Donde Esta La Biblioteca? Otra Vez

In Valencia we met up with Marta and Juan, two Valencians we met while they were studying abroad at UT. They showed us around their beautiful town and took us took us out for a night of Spanish discos. Valencia is situated on a beach, but all the fun was to be had within the city.

Marta and Juan both grew up in Valencia. Juan is an architect who speaks mostly Catalan (a cool blend of every romantic language unique to the Spanish state of Catalunya) because he grew up in a suburb 20 minutes outside Valencia. Marta is a water polo playing fine arts graduate student pursuing a masters in painting. She drives an old Vespa. They both showed us the way to a delicious vegetarian restaurant situated near the city park that used to be the city river until it was rerouted, drained, and transformed into a garden.

We all met up at the early hour of 12:00 AM for some Sangria and ‘Agua de Valencia’ made with fresh Valencian oranges. Around 1 we made our way over to the disco scene and partied until it was time for Lauren and I to head back and get ready for our early next day to Granada.

The next morning we groggily stumbled to the Valencia train station and embarked on a 7 hour train ride towards Granada. Our tickets said we had to transfer at Moreda and then ride another hour until Granada. After a whole lot of reading and scenic views, we got out bags ready to hop off at Moreda. As we were getting off the train one of the employees asked if I was sure I wanted to get off here. I said “yeah, I think, we’re going to Granada,” to which he replied, “there have been some complications, [something I didn’t understand] 10 or 15 minutes” and then the door slid closed and the train drove away.

Moreda was a ghost station in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t a soul in sight and the station was all boarded up. There were no arrival/departure boards or signs of any kind other than the one that said “Moreda.” Our only companions were endless empty fields of olive trees and a cluster of distant mountains. If I remember correctly, a tumbleweed passed by just as Lauren and I let out an unenthused expletive. All we knew was that “there had been some complications blank blank blank 10 or 15 minutes.” I searched my short mental Spanish dictionary amidst the desolation trying to cross-reference and decipher what could possibly fill in those blanks.

Apparently something was going to happen in 10 or 15 minutes, so we waited somewhat patiently. After 30 minutes the patience faded and we decided it would be a good idea to flag down any sign of life before the sun went down and amplified our isolation. We had our eyes peeled on the horizon when the tiniest of rail vehicles (you couldn’t really call it a train) puttered into sight. I flagged it down and we hastily boarded the gimpy box. The gimpy box driver said it was going to Granada so we took his word for it and gladly waved goodbye to Moreda.

The most endearing aspect of that travel day, besides the amazing Spanish scenery, was that it didn’t cost us a penny! Thanks to a little loophole we stumbled apon in the rail pass system, we’ve been covering great distances for free. Stew Jarmon would be so proud.

Over the years I’ve heard a lot of things from different people about Barcelona. Nothing prepared me for what it was like. We climbed up into the city from our underground train stop and were immediately confronted by Gaudí. His organic twists and turns seem to grow naturally out of this lively urban jungle thriving between the ocean and the mountains.

Gaudí and the funky attitude engrossing Barcelona he helped sculpt were the main attractions. There was also the Picasso Museum honoring all of his under the radar ‘b-side’ works and studies. Between them two the city was already almost too artistic to bear. Throw on some wonderful coastal weather, a hip and rebellious Catalunyan population, plus some palm trees and you’ve got a perfect storm of stimulation.

First we climbed up Casa Milà for a look at a Gaudí interior and a peek at the city from above. Then we humbly shuffled through the ongoing epic that is the Sagrada Familia. Still feigning for more Modernisme magic, we hiked up to Park Güell and reveled at what can be done when someone ignores the limits of traditions, taboos, and creative dogma. I got the impression that Gaudí was one of those geniuses that started with “Wouldn’t it be cool if…” and didn’t stop until the coolness was realized.

We especially enjoyed the neighborhood surrounding the Picasso museum. It was a ying-yang of bohemian artistic and SOHO chic. Inside the museum we were amused by a lot of the early work by Picasso. His paintings transmit his emotions pretty clearly, so you can tell when he was happy, sad, frustrated, curious, and just being a wise ass.

Every night we ate at a local vegan eatery called Juicy Jones. It was delicious.

Andrew Vickers and his Peugeot station wagon were a sight for soar eyes after 24 hours of trains and ferries. We piled into the party wagon and kicked off our week of chillaxin’. Lauren and I struggled to change English gears from ‘pronounce everything’ foreigner mode to high-speed mumbling and Austin slang. Our tongues were a little fatigued from 2 months of failed attempts at pronouncing strange languages.

Most of our time was spent enjoying the liberty of the car, the comfort of the house, and the tranquility of the beach. Inside the Peugeot wagon the radio never left French pop/electronic station “FUN RADIO.” The exciting beats and high-energy rhythms married well with Andrew’s driving, which could be described as anything but dull. Back at his Aunt’s breathtaking villa overlooking the port town Ile Rousse, the setting similarly harmonized with the symphonic masterpieces constantly flowing from radio “Classique.” On the beaches all sound was absorbed like a sponge into the purifying whooosh of the ocean massaging the shoreline.

The stunning island of Corsica combined with Andrew’s companionship was just the reprieve we needed. “Lazy” doesn’t come close to describing just how blissfully uneventful our days were. The extraordinary week of fine-grained beaches, island road trips, and easy conversation involved nothing of real consequence. Perhaps the most monumental of our achievements were the feasts we prepared each night.

Things picked up a bit when we made it back to mainland France in time to celebrate Andrew’s 22nd birthday. After a quick tour of Antibes, we met up with some of his Swiss friends for drinks. The night unraveled the same way any birthday celebration would on 6th Street. As Andrew said, “things got American real fast.”

The next day we didn’t lift our faces off the beach until the sun was gone and it was time to meet up with Seline, one of the Andrew’s Swiss girls, for a delicious Italian dinner. Later we finished Andrew’s 22nd by sipping on some Brunello di Montalcino and looking out at a dark Mediterranean. To top it all off, Lauren and I took credit for arranging a spectacular fireworks display that was coincidentally erupting across the peninsula. It was as regal a gala as the birthday-man himself.

We kissed Italy goodbye and jumped on a train to Bern, Switzerland. Our Swiss friends from the Tuscan wine tasting, Laura and Nathalie, had invited us to stay with them and we happily obliged. Bern was an unexpected side trip that turned out to be a real highlight. [Please keep in mind that this whole European adventure just gets more awesome at every turn and it’s impossible to say one experience is better than another: like any parent would say of their children, they are all amazing in their own special ways (and we can never reveal which is our secret favorite.)]

The trip started out strong with a train ride up into the Alps and through some killer scenery reminiscent of the Norwegian fjord fiasco. From then on it was nothing but exciting new places, amazing new friends, and incredible fun.

When Laura said that she lived with four other guys near the university, we naturally assumed we would be crashing on the floor of a cramped, untidy, and bleak apartment. Imagine our surprise when we walked only blocks from the main street and entered a gargantuan flat that easily doubled the size of any European housing situation we’ve ever seen. All five bedrooms were gigantic. The kitchen and living room were fit for a king. The icing on the cake was the stellar graffiti covering the walls. I couldn’t understand how five kids with standard college means could not only afford such a luxurious apartment, but also afford to destroy every flat surface with spray paint! Obviously, there was a catch.

The catch was that the house had a one-time-only 8-month lease and a faintly funky smell. A man lived in the flat for 50 years before recently moving to a retirement home. Apparently he was a big smoker and somewhat of a pig, so the family offered up the apartment for cheap to anyone willing to clean up the place and live for a while before it gets gutted. Laura’s 4 roommates did a good job cleaning and now enjoy the freedom to paint doors, cabinets, and walls as they please. It’s every college kid’s dream.

Switzerland was a big change from Italy. In Switzerland there are rules and, even more bizarre, people who enforce those rules. On the first night, Laura took us to eat at the restaurant where both her and Nathalie work. It was nearby, so we set out to walk when a bus happened to stop that we could ride. We rushed and jumped on. I knew we needed tickets, but Lauren and I had just spent a month in a country where getting struck by lightning was more likely than having to present a valid ticket for a bus ride. In less than a kilometer a man in uniform started working his way down the bus checking tickets. Lauren and I casually played dumb tourists while Laura spat out some sort of excuse in Swiss-German. The whole bus turned and watched like they were about to see us get thrown out the window. There was an exchange and the dude seemed like a nice guy, but Laura was really flustered. Apparently he told us to get off at the next stop (which was our stop anyways) and buy two tickets, so we did. As we walked away Laura let out a nervous laugh of relief and explained what had happened. Her smooth talking and some rare compassion from the ticket controller managed to save us from a €120 fine.

After that brush with the law, we had a gourmet meal at the Kornhaus and then hit the town for a taste of the Swiss nightlife. Their favorite bar is an old P.E. Gymnasium turned hip lounge that was unfortunately closed for a private party. Obviously there is a Mexican bar in Bern, Switzerland though, and it was their back up hotspot. Proof that Switzerland is extremely expensive (and very far from Mexico) came in the form of my $7 Tecate. A lot of Laura and Nathalie’s friends have spent time in Central/South America and our mutual love for Latin America dominated conversation.

Bern turned out to be a lively town with a cool bar scene. There were also a lot of cows, a little mountain to hike up and down, outstanding chocolate, some bears, and a bunch of really friendly people everywhere. Our hosts treated us to a huge veggie-modified Swiss meal that seemed to go on forever. These mountain people know how to stock up on the calories.

Bern was another one of those places we cringed at having to leave. When we eventually did, we left behind great people and very good times. Before departing for Corsica I put the finishing touches on my contribution to the house – a giant Texas on Laura’s wall to remind her which part of the USA is the coolest.

OR, a quick farewell to Italy.

Italy is the physical, sociological, and political manifestation of romance. Its Mediterranean climate nourishes more character per square inch than any other country in the world (according to leading charactrographers.) This charisma isn’t always endearing. A lot about Italy leaves you grinning and shaking your head, the look you give your beloved dog that just took a crap on the floor. Italy functions a lot like a love affair – almost nothing makes sense in practical terms because love and romance have nothing to do with practicality. The silly inefficiencies are what make romance romantic and Italy Italian.

If most western nations are sleek, modern 747s conquering the skys – Italy is a flimsy, handmade biplane bouncing around with the Wright brothers cursing each other above astonished crowds. Italians live a life that is far from mundane. Their culture has inherited all the intricate drama of classical mythology. Being wrapped up in it for a month was at times inspiring, frustrating, amusing, but overall, beautiful.

We got to Milan early to do some internet stuff, grab lunch, and get a sneak peek at Italy’s big business capital before ringing our next Servas hosts’ doorbell. Irene (pronounced “ee-rin-ay”) greeted us with a big smile and a curiously Russian tinge to her English. Her and her husband Federico are the parents of 1 year old Gabrielle – Italy’s biggest Teletubbies fan and red bike helmet aficionado. Gabrielle’s incoming teeth would keep him and everyone else awake most of the night (despite the splash of Grappa added to his formula,) but you couldn’t help but feel sorry for the little guy.

Irene and Federico are great cooks and veteran Servas hosts who know how to take care of their guests. Irene, a native to Milan, mapped out a very entertaining day for us despite the admittedly watered-down beauty of her city. Her self-guided tour took us through the duomo business district and into the funky bohemian part of town that serves as Milan’s only refuge for the young and hip. It has an “oasis of weirdness” vibe that any Austinite can appreciate.

Compared to all of the other Italian cities we have seen, Milan is definitely the ugly duckling. It’s a big industrial city parked within a Mom ‘n’ Pop country, a bulldozer parked in a garage full of old Vespas. People live there for the jobs, not the atmosphere. A flood of tourism has covered most of Italy forcing engineers like Federico to seek higher ground in Milan.

Irene’s three years in Moscow explained her Russian accent and the intimidating bottles of vodka in her cupboard. We all took a few swigs of the Ruskie liquor later that night to help sleep through Gabriele’s dental battle-royal that never came. He slept like a rock after having worn himself out the night before (plus I think Irene upped the Grappa dosage.) Much to my surprise, Federico asked if I wanted to watch an American baseball game. He and a handful of other Italians have admired baseball ever since the Italian broadcast of the Subway Series. I don’t exactly follow baseball these days, so all I had to offer him were my pathetic stories of little league mediocrity that unfailingly ended in the coveted “Most Improved” trophy.

Verona is a sweet little town just an hour inland from Venice. A sweet little Italian woman named Rita Martini hosted us and made us feel right at home. We talked at length about her Servas experiences all over the world including exotic destinations like Madagascar, Rio de Janeiro, India, and Poland. Rita had most recently returned from a three-week journey through Iran. She spoke very fondly of everywhere she has ever visited and almost every Servas member she has ever encountered. We discussed the complexities of such a philosophically distinct peace organization like Servas. The idea is to promote peace by absolving ignorance; personal dialogue between people from different sides of the world is meant to foster international compassion. Some dense people, though, are just looking for a free place to sleep.

Something about our time in Verona conjures up the adjective “lovely.” Daylight hours were spent enjoying the city. There is an ancient Roman theater designed by Palladio, a balcony supposedly used by Shakespeare’s Juliet, a 1,000 year old whale rib, and a lot of skinny cypress trees. At night we ate and drank with Rita. She is a nurse and a teacher who works very hard in a country short on both. I’d like to think she enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed hers.

Now off to our last stop in Italia – Milan.

First of all I want to say thank you to everyone that has been reading along and commenting. I can’t express how much that means to Lauren and I.

Second, I need to inform any and all loving family members who get a little impatient during blog post droughts *cough,uncledan,cough* that there will be a midterm hiatus. Today marks the second month of our 4 month European adventure. To celebrate the half waypoint, Lauren and I are heading to Corsica, France to visit our friend Andrew Vickers. Donde Esta la Biblioteca Otra Vez meets Relève la tête. I doubt there will be any internet, and even if there is, I doubt my motivation to seek it out. If I stumble upon something of course I will throw up a post, but we’ll see.

So there we have been to three new places since Venice – Verona, Milan, and Bern, Switzerland. A Cliffnotes version of those posts would look like: Verona – very nice, Milan – meh + shoulder shrug, Bern, Switzerland – so awesome you wouldn’t even believe. More to come when posting resumes. We bail for Spain sometime around the 15th.

Here is a little biography I made for anyone that doesn’t know Andrew Vickers:

He’s tall. Like most tall dudes, he tends to think of his height more like an achievement than an attribute. He’s cool. But deep down he must feel guilty about being so extraordinarily cool, because he surrounds himself with a thick smog of humility. The fuel for this humility is wit. He reads a lot and has collected a formidable vocabulary; thus an ability to execute even the most routine exchange with clever diction. He’s an attentive conversationalist that doesn’t let anything slip through the cracks. He likes sci-fi books a lot, but in a way healthy enough to pass the average person’s non-dork test with a C+. His steady demeanor rarely strays from calm and collected. He and Alcohol get along great; no one could turn down an invitation to hang out with them two. He’s a good friend and Lauren and I jumped at the opportunity to meet up with him.

On the way to Venice we had our first train-missing experience. Let’s just say that Italian train stations require the utmost vigilance. Any information you manage to gather should be considered more a clue than a fact. It’s a confusing game of hide and seek that we almost lost. Fortunately the ticket collector on the train leaving 5 minutes later accepted our “your trains suck” faces in place of a correct ticket.

When we got off the train in Venice, we kissed wheels goodbye. Everything takes the form of a boat in this strange water world; from buses, taxis, luxury automobiles and police cars, delivery and postal trucks, to fire engines. We even saw two young kids cruising in a boat tricked out with subwoofers. I can imagine the Greenberg/Spillar family duo circa 1997 having a hell of a time introducing Venetians to jet skis.

I realize I’ve been using the word “beautiful” right and left in these posts, so to communicate my impression of Venice beyond “beautiful,” I would say that every façade of every building could be photographed and framed. They are all deteriorating in the most dignified and elegant way imaginable. Only for lack of time and memory cards did I come away with so few pictures.

St. Mark’s square was the main hub of our ventures throughout Venice partly because it was one of the few places we could find without getting lost, and partly because it is a very impressive square. St. Mark’s Basilica, with its golden mosaic domes and swirling marble floors, was also a sight to see. Our favorite activity, however, was just roaming over little bridges and through tight Venetian corridors. It is a fascinating city whose initial delight doesn’t fade easily.

Other than the city itself, one of our top two experiences in Venice was the energetic string orchestra we saw play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons inside an old Venetian church. The cellist thrashed around with so much enthusiasm that I wasn’t sure if he was on crack, or just insanely excited about classical music (plus just a little crack.) Either way, his fervor only heightened the intensity of the music and I didn’t bat a sleepy eye once during the hour and a half musical roller coaster ride. I’m only 22 years young, but it feels weird to reach a point when classical music becomes legitimately entertaining. Of course Lauren reached that point back in third grade when I was too enthralled with ‘Slimer’ to realize classical music even existed, much less perform it on a piano.

Every night St. Mark’s square hosts three small stages crammed with orchestras. They take turns playing two song sets as a crowd of merry tourists marches back and forth. One night as we were walking back from the square, one of the bands started playing a tango song that we both recognized. Lauren was able to recount the song’s title and composer but I knew it only as “That Song From The End Of True Lies.”

The other top experience was the gondola ride, which I think speaks for itself. It was romantic with a capital “R.” We were mesmerized by Venice at sunset. The trance was only lifted when listening to our gondolier make fun of other gondoliers and their passengers in Italian (Lauren translated for me;) he was a real character.

On the last day we browsed Peggy Guggenheim’s outstanding collection of modern art including works by innumerable kick ass Surrealists, Cubists, Dadaists, and pretty much any other 20th century –ists. Later we refilled our wine thermos at the local straight-from-the-cask shop and boarded a ferry to the train station. Towards the end I tried desperately to take in as much of Venice as I could, like a kid gulping in air before diving underwater. I hope its not too long before my supply runs out.

Cinque Terre is the kind of place that just can’t help but be touristy. Who in their right mind could hear “Five tiny Italian towns linked by hiking trails nestled into cliffs over the Mediterranean,” and say, “No thanks!” Our heads would’ve exploded if we had continued to let the flat, nasally, squawking American invasion of omni-beautiful Italy bother us. It was time to come to terms with the fact that every place you go isn’t going to be some cool, undiscovered gem that you get to enjoy in peace.

I can only imagine the heartbreak felt by travelers who discovered Cinque Terre years ago. When I was in fourth grade my two best friends Matt Lockwood and Joe Lockridge decided I was cool enough to be introduced to a band they had recently discovered. No one else at Valley View elementary knew of them because we guarded the secret like our lives depended on it. Inevitably the day came when I heard “Run Around” by Blues Traveler on 96.7 KHFI and it was all over. Within a week every damn Valley View cardinal but the backwards kindergarteners had rushed to Camelot Music and bought the CD we once treated like the holy grail.

That was the first of many reminders that some things are just too cool to be kept secret. Cinque Terre is one of those things. The string of towns is popular for good reason; every antique building is squeezed into impossibly picturesque cliffs with highlighter blue water crashing at their base and lush terraces of soon-to-be wine looking on from above.

One morning we set out on a hike from our town of Vernazza to the 5th town, Monterosso. It was raining pretty steadily so we threw on waterproof jackets, let out a trademark Bret Labadie “Ah PERrrr-fect,” and hit the trail. Along the narrow, slippery, steep journey we were thankful that the rain was our only companion as opposed to the crowds of old people we began to pass when the sun came out near Monterosso.

While posing for a picture Lauren was taking along the way, I leaned up against what I thought was just a colorful sign. It was actually an emergency call box and I had leaned on the button for the fire station. A hysterical Italian guy answered the call and started yelling at me through a loudspeaker trying to figure out what the hell was going on (possibly because it was raining and he was confused as to how a fire somehow stared.) Luckily “OK” is part of the universal vocabulary, and the guy inside the loud flashing box and I managed to get everything sorted out.