Here at last

I arrived to a cloudy, warm afternoon in Cordoba. Despite repeated assurances to the contrary, from multiple people, I discovered quickly that English skills are almost totally absent here. I had come hoping to rent a moped, but my rudimentary Spanish (¿Donde puedo alquilar una motocicleta?) was unequal to the task. I made my way to the "Mezquita," a very old (9th century) mosque-turned-cathedral (13th century). The old stone and almost deserted streets excited me as I approached the city center, but close in I discovered that the structure was surrounded by a solid ring of hostels, hotels, bars, and restaurants. Charming as some of these appeared, they too had their attendants, in the form of dozens of tour buses and their middle-aged, map-clutching occupants. I had thought I might stay in Cordoba first, but had a backup room reserved in a small town about 20km west, just in case. The tour buses and the bustle they brought steered me quickly to the latter option.

By this time I was growing quite frantic with hunger. A bus would have been the cheaper option at that point, but it meant a long walk back to the train station and an unknown wait. A 30€ taxi fare (which, I might add, was negotiated entirely in Spanish) seemed the better option, so off we went in search of this "Al-Mudawwar Rural Casa."

I saw the town from miles away. It covers the eastern slope of a tall hill. The hill juts south from the main line forming the northern wall of this river valley. The town is capped at the hill´s highest and most southernly by a great medival fortress. It looks out over the broad valley, standing watch, I imagined, for the Moorish invaders from whom this land was reconquered in the 13th centrury. The town´s whitewashed walls and tile roofs fall steeply away below, and it was through these narrow, steep streets that my intrepid cabby navigated for close to 30 minutes. He stopped frequently for directions (having dismissed the printed map I offered with a stream of passionate Spanish and hand-waving), but these seemed to lead away from the target as often as not. Finally, we found the inn. I was so relieved that I attempted to give the cabby a 10€ tip; I think this may have offended him, for he yelled that it was too much and insisted on only the previously agreed upon fare. I did not belabor the point, turning instead to my new home for the week.

Tales of the rail

Barcelona was most prominently, this morning, grey and smoggy. From the airport, I boarded a clean, bright, modern commuter train that would put anything in the US to shame. The city we rode through, however, had an almost third world feel to it. Grime and water marks covered brighly colored but architecturally uninspired apartment blocks, butting up to the train tracks with only a narrow strip of rubble and trash in between. I´ve read that Spain has the most ambitious rail infrastructure program in the EU; all well and good, but perhaps there are other matters to which they might divert some small amount of those funds. Not unique though, I hear China´s the same way.

I did enjoy a wonderful dash of humanity at the main rail station this morning. I was waiting in line to purchase my ticket to Cordoba when two guys about my age walked up and asked in Spanish where I was going. Feeling embarassed about my rudimentary skills in their language, I replied with only "Cordoba." They seemed disappointed by this, but after conferring for a moment asked, in English, if that went by way of Madrid. I replied affermatively, and they then offered me, free of charge, an extra ticket to Madrid for the 10:00 AVE (the Spanish high-speed line)! 10 minutes later I had exchanged this for a ticket all the way to Cordoba, saving me a cool 60€. Humanity is good, I think. Especially the spaniards.

After leaving Barcelona we passed for two hours (going, and this is way cool, over 150 mph) through drab, stone strewn hill country. This land had none of the majesty of the mountains I´ve known before, nor the stark beauty of South Dakota´s badlands. This might have been forgiven if there had been much in the way of vegitation, but some peculiar feature of the climate in this corner of the Iberian peninsula must stifle the plants even as it wears the hills down to rubble.

At about 12:30 we made our last stop before Cordoba in the city of Zaragosa. I stepped off the train to admire briefly the very beautiful architecure of the trian station there. America´s inattention to municipal architecture is a sure sign of our decadence and decline. I stood there snapping pictures amid a crowd of party boys chanting something to one among them wearing nothing but a speedo (or briefs, perhaps?) and a head-to-toe coat of gold paint. A Spanish bachelor ritual, perhaps?

We pulled out of the station, under the first blue skies I´d seen thus far, into a different Spain. The crumbling hills drew apart, with wide rolling vallies in between and natural terraces of green and brown up their sides. This is what the American southwest would look like with an extra foot or two of rain each year. So here we are in the Spain I have heard so much about.

First impressions of Spain

There is something very meditative about traveling alone. The reaction from so many people this week has been "Alone? You mean without anyone else?" Then they nod in this particular way. I think it´s short for "weird but cool," but maybe that´s just what I want to believe. Traveling alone is lonely, certainly, but there is also something particularly focusing and energizing about throwing yourself into a new place completely on your own. I woke up at 4am this morning, 5 minutes before my alarm, alert and excited for this brand new thing I was about to see and do.

Heavy lids stayed away through the long lines at Schipol and onto the plane. This excitement stayed until about the time they rolled through with the duty-free cart and 2€ tea. I was reading The Prodigal Summer at that moment, and I remember having to read each paragraph 2 or 3 times for the rest of the flight. I wasn´t tired enough (yet) to sleep, but nor was my brain in any position to make sense of such arcane concepts as english syntax.

Then they announced that we would be landing soon, and I swear it was like three shots of espresso (or a stout dose of provigil, if you prefer). I got off the plane to the thick air and smell particular, apparently, to all spanish-speaking countries regardless of longitude and latitude. That, at least, was familiar.

Hamsterdam

We're working at a small hospital about 30 minutes from Amsterdam, called "Spaarne Ziekenhuis." For those of you not familiar with the Germanic languages, yes, that does mean "sick house," which for we Americans used to our euphemisms is weird but is the way of things here in this part of the world. Also the way of things is that they are very nice all the time and have holidays like every other week. Today is "Ascension Day" in Holland, which is in celebration of Jesus going back to heaven. This is funny because Holland is like one of the 5 least religious countries in the entire world. Like I said, they like their holidays. I cannot say I blame them, being that we Americans spent the holiday in a windowless room in the sick house, "pushing through to the home stretch," as my boss put it.

I did have free time this weekend, wherein we went to Amsterdam and all that one is supposed to do there. Which mostly involved walking all over the damn place. We also saw the Heineken Experience. This is a museum in theory, but mostly it's just a huge, elaborate advertisement that you walk through. That said, it was pretty cool. Mostly because there's beer involved. Two glasses of beer are included with admission, and we snuck a couple more. Later, Nema convinced us (me, Rachel, and Melissa) to go to creepy sex show "just so we could say we did." This was mostly what you'd expect, gross and expensive out of all proportion to what it was worth. I had previously agreed to a maximum of 15 Euro, but then we got there and it was 25, and I really couldn't refuse at that point. Well anyway, that's checked off the list. By far more exciting was these raspberries I bought at a little shop near the Heineken place. These were 5 euro for well under a pint, which is an insane price, but oh my jesus they were good. There's a picture attached.

We also went on a canal tour and visited a cafe. Both of these were as you'd expect. On Sunday, I went by myself to the Rijksmuseum, which unfortunately was mostly closed for renovation. I did see some cool rembrandts (a small fraction of their collection) and like 2 second-rate vermeers. I should have gone to the van gogh first, now I have to try to squeeze it in tomorrow before I leave for...

Spain! Yes, that's right, I fly to Barcelona on Saturday at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm flying some cheap European airline, so wish me luck. they only allow 5 kilos of carry on, so I will have to be strategic and hope my checked bag makes it through. Assuming all goes according to plan, I'll be taking the AVE (highspeed) train to Cordoba, finding a "pension," and then doing nothing but drink, read, eat, and draw for 6 days. Maybe a day-trip to the ocean. Maybe. First, I need to find a Spanish phrase book. I am going by myself to a small city in a foreign country whose language I don't know. Again, wish me luck.

Greetings from the future

Not much to report from the future, except that it's very green here. I think that may have something to do with being below sea level and about 5 miles from the ocean though, rather than the rapidly advancing season. Hard to say what Hoopdorf was like 7 hours ago.

I got on the plane yesterday at 9pm (US Eastern time zone). We all filed on and glowered up at the business class. We become so used to certain luxuries, like upgrades to first class. When I learned that Northwest doesn't upgrade on international flights, I was highly indignant.

Thank god for Ambien. Sat down and popped 15mg of zolpidem while they served our dinner. We had a choice of chicken alfredo pasta and chicken stir fry. Definitely went with the latter, though I can't really account for the name. As the ingredients (sauce, chicken, diced red peppers, and rice) were served in neat, well-defined piles, the "stir" part refers perhaps to the method of consumption? The latter half of the name is equally unaccountable, as hot steam is the only cooking method any of this dish saw. Nevertheless, it was delicious, mostly on account of the sauce, which was a pretty solid imitation on the Three Cup Chicken sauce available at my favorite restaurant Nattspiel.

While waiting for dinner and the arrival of the drug in my brain, I watched the movie Taken. This movie stars Liam Neeson as an ex-CIA "preventer" (reference was made to the standard generically ominous and exciting Beirut) whose teenaged daughter is kidnapped by human traffickers during a trip to Paris (to follow U2 around Europe, of all the dumb reasons). This comes, of course, after her world-wise father agreed only reluctantly to allow his baby to leave the country, after protesting that he knows "how the world really is." A very somber fellow, this Brian. Fortunately, the kidnapping happens while Kimmy (they ladel the diminutive form on thick for extra sentimentality) is on the phone with her father (back in LA). So he gets very angry, flies to Europe, and kills like 327 Albanians. Maybe not the best movie for before bed, but pretty good I'd say. I fought against increasingly leaden eyes through the last 10 minute or so, and fell thoroughly asleep within about 12 seconds of the credits rolling.

Holland is green. Lots and lots of green. Our hotel, a standard issue Courtyard Marriott, is in the middle of a damn park! I can see horses going by out my window! So that's pretty cool. Before we could enjoy that though, a trip to the nearest town was in order. Not much is open on Sundays around here (damn lazy Europeans), but we needed food. So we found the awesome tapas place. Then wandered around a cozy dutch town that I'm sure is like many others. Can't wait to see more.

Now, I must focus on staying awake for 3 more hours. Oy!

Until next time, enjoy some pictures:

http://picasaweb.google.com/joelamartin/Europe09#

A many of many words

Mr. Hova has certainly got an ego, but can you blame him? This is pretty cool:

Worst music video ever

Yea, that's right, who wants to get RickRoll'd?

You can't take yours eyes off it!!!