Before I left California in September, I knew that if I had opportunities to travel, going to Paris was priority one. On my first European adventure to Spain and England when I was 17, I was able to visit many art museums, and being face-to-face with so many priceless and breathtaking pieces of art really affected me. I distinctly remember feeling dwarfed by Las Meninas in the Prado, and had my breath taken away by paintings by Rafael and El Greco in the Toledo Cathedral. Going from that encounter with art in Europe, to my Humanities class my first semester of college in which the same masterpieces were pictured in my textbook, was such an incredible thing to me, and I’ve been fascinated with art history every since. That experience is why I’m a history major now, and a huge motivator for wanting to studying abroad during my college years.
So if seeing masterpieces of art is what I really want to do while living in Europe, where would I go? Paris. The Louvre, the Orsay, Versailles... the city itself is a great work of art. I was determined to make a trip there happen during my three months in Spain, to get up close and personal with Manet, the Mona Lisa and the like, eat croissants and crepes and drink coffee, even if it would mean I would have to do it by myself. Luckily, there was Erica, who is now my travel buddy, partner in crime, and mi mejor amiga.
The story of Erica and I (yes, this is kinda relevant to Paris...) becoming friends is actually a funny and an “awe, this is kinda like FATE!” story that I feel the need to preface my trip to Paris with. The two of us hardly knew one another when we came to Spain, despite the fact that we had been roommates for 6 months our first year as transfer students at Cal Poly. She moved into my on-campus apartment at the beginning of Winter Quarter, and by that time I already had a group of friends from marching band and a boyfriend, and didn’t spend much time hanging out at our apartment, which was usually really dirty and overrun by our other roommate. She-who-shall-not-be-named was a terrible slob, loud, a smoker, and enjoyed watching either Country Music Television or High School Musical on the weekends with the tv cranked up obnoxiously high while she ate her microwave bean-and-cheese burritos for breakfast. To sum it up, she made me want to gauge my eyes out with a spoon, and so, for the sake of my sanity, I chose to avoid being in our apartment as often as possible. Erica, since we are basically the same person, had similar sentiments towards She-Who-Shall... meh, you get the idea... and she had began dating a guy and had friends that lived off-campus as well, and consequently, we didn’t see each other much in our apartment. I always thought she was a cool girl, but never had the opportunity to hang out since we both avoided home like it was the plague.
A year or so later, I passed Erica in the hallway at school, and we stopped to chat. We realized we were both going to an info meeting for the Cal Poly in Spain program, and excitedly, went to the meeting together. After that, we saw each other at orientations and meetings for the trip, but still lead completely separate lives in San Luis Obispo.
Once arriving in Spain, Erica and I quickly began to hang out together a lot. Being two of the four 5th year students on the trip made us click really quickly, as well as suffering though daily Spanish grammar class with Monse, who teaches like she hates her life and subsequently, us. Right off the bat I started to look at flights for Paris; I wanted my plans for this trip set in stone as soon as possible. After a few weekend adventures exploring our city and going to Barcelona in the same group, Erica was quickly becoming my closest friend on the trip (along with Kristen, my roommate whom I shared a closet-sized room with and still loved me after three months of it), and I asked if she was interested in planning a trip to Paris. She answered with her signature, “duh,” and we bought our flights (on RyanAir, mistake number one) soon after. We balance each other out really well when it comes to traveling; I’m interested in art museums and walking tours, Erica is always up for things like hiking, going out at night, and exploring places off the beaten path. We put together a list of things we wanted to see, and figured that during our 5 day trip we’d definitely be able to fit it all in. We also made another pact that if we didn’t splurge on anything else in Paris, we’d shamelessly blow money on French food. Yet another reason why we’re basically twins.
Next on our Parisan to-do list was a place to stay. Spending so much money on hostels and hotels sucks, but, like I said, Paris was my must-do trip. Three years ago, my aunt Wanda and family hosted two exchange students from Europe. Tristan was one of them, a sweet boy from Paris who stayed with my cousins, aunt, and uncle for a summer. I got to meet Tristan on a couple of occasions; we went to Monterey Bay Aquarium with him and my cousins brought him up to my house in Grass Valley for a weekend to go boating and give him a taste of California outside of the Bay Area. Tristan and I were friends on facebook, and I had emailed him after arriving in Spain telling him I was going to be here for three months and really wanted to come to Paris. He emailed me back quickly, giving advise on the must-see sightseeing and finding us websites to purchase museum passes. I told him housing was going to be an issue for us broke college students and was wondering if Erica and I might be able to crash on a couch of something while we were in Paris. Again, he responded quickly, saying of course we could, and he asked his parents and they said it was fine. He even insisted on picking us up from the airport, which, even though our tickets said it was a Paris airport, was in reality an hour outside of Paris. Tristan told me it’d be no trouble to come get me, and that the airport was “basically a tent and the parking lot a field,” and that it’d be best if he came to get us in his car. I was sure he was exaggerating, but thanked him for taking that time to come pick us up.
After our adventure, or mishap, or brain fart, whatever you want to call it, when Erica and I tried to go to Valencia, my travel confidence, needless to say, was not at its highest. Erica and I had a midnight bus from Valladolid to the Madrid Airport, and then would have 5 hours to try to sleep in the airport while we waited for our 7:30 am flight to Paris. We packed our clothes together in a super cheap carry-on suitcase Erica bought, and made sure we both had our other travel necessities and paperwork in a backpack. We kicked off our trip to Paris by running to the Valladolid bus station, with Erica behind me struggling with the SUPER cheap suitcase with wheels that were more or less useless, and her “buccaneer boots” that, adorable as they are, were not the best attire for hauling ass to a bus station to make sure we’d get there on time.
We made it to our bus, and collapsed on the seats, transit to Paris, part one, accomplished.
By the time we got to the airport in Madrid, it was 3 am and we were terribly disoriented, just wanting to sleep, but apparently not tired enough to fully pass out on the tile floor in front of our check-in gate. The hours passed, and we made our way from check-in, to security, to our terminal, completely on autopilot after so many weeks of travleling and going through this same routine every time. When we got to the gate to board the plane, the incredible sweet and docile RyanAir employee (PLEASE recognize my sarcasm) told Erica that our (carry-on) suitcase was to big, and we’d have to check it and pay 35 euro. I rolled my eyes as I glanced at the couple who just boarded with backpacks on that I could fit myself into. Erica frantically tried to squish the suitcase smaller by zipping up the extender, breaking the zipper in the process. I told her don’t stress it, we’d just pay and figure out something better on the way back. I handed the woman a 50 euro note and informed me I needed exact change.
“Bitch” I uttered, not very discreetly.
I happened to have the 35 euro in cash (miracle), I tossed it to her and we got on the plane, defeated, and hating RyanAir, just a tad.
We had the next two hours of the flight to chill out and take a nap, and before we knew it, I was gazing out the window at beautiful French countryside. My annoyance with RyanAir was quickly melting into the incredible realization that I was finally here. My dream of coming to Paris was happening, and I was just about to land.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The (Mis)Adventures of (Attempting To Go To) Valencia
Our dear friends from the Tuna de Derecho de Valencia insisted that we needed to come for a weekend visit. Between beach weather and personal tour guides who play guitar and look great in tights, Erica and I needed no further convincing. After emailing back and forth with the boys, we gleefully wrote them, saying we had put a deposit on a hostel for that upcoming weekend and had purchased bus tickets. Our tickets were incredibly cheap - only 22 euros each way. We thought it was strange, we didn’t know exactly how far Valencia was from Valladolid, but on the map it appears as far away as Barcelona, and our bus tickets there and back were far more expensive. Allowing our excitement to overshadow our common sense, we didn’t investigate the situation, nor did we look closely at our tickets. The bus company we’ve been using for all of our Spanish travels goes all over the country, and Erica and I simply assumed they offered a bus directly from Valladolid to Valencia.
Now that I have set the stage for disaster, it is now bright and early on a crisp Saturday morning in Valladolid. With my backpack filled with clothes, sandals, and my swimsuit, I met up with Erica and we were off to the bus station. We had to purchase two tickets for each way; we had a layover in León, which was very strange, since León is in the opposite direction of Valencia. Upon arrival, Erica and I camped out in the freezing cold León bus station to wait out two hours before our next bus to take us to Valencia arrived. We watched a few episodes of How I Met Your Mother ( I miss American tv more than I anticipated) and bought celebratory cafes con leche and croissants before the bus came. When it finally pulled in, the bus driver had no list of people who had purchased tickets; the dozen or so people boarding the bus were simply buying a ticket from the driver. Boarding the bus turned into a whole ordeal involving us and three other passengers trying to explain to the driver that we had purchased tickets online and our names should be on the list. He eventually had to call the company and use our passport codes to find our names and ticket confirmation. So frustrating and bizarre since every other bus we’d taken in Spain (which by now is too many to count) always had a list of passengers. We sat down, thanked the girl that helped us communicate with the driver, and she asked us what we were doing going to Valencia. We told her we had friends at the university we were going to visit, and were looking forward to some nice weather away from Castile-León. She looked perplexed, we could tell her mind was churning, trying to make sense of what we were saying, and then, it clicked.
“You’re going to the wrong Valencia,” she said. My stomach dropped to the floor. I couldn’t believe it for a minute.
“We are?!” Erica’s eyes were huge.
“Yeah - you’re on a bus to Valencia de Don Juan. It’s a pueblo only 35 kilometers from here. The Valencia you want is hours away, you have to travel through Madrid to get there.”
“SHIT!!” We exclaimed, jumping off the bus seconds before it pulled out of the bus station. All we could think to tell the driver was “necisitamos ir... es incorrecto autobus!!” Pitiful translation, but my mind was racing, and apologizing to the bus driver was the farthest thing from my mind.
The bus left, and there we stood, on the sidewalk, in freezing cold León, sans Valencia bus tickets, and my dreams of an amazing weekend vacation quickly slipping away.
“Okay, we’re not panicking yet,” said Erica, pulling out her laptop to get on the bus station website. I raced to the city map of León inside the station, and saw the RENFE train station was only a couple blocks away. We asked the man at the window of the train station how much it would cost to get the next train to Valencia, the man said there’s a train leaving in an hour for Madrid and we’d change trains there, and it’d be 200 euros. Not happening. We thanked him, and in utter desperation I walked to the car rental kiosk next door and explained our situation (in Spanish... be proud). To rent a car for the weekend, with a 250 kilometers per day limit would also cost around 200 euros. That’s not taking into consideration the hundreds of kilometers away Valencia is past the daily limit, and the fact that I’d have to re-learn how to drive a stick shift in the process. Also not happening.
Defeated, we stood outside the station, completely out of resources besides finding our way back to Valladolid. I called Esteban, and, completely humiliated, told him what had happened. He chuckled, and then apologized for laughing. I told him it is kinda funny, but at the moment, completely shitty and depressing. He told me that as much as they all wanted us to come visit, by this point, we were too far away, it would cost too much, and there wouldn’t be enough time left in the weekend for it to be worth the trip. He insisted that we’d stay in touch and wished me good luck and to be careful getting back home.
Back to the bus station we went, and exchanged our bus tickets home from Monday to the next bus. Erica and I treated ourselves to a pity bottle of wine and whiskey cake (delicious) while we waited for the bus to take us back home. After returning to Valladolid, and having to explain the story to our friends, roommates, and Spanish families, we went to see a movie (Luna Nueva, in Spanish) and the next day saw a Real Valladolid futbol game. It was a relaxing weekend, but couldn’t help but think about being in the sunshine in Valencia instead of barely above freezing Valladolid weather, and hanging out with our new-found Spanish friends,who probably think we’re inept American students incapable of taking care of ourselves.
...And yes, we did double-check and make sure we’re flying to the Paris in France this weekend, not Paris, Texas.
Now that I have set the stage for disaster, it is now bright and early on a crisp Saturday morning in Valladolid. With my backpack filled with clothes, sandals, and my swimsuit, I met up with Erica and we were off to the bus station. We had to purchase two tickets for each way; we had a layover in León, which was very strange, since León is in the opposite direction of Valencia. Upon arrival, Erica and I camped out in the freezing cold León bus station to wait out two hours before our next bus to take us to Valencia arrived. We watched a few episodes of How I Met Your Mother ( I miss American tv more than I anticipated) and bought celebratory cafes con leche and croissants before the bus came. When it finally pulled in, the bus driver had no list of people who had purchased tickets; the dozen or so people boarding the bus were simply buying a ticket from the driver. Boarding the bus turned into a whole ordeal involving us and three other passengers trying to explain to the driver that we had purchased tickets online and our names should be on the list. He eventually had to call the company and use our passport codes to find our names and ticket confirmation. So frustrating and bizarre since every other bus we’d taken in Spain (which by now is too many to count) always had a list of passengers. We sat down, thanked the girl that helped us communicate with the driver, and she asked us what we were doing going to Valencia. We told her we had friends at the university we were going to visit, and were looking forward to some nice weather away from Castile-León. She looked perplexed, we could tell her mind was churning, trying to make sense of what we were saying, and then, it clicked.
“You’re going to the wrong Valencia,” she said. My stomach dropped to the floor. I couldn’t believe it for a minute.
“We are?!” Erica’s eyes were huge.
“Yeah - you’re on a bus to Valencia de Don Juan. It’s a pueblo only 35 kilometers from here. The Valencia you want is hours away, you have to travel through Madrid to get there.”
“SHIT!!” We exclaimed, jumping off the bus seconds before it pulled out of the bus station. All we could think to tell the driver was “necisitamos ir... es incorrecto autobus!!” Pitiful translation, but my mind was racing, and apologizing to the bus driver was the farthest thing from my mind.
The bus left, and there we stood, on the sidewalk, in freezing cold León, sans Valencia bus tickets, and my dreams of an amazing weekend vacation quickly slipping away.
“Okay, we’re not panicking yet,” said Erica, pulling out her laptop to get on the bus station website. I raced to the city map of León inside the station, and saw the RENFE train station was only a couple blocks away. We asked the man at the window of the train station how much it would cost to get the next train to Valencia, the man said there’s a train leaving in an hour for Madrid and we’d change trains there, and it’d be 200 euros. Not happening. We thanked him, and in utter desperation I walked to the car rental kiosk next door and explained our situation (in Spanish... be proud). To rent a car for the weekend, with a 250 kilometers per day limit would also cost around 200 euros. That’s not taking into consideration the hundreds of kilometers away Valencia is past the daily limit, and the fact that I’d have to re-learn how to drive a stick shift in the process. Also not happening.
Defeated, we stood outside the station, completely out of resources besides finding our way back to Valladolid. I called Esteban, and, completely humiliated, told him what had happened. He chuckled, and then apologized for laughing. I told him it is kinda funny, but at the moment, completely shitty and depressing. He told me that as much as they all wanted us to come visit, by this point, we were too far away, it would cost too much, and there wouldn’t be enough time left in the weekend for it to be worth the trip. He insisted that we’d stay in touch and wished me good luck and to be careful getting back home.
Back to the bus station we went, and exchanged our bus tickets home from Monday to the next bus. Erica and I treated ourselves to a pity bottle of wine and whiskey cake (delicious) while we waited for the bus to take us back home. After returning to Valladolid, and having to explain the story to our friends, roommates, and Spanish families, we went to see a movie (Luna Nueva, in Spanish) and the next day saw a Real Valladolid futbol game. It was a relaxing weekend, but couldn’t help but think about being in the sunshine in Valencia instead of barely above freezing Valladolid weather, and hanging out with our new-found Spanish friends,who probably think we’re inept American students incapable of taking care of ourselves.
...And yes, we did double-check and make sure we’re flying to the Paris in France this weekend, not Paris, Texas.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Islas Canarias, the Reno of Spain
As much as I love my Spanish hometown of Valladolid, it’s freezing cold here. Absolutely freezing. I was warned that Spain gets cold in the winter, but the wardrobe I brought overseas did not reflect that... Needless to say, I’ve had to buy a few long sleeve shirts, sweaters and tights along the way. Being from Grass Valley I’m used to this kind of weather (although San Luis Obispo has spoiled me), but my poor friends from SoCal are not exactly pumped about the freezing temperatures here. It’s really amusing. (Sorry Erica, love you!)
When my friend Steven suggested a weekend trip to the Canary Islands, Spanish territory off the coast of Africa, I did not hesitate to say yes, picturing myself laying out, soaking up the sun on a beach lined with palm trees. Packing last week for the trip was great; I happily filled my backpack with tank tops, sandals, shorts and my swimsuit. On Friday, Steven, Laurel and I left for Madrid, making our way to the airport for our flight to Gran Canaria in the afternoon. It was a little over 2 hour flight, and I couldn’t wait to get off the plane and change into more appropriate beach clothes. We landed and I was elated at the sight of palm trees out the window of the plane. The airport was kind-of in the middle of nowhere on the island, and it took us a while to get our bearings and figure out our plan of action. Not like we could’ve done that ahead of time, this trip was all about making it up as we went along (safely, of course, Mom and Dad). We were informed about a bus that could take us to Playa del Ingles where our hotel was, and waited at the bus stop, on the side of the freeway (sketchy) for a few minutes. The bus ride was a half hour long, and we were unsure of where exactly it would drop us off. We were dropped off near the street where our hotel address was, by this point Laurel and I (being the girls we are) were starting to stress out - it was getting dark out and we had no clue where our hotel was from there. We walked down to the street corner and began frantically looking around for an address, landmark or something, and then Steven saw a giant sign illuminating the name of our hotel, directly across the street from where we stood. Ha ha. Lucky us.
We checked in and were giddy at the sight of our hotel room, which was more like an apartment - it had a kitchen!!! It was dinky, but we didn’t care. Many of us here, myself included, miss cooking so much, or at least being in control of what we eat. Being fed authentic Spanish food three times a day is amazing, and a vital part of us being immersed in Spanish culture, but once in a while it’s kinda rough. There’s always one or two meals that we’re not fans of, or sometimes I just won’t be hungry, but have to stuff myself full anyways.
After unpacking, we were on a mission to find dinner. The next few blocks from our hotel were lined with restaurants, bars, liquor stores and kitschy gift shops, and the sidewalks full of people who worked at the restaurants and clubs, offering all the bypassing tourists discounts and coupons at their restaurant. As we experienced, it was borderline harassment. They were SO pushy and insistent, overly friendly and talkative, and we got so annoyed that we abandoned the restaurant search and opted for kebabs. Doner Kebabs are like Eastern European pita sandwiches, they’re delicious and there are stores all over the place in every Spanish city I’ve been to. It’s like the equivalent of Starbucks in America. They have these giant skewers with meat on them rotating over a fire (its very carnivorous and looking at it grosses me out a bit), but they also have falafel kebabs that are way tasty. They shave the meat off the skewer and put it in a pita or wheat tortilla with lettuce, tomato, cabbage, a red sauce and a white garlic sauce and then close it up and grill it. They’re cheap and one of the few “to-go” restaurants here that’s also open late. So maybe it’s more like Taco Bell, because everyone craves them after a night out at the bars...
Anyway, after our meal, we avoided eye-contact and dodged all of the restaurant greeters, found a grocery store and bought some food for the weekend. It was hilarious to me how excited I was to be buying groceries and picking out meals to cook myself. Obviously, I booked it to the cereal aisle first, and ended up eating almost an entire box of Smacks that night out of a cooking pot, because the bowls in our apartment weren’t big enough for my gluttonous desires. While I stuffed my face with my first bowl of cereal with cold milk in MONTHS, we turned on the tv (by inserting 1 euro into the coin box attached... yeah, we had to pay to watch tv...) and got hooked on Van Helsing in Spanish. I was amazed at how many Spanish words and phrases I was able to understand, and since then I’ve tried to watch movies on tv dubbed over in Spanish and it’s really helped me keep developing my ear for the language.
The next day was beach day. Needless to say, it was fabulous. We napped on the beach, walked out to the sand dunes adjacent to Playa del Ingles, and strolled through the restaurants and gift store upon gift store lining the beach. Among the restaurants we saw, there were various “American style” diners, even a Hooters (heavy sigh). We cooked dinner, and by dinner I mean pounds and pounds of pasta, watched more Spanish television, and tried to form a game plan for the next day. The bus schedule for Maspalomas was the most confusing and convoluted thing I had ever seen, and I was quick to give up on the search for transportation (other than from our hotel to the airport) and just hang out the next day. Laurel and Steven were slightly more determined to see something else on this island other than German tourists, and decided to go to an inland pueblo called San Bartolome, just for kicks.
The next morning, unable to track down the 8 am bus to San Bartolome, we ended up taking a taxi there. 30 minutes, switchback roads in the middle of nowhere, and Kelsey with borderline intense nausea later we arrived in what appeared to be an abandoned town. It was a Sunday morning, and typically Spanish towns don’t wake up til later, except for Mass, and there was hardly anybody up and about when we got there. It was a very relaxing morning, wandering cobblestone streets and hiking up a hill to find an incredible view of San Bartolome, the mountain we came up, and the valley beyond it stretching all the way to the ocean. I took a bunch of pictures (that can’t fit on my computer because my hard drive is full... AWESOME), and we enjoyed a beer on a sidewalk cafe before catching a bus back down to Maspalomas. The decent was even less fun than the trip up; we were on a charter bus, flying down the mountain, taking every turn like nobody’s business. I think Laurel and Steven’s stomachs felt the same as mine did... we all looked pretty pale and didn’t say a word, just stared straight ahead, the entire way down.
After that, we collected our gear, bid farewell to the sun, surf, and Germans, and caught a bus to the airport to fly back home to Valladolid.
As amazing as it was to spend a weekend on a beach in a swimsuit in November, I feel like I get much more out of my trips when I can connect to the native culture of a city or country. Maspalomas is so overrun with tourism that it seemed fake.
As I conclude this blog, I’m about to start packing for my next trip; tomorrow Erica and I leave for Paris. It literally is a life long dream of mine coming true. I can hardly wrap my head around it. Much more blogging about the city of love after Erica and my romantic weekend together concludes, I still need to write about our misadventures last weekend (León is a cool city... kinda...) in addition to everything I’m looking forward to in France. Our to-do list so far looks like:
-Eiffel Tower
-Louvre
-Orsay
-Saint-Chapelle
-Notre Dame
-catacombs
-Arch de Triumph
-Jim Morrison’s grave
-Versailles
-all the crepes, croissants, wine and cafe I can stand
PLEASE don’t hesitate to email me with any more must see sights or restaurants in Paris! Much love to all, hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. The countdown has officially began: California in 21 days!
When my friend Steven suggested a weekend trip to the Canary Islands, Spanish territory off the coast of Africa, I did not hesitate to say yes, picturing myself laying out, soaking up the sun on a beach lined with palm trees. Packing last week for the trip was great; I happily filled my backpack with tank tops, sandals, shorts and my swimsuit. On Friday, Steven, Laurel and I left for Madrid, making our way to the airport for our flight to Gran Canaria in the afternoon. It was a little over 2 hour flight, and I couldn’t wait to get off the plane and change into more appropriate beach clothes. We landed and I was elated at the sight of palm trees out the window of the plane. The airport was kind-of in the middle of nowhere on the island, and it took us a while to get our bearings and figure out our plan of action. Not like we could’ve done that ahead of time, this trip was all about making it up as we went along (safely, of course, Mom and Dad). We were informed about a bus that could take us to Playa del Ingles where our hotel was, and waited at the bus stop, on the side of the freeway (sketchy) for a few minutes. The bus ride was a half hour long, and we were unsure of where exactly it would drop us off. We were dropped off near the street where our hotel address was, by this point Laurel and I (being the girls we are) were starting to stress out - it was getting dark out and we had no clue where our hotel was from there. We walked down to the street corner and began frantically looking around for an address, landmark or something, and then Steven saw a giant sign illuminating the name of our hotel, directly across the street from where we stood. Ha ha. Lucky us.
We checked in and were giddy at the sight of our hotel room, which was more like an apartment - it had a kitchen!!! It was dinky, but we didn’t care. Many of us here, myself included, miss cooking so much, or at least being in control of what we eat. Being fed authentic Spanish food three times a day is amazing, and a vital part of us being immersed in Spanish culture, but once in a while it’s kinda rough. There’s always one or two meals that we’re not fans of, or sometimes I just won’t be hungry, but have to stuff myself full anyways.
After unpacking, we were on a mission to find dinner. The next few blocks from our hotel were lined with restaurants, bars, liquor stores and kitschy gift shops, and the sidewalks full of people who worked at the restaurants and clubs, offering all the bypassing tourists discounts and coupons at their restaurant. As we experienced, it was borderline harassment. They were SO pushy and insistent, overly friendly and talkative, and we got so annoyed that we abandoned the restaurant search and opted for kebabs. Doner Kebabs are like Eastern European pita sandwiches, they’re delicious and there are stores all over the place in every Spanish city I’ve been to. It’s like the equivalent of Starbucks in America. They have these giant skewers with meat on them rotating over a fire (its very carnivorous and looking at it grosses me out a bit), but they also have falafel kebabs that are way tasty. They shave the meat off the skewer and put it in a pita or wheat tortilla with lettuce, tomato, cabbage, a red sauce and a white garlic sauce and then close it up and grill it. They’re cheap and one of the few “to-go” restaurants here that’s also open late. So maybe it’s more like Taco Bell, because everyone craves them after a night out at the bars...
Anyway, after our meal, we avoided eye-contact and dodged all of the restaurant greeters, found a grocery store and bought some food for the weekend. It was hilarious to me how excited I was to be buying groceries and picking out meals to cook myself. Obviously, I booked it to the cereal aisle first, and ended up eating almost an entire box of Smacks that night out of a cooking pot, because the bowls in our apartment weren’t big enough for my gluttonous desires. While I stuffed my face with my first bowl of cereal with cold milk in MONTHS, we turned on the tv (by inserting 1 euro into the coin box attached... yeah, we had to pay to watch tv...) and got hooked on Van Helsing in Spanish. I was amazed at how many Spanish words and phrases I was able to understand, and since then I’ve tried to watch movies on tv dubbed over in Spanish and it’s really helped me keep developing my ear for the language.
The next day was beach day. Needless to say, it was fabulous. We napped on the beach, walked out to the sand dunes adjacent to Playa del Ingles, and strolled through the restaurants and gift store upon gift store lining the beach. Among the restaurants we saw, there were various “American style” diners, even a Hooters (heavy sigh). We cooked dinner, and by dinner I mean pounds and pounds of pasta, watched more Spanish television, and tried to form a game plan for the next day. The bus schedule for Maspalomas was the most confusing and convoluted thing I had ever seen, and I was quick to give up on the search for transportation (other than from our hotel to the airport) and just hang out the next day. Laurel and Steven were slightly more determined to see something else on this island other than German tourists, and decided to go to an inland pueblo called San Bartolome, just for kicks.
The next morning, unable to track down the 8 am bus to San Bartolome, we ended up taking a taxi there. 30 minutes, switchback roads in the middle of nowhere, and Kelsey with borderline intense nausea later we arrived in what appeared to be an abandoned town. It was a Sunday morning, and typically Spanish towns don’t wake up til later, except for Mass, and there was hardly anybody up and about when we got there. It was a very relaxing morning, wandering cobblestone streets and hiking up a hill to find an incredible view of San Bartolome, the mountain we came up, and the valley beyond it stretching all the way to the ocean. I took a bunch of pictures (that can’t fit on my computer because my hard drive is full... AWESOME), and we enjoyed a beer on a sidewalk cafe before catching a bus back down to Maspalomas. The decent was even less fun than the trip up; we were on a charter bus, flying down the mountain, taking every turn like nobody’s business. I think Laurel and Steven’s stomachs felt the same as mine did... we all looked pretty pale and didn’t say a word, just stared straight ahead, the entire way down.
After that, we collected our gear, bid farewell to the sun, surf, and Germans, and caught a bus to the airport to fly back home to Valladolid.
As amazing as it was to spend a weekend on a beach in a swimsuit in November, I feel like I get much more out of my trips when I can connect to the native culture of a city or country. Maspalomas is so overrun with tourism that it seemed fake.
As I conclude this blog, I’m about to start packing for my next trip; tomorrow Erica and I leave for Paris. It literally is a life long dream of mine coming true. I can hardly wrap my head around it. Much more blogging about the city of love after Erica and my romantic weekend together concludes, I still need to write about our misadventures last weekend (León is a cool city... kinda...) in addition to everything I’m looking forward to in France. Our to-do list so far looks like:
-Eiffel Tower
-Louvre
-Orsay
-Saint-Chapelle
-Notre Dame
-catacombs
-Arch de Triumph
-Jim Morrison’s grave
-Versailles
-all the crepes, croissants, wine and cafe I can stand
PLEASE don’t hesitate to email me with any more must see sights or restaurants in Paris! Much love to all, hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. The countdown has officially began: California in 21 days!
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