Seville

It’s the 4^th of July today in the States. I always expect other countries to celebrate our Independence Day simply because I’ve done so all my life. It’s the same with Thanksgiving. I can understand why though. And it’s probably a gloomy day for England. Why would they celebrate the day we dissolved our connection with the king and his oppressive taxes.

We got up this morning at seven a.m. to catch a train to Barcelona. It was early for us and probably early for most in Madrid as well, but Seville has been different. Besides our trip to Morocco being postponed until later in our stay abroad, Seville has been my favorite city in Spain. We found our hostel easy enough and the reception there was very warm. Pablo was from Argentina and Rachel from Ireland. The only problem we had is with dormitory stay. There were 10 to our room and not all of them kept the same hours as two weary travelers. A French couple from Paris partied all night and got in at six a.m. They made enough noise to wake up several floors by tossing their belongings around, letting doors slam and speaking in hushed tones. After about an hour they left. I found out later they had to catch an early train.

For breakfast we found a nice place a couple of doors down from the hostel. For 1.90 euro we got an herb tea, freshly-squeezed orange juice and two halves of a toasted baguette along with butter and jam. During breakfast we met a group of Italians, two couples vacationing for a week in Spain. I took some pictures of them on the busy Seville street with traffic going by in the background. They enjoyed it and asked me to email them some. They also suggested we try their hotel because it was close to our hostel and it was cheaper and more private. We went to a website they told us about which discounted our price from 48 euro to 36 euro. This might not seem like a significant amount but it equates to about $17 dollars. After we said goodbye to the Italians we decided to rent bikes and head out to the Torre de Oro (tower of gold) along the river. The weather in Seville has been about 33-35 Celsius. This is even warm for Seville standards. A breeze was blowing in and made the day bearable as we rode our bikes past the section of the city that lies in the shadow of the Alcazar Cathedral. The day before we had walked to the cathedral and decided that biking would be an easier way to see more of the city.

Orange trees line many of the streets in Seville. (I’m thinking the abundant source of oranges was the reason the juice comes with every breakfast). The city center is full of labyrinth-like streets, some of which are so narrow that I had walked down them with my hands touching each wall. An occasional Vespa had been the only traffic interrupting our walk to the Alcazar Cathedral. Like many ancient churches in Europe, it could be used as a landmark to escape the labyrinth.

There are bikes you can rent called Sevici (Seville + bici) which is a combination of the Spanish word for Seville and bikes. There are docking stations in strategic locations throughout the city. You simply swipe your card and pull the bike from the station and are billed for time the bike is used. People all over were using them. We didn’t get those. But we should have. The ones we rented didn’t have a basket, which was much to the chagrin of Carolyn who was hoping to avoid carrying her heavy satchel over her shoulder while she road. In fact, her satchel kept her off balance most of the time she was on the bike and she narrowly missed leaping pedestrians, pigeons and other obstacles that proved problematic in her steering endeavors. There are bike paths all over the city and the flow of traffic is the same as motorized vehicles – you drive on the right hand side. Spaniards shot us some looks every now and then as Carolyn crossed over the center divide. In her defense, the bikes were a little sketchy and didn’t stop on a dime. And they probably couldn’t have stopped on a dollar bill for that matter. My brother Ben (who works at a bike shop) would have adjusted them immediately. The seats are sure to leave me with sore cheeks for the next couple of days. I might as well have been riding on the pole itself. Next time, I’m looking for a big grandma-type seat with a ton of cushion.

The bike ride represented the only low point in Seville (if you can even call it that) and the highlight was surely Los Coloniales, a tapas bar popular with the locals. In fact, it was a local guy who stopped us in the street and asked us if we were looking for a good place to eat. He may have wanted to practice his English with Carolyn or he could have just wanted to help out some travelers. Either way, his suggestion was mint. Many of the plates come with potatoes, especially if they are served with meat. Sauces, both red and white, are poured over meat, potatoes and breads. The special of the day was Arroz Iberico, which was a type of Spanish rice cooked with pork and beef. You could taste the flavor of the meat in the rice itself and it was a dish I ended up wiping clean with a piece of bread.

Carolyn and I ate at Los Coloniales on three different occasions and on the third, brought the Italians with us. We met them on the road near the hostel and they had been looking for somewhere to go to dinner. After meeting them at breakfast that morning I doubted we’d meet up again. It may have been for the size of Seville and the proximity of our lodging but I’d like to think it was due to the fact that here in Europe, the lifestyle put us in closer contact with one another. While at the restaurant it was incredibly difficult keeping my Italian and Spanish separate as I answered questions for the curious Italians about the food and relayed their requests to the annoyed waiter. The main concern of the Italians was the sauces which they considered to be too “pesante (heavy)” for their delicate palates. The phrase “sin salsa” accompanied several of their plates as I translated. Carolyn stared at us as we talked about politics, the economy and the differences and similarities between life here and in the States. It’s difficult for her that she doesn’t speak the language and she’d really like to. I think she understands how important speaking a language is to fully understanding the people and their culture.

We are on the train now bound for Tarragona, a small city just outside Barcelona. It’s a five-hour ride and crosses a large part of the country. With Barcelona near the French border we are excited to head to visit Marseilles and Nice on the way through the Riviera.

Gli Italiani! Forza Italia!

La Torre de Oro, Seville.

Catedral Alcazar, Seville.

Walk This Way

It was only the second time we had breakfast at the small “cafeteria” below our hostel and the lady who worked there was already warming up to us. My Spanish isn’t as refined as my Italian and I consistently make mistakes using the latter as a crutch. Notwithstanding my inadequacy, the woman acted like she understood me completely. This nicety was not lost on me.

While Madrid wasn’t the most beautiful city I have seen, it reminded me of something that I forget every time I leave Europe – proximity increases intimacy. Because many of the countries are smaller than my home state of California, the people there have had to be incredibly resourceful with their use of space. Instead of building out, they build up. When they’ve exceeded the limit of traffic on the surface, they go underground. They drive smaller more compact cars or scooters. Instead of driving long distances they take the train. And instead of driving short distances they take public transportation or walk.

When I lived in Italy I sat by my neighbors on the metro everyday and walked by them when I shopped in open markets. There was a sense of community and familiarity. So many people crammed into such a small area forces human interaction. What many think would create friction instead created harmony.

In the States we have a lot more space. While this luxury provides for large lots of land, mcmansions and ample separation between neighbors, it also creates a humanity that is detached. For the religious, one of the greatest laws is to love thy neighbor. This becomes more difficult if you don’t know your neighbor and never actually meet them. Most of us awake, eat breakfast and slip into our garage undetected. We open the door to our car and shut ourselves in. We open our garage and roll down the road toward our daily routine. Despite a couple of breaks in the process, it’s almost a completely contained passage. In this same sequence, Europeans have come into contact with dozens of people already. The increased frequency with which they see and actually talk to one another increases their closeness and solidarity. The more you have to interact with humans the more skilled you become at human interaction. Like ants bumping into each other along their trail it seems as if they are distracted and not focused. Instead, the daily reinforcement of community makes their sum larger than their parts.

The next time someone new moves into the neighborhood make sure they receive a warm welcome. Instead of getting in the car to do errands, try walking. You might just reconnect with some people you know along the way.  Walking is also a great way to clear your mind and be alone with your thoughts. The walk will come with some sacrifice though – you won’t get nearly as much accomplished. But who cares about accomplishment really? Americans take the least vacations of any people in the world. To make things worse, a study just came out that says more Americans are now working weekends as well.

I ran a successful photography studio for more than a decade in a town of half a million people. I worked seven days a week for many years arriving early and leaving late. I missed many family functions, birthdays and baptisms. If it wasn’t for an illness that forced me to leave my studio and move out of the area where I’d spent years developing a reputation, I would have never left. It was a blessing I initially viewed as a curse.

It will take some time before I can relax and enjoy the natural pace of the people here in Europe. I’m trying to slow down my stride and have to keep reminding myself that I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. I am using the same transportation that my neighbors use. And while my feet are sore, with every step I’m becoming closer and closer to the people around me.

The Cigarette Lady

Still hanging around the Plaza Mayor Carolyn and I decided to grab some postcards to send home. We entered one of the many shops and bought a couple of postcards of downtown Madrid. I asked the gentleman what the things were called that were required to send them and he told me "sellos." Armed with this new vocabulary word I sought out a tabbacheria (small tobacco shops I frequented in Italy that sold stamps) in hopes that they sold stamps like the ones in Italy. Carolyn and I entered and met the cutest little lady. She had to have been about 80 years old and as soon as I asked her about the economy here in Spain she began using mouthfuls of words I'd never heard before. In cases like these I simply smile, listen intently and nod my head. She sold us our stamps and then chatted despite clients coming in every four minutes to buy Lucky Strike and Marlboro Red.

Alejandro from Transylvania, Romania

Carolyn and I spent the morning walking the streets of Madrid. After a small breakfast of tea and a chocolate croissant that came warm out of the oven we headed out to scour the city. We wandered along the cobblestone streets until we came to Plaza Mayor. Since our schedules are still off we were wide awake at 7 a.m. and found that many of Madrid's residents were still fast asleep. I met Alejandro in the plaza. He was awake while his neighbors around him slept soundly on cardboard. He is from Transylvania, Romania and came here to Madrid looking for work. In his country he worked as a veterinarian but ended up trying to improve his life by coming to Spain. The job he intended on getting here fell through and now he begs until he can return to Romania. The police arrived and began waking up the sleepy street people while I spoke with Alejandro.

American Space and Travel Face

There are a couple of definitions I need to actually define for those of you who don't travel. The first is "American Space" (not to be confused with our current space program).

American Space: This is the space most Americans give each other when standing in line or waiting in a public place. In France (I haven't seen this happen in other countries just yet) if you leave any space at all between you and a service counter or another person in line ahead of you,  an unassuming European will slide in front of you. The only reason I can fathom that they have this different perception of depth is because many European countries are so small and people must take advantage of space here. Much like parking on the streets of Italy, Europeans fill every nook and cranny with themselves. So make sure you don’t leave any nooks, or they will be filled by Euros.


Travel Face: I'm really hoping that this phenomenon isn't "Aaron-centric." When I board ANY plane for a flight that lasts longer than four or five hours I get extremely greasy and dirty feeling. Even if I walked straight from a shower comprised of dial soap and steel wool and boarded a plane I would still exit feeling dirty and greasy. My hair feels greasy. My skin on my face feels greasy. And I just feel like I haven't showered in days. This might be due to the fact that my body is producing extra oils because it's in a state of stress. Sitting for that length of time usually leaves me squirming in my seat and utilizing every inch of my back side from just above the knees to just below my shoulder blades. I've even been known to use the sides of my buttocks so as to avoid putting pressure on a patch of skin that's already received a good sitting.  

Air France or Air Farce

While I crave the excitement of travel, I have never found airports to be particularly pleasing.  Sure, I like to boast that I know my way around various International airports like Charles DeGaulle or Malpensa in Milan but the truth is I hate them. I hate the people you talk to behind the counter. I hate the people that sell you food at extortion-like prices and I hate the fact that you’re at their mercy until you get on your flight. I hate packing heavy luggage toward the B gate when your flight leaves from the A gate. I hate worrying about a 25 lb. weight limit on my carry-on when the damned airlines never weigh it. And mostly I hate when you and your traveling companion book seats together but wind up getting seats separated by 10 rows of French. A people which make you feel like you’ve asked them to borrow the very Palace of Versailles when you simply ask them to exchange seats. No offense intended to Air France and the seat-gripping Frenchies, but when people book together, let them sit together. The flight is more than half a day from the United States west coast. It took a polite young American guy to switch seats with me so that I could sit by Carolyn. I was just completely distracted by the guy behind me who has put his knee in my back every 10 minutes since I sat here. Good time for a paragraph break and to describe why I have a hard time with the French.

This transatlantic flight is the worst flight I’ve ever done. No, I’ve never done Australia or New Zealand (countries whose flight times give new appreciation for how big the world really is)  and would probably wimp out entirely considering that my back cramps, knee hurts and certain parts of me beg for preparation H after I’ve landed. I’ve never given birth and I hear from females I know that it’s excruciating pain for a lengthy amount of time – usually hours. I also learned that there is a biological phenomenon that helps women forget the pain they endured during pregnancy. This mental block is to ensure that the traumatizing experience doesn’t hinder them from giving birth again. Transatlantic air travel is very similar to birth. It is agonizingly painful, the food isn’t very good and you finish off the experience with hemorrhoids. As the months after the trip pass, you begin to forget how awful sitting on your butt was. In fact, after about a year, you’ve forgotten all about the pain you experienced last time. The memory doesn’t return until you stare down at your tickets as you begin to board and notice that you’ve been put on opposite sides of the plane.

After experiencing delays at Charles de Gaulle in Paris, we finally boarded our airplane to Madrid running about 3 hours late. This put us in Madrid so late that the hostel gave our rooms to someone else (we were scheduled to arrive at 6). Because of the overbooking, they gave us rooms with a private bathroom at no extra cost. I'm so exhausted from packing my two backpacks around the airports and Madrid metro that I feel like I'm on the Gravitron at the fair and I can't bring my head off the wall. Buenas Noches.

A sandwich called a "bocadillo." This consisted of a sharp cheese much like parmesan and prosciutto on a baguette. 

Dessert in Madrid and made in house by the cook at Museo di Jamon. They call this "pudding" but it's similar to flan except more substantial. The black syrup is honey that has been boiled until it turns dark and becomes bitter. This offsets the sweet of the pudding. Garnished on top are bits of foamy cream.

Hola from the Boda!

I went to Mexico to photograph a wedding this December. I knew things were going to be perfectly Draperized when I heard over the plane loudspeaker, "We're sorry folks for the delay. There appears to be an oil leak in the main engine." Emotional as I am, I would have leapt from my seat to complain if I hadn't been the meat between two large human buns that had me sandwiched between them with their excess. Excess that I'm sure they weren't charged for.

I've come to detest airline travel. Despite the media they've received recently with the disgruntled steward and other stories about unhappy travelers, they can't manage to put seats in that recline more than an inch and a half. Yet when we're preparing for takeoff or landing, airline personnel will give you a naughty tone if your seat isn't in the upright position. I want to get out my protractor and let them know that indeed it is 91 degrees and not 90 but I didn't think that small detail would save me in the event that we hit the ground at a couple hundred miles an hour.

There's also the phenomenon of "travel grease." This is the stuff that appears on your face if you're on a plane for more than an hour. I'm uncertain of it's origin but I've shut off the little air vents that blow down from above because I suspected it came from there. I feel like I need a shower when I get off the plane. As I write this and put more thought into the source of this mystery slime, I'm thinking that I might generate it myself. Sure. It must come from my own oil glands. It's probably a nervous reaction or something. Or maybe it's a natural lubricant that will help me fit into my seat and between my two neighbors.

The stewardess gave us all papers to fill out that would tell the Mexican government why we were there and (as I learned later) better prepare their timeshare salespeople with important demographical information. No. The airlines don't give you a pen. Or a snack. So you have to make sure you brought writing utensils. This was especially important because the Mexican airport authorities wanted us to fill out something that looked identical to what the airline gave us. Only theirs was on green paper. And no, they don't have pens either. They expect that you will always have a writing utensil on your person. We passengers disembarked and filled out our papers sitting on the floor or against the walls because the landing area was void of anything but that.

I approached the exit with my luggage and noticed many desks and lots of guys in white linen shirts and pants and sandals. They were all so eager to help me find my shuttle it made alarms go off. These were timeshare sharks. They swam around the exit of the airport in a feeding frenzy as we all entered their territory. They knifed back and forth jaws chomping their feverish sales pitches. If you spend the day "touring their new hotel" they'll give you discounts on zip lining, pirate cruises, horses on the beach, or arrange to sell you chicles-selling children. There was no amenity they couldn't get you. I declined and told them I had to work the entire time. They let me go to my shuttle and they quickly resumed feeding.

The Royal Decameron wasn't exactly my style. It was all inclusive and the pools were nice and so was the proximity to the beach. Even the rooms weren't bad. But I realized why people stay at all inclusive hotels - alcohol. There were more bars on the resort than pools. And drunk people lose their volume control. Every person walking down our hall after midnight told long stories (punctuated by loud guffaws) until they arrived at their room. I think everyone did that my entire stay except the Canadians. In fact, Canadians are the most polite traveling lot I've ever come across. They are unselfish, friendly and genuinely curious about you and where you're from. I need to go hang with some more Canadians.

I took a walk to Bucerias because I wanted to see something other than the perfectly manicured pathways of the resort. The street to Bucerias was cobblestone and I stepped in a puddle along the way. I shook the brown water from my toes and looked over my shoulder in horror to the source of the flood. Gushing from a grate in the street was brown water and I knew immediately that my foot would be washed until the epidermis came off when I got back to the resort. (Interestingly enough, the water from the tap at the resort smelled oddly familiar to that which was on my foot. I washed it with bottled water as well.)

Avoid speaking English to anyone who looks like they could possibly have something to sell you. This means you have to pay close attention to those around you. If there are people with shovels using them on a sewer, they won't try to sell you those. If a person has multiple shovels on a rack attached to their body they WILL try to sell you some. I learned that English speakers are what the street vendors target. They learn English (which is sometimes a script. I know this because I asked about the political situation or sports and they were at a loss.) to sell to English speakers. I tried walking around them speaking loudly in Italian and they just stared blankly at me. "Non mi piaciono tutti questi che sempre vogliono vendere qualcosa. Maledizione mi da fastidio!" Learn this useful phrase: "Mi dispiace. Parlo Italiano." (I'm sorry. I speak Italian.)

After Bucerias I headed to Sayulita. It took about 30 minutes to arrive by bus. The bus ride was entertaining in that the driver passed a small car on a double line going up a hill that headed into a curve. I figured if we hit a vehicle we'd probably come out on the winning side so I wasn't too stressed about it. The scenery was filled with images that I imagined when I thought of Mexico. Small children played soccer on dirt courts, women hung vibrant laundry on lines in the yard and dogs napped on porch steps. Once I arrived at the town I headed down to the beach looking for things of interest along the way. I was directed to an eatery called La Iguana Azul. It's owned by a Canadian chef named Rick. He talked about how all the propaganda in the States and Canada was killing his business. According to Rick, the only cartel action was limited to Tipec which was about 3 hours north. He said Puerto Vallarta was untouched by the escalating drug violence. His food was amazing. I highly recommend stopping in to visit him if you are ever in Puerto Vallarta and want an authentic meal.

(Edgar and Rick at the Iguana Azul)