In the morning we go to Vseyrhad (spelling may be off by 5 or 6 letters), a little castle outside of central Prague, and wander through the snow-covered gardens and cemetary, past a subdued church of snow-covered bright colors and mozaics. The place is utterly peaceful and beautiful, and the sun shines brilliantly down. We catch snowflakes (the must intricate and perfect we have ever seen) and eat handfuls of the soft powder, unable to resist the perfection of fresh fallen snow. We draw all sorts of strange looks from passing Czechs. We step out onto an overlook with stunning views of the Vltava, as the sun bursts through the clouds to illuminate the snow-covered landscape. The view is captivating, huge, white. Two swans fly past below, their grace gone in the flustered flight. We are on a cliff, standing beneath an ancient stone arch, with the world glistening before us.
The rest of the day is spent exploring the city. Our strategy, which we have used in each city we have visited, is to aim vaguely for some landmark or other. We may or may not arrive there, but the target is not the goal. The moments we see the city are on the way, when we get lost down a back alley. The moments we delight in are when we find ourselves way off the main tourist streets, wandering through some local neighborhood, slowly winding our way toward whatever it is we want to find. We don't see this as some superior form of tourism, and we Do like to see the famous sights, but with only a few days in the city, our chief desire is to get a feeling, a sense of the city. An imprint, or a memory. So on we wander.
Lunch is, of course, chinese food. With a goal and necessity to spend as little money as possible, we have found ourselves eating some of the most icongruous cuisine imaginable. In Scotland we ate Turkish food. In Amsterdam, Italian food. In Prague, then it is (of course) Chinese food. Often the local delicacies, while attractive, are aimed at tourists with more money than we, and are out of reach. But we find the incongruity amusing and the food is warm and fulfilling. Especially when it is followed by ice cream...
In the afternoon we go to the National Museum of Music, a strange little building tucked down a side street. We go through a long exhibition on the Beatles, which emphasizes their affect on Czech culture, and is beautifully laid out, with great film clips and music blasting. In my opinion, it is a good idea, at least once a year, to spend at least a day basking in the immortal glory of the Beatles. This exhibition was, then, perfect. Afterwards we walked through a huge collection of some of the most beautiful instruments imaginable, including beautifully fashioned pianos and cellos and every variation on every classical instrument in the world. Each room played recordings of the featured instrument, which was very pleasant when we were in the violin room, and more jarring when we were in the room housing the giant (and very loud) medieval ancestor of the oboe.
After another cozy evening with our Slovak hosts, we board a bus, ever onward, and ride bumpily through the cold night.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The next day we launch ourselves into the city with a vengeance. We are a bus and a metro ride away from the city, but we speed eagerly in after a wonderful breakfast, and explore first Prague Castle. It is a palace, utterly splendid and totally different from the stark militarism of Xativa in Spain or the grand intimidation of Edinburgh castle. It is a palace, a place of beauty and grandeur, echoing the city of Prague itself. We watch the changing of the guard, a melodramatic process involving a lot of foot-stomping and rifle maneuvering. Then we wander through the dramatic plaza, where we can almost visualize various princes and fair ladies and soldier and horses rushing too and fro (I see it like a scene from Anna Karenina, wrong country I know). There is of course, a dramatic cathedral, but it is rendered very unpleasant by large loud crowds within. We emerge from the courtyard onto an overlook, where a dramatic tree stands, poised against the vast backdrop. It is old, and gnarled, and beautiful, calling to mind immediately the white tree of Gondor. We gape at views of the city, resplendent with tons of green copper and bright colors (but more of that later). We descend from the castle down a long staircase into the town. We cross the Charles Bridge, one of the city's most famous sights. It is a long work of arm, a massive bridge of stone that gracefully spans the Vltava River. It is lined with statues, over 40 of them, massive beautifully depicted biblical characters, carved from rough stone and ornamented with golden crosses and swords. They gaze down on the dozens of street musicians and look out across the river to the main city, and down the river into the mist. The bridge, a huge, unified work of art, feels immortal, timeless, and as we look down the stretch of the river we can sense the great expanse of history. This bridge, this city pulsates with it (the bridge doesn't actually pulsate, don't worry, it is too stable). This is Europe, ancient and full of stories. Stories like the Velvet Revolution and the multiple Defenestration's of Prague, and mysterious stories too small but equally significant, like who else crossed this bridge, who built it, who planted that beautiful tree up at the castle, what did the defenestrated guy land on? (I like to imagine on the jagged wooden fence in a swamp full of brambles. Poor bastard).
Anyway, we are onward, across the bridge, under the tower that rises majestically at it's end, black and proud. We head into the center of the town, marvelling at the city, it's life, and especially the architecture. The architecture, which we have seen several times since our arrival, but which we can only fully appreciate now, is splendid. There is no other word for it. Huge buildings, beautifully constructed, with excessive, Baroque curls and flowers. But the best part is the colors. Soft, elegant pastel shades, greens and pinks and blues, all somehow walking the thin line between cheerful and guady. They are tasteful, but brilliant. And the crowning aspect of the ubiquitous copper makes the whole thing sublime.
The main square is crowded with lovely buildings, arching majestically over the wide open space which has a central statue hugely different from the faux Greek Adonis in the Valencian plaza. A dark figure cast in copper looms up in a flowing black cloak, glaring menacingly down on a crowd of cheerful folk musicians. A church stands regally in the center of the square, adorned on one tower by the famous Astrological Clock. A fascinating creation with an unknown purpose that looks not unlike the Alethiometer in The Northern Lights, but on a grand scale, colorfully adorned and crafted from beautiful metal. When the clock strikes the hour a procession of little wooden characters march out of the wall in a surreal procession, and a trumpeter emerges from the top of the tower to play a dramatic fanfare. It is wonderfully archaic.
We march up the main drag, a wide avenue refreshingly different from the narrow winding alleys of Amsterdam. We grab Czech sausages and breadrolls from a little stand and walk to the top of the hill, to the statue of King Wenceslas (didn't know he actually existed), and the astonishing National Museum, a vast creation of glass and brilliant metal, halfway between a palace and a train station, perched in the finest location possible, on top of the hill, looking down on the city with it's sparkling lights and wild flurries of snow. We explore the museum, with it's vast collection of`zoological research (including wooly mammoth skulls!) and an incredible mineral collection (Geologist Peter Tatum PhD would have cried at the site of all this rock), as well as the archeological history and a series of dramatic busts of Czech heroes. It was an impressive museum, beautifully laid out, designed to awe and impress with sweeping halls and high ceilings, incredible murals and vast marble columns. It is awe-inspiring. As is all of Prague.
Anyway, we are onward, across the bridge, under the tower that rises majestically at it's end, black and proud. We head into the center of the town, marvelling at the city, it's life, and especially the architecture. The architecture, which we have seen several times since our arrival, but which we can only fully appreciate now, is splendid. There is no other word for it. Huge buildings, beautifully constructed, with excessive, Baroque curls and flowers. But the best part is the colors. Soft, elegant pastel shades, greens and pinks and blues, all somehow walking the thin line between cheerful and guady. They are tasteful, but brilliant. And the crowning aspect of the ubiquitous copper makes the whole thing sublime.
The main square is crowded with lovely buildings, arching majestically over the wide open space which has a central statue hugely different from the faux Greek Adonis in the Valencian plaza. A dark figure cast in copper looms up in a flowing black cloak, glaring menacingly down on a crowd of cheerful folk musicians. A church stands regally in the center of the square, adorned on one tower by the famous Astrological Clock. A fascinating creation with an unknown purpose that looks not unlike the Alethiometer in The Northern Lights, but on a grand scale, colorfully adorned and crafted from beautiful metal. When the clock strikes the hour a procession of little wooden characters march out of the wall in a surreal procession, and a trumpeter emerges from the top of the tower to play a dramatic fanfare. It is wonderfully archaic.
We march up the main drag, a wide avenue refreshingly different from the narrow winding alleys of Amsterdam. We grab Czech sausages and breadrolls from a little stand and walk to the top of the hill, to the statue of King Wenceslas (didn't know he actually existed), and the astonishing National Museum, a vast creation of glass and brilliant metal, halfway between a palace and a train station, perched in the finest location possible, on top of the hill, looking down on the city with it's sparkling lights and wild flurries of snow. We explore the museum, with it's vast collection of`zoological research (including wooly mammoth skulls!) and an incredible mineral collection (Geologist Peter Tatum PhD would have cried at the site of all this rock), as well as the archeological history and a series of dramatic busts of Czech heroes. It was an impressive museum, beautifully laid out, designed to awe and impress with sweeping halls and high ceilings, incredible murals and vast marble columns. It is awe-inspiring. As is all of Prague.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
At the bus station we are met by Peter Berezny, a friend of a friend of a friend who graciously welcomes us, and with whom we stay while in Prague. He and his wife are from Slovakia, with two beautiful adorable little kids (with whom we play lots of music, though only 2 and 4 years old, both of them are impressive percussionists, and even have a got at strumming a guitar and sawing on a fiddle). They live in a suburb of Prague, in an apartment complex of classically Communist construction. They have a cozy little home into which we are warmly welcomed and though truly strangers at first, we all get along really well. They cook great food, especially a Slovakian specialty which consists of balls of dough cook in a cream sauce and served with fresh cream, bits of bacon, and fermented milk. It is delicious (I know it sounds a bit odd, but take my word for it: amazing). The ultimate comfort food.
Staying with Peter and Jane is a wonderful luxury. To be in a strange new city, and yet to have a welcoming home to come back to, is lovely. We sleep blissfully on the fold-out couch, play music with the little girls, and stay up late watching movies that Peter downloads (he is a technological computer wizard, and works in something with a name that I can't even say correctly, let alone understand). The first night Peter takes us out for a drink, and we go to a wonderful little Czech bar called, with rugged stone wall and great, smokey atmosphere. Downstairs a Czech band plays American folk music in Czech (with mixed results I must admit, and they steam steadily downhill as the evening wears on and they consume more alcohol than anyone in their audience). We are joined by a trio of colleagues of Peter's from Texas (it is an international data company) and we have a good time. We realize, over the course of the evening, that we have gotten very good at this, this strange art and science of meeting new people, random strangers with whom you have potentially nothing in common (not age, not home, not background, not lifestyle, not beliefs, not culture) and yet find something to talk about, and end up thick as theives. And it truly is not just the camaraderie that could be found at any drinking establishment. We really are getting to be very interesting people, capable of not only carrying on a conversation, but actually improving it. We are growing up. It is great.
Staying with Peter and Jane is a wonderful luxury. To be in a strange new city, and yet to have a welcoming home to come back to, is lovely. We sleep blissfully on the fold-out couch, play music with the little girls, and stay up late watching movies that Peter downloads (he is a technological computer wizard, and works in something with a name that I can't even say correctly, let alone understand). The first night Peter takes us out for a drink, and we go to a wonderful little Czech bar called, with rugged stone wall and great, smokey atmosphere. Downstairs a Czech band plays American folk music in Czech (with mixed results I must admit, and they steam steadily downhill as the evening wears on and they consume more alcohol than anyone in their audience). We are joined by a trio of colleagues of Peter's from Texas (it is an international data company) and we have a good time. We realize, over the course of the evening, that we have gotten very good at this, this strange art and science of meeting new people, random strangers with whom you have potentially nothing in common (not age, not home, not background, not lifestyle, not beliefs, not culture) and yet find something to talk about, and end up thick as theives. And it truly is not just the camaraderie that could be found at any drinking establishment. We really are getting to be very interesting people, capable of not only carrying on a conversation, but actually improving it. We are growing up. It is great.
We sit on a Eurolines bus that streams overnight across the lowlands. The nowhere lands. The nether lands. We sleep well (we are seasoned bus-travellers). We are shaken awake at 4am by border officials demanding passports. They rumage through our bags looking for drugs, and leave all the pockets of the bags open (leaving possessions spilled all over the luggage compartment which is, of course frustrating, when we have to return the days later to retrieve items of Casey's luggage that we left behind). But it is, for the most part, an uneventful journey. Suddenly I wake, and we are surrounded by snow, and sailing down hill into an incredible city. A ciy that feels old, and yet full of life, full of history and spirit. We are in Prague.
Amsterdam! A city set in and on the water, divided by endless canals, with hundreds of tiny bridges and quiet avenues. A city populated almost exclusively by bicycles and trams, with relatively little room leftfor cars. A hodge-podge of architecture with only an element of quaint beauty to tie it all together. And of course, a city of utter and unabashed liberalism, where Coffeeshops rarely serve coffee and a red light means not that you should stop but rather that you should GO for it. A strange, comfortable, unfamiliar, and wonderful city.
We coast in late in the evening, and struggle by tram and metro, to find our way to our hostel. The town is small but our hostel is well distanced from the center so it takes a while to get there. We drop our bags and head into town. For the sake of cultural understanding, and not for Any other reason, we enter a Coffeeshop, simply to investigate, to see what it is all about. The next three days are a blur from which little memory can be clearly recalled. The following may have actually occured, or could be totally imagined.
...We wander the streets for hours every day. We leave in the morning with some vague destination in mind, and delight in the discoveries we make as we get progressively more and more lost. The streetsare all short and curving and narrow, with long complex dutch names, and there are dozens of indistinguishable canals. We wind through endless streets, and even at the end of several days have barely managed to get a grasp of the city's layout. We find incredible stores and wonderful food and we enjoy various views of the city. We dodge cyclists (there is a bike lane EVERYWHERE) and stand on the quiet little bridges enjoying the view, equally entrancing during day and night...
...We eat massive plates of pasta and a pizza called "Con Frutta." Literally a pizza covered in bananas, peaches, and pineapple. We eat kebabs (our favorite budget fare) and enjoy the twang of eastern spice. The best part though, by far, are the XXL Muffins, sold exlusively at a little cafe we discover and ranging from ChocolateCherry to PearSpice and Blueberry and every wonderful flavor that can be imagined. In fact, although they are huge, we both agree that XXL could be a bit larger....
...We find some of the most incredible shops. There is an utterly elegant cigar shop made exclusively of rich mahogany selling a million types of cigars, beautiful long wooden pipes (including an exact replica of Bilbo Baggin's pipe, which I almost buy impulsively), and bizarre cigarettes flavored like mango and pina colada. There is a "fantasy store" that plays beautiful cello music and is all green vines and wooden carvings and there is a massive tree in the center with faces carves into it. The store sells fairy models and elf costumes and gnome paintings and all sorts of magical jewelry and charms and potions. It is Fantastic and Fantastical. There is an unbeleivably classy liquor store, selling elegant bottles of "Gentleman Jack" and Van Gogh's favorite absynth, and other drinks unspeakably lovely, charmingly presented, and of course a million miles outside of our price-range. There is a music store with the most astonishing collection of Classical recording and sheet music that I have ever seen. I spend hours their, poring over scores and looking at arrangements. There is also an incredible Theater and Film Bookshop, my favorite theme for a bookshop ever. There is also a hilarious store whose windows are filled with peanut butter, cheezits, crackers, chips, candies, chocolate and everything a hungry tummy could desire. In other words, the Ultimate Munchies shop. Needless to say, we resist temptation and do not enter...
...There is a beautiful flower market along the banks of one canal, open every day and releasing waves of perfume and the heavy sweet smell of damp earth. It is beautifully colorful and entrancingly alive...
...The street musicians are incredible and ubiquitous, especially a man who stands alone in the square with a stand up base, playing incredible Rolling Stones covers, with a beautiful warbling voice and incredible style and pizzaz...
...There is a giant chess board in the center of one plaza, where two old men duel in a tense chess game as spectators shout advice. We watch fascinated as the whole conflict slowly and captivatingly resolves itself on this bizarrely large scale...
...For some reason the main square is full of mimes in Grim Reaper costumes. We fail to understand what they are doing, but they are probably designed to terrify stoned tourists. They are terrifying...
...We go to see a sketch-comedy show called BOOM!CHICAGO, inspired by the likes of SNL. It is hilarious beyond compare, and the audience is rolling around laughing as they do various group improv making fun of facebook, politics, and of course, the Dutch...
...And the Dutch, it should be mentioned, have one serious flaw. Everything in the city is unbearably expensive. There is not one free museum (London has dozens and the Louvre is free) but each museum costs 18 euros or more. Food is exorbitantly expensive (save for little gems that we meticulously discover) and there is literally nothing in the town that you can do for free. Even the church has a massive entrance free. The dutch, we decide sympathetically, are tightfisted bastards. But likeable, notheless...
...Everyday we wander through open markets, which are everywhere. We sort through mountains of records and look through pile of books. We examine piles of clothes and various bits and bobs. We buy very little, but the searching is still fun...
...We spend hours every day in bookstores. Amsterdam has a long avenue lined with every type of bookstore imaginable, including an expensive, impressive Waterstones with unnecessary black and gold decor, and tiny little used bookstores run by little old dutch men. Our favorite is a massive multi-leveled book store with an astonishing collection. We go into the various stores to relax and sometimes stay long enough to read a whole book (Rozencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead takes exacty 2.5 hours to read, if you are curious). I buy Little Lord Fauntleroy and Casey buys Life by Keith Richards. We read voraciously, often in bookstores, sometimes in cafes, and occaisionally in coffeeshops. Bookstores are a wonderful place to be, and Amsterdam has a wonderful selection...
...And the coffeeshops. Wow. They are dark and smoky and the bartenders, inevitably stoned and cynical, are often surly. But the atmosphere is relaxed and fun (duh...). The range of people inside is bizarre, from burnt-out hippies to ancient old men and young dutch kids and awkward tourists, and plenty of extremely excited kids visiting the cty for the first time. We go to one called the Dolphin, with a dreamy underwater theme, and murals on all the walls. Another, called Baba, has a massive statue of Ganesh and various Hindu art all over the walls. Some are party places, some are chilled out. At one of them at TV plays bizarre animations while text rolls by underneath telling you what to do if you get too high. It is hilarious. Music pounds entrancingly (or obnoxiously) from the speakers. The shock of publicity is difficult to get over. The shops sell seeds of every variety of marijuana, magic mushrooms, and various bizarre drugs with unpredictable effects with names like dreamwave823bn4 and miteflower94nf94. It is strange, utterly strange and fun...
...And the red light district, which we seek out one night, unsure how illicit it will really be, is shocking. Along one canal every window has a red glowing light above it, and beneath beckons a lady of the night, suggestively beckoning you towards her from behind the glass door, waving and calling to you. Revulsion mixes with awe and you stumble onward, not sure if what you are seeing is real. They are, of course, people of all shapes and sizes, meant to appeal to every market. It is a phenomenon. People crowd in the streets and stare, not looking for action but rather in awe. And of course there are endless sex shops and shows and a hilarious store called the Condomerie which sells, well you can probably guess...
...The evening that we are leaving town, we do something we have been wanting to do for a long time. We go to a little shop in a bad part of town and we select the plumpest, juiciest looking specimen in sight, one with luscious pink curves, and we pay a very pretty girl a ridiculous amount of money for a taste of her...dragonfruit. (Haha, gotcha). OK seriously now that is not innuendo, a dragonfruit is a fruit, a pink and green, flower shaped thing that had been eyeing us from the window every day. The inside was white and full of seeds and looked similar to the inside of a kiwi. It tasted somewhat like a kiwi too, but sweeter, full of tang and honey. It is unbeleivably delicious. One of the best fruits we have ever tasted. Having enjoyed it, we set off for the train station, and leave the wonderous and bizarre, unlikely and likeable, liberal and liberating, revolting and revelling, amazing and awe-inspiring Amsterdam.
We coast in late in the evening, and struggle by tram and metro, to find our way to our hostel. The town is small but our hostel is well distanced from the center so it takes a while to get there. We drop our bags and head into town. For the sake of cultural understanding, and not for Any other reason, we enter a Coffeeshop, simply to investigate, to see what it is all about. The next three days are a blur from which little memory can be clearly recalled. The following may have actually occured, or could be totally imagined.
...We wander the streets for hours every day. We leave in the morning with some vague destination in mind, and delight in the discoveries we make as we get progressively more and more lost. The streetsare all short and curving and narrow, with long complex dutch names, and there are dozens of indistinguishable canals. We wind through endless streets, and even at the end of several days have barely managed to get a grasp of the city's layout. We find incredible stores and wonderful food and we enjoy various views of the city. We dodge cyclists (there is a bike lane EVERYWHERE) and stand on the quiet little bridges enjoying the view, equally entrancing during day and night...
...We eat massive plates of pasta and a pizza called "Con Frutta." Literally a pizza covered in bananas, peaches, and pineapple. We eat kebabs (our favorite budget fare) and enjoy the twang of eastern spice. The best part though, by far, are the XXL Muffins, sold exlusively at a little cafe we discover and ranging from ChocolateCherry to PearSpice and Blueberry and every wonderful flavor that can be imagined. In fact, although they are huge, we both agree that XXL could be a bit larger....
...We find some of the most incredible shops. There is an utterly elegant cigar shop made exclusively of rich mahogany selling a million types of cigars, beautiful long wooden pipes (including an exact replica of Bilbo Baggin's pipe, which I almost buy impulsively), and bizarre cigarettes flavored like mango and pina colada. There is a "fantasy store" that plays beautiful cello music and is all green vines and wooden carvings and there is a massive tree in the center with faces carves into it. The store sells fairy models and elf costumes and gnome paintings and all sorts of magical jewelry and charms and potions. It is Fantastic and Fantastical. There is an unbeleivably classy liquor store, selling elegant bottles of "Gentleman Jack" and Van Gogh's favorite absynth, and other drinks unspeakably lovely, charmingly presented, and of course a million miles outside of our price-range. There is a music store with the most astonishing collection of Classical recording and sheet music that I have ever seen. I spend hours their, poring over scores and looking at arrangements. There is also an incredible Theater and Film Bookshop, my favorite theme for a bookshop ever. There is also a hilarious store whose windows are filled with peanut butter, cheezits, crackers, chips, candies, chocolate and everything a hungry tummy could desire. In other words, the Ultimate Munchies shop. Needless to say, we resist temptation and do not enter...
...There is a beautiful flower market along the banks of one canal, open every day and releasing waves of perfume and the heavy sweet smell of damp earth. It is beautifully colorful and entrancingly alive...
...The street musicians are incredible and ubiquitous, especially a man who stands alone in the square with a stand up base, playing incredible Rolling Stones covers, with a beautiful warbling voice and incredible style and pizzaz...
...There is a giant chess board in the center of one plaza, where two old men duel in a tense chess game as spectators shout advice. We watch fascinated as the whole conflict slowly and captivatingly resolves itself on this bizarrely large scale...
...For some reason the main square is full of mimes in Grim Reaper costumes. We fail to understand what they are doing, but they are probably designed to terrify stoned tourists. They are terrifying...
...We go to see a sketch-comedy show called BOOM!CHICAGO, inspired by the likes of SNL. It is hilarious beyond compare, and the audience is rolling around laughing as they do various group improv making fun of facebook, politics, and of course, the Dutch...
...And the Dutch, it should be mentioned, have one serious flaw. Everything in the city is unbearably expensive. There is not one free museum (London has dozens and the Louvre is free) but each museum costs 18 euros or more. Food is exorbitantly expensive (save for little gems that we meticulously discover) and there is literally nothing in the town that you can do for free. Even the church has a massive entrance free. The dutch, we decide sympathetically, are tightfisted bastards. But likeable, notheless...
...Everyday we wander through open markets, which are everywhere. We sort through mountains of records and look through pile of books. We examine piles of clothes and various bits and bobs. We buy very little, but the searching is still fun...
...We spend hours every day in bookstores. Amsterdam has a long avenue lined with every type of bookstore imaginable, including an expensive, impressive Waterstones with unnecessary black and gold decor, and tiny little used bookstores run by little old dutch men. Our favorite is a massive multi-leveled book store with an astonishing collection. We go into the various stores to relax and sometimes stay long enough to read a whole book (Rozencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead takes exacty 2.5 hours to read, if you are curious). I buy Little Lord Fauntleroy and Casey buys Life by Keith Richards. We read voraciously, often in bookstores, sometimes in cafes, and occaisionally in coffeeshops. Bookstores are a wonderful place to be, and Amsterdam has a wonderful selection...
...And the coffeeshops. Wow. They are dark and smoky and the bartenders, inevitably stoned and cynical, are often surly. But the atmosphere is relaxed and fun (duh...). The range of people inside is bizarre, from burnt-out hippies to ancient old men and young dutch kids and awkward tourists, and plenty of extremely excited kids visiting the cty for the first time. We go to one called the Dolphin, with a dreamy underwater theme, and murals on all the walls. Another, called Baba, has a massive statue of Ganesh and various Hindu art all over the walls. Some are party places, some are chilled out. At one of them at TV plays bizarre animations while text rolls by underneath telling you what to do if you get too high. It is hilarious. Music pounds entrancingly (or obnoxiously) from the speakers. The shock of publicity is difficult to get over. The shops sell seeds of every variety of marijuana, magic mushrooms, and various bizarre drugs with unpredictable effects with names like dreamwave823bn4 and miteflower94nf94. It is strange, utterly strange and fun...
...And the red light district, which we seek out one night, unsure how illicit it will really be, is shocking. Along one canal every window has a red glowing light above it, and beneath beckons a lady of the night, suggestively beckoning you towards her from behind the glass door, waving and calling to you. Revulsion mixes with awe and you stumble onward, not sure if what you are seeing is real. They are, of course, people of all shapes and sizes, meant to appeal to every market. It is a phenomenon. People crowd in the streets and stare, not looking for action but rather in awe. And of course there are endless sex shops and shows and a hilarious store called the Condomerie which sells, well you can probably guess...
...The evening that we are leaving town, we do something we have been wanting to do for a long time. We go to a little shop in a bad part of town and we select the plumpest, juiciest looking specimen in sight, one with luscious pink curves, and we pay a very pretty girl a ridiculous amount of money for a taste of her...dragonfruit. (Haha, gotcha). OK seriously now that is not innuendo, a dragonfruit is a fruit, a pink and green, flower shaped thing that had been eyeing us from the window every day. The inside was white and full of seeds and looked similar to the inside of a kiwi. It tasted somewhat like a kiwi too, but sweeter, full of tang and honey. It is unbeleivably delicious. One of the best fruits we have ever tasted. Having enjoyed it, we set off for the train station, and leave the wonderous and bizarre, unlikely and likeable, liberal and liberating, revolting and revelling, amazing and awe-inspiring Amsterdam.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Two travellers board the metro at Valencia's Xativa station, after having wrestled with a broken ticket machine and an even more broken beaurocratic system in charge of the station. They speed to the airport and wait for the plane, looking out at a smoggy and picturesque airport sunset. The time until the flight slides slowly by, and they eat sandwiches of chorizo and iberian cured ham. Finally they board the flight, which, being run by Ryanair, is loud with commercial advertisements on the PA system and bright with neon lights. So, forgetting sleep, they put on headphones and drift through music-worlds on the empty plane. And then they land, bumpily, at the stupid little airport that only stupid little Ryanair would use, and board a shuttle for Paris. The travelers feel lost, they could sort of speak Spanish and felt at home there, but here they are again in a thoroughly foreign world where they can neither understand nor be understood. But the bus works its way into downtown Paris. Once there the two travelers fight their way onto a metro (the ticket machine, again revolting against them, not accepting credit or cash but only coins, of which they are forty cents short) and so they are ushered through by generous strangers ("I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers" one of them says in Blanche DuBois' southern drawl) and board a metro that they hope is heading for the right place. It is eleven oclock and Paris is quiet as they walk briskly past the Hotel de Ville and Notre Dame, and cross the bridge to their friend's apartment. She takes them in, out of the cold, and makes them warm delicious food and wraps them up in warm delicious blankets and they fall asleep in utter peace. But seemingly moments later the two travelers rise again, lift their massive backpacks and the violin and guitar, and depart Rue St. Julien-le-Pauvre and their friend. The travelers retrace the steps that they made only 8 short hours before. And speed on the metro, this time in an opposite direction. They arrive at the bus station and wait for their bus to board. And then the two travelers are off again, after softly and briefly landing in Paris they are on the road once more to....
We spent two more days in Valencia after mom leaves, and it is very much back to the old routine. Just two cousins, bummin around, seeing the city. No more grandparents, no more parents. Independence has NOT lost its charm, but it has certainly lost its novelty. Taking care of ourselves now, finding our way around, getting to know the places we see, these are all second nature now.
The first day is a take care of business day. Reading and writing and doing laundry (see!!! We are independent!!) at a fancy laundromat in a strange part of town. And then, when we start to get hungry, we turn a long-standing runnin joke into a serious proposition. Should we, the question is, go to McDonalds. Now before you balk, reader, either reading now or in a future era where people consume only wheatgrass juice and okra, consider this. We are very hungry, traveling on a tight budget, we have been eating to well for our own health, and Goddammit we are American and we will eat American food. And if we were at all dubious about these various assertions, all doubt vanishes when we approach the building. Burgers may be an American invention, but this place is totally different. We walk into a tastfully appointed building with an attractve exterior and welcoming interior, devoid of plastic or chemicals save for the big yellow M. But even more shocking than the European decor is the people. We order our repulsive big macs and look around us, and we see the most incredibly attractive, thin, athletic crowd in all of Valencia. Apparently McDonald's is The place to be if you are young and hip and attractive in Valencia. We see only one or two slightly overweight people. The rest, are beautiful. This is not a joke. Go and see for yourself. However, the uniqueness of the crowd could not entirely undo the revolting nature of the food, and we were forced to return to our hostel and fall into a hamburger-hangover-coma. We wake some time later, devour our last dozen covetted Villalonga oranges, and feel slightly recovered. But it is not easy.
That evening we venture out into Carmen, the main nightlife district of Valencia. It is indeed a happenin place, and we find cool bars ranging from an American drinks bar playing Neil Young and paying homage to great old black and white movies with massive pictures on every wall, to an uninspriring Pirate bar, and an awesomely atmospheric dark Jazz bar. We witness the various nocturnal activities of the Valencians, and return to the hostel as the massive cathedral bells are announcing a very late hour.
The next morning we set out to see Valencia's pride and joy. We went down into the sunken park that surrounds the city and walk past it's dozens of soccer field, ranging from beautifully maintained grass to world-class turf and dirt fields that threw up clouds of dust at every kick. The fields were populated by kids in everything from ragged t-shirts to expensive uniforms, but they all played with style and grace and ferocity that reminded us why Spain is the current world champion of soccer. We wandered on through the endless orange grove, walking slowly down the winding, shady street as the city buzzed above and around us. The park was full of people bicycling and jogging and families on tandem bicycles and people picnicking. And even few feet was another strange wonder. Next we came to a playground, but one unlike any we had seen before. A vast mountain of colored concrete rose before us, a mountain of slides and stairs and ladders and ropes and ascents and descents. Hundreds of kids scurried over it, and as we walked around we began to notice a pattern, a specific shape and form that this thing took. It was we realized a man, a vast concrete model of a man lying on his back, with sword and hat thrown aside, tied to the ground with little ropes while little people scurried over him. It was, of course, Gulliver Travels. This was easily the most wonderful playground we had ever seen, and thousands of children ran and jumped around it joyfully while the parents waited patiently around. With the massive mountain of a playground, it was easy to imagine a child disappearing for hours at a time. Very different from the hypersensitive attitude of an American playground, where the mom's generally insist on near constant hand holding. We moved on through the park, and came out of the trees into the brilliant sunshine in front of a fountain, a wide fountain with dozens of spraying and swaying and firing spouts moving elegantly in time with a Mozart Piano Concerto that blazed merrily out of nearby speakers. We were in front of the Music Center, a vast sort of new-Grecian type building that was surrounded by swarms of merrily eating, biking, rollerblading, and soccer-playing Valencians. We listened and watched a few pieces (including the ultra-ominous Carmina Burana) We continued on and then came out into a geometric rose garden at the foot of the vast and awe-inspiring City of Arts and Sciences, at the heart of Valencia.
The buildings (not one or two, but 6 of them) rose up in the park like vast white futuristic alien spaceships. They are almost impossible to describe, but they looked like one might imagine future civilization. Huge white shapes imitating ocean waves or a whale, or a ship, or a jungle, or a harp, vast amounts of glass and tile, and surroundings of turquise pools and cyprus trees and cactus gardens. The buildings were utterly staggering and strangely beautiful, they looked not only like one might imagine future cities, but one might hope future cities to look like. We wandered among the buildings, which house various expensive planetariums and oceanography museums, in awe of their scale and scope. There was a vast moving, roaring dinosaur in one pool, and a jungle of exotic plants. We also wandered through a beautiful photography exhibit that showed images of the buildings and various events housed their, ranging from rock concerts and Ferrari exhibitions to Star Wars reenactments and a Tennis Open. Each stunning photograph was accompanied by a quote from a Spanish writer or poet or singer, and it made a brilliant display. The whole thing was staggering.We wandered back, exhausted, through the cactus gardens and roses, the orange groves, past the fountains and playground and soccer fields, and back into the center of town, where we collapsed momentarily into our beds.
And rose again, to view another, even more moving spectacle: Flamenco. Although the dance is Andalusian in origin, it is widely available in Valencia, so we found a little bar called La Claca, ordered a deliciously icy glass of sangria, and settled ourselves in a dark corner to watch the performance. The musicians started first, three dark men settled in the shadows one of whom played guitar beautifully, with characteristic speed and artistry, one of whom clapped rhythmically, supplying iconically Spanish percussion, and a singer who belted out long mournful, hoarse notes with heart-wrenching emotion. A woman, dressed in a long black dress with a white blouse and jet-black hair, stepped onto a platform in front of the musicians and, after waiting a few beats, proceeded to move. Her arms formed graceful arcs and arches while the folds of cloth swirled around her legs. She moved slowly at first, then faster, arms flowing dramatically with delicately twisting hands and rhythmically clicking heels. The dance was beautiful, and the fusion with the music even more so. Then she quit the stage and another dancer stepped on. But this one wore not beautiful garb, only a hoodie and loosely hanging pants. Long black hair and a delicate dark face led us at first to believe we were watching another girl dance, but then, through the grace and elegance of th movement began to emerge a sort of wild animal ferocity. He moved at such speed, and with such un-feminine contortion and clapping, that we realized we were watching a boy, who leapt and swung his arms in wild and breathtaking motions, with heel slamming down at insane speed. We were nearly as breathless as he when he left the stage. Now the girl returned, this time in a gown of red and white, and proceeded to spin and bow and rise with renewed passion and agitated drama, never for an instant loosing her cool grace. The heat of dance, of competition, of motion, of passion, and of Spain, filled the room. And then the boy returned, in all black, with a white silk scarf, and stared up into the lights as he moved faster and faster, dancing wildly around the stage in a feverish, gut-wrenching display of utterly masculine beauty. Soon the scarf was whirling around him, the shirt billowing out and his motions evermore dramatic as the girl joined him, and the two of them tore across the stage and the guitar strummed on and the rhythm pounded in every mind in the room and the voice belted out, high and mournful and cries of Ole! were torn from every mouth and they went faster and every moment more and more beautifully until at last with a final flourish and shout, they finished, standing erect, hands still poised, chests still proudly forward and neck gracefully curving up to an aggressive face. And in the split second of silence before more clapping and Ole's, there was, in the room, a perfect understanding of what art, sculpture, music, dance are, how the human body can realize such utterly simple and yet unatainably complex perfection, equally animal and poetic, and totally entrancing to dancers, musicians, and any lucky enough to see such passion.
We could barely fall asleep that night, nor could we speak more than a few words for hours after, so moved were we by what we had witnessed. When we at last slept, our dreams were full of wildly swinging limbs and rhythmic movement.
The next day we packed our tiny bags and headed to the Placa de la Reina for lunch. We found massive sandwiches and ate them sitting on a park bench looking up at the Cathedral, whose decadent curves and terracotta and lapis lazuli and gold were gloriously illuminated by the bright sun. We ate ice cream, massive cones of it, as we leaned back against the cool stone benches, in the shade of the orange trees, with pigeons hopping restlessly about, in utter peace and lazy siesta-induced contentment.
In the afternoon we wandered over to the botanical gardens and explored long avenues of palms and pines and every species of plant on the planet, bringing to mind forests as wide ranging as those of California, Costa Rica, and Thorpe-le-Soken. We explored a greenhouse packed with orchids, and another full of carnivorous plants. We sat for an hour on a sun drenched bench and soaked it all up, surrounded by dense greenery with the city and the traffic only barely audible.
And then we rose, shouldered back packs, and left Spain behind, becoming, once again, travelers.
.
The first day is a take care of business day. Reading and writing and doing laundry (see!!! We are independent!!) at a fancy laundromat in a strange part of town. And then, when we start to get hungry, we turn a long-standing runnin joke into a serious proposition. Should we, the question is, go to McDonalds. Now before you balk, reader, either reading now or in a future era where people consume only wheatgrass juice and okra, consider this. We are very hungry, traveling on a tight budget, we have been eating to well for our own health, and Goddammit we are American and we will eat American food. And if we were at all dubious about these various assertions, all doubt vanishes when we approach the building. Burgers may be an American invention, but this place is totally different. We walk into a tastfully appointed building with an attractve exterior and welcoming interior, devoid of plastic or chemicals save for the big yellow M. But even more shocking than the European decor is the people. We order our repulsive big macs and look around us, and we see the most incredibly attractive, thin, athletic crowd in all of Valencia. Apparently McDonald's is The place to be if you are young and hip and attractive in Valencia. We see only one or two slightly overweight people. The rest, are beautiful. This is not a joke. Go and see for yourself. However, the uniqueness of the crowd could not entirely undo the revolting nature of the food, and we were forced to return to our hostel and fall into a hamburger-hangover-coma. We wake some time later, devour our last dozen covetted Villalonga oranges, and feel slightly recovered. But it is not easy.
That evening we venture out into Carmen, the main nightlife district of Valencia. It is indeed a happenin place, and we find cool bars ranging from an American drinks bar playing Neil Young and paying homage to great old black and white movies with massive pictures on every wall, to an uninspriring Pirate bar, and an awesomely atmospheric dark Jazz bar. We witness the various nocturnal activities of the Valencians, and return to the hostel as the massive cathedral bells are announcing a very late hour.
The next morning we set out to see Valencia's pride and joy. We went down into the sunken park that surrounds the city and walk past it's dozens of soccer field, ranging from beautifully maintained grass to world-class turf and dirt fields that threw up clouds of dust at every kick. The fields were populated by kids in everything from ragged t-shirts to expensive uniforms, but they all played with style and grace and ferocity that reminded us why Spain is the current world champion of soccer. We wandered on through the endless orange grove, walking slowly down the winding, shady street as the city buzzed above and around us. The park was full of people bicycling and jogging and families on tandem bicycles and people picnicking. And even few feet was another strange wonder. Next we came to a playground, but one unlike any we had seen before. A vast mountain of colored concrete rose before us, a mountain of slides and stairs and ladders and ropes and ascents and descents. Hundreds of kids scurried over it, and as we walked around we began to notice a pattern, a specific shape and form that this thing took. It was we realized a man, a vast concrete model of a man lying on his back, with sword and hat thrown aside, tied to the ground with little ropes while little people scurried over him. It was, of course, Gulliver Travels. This was easily the most wonderful playground we had ever seen, and thousands of children ran and jumped around it joyfully while the parents waited patiently around. With the massive mountain of a playground, it was easy to imagine a child disappearing for hours at a time. Very different from the hypersensitive attitude of an American playground, where the mom's generally insist on near constant hand holding. We moved on through the park, and came out of the trees into the brilliant sunshine in front of a fountain, a wide fountain with dozens of spraying and swaying and firing spouts moving elegantly in time with a Mozart Piano Concerto that blazed merrily out of nearby speakers. We were in front of the Music Center, a vast sort of new-Grecian type building that was surrounded by swarms of merrily eating, biking, rollerblading, and soccer-playing Valencians. We listened and watched a few pieces (including the ultra-ominous Carmina Burana) We continued on and then came out into a geometric rose garden at the foot of the vast and awe-inspiring City of Arts and Sciences, at the heart of Valencia.
The buildings (not one or two, but 6 of them) rose up in the park like vast white futuristic alien spaceships. They are almost impossible to describe, but they looked like one might imagine future civilization. Huge white shapes imitating ocean waves or a whale, or a ship, or a jungle, or a harp, vast amounts of glass and tile, and surroundings of turquise pools and cyprus trees and cactus gardens. The buildings were utterly staggering and strangely beautiful, they looked not only like one might imagine future cities, but one might hope future cities to look like. We wandered among the buildings, which house various expensive planetariums and oceanography museums, in awe of their scale and scope. There was a vast moving, roaring dinosaur in one pool, and a jungle of exotic plants. We also wandered through a beautiful photography exhibit that showed images of the buildings and various events housed their, ranging from rock concerts and Ferrari exhibitions to Star Wars reenactments and a Tennis Open. Each stunning photograph was accompanied by a quote from a Spanish writer or poet or singer, and it made a brilliant display. The whole thing was staggering.We wandered back, exhausted, through the cactus gardens and roses, the orange groves, past the fountains and playground and soccer fields, and back into the center of town, where we collapsed momentarily into our beds.
And rose again, to view another, even more moving spectacle: Flamenco. Although the dance is Andalusian in origin, it is widely available in Valencia, so we found a little bar called La Claca, ordered a deliciously icy glass of sangria, and settled ourselves in a dark corner to watch the performance. The musicians started first, three dark men settled in the shadows one of whom played guitar beautifully, with characteristic speed and artistry, one of whom clapped rhythmically, supplying iconically Spanish percussion, and a singer who belted out long mournful, hoarse notes with heart-wrenching emotion. A woman, dressed in a long black dress with a white blouse and jet-black hair, stepped onto a platform in front of the musicians and, after waiting a few beats, proceeded to move. Her arms formed graceful arcs and arches while the folds of cloth swirled around her legs. She moved slowly at first, then faster, arms flowing dramatically with delicately twisting hands and rhythmically clicking heels. The dance was beautiful, and the fusion with the music even more so. Then she quit the stage and another dancer stepped on. But this one wore not beautiful garb, only a hoodie and loosely hanging pants. Long black hair and a delicate dark face led us at first to believe we were watching another girl dance, but then, through the grace and elegance of th movement began to emerge a sort of wild animal ferocity. He moved at such speed, and with such un-feminine contortion and clapping, that we realized we were watching a boy, who leapt and swung his arms in wild and breathtaking motions, with heel slamming down at insane speed. We were nearly as breathless as he when he left the stage. Now the girl returned, this time in a gown of red and white, and proceeded to spin and bow and rise with renewed passion and agitated drama, never for an instant loosing her cool grace. The heat of dance, of competition, of motion, of passion, and of Spain, filled the room. And then the boy returned, in all black, with a white silk scarf, and stared up into the lights as he moved faster and faster, dancing wildly around the stage in a feverish, gut-wrenching display of utterly masculine beauty. Soon the scarf was whirling around him, the shirt billowing out and his motions evermore dramatic as the girl joined him, and the two of them tore across the stage and the guitar strummed on and the rhythm pounded in every mind in the room and the voice belted out, high and mournful and cries of Ole! were torn from every mouth and they went faster and every moment more and more beautifully until at last with a final flourish and shout, they finished, standing erect, hands still poised, chests still proudly forward and neck gracefully curving up to an aggressive face. And in the split second of silence before more clapping and Ole's, there was, in the room, a perfect understanding of what art, sculpture, music, dance are, how the human body can realize such utterly simple and yet unatainably complex perfection, equally animal and poetic, and totally entrancing to dancers, musicians, and any lucky enough to see such passion.
We could barely fall asleep that night, nor could we speak more than a few words for hours after, so moved were we by what we had witnessed. When we at last slept, our dreams were full of wildly swinging limbs and rhythmic movement.
The next day we packed our tiny bags and headed to the Placa de la Reina for lunch. We found massive sandwiches and ate them sitting on a park bench looking up at the Cathedral, whose decadent curves and terracotta and lapis lazuli and gold were gloriously illuminated by the bright sun. We ate ice cream, massive cones of it, as we leaned back against the cool stone benches, in the shade of the orange trees, with pigeons hopping restlessly about, in utter peace and lazy siesta-induced contentment.
In the afternoon we wandered over to the botanical gardens and explored long avenues of palms and pines and every species of plant on the planet, bringing to mind forests as wide ranging as those of California, Costa Rica, and Thorpe-le-Soken. We explored a greenhouse packed with orchids, and another full of carnivorous plants. We sat for an hour on a sun drenched bench and soaked it all up, surrounded by dense greenery with the city and the traffic only barely audible.
And then we rose, shouldered back packs, and left Spain behind, becoming, once again, travelers.
.
And then, one morning, we are up and out of the house leaving it remarkably clean and tidy, and sped back up to Valencia, where we found a funny little hotel with a great location right on the central Plaza. We had lunch and then wandered to the Cathedral, a magnificently baroque, utterly assymetrical creation of octagonal, flat-topped towers and blue painted terracotta (a signature of Valencian architecture). Inside, the ceiling was surprisingly low, but the architecture and design was truly splendid, with opulent amounts of gold and massive, moving murals, including two by Goya. And in a dark little chapel to the side, was Valencia's greatest religious treasure. The Holy Grail. Or rather, a holy grail, a breathtaking work of gold craftmanship that was apparently used at La Ultima Cena (the last supper) by Christ. Now many people have heard about our quazi-pilgrimage and exclaimed "That can't be the real grail, I didn't know that it was in Valencia!" In response I have three contentions
A) Don't believe everything (or anything) Dan Brown tells you.
B)Throughout the history of the world, whoever has the most gold, makes the rules. ergo, Spain has the most gold, they make fancy cup, they have the grail. Period.
C)Try proving that it's NOT the grail. Ha!
Anyway, the Cathedral as a whole, Goya, Grail, and Baroque architecture, was stunning.When we issued forth from under the lapis lazuli tiles of its dome, we were once again drenched in sushine, and we found ourselves in a wide open square with a grecian god lying in the center of a fountain that sent water in every direction and attracted hordes of pigeons. We crossed over the park (Valencia has, some years ago, and very cleverly, redirected it's main canal, leaving a big sunken park that circles the city at the level that the river would be at. We looked down from the bridge on orange groves and soccer fields, and then continued on to the Museo de las Bellas Artes. The entry hall was a vast blue dome speckled with golden stars, with four huge, staggering paintings glaring down from the walls. The museum was vast, and being set in a historically Very Catholic country, had almost exclusively religious art. Some of this, like gold panelled tryptchs etc. really belonged in the church, but there were some very moving, emotionally powerful versions of Mary Magdalene, the Pieta, and especially the banishment from Eden. Overall, it was a beautiful collecion, housed in bright colorful rooms, and including a lot of work we would never have seen elsewhere.
Have drank our fill of Fine Art, we settled on the pavement outside, across the park from the heart of the city, and drank our final drought of cocacola (in glass bottles) as the sun went down over the terracotta and lapis lazuli roofs. We are very lucky, we thought. We were.
Dinner was an incredible festivity. Gone were the limitations of silly little Gandia, miniature Villalonga, and off-season Alicante. We were in the big city now, the home of paella and tapas. And tapas we chose, at a little bar down a side street that served beatiful portions of iberian ham, a mouthwatering salad full of goat's cheese, ox-tail stew, and the BEST squid that any of us had ever tasted. Everything was perfectly designed, cooked, and presented. Great atmosphere with a massive central pillar made of chalk board with the specials etc. written on it (restraunteurs, especially of LUMA Petaluma, take note). It was a great place and we were utterly Merry with Mary.
We collapsed into bed listening to the Bach cello suites float softly from the ipod, and awoke only moments (maybe a bit longer than a moment but truly only a few hours) to carry mom's bags downstairs and put her into a taxi with a mini cup of coffee (with tons of sugar and vanilla flavoring and milk) and send her sailing off into the night for a 25 hour trip home. Then we collapsed into bed again, slept a few more hours, and awoke as the Valencian sun (truly we are not in California any more, and sunshine is a treasure we Seriously appreciate) beamed down through the window.
A) Don't believe everything (or anything) Dan Brown tells you.
B)Throughout the history of the world, whoever has the most gold, makes the rules. ergo, Spain has the most gold, they make fancy cup, they have the grail. Period.
C)Try proving that it's NOT the grail. Ha!
Anyway, the Cathedral as a whole, Goya, Grail, and Baroque architecture, was stunning.When we issued forth from under the lapis lazuli tiles of its dome, we were once again drenched in sushine, and we found ourselves in a wide open square with a grecian god lying in the center of a fountain that sent water in every direction and attracted hordes of pigeons. We crossed over the park (Valencia has, some years ago, and very cleverly, redirected it's main canal, leaving a big sunken park that circles the city at the level that the river would be at. We looked down from the bridge on orange groves and soccer fields, and then continued on to the Museo de las Bellas Artes. The entry hall was a vast blue dome speckled with golden stars, with four huge, staggering paintings glaring down from the walls. The museum was vast, and being set in a historically Very Catholic country, had almost exclusively religious art. Some of this, like gold panelled tryptchs etc. really belonged in the church, but there were some very moving, emotionally powerful versions of Mary Magdalene, the Pieta, and especially the banishment from Eden. Overall, it was a beautiful collecion, housed in bright colorful rooms, and including a lot of work we would never have seen elsewhere.
Have drank our fill of Fine Art, we settled on the pavement outside, across the park from the heart of the city, and drank our final drought of cocacola (in glass bottles) as the sun went down over the terracotta and lapis lazuli roofs. We are very lucky, we thought. We were.
Dinner was an incredible festivity. Gone were the limitations of silly little Gandia, miniature Villalonga, and off-season Alicante. We were in the big city now, the home of paella and tapas. And tapas we chose, at a little bar down a side street that served beatiful portions of iberian ham, a mouthwatering salad full of goat's cheese, ox-tail stew, and the BEST squid that any of us had ever tasted. Everything was perfectly designed, cooked, and presented. Great atmosphere with a massive central pillar made of chalk board with the specials etc. written on it (restraunteurs, especially of LUMA Petaluma, take note). It was a great place and we were utterly Merry with Mary.
We collapsed into bed listening to the Bach cello suites float softly from the ipod, and awoke only moments (maybe a bit longer than a moment but truly only a few hours) to carry mom's bags downstairs and put her into a taxi with a mini cup of coffee (with tons of sugar and vanilla flavoring and milk) and send her sailing off into the night for a 25 hour trip home. Then we collapsed into bed again, slept a few more hours, and awoke as the Valencian sun (truly we are not in California any more, and sunshine is a treasure we Seriously appreciate) beamed down through the window.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
One of the last nights before we returned to Valencia we decided we would be bold and interesting and venture out into the city of Gandia for dinner. Mistake. Moral of the story is if it (your mom) ain't broke (is still cooking phenomenal seafood feasts every night) don't fix it (go out to grotty, empty little restaurants in a fairly unprepossessing town). Of course, we managed to have a great time, but it was neither due to the food, nor the city of Gandia, and when we got back home we launched with zeal into our accustomed routine of oranges, ice cream, and movies.
But our days were not entirely filled with slothfullness, great food, beaches, books, movies, and fun. Only about 94.7%. The other whatever% was filled with expeditions, the best of which was undoubtably Xativa Castillo. We drove an hour inland, where it was much warmer, and more architecturally pleasing, due to less tourism, and found of Xativa, a town wrapped around a jagged bluff which rose high above, and upon which perched a bizarre creation that seemed from a distance, to be a mix of a European castle, and the great wall of China. It was, we realized when we entered, a truly staggering fortification, with serious architectural power. The history, in brief is that it was built by the Valencians, occupied by the Romans (notably Emperor Hannibal) and then used as the Valencians main stronghold against the Castillians in the early 18th-century battle for royalist control, which was ultimately won by the Castillians. The French later battered the whole castle to pieces with cannons for reasons that may or may not have to do with the fact that they love smashing things. Read the book "An Index of all the Beautiful Things in Churches Smashed by Frenchmen" By Alice Thibeau for further evidence. But most importantly, the beautiful Xativa Castle is made more stunning by the fact that it has been left largely unrepared, left instead to, for the most part, meld fluidly with the craggy rock cliff upon which it is perched. So we walked up long paths carved directly out of the mountian, along ramparts with dozens of arrow-slits facing both out and in (apparently they were prepared to fight a losing battle even when the enemy were inside), and high towers that looked out over endless miles of Valencian countryside, mostly orange groves and olive groves and little chapels on hills and terracotta rooves, with the occasional (not quite occasional enough) factory or car dealership or apartment complex marring the otherwise lovely vistas. The castle also had a wide staircase leading up to the perch of three massive cannons, a whole swath of Italian-style geometric cyprus and olive gardens where we lounged on the ramparts, dungeons (which were not nearly as dank and horrible as those in Edinburgh, due to the fact that the Spaniards, unlike the Scots, are human beings), and various crimson and gold flags flying gloriously from the ramparts. We wandered through a museum of weapons, met a cute feral kitten named Chicken (named by Casey), did a quazi-photoshoot on the cliffs with the sun forming dramatic silhouettes, and worked up a sweat in the driving sunshine that did not feel remotely like January. It was hard not to draw parallels to Edinburgh Castle, which though famous across the world, was only on par with the remote and unheard of Xativa, if that. It is a good idea, we have concluded to go to an corner of Spain simply because the Decemberists wrote a song about it.
We ended up, after hours of exploration of the Castle, on a terrace beneath the ramparts surrounded by creeping vines and overlooking miles of countryside. There we ordered what had become our standard: two cocacolas, one cocalight. This luxury we enjoyed regularly almost every day, sometimes throwing in a coffee or two, but mostly sticking to a diet of coke. Reasons included that it was hot, that we liked to people watch, that mommy never normally allows us soda (YES!), and that in Spain they inevitably serve Coke in wonderfully chilled glass bottles, impossible to find back home. So yes, it became a tradition, and was rarely as lovely as the one we enjoyed sitting on the terrace of Castle Xativa, a place that, like all of Valencia, surprised us delightfully.
We ended up, after hours of exploration of the Castle, on a terrace beneath the ramparts surrounded by creeping vines and overlooking miles of countryside. There we ordered what had become our standard: two cocacolas, one cocalight. This luxury we enjoyed regularly almost every day, sometimes throwing in a coffee or two, but mostly sticking to a diet of coke. Reasons included that it was hot, that we liked to people watch, that mommy never normally allows us soda (YES!), and that in Spain they inevitably serve Coke in wonderfully chilled glass bottles, impossible to find back home. So yes, it became a tradition, and was rarely as lovely as the one we enjoyed sitting on the terrace of Castle Xativa, a place that, like all of Valencia, surprised us delightfully.
This off-season solitude gives us brilliant gifts like entire beaches to ourselves and a chance to see and speak with real people it also guarantees a certain emptiness of some of the more touristy areas that can occaisionally be unnerving and, when in search of food, is very frustrating. The bars are always open, but few serve food, and the spanish schedule involves a late lunch, a long siesta, and a very late dinner. So we adjust, and we eat mostly at home. But still, the desolation of certain seaside suburbs, though presumably full to bursting with people during the summer, is bizarre. Entire towns, strips of apartment buildings and row upon row of empty shops, they feel like ghost towns. But we enjoy it, the strange wandering.
And though we had almost begun to believe that we had seen the great heights of food, Spain held some welcome surprises. Firstly of course there were the oranges, which never ceased to delight, and are the ultimate snack or dessert. But the main specialty of Valencia, (in fact a creation of the Valencians) is Paella, a delectable pan of golden saffron and spice infused rice, piled with various seafood depending on the variety. Valencian Paella is full of chicken, calamari, and green beans, while Seafood Paella is packed with everything from prawns and shellfish to, if you're lucky, scallops. It is an utterly delectable, unparalleled feast, which we often enjoyed in a quiet little restaurant on Gandia Beach. The other Spanish specialty is tapas, but since we rarely went out we only enjoyed this a couple of times. We had tapas ranging from tiny fried octopi to whitebait (little french-fry-like fishies) and the ubiquitous prawns and gourmet fish finger-type things, and piles and piles ordered at random due to interesting sounding names that remain, to this day, unidentified. Not to be forgotten are Bocadillos, quick little sandwiches usually made with the specialty, Jamon Iberico, which is the Iberian version of Parma ham (there are legs of this stuff hanging everywhere, in their hundreds) and a serious specialty and point of pride. It is delicious. And the food that we enjoyed when we ate out paled in comparison to the massive feasts we created every evening at home. Thanks to the incredible expertise of Mary Stubbs who (sorry to those disappointed to hear this) remains the Best Cook in the World (keep in mind we have not seen quite the Whole world yet, but this is one thing I remain quite confident of), and her excellent su chefs, we created massive meals usually centering around seafood (salmon, swordfish steaks, exorbitant amounts of prawns), vegetables (her specialty is baked vegetables, especially cauliflower, courgette, and brussel sprouts), and a salad, and usually a big plate of pasta as well. It is small wonder we needed three movies and a long nights sleep to recoup after this decadence. We promised ourselves that after this sojourn with mom we would fast like ascetics. It was a pretty vague promise.
The open markets, of course, have to be mentioned, as they made the above feasting not only possible, but even more rewarding. Although outdoor markets have been a theme across our adventure (Portobello and Borough in London and Avallon and Noyers and countless others in France), Valencia boasts quite loudly that it has the Best outdoor markets. And though that title is still contested, it did not disappoint. The sheer scale of the market we went to to stock up on our first day as we left Valencia was not even the Mercado Central, but a satellite, and even it was massive, rows upon rows of the freshest most beautiful produce. Especially beautiful tomatoes. Unfortunately my limited Spanish had at that point forgotten vocab like carrots and onions (I remember NOW! Look at me! Zanahorias y cebollas) I was able to be the extremely helpful translator, pointing at a huge mix of vegetables and saying "two of those." There was mild-serious confusion. Also, a word to the wise, you are not meant to touch the produce in Valencian markets, simply to point and have the seller examine each piece for you. Needless to say we didn't find this out until we had fondled and tested each avovado, tomato, and pear in the entire market. Highlight purchase was definitely huge oyster mushrooms that went into a phenomenal pasta sauce that night. And the fish market was an entirely different world. Equally as big as the rest of the produce market combined, the vast hall smelled (for once not unpleasantly, due to freshness) of fish. Crabs squirmed on the ice, who fish glared fiercely up, and beautiful squids of a variety of colors and sizes were artistically arranged in an almost geometric fashion. We were overwhelmed and out of our depth (a really excellent pun that I hope none of you overlook, as we Are talking about seafood here). We launched into a full-scale debate about whether prawns needed to be cooked or could be eaten raw when the man behind the stall informed us that his prawns were "cocinado listo para comer." Deal done, we bought the whole lot, and munched them steadily all day, although there was still a vast heap left for dinner. Easily the best, freshest shrimp I have ever tasted.
And though we had almost begun to believe that we had seen the great heights of food, Spain held some welcome surprises. Firstly of course there were the oranges, which never ceased to delight, and are the ultimate snack or dessert. But the main specialty of Valencia, (in fact a creation of the Valencians) is Paella, a delectable pan of golden saffron and spice infused rice, piled with various seafood depending on the variety. Valencian Paella is full of chicken, calamari, and green beans, while Seafood Paella is packed with everything from prawns and shellfish to, if you're lucky, scallops. It is an utterly delectable, unparalleled feast, which we often enjoyed in a quiet little restaurant on Gandia Beach. The other Spanish specialty is tapas, but since we rarely went out we only enjoyed this a couple of times. We had tapas ranging from tiny fried octopi to whitebait (little french-fry-like fishies) and the ubiquitous prawns and gourmet fish finger-type things, and piles and piles ordered at random due to interesting sounding names that remain, to this day, unidentified. Not to be forgotten are Bocadillos, quick little sandwiches usually made with the specialty, Jamon Iberico, which is the Iberian version of Parma ham (there are legs of this stuff hanging everywhere, in their hundreds) and a serious specialty and point of pride. It is delicious. And the food that we enjoyed when we ate out paled in comparison to the massive feasts we created every evening at home. Thanks to the incredible expertise of Mary Stubbs who (sorry to those disappointed to hear this) remains the Best Cook in the World (keep in mind we have not seen quite the Whole world yet, but this is one thing I remain quite confident of), and her excellent su chefs, we created massive meals usually centering around seafood (salmon, swordfish steaks, exorbitant amounts of prawns), vegetables (her specialty is baked vegetables, especially cauliflower, courgette, and brussel sprouts), and a salad, and usually a big plate of pasta as well. It is small wonder we needed three movies and a long nights sleep to recoup after this decadence. We promised ourselves that after this sojourn with mom we would fast like ascetics. It was a pretty vague promise.
The open markets, of course, have to be mentioned, as they made the above feasting not only possible, but even more rewarding. Although outdoor markets have been a theme across our adventure (Portobello and Borough in London and Avallon and Noyers and countless others in France), Valencia boasts quite loudly that it has the Best outdoor markets. And though that title is still contested, it did not disappoint. The sheer scale of the market we went to to stock up on our first day as we left Valencia was not even the Mercado Central, but a satellite, and even it was massive, rows upon rows of the freshest most beautiful produce. Especially beautiful tomatoes. Unfortunately my limited Spanish had at that point forgotten vocab like carrots and onions (I remember NOW! Look at me! Zanahorias y cebollas) I was able to be the extremely helpful translator, pointing at a huge mix of vegetables and saying "two of those." There was mild-serious confusion. Also, a word to the wise, you are not meant to touch the produce in Valencian markets, simply to point and have the seller examine each piece for you. Needless to say we didn't find this out until we had fondled and tested each avovado, tomato, and pear in the entire market. Highlight purchase was definitely huge oyster mushrooms that went into a phenomenal pasta sauce that night. And the fish market was an entirely different world. Equally as big as the rest of the produce market combined, the vast hall smelled (for once not unpleasantly, due to freshness) of fish. Crabs squirmed on the ice, who fish glared fiercely up, and beautiful squids of a variety of colors and sizes were artistically arranged in an almost geometric fashion. We were overwhelmed and out of our depth (a really excellent pun that I hope none of you overlook, as we Are talking about seafood here). We launched into a full-scale debate about whether prawns needed to be cooked or could be eaten raw when the man behind the stall informed us that his prawns were "cocinado listo para comer." Deal done, we bought the whole lot, and munched them steadily all day, although there was still a vast heap left for dinner. Easily the best, freshest shrimp I have ever tasted.
Donde estamos? We are driving in a little white rental car, my mom speeding with an awkward confidence around roundabouts as I attempt to read small-printed maps and Casey shouts abuse from the back. It is almost nightime, the sunlight rapidly draining from the sky and forming incredibly concrete, clearly defined silhouettes of the surrounding mountains as we try to find our way home. Every night it is different, almost as if the little house, the guadily decorated villa in the orange groves that we are renting, has moved to a different hillside. But no, the house is static, we are the ones with no apparent sense of directions, following the intermittent Spanish signage and trying to make sense of the endless roundabouts. Somehow we keep finding ourselves drifting into the vast parking area of a huge industrial estate dominated by and orange factory, and we have to wind our way back against the tide of one-way streets and finally through the little towns of Villalonga and Ador, to the villa on the hill side, in the orange groves.
But being lost, we realize is not stressful when you know you will get there soon and there is no real urgency in your travel. And being tired is not terrible when it is the sweet exhaustion of a long day of exploring towns and lying on beaches and letting the sun and the mediterranean burn your pale winter skin. And being hungry is not terrible when you have a massive iberian feast of seafood awaiting. And being in a tiny car with two people is not terrible either, not when the car is streaming along with windows open and laughter pouring almost constantly out.
Here, up in the orange groves in the hills above the various villages and the bigger town of Gandia, an hour south of Valencia and a few minutes from the beach, we are, strange as it may sound, on a vacation from our gap year. With mom, we feel part-way home, relaxed, as if whatever pressures we may experience on our travels are lifted and we are free to truly do whatever. This place we chose specifically for its off-the-map-ness, its out-of-tourist-season-ness, its mysterious-ness. It is somewhere we didn't know, but thought we might like. And we did. And our lifestyle here is decadent. We rise late, much later than any of us our used to. I go up onto the terrace where the sun is shining brightly (not truly hot, but surely bright, and stronger than anywhere we have been recently) and I dive into the freezing unheated pool. When I emerge I can swear my hair has ice in it, but the shock feels good, and I try to swim every day, for although the temperatures are not exactly balmy, it is bright and warm and the sunshine Feels so good. Then I make a breakfast, eggs and toast and fruit and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice (not hard to find oranges here), and I sit on the steps in the sun outside the kitchen until the others join me. Then we lazily plan the day, and in moment are out of the house and bundling ourselves, and books, and towels into the little white car. And we drive off in search of something. Before properly going anywhere, we screech to a halt somewhere in the tangled roads among the orange groves and Casey and I leap out of the car and grab from the trees armfuls of Valencian oranges. Every day a different bacth until we Casey finds the best grove and after that we are set, a reliable source of small, easy-to-peel, utterly perfect sweet and delicious oranges. And then, fingers and lips dripping with orange juice and hearts fluttering slightly from the act of robbery (however small), we continue on our way. We explore beaches, where Casey adds to an impressive shell collection and mom basks in the sun and reads and I build seriously impresive and militaristically sound sand castles and swim in the cold but brilliant water of the mediterranean. And we have the Entire beach, miles and miles of white sand, entirely to ourselves. For although the weather and the water is, to us, luxurious, it is nevertheless the off-season here, and we are the only tourists for miles around. We retreat to a nearby restaurant for lunch, a brilliant affair usually featuring heavily in the seafood department as that is what we all seem to have an appetite for. Then after lunch and our favorite dessert of more oranges, we explore a town or village, the funny little shops, the open-air markets. We drive down the coast, finding more towns and beaches. Every day we have exactly One simply task, one chore to do. It is always different, but usually utterly simple, something like going to the post office or fetching something from the super market. It is refreshingly simple in fact, especially for my mom, whose days are often filled from waking till sleeping with such tasks. Now, we make a big deal of the day's task, revelling in the simplicity of our lives. In the evenings we find our way home as the sun is setting and collapse briefly, covered with sand, into the huge coaches, before leaping back up and creating an opulent meal including, again, mountains of seafood. As we sit down to eat, we have a regular trash-talk, critisizing the house that we are staying in. It is a nice house with a good location, and the outside is beautifully decorated with famously brilliant and intricate Valencian tile. But the inside is atrociously decorated, in the style of someone who perhaps comes from Colchester (amazingly, the guy who rents this villa is from a town that we went to, only 20 minutes away from Thorpe-le-Soken). The house is full of fake lace and teddy bears, cutesy little sculptures and endless fake flowers. The bathroom is a menagerie of disgustingly bright pink ceramic and frosted glass. So although it is perfectly comfortable and exactly the place that we need here in the middle of nowhere in Valencia, it has become an entertaining pre-dinner sport to critisize it abusively and describe how much joy we would take in burning away all the interior and redecorating it. After dinner we settle down to watch not one, but two or three movies. Ice cream is laden generously into bowls, cups of tea brought out and we settle in to watch a series of movies ranging from phenomenal to dreadful that we have found in our host's collection. It is absolutely the most decadent thing we could possibly do, and we all love it. And so, late-late at night, as late as we wish to stay up given that it is our vacation and we have no schedule, we drift happily to bed and look forward to another day like this.
But being lost, we realize is not stressful when you know you will get there soon and there is no real urgency in your travel. And being tired is not terrible when it is the sweet exhaustion of a long day of exploring towns and lying on beaches and letting the sun and the mediterranean burn your pale winter skin. And being hungry is not terrible when you have a massive iberian feast of seafood awaiting. And being in a tiny car with two people is not terrible either, not when the car is streaming along with windows open and laughter pouring almost constantly out.
Here, up in the orange groves in the hills above the various villages and the bigger town of Gandia, an hour south of Valencia and a few minutes from the beach, we are, strange as it may sound, on a vacation from our gap year. With mom, we feel part-way home, relaxed, as if whatever pressures we may experience on our travels are lifted and we are free to truly do whatever. This place we chose specifically for its off-the-map-ness, its out-of-tourist-season-ness, its mysterious-ness. It is somewhere we didn't know, but thought we might like. And we did. And our lifestyle here is decadent. We rise late, much later than any of us our used to. I go up onto the terrace where the sun is shining brightly (not truly hot, but surely bright, and stronger than anywhere we have been recently) and I dive into the freezing unheated pool. When I emerge I can swear my hair has ice in it, but the shock feels good, and I try to swim every day, for although the temperatures are not exactly balmy, it is bright and warm and the sunshine Feels so good. Then I make a breakfast, eggs and toast and fruit and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice (not hard to find oranges here), and I sit on the steps in the sun outside the kitchen until the others join me. Then we lazily plan the day, and in moment are out of the house and bundling ourselves, and books, and towels into the little white car. And we drive off in search of something. Before properly going anywhere, we screech to a halt somewhere in the tangled roads among the orange groves and Casey and I leap out of the car and grab from the trees armfuls of Valencian oranges. Every day a different bacth until we Casey finds the best grove and after that we are set, a reliable source of small, easy-to-peel, utterly perfect sweet and delicious oranges. And then, fingers and lips dripping with orange juice and hearts fluttering slightly from the act of robbery (however small), we continue on our way. We explore beaches, where Casey adds to an impressive shell collection and mom basks in the sun and reads and I build seriously impresive and militaristically sound sand castles and swim in the cold but brilliant water of the mediterranean. And we have the Entire beach, miles and miles of white sand, entirely to ourselves. For although the weather and the water is, to us, luxurious, it is nevertheless the off-season here, and we are the only tourists for miles around. We retreat to a nearby restaurant for lunch, a brilliant affair usually featuring heavily in the seafood department as that is what we all seem to have an appetite for. Then after lunch and our favorite dessert of more oranges, we explore a town or village, the funny little shops, the open-air markets. We drive down the coast, finding more towns and beaches. Every day we have exactly One simply task, one chore to do. It is always different, but usually utterly simple, something like going to the post office or fetching something from the super market. It is refreshingly simple in fact, especially for my mom, whose days are often filled from waking till sleeping with such tasks. Now, we make a big deal of the day's task, revelling in the simplicity of our lives. In the evenings we find our way home as the sun is setting and collapse briefly, covered with sand, into the huge coaches, before leaping back up and creating an opulent meal including, again, mountains of seafood. As we sit down to eat, we have a regular trash-talk, critisizing the house that we are staying in. It is a nice house with a good location, and the outside is beautifully decorated with famously brilliant and intricate Valencian tile. But the inside is atrociously decorated, in the style of someone who perhaps comes from Colchester (amazingly, the guy who rents this villa is from a town that we went to, only 20 minutes away from Thorpe-le-Soken). The house is full of fake lace and teddy bears, cutesy little sculptures and endless fake flowers. The bathroom is a menagerie of disgustingly bright pink ceramic and frosted glass. So although it is perfectly comfortable and exactly the place that we need here in the middle of nowhere in Valencia, it has become an entertaining pre-dinner sport to critisize it abusively and describe how much joy we would take in burning away all the interior and redecorating it. After dinner we settle down to watch not one, but two or three movies. Ice cream is laden generously into bowls, cups of tea brought out and we settle in to watch a series of movies ranging from phenomenal to dreadful that we have found in our host's collection. It is absolutely the most decadent thing we could possibly do, and we all love it. And so, late-late at night, as late as we wish to stay up given that it is our vacation and we have no schedule, we drift happily to bed and look forward to another day like this.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Then one day we rise and after coffee and a heaping plate of eggs are swept into the car and up the road towards Paris. We drive through lashing rain and arrive in time to meet Parisien friends of Alice and David's for a classically French lunch, with four delectable courses and a barrage of good manners. They are fascinating people, and very cosmopolitan Parisiens, and though we understand little of the conversation, we enjoy the plunge into yet another aspect of France. We then drive to Rue St. Julien-le-Pauvre, where we bid a fond farewell to Alice and David and greet Whitney and Savannah for another evening romp around the Marais neighborhood, home to wonderful vintage clothing and a real feel of Paris. And then we tear ourselves away from them as well and board a subway, then a bus, then a plane, and then a taxi driven by an angry Spaniard and we arrive in downtown Valencia at 1:00AM. And there after a long stretch of travel, we are met by the wonderful Mary Stubbs. Being reunited with her is inexpressably enjoyable, and despite the long hours of travel that have brought us each from our respective distant lands, we are filled with energy and happiness and anticipation for a week spent on the Mediterrannean. Nothing can compare to meeting her here, late at night and far from home, in a strange new city, when so much and so little has changed, in the middle of this strange and spectacular year. This may be a first for Gap Yah's, and it is a good one.
As our days in Grimault wind down to an end, we relish each moment. We relish rising in the crisp morning, creaking open the door to our private Studio, and leaping out into the bitterly cold day. We relish that first morning glance from the driveway where we are perched, out across the valley where the little village nestles. In the last few days the remaining vestiges of Christmas snow melt, the river settles and clears into a dulcet turquoise, and the grey trees mask vividly green fields. We have a bit of rain, which brings with it remarkably warm weather and, in moments without wind, it is almost warm. We relish stepping over the threshold into the warmth of the kitchen, a motion that requires a visual and aural overload and readjustment to the sounds of mandolin and guitar and the perfect haze of golden fire-light on rich, heavy colors. We relish the first glass of coffee, and the decadent and yet seemingly necessary and fitting almond croissant. The blazing heat of the shower and crisp clothes, and then the day has begun in earnest. We relish the momentary silence as the house vacates for the morning rush to fetch newspapers from nearby Noyers. And then the tentative first strummings and bowings on cold instruments with cold fingers, the first hesitant strokes which grow into wild motions and whirling melodies, gypsy dances and sicilian lullabies, and each song is inevitably joined to by each of us until it runs its course and a new inspiration, bluegrass or celtic, is stumbled upon. The music flares till lunchtime, when from nowhere there appears a feast of stew and sausage and delice cheese and a fresh Banette baguette and fresh pears and heaps of other delights. We relish the frantic stumbling process by which four people, four plates, four sets of cutlery, overflowing glasses, two newspapers, two dogs, and various other miscellany are flocked out into the little tent perched on the patio. We draw the curtain of the tent tightly closed and soak up the heat within, the transparent walls allowing the weak midday sun to form a greenhouse effect. We dig into the feast (lunch is universally declared the best meal, and somehow each day brings the best one so far) and between mouthfuls we declare and state and refute whatever accusations or protestations fill the papers or otherwise our minds. We reach the funnies section of the newspaper right as we have dessert (pear sorbet, with creme de marron, without fail). Bloated by a well-earned-and-hard-worked-for lunch (we have to tell ourselves that at least) we collapse onto the chaise-lounge and read for an hour or more. We relish the slumbering nature of this after lunch daze, when one can snatch a few words of a good book in between naps while the fire crackles and Casey's lazy finger picking spills across the room. And then up and out the door and into the car to somewhere, and though the location (either a market or an art store or a museum or a cathedral) changes every day, the mission has certain universal elements. There is fast driving across empty fields on narrow roads, the Willie Nelson blaring mournfully from the stereo, the blasting warmth from the heaters combatted by cold air that rushes through the windows, and the gratitude with which the car rolls to a stop back at its home at 12 Rue D'enfer, and the dogs come galloping over. We relish the glass of champagne (every night within a month of christmas qualifies as celebratory here) that appears as dinner is created, the repeat of the lunchtime rush and a meal that promises to supplant lunch as the greatest meal ever. Music plays in the kitchen, and another cup of coffee warms dessert-laden stomachs as we transfer back to our various homes in front of the fireplace to read, to call home, play music, or collect thoughts and things for our imminent onward travel. We relish the late bought of music that arrives dragging along the dregs of remaining energy into a bright footstomping tune and then an exhaustion-laden lullaby. We relish the quick rush across the cold driveway to our studio, the cold and heavy cloth of cotton night-gowns, the warmth of a small, well-heated room, and the satisfaction of heavy blankets. In the darkness we talk briefly, then turn on a lullaby, maybe Schubert of Bach or Bocherrinni, to lull us to sleep, before doing it again. As we fall asleep we feel full. Full not only of great food, but of great warmth, great satisfaction, comfort, and a sense of home. Full of hope and energy for the future, and delicately balanced love for the past. Full of camaraderie and full of music. Full.
A few days before we leave we drive to a town called Alesia, a small town perched high up on a hill overlooking the hills and fields of Burgundy. Placed even higher than the town itself, on the very top, the unprotected crest of the hill, is a ruin. It is closed for winter so we sneak in through the back gate and as a fierce winter wind pulls and howls we wander among the Roman ruin. There is an amphitheater, its form still clearly visible although much is covered with earth. There are the foundations of houses and the columns that once outlined the center of government. We walk the outlines of streets and go into what remains of shrines to Jupiter and chapels to Christ. There is the ancient sunken form of a bathhouse which seems still to swirl with steam among its crumbling columns. It is all perfectly preserved, bursting with life and history and flickering images of the past. Looking down what was once a street, I convince myself that I am there, among people and noises and life and Roman brilliance, art and technology and innovation and government and theater and society. But then the north wind drags such images away and I am left standing on a hill-top surrounded by ruins.
Afterwards we drive to a vast heroic statue of Vercyngetrix, the Gaul warlord who almost stopped the Roman invasion of Gaul, but was crushed like so many others. he stands forlornly with his hand on his sword, gazing down into the valley. As we stand in awe below, we are approached by a French gentleman, clearly an academic and, we learn, guardian of the historic ruins who wants to know if it was us that tresspassed. But of course Monsewer, we do not speak French, we did not know that it was closed and thought it natural to us an abandoned back gate. We are terribly remorseful but we remind him that it is actually His fault for not stopping us, besides we are poor grandchildren who have come all the way from America to see this ruin. Bashful and outmaneuvered, the Frenchman retreats and we return, victorious and satisfied, to Grimault.
Afterwards we drive to a vast heroic statue of Vercyngetrix, the Gaul warlord who almost stopped the Roman invasion of Gaul, but was crushed like so many others. he stands forlornly with his hand on his sword, gazing down into the valley. As we stand in awe below, we are approached by a French gentleman, clearly an academic and, we learn, guardian of the historic ruins who wants to know if it was us that tresspassed. But of course Monsewer, we do not speak French, we did not know that it was closed and thought it natural to us an abandoned back gate. We are terribly remorseful but we remind him that it is actually His fault for not stopping us, besides we are poor grandchildren who have come all the way from America to see this ruin. Bashful and outmaneuvered, the Frenchman retreats and we return, victorious and satisfied, to Grimault.
Monday, January 3, 2011
BON ANNEE!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
We welcome the new year in Paris, speeding up from Burgundy in First Class (our grandparents generous New Years gift to us) on the TGV and screech into Gare de Lyon early on New Years Eve Day.
We spend the day wandering an overcast but cheerful Paris, drinking espresso and wandering around the Louvre and the Tuileries. We meet Whitney and make dinner, a stir fry of vegetables eaten again in the luxurious perch of the table right in front of the window looking out on the city. Paris is quiet in anticipation of the big night! I whip up some mulled wine, cloves and cinnamon and oranges, and we lounge for a couple hours before hitting the town.
We leap onto the metro and speed across the city, meeting Whitney's best friend Katherine, (the same one who we stayed with at Oxford) and speeding on the overground train past the sparkling Eiffel Tower. We look out of the train and peer into the windows of the various new years parties that are just getting started. Some look better than others.
We arrive at the party (hosted by a friend of Whitney and Katherines) and enjoy the New Years fesitivities with an eclectic group of American-Parisiens and French-Parisiens who have the good fortune to be both worldly and English speaking, a perfect combination. They are great people and we spend a fun evening, finding our way back on a Late night metro to the 6th Arrondisment thanks to Whitney's excellent guidance.
We sleep gratefully and happily and wake when the sun is already streaming through the windows.
We welcome the new dawn of the new day cheerily. We wait for Savannah Turley, Whitney's sister, to arrive (having flown across the Atlantic on New Years eve in order to spent some quality time with her sister, rudely interrupted by us). And the three of us go out and wander around for a few hours, buying supplies for an incredible dinner of Homemade Pasta (Savannah is a world-class cook) and not to forget Percy's amazing vinagrette. It was a FEAST eaten, in the French style at 11 oclock at night. Not because we were trying to be cosmopolitan, but rather because we had to painstakingly unroll each individual noodle. It was worth it. Definitely. After the meal we all fell into a coma and did not awake until late the next morning.
We jetted across the city to the Pere Laichez (incorrectly spelled, of course) cemetary and wandered the hauntingly beautiful avenues of sculptured memorials and graves. Angels and owls and elegant features gazed forlornly down at us, and lichen and ivy crawled over graves that had been there for hundreds of years. A three legged black cat gazed obliquely at us and we gazed into the abyss of graves that had been cracked wide open by prying tree roots. We visited the graves of Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, and Oscar Wilde (Wilde's is adorned with a million lipstick prints). It was a bizarre and gorgeous monument to the dead. Haunting and lovely.
We then wandered back to Whitney's apartment and made a feast of omelettes packed full of vegetables. As we ate the sky over Paris cleared and when Casey and I departed and walked briskly back to Gare de Lyon, the sky was cold and clear over the magnificent city. We sped back on the train, and just before we arrived the conductor asked to see our tickets. They were, predictably, inadequate for some silly reason, but before he could demand more money from us, we slipped off the train at Montbard and rejoined our Grandmere and Grandpere. For further adventures.
We welcome the new year in Paris, speeding up from Burgundy in First Class (our grandparents generous New Years gift to us) on the TGV and screech into Gare de Lyon early on New Years Eve Day.
We spend the day wandering an overcast but cheerful Paris, drinking espresso and wandering around the Louvre and the Tuileries. We meet Whitney and make dinner, a stir fry of vegetables eaten again in the luxurious perch of the table right in front of the window looking out on the city. Paris is quiet in anticipation of the big night! I whip up some mulled wine, cloves and cinnamon and oranges, and we lounge for a couple hours before hitting the town.
We leap onto the metro and speed across the city, meeting Whitney's best friend Katherine, (the same one who we stayed with at Oxford) and speeding on the overground train past the sparkling Eiffel Tower. We look out of the train and peer into the windows of the various new years parties that are just getting started. Some look better than others.
We arrive at the party (hosted by a friend of Whitney and Katherines) and enjoy the New Years fesitivities with an eclectic group of American-Parisiens and French-Parisiens who have the good fortune to be both worldly and English speaking, a perfect combination. They are great people and we spend a fun evening, finding our way back on a Late night metro to the 6th Arrondisment thanks to Whitney's excellent guidance.
We sleep gratefully and happily and wake when the sun is already streaming through the windows.
We welcome the new dawn of the new day cheerily. We wait for Savannah Turley, Whitney's sister, to arrive (having flown across the Atlantic on New Years eve in order to spent some quality time with her sister, rudely interrupted by us). And the three of us go out and wander around for a few hours, buying supplies for an incredible dinner of Homemade Pasta (Savannah is a world-class cook) and not to forget Percy's amazing vinagrette. It was a FEAST eaten, in the French style at 11 oclock at night. Not because we were trying to be cosmopolitan, but rather because we had to painstakingly unroll each individual noodle. It was worth it. Definitely. After the meal we all fell into a coma and did not awake until late the next morning.
We jetted across the city to the Pere Laichez (incorrectly spelled, of course) cemetary and wandered the hauntingly beautiful avenues of sculptured memorials and graves. Angels and owls and elegant features gazed forlornly down at us, and lichen and ivy crawled over graves that had been there for hundreds of years. A three legged black cat gazed obliquely at us and we gazed into the abyss of graves that had been cracked wide open by prying tree roots. We visited the graves of Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, and Oscar Wilde (Wilde's is adorned with a million lipstick prints). It was a bizarre and gorgeous monument to the dead. Haunting and lovely.
We then wandered back to Whitney's apartment and made a feast of omelettes packed full of vegetables. As we ate the sky over Paris cleared and when Casey and I departed and walked briskly back to Gare de Lyon, the sky was cold and clear over the magnificent city. We sped back on the train, and just before we arrived the conductor asked to see our tickets. They were, predictably, inadequate for some silly reason, but before he could demand more money from us, we slipped off the train at Montbard and rejoined our Grandmere and Grandpere. For further adventures.
We wrote a song for Alice and David that gives some attempt are describing this place, these people. If you don't know the tune and are reading this, you can make up your own and hum along.
Note: "Hell Road" refers to Rue D'Enfer, where the house in Grimault is situated.
Les Americain En Grimault
When you travel around the world,
You hear the strangest stories,
In mighty cities and tiny towns,
These myths and legends, well, they get around
In Paris they speak of Marie Antoinette
In Compiegne of Joan of Arc
In Dijon of course John the Fearless
And everywhere there’s Bonaparte
But there’s a story much stranger than this
That every Frenchman seems to know
About a couple of Americain
Who somehow landed in Grimault
She wears a beret and a flamenco gown
Dashes of paint and red wine
And he responds with a long black cloak
Cigar in hand and dogs by his side
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the fierce fire, the mellow music, and the sweet sorbet
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
She is an artist of the finest sort,
Dressed like a duchess in a royal court
And whats more than all of these,
She can lecture on Philosophy and History, psychology, geography, chronology, theology, meteorology, and don’t forget mythology.
Though he’s a musician with all his heart
In the list of talents that’s just the start,
He understands every aspect of humanity,
Better than most, at least better than me.
As for music well:
They play the blues
And some flamenco tunes,
Of course some piaf,
And the occasional waltz.
They wander every market and museum,
The catacombs of every church,
They seek the secret and the spirit of France,
It’s a never-ending search.
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the scenic snow, the cool costumes, and the wandering walks
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
They feast like peasants, which in France is better than Kings,
Pate, sorbet, fine cheese, fresh fruit, veal, pork, pastry, chocolate, pear juice, bread and ……
And of course the infamous Traditional Boeuf Bourguinon
But in this idyllic scene
There’s one man not so pristine
His voice is loud, his taste in music obscene,
You know we’re talking about Jean Louis
Now you know to end this song,
Without mentioning the dogs would just be wrong,
Grace and Fido are part of the family,
As much, if not more, than Percy and Me.
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the dramatic dancing, the killer cheeses, and the entertaining evenings
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
BRIDGE:
And if you two had not come along,
We wouldn’t have been able to write this song.
VIOLIN SOLO
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the warm welcome, and the fine friendship, and the soft singing
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
Note: "Hell Road" refers to Rue D'Enfer, where the house in Grimault is situated.
Les Americain En Grimault
When you travel around the world,
You hear the strangest stories,
In mighty cities and tiny towns,
These myths and legends, well, they get around
In Paris they speak of Marie Antoinette
In Compiegne of Joan of Arc
In Dijon of course John the Fearless
And everywhere there’s Bonaparte
But there’s a story much stranger than this
That every Frenchman seems to know
About a couple of Americain
Who somehow landed in Grimault
She wears a beret and a flamenco gown
Dashes of paint and red wine
And he responds with a long black cloak
Cigar in hand and dogs by his side
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the fierce fire, the mellow music, and the sweet sorbet
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
She is an artist of the finest sort,
Dressed like a duchess in a royal court
And whats more than all of these,
She can lecture on Philosophy and History, psychology, geography, chronology, theology, meteorology, and don’t forget mythology.
Though he’s a musician with all his heart
In the list of talents that’s just the start,
He understands every aspect of humanity,
Better than most, at least better than me.
As for music well:
They play the blues
And some flamenco tunes,
Of course some piaf,
And the occasional waltz.
They wander every market and museum,
The catacombs of every church,
They seek the secret and the spirit of France,
It’s a never-ending search.
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the scenic snow, the cool costumes, and the wandering walks
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
They feast like peasants, which in France is better than Kings,
Pate, sorbet, fine cheese, fresh fruit, veal, pork, pastry, chocolate, pear juice, bread and ……
And of course the infamous Traditional Boeuf Bourguinon
But in this idyllic scene
There’s one man not so pristine
His voice is loud, his taste in music obscene,
You know we’re talking about Jean Louis
Now you know to end this song,
Without mentioning the dogs would just be wrong,
Grace and Fido are part of the family,
As much, if not more, than Percy and Me.
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the dramatic dancing, the killer cheeses, and the entertaining evenings
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
BRIDGE:
And if you two had not come along,
We wouldn’t have been able to write this song.
VIOLIN SOLO
So why don’t you go
Why don’t you visit the street of hell
Despite the warm welcome, and the fine friendship, and the soft singing
You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle
Waking late, long walks and long, luxurious meals, naps in front of the fireplace, playing music until late at night, reading and writing books and music and sculpting clay and painting and sketching portraits. These are the things that occupy each wonderful day in Grimault.
Since the last blog post, we have been in Grimault, Burgundy, with our grandparents Alice and David for two weeks. I will try to stay roughly chronological.
Casey returned a few days before Christmas and he will soon update on his two weeks spent in France with Bianca Bisson and Chelsea Sarg. But we were all merrily reunited.
In the days leading up to Christmas we decorated the house with strands of multicolored lights, including a big strand on the hedge outside that looks like some exotic fruit. We also visited dozens of markets in the surrounding areas to stock up on all sorts of delicacies, including 4 different christmas cakes to be eaten at various festive times, gallons of champagne, and the usual breathtaking array of fine cheeses, meats, breads, and fruits. The open air markets in France are beyond compare, and the supermarche's are equally, but very differently impressive, with Massive vacuum packed hams and a cheese aisle that is over a mile long.
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. It had snowed steadily all day on christmas eve, and then conveniently stopped and allowed the sun to come bursting out on Christmas morning. So we had miles of pure, undistrubed brilliant whiteness, transforming the already idyllic village into even more of a wonderous winter portrait. We had a cozy ceremony of exchanging gifts, and then spent the day in between playing with new toys (not quite in the literal sense as it would have been a few years ago, but essentially still the same), and lounging in the house. We feast on boeuf bourguinon and pasta and the aformentioned various cakes. Gluttony is a totally adequate term to describe our christmas. Otherhighlights include a long nap on the chaise-lounge in front of a crackling fire as Casey strums his guitar, and a long walk across a field that has not yet had a single disturbance in the snow. It is perfect, and undisturbed. Just like the whole day.
In the few days after Christmas we take a series of expeditions. We go to Epoisse, home of the delectable Epoisse cheese that is so incomparable. It is also home to a brilliant, snow bedecked chateau, with beautiful but now sparse gardens, and a massive tower that was once home to hundreds of pidgeons. The chateau is actually still lived in, and so has a marvelous, real-life feeling. We slip on treacherous ice, but don't really mind.
We go to Dijon, where we see the Well of Moses, a beautiful series of sculptures with massive but incomprehensible religious significance. We also go to the local museum, where Alice lectures eloquently on the art of medieval Burgundy and Flanders. The hundred little monk sculptures that are meant to adorn the tomb of the duke are on tour in America (ironic?) but the museums is still full of lovely wonders. We eat a decadent but very slow (typically French) lunch and then explore some of Dijon's music shops, buying violin strings and gypsy music.
We go to Auxerre, where we explore the vaults of a cathedral that echoes eerily and is full of brilliant illuminated manuscripts and other works of religious art. We also go to the local art store, where alice buys supplies of canvas etc. and Casey buys watercolors. We also buy a massive, communal lump of beautiful clay, out of which we all form some interesting sculptures over the next few days.
We go to Autun, an old town with a spectacular cathedral that we spend hours wandering. Grotesque carvings leer down from the arches, and we climb a tall bell tower and look down on the city. A cheerful creperie and a chocolatier await for lunch.
In the evenings, Alice cooks us decadent feasts and we play music. Occasionally neighbors will come over and demand to play music with us and we will acquiese because, even if we did not, they don't speak English and thus would not understand our refusal and would strum loudly and sing mournfully regardless. But we have cheerful jamming sessions and relax our musical standards ever so slightly.
The snow melts and the rivers flood and in 48 hours every trace of snow is gone and the whole landscape is running with water but is once again green. And lush. It is also warmer, but still hardly Californian. We are well adjusted now to the cold, but rarely miss an opportunity to pine for warm California.
Here is some of the music we play these days: Irish folk songs, Russian and Bulgarian gypsy folk music, Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show, bluegrass tunes, and Mason Jennings. An eclectic mix, I know.
It is peaceful. Recuperation. Relaxation. Quality time spent in comfort and happiness spent with true friends. It could not be better. Not long from now we will surely look back on these days of warmth and decadence with nostalgia. But for now, we are happy to be having them.
Since the last blog post, we have been in Grimault, Burgundy, with our grandparents Alice and David for two weeks. I will try to stay roughly chronological.
Casey returned a few days before Christmas and he will soon update on his two weeks spent in France with Bianca Bisson and Chelsea Sarg. But we were all merrily reunited.
In the days leading up to Christmas we decorated the house with strands of multicolored lights, including a big strand on the hedge outside that looks like some exotic fruit. We also visited dozens of markets in the surrounding areas to stock up on all sorts of delicacies, including 4 different christmas cakes to be eaten at various festive times, gallons of champagne, and the usual breathtaking array of fine cheeses, meats, breads, and fruits. The open air markets in France are beyond compare, and the supermarche's are equally, but very differently impressive, with Massive vacuum packed hams and a cheese aisle that is over a mile long.
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. It had snowed steadily all day on christmas eve, and then conveniently stopped and allowed the sun to come bursting out on Christmas morning. So we had miles of pure, undistrubed brilliant whiteness, transforming the already idyllic village into even more of a wonderous winter portrait. We had a cozy ceremony of exchanging gifts, and then spent the day in between playing with new toys (not quite in the literal sense as it would have been a few years ago, but essentially still the same), and lounging in the house. We feast on boeuf bourguinon and pasta and the aformentioned various cakes. Gluttony is a totally adequate term to describe our christmas. Otherhighlights include a long nap on the chaise-lounge in front of a crackling fire as Casey strums his guitar, and a long walk across a field that has not yet had a single disturbance in the snow. It is perfect, and undisturbed. Just like the whole day.
In the few days after Christmas we take a series of expeditions. We go to Epoisse, home of the delectable Epoisse cheese that is so incomparable. It is also home to a brilliant, snow bedecked chateau, with beautiful but now sparse gardens, and a massive tower that was once home to hundreds of pidgeons. The chateau is actually still lived in, and so has a marvelous, real-life feeling. We slip on treacherous ice, but don't really mind.
We go to Dijon, where we see the Well of Moses, a beautiful series of sculptures with massive but incomprehensible religious significance. We also go to the local museum, where Alice lectures eloquently on the art of medieval Burgundy and Flanders. The hundred little monk sculptures that are meant to adorn the tomb of the duke are on tour in America (ironic?) but the museums is still full of lovely wonders. We eat a decadent but very slow (typically French) lunch and then explore some of Dijon's music shops, buying violin strings and gypsy music.
We go to Auxerre, where we explore the vaults of a cathedral that echoes eerily and is full of brilliant illuminated manuscripts and other works of religious art. We also go to the local art store, where alice buys supplies of canvas etc. and Casey buys watercolors. We also buy a massive, communal lump of beautiful clay, out of which we all form some interesting sculptures over the next few days.
We go to Autun, an old town with a spectacular cathedral that we spend hours wandering. Grotesque carvings leer down from the arches, and we climb a tall bell tower and look down on the city. A cheerful creperie and a chocolatier await for lunch.
In the evenings, Alice cooks us decadent feasts and we play music. Occasionally neighbors will come over and demand to play music with us and we will acquiese because, even if we did not, they don't speak English and thus would not understand our refusal and would strum loudly and sing mournfully regardless. But we have cheerful jamming sessions and relax our musical standards ever so slightly.
The snow melts and the rivers flood and in 48 hours every trace of snow is gone and the whole landscape is running with water but is once again green. And lush. It is also warmer, but still hardly Californian. We are well adjusted now to the cold, but rarely miss an opportunity to pine for warm California.
Here is some of the music we play these days: Irish folk songs, Russian and Bulgarian gypsy folk music, Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show, bluegrass tunes, and Mason Jennings. An eclectic mix, I know.
It is peaceful. Recuperation. Relaxation. Quality time spent in comfort and happiness spent with true friends. It could not be better. Not long from now we will surely look back on these days of warmth and decadence with nostalgia. But for now, we are happy to be having them.
CASEY, Paris, Grimault, and Lyon:
biancas arrival and the streets of lyon
at this point my excitment for biancas arrival was beyond words. her plane arrived at charles de gaule air port at 7am, so in order for me to be there waiting at the gate to welcome her i had to take a train into paris and check my self in at the closest airport hotel that i could find. peice of cake. that night i couldnt sleep, it felt like i was a little boy again, trying to fall asleep on christmas eve night. aka impossible. i was so excited! so that morning i woke up at 6, giving my self plenty of time, of course the shuttle to the air port was 45 min late, but once i was on i was getting more and more nervouse, i had it all planned out in my head perfectly, i was going to be at the gate when she arrived and we would have a long imbrace and then walk off to our hotel. but the damn shuttle was taking way too long and i was starting to panic, i wasnt going to make it! AAHHHHH! to be continued....... just kidding i made it! there plane was like 20 min late or something, haha. so needless to say we had the long loving imbrace and i think that it was hard to believe that we finally had each other again, it took a while to set in for me, i had had so many dreams about that moment that it didnt seem real. ok anyway we got to our hotel via train and found that our room would not be ready until 3, it was 11 in the morning and bianca was really jet lagged, so we just miandered around paris for a long time until we found a little park where we sat and watched this little girl in her inosent little school uniform steel a scooter from a little boy half her size, poor kid. eventually we got into our room and slept for a long time. we would wake up in the middle of the night and talk about what our lives have held since we left each other, it was a very piece full (perfect) night. our time in paris seemed to fly bye, but while we were there we did alot, we walked form notre dame to the arc de triumph and then from the arc de triumph to the eiffle tower and then back to our hotel. now if you have been to paris you should know that this is no walk in the park, (not litterally) it is quite the hike, oh boy where we tired. so we stoped by an out door market, got some snacky food and went up to our room munched on some fresh fruit and bread and took a nap. after our nap we went out to explore the paris night life and unfortunatly it was pretty dead, so we just decided to call it a night and hit the hay.
The next day we packed our bags and met my grandparents alice and david at a near by cafe, it was pretty cold that day so we got some mulled wine (warm wine) The entire lunch was lovely, after that we drove to grimault (grandparents home town) Grimault is a small town in the middle of the cuts, so it was about an hour and a half long drive. it was an amusing drive for me because i could tell that bianca really wanted to fall asleep (on the count of not getting used to the time change soon enough) but she wouldnt because she wanted to see the french country side, haha gotta love her!
we spent 3 nights in grimaultm, one night in noyers, which is a neighboring town and one night in montbard, another neighboring town. our time together was great. like i said before, it was a dream come true!
the night we spent in montbard was our last night before we saw chelsea (montbard is where the train station was) so we woke, got on the right train and made our way to lyon to meet a dear freind. the train ride was about an hour and a half but it felt like 15 min. i swear being with bianca makes time fly by. anyway we get to lyon and sure enough, there is chelsea waiting for us in her trendy french wear.
now chelsea and bianca and i had a couch surfer lined up for us to stay with, the moment that we called to see where this guy was he told us that him and all his freinds were having an early christmas party, and he told us to come and party with him. I think it would have been rude to say no so we abliged and made our way to some random house with alot of yelling and laughing pouring from it, we knew right away that this was the place, whether we liked it or not. he welcomed us in and much to our suprise there were about 30 french young adults, drunk and having a great time. true at first it was alittle akward, we slowly got in the groove and made some freinds. our host was a great guy he took great care of us and his roomates were great too. our time in lyon went by so fast. chelsea, bianca and i did so much, we went to a zoo, we explored lyon at night, we went to out door markets, oh the list go's on. but it ended way to quick for me to realize that this wasnt a dream, it was real. damn!
it ok, dont feel bad......it has a happy ending. well kind of, on our 5th day i think, it was time for me to go, so i packed my bags and said goodbye to my love and my dearest freind. it was hard having to say good bye for a second time, but it was all worth it.
so that is my lyon story. i hope you liked it, i kept it short....ish, simple and sweet.
talk to yall later
much love, casey
biancas arrival and the streets of lyon
at this point my excitment for biancas arrival was beyond words. her plane arrived at charles de gaule air port at 7am, so in order for me to be there waiting at the gate to welcome her i had to take a train into paris and check my self in at the closest airport hotel that i could find. peice of cake. that night i couldnt sleep, it felt like i was a little boy again, trying to fall asleep on christmas eve night. aka impossible. i was so excited! so that morning i woke up at 6, giving my self plenty of time, of course the shuttle to the air port was 45 min late, but once i was on i was getting more and more nervouse, i had it all planned out in my head perfectly, i was going to be at the gate when she arrived and we would have a long imbrace and then walk off to our hotel. but the damn shuttle was taking way too long and i was starting to panic, i wasnt going to make it! AAHHHHH! to be continued....... just kidding i made it! there plane was like 20 min late or something, haha. so needless to say we had the long loving imbrace and i think that it was hard to believe that we finally had each other again, it took a while to set in for me, i had had so many dreams about that moment that it didnt seem real. ok anyway we got to our hotel via train and found that our room would not be ready until 3, it was 11 in the morning and bianca was really jet lagged, so we just miandered around paris for a long time until we found a little park where we sat and watched this little girl in her inosent little school uniform steel a scooter from a little boy half her size, poor kid. eventually we got into our room and slept for a long time. we would wake up in the middle of the night and talk about what our lives have held since we left each other, it was a very piece full (perfect) night. our time in paris seemed to fly bye, but while we were there we did alot, we walked form notre dame to the arc de triumph and then from the arc de triumph to the eiffle tower and then back to our hotel. now if you have been to paris you should know that this is no walk in the park, (not litterally) it is quite the hike, oh boy where we tired. so we stoped by an out door market, got some snacky food and went up to our room munched on some fresh fruit and bread and took a nap. after our nap we went out to explore the paris night life and unfortunatly it was pretty dead, so we just decided to call it a night and hit the hay.
The next day we packed our bags and met my grandparents alice and david at a near by cafe, it was pretty cold that day so we got some mulled wine (warm wine) The entire lunch was lovely, after that we drove to grimault (grandparents home town) Grimault is a small town in the middle of the cuts, so it was about an hour and a half long drive. it was an amusing drive for me because i could tell that bianca really wanted to fall asleep (on the count of not getting used to the time change soon enough) but she wouldnt because she wanted to see the french country side, haha gotta love her!
we spent 3 nights in grimaultm, one night in noyers, which is a neighboring town and one night in montbard, another neighboring town. our time together was great. like i said before, it was a dream come true!
the night we spent in montbard was our last night before we saw chelsea (montbard is where the train station was) so we woke, got on the right train and made our way to lyon to meet a dear freind. the train ride was about an hour and a half but it felt like 15 min. i swear being with bianca makes time fly by. anyway we get to lyon and sure enough, there is chelsea waiting for us in her trendy french wear.
now chelsea and bianca and i had a couch surfer lined up for us to stay with, the moment that we called to see where this guy was he told us that him and all his freinds were having an early christmas party, and he told us to come and party with him. I think it would have been rude to say no so we abliged and made our way to some random house with alot of yelling and laughing pouring from it, we knew right away that this was the place, whether we liked it or not. he welcomed us in and much to our suprise there were about 30 french young adults, drunk and having a great time. true at first it was alittle akward, we slowly got in the groove and made some freinds. our host was a great guy he took great care of us and his roomates were great too. our time in lyon went by so fast. chelsea, bianca and i did so much, we went to a zoo, we explored lyon at night, we went to out door markets, oh the list go's on. but it ended way to quick for me to realize that this wasnt a dream, it was real. damn!
it ok, dont feel bad......it has a happy ending. well kind of, on our 5th day i think, it was time for me to go, so i packed my bags and said goodbye to my love and my dearest freind. it was hard having to say good bye for a second time, but it was all worth it.
so that is my lyon story. i hope you liked it, i kept it short....ish, simple and sweet.
talk to yall later
much love, casey
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