Alhambra 'nother please

Granada was yet another awesome Spanish city. It's the second stop I've made in Spain where I really felt my feet drag when it came time to leave; the first such stop was San Sebastian. I spent my time in Granada in the usual way; walking around aimlessly, finding interesting people to talk to in interesting places. I awoke one morning and walked out of my dorm room on the fourth floor of the hostel, and took the five lazy steps required to take me out onto the rooftop terrace. The sunrise was beautiful (alright you got me, it was 11 am; 7 o'clock doesn't exist in my world), and as I contemplated my day I heard an ice cream truck playing "My heart will go on" by Celine Dion, in a key so shrill that only prebupescents and dogs could hear the high notes. Obviously a good omen to start my day. Or something?

That first full day in the city I went out and bought some food for my stay, brought it home and forgot to put my lunch into my backpack as I set off for a good day's trudging around. When I discovered the lack of lunch in my bag I was "forced" to head into a local cafe and order a delicious roquefort, serrano and tomato sandwich. Wow. That little sandwich kept me going for hours on end, as I climbed the huge hill in town for a spectacular view of the Alhambra accross Granada's muddy river, which itself dissapeared into the mysterious underbelly of the town under a bridge far below, never to be seen again. I took pictures, soaked up the strong sun and watched a few hippies juggle and smoke hukkah in the corner, as groups of French schoolchildren arrived on buses, in droves, and quickly put and end to my meditative mood. I took my leave, vowing to return later that night to get some pictures in the high contrast of the angled evening light. And I did return that evening, with some friends from the hostel, and we took wonderful pictures and enjoyed the bustle of all the tourists and the charming Spanish guitar, which lulled us into a state of semiconsciousness that not even a busload of French schoolchildren could interrupt. I stayed on a couple of hours later than the rest to get proper night-time pictures on long exposure, and the results were excellent (above left).

I quickly made many friends (one would have to try very hard to be anti-social when there's a busy rooftop patio outside one's bedroom door) and ended up cooking an impromptu dinner for 5 in the hostel kitchen; a simple, delicious pasta with six kinds of local vegetables and lots of tomatoes, flavoured with oil, sugar and salt. When asked how much they owed me, I told them that dinner cost 5 Euros, and they thought that 5 Euros was a pretty good price for a nice little pasta dinner, until I clarified that 5 Euros was the total cost, dividing neatly out to 1 Euro each (the vegetables cost just over 1 euro in total; mushrooms, zucchini, tomato, garlic, onion, red and green pepper). Now that's a great deal. I'm always surprised when other people are surprised at how little raw ingredients cost. I suppose the trouble is you have to know how to cook to be able to use raw ingredients; I've also been amazed at how many young travelers don't really know how to cook anything more complicated than Kraft Dinner. I sort of thought that basic cooking was one of the essential skills of a good backpacker, but Spain's hostels (and I suspect this goes for all of Europe as well) are populated by a different kind of backpacker than I'm used to seeing, a more commercial, touristing-rather-than-traveling backpacker. If you know what I mean? Mmmm... Kraft Dinner....

There were some excellent local Moroccan markets which were terribly overpriced but fun to look around on a hot afternoon, and I ended up buying absolutely nothing after having been in half the shops on the street. A good afternoon, in my books, although the shopkeepers might beg to differ. I walked up to the entrance of the cathedral one morning, only to turn right back around after seeing the 4 Euro entrance fee. I've decided that anything more than free is too rich for my blood, at least when it comes to churches, cathedrals, abbeys, basilicas, and anywhere else where a big cross with a little white guy on it is the main attraction, which of course you can't take pictures of.

Having said that, I did shell out 16 Euros to go to the Alhambra on Friday, and that was money well spent. The place was absolutely gorgeous. Carved mosaics, ornate cielings shaped like miniature upside-down cities (photo right), archways leading to winding passageways leading to beautiful lush gardens full of hedge mazes, fountains and statues. I think my favourite part of the Alhambra was probably the water pieces, which came in varying forms and were strategically located throughout the labyrinth structure, which seemed more like a small city than a palace. I would have loved to see Alhambra in its day, fully functional and filled with gorgeous tapestries and inviting scents, Kings and their harems lounging around enjoying heaven on earth. It was certainly beautiful when I was there, but it imparted on me a sort of sterile and vacuous feeling, like wandering around an empty hospital, as if the soul of the place had been faded by centuries of touristing.

While sitting in one of the plethora of beautiful gardens, i overheard an old couple speaking German, and the old lady said something that sounded just like "stop and smell the roses", though I'm sure my translation is entirely spurious. But I decided that it was good advice nonetheless, and literally stopped and smelled the many roses in the garden, each smell slightly different than the last, until I found one glorious pink rose which smelled like just like dessert (though I couldn't tell you what kind of dessert), and I stayed there smelling that rose until a family of birds stared at me for long enough to make me feel self conscious. I took a picture but I would much rather have captured the rich, sweet smell than the look of the thing... how has no one invented a smellera yet? I'll get to work immediately upon my return to Canada.

I spent some of my time helping a young girl from Toronto who was looking for a flat in Granada for the month; Aysha was there to study elementary Spanish and, as such, did not yet have the linguistic tools with which to search for the apartment she so desperately wanted. I made some calls for her and met up with a prospective apartment owner on a couple of occasions, working pro bono as a translator. After settling on a beautiful little flat overlooking the main plaza, my young Canadian friend got stuck at the cash machine trying to take money out of various accounts and cards (one of the things you learn on your first trip abroad - always tell your bank where you're going, and know that they will still block the first transaction anyways, every single time!) and I ran ahead to meet Antonio, the kind old fellow from whom she was renting the apartment. Antonio and I ended up heading up to the apartment and talking Spanish politics for an hour over a cold beer ("If I saw that politician on the street I'd push him under a bus!") before realizing that Aysha was terribly overdue and had likely gotten lost: I shuffled back to the hostel in my flip flops and found her there, talking with her bank to release the funds which she eventually procured and handed over to Antonio in exchange for the keys. I'll consider this my volunteer work for the trip :)

I got up very early yesterday morning, unable to sleep due to tremendous snoring (it was either get up or commit homocide, and homocide nearly won); the sound of rain had a nice calming effect as I watched a French girl accidentally put pancake batter into her Coffee, only to taste it twice and add more pancake batter, shortly before realizing that her coffee creamer was, in fact, pancake batter. She took a quick look around and hid her blush as I pretended to be lost in my book. I boarded a plane yesterday afternoon and flew quickly over to Barcelona, where I find myself now (see my favourite picture from Alhambra, left). It's always wonderful to return to a city you're familiar with; it feels just a little bit like home. You kind of know where you're going, and you sort of know where some things are, and you think you remember a great little Irish bar where you watched a good soccer match one time, and all in all it's just familiar enough to be comforting. I played high-stakes poker in the kitchen throughout the evening last night, using penne pasta for chips, finally losing all of my hard-earned noodles to a bad beat (I had a pair of aces, he won with a 7-5 offsuit...). The funny thing about playing poker in Spain with penne pasta is that the word "pene" means "penis", and so the poor Argentinian receptionist around the corner was probably contemplating suicide after two hours of loudly spoken phrases such as "I'll see your penis and I'll raise you six penises" or "How many penises did he put in the pot? Count your penises please". Of course, I only thought of this after we'd finished playing with our penises. I mean penne.

Tonight my good friend Lana gets into town on a very long flight, so I'm going to meet her at the airport and usher her to the hostel, where she will get her first (and perhaps last, depending on how it goes) taste of backpacking. Barcelona is a damned good place to start. So I guess this is the end of my solo travels for this trip; from now on I will be accompanied by either Lana, or Kelly, or Jason. It's been a great time traveling by myself, with no responsibilities and free to blow where the wind might take me, but in honesty I'm excited to have some traveling companions to share these awesome experiences with. See you tonight Lana!

C

Valencia

Valencia was a blast. The raucous and internationally populated bar on the main floor of the hostel ensured a good night every night (depending on one's definition of "good", of course; the mornings were not as "good"). And of course I didn't forget to walk around the place a whole lot while I was there, and really "drink" in the local culture (this pun inspired by Dr. Michael Hawley). As usual, the town's historical center was a wonderful mix of ornate antique buildings adorned with mischieviously snickering gargoyles, sparkling water-spraying fountains, airy cobblestone plazas, and enough pidgeons to shit all over every inch of it. I've discovered that the best way to figure out which part of town is the historical center (that is, other than to simply walk towards the biggest church on the skyline) is to pick up any map and take a look at the general layout of the roads; if the roads are organized perpendicularly, in neat rows and oriented North-South and East-West, then you are not looking at the historical center of the town. If, on the other hand, the roads appear clumsily laid out, heading in any and every direction, as though a clumbsy toddler had come along and dumped out a box of matches on the map, then you know you're looking at the historical center of town. That's why the historical center is always the best place to walk around; you can spend hours getting lost in the enigmatic labyrinth of narrow streets, and every corner turned brings a new bit of wonder (Left - I wandered into a church and looked up)

In Valencia the architecture was markedly different from my previous Spanish destinations. It had a certain Moorish feel, for lack of a better description. The gothic spires had been mostly (though not entirely) replaced by large colourful bulbous domes, arches and doorways were differently shaped and buildings had a different feel to them, somehow; it's hard to put my finger on, but it just felt different. I wandered in and out of churches holding service, took my time sightseeing and watched the locals buzzing around like busy little bees before settling in for an hour or so to watch a local soccer game as the sun set behind the old city, just over my shoulder. Obviously I took a trillion pictures, and here you see the fruits of that loving labour.

There were parades all over the place on Monday, which was yet another national holiday here in Spain. I didn't even ask why (the answer invariably involves Jesus); I just snapped some photos of the local military regiment in full gear, each soldier completing his costume with a large garden tool of some kind strapped to their back (axes, pitchforks, spades, hammers, shovels... everything but a lawn-mower). After that night's festivities I got myself up later than I wanted to the next morning and headed for the local market, where I saw more skinned bunnies and the like (complete with an excellently sardonic photo on the price tag; the picture will be at the bottom of the post as it has some skinned rabbits in it, and some won't want to see that. Don't scroll down too far unless you do want to see it!), as well as the local array of fresh seafood, wriggling and swimming around in their pens, awaiting the inevitable knife. I was verbally accosted by a geriatric Spanish shop owner after touching a few of her avocados to test for firmness:

"What are you doing touching the avocados?"

"Oh I'm just making sure they're ripe before I buy one"

"Of course they're ripe, you don't go around touching all the avocados!"

"Well... why not?" (not the most pacifying of responses but she was already so upset I didn't mind egging her on)

"In Spain you don't go around touching avocados and then not buy one"

"Well I was going to buy one, but now I'm not..."

"You have ruined all the avocados and now you're not going to buy one!"

"How did I ruin the avocados? I didn't crush them, I just felt them lightly to make sure they were ripe."

"I told you they are all ripe!"

(pointing at a hard green avocado) "That one isn't ripe, look, it's hard as a rock"

"WELL THAT ONE'S GREEN ONLY THE DARK ONES ARE RIPE *&%*^&^$*$ (undecipherable Spanish old lady cursing my soul to satan) YOU TOUCHED ALL MY AVOCADOOOOOOS!"

At this point I thought her head, which looked like a bloated sundried tomato, might explode with anger, so I Shrugged my shoulders with raised eyebrows (in the Spanish fashion) and took my leave, deciding to call it a draw. Though I still think I'm entirely in the right as far as avocado touching goes... I could hear locals all around giggling, so at least we entertained some people with the exchange.

Today I took a seven hour train from Valencia to Granada. I looked up occasionally in between chapters of "The golden compass" (started and finished on the train ride, an excellent read - oh how a good, thick volume can make the time pass) to see rows of olive trees, rolling countryside and mountains in the distance. If Valencia was architecturally different from the Spanish towns I'd visited before, then Granada seems like another country altogether; even my bedposts, made from richly painted wood and shaped like perfectly balanced eggs all pointing skyward, betray the Moorish influence in this region. I heard almost as much Arabic while walking through the streets as I heard Spanish, and the smells and sights of this place seem more closely related to Cairo than to Madrid. As such, this will be an excellent stop for me, and a quick reprieve from traditional European culture and architecture before I head back to Barcelona to pick up Lana. I'm most excited about my trip to Alhambra, which is booked in for Friday afternoon; I'm hoping for a good dose of sunshine so I can capture the sparkling beauty of what's been called the "eighth wonder of the world".

C

***BELOW IS THE IRONICALLY FUNNY BUT KINDA GROSS SKINNED RABBIT PICTURE DESCRIBED ABOVE. Don't say I didn't warn you***

Ibiza

In a word, underwhelming. Having supremely enjoyed my other stops in Spain, Ibiza may have been a bit of a stretch as a destination; I don't really like clubbing until dawn, I don't take controlled substances, and I can't make a party all by myself. So perhaps, in retrospect, going to Ibiza, the drug and club capital of Spain, alone, during offseason, may have not been the very best idea. To add to it, the one small beach they had in the vicinity of the hostel was rendered essentially useless by the fact that the weather was rather dreary. I spent most of my time in Ibiza strolling around, or lazing by the shady poolside and reading, or surfing around on the internet. I got the rest of my trip roughly planned (accomodation and transport), so at least it was a somewhat fruitful stay. The hostel itself was fantastic, and cheap, but it was more of a hotel than a hostel, in that I had my own room and therefore wasn't forced to meet anyone. I ran into a few other travelers staying at the hotel, but as it was very early in the season in Ibiza, the place was a veritable ghost town. The bar downstairs was often populated, but mostly with middle- to old-aged locals in search of cheap beer and old friends. There wasn't much social wiggle room for a solo Canadian, although I did have a great time with the locals watching the third classico soccer match (4th to come this week). I've never seen people so animated over a game of soccer! At one point, when Barcelona scored, one of the guys jumped up on his chair and started screaming some undecipherable garble at the top of his lungs, much to everyone's delight. He then ran into the street, keen to spread his innebriated message to the whole town. Which he did. It was truly entertaining.

After a 6 hour ferry, I am currently back on the mainland in Valencia, yet another beautiful Spanish city. I spent my morning doing laundry (previously insulted olfactory senses throughout the dorm can rest easy tonight), buying food for the next couple of days, and standing around outside watching the random parade go by. It's once again overcast today, so I think I'll leave the brunt of my sightseeing until tomorrow. Still, as soon as my pants are dry (the laudry here is cheap but the dryer doesn't really live up to its name), I'll probably just head out walking in a random direction and see what I run into. I feel a little bit like canned meat after Ibiza.

Next stop is Granada, in southern Spain, where I should witness a distinct change in architecture and culture. Centuries of Moorish rule will definitely have left its mark, and nowhere so prominently as in Granada's Alhambra, a huge Moorish castle designed to mimic heaven on earth. Should be awesome! If I can get tickets, that is. Wish me luck!

C

Bubbles!!!

While walking around Palma de Mallorca today, I saw many wonderful things, first and foremost among them the sun. It was still quite shy today, playing behind the menacing dark clouds and poking out occasionally just to let us know it's still there. The weather is meant to improve a little bit in the next week, which is nice as I'm headed to Ibiza tomorrow for a bit of "relaxation" (read - drinking). As if I haven't punished my liver enough already, right? Well he hasn't let me down yet, and I've learned the clever art of appearing to drink much more than I actually have, so that I seem to keep up with all the youngins while maintaining a minimal hangover. Misdirection; Penn and Teller taught me that.

Now, as I was saying, I was walking about Palma today, and got to see a few nice pieces of architecture, including the Cathedral. I did not go inside; 4 Euros was precisely 4 Euros too much, as I've seen the insides of around 40 million Churches Cathedrals and Basilicas and they're all basically the same. There's a whole shitload of Jesus in there, a fair bit of dust, and many locked doors. I prefer walking about willy-nilly and hoping for some interesting encounters along the way. And while my brief meeting with my old friend the sun was quite nice, my favorite random happening of the afternoon was when I stumbled upon... bubbles. Bubbles, floating around in the air, here there and everywhere. Two locals, in an attempt to busk, had tied strings to sticks and bought some liquid soap, and the results were quite frankly amazing. The sun glinting off the often gigantic morphing bubbles made for quite a sight. I took some nice pictures of a bunch of tourist kids playing around, popping bubbles, carefree and giggling. Then I noticed that a few nearby parents were not quite so carefree, and scowling in my direction rather than giggling, and I decided they thought I was a raging pedophile and I went ahead and left. Weird. But not before I got quite a few excellent pictures (my personal favourite is the one to the right)! It's really a shame the parents scared me away, as I was planning on heading over and grabbing their email addresses so I could send them the pictures... Oh well, at least I can enjoy them; those kids were really cute.

I lost my rain jacket yesterday. I left it at the patio where we were drinking at around 6 PM, and when I realized I'd left it and went back a couple of hours later, it had been nicked. I can't even really say it was stolen, because I simply left it there for someone to take. I decided immediately that this was the kind of problem that a few more beers could solve, and as usual it worked. I think I was in the market for a new rain jacket anyways, although we'll have to ask Kelly about that, since she's usually the one who makes those kinds of decisions. Like that time everyone got together and planned a small intervention based on the dilapidated state of my shoes. I tried again at the patio today but my jacket still wasn't there, so it's a write-off. At least it's warm here when it rains. I hope.

As I mentioned I'm off to Ibiza tomorrow. I had planned on ferrying back and forth in between the islands at a reduced cost, but it turns out that flying is about the same price, and it's all kind of expensive, so I will likely head back to the mainland after Ibiza rather than taking the long boat ride over to Menorca. I may try and see some of Southern Spain before heading back up to see Lana in Barcelona; we'll see how much time I can spare, and we'll see just how much fun Ibiza is, and we'll go from there. I'm sure I'll be ready for a companion by the time Lana gets here, but for now I'm still enjoying this solo traveling thing. I try not to think about Kelly unless she pops into my head, as that makes me miss her, but we don't have all that long before we meet up in London with Jason before Dan's wedding. Man that's going to be an awesome segment of the trip! But I don't want to get ahead of myself here... first I've got to make it through the grueling gauntlet of Ibiza's gorgeous beaches and all night parties. I must steel myself for the task ahead. Perhaps I'll start my training by building a bubble maker of my own; anything that simple, which can make people that happy, is worth its weight in gold.

C

Edit - Had to publish this today rather than yesterday when I wrote it because the net went down. Also thought I'd put up this panorama of the cathedral. Ibiza seems promising; 1 beer for 1.50 Euros... and each beer comes with free tapas. Sign me up.

Palma de Mallorca

It's been a busy few days for this traveler. After walking around Madrid for a couple of days, and having seen the outside of almost every building in downtown, I decided to actually go inside a building and see what I could find. My plan was to head to a couple of museums, starting with the Reina Sofia, which is a more modern art gallery, rather than the typical old European museum (more paintings of Jesus, anyone?). As it turns out the Reina Sofia was free on Sundays after 2:30, so we waited in the long queue outside with all the other tourists and finally got in at around 3 o'clock. One very neat thing about the Reina Sofia is that they'll let you take your camera in; I almost missed my opportunity to do so because I had assumed that they wouldn't allow pictures. Just to be sure, I sheepishly asked the guy at the desk, who I expected to say "Of course you can't bring your camera into the world famous art allery you Canadian asshat", but who instead said "Yes absolutely; just don't use your flash when taking pictures". Cool! As such, I got a bunch of shots of my favourite (and least favourite - more on this later) pictures, which I'll scatter throughout this post. The gallery was full of Picasso, Dali, and many other very famous artists who I'd never heard of and can't remember (let's face it, I know damn near nothing about art). After we'd completed our tour of the first floor of the building, we realized that if we were going to see everything, it was going to take about 5 hours of solid artgazing. But, oddly enough, I felt that I actually wanted to take the time to see the rest of the artwork. I found that as we progressed through the galleries we were eventually able to talk quasi-intelligently about the intricacies, style and themes of the artwork we were encoutering. I found that personally I quite liked Dali's abstract pieces; more than once I found myself staring at one of his paintings for 15 or more minutes before I was satisfied that I'd uncovered enough of it's little secrets move on.

About halfway through our tour of the massive complex we found Picasso's Guernica, which is apparently "the most important painting of the 20th century". As with most of Picasso's work, it takes a PHD's worth of study to figure out what the hell it all means, but we were at least able to admire it on surface levels as we pushed through the heavy afternoon crowd. This was the only room in the gallery in which pictures were prohibited, although everyone was snapping shots anyway... I decided respect the art and not take any pictures, but then discovered that if you went a few rooms back you were allowed to take pictures of the painting, from afar. I once again took advantage of the camera's zoom and sniped a decent shot, which really shows the size of the piece (even the people in the picture were about 15 feet away from the canvas).

Near the end of our self-guided tour, we rounded a corner on the top floor of the gallery and were accosted by sights of what I thought was the worst piece of the day. It appeared to be the drunken scribblings and blotchings of a handicapped first grader. Admittedly it could be that my own knowledge and experience with art is not profound enough for me to be able to enjoy such a piece, but I really couldn't get into this one; it looked awful, it seemed as though no artistic talent was required to make it (And although I try and realize that artistic talent is not always required for a good work of art, the fact still struck me with this piece), and it didn't make me think at all. There was no discernable theme or message (again, I may simply have been too feeble-minded to pick it out), it was just kind of ugly. I took a picture of it so that I could take another look later, when I hadn't been so saturated with great art... Looking at it now my opinion has changed, but only for the worse. Be your own judge.

Speaking of that, the previous night had been the scene of some other strange art, so to speak. We made a foray into the gay district of Madrid on Friday evening to have a few drinks and enjoy the night scene, and the sheer number of clubs was so overwhelming that we had trouble picking any place to actually go into. When we finally did pick one, it might not have been the best of choices, although it certainly was an experience inside. We had entered hypergay campland, packed full of men dancing and enjoying the drag show on the little stage at the front. We squished ourselves through the dense meatmarket of a dancefloor and found the bar, where we discovered hard-core gay porn playing on all the TV screens around us (this was exactly as awkward as having a girlfriend and watching a bunch of heterosexual porn with a group of people you just met: Very awkward). As you probably know I have no issues with homosexuality, in theory or in practice, but when we started getting tugged and called over to tables, we all felt it was time to take our leave. We ducked out abashedly and found a much tamer gay bar to buy a few drinks in, and we spent the rest of the night bar hopping with a couple of locals, and drank happily until I was too tired to stay vertical. My walk home took me through the red light district, where I was propositioned by many and groped once by a prostitute. All in all, an interesting night!

I awoke on Sunday morning hopped in the shower ate four yogurts for breakfast (when you're traveling on the cheap, you eat whatever's left over) before heading down to the metro station and catching a train headed to the airport. I ran into two young drunken Canadian girls who were also heading to the airport, so I took them under my wing as we completed the three transfers to the correct metro line. We got to the airport with no time to spare before their check-in was due to close, only to find a long queue leading to the international check-in desk. I checked in at the national flight desk and told them I had to use the facilities and promptly dissapeared; I knew they were about to be denied for a flight and didn't wanted to be there when the shit hit the fan. I have no idea whether those two got on the flight, but I can tell you one thing: That's what happens when you decide it's a good idea to stay up all night drinking your face off before a flight, instead of getting half a night's sleep. You end up non-functional, unshowered and reeking of cigarettes and booze, running an hour late for an expensive flight you're probably going to miss and you've forgotten half of your belongings in the locker back at the hostel. They wouldn't even have found the right terminal if they hadn't run in to me (or someone else heading to the same airline). Rookie mistake!

My flight seemed to be instantaneous as I slept the entire way, only waking up as we landed in Palma de Mallorca, where I now sit typing away furiously. I managed to get myself out and about yesterday with a small group from the hostel; we walked up to the castle which overlooks the entire city and some of the coastline. The view from the top was excellent but the real gem there was the inside of the castle, which was setup as a courtyard, with two tiers of balconies facing into the center (Fish-eye style composite picture down and right). While some of the structure was closed, we managed to get in without paying and enjoyed our active little daytrip. The hostel here is kind of shitty, with a poor kitchen and bad wifi, but the people are great. I'm staying with a bunch of Kiwis, Aussies, Brits and South Africans looking for work on Yachts, who mostly just drink rather than handing out resumes to potential hiring captains. It makes for a good hostel atmosphere though, so I can't complain at all. It's my new British buddy Adam's birthday today, so I think I'll end up at the pub whether I like it or not, once again drinking the hours away with people from every corner of the world. Because even when you travel alone, you never really travel alone.

C

Madrid

The tourist trap: Somewhere blitz tourists on gigantic prepackaged tours go to get ripped off and poorly treated; any cheesy location with no real cultural validity which is set up to seem authentic.

How to recognize when you are caught in a tourist trap: Do you see any combination of the following circumstances? - There are more white people than local people. What few locals occupy the vicinity are steely and grumpy, and there are no locals actually shopping/touring/sightseeing. Nobody says please or thank you, in any language. People leave their 5 thousand dollar camera sitting on the table for 20 minutes while they travel two blocks away to make a call to Tokyo. Those same people are shocked to find it's not there when they return. Shop names are suddenly in English; menus are in English; people speak to you in English. You are accosted instantly, persistently, endlessly, by people trying to sell you useless shit, which is all "hand made" (true, but by little Chinese hands in a factory far away). You notice that prices are exhorbitantly high; when you point this out, you are told it is because of the supremely fantastic quality of the absolute crap they're vending. Without fail, the shopping center/indigenous market/camel hair carpet weaving school/buddhist monastery/church is set up as a gigantic prison-like labyrinth, making it nearly impossible to actually find the exit once you've entered. You might also hear people saying things (in English) similar to the following; "Oh my gawsh Dave we just have to get this 9 foot long (fill in with local random crap) for the foyeeeeerrrrr!"; "G-I-V-E M-E O-N-E O-F T-H-E-S-E T-H-I-N-G-S" (Shopkeeper's invariable response: "...I speak English."); "Do they tip in this country? How much should I tip? Nah I'm not going to tip anything."; "Can you take a picture of me while I simulate sex with this four hundred year old religious statue?"; "Oh my god what IS that (insert traditional food product), it looks so groooossss". And the final sign you've entered a tourist trap: You see at least one MacDonald's.

Now, recognizing you've inadvertantly (or perhaps purposefully, through some misguided masochistic urge) entered a tourist trap is the first and most important step to salvation. The second step is to stop spending money; you will find the exact same wares and trinkets elsewhere, at lower prices. The third step is optional; find that guy's table and steal his 5 thousand dollar camera. The final step is finding the exit (easier said than done; see above); you may need to stop for water (10 euros, and "of the highest quality", of course).

Following these easy steps (I chose to abstain from optional step 3... at least that's what I'm telling the police) I was able to successfully escape from the tourist trap I wandered into yesterday. As far as tourist traps go, this one was relatively benign (food and artisan market), but a waste of time nonetheless. Luckily for me, everything else in Madrid has been fantastic! It's a gorgeous city. There is a real sense of majesty here. Every beautifully restored Spanish building you see (and they are ubiquitous, literally lining every street) invites the imagination to invent its history; perhaps the queen of England had this built as her summer home? Or was this Gaudi's Madrid studio? There are more palaces, plazas and parks here than a person could visit in a month. In fact I only saw one building in my many hours of walking which I did not particularly enjoy, and that was the Spanish church of Scientology... ahhh the long reach of Tom Cruise's bank account.

I took a whole mierdaload of pictures yesterday, and of course I indulged in panorama shooting, my favorite addiction, which at times gets completely out of control (I had to stop myself from taking a panorama of the church of scientology sign; I have a problem). The street performers here are very interesting, producing everything from music to... perpetual falling? I love having the nice zoom on my camera so I can snipe them from afar and not feel obligated to pay them anything. Yep, I'm that guy. I even accidentally walked through a flower bed on my way to take a picture of the Palacio Real... So it's likely that some flowers were harmed in the making of this blog. Woopsie.

Below: Musical street performance.




A few of the museums and such are closed because of Easter, which is an entire week's worth of events here (Semana Santa). About two weeks ago I tried to find some accomodation down in Sevilla for this weekend, but everything but the expensive hotels was completely booked up. Semana Santa is meant to be pretty awesome down there, with people parading through the streets in traditional garb (which is a white robe and a pointy head cover, very similar to the KKK's uniforms actually), so I'm a bit peeved that I'll be missing it, but hopefully there will be something similar here in Madrid. As for the museums being closed, that will just save me the admission fee - I'm not a huge fan of museums anyway, I'd rather get out and talk to some locals, find some dynamic culture. Besides they never let me take my camera in, and it's too big to smuggle. (Picture left - Cheaterrrrrrr!)

I was out on the town again last night, bar hopping and enjoying the international crowd. We're all a little bit hungover today from being rather borracho last night, but I'm definitely going to head out this afternoon and do some more walking about. The sun has been out a little bit this morning, despite the weather predictions, so I had better go enjoy Madrid while I can!

C

Random thought of the day - Deustche Bank; there's a good reason they don't make bags. Haha! Anybody? Hrm...