Moorish Magic & A Traveler’s Tales

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Hello dears,

I last left you a mini-chronicle of the nighttime horrors of life in our Madrid hostel and then took off to Granada for a few days without so much as a peep! My sincerest apologies (of course I assume that you have all programmed your computers to alert you when we have posted a new blog since your lives most certainly revolve around our adventures thousands of miles away).

I´m not thinking very coherently at the moment, so here are some random accounts from the last few days:

- You know you’re homesick and travel weary when you find that you’ve gone to Starbuck’s twice in the same Spanish city. I know, I know, I’m usually the one who not only avoids the institution like one should avoid a Brittney Spears movie (or her muzak or anything attached to her name in general- sorry if I offended anyone) but who berates others who opt to patronize it over a local coffee shop or Peet’s.  Don´t get me wrong, one of my favorite things to do is sit in sidewalk cafes across Europe whilst sipping a coffee concoction of one kind or another and enjoying a good book as I intermittently people watch, but I think that having been ill abroad coupled with this nomadic lifestyle just really made me want something familiar…even if that something consisted of indulging in a couple of mediocre soy lattes and listening to the ubiquitous Starbuck’s “Greatest Hits” track on repeat in the background.

So sue me!

- Jake and I found ourselves alone in a train car on the way to Granada save for one middle-aged man. Relaxing, you think? Not quite, since this gentleman sounded like a pig on a respirator. No joke. Our slightly jolty five hour journey was set to the irregular tempo of his labored gulps, hiccups and wet grumbles. I guess it’s better than the experience we had going from Tours to Lyon where we found that our reserved seats were in one of those old-fashioned (and by that I mean old school) coach cars where you’re squished between other people left to right and frontwards. There’s nothing like playing footsie for five hours in a poorly ventilated box with a knuckle popping stranger and a foreign head on your shoulder issuing guttural snores. 

Oh, but wait! The best part about the ride to Granada with Grandpa Wilbur occurred just before we arrived. I went to use the bathroom, and being the overly-cautious person I am, I double-checked to make sure that the green “go ahead” tab was displayed on the door and gave it a little knock just for good measure. My attempt to enter the apparently vacant toilet was immediately thwarted as the door abruptly shut in my face, only to open a split second later. I was greeted by our traveling companion whose face turned three shades of purple in about three seconds. Imagine a light fuchsia deepening into magenta and then eggplant (or aubergine depending on which variation of the English language you’re familiar with).  Now, I don’t speak Spanish, but I have enough of an understanding of Italian and basic body language to ascertain that a) he wasn’t happy about being disturbed and b) that he wanted me to use another toilet because there was a slight “problem” with that one. I glanced down and noticed to my horror that there wasn’t just the usual smattering of urine on the floor that is usually found in public toilets, but an entire pool of it sloshing around his dress shoes! Now, I will feel genuinely bad for the man if he is incontinent and I truly don’t wish to tarnish his name (although somehow I doubt that he will ever come across this blog), but OY! Train rides = adventure.

- I’m running out of precious internet time, but I think I’ll quickly add that I’d like to move into the Alhambra. Yes, the Moorish palace turned Christian Crusade campground is that spectacular. I’d also like to mention that I’m blogging in Madrid. But wait, why Madrid? Didn’t we already leave the rainy capitol to relax in the sunny south of Spain before heading to the southernmost tip of Portugal? Yes, but apparently it’s nigh impossible to get a train from southern Spain to anywhere in Portugal that doesn’t first wind it’s way through the north. Yeah, so we grudgingly cancelled our plans for Lagos (this is where you shed a tear for us) and opted to take another six hour train ride early this morning to Madrid where we have to hang out for nine hours before our ten hour night train leaves for Lisbon. PHEW. We are well aware that this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and are honestly doing our best to savor it, but vacationing isn’t always four-star hotels, catered meals and bunny hopping it up on resort lawns.

That said, our European adventure has mostly been fabulous, and the not-so-pleasant experiences simply make it that much more memorable in the long run.

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