Santandisappointed

August 13, 2010 by · 2 Comments
Camp ended and I had two choices: go to Sevilla and be bored and hot, or travel a bit through Northern Spain. I chose the latter, obviously, and based my trip around two events: an overnight camping trip to Las Islas Ciés and a trip to Santander. I really just did it for Santander, since I´ve always loved Northern Spain, and the rest of the surprises and experiences were thrown in. I wanted to relax on the Sardinero and eat seafood and see why the region´s tourism board calls it, “Cantabria Infinita.”
Should have called it Santandisappointed.
There was so much build-up to my trip, so many brilliant things I´d read about the home of one of the world´s most foremost bank groups, with its Primera División football team and no shortage of velvety sand beaches. I was just….expecting much, much more.
First snag: I had nowhere to stay. The Islas put me in that famous “mañana, mañana” mode, so that by the time I bothered checking to see if anyone had responded to my couchsurfing requests or if I could find a bed at a hostel, everything was booked. Oh, yeah. It´s August and ALL of Spain goes on vacation. A single bed was going at 50€ a night and I was just about to cross the city off of my list when Juan from Zamora responded: You have a bed here. But we have cats.
Nevermind my cat allergy (famous last words), I was going to stay for free!
I ended up staying the night in León, but the 20€ was worth it to have a comfortable bed to sleep in and a nice, hot shower. The following morning, I took a bus through Oviedo to Santander, a town that echoes of San Sebastián in terms of its stately harbor, luxurious buildings and plush “green lungs.” I stored my luggage and set off looking for seafood. What I found was just beer and a bocadillo.
Juan had agreed to meet at 3pm, but, like a true Spaniard, came at 4:25. More or less on time, I´d say. I expressed my interest in seeing the city that day so I could do some tourism around the region. We drank beers instead, then ate dinner at his piso while the two cats stalked around me and made me waste an entire roll of toilet paper just to blow my nose. We finally left at 1am to go out, and I have to say, the disco we went to, the only place with people in it!, was the night´s saving grace.
The following morning, unable to make the first bus, I went to Comillas, a modernist playground. Gaudí constructed what´s known as “El Capricho” (the Whim), but an outdoor look at the grounds ran 5€. Paso. Then, there was the Chapel and Palace of Sobrellano. Closed. As was the university. As a last-ditch result, I hiked to the top of the city to the cemetary. Gosh, was it worth it: see views, city views, built-in a gutted church and crowned with a creepy angel. I. Am. A. Freak.
Apart from that, the food was expensive, and what could have been a quaint old village was overridden with the weekly market. There was nowhere to move or breathe, so I grabbed two apples from a stand and sat with my book in the park below the Sobrellano Palace until the bus came.

As a matter of fact, the best part of the entire trip to Cantabria was the landscape. Teeny towns were scattered amongst rolling green hills. The Cantabrian Sea kept peeking out between them, and the hills were home to sheep and cows being tended to by ruddy-faced cantábricos.

Back in the capital, I spent the rest of the afternoon on the Península de la Magdalena and the famous Sardinero beaches. After a seafood dinner alone (which threw the maitre´d off a bit), I took the 700m tunnel to the central part of town to watch fireworks before going back to kittylandia, excited for the following day with my Spanish family in Valladolid.

Sunset over the port of Santander

Filed Under: the north, Travel ·

Home

April 3, 2010 by · Leave a Comment

Last night, while on a six-hour bus ride from Madrid back to Sevilla, Lauren and I contemplated our trip to Budapest and Prague – the strange people, the beautiful cityscapes, the hordes of traditional Easter food we devoured. But, as the sun was setting over some stones ruins in the olive tree-dotted hills of Jaen, I felt home.

I love to travel, but am starting to love coming home to Sevilla more.

Filed Under: coming home, Travel ·

Sábado de Excursión

March 3, 2010 by · Leave a Comment

It was kinda like the scene out of the Blue Brothers. You know, when Elwood and Jake slide on their shades and roll towards Chicago. Only we were three girls, two pairs of sunglasses and a full tank of gas heading down the A-5, dirección Málaga.

Our destination was Antequera, a small town known as the Heart of Andalucía for it’s proximity to Cordoba, Sevilla and Malaga. Beautiful town, great food, and for once a sunny day.

From there, it was off to El Torcal de Antequera, a national park with odd-looking limestone mountains sculpted by wind and rain and the moving plates of the earth. It was once covered by a sea, so the mountain rises out of nowhere and then tapers off into a valley and down to the Mediterranean.

On the way back, we stopped at a flamingo refuge and saw five, then a donkey refuge and saw not one, then for ensaladilla de gambas and a Cruzcampo to makes ourselves feel better about the wasted second half of the day.

I’m sick of blogger’s photo uploaded and don’t feel like turning these around and sorting them. Lame-zo.

Osuna, a small town in the western Sevilla province
My travel buddies and I at El Torcal

El Torcal de Antequera

View of Antequera from Iglesia de Santa Maria

Pena de los Enamorados, where two lovers fleeing the Moorish army lept to their deaths

Filed Under: Andalucia, Andalusia Tourism, Travel ·

Marrakesh: A Character Study

January 19, 2010 by · 2 Comments

NOURRDEM
“Do you know why you are so sexy?” Nourrdem asked as he twisted a two-toned scarf around my head. I quivered a little bit, but couldn’t hold in my giggles when he said, “Is the hair on your arms. It makes you to be seeeeexy!”
 
We were in his shop (or his cousin’s, or someone’s) at the edge of the souk by way of an invitation to mint tea. At first hesitant, I remembered a high school’s friend’s insistence that Moroccan people are friendly by nature, and that we probably weren’t risking kidnapping, robbery or the like.
 
We sat on pillows on the floor, next to a spread of metal and silver jewelry. Nourrdem´s cousin or friend or slave brought over an ornate silver tea kettle and six glasses and got to work preparing mint tea as Nourrdem shared his origins: Berber and Tourag, which you could tell from his ever-present blue scarf, which he changed from head to neck and back as much as he opened his mouth to talk. While we enjoyed tea, he painted my face with kol and gave us flower nicknames.

Nourrdem got us into his shop by the way that most shopkeepers in the souks of Marrakesh do: calling out ridiculous words that will entice you in. Lauren, with her dark complexion and jet-black hair, was called beautiful in Portuguese, fish and chips was common, an invitation in French for Bri and “Cuantos Camellos, María José?” for me. I don’t look Spanish in the least, but it made me laugh. There were also choruses of “Goodbye, fat girl! You’re ugly!” when we passed yet another lantern or mirror shop.

But his invitation was not denied, and the four of us enjoyed tea for an hour before dinner. Before leaving, Nourrdem invited us for lunch on the rooftop of the store the following day. “Come between 12 p.m. and 2:30. I will wait, then we eat, then we all pay the cost.”

We obliged his invitation after visiting the gardens of a mosque and, after picking up a sick Lauren, ascended the rooftop, where the blankets were spread on a stark terrace. The view of the souks were a bit alarming: what we though were indoor malls were actually streets covered with wood planks and bamboo that looked ready to cave in with any sign out precipitation or heavy wind.
 
The slave, whose name was also Nourrdem, ran up and down the stairs bringing us bottles of water, two salads, vegetable couscous and a tanjine of rabbit meat, potatoes, lemon rinds, onions and olives. We ate using round, flat pieces of bread for silverware and using our scarves to heal ourselves from the sun.
 
Nourrdem was more than willing to answer the questions we had about Morocco and Islam. Among the most interesting answer was, “I have been engaged three times to four different women, and if you’re wondering, I can have as many as four wives by law.” I think each one of us girls took a scoot back from the spread.

I also asked him about taking pictures of people and why every time I reached for my camera, the people in souks or in the markets started to shake their fingers at me. He told us about the time a man was sneakily taking pictures of him. “I don’t mind,” he said, “but just ask! I work with tourists everyday, is ok!

Man, Lucia told me that it was because they believe you’re stealing their soul through some voodoo-Lecia lens magic. That actually became a running joke on the trip.

Following lunch, we had more tea, the glasses loaded with mint leaves. The next time we encountered them would be at the tanneries a short time later, when they were stuffed up our noses to protect us from the rank smell of animals skins being defluffed and dyed.
 
King Muss
In almost everyone’s pictures of Morocco, food is more prominently immortalized than Mudejar arches or street souks. I take tons of pictures of food, even in my base of Sevilla, just because the presentation, texture and even the taste can be felt through the photo.
 
I took pictures of honey sweets, fluffy couscous and the 20 dirham snail stalls in the main square, Djeema al-F’na, or Assembly of the dead. By day, the large expanse is interspersed with carts peddling fresh orange juice, squat, leathery fortune tellers in headscarves, snake charmers and eve monkeys on leashes wearing what resembled track suits. But by night, it becomes a large, open-air market, with foldable stands and endless options.
 
The man who sold Lauren her spice rack thingy to contain the 15 euros she bought in spices suggested we look for stand 120-something. The numbers start at the lower right hand corner when you face the souk. Easy to find the 120-something stall, right? Wrong. Not only were the numbers out of order, but eager, seven-languages-speaking young dudes, menu in hand, grab at you to try and lure you into the eatery with a surprisingly varied vocabulary. “Wassup, homie, you like some food? Couscous? Kebab? It’s finger-lickin’ good!” Yes, the city’s KFC is right across from the square.
 
The food options were more of less the same – salads, rices, round wheels of bread, tanjines of whatever you could think of and skewers of meat. Some stalls were packed to the brim, with patrons dining on white plastic sheets draped over the picnic tables, while others lifeless. Sam pointed out where he and Brad had eaten – no one in sight. So onward we pressed.
 
And stall 120-something? With salivating mouths, we came upon…a large jumble of motorbikes and hand carts in the middle of two lit ones. One peddled lentils, a garbanzo-based stew and something that looked and smelled like a dead goat.
 
Faced with no other options, we found the most crowded stall in the vicinity to eat at (they say the uninhabited ones have bad food and exorbitant prices). Number 75. We were welcomed by a young boy who was quite confused by his age. 24? 19? It wasn’t until we inspected his ID card, which looked like a library card that had gone through the wash, that we discovered his birthday was the same week as mine, one year later, making him 23.

The six of us straddled a thin table right in front of the display of food. A piece of bread was delivered to each, along with two saucers of spicy tomato sauces. Next came beef skewers, lamb couscous so tender it hung off the bones, a sweet cinnamon and chicken pastry, tomatoes, a tomato-y soup made with beans and long grain rice that cost 50 cents, vegetable couscous and a liter of water. We paid 200 dirhams, less than five euros between the four of us girls. And we ate to the gills.
 
While the waiters hovered over us, trying to sell more food, and beggar children tried selling us tissues and puffy almond cookies, we enjoyed our new friend, whose slacked curls glowed from the spit next to the table and the harsh bulb light, told us how he learned English in the plaza and shocked us with his recounting of English phrases. He became my brother from another mother. We called him King Muss, from his given name of Mustafa.
 
The following night, following pancakes from the street doused in honey, lunch with Nourrdem and a lot of walking around, I tried sautéed snails while the other sought a place for dinner. Stall number 1, at the very edge, got us. Not only was it more expensive, the food was shit. I mean, it could have literally been shit. The benches were lopsided, the waiters rude (and sneaky! We were over charged about 50 dirham, not including the  bread they charged us for!) and the whole experience negative.
 
We went to an old favorite. Some soup, pastilles and even more bread later, we found ourselves once again with King Muss. He had found a funny Dutch girl to help him sell to tourists, who donned his white cap and white apron. We told him about our nasty food and he offered us free tea. He even offered to get me the garbazo soup from another stand, telling me that they all share profits, and he was just working for fun anyway. We promised to come back for our last meal together in Morocco, and we did.
 
We were all King Muss that last night – touting their low prices and tasty offerings to the other guests in the hostel, people on the street, and even the beggar kids who we snuck small samples of leftover food to. We lingered after finishing our meal, even though we were all exhausted from the day’s excursion.
 
“You are my sister from another mister, honey,” Muss told me. “Gimme five, homie!”
 
Assergut
Nourrdem, you remember, with all the cousins and slaves and friends from everywhere in the world, called up his taxi-driving friend. “Yes, tomorrow at nine, meet me at the shop. We will take you to meet the Berbers.”
 
So, we showed up, Spanish-style, at a few minutes past the appointed hour. Out in the main square, we hugged close to the newspaper stand while Nourrdem, who has replaced the celestial blue scarf that Brad bought off of him the day before, nervously smoked cigarettes and gabbed on his cell phone.
 
Finally, a taxi came for us. The driver, Nourrdem and Sam sat up front with the four of us squished in back. Outside of the city limits, the towns are sparse, the vegetation even more sparse, and the people out working. The men, that is.
 
At the foothills, next to a stream, we stopped for a tea, which Nourrdem poured in and out of the tea kettle before serving it. The place had no doors or windows, just a roof and an army of tanjines cooking next to the bar. A group of Moroccans from the north played tambourines and Sam went to go ride one of the half-dozen camels near the stream. We were soon on the road again, passing into the hills and valleys, breezing past small towns and Richard Branson’s Moroccan retreat.
 
When we pulled into the small town of Imlil, I thought we’d reached our destination. It looked like a base camp in the Himalayas – ruddy-cheeked inhabitants, bright colored flags in different covers. After enjoying the view from the terrace of Nourrdem’s OTHER cousin’s restaurant, we were informed that we still had a 10-minute uphill trek to make with Sam’s blisters and Lauren’s bum foot.
 
Bri and I followed Nourrdem closely, taking pictures of the towns nestled into the mountains and the searing snow-covered peaks of the Atlas. Midway up, Nourrdem stopped a group of four men with mules and negotiated a deal with them. “70 dirhmas (7E, $5) for one hour!” Sold.
 
One of the men shouted across the valley to the closest town, and within a few minutes, a brand new mule was pulling up in front of us. I got ontop of Assergut, an older, dirty white one with kind eyes. Kinda like an old dog. She treated me well, though, minus the one incident where she nearly took me down the cliff while my feet were securely fastened into her stirrups, which was a blanket with some interesting pockets anyway.
 
The man leading Assergut was missing a few teeth, but therefore had a perfect Andalu accent when he spoke. He told me that the cluster of towns across the valley had a cumulative sum of 500 people. Assergut shook her head and twitched. Yeah, small towns do that to you.
 
After an hour zig-zagging up the cumin-colored hill surround on both sides by white-capped peaks, the five men leading the mules took us into the first town. The mules waded through a small stream, goats scurrying out of their paths as they ascended the vertical path. There were ruddy-looking children playing with sticks in the narrow streets next to mud houses. The mosque rang out for midday prayer as we dismounted the mules and went to the home of my mule-handler.
 
“Now to eat!” said Nourrdem. “What do you want? He make everything!” We settled on a goat meat omelette with onions and peppers with salad, wine and a lot of bread. Following tea, we sat on the balcony overlooking the valley. I could see Assergut and her friends grazing below.
 
We took the scenic route down – through other poor Berber villages where the blue-eyed children saluted us in French. Il-y-a des bonbons? They all asked. Jenna’s half pack of gum resulted in chaos for the dozen or so children who crowded around her and nearly pushed her off the edge of the cliff. The climb down took about an hour, winding through three or four more villages on often slippery terrain.
 
At the bottom we all agreed, the mules were a better option.

Filed Under: Morocco, Travel, travel photography · Tagged:

The Spanish Outback

December 8, 2009 by · Leave a Comment

Tita said, “We call it Extremadura for a reason, hija: extre because we’re so far west, and madura because everything here is just more harsh.”

There could not be a better name for this Spanish outback, which seems to encapsulate all things salvaje, or wild: the sky is equally cloudy and empty, stretching out for miles towards, well, nothing. The towns here, with names like Saint Anthony’s houses (pop. 700) and James’s Sword, are few and far between. And the harsh wind that blows across the plains hardened conquistadores like Pizarro and Cortes.
Despite being one of the poorest regions in all of Spain, Extremadura has a rich past. Rich, literally, because all of the gold brought from the New World was unloaded in Sevilla and sent up towards the capitals of Toledo and Valladolid via Ruta de la Plata (Silver Route), which recently christened the national highway that begins in Sevilla and ends in Madrid. Because of this, lavish palaces grace the countryside, many in ruins, and ornate monasteries huddle in the stark countryside.
In these lands, Franco was proclaimed head of the Spanish state following the civil war, the first Native American was baptized and Luisitania reached prosperity. Thanks to the holiday celebrating the Spanish National Constitution, adopted a mere 30 years ago, I have five days in which to see some of Extremadura, which until now was only seen through the passenger window of Kike’s Mercedes. A land of harshness, yes, but with treasures touting its former glory days.
Christene, Alfonso’s girlfriend, and I headed up the Via de la Plata early Sunday morning towards Merida, where her boyfriend is from. After a filling extremeño lunch full of fat and meat (bones still intact, claro), Christene took me around the city. We seemed to be in accordance that NO ONE was on the street, being a Sunday and a national holiday, counting a mere 13 people between Alfonso’s residential barrio and the main shopping streets. Boarded up bars and boutiques abounded. There were few buildings taller than three or four stories, making the city seem both stunted and devoid of any beauty, power, wealth, etc. Hard to believe this was once the center of the Iberian Roman world.
Then, out of nowhere, pops the Temple of Diana, wedged between a beauty salon and a restaurant. Further down the hill, passing by meat shops and tourist stands hacking authentic Roman busts of Trajan and Augustus, stands the only thing that has made Mérida famous: The amphitheatre and coliseum, which now form part of the UNESCO World Heritage sites. After a quick jaunt through the beautifully constructed Museum of Roman Art (free entrance, thanks to the Spanish Constitution!), we traversed the crowds.

The theatre, made up of two stories of marble columns, stands in near perfection, commanding an orchestra and crumbling stands. During the summer, it creates a backdrop for the national theatre festival. It´s astounding, really, much more than its neighbor, the coliseum that just looks like a heap of rocks. No doubt the climate, with its blustery winds and scorching sun, had contributed over centuries to its demise
Said wind continued to blow through the hilly town, so Cris and I loaded up on some chucherías and wandered towards the Guadiana river. The Alcazaba, a fortress built at the end of the longest Roman bridge in existence, was a Moorish structure built to protect Luisitania from invaders. It´s just off John Lennon street, full of bars and bocadillo joints, which seems a strange contrast to the high stone walls and grandeur of the Alcazaba.
Fed up with the cold, piercing wind and our tired bodies, Christene and I trekked home to the brasero to warm up and enjoy some of Petri´s cooking.
The following day, rain ruined our plans to be up early to explore Cáceres. I was determined to not let the day go to waste, so I convinced Alfonso to take us in his powder blue car to the UNESCO World Heritage city, which sits about one hour north of Mérida. The fog had engulfed all of Mérida, as well as the whole Guadiana valley, making the drive slow. But the cows were out, grazing amongst old stone walls and ruined estates, so we, too, could brave the rain.
The medieval part of Cáceres, known as the ciudad monumental, is chock-full of Aztec, Arabic and múdejar styles, all enclosed within a stone wall. The whole place is adorned with Renaissance flags, and the business located within it take you back to the day. The rain made the stone streets slick, and the tourists packed into such a small place was a little overwhelming, but it was easy to see what made the city amongst the richest in Spain – since all the riches from the New World passed through this town, it swelled in size and became a jewel. We traversed city walls, arches, staircases, towers and had a filling lunch of calamari and chicken. Later, as we watched an unfunny version of Supertroopers in Spanish, it was clear that either Alfonso’s sick family or the abundance of olive oil had made us both a little sick. I slept like a rock on the rock that is the guest bed.
The following day, after seeing the surviving parts of the Aqueduct and the remains of a weird devil worshipping clan, and after Petri’s special of meatballs, Pepe took us to the bus station. In Extremeño style, he stuck around until we shooed him away. Christene’s seat was in the last row (you know, the one where she’s stuck in the middle of five seats and can’t put her seat back), so the driver let us take the two front seats, so long as we didn’t bother him. We grooved to 90s music as the sun set over the empty extremeño sky.

Filed Under: Extremadura, Spain, Travel · Tagged: , ,

How does it feel to make love to a G? and other Amsterdam adventures

April 8, 2009 by · 2 Comments

When I first came to Spain, overwhelmed by cheap flight choices and 12-hour work weeks, I made a list of the top-5 places I wanted to visit before I went home. Ireland was up top, followed by Germany, Morocco, Portugal and Amsterdam.
I saw the Guinness factory in Dublin, visited Eva in Cologne, traveled to Tangiers with my family and saw two coasts of Portugal. And finally, this Semana Santa, I found myself on a plane from Madrid to Amsterdam with my friend Cat.
Semana Santa is a week of jaleo, religious processions and closed shops, mixed in with all-day drinking and soaring prices. In other words, as a resident of a neighborhood full of churches and narrow streets, I wanted out of Sevilla. The entire Catholic world comes to my city to watch several dozen church bodies, known as hermandades, dress up in long robes and pointy hats and parade around the city in penance and observance of Jesus’s death and rebirth. It’s not something I’m really into, honestly.
So, at 5:15 a.m., I was at Cat’s door, ringing endlessly to tell her that I had gotten a cab and he was waiting for us. Not surprisingly, neither of us had slept much and neither of us had many ganas to catch a plane at 7 a.m. After a quick jet to Madrid, where we bought a bottle of champagne and some fresh orange juice for mimosas and tried to get a person unlocked from her maze of an apartment, we were thankfully passed out on an Iberian flight to Amsterdam.
Martin was waiting for us at Schipol, a dazzlingly simple and clean airport. We took a train into the city to Staation Zuid, where rack after rack of bikes were parked at the entrance. Martin put us on a bus and he cycled to his house and waited for us there. These people have got it figured out with the bikes! Cars respect them, pedestrians respect them, there’s a place to park them everywhere!
Martin lives in a one-bedroom flat in the southern part of the city, a 10-miunte train ride from Leidespleine and the canals. He has a wall full of books, a comfy balcony and tall windows. Felisabel, whose sister is married to a Dutch man, explained to me that during the times of Calvinist thought, people were mandated to install large windows with no curtains so that everyone knew everyone’s business. This makes for little privacy, but a lot of light, and we certainly got a good day.
Taking advantage of that, we headed toward the city center, stopping to have a few beers in an open, golden plaza. The place was packed like a sardine can. We found a tapas place (oddly enough, the concept of bite-sized snacks has really caught on) and had creamy hummus, patatas bravas, an emapanda packed with broccoli and carrots and a bottle of house wine.
I have always touted my good sense of direction, but the rings of canals and alleyways in Amsterdam really turned me around. Cat and I spent several hours and several euros in beer on our quest for the Red Light District. We stumbled upon it – literally. Cat and I crossed a bridge and she was suddenly face to face with a prostitute in a glowing red cabin. We had arrived late enough for the drunks to be out, smoke wafting out of coffee shops and mingling with the smell of pizza and doner from every other storefront. It’s true what they say – the district glows red from the cabins where prostitutes for every fetish conduct their business. The red even shone on the canal. Cat and I indulged in some vices before we needed refueling – a strawberry covered waffle and french fries. We forgot about any shame as we gobbled it down!
The next morning/afternoon, we had a leisurely day walking around the city, following the canals and tram lines through the center. We had heard from Cat’s friend that there was a pillowfight in the main square, Dam Square, but no one we asked seem to know anything about it. After an overpriced buffalo mozzerella and salami sandwich, we found ourselves back in the Red Light District like moths to a (red) lamp. The stores there are outrageous. If it’s not a sex shop with all kinds of apparati. it’s a headsho full of marijuana memorabilia – Rastafarian ashtrays, lighters emblazoned with the flag of Amsterdam, etc.
Eventually it was time for our midday beer (Spanish beer consumption knows no time limits), so we wandered into a maritime themed bar called the Sailor or something. Not only were we the only girls, but we were the shortest by more than a head. Some guys tried to leave the bar and started talking to us, and we felt trapped by the five of them because they towered over us! We went to a more tranquil bar, where some old men tried conversing with me while Cat was in the bathroom. One of them told me his wife was a prostitute and therefore rich, making him available to me because they clearly had an open relationship. Yikes. Another with a wedding band offered to take Cat out. Turns out they were in town for a car show (hence the sausagefest in the other bar). I’ve discovered that most native Amsterdamers steer clear of the indulges like coffee shops and prostitutes, and that there aren’t so many old people in the city. Most of them live outside the city, which is inhabited by young professionals and students. A far cry from Sevilla and most of Spain.

We grabbed some wine and snacks to drink before heading out for the night. Martin suggested a place with live music in an old church called Paradiso. Sounded like something straight out of Ibiza, but we paid the 16€ to get in. The place was vacant at 1am (we should have known better), but we were soon joined by scores of revelers on the dance floor. We kept to ourselves – buying each other tequila shots and beers like we were on Spring Break, minus the nudity and ocean and stuff. At 3am, realizing we hadn´t ate, we went to a coffee shop that had exploded into a shop, a hostel and a restaurant to watch the NCAA semifinals and chow down on nachos and fries.`
The following morning, despite all of our efforts to wake up early, we finally got to the Van Gogh museum after two coffees and much later than our scheduled time of 10:30 a.m. The bottom level is was dedicated to Van Gogh´s impressions of the dusk and night hours, a wonderfully crafted progression from the hours a farmer leaves his hoe in the field to the deepest hours of sleep. Even the walls got steadily darker! I nearly fainted seeing some of Van Go´gh´s most famous pieces.
After an expensive lunch on a terrace near a canal, we walked through the Jordaan district to the anne Frank House. When I was a kid, I read her diary countless times, fascinated by her optimism and how her young mind could capture the fear and the restlessness so well. I´ve been dying to see the secret annex, and standing in line made me feel like a little kid about to pee his pants. Located on a street just steps off a canal and a huge church, it´s amazing how the back annex of the factory where Otto Frank once worked is invisible from the street. After the house was raided and the jam factory moved, the furniture was seized and Otto Frank requested it never be refurbished. The tour winds through the factory and contains a few artifacts of the family and those who helped them hide successfully for about two years. Up a narrow staircase is the two-story annex, void of most anything. Hard to imagine eight people living in there, silent during daytime hours. I got the same feeling visiting it as I had at the Holocaust museum in Washington, DC.
After such an intense experience, I needed to calm down. Cat and I found a bar on a canal that was full of old, drunk people and 80s music. We moved around, stopping to have a few beers until we were, magically, at the Red Light District again. Strange. We sat in a coffee house until two boys a bit younger than us asked if we wanted to have a beer in honor of one´s birthday. Long story short, they were lame and we ditched them.
We spent the last two days in Amsterdam doing a lot of wandering, cruising down the canals and admiring the wonderful canal houses, drinking Dutch beer (with a quick trip to the Heineken Brewery), spending an afternoon in an English Language bookstore and drinking more beer. Martin came out for falafel with us one night and cooked the next. Many, many thanks for your hospitality, Martin!

Our trip home was relatively easy compared to the trip to Amsterdam. We caught a taxi back to Cat´s house and, upon leaving her house, I was face to face with the Hermandad de San Bernardo, a religious fraternity that counts bullfighters and the whole fire brigade as members. I was tired of the KKK-looking nazarenos after a short time, but I knew crossing the center of the city with a huge backpack would be impossible. And it was. When I arrived home, I called Kike who merely said,”Pack your suitcase. Tomorrow we´re heading to Asturias.”
And I´m off again.
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Filed Under: Holland, Holy Week, Travel · Tagged:
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