Wanderlust Heaven!

I can’t quite believe this is my final entry from the road…at least for this particular journey. I’d also say that I can’t believe that late December is already upon us – but I went back and scanned my earliest entries, and have two reactions. One, they seem like ancient history (did I really almost crash my rental car into a camel in Outback Australia?), and two, man, am I a crappy writer. Anyway, for those of you with strong stomachs and ample free time, I ask you to stay tuned, because I’m keeping the Slog going. That’s right…now that I’m finally able to string together nouns and verbs, why quit? Writing this scandal sheet has been the single constant in my life over the past seven months – besides heavy drinking, that is – and I’m grown fond of blasting out an entry every week.

I might make some substantial changes, beyond getting a decent editor, and will keep you posted on those. Oh Lord, when will it all end, you may be asking…

My annoying host site, Boots’n’All, has a limit on photo uploads and I’ve apparently crossed that threshold, so for this week at least you’re stuck with my text, no photos. Sorry ‘bout that…

When we last parted, Ken and I were about to head out of our beloved Hostal Matute and venture forth into the cool crisp Madrid afternoon, in search of adventure or at least a cheap glass of sherry. Ken had been up since 9 a.m. doing some work; I had dragged my ass out of bed early to write the previous entry; we both felt like shit given our bedtime of 3 a.m. or so. But there’s something energizing about polishing off a piece of work, and we were both ready to hit the streets. Ken’s mobile was ringing every few minutes and it became clear he’d be pinned down during the afternoon, putting out fires at work. I knew the feeling…and recalled one Friday in Shanghai years ago, when I had planned to do a call in the morning and then take the afternoon off. I woke up that day, put on a bathrobe, did the call, and then proceeded to get hit with calls and emails to such a degree that I was still sitting in my hotel chair at 6 p.m. in the bathrobe. So I didn’t sweat Ken his exertions…

We went into the Reina Sofia Museum, a cool modern structure that famously houses Picasso’s Guernica. There’s a lot else too – paintings by Dali, Miro, etc. – but I had to admit that I wanted to see the Guernica, it had probably been seven years since my last visit. So I went fairly quickly up to floor 2, room 6, and stood transfixed by the masterpiece for 20 minutes. And when I was done pondering the myriad horrors depicted therein, I investigated the many sketches and studies that Picasso made in preparation for the final painting. It’s safe to say he proceeded meticulously with the Guernica…every major image in the painting was worked up over the period of weeks or months. Made me think about the effort required for true genius…even those with ridiculous amounts of talent need to roll up their sleeves from time to time. Talent plus effort…well, that pretty much rules me out.

The Guernica is Picasso’s reaction to the 1937 bombing of the Basque town of the same name by German bombers during the Spanish Civil War. Not much civil about that war, or any other for that matter. The painting is probably one of the most disturbing interpretations of the evils of warfare – along with a few paintings by Goya, including Dos de Mayo and Tres de Mayo. I guess Spanish painters have a flair for depicting disturbing subject matter; the acquisition of this sort of talent might not be worth the cost, though. And after gazing at the Guernica, I couldn’t help but feel astonished at how commonplace, and basically acceptable, the bombing of civilians has become over the past century. And it hasn’t only been ‘evil dictators’ who pushed this envelope – Allied politicians burned out a hell of a lot of German and Japanese cities during WW2. I suppose that the murder of the innocent isn’t a new theme in history – Genghis Khan and his boys did their share of raping/looting/pillaging too. But one would hope that we’ve climbed a bit higher on the food chain over the past 700 or so years. I guess we haven’t; we’ve just built more dangerous killing toys.

What would happen if we sat George W. Bush down in front of the Guernica? Not for 20 minutes, but for 20 days…with his eyelids propped open with forks a la Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. Wouldn’t that be something? Of course, he’d need an art history major to explain the painting and historical context to him…we could provide that. Do you think that might provoke a glimmer of understanding, or at least questioning, in the old boy? Somehow, I doubt it…but I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. Of course, it would have been best to conduct this experiment in February 2003, before we started a war that has probably killed a couple hundred thousand Iraqis…

Headed out of the museum and walked up to Cerveceria Alemana (the German Beerhouse) in Plaza de Santa Ana. This place has been around forever, was a fave of Hemingway’s, and serves excellent tapas. Ken got nailed with a couple more phone calls, so I ate the lion’s share of a very nice spread of dishes…pulpo a la vinagreta, croquetas, jamon iberico, queso machego, and a few others. Washed down with beer and fino (sherry). Waddled out of there feeling like an emperor. Even forgot the feelings I’d had an hour before in front of the Guernica…

Ken caught a train to Cordoba to see his family and in-laws, who live there. I had decided to spend another night in Madrid – I was too relaxed to strap on the pack and get moving just yet. So I met up with a friend of Ken’s named Camia, who’s an architect in Basle. I met up with her, her boyfriend Pitu, and a few other partyers at Bar xxx in Malasana, a lively part of town. I was pretty tired…walking around all day took a bit out of me, I had gone for a run, and then had to find an Internet café to post my blog. I had planned to just stay out for a few cocktails…and kept thinking that as the hours rolled on inexorably. Our group lost a person here and there as we bar-hopped…but I hung in there, and finally it was just an architect named Pedro and I, at a late-night dance place near Puerta del Sol at 5 a.m. That wasn’t in the plan, by any means – I had a train ticket the next day (well, that day) for 12:30 p.m. I finally staggered home through streets still filled with revelers, reached the hostal, didn’t get as much as a second glance from the desk clerk, and got a few hours sleep before my train to Cordoba to meet up with Ken et al. Spain really makes a mockery of any and all intentions of moderation. And that’s why I love it. I really must spend more time here in the future…

Hadn’t been to Cordoba since October 2004, when Ken and Carmen got married there. That was a lot of fun, and I looked forward to seeing everyone again. And of course, Carmen’s family, the Penas, looked after me impeccably. They have a large family (six kids) and most of them are nearby. There’s always a mini-fiesta going on at their house, and I was happy to join in. I was also glad to finally get to see Ken and Carmen’s kids. Victoria is about a year and a half old, and Cristina is eleven weeks old. They’re adorable, and Ken and Carmen are very cool parents, as expected. Victoria had been sick, and had to go to the hospital that morning, but everyone hung in there admirably. Made me realize how much work raising kids is. Carmen was absolutely spent, but insisted on keeping a close eye on Victoria. Cristina was basically on auto-pilot, which made things a bit easier. I just hung around, eating, drinking, and cracking dumb jokes whenever possible. You know me.

We stayed up fairly late that night, and it was clear that sleep deprivation was a key theme of the times. Which is OK with me…I didn’t have much to do the next day. Ken and Carmen had a tougher deal…but both emerged reasonably well. I’m not too sure how I would do in their shoes; I think I’m too cranky and selfish to put myself through the wringer of total enslavement to the whims and weaknesses of small children. That’s not to say that I’ll never try it – I’ll just hire a small army of nannies and domestics to do the dirty work for me. And Ken and Carmen do have a nanny in London…and I think they really missed her while in Cordoba, even with their relatives to provide a hand. OK, enough of me writing about topics I’m ignorant of…

Next day (Sunday) took a train down Cadiz, a city rich in history and sights. I’ve been meaning to visit Cadiz for many years, but never made it there. The city is ancient, and may in fact be the oldest in Europe. It was originally a Phoenician trading post and has been around since around 1000 B.C., a bit longer than some of my mainstay jokes. It was an easy 2-3 hour train ride from Cordoba (itself a city of fantastic Moorish history) to Cadiz, and when I arrived I walked from the station to a little hostal near Plaza San Juan de Dios. The hostal was clean and cheap, and right in the thick of things. Which isn’t to say that Cadiz is party central. It was Sunday afternoon, and the place felt pretty sleepy, although there were a fair few folks hanging out at the cafes in the plazas and on the streets.

I spent a few hours walking the city and getting a feel for it. It’s a cool feeling to think about a place for years and then to finally go there…rarely do you really know what to expect, no matter how much you read beforehand. And Cadiz was no different – it was larger and more lively than I expected. People were hanging out on the seawalls and beaches – and the beaches are long and enticing, even in winter. It seems a ‘real’ place and not just a seaside resort – which is more to my liking. I can’t get too excited about going to the Bahamas these days…

So I walked around the perimeter of Cadiz, and stopped now and then in little bars for some tapas, beer and wine. I didn’t want to duck into any museums or churches…I didn’t want to hop on the Web…all I wanted to do was feel the fresh air/sun and eat some hearty food. And Cadiz was more than obliging.

I must say that Cadiz does have a provincial feel to it – it’s a long way from Madrid, literally and figuratively. The people aren’t dressed to the nines (lots of tracksuits and checked shirts), haircuts are only slightly more hip than mine, and the general level of human attractiveness isn’t sky-high. And my presence didn’t help in the least…

Went back to the hostal to relax, stretch a bit, and do some reading. Took a nap for 90 minutes or so. That took me to 9 p.m. Wanted to go for a run…kind of. Wondered about the availability of food after 10 p.m. Ordinarily in Spain that wouldn’t be an issue – dinner in Spain tends to be around 10 p.m. or even later. But it was Sunday night in Cadiz, and I wondered. Finally, my guilt got the better of me and I went for a run around the northeast perimeter of the harbor. Which was absolutely fantastic. Even at 10 p.m. in the winter, Cadiz is very pleasant – it was about 55 degrees Fahrenheit and I found it no problem to run in a wife-beater and shorts. Ran for a long time – probably 45 minutes. The footpaths in Cadiz are broad and clean, the sea air is fresh, and you can just go and go. In Goa I got myself into pretty solid cardiac shape, and now it was paying off. When I’m not in shape, I can only go for 20-30 minutes and I’m not happy doing it. When I’m in shape, I can go for an hour and feel like Superman. Or at least not Underdog. And so I sped around the Cadiz seafront and took it all in.

Got back, showered, and went out to stuff my gut. Which proved easy as pie. Or empanada, more accurately. Wandered through a few tascas (tapas bars) and sampled the wares. Finally ended up at one near the massive cathedral. Friendly barmen. Huge patas (pig legs) hanging from hooks on the wall. Nice selection of booze bottles. I had a plate of patatas alli-olli (potato salad with garlic mayo) and another of albondigas (meatballs). Washed ‘em down with beer and wine. Chatted haltingly with the old men next to me. Their accents are hardcore – southerners drop (eat) the ‘s’ in many words and I had to guess what they were saying. But it all seemed to go OK and we had a few laughs. Then I strolled to the hostal and collapsed for the night.

Next morning awoke with a need for churros and chocolate, a classic Spanish breakfast. Found a café that offered these, and wolfed them down. Chatted with a Spanish caballero (gentleman) who works in Berlin and was back in Cadiz visiting his kids. Invited me out with all of them later in the day, and I accepted. Walked out of the café, looked for a place to do my laundry but only found an ‘industrial laundry’ that wasn’t open to the public. Punted, and went back to the hostal. Just in time, as it turned out, because the churros and chocolate had staged a race through my GI tract and were at the finish line. Remind me to clear my calendar next time I have those for breakfast…

Walked around more of the town, continued to enjoy the vistas and fresh air. That said, you do come upon the smell of urine fairly often in Cadiz…it’s an old city and has that ‘lived in’ feeling, although to a much lesser extent that cities in India. And there are lots of places to get a drink. Perhaps the use of toilets is optional to the locals…

Went for lunch to a place my guidebook recommended, called Meson Cumbres Mayores. Remind me to figure out what ‘cumbres’ means. Anyone know? Anyway, this place was celebrating its 40th anniversary, it was founded in 1966. A year before I was born. That made me feel a bit old. I hadn’t really thought that my time on earth had established me as a dependable, solid ‘brand.’ But this Meson was trumpeting its 40 years and that was just fine with me. Because the food was superb – I had a jamon y queso montadito (small sandwich on French bread), a morros de cerdo iberico guiso (pork stew), and finally some of my fave pulpo a la gallega (spicy grilled octopus). With, of course, a couple glasses of house red. Man, I was stuffed. Since reaching Spain I’ve debated with Ken and other friends the possibility of getting fat here…make that the likelihood of getting fat here. And while one might get tired of the hearty yet basic Spanish fare, and lighten up after a couple weeks, methinks not. It’s sometimes said that Spanish food is meat and potatoes (and seafood), but superb meat and potatoes. And there are just so many choices that it would take years to get sick of the stuff. So if I were to live here, I think I’d need to run about 10 miles/day.

Speaking of which…after yet another nap, I arose at 8 p.m. feeling refreshed and ready for a run. My body clock was rapidly aligning with the local flows, i.e. everything is done a couple hours later than in most other Western countries. So I felt fine about going for a run, then having a late dinner. Put on my shoes and headed out to the seawall, in the opposite direction as the previous evening. And had another excellent run. This time I headed south along the Playa de la Victoria, which turns out to be a surprisingly lengthy stretch of sand…must be brilliant in the summer. As I ran along, I saw a few other runners, and what looked to be the local rugby side practicing right on the beach. Looked like they still had some kinks to iron out. I ran for 45 minutes or so, feeling fit and strong, despite the various challenges I was posing to my body and mind in the local bars and tascas.

I could have gone on for another 30 minutes, but when the promenade ended I doubled back and finally pulled up right near the cathedral. A little enclosed park was being used simultaneously by a soccer team and either a very bad school band or, more likely, a bunch of kids practicing their instruments in a place where no one would complain. I walked back to the hostal through the old town streets, passing dozens of Spaniards taking their evening promenade. I was full of energy, was looking forward to the night out, and felt something very much like joy.

Headed out after a quick shower, and sampled a couple new tapas places before going back to the bar I visited the previous night, near the cathedral. The barmen recognized me straightaway (your Spanish must be terrible for them to peg you a tourist that easily…), and one fellow, a large-ish waiter, was particularly friendly. Turned out he was from Berlin, and that surprised me a bit. Didn’t think Germany was exporting workers to Spain. We talked for a while, and went out for a drink after his shift. We shared stories…he had visited Spain ten years before and had fallen in love with the place, and was now a long-term resident. I told him what I had been up to recently, and he was amazed at my adventures. One drink turned into a few, and somehow we got our points across despite having to string together words in Spanish, German, French, and English…all in all, a random and fun night.

And that was pretty much my time in Cadiz. I didn’t visit a single museum or church, despite the bounty of such places, and the serious history of the place (Columbus had kicked off a couple of his voyages from right across the harbor). The only things I was inside all weekend (unfortunately) were bars and my hostal. But really enjoyed my brief excursion to Cadiz and am looking forward to another, longer visit sometime soon.

Took a train up to Jerez de la Frontera the next afternoon. Jerez is a center for sherry production, and is famed for its feria (fair) every year. I stayed in a great old place called Neuvo Hotel, which is one-star but situated in a classic old mansion and is more than sufficiently comfortable. Reminded me of Hostal Matute in Madrid.

Walked around town that day and night, sampling the local sherries. Tio Pepe is the biggest name, but there are dozens of bodegas (houses) where sherry is produced and you can visit many of them. I just hit a couple. I wanted to go get a haircut, and did so. I think the barber/stylist was new to his job…he didn’t seem too proficient and I kept an eye on his work the entire time. Turned out OK, but it was touch and go. Left the barber shop and ducked into a café to calm my nerves. This place, like many Spanish cafes/bars, has a real inclusive atmosphere – there are Spaniards of all generations in there. In most countries you don’t see much mixing of older and younger folks…but in Spain it’s not uncommon to see grandparents hanging out in a café with their grandchildren, drinking different sorts of stuff of course. Many years ago Ken and I went out in Madrid, and after a night of hard drinking we ended up in a sandwich shop, where we ate some amazing tres pisos (literally, ‘three stairs’ – a triple-decker sandwich). The proprietors were an older fellow and his wife, and they took us out after we finished our sandwiches. Had an interesting if boozy discussion with them about Spanish history and the expulsion of the Jews in the 15th century. That’s about all I can recall…but it was noteworthy in that a couple 60-year-olds took out two young idiots and treated them to drinks.

Took it easy that night. The next day, I intended to visit more bodegas and perhaps a museum or two, but got a call from Ken. He and Carmen wanted me to head back to Cordoba for dinner that night. I had to get my laundry from the laundromat, so needed to stick around Jerez until that evening. Visited the old Moorish Alcazar (fort) to kill some time. That was fairly cool…classic old Iberian/Arab architecture, surrounded by orange trees in full bloom (Cordoba has the best orange juice I’ve ever had). And inside there was a small museum with sketches by Picasso and Goya of corridas (bullfights). Good stuff. Went for a run around town, the streets were cramped and didn’t experience the same joy that I had in Cadiz. Then picked up my laundry, got my bags, and went to the train station to go to Cordoba.

Pulled into Cordoba a bit late, past 11 p.m. Ken had arrived a few minutes earlier, and he, Carmen and I went out to pretty much the only decent place in Cordoba still open at that hour. Had a good, filling meal – pizza, rice with vegetables, smoked fish, and beef of some sort. Washed it all down with a very nice, sparking type of sangria. Most sangria is made with crappy red wine and old fruit – this was far better and we drank two pitchers. Wobbled out of the place past midnight and went to the Penas.

Woke up the next day with a slight hangover, nothing too bad. Hung out with Ken and Carmen’s kids for a few hours, then walked ensemble into town for lunch. Went to the most famous local establishment, Bodegas Campos, where we had some red wine, fried eggplant, solomillo (sirloin – great cut), and a few other random dishes. Talked about our families and our plans for the next year or so. Was good to update each other on our lives and desires, and to compare notes. I could do that every day with good friends…I get more out of experiences like that than from visiting museums, working, etc.

Finally walked outside and hailed a cab. I had to catch a train to Madrid, as that night I was meeting my ex-colleague Manuel, and the two Spaniards I had met in Burma, Marta and Enrique. I was planning to meet them on Calle Cervantes, where there are some fantastic little tapas bars – including Cerveceria Cervantes and Los Gatos. The last time I saw Enrique and Marta was in Inle Lake, Burma…the contrast between that place and Madrid would be enormous. And I had some emerging plans for Friday night, including seeing my old friend Paloma and perhaps a couple other people. This was to be my final couple nights before heading back to Boston, and I wanted to make the most of them…

I’ll wrap up this post here, as I’m on that very train to Madrid. Next week I’ll fill you in on the final few days of this journey, and also share a few themes that have come together over the past 7 months. You’ll have to indulge me my dime-store philosophy, as you’ve gently done over the past few months. As always, I ask you to chime in with any feedback – insults, corrections, anything you like. And as I mentioned at the top of this posting, this Slog will live on – I’ve come to realize that the Slog is not just about this trip, it’s about my life. I sincerely hope that what I share with you in print is more interesting than my actual life…. Adios for now and see you next week.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 21st, 2006 at 11:11 am and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.