its been a month since i last wrote. simply unacceptable. its been difficult to find a desktop...that will be the excuse i stick with. that said, i have a lot of people/places/things to recount.
last i left off, i had just arrived in prague. i met my uncle jim (he prefers to be called james now) at hlavni nadrazi train station on a tuesday evening around 7pm. he looked just the same as always, except with a few more wrinkles around the eyes, maybe. we greeted jovially, as old family members do, and concluded that it had to have been at least five, maybe six years since we'd last seen each other. i could tell he was excited to have me in 'his town'. we took the metro and a tram back to his apartment on sumavska and luzicka in vinohrady, prague 2. his place was nearly new, a one bedroom with a quaint kitchen and generous living room with a nice window facing the street. it was quiet and comfortable. i scoped out the fridge, as i generally tend to do when entering a new living space (sometimes its awkward) and it was totally empty save for a jar of pickles and two big bottles of pilsner urquell. i had been harboring a gnawing desire for this delightfully crisp brew while in berlin but had successfully kept it at bay until this very moment. when in prague.
jim and i toasted with the czech cheers, "nazdravi", to celebrate our first mini-family reunion abroad. we went out for roast duck (his favorite) at an incredibly authentic czech restaurant (which i ended up returning to two more times) called U Medvidku. I had the grilled duck breast with orange and rosemary sauce and lightly fried potato slices- delicious- along with beer in a gigantic mug overflowing with foam. could not have been a better culinary introduction to prague- though it kind of plateaued here. it made me think of the first scene in beauty and the beast, where the barman is pouring beers for gaston and all his friends and they're singing and foam is flying everywhere...that was the feeling of this place. light and jovial, but underground and rustic. after dinner we moseyed around stare mesto, which means 'old town' in czech, and had a few beers in another underground pub. everyone was smoking, beer was flowing, people were smiling- but quietly, conversations stayed private. there was an air of modest pride about the czechs, but with a variably amiable, generally unemotional approach to public interaction (and maybe life in general). this was prague as i found and left it.
i spent the next day at the doppler school where jim works as an english teacher. he informed me the night before that i'd be waking up at 7am and accompanying him, and given the easygoing, do-whatever-you-want approach he generally maintains, i figured he really wanted me to go. so i went along. he was like a kid showing his parents around his elementary school for the first time. i think i met every single person we walked past- his introduction went something like, "hey, uzbek! this is my NIECE, Lizzy. she's my BROTHer's DAUGHter. yeah, that's right- NIECE." and i would smile and nod and shake hands. it was really magical. i bought some fruit from a market down the street, apparently paid way too much for raspberries, and hung out in the office he shared with two other teachers. i spaced out on the internet and wrote my most recent blog post which is far from recent now.
Over the next few days, i saw and experienced what life is like for my good old uncle. it was pretty low-key, really. something his girlfriend, Blanka, laments openly. She wishes he would work harder doing something more profitable. It seems to be an ongoing struggle between them. Blanka is a feisty, petite Czech woman who deserves a paragraph all her own. She and Jim have been together for nearly ten years, though they now live separately because they don't always get along. She lives just down the street from him, in a cozy little two-bedroom flat with a nice kitchen and terrace. She does the cooking for the two of them most every night (I think I was the first person to use the stove and oven in his apartment since he moved in) and she's quite good at it, according to Jim. I had breakfast there one morning and my eggs were quite tasty. She and I spent many a rainy afternoon sitting on her couch, chatting, and ended up forming a really nice friendship by the end of my two week stint. We would talk for hours- I was allotted fifteen minutes out of each hour to state my thoughts and opinions- (kidding) and we got to know each other pretty well. It was nice to have a feminine presence amisdt what eventually turned out to be a male dominated experience in Prague.
I also hung out with my great friend Josef Jachym, whom I know from a farm I wwoofed on in Maui two years ago. I emailed him when i got to Prague and his response went something like, "It is not possible!!!!I am so happy !!!You have to call me for my phone 737 173 406 you can call me anytime.Pleas ,pleas call me very soon .If you want to meet with me so we will meet in Vancel squer at horse.Pleas give me phone number your uncel. I will take care about you here your old dog Joseph"
Needless to say, the guy is a riot, and probably one of the kindest people I have ever met. He made sure to "take care about me" pretty constantly during my stay. For example, on the day we met up, he greeted me with a red rose and a cell phone, complete with a SIM card, which I later realized was for the purpose of checking in on me daily, sometimes twice a day. He would call around 9am and then again sometimes at 8pm to ask me how I was enjoying Prague- he was always reminding me to "enjoy every moment"- and it was during these conversations that we would make plans to "go for dance" together and partake in related events. We cruised down the river one afternoon in a paddleboat, and ventured to a club one night near Wenceslas Square that played 80s and 90s videos on huge projected screens (namely ABBA, for which Josef actively demonstrated his enthusiasm). He doesn't drink at all, and consumed only water during our multiple clubgoings, though he often appeared one of the more inebriated attendees. Go figure. He referred to me only as "my queen", and regularly reminded me of his status as "your slave". I felt as though our frienship had really come full-circle.
Jim left for Scotland with the Doppler kids on my last weekend in Prague, so I had the place to myself. I watched a lot of Al Jazeera and BBC World while eating dinner or drinking tea, as the majority of channels were in German and I hate German, no offense to my German friends. It was unbelievably exciting. I could speak for hours on the flotilla conflict in Gaza and the oil spill in the Gulf. Sometimes, in the morning, I would do aerobic exercises to the dance radio stations and MTV Germany because they played Rihanna. I spent a lot of time on my own.
I hung out basically every day in a hostel just down the road from Jim's place called Czech Inn. Cute, huh? It was far more like a five-star hotel than a hostel, though- super modern with a full bar and kitchen and cheap beer, very kind people and some hip travelers, primarily Americans. (I haven't mentioned how cheap Prague was but basically I could have either a full meal or five pints of beer for about $4. It ruled.) I met a lot of people at Czech Inn, which was convenient for me as I was otherwise alone. My friend Kelly Shea and her sister Caroline came to Prague on the last weekend I was there, and the three of us had an awesome time together. (They stayed at the Czech Inn and can vouch for its upscale offerings). I saved a few tourist things to do with them, like Prague Castle and Petrin Tower, kind of a mini-Eiffel at the top of the super steep and very lovely Petrin Park. On our way up to the tower we were bombarded by a breast cancer march going the other direction, and fatefully forced to get drunk on white wine on tap for 50 cents a glass. Given that getting drunk normally involves meeting other drunk people and getting drunker together, we buddied up with three American guys on a very structured bus tour through Europe, and spent the rest of the evening with them. The next day we visited Vysehrad, a park-cemetary-church-park at the top of a huge hill overlooking the city, which was beautiful. The weather became summery just as Kelly and Caroline arrived, and it was sweltering all weekend. The morning they left, I was eating breakfast at the Inn and met a cool Canadian guy named Ian (look up his work at ianspriggs.com) who was all about art and looking at it, so for the next two days we did a tour of the city's museums, culminating with the deceivingly massive modern & contemporary collection at the National Gallery in Holesovice. After a solid three hour tour, we went to an amazing beer garden in Letna Park that had a spectacular panoramic view of Prague, and got free beer because of a promotional youtube thing that involved red bouncy balls. Clearly my focus was on the free beer. We concluded that it was the coolest place in Prague, as it combined the city's best two features: it's breathtaking cityscape and the excellent beer.
Leaving Prague was a wild scramble, as many exits have been on this trip, but the irony was that the day before I left, I knew I'd be on trains for ten hours to get to Bolzano, Italy and stay with Marcus' friend Pauline, so I went to the grocery store with my last $20 and stocked up on goodies, made myself a sandwich and packed fruit and raisins, and even hard-boiled eggs. I finished packing at 6pm. God, was I prepared. I had to be at the train station at 8:30am, so I planned to go to sleep around 11. I wanted to buy a book before I left, though, so I went to a place called Shakespeare's Cafe around the corner from Czech Inn, because I knew they had a little english bookstore in the back of the bar. I walked in, and the bartender told me that I couldn't look at any books because there was a film screening on, but that I could check it out (czech it out). I dipped into the library in the back and it turned out to be a documentary on 9/11 in english. whaat? I stuck around. Learned some more suspicious stuff in addition to what I already knew. When it was over, I realized this was a political group that had get-togethers on the looming state of what they called 'the new world order'. they welcomed me enthusiastically. i began to search for my book, but then they invited me for a beer, and 20 minutes turned into 2 hours of conversation with a riled-up group of six or seven men and women, self-proclaimed intellectuals, between 25 and 40. we ended up sharing some spliffs and talking more. eventually i dove back into the library to get what i came for, but in my newly charged state of mind, the book seemed to choose me. I picked up foucault's ethics and did not put it down. i tried to look at other books, really i did. but i kept picking it up again. i decided to buy it. i looked at the price, which was 455 korunas, or about $22. this deterred me greatly. i put it down again and tried to look for something else. i opened it again to the contents. it was a compilation of all of foucault's major writings from the 60s to 90s. it was just too good to let go. I knew I could get it cheaper in the states which killed me but I needed it, now. So after unsuccessfully trying to haggle with the bartender who spoke no english at all, this book was the most expensive thing I bought in Prague. But he felt bad for not giving it to me cheaper so he gave me a free beer. It was one I hadn't yet tried- the name escapes me now which makes this pointless to recount- but by God it might be one of the best beers I've ever had. I couldn't believe I had been missing out on it the entire time. The other best one I had though was Kozel, a dark lager that was a bit sweet and very smooth.
I ended up heading home at 2am and waking up at 7:30 a little foggier that I'd planned, but after some running and sweating in the heat I made it to my train. It was completely packed, so much so that a group of american guys who got there after me had to sit in the hallway for the six hour ride to Munich. bummer. I got lucky, I was in a compartment with three super cool Canadian girls and the most amazing older couple from New Zealand who had been all over the world. They had incredible stories to tell, we shared great conversations between the six of us and bonded pretty hard. That is until the air conditioning went out and we all passed out from heat exhaustion. really, we did. slept for the last hour like sweaty kittens in a cardboard box. ugh. i got to munich with 14 minutes to catch my next train to Bolzano. I grabbed some water and a cup of pineapple and booked it for the platform. I was back on the euro now and it already hurt. this train was equally packed, but this time i wasn't as lucky with my fellow riders. i had a quiet guy and girl my age, a female train attendant, and a young Austrian father with his two-year old daughter in the throes of terrible twos. within the first thirty seconds of sitting down, just following the cordial greeting (which is normally followed by complete silence and keeping to oneself), she went straight for the pineapple i was enjoying, as in the piece on my fork that was entering my mouth. of course, her dad stopped her, with a very embarassed 'entschuldigung', as she began to scream hysterically. i was like oh, god. four hours of this and i may actually die. i turned the other cheek and attempted to read her a children's book, successfully calming her down for a minute. however, she had not lost interest in my pineapple, which she continued to reach for. i granted her some, pacifying her momentarily with a hearty chunk which she nearly choked on. oops. this exchange was sweet and endearing until she began climbing all over me, refusing to let go of the soiled baby wipe in her hand which she held on to like a security blanket as it periodically swiped my face and mouth. i was over it. as they got up to go to the bathroom, i quickly ventured into the nearest open seat in another compartment, trying to be as un-obvious as possible, with the excuse that i was giving them more room. i mean, they needed it. i felt kind of bad until later, as i heard her continued to scream, now down the hall, muffled by my ipod and comfortable half-slumber. it was then that i became overjoyed with my decision. the conclusion naturally followed that i am not yet ready for children.
i will end for the night, so i can get up at 7am and discover my job for the day. bolzano/florence/rome post tomorrow. then the farm where i am now. buona notte...
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
berlin, my darling
I arrived in Berlin two Tuesdays ago after taking the train from Nice to Milan and flying on EasyJet to Berlin. I arrived pretty late at the airport, around midnight, and took the train into town with the gracious assistance of Carlos, a super nice half Spanish, half German guy who led me to the right stop. We chatted in English and Spanish and he shared his salami sandwich and orange with me. He was the perfect introduction to Berlin- young, open, and totally kind, in favor of sharing and conversating. These were the kind of people I encountered over and over again in Berlin and now the prime reason I find it totally irresistible.
The city itself is absolutely gigantic, but the metro and bus systems are extensive and efficient. Marcus, my host from Hamburg, had lived in Berlin for four years (?) and is doing his masters in engineering at the technical university. He had just finished a six-month stint roadtripping around the us, and happened to couchsurf with my good friend Taylor while he was in Austin. Marcus was probably the best host I could have had in Berlin. We checked out museums, he lent me his bike and we went on an awesome ride through the city, I met his amazing group of friends and they all welcomed me as one of them the many occasions I saw them. We went to Karnaval der Kulturen, which was a huge parade/cultural festival in Kreuzberg (the young/hip neighborhood, more or less) on Saturday and Sunday, which was wild and awesome (especially after a caipirinha). we did a lot of dancing and revelling. We explored the funkier bars of kreuzberg one night and stayed out til it was completely light outside a few times- that was a trip for me. marcus had a huge apartment on the top floor of his building in moabit with stairs that led up to the roof. we spent a few nights talking and drinking beers with friends on this roof...it was an unforgettable part of my experience. which brings me to the beer. We drank a lot of it. And it was cheap, for once! i saved some of the labels of my favorite ones. As marcus' good friend Al explained to me, if you don't have a beer in your hand at all times while in Berlin, something is wrong. I adapted readily. i definitely drank more beer in berlin than i have on my entire trip thus far, and loved every minute of it.
I got to spend one nice day with my couchsurfing friend Andre, who lives in Berlin, walking through Prenzlauer Berg, an ultra hip and lovely neighborhood with great restaurants and cafes that seemed to be primarily inhabited by hip 30something parents with stylishly outfitted children. I met andre in San Francisco a few months back when he was auditioning at the conservatory of music for classical guitar. He got in with a scholarship, and will move to sf in January, so the next time i see him will proabably be there.
Berlin was intoxicating for me. Maybe I just got lucky with my host and his delightful friends, I mean I know I did, but the place itself got into me nonetheless. I understood why everyone I told I was going to Berlin responded with envy and longing enthusiasm. The vibe is young and hip, but open-minded and truly genuine, with a serious committment to partying. it was like San Francisco but flat and affordable, and lacking the snotty hipster masses, and with all it's best aspects in excess. I could have stayed for months and been totally happy. I daresay Berlin was in the top 2 of trip highlights. Maybe if I overcome my winter intolerance one day, you will find me living happily in Berlin. For now it remains my darling city.
The city itself is absolutely gigantic, but the metro and bus systems are extensive and efficient. Marcus, my host from Hamburg, had lived in Berlin for four years (?) and is doing his masters in engineering at the technical university. He had just finished a six-month stint roadtripping around the us, and happened to couchsurf with my good friend Taylor while he was in Austin. Marcus was probably the best host I could have had in Berlin. We checked out museums, he lent me his bike and we went on an awesome ride through the city, I met his amazing group of friends and they all welcomed me as one of them the many occasions I saw them. We went to Karnaval der Kulturen, which was a huge parade/cultural festival in Kreuzberg (the young/hip neighborhood, more or less) on Saturday and Sunday, which was wild and awesome (especially after a caipirinha). we did a lot of dancing and revelling. We explored the funkier bars of kreuzberg one night and stayed out til it was completely light outside a few times- that was a trip for me. marcus had a huge apartment on the top floor of his building in moabit with stairs that led up to the roof. we spent a few nights talking and drinking beers with friends on this roof...it was an unforgettable part of my experience. which brings me to the beer. We drank a lot of it. And it was cheap, for once! i saved some of the labels of my favorite ones. As marcus' good friend Al explained to me, if you don't have a beer in your hand at all times while in Berlin, something is wrong. I adapted readily. i definitely drank more beer in berlin than i have on my entire trip thus far, and loved every minute of it.
I got to spend one nice day with my couchsurfing friend Andre, who lives in Berlin, walking through Prenzlauer Berg, an ultra hip and lovely neighborhood with great restaurants and cafes that seemed to be primarily inhabited by hip 30something parents with stylishly outfitted children. I met andre in San Francisco a few months back when he was auditioning at the conservatory of music for classical guitar. He got in with a scholarship, and will move to sf in January, so the next time i see him will proabably be there.
Berlin was intoxicating for me. Maybe I just got lucky with my host and his delightful friends, I mean I know I did, but the place itself got into me nonetheless. I understood why everyone I told I was going to Berlin responded with envy and longing enthusiasm. The vibe is young and hip, but open-minded and truly genuine, with a serious committment to partying. it was like San Francisco but flat and affordable, and lacking the snotty hipster masses, and with all it's best aspects in excess. I could have stayed for months and been totally happy. I daresay Berlin was in the top 2 of trip highlights. Maybe if I overcome my winter intolerance one day, you will find me living happily in Berlin. For now it remains my darling city.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Cannes... you dig it?
When I last wrote, I was in Mallorca, in the delightful comforts of Kelly's apartment in Alcudia, and although I knew I'd be doing some major traveling in the following days, I hardly knew it would be the most hellaciously stressful and exhausting travel experience of my life. I am speaking in superlatives because I've officially decided to never do anything like it again.
I woke up too early the next morning in Alcudia, to a day of perfect blue skies and warm temperatures. It was so sweet and delicate I could have stayed there for a week. My sweet host Kelly was sitting drinking tea and reading when I blew downstairs with my 50 kilos of weight and a forced determination. I actually felt incredibly unnatural to be leaving Alcudia that morning, but I had a plane to catch so there was no time to change my mind. I stumbled into the sunshine bound for the bus that would take me back to Palma and the airport. There was a huge street market between me and the bus stop, and maneuvering all my crap through the crowds with a quick step proved highly challenging. I arrived at the stop just as the bus pulled up, and got in line to board, relieved. When I finally stepped up, the driver stopped me, explaining that the bus was full and I'd have to wait for the next one. I couldn't wait for the next one, however, because it took an hour to get to Palma and I'd be too late. I was more relieved at this point, because it meant I might be able to stay in this delightful town a little longer...
I hauled my stuff back to Kelly's place again, where she and her roommate were surprised to see me and hear the news. The next 20 minutes consisted of me stressing out on vueling.com trying to weigh the pros and cons. I concluded that if I took a taxi to palma it would cost the same as it would to change my flight or lose the money on it- might have been less- so i jumped up with the last 60 euros I had and went for it. I arrived early for my flight to find that the plane was delayed for an indefinite period of time. I walked around the airport for three hours trying to find someone to tell me what the hell was going on but no one was there. All the people on my flight were just sitting in the terminal with blank faces. I love Europe, but all i could repeat to myself during that sequence was 'this would never happen in america'. the american in me totally came out- i really wanted (expected) someone i could bitch at and get some bureaucratic groveling in response, but there was no one around to care. one woman in the terminal looks at me and goes, 'welcome to spain'. great.
finally, they announced that the plane existed and would actually leave at some point, and i eventually got to barcelona around 7pm. i was staying one night with a guy named duro, friend of my friend drew from sf, but i didn't have his address or a phone to call him. I took the shuttle to placa de catalunya and decided to figure it out there. i tried to find a wifi spot where i could give him a skype call, but it proved ridiculously difficult. I was still with my bags and just wanted to sit down at this point. i went into a restaurant and they let me use their phone. duro told me to take the metro and meet him at the Sants stop. However there were two Sants stops, Placa de Sants and Sants estacion. I stood at estacion while he was waiting at placa de sants for one hour, until i gave up, frantically looking for a locutorio where i could call him again. when i got him he sounded frustrated and we decided to meet in the train station. we finally met and walked back to his place. duro is an artist and lives in a single studio with all of his work. i was really impressed with his paintings and his living space, though all i could think about was sitting down- i was exhausted. but in an email some days before, duro had mentioned an art opening he was going to, and by the time we finally made contact it had already started. so i had five minutes to set down my bags and wash my hands before we were back on the metro, and then on a train across town to get to the gallery. i was starving, sincerely hoping for some arty snacks, but the offerings were slim- a few carne bunuelos which i finished the last of. i tried to be nice by chatting with duro's friends and checking out the art, but i couldn't hide my complete exhaustion. after the gallery, a few friends of his latched on and everyone moseyed to a cafe for some wine. i felt like i was getting a cold or something, my throat was really starting to hurt, so i abstained from drinking. i got some patatas bravas to hold me over until we left, which was around midnight. we took the train back to the metro where a guy tried to pickpocket my purse while we were walking up some stairs. i turned around like lightning and he tried to act like nothing had happened and scurried away. he's lucky cause i was about to bust out some kung fu shit on his ass. travelling alone has really made me cutthroat when it comes to self-protection.
we finally got back to Duro's around 1am. i had some peanut butter crackers and water packed my stuff all over again- i had to catch a train at 8:45 the next morning at the station on the other side of town. Duro kind of explained that he didn't really have anything for me to sleep on but a duvet cover, and on the marble floor that wouldnt really fly...thank god i had my sleeping bag. I set up on the floor, next to the door, just as a huge rainstorm began outside. By this time my throat was really starting to hurt. I got really stressed out that I would be sick travelling and then in Cannes, stressed that I wouldn't sleep enough or miss my train, still emotionally reeling from the intensity of the day. Between the rain and the hard floor and all my worries I could hardly sleep at all that night.
7am came quickly but at least the rain had stopped. Duro got up with me and we rushed outside to find a cab to the Franca station. It was 8:25 when I finally got in a cab and bid a flustered goodbye to Duro. He had assured me it would be no more than ten minutes to Franca by cab, but the driver said it would be 20 at least. I would surely miss the train that way, so I just told him to take me to Sants which was basically walking distance. I got out and ran inside, to a line where the clerk told me it would be impossible to get to franca and make the train. She gave me a pamphlet with an explanation of the trains I would need to take to get to Cannes.
So i took six trains that day. The first was three hours from Barcelona to Cerebeu, on the french-spanish border, then Cerebeu to Narbonne, Narbonne to Montpelier, Montpelier to Marseille, Marseille to Toulon, and finally, Toulon to Cannes.
The train stations were packed because the volcano had cancelled tons of flights, so everyone was travelling by train this day. This caused a onslaught of delays. I wrote this while waiting at the train station in Montpelier, note my muted angst:
'Because of the goddamn volcano the train stations are jammed with people and bags galore, the lines are 40 people deep, and the bags under everyone's eyes look like robert downey jr. after a weekend bender. The trains are all delayed so we're standing in one gigantic mass in the middle of the station with our eyes glued to the departure screen waiting for an update. Moving is unadvisable during this pregnant period due to sneers and collisions. And then it happens like a tidal wave- the platform number appears on the screen- and it's like a gun blew, the gates open, the greyhounds are charging forth. People are moving in every direction in catastrophic frenzy, we're tripping over each other's rolling suitcases, trampling grandmas and strollers, old and young, falling all over ourselves for a coveted seat on the train. It's like 300 MacAllister families storming through the station except they all hate me because I can't speak french. It's a fucking free for all. Yet I can't enjoy how hilariously stupid it looks because I'm too busy shoving people out of the way and foaming at the mouth just like the rest of em. God knows I'm getting out of this shitstorm if I have to crawl.'
So it was a bit of a cutthroat afternoon. I finally arrived in Cannes around midnight, after 14 hours of travel, and set out into the night to find 44 Boulevard Carnot, where Carleton was living. I got to the bulding but didnt know the number, so I had to go into a hotel nearby and call him on skype, which turned into kind of an hourlong ordeal. Finally, he met me in front of the place, after a creepy drunk french guy was boldly staking his claim on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette while obnoxiouslý hitting on me. These things I simply don't tolerate so he was walking away with tail between legs within 60 seconds, but not before the pissed-off parting words of 'uh...ï'm just saying zat because, uhh, you would be nice to have some sex with.' Right.
Even though I was beyond exhausted, I was excited to be there, so I changed clothes and we walked down to the Promenade, called La Croisette, where most of the festival action took place, and met up with the two other flatmates for the week, Sarah and John. They were a couple, and friends of Carleton's from film school in France. Sarah is from Paris and John from Dublin, respectively. They greeted me with open arms- both very kind and down to earth people- and i was happy to be with them, relieved that they weren't uppity or self-absorbed (it seemed that would be plenty easy to come by). Down on the Promenade it was glitzy indeed- if you weren't in a tuxedo or a sparkling dress nobody even looked at you, but the ones who were dressed the part had swarms of paparazzi blinding them with flashes, knocking the commonpeople out of the way. There weren't many commonpeople to note, however.
We walked around, checking out the scene for a few hours, until about 2am. We were sitting down for a drink (i was still abstaining) when i started to feel really exhausted and very strange. I was shaky and weak, dizzy kind of, and began to feel naseaous. We slowly made our way back to the apartment, and i could barely keep my eyes open on the walk back. I was feeling very bad now. We got inside and I immediately went to the bathroom and puked. The three of them were shocked and confused...I then began to explain my last three days and the level of exhaustion my body was experiencing...and sickness had to be the culmination of taking it too far.
The whole incident really shocked me too. The three days had been pretty stressful though, physically and mentally, and it made sense why it was happening, I was just sad for my poor body and not treating myself well. I vowed to be kind and gentle for that point on, so I abstained from alcohol for nearly the whole week in Cannes (despite the free champagne in the pavilions). It definitely took three days for me to get back to normal, from the travel hangover of a lifetime.
The rest of the week at Cannes was great. I spotted some stars, like Pedro Almodovar and Naomi Watts. Sarah saw Woody Allen. We almost went to a party on a yacht. We had 20 euro cocktails at the swanky hotels where you couldn't get in without a festival badge (I did not shell out for these drinks). It was very Cote D'Azur, sundresses and sunglasses by day, heels at night. It was very much about playing up to a fantasy of what it should be like to be at Cannes, but it was all very false. It was the real Cannes experience, in all it's exclusivity and outrageously expensive glory. But honestly, it was way too much for me. Monday rolled around and we packed our stuff and went to the train station where we would all part ways. Carleton and I tok the train to Nice where we stayed one night, saw a movie and had some dinner near the beach. It was good to spend time with him.
Berlin update to come next.
I woke up too early the next morning in Alcudia, to a day of perfect blue skies and warm temperatures. It was so sweet and delicate I could have stayed there for a week. My sweet host Kelly was sitting drinking tea and reading when I blew downstairs with my 50 kilos of weight and a forced determination. I actually felt incredibly unnatural to be leaving Alcudia that morning, but I had a plane to catch so there was no time to change my mind. I stumbled into the sunshine bound for the bus that would take me back to Palma and the airport. There was a huge street market between me and the bus stop, and maneuvering all my crap through the crowds with a quick step proved highly challenging. I arrived at the stop just as the bus pulled up, and got in line to board, relieved. When I finally stepped up, the driver stopped me, explaining that the bus was full and I'd have to wait for the next one. I couldn't wait for the next one, however, because it took an hour to get to Palma and I'd be too late. I was more relieved at this point, because it meant I might be able to stay in this delightful town a little longer...
I hauled my stuff back to Kelly's place again, where she and her roommate were surprised to see me and hear the news. The next 20 minutes consisted of me stressing out on vueling.com trying to weigh the pros and cons. I concluded that if I took a taxi to palma it would cost the same as it would to change my flight or lose the money on it- might have been less- so i jumped up with the last 60 euros I had and went for it. I arrived early for my flight to find that the plane was delayed for an indefinite period of time. I walked around the airport for three hours trying to find someone to tell me what the hell was going on but no one was there. All the people on my flight were just sitting in the terminal with blank faces. I love Europe, but all i could repeat to myself during that sequence was 'this would never happen in america'. the american in me totally came out- i really wanted (expected) someone i could bitch at and get some bureaucratic groveling in response, but there was no one around to care. one woman in the terminal looks at me and goes, 'welcome to spain'. great.
finally, they announced that the plane existed and would actually leave at some point, and i eventually got to barcelona around 7pm. i was staying one night with a guy named duro, friend of my friend drew from sf, but i didn't have his address or a phone to call him. I took the shuttle to placa de catalunya and decided to figure it out there. i tried to find a wifi spot where i could give him a skype call, but it proved ridiculously difficult. I was still with my bags and just wanted to sit down at this point. i went into a restaurant and they let me use their phone. duro told me to take the metro and meet him at the Sants stop. However there were two Sants stops, Placa de Sants and Sants estacion. I stood at estacion while he was waiting at placa de sants for one hour, until i gave up, frantically looking for a locutorio where i could call him again. when i got him he sounded frustrated and we decided to meet in the train station. we finally met and walked back to his place. duro is an artist and lives in a single studio with all of his work. i was really impressed with his paintings and his living space, though all i could think about was sitting down- i was exhausted. but in an email some days before, duro had mentioned an art opening he was going to, and by the time we finally made contact it had already started. so i had five minutes to set down my bags and wash my hands before we were back on the metro, and then on a train across town to get to the gallery. i was starving, sincerely hoping for some arty snacks, but the offerings were slim- a few carne bunuelos which i finished the last of. i tried to be nice by chatting with duro's friends and checking out the art, but i couldn't hide my complete exhaustion. after the gallery, a few friends of his latched on and everyone moseyed to a cafe for some wine. i felt like i was getting a cold or something, my throat was really starting to hurt, so i abstained from drinking. i got some patatas bravas to hold me over until we left, which was around midnight. we took the train back to the metro where a guy tried to pickpocket my purse while we were walking up some stairs. i turned around like lightning and he tried to act like nothing had happened and scurried away. he's lucky cause i was about to bust out some kung fu shit on his ass. travelling alone has really made me cutthroat when it comes to self-protection.
we finally got back to Duro's around 1am. i had some peanut butter crackers and water packed my stuff all over again- i had to catch a train at 8:45 the next morning at the station on the other side of town. Duro kind of explained that he didn't really have anything for me to sleep on but a duvet cover, and on the marble floor that wouldnt really fly...thank god i had my sleeping bag. I set up on the floor, next to the door, just as a huge rainstorm began outside. By this time my throat was really starting to hurt. I got really stressed out that I would be sick travelling and then in Cannes, stressed that I wouldn't sleep enough or miss my train, still emotionally reeling from the intensity of the day. Between the rain and the hard floor and all my worries I could hardly sleep at all that night.
7am came quickly but at least the rain had stopped. Duro got up with me and we rushed outside to find a cab to the Franca station. It was 8:25 when I finally got in a cab and bid a flustered goodbye to Duro. He had assured me it would be no more than ten minutes to Franca by cab, but the driver said it would be 20 at least. I would surely miss the train that way, so I just told him to take me to Sants which was basically walking distance. I got out and ran inside, to a line where the clerk told me it would be impossible to get to franca and make the train. She gave me a pamphlet with an explanation of the trains I would need to take to get to Cannes.
So i took six trains that day. The first was three hours from Barcelona to Cerebeu, on the french-spanish border, then Cerebeu to Narbonne, Narbonne to Montpelier, Montpelier to Marseille, Marseille to Toulon, and finally, Toulon to Cannes.
The train stations were packed because the volcano had cancelled tons of flights, so everyone was travelling by train this day. This caused a onslaught of delays. I wrote this while waiting at the train station in Montpelier, note my muted angst:
'Because of the goddamn volcano the train stations are jammed with people and bags galore, the lines are 40 people deep, and the bags under everyone's eyes look like robert downey jr. after a weekend bender. The trains are all delayed so we're standing in one gigantic mass in the middle of the station with our eyes glued to the departure screen waiting for an update. Moving is unadvisable during this pregnant period due to sneers and collisions. And then it happens like a tidal wave- the platform number appears on the screen- and it's like a gun blew, the gates open, the greyhounds are charging forth. People are moving in every direction in catastrophic frenzy, we're tripping over each other's rolling suitcases, trampling grandmas and strollers, old and young, falling all over ourselves for a coveted seat on the train. It's like 300 MacAllister families storming through the station except they all hate me because I can't speak french. It's a fucking free for all. Yet I can't enjoy how hilariously stupid it looks because I'm too busy shoving people out of the way and foaming at the mouth just like the rest of em. God knows I'm getting out of this shitstorm if I have to crawl.'
So it was a bit of a cutthroat afternoon. I finally arrived in Cannes around midnight, after 14 hours of travel, and set out into the night to find 44 Boulevard Carnot, where Carleton was living. I got to the bulding but didnt know the number, so I had to go into a hotel nearby and call him on skype, which turned into kind of an hourlong ordeal. Finally, he met me in front of the place, after a creepy drunk french guy was boldly staking his claim on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette while obnoxiouslý hitting on me. These things I simply don't tolerate so he was walking away with tail between legs within 60 seconds, but not before the pissed-off parting words of 'uh...ï'm just saying zat because, uhh, you would be nice to have some sex with.' Right.
Even though I was beyond exhausted, I was excited to be there, so I changed clothes and we walked down to the Promenade, called La Croisette, where most of the festival action took place, and met up with the two other flatmates for the week, Sarah and John. They were a couple, and friends of Carleton's from film school in France. Sarah is from Paris and John from Dublin, respectively. They greeted me with open arms- both very kind and down to earth people- and i was happy to be with them, relieved that they weren't uppity or self-absorbed (it seemed that would be plenty easy to come by). Down on the Promenade it was glitzy indeed- if you weren't in a tuxedo or a sparkling dress nobody even looked at you, but the ones who were dressed the part had swarms of paparazzi blinding them with flashes, knocking the commonpeople out of the way. There weren't many commonpeople to note, however.
We walked around, checking out the scene for a few hours, until about 2am. We were sitting down for a drink (i was still abstaining) when i started to feel really exhausted and very strange. I was shaky and weak, dizzy kind of, and began to feel naseaous. We slowly made our way back to the apartment, and i could barely keep my eyes open on the walk back. I was feeling very bad now. We got inside and I immediately went to the bathroom and puked. The three of them were shocked and confused...I then began to explain my last three days and the level of exhaustion my body was experiencing...and sickness had to be the culmination of taking it too far.
The whole incident really shocked me too. The three days had been pretty stressful though, physically and mentally, and it made sense why it was happening, I was just sad for my poor body and not treating myself well. I vowed to be kind and gentle for that point on, so I abstained from alcohol for nearly the whole week in Cannes (despite the free champagne in the pavilions). It definitely took three days for me to get back to normal, from the travel hangover of a lifetime.
The rest of the week at Cannes was great. I spotted some stars, like Pedro Almodovar and Naomi Watts. Sarah saw Woody Allen. We almost went to a party on a yacht. We had 20 euro cocktails at the swanky hotels where you couldn't get in without a festival badge (I did not shell out for these drinks). It was very Cote D'Azur, sundresses and sunglasses by day, heels at night. It was very much about playing up to a fantasy of what it should be like to be at Cannes, but it was all very false. It was the real Cannes experience, in all it's exclusivity and outrageously expensive glory. But honestly, it was way too much for me. Monday rolled around and we packed our stuff and went to the train station where we would all part ways. Carleton and I tok the train to Nice where we stayed one night, saw a movie and had some dinner near the beach. It was good to spend time with him.
Berlin update to come next.
Monday, May 10, 2010
the balearics
first off, the balearics ball. as in the verb to ball, to wreck shop, to trump others with sheer dope quality.
i arrived in ibiza by plane last tuesday, escaping the rainy sh*thole that was barcelona for two days straight. getting off the plane after a brisk 1 hour flight, the weather in ibiza was noticably clearer and warmer, and it felt wild and intimate- appropriate for an island in the middle of the mediterranean. (i can't spell mediterranean for the life of me, and it really irks me, as i am, by nature, an excellent speller).
after a bus ride and a lot of crap-lugging, i found cal's apartment in the very center of ibiza town. cal is a berkeley grad and santa barbara native- cousin of kara valeriano, hence my connection- and has been teaching english to primary school kids in ibiza town for the last 7 months. cal and his roommate chase, a texan from lubbock (hell yes), kindly received me in their sweet apartment for four looney days and nights, where i was introduced to la vida ibisenca. it consists of sun, spaniards, bocadillos (sandwiches of jamon y queso, or cured ham and cheese, among other things), cafe con leche, paddleball, canas (beer), bare-breasted women, and stunning turquoise water. i got a tan and got to befriending my intelligent, good-natured american hosts. i was even allowed in as an honorary member of their weekly poker night- me and four hot dudes, plus beer, olives, and a 5 euro buy-in. im proud to say i held my own.
a few sun-splattered days and booze-saturated nights later, i bid adieu to my new buddies, and set off (running) to catch my ferry to mallorca. i made it just in time, still tipsy from beer and bocadillos, and found myself a seat next to the window. i snuggked up for a riveting onboard feature: he's just not that into you. thank you, douchebag producer and director, for letting me enjoy an oversaturated all-star cast play their types all too well (scarlett johannson= the seductive mistress, drew barrymore= the ditsy hippie chick)...why am i talking about this...
i arrived in mallorca sans plan. it was the most disorganized id been all trip, but id adopted the 'dont worry until you have to' mentality. it was 10pm when we docked, and i walked toward the bus stop with 40 euros and advice to go to arenal- a nearby beach community with cheaper and more available hostels than palma proper.
the bus didnt seem to be coming for the first hour, and i started inquiring of taxi drivers the going rate to arenal. the answer was 'at least 17 euros', basically my night's room rate, give or take, so i held off committing for a while.
two guido-y looking guys noticed my lonerhood and obvious distress, and asked me where i was trying to go. i said arenal, but that my goal was merely a cheap place to stay, and that my real reason for coming to mallorca was my friend kelly (from the hostel in barcelona) lived in an apartment in alcudia (on the north shore). they lit up. "alcudia! WE'RE going to alcudia!" turned out they were from germany, and their italian father owned a restaurant that catered to tourists on the marina in Port d'Alcudia. They had just arrived to begin their annual six-month stint working 7 days a week in their father's restaurant. they insisted upon giving me a ride to alcudia. i was overjoyed. we began talking, and i learned they were brother of 26 and 23 years old, the younger being the one with a spiky blow-out and unbuttoned shirt revealing a rosary. the older brother, denny, asked me out of nowhere if his younger brother sergio resembled a guido. i tactfully asked if it was a compliment or an insult. he replied "a compliment!" and i quickly said "yes. absolutely." sergio began to wax poetic on his love for the show jersey shore, and namely his high esteem for mike "the situation" (though he had purposefully gotten his hair cut two weeks prior in the exact style of DJ Pauly Delvecchio). He then jovially explained that when the two of them first saw me, he motioned to his brother, saying, in true mike form, "looks like we've got a situation". I chuckled forcedly, mentioning my genuine love for this, the trashiest show on television, while hating for a moment being a girl.
they were very sweet, despite the guido 'do and 'tude. but when their father pulled up to pick them (and now me) up, he drove a tiny car with his wife and young daughter already in it. it quickly became clear that i would not be going to alcudia with them tonight. they gazed at me wistfully and apologetically, and after an awkward greeting with father and wife, i dove into the ferry station, now actually somewhat frantic, and had a mini-cry on a bench. the taxis were now all gone, there was no bus to arenal, it was midnight in palma and i was all alone.
i sucked it up, grabbed my bags and started walking toward town. after fearing for my life a little bit while walking through a park and psyching myself up to beat the shit out of anyone who tried to touch me, i found a main road, and finally, a taxi. he was a really sweet man in a pimped out new van who really wanted to play me some authentic flamenco music on the way to arenal. i mentioned i was in need of a hostel, and he dialed something into his gps. he seemed to know where he was going.
we got to arenal and circled around for 20 minutes looking for hostels. the beach was within reach. i considered camping on it but was afraid id get in trouble. jail in mallorca wasn't part of my ideal beach vacay. i scrounged up the address of a place i had written down earlier, and we finally arrived in front- i have never been so relieved to see the 'hostal' sign. however, i was horrified to see the meter- 26 euros. i pathetically explained to my kind driver that i only had 40 euros, and feared my hostel could be upwards of 25 so late at night. i said i thought i could only afford to pay 15, but gave him 20 because i felt bad. he calmly and happily handed me back 5, saying it was his pleasure and good luck. i was saved.
i walked into the hostel to see george, from republic of georgia, and asked desperately if they had a room for one person. he replied, "yes of course" and led me outside to the reception in a nearby sister hotel. i was treated kindly and calmly, just like the taxi driver, and was led back to my room by george. we walked up to the second floor to number 21, where he opened the door to a single room with two beds, a private bathroom, and balcony, for exactly 20 euros. I was ECSTATIC. not to mention, the beach was literally a 60-second walk from the door of the place.
the following day, i awoke at 9:30am to take advantage of my free hostel breakfast, which always sucks, though I still always have a twinge of hope that it will be huge and gourmet. Afterwards i walked out to the promenade to take in the beach and the am crowd. it didnt take long to learn that german tourist own arenal. it is theirs. there is no spanish spoken nor written on signs or menus. it is german, everywhere, on everything. i blended in only until someone tried to talk to me or sell me something, and i proudly responded in spanish, which quickly deterred them. the white girls didnt do that here.
i dove back to the hostel for a swimsuit and spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach. by this point, i was starting to look genuinely tan, like people who beach with a real sun-sucking fervor, and you can see it in their eyes...
i later went for a run on the beach, showered, and went to look for some dinner. i found a nice place outside facing the beach, and watched the sun set while skyping with my mom on my iphone while i drank a beer and ate pizza because the restaurant had wifi. oh, technology.
i ended up having a beer later with a nice lithuanian guy, and we spoke about his 11-year relationship with his girlfriend Ramona, and how they would get married in 2 months, but that he had just come to Mallorca to start working and he missed her terribly. it was refreshing to hear someone talk about his loved one of eleven years with such loving desire and joy. i ended up at a dutch bar talking with hilarious dutch bartenders and dancing to techno jams. i asked for water and got free beer, and woke up late and hungover.
hunger forced me out of bed, and i sluggishly packed my stuff, knowing i would be taking the bus to alcudia at some point in the day, but my first and most crucial goal was to get coffee and a croissant in my face as soon as possible. i had that times two, and dawdled around, fatigued, till i got some water and my act together. i emailed kelly for some advice on the bus, as the info from internet and locals was wildly unclear, and kelly responded with exact directions. an hour later, i was on the local bus en route from arenal to the bus station in palma, with a crushing headache surrounded by seven drunk as hell middle-aged german women, laden in tourist schwag, literally yelling into my ears. 55 minutes later we had reached the bus station. i slept all the way to alcudia.
i arrived at kelly's apartment, where she and her roommate lanie were making soup and biscuits for dinner. it felt so good to be in a house with people. it was comforting, i always forget how different it is. we chatted and had dinner and a special beverage of mashed quinoa, cinnamon, and pineapple juice from their spanish roommate cristina.
i feel bad because not only did kelly give me her bed for the night, i completely commandeered her computer and skyped with sam for three hours. she is really the sweetest thing. tomorrow morning we willgo to the alcudia farmers market, and then I will get back on the bus to palma, and then a bus to the airport to make my 2pm flight to Barcelona. In Barcelona I will stay with a friend named Duro, who says we will go to an art opening. Then I have to be at the train station in Barcelona at 7:30am on Wednesday in order to get to Cannes by 7pm. Twelve straight hours on the train. The festival starts Wednesday and I will stay with Carleton, a good friend from high school, as his film is screening there and he rented a house for the week.
Planes, trains, and autobuses for 48 hours and then Cannes...wooohooo!
i arrived in ibiza by plane last tuesday, escaping the rainy sh*thole that was barcelona for two days straight. getting off the plane after a brisk 1 hour flight, the weather in ibiza was noticably clearer and warmer, and it felt wild and intimate- appropriate for an island in the middle of the mediterranean. (i can't spell mediterranean for the life of me, and it really irks me, as i am, by nature, an excellent speller).
after a bus ride and a lot of crap-lugging, i found cal's apartment in the very center of ibiza town. cal is a berkeley grad and santa barbara native- cousin of kara valeriano, hence my connection- and has been teaching english to primary school kids in ibiza town for the last 7 months. cal and his roommate chase, a texan from lubbock (hell yes), kindly received me in their sweet apartment for four looney days and nights, where i was introduced to la vida ibisenca. it consists of sun, spaniards, bocadillos (sandwiches of jamon y queso, or cured ham and cheese, among other things), cafe con leche, paddleball, canas (beer), bare-breasted women, and stunning turquoise water. i got a tan and got to befriending my intelligent, good-natured american hosts. i was even allowed in as an honorary member of their weekly poker night- me and four hot dudes, plus beer, olives, and a 5 euro buy-in. im proud to say i held my own.
a few sun-splattered days and booze-saturated nights later, i bid adieu to my new buddies, and set off (running) to catch my ferry to mallorca. i made it just in time, still tipsy from beer and bocadillos, and found myself a seat next to the window. i snuggked up for a riveting onboard feature: he's just not that into you. thank you, douchebag producer and director, for letting me enjoy an oversaturated all-star cast play their types all too well (scarlett johannson= the seductive mistress, drew barrymore= the ditsy hippie chick)...why am i talking about this...
i arrived in mallorca sans plan. it was the most disorganized id been all trip, but id adopted the 'dont worry until you have to' mentality. it was 10pm when we docked, and i walked toward the bus stop with 40 euros and advice to go to arenal- a nearby beach community with cheaper and more available hostels than palma proper.
the bus didnt seem to be coming for the first hour, and i started inquiring of taxi drivers the going rate to arenal. the answer was 'at least 17 euros', basically my night's room rate, give or take, so i held off committing for a while.
two guido-y looking guys noticed my lonerhood and obvious distress, and asked me where i was trying to go. i said arenal, but that my goal was merely a cheap place to stay, and that my real reason for coming to mallorca was my friend kelly (from the hostel in barcelona) lived in an apartment in alcudia (on the north shore). they lit up. "alcudia! WE'RE going to alcudia!" turned out they were from germany, and their italian father owned a restaurant that catered to tourists on the marina in Port d'Alcudia. They had just arrived to begin their annual six-month stint working 7 days a week in their father's restaurant. they insisted upon giving me a ride to alcudia. i was overjoyed. we began talking, and i learned they were brother of 26 and 23 years old, the younger being the one with a spiky blow-out and unbuttoned shirt revealing a rosary. the older brother, denny, asked me out of nowhere if his younger brother sergio resembled a guido. i tactfully asked if it was a compliment or an insult. he replied "a compliment!" and i quickly said "yes. absolutely." sergio began to wax poetic on his love for the show jersey shore, and namely his high esteem for mike "the situation" (though he had purposefully gotten his hair cut two weeks prior in the exact style of DJ Pauly Delvecchio). He then jovially explained that when the two of them first saw me, he motioned to his brother, saying, in true mike form, "looks like we've got a situation". I chuckled forcedly, mentioning my genuine love for this, the trashiest show on television, while hating for a moment being a girl.
they were very sweet, despite the guido 'do and 'tude. but when their father pulled up to pick them (and now me) up, he drove a tiny car with his wife and young daughter already in it. it quickly became clear that i would not be going to alcudia with them tonight. they gazed at me wistfully and apologetically, and after an awkward greeting with father and wife, i dove into the ferry station, now actually somewhat frantic, and had a mini-cry on a bench. the taxis were now all gone, there was no bus to arenal, it was midnight in palma and i was all alone.
i sucked it up, grabbed my bags and started walking toward town. after fearing for my life a little bit while walking through a park and psyching myself up to beat the shit out of anyone who tried to touch me, i found a main road, and finally, a taxi. he was a really sweet man in a pimped out new van who really wanted to play me some authentic flamenco music on the way to arenal. i mentioned i was in need of a hostel, and he dialed something into his gps. he seemed to know where he was going.
we got to arenal and circled around for 20 minutes looking for hostels. the beach was within reach. i considered camping on it but was afraid id get in trouble. jail in mallorca wasn't part of my ideal beach vacay. i scrounged up the address of a place i had written down earlier, and we finally arrived in front- i have never been so relieved to see the 'hostal' sign. however, i was horrified to see the meter- 26 euros. i pathetically explained to my kind driver that i only had 40 euros, and feared my hostel could be upwards of 25 so late at night. i said i thought i could only afford to pay 15, but gave him 20 because i felt bad. he calmly and happily handed me back 5, saying it was his pleasure and good luck. i was saved.
i walked into the hostel to see george, from republic of georgia, and asked desperately if they had a room for one person. he replied, "yes of course" and led me outside to the reception in a nearby sister hotel. i was treated kindly and calmly, just like the taxi driver, and was led back to my room by george. we walked up to the second floor to number 21, where he opened the door to a single room with two beds, a private bathroom, and balcony, for exactly 20 euros. I was ECSTATIC. not to mention, the beach was literally a 60-second walk from the door of the place.
the following day, i awoke at 9:30am to take advantage of my free hostel breakfast, which always sucks, though I still always have a twinge of hope that it will be huge and gourmet. Afterwards i walked out to the promenade to take in the beach and the am crowd. it didnt take long to learn that german tourist own arenal. it is theirs. there is no spanish spoken nor written on signs or menus. it is german, everywhere, on everything. i blended in only until someone tried to talk to me or sell me something, and i proudly responded in spanish, which quickly deterred them. the white girls didnt do that here.
i dove back to the hostel for a swimsuit and spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach. by this point, i was starting to look genuinely tan, like people who beach with a real sun-sucking fervor, and you can see it in their eyes...
i later went for a run on the beach, showered, and went to look for some dinner. i found a nice place outside facing the beach, and watched the sun set while skyping with my mom on my iphone while i drank a beer and ate pizza because the restaurant had wifi. oh, technology.
i ended up having a beer later with a nice lithuanian guy, and we spoke about his 11-year relationship with his girlfriend Ramona, and how they would get married in 2 months, but that he had just come to Mallorca to start working and he missed her terribly. it was refreshing to hear someone talk about his loved one of eleven years with such loving desire and joy. i ended up at a dutch bar talking with hilarious dutch bartenders and dancing to techno jams. i asked for water and got free beer, and woke up late and hungover.
hunger forced me out of bed, and i sluggishly packed my stuff, knowing i would be taking the bus to alcudia at some point in the day, but my first and most crucial goal was to get coffee and a croissant in my face as soon as possible. i had that times two, and dawdled around, fatigued, till i got some water and my act together. i emailed kelly for some advice on the bus, as the info from internet and locals was wildly unclear, and kelly responded with exact directions. an hour later, i was on the local bus en route from arenal to the bus station in palma, with a crushing headache surrounded by seven drunk as hell middle-aged german women, laden in tourist schwag, literally yelling into my ears. 55 minutes later we had reached the bus station. i slept all the way to alcudia.
i arrived at kelly's apartment, where she and her roommate lanie were making soup and biscuits for dinner. it felt so good to be in a house with people. it was comforting, i always forget how different it is. we chatted and had dinner and a special beverage of mashed quinoa, cinnamon, and pineapple juice from their spanish roommate cristina.
i feel bad because not only did kelly give me her bed for the night, i completely commandeered her computer and skyped with sam for three hours. she is really the sweetest thing. tomorrow morning we willgo to the alcudia farmers market, and then I will get back on the bus to palma, and then a bus to the airport to make my 2pm flight to Barcelona. In Barcelona I will stay with a friend named Duro, who says we will go to an art opening. Then I have to be at the train station in Barcelona at 7:30am on Wednesday in order to get to Cannes by 7pm. Twelve straight hours on the train. The festival starts Wednesday and I will stay with Carleton, a good friend from high school, as his film is screening there and he rented a house for the week.
Planes, trains, and autobuses for 48 hours and then Cannes...wooohooo!
Monday, May 3, 2010
MAJOR UPDATE
OK. I realize its been over two weeks since ive last written and i think i promised myself at the start of the trip and the blog that i wouldn´t be one of those people who writes four posts and then completely bails on the blog once she gets too distracted and doesn´t make the time, because i hate that. BUT i wont be that, and IM BACK. I´ve thought about writing all the time but can´t do it on the iphone and have not had access to a real computer in a while, so excuses aside, here is the two-week update.
I´m currently in Barcelona and the weather blows. It´s been raining incessantly since midnight last night and shows no sign of stopping, to tourists and travelers´ lament. Since i last wrote, much has transpired. I think I was last in Lisbon at John´s apartment and my mom had just arrived. Well we had an incredible time there, we partied and had great food and drink and visted tons of sights, including a small town north of Lisbon called Sintra, and saw castles and cathedrals and an incredible plant-filled paradise with ruins and ancient sites called Quinta da Regaleira. We went to John´s hometown of Alcobaca, and his house which resembled quite closely an LA director´s Mediterranean-style pad, and blew our minds. We saw the band Amalia Hoje (side project of the Gift) perform at Casino Lisboa, we stayed backstage with the band and milked the fame schwag, i.e. free booze and snacks, throughout the performance. Celebrity treatment is an understatement. We saw a game in a tiny local bar in Bairro Alto between Benfica (a much-loved regional futbol team in Portugal) playing some other team, while drinking Super Bock and eating ham and cheese mixtos. We began to understand John´s obsession and life committment to the team, as well as the country´s equally vehement passion for the ever-loved international sport.
After Lisbon, John drove us down to his beach flat in the tiny town of Monte Gordo, Portgual, in the Algarve on the border of Spain and Portugal. I could feel how close Spain was and couldn´t wait to be there. We arrived late at night and struggled to find an open food place, finally settling at a funny wi-fi cafe to eat sandwiches and laugh and drink vinho verde. Which is amazing, by the way; light, effervescent and only available in Portugal.
We stayed in MG one night, went for a run on the beach in the morning and had lunch at a restaurant with the most amazing queso de cabra as a gratis app. We drank beer in the hot sun and got a tan and marvelled at how good the cheese was. We liked it so much that we went to buy it at the market down the street before we left town. Meanwhile we were trying to figure out how to get out of town. After many confusing conversations, we showered and packed and I went on foot to fetch a triple-door mercedes benz cab to drive us across the border to spain, and into the town where we´d catch the bus to sevilla. we had our snacks- the amazing cheese, some crackers and ham in hand, and enjoyed it (with no bathroom) during our 2.5 hour bus ride. some young moroccan guys nearby saw me writing in my journal, and asked to write it it. i complied, and it was returned with a sentence in arabic from one guy, translated to english by the other. it read: "I want meet you If you want?? I wait your Answer!!! My name is Brahim"
Sevilla, for the one day we spent there, was great. We visited the largest cathedral in the world, which was breathtaking beyond belief. We saw the Feria de Abril, an annual mishmash of Spanish tradition and carnival lunacy, with women in flamenco dresses and men on horses, but also cotton candy and ferris wheels and crowds and kids... It was extremely overwhelming after we´d been walking for five hours on a croissant so we bailed after fifteen minutes.
We took the high-speed train to Madrid, where we stayed in the trendy Chuenca area (happened to be the gay part) at a very cool hotel called the Room Mate Oscar. John got us a discounted rate for three nights thanks to his Gift hookup (our celebrity experience evidently continued well after Portugal). We visited the Reina Sofia and saw Picasso´s Guernica, and snuck into the front of a 300-person line at the Museo del Prado like badasses just before its Sunday free-hour between 6-7pm. We saw Goya, Velasquez, and Bosch´s most famous works.
The next day, we trained on the AVE to Barcelona, and arrived bearing great expectations. We were greeted by a frustrated taxi driver when we didnt know the address of our hotel. He had reason to be pissed but it still harshed our buzz. We arrived at the sister hotel of the Oscar, to an equally enjoyable circumstance. We arrived at the beginning of a four-day gorgeous weather pattern in Barcelona, and basically spent all of our time on the beach. It was absolute paradise. So much so that Mona decided, after great angst and financial sacrifice, to stay an extra two days. And boy was it worth it, for as the rain pours, my tan still glows. Our experience together was absolutely unforgettable.
When my mom left I was pretty bummed...returning to travelling alone (and broke) was somewhat shocking. But I found an awesome hostel in the center of Barri Gotic, or the old town, called Itaca, where I met five absolutely wonderful and insane Portuguese guys from Lisbon, coincidentally. They took me under their wing for three days and we had dinners, saw sights, went clubbing, walked around the city, and had a ridiculously great time together. They were Francisco, Miguel, Nuno, Ricardo, and Ruey- a loud, boisterous, fun-loving and sweet army of Portuguese party machines, and I was their American darling. On their last night, we went to a massive club called Shoku on the beach, and left "early" at 4am after hours of drinking and dancing. I had forgotten that clubs in Europe were unlike American clubs...´normal´ people come to dance and party without the skank and bone factor. It was refreshingly fun. Side note: Gin and tonics are wildly popular in Spain, which is great. They are gigantic and tasty. Alcohol is at least four times cheaper than in the US.
My Portuguese buddies left yesterday, at which point I met a great girl named Kelly from Michigan, and went to have tapas with an American guy from Sacramento named Harris, Kelly, and a Swiss chick named Martina. We were in the midst of a very inspiring and heated conversation about America´s various cultural, structural, and governmental pitfalls when we noticed that it was pouring outside. It had been perfect all day, so we were in sandals and t-shirts. The bartender gave us plastic bags to cover ourselves before we ran screaming (i was screaming) all the way back to the hostel through the flooded streets. since then the rain hasn´t stopped. It´s 10pm the next night now. I bought a one-way flight to Ibiza today to stay with Kara´s cousin Cal for a few days. I will go to Mallorca afterwards to stay with Kelly from Michigan, as she will be based there for the next few months. I hope the weather improves so I can camp on the beach once or twice. Once might be enough.
Martina, Harris and I just got back from an unmarked bar that makes their own cava, and only serve cava and meat bocadillos. It was awesome. I had a sausage called Butifarra con Cebolla on a bun with hot mustard and four glasses of cava for under 5 euros. We hung out packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a wooden garage and a glass of cava was 80 cents. Harris and I discovered that we had the same birthday.
Now we will brave the rain once more to visit another local bar Martina knows (she lived here years ago) and I will rock my asics sneaks given that they´re my only closed-toed shoes (I ditched my green rain booties in madrid thinking summer had hit permanently and i wouldnt be needing them, MISTAKE). So here I go on my last night in Barcelona, Ibiza I will meet in the morning. Salud...
I´m currently in Barcelona and the weather blows. It´s been raining incessantly since midnight last night and shows no sign of stopping, to tourists and travelers´ lament. Since i last wrote, much has transpired. I think I was last in Lisbon at John´s apartment and my mom had just arrived. Well we had an incredible time there, we partied and had great food and drink and visted tons of sights, including a small town north of Lisbon called Sintra, and saw castles and cathedrals and an incredible plant-filled paradise with ruins and ancient sites called Quinta da Regaleira. We went to John´s hometown of Alcobaca, and his house which resembled quite closely an LA director´s Mediterranean-style pad, and blew our minds. We saw the band Amalia Hoje (side project of the Gift) perform at Casino Lisboa, we stayed backstage with the band and milked the fame schwag, i.e. free booze and snacks, throughout the performance. Celebrity treatment is an understatement. We saw a game in a tiny local bar in Bairro Alto between Benfica (a much-loved regional futbol team in Portugal) playing some other team, while drinking Super Bock and eating ham and cheese mixtos. We began to understand John´s obsession and life committment to the team, as well as the country´s equally vehement passion for the ever-loved international sport.
After Lisbon, John drove us down to his beach flat in the tiny town of Monte Gordo, Portgual, in the Algarve on the border of Spain and Portugal. I could feel how close Spain was and couldn´t wait to be there. We arrived late at night and struggled to find an open food place, finally settling at a funny wi-fi cafe to eat sandwiches and laugh and drink vinho verde. Which is amazing, by the way; light, effervescent and only available in Portugal.
We stayed in MG one night, went for a run on the beach in the morning and had lunch at a restaurant with the most amazing queso de cabra as a gratis app. We drank beer in the hot sun and got a tan and marvelled at how good the cheese was. We liked it so much that we went to buy it at the market down the street before we left town. Meanwhile we were trying to figure out how to get out of town. After many confusing conversations, we showered and packed and I went on foot to fetch a triple-door mercedes benz cab to drive us across the border to spain, and into the town where we´d catch the bus to sevilla. we had our snacks- the amazing cheese, some crackers and ham in hand, and enjoyed it (with no bathroom) during our 2.5 hour bus ride. some young moroccan guys nearby saw me writing in my journal, and asked to write it it. i complied, and it was returned with a sentence in arabic from one guy, translated to english by the other. it read: "I want meet you If you want?? I wait your Answer!!! My name is Brahim"
Sevilla, for the one day we spent there, was great. We visited the largest cathedral in the world, which was breathtaking beyond belief. We saw the Feria de Abril, an annual mishmash of Spanish tradition and carnival lunacy, with women in flamenco dresses and men on horses, but also cotton candy and ferris wheels and crowds and kids... It was extremely overwhelming after we´d been walking for five hours on a croissant so we bailed after fifteen minutes.
We took the high-speed train to Madrid, where we stayed in the trendy Chuenca area (happened to be the gay part) at a very cool hotel called the Room Mate Oscar. John got us a discounted rate for three nights thanks to his Gift hookup (our celebrity experience evidently continued well after Portugal). We visited the Reina Sofia and saw Picasso´s Guernica, and snuck into the front of a 300-person line at the Museo del Prado like badasses just before its Sunday free-hour between 6-7pm. We saw Goya, Velasquez, and Bosch´s most famous works.
The next day, we trained on the AVE to Barcelona, and arrived bearing great expectations. We were greeted by a frustrated taxi driver when we didnt know the address of our hotel. He had reason to be pissed but it still harshed our buzz. We arrived at the sister hotel of the Oscar, to an equally enjoyable circumstance. We arrived at the beginning of a four-day gorgeous weather pattern in Barcelona, and basically spent all of our time on the beach. It was absolute paradise. So much so that Mona decided, after great angst and financial sacrifice, to stay an extra two days. And boy was it worth it, for as the rain pours, my tan still glows. Our experience together was absolutely unforgettable.
When my mom left I was pretty bummed...returning to travelling alone (and broke) was somewhat shocking. But I found an awesome hostel in the center of Barri Gotic, or the old town, called Itaca, where I met five absolutely wonderful and insane Portuguese guys from Lisbon, coincidentally. They took me under their wing for three days and we had dinners, saw sights, went clubbing, walked around the city, and had a ridiculously great time together. They were Francisco, Miguel, Nuno, Ricardo, and Ruey- a loud, boisterous, fun-loving and sweet army of Portuguese party machines, and I was their American darling. On their last night, we went to a massive club called Shoku on the beach, and left "early" at 4am after hours of drinking and dancing. I had forgotten that clubs in Europe were unlike American clubs...´normal´ people come to dance and party without the skank and bone factor. It was refreshingly fun. Side note: Gin and tonics are wildly popular in Spain, which is great. They are gigantic and tasty. Alcohol is at least four times cheaper than in the US.
My Portuguese buddies left yesterday, at which point I met a great girl named Kelly from Michigan, and went to have tapas with an American guy from Sacramento named Harris, Kelly, and a Swiss chick named Martina. We were in the midst of a very inspiring and heated conversation about America´s various cultural, structural, and governmental pitfalls when we noticed that it was pouring outside. It had been perfect all day, so we were in sandals and t-shirts. The bartender gave us plastic bags to cover ourselves before we ran screaming (i was screaming) all the way back to the hostel through the flooded streets. since then the rain hasn´t stopped. It´s 10pm the next night now. I bought a one-way flight to Ibiza today to stay with Kara´s cousin Cal for a few days. I will go to Mallorca afterwards to stay with Kelly from Michigan, as she will be based there for the next few months. I hope the weather improves so I can camp on the beach once or twice. Once might be enough.
Martina, Harris and I just got back from an unmarked bar that makes their own cava, and only serve cava and meat bocadillos. It was awesome. I had a sausage called Butifarra con Cebolla on a bun with hot mustard and four glasses of cava for under 5 euros. We hung out packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a wooden garage and a glass of cava was 80 cents. Harris and I discovered that we had the same birthday.
Now we will brave the rain once more to visit another local bar Martina knows (she lived here years ago) and I will rock my asics sneaks given that they´re my only closed-toed shoes (I ditched my green rain booties in madrid thinking summer had hit permanently and i wouldnt be needing them, MISTAKE). So here I go on my last night in Barcelona, Ibiza I will meet in the morning. Salud...
Friday, April 16, 2010
onto the ´real´europe - first stop: portugal
I have arrived here in Lisbon! it is my second day and my mom has just now flown in from the US. she is bubbly despite being jetlagged.
I am staying with John, a musician and friend of the Moreland girls who lives here in Lisbon. His place is lovely, very modern and comfortable, and he could not be a kinder or more generous host. i don´t think i´ve paid for one thing since i arrived nor been once uncomfortable or bored. yesterday we had lunch (the national dish of bacalhau com patatas- codfish with roasted potatoes) overlooking the water at a place called Portvgalia and i explored the old town districts of Barrio Alto and Chiado (also the shopping district). The buildings are old and classic, and the vibe is very European, think well-dressed men and women of all ages drinking espresso under lined umbrellas on cobblestone streets. It feels Parisian, but smaller and hillier, geographically similar to San Francisco but much older and historically richer. The center of town is absolutely beautiful. We saw an opera, a modern interpretation of Don Quixote, which continued to baffle even after the standing ovation. Particularly because it was all in Portuguese and I didn´t get a word.
We then went to dinner (at 11pm, I was dying) at a restaurant called La Brasserie de la Entrecote, which only serves one dish- steak and frites. You sit down, order a drink, and tell the waiter whether you want it medium rare or well done. After a month of strictly vegetarian food, I welcomed this cow moment with open arms. It was very worth it.
We then went to a club called Lux, where we saw a performance by a band called Orelha Negra- a group of Portuguese guys mixing funk, soul, and jazz with samples to make for a raucous performance. It was awesome. After the show, the crowd went upstairs to the disco bar that awaited and the party went on until 3am when we left. Butch´s French girlfriend from Pulp Fiction ("Fabiaaaan!") was standing next to me at one point!
It´s definitely been a 180 from ireland. Leaving there was sweet. Lorna and Frani took me to the airport and stood and watched until I was out of sight at the security checkpoint. Things ended on a very good note, and with an open invitation to return. And here, the pace is a little different! I noticed it yesterday when I was exhausted at 4pm- things certainly move a bit faster in Lisbon, especially hanging with John!
Tonight the three of us (mom, john, me) will go see a Fado performance, traditional Portuguese music with one singer and one guitar. I have photos that i will put on the Book, or perhaps here, later on. Adeus (adayoosh)!
I am staying with John, a musician and friend of the Moreland girls who lives here in Lisbon. His place is lovely, very modern and comfortable, and he could not be a kinder or more generous host. i don´t think i´ve paid for one thing since i arrived nor been once uncomfortable or bored. yesterday we had lunch (the national dish of bacalhau com patatas- codfish with roasted potatoes) overlooking the water at a place called Portvgalia and i explored the old town districts of Barrio Alto and Chiado (also the shopping district). The buildings are old and classic, and the vibe is very European, think well-dressed men and women of all ages drinking espresso under lined umbrellas on cobblestone streets. It feels Parisian, but smaller and hillier, geographically similar to San Francisco but much older and historically richer. The center of town is absolutely beautiful. We saw an opera, a modern interpretation of Don Quixote, which continued to baffle even after the standing ovation. Particularly because it was all in Portuguese and I didn´t get a word.
We then went to dinner (at 11pm, I was dying) at a restaurant called La Brasserie de la Entrecote, which only serves one dish- steak and frites. You sit down, order a drink, and tell the waiter whether you want it medium rare or well done. After a month of strictly vegetarian food, I welcomed this cow moment with open arms. It was very worth it.
We then went to a club called Lux, where we saw a performance by a band called Orelha Negra- a group of Portuguese guys mixing funk, soul, and jazz with samples to make for a raucous performance. It was awesome. After the show, the crowd went upstairs to the disco bar that awaited and the party went on until 3am when we left. Butch´s French girlfriend from Pulp Fiction ("Fabiaaaan!") was standing next to me at one point!
It´s definitely been a 180 from ireland. Leaving there was sweet. Lorna and Frani took me to the airport and stood and watched until I was out of sight at the security checkpoint. Things ended on a very good note, and with an open invitation to return. And here, the pace is a little different! I noticed it yesterday when I was exhausted at 4pm- things certainly move a bit faster in Lisbon, especially hanging with John!
Tonight the three of us (mom, john, me) will go see a Fado performance, traditional Portuguese music with one singer and one guitar. I have photos that i will put on the Book, or perhaps here, later on. Adeus (adayoosh)!
Friday, April 9, 2010
the irish experience
Ah. It has been SO long since I last wrote, and I have thought about it at least once a day. So here I am, updating the blog.
A lot has happened in the last week or so, the highlight being that the weather has shaped up beautifully and now it actually feels like the beginning of summer. The last two days have been sunny and warm and I'm feeling alive again.
Easter weekend was incredibly eventful around the Phoenix. Along with three farmers markets in a row, Lorna hosted two live music performances and an all night salsa lesson with Leo from Barcelona. He's about twenty times more energetic that any of the participants- screaming "mambo" emphatically to musical counts throughout the lesson- and forcing each student to strain while moving to understand his broken English. I don't know how the Irish in the room handled it. Apparently Leo took the lesson well into the early morning- the last I heard was Leo shouting at 1 am, "Who is going to dance with meeee?!?!" as people fell asleep in chairs and cars pulled away. The restaurant has proven itself a chameleon for a wealth of different events, and it's truly entertaining to see.
Beyond that, I experienced my first farmers market in Dingle, a petite, artsy, music-rich town in the heart of the Peninsula. It was fluttering with people and delicious vittles, the sun was shining for the first time in weeks, and I really felt like a part of the community, selling the food from the place in Keel that everyone knows. Lorna spends all daý Wednesday and Thursday cooking, in preparation for the weekend markets, and last week Franziska and I were her shadows, learning how to make nearly every signature dish the restaurant boasts. The list includes lentil dal, roasted artichokes and peppers, bean salad, homemade pesto and hummus, soup, sweet potato curry, falafels, homemade tomato sauce, quinoa casserole, polenta with leeks, red pepper and apricot salsa, and a salad Lorna refers to as the "ten a day"- a grated mixture of ten(ish) fruits and veggies, usually with lentils or some other bean, fresh herbs, lemon, etc. it's delicious.
I think the central triumph of my kitchen experience here has been learning to make bread. As basic as it is, it's got to be the most satisfying skill I've gained thus far. The process is interesting, as it involves a lot of waiting and rising, then kneading, then baking. Ýou have to form a four-hour relationship with the bread before you ever see the final product. You start with yeast, a bit of sugar, warm water, and a bit of flour, and let it set for half an hour or so. Then, you mix that liquid into a large bowl with lots of flour, and let it rise for a half hour. Then, you knead the dough. This is where you decide what you want to put into the bread. The kneading takes about twenty minutes, with the additions, and then you press it into oiled tins and let it rise yet again. And finally, at four in the morning, you bake the mf-ers. (kidding). So far I've made a batch with rosemary, sunflower seeds, and a mix of spelt and rye flour, which was awesome. Then last night, it dawned on me that I could make olive bread, my top bakery favorite. It wasn't as awesome as I was sure it would be, but I was absolutely ecstatic at the idea of making olive bread by myself, no matter how it tasted. And now, I'm prepped for the challenge and determined to prevail. There's reallý fucking good bread at the end of this baking rainbow, and by God, I'm going to get to it.
As you can see, I've spent far too much time in the kitchen. But by the grace of God (who is now my friend again thanks to the overwhelming Irish Catholic influence), the sun finally returned to West Kerry, and Franny and I were able to work outside in the garden again. Lorna is revamping her 'gypsy caravan' for B&B use, and we had to move it to a more central location on the property for kitchen-to-caravan ease of travel. After much discussion and a lot of procrastination, Franny, Lorna, son Kyle, Sam, Sam's girlfriend Marketa, the regular gardener Lizzy, me, a lot of puppyesque frantic circling from Ellie, we dragged the bright yellow-and-red caravan to it's new home in the garden. Given that seven people plus a dog were required to pull this job off, it was nothing short of hilarious. Franny and I proceeded to dig steps and a patio area from what was previously grassy ground. It took about four hours, until I retired to the kitchen to 'make a snack' and ended up making the market pesto and hummus for Lorna. Needless to say, I was overjoyed to receive this task. All my extremities remain exceptionally sore. Removing the dirt under my nails is a 45-minute ordeal. This is something I consider every time I pick up a shovel. I need to get out of the city more often.
Franny, Lorna and I have formed quite a funny trio. Seeing as how the three of us hang out fourteen hours a day, it is a blessing that we have fun together. It's hilarious most of the time. It's been nice to bond, we three women of different ages, cultures and locales. We are the English-German-American powerhouse of the Phoenix restaurant, and I think Lorna would keep around us for a while´if she could.
So I leave Ireland on Wednesday, an deadline that a week ago seemed it couldn't come soon enough, as the rain and cold blew on, but now, of course, it approaches too quickly. My experience here has been, well, unforgettable. Special. I feel lucky to have come here, and begin my trip with something real and lasting. This place is strong and solid, comfortable and unique. It is constantly moving, yet at the end of the day remains unchanged. I've reminded myself throughout that it's not possible to appreciate an experience in full until it's over, and I'm just now becoming able to see the effect that living here has had on me, how incredible it's really been. I wish I could describe every nuance of the place, every detail of the house, the mountains and ocean that surround it, the feeling of the sun (and the rain) here, the sounds of the morning and everning, the flavors of what I've tasted, and, most of all, the absurd idiosyncrasies and endearing qualities of the characters who roam these grounds and call it their home. At least I know how they look and sound, and make me feel, causing me to realize how much this place and Ireland itself have woven their way into my mind and spirit.
I really don't know what to expect from the rest of my trip in Europe. I know it will be very different from the month I just spent here. But it feels wonderful to think that this experience- a book with blank pages until now- has words, to stoke my senses with the memories in my head.
A lot has happened in the last week or so, the highlight being that the weather has shaped up beautifully and now it actually feels like the beginning of summer. The last two days have been sunny and warm and I'm feeling alive again.
Easter weekend was incredibly eventful around the Phoenix. Along with three farmers markets in a row, Lorna hosted two live music performances and an all night salsa lesson with Leo from Barcelona. He's about twenty times more energetic that any of the participants- screaming "mambo" emphatically to musical counts throughout the lesson- and forcing each student to strain while moving to understand his broken English. I don't know how the Irish in the room handled it. Apparently Leo took the lesson well into the early morning- the last I heard was Leo shouting at 1 am, "Who is going to dance with meeee?!?!" as people fell asleep in chairs and cars pulled away. The restaurant has proven itself a chameleon for a wealth of different events, and it's truly entertaining to see.
Beyond that, I experienced my first farmers market in Dingle, a petite, artsy, music-rich town in the heart of the Peninsula. It was fluttering with people and delicious vittles, the sun was shining for the first time in weeks, and I really felt like a part of the community, selling the food from the place in Keel that everyone knows. Lorna spends all daý Wednesday and Thursday cooking, in preparation for the weekend markets, and last week Franziska and I were her shadows, learning how to make nearly every signature dish the restaurant boasts. The list includes lentil dal, roasted artichokes and peppers, bean salad, homemade pesto and hummus, soup, sweet potato curry, falafels, homemade tomato sauce, quinoa casserole, polenta with leeks, red pepper and apricot salsa, and a salad Lorna refers to as the "ten a day"- a grated mixture of ten(ish) fruits and veggies, usually with lentils or some other bean, fresh herbs, lemon, etc. it's delicious.
I think the central triumph of my kitchen experience here has been learning to make bread. As basic as it is, it's got to be the most satisfying skill I've gained thus far. The process is interesting, as it involves a lot of waiting and rising, then kneading, then baking. Ýou have to form a four-hour relationship with the bread before you ever see the final product. You start with yeast, a bit of sugar, warm water, and a bit of flour, and let it set for half an hour or so. Then, you mix that liquid into a large bowl with lots of flour, and let it rise for a half hour. Then, you knead the dough. This is where you decide what you want to put into the bread. The kneading takes about twenty minutes, with the additions, and then you press it into oiled tins and let it rise yet again. And finally, at four in the morning, you bake the mf-ers. (kidding). So far I've made a batch with rosemary, sunflower seeds, and a mix of spelt and rye flour, which was awesome. Then last night, it dawned on me that I could make olive bread, my top bakery favorite. It wasn't as awesome as I was sure it would be, but I was absolutely ecstatic at the idea of making olive bread by myself, no matter how it tasted. And now, I'm prepped for the challenge and determined to prevail. There's reallý fucking good bread at the end of this baking rainbow, and by God, I'm going to get to it.
As you can see, I've spent far too much time in the kitchen. But by the grace of God (who is now my friend again thanks to the overwhelming Irish Catholic influence), the sun finally returned to West Kerry, and Franny and I were able to work outside in the garden again. Lorna is revamping her 'gypsy caravan' for B&B use, and we had to move it to a more central location on the property for kitchen-to-caravan ease of travel. After much discussion and a lot of procrastination, Franny, Lorna, son Kyle, Sam, Sam's girlfriend Marketa, the regular gardener Lizzy, me, a lot of puppyesque frantic circling from Ellie, we dragged the bright yellow-and-red caravan to it's new home in the garden. Given that seven people plus a dog were required to pull this job off, it was nothing short of hilarious. Franny and I proceeded to dig steps and a patio area from what was previously grassy ground. It took about four hours, until I retired to the kitchen to 'make a snack' and ended up making the market pesto and hummus for Lorna. Needless to say, I was overjoyed to receive this task. All my extremities remain exceptionally sore. Removing the dirt under my nails is a 45-minute ordeal. This is something I consider every time I pick up a shovel. I need to get out of the city more often.
Franny, Lorna and I have formed quite a funny trio. Seeing as how the three of us hang out fourteen hours a day, it is a blessing that we have fun together. It's hilarious most of the time. It's been nice to bond, we three women of different ages, cultures and locales. We are the English-German-American powerhouse of the Phoenix restaurant, and I think Lorna would keep around us for a while´if she could.
So I leave Ireland on Wednesday, an deadline that a week ago seemed it couldn't come soon enough, as the rain and cold blew on, but now, of course, it approaches too quickly. My experience here has been, well, unforgettable. Special. I feel lucky to have come here, and begin my trip with something real and lasting. This place is strong and solid, comfortable and unique. It is constantly moving, yet at the end of the day remains unchanged. I've reminded myself throughout that it's not possible to appreciate an experience in full until it's over, and I'm just now becoming able to see the effect that living here has had on me, how incredible it's really been. I wish I could describe every nuance of the place, every detail of the house, the mountains and ocean that surround it, the feeling of the sun (and the rain) here, the sounds of the morning and everning, the flavors of what I've tasted, and, most of all, the absurd idiosyncrasies and endearing qualities of the characters who roam these grounds and call it their home. At least I know how they look and sound, and make me feel, causing me to realize how much this place and Ireland itself have woven their way into my mind and spirit.
I really don't know what to expect from the rest of my trip in Europe. I know it will be very different from the month I just spent here. But it feels wonderful to think that this experience- a book with blank pages until now- has words, to stoke my senses with the memories in my head.
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