Friday, November 30, 2007

"You have now a second, or fifteen mother in Portugal. Is me."

I first met Fernanda getting on the first leg of our bipedal night train from Porto to Madrid. She was hauling a large suitcase and I helped her store it above her head in the luggage storage area by the entrance of the train, then continued on my way to my seat. I stored my bag over my seat and she happened to sit across the isle from me.

When I got up to ask the conductor a question, he kind of blew me off because he was busy (the most common responses Portuguese train employees give when you ask, "Fala Engliesh" are "Of course," and "No. Portuguese." To which I can't help but think, yeah, I know that, we're in Portugal). She overheard, then asked if I spoke English and what I needed to know. We didn't know when we should get off to catch our connection to Madrid, and after looking at my ticket, she told me it was one stop before hers, so she would let us know. We thanked her and all three of us went back to our books.

But then she asked me where I was from and I was intrigued when, after hearing that I am American, she said I speak English very well. Having never been complemented on my aptitude for using my native tongue in a foreign land, I asked her what she meant. Usually, she has a hard time understanding American accents, but I told her that I'm from California, so every American movie has actors using my accent (except for "The Godfather," of course, but she got what I meant).

When she asked if i was born in California I told her yes, but I knew what she was asking so I told her, in Spanish, that my grandmother was from Mexico (Fernanda speaks Spanish because, growing up in a villiage on the border of Spain, all the TV was in Spanish). She said I am "something like ice cream." Muy guapo. You can't really tell me something like that because I'll basically love it. This was all the more fun to hear because of the language barrier. Her Spanish was better than her English, but that was still better than my Spanish.

Fernanda, 46 with two children, 24 and 18, both in university, was on her way to a town just outside of Lisboa (Lisbon) to visit her boyfriend for the weekend. They met at a thermal bath a few months ago and while he is approximately the same age as, he is much better looking than, Harrison Ford, her favorite actor. I told her Indiana Jones is my hero and she swooned and said it was a pity he had to age. She sees all his movies the day they come out, but I can't help but think that she didn't make it to "Hollywood Homicide."

After chatting about her kids (both good boys - an architect and chemical engineer in training), my job, her job at EVA (the Portuguese equivalent of the IRS), my travels, and life in general for two hours, she gave me her address and phone number (I totally got the digits). "If you need something from Portugal call me or if you like to visit again," she wrote. I can stay at her place on my next visit, which, even if it's in a few years, is OK.

It's good to know that, should I suddenly and unexpectedly feel the need to run away from home at the age of 24, I have a place to go. Of course, it would be several hours and several hundred dollars away. But I bet the food would be great.

Of course, nothing can beat the food at my parents' house. And I'll eat that 12 nights from now. Unless I get stuck in Philly, that is.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

My kitchen will be so cool

Cause I will have this butcher block. Also, Andrew (pictured here wth long hair) will be over all the time, despite being from Australia, and he will scream about necks and ducks and only three people in the world will laugh.

US Airways, probable retard

So I check the time my flight is arriving in San Francisco yesterday. At the top of the page it says, "your flight has changed," which isn't surprising since it has changed at least four times since I bought the thing.

First of all, thanks for telling me this time, US Airways. Second of all, I'm pretty sure my itinerary is impossible.

Take off from Paris at 1:10 local time, and land in Philly at 3:50 local time. My second flight was set to take off for SF at 5:55 and land at 8:55 local time. No problem there at all.

The new schedule has us into Philly at the same time, but has us set to leave town at 4:10. That's 20 minutes. That would be close on a reliable airline, which past experience tells me, this one ain't. Also, I'm coming in from a foreign country so I'd imagine there will be customs and things to declare ("Yeah, don't go to England").

Hopefully, all that will wait until our final destination, otherwise, I would bet money that I'm staying a night in the city of Brotherly Love, and you can bet money that I will go to Geno's for a cheesesteak if I do.

*Note: There are only two people I know who would fully appreciate the title of this post and neither of them read my blog. It's what the French trains are labeled with if they're running late, i.e. Paris TGV 14:25 probable retard 5 minutes. That means your 2:25pm TGV train to Paris is going to be 5 minutes late.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Rolex? Marijuana?

No. Stop trying to sell me stuff, guys on the street in Lisbon. I know I look scruffy, but I don't want your drugs. And I know I look cheap, but I don't want your knock-off watch.

Though this does remind me of a great story from Madrid. A friend wanted to find a bar where he knew almost the whole staff because he and his girlfriend stayed with one of the waitresses last year (couch surfing sounds so cool), but he couldn't remember where it was. So we go to the gay neighborhood (it was a lesbian bar), see someone walking by, and I am elected to ask directions.

I ask him if he knows where the bar is, and he doesn't but he knows where it would be. This is word for word what he said to me without pause: "Go up this street and go left into the plaza then cross it and go right you want weed?"

One of the funniest things I've ever heard, and it took me half a second to register what happened. Again, the answer was no, but thanks for the directions.

Yesterday, in Porto, we were booking a night train back to Madrid for tomorrow night. The guy at the ticket counter spoke perfect English, and as we debated among ourselves the merits of getting beds vs seats for the 10 hour trip (€35 vs €10), the man asked us where we were from.

United States, I say.

Where from? he says.

California, I say.

Then, with furrowed brow, squinted eyes, and a slower tone of voice he says again, "Where from?"

We both instantly know the right answer to that question. San Francisco, we say. Oh, OK, he says cheerily. Why, I ask, knowing what he wouldn't have liked to hear. "It's OK. You're from San Francisco."

Oh, LA. So hated worldwide.

Monday, November 26, 2007

No sign, you're supposed to tell me


You're the Hard Rock Cafe in Rome. You clearly cater to tourists who don't yet know the city. Why would you just tell me I know where to go, as if it's in the middle of the Colluseum? It's not there, I saw that. You are the worst sign in the world, and I've seen some bad signs (tune in here for photos in a few weeks of some awesomely bad signs). Never did figure out "where to go" and I could have really used a burger then. I've recently had a few, including one with bacon and pineapple at Nah Nah Bah bar in Lagos.

Surprises in Lisbon

Go figure, it's really nice here.

Today, I just walked around the town, digging the "vibe" of the city. It feels a lot like San Francisco actually. There are hills, cable cars, a bay/wide river, and a long bridge that is like a larger version of the Golden Gate Bridge. This isn't my picture (I didn't get in a boat), but I've got a bunch from the shore.



Down in Belem, one of the many neighborhoods I visited, there were a lot of castles and stuff actually in the river. There is cheap food galore and great coffee to be had at every turn. The weather is getting cool, but still warm in the midday. I love traveling in the fall. It is by far my favorite season.

The people here are incredibly friendly, especially considering the fact that all I can say is "do you speak English," "hello," and "thank you."

The next stop is Porto, then Madrid, then a cheap flight to Paris for the end of the trip. Sadness. And yet, joy. Hhmmm.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Don't fear the reaper


This is one of many photos from the bone church in Kunta Hora, about an hour outside of Prague. The building has the bones of 40,000 people on the walls and ceiling and in piles. The chandelier has at least one of every bone from the human body. The strangest room in the world.

I know I was in Prague a long time ago, but I had free Internet a while ago and uploaded a bunch of pictures (mostly silly or funny), so for the next 18 days I will write up a little story about them and upload them when I can, a little at a time. Then, I'll post a lot cause I'll be home.

Oh, Mama

On top of Thanksgiving dinner, Mama makes breakfast every morning. All the crepes you can eat, smothered with chocolate spread, jam and if you hate yourself, Vegimite (though Mama is quick to tell you that it is no good and she doesn't approve of its use on her crepes. Some Aussie must have left it out she said). Just now, after my shower, she actually walked into my room to see if anyone was still sleeping. They need to get up and eat because there are too many crepes (it is noon, after all).

There is a large movie library and a lot of people who like to watch "Entourage," "Harold & Kumar," and other awesome things on the TV.

Yesterday, I went for a swim in the Atlantic on a beach nestled in a cove of high cliffs. It was sunny, but not warm as the rain started to come down. I figured I was going to get wet either way, so I jumped in. Head bobbing in the gently rising and falling ocean, the surface was speckled with rings from the drops falling all around me.

Someone from the shore yelled to me, "How is it?" I replied with my typical answer to that question people always ask me when I swim in the sea. "It's not warm."

This area was believed to be, centuries ago, the edge of the earth. Three years ago, a young guy from Massachusetts of Portuguese decent came to Lisbon to visit his family. His brother told him he should go down to Lagos while he was there, and he did. The two of them, without ever having stayed in a hostel, soon after opened The Rising Cock hostel (named after a Portuguese legend and, well... you know). Now his mom cooks, his dad cooks (both are native to Portugal), and they all do whatever needs to be done here and at the bar/restaurant/cafe across the street. Such a cool family.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Turkey for you, and turkey for me...

I found Thanksgiving! In Lagos, Portugal, of all places. My hostel had, for 15 euro, all you can eat and drink dinner. The owner's mom, Mama, made turkey stewed with mushrooms, tomatoes, and linguisa (yes Narges, my first Portuguese meal, and it includes the world's best sausage), as well as mashed potatoes, rice with veggies, Portuguese pork, and a spicy stuffing that was fantastic.

There wasn't any pumpkin pie, but there was pretty good homemade tiramissu as well as other European sounding foodstuffs for dessert.

I must say that this is better than what I was planning on eating. I thought the best I could do would be KFC chicken and mashed potatoes (which, don't get me wrong, would have been pretty good).

For me, it is now Friday, the first day of the Christmas shopping season, but you all should have about seven hours to feel thankful as well as full. Live it up, Americans. The Aussies don't understand what it's all about.

Spain was amazing, and I will go back in a few days, but until then, I'll try my best to speak the local language here. It may rain tomorrow, but that shouldn't deter my trips to the beach or the end of the world (in ancient times, the south western tip of Portugal, as the farthest west point in Europe, was thought to be the end of the world).

Cheers to all. See most soon, and others soonish (or never, if we've never met).

Thursday, November 15, 2007

More pictures

More from Dr Dillon:
For much of the 14th and 17th centuries, the photography of Kate caused quite a bit of debate in art circles around Europe. Some said her pictures were too tame. Others said they were too graphic, even sacrilegious. Still others said cameras weren't invented nor Kate born. But whatever you feel about the politics of the artist, you can't deny the tremendous impact of her portfolio and the beauty of many of her compositions.

Rather than start my own Shutterfly account to post inane comments that only about 4 people in the world would get (none of whom would actually care) I posted some comments here. They're in order, but not every photo has a comment. Don't bother trying to make sense of anything I say. Ever.

Justin is awesome I reckon.
So are Derek and the ice caves.
That's what she said.
Kaboom!
You used that caption twice.
I don't remember going to Oakland.
He really did spot me in the crowd. Best €1 souvenir ever.
Such a lame, cold, rainy Monday. Good thing we had cards.
How's your neck?!
It really did look like a dome though.
She was a Ducati Hottie.
I look great in that jacket. I should have bought it even though it's like two week's budget.
Sue la pon Avingnon (or some such French spelling).
Also, Rock Lobster!
She looked so pissed.
It's spelled "Laocoon and Sons." Wow. That was a first. Me knowing how to spell and you not.
But men in pink clothes are OK.
So much is wrong with it.
I agree.
No time for love Dr Jones.
I didn't know you took that picture of Jullian and I. I like it.
Spain is retardo too!
You ruined my first Paris Blog! (Also, what'd they call a Whopper?)

Photos

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio Pablo Picasso?

Here's an art history lesson from professor Dillon, PhD in European museum visiting.

In 1937, the Spanish Republican government (not the fascists) commissioned Pablo Picasso to do a painting for the Spanish Pavilion at the World's Fair in Paris. He painted this:

which depicts the Spanish town of Guernica after Franco asked Nazi Germany to bomb it - a request that resulted in the killing and maiming of thousands of innocent Spaniards. The bombing took place on April 26, and this painting hung in Paris in July of the same year.

After Franco won the Spanish Civil War, Picasso let the painting hang in the Museum of Modern Art in New York with two stipulations: It would only be lent to them until the Spanish people had a democracy again, and at that time it would return to Madrid and hang in the Prado along with the other great Spanish artists' work.

Franco died in 1975, and MOMA gave up the piece in 1981 (Picasso died in 73) and it was hung in the Prado as promised (though MOMA was reluctant to get rid of such a high profile painting).

In 1992 it was moved to el Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, a new museum that would focus on Spanish modern art located just down the street from the one Picasso specified.


The display is amazing, and includes photos of the work in progress and the small sample canvases the artist painted while thinking about what the final version would be. I was glad to see that unlike many other famous paintings, this one is not behind glass, which may be because there exists no piece of glass large enough to cover the whole thing. From the right side, where one of the two guards sits, I could take 12 full steps until I reached the left side by the other guard (Wikipedia will tell you it's 23 feet wide) and if I jumped I wouldn't come close to touching the top, which Wikipedia says is 11 feet away from the ground.


There is a rope placed to keep you about three steps away from the painting which I was happy to do since, as I leaned over the rope a little (it's only about a foot off the ground) I heard the buzzing of an alarm. I pointed at myself, looked at one of the guards flanking it and he just nodded as I smiled and backed away.


I was also glad to see the painting in a room free from the usual hoards clamoring to get a glimpse of famous art. For whatever reason, it wasn't crowded during my visit and I was able to stand at the back wall and see the entire thing unobstructed as well as get (almost a little too) close to see it completely.

See, this painting is a political protest. These days, it seems like artists are content to rub feces on themselves to protest the war or sit in a tree for a year because of CO2 output. Why has no one made Guernica again? There are so many Guernicas to be created.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Sounds de la calle

While walking toward the used English bookstore this morning I noticed once again that regardless of language, children playing sounds like children playing. I first noticed it when I walked by a playground in Berlin, and again in Italy and France. I also realized today that the siesta is recess for adults.

While standing in Maoz about an hour ago, eating possibly the world's best falafel, I heard a man say something to his wife in English. I looked over and saw an American flag on the side of his baseball hat and decided I had to talk to them. I coached them through the process of ordering and how to dish up on the salad bar (deep fried cauliflower, cucumber and tomato on my falafel? yes please) and we chatted about our trips. They're finishing two weeks in Spain tomorrow and can't believe how much more expensive Europe has gotten in the past 45 years. But they liked Valencia, which is where my train is going, so that's good news.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Hello worker bees

Happy Monday morning. Yesterday was Rememberance Day in Australia and Canada (11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month = 1 minute of silence), so I assume you all are coming off a three day weekend for Veteran's Day. Good on ya.

I awoke this morning still in Barcelona with 30 nights left until I leave Paris for San Francisco, Mexican food, and all the sleep and hot showers I want. There's quite a bit more of Spain to see (and Spanish to practice/learn), maybe a week worth of Portugal to see and at least a week in Paris (I'm thinking a night train from Madrid, as unappealing as another night train sounds).

The weather is cooling off again. I've seen the first week of fall in three or four countries now and the forecast calls for cooling days on the Iberian Peninsula,
but nothing like the cold we had in Italy. (it was 22 or as we Americans say, 71 degrees on Saturday. As the guy at our hostel said, he couldn't believe he saw someone wearing just a shirt in that weather). Ten days from now, Paris will be about 50. I can only imagine what it will be 20 days from now when I hop off the train.

Luckily, there is still more of the warm Mediterranean coast to see and tapas to eat before I have to pull the jacket and long sleeve shirts out of the bottom of my bag.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Mucho gusto, espana

Estoy en Barcelona, and I am surprised how much Spanish I know. Yesterday I was able to ask a woman why the Miracle Magic Fountain wasn't working. I am certain that what I asked could be translated as, "The fountain, is you turn it off?" She only laughed a little, but knew what I meant and told me that it is on at 8pm. I'll have to see it tonight.

Another Spanish couple asked me where this thing was. I asked, this thing? They said si, and I told them that I hablo solo un poco de espanol, I'm not from here, and I don't know what this thing is of which they are speaking.

Then at the market, a Spaniard asked me what that is, as he pointed to a piece of animal. I told him, cabeza. He asked of what animal and I told him "cabra." He laughed and baaaed like a sheep. Oh yeah, I saw a pile of goat heads at the market.

The Picasso museum is incredibly interesting and totally worth the €4. Most of the art is from 1896, which is only impressive when you realize that he was born in 1881.

I honestly think I could learn this language if I were immersed in it for a few weeks, which is somewhat what I'll be doing in the next few weeks. Athena, let's learn Spanish, then we can take on Spain or South America as bilingual siblings.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Mangez frais

We arrived in Nice at about 8 at night. We walked around in search of some nice, traditional Niçois cuisine (but still in our budget of course).

We saw some restaurants, but weren't that hungry really. Kebab didn't sound good, and neitherdid, after coming from Italy for three weeks, pizza.

So where did we end up eating dinner on ourfirst night in France - in the French Riviera, no less? Why, le Subway, of course.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Dear Santa...


... WANT! It's a Ducati Hypermotard. It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly suggest picking one up. I first saw it on the streets of Florence, then a few days later in the Ducati factory, which was super pimp. I saw them hand assembling the bikes one at a time! When I see you in person, ask me about the racist jokes our tour guide made. All the guides were Italian (of course) women; ours we affectionately dubbed, "The Ducati Hottie."

I don't get it


After subjecting ourselves to the lines to get in, damnation to save money, and the crowd herding over there, I stared at the floor of the Sistine Chapel for like, an hour and didn't see what all the fuss has been about.

I don't know, maybe we missed it.

And they say no photos, which I'd respect if I hadn't learned that the reason is Nikon paid for the resoration and now owns the copyright on the images. Taste it, Nikon. Besides, I don't see the big deal. I guess the floor is nice.

[note: credit to Kate for the joke here, but I egged her on as she formulated it]

Why I blog

Some people blog for the attention (I do it for that a little too), some for the glory (again, that would be nice), and others for the money (yes please). But when we met up with Kate's mom on her first night of her own European trip (10 days in Italy, first 2 in Rome), not only did she let us crash in her fancy hotel room (the floor was great, and free - complete with free awesome breakfast in the hotel we did not belong in), but she brought me a bag of the world's greatest chips. Mmmm... salty, spicy and sweet.

I'm huge in Austria ... and red

God speed little strudel


So, in case you didn't know, Kate and I led pretty boring lives for the past several months in anticipation of needing money saved up to come here and do what we're now doing. This entailed sitting on a couch fairly often, watching TV - including "Passport to Europe with Sam Brown."
On one episode, Sam found herself in Prague, as so many of us do from time to time, and visited what one of her guides called 'the best strudel in Prague/Europe.' Kate, ever the finder of things, found the place, which is nowhere near the tourist area ( it's in Žižkov, if you know the area. Sam didn't even bother telling viewers where it was, but someone emailed her and then posted it on some fan site).
So we walked there, in the rain to get a strudel. It was pretty good. I'd been looking forward to it for about four or five months.

Friday, November 2, 2007

A Nice day

So I've been in Nice. It's a place I have always had a faint idea about, but no real knowledge of beyond sunbathers and sandy beaches. I found out it's actually a pebbly beach a while ago, but just found out yesterday that it's actually not pebbles, but stones the size of river rocks. When laying on the rocks, it feels like a massage on your back but when walking over them it can be a painful experience.

When you listen to the waves here, it sounds different from every other beach I've been to (which admittedly is only in SoCal, Tahoe, and the Bay Area). After the soft thunder of the wave hitting the shore there was the applause sound of the stones lightly raining into the sea; which would be followed by another wave of light thunder seconds later. There was a French kid (I say kid like I'm incredibly old - he was only a little younger than me) playing his guitar nearby as the sun set to the right of the unbelievable view I was looking at ( or if you're a stickler for grammar rules like I'm not, the view at which I was looking).

We picked up a friend here, and she'll be coming along with us to Provence for a few days before heading to Barcelona. We may have to stop by and meet up with another great person we met here just a few hours ago, Bevan, who's living in Pou for a semester.

Here comes the sun

And I say, it's alright...

After rain for a long time, the sun came out for me on what would end up being the best day of my travels so far. Cinque Terre, and specifically Riomaggore (one of the 5 towns connected by the trail), is perhaps the greatest place in the world.

You wake up feeling great, make a quick breakfast and some sandwiches for the trail and set out on what would end up being a 4 hour hike. The sky is blue, and the wind is drawing wisps along the Mediterranean sea as you hike up and down the 9km of coastline that connects the 5 towns (and for fans of Entourage, yes, all along the way I kept saying to myself, "not in any of my five towns").

You get to the end and swim in the sea with a few friends for a while, then head back to make dinner with everyone in the apartment (that's where you stay when you come here, just an apartment).

But wait, it's Halloween, so you decide to celebrate, and Jullian, a guy from Tasmania, has never celebrated before so you go all out. All 6 of you dress up in whatever you can find (towels and bedsheets-I was Ceasar, complete with laurels in my hair) and go to the one bar in town (that's where everyone goes because in that little village with no TV and no trains after 9pm there are two choices, go hang out in the bar/cafe, or don't go hang out in the bar/cafe) and all the other Americans are there, dressed up for the occasion in similar costumes. There was a mummy, me, a Sheik, a ghost, and a girl in a towel (I tried to tell her to say that she was "getting ready," but refused) at first, but a few minutes later, more of the same showed up. So did a few pirate girls and a ghost bride.

H&M, solved

I just got my credit card bill and it took me a minute to realize that HENNES & MAURITZ is H&M. Go figure.