A bad day

It took me three days to muster the courage to write about the very unfortunate incident that I was involved in on the metro when I was on my way to the train station from the hostel in Barcelona, on my way to Malaga. But I think I’ve finally come to terms with it. I lost my iPhone. Actually I didn’t lose, it was taken right from under my nose by a drunk Spanish thief, a professional, I never saw it coming. Here’s what happened. I woke up at the hostel at 6 and was out the door by 7, my train was going to take off at 8:30, and I had to take the metro across town to the train station. I was playing it safe time wise by leaving at 7. Barcelona is well known as a party city, world renowned actually. It is one of those cities whose bars and clubs are open, especially on weekends, to well after the sun has risen the next day. And it was Saturday morning, so when I hopped the metro at 7, I was not surprised that there were other drunk people around me on their way home after a night out. But the car I chose to take a seat in was quiet. There was one man, an older man who looked like he was on his way to do some construction work, sleeping, and me, sitting across of him. That’s it, at least in my section of the car. The next station one man got in, an overweight man, probably mid thirties, who sat down on the opposite side of the same bench as me. He shouted something in Spanish to the sleeping worker across from him, who barely roused from sleep, slightly acknowledging whatever he had said. Then the man next to me slid across the bench, right next to me. It was a little weird but I didn’t pay much attention to it, I just stared at the floor. But I could smell him. He reeked of alcohol. Then without warning, he nudges me, tries to say something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand, and I try to ignore him, thinking he was some drunk bum looking for someone to annoy. But he kept at it. He kept touching and nudging me, trying to get a response. I hardly knew what was happening. I said something, I don’t remember what, nothing too friendly though, and I got up, taking my bags with me to move to the next car over. But he followed me, tried to grab my stuff as if he was helping me, and was so close to me that I could feel his breath. I said all sorts of foul things but I was pretty hands off. Eventually I kept going, made some distance, and took a seat. He followed, playing the same charade until the next stop where he got off. I was relieved to be rid of that wreck, to be able to ride in peace. I just sat there, trying to absorb what had just occurred. About two stops later, it had dawned on me to check my pockets, I always check my pockets every time I’m bumped in a crowd. I felt my front left pocket and suddenly realized my iPhone was gone. I always keep spare change in my right pocket, my luggage keys in my back right pocket, and my iPhone in my front left. Everything else I keep around my neck. I would keep my iPhone there too but I use it too frequently. I need easy access to it. And 7 in the morning on an empty metro car was the last place I expected to be robbed. But there it is. I was so distracted by his in your face, annoying tactics that I had no idea that he had found my iPhone. I couldn’t believe it. To his credit, he’s a good thief. But it hurts all the same.

I spent the whole morning just dazed and angry about what had happened. I took the train anyway. I wasn’t getting my iPhone back. I stared out the window of the train and didn’t do anything. Usually I catch up on posts. Not this time. I just stared. On the upside to all this, my staring out the window and not being busied with writing or music listening or sleeping allowed me to see the absolute beauty of the countryside that we had passed. Malaga is at the very southern end Spain, along the Costa del Sol, a long stretch of beaches. I thought maybe we would take a route that followed the coast through Valencia, but instead, we took an inland route, through the heart of Spanish cattle country. We passed almost no inhabited places. Just rolling green countryside, occasionally passing cattle ranches filled with los toros grandes. The beauty of the journey helped me slowly awake from my funk. We pulled into Malaga about six hours after we had left. The air was warm and the sun was shining, a nice change from Barcelona, but I ran into an early problem, my first as a result of the lost iPhone. Usually when I book a hostel, I immediately look up the address on google maps, take a photo of the neighborhood that I can later use as a map to navigate by, bringing it up without the need for internet access later, and do the same for the train station. It is a fail proof way to find your way from the train station to the hostel. But since my iPhone and prepared maps were missing, I was shooting purely based on memory of looking at the map the night before. I had a vague idea of how to walk to the area I would need to go from the station. But I couldn’t remember the name of the street, or even the hostel, and after giving it my best shot, I couldn’t find it. What I did find, luckily, was a McDonald’s, who in Europe always offer free, easy to connect to WIFI, which I made use of and then looked up my booking in an email with the address, found it in google maps, and found the hostel. I was in the right area, but I just missed the place somehow. Oh well. It worked out.

After checking in, my first thought was to get online and figure out what one has to do when getting there iPhone stolen. I was just hopping online when a British guy walked in, Steve from near London, we exchanged pleasantries, and I eventually explained to him what I was trying to do. He immediately rolled off a list of things that I should do as if he were an Apple employee. With his help, I was able to remotely lock my phone, making the data stored on it inaccessible, and I was able to leave a contact message in the event some good samaritan finds it, even though I knew the guy that stole it probably didn’t plan on sending it back, even if he couldn’t use it. I felt more at ease with the whole situation. I knew I wouldn’t get it back, but at least my information and data were safe. He was probably going to wipe it anyway.

A shot of the Med from the beach in Malaga, a lone container ship trudging along

I thanked Steve for helping me out. It would have taken me a long time to figure out how to do that on my own, and we eventually set out to explore Malaga a little together. Steve is a young train employee, for Southwest trains, in London. He is training to become the driver and soon will be qualified. But being an employee of a European train company gives him huge discounts on personal train tickets all over Europe. He had a five day vacation and in that time he flew to Barcelona for one day, took a train to Madrid and then back to Barca, and then to Malaga for the day and he was taking the train back to Barca again before flying home. So, three cities and four long train rides in five days. And each ride was something like six euros where it would have cost others roughly 80. A pretty intense little trip. I was starving. In my anger and frustration, I had forgotten to eat anything and it was already early evening. We stopped at a cafe where we both ordered a beer and I ordered a cheese baguette, or queso viejo (old cheese). It was simple but really good. And then we went down to the beach to enjoy the last few hours of sunlight. We were far enough south now that the sun doesn’t really set and the sky doesn’t really get dark until around 9. Steve was just hoping for a brief glimpse of good weather. He had come to Spain at just the wrong time for sun. This was his first sunny, warm day and he was from London where it’s always raining anyway. He needed a little beach time. But we were finally rewarded with two full hours of glorious sun. The beach was crowded with young sunbathers, stretched as far as the eye could see. We found a spot in the fray and sat, enjoying the moment.

The beach in Malaga, the Sunday after the busy Saturday on the beach

I didn't have a lot of Malaga photos

After getting our fill (Steve was satisfied with his two hours, he had met his annual quota, he joked) we packed up and walked back to the hostel. I attempted to write some emails and do some travel research but I failed, I instantly fell asleep. We both napped for a couple of hours in the dorm room and then awoke, feeling much more refreshed. It was around 9:30 in the evening, just about dinner time in Spain, and we went back out towards the beach. This time, we took a stroll down to the near end of the beach where there is a marina and a lengthy pier lined with shops and restaurants. We found a reasonably priced tapas restaurant and ordered several plates of various items. Tapas, for those who aren’t familiar with the concept, is a type of meal where two or more people order several small plates of food and share them as a group. We ordered six plates and the best one, which Steve couldn’t eat, was a plate of scuttle fish cooked in some tangy sauce. It was excellent. The Spanish are pretty well known for their seafood and this dish proved that. We wrapped up our meal and headed back to the hostel, and back to bed.

Steve had taken the early train back to Barcelona and I slept in a little. The hostel offered free breakfast, toast and cereal, and free coffee. I took my fill and just spent the day dodging rain clouds. To be honest, at this stage of the game, I’m no longer really interested in sightseeing, I’ve all but given up on the guidebooks. I came for the beach and the quiet, a quiet finish to an exhausting few months. But Malaga isn’t exactly a quiet retreat town, it’s a bustling tourist city and holiday destination for all of Europe. And it was rainy. So I spent the entire day in and out of the hostel. I made the walk to the beach when I thought they’re might be some sun, and then made the walk back to the hostel when it started to rain again. This repeated all afternoon. I did explore the old town a little, but unfortunately most of the shops were closed. The restaurants and bars remained open however and I found a little restaurant that was airing the Malaga - Getafe La Liga soccer match. They were playing at home in a stadium pretty close to where the old town is. And they’re a pretty good team. They won that match 2-0. But that was the most interesting part of my day. I went back to the hostel feeling a bit defeated. I used the computer awhile and took another nap.

This plaza brought to you by Cruzcampo, an Andalusian beer

The old town was dead on Sunday, all shops were closed

The sky did eventually clear up a little however, but at around 10 in the evening. I went for a really nice walk along the beach. The streets were quiet and the beach was deserted. Apart from a few late night joggers, I was the only person around. I just walked for as long as I could along the beach and turned back. It was a brief but much needed moment of peace and solitude I needed to get my spirits back up. I slept in until check out, and then made my way to the bus station to hop a bus that was going to take me somewhere that I hoped was a bit more off the map. I was aiming for Tarifa, the southernmost town in all of Europe, at the very bottom of Spain, even further south than the rock of Gibraltar. If I’m not going to find sun and warmth here, than I guess I’ll just keep going to Africa.

Sugarman

Day two in Barca was a little nicer than yesterday, weather wise, I must admit. The sun poked its head out of the clouds for at least one full hour late in the morning. I briefly considered working my way down to the beach but then rejected the idea when I saw the looming clouds slowly squeeze out what little sun we had. But it didn’t rain, and that’s a plus. I’m back in the hostel now after walking around all day. I’m a little tired. I’d rather be doing nothing on the beach. I checked the weather reports and it’s supposed to rain everyday from now and through the next week or so. Oy! So I just finished reserving a train ticket to the one place in Spain that was supposed to be all sun everyday for the foreseeable future, Malaga, in Andalusia, la Costa del Sol, a place I think I can find some good leisurely beach time. We’ll see. But don’t worry! I didn’t simply write off Barcelona that easily. Even in the shade Barcelona is a wonderfully cool city. Weather like this does occasionally happen here and when it does, culture emanates from the depths of these old neighborhoods. I wandered the city, looking for evidence of this. I found some cool things.

I slept in a bit this morning, I was really very tired last night. I stayed up a little bit to lounge in the kitchen area and talked awhile with some people, sipping my Spanish beer of choice, Estrella, not bad. I met two Americans from PA, doing a quick tour around Europe, they had an early morning train to Paris this morning before they fly home. And I met a cool Canadian guy, laid back, hair in dreads, originally from Toronto but living in the Yukon, working as a drilling supervisor for a diamond and mineral company - pretty interesting stuff. He had a two month leave period which he had been saving and has pretty much traced the same route that I have done, starting in Italy anyway, just three days or so behind me. I went to sleep though a little after midnight. I think they went out to party, Barcelona style.

But the one big thing that I didn’t get to do because it was too rainy and unpleasant yesterday was to check out Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, the famous cathedral that Barcelona started building in 1882 and is still working on, long after Gaudi’s death. I walked out of the hostel to the south, retracing a path I had taken the night before to look for food where I had come across lots of cool shops and bakeries. I found one of them this morning and stopped in for a croissant stuffed with some local Catalan meat. I forget what it was called, something Spanishy, it was excellent. I bought a juice from one of the little convenience shops in the square near the hostel and then made my way down to the cathedral. Luckily the sun was out for this which brightened my mood a little (I was pretty bummed about the weather...).

The cathedral, even unfinished, is everything you hope for from a Gaudi masterpiece. I didn’t go inside, I probably should have, because the lines were long and I’m running low on funds. Even from the outside the cathedral is extremely impressive. When one thinks of a cathedral, certain architectural expectations pop into one’s mind. This place shatters those expectations. The Pope himself (Pope Benedict, I believe) came down to Barcelona to bless the cathedral’s acceptance into the Catholic Church. So it appears even in the church, with its very long, traditional artistic history, at least from an artistic point of view, the rules can bend. The building is huge, spires twist high into the sky. Each spire is topped by a cross, bubbly? is maybe the best way to describe how they look. The sides of the cathedral are typical Gaudi style - you kind of just have to look at the photo to get what I mean by that. Looming above the entrance to the cathedral are several statues of holy figures, gaunt expressions on their modern faces, and smaller spires top the structures stemming from the sides of the main hall appear to be blossoming near the top. It’s kind of weird but wholly impressive. I’m sure the inside is just as, if not more, impressive. You’ll have to tell me when you go someday.

La Sagrada Familia, still in progress after over 100 years of construction

The interesting statues above the entrance of modern biblical figures

A view of the spires, very Gaudi

I walked around the cathedral, taking it in from different angles before I headed on. I was aiming for Born, an indie neighborhood near La Rambla that my hairdresser from Leeds recommended to me as a cool place to walk around (she seemed like the kind of person who would know better). And it just so happened that the NY Times “36 Hours in Barcelona” recommended a couple of hip shops in this area as well, so off I went. But the sun was still hanging in the air, blaring though breaks in the increasing cloud cover, I thought briefly that I might first go down to the beach to see if it might be nicer than yesterday’s experience, and I even headed in that direction for awhile, but the sun did indeed disappear, this time for good, so I thought better of it and just aimed for Born.

Born was a good recommendation. It is located on the far eastern corner of the old Gothic quarter. Lots of small alleys mesh together in a tight maze to form this neighborhood and the streets are full of cool shops and cafes. As per NY Times recommendation, I popped into a small shop called Mutt. Walking through the discreet entrance I was greeted with this heavy industrial, synthy electro music and a couple of Spanish guys chatting by the register. The shop sold art and design books and doubled as a small local art gallery. One wall was lined with books and the other was bare apart from the collection of sketches of intertwining staircases with people and animals randomly scattered about. It was an interesting exhibit. There was also a table in the corner of the space that had an interesting collection of clay figures. The space seemed like a typical art studio, sort of a large, airy factory space. And that with the music playing around me, I felt like as I walked through the door someone would soon hand me a hardhat and shovel and I would feel the urge to suddenly build a dam or something of similar girth.

Mutt, in the Born neighborhood, an NY Times recommendation

I admired the collection and moved on down deeper into the neighborhood. I passed some other pretty cool shops, a chocolate shop and a tapas bar, and then moved into a little restaurant for a bite to eat for lunch. This place was also a flamenco dance place in the evenings as was evidenced by the many photographs of local flamenco dancing favorites on the wall. I ordered a hot Catalan sausage sandwich and an Estrella, paid and continued. I walked through La Rambla, probably exiting Born along the way, and worked my way towards another NY Times recommendation but either it was closed and concealed or else it went out of business or moved, but I never found this one. What I did find though was the University of Barcelona, a really interesting area full of Spanish university students lounging outside many of the modern school buildings scattered around the area. I walked around some of the popular areas where the students were all congregated. The school doesn’t have the spacious campus feel that typifies an American college, rather it was a collection of modern buildings, very aesthetic, walls covered in student posters and music concerts and student forums and all that, scattered in a dense neighborhood on the outskirts of the Gothic Quarter. And then I made my way, a bit further (I had walked a long way today) to the train station to reserve a ticket for the train that I will be taking tomorrow to beautiful, sunny Malaga.

A typical storefront in the Born neighborhood

My Catalan sausage baguette

Then I hopped the metro and returned to the hostel. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling too well. I was more tired than I should have been and my head had been hurting. In fact, I still feel a bit under the weather, I’m not sure why. But it was mid afternoon. I decided to just lay in bed for a while and instead I slept for nearly three hours. I felt better, surprised I had slept so long considering my good night’s sleep the night before, and I decided I was up for a bit more. This would be my last chance to go out and see some of Barcelona before I left, so I rolled, reluctantly, out of bed, showered, and headed out one last night. I wanted to explore the Gracia neighborhood a bit more, the neighborhood where my hostel is located. From a few different sources, I’ve heard that the Gracia neighborhood is the preferred neighborhood by locals as a place to spend the late evenings, any night of the week. It is far enough away from La Rambla and all the hostels (except for mine!) and tourist hotels that locals still feel at home in this area. And it really does feel authentically Spanish. There is little to no English in these parts and even Spanish is rarely used, in favor of the more local Catalan language. I walked back out of the hostel and turned down the street as I always did, but this time I took a side street, slightly uphill, where I saw lots of people walking out around the street. This route was awesome and I wished I had discovered it a little earlier. It was evening time, and dark, the street was lined with tapas bars and regular bars and restaurants, book shops, and a few other small local business shops. I stopped at a small indie bookshop to peer in through the window. It had just closed. Hanging on the door was a poster of Audrey Hepburn sitting Indian style on a rug on the floor beside her bed reading a book and in old-type font, written above her read: “Reading is Sexy”. It certainly was.

I then passed a small Spanish cinema, nestled in between bars, showing a variety of Spanish, French, and international films. I decided that this would be a really cool way to spend the evening. I walked up to the small ticket booth and said to the lady behind the counter, “Hablas ingles?” She said a little. I asked her if any of the films were in English or at least had English subtitles and she said that one of the films, “Searching for Sugar Man” did. I bought a ticket for later that evening. In the meantime, I walked down back the way I came to find a local organic burger place that I had passed the day before. After some searching, I found it and stepped in. I was the only customer at the time. I looked later at the hours posted on a small sign beside the door and realized I had come in right after it had opened at 8 in the evening. In fact, this restaurant’s hours were from 1:30 to 4 every afternoon and then reopened at 8 every evening, closing at 2 in the morning. I later realized that this is the typical Spanish eating hours. In the more touristy areas, restaurants tend to conform more to the rest of the world’s eating habits and times. But here in Gracia, we were on Spanish time. The burger place I chose was called La Vespa Burgerbar, had an Italian Vespa theme, Vespa merchandise hanging from the walls. The Vespa is an old, recognizable, Italian motor scooter. I’m not sure what the scooter had to do with burgers but the place was tastefully decorated. And this place was authentically Catalan too. The people in this place spoke exactly no words of English so I had to reach deep down to the days of my middle school Spanish lessons and functionally order and consume a meal. My teachers would be so proud. From my broken Spanish, I could read the description of the “concept” of this restaurant as having an organic burger theme, using meat from only the local Catalan cattle. I ordered una cordoba hambuergesa (I’m going to write this part in Spanish to avoid having to translate the ingredients) con cordero, pimiento del pequillo, queso cabra, cogollos, tomate y cebilla. Sounds tasty, no? And they played some smooth rock in the background. Oasis’s “Wonderwall” played during my meal, a song every 26 year old American (and many other people) knows every lyric to. What’s not to like about this place? The burger was excellent, the ingredients were indeed fresh, and I was content. The woman serving me later returned, said something to me that I assumed meant, “Would you like anything else?” or perhaps, “Are you interested in a dessert?” but I think after the fact was actually, “Are you full?” and when I confidently said no, smiling, I think she was a bit confused and just sort of walked away. I realized my error too late to convince her I wasn’t rude, just bad at Spanish. But anyway the meal was fantastic and I was ready for the cinema.

The film that I came to see was a late showing of an english language documentary called, Searching for Sugarman, a story of a musician called Rodriguez who put out two albums in the US in the 60’s and whose style was similar to Bob Dylan, sort of having an anti-establishment vibe. He flopped in the US but after a copy of the albums made their way to South Africa, he was a huge success, bigger than Elvis or the Rolling Stones. And he never knew about it and how famous he had become. Anyway they try to track him down and one thing leads to another...It was a great film. But the cinema itself was half the fun. The entrance to the tiny theater is hidden deep in Garcia, between small tapas bars, but it was bustling with locals. The theater, no. 4, where my film was showing was pretty small, about a hundred seats sloping down to the screen that took up the entire wall in the front. The seats were parted by an aisle down the middle and were covered in bright pink velvet upholstery. Little lights shown upwards from the floor along either wall. They showed a few previews to other foreign films (well, foreign to me) and they all looked good. I probably could have stayed in that theater, in my plush seat, watching film after film. I love European cinema because the style is so different than the typical Hollywood blockbuster films I’m used to at home. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

But the film finished, everyone exited, and I left for the hostel. I hopped in bed and quickly fell asleep. I had an early start, an early metro ride to the train station, and an early train south to Malaga. I was searching for the sun.

Blustery Barcelona

I tried to set my alarm and wake up early, as per my plan to see more European mornings, but I kind of failed. I didn’t stir myself out of bed until around half past 9, showered, and set outside, only to return to my room to pick up my raincoat. When I arrived last night, the weather was warm and beautiful, the stars were out, the weather was perfect. It’s difficult to imagine the complete transformation that the weather went through over the course of the night. But it wasn’t raining (yet) and although a bit cool, the day seemed fit for walking around the city and doing a bit of sightseeing. Nothing too strenuous though, I’ve sort of had it with sightseeing. Luckily Barcelona isn’t really well known for its must see tourist destinations, as Rome is. What I had planned on doing today was to tour casually around the city’s famous Gaudi buildings and then walk down towards the beach (despite the weather) to get a sense of the place.

I decided to spend the whole day on foot. I hadn’t prepared anything for breakfast so my first goal was to find something to eat. I had spent kind of a lot of money in France and so my plan for Spain is to eat cheaply and focus my energy and attention on the weather and atmosphere and shy away from expensive sight seeing stuff and touristy areas. So I hit the first little convenience store I found and bought what I thought might be a semi-suitable breakfast of artesenas con queso and some deliciously pulpy orange juice. The artesenas were like little breadsticks cut in half and baked with oil and cheese, and then packaged. Not the most well rounded breakfast but it was pretty tasty...

A grassy lawn partition along De Gracia

I prepared my route before I left, using my handy hostel map. I decided my morning would be spent walking around the city looking for some of the more famous Gaudi buildings. Antoni Gaudi is a famous Catalan architect, active in the late 19th century, and is famous for his wacky modernist style which typifies a lot of the architecture in Barcelona, for which he is mostly responsible. Walking around the city, and especially the Gracia neighborhood where my hostel is, you can’t help but realize you are deep in Catalan country, far from the Spanish authority of Madrid. Most terraces of most buildings hang the Catalanya flag, draped down from their railings. The Catalan flag has alternating yellow and red stripes lengthwise, with a blue triangle on one side with a star in the middle of the triangle. And some flags just have the red and yellow stripes. But it is clear that this city belongs to Catalanya (Barcelona is technically the capital of this semi-autonomous region in the northeast corner of Spain). The Catalan language is everywhere, including signs (which is frustrating for my Spanish language skills). But anyway, back to Gaudi, Gaudi is one of Barcelona’s great influences, a Catalan through and through, and the city glorifies him through much of its unique architecture.

I first came upon La Padrera, a huge building by Gaudi design. The walls of the sides of the building are a bit bulbous, like as if they were the side of rock formation, and the windows and terraces are drawn within this bulbous rock wall. I stopped in to the shop on the first floor which was free to enter to take a look at some of the guidebooks that display much of Gaudi’s work. I wanted to enter the building but admission cost 16 euros 50, no thanks. Gaudi, from what I could tell, was a master of the whimsical. He uses natural themes in his work and from what I could see, peering through the window from the gift shop into the inner courtyard of the building, his buildings are a maze of Dr. Suess-like walls and corridors. The outside of La Padrera was rock themed, I guess. I don’t know, I’m no expert. But it looked cool.

Gaudi's La Padrera

I did a poor job capturing the true essence of the building, but rocky, no?

I walked a little further down De Gracia, the main street running north to south from the Gracia neighborhood in the northern part of the city, and came upon Casa Battlo, another Gaudi building whose theme, to me, was bones. Rib cage terraces and balconies, and bone-like structures framing the building, it was weird. But the line for entrance circled the building, the inside must have been cool. I looked at the entrance cost for this one, 20 euros 35. Why? That would make this one building I’ve never heard of the single most expensive tourist thing that I would have done. So I skipped this one too.

The bony Casa Battlo

A photo of some photos of Gaudi's work

I continued following the street south to Catalanya square, a pretty little square with a large fountain where I watched a small child get smothered by pigeons while his parents laughed and continued to throw seed into the mix (the child was fine but a bit disoriented in the hive of pigeons he was lost in - it’s a little bit awful that his parents were amused at the expense of their infant child but actually it was pretty funny to watch...), and started walking Barcelona’s famous shopping street, La Rambla. La Rambla is probably Barcelona’s central touristy area, crowded with people, but it is a really nice stretch of street with park benches and ice cream trucks and cafes and all that. And La Rambla runs through the heart of the city’s old, Gothic town which was also quite fun to walk around. But first I found my third Gaudi building tucked away in a side street off La Rambla, Palau Guell, another wacky building with wacky admission prices. 

He's not smothered yet, but he will be!

I was Gaudied out so I walked around the Gotic, the old town, awhile. I checked out this food market where vendors sold fresh fruit and vegetables, Catalanya chocolate, fresh seafood, fresh meat, everything. It was packed but very cool. That made me kind of hungry so I walked along another side street and found this butchery where I bought a fresh panini filled with some excellent meat, cured beef? Is that a thing? The baguette was sliced in half and lined with oil and the only other ingredient was this really fresh meat. A very simple, and cheap, and excellent lunch. And I bought a Naranjo Schweppes at a small shop to wash it down. Yum....

Catalan flags, they were everywhere

The market that I wandered into off La Rambla

The little Spanish butcher shop where I bought my lunch

This is where the weather went south, figuratively speaking. The wind picked up and it started to rain a bit. In spite of this, I walked down to the beach to take a look. The beach was beautiful even in the crappy weather, I can only imagine how nice it would be in the sun (Oh how I hope it is sunny tomorrow...). The beach stretches to the horizon in either direction and is full of fine sand, in contrast to Nice’s pebble beaches. The only people to brave the weather today were the surfers. The wind was blowing in from the sea and so the waves were pummeling the shore, excellent surf for those who know better (not me). But even the surfers were being cautious. Eventually the rain picked up and I forced myself to turn back into the city. 

Even the surfers were turning back

I walked back to the hostel. I wanted to go check out Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s most famous work of architecture, a cathedral, still being built actually, but the rain drove me back to the hostel. It is a good chance for me to do a bit of practical computer work. I did find a barber shop nearby though and I finally worked up the nerve to stop in for a haircut. The girl who cut my hair was from Leeds, England, an escapee to the warmer, sunnier weather of Barcelona, so she spoke English, naturally. I didn’t want to cut it too short, I’m trying to grow out the top, bring back the curls and whatnot, and although she cut my hair for at least 30 minutes, my hair doesn’t look too different. I think it grew back already. Oh well, sometimes it’s better to be conservative when it comes to haircuts.

I think I’m going to pop back out into the rain to go explore this neighborhood a little more tonight, maybe go for tapas and sangria. The Gracia neighborhood of Barcelona is the heart of Catalanya, and is a pretty happening and hip neighborhood, at least so the locals say. I trust them. Sounds like a cool scene.

Alt-J in Cannes

Alas, we had one more day in this beautiful place. Our goal was to take the local bus west, to explore the last bits of the Cote d’Azur we hadn’t seen yet. We woke up leisurely, making good use of the terrace and free toast and cereal at the hostel. Ever since Lissy had bought her perfume from the perfumerie in Eze Village, I had been talking about how I wish I too had taken advantage of the opportunity to buy some cologne for myself. I don’t usually wear cologne, but yesterday, after trying on the samples that coated my wrists and lower arms, I remembered the whole day, through Eze Village and Monaco and even later that evening, being able to get brief whiffs of the scent and thinking how pleasant it was. We looked at the bag that Lissy’s perfume came in from the shop and it said that they have another shop in another small mountain village called Grasse, a village on the way to Cannes. So our actual plan was to just take the bus and spend the day in Cannes, an easy place to spend a day, but Lissy wanted me to buy the cologne as well and we agreed that if we found a bus in Cannes that would take us up to the village, we’d make the trip and I’d buy some for myself.
 
After breakfast we got ready and made our way down to the beach, via the space tram, to hop the bus. We found the bus stop, a different one than the day before, but it seemed the next bus to Cannes wasn’t coming for a little while. What was about to leave though was a bus directly to Grasse. It seemed like the universe wanted me to get this cologne too. So we hopped this bus instead, another one euro bus, and rode our way along the coast, passing beautiful coastal places like Antibes, and then the bus took a sharp turn inland, before our approach to Cannes, and directly up and into the mountains, much like our ride to Eze Village. Grasse, as it turns out, is another little village famous for perfumeries and the shop that we went to yesterday maintains a production factory in Grasse, as do other perfume companies. And they have a shop there as well.

The bus eventually pulled into Grasse after about an hour and a half, and we were happy to get out. Grasse is a little further inland than Eze Village was and the village is even higher, the tops of the surrounding mountains just broke into the low lying clouds that spat intermittent rain showers overhead. And Grasse is just as pleasant and picturesque. Being on the side of a mountain means that the village is on one giant slant. It has an old quarter, like every village in Europe, that dodges and plunges in steep stairwells along the village center. We didn’t know where the perfumerie was so we wandered around a little and found a tourist office. They pointed us in the right direction and after a quick walk down the main road, we found the shop.

This shop was a little smaller than the one in Eze, probably because this village is a little less touristy (even though Eze wasn’t too bad either), but all the same perfumes and colognes were there. The woman behind the counter was very helpful and accommodating to our inquiries. We skipped the introduction since we had heard it all before and just went right ahead with sampling all of them. The colognes were split into two groups, a sport based group and a wood based group. After about twenty minutes of sampling, we both came to the unanimous decision that one of the milder sport scents was the one I should get, and I did. I put some on immediately after purchasing and I’ve never smelt better.

The Galimard Parfumerie in Grasse where I bought my cologne

We left the shop, happy of the purchase, and then went to explore the old quarter a little. We stumbled upon another tiny quiche cafe where Lissy and I split a small quiche. It was excellent, of the same quality as the one in Eze, and had come right out of the oven, toasty warm. But it had been sprinkling a little and getting later on in the afternoon so after finishing the quiche and buying two citrus flavored schweppes, because they are awesome, we walked back to the bus stop and hopped the one that would take us directly down the mountain side, sloping toward the sea, to Cannes.

The small cafe in Grasse's old quarter where we found some quiche

The quiche! An excellent blend of egg and cheese

On the way down we passed the factory where the perfumes from our shop were produced. They offer tours of the little factory but we wanted to spend some time in Cannes before it got too late. Eventually, after another sleepy hour of driving, we pulled into the bus stop by the train station at Cannes, and headed for the beach. The sun had suddenly popped through the clouds and the sky started to clear up in the early evening. This was our last chance to picnic on the beach. So to be honest, we didn’t really see any of Cannes. We headed to the first grocery store we saw, bought some snacks and a couple bottles of wine, and headed to the beach. Along the way we actually passed the big movie theater where the official Cannes international film festival is held. This film festival is renowned for discovering and debuting the year’s best films and the event attracts top name actors and directors. Film festivals are fun anywhere but I can only imagine the excitement in Cannes when the film festival occurs here. But we blew right past it and found the beach.

A sign post with movie posters in Cannes

The movie theater in Cannes where the international film festival is held each year

Is that Samuel L Jackson in Cannes? He looks kind of funny today

The sun was hanging on to the horizon in the late evening, we probably had two hours of daylight left, and we found a small pier that jut out from the sandy beach. Some French teens were sitting together at the end and a few scattered folks were fishing off the side. We took a seat on the edge a little further down the pier, drank the wine, ate some chips, and watched the sun slowly set over the horizon, listening to Alt-J (remember them?). We just sat there on the pier, enjoying our last moments in Cannes, as it got dark and late. We decided we should probably start making our way back to the train station, we had already missed the last bus. When we arrived at the station we bought our tickets back to Nice, realizing that we were 20 minutes away from the last train back. We were pretty close to getting stranded for the night in Cannes. But fortuitously we hopped the last train, taking a seat in the upper compartment of the double decker local trains that ferry people, more expensively, between the cities along the coast (people who are unaware of the one euro bus or just out too late, like us). But we eventually did make it back and crashed for our the last time in Nice.

Lissy had a flight in the afternoon, so after we woke up and checked out of the hostel (I checked back into the big dorm room for one more night), we decided to go for a sandwich and then head back down to the pebbly beach for one last time. The sun was shining bright for the first real time during our Nice adventure and we were happy for the last couple of hours spent on the beach. But eventually Lissy had to get going and we went to the airport where I dropped her off. She flew back to Berlin and I headed back into town. I didn’t have much to do and I was a bit bummed to be on my own again. I went back to the hostel and sat on the terrace, socializing a little and checking emails and all that. All in all an uneventful evening. But I was excited though because I had just booked three nights in Barcelona and my plan was to wake up early and spend the whole day on the train, well three trains to be exact. So after a good night’s sleep and a final, very sorrowful farewell to the wonderful place that is Nice and to the hostel and its excellent owners, I set out to the train station.

A parting shot of the beach in Nice, a gorgeous day

I was a little nervous because before I checked out, I had heard that most trains that day had all been cancelled due to some strike that was going on at train stations all across France. As I was checking out, the hostel owner (I wish I could remember his name) gave me a look and said, “the French are always looking for an excuse to strike,” shaking his head a little. I laughed but I was really hoping my train wasn’t cancelled too. Luckily it wasn’t. All the local trains had been nicked but the long distance ones were still on, said the status board. Relieved, I sat and waited for the train, reading from my e-reader a book called, “Shadow of the Wind,” by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It’s an excellent novel, set in Barcelona after World War II, about a boy and the mystery that shrouds an author who wrote a book the boy finds. That’s not an interesting description but it is a very good book and I thought it was appropriately set in the city that I intended on visiting to next. 

I hopped my first train after it pulled into the station. This was an express train to Montpellier, another coastal city in France. I was amazed at the beauty of the French countryside as the train skirted the coast and, at times, dipped into French farmland. Rolling hills and French farms sprawled across the green, lush landscape, disappearing to the north over the horizon. And each farm we past had its own white stallion, just a lone, solitary horse, a beautiful animal in a picturesque landscape. I dreamily stared out the window as we pulled into Montpellier and I transferred trains. I took another train to the border and then another train through the equally beautiful Spanish countryside as the sun was setting. We pulled into Barcelona, I hopped the metro, and found my hostel set deep in the heart of the Gracia neighborhood. It was Champions League tonight and I was able to make it to a local bar to watch the second half of the game as Dortmund rolled over Madrid to the cheering patrons of this establishment deep in Barcelona. I thought that was funny. But two Estrella beers later and a tiring day on the train, I went back to the hostel and slept soundly.

Le perfumerie and a Monacan downpour

Nice is an excellent destination all on its own, but it is a pretty small city and can be appreciated in a day or two. But I think the true gems of the Cote d’Azur are the small villages and cities along the coast. As I mentioned before, the French couple from the hostel helped us come up with a pretty good plan in using the local one euro bus to take us to these other places. The one euro bus in discussion is sort of a gift the city gives to the locals, offering them cheap transportation to the outlying villages from the city. Most buses around Europe, even the local ones, aren’t this cheap. Our plan today was to take the bus from a small station by the marina east to Eze Village and then to Monaco. So we hopped what we called the “space tram”, a tram that travels along Avenue Jean Medecin and out to the bus station, a tram advanced in both technology and design, and found the local bus to Eze Village. These buses are the kinds that blow past stops if no one is waiting at them and if no one requests the bus to stop. So we made pretty good time. The bus took us around the marina and then made its way uphill, a little bit inland, into the suburban neighborhoods in the hills. We took a window seat in the back to have a good vantage point to soak in the atmosphere of the ride, but the engine below us screamed and vibrated in torment as the driver struggled to get the bus up the steep roads in low gear. The high road took us through small neighborhoods with palm trees and small homes with seafront views with iron gates and gardens. We skirted the edge of the cliff for much of the journey and the views were spectacular. About 45 minutes into the trip someone requested a stop and we pulled into the main intersection of two roads in Eze Village, a tiny village beside a castle, high above the sea. We got out and oriented ourselves a bit.

The intersection that we got off at was the cross between two roads, one that led back to Nice in one direction and then further on towards Monaco in the other, and the second that led further inland and up into the hills behind the village. The village lay entirely around the cross section of these two roads. So walking around was certainly easy and experiencing the village could be done in a matter of hours. We were pretty hungry, having missed breakfast in order to make it to the bus in time, hoping to find something en route but failing to find a cheap cafe, so we wandered along the road a bit in search of food. We found a small cafe on the side and on the edge of the road, overlooking the sea in the distance. The cafe was in a small building on its own and was open to a front terrace in the yard where we could take a seat in the sun. It had turned out to be a pretty nice, sunny day. We went in to see what the cafe offered and decided on a couple of cappuccinos and I took a slice of egg, ham, and cheese quiche, Lissy took a berry custard. It was delicious. Quiche is a very typical French food, easily sold at cafes as a midday snack or bit of breakfast, I made use of both purposes. The quiche was heavy on cream, giving the texture of the mould a very fine and almost gelatin quality. It was really good. As was Lissy’s custard. And the cappuccinos. We felt much better and then walked back to the center of the village.

The small cafe we found in Eze Village

My quiche and cappuccino, an excellent brunch

We then decided to make our way back over to the castle, an old fortress built atop the highest point of the cliff wall looking out over the sea. It was a Sunday and there was a local flea market sprawling along the cobbled walkways leading up to the castle, full of local vendors selling French wares and antiques and other odd memorabilia from the basements of old French homes. We wandered further, past the market, into the confines of the castle itself. As we climbed and wound our way through the narrow walkways of the castle, we could look down into the deep valleys below that led down to the sea and all the grand villas scattered around the hills. There were some restaurants and cafes in the castle, a little expensive though, and a really nice church, similar to the one in the old quarter in Nice, very pretty and peaceful, old Mediterranean paintings along the interior and grand crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Walking back out, we kept on climbing through the maze of passageways that led us through the center and around the sides of the castle walls. Flowers and ferns hung from the iron bars of old windows and many of the little wooden doors to rooms and homes within the walls were open to art galleries and various shops selling local, hand made goods. The top though, pretentiously, we thought, was only open to those willing to pay for the view. In spite of that, we declined and walked back down to the village.

One of the flea market stalls leading up to the castle

Lissy and some French kids petting a donkey

The altar of the chapel in the castle

The chapel was lavishly decorated with chandeliers

A typical alleyway through the castle

The entrance to a cafe within the castle walls

The castle in Eze Village rose high above the village

Eze Village is also famous, as our a few villages in Southern France, for their perfumeries. They have factories that produce these perfumes for design label companies like Chanel, but they also sell their own perfumes right at the factory and in little shops around the village for a much cheaper price, but of the same high quality and in very fancy, French bottles. It was actually very cool. We walked in to one of the shops and was met by a woman who started to explain a bit about the qualities and types of perfume that they sold. We told her we were both interested and she laid out a display of perfumes for both men and women. She started with Lissy, spraying various types of perfumes on different places of her wrists and arms so that she could smell the differences. She explained the ingredients used and the impression they were supposed to make in combination. The fragrances of the perfumes, I learned, were strongest and of their true quality minutes after they were sprayed, to allow the alcohol in them to burn off. She did the same to me to allow me to sample the men’s cologne, which were all quite nice. After some deliberation, Lissy decided to buy a bottle of a perfume that had a slight citrus scent to it, we both really like it. I declined however to buy any cologne, deciding that it would be difficult to take with me on the rest of my trip. We left the shop and went back to the bus stop to catch the same bus further east to Monaco. 

The shop where we went to educate ourselves about perfumes

Lissy and the perfume she bought

This bus ride was similar to the one that took us from Nice, winding its way first down the cliff face towards the local train stop by the coast. Then it continued to hug the coastline, zigzagging around the train tracks as they dipped in and out of tunnels. The sun was still out and the sea below us was that same bright turquoise color. After another hour or so on the bus, we pulled into Monaco. Realizing that you are coming upon Monaco is easy because the city, built along the cliff walls leading into the sea, is so dense and so extravagant that it could not be confused with any other possible place. So we knew we had arrived and got off. Monaco is a small, dense, city confined by the natural boundaries the steep mountains allow, and is itself a sovereign state. They have their own royal family, their own royal palace and royal guards, and they have a lot of rich people. The palace is extravagantly set atop a stand alone hill, high above the sea, much like Eze Village’s castle. The apartment buildings scattered around the city are posh, and the streets are full of expensive, luxury Italian and German made sports cars. Monaco is also well known for its annual Formula 1 race that it hosts in May along the city’s open streets, and its casino in Monte Carlo, a fancy neighborhood in the central part of the city.

The city of Monaco, Monte Carlo on is on the hill, from the vantage of the palace on the hill

Changing of the guard in front of the palace in Monaco

Me above the city, the marina below

In the distance we could see these really dark and ominous clouds closing in on Monaco from the Italian shores beyond to the east and we knew we had a couple of hours of sun before those clouds engulfed the city in rain, so we decided to first walk around the palace and royal neighborhood a bit while the weather was still good. Walking up the hill leads to a small square ringed by the palace on one side and a small  residential neighborhood on the other. We were able to witness the hourly changing of the royal guard, a ceremonious swapping of soldiers outside the palace walls. And then wandered around the square a little to get sweeping views of the city and of the marina below. The marina is also world famous as the destination and home for many of the world’s great yachts. There are some of the biggest and most lavish yachts that I have ever seen and I have been to many ports and seen many impressive marinas. We followed a path that wound down the side of the hill, through gardens and parks, down to the marina to walk along the docks and admire the yachts a little. But the rain clouds were getting much closer and it had begun to rain a little. It didn’t take long for the sprinkles to become rain and then quickly downpour all over the city. We had coats on at least but didn’t think to take umbrellas. So we walked along the marina rather quickly and took refuge in the overhang of some waterfront buildings. From here we could see the place where the Formula 1 race next month would start. They had started to set up stands for viewers and had a big banner over the starting line that broadcast the dates of the famous event. 

This is what was barreling toward us in Monaco

The starting line of the Formula 1 race being held in May

Since it had started to rain and we were able to gauge that there was no near end in sight to the storm, we decided to go check out the casino, famous around Europe for its grand building and its high stakes games. Apparently, the best card players and gamblers from all around the world come to Monte Carlo to play because it has some of the most exclusive halls game rooms in the world, people can bet as high as they like in these rooms, and are unfortunately off limits to tourists, unless you want to pay a large entry fee. But you can get into some of the smaller, more normal gaming areas for free and it is a good way to check out the casino’s grand interior. The casino is relatively small when compared to the casinos in Las Vegas or Macau, but it makes up for this by staying exclusive and lavish. The high ceilings of the game rooms are delicately moulded and painted with golden edging and the rooms are dotted with huge golden chandeliers. Card tables are spread around the center of the floor and slot machines are grouped along the sides. As a tourist, you’re only allowed in the first few halls before a pricey fee takes you into the real high stakes rooms. But we weren’t up for blowing our money in these rooms. After a little while of walking around, we headed back out, passing some very fancily clad Europeans on their way in.

It was still raining and it was getting a bit late, so we made our way back to the bus station and hopped the bus that took us along the darkened coastline, back to Nice. We slept for much of the trip. We were pretty hungry when we got back in the late evening and there was a small Chinese restaurant that was still open. We’re both China enthusiasts so we thought it would be fun to go in. It was. The food was decent and filling and then we went back to the hostel and to sleep. We had one more full day in Nice and Lissy just had the one more full day before she had to return to Berlin so we thought we’d make the most of it. We were going to take the one euro bus this time to the west, along the beach to a village called Grasse and then further on to Cannes. We were hoping the weather would let up a little.

I’ll make another quick real time note before I sign out for this post. I’m writing this post after the fact as well, from the roof top terrace of a beautiful hostel in the Medina Casbah in Tangier, Morocco, overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar to the shores of Spain in the distance. It’s sunny, late afternoon, and I have my feet up on the edge of the terrace, typing away. Rooftops of the other buildings in this dense, Alladin-like maze of buildings sprawl out below me. I have one more post to write after this one and then I’ll be completely caught up until now. So a flood of Spain posts should follow (they are already written - I just didn’t want to post them before France).

Also, I should let everyone know that I am officially changing the destination of this journey from London to Lisbon for several reasons. Chiefly, its a matter of convenience on my part. It seems more fitting and natural, based on the path I have chosen to make through Europe. Also, the goal was to go from coast to coast, by train, through Eurasia, and, skipping to the chase a bit, I’ve actually reached the Atlantic here in Spain and Morocco, but I think Lisbon would be a nicer, more recognizable place to finish. And I’m running short on time and money. And Lisbon is nearly along the same line of latitude as Boston and even closer than London. And I’ve been to London before anyway. And lastly, I can’t use my Eurail pass on the train between Paris and London, through the “chunnel” because it is a privately owned train and is extremely expensive to take if I was just going to pay for it on my own. So for all these reasons I think it makes sense to change London to Lisbon and I hope you’ll forgive me for that. So basically, I’m rounding the coast of the Iberian Peninsula, detouring in Morocco, and taking coastal buses up to Lisbon in Portugal. Still a pretty cool end to a very cool trip.

Almost there...