House Hunters: Island Hunters

Post 3: Phuket, day 2

Day 2 in Phuket was scheduled to be an “excursion.”  What does that mean? It means that you are (hopefully) picked up early in the morning near your hotel by someone you don’t recognize in a car of which you know neither the make nor the model (nor the color). How does that sound? Good, because you paid three days ago.

As we waited for our early morning pickup, Morgan went to ask for a smoothie for the road from our complimentary breakfast. Instead, they gave her two. When we came up to stand near her while waiting for our ride, they brought out four full plates of food. Nothing was requested, but it was insisted upon by the staff.  I cannot describe how generous they were, but the fourth paragraph of their flyer says it all.

The day started with a long van ride across the Phuket highway system, of which I have more to say at a later date. Once we were at the marina, the first test of our nerve was when we had to “walk the plank” to board our boat. Surely, if you’ve ever boarded a large boat, you would have seen something similar: a long metal walkway (often with stairs on one end) with railings which is temporarily attached to the dock on one side and the boat on the other. This we crossed to begin our excursion, but I must take care with how we define “attached”. The only attachment, so far as could be observed, of the platform to the dock was the friction between the two.  But we made it to the boat without incident, so perhaps this was an auspicious start.

Next was the 1.5-hour boat ride among some of the most dramatic seascapes we have ever seen. Islands rose out from the deep with stark cliffs on every side, and disappeared as quickly as they came, and the wind kept us from feeling the worst of the sun and the heat. We finally got to an island, and prepared to get off the boat. The full force of the sun was on us, and now that we were without the saving grace of the wind, we truly felt the Thai heat. (David claimed to truly have felt the Thai heat at dinner the night before, but I digress). Have you ever been inside a tanning bed? Me neither. But I imagine it is pretty stifling. Think about being inside a tanning bed full of incandescent light bulbs, and you start to get an idea of just existing on the deck of that boat in that moment. Oh, and it was 10:30 am.

We disembarked from the ferry only to re-embark on to a speedboat. Did you think that we were going to the island? Because so did we, but we immediately turned tail and motored out of the bay. We had four stops on our agenda: Boda Island, Chicken Island, Tap Island, and Railay Beach. Boda Island was, as you may have guessed, a giant cliff rising out from the sea, but this time with enough sand on one side for some trees and a little beach. The sand was ultra-fine, almost like walking on talcum powder. I am tempted to go on and on describing the beach, but I won’t be able to do it justice, so I’ll content myself to just offer these photos instead.

After Boda Island we all got back in the speedboat and were handed the snorkeling masks for our next stop. The driver (sailor?) fired up the engine and took us…. 350 feet away, about a quarter of the way around the island. I was sure that our guide’s “Are you ready?” was part of the goofy Thai sense of humor, but then he jumped out and we followed him, exploring a coral reef off the coast of this section of the island.

Group reactions:

Christina: “Very pretty. Lots of fishy. Swam a lot but didn’t get dizzy.”

David: “It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, the synergies between the marine life and the rocks were unparalleled, I sensed a strong alignment throughout the value chain.”

Morgan: “Never did I expect to have dozens of identical fish bumping into my arms, legs,  and torso, but I guess that’s what a pack of crackers can do in the ocean. I was also a big fan of the colorful fish and crackling coral.”

Following the snorkeling tour, we went to Chicken island for lunch. Are you asking yourself, hmm, I wonder how it got its name? I wasn’t either. But, if you are now curious, here is why:

Time and tide wait for no man, or tour groups apparently, and due to both of these reasons, we skipped the third island.

To the fourth island, I must admit to you, that I almost devoted an entire blog post, separate from the rest of the day. Upon arrival, we were given only two directions: be back in an hour and a half, and don’t get lost. With rules like that, an exciting adventure is bound to happen. A short walk down the from our arrival point was a fork in the path, with signs for BEACH, CAVES, VIEW POINT, and LAGOON pointing in one direction and TRAILS going in the other direction.  Naturally, we veered towards the former. We found a small beach tucked away facing a cove, backed by a rock cliff face riddled with caves. Moreover, the bottom of the cliff had eroded away, leaving stalactites dangling above the sea. Higher stalactites hundreds of feet above the beach dripped water down upon us, like a solitary rain drop from a blue sky.

This beach was also the site of the home of the fertility goddess, according to local legend.  I would like to keep this blog PG, but there were literally hundreds of phallic offerings to the goddess in spread across multiple caves.

Image intentionally left small to protect the innocent.

If this were a comic book, now would be the point in the story in which I would tell you that Christina’s and David’s age-old enemies, the sun and the sand, had found the Achilles’ heels of your heroes, fair skin and open lacerations.  While they were lain low and recovering, Morgan and I ventured back to find the view point and lagoon.

The reason we missed the path towards these areas before was that there was no path – there was an arrow pointing at a cliff face, and that was all. Morgan and I sized up the red clay wall before us, and thought that while the 35-foot-tall wall seemed a slightly dangerous, the path that surely began at the top would not be too difficult. After all, if it were impossible, why would there be a sign directing us there?  –please let me take this moment for the obligatory, sorry Mom —  So climbed we did (one of us in stylish and functional plastic flip flops. Note, this was not Morgan – she has better sense than that). At the top of the 35 feet, there was a flat area behind some trees that was not visible from the ground.  However, there was no path here, and it was not the top of the cliff. Not by half. Not by a long shot. But we didn’t know that then. As would become a pattern, we could never really see more than about 35 feet above us at any given point on the climb.

To spare you the gory details, we scaled the remaining 120 feet or so, and now proceeded on to the lookout point, looking ourselves a bit worse for wear thanks to our brick-colored clay body paint. Here is the fruit of our labor:

It was at this time, dear reader, that I noticed something that I had to keep to myself. Because while a Russian woman on the cliff informed us that the number one rule of climbing was to always keep your chest facing the rock wall, a close second place rule must be to not do anything to cause your climbing partner to freak out.  So when, dear reader, I saw a bee’s nest on the side of a tree measuring about four feet high and just as wide, with another eight inches deep, I said nothing. And unfortunately, for the same reason, I could not stop to take a picture to prove to you this outrageous boast, for that would have drawn attention to exactly that away from which I was strenuously taking pains draw attention.

The lagoon was closed temporarily due to dangerous path conditions, so unfortunately I do not have any pictures of that for you either. It was just as well, however, because we made it back to the boat just in the nick of our remaining time allotment. Had we gone to explore any further on the top of the mount, there is no way we would have been found by the tour guide before it was time to depart and rendezvous with the ferry back to port. Nevertheless, I apologize, for I too wanted pictures of the creature (and the teacher) from the black lagoon.

Ah, the story of this day has run much too long, so I must end it now. The story of our subsequent adventures will be out soon (seriously this time. I promise). Until then.

 

 

 

 

Welcome to the Jungle

Post 2: Phuket, Day 1

Hello again, loved ones, strangers, and denounced enemies! Welcome back to the tale of our journey through southeast Asia. Our four amigops [sic intentionally and for all the Jimmy Neutron fans out there], having traveled through four or more countries, having ridden planes and trains, having driven cars and ridden in vans, having overcome bus breakdowns and leaks, finally united at their hostel in Phuket, Thailand. The grounds were gorgeous, a curated taste of the wild beauty of the island.

Directly across the street from the hostel was a very lightly populated beach, as we arrived during Phuket’s offseason. Naturally, we spent the whole first day in the water, as we tried to adjust our body to the power of the sun near the equator. That goal was only half achieved, however, as the Indian Ocean was as warm as bathwater. I honestly am not able to provide a better description of the temperature; I’ve never been in a natural body of water that is comparable to it.

The beach was in the shape of a wide semicircle hemmed in by mountains, with large boulders lining the leftmost edge of the water from our perspective, which, naturally (sorry Mom), Dave and I went over to explore and investigate. David was the first up and things were going well until he used a rogue wave from behind as an opportunity to offer a minor blood sacrifice to Poseidon, losing his spot atop his own personal island.  Later along the same rocky outcroppings we found the kingdom of the crabs. If you’ve ever had crabs at a restaurant, you might think that they are not that scary. That’s easy for you to say, as you have a knife and they are dead. As we tried to alight upon the rock from below using the power of the waves, an army of dozens of crabs at the expected landing point is quite intimidating.

An artist’s sketch of the suspect.

One interesting feature of the beach was the magnitude of the changes in the tides. There were large rocky outcroppings that that rose three feet into the air at low tide which were more than ten feet below your intrepid swimmers at high tide. (I intended to take a picture of this phenomenon but failed, so here is a picture of the rocks that I found on the internet. I can’t tell whether this is high or low tide.)

After a long day on the beach, featuring lunch and dinner breaks for nearby Thai food, we were treated to a magnificent sunset.

Such was our first day in a strange new world. The second included many more adventures, so stay tuned. Until then.

Panthers in the Jungle

Post 1

Hello again, friends! It has been quite a while since I’ve operate on here, so please excuse any creaky hinges and rusty machinery (or don’t. Don’t let me tell you how to live your life. Or do. I’ll honestly never know the difference).  I am excited to relate the tales and adventures of four of your favorite Pitt alumni (perhaps behind Gene Kelly) as they journey across southeast Asia for the next few weeks!   Our journey begins in Phuket, Thailand, before moving on to Chiang Mai (also Thailand), Siem Reap, Cambodia, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Whether the jungle for you is best represented by Upton Sinclair, Axel Rose, the theme song to Monk, or the setting of the Most Dangerous Game, the Jungle Book taught me that panthers thrive in the jungle.  So, without further ado, please allow me to introduce you to the protagonists of this wild and wonderful tale, the four Pitt Panthers in the jungle…

David:

David is seen here as the former host of a male beauty pageant (although it may be difficult to spot him, as he is wearing camouflage). He has brought brains and brawn to the jungle, after conquering a Spartan Race without training and by being (nearly) publicly certified to account.

Strength: Dance Moves

Fast Fact: David has been known to argue that “athletic jeans” are an acceptable outfit to wear on the basketball court.

Christina:

Christina has the profound honor of being one of the only homo sapien – canine mixes ever to have completed college.  She is our local leader, having leveraged (I’m going to cut myself off to apologize for phrasing that in such a way. The College of Business Administration has taught me little outside of a healthy dose of buzzwords) her sister’s time spent in the area (if we can define area broadly, as in, two countries away) to feel confident enough to be our guide to interesting persons, places, and things.  She’s like Homer, then, in a sense, or Hooked on Phonics, if you prefer.

Strength: Procrastinates by planning trips… *cough, cough* uh, thanks for this.

Fast Fact: Christina has 100 siblings.

Morgan:

Morgan brings the science to the business folk.  She is also the driving social pressure to the publication of this blog, so thank or hold her accountable as you see fit.

Weakness: Not a Philadelphia Eagles fan

Strength: Almost everything else

Fast Fact: One of the two people in the photo knows that one of the two people in the photo is currently in Asia.

Me:

Hi folks, me again.  I am your host; I am also your judge, jury, and, if need be, executioner (of content, I promise).  I am not here to deliver the daily news.  I am here to irregularly deliver biased and hopefully entertaining content that may or may not roughly correspond to actual events.  In that sense, maybe I am something like the news. Or, at the very least, the news that “other people” consume (We both know those people.  They are the worst). My dad always told me to never let the facts get in the way of a good story; I will do everything in my power not to let him down.

Strength: References to the movie Elf

Fast Fact: 80% of my body volume is comprised of coffee or peanut butter and jelly.

Fast Fact 2: Not a scientist.

 So, dear reader, thank you for joining us on this journey. I will be back before long with interesting updates or when I feel guilty about slacking in my reportage, whichever comes first.  Until then.

Real Live Epcot pt 2: “Haarlem Globetrotters”

​Welcome back Americans sick of hearing about the next government, Spaniards sick of having no government, and especially those brave citizens of Antarctica, who have no government. Today we resume the tale of Real Live Epcot, and continue our journey from France to its final destination in Germany. If you can’t be bothered to scroll down and read Part 1, our protagonists include Nora, my bearded, top-hat wearing sister, my cherry tree-cutting, wooden-toothed mom, and me, the face on Mt. Rushmore that nobody recognizes. We pick up in Lyon, France, which is pierced by the Rhone and the Saone rivers (artist’s depiction below). 

Stop 4: Lyon

Roman ruins, and roamin around. My memory is something of a blur of this city, and I feel like I barely scratched its surface. It was windy beyond belief (such that the bridge we crossed shook underneath us). We visited the ruins of the ancient Roman settlement in Lyon, which were impressive and gave us a majestic view of the city. Then we went to the cathedral at the top of the cliff that that forms the eastern boundary of the city center. The cathedral was beautiful and very ornate, but I find myself lacking an ability to describe this city accurately, or even much at all. It is something of an enigma, in the sense that I went and I saw (et vici), but nevertheless feel like I left something on the table. In the same way that watching a TV program conveys all the information of an event, but lacks some intangible element of the live experience, I feel that the true Lyon still lies somewhere just beyond my grasp. Ready or not, here came the train to our next city, our next country. 

Stop 5: Geneva

Hands down, I believe this to have been my favorite city of the trip. It was pretty, clean, and not too touristy. But once again, it’s hard to point exactly what about it so appealed to me. Maybe that is part of the reason why I liked it so much. Can a child spell out exactly why Disney world is the most magical place on earth? (other than DW itself said so). I think that in some sense, identifying the qualities there doesn’t do justice to the essence rare that captures one’s imagination or spirit. So, honestly, I’m not even going to try. Is there a place that you have been to that holds a special place in your mind or heart but you just can’t put a finger on why? Let me know! 

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Stop 6: Paris

Paris and I had a quick speed-date. I think we were in the city for 16 hours? Maybe? If that? Mom told us that one really needs about four days to properly see Paris, so (in some sort of weird negative parabola of Paris time optimality) we tried to properly explore as much as we could in a mad sprint that lasted 2/3 of a day (including sleep!). We took a nighttime stroll and saw some of the most famous sites, including the Eiffel tower shooting off fireworks for no other reason other than it being a time with two zeroes at the end. Clocks and churches might chime at the hour, but with a classic French feeling of self-superiority, the Eiffel Tower shoots off fireworks. We also hit the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palace, the Esplanade des Invalides, (the outside of) the Louvre, the bookends of Champs-Élysées, and saw just the tippy top of Notre Dame above the rooftops of other buildings as they turned the lights off for the night. It was real (short), Paris, but we have yet another country to travel to tomorrow. 

Stops 7 and 8: Rotterdam and Grönigen

Ah, The Netherlands. Bike-riding, tulip-growing, windmill-building, fellow Proto-Germanic dissidents. They were everything that you thought they would be. The Netherlands had some of the nicest people we met on the entire trip. They also couldn’t understand why we stopped in their winky-dink towns. Rotterdam and Grönigen were rather small cities and don’t have many notable landmarks, as they were completely destroyed in the Second World War. Any fans of the Protestant Reformation might recognize Rotterdam as the home of prominent theologian Erasmus, but that guy had a tough life (Catholics of his age not being among the aforementioned fans), and didn’t leave too much in the way of landmarks for the city, regardless of the coming destruction in the war. Following a few pleasant canal- and bicycle-filled days in The Low Countries, we departed for my last country of the whirlwind tour… Deutschland!

Rotterdam, known for its architecture

Grönigen’s University, and about 50,000 bicycles

Here are those canals you have been waiting for

Stop 9: Hamburg

Right off the bat in this city, I had to hand it to my mom. She instinctively knew the quickest way to make friends with a German. After some unwarranted and totally ludicrous criticism of her water bottle by strangers in a cafe, she cooly deflected the blame by pinning it on Spain’s and Portugal’s water supply. Now, THAT was completely untrue, as my several months in Spain will attest. But the Germans ate it right up, as if no response could have been more reasonable. A savvy move by the mommadukes. Then we met up with Nora’s friend Dom, who was living in Hamburg doing some post-grad research. He showed us around the city and gave us some much-needed context (for once in our trip) to what we were seeing, and I have to say that it improved our experience of the city by a factor of ten.  

Hamburg’s Rathaus, or townhall

A small tribute to the Fab Four, in the place that started it all

Stop 10: Berlin

Finally we reached my final destination, Berlin. I have all summer to expound on this city, and if you’re interested, you can go check out the pieces in the Berlin tab. I want to thank my mother, who mapped out this crazy international romp, and to both my sister and my mother for taking the time off from work to travel a helluva long way to see me. I would like to note that these lovely ladies continued on their journey further (because the eleven cities that they had already been to were clearly not enough), and their stopping in Berlin signaled merely an end to their babysitting duties. I cannot detail their trip to our ancestral home of the Emerald Isle, so please reach out to them to learn the actual exciting conclusion of Real Live Epcot. This is where my story ends, and I appreciate you, dear reader, sticking with me for the duration of it. Auf Wiedersehen. 

This was as close as we got to a nice family photo together

Real Live Epcot pt. 1: “And Now it’s Time for Cheese!”

Hallo Freunde!
Not too long ago, some familiar faces showed up in Europe. My sister, Nora, and my mother, Mom, came to shepherd me on my way from Seville to Berlin. To maximize our European exposure and minimize our time spent on any one train, we stopped in a new city during almost every day of our trip. Some called us ambitious; many called us mad. We called it Real Live Epcot. 

Stop 1: Seville

Nora and Mom actually went to Lisbon first, but you’ll have to go to their blog to learn about those adventures. I pick up the story where I came in, and that is when they arrived in Seville. Almost before it started, our trip almost received a new moniker: “the death march.” Thanks, Nor. But complaints notwithstanding, I really enjoyed the day as de facto tour guide. I got to engage in two of my favorite secretive nerd hobbies: history and storytelling. Seville is a city in the midst of a 600 year decline, so it’s safe that there are quite a few yarns to spin. For those morbidly interested at the cause of Nora’s caustic quips, we walked something nutty like 40,000 steps during our explorations. (It was totally worth it and we didn’t even get to everything that I wanted to show them!)

Stop 2: Barcelona

We were #Blessed to be able to stay on Jew mountain (Catalan “Montjuic”) for our one night in Barcelona. In the neighborhood was the National Art Center (which closed 90 seconds before we summited the hill to get to the front door) and the old Olympic Park with beautiful views of the bay and the city. The next morning, we traveled to La Sagrada Familia, Gaudí’s yet-unfinished life’s work. It is a striking building, and very much unlike how I imagined it. For one thing, the design has changed over the course of the building period, so different sides are very different from each other. Additionally, there’s much more of a nature motif than I had ever seen in a cathedral, or any building really. We followed that up by a trip to Park Güell, which is Gaudí’s other signature mark on the city. It is a nature park with a gorgeous view of the city and the bay (featuring Nora and yours truly), with a few buildings that feature his signature architectural style.  

Stop 3: Montpellier

This was our longest stay of the trip- two nights. Friends of my mother’s from her study abroad days, they graciously welcomed in us weary travelers and cared for us for a few days. They showed us around town and let us join in their reindeer games. DISCLAIMER: Mom, nora, and I are now the best petanque players on the far side of the atlantic. We take on all challengers.  

It’s too easy to generalize about and characterize the French, and as Americans, we never miss an opportunity to do so (see Pepé le Pew). Now, as generalizations go, they are usually over the top (I do not miss the irony of my generalization about generalizations, and furthermore, that I am roundly criticizing them), so when we arrived in France, I did not think about how many berets I would see worn nor cheese eaten. Boy, was I wrong. They sure do love their cheese. I encountered my favorite quote of the trip “And now it’s time for cheese.” After every lunch and dinner, between the meal and dessert, our gracious hosts (and later, in Lyon) would bring out a plate of six or seven blocks of cheese to have as another course. It was incredible! While I’m on the topic, I have a public service announcement to make. AMERICA: you really need to eat more cheese. Please have a seat before you continue reading. I have really shocking news for you. Are you seated yet? I’ll wait. Currently, in this moment, there are over 1.19 billion pounds of cheese sitting in warehouses in The United States. Take a moment to think about how much cheese that is. It is unbrielievable. Jesus walked the earth 1 billion minutes ago. It is time to end our cheese glut by becoming cheese gluttons. Do it for the gouda of the American morale. (I invite you to please come up with more of your own puns…. cheddar, parmesan, swiss, provolone, whiz…)

*Here we break for a short intermission in honor of my laptop, which was stolen between Montpellier and Lyon. Please join me next time for Part 2 of Real Live Epcot*

Quick Update

 Dearly Beloved,
You are probably wondering why I have gathered you all here today. I am beginning my internship in Berlin tomorrow. As part of the internship, I must create regular, weekly posts about my experiences (and other, vaguely businessy topics). I will use the “Berlin” tab for this purpose. On the main page, I will post a) Throwback stories to my time in Spain, b) Throwback recaps to my various travels around Europe (and beyond), and c) anything that doesn’t feel like it belongs on the “schoolwork” section of the blog. I solemnly swear to provide more frequent updates on this, the fun page, than I did during the last four months. I apologize in advance for the lack of coherent order which my procrastination will inflict on my future posts about the past. Thank you for your attention (and patience). That is all. 

Semana Santa

Wow, Where do I begin? First off, Hi, I’m John.  Some of you may have forgotten because it has been so long since my last post, or you may have stumbled here off from the dark web and you are a first time reader. Welcome.

I want to talk to you about Semana Santa in Seville, or Holy Week for those of you speaking the King’s.  This festival, which goes from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday (Holla if you’re a Christian and you’ve followed me this far), really has no analog in the United States.  Before we start, I’d like to make a couple notes: 1) Seville is not the only city in Spain which has these traditions; it is simply one of the most famous. 2) You may, while you are reading or (let’s be honest) scrolling through the pictures, think to yourself, “I can’t believe this! This is total madness!” My response would be, you are absolutely right. But be nice about it.

The basic idea here is this: many neighborhood churches, which have societies called brotherhoods, have been holding processions during Holy Week since the Middle Ages in order to show their piety and/or do a penance for their sins before Easter.  Between 50-60 processions take place throughout the week, and all of them basically go from their home church (home base, if you like) to and through the Cathedral of Seville, and back to their home church (occasionally with detours). Each brotherhood (who are the only ones in the procession) number between 300-2500 people, depending on the church, which is broken down into roughly three sections- 1) the Nazarenos: Candle-holders with pointy hats.  These characters are eerily similar to the KKK in fashion terms.  As Gaga or Bowie would attest, the I-Wore-It-First rule of absurd costumes makes it less weird (at least for the Spanish). They carry very large candles, which are lit at night and add a certain (cult-y) ambiance.  2) the Penitentes: These characters sometimes wear masks, but ditched the cone-head look.  Their defining characteristic is carrying a four foot long cross to demonstrate their penance and repentance.  3) The Pasos: these are the the giant, decorated floats that have hundreds-of-years-old states, always decorated with candles and thousands of flowers.  The other distinctions between these and those in the Macy’s Day Parade is that these are carried on the backs of about 40 men and have not yet got around to making Peanuts references. The pasos weigh about 4400 lbs each, and the processions last between 8-13 hours (with some outliers, of course).

As a general rule, Spain shuts down for Semana Santa.  The bars and restaurants are open, sure, but I think this fact is representative of the situation:  the news reported that 8 million of Spain’s 46 million citizens were expected to travel within the country throughout the course of the week.  That’s more than 17% of the population! Imagine if some 52 million Americans all stopped working for a week and traveled to different parts of the country, and you start to get an idea of just how big of a deal this festival is.  By the way, while I don’t have a news story to confirm this, it feels like all 8 million were destined for Seville.

I have been told stories of Fenway park in Boston, where seemingly everyone in the stadium heads to the metro after the game, and the feeling of everyone crowding in and moving with a single mind toward a single destination has been likened to the feeling of a cow being led to slaughter: there’s one inevitable destination, and no amount of strong will or determination will can stop or redirect the flow.  This, dear reader, is not at all the sensation that one gets in Seville during Semana Santa.  The feeling is much more akin to being in the pit at a concert, but with three times more people down there as the fire safety codes allow. Or, perhaps, if you doubled the number of Walt Disney World goers during a weekend in August but halved the size of the Magic Kingdom. You might be able to move a few feet if you push past some people, but there is zero chance of of you getting from one end to the other.

There were many aspects of this week that will stay with me. For instance, even while I questioned their motives, I greatly admired to determination of some Nazarenos and Penitentes, who decided to complete their whole procession barefoot (remember that some of these processions lasted upwards of 15 hours!), in what was ostensibly an act of penance.  I admired the Costaleros, who bore the weight of the pasos on their necks, in what can only be described as a chiropractor’s nightmare. My memory is now impressed by the image of some of the devoted as the processions went by.  One man next to me burst into tears as the paso pasó (sorry, I’ll show myself out).

The most striking feature of the whole event is not the claustrophobia-inducing crowds, but rather the effect the pasos had on the crowds.  It was eerily beautiful to experience being in the midst of thousands of people packed like sardines into a plaza, and hear everyone, every last man, woman, and child, fall silent as the paso comes by. It was chilling to be able to hear the wind blow in the midst of several thousand silent observers, when just moments before I could not even hear the sound of my own thoughts.

There are mixed feelings on the traditions, even among Spaniards.  My host mother, for example, thought the whole affair was rather idolatrous. But if being here in person has taught me one thing, if seeing everyone, even children (who would outgrow the clothes in the next 6 months) dressed in their Sunday best every day of the week has led me to any conclusion, if seeing the passion and emotion with which the processions were prepared and observed has given me any certainty, it would be this: No matter how much more diverse or liberal Spain becomes, no matter how few people attend Mass on the weekends (a jaw-droppingly low number compared to the U.S.), no matter even if their atrocious economic situation further declines, this tradition will continue to live on, largely the same, for decades if not centuries into the future.

Post 3: January 15

Today we went to Toledo, which if you care and have been keeping up is the old capital of Spain.  The city was founded by the Romans in 200 B.C. and looks like it.  It is perched on a rocky hill next to the River Tajo, which surrounds it on three sides.  The valley opens out and one can see for miles and miles.  The Romans really knew how to pick a defensible position.  We took a short bus tour around the outside of the city, to ride up to an even taller, rockier, outcropping and were treated. to a stunning view of the old city.  

Our bus tour ended and our walking tour began on bridge leading to the Jewish quarter.  This was denoted by tiles laid into the the cobblestone street at regular intervals (this is a new addition to the city, not how they originally denoted the Jewish quarter.  And like new new, not just Spanish new).  After a long climb up steep streets to the city proper, we toured the Church of San Juan de los Reyes (or something).  It was commissioned by Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand after the reconquering of Spain, as a way to give the glory of their success to God.  The Church was quite impressive.  The inside of the church was carved with thousands and thousands of intricate details, all of them right into the face of the limestone walls and ceiling. One point of interest was the Spanish coat of arms, which was part of the decorations on the wall right above the entrance. It displayed but a part of the modern coat of arms, as not all kingdoms in what is now Spain were united at the time the church was built.  An interesting effect of visiting places that were made hundreds of years ago, before hundreds of years of events of which we now know all the outcomes.  

The next stop on our walking tour was the synagogue, built by muslims, and named after a saint.  Go figure.  (Actually, they did figure, and the truth of the history is less whimsical.  The synagogue was indeed built by Muslims, and it was in the style of a mosque.  However, the building only received its Christian name after the Catholic Kings drove all the Jews out of Spain, and retrofitted the space to be a Catholic Church.)  No religious ceremonies of any kind are held in the building now, but it retains its moniker because nobody remembers what it was called before, and all records have been lost or destroyed.

Next, we went to the Cathedral in Toledo, which was awe-inspiring.  I am going to see if I can attach a gallery of it to this post.  I was really struck by the magnificence and opulence of it all.  There were three different enormous pipe organs, which were all constructed in different time periods, and naturally, all have different styles of decoration: Gothic, Baroque, and Renaissance, I believe.  The whole alter was practically covered in gold, and the “recent” addition of a skylight featuring biblical characters was practically beyond belief.  Whats more, the addition is behind the altar, and cannot even be seen from most locations inside the Cathedral.  It was all quite unbelievable.

Finally, we went and saw the masterwork of El Greco, which still resides in the tiny little church for which it was made.  The painting, which is called The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, is better left to speak for itself, so I intend to let it do just that. (This is what I wrote in my notes, and I had every intention of doing just that.  But I seem to have erred here, as there are no pictures of the painting in my possession.  But I encourage you to look it up, as it is quite striking.)

During some free time, we went and walked on the oldest bridge in Spain, which was built by the Moors in the 12th Century. The Alcántara Bridge (Arabic for “Bridge” Bridge) opened up even more beautiful views of the plains below the city.  Then we went and climbed on the ruins of the ancient city walls, and I pretended to pick people off with my bow and arrow, as somebody certainly did in the past.  (the psychologists among you might enjoy psychoanalyzing the significance of me doing this action, but not bowing down in the Cathedral, as somebody certainly did hundreds of years in the past, or any other action in the city for that matter).  Finally, we climbed the outside of the city up to the viewpoint, hundreds of feet above the valley floor.  I know you’re tired of reading this, but if also offered stunning views.  What else would you expect in Toledo by this point?

We came back later to check out the night life, and it was fun to explore the old, winding, cobblestone streets from a different perspective.

Cathedral Gallery

I apologize that this post has taken me so long to finish.  I will endeavor to be more prompt.  I will also edit this post to include a gallery of the best pictures from Toledo. Cheers.

Post 2: January 14th

Madrid, dear reader, is the new capital of Spain. This is what I learned today.  The tour guide, among others, said it many times.  It was quite amazing to me to hear this phrase so often.  It is the new capital.  Now, my knowledge of recent Spanish history being what it is (next to nothing), I wondered if the new capital had anything to do with the reign of Generalissimo Franco, or some other unrest in the 20^th Century.  Then tour guide clarified that King Carlos II moved the capital here in 1561, from Toledo.  It is pretty modern, by European standards at least.  Sir, respectfully, C’mon.  While I am all for revisionist history and irrelevant qualifiers, and I promise to never let facts get in the way of a good story, let’s not pretend that something that happened before the births of Shakespeare and Galileo is a modern event.  200 years before the U.S.A. Modern.

Another fun fact about Madrid is that it has the highest number of mannequins perched on balconies of any city in the world.  (Note: This is not a fact. Please don’t fact-check me.  You don’t come here for the facts.  See the previous paragraph for my attitude about facts.)  Some had no faces and were wearing dresses, whereas others had a more detailed design and clothes to reflect certain time periods in history.  Now, this large amount of mannequins raised quite a few questions.  Why are they here?  Are they references to history, or are we merely in an area which is home to mannequin aficionados? Why does any self-respecting city have more than (I dunno, pick any number.  Let’s say zero) mannequins displayed on balconies?

We toured around the Old Quarter, and had the good fortune of a rainy day, as there were few people in some of the most famous areas of the city, such as Plaza Mayor and Puerta del Sol.  We toured the Prado Museum and the Queen Sophia Center of the Arts, where we were treated to some of the masterpieces of Velazquez, El Greco, Picasso and Dali.  Finally, we toured the Royal Palace (for free, a perk of “studying” in the country for the past 36 hours), where I learned that no amount of wealth and power can make gaudy wallpaper look fashionable.  Some things never change.

Tomorrow, we are off to see Toledo.  I can only hope that it is better than its sister city in Ohio.  I have never been to the one in Ohio, of course, but seeing as it is in Ohio, I can only imagine that the Spanish one has to be better.  It has to be, right?

 

Post 1: January 12th (13th)

On this day, dear reader, I left the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave and traveled to the Land of the Rabbits (Go ahead and google where the name “Spain” comes from.  I’ll wait.).

Although my flight left shortly before 1 AM, Spain time, it was only 7 PM in my beloved timezone of the Eastern United States, so I resigned myself to a long flight filled with reading and fruitless attempts at sleeping.  The book is called The Memoirs of a Battle Mage, but this is a travel blog and not a book club, so let’s get on with it already.

A kind, elderly Spanish couple was sitting behind me during the flight, and a couple times throughout the trip they required some help from the flight attendants to make their respective ways to the facilities.  The back of my chair was also used to help them on their way, which I paid no mind to, because (as I previously mentioned) I wasn’t having any luck sleeping anyway.  After we landed and were waiting to disembark, the woman said to me, in perfect Spanish and broken English, that she was sorry if they had disturbed me at all by using my backrest to stabilize themselves.  I responded, in perfect English and broken Spanish, that none, not even down to the 1,00oth generation, of my descendants would ever forgive their actions.  And then we both got off the plane.  Bienvenidos a España. 

The flight made good time, and by the time I had picked up my bag, I still had two hours to kill before meeting with the program organizers, which was supposed to be between 10 and 11.  So naturally, I found a bench and went back to my book.  Around ten after ten, I strolled over to the spot where we were supposed to meet.  Or at least the spot where I thought we were supposed to meet.  I wasn’t worried at first when I didn’t see anybody, because we were warned well in advance that the Spanish play fast and loose when it comes to being on time.  But as the clock struck 10:35, and there were still no signs of (or from, we were in an airport, after all) the organizers, one other confused participant and I had to take some action.  While she called the program director, and explained that we must have been in the wrong part of the airport, and that we would join them shortly, I paid a visit to the help desk, although I use the term loosely.

“Dónde está sala 1?” I asked the woman behind the desk, trying to find out where I was in relation to our meeting point.
“No aquí” Not here.
How do I get there? I asked.
Take a green bus, was the reply.
Where are the buses? I ventured, knowing I couldn’t waste any more time without missing our rendezvous.
“Afuera.” Outside. Awesome.

But we made it to the green buses, and took the bus to where we were actually supposed to go originally, and only showed up 5 minutes after they were supposed to leave, which is “Spanish on-time” in my book.  When in Rome..?

*Final note on the lady at the help desk: I also have very little interest in helping totally ignorant Americans, so I can’t say that I totally blame her.*