We’ll given it a lot of thought and are coming home earlier than planned. Our funds are low and we’re beyond our breaking point when it comes to constantly being on the move, sightseeing day after day. We’ve had a blast (mostly ) but it’s time to end our adventure. Three months was just too long.

In retrospect, we would have cut out some of the places we’re already seen and instead would have completed our Italy trip, North to South, and of course seen Turkey, but that’s what you learn from travelling (i.e. Lisbon wasn’t worth it)! We’re spending our last week in Florence and will then come home via London on November 24/25.

We are sad that we won’t get to romp around Southern Italy and Istanbul, but they will wait for another day. There comes a point when traveling this much no longer feels like a vacation, but work.  Having both studied abroad, we both appreciate the ability to sit back and plant some roots……something that is impossible when you pack up your bag every few days and head for somewhere new.  That said, these past two months have been beyond amazing and we can’t wait to share our un-blogged about adventures and countless photographs with you all when we come home.

It will be sooooooooooo good to sleep in our own beds. And let’s face it, we miss La Cornetta, TJ’s and being able to read and understand everything in sight. However, constantly having to adjust to new languages, cuisines and customs has given us a much greater appreciation for the millions of people around the world who find themselves forced to adapt to new environments. This has been a physical, emotional and intellectual adventure and we wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-Yours truly,

Jakey & Moll

Adventurers Extraordinaire

- “Really?”

- “Yeah. She like got really interested in history when she was like 12 and then studied him in college.”

- “Oh my God!  I had a history teacher who loved him too and she bought a lock of his hair on-line.”

- “You can do that? Oh my GAWD! Because I would like totally get that for my mom as a gift. She has Napoleon shit all over our house. A portrait above the mantel…even stuff if my dad’s study.”

*Who the hell admires Napoleon?!  

6) Scotland - Probably no surprise here. If you think back on Haggis and wish you had ordered more…..something is wrong. Very wrong. The fundamental problem with Scottish food is how unabashedly greasy everything is. Even the famous Scottish shortbread cookies glisten in the sun.

Walking into a restaurant in Edinburgh is like playing Russian roulette with 5 bullets in the revolver. Imagine having a piece of fried cod in front of you. Gouging your fork into the crackly flesh, you rake your knife back and forth over the fried batter desperately trying to make a slice.  After sawing through, you hesitantly put the fish in your mouth and chew the slightly rubbery, fishy tasting morsel for a solid twenty seconds before you’ve broken it down enough to avoid choking. Then choke it down. Repeat ad nauseam.

*CRUNCH* Chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew……..

I understand why there are a dozen McDonalds’, Burger Kings and Pizza Huts on Princes Street and the surrounding areas. If it were between a Big Mac and piece of fried whoknowswhat, well….”I’m lovin’ it”.

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5) England -Again, no surprise here.  Friends and family who had traveled to Britain combined with American pop culture had me ready to expect the worst, then brace for worse than that. Tales of drippy meatpies, soggy beans and overly ripe boiled vegetables haunted my dreams on our flight to London. Upon arriving however, I discovered you could get fresh sandwiches, nice Yog-hurts (as they say it), lovely scones and the like. Surely this wasn’t the same Britain that others had so strongly dismissed?

Two months later, I’m chocking it up to lowered expectations. Yes, British food is worthy of it’s reputation. It’s not that what we ate was bad per se, but it flat out lacked the flavor, charm and delight of the countries we have visited in the mean time. I certainly believe that you can get world class cuisine in England, but you’ve got to fork over large portions of your bank account to get it. The average tourist/street food you find in delis, supermarkets and small restaurants is just that, average. It tastes like the streets of London were catered by Sodexho. You know, you’ll eat it, you might even wrap a few cookies in a napkin for later, but you’re not going to tell anyone you had a great meal.

That said, I really love the traditional English “brekie”. It reminds me of eating at a greasy spoon breakfast joint in the States……the kind of place where you can take 3 hours to eat breakfast, read the newspaper and the waitress refills your coffee at least a dozen times. Of course, in England, if they even offered refills on your coffee, you would be charged 18 pounds for the cup. Which with the exchange rate is about $498 dollars.

No, seriously, I like this.

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4) Spain- In my opinion, a surprisingly low showing for ye old Espana. Hey, that’s the way the galleta crumbles….

I will describe Spanish food thusly: It’s like seeing a Harrison Ford movie (save anything made in the past five years). You walk in, get great entertainment for a few hours (as no Spanish meal is shorter than at least an hour and a half), and walk away with a smile on your face. Hey, you might even recommend the particular restaurant to friends.

But at the end of the day, how many Oscars does Harrison Ford have on his mantel? And many cravings for Spanish food will I get when we return to the States? The answer to both is “Not too many”.

Tapas are fun and a country that charges the same amount for beer as it does for soda can never be bad. The fruit is fresh and getting the check back with the total for two people being under 10 euro is novel. Maybe it’s the Californian in me, but when I hear Spanish being spoken and smell food being prepared, my expectations are high……and despite some really nice meals, I just haven’t fallen in love with Spanish food.

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3) Germany and France (Tie!) – So dynamically different, yet both are heaven sent. German food is the proverbial “Bull in the China Shop” where French food is the less proverbial “Peacock in the Arby’s parking lot”.

First, German food. Powerful, brute flavors. Strong tastes and pungent smells. When you eat German, you are eating for two, regardless of pregnancy status.  There is no such thing as a quick and light German meal, so far as I could tell.  Instead, each meal is as if you were on death row and midnight was fast approaching.  Stuffing yourself on four or five types of bread, all sorts of regional sausages, a variety of spreads, jams and jellies, beer, wine, sauerkraut, cheese, ham and yogurts all adds up to a meal experience that is unforgettable.  However, you’d love to forget it the hour or so after you eat, as you waddle to a chair and pray your stomach is up to digesting ALL that.   Then you get to do it again 4 hours later!

French food…..perhaps the most famous in the world.  And why not?  With a seeming intolerance for processed food and great love for all things fresh, the French could teach us a few things about what quality means.  The French would not tolerate what we call bread and cheese….in fact, I doubt they’d recognize it.  And with good reason:  when I entered a cheese shop or a bakery (I’m not even going to try to spell either in French), it was a total body experience.  The smells, the sights, the textures and the tastes left me wishing I could put a Parisian baker in my backpack for the flight home.  I briefly considered such a kidnapping, but I wasn’t sure how I’d declare it at customs and gave up on it.

When we stayed with Molly’s cousin Eric in Tours, we got an even bigger treat into the world of fresh food.   Eric cultivated a food garden for several years and still had a tremendous stock of fresh vegetables that he had jarred, along with fresh cheese, tea and fish.  Every night was more fantastic than the last and it left me with a new found respect for “growing your own”.  These were no mere carrots or zuccinis: they were some of the juiciest, flavorful and above all, tasty veggies I’ve had.   *Bon appetit*

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2)  Italy – Well, of course Italy would be this high.  In the US and around the world, Pizza and Spaghetti are such common dinner options, I think we often forget that they are even Italian.   Yet coming here to Florence, you realize why these dishes (and all the others we enjoy) have made it all over the world and become a part of so many country’s cuisine.  Think about it….how many poor college students in the states prepare French, German or Spanish food when they are low on funds?  And how many go straight to the pasta section at Safeway and load up cheap pasta and sauce?  

The Patron Saint of the American College Student

I think that’s the real beauty of Italian food.  Most dishes are very simple and relatively cheap.   Pizza is just dough, sauce and a few toppings.  Pasta is the same, just in a different form.   Yes, despite their simplicity, or perhaps because of it, eating in Italy is one of the most rewarding parts of being there.   It’s a type of cooking that everyone from college students to gourmets understand and love.    Even Ninja Turtles.

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1) The Netherlands – The ultimate dark horse.  I mean, c’mon, when’s the last time you saw a Dutch restaurant?  Well, I’m not sure I even saw any Dutch restaurants in the Netherlands…and that’s the true beauty of it:  The Dutch take the best of all cuisines and make it something even better.

Molly and I went to two vegetarian restaurants in the canal district.  The first was something like you’d find off Pacific Garden Mall in Santa Cruz…..Indian decor, Baliwood posters, jagged granite tables and simple wooden chairs.  We ordered salads and were presented with a heap of at least 20 different ingredients.  All good, all fresh and all complimentary.   Top it off with homemade garlic butter for the homemade bread, and you have to be amazed at the ability of the Dutch to construct such amazing dishes from such a seemingly huge array of foods.

The second vegetarian restaurant was much more like something you’d find in SoMa in San Francisco.  White tables with stainless steel linings and art deco style chairs.  Minimalist paintings on a Pistachio Green wall.  Here we ordered two bowls of soup: tomato and carrot.  Simply put, I’ve never had better soup.  It had been prepared just minutes before and this came through with every sip.  You could taste individual spices the chef had used, but they never, ever overpowered the natural flavor of the tomato or carrot.  Being something of a cook myself (or at least, so I think), I can appreciate how difficult it is to use spices to add to, but not replace the base flavor.  Again the Dutch win my heart.  Heavenly.

And finally, the best meal of the trip.  At a fairly upscale restaurant that we ended up in (longish story how), I had the kind of steak that people can only dream about.  It had it all: the crispy exterior, the tender and moist center….you could taste the meat but also the charcoaland caramelization from the flames.  I don’t want to get too pornographic with the description here (I was told my description of the German race track from the earlier blog was bad enough), but it made my Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show Self (go ahead, click that link) feel good about eating meat. 

With a vegetarian girlfriend and a Santa Cruz upbringing, I wrestle with my carnivore status four or five times a year.  This meal in Amsterdam reminded me why no amount of PETA brochures (Mark….), cute animal movies, or anything else will stop the consumption.   Thank you Amsterdam, thank you very much.  It was more than I ever expected.

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(Dis)Honorable Mention: Portugal

We only stayed in Portugal (really, Lisbon) for two full days, so I don’t think it’s fair to judge their food against the others.  And that may work out for the best, because Portugese food and me don’t get along well.   My Americanized palet against their love for sardines……no…..just, no.

Jake has been kind enough to let me drag him through my memories while I speak in a mixture of Italian and English, showing him priceless sculptures, paintings, Renaissance architecture, Roman ruins and gastronomic delights. Florence is a city that must be tasted as well as seen.

I was worried that my Italian verbal skills, which have remained almost entirely dormant for the past three years, wouldn’t make any sense to native speakers, but somehow I’ve been able to carry on real conversations solo in Italiano. I really need to take another class or find someone to practice with at home…che bella lingua!

I know these streets. It’s been 3 years, but I still remember the alleyways and tiny residential roads. My fruit vendor is still selling blood oranges on Via di Bardi, the minuscule shop that sells those physically addictive “pizette” near my first apartment is still there (yes, the ones with carciofi taste exactly the same), and crossing the street is still synonymous with staring death in the face.

1) The Alhmabra. I already told all ya’ll that I want to move in.

2) Patatas Bravas (the best tapa ever invented)!!!

3) Beer is cheaper than water.

4) We went to an underground (literally – the stage was minuscule and was housed under a bar/club and looked like a cross between a wine cellar and a bomb shelter) flamenco show. It was intimate and spectacular. Jake even said that he had a “near religious experience.”

5) Lisbon is beautiful and hilly and reminds us of San Francisco (well, a little)…

* There’s other good stuff, I promise, but now Jake is getting whatever nasty bug I had in Granada and I have to go tuck him into bed.

2) La Cafe is NOT open on Sundays and it is NOT “upbeat” and “minimalist.”  You will be refused service at the door if the waiter takes an immediate (and probably unfounded) dislike to you. Who wants to patronize a place like that anyways?

3) The castle is NOT free. However, the view from there is spectacular and definitely worth €2.50. Don’t touch the cats.

4) I don’t have a fourth yet, but I’m sure I will.

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.

-Jonathon Miller

A few swipes of the red pen have been made, back to our regularly scheduled programming….

 - This mini-post has been brought to you by the letters ‘M’ ‘o’ ‘l’ ‘l’ & ‘y’

 Broadcasting today from (not-so) sunny Madrid, your author finds himself in a internet cafe flanked by Molly to the left, and a (presumably) Spanish gentleman to my right.  Currently, she to the left “makes war” as she e-argues with our booking website about a undue hostel fee.   He to right, on the other end, “makes love” as he cruises extremely explicit gay personal ads and sends them each message.  What he writes, only he and He truly know, but wow, it´s quite interesting and pretty horrific sitting so close to someone rabidly and feverishly clicking picture after picture of the male organ.  Have a creeped out shudder for me.

So, France was a hoot.  Last I left you, I was waxing semi-poetically about Paris.  Perhaps you remember this particular haiku:

You reap what you sow
I think rude Americans
Think the French are rude

 That was then, this is now.  Sure as they are to enjoy 900 some-odd varietes of cheese, the French didn´t let me down in living up to the rude stereotype.  Ironically enough, it happened more OUTSIDE of Paris.  I know, I know, but I swear it´s true.  Not over the top, crazy, “American pig” rudeness, but just enough little glares and upturned noses to make me feel so very, very sad and so very, very empty.  Now mind you, this was certainly not all French, nor was it all the time…..but simply enough to see what people mean when they say the French are *just a bit* rude to ye ol Americanskis.   That said, some of the best folks we´ve met yet on this trip were in France!   Though I was surprised when a Frenchman told me about a DUI he recieved in San Jose a year ago within two minutes of meeting him.

So saddened by a few rude glares, I began preparations to jump into moving traffic when Molly reminded me that we were on our way to Spain!  Ah, no need to end it all when the Spanish would light my fire!  And boy have they!  First of all, it helps…..quite a bit……a lot…….entirely….to speak the language.  Even if the Spanish accent sounds like gay men with newspaper in their mouths, moving beyond just knowing “please” and “thank you” is great.  (Edit:  That line was, of course,  complete hyperbole.  All accents are different and beautiful in their own way, and even I, the eternal hater am beginning to get used to the “th”rupy “th”weet sound of Spanish Spanish.  Mal chiste.)  Still, a feeling that “holy shit, my Spanish has gone to complete hell” lingers as I struggle to construct sentences with verb tenses and so forth.  Like I said though, it´s way better to move beyond the basics. 

Okay, we have eight minutes to go hear on the ye´old internet time, and while I´d love to regale you with more tales of our wanderings, I will just leave you with this description of our current hostel room.   Enjoy and let it never be thought that cheap travel comes cheap…

As you enter the building, you are greeted by a large elevator.  Shame it isn´t for the hotel, but for the other offices that share the building.  Ascending six long flights of stairs, you come to the room.  The balsa-wood light door flies open and the smell of week old cigarettes with twist of mold greets your nose.  Two twin beds, covered in dog-poop brown covers that look like they have been on the beds since the 1920s lay in front of you, beyond that, a ten inch television with a single bunny ear sticking out.  Natural light is limited to a small window at the far end of the room and the bathroom features a “no-warm water” bathtub and a toilet that barely flushes and is deafening as it “refills” the tank after a weak flush.   The lights go out at random for 5 minute intervals at least three times an hour.  The bed slats routinely fall out of the bed when you lay, and the walls are thin enough to make out full conversations of both bordering rooms AND the hallway.  Still, it´s not nearly as bad as our Edinburgh digs.   Dark, stinky, sad, dingy and not at all relaxing, yes…..but as bad as Edinburgh….never.

Comments are “bueno” as we miss you all.  Even if you just say that you are reading the blog and enjoying it, why not drop a line?  It´s so very easy, just click “Comment” on the bottom of the post!  Horray for e-love!