Beautiful Barcelona

Barcelona, my first taste of Spain.

Our first night was spent in a local pub, amidst the locals, cheering on Barcelona to a victory over Real Madrid. What a fantastic, truly authentic experience that was. To find a local place to watch the match, we kept our eyes peeled for walking red and blue stripes. After a few minutes of shameless stalking, we found our "stadium." The small pub was filled with locals, the excitement and anticipation of the match coursing through the room. Perfecto.

Seating was at a minimum, so we squeezed into a corner, mixed in with Madrid and Barcelona fans (and what a lively mix). Sangrias in hand, we're ready for the game. Three local guys sit across from us -- one that speaks English, one that speaks baby English (the basics), and another that just smiles a lot. His actual name is German, he doesn't speak German, his dad is German, but he lives in Barcelona and speaks Spanish. Okay.

I got to practice my baby Spanish with the guys, asking them their name, where they're from, and their telephone number. (In high school Spanish, I made sure to remember the important phrases.) We learned Barcelona cheers, strained to see the television through the crowd of seatless fans, and finally celebrated a victory with high fives and toasts. Coming from a non-soccer player, this was one of the most amazing sports experiences I've ever had. Soccer presents such a different environment than football, baseball, etc. It's youthful, joyful, encouraging, non-Barbaric.

Walking outside and hearing the shouts and cheers of Barcelona's fans was surreal. The plaza right outside the pub was lit up with celebration, men hanging off lampposts proudly waving team flags, the whole mass of people yelling "Barca! Barca!" What an incredible moment that I'll never forget.

Ohhh, the food in Barcelona... Tapas are a must if you're in Spain. We landed at a tapas bar called La Flauta the first night. Red shrimp, cuttlefish, sautéed mushrooms and asparagus were eaten first, followed by Cabreos (egg style) coming out second. To make sure that we didn't leave hungry, we ordered mini baguette sandwiches filled with cured meat and local cheese. Mmmm. My favorite dish was Cabreos, hands down. The dish consists of what I like to call French fry potato chips (similar to hash browns but crispier), a semi-spicy sauce, and two eggs, cooked over easy, right on top. The waiter mixed the eggs in at the table, transforming the dish into a gooey concoction that looks suspicious but tastes amazing.

My first taste of Spain, literally and figuratively, was addicting. The beauty that is Barcelona is captivating -- the Spanish culture permeates the air, creating a sweet aroma that carries with it laughter, youth, and warmth.

Next up, Madrid.

A Dramatic Comedy

We left for Barcelona this morning from Carcassonne. We took the 8:05 train to Narbonne. In Narbonne, we realized our ticket was for the 7:40 train, not the 8:05 train. We missed the direct train to Barcelona. The fact that there really was an 8:05 train to Narbonne can only mean that God has a fantastic sense of humor. And the adventure begins...

After this devastating realization, we laughed at ourselves (reluctantly), shrugged our shoulders and went with it. The shortest way to Barcelona was to go to Cerbere, then on to Port Bou Espagne, then on to Barcelona, putting us there at 3:00 pm. Our only option... Okay, we'll take it.

An hour later, we board the train to Cerbere, but just barely. We're eating our chocolate croissants in the cafe and seeing what Rick Steves has to say about Barcelona when Ashley notices that our train has been delayed 15 minutes. Considering that it's a bit of a chore to carry our luggage up and down stairs, I recommended we leave then to find the platform. As we step out of the station, Ashley asks an employee for confirmation (you learn to ask a lot of questions when traveling). He says, "No, this train doesn't go to Cerbere you stupid Americans." He said it all in French, so I'm not positive, but I imagine that's what he said. Well I take off down the platform with no real purpose, I just felt that going straight seemed like the right direction to walk in. I hear Ashley yell my name, and as I turn, I see her climbing on board the same train that Pepe Le Pew said wasn't our train, and it's leaving NOW. If you've ever been left in a strange place (accidentally) by your parents when you were little, you know the fear that started creeping up. I take off, sprinting as fast as I can, polka dotted suitcase in tow, neck pillow swinging from the strap of my backpack like it was possessed.

Are you on the edge of your seat? You should be. It was dramatic. To ease your minds, I made it. I heaved my suitcase up in sync with my step up (this train had three steps to climb.. Awesome). As I was looking up (in utter exasperation) to find the next step, I felt myself falling backwards. The heavy polka dotted bag... I reached out for Ashley, just knowing that I was going to have to wave goodbye from a horizontal position on the platform. At the last second a surge of adrenaline hit, and I propelled forward, almost knocking Ashley down. To make it more fun, the doors on board (the ones in between cars that shut automatically and can be opened by pressing a button) closed after 5 seconds. No lie, 5 seconds. You better have your crap together if you want to get through those doors. Too bad we didn't... After a while, pressing the button just became fun. My foot got locked between the doors, my suitcase fell forward, my backpack fell violently to the floor, and Ashley got knocked into the luggage storage rack thanks to me and the bump of the train. A French couple looked at us like we were disgusting girls that needed to learn some etiquette. Blasphemy.

Could our day get any more interesting? Yes.

The station at Cerbere is a ghost town. Ghost towns only have vending machines. I get an Orangina (a really tasty Italian soft drink), and Ashley gets some coffee from a machine. She's brave, that one. I remember I have edible souvenirs from England and France in my bag, so we broke those out (sorry Dad). Almost two hours later, we get ready to walk to the platform to board our train. A little side note about our luggage... Ashley has spent the past three months in England, so she has some stuff. I packed light so that she could shift some things over to mine to lighten her load. Despite our efforts at consolidating, her luggage wheels have lost their will to live, and my bag has been expanded to its max and is front heavy. (It falls over a lot.) Call us wimps if you'd like, but I've never despised stairs more in my life. It's the same feeling I get when I know I have to run 5 miles. It's necessary, but requires mental preparation. Two French men (looked to be grandson and grandfather) witnessed the entertaining show we put on every time we climb up stairs. We carry our luggage up one case at a time. One of us grabbing the front handle of the case, the other lifting the bottom. It's quite effective. Lord bless them, they both grabbed a case and put it on the train for us when it arrived. Since we only had one stop to go, we left our luggage in the middle of the conjoining cars, but I put my backpack in the luggage rack.

We land at Port Bou Espagne, and our two strong angels help us get our luggage off the train. We purchase our tickets to Barcelona, start walking to the platform, and I think, "Why do I feel so light?" I let go of my suitcase (it falls over) and sprint to the last train we were on. I left my backpack! (I guess this is what your parents felt like when they realized that you were left in that strange place.) Luckily the train was still there and empty. An employee saw me running toward the train and motioned me on board. "Pink bag?!" I say this like he will 1) Understand English and, 2) Make my bag magically appear. He seems to understand and tells me to run down to the end of the train. I have no idea why I should run to the end of the train where I know my bag is not, so I start running through the cars looking at every luggage rack on the way. No pink bag. I step off the train with sunken shoulders when the same guy motions me to walk toward the back of the train where he is. He motions me on board where I see the conductor rummaging through my bag. "Merci!" I exclaim, while thinking silently that he better give me my stuff back. Being an American, I understand the threat an abandoned backpack can be, but a pink backpack with a Smurfs pin and a megaphone key chain that says 'Cheer' might be one to cross off the list.

Long story short, we're now on a train to Barcelona. Today may have been frustrating, but we haven't laughed this much since we started our journey.

Stowaway

Traveling by train is peaceful. One is allowed time to think, gazing out at the landscape as it flashes by in glorious green. When traveling by train in a foreign country, however, the barriers permitting you from enjoying this peacefulness can be too much, but increasingly entertaining. On our journey through France for instance, we missed our train by a second (really, a second), struggled with signs printed in French (characteristic of an arrogant American, my first thought was, "Why can't they print this in English?!"), and currently, we're on board a train to Narbonne as stowaways. Okay, not really. We paid for our tickets online, but due to machines that only take credit cards with chips in them (come on), we, um, have no tickets in hand. Needless to say, I thrive on adventure, so I'm eating this up.

Our stowaway story starts with the conductor (non-English speaking conductor) asking for our tickets. Of course we had no tangible tickets, so through the gallant efforts of Ashley and her memory of the language, game-winning charade moves, as well as the use of an e-mail receipt shown on a smart phone, we managed to ward him off for a few minutes longer. Like Arnold, he'll be back.

To be continued...

Take A France With Someone

On to France. We boarded a plane in London and flew into Marseilles. Because we're hard core adventure enthusiasts, we changed our travel plans in France at the last minute. (We had also been getting a lot of head tilts when inquiring about Marseilles. No one really had spectacular things to say about it, so we went with our gut.) We chose to keep our flight into Marseilles, take a train into Avignon and stay for a night, then take another train into Carcassonne the next day. This would help break up the train ride to Barcelona.

On the plane to Marseilles, we met a native named Sophie. She had just quit her job as an au pair in London. Apparently the woman she worked for was wretched and one of those mothers that believes her child can do no wrong (we all know one of those). Sophie had worked on improving her English while in the UK, and her level of speaking the language was very impressive. She had questions about America and the way we live, and we fired back with questions we had about France and the culture. She had traveled to New York and Miami before and said Miami was her favorite of the two. "Because of the beach," she said.

I think one of the best things about traveling is meeting new people, learning their culture, and gaining a new perspective. You're better for it.

After struggling to find a way to the train station (and someone that spoke English), we got on a bus that took us into Marseilles. I'd like to point out that those head tilts we got about Marseilles were for good reason. It wasn't something to write home about.

After a semi-short train ride, we arrived in Avignon. Here I have to close my eyes to make sure I can properly give the visible beauty of this city justice. I don't think I can, but let me try.

We emerged from the train station into another time. A medieval masterpiece stood before us. For Avignon, it's all in the details. The city center is surrounded by a stone wall (think castle), giving the exterior the look of a fortress. The train station is right across the street from the main entrance of the ancient city. Blue Christmas lights show the way in, but continue all the way down the road, as far as the eye can see. I felt like I was walking through a winter wonderland. It was breathtaking.

The cobblestone streets are shadowed by stone buildings, intricate with detail and architectural beauty. The doors to some of these buildings are as intricate as the stonework. Imagine giant wooden doors (maybe as tall as two pro basketball players stacked on top of each other), each one different than the other, but sharing a common beauty. One door in particular had immaculate carvings, while the other close by had gold ironwork (think the gates in front of Buckingham Palace). The spirit of Avignon is calm and peaceful, simplistically beautiful.

We stayed at one of the loveliest hotels I've ever seen. Le Boquiers is a family-run establishment that is as warm and inviting as its owners. Our room was on the third floor, the last flight of stairs being a wooden spiral staircase. As if the place couldn't get more charming, wooden beams (painted a happy green) adorned the ceiling of our room. A blue vase of sunflowers sat pleasantly in the corner. The bathroom had two white ceramic sinks mounted in a wooden table.

Dinner... Let me just brag about this for a few sentences. We went to a restaurant (it's a rule to only eat where the locals eat) called L'Epice and Love (pronounced "lay peace and love"). I immediately liked this place because the name is punny - a French-English play on words. The restaurant is smaller than your first apartment, but painted warm colors like orange and red that embrace you as you step inside. The owner Marie, an eclectic lady with a great smile, greeted us with "Bonsoire!" The menu was handwritten (in French), so our waitress (the only one in the place) patiently explained the items in broken English. Desperate to experience an authentic Avignon meal, we asked our waitress to choose her favorites. She led us on a taste-filled journey that left us wanting more despite our full bellies. The first course for me began with salad and baked goat cheese with honey. The first bite was creamy, sweet, rich, and smooth. I finished it quickly. I had never tasted anything more magnificent. Well, until the second course... I was presented with a filet of salmon covered in a basil and tomato sauce. The first bite melted in my mouth. After effortlessly cleaning my plate, dessert arrived in glorious form. Parfait au chocolate noir, a decadent chocolate cake floating atop a lake of creamy custard sauce, topped with real whipped cream. Heaven. The best meal I have ever eaten.

'Authentically Avignon' is what I'd use to describe our time there. The city is now one of my favorites.

If you visit France, don't stop at Paris. Venture to these smaller, history-filled cities to get a true feel for French culture. You will never want to leave.

London Calling

The lights of the city beckoned me from my perch up high. I'm back to where it all began. The city that gave me wings. London calling me home.

The second time is always more familiar, but still surprising. Walking through the streets was like sinking into a pile of pillows. The curves and lines of the city's structures were just as beautiful as I remembered. I could still feel the history, the grandeur, the majestic spirit that can only be London. The men walking down the sidewalk looked more like GQ models strutting down a runway. The proper English accents floating in the air made me want to catch one and claim it as my own. The focused taxi drivers made me realize that a chicken would never have the courage to cross these roads. All the parts of this great city make me feel alive and well. Words could never truly express the feelings I have.

Ashley, my fearless traveling companion, found us an old, but clean, hostel a few blocks away from the British Museum. We were hoping to have the room to ourselves, but what a pleasant surprise when we came in late one night to discover an additional traveler. Evelyn, this fabulous Parisian woman, was propped up on pillows, eyeglasses steady at the tip of her nose, reading a novel with 'American' in the title. (I still can't recall what the full title was.) When she learned we were American, she perked up and a smile spread across her graceful face as she ran her fingers through short auburn hair. She looked to be in her late 50s, but I know to never ask a woman her age, especially a Parisian. She was traveling alone, and because I have an over-active imagination, I immediately set to work at dreaming up her story.

Door number one says she's a French spy, using hostels and age to hide her ability to snap a man in half. Door number two says she's a woman still very much in love, returning to the place where she was first swept off her feet. She was dispatched to London during the second world war, where she nursed Edward, a British soldier with a clever laugh and strong will, back to health. She did her job so well that Edward's physical strength returned, but his love for her grew stronger than 1,000 men. (Seeing as how she'd have to be considerably older than she is for door number two to be believable (and real life isn't a chick flick), let's knock on door number 3.)

She's an adventure seeker, a brilliant woman with an organic courage to explore the unknown. She relies on her heart to guide her steps, which never fails to take her to the most beautiful places. I surely hope this story is truth. If so, we are kindred spirits, Evelyn and I.