
* No High Fructose Corn Syrup. Correct! I don't know if it's because Europeans have more discriminating tastes, or because they just don't truck with people fucking with their food, but I have yet to sample (or even see) anything - anything! with that horrible shit in it. Coca-cola? Made with sugar. Candy? Sugar. Pastries? Azúcar, azúcar, azúcar! Now, I have friends who will be more than happy (Tina, Nat!) to tell me all about why sugar is horrible and nasty and terrible, too, but it's better than HFC! Besides, I'm not saying I'm going on a sugar binge or anything - it's just nice to see!
* Friendly, Interested, Engaging People Who Like Talking to Strangers. Now, I will admit that in Spain, I'm at a certain advantage since I'm fluent in Spanish, but as many people will attest, sharing a common language with someone is not always a reason for conversation in the U.S. Beside that, even when I was in Dublin and England, despite the fact that I think I'm fairly obviously American (if not because of my mode of dress, which I don't find to be dissimilar from people here - one guy even mistook me for a local!! And he spoke Spanish! Like a Spaniard!!!), it's pretty clear the minute I open my mouth, even when I'm toning down my Jersey accent (which I've found myself doing here in general), people were immensely friendly, helpful, and curious. I don't know if it's that we Americans have earned a lot of credit by electing Obama into office, or if it's that we don't have as bad a rep as everyone says, or if the Irish, English, and Spanish are just generally a polite people who aren't going to treat you like shit just because they're secretly thinking you're American pigscum, but I've had nothing but pleasant experiences so far. (With the exception of the nighttime concierge at this hotel, who has been more snooty, unhelpful, and dismissive to me than anyone I've ever met before, despite my concerted efforts to be on my best behavior; truly, I have been nothing but polite, courteous, and even soft-spoken/deferential! [Yes, this is possible. I do have home training, you know.] Even so, there's a cunt in every crowd, and I certainly don't hold Barcelona responsible for her snobbery.)
* History, Art, and Culture. Granted, it's helpful that the cities I've been to have been Dublin and Barcelona, but it is a beautiful thing to walk around a city and be surrounded by buildings of artistic and historical significance. I had dinner in the church where Jonathan Swift attended mass; where the guy who created Guinness was baptized. I've seen amazing art and architecture the likes of which I never imagined, buildings that are older than America, or even the colonization of North America. (Not counting Leif Erikkson, natch.) The dork in me is so in love with this element of Europe; meanwhile, the techie spoiled brat in me adores the modernity, the innovation, the melding of form and function, and the influence that the historical foundation of these cities has had on its aesthetic development.
* Chocolate. That's it man. Just that. It's really, really good here. I don't know why. But goddamn. The goddamn pizza place that delivers to my hotel room brought me truffles that I'd have knocked somebody out for. The PIZZA PLACE.
Anyway, I need to get moving - apartments to see, sunburns to get. WOOT!
* Pedestrian-Friendly Cities. It's not only because I am a lifelong and avid pedestrian that this is so great to me. I realize that cars have their uses even within the borders of the most walkable city, but what it comes down to for me is that I like walking. I like dealing with the elements, I like not being in constant climate control, and I like actually seeing the city I'm in from time to time without being separated from it by a windshield. I like to know what a city sounds like and smells like (okay, not always - but generally! LOL). Now I know that the U.S. has its share of pedestrian-friendly cities, but I've never seen a subway system like Barcelona's Metro before. Sweet Jesus, it's amazing. Clean, well-marked and mapped-out, efficient, fast; plus, it runs very frequently, even at off-peak hours, and is open late as hell on the weekends and holidays! Further, there are little signs telling you where stuff is everywhere even on the street; things are clearly marked, there are bike paths (which counts, as I consider bicyclists as close cousins to pedestrians) everywhere, and wide, well-paved sidewalks abound.
* Multilingualism. In Barcelona, in particular, this is really cool. I realize that English is supposed to be the new international language or something, and it just happens to be my advantage that it's my first language - but it's nice to see signs in English, Catalan, and Spanish - and in some places, several other languages, as well. It's simple, but it gives the sense of a smaller world, and is a little reminder, multiple times a day, that there are other cultures all around, and that we're all moving in the same spaces.
* No High Fructose Corn Syrup. Correct! I don't know if it's because Europeans have more discriminating tastes, or because they just don't truck with people fucking with their food, but I have yet to sample (or even see) anything - anything! with that horrible shit in it. Coca-cola? Made with sugar. Candy? Sugar. Pastries? Azúcar, azúcar, azúcar! Now, I have friends who will be more than happy (Tina, Nat!) to tell me all about why sugar is horrible and nasty and terrible, too, but it's better than HFC! Besides, I'm not saying I'm going on a sugar binge or anything - it's just nice to see!
* Friendly, Interested, Engaging People Who Like Talking to Strangers. Now, I will admit that in Spain, I'm at a certain advantage since I'm fluent in Spanish, but as many people will attest, sharing a common language with someone is not always a reason for conversation in the U.S. Beside that, even when I was in Dublin and England, despite the fact that I think I'm fairly obviously American (if not because of my mode of dress, which I don't find to be dissimilar from people here - one guy even mistook me for a local!! And he spoke Spanish! Like a Spaniard!!!), it's pretty clear the minute I open my mouth, even when I'm toning down my Jersey accent (which I've found myself doing here in general), people were immensely friendly, helpful, and curious. I don't know if it's that we Americans have earned a lot of credit by electing Obama into office, or if it's that we don't have as bad a rep as everyone says, or if the Irish, English, and Spanish are just generally a polite people who aren't going to treat you like shit just because they're secretly thinking you're American pigscum, but I've had nothing but pleasant experiences so far. (With the exception of the nighttime concierge at this hotel, who has been more snooty, unhelpful, and dismissive to me than anyone I've ever met before, despite my concerted efforts to be on my best behavior; truly, I have been nothing but polite, courteous, and even soft-spoken/deferential! [Yes, this is possible. I do have home training, you know.] Even so, there's a cunt in every crowd, and I certainly don't hold Barcelona responsible for her snobbery.)
* History, Art, and Culture. Granted, it's helpful that the cities I've been to have been Dublin and Barcelona, but it is a beautiful thing to walk around a city and be surrounded by buildings of artistic and historical significance. I had dinner in the church where Jonathan Swift attended mass; where the guy who created Guinness was baptized. I've seen amazing art and architecture the likes of which I never imagined, buildings that are older than America, or even the colonization of North America. (Not counting Leif Erikkson, natch.) The dork in me is so in love with this element of Europe; meanwhile, the techie spoiled brat in me adores the modernity, the innovation, the melding of form and function, and the influence that the historical foundation of these cities has had on its aesthetic development.
* Chocolate. That's it man. Just that. It's really, really good here. I don't know why. But goddamn. The goddamn pizza place that delivers to my hotel room brought me truffles that I'd have knocked somebody out for. The PIZZA PLACE.
Anyway, I need to get moving - apartments to see, sunburns to get. WOOT!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Park Güell, La Sagrada Familia, Good Eats and Thinky Thinky.
So I slept all day yesterday, woke up, hung out in my hotel room for a few hours, then took some codeine and a muscle relaxer, and went back to sleep. I have not slept this much possibly ever, and it was goddamn amazing! I don't think I've quite beat the jetlag, but I am tons and tons better than I was before yesterday. So I lost a day of Barcelona, but I think in doing so, I vastly improved the quality of the following ones. Many thanks to all the friends who offered jetlag advice on fb - I've been following it! Sunlight ftw!
There are a couple of things that occurred to me today.
One is that I'm really, really glad I speak Spanish.
They say that everyone speaks English in Europe, and maybe that's true - I don't know. In Spain, it seems like English is more of a labor for the people who can speak it, with few exceptions (usually people who want to sell me stuff).
Also, it's kind of nice to be thinking in Spanish again - even though sometimes I don't understand everything people here say, in part because I'm out of practice, in part because on top of having a Spanish from Spain accent, they have a Catalan accent! Most of the time, I'm fine with Spaniards speaking Spanish, but the cabbie who brought me back to my hotel had a really strong Catalan accent. (Think about those parts in Snatch or Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels when they had to subtitle the people speaking cockney or the Pikeys. Okay, not as bad as the Pikeys, but still!)
Another cool thing is tricking people - another of my cabbies today (okay, listen, I've been taking the Metro, but there was something wrong with the L5 Line and while it would have been nice to walk to Sagrada Familia from where I was, I'd hiked my ass all over Park Güell and I needed some AC!) asked me where I was from - he seemed quite surprised to hear the U.S.! He said he'd thought I was Cuban or Mexican. (LOLOLOL oh Mary!). This is an awesome compliment, because I'm generally a little self-conscious about my Spanish, because I'm nowhere near as good at it as English. Also, the guy at the store where I bought my cell phone said I speak Castillian better than he speaks English! (Now, I don't know if that's a comment on my Spanish or his English, but I'll take it! LOLOL)
Something else that occurred to me - or I guess it'd be more of a discovery - is that the Barcelona Metro is as fucking awesome as everybody says. It's awesome, it's clean, it's modern, it's reliable, it's speedy. I bought myself a monthly pass today, and at 47.50 Euro, it's not a bad deal at all - a little more than a monthly T pass in Boston, but hey, it's Europe - everything's more expensive here. Also, the Barcelona Metro makes the T look like a horse and buggy as far as speed, accessibility, and coverage of the city are concerned. Psha!
The third thing I discovered/occurred to me is that I actually really, really, really like hiking. I just don't like hiking with other people.
I'm kind of a city slicker to begin with - my experience with hiking equals exactly one (1) dog hike with Doug over a year ago. Besides that, I'm overweight and out of shape, and in general, the people I know who hike are decidedly not (there may be a connection here... LOL). However, when hiking by myself through Park Güell, the back end of which turned out to involve a lot of dusty-footed climbing over unpaved, mountainy terrain, I found I enjoyed it. I was careful when I needed to be, slow when I wanted to be, and took my time to look at the landscape around me and go at a pace I was comfortable with. What this resulted in was a really enjoyable hikish walk in the sun, and climbing to the top of some kind of peaky-hill-high-place-thing successfully and happily! There was no stress about being the n00b fattie holding everyone up, there was no being uncomfortably out of breath and trying to front like I wasn't, there was no tripping or falling or anything - just a nice walk, and an awesome view! Granted I didn't dress for it - LOLOL I wasn't expecting Park Güell to involve this kind of business - but my ballet flats have good, substantial soles and served me well. Maybe a dress wasn't the best choice of attire (my skirt flew up and I nearly gave the other tourists a bit of a show at a couple of points - it's windy in Barce!), but overall, I was fine!
This was my reward for climbing and stuff.
So there was that.
Anyway, after scaring the shit out of myself and climbing to the top of that little mountainy peak thing, I was like, "Now where the hell are the sculptures?!"
So after a little searching, I did, indeed, find them.
Wow.
It's like a big sculpture you can walk around in. Outside. It's... I don't even know if it's worth describing. I mean, there were tourists everywhere, from all over Europe and beyond - and I guess that was another thing that was nice about being alone, and about being abroad - I felt the liberty, for the first time, to just be a goddamn tourist. I had my camera out all the time, took pictures of every damn thing, people-watched, wandered around lost a few times, asked questions, and generally just let myself feel the wonder of being in a wholly different place that was completely new to me. It was great! As for the park itself - well, I took a bunch of pictures. That's all I can do. I will say that I hadn't known places that beautiful existed - that people could make art like that out of objects that we can be inside of, that surround us. It is a special thing to be surrounded by a structure that is, in itself, so obviously art. It was wonderful and felt otherworldly in places, and was such a great and lovely experience. I don't think I saw everything, either - I'll most likely go back before I leave and see if I can't find more.
I also took a side trip to the Casa Museu Gaudi - which is a really cool-looking pink house on the grounds where he lived. All I have to say is that clearly, I need to live with a great crazy artist architect. Well, actually I probably don't - I haven't read up on Gaudi, but if he was that talented and creative, odds are he was seriously maladjusted, or at least had major woman problems, so maybe not.
It had been my intention to write on La Sagrada Familia and maybe even the very fancy lunch I had - but I've decided now that I'm too tired. LOLOL. Anyway, the pics'll be up on fb. :D
There are a couple of things that occurred to me today.
One is that I'm really, really glad I speak Spanish.
They say that everyone speaks English in Europe, and maybe that's true - I don't know. In Spain, it seems like English is more of a labor for the people who can speak it, with few exceptions (usually people who want to sell me stuff).
Also, it's kind of nice to be thinking in Spanish again - even though sometimes I don't understand everything people here say, in part because I'm out of practice, in part because on top of having a Spanish from Spain accent, they have a Catalan accent! Most of the time, I'm fine with Spaniards speaking Spanish, but the cabbie who brought me back to my hotel had a really strong Catalan accent. (Think about those parts in Snatch or Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels when they had to subtitle the people speaking cockney or the Pikeys. Okay, not as bad as the Pikeys, but still!)
Another cool thing is tricking people - another of my cabbies today (okay, listen, I've been taking the Metro, but there was something wrong with the L5 Line and while it would have been nice to walk to Sagrada Familia from where I was, I'd hiked my ass all over Park Güell and I needed some AC!) asked me where I was from - he seemed quite surprised to hear the U.S.! He said he'd thought I was Cuban or Mexican. (LOLOLOL oh Mary!). This is an awesome compliment, because I'm generally a little self-conscious about my Spanish, because I'm nowhere near as good at it as English. Also, the guy at the store where I bought my cell phone said I speak Castillian better than he speaks English! (Now, I don't know if that's a comment on my Spanish or his English, but I'll take it! LOLOL)
Something else that occurred to me - or I guess it'd be more of a discovery - is that the Barcelona Metro is as fucking awesome as everybody says. It's awesome, it's clean, it's modern, it's reliable, it's speedy. I bought myself a monthly pass today, and at 47.50 Euro, it's not a bad deal at all - a little more than a monthly T pass in Boston, but hey, it's Europe - everything's more expensive here. Also, the Barcelona Metro makes the T look like a horse and buggy as far as speed, accessibility, and coverage of the city are concerned. Psha!
The third thing I discovered/occurred to me is that I actually really, really, really like hiking. I just don't like hiking with other people.
I'm kind of a city slicker to begin with - my experience with hiking equals exactly one (1) dog hike with Doug over a year ago. Besides that, I'm overweight and out of shape, and in general, the people I know who hike are decidedly not (there may be a connection here... LOL). However, when hiking by myself through Park Güell, the back end of which turned out to involve a lot of dusty-footed climbing over unpaved, mountainy terrain, I found I enjoyed it. I was careful when I needed to be, slow when I wanted to be, and took my time to look at the landscape around me and go at a pace I was comfortable with. What this resulted in was a really enjoyable hikish walk in the sun, and climbing to the top of some kind of peaky-hill-high-place-thing successfully and happily! There was no stress about being the n00b fattie holding everyone up, there was no being uncomfortably out of breath and trying to front like I wasn't, there was no tripping or falling or anything - just a nice walk, and an awesome view! Granted I didn't dress for it - LOLOL I wasn't expecting Park Güell to involve this kind of business - but my ballet flats have good, substantial soles and served me well. Maybe a dress wasn't the best choice of attire (my skirt flew up and I nearly gave the other tourists a bit of a show at a couple of points - it's windy in Barce!), but overall, I was fine!
So there was that.
Anyway, after scaring the shit out of myself and climbing to the top of that little mountainy peak thing, I was like, "Now where the hell are the sculptures?!"
So after a little searching, I did, indeed, find them.
Wow.
It's like a big sculpture you can walk around in. Outside. It's... I don't even know if it's worth describing. I mean, there were tourists everywhere, from all over Europe and beyond - and I guess that was another thing that was nice about being alone, and about being abroad - I felt the liberty, for the first time, to just be a goddamn tourist. I had my camera out all the time, took pictures of every damn thing, people-watched, wandered around lost a few times, asked questions, and generally just let myself feel the wonder of being in a wholly different place that was completely new to me. It was great! As for the park itself - well, I took a bunch of pictures. That's all I can do. I will say that I hadn't known places that beautiful existed - that people could make art like that out of objects that we can be inside of, that surround us. It is a special thing to be surrounded by a structure that is, in itself, so obviously art. It was wonderful and felt otherworldly in places, and was such a great and lovely experience. I don't think I saw everything, either - I'll most likely go back before I leave and see if I can't find more.
I also took a side trip to the Casa Museu Gaudi - which is a really cool-looking pink house on the grounds where he lived. All I have to say is that clearly, I need to live with a great crazy artist architect. Well, actually I probably don't - I haven't read up on Gaudi, but if he was that talented and creative, odds are he was seriously maladjusted, or at least had major woman problems, so maybe not.
It had been my intention to write on La Sagrada Familia and maybe even the very fancy lunch I had - but I've decided now that I'm too tired. LOLOL. Anyway, the pics'll be up on fb. :D
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
A Letter to My Mama - or, I have arrived! :D
I wrote this letter to my mother in response to an e-mail she sent me asking about Barcelona, and giving me information about ancestors of ours who lived in Barcelona in case I wanted to do a little research on her behalf. ;) I feel like it covers my initial impressions of Barcelona (as well as the resolution to my accommodation problem) pretty well, so here you go.
Dear Mami,
I'm sorry it took so long for me to get in touch with you! It's been a crazy couple of days, and my sleep schedule is all fackacked (as evidenced by the fact that I'm now writing to you at 3:31 AM, local time!). I'll be happy to do a little searching; while I'm not opposed to hanging out with the young crowd a little while I'm here, I'm also definitely interested in checking out some of the older places, and I'd already had vague plans to explore the art and architecture of the city (of which there is a great deal!). I can't make any promises as to my success, but I can say I'll try. The people of Barcelona have seemed open and friendly thus far (except for this one lady in reception at my hotel - she seems snooty as hell and I think she judges me for being American and not as good at Spanish as I ought to be. But I heard her English, and it's not better than my Spanish!). As to your request about telling you about Barcelona, even though I've not yet been here twenty-four hours, I can share with you my initial observations.
First of all, I think I may have mentioned that I had about a 24-hour layover in Dublin yesterday. (Dublin, I can tell you from my brief encounter with it, is one of the friendliest and good-natured places I've ever been. The people smile easily, are quite warm, down-to-earth, and funny. I adore the Irish, and wish I could have stayed longer - and everyone I encountered who asked how long I was staying expressed regret upon discovering I'd be leaving so soon!) Late last night, about 11:00 PM local time (or 23:00, as they say here in Europe), I got a call from my "Check-In Manager" at the apartment I rented, telling me that the apartment I'd booked (and already had made a partial payment on) was not going to be available when I arrived due to a 'water problem,' and that they were going to give me another apartment in the city center for three or four days until it was fixed. I cannot tell you how jetlagged I was, mami - my Circadian rhythms are completely nuts right now - so when he told me he'd give me the address when I arrived rather than right then, as I'd asked, I didn't insist. I went to sleep, feeling very suspicious and not liking this development at all.
Of course, I woke up less than four hours later, and this time, I was a complete mess.
The first thing I did was send a text to my friend Liz, who is maybe the most wonderful person in the world, and asked her to come online. She helped calm me down, she gave me the contact information for her mother's travel agent, and she stayed online with me throughout the process of figuring out what I should do (and helped me figure, to boot).
I tried calling the "Check-In Manager" again - no answer on his phone. I wrote a letter to the agent I'd been working with, explaining the situation to her, and telling her that I was very troubled by this, that I am a woman traveling alone, and that I'd heard stories of people coming here having been promised one apartment and then having it switched for another at the last minute to another (generally a smaller one, one with less amenities, one in a much less savory neighborhood, or all of the above!). I told her that I could not take risks with my safety, and that I needed to talk to someone right away. When I didn't hear back (at what was, for them, 4:00 AM LOL), I started looking at hotels, and booked the one I'm currently staying in (which is, OMG, the nicest hotel room I've ever been inside). Now with a confirmed place to stay until at least Saturday morning (a four-star place to stay! For $82/night! Your daughter is a bargain hunter, if nothing else. LOL), I was able to get ready to leave Dublin comfortably.
While I was at the Dublin airport, waiting for my flight to Nottingham, England (where I had about a three-hour layover), I got a call from Ahmed (my check-in guy). He sounded half-asleep, and I told him very politely and firmly that I wouldn't be needing their services anymore, that I would not be staying at any apartment they offered, and that I'd like a full refund of the amount I had already put down. He told me in an apologetic tone that a refund would be impossible, and I told him it certainly wouldn't be - that I was not being given the apartment that had been agreed upon, and because of that, our agreement was null and void. When he insisted that I could not be repaid, I told him that I had family in the area (LOL I did not mention that they'd all been dead for a few hundred years, and that my closest living relatives to the area were on Mallorca), and that I was certain they'd be more than happy to refer me to their lawyer if necessary, but that I'd prefer not to have to do that, really. Then he started tripping over himself, asking when I'd be getting into Barcelona, that he'd call me, and I told him that wouldn't be necessary, that I'd surely call him once I was settled in. He hung up. LOL.
So in the hour (seriously, one hour) it took for me to get from Dublin to Nottingham (by the way, have I mentioned how completely endearing the people's accents from these areas are? Seriously. I LOVES it), I had voicemails, I had texts, and an urgent e-mail from my booking agent. My booking agent told me that she didn't know what was going on, but that she'd spoken to my landlady, and that there had been some misunderstanding, and that the apartment was ready for me today. Then, before I could reply, she called me (on my American cell - LOL I fear seeing my phone bill already), and we talked about it a little in Spanish. I told her that I'd already booked a hotel room, and that I wouldn't be staying there - I was clumsy and jetlagged, but she asked me to send her an e-mail about the situation, which I told her I would - in English! So I did, explaining that I had already paid for the reservation, that it couldn't be canceled, and also, outlining my concerns, etc. She was very apologetic, and told me she was very sorry for the confusion, and that the apartment was definitely available; I told her if I took the apartment at this point, I would clearly need them to take off the four days I'd be staying at the hotel from the price. After a bit of back-and-forth about whether I could/would cancel the reservation, I got on the plane to Barcelona, and went to sleep for two hours.
Once I got into Barce and was in my lovely hotel room, I got another call - and saw that I'd missed four others (FOUR OTHERS) between Nottingham and Barcelona somehow. This time, it was the landlady, again, apologizing profusely, reassuring me, telling me that both her company and my agents had been in business for ten years, that they were very professional, that this had never happened before, that they understood my concerns, etc. Now, she sounded quite sincere, as had Alba - being the skeptic and cynic that I am, I have no doubt that they had some concern not only about the fact that I'd already been a good American and brought up the subject of lawyers, but that since I'd made all the arrangements online, that I'd be all over Expedia and the NYT travel section online and Lonely Planet and wherever else I could clack my displeasure in consumer reviews. At least, that's what I'd have been worried about, because trust and believe, I'd had every intention of writing to anyone who'd listen about my experience, just to warn other novice travelers about the pitfalls of apartment rentals.
Eighth Floor. Holy hell.
Anyway, I told Begona that I was glad she understood my worries (and she really did - I feel like it really struck her that I am a young female traveling alone for the first time in a city and country where I've never been before), and that if the apartment I'd booked was still available, I'd really love to see it, because if it was what we'd agreed on, I'd much rather stay there for the rest of my trip than hotel-hop (though that had been starting to sound fun, too, since I'd been able to find AMAZING rates). I also told her, though, again, that I'd need the price to be knocked down to account for the four nights I'd been staying at this hotel, because really, what had happened wasn't my fault, and I'd had no recourse, in my mind, other than to book a hotel in light of the information I'd been given on such short notice. After a bit of hesitation, she agreed, and told me I could come see her before Saturday if I wanted to meet her so that I could be reassured, etc. (And I'm going to take her up on this.) So, after my four days at this beautiful hotel, I'm almost definitely going to be in my lovely apartment two blocks the beach! (If you're interested, Google Map [address omitted], Barcelona, and do the street view to see the exterior and explore the neighborhood!)
As far as the city itself is concerned, I've already been struck by the dichotomy of Barcelona. The airport is situated in a very industrial area, sort of like a Barcelonian Newark. The cab ride in showed an interesting countryside - in some places with the Mediterranean on one side, mountains on the other, and huge industrial plants in between.
Once inside the city, the architecture for which Barcelona is so famous was readily apparent - there are beautiful, interesting buildings everywhere. But in the neighborhood I'm in right now - Porto Olimpico - there's a great deal of construction under way as they build "El 22," a new neighborhood dedicated to technology and modernity. This is interesting, because many lovely buildings and hotels sprang up here when the Olympics came to Barcelona a few years back, but prior to that, it was a very old industrial area, with textile factories and the like. There are buildings all around that are half-crumbled or at least decrepit, emblazoned with graffiti tags and age, sharing blocks with huge, beautiful buildings of all kinds of architecture, parks with huge art installations visible from the street, and beautiful churches.
One thing about Porto Olimpico is that it doesn't have all the nifty density of some other neighborhoods in cities I've visited. I got to take about a 3.4 km taxi ride (I think that's a little over a mile, but I really have no idea - LOLOL I seriously need to learn the metric system so I know where I'm going and what the temperature is). There, at the recommendation of the snooty reception lady at my hotel, I went to a place called El Corte Inglés, which is a nine story (nine story!) department store in the heart of Barcelona, where I was able to buy a Spanish SIM card for my cell phone, an adaptor plug for my netbook, and a few groceries! They also had clothes, housewares, every kind of makeup, perfume, accessory, hardware, or seemingly anything else you could imagine. It was an intense shopping experience. I was too tired and jetlagged to try to figure out the Metro today, so I took a cab there and back - which gave me a chance to get a little peek at the city and talk to my lovely cab drivers, who were both really awesome and friendly. (Both of them told me about the festival of San Juan - which is still going on outside my window, from what I can tell - though the fireworks have subsided somewhat, and now it's mostly just car alarms and drunken calls of an indeterminate nature - all this I can hear from the 8th floor. LOLOL - Barcelona surely knows how to have a good time (and this is an especially refreshing change from Boston, where bedtime is 2AM, rain or shine)! I opted out of the party tonight because dear god, my whole body was aching with all the traveling and poor sleep. So I watched a little from my window and enjoyed Spanish pizza and watching a few of my shows that I've missed out on since I've been here! :D
Anyway, the city center is very lovely, and there are many amazing buildings throughout. I wasn't able to get a consistent understanding of what the neighborhoods were or how they worked - the architectural styles, conditions of the buildings, and character of the area all seemed very mixed up to me, most likely because I'm so new here. But hopefully it won't take too long for me to get a grasp on Barcelona and how it works. I really like it, though - I've encountered some really friendly people, and I'm excited to do some exploring tomorrow (or today, I guess - but I think I'm going to try for a nap first)! I kind of want to go to the beach, too (both my cabbies warned me about thieves, and advised me not to bring all my documents when I'm wandering the city, and to only bring as much money as I need; my second cabbie told me to bury my wallet in the sand when I go swimming at the beach). I'm excited both to swim in the Mediterranean and to do a little family research!
Anyway, I hope I haven't bored you with this long e-mail - but you asked! :D I hope to talk to you soon - I miss you and love you!
Love and love and many kisses,
Your niña
Dear Mami,
I'm sorry it took so long for me to get in touch with you! It's been a crazy couple of days, and my sleep schedule is all fackacked (as evidenced by the fact that I'm now writing to you at 3:31 AM, local time!). I'll be happy to do a little searching; while I'm not opposed to hanging out with the young crowd a little while I'm here, I'm also definitely interested in checking out some of the older places, and I'd already had vague plans to explore the art and architecture of the city (of which there is a great deal!). I can't make any promises as to my success, but I can say I'll try. The people of Barcelona have seemed open and friendly thus far (except for this one lady in reception at my hotel - she seems snooty as hell and I think she judges me for being American and not as good at Spanish as I ought to be. But I heard her English, and it's not better than my Spanish!). As to your request about telling you about Barcelona, even though I've not yet been here twenty-four hours, I can share with you my initial observations.
First of all, I think I may have mentioned that I had about a 24-hour layover in Dublin yesterday. (Dublin, I can tell you from my brief encounter with it, is one of the friendliest and good-natured places I've ever been. The people smile easily, are quite warm, down-to-earth, and funny. I adore the Irish, and wish I could have stayed longer - and everyone I encountered who asked how long I was staying expressed regret upon discovering I'd be leaving so soon!) Late last night, about 11:00 PM local time (or 23:00, as they say here in Europe), I got a call from my "Check-In Manager" at the apartment I rented, telling me that the apartment I'd booked (and already had made a partial payment on) was not going to be available when I arrived due to a 'water problem,' and that they were going to give me another apartment in the city center for three or four days until it was fixed. I cannot tell you how jetlagged I was, mami - my Circadian rhythms are completely nuts right now - so when he told me he'd give me the address when I arrived rather than right then, as I'd asked, I didn't insist. I went to sleep, feeling very suspicious and not liking this development at all.
Of course, I woke up less than four hours later, and this time, I was a complete mess.
The first thing I did was send a text to my friend Liz, who is maybe the most wonderful person in the world, and asked her to come online. She helped calm me down, she gave me the contact information for her mother's travel agent, and she stayed online with me throughout the process of figuring out what I should do (and helped me figure, to boot).
I tried calling the "Check-In Manager" again - no answer on his phone. I wrote a letter to the agent I'd been working with, explaining the situation to her, and telling her that I was very troubled by this, that I am a woman traveling alone, and that I'd heard stories of people coming here having been promised one apartment and then having it switched for another at the last minute to another (generally a smaller one, one with less amenities, one in a much less savory neighborhood, or all of the above!). I told her that I could not take risks with my safety, and that I needed to talk to someone right away. When I didn't hear back (at what was, for them, 4:00 AM LOL), I started looking at hotels, and booked the one I'm currently staying in (which is, OMG, the nicest hotel room I've ever been inside). Now with a confirmed place to stay until at least Saturday morning (a four-star place to stay! For $82/night! Your daughter is a bargain hunter, if nothing else. LOL), I was able to get ready to leave Dublin comfortably.
While I was at the Dublin airport, waiting for my flight to Nottingham, England (where I had about a three-hour layover), I got a call from Ahmed (my check-in guy). He sounded half-asleep, and I told him very politely and firmly that I wouldn't be needing their services anymore, that I would not be staying at any apartment they offered, and that I'd like a full refund of the amount I had already put down. He told me in an apologetic tone that a refund would be impossible, and I told him it certainly wouldn't be - that I was not being given the apartment that had been agreed upon, and because of that, our agreement was null and void. When he insisted that I could not be repaid, I told him that I had family in the area (LOL I did not mention that they'd all been dead for a few hundred years, and that my closest living relatives to the area were on Mallorca), and that I was certain they'd be more than happy to refer me to their lawyer if necessary, but that I'd prefer not to have to do that, really. Then he started tripping over himself, asking when I'd be getting into Barcelona, that he'd call me, and I told him that wouldn't be necessary, that I'd surely call him once I was settled in. He hung up. LOL.
So in the hour (seriously, one hour) it took for me to get from Dublin to Nottingham (by the way, have I mentioned how completely endearing the people's accents from these areas are? Seriously. I LOVES it), I had voicemails, I had texts, and an urgent e-mail from my booking agent. My booking agent told me that she didn't know what was going on, but that she'd spoken to my landlady, and that there had been some misunderstanding, and that the apartment was ready for me today. Then, before I could reply, she called me (on my American cell - LOL I fear seeing my phone bill already), and we talked about it a little in Spanish. I told her that I'd already booked a hotel room, and that I wouldn't be staying there - I was clumsy and jetlagged, but she asked me to send her an e-mail about the situation, which I told her I would - in English! So I did, explaining that I had already paid for the reservation, that it couldn't be canceled, and also, outlining my concerns, etc. She was very apologetic, and told me she was very sorry for the confusion, and that the apartment was definitely available; I told her if I took the apartment at this point, I would clearly need them to take off the four days I'd be staying at the hotel from the price. After a bit of back-and-forth about whether I could/would cancel the reservation, I got on the plane to Barcelona, and went to sleep for two hours.
Once I got into Barce and was in my lovely hotel room, I got another call - and saw that I'd missed four others (FOUR OTHERS) between Nottingham and Barcelona somehow. This time, it was the landlady, again, apologizing profusely, reassuring me, telling me that both her company and my agents had been in business for ten years, that they were very professional, that this had never happened before, that they understood my concerns, etc. Now, she sounded quite sincere, as had Alba - being the skeptic and cynic that I am, I have no doubt that they had some concern not only about the fact that I'd already been a good American and brought up the subject of lawyers, but that since I'd made all the arrangements online, that I'd be all over Expedia and the NYT travel section online and Lonely Planet and wherever else I could clack my displeasure in consumer reviews. At least, that's what I'd have been worried about, because trust and believe, I'd had every intention of writing to anyone who'd listen about my experience, just to warn other novice travelers about the pitfalls of apartment rentals.
Anyway, I told Begona that I was glad she understood my worries (and she really did - I feel like it really struck her that I am a young female traveling alone for the first time in a city and country where I've never been before), and that if the apartment I'd booked was still available, I'd really love to see it, because if it was what we'd agreed on, I'd much rather stay there for the rest of my trip than hotel-hop (though that had been starting to sound fun, too, since I'd been able to find AMAZING rates). I also told her, though, again, that I'd need the price to be knocked down to account for the four nights I'd been staying at this hotel, because really, what had happened wasn't my fault, and I'd had no recourse, in my mind, other than to book a hotel in light of the information I'd been given on such short notice. After a bit of hesitation, she agreed, and told me I could come see her before Saturday if I wanted to meet her so that I could be reassured, etc. (And I'm going to take her up on this.) So, after my four days at this beautiful hotel, I'm almost definitely going to be in my lovely apartment two blocks the beach! (If you're interested, Google Map [address omitted], Barcelona, and do the street view to see the exterior and explore the neighborhood!)
As far as the city itself is concerned, I've already been struck by the dichotomy of Barcelona. The airport is situated in a very industrial area, sort of like a Barcelonian Newark. The cab ride in showed an interesting countryside - in some places with the Mediterranean on one side, mountains on the other, and huge industrial plants in between.
Once inside the city, the architecture for which Barcelona is so famous was readily apparent - there are beautiful, interesting buildings everywhere. But in the neighborhood I'm in right now - Porto Olimpico - there's a great deal of construction under way as they build "El 22," a new neighborhood dedicated to technology and modernity. This is interesting, because many lovely buildings and hotels sprang up here when the Olympics came to Barcelona a few years back, but prior to that, it was a very old industrial area, with textile factories and the like. There are buildings all around that are half-crumbled or at least decrepit, emblazoned with graffiti tags and age, sharing blocks with huge, beautiful buildings of all kinds of architecture, parks with huge art installations visible from the street, and beautiful churches.
One thing about Porto Olimpico is that it doesn't have all the nifty density of some other neighborhoods in cities I've visited. I got to take about a 3.4 km taxi ride (I think that's a little over a mile, but I really have no idea - LOLOL I seriously need to learn the metric system so I know where I'm going and what the temperature is). There, at the recommendation of the snooty reception lady at my hotel, I went to a place called El Corte Inglés, which is a nine story (nine story!) department store in the heart of Barcelona, where I was able to buy a Spanish SIM card for my cell phone, an adaptor plug for my netbook, and a few groceries! They also had clothes, housewares, every kind of makeup, perfume, accessory, hardware, or seemingly anything else you could imagine. It was an intense shopping experience. I was too tired and jetlagged to try to figure out the Metro today, so I took a cab there and back - which gave me a chance to get a little peek at the city and talk to my lovely cab drivers, who were both really awesome and friendly. (Both of them told me about the festival of San Juan - which is still going on outside my window, from what I can tell - though the fireworks have subsided somewhat, and now it's mostly just car alarms and drunken calls of an indeterminate nature - all this I can hear from the 8th floor. LOLOL - Barcelona surely knows how to have a good time (and this is an especially refreshing change from Boston, where bedtime is 2AM, rain or shine)! I opted out of the party tonight because dear god, my whole body was aching with all the traveling and poor sleep. So I watched a little from my window and enjoyed Spanish pizza and watching a few of my shows that I've missed out on since I've been here! :D
Anyway, the city center is very lovely, and there are many amazing buildings throughout. I wasn't able to get a consistent understanding of what the neighborhoods were or how they worked - the architectural styles, conditions of the buildings, and character of the area all seemed very mixed up to me, most likely because I'm so new here. But hopefully it won't take too long for me to get a grasp on Barcelona and how it works. I really like it, though - I've encountered some really friendly people, and I'm excited to do some exploring tomorrow (or today, I guess - but I think I'm going to try for a nap first)! I kind of want to go to the beach, too (both my cabbies warned me about thieves, and advised me not to bring all my documents when I'm wandering the city, and to only bring as much money as I need; my second cabbie told me to bury my wallet in the sand when I go swimming at the beach). I'm excited both to swim in the Mediterranean and to do a little family research!
Anyway, I hope I haven't bored you with this long e-mail - but you asked! :D I hope to talk to you soon - I miss you and love you!
Love and love and many kisses,
Your niña
A Note on Nottingham and East Midlands Airport
I'm quite sadface that I didn't get to spend any time in England at all aside from the three hours I spent in their airport. The East Midlands Airport is a funny little thing; we did that European thing where you walk from the plane down some stairs to the tarmac, then walk inside the terminal. The departure terminal was some dinky little business; not much to look at at all. Or at least the check-in area was.
I was able to sample some English candy, which as I've mentioned on facebook, is amazing and special. (The rumors are true - the Kit-Kats are better there. Thanks lack of alkalis and no high fructose corn syrup!) I also had a real English muffin, which is about as much more awesome than a Thomas' English muffin as a bagel from a kosher deli in NY/NJ is than a Lender's bagel.
But here's the thing - they don't let you into the Departure area - the place with the gates - until a certain amount of time before your flight. So I guess about an hour before boarding, maybe an hour and a half, the little monitor says I can get moving - so I do.
And once I'm in the gate area, I am in Consumerist Heaven.
Now listen, Americans get a lot of shit for their capitalist and consumerist ways. A LOT. And I get that - but it's very obvious to me now where we learned it from! LOLOL!
I wish I'd thought to take pictures - but honestly, I was so overwhelmed by the spectacle, I didn't even think to get my camera.
Once I was through security, in order to get to the gates, I had to go through a huge store selling make-up, perfume, cigarettes, and all other manner of high-end luxury items.
I'm not talking about I had to pass by it - I'm talking I had to walk around displays, past the register!
This is a box of 1000 cigarettes. LOLOL
Then, when I got to the gate area, I discovered they don't tell you where your gate is right away. There are monitors up all over the place, and they have all the flights listed. At some point before one's boarding time (at least an hour, because it was up for mine when I got there), instead of the gate, next to the flight number and time it sayS "Relax and Shop."
LOLOL What?!
Oh, England, I need to see more of your funny.
Additionally, as reported, a little bit racist! LOLOL:
UNLEASH ME. RAWR. LOLOL!
I was able to sample some English candy, which as I've mentioned on facebook, is amazing and special. (The rumors are true - the Kit-Kats are better there. Thanks lack of alkalis and no high fructose corn syrup!) I also had a real English muffin, which is about as much more awesome than a Thomas' English muffin as a bagel from a kosher deli in NY/NJ is than a Lender's bagel.
But here's the thing - they don't let you into the Departure area - the place with the gates - until a certain amount of time before your flight. So I guess about an hour before boarding, maybe an hour and a half, the little monitor says I can get moving - so I do.
And once I'm in the gate area, I am in Consumerist Heaven.
Now listen, Americans get a lot of shit for their capitalist and consumerist ways. A LOT. And I get that - but it's very obvious to me now where we learned it from! LOLOL!
I wish I'd thought to take pictures - but honestly, I was so overwhelmed by the spectacle, I didn't even think to get my camera.
Once I was through security, in order to get to the gates, I had to go through a huge store selling make-up, perfume, cigarettes, and all other manner of high-end luxury items.
I'm not talking about I had to pass by it - I'm talking I had to walk around displays, past the register!
Then, when I got to the gate area, I discovered they don't tell you where your gate is right away. There are monitors up all over the place, and they have all the flights listed. At some point before one's boarding time (at least an hour, because it was up for mine when I got there), instead of the gate, next to the flight number and time it sayS "Relax and Shop."
LOLOL What?!
Oh, England, I need to see more of your funny.
Additionally, as reported, a little bit racist! LOLOL:
UNLEASH ME. RAWR. LOLOL!
Travel Foibles – or, reminders from the Universe to expect the unexpected
written in part in my hotel room in Dublin at some ungodly hour on June 23, in part on the plane to Nottingham, also June 23
So I adore Dublin, but I haven’t had the opportunity to see nearly as much of it as I’d hoped. Despite my grand plans to sleep on the plane, and to compensate for this failure by taking a nap, my “nap” was actually four hours long, and then I had to spend another hour and a half or so dealing with business back home. All in all, I didn’t make it out of my hotel until about five (I think? My cell doesn’t like this time zone, and isn’t keeping time properly at all). So I got to walk around the immediate area and take a few pictures of the loveliness that surrounded me.
More on facebook... blogspot is slow!
I also had a really, really, really delicious dinner at a really cool restaurant called Church (it’s actually in a converted church):
(Also, I got to sample real Irish draught Guinness, and let me confirm that the rumors are true. It’s a different beer entirely in Ireland, and where I’ve never liked it when I’ve tried it in the States, I could drink gallons of what they served me here in Dublin.)
But then there was some drama.
So, I came back from the restaurant, full as a tick (again) and wholly content, and decided to take it easy, since I was still exhausted (I was falling asleep at the restaurant). While chatting with buddies and enjoying the intarwebs, I got a call from my “Check-In Manager,” Ahmed – who was neither of the women with whom I had corresponded via e-mail about the arrangements for this apartment. I hadn’t thought anything of it when I was given his name and information as a contact in Barcelona – I figured he’d be a super, or a property manager, or whatever. Well, whatever he was, he called me and told me, at about 11:00 PM or so Dublin time (which means about midnight Barcelona time), that the apartment I had booked and confirmed by making an initial payment of $600+, was having a “water problem,” and that it wouldn’t be available for a few days – but that they were going to put me somewhere in the “city center.” When I asked him for the address of the new apartment, he told me he’d tell me when I got to the airport tomorrow.
Hmm.
Now, this whole situation really bothered me – but whatever, I needed to go to bed, I needed to sleep, I needed to get up the next day (today) at 5:30 to make my flight. So I went to sleep.
And woke up at about 2:45 Dublin time.
I couldn’t get back to sleep – I didn’t want to. I didn’t like that he hadn’t told me the address of the apartment, and I tried calling him – to no avail, of course. Beyond that, when I’d first booked the apartment, I’d arranged to stay in one spot, and after I’d booked it, they wrote me to tell me that the landlady had booked it – and they offered me several other options at higher prices. I told them that I was on a budget, and that I needed to pay what I had originally been going to. They then offered me the apartment that many of my friends have heard about – an adorable little studio in La Barceloneta, perfect for my needs, a two minute (seriously, Google Maps said so) walk to the beach, ten minutes into the heart of Ciudad Vella, an area of the city densely packed with many of the things I want to see there. It was originally priced at about 700 Euro more than I’d booked the other room for, but they cut it down to only about 100 Euro more – which was awesome for the location and space.
At the time, I’d thought I’d just lucked out – but upon receiving that call from the “Check-In Manager,” I began to see it in a different light entirely. I’d been warned by a friend that I ought to just stay in a hostel for a few days when I got into town, so I could actually see the apartments I was considering, meet with landlords, and ensure that the situation was legit.
Of course, I didn’t listen; I was worried about staying in a hostel, I didn’t want to schlep, I just wanted to be settled as quickly as possible. I figured since I’d found the place in the comments of the NYT travel section’s article on staying Barcelona, it must be okay. (This was a naïve mistake on my part – the age of the Common Man Internet has made me forget the extreme paranoia I had back in the days, when it was only nerds, freaks, and liars on the ‘Net [remember when we actually called it that? HA!].) Of course, it never occurred to me that someone from the company itself may have written a bogus recommendation. I don’t know if that’s the case, but really, a little more info should have been considered.
In any case, (oh, look, there’s England! :D), when I woke in the middle of the night, my stomach clenched, my teeth grinding, about this situation, and I didn’t hear back from Ahmed, I wrote an e-mail to Alba, the woman I’d been corresponding with. I told her I was very distressed about the situation, and wanted the address of the place. But the more I thought about it, the less comfortable I was. I felt more than a little stupid, naïve, and helpless. Here I was, not even at home so that I had some kind of recourse, so that I could just say, “Well fuck you then,” or at least feel like I had resources at my disposal to fix this somehow. I was across an ocean, in a hotel room, in a place where everything is more expensive and my money is worth less than at home. The idea of being adrift – of having no place to stay, of having to spend hundreds of dollars on hotel rooms and losing the money I’d already put down – had me near hyperventilating.
This was why people had been so impressed that I’d gone by myself; or at least, it was what they should have been thinking about. Loneliness, okay – make a new friend, or make a phone call, or get drunk. Being in a foreign place when shit goes south, all by yourself? It’s strange – when someone else is with you, you’re in together. Whatever goes wrong, you have each other – to blame, to reassure, to talk and figure it out. There was no one to blame or reassure but me.
Well, that’s not exactly true – granted, there was no one to blame but myself (and maybe Ahmed), but there was reassurance to be had.
Now one lesson here is this – if you’re going far away, to another country, on vacation, make sure you either have a plan B or enough backup capital to make one on the fly. Also, a netbook and making sure wherever you stay has internet access is immensely helpful. With the help (and invaluable moral support) of my dear and infinitely smart and practical friend Leez, I researched hotels in Barcelona, checked them against my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide, and booked a room at a four-star hotel at an insanely cheap rate until Friday. When Ahmed called this morning, I went with my gut and told him I wasn’t going to be taking the apartment, and that I wanted my deposit back. He said that was impossible, and I told him that I was not going to pay for goods and services I had not been received – that since I wasn’t going to be provided with the apartment agreed upon when I paid, I was not going to let the charges stand. He said there was nothing he could do, so I told him that I had family in Barcelona (I did not mention that they’ve been dead for hundreds of years, and that my nearest live relative is in Mallorca), and that I was sure they could have their lawyer handle the situation, if that was what he wanted – but that I’d prefer not to have to go through the trouble.
Anyway, writing this entry has become exhausting - I'm in Nottingham now, and they're letting me into the departure area. YAAAAAY!
So I adore Dublin, but I haven’t had the opportunity to see nearly as much of it as I’d hoped. Despite my grand plans to sleep on the plane, and to compensate for this failure by taking a nap, my “nap” was actually four hours long, and then I had to spend another hour and a half or so dealing with business back home. All in all, I didn’t make it out of my hotel until about five (I think? My cell doesn’t like this time zone, and isn’t keeping time properly at all). So I got to walk around the immediate area and take a few pictures of the loveliness that surrounded me.
I also had a really, really, really delicious dinner at a really cool restaurant called Church (it’s actually in a converted church):
(Also, I got to sample real Irish draught Guinness, and let me confirm that the rumors are true. It’s a different beer entirely in Ireland, and where I’ve never liked it when I’ve tried it in the States, I could drink gallons of what they served me here in Dublin.)
But then there was some drama.
So, I came back from the restaurant, full as a tick (again) and wholly content, and decided to take it easy, since I was still exhausted (I was falling asleep at the restaurant). While chatting with buddies and enjoying the intarwebs, I got a call from my “Check-In Manager,” Ahmed – who was neither of the women with whom I had corresponded via e-mail about the arrangements for this apartment. I hadn’t thought anything of it when I was given his name and information as a contact in Barcelona – I figured he’d be a super, or a property manager, or whatever. Well, whatever he was, he called me and told me, at about 11:00 PM or so Dublin time (which means about midnight Barcelona time), that the apartment I had booked and confirmed by making an initial payment of $600+, was having a “water problem,” and that it wouldn’t be available for a few days – but that they were going to put me somewhere in the “city center.” When I asked him for the address of the new apartment, he told me he’d tell me when I got to the airport tomorrow.
Hmm.
Now, this whole situation really bothered me – but whatever, I needed to go to bed, I needed to sleep, I needed to get up the next day (today) at 5:30 to make my flight. So I went to sleep.
And woke up at about 2:45 Dublin time.
I couldn’t get back to sleep – I didn’t want to. I didn’t like that he hadn’t told me the address of the apartment, and I tried calling him – to no avail, of course. Beyond that, when I’d first booked the apartment, I’d arranged to stay in one spot, and after I’d booked it, they wrote me to tell me that the landlady had booked it – and they offered me several other options at higher prices. I told them that I was on a budget, and that I needed to pay what I had originally been going to. They then offered me the apartment that many of my friends have heard about – an adorable little studio in La Barceloneta, perfect for my needs, a two minute (seriously, Google Maps said so) walk to the beach, ten minutes into the heart of Ciudad Vella, an area of the city densely packed with many of the things I want to see there. It was originally priced at about 700 Euro more than I’d booked the other room for, but they cut it down to only about 100 Euro more – which was awesome for the location and space.
At the time, I’d thought I’d just lucked out – but upon receiving that call from the “Check-In Manager,” I began to see it in a different light entirely. I’d been warned by a friend that I ought to just stay in a hostel for a few days when I got into town, so I could actually see the apartments I was considering, meet with landlords, and ensure that the situation was legit.
Of course, I didn’t listen; I was worried about staying in a hostel, I didn’t want to schlep, I just wanted to be settled as quickly as possible. I figured since I’d found the place in the comments of the NYT travel section’s article on staying Barcelona, it must be okay. (This was a naïve mistake on my part – the age of the Common Man Internet has made me forget the extreme paranoia I had back in the days, when it was only nerds, freaks, and liars on the ‘Net [remember when we actually called it that? HA!].) Of course, it never occurred to me that someone from the company itself may have written a bogus recommendation. I don’t know if that’s the case, but really, a little more info should have been considered.
In any case, (oh, look, there’s England! :D), when I woke in the middle of the night, my stomach clenched, my teeth grinding, about this situation, and I didn’t hear back from Ahmed, I wrote an e-mail to Alba, the woman I’d been corresponding with. I told her I was very distressed about the situation, and wanted the address of the place. But the more I thought about it, the less comfortable I was. I felt more than a little stupid, naïve, and helpless. Here I was, not even at home so that I had some kind of recourse, so that I could just say, “Well fuck you then,” or at least feel like I had resources at my disposal to fix this somehow. I was across an ocean, in a hotel room, in a place where everything is more expensive and my money is worth less than at home. The idea of being adrift – of having no place to stay, of having to spend hundreds of dollars on hotel rooms and losing the money I’d already put down – had me near hyperventilating.
This was why people had been so impressed that I’d gone by myself; or at least, it was what they should have been thinking about. Loneliness, okay – make a new friend, or make a phone call, or get drunk. Being in a foreign place when shit goes south, all by yourself? It’s strange – when someone else is with you, you’re in together. Whatever goes wrong, you have each other – to blame, to reassure, to talk and figure it out. There was no one to blame or reassure but me.
Well, that’s not exactly true – granted, there was no one to blame but myself (and maybe Ahmed), but there was reassurance to be had.
Now one lesson here is this – if you’re going far away, to another country, on vacation, make sure you either have a plan B or enough backup capital to make one on the fly. Also, a netbook and making sure wherever you stay has internet access is immensely helpful. With the help (and invaluable moral support) of my dear and infinitely smart and practical friend Leez, I researched hotels in Barcelona, checked them against my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide, and booked a room at a four-star hotel at an insanely cheap rate until Friday. When Ahmed called this morning, I went with my gut and told him I wasn’t going to be taking the apartment, and that I wanted my deposit back. He said that was impossible, and I told him that I was not going to pay for goods and services I had not been received – that since I wasn’t going to be provided with the apartment agreed upon when I paid, I was not going to let the charges stand. He said there was nothing he could do, so I told him that I had family in Barcelona (I did not mention that they’ve been dead for hundreds of years, and that my nearest live relative is in Mallorca), and that I was sure they could have their lawyer handle the situation, if that was what he wanted – but that I’d prefer not to have to go through the trouble.
Anyway, writing this entry has become exhausting - I'm in Nottingham now, and they're letting me into the departure area. YAAAAAY!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Dublin - 2995 Miles (June 21-22)
About 6:00 PM – Logan Airport, Boston
Dublin - 2995 Miles
Packing today was no big deal. I mean, granted, my room looked as though a clothes and garbage bomb went off in it – I didn’t have anything packed as of about 12:30 or so – maybe even 1:00 P.M. But I feel like I’ve been preparing to pack for weeks; making lists, printing out itineraries, studying websites, considering what I’ll need – everything I needed to pack was within a ten foot radius of me, there was just no organization to it than any other human might be able to identify.
I’m only bringing two pieces of luggage; my new messenger bag (purchased in the prep frenzy), and my little roll-y suitcase – both carry-on. I can’t emphasize how grateful I am for all the websites I consulted – especially Rick Steves’ (though the instructor of the summer travel writing class at Emerson hates him, according to what everyone I know in that class has told me). It was helpful to keep in mind to travel light; it made packing less traumatic, list-making easier and more organized, and it kept me from being overwhelmed by what the hell I need to bring for a month away from home. I feel prepared for anything, but not overburdened.
(Though I’ll probably buy a cute purse in Spain – it’s the one thing I left out that made me a little sadface.)
People in general seem impressed by or encouraging of my decision to travel light, like I’m some kind of clever, practical creature for having thought of it. LOL – I’ll take it. Anyway, despite my love of surrounding myself with crap, I’ve found I really don’t need that much. I think this may result in a large-scale expunging of belongings upon my return.
Anyway, another thing people seem in some way impressed by is by the fact that I’m doing this by myself; like it’s some brave thing, or some big thing. I don’t know! Nothing about going alone freaked me out – it didn’t even occur to me to freak out – until people started saying these things to me. Even so, I’m pretty much not freaked out. I don’t doubt that I’ll get homesick, and miss the people I love. But I think a lot of people have the experience of going off somewhere alone, but they don’t remember, because once you’ve done it, it seems so easy . Going away to college, going away to grad school, moving to take a job – these are all long-term moves that a lot of people make, often very far from home. Granted, I’m going to another country across the ocean, but Dublin is 2995 miles away from Boston – I don’t think that’s farther than California. Barcelona’s a little farther, but what are a few hundred miles? Maybe a thousand?
I don’t know. I spend a lot of time by myself, and I enjoy it a lot. I look very much forward to having my own space, to being on my own near the beach, to setting my schedule as I see fit; to meeting new people and seeing all the beautiful places that are in Barcelona, and taking pictures of them and writing about them to share with my friends, and to keep for my own sake. I can’t tell if people think it’s a special thing because it could be dangerous or because it could be lonely, but I haven’t read anything to indicate that it’s any more dangerous than any other major city. I’ve taken precautions, I think I’m pretty aware, and I’m fortunate to be in a position to be able to take the safe ways when possible.
Beyond that, as far as loneliness is concerned, I’m lonely often enough in my own home, you know? Everybody gets lonely, or so say all the songs and poems and art, and while it may seem more acute abroad, there are also so many things to do to make myself not feel lonely. So much to think about, so much to see. We’re all alone, no matter how close to other people we become – and learning about other people, immersing myself in another culture, and recognizing the things that stay the same even in the face of so much difference, I think, will only serve to make me feel less lonely.
We’ll see – for now, we’re going to be boarding soon. :D
7:30 GMT, 2:30 EDT – Somewhere between Shannon and Dublin
LOLOL – I didn’t sleep much on the plane at all. My seatmate for the flight was a thoughtful, interesting, Pisces filmmaking student named Jory. Jory is from Cincinnati, and won points right off the bat by, upon learning of my land of origin, telling me he’s never met a bad person from Jersey. (It’s nice to know we’re out there properly representing. :D) From there, conversation went from photography to cinematography to film, to the ways that poetry and film mirror each other as languages, to magazines and media and art. He gave me a few simple tips to help me take better pictures – a fact about which I am very excited. Jory goes to Northwestern, is a Jewish American Indian Greek (or a Greek American Indian Jew?) who speaks Spanish like an Argentine. Serious, smart, but funny, he smiles more in Spanish.
It's Jory! He's pretty deep.
Conversation kept me awake for the first half of the flight, and then I slept for maybe an hour or two – I can’t be sure. Either way, when our plane landed, I was so excited, I jumped right off – not realizing that I was not at my final destination, but in Shannon, Ireland, rather than Dublin.
The Shannon Airport is a modest one, and under construction. Accustomed as I am to the megamall airports as I’ve experienced them in the States, I was somewhat surprised that the International airport for such a prominent city was so famous and prominent as Dublin (a capital, no less!) would have such a humble little airport – and yet I was charmed by it, thinking to myself, “You know, if there’s a bottle of water in that coke machine and some trail mix in that vending machine, I’m straight.”
After walking from the gate (and going back for my jacket – still never realizing I was in Shannon), I found a little Hudson-Newsy kind of convenience store, where I bought a bottle of water; then, I was shaking so badly from fatigue and jetlag, I bought a pack of cigarettes. Being in such a different place was more disconcerting than I’d anticipated, and cigarettes were the most immediately available familiar thing. Oh, and they are such a comfort.
Lucky for me, I had forgotten my jacket, and had had to walk quite a ways back to the gate from the little nexus of buying stuff in the terminal, and then, once my stuff was bought, decided to transfer the water I’d bought into my trusty Sigg before I went out into Ireland to smoke a cigarette and find a cab. Because of my terminal tendency to lollygag (and certainly some credit must be given to CPT), I heard when they called my name over the loudspeaker, and I went back, utterly confused. It took a moment to realize that at the gate, flight 132 from Shannon to Dublin was being announced – LOLOL.
They quite kindly ushered me back onto the plane, and one of the flight attendants, in that lilting accent with which I’ve already fallen completely in love, called me a “naughty girl,” then asked me how I’d enjoyed Shannon. LOLOL! Sheepish and laughing, I apologized and went back to my seat. And now, I’m on a plane, and in the time it’s taken me to write this, I think we’ve made it to Dublin – or very nearly.
I should add here that Ireland is already beautiful, as staggeringly green as promised, even from the window of a plane.
10:07 AM – Lobby of the Jury’s Inn, Parnell Street, Dublin
Well, the ambition was to tool around Dublin while I waited for check-in to start. The very courteous staff at the Jury’s Inn took my bag for me, which was lovely of them, but sweet Jesus, not only have slept only an hour in the last twenty-four, I have a mean case of the 'itis.
It all started at the Dublin airport, which was much more the Dublin airport that I expected. We had to wait on line (in queue!) to get our passports stamped, but I’d been warned, so it was just a matter of people-watching, at that point. And realizing, at some point, that I, myself, was being people-watched.
I don’t really have a good idea of what I look like sometimes – at least as far as demographics are concerned. I’ve said before that I look ambiguously ethnic, and that’s about as far as it goes. I don’t know exactly what to think when people look at me; I’m wearing my trusty straw fedora (which has become an obvious staple of the summer of 2009), some jeans, ballet flats, and my peach swirly CK shirt. (Maybe I’ll attach a picture I take with the tricks that Jory taught me.) So I don’t know – I’m accessorizing more than the rest of the people on the plane, so that might be a thing. I thought I’d get to Europe and everybody would be skinny, and I’d be the fat American, but as it happens, I haven’t noticed a difference in body-type ratios. (They’re playing Latin music in the lobby of this hotel. This amuses me.)
I love that damn hat.
So anyway, I was people-watching, noticing that there were a lot of funny Americans on my flight, including two Southern couples traveling together, probably somewhere in their sixties, and they were freakin’ adorable, talking about needing to recover from the flight and get a drink. There were some line whiners (one dude went up to the lady and asked if he had to get his passport stamped even if he was on his way somewhere else), and a couple of restless kids (which, even though I wanted to give them the stinkeye, I couldn’t really blame them for not wanting to wait in line after eight hours on a plane – I think they were just acting out how we were all feeling, the way kids sometimes do).
Anyway, everyone in Dublin has been, so far, just as nice and friendly and smiling as everyone told me they would be, from the passport agent to my cabbie to the folks at the hotel. My cabbie was a damn riot, and kept me laughing all the way to my hotel. He told me I should stay in Dublin, and told me a little about spots near my hotel I could check out while I’m here today. Lovely man!
Delightful!
After I dropped my bags off, I asked the clerk at the hotel to direct me to some breakfast – which was across the street. Real Irish breakfast! Now let me tell you, the Irish breakfast is not concerned with your health, your cholesterol, nor a balanced diet. The Irish breakfast is a protein fiesta concerned with meat, meat, some beans, meat meat, an egg, and oh, MEAT. I had a piece of blood sausage (called black pudding, but I wiki’d it, you wily Irish scamps!), and white pudding (which I think also has gross stuff in it), but both were tasty. (I liked the white pudding better, but only because the texture of the black pudding was kind of weird and liver-like. Maybe because it’s made of, oh, BLOOD). There was also big ole thick slice of ham or bacon or some kind of delicious pink salty pig meat, and two regular, diner-style breakfast sausages. Oh, and some damn tasty toast with the butteriest butter I’ve ever seen or had. Included in this breakfast was not a cup, but a whole POT of tea (which was also very nice!) all for the low, low price of 8.50 Euro! (which is less than $12.50.) All this in the middle of the Dublin city centre (as they call it!). The portions were not the monstrous affair you’d find at an American diner, but I didn’t need a doggy bag, and I am, as some would say, full as a tick!
As an aside, the waitresses were these freaking beautiful - beautiful - Eastern European or Russian girls. Sweet Jesus, I’m talking beautiful. I had to make myself not stare. But having breakfast at this place (an trying not to stare at the waitresses) also me the opportunity to people-watch out the window of the restaurant – so I should inform you that all Irishmen in Dublin 35 and under appear to be at least cute, if not hot. Which is almost unfair, considering they already have the accent going for them.
11:08 AM – My room at Jury’s Inn, Parnell Street, Dublin
This hotel is pretty swank! The room is comfty, and mine, and nice and dark. I’m about to take a nap so I can go out and explore Dublin. I’ve bought a map. And an umbrella with sheep on it! :D It’s great! And it was cheap! :D Nap!
:MWAH:
Dublin - 2995 Miles
Packing today was no big deal. I mean, granted, my room looked as though a clothes and garbage bomb went off in it – I didn’t have anything packed as of about 12:30 or so – maybe even 1:00 P.M. But I feel like I’ve been preparing to pack for weeks; making lists, printing out itineraries, studying websites, considering what I’ll need – everything I needed to pack was within a ten foot radius of me, there was just no organization to it than any other human might be able to identify.
I’m only bringing two pieces of luggage; my new messenger bag (purchased in the prep frenzy), and my little roll-y suitcase – both carry-on. I can’t emphasize how grateful I am for all the websites I consulted – especially Rick Steves’ (though the instructor of the summer travel writing class at Emerson hates him, according to what everyone I know in that class has told me). It was helpful to keep in mind to travel light; it made packing less traumatic, list-making easier and more organized, and it kept me from being overwhelmed by what the hell I need to bring for a month away from home. I feel prepared for anything, but not overburdened.
(Though I’ll probably buy a cute purse in Spain – it’s the one thing I left out that made me a little sadface.)
People in general seem impressed by or encouraging of my decision to travel light, like I’m some kind of clever, practical creature for having thought of it. LOL – I’ll take it. Anyway, despite my love of surrounding myself with crap, I’ve found I really don’t need that much. I think this may result in a large-scale expunging of belongings upon my return.
Anyway, another thing people seem in some way impressed by is by the fact that I’m doing this by myself; like it’s some brave thing, or some big thing. I don’t know! Nothing about going alone freaked me out – it didn’t even occur to me to freak out – until people started saying these things to me. Even so, I’m pretty much not freaked out. I don’t doubt that I’ll get homesick, and miss the people I love. But I think a lot of people have the experience of going off somewhere alone, but they don’t remember, because once you’ve done it, it seems so easy . Going away to college, going away to grad school, moving to take a job – these are all long-term moves that a lot of people make, often very far from home. Granted, I’m going to another country across the ocean, but Dublin is 2995 miles away from Boston – I don’t think that’s farther than California. Barcelona’s a little farther, but what are a few hundred miles? Maybe a thousand?
I don’t know. I spend a lot of time by myself, and I enjoy it a lot. I look very much forward to having my own space, to being on my own near the beach, to setting my schedule as I see fit; to meeting new people and seeing all the beautiful places that are in Barcelona, and taking pictures of them and writing about them to share with my friends, and to keep for my own sake. I can’t tell if people think it’s a special thing because it could be dangerous or because it could be lonely, but I haven’t read anything to indicate that it’s any more dangerous than any other major city. I’ve taken precautions, I think I’m pretty aware, and I’m fortunate to be in a position to be able to take the safe ways when possible.
Beyond that, as far as loneliness is concerned, I’m lonely often enough in my own home, you know? Everybody gets lonely, or so say all the songs and poems and art, and while it may seem more acute abroad, there are also so many things to do to make myself not feel lonely. So much to think about, so much to see. We’re all alone, no matter how close to other people we become – and learning about other people, immersing myself in another culture, and recognizing the things that stay the same even in the face of so much difference, I think, will only serve to make me feel less lonely.
We’ll see – for now, we’re going to be boarding soon. :D
7:30 GMT, 2:30 EDT – Somewhere between Shannon and Dublin
LOLOL – I didn’t sleep much on the plane at all. My seatmate for the flight was a thoughtful, interesting, Pisces filmmaking student named Jory. Jory is from Cincinnati, and won points right off the bat by, upon learning of my land of origin, telling me he’s never met a bad person from Jersey. (It’s nice to know we’re out there properly representing. :D) From there, conversation went from photography to cinematography to film, to the ways that poetry and film mirror each other as languages, to magazines and media and art. He gave me a few simple tips to help me take better pictures – a fact about which I am very excited. Jory goes to Northwestern, is a Jewish American Indian Greek (or a Greek American Indian Jew?) who speaks Spanish like an Argentine. Serious, smart, but funny, he smiles more in Spanish.
Conversation kept me awake for the first half of the flight, and then I slept for maybe an hour or two – I can’t be sure. Either way, when our plane landed, I was so excited, I jumped right off – not realizing that I was not at my final destination, but in Shannon, Ireland, rather than Dublin.
The Shannon Airport is a modest one, and under construction. Accustomed as I am to the megamall airports as I’ve experienced them in the States, I was somewhat surprised that the International airport for such a prominent city was so famous and prominent as Dublin (a capital, no less!) would have such a humble little airport – and yet I was charmed by it, thinking to myself, “You know, if there’s a bottle of water in that coke machine and some trail mix in that vending machine, I’m straight.”
After walking from the gate (and going back for my jacket – still never realizing I was in Shannon), I found a little Hudson-Newsy kind of convenience store, where I bought a bottle of water; then, I was shaking so badly from fatigue and jetlag, I bought a pack of cigarettes. Being in such a different place was more disconcerting than I’d anticipated, and cigarettes were the most immediately available familiar thing. Oh, and they are such a comfort.
Lucky for me, I had forgotten my jacket, and had had to walk quite a ways back to the gate from the little nexus of buying stuff in the terminal, and then, once my stuff was bought, decided to transfer the water I’d bought into my trusty Sigg before I went out into Ireland to smoke a cigarette and find a cab. Because of my terminal tendency to lollygag (and certainly some credit must be given to CPT), I heard when they called my name over the loudspeaker, and I went back, utterly confused. It took a moment to realize that at the gate, flight 132 from Shannon to Dublin was being announced – LOLOL.
They quite kindly ushered me back onto the plane, and one of the flight attendants, in that lilting accent with which I’ve already fallen completely in love, called me a “naughty girl,” then asked me how I’d enjoyed Shannon. LOLOL! Sheepish and laughing, I apologized and went back to my seat. And now, I’m on a plane, and in the time it’s taken me to write this, I think we’ve made it to Dublin – or very nearly.
I should add here that Ireland is already beautiful, as staggeringly green as promised, even from the window of a plane.
10:07 AM – Lobby of the Jury’s Inn, Parnell Street, Dublin
Well, the ambition was to tool around Dublin while I waited for check-in to start. The very courteous staff at the Jury’s Inn took my bag for me, which was lovely of them, but sweet Jesus, not only have slept only an hour in the last twenty-four, I have a mean case of the 'itis.
It all started at the Dublin airport, which was much more the Dublin airport that I expected. We had to wait on line (in queue!) to get our passports stamped, but I’d been warned, so it was just a matter of people-watching, at that point. And realizing, at some point, that I, myself, was being people-watched.
I don’t really have a good idea of what I look like sometimes – at least as far as demographics are concerned. I’ve said before that I look ambiguously ethnic, and that’s about as far as it goes. I don’t know exactly what to think when people look at me; I’m wearing my trusty straw fedora (which has become an obvious staple of the summer of 2009), some jeans, ballet flats, and my peach swirly CK shirt. (Maybe I’ll attach a picture I take with the tricks that Jory taught me.) So I don’t know – I’m accessorizing more than the rest of the people on the plane, so that might be a thing. I thought I’d get to Europe and everybody would be skinny, and I’d be the fat American, but as it happens, I haven’t noticed a difference in body-type ratios. (They’re playing Latin music in the lobby of this hotel. This amuses me.)
So anyway, I was people-watching, noticing that there were a lot of funny Americans on my flight, including two Southern couples traveling together, probably somewhere in their sixties, and they were freakin’ adorable, talking about needing to recover from the flight and get a drink. There were some line whiners (one dude went up to the lady and asked if he had to get his passport stamped even if he was on his way somewhere else), and a couple of restless kids (which, even though I wanted to give them the stinkeye, I couldn’t really blame them for not wanting to wait in line after eight hours on a plane – I think they were just acting out how we were all feeling, the way kids sometimes do).
Anyway, everyone in Dublin has been, so far, just as nice and friendly and smiling as everyone told me they would be, from the passport agent to my cabbie to the folks at the hotel. My cabbie was a damn riot, and kept me laughing all the way to my hotel. He told me I should stay in Dublin, and told me a little about spots near my hotel I could check out while I’m here today. Lovely man!
After I dropped my bags off, I asked the clerk at the hotel to direct me to some breakfast – which was across the street. Real Irish breakfast! Now let me tell you, the Irish breakfast is not concerned with your health, your cholesterol, nor a balanced diet. The Irish breakfast is a protein fiesta concerned with meat, meat, some beans, meat meat, an egg, and oh, MEAT. I had a piece of blood sausage (called black pudding, but I wiki’d it, you wily Irish scamps!), and white pudding (which I think also has gross stuff in it), but both were tasty. (I liked the white pudding better, but only because the texture of the black pudding was kind of weird and liver-like. Maybe because it’s made of, oh, BLOOD). There was also big ole thick slice of ham or bacon or some kind of delicious pink salty pig meat, and two regular, diner-style breakfast sausages. Oh, and some damn tasty toast with the butteriest butter I’ve ever seen or had. Included in this breakfast was not a cup, but a whole POT of tea (which was also very nice!) all for the low, low price of 8.50 Euro! (which is less than $12.50.) All this in the middle of the Dublin city centre (as they call it!). The portions were not the monstrous affair you’d find at an American diner, but I didn’t need a doggy bag, and I am, as some would say, full as a tick!
As an aside, the waitresses were these freaking beautiful - beautiful - Eastern European or Russian girls. Sweet Jesus, I’m talking beautiful. I had to make myself not stare. But having breakfast at this place (an trying not to stare at the waitresses) also me the opportunity to people-watch out the window of the restaurant – so I should inform you that all Irishmen in Dublin 35 and under appear to be at least cute, if not hot. Which is almost unfair, considering they already have the accent going for them.
11:08 AM – My room at Jury’s Inn, Parnell Street, Dublin
This hotel is pretty swank! The room is comfty, and mine, and nice and dark. I’m about to take a nap so I can go out and explore Dublin. I’ve bought a map. And an umbrella with sheep on it! :D It’s great! And it was cheap! :D Nap!
:MWAH:
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