Last day in Barça

Last day in barça

It's my last day In Barcelona and I feel like I'm coming down from some kind of high. I'm getting sad.  I'm tearing up In the streets, already plotting my return.

I'm exhausted from days of walking.  I just bought a brand new 10-trip train pass and I decided that I would use the fuck out of it.  I wasn't walking ANYWHERE.

Goal 1: go back to Sagrada familia and replace the geometry shirt I bought years ago.  Goal 2: new beach.
Goal 3: dinner with Olga, Sergio, and Jakob.

That's all I had the energy for.

The beach I chose was otcat beach, just a little bit further than montgat north.  There's four teenage boys blasting reggaeton music and yelling at each other loudly.  Generally I'm annoyed by this, but at least I don't have to listen to them yell in English, and I do love me some reggaeton.  Well, this lady, a little bit older than me goes IN.  She starts yelling at them: put your feet down. Watch your mouths, watch your language.  I have young boys here.  Don't you know how to behave yourself?  I am a mother.  Your mother didn't teach you how to behave?  They argues a bit, but eventually STOPPED.  And this woman is now trying to discuss it with people around her and they're not talking back to her.  So right before I get off, and I can't help myself, I go up to her and tell her that I thought what she did deserved applause.  She says thank you, and did you notice no one says anything?  Everyone just sits there, quiet?  And my boys are here, embarrassed?  And did you see my husband?  He was so angry he moved to the next car.  It takes a village here, too, I guess.

Ocata beach is a wide beach, and already I'm not excited.  I didn't even want to walk to the water.  At this point, im really comfortable leaving my shit on the beach without worrying about someone stealing it.  Im taking the best Lounger in the world in and out of the water, knowing that I'm going to miss the fuck out of that thing really soon. This beach is much younger, and there's teenagers everywhere.  They're not acting like like assholes, everyone's fine.  But I still prefer the old people and family beach.  I guess I'm growing up, or just not trying to get bullied by the cool kids.

I decide to hide from the sun and I go to the chiringuito.  I ask the young waitress for a beer, and ask if there is wifi.  She says "no wifi!  You're on the beach, you're supposed to be relaxing!"  Bitch, I've been doing nothing but talking to no one and relaxing for hours, don't tell me how to fucking relax.  But I smile, and tell her she's right.  I ask the 4 drunk girls if they'll take a picture of me, and start to tell them why I want a picture of myself with my middle finger up.  One takes it, says "ugh, it's better with the sea behind you," and another say "ugh, New York, I've been there, your beaches are ugly."  I am totally getting bullied by all the teenagers at otcat beach.  Take me back to st. Pol de mar where people applaud me and my magnificent lounger.

 I know Sergio from college.  He lived in my dorm and his fraternity and my sorority got along, so we went to the same parties.  I always thought he was great, but we weren't close at all.  we had met up for the first time since graduating this past February in Copenhagen, where he lives with his partner, Jakob.  When I got to Barcelona, Sergio told me he and Jakob were going to be here at the same time, so I jumped at the chance to meet up with him again.  Olga recommends a place called bitxirracu, carrer de Valencia 122.  It's in eixample, a very gay-friendly neighborhood, and they have two more inventive tapas tasting menus.  One is €18 a person, one is €23, so we get two of each and decide we're just going to share everything.  Sergio tells us that "family style" is not a Danish sensibility, and that Jakob doesn't like to do that. I laugh, because Justin is the same way.  We should all go out to dinnerLuckily, everything is carefully laid out such that each serving is divisible by 4, except for a zucchini mousse and the desserts.  The food was the best I had in Barcelona, especially for such a reasonable price.

Sergio convinces me to go a gay bar with them.  It's 11pm, and I've got to leave at 7am for my flight.  One drink, I tell them.  Yeah, sure.  1 becomes 3, because clearly when a frat guy offers to buy a sorority girl a drink, you still say YES, even 25 years later.  Dumbass.  We make friends with a group of gorgeous, funny guys from philly, and you know I didn't leave until 3am, because it was just that much fun.

A quick taxi ride to Olgas, and I pass right out.  I set three alarms.  I've got three and a half hours to sleep.

Holy shit I feel like hell.  I wake up in a pool of sweat, a combination of drinking, the Barcelona heat, and neurosis that my three alarms aren't going to go off.  I suck it up.  Get my ass into the shower, a kiss for Olga, and run out the door. I'm speeding down the street to catch the airport bus at plaça espanya 8 or 10 blocks away.  The bus comes every 10 minutes, but I'm still nervous.  I'm always afraid I'm going to be late.

This is where the chest pains start.  I was so anxious, I had chest pains.

I got to the airport two and a half hours early.  I really need to embrace a little more Justin style chill.  I did NOT need to be nearly that early.  You'd think this would have calmed me down, but no.  Still nervous.  The one line that I'm waiting on for bag drop starts to break off when multiple windows open, and whenever a new line opens, for whatever reason, I'm the last in the longest line.  Whatever gift my father has for finding free parking, I inherited, but I instead I have the gift for picking the longest lines everywhere: in the supermarket, in the airport.  I'm growing more anxious, even though I know it doesn't matter at all.  I tell myself it doesn't matter.  One guy in line ahead of me lets in his extended family of 12.  Cindy, it doesn't matter.  Calm down.  Breathe.

I drop off my bag and Ryanair still lets me keep that lounger.  I'm tired.  And I see a sunglass hut, a place Justin and I have a thing about (not telling what!) and all of a sudden it occurs to me.

My plans is going to crash.  I'm going to die.

I don't like to fly.  I'm always bit nervous.  Turbulence takes my breath.  But this was different.  I really thought today was the day.  This was it.

And everything I saw became "a sign."  Everything.  That sunglasses hut.  I was never going to see Justin again.

I thought about my sister. Why was I thinking about her?  Was she reaching out to me?  Was she telling me to not get on that plane?  I would think she would find a way to tell me.  OH MY GOD, my friend who was supposed to come, she's a good Christian.  Did god intervene and THATS why she said she couldn't come?  Did she see a sign too?!?  Everything became a sign.  I wish that someone could have been with me to take notes about all of the crazy shit I was thinking.  All of the "signs" I saw.  And i was convinced it was all true.

Why didn't I call my parents before I left?  Asshole.  I should have called my parents.  I'm their last daughter left and i didn't even call them last night.  Justin's my beneficiary, he'll get all my retirement money.  That's good, he'll be better off without me.

I get to the gate and I just want to get on that plane and try to go to sleep so I stop thinking all of these thoughts.  It's Ryanair, which used to have a shitty reputation for being a really shitty low-cost airline.  I booked a business class ticket somehow, so I'm on the priority line.  Well that's great... The quickest way to my impending death.  Me, a lady in a wheelchair, and a small Portuguese boy with either a very young grandmother or a somewhat older mom.

I don't know if the kid is nervous, or the grandmamom is nervous, but this chick is talking NONSTOP.  My Portuguese isn't very good, but she's babbling at this 4 year old, just repeating herself over and over and over, so I understand everything.  It was either neurosis or she was trying to distract him, even though he didn't seem to be too upset about flying. "Look at this! Que Chuli!"  "Look at that! Que Chuli!"  Over and over again.  Explaining to him what they have to do next, how they're going to get In line, stay In a line, walk onto the plane, sit in their seat.  She doesn't pause to take a breath.  And in my delicate state (or let's be honest, even I were in my normal non-delicate state,) I am losing it.  If grandmamom says "que Chuli" one more fucking time I'm going to punch her.

So I get on board.  Business class priority means that I'm in the first row with all the leg room.  Except that when you're in the first row, the arm doesn't go up, it's where the tray table is.  So my plan of lying down in my friend's unoccupied seat goes out the window.  I can't even have the privilege of lying down and napping well before my plane crashes.

And you KNOW grandmamom is in the row RIGHT BEHIND ME.  And the boy is in the seat right behind me.

It doesn't take long for this kid to start kicking my seat. And now I realize.  THIS IS A TEST.  God is testing me.  I'm not even religious.  But this is a test.  If I snap at this kid, I'm going to die.  If I keep it together, maybe God will let me live.  If I don't yell at this woman, maybe he will let me live.

God, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I've been mean.  I promise I'll be better.  I'll be more forgiving.  I'll change.  I just don't want to die today.  And I'm dead serious.

I let this little boy kick my chair.  He's not even kicking really hard.  Kick away, little boy.  I squirm in my seat and I finally torque myself into a position that lets me breathe a little and start to fall asleep.

But then suddenly a hand reaches out and grabs me, and I feel myself jump in the air.  Surely it's the flight attendant waking me up to tell me to prepare for evacuation.  My heart is RACING.

No, grandmamom finally stopped talking to this boy and he was bored, so he reached out at me between the seats to get my attention.  I whip my head around like a demon possessed and glare at him so hard like razor blades were shooting out of my eyes.  I say nothing, as I promised God.  He is just smiling back sweetly.

Never mind this plane crashing; surely I am just going to have a heart attack.

I feel the need to admit that I have a prescription of Xanax with me, which I used for panic attacks after my sister died.  I now use it to sleep on those random occasions where i wake up in middle of the night and can't seem to fall back asleep.  Justin always tells me that I shouldn't do it, because it's not its intended use.  My feeling is, it works, and it's not often, so who cares (it's the lowest possible dose.). Well, now would be the perfect time to use it, as this is what it's meant for, but I was too nervous to even take it.

I get myself to fall asleep slightly, and my new little boyfriend now thrusts his tiny toy dinosaur at me between the chairs.  Still smiling.

I can't help myself.  God, please forgive me. I promise to be nice.  And with the nicest tone I can muster I turn and tell the lady, I'm sorry, Senhora, I'm trying to sleep.  Can you please?  I swear to God, I was nice.

Even scared out of my wits, I can't hide from myself.

The plane lands calmly.  There was zero turbulence.  Smooth as silk.  It was an hour and twenty minutes and felt like a lifetime.  Thank you, God, I'm a believer.  I'll be nice now, I swear.  Nice and kind and forgiving to people.  I'm crying.  Like, fighting back my tears.  I stop myself from kissing the ground, and crossing myself... Like I'm a Jew, a Christian, and a Muslim all of a sudden.  I hope no one is paying attention to me.  This rare combination of no sleep, dehydration, hangover, menstruation, and flying really fucked me up today like never before.

I walk into the airport, and for whatever reason, there's a special welcoming committee In a cordoned off and decorated area in the luggage area.  There's tables of free Portuguese food and drink.  People dressed in folk costumes singing, smiling, waving, and playing the accordion.  A literal fucking welcoming committee.  I'm ready to have a heart attack and I'm crying and there's guys in folk hats and short pants here to welcome me.  I realize my folly, my waste of energy, the silliness of this whole scene, and I still can't come down.

My luggage comes right away, and instead of leaving, I plop myself down, shook, connect to wifi and tell my mom I love her.

She tells me how beautiful dad and she think I am.  How beautiful I've become.

I'm crying. I don't leave the airport for an hour.

My typical day in Barcelona

GETTING COFFEE
I wake up, and get a proper coffee outside.  No more instant coffee I was (happily) drinking in the baltics.  The shit here is too good.  I am impressed by my gut reaction to say "cortado" instead of "macchiato."

Barcelona is the only other place in the world that feels as much to me like home as home does.  I've been lamenting the slow decline of my Spanish over the last couple of years, but as much as I feel like I have lost it at home, the second I get back here it rebounds.

I take my coffee in the plaza near my friends Toni and Olga.  One day, at Cucut biz and bar.  I ask for a cortado doble, because I haven't been sleeping so well.  She is very confused; this isn't something they do, and was I sure? How did I want it? And she explains to me the proportions of milk and espresso in a cortado, and it wasn't going to fit in the normal glass.  Did I want twice the espresso and the same milk?  Did I want two cortados together, in a larger, cafe con leche glass? Would I prefer white or brown sugar?  She was so sweet and just trying to make sure my coffee was good.  Talking some more, Katarina tells me she's from Georgia (the country but not the state) and I tell her all about Justin, and how he plays with our friend, Georgian singer Mariami (who I name drop... Everyone knows who she is) and how we just came from the Baltic and we ate khachapuri and we eat khinkali at home and I know how to make satsivi, and I almost make her cry.  She shows me the hair of her arms standing up.  There are so few Georgians in Barcelona.

One day I wander into Bar Ernesto, at Hostafrancs station, where Toni and Olga live.  Its a bar catering to mostly old people, sitting all day drinking their beer and coffee and eating tiny sandwiches.  When I'm alone in a foreign place, this is where i want to be; surrounded by old people.  Old people aren't going to be shouting at each other loudly in English.  They're not going to annoy me. This neighborhood doesn't have anything for tourists, anyway.  Toni is there with Èrica (the accent goes the "other way" in Catalan), their 8-year old.  Èrica and I became fast friends last night, when she showed me her math notebook and translated all of her written Catalan into Castilian Spanish so I would understand.  She told me that an isosceles triangle has two equal sides and one that isn't equal.  It's good to know that teachers get this wrong all over the world.  I didn't correct her.

I sit with Toni and Èrica, and I order a cortado doble.  Both Toni and the bartender gasped lightly.  I swear, i could have ordered two shots of whisky and not have gotten such a strong reaction.  Toni says "so strong in the morning?  You don't want something with more milk?!?"  Ok, fine, I'll order regular cortados from now on.

Except that after three days, the bartender already knows my coffee order and greets me with "cortado?"  Barcelona... More like home than home is.

WALKING AROUND TOWN
I can't remember how many times I have been to Barcelona.  Eight? At this point, I don't really want to do anything touristy.  I love the miró museum, and I go almost every time.  Not this time.  The Sagrada familia church, an enormous, incredible, gothic church, finally has taken down most of the scaffolding that has been up for years.  I walked around it but didn't go in.  It's like trying to get into the Vatican.  I've been inside before, it's great.  not interested.  Sometimes it's what's on the outside that counts.  This time, I was going to try to discover new things.  And I was NOT going to be on Las Ramblas.  AT ALL.  Las Ramblas is a pedestrian mall akin to Times Square.  Characters in costumes, guys standing still dressed like metal.  A fuck ton of slow tourists.  It's kinda hard to avoid, because it's long and is right smack in the center of town.  I got robbed on las Ramblas once.  A horror show.  Not the robbery.  That was smooth as silk. Las Ramblas is a horror show.

This is the best thing about the Internet and an iPhone... Just pick a place as a destination and just walk around.  There's a metro station every couple of blocks here.  Before the iPhone, it was really easy to get turned around.  Barcelona was organized by a madman... No grid at all, and all of the tiny streets converge haphazardly into small plazas, and change names along the way.  But now, just walk.  And when you're tired, just get into any metro station.  Easy.

I really like thrift stores.  This is a fairly recent discovery.  The goodwill stores have really stepped up their game at home.  I think they get not only rich people's cast offs after they've worn them only once, but also extra stuff that was from a previous season.  Whatever it is that used to go to places like Daffy's and Loehmanns.  Because I've gotten so much stuff from very expensive labels that I swear have never been worn.

I notice on this trip a chain of stores called Humana.  Same concept as goodwill, but the proceeds go to helping (mostly) Africa.  And they've got some good stuff, some of it overstock from Spanish labels like Desigual and Custo Barcelona.  Both labels feature often loud prints that are "mismatched," and usually I don't like it.  I'm the kind of person who wears at most two colors, one of which is usually black.  But I guess if you've been here long enough, that shit starts to look good to you, because I've bought a couple of things that I've convinced myself look good on me.  Maybe it's that it goes with tan.  Or the heat's gotten to me.  Or I'm delusional.

So what I've been doing is that I pick a place that has a Humana store, go to it, shop a little, and then just wander around that neighborhood.  Or I pick a restaurant, go there, wander around that neighborhood.  I can wander for hours.  By myself, just wandering the streets, looking in Windows, listening to people, sitting in parks, eating lunches and fresh fruit or ice cream.  Wandering around in the sun.

GOING TO THE BEACH
After the lunching and wandering, I pick a beach and go.  Only for about 2 hours.  That's about all I can take before I'm tired, or hot, or tipsy from the one beer I've ordered to escape from the heat.  When you're at home, going to to the beach feels like an ORDEAL.  I hate it.  It takes too long, it's hot and gross, and then you get there, and the BEACH is gross,  the WATER is gross.  Argue with me all you like; I think they're all disgusting.

Most beaches here have a chiringuito (beach bar) where you can hang out forever and no one cares.  I ask the girl for a beer with lime.  She asks me if I mean a "Clara," which is a surprisingly delicious and very refreshing combination of beer and lemon Fanta, the only Fanta flavor we don't seem to have in the states, which is a goddamn shame. Nope, I mean, take a slice of lime and put it in there.  She is sweet, but incredulous.  Really?  Are you sure?  Just like my cortado doble.  Yes, really.  She comes back with a lime slice dunked in there, and she says, "like this?"  I say, sure, that's fine, but normally you just squeeze it in there.  She takes the glass back, smiling but still really concerned at my crazy request.  I see her squeezing the shit out of that lime.  She brings it back and eagerly waits for me to taste it.  Perfect, I tell her.  She's so confused.  I tell her to try it and she makes a face and laughs.  Later on I tell her it's a little thing I had in Belize, because the beer is very clear and flavorless, not like the local Barcelona favorite, Estrella damm, a slightly darker beer. It still tastes great to me, because what isn't better with a squeeze of fresh lime?

Barcelona proper has a metro-accessible beach called Barceloneta, but I stopped going there years ago after I got robbed there, too.  Another effortless robbery.  My favorite beach is Sant Pol de Mar, on the Maresme coast, a 1-hour light rail ride away.  It is quiet, and peaceful, and the water is clear.  There are beaches on the Maresme that are closer, and they all have a different character.  montgat nord: more waves, clear, clean, and not packed full of older people.  Otcat: wider beach, younger people, clean and clear water, young waitress at the chiringuito tells me there's no wifi, I'm supposed to be relaxing at the beach.  I'm pleased with her.

In preparation for this trip, I bought this flotation thing called SpringFloat.  I hadn't ever used it, but I was stupidly excited to.  Like, I was sure it was going to be the highlight of my trip, lying on it in the clear, crisp water.  It lay in wait in the large suitcase Justin had been carrying for three weeks, waiting for Barcelona beach time.  I was petrified I wouldn't be able to bring it on the plane, because I traded suitcases with Justin for the small one for the remainder of my trip without him.  I was overjoyed with Ryanair (which has a shit reputation) when the flight attendant said it wouldn't be a problem.  ecstatic.  It comes in a lightweight circular carrying bag, about 2.5' in diameter, and when you open the bag, it springs into a 5.5' long lounger.  You inflate an outer ring with only 7 puffs, and you inflate the attached pillow about the same.  The rest of the body of the ring is mesh, so when you're on it, floating you're floating IN the water rather than ON the water.

I carry this goddamn thing EVERYWHERE.  Shopping, walking, out to lunch.  I recognize that this is ridiculous.  Olga makes fun of me.  But I get to Sant pol for the first time, and I open the case, wondering how the fuck I'm ever going to get it back in.  I quickly realize that I can use it instead of a beach towel to lie on the sand.  And it has a GODDAMN PILLOW.  I am alone, and smiling like an idiot. I am so pleased with myself.  I notice that the old tan lady near me is staring at me.  Well fuck you, old lady hater.  I've carried this thing for 3 weeks like Jesus with his cross and I'm going to enjoy every second.

After about 10 minutes in this perfect Barcelona weather, and I decided I'm warm enough to go in the water.  So I go to the lady and ask her in Spanish if I can leave my things with her to watch when I go in.  She recoils and at stammers....oh, she's British.  She's relieved to hear me speak to her in English.

"Can I leave my things with you while I go in the water?"
"Yes, but only if you tell me where you got that WONDERFUL thing."

I have made more friends with this stupid lounger here than I would if I were walking around NYC with a tiny dog.  This is all anyone can ask me.  I let another lady take it out for a spin, and she's on the beach, taking notes on the name and how to get it on amazon.

Best $17 I've ever spent.

AFTER THE BEACH
Well, I don't have it in me to go out so late.  I don't do clubs, and I've been walking ALL DAY.  Spaniards go out LATE, eating a small dinner around 9.  One night I made a nice salad with Olga. One night we went to a swing dance thing.  This is how Olga, Toni, and I met many years ago.  She used to teach swing here, but since she had Èrica, they don't dance too much anymore.  Everyone reacts to her the way they do to me when I go to a swing event in New York... A mix of surprise and elation.  She is greeted warmly, and as i am with her, I am greeted in kind, with two kisses.  I reminisce with Pep and Emi, a couple I have also seen many times since.  The swing dance community here is wonderful, and I've always enjoyed meeting them.

One night, I decided I need more pulpo a gallego, my favorite Spanish dish.  It's octopus leg, cut crosswise, placed on a wooden tray, and broiled with olive oil, Spanish smoked paprika, and salt.  UNFORTUNATELY, it's not a Catalonian dish (many parts of Spain consider themselves separate from Spain and wish to secede... Barcelona is part of catalunya, where the secession desire is strongest) so it's hard to find.  But I know I've had it at cucut bar.  It's 9:30 pm, and I haven't eaten since 2.  I'm starving.  I order a rosé, and halfway through it the chef comes out to apologetically inform me that they are out of octopus.  Well, they're out of everything (it's more a lunch place than a dinner place) except some mayonnaise-y salads and something called "esquiexada de bacalao."   Normally, I would be annoyed, because I was hungry, and really looking forward to octopus.  But between the half glass of rosé already taking effect on a near-empty stomach, and the sheer joy Barcelona brings me, I have a rare "fuck it" moment.  Sure, bring me that, and an order of pa amb tomaquet, bread rubbed with garlic, fresh tomato, olive oil and salt.  So much better than it sounds.

So I do whatever anyone in my position would do: on vacation, not much food to be had, alone In a delightful bar where the wine is €1.35 a glass... I get wasted and spend the whole time on the Internet drunk texting anyone who want one, and some who don't.  No shame, no regrets.

I was supposed to be here with a colleague of mine, who felt the need to cancel on me.  Pretty fucking shocking.  I was going to share this with her.  But now I get to keep it all to myself.  Olga, Toni, and èrica, the wine and the food, all of the Spanish i've gotten to speak, this amazing city and the perfect beaches on its fringe, and the best beach lounger $17 can buy.

No shame, no regrets.  I wouldn't change a thing.

"Spain is the best Europe"

"Spain is the best Europe. France is uptight, Italy tries to kill you with unairconditioned trains.  At least in Spain when they do that they give you boxes of food." -Justin

I just. Fucking. love. Barcelona.

There's no greater city, except  for New York, in my opinion. It's spectacularly beautiful, with old as shit gothic buildings, beautiful squares and monuments.  The food is stupidly good, and there's a lot of variety.  I want traditional tapas all the time, but there's everything here, and as long as you don't eat somewhere super touristy and horrible, you're going to eat well, and you can eat well without breaking the bank.  There's so many options.  Barcelona is walkable, bikable, and the public transportation system is comprehensive, inexpensive, and easy to use.  There's a beach in the center of town, and although it's not the nicest of beaches, it's IN THE CENTER OF TOWN, and it's still better than nyc's best beach.  To me, this is everything I want in a city.

Yes, it has its problems.  A lot of them.  It seems like they have the exact same problems that we have in New York... The costs have risen so much and the pay has not... No one can afford anything anymore and it's not getting any better.  This was a conversation I had with my friends Toni and Olga a number of years ago.  I've been coming to Barcelona since before 2000, when it was still on the peseta, and I have seen the prices skyrocket.  For me, that means that a pitcher of sangria used to cost about $5 and now one glass of wine is about $4.  It is more and more expensive every time I come here, so although it is still less expensive here than New York, and a relative bargain when compared to France, I can't imagine what it must be like for the average family here.  

We're staying on the edge of el born, a neighborhood that Olga told me about a couple of years ago.  Medieval winding streets, small shops, nice and cute restaurants.  Justin, my friend Monica, and I came here together a couple of years ago, and when we arrived this time, justin noted that he thought there was a lot more stuff now.  He starts going on about how el born must be gentrifying, and how shitty that is (a frequent topic of conversation.). I'm not dismissive of this.  In fact, we start noticing that there are hand-written banners all over el born saying, in Catalan of course, that el born is not for tourists, that people in el born deserve some peace, and one claiming "where is the soul of el born?"  Unfortunately, this is the problem with nice places.  Tourists find out about them, and ruin everything.

Luckily for us, we've got our own problems in New York to feel shitty about, so we go about our business being tourists who are ruining things.

We're about 6 hours late, because of the train debacle.  I'm glad I had the sense to let our B&B host know that we had no internet, and that if we were late we couldn't be able to contact her.  So we get to the apartment, and sit down at the cafe outside, for some coffee, beer, and wifi.  The apartment is right in front of the arc de triomf park, which is reminiscent of our own arc de triumph park: Washington square.  Places to sit, not really a green space, people jogging, reading, hanging out, relaxing.  

We sit down to get some drinks, and some wifi, and i say "I wonder if they still swing dance on Sundays at ciutadella park," something I did a long time ago with some friends I made a million years ago: Toni, Olga, pep, and emi, who I met when I hosted toni and Olga in my tiny studio apartment during the Harlem jazz dance festival, when I used to swing dance.  At this point, I seem to only swing dance at the mermaid parade, and when I leave New York.  If I see people swing dancing, I'll join in.  But I don't do it anymore.  Didn't like the music.  It's a funny thing, because that's how I met justin.  He was playing Swing music at the mermaid parade fundraiser about 7 years ago, and I was dancing.  On our second date or so, I broke the news to him that I didn't actually like swing music.  Turns out he doesn't either.  That was a relief.  

About 10 minutes later, i hear it.  Swing music, right across the street. Not only is there still swing dancing at the park, it's right in front of us.  I message pep; he and emi are in Stockholm, and Toni and Olga are in the Canary Islands,  Justin seems relieved not to have to sit around watching me swing dance and talk with a bunch of spanish dudes

The Barcelona beach, called barceloneta, isn't good enough for me, between the crowd, the less-clean water, all of the dirty backpackers, and the time I got robbed there.  Olga turned me on to San Pol de mar, one of the many little beachfront villages to the north of Barcelona, on what's called the Maresme coast.  It's my favorite beach in the world, and I've been to some nice fucking beaches, if you'll forgive me for being that asshole.  The water is crystal clear, and pleasantly crisp.  The train stops AT THE BEACH, so you hop off the train, take 20 steps, and you're there. The beach is barely populated.  There's a little port with some boats, a little beachfront bar (xiringuito).  There's no chair services, but in the little town you can buy a beach umbrella for $15 which is less than the costs of one beach chair elsewhere in this part of Europe.  You get on a regional train from BCN, and after about 15 minutes, you're riding alongside the water the whole way.  Sant pol is about an hour outside of BCN, further than many, but worth it.

Spain means mostly two things to me: jamón, and pulpo.  I came for a couple of beach days, but I couldn't wait to eat me some octopus.

We walk towards the center of El Born, and like a beacon, there it is: Pulperia.  House of octopus.  A traditional looking tapas bar: you just look around, and point to some stuff, and they heat it up or fry it up, and serve it to you.  We sit at the bar, get some fried calamari, ham croquettes, and a slice of the tallest tortilla española I've ever seen.  It has onions In it, and I don't tell justin when I notice, because he's so tired from his long day of carrying the majority of our shit along train tracks that he doesn't even seem to care.  I'm pleased to find out that when you order pulpo, it's pulpo a la gallega, which means it's cut into disks and fired up on a wooden dish dripping with Olive oil, sprinkled with salt and a healthy dose of smoked paprika.  Justin doesn't really like seafood, so I got to eat all of it by myself, which I might have done anyway even if he did like it.  I get wine, and they serve it in a little bowl.  I vaguely remember this being something of a Galician thing.  

We ask if he's got some kind of after dinner drink, and he gives us a couple of options, and since we don't know what any of it means anyway, we just tell him to choose.  It's some kind of after-dinner whisky/amaro thing that I'm not particularly into, but justin seems to like it, so it seems that Spain is another place we can indulge in our amaro fascination.

Bill comes, and it's only about €35.  I go to charge it, as I'm not trying to take out any more cash at this point.  In Europe, instead of them taking your card away and bringing to a register, they bring a little hand-held machine to the table and run it there.  Most European credit cards has a little chip on the front, and although their hand-held machines have the capability to swipe our magnetic strip cards, it's so antiquated to them that most people we deal with are completely baffled on how to swipe a card.  They always ask how it goes in, after trying incorrectly a couple of times, like tourists in the city with their metro card.  This guy looks at my card, starts laughing, and hold up the little machine to his ear, like a telephone, and pretends to speak into it.  "Hello, America?" He says, gently mocking us, "I have to charge this card," insinuating that our old-ass technology is akin to using some kind of dial-up service. 

In fact, the whole restaurant is run by Spanish bros, which is adorable because they're spaniards and not Americans, joking with us and each other the whole time, lighthearted, smiling, good service, but nonplussed that there are a bunch of tourists in their restaurant.  I love these guys.  

We wound up going back there two days later, and not only did they remember us, but our waiter pointed to where we sat and brought out the same bottle of liquor he recommended when we were done with our food at the end.  Three days in Barcelona, and I had more of a "local" than I do in my own neighborhood where I've lived for 12 years.  In fact, the closest I have is East, the conveyor belt sushi joint across the street that I have eaten at pretty much every week for the last 13 years, and I don't know anyone there and they don't know me.  I guess that's what I pay all that rent for in NYC: anonymity.

At another tapas place, we discover that Spain does have its own after-drink liquor situation.  So Justin orders Orujo  There's a white and a green version, and justin orders the white, having no idea what the difference is.  I order Patxaran, also having no idea what it is.  Part of the fun.  Justin loves his.  It tastes like aguardiente to me.. Just strong and alcoholic, and I can't really taste whatever flavor it's made of.  Maybe it's just everclear.  Mine tastes like boozy chamomile tea.  Not bad, but Italy still wins the after-dinner drink contest hand down.

Justin decides he wants to bring a bottle of Orujo home.  We go to the wine store, which is called a bodega in Spanish.  This is really funny to justin, as "bodega" at home certainly isn't a beautiful, comprehensive wine store like what a bodega is in Spain.

So we walk into this bodega, and I tell the guy that justin wants an Orujo.  He's got one, and he says it's very good, and better than what you'd find in a market.  We don't know any better, and it is this guy's store, so we really don't have too much of a choice to believe him.  It's us, the store owner, and some guy rolling a cigarette, sitting on a chair, wearing a Yankees cap.  The guy agrees, and says it's a really good Orujo.  So I start asking what it's like, and what's the difference between a green Orujo and a white one.  The guy in the Yankees cap takes over.  This is all going on in Spanish, and justin I'm sure understands a bit, especially since this guy is very animated with his expression and his emotions, but it's basically between me, the shop owner, and this dude.  He says that the green one is herbal.  I now say, "THAT's the one we want!" And both of these guys now express their disdain and disapproval.  Yankees fan crinkles his face and says, "listen, the green one is herbal, it's for digestion, it's weak, it's not very serious.  The white one is muy fuerte (very strong.)". Justin's big blue eyes light up, knowing full well what "muy fuerte" means, and yells out "si! Muy fuerte!" And Yankees fan cracks up and shakes Justin's hand and pulls it to his chest, in that simple expression of bro-ing out that doesn't need translation.  Two guys who love their liquor strong.  The great equalizer.  

The guy wraps up the Orujo, and Yankees dude asks us where we're from.  He's really excited to find out where we're from, and more excited when he finds out I like salsa.  He says everyone thinks he's Puerto Rican, because of his dark skin, Yankees cap, and love for salsa music.  I loved this guy,  He's the guy who hangs out at the bodega, smoking cigarettes.  No matter how nice the bodega looks, no matter what country, there's always a dude who just hangs out there.  

We were only there for a couple of days, a stopover on the way home.  But man, I can't wait to come back.  It feels as much like home as New York does.

Lisbon

I take a train to Lisbon. At this point, if I NEVER have to see another cobblestone street it will be too soon. I was so excited to talk to Evelyn that I forgot to pull up the instructions to the next hostel. AGAIN. I don't even know what stop to get off on the train... so I choose the 2nd stop because a lot of people didn't get off the first. Wrong. Not the biggest problem, in retrospect, but it was the one further away. All I had on me was a google map that showed that there WAS a metros station nearby, but it didn't say which. It was 10 pm, and no one was working at any information desk. Also, Oriente station is like a mall. There are 3 or more levels of shopping, transit, and it seemed huge and I was lost. After about 20 minutes, I did figure out how how to pay, where to go, and what to do, thanks to Lisbon's beyond excellent maps in the station. If it weren't for that, I'd probably still be trying to get there. So I arrived in Lisbon much later than I wanted to. Hostel Salitre, recommended to me by Isadora, is gorgous. It's a renovated house, sparkling clean and modern. And once again, I am fortunate to have m y own room. It was cheaper than a lot of the other hotels, only by about 4 Euros or so, but as soon as I stepped outside, I knew why. THERE IS NOTHING around. It's about a 20 minute walk (or, as it turns out, an equally long train ride) to the Barrio Baixa, the main area. It's now about 11 pm, and I'm really glad that I thought to book a 2nd night in Lisbon. I was a bit tired and defeated from the traveling, and I was about to just thrown in the towel. But something inside me just said “GO!” I went to the center of town. I look for a place that looks occupied but isn't full of Americans. I find Casa da India, which reminded me so much of this dirty, hole in the wall place in Buenos Aires that cooked up the best churrasco. I knew this was the place. I sat next to some convival Greeks. The waiter tells me that they're out of almost everything, except somegrilled meats. But now I've got to get my sardine fix, so I leave. I wind up at a Brazilian joint. There's a small room playing forro, a kind of Brazilian country music that is really popular and that I've danced in New York. The place is full of Brazilian ex-pats. This is fantastic. The only food they really have, however, is Brazilian “hanburgers.” Brazilians eat some really weird street food. They like to put lots of crazy crap on their hamburgers and hot dogs that you would never think of. Then they call it x- something. Like x-jamon or x-tudo. I REALLY didn't want a hamburger, and I wouldn't even eat this craziness in Brazil. But it was late, and I liked this place, and the opening ceremonies were on. I order something that was meat, but not a meat patty. It was a hamburger bun, chopped up cooked pork pieces, a slice of cheese, a slice of cooked ham, pickles, onions, mayonnaise (fuck), CORN, and some other random shit I don't remember and am trying to forget. It was so much better than it had any right to be, probably because I was hungry and I am loathe to loathe anything Brazilian. Besides, the caipirinha was starting to kick in. If you thought the opening ceremonies were boring, imagine how boring they are with the sound off. So I go into the forro room, wondering if and when my body was going to reject the craziness I just made it deal with. It's a tightly packed room, and everyone is singing the songs, except me of course. I am sitting next to an older man, probably in his late 40's, who starts talking to me. I am speaking only portuguese and I'm pretty excited with myself, realizing the flow is much improved by the caipirinha. He tells me that my portuguese is very good. I now realize he's trying to get into my pants. He buys me another caipirinha, despite my refusal. He's nice enough and not touchy, so whatever. I barely drink it, as to be in complete control of my faculties. He gives me his number and says that he will take me up to some tower the next day if I like. I tell him I doubt it, I don't have much time. I excuse myself and head to the other room so that I don't forget to pay in my drunkenness. I meet a Brazilian guy, probably also in his late 40's, who's really tall and looks like a cross between Wolfman Jack and Penn from Penn and Teller. I said “nice song,” as he was just singing with the band- a strange but entertaining ballad rendition of New Order's “Something's got a hold on Me.” He's great. He says that I can cancel my hotel reservations and stay with him and his wife. He LOVES Americans! The other guy realizes I'm gone and comes over to the bar, with the drink he got me, and awkwardly stands next to me, not saying anything. Just standing there. Wolfman Jack says he's leaving. I kiss him goodbye, and say I will leave too. The first guy says he will walk me out. He does and I run into the cab, narrowly avoiding the kiss he was about to plant on my lips/neck. Ick. All in all though, a really nice night. The next day I spend walking around, window shopping, just absorbing Lisbon. So fucking beautiful. I went back to the Casa da India. Delicious!! More amazing grilled sardines. At night, I meet up with Evelyn. Evelyn has three kids in tow from the hostel. They just sorta followed her there, I think. No matter, the more the merrier. I was a bit hungry, so we went in search for food, and at this point of my travels I could give a shit what everyone else wants, except Evelyn. I like her!! We wander and wander, and the area where the drinking goes on is very expensive to eat in. So we walk in the oppsite direction, and it takes forever, and Evelyn doesn't care, the boy (american, but of portuguese descent, speaks a little portuguese) is definitely getting annoyed with me, the girl, Andrea (american, also of portuguese descent, speaks no portuguese) seems to have no opinion on the matter, and the Korean kid doesn't speak much english so he can't complain even if he wanted to. We finally find this little family joint and sit down. I'm all ready to order and the portuguese boy is really starting to stress me out. He is trying to help everyone, although I told him I didn't need his help, and really it's he who needs the help. He has no idea what he wants, and he's getting on my damned nerves. I get a little snippy with him. I don't care at all. He tells me that bacalao has a lot of bones in it. He is wrong. We are inadvertantly driving this poor waiter crazy. Food is delivered and all is well, although the waiter caught a guy try to rob the Korean guy's camera. None of us notice. Lisbon is full of theives and we have to be careful, he says. We go to the nightlife area and have a great time... the korean guy leaves early, soon followed by the portuguese kid who says we're having “girl time,” and thenAndrea unloads and says he's been driving her nuts. She's adorable. We just keep laughing... even when some guy walks past our table and not-so-surreptitiously steals her sangria and walks away! The next morning, I get up early to walk to the mirador that overlooks the whole city. Gorgeous. I am REALLY sad to leave Lisbon for some reason. It is so old and beautiful, walkable, the food is delicious. I had breakfast at a little place, a chewy, orange flavored tart of sorts called a queijoada that was one of the most delcious things I had ever eaten. It seems that Portugal is like Spain's kid brother. Picked on, a little worse for the wear, always trying to prove itself. A number of people in Portugal told me that the food is better, the people are nicer, the prices are better, even though they share a similar culture, a similar climate. I do LOVE Spain, but I have been completely enchanted by Portugal. It's time to revisit that retirement scenario.

Sevilla

The first time I went to Sevilla I didn't speak too much Spanish. I only remember going to this bar that had Sevillanas performances and long communal tables. Sevillanas is a kind of non-performance flamenco that regular people do. I barely spoke Spanish, and I went to the bar to order a tapa, and I got some kind of sausage on a stick, with a small ramekin of clear liquid. Was I supposed to dip it? I awkwardly act out. She stops me and gives me a book of matches. I'm supposed to heat it up. I light the gas and warm the sausage! This is fun! I take a bite, and raw pork oozes into my mouth. Of COURSE I'm supposed to COOK it, not heat it up. Idiot. It was February break the second time I saw Sevilla. I went with my friends Nicole and Joanna for about a week. We rented an apartment. We go out, order sangria. It's delicious. We ask the bartender what goes in sangria. He says “wine, sugar, brandy, and whatever I've got.” And that's pretty much how I learned to make sangria. Drunk, we get back to the apartment, turn on the light, and we blow a fuse. It's pitch black. Joanna starts break-dancing for some reason. We cackle. The woman upstairs screams at us to shut up, she has a sleeping baby. Nicole decided instead of trying to find a fuse box, we should go into the basement to try to turn the lights on. Joanna and I yell “NO! Don't go back into the basement! People always get killed going into the basement!!” We're so afraid, in our drunken stupor, that we drag all of the beds into one room, put them together, and sleep together. We drank, shopped, ate as much manchego as a couple of girls could manage. Some 11-year olds asked us in English “you want to fuck?” We had such a great time (there was no fucking of 11-year olds.) So I didn't really plan on seeing Sevilla again, but it turns out that it is a major connection between andalucia and Madrid, and also Portugal, where I've decided to make a pitstop. In Granada, they prepare me. “Here it is hot, but in Sevilla it's HOT. All the time. Day and night.” Sevilla is really great, but the streets are just as labyrinth-like as Turkey, although they are better labeled on maps. I spend more time having no idea where I am or where I am going. I'm happy to be lost and wander. Every corner (except there are no corners, only windey little streets) has a gorgeous house to look at. There's beautiful ceramic, in andalucian style as well as moorish, everywhere, prclaiming who lived where. There's a big shopping area that is arcaded to help avert the intense heat. There's flamenco dress shops everywhere, and I want them all. They're costumy- not appropriate for any normal occasion- each dress has probably 10 yards of fabric, weighs 15 pounds, and is ornate, frilly, and over-the-top. I find the Dolce-and-Gabbana of flamenco ateliers, and am breathless. Some are meant for weddings. I marvel at them, and tell the woman that I would definitely buy one of these if I were going to get married. She jokes, “maybe if you get the dress, the man will appear.” As if that's how it works. The hostel is also brand-new, and decorated in traditional moorish style- there's an inner courtyard, tiling everywhere, and I learn that the room I've booked has NOONE ELSE IN IT. Amazing luck! I love Sevilla! The only other people at the hostel are teenaged italians. I don't think they leave the hostel. I keep seeing the girls cook, while the boys watch American cartoons. One girl is hard at work popping a pimple on the back of another girl while she is cooking. Hostel living is full of adventures and surprises!! Back to that bar, called La Carboneria, and it's lost it's charm. It's hot, sweaty, packed, and the performance is lackluster. The performers look bored and annoyed. I don't have the energy or desire to talk to anyone. The guy to my right keeps drumming on the table. It's driving me mad. I decide it's a full enough day. I walk back to the hostel for about 20 minutes, or at least I THINK I am walking back to the hostel, and I turn the corner to find my self in THE EXACT PLACE I STARTED. Know the phrase “walking in circles?” I take things very literally. A big, fat, circle. A well-meaning American girl with her parents walk up to me and that terrible accent Americans have when they speak Spanish asks me “necesita ayuda?” She's from DC and she's been studying in Seville for 10 weeks. She looks at my map and says “You want to go there,” and points to where I've circled my hostel location.” Thanks, genius, that's why I circled it. Her dad agrees. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. She can't really express to me how to get there. They offer to walk with me. I ask her “Estas estudiando? Como esta tu espanol?” She says “un poco.” Clearly the dimwit spent the the last 10 weeks spending daddy's money, getting drunk and laid, because she doesn't know how to get anywhere and can't understand the most basic of spanish. Very well meaning, though. The next day is spent souvenir shopping. All I really wanted to do was walk around. I don't even really want to go out to eat... my stomach is still a bit sensitive from the ice-cream overindulgence in Granada, and I get too lightheaded from being in the sun and having a nice drink, even one as impotent as a clara or a tinto de verano. No matter. I'm finding the dry heat pleasant, and Sevilla is delightful, especially the old Jewish quarter. It's just so pretty, so even though I don't have the drive to wait in line or pay to see the inside of the Alcazar or the Cathedral (I mean, how many insides of churches does anyone really need to look at?) I'm just enjoyng the solitude and the backdrop. I walk in circles, past one restaurant twice, which causes the waiter to invite me in and have a drink with him, I'm not interested in the companionship. I lose drive a bit towards the end of my journey, and I've been really blessed to find really cool people to talk to and hang out with, but a rest from it is welcome. I go to the alcazar gardens to see one of the nightly perfomances. This time it's classical music by a guitar duo, and the setting is so beautiful and relaxing. The temperature has finally cooled down and there's a gentle breeze. It's too dark to read the program, but I'm proud to have identified that the music was from the baroque period. I guess those years being with a musician weren't for nothing. Pooped once again, I go back to the hostel to maybe have one glass of wine and pack for my early trip. Reception is not 24 hours, and the place is crawling with French teenagers. They're loud and annoying. They even keep telling each other to “shhhh!” and it's not working. I would be more aggravated, but it dawns on me that it's the first time I've seen black and white kids hang out together since I've arrived in Spain, and that makes me happy. I try to go out and have a glass of wine, but my part of town is dead and I don't have the will to walk any more, or even take a cab. It's 12:30, early by Spanish standards, so I hold my tongue and thank GOD I still managed to have my own room. I am lulled to sleep by Brian Eno, successfully drowning out the quiet giggling of the girls in the next room.

Granada

Granada is a whole other story. I LOVE granada. Granada is probably best known for free tapas. Whatever drink you order, they bring you one free tapa, sometimes of your choosing. It's also not on the coast, so it is HOT. Like over 100 degrees hot. But dry. The hostel is called “Granada Backpackers.” I usually avoid any place with the name “backpackers” in it, because it usually signifies young douchebags trying their best to get as drunk as they can and not leave the “chillout” room and stay up all night screaming. I arrive at check-out time, and sure as shit, everyone is like “DUDE, where did you GO last night?... I was SOOOO drunk... it must have been the shots...” and I feel a tinge of fear. But the place is gorgeous, so I choke back my judgement. It's in the typical andalucian style.. it looks like nothing from the outside, but on the inside is a beautiful open courtyard that has a roll-back covering to shield the courtyard from the sun. The rooms are “apartment style,” and I get the deluxe, because I guess I think that will shield me from some of the douchebaggery for an extra $3 or so a day. The hostel is only a couple of months old, and this “apartment” is nicer than mine. I rent a bicycle from the hostel, as it's Sunday, so almost everything except the tourist attractions are closed, and I miss riding my bicycle. This was the most treacherous excuse for a bicycle I had ever seen. Rusty, rotting, fixed-gear, handlebars move, and the seat tilts backwards, as if someone calculated the least ergonomic position and glued it there. I decide I'm going to ride up to the Alhambra, and get a little visit of the free gardens before my time slot the next day (you have to buy your ticket a day in advance.) The Alhambra is the royal gardens at the top of a huge hill. So here I am, on my fixed gear death trap, and my back starts to ache after about 10 minutes. I press on. Exercise! I'm riding uphill for about 25 minutes... the long way, like an idiot, because I'm actually following New York cycling rules- you know, drive on the road, not the sidewalk. There's a main road that circumnavigates the city, and that's the road I take as it's most like a road. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE in Spain rides their bicycle on the sidewalk. Also, the cobblestone roads that look like pedestrain streets are not, and cars drive on them. So I took the longest possible route. As usual. It's about 100 degrees out (no exaggeration) and I get about halfway up and quit. My back is killing me. I fear there is irreparable damage to my left knee. Fuck it. I get up to the alhambra after about an hour, and by the time I do, I'm starving and dripping in sweat. I take the cobbled road. It takes me about 10 minutes to descend. Dumbass. I meet Anne, from Germany. She's a primary school teacher, funny, and gorgeous, and we spend the evening out. She tells this great story about how she got completely drunk with girl the night before, and they met some tattoo artists, and they gave them free tattoos. But the tattoo artists are drunk as well, so the teeny peace sign on the inside of her finger is a little sloppy, but not as bad as the big one her friend got on her neck. She's got the whole night documented on her camera, and it looks exactly like “The Hangover.” I never have, and never will, be that drunk, I think. Anne, her friend Evelyn, and I spend the afternoon walking to and around the Alhambra. It took about half the amount of time to WALK to the alhambra as it did for me to BIKE there yesterday. Fuck. We spend the morning walking the alhambra. I stupidly did not buy the ticket that included the Royal Palace, which is what I really wanted to see. Oh well. Did I mention it was HOT? Cause it's hot in andalucia, known as the “frying pan” of Spain in the summer. Anne and I walk back and I tell her how I am in love with the Dunkin Donuts in Spain. The coffee in Spain is spectacular and cheap in pretty much every little bar/cafe you go in, and at Dunkin Donuts, you can get your cafe con leche or cortado iced AND to go (not very common in Spain) and they have a donut filled with dulce de leche. I'm not a big donut person, and I haven't even had churros con chocolate yet, but I had a Dunkin Donut with dulce de leche. I'm THAT American in this instance. Se we walk around for another 45 minutes, convinced we're going to find one because now Anne must have one. You know you're dehydrated when you haven't eaten anything but you're not really hungry, you've drank 3 bottles of water and haven't peed in hours, and suddenly you can't manage to have a conversation with your companion. We both quit. Anne goes to get coffee, I decide to get ice cream. We part ways. I wander around for another half an hour looking for italian-style gelato. By the time I find it, it's like I've been wandering the desert for a century and I find an oasis. I over-order. I'll take the three-scoop- some light chocolate, leche merengada, and pistachio. It's refreshing and amazing. I get back to the hostel, and I feel completely sick to my stomach. Turns out empty stomach, heat, and dairy don't mix. I shit my brains out. Thank GOD all the girls from the hostel checked out this morning. Oof. 10 minutes later, two new girls check in. I apologize for what I am about to do to our common bathroom. Now I feel like I am going to vomit instead, so I try in vain to sleep, and I can't so much as lift my head for the next 3 hours. Isadora, from Sao Paolo, checks in as I'm starting to feel a little bit better. She tells me to wash my face, drink water, take a shower. She's adorable. I tell her I'm going to try to muster the strength to go to a flamenco show at the Alcazar gardens, and invite her to come with. I see Anne on an easy chair in the courtyard. I tell her I have been sick all afternoon. The same exact thing happened to her. She can't get off the chair. I fetch her a beer to nurse her heat-hangover. She's German. This American just tried to drink water. Isadora continues to take care of me, even though I'm completely fine. She's offering me food all day and night, candy, and hold my hand crossing the street when I do that New York thing where you stand in the street when it's not your turn to go. She's a totally sweetheart. I'm of course, biased, because she's Brazilian. The show is in an open-air theater in the gardens. Gorgeous. It's a two-parter... the first is traditional flamenco and the second is some theatrical thing about a man dreaming about a matador or something. The second part I am not so into, but the first is simply breathtaking. There's a lot of dancing with a bata de cola, the type of flamenco gown that has a train, and the dancers artfully and skillfully have to kick the train as part of the dancing. It really makes me want to learn flamenco right now. I've always saved learning flamenco until when I'm older... I have always thought that flamenco is prettiest when done by an older woman. The dance is just as much about the expression on the face of the dancer and the graceful movement of her arms as it is the power of the legs, and to me, it's more moving when someone with some years under her belt does it. I love granda. I might like to retire here. Apartments are cheap, the climate is delightfully warm (OK, I might need a summer home somewhere a bit cooler,) the food is delicious and the city is walkable. It's about an hour from a beach. I don't know that I need anything else, except for all of my friends to come with me. Who's in? It's Isadora's birthday. I buy her a little cake, leave it wrapped up on her bed with a note, and I bid her and Granada “hasta luego,” because I'm sure I will see both again.

Malaga

The first time I went to Spain was the summer of 2001, so that I could learn Spanish. I was in Salamanca, a little town about 2 hours from Madrid. They say that in Salamanca, they speak the most perfect Castillian Spanish, and the town is very safe, no one speaks English, so it's a great place to learn Spanish. But the town is really small, and FULL of very young students, many from America, complaining how nothing is open in the middle of the day and heading straight for the town's only McDonalds. I was dying to get the hell out of there. I managed to hook up with a Brazilian girl, a Japanese girl, and a couple of random guys, and we rented a car to drive down to Andalucia. I remember teaching the Japanese girl some of the myriad ways the word “fuck” can be used to form a sentence in English, that the Brazilian girl kept whining about having to find caramelos (soft gummy candies) seemingly every 10 minutes, and that we kept driving in circles for hours trying to find a hostel they could afford. All of them were students on a very tight budget, except for the Brazilian girl who just had no job, and I practically rich in comparison. It was also the time of the peseta, only a couple of years before the Euro was adopted, and Spain being one of the poorer European countries, everything was so goddamn cheap. We drove through the night, and we finally happen upon one hostal, and the Brailian girl gets out and says “ugh it's too epensive!” It was $14 a person, and they were looking to spend no more than $11. It was then that I realized that I was too old to be traveling with children. Malaga was probably the one major andalucian city we didn't make it to. So I was very excited to see Malaga. Maybe this is why I was a little disappointed. Malaga is a port city, and has an international airport, so it is the major thoroughfare for travel to the south of Spain. And in July, where there is coast, there are Germans and the English. You know how the signs in other airports have a couple of languages on the signs- usually the local tongue and English? Well, here the first language on the signs is German. They go straight from the airport to coast towns close by. Malaga has a huge alcazar at the top of a hill, and old city walls, and a lot of tourism. Victor, the gracious hostel owner, recommends a couple of areas to check out... the beach, the shopping area, the university area, and I'm not particularly impressed with any of it. It's very touristy (granted, a lot of Spanish tourists), the beaches are dirty in comparison to the other places I'd been, and at night the streets are packed with those people who are trying to get you to come to their particular club for chupitos. I guess it would've been better had I not spent all day running around, too tired to go out at 11pm or midnight to actually experience life in Malaga. So Victor recommends Nerja, a town about an hour (two with the stupid bus I chose) from Malaga. It has a really pretty beach, with lots of huge rocks and coves. It's full of Germans, but whatever. It's hot as hell. It's also the home of the most spectacular caves. I hate cave tours. Caves are usually dank, smelly, slippery. But somehow, Nerja managed to take the “nature” out of the caves. It's completely dry, and they have built a walking path in the cave so that you can walk around without actually walking on the cave floor. And inside, they have built a concert stage. I wish I were around to see a cave concert! Back in Malaga, I find this awesome bodega... the place is very simple, and the bar is actually just a very long plank of wood in front of barrels of wine all laid out. It's run strictly by grumpy old men (I LOVE grumpy old man bartenders, it seems). I asked for a recommendation, and he takes one look at me and says “take this one, it's sweet.” He gives me a glass of wine that has a very rich taste of raisins, almost syrupy. Almost too sweet for my taste, but delicious. With chalk, in front of my glass, he writes “1.50.” This is how the tab is recorded. Victor, who became a sommelier in Brooklyn, later brings us an almost identical glass of wine back at the hostel. This kind of wine is very typical of Malaga. Everyone at the hostel is so sweet. In my room, there's an adorable Italian boy who seems allergic to wearing a shirt. He's in Malaga looking for work, in the time of “the crisis,” so he's cute but probably a little bit stupid. A pair of Dutch girls ask me to go out with them. Later on, the two Spaniard girls invite me as well. I'm just not into going out for shots. I meet a pair of self-described “awkward” girls from Belgium, and convince them to go out for a quick and uneventful drink, as it seems they're not so into shots, either. I was as excited to get out of malaga as I was to get in.

Goddamn, I LOVE Barcelona

Goddamn, I love Barcelona. I arrive in the airport and take the bus to the center, a mere 20 minutes and 6 euros to Placa Espanya, just a hop, skip, and a jump from my old friends Toni and Olga, who I met when I housed them during the Harlem Jazz Festival about 100 years ago. They are the most generous hosts, and have always offered to put me up, with whatever guest I have brought with me, and even now with a little girl, they still take such good care of me. They're the most delightful people and I absolutely adore them. I keep tring to talk to Erica, their little girl. She's cute as a button. I keep trying to talk to her, and she is a little freaked out by me, I think, because I keep speaking in Castillian spanish to her, and although she understands and speaks a bit of it, she's a Catalan speaker, and I'm sure whatever accent I've concocted from my travels isn't really helping. I finally find a little kid I want to talk to and she is freaked out. That's some irony!! I don't have a cell phone here, and I went to Toni and Olga's, but they weren't there, so I go to a little bar called KuKut and have my first clara of the trip. It's half beer and half fanta limon, and I know it sounds nasty, but it's fucking delicous. Light and refreshing. I wait, and the girl at the bar offers for me to use the bar's phone, which is located behind the bar. So they're making sandwiches, and I'm making phone calls. I finally get a hold of Olga, and I run around town shopping, getting gelato, wearing myself the hell out. I go back to the same bar, and order what I think is a small tapa of pulpo a la gallego, cross sections of octupus broiled in olive oil and sprinkled in salt and paprika. It's huge. I have to eat it all. HAVE TO. I take a small rest and head off to Olga's favorite neighborhood called La Born, a labyrinth of old gothic streets, with shops, restaurants, bars. I wander into Xampanet, an old bar that specializes in Xampanyet and Cava, both the Spanish version of champagne- one is sweet and one is dry. I step up to the bar, all by myself, and order some cava (I think) and boquerones (fresh anchovies). In walks some 40-something Spaniards with some 20-something looking Russian girls. They speak Spanish, but still look vaguely uncomfortable. I am convinved they are escorts. I tell them it's good, and I start talking to one of the guys. He buys a round of cava, and one appears in front of me as well. My russian heritage has come in handy! No one buys me drinks at home!! The guy I'm talking to disappears with the paid help, and I'm making a nice little home at the bar. Three tall blonde Danes walk in. They are trying to order a bottle of Xampanyet that they heard was good. I help them. Lars, Tor, and the third whose real name I don't remember. I don't remember because a couple of days ago, recounts Tor, that they started calling him "Corky," you know, from the show Life Goes On, from the early 90's, and they randomly will start singing "Oh-bla-di, Oh-bla-da" to him (the theme song from the show), and the guy has no idea who Corky is. Corky was the character that had Down's Syndrome. I start laughing the kind of laugh you have when you find something terribly funny, even though you know it's terribly wrong... and now you're uncomfortable with the fact that you're laughing at Down's Syndrome, but you JUST CAN'T HELP IT. I damn near peed myself. And every time they called him Corky, it would start all over again. Corky pulls me to the bar and points to a thick, squat stuffed asparragus. Asparragus is white in Spain, and usually pickled. Corky: “What IS that? A penis?!?” Me: “It's an asparragus, I think.” Corky: “How do you EAT that?” Me: “Well, I could SHOW you,” my eyebrows raised. Eruptions of laughter. Corky: “Actually, my friend Lars here has a HUGE penis.” Me: “No one really wants that.” Lars: “Actually, I have quite a normal penis.” I fucking LOVE these guys. And not just because they're buying better and better champagne, and have a very heavy hand, causing me to stumble back to the ramblas so I can very drunkenly hope that the taxi driver takes the direct route back to Toni and Olga's. The rest of my time in Barcelona is pretty uneventful... but I meet some really cool people! On the beach in Sitges, a primarily gay and beautiful beach town about 45 minutes away by train, I meet Dean and Jordan when I offer to take their picture. They're from Newcastle (I pretend I know where the hell that is) and I almost fall over when he says she's his daughter- he's terribly attractive and looks about 10 years younger than he is (she's 17). I tell him I teach kids her age, and he says “they must all be in love with you,” which is a particularly spectacular compliment considering I was topless at the time. Did I mention that every time I walk into a bar or a restaurant, the waiter calls me “guapa” (beautiful). I mean, I think they call every woman “guapa” whether she is or not, but even if this is just customary, I don't think I've ever quite felt so great about myself as I do in Spain. I go back to the Born district for dinner, and go to some random bar for tapas, as I had not yet had pa amb tomaquet, the ubiquitous toasted bread rubbed with smashed garlic, fresh tomatoes, olive oil, and salt. There's no space at the bar, so this wonderful woman Maria offers to let me sit with her. She's probably about 45 years old, speaks English, and we get to talking about my apartment in New York, and when I tell her that the woman on the coop board across the hall from me is keeping a good eye on me, she says, “Eh! Buy her a vibrator! That will cheer her up a little!” And then continues to tell me that the other day she went to visit her mom, and discovered that her mother had bought some lubrication and some “Chinese balls.” She then she said “what I good Idea! I'll get some Chinese balls!” So chance encounters bring me talk of asparragus penis and chinese balls. I tell Olga I want to try a different beach, something a little more empty, and I ask about Lloret de mar. She shrivels her nose in disgust, and says it's dirty, and horrible, and only Germans and the English want to go there. I used to think that American travelers had the worst reputation, and it seems after talking to a number of people, it's really the Germans and British that everyone hates. They show up at the beach, burn themselves to horribly unattractive shade of cooked lobster, get drunk all the time, take over completely. Woo-hoo! Of all the things we're not first at, “being a shitty tourist” I'm happy about. She suggests Sant Pol de mar, an hour train ride away. The train takes a path right along the coast, so it's really pretty, and I wonder why she chose this one over others. Iit is a hilly little town, and the beach is all pebbles, but soft ones. There's very few people on the beach, and the water gets very deep very quickly, so you can swim without going too far from your stuff. The water was spectacularly crisp, and I spent most of the afternoon jumping in the water, swimming around, getting back out, lying in the sun, lather, rinse, repeat. A perfect day in solitude. I've been to Barcelona 4 of 5 times in my life, more than any other city in the world, and every time I go, I find something totally new that I love- a store, a restaurant, a little catalunyan town close by. The people are really helpful, knowledgeable, and friendly, but are still big-city people. I picked up some beautiful confections from a boutique called bubo. Toni and Olga made a delightful dinner.... melon soup with jamon, a platter of cheese and more jamon, and sopressata, egg, and cheese, baked into a little bread in such a way that egg white erupted out, like a spongy little hat. So delicious!! I keep joking that I'm going to quit my job, move in with them, and be little Erica's nanny and teach her English. I might. I just might.

People keep talking to me about Urban Planning – a night in Athens

My flight from Istanbul to Barcelona has a planned layover in Athens. I've never been to Greece and had always wanted to, having majored in philosophy in college, and my long-standing fascination with the Greek language. When I was in college, one of my favorite classes was “Word Origins,” one of the few remaining linguistics courses in Binghamton. My high school friend Sarah and I took it together... we found great pleasure in geeking out over the words. We'd rush and fight to see who could answer the question first, hands up before the question was even finished- much like we did in the 11th grade, when precalculus turned out to be easy as hell, resulting in daily eye rolling from our teacher. I vaguely remember our college professor always looking surprised that anyone gave a shit. The other class I loved was “Medical Terminology,” where we had to learn the Greek alphabet, and to be able to transliterate from the Greek, and understand word roots. I found it fascinating that Greek language, for example, differentiated between “anesthesia” and “analgesia”; one means something that deadens the pain and one means you just don't really care about the pain. Or something like that. Anyway, I can still remember all of the Greek letters (backwards and forwards, thanks to the joys of sorority hazing) and an approximate pronunciation of them. I amazingly thought to ask if it was possible to have my huge bag go directly to BCN instead of having it be picked up in Athens, as I only had one evening to see Athens and didn't feel like wrestling with my shit. All I wanted to do was watch the sun set over the acropolis and eat some grilled fish with olive oil and lemon. I am seated next to Paras, a Greek guy who has spent the past year in Istanbul, and I ask him how to say “thank you” in Greek, and that after a week in Istanbul I still hadn't quite figured it out. “Efkary sto,” he says, telling me that it comes from the same root word as “Eucharist,” which was a lot more helpful of a mnemonic than one would think. (Oh- by the way, mnemonic comes from the Greek mother of the muses, Mnemosyne. See, mom, all that college time wasn't JUST spent drinking and mattress sliding after all.) He tells me it is unlikely that I will find good fish in Athens, that the places are a bit touristy, and that I'm more likely to find the Greek version of the same meat situation I had in Istanbul. “Gyro and Souvlaki?” I ask. I even pronounce it “hero.” He seems impressed. We talk a little bit about what it means to be a Greek in Turkey, how all anyone wants to talk to him about is the financial crisis, and how Greeks and Turks have a love/hate relationship with one another. As we fly over the coast, he says “you should open your eyes and take a good look at the brilliant lack of urban planning here in Athens.” I'm always a bit thrown when non-native speakers of English are as sarcastic as I am. The trip from the airport into town took a little less than an hour, and was clearly marked. Every sign in Athens is already transliterated into English, which took a little bit of the fun out of it for me. I check into Athens Backpackers studio. I generally fear and loathe any hostel with the word “backpackers” in it, for it usually indicates that there will be smelly 20-year olds, dirty surfers, all night screaming, and a bar that is named “BEER-SHOTS-PUB-WIFI” or something like that. Yourgos is very welcoming, and tells me that he can lock my laptop in the safe, where it will be, as named, safe. More sarcasm. He gives me a ticket for one free shot on the “ROOFTOPBAR.” Spectacular. The hostel room is clean, and spacious, with a balcony I never had the chance to sit on. The big room has a stove, which seems like a good idea, but do you really want people cooking in the room you're sleeping in? I can imagine how pissed I'd be if it were two in the morning and one of the stoner surfer dudes decided he's got the munchies and wants to cook himself a steak. Also, the bathroom is this weird thing that baffled me the first time I saw it in Uruguay- the shower isn't a stall, it's just a showerhead in the corner, right next to the toilet, right next to the sink, and the floor is tiled and sloped so that when you're done showering, you squeegee all of the water on the floor in the drain. By the time I got to the Acropolis (the hostel is at the same metro station), it and its adjacent museum were already closed. So I wandered around. Athens is dirty, full of artless graffitti, and a bit down-trodden. Tiny and easy to get around, there were a few ruins in the center, just like in Rome where you turn around and there you are... a small park of ruins... but a bit unremarkable. I just kept wandering...I got close to the acropolis, which is set on the very top of a hill. When you walk up, you are actually passing through pathways to people's homes, so at one point, I walked right between members of a family having drinks outside their home. They, and about 8 stray cats that had taken up residence there, strewn about. Just like in Turkey, there are cats EVERYWHERE, and these are better fed but a bit more skittish. It felt really good to be out of Turkey. No one bothered me, no “hellowhereareyoufrom,” and no one really looked in my direction. So when I opened up a map right in front of a metro station in broad daylight, and an old man came over to help me, I thought nothing of it, although I didn't need his help so I kind of ignored him. “You need help? I help you! You are here, and I live over here....” and with that, the old man pointed with his index finger, and on the way to the map he took a purposeful detour to my left nipple. “OK THAT'S ENOUGH OF THAT,” I huffed, and walked away unscathed. At least in Istanbul they never touched you! I wandered over to the recommended “Boulevard.” It is a park at the base of the acropolis. It's like the south street seaport, las ramblas in Barcelona... a pedestrian path with open air cafes, crappy jewelry for sale, cheap wallets. But almost all Greek people from what I could tell. I found a tango cafe, because despite my shitty sense of direction, I have an internal compass for all things latino, even in Greece. There was a tango lesson was going on. It would have been wonderful if the average age didn't appear to be 50. The sun is setting, and the acropolis just keeps shining brighter and brighter, and everyone in the cafe is sitting facing the glowing acropolis, high up on the hill. It was really beautiful, and much like my sitting in a park in Paris, next to the lit up Eiffel Tower, it's much more enchanting than this I-hate-going-where-the-tourists-go-often-nonplussed New Yorker wants to admit. There's a theater next to the acropolis, an old greek open-air theater with arches, and a chamber orchestra is singing. Gorgeous. I'm back at the acropolis station, and I ask the hostel guy for a recommendation, and he points me to a good, family-run restaurant around the corner where they serve a main dish and a beer for about 10 euro. There's no real menu, Jennifer explains (she's from Iowa, but married a Greek guy, and lives in Athens) because they cook whatever they feel like cooking that day and she tells you about it. “Would you like some chicken on the grill? Some steak? Some nice fish? We have sea bream. Do you like wild greens?” I order some white wine and the fish. After a week of pretty much only raki (think ouzo) beer on offer in Istanbul, it was nice to relax with a cold, crisp glass of wine, served in a teeny-tiny carafe. The fish arrives perfectly cooked, flecked with sea salt, and the greens are delicious, drowning a bit in olive oil (not really a bad thing, it it?) Absolutely delicious. I guess I got exactly what I came for. The acropolis, grilled fish, and a groping just to top it all off!! The wine is soporific, and I'm out like a light before midnight. In order to be kind to my roommates at the butt-crack of dawn, who I never so much as met, I stumble around in the dark, losing a contact lens, fuck, and I can't seem to figure out how to turn on the showerhead. So here I am, crouched under the shower faucet, trying to bathe myself. I pretended I was under a waterfall, but what a sight I must have been. That squeegee didn't do a damn thing, so apologies to my roommates who probably had to walk across a wet floor for their morning pee. I am glad I was so close to the metro, as I sleepily stumble, one-eyed, to the metro. I sit next to Yakob, a Danish guy who is on his way to Istanbul. He is involved in urban planning and urban affairs in Denmark. So we talk about urban planning, what it means to have a civic/government job, and how people shouldn't have to work in a highly stressful and overwhelming environment. He gets 6 weeks vacation- 5 really, and you get to decide if you'd like to work the 6th for extra money. The train stops a number of stops short of the airport. Everyone has to get off. The sign says “airport, 16 minutes” and another one says “terminal.” He says “I wonder what terminal means,” and tries to look it up. I say they probably mean to say that this is the last stop for this train, even though we are not at a “terminal.” I am right about something for the first time in about a week. He is impressed. That stupid linguistics class just keeps paying off. He offers me one of his extra contact lenses. And doesn't even try to fondle anything for it.

Izmir – Istanbul

When I was home, I booked a ticket from Istanbul to Barcelona, with a connection in Athens for one night. It's not enough time in Greece, but I get to see the Acropolis, eat some grilled fish, go to Barcelona. And Greece is still on the Euro (for how long, who knows) so at least I only need to change to one more currency. When I was in Istanbul, I realized I could fly straight from Izmir to Athens for about $50, instead of taking a bus or plan back to Istanbul just to take the plane again. I called the airline, and they said that if I did not show up for the 1st leg of the flight, they cancel the whole journey. They could change the whole ticket, but it would cost me another $150, which was the original price of the ticket, so I decided to take a night bus back to Istanbul. I had already booked a night in Istanbul, which I was going to lose, because the guy at the hostel said it was better for him if I paid in advance rather than just paying a deposit. Of course it would be better for him. The 10 pm night bus which I thought left from right around the corner in Izmir was actually a 9:20 shuttle to a 10:00 bus at the bus station. I wouldn't have known this at all had I net gone back to the station to try to get an earlier bus ride, figuring the earlier I got back to Istanbul, the more likely I could take a quick shower, eat a quick breakfast, and see Topkapi Palace, the only thing I felt like I missed out on. The bus was a Mercedes-Benz! Woo-hoo! I quickly learn that Mercedes-Benz, in Turkish, must mean “Really Fucking Uncomfortable.” I can usually contort myself into some kind of knot to at least get a little sleep. Not this time. I took a benadryl to knock me out. Nope. Did I mention that this 10-hour bus ride was on a bus with no bathroom? The bus makes stops every couple of hours, in the middle of the night, so that you can get up and use the facilities. Which I did, with my contacts out, so that when I returned at 2 in the morning, blind and loopy, I couldn't find my bus. I now know that I really can't expect anyone to understand my English at the bus station, so I am now reverting to grunting and pointing at tickets. Miraculously, this was a better method than trying to actually be understood. I get to the bus station. There is no clear sign for the Metro, which easily leads to the tram, which is a 5 minute downhill walk to the hostel. They say “bus service” which I realize indicates that a minibus will take me close to somewhere I need to be. I get three conflicting instructions of where to go... I pick the one that sounds the most familiar. Did I mention that I have a rule of three in Turkey? Ask three people, and if you get the same response twice, go with it. If not, cross your fingers and hope for the best. I tell the bus driver im going to Sultanahmet.. He forgets about me. I go to the front, and see at least see SOME tram station and he lets me off. We'll call that a win. But not exactly. Did I mention that one of the bus companies is also called “Metro?” So if I just ask for “Metro” I'm really not saying anything particularly helpful. Turkey is confusing as fuck. The trip in total took about 12 hours. I never got to see Topkapi, and I spent the morning reading and sweating, just really, dying to get the hell out of there. I liked Turkey, but it was time for something completely different. So I treat myself to a taxi ride UP THE HILL, as the traffic in Istanbul is so bad that it's faster, cheaper, and easier to take the tram/metro. Better than the airport shuttle bus. The taxi driver drives in circles, a common scam, and when the price gets to 6 lira, I start critiquing, in English, that it's right up the fucking hill, and he gets mad at me and says “all one way!!!” Bullshit. He angrily drops me off at a different tram station than I asked, and when he gets my stuff out of the trunk, he's pissed at ME! I give him a 20, he gives me 10, and the meter read 6.65. I said “oh, HELL no!” and he says “that is it!!” as if he had no change to give me, and I sat back in the cab until he gave me 3 lira. Ass-munch. I shoulda walked.

Ephesus and the beach

I asked Jesse and Seline if I should go to the beach or go to Ephesus. I had a feeling that it would be a lot like Pompeii in Italy... large, lots of buildings that all looked alike, hot as fuck. I am not into history, and I've seen a lot of ruins in my day, but I thought that I SHOULD go to Ephesus. You know, see and learn some shit instead of spending another day lazing away on the beach, tanning myself for vanity's sake. Ephesus is nothing like Pompeii. It has the best-preserved ruins in Western Europe, and it's beautiful!!! I really enjoyed walking around and seeing all the Greek writing on these well-preserved columns. It was also exciting to find out that there was a beach just a stone's throw from Ephesus... I am so glad I had the foresight to pack my bathing suit and sarong. Never travel anywhere without a sarong... It's a blanket on the sand, a picnic in the park, and a modesty protector when you realize you have to change into your bathing suit on the beach in front of everyone. Which I'm getting really good at. This beach had even fewer people than the other one. It's also full of these mini palm trees that have been planted all in a row, and serves as a natural umbrella that no one has to rent. People were napping under the hot sun, sheltered by little palm trees. What a great couple of days. Drama and ripoff-free, and with really great company. It makes for boring writing, but it was a really nice, calm change of pace.

Chinese friends and Çeşme

Jesse, Seline, and I headed out to the beach near Çeşme (chesh-may) . It's an hour and a half by bus from the bus station at the far end of town. It's a 20 lira taxi ride from the hotel just to get to the station, a 12 lira bus ride, and a 3 lira dolmuş (minibus, about the only Turkish word I've learned in a week), so it's kind of an ordeal. We're not exactly sure what we're doing the whole time, and this adorable curmudgeon of a retired Turkish man who spent the last 20 years living in America helped us out. “Do you like living here,” “Eh? It's expensive.” “Do you miss your sons in America?” “Eh. One just had a son, I guess I should go back and meet him.” I kinda wanted to hang out with him all day. What a payoff!! It's a Friday afternoon, the beach Jesse and Seline wanted to go to was Pirlanta beach, the one furthest out. I had officially run out of lira, so I thought that I would just take some out there. But this beach was so unspoiled that there was no cash machine. Just a couple of huts selling really bad and expensive beach food, but the beach was practically empty. The water was azure and immaculate, except for the few things people had clearly and thoughtlessly thrown in the water. It was shallow and calm, even pretty far out, and I could see my toes the whole time. When I go to the beach, I usually can't handle more than two hours, but the next thing I know it's 6 pm and we're watching the sun start to set. A young guy named Sirvan strikes up a conversation with Jesse about Kung Fu, as the animal tattoos on Jesse's back must have indicated that, he did indeed study kung fu when he was young. I think Jesse is tired of talking about Chinese things with people, and maybe a little tired of being as much of a target as I felt like. He said in Cappadocia, people queued up just to take pictures of themselves with a Chinese couple. The bus back to Izmir wasn’t leaving til 9:30, so we had some time to walk around the Çeşme marina. It is the most beautiful upscale waterfront or marina I have ever seen. A number of chichi seafood restaurants, beautiful people, decent music, and jam-packed with boats. If anyone ever wants to marry me, I'll have to remember to honeymoon here. The next day I spend walking around Izmir. It grew on me a little, but I still am not very impressed. I think people must like eating on the waterfront, but to me that's like eating at South Street Seaport. I'd rather have less of a view, better and cheaper food. We found a place not too far off from the waterfront called kanatçim (cumhuriyet blvd #126, kanatcimkordon.com) that had really great kebaps... but we ordered some meze (appetizers) and were full before the food arrived, not that it stopped us. I don't know what it is about being in another country, but I always seem to accidentally order innards. Yesterday, we pointed to something that looked really good,and one bite and I realized that again, I ordered liver. It was the best liver I have ever accidentally ordered, but I didn't really like it even thought I knew it was good. My dinner companions didn't mind a bit. I was sad to see Jesse and Seline go. When we were together, people stared just as much – a Western woman walking with a Chinese couple – but I didn't feel worried or alone. They're interesting and brilliant, fun and adorable. There's something really special about meeting people you click with when you travel... even though we might never see each other again, even though I am 10 years older, there were so many things to talk about, so many experiences to share, that two days pass by in an instant, and that part of the trip felt so rich and wonderful. They will always have a place to stay if they ever come to New York.

Izmir... this is some Istanbullshit

Oh, Izmir. You're disappointing.

Today was a comedy of errors, mostly transportation.

I realized as soon as I got to Istanbul that I did not plan enough time to fully enjoy and appreciate Turkey. The country is much larger than I guess I imagined, and other places that are of touristic or aesthetic interest are a flight away rather than a bus or train ride. I spent 3 days in Istanbul, and realized I had only 3 days to visit somewhere else.

By tourists, I was recommended Cappadocia. It's a mountainous region in the center of the country that have these cave houses and stone chimney-like structures and underground city-like shit. You have to go with a tour group, as the region is too big to explore in another way. The package was something like 250 Euros, and that's taking an 11-hour overnight bus twice in 4 days.

Turkish people recommended Izmir. So, I chose Izmir.

Izmir is on the west coast of Turkey, south of Istanbul, an hour flight away (9 or so by bus.) It's right on the water, and has a big park next to an ocean wall where people like to walk and hang out. Evidently it's a fun, cool little town.

The day started off OK... the Koreans waited until about 7 am to turn off the bloody a/c, after I had already woken up. The guy at the hostel said that it would take me an hour to get to the airport, so I gave myself two. My brand new bag is barely stained from the exploding sunscreen, and the smell has mostly dissipated, and has 360 degree spinning wheels, so even with the cobblestones and having to go all uphill, the 15 minute hike to the tram was not unwelcome. Excersize, I thought.

I get on the tram. I notice that there's two chances to connect to the M1 metro line to the airport. A close station, and a station further away. The metro has to be faster than the tram, I thought. I'll get off at the earlier one, even though Lonely Planet said to get off at the other one.

And this is where my day took a turn.

I get off the tram, which is on street level. I see that there is boureki place that will have coffee, juice, and well, boureki for breakfast. I was so early!! I'll just make a pit stop.

To get to the cafe, you have to walk up about 25 stairs, go over the overpass, and down 25 flights of stairs. More excersize! Just a little more. This damn bag is heavy as shit. Up, over, and down I go. I ask the man for this boureki that is shaped like a huge intestine. I figure they will cut me off a small piece. They fill up a 1/2 kilo box instead. I'm still positive. I'll eat it later!

I now think that the metro is somewhere on the street in front of me. And then I remember that the last time I made a connection it was inside the tram entrance. Fuck. Back over and down I go. But wait, I'm wrong. It's not there. Back over and down. I get it in my head that the metro is on the OTHER side of the boulevard of death I'm looking at. Back over and down. Nope, not there either. Back over and down.

At this point, I am DRIPPING in sweat. The well-known kindness of the Turks clearly stop just short of helping a lady upstairs with her huge bag of shit (one leg of this journey was kindly taken by one dude... thanks, guy.)

This is also when I figure out that Turkish people HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHERE ANYTHING IS. I did find someone who could point me in the right direction. A sanitation guy. The "connecting" metro was 2 blocks away.

I ask a man on the platform which side goes to the airport. He tells me the wrong side. So I figure it out, but I missed the train. And now I'm convinced that there's NO WAY I am making the flight. I did, but I was really surprised.

And the intestine boureki was soggy.

Flight is fine. I once again ignore Lonely Planet, and instead of taking the suggested bus route that leaves the airport every 10 minutes, I take the metro. The metro at Izmir airport is a good 10 minute walk away, albeit with lots of moving sidewalks. The lady sells me my ticket and tells me where to change for Besmane, the city center. She tells me where to change. I half-listen, figuring there would be a map on the metro telling me where to change (the metro only has 2 lines.)

OF COURSE THERE'S NO FUCKING METRO MAP ON THE METRO.

Now, I should have listened to both the lady who told me where to change, and the conductor on the platform. But Turkish is hard to understand, and my memory sucks, and for some reason, I forgot to pack a pen. So I sit down, and realize I am the only non-Turkish person on the train. No one is paying me any mind, but I now know that you should always, ALWAYS, follow Lonely Planet when trying to get somewhere.

So, the lady next to me tries to help me (she speaks some English.) Instead of saying "I have no idea," she starts telling me all the facts she DOES know. Like, she tells me the name of each station as we're passing it (which is also clearly displayed on the rolling LED marquis.) She tells me where SHE is getting off. She is really, REALLY, trying to help.

I ask the next train platform's conductor, and he tells me. I get off, and this metro is sparkling, new, and beautiful, and has no direction whatsoever where to go. The man working there really did help me out.

I get to Besmane, and somehow find the hotel. The hotel gives me a map. The ENTIRE TOWN'S STREETS ARE NUMBERED, in no discernable order, as the streets are all curvy and twisty. There is no grid. And by numbered, I mean that the town, on a map, looks like a terribly disorganized set of prison cells.

THE HOTEL IS GREAT. It's tacky and opulent, and I somehow snagged a room for 44 euro a night, and the a/c is great and the room isn't smelly and the bed is hard and has linen art on it and some lokum on the pillow and I'm gonna wash some underwear in the sink and watch tv naked. Aaaah, finally things are looking up.

I spend the day lostlostlost. I don't even know how this is possible, with the map indicating all I needed to do was turn twice. At least it's really pleasant here, and I saw the water, and who cares if I find anything on the map! I'm meandering!!!

But now my feet hurt, so I hop in a taxi. It's not very far. I show the taxi guy my circled hotel on the map. He hasno idea where it is. He calls the other guy for backup. HE ALSO has no idea where it is. Two blocks from the metro!! Then I get in the cab, and realize that he hasn't turned on the meter. Classic scam. I point to the meter and tell him to turn it on. He speaks no English, but says "10 lira, fixed rate." I say no and get out of the cab. Asshole. I walk back to the hotel.

I rest up, and go back out, to look for some good food and go back to the laid-back looking bar area near the water.

I realize that the neighborhood I was walking around happily all day looks a hell of a lot more troublesome at night. Where did all the women go? There's men at all the bars, leering at me as I pass them, and one guy walks up to me and gives me the usual "hellowhereyoufrom?" and I walk away.

He follows me. About 10 feet behind me, but he was probably going in that direction anyway. There's still sunlight. It's fine. Just to be safe, I turn a corner onto a busy street. I walk another block, and he reappears, walking quickly towards me.

Now I wag my finger in his face and very loudly and sharply yell YOU HAVE TO STOP FOLLOWING ME, and he got the hint and started walking in the opposite direction. I duck into the Hilton right next to me until the coast is clear.

I'm done walking around by myself with no directional sense today, and truth be told, I'm a little shaken up, but I knew I did everything I should have done and my instincts were good.

I go to the cab. This time, armed with my map and my hotel circled, my hotel which is two blocks from the big fucking metro station and a huge traffic circle.

I show the cabbie. He spends about 5 minutes analyzing where he should go, and calls the other dude for backup. Even the taxi drivers can't read the map or know where they are. How is this even POSSIBLE in a country where everyone instinctively knows where MECCA IS?!?!?!? This cabbie is nice, somehow finds the metro, and when the fare is 5.20, I give him 10, put 4 fingers in the air to signify to only give me 4 back, he rounds down to 5 lira. I tip him 1 lira (not much but they really don't tip much here at all) and profusely thank him for doing his fucking job right.

I walk the block to the hotel, and realize that of the approximate 100 men people sipping tea, eating dinner, there are about 3 women and I am being stared at by everyone. I'm not even put off any more. I just want some goddamn fish for dinner.

I enjoyed a LOVELY dorado, and the staff at the place across the street all smiled politely and gave me food and drink and more toast I could possibly eat in the next week.

I'm sure this place is spectacular, if you speak turkish, or if you're not traveling alone. I'm not even so disheartened. I'm tired, so I can use some rest tonight, and I'll just take a taxi everywhere after dark, and only tell the taxi drivers monuments.

And writing this, I caught the young Chinese couple from the restaurant talking to the receptionist about going to cesme tomorrow, which I wanted to do. I asked them about it, and they said "we want to go. It's very confusing. The maps are very bad."

We're all going to figure it out together tomorrow, after breakfast.