It’s been six weeks since I left the UK and since I’m currently back there again, due to sickness–actually, old-age in the family–it seems a good a time as any to update you on my travels.
Six countries down: Germany (Argenbühl-Eglofs), Liechtenstein (Balzers), Spain (Cullera), Portugal (Darque), Andorra (Encamp), and Italy (Frattammagiore). Only another 20 to go.
Aghhh! I am so pissed off with myself right now. Have just spent 10 hours on a train to Madrid from Lisbon, and then another from Madrid to Lleida (2 1/2 hours), and have just realized my hat is no longer with me!
My lovely, wonderful, pick-a-place-and-go-there hat, which I´ve been carrying everywhere with me, even the loo, is now on its way to Barcelona. I will try contacting the San Francisco Hat company to see if they can send me another but I`m not sure they´ll be feeling the love.
This is a true disaster. I might as well just pack the whole thing in right now… kidding! I guess I will just have to hunt for something else.Am leaving for Andorra in 45 minutes: a three hour bus ride, and will write more from there.
Sunday was the first day of celebrations and processions which will continue daily until Easter Sunday.
It’s now 8:05 a.m. and I’m sitting in Starbucks by the Cathedral, having been awake the whole night. Unable to get a bus to Faro, Portugal last night, I decided to join the rest of the crowds and follow the processions throughout the city. My feet are killing me and all I want to do is curl up in a little ball and sleep. My bus leaves Seville at 10:30 a.m.
The headdresses are apparently worn by members of the fraternities, cofradias, as a sign of penitence. Asking for forgiveness for your sins is apparently done in secret. Taking baby steps around the city, sometimes for up to 13 hours at a time is a way to repent for all the wrong doing that’s gone on during the last year.
People whistle, bands play, cymbals clash and drums beat as though it were a funeral procession. The smell of incense pervades.
After eating dinner last night at bauhaus, I zigged and zagged through the streets like the best of them: over Canal de Alfonso XIII using Puente de isabel, along San Tacinto, through the Triana district, north again over Puente de Telmo, west along Avenida de la Constitucion, finally looping back around to the station. Only problem was that at 4:00 a.m. the doors were locked. For the last four hours I’ve been wandering the streets, sitting and reading in plazas. An uncomfortable seat is looking pretty good right now. I’m penanted and I’m pooped.
I know Easter is big in Spain, but didn’t realize the celebrations begin in earnest today, one week before Easter Sunday.
Georgie, an Australian girl I met at the hostel, and I walked around the old town this afternoon to see chairs being set up along procession routes, families dressed in Sunday best carrying olive branches and palms, and the police directing the cars away from the crowds.
It seems difficult to navigate the narrow streets during the rest of the year, but now it’s virtually impossible. Swarms of people wander around, or wait for hours on the seats put along the official routes, which they’ve bought tickets to sit on to see the various processions. As the ”fraternities” move slowly, people reach out to touch the floats that are carried.
For more information on the festivities, check out Arte Sacro.
Vegemite, the Australian word for “a type of salty vegetable and yeast paste used as a spread.” In England it’s known as Marmite. High in vitamin B and apparently an excellent cure for hangovers, Justin, a traveling nomad staying at Oasis carried his personal pot of Vegemite with him.
“I thought I would have used more of it by now,” he said at breakfast this morning.
“I love it!” said one of the Australian girls sitting at one of the tables in the kitchen in Oasis.
“Me, too,” another said.
Everyone encouraged Jeremy, the Texan at the table, and a yeast extract virgin, to experience the dietary delight. He took the jar and sniffed, screwed up his face and made a gagging reflex.
“Go on, try it,” I said (I personally think the stuff is revolting).
“Just spread it thinly on toast,” someone said.
“You might want butter, too,” said another.
The smell hadn’t completely deterred him and he was curious.
“Here goes,” Jeremy said.
It took just one bite for him to realize he’d made a mistake.
“That’s rough! Why would anyone want to eat it?” My thoughts exactly. He quickly rinsed his mouth out with coffee and still appeared traumatized when I bumped into him at Starbucks this afternoon.
By the time I’d showered and changed last night it was close to 11 p.m.
Vesna, a Lonely Planet writer I bumped into at the hostel, suggested I try tapas at Taberna Coloniales.
“Go left, left, right and straight on. You can’t miss it.”
A large crowd stood outside the restaurant. Waiting for a table would be impossible. Inside there was barely any standing room and people overflowed onto the narrow streets. I squeezed my way to the end of the bar and watched Anna decorating a dessert, pulling melted white and milk chocolate across the plate with a fork.
“That’s beautiful,” I said.
“Gracias,” she said.
Her grasp of English and mine of Spanish were practically non-existent but I did manage to get her to point at a few things on the menu that she recommended. I wasn’t sure what they were, so asked her to choose two for me.
When the food came, I couldn’t see anywhere to eat it until a group of Spaniards cleared a tiny spot for me to stand at the bar. All personal space became non-existent.
One plate had tiny clementine-sized fried eggs sitting atop proscuitto and bruschetta; the other was like chicken cordon-bleu: breaded chicken breast stuffed with ham and covered with a melted cheese sauce. While rubbing elbows, shoulders, legs and arms, I tried to get my fork to my mouth.
Maria Jose and Jose Pablo, two of the locals standing next to me spoke English. Their order of food arrived shortly after mine. I watched with envy as they all managed to juggle plates, glasses, knives and forks with ease.
“I’m having difficulty eating and standing up,” I told Maria Jose.
“It is normal for us,” she said.
“Ah,” Jose Pablo said, ‘La toma y entonces está parada detrás.’ Take and then stand back. Do not rush but enjoy.
“It is late for you, yes.” Marie Jose said. It was not a question. She and Jose Pablo had visited London last year and were surprised to eat dinner at 7:00 p.m.
After dinner, at just before midnight, the group settled their check and made to move. (For my two dishes and two glasses of wine I’d paid the huge sum of 6,95 euros.)
“Would you like to join us?” Maria Jose asked. They were heading over to another bar close by for one more drink before heading home. I accepted the kind invitation and tagged along. Around 1 a.m. I kissed goodbye to everyone and Jose Pablo walked me back to the hostel. I dozed off on my 10 euro a night sofa, surrounded by whispers and the pitter patter of hostel guests going to their 18 euro a night beds.
After an eight hour train ride from Valencia, I reached Seville at 8 p.m. last night. On my way to Darque, Portugal, I’ve decided to stop here for a day or so because there’s an equestrian center in Carmona I want to check out.
After leaving the train station, I stopped by the first Internet café I could find and searched for a place within walking distance.
Oasis Backpackers Hostel is located smack-dab in the center of Seville, the largest province in Andalusia. Oasis only opened in March 2006 (so everything is brand new and clean) and welcomes walk-in guests, even if they don’t have a room actually available. For 10,00 Euros I was invited to use one of their huge sofas. The price also includes breakfast and free Internet access.
I´d been given the name of someone who lived in Valencia so tried calling them yesterday. Thankfully, I was invited to stay for the night. Turns out, though, that Chris and Jim live in La Font, which meant catching a train all the way out past Cullera, back the way I´d come, to Gandia.
I spent a wonderful afternoon walking on the beach and drinking Sangria, followed by dinner and a comfortable bed for the night. I awoke this morning looking down the hillside to orange groves.
Am now back in Valencia, about the catch a train to Seville. All together an eight hour train journey.
I left Cullera this morning, planning to catch a train onward to Seville. It took about 40 minutes to get back to Valencia on the train (they run from Cullera approximately every 30 minutes or so). When I finally reached the ticket counter at Valencia Station, I found out the train today is full and all seats are taken. I made a reservation for tomorrow, which means I now have to find somewhere to stay tonight.
As a parting gift last night, Ignacio gave me his pocket-sized Spanish-English dictionary which is covered in a map of England. With its help, I’ve already found out where the lockers are at the station and stowed away my backpack, and am now on my second cafe con leche, having said, “Otro por favor.”
While I waited downa-stairs, I decided to buy an ice-cream for each of us from the castle store.
“Gelato?” I asked. The man behind the counter pointed at a sign on the wall but said nothing. There were about 20 different kinds of ices to choose from.
I pointed at one of the options. “Dos, por favor.”
“No,” the man said. He came from behind the counter and pointed again. “Esta, esta, esta, esta.”
I thought for a moment and then tried again, pointing at the almond Magnums. “Dos, por favor.”
He went to the freezer and looked inside. “No, uno.”
Okay, this was beginning to get annoying. I eventually walked out with one Cornetto and one Magnum.
When I told Ignacio about the ice-cream, he laughed and said he never bought anything from Juan because he is “no so nice.”
Ah, Happy Juan.
