On my first morning at Casa de Carrasco, I overslept. Waking a little after eight to the sound of Sarah's yoga-instructing voice in the distance, I quietly unzipped my little green tent and looked out on the sun-soaked and unbelievably fresh mountain morning. Not wanting interrupt the class, I crept over to the shower block to brush my teeth, and then sat cross-legged in the morning sun listening to Sarah give instruction and watching little speedy birds dive into the swimming pool, fishing for water bugs. The two dogs I had met the evening before (Daisy, Sarah´s rescued black lab, and Stella, her boyfriend's dog of unknown breed and closely resembling a kangaroo) plopped down beside me and kept me company while the humans finished their class.
In the light of day, the last dregs of my mini-panic melted away. Over a shared breakfast of muesli, tea, oranges, and (of course) more cherries, the other guests discussed their favorite hikes around the retreat, and Magdalena gave Luna and Andreas suggestions on how to fill their time in Barcelona, where she is studying and where they are heading after a week in the Pyrenees. After breakfast, George and I got to know each other a little better while doing the breakfast dishes, clearing the common areas, running the generator, pumping water up to the storage tanks, and cleaning the pool (tasks with which I would become very familiar). He is currently in his third 'gap year,' still deciding whether or not to go to college (although he always says he hasn't gone to university 'yet' when people ask), and traveling the world volunteering, surfing, and exploring in the meantime. Our friendship was sealed when I taught him how to do a back-walkover later that morning. Those years of gymnastics definitely come in handy.
Suddenly, the morning was over, my 'work' was done, and the rest of the day was mine. Sarah made us lunch, and we all cooled off in the shade of her small and comfortable living room that looks out over the peaks to the west. She informed me that the fuzzy green pods growing on the low tree next to my tent are almonds, and that all the almond trees will be harvested in September, two months before the olive harvest in November/December. Some brown pods on the trees (much more recognizable as almonds) are left over from last year, when they didn't have time to harvest them all, and are still good to eat. The olive trees, I also learn, may need to be pruned while I'm here, but otherwise there is not much work to be done on the agricultural front (I realize that I'll probably have to pick up my organic farming skills some other time and place, but I'm not too upset about it). Another possible project is the extension of one of the hiking trails up higher into the hills. Sarah and Martin have been opening the 'Red Trail' up towards one of the highest peaks in the area, towards an abandoned monastery that will shortly be converted into a spa. Depending on who you talk to, this spa is either the best or the worst thing ever to happen to the area.
That evening, Elaine and Magdalena left the retreat, and Luna and Andreas grilled fresh fish and potatoes with rosemary they picked from the hillside. As I sat for hours around the table with these holders of U.K. and E.U. passports (George hails from a farm in Worcester, Luna from a small town in Germany, and Andreas from Switzerland), I sent a little message of thanks out to the universe for getting me on this trip, even if my cosmic repayment means periodically being grilled on the absolutely insane state of so many things in the U.S. of A. Conversations with Charles in Madrid, Luna and Andreas in that little kitchen in the hills, and (most recently) bar-owner and Barcelona native, Franc, have each ended with the European party declaring that I'd better defect as soon as possible, get a visa for anywhere in Europe, and start to live life for real on the better side of the Atlantic. So far, I'm inclined to agree.
On the subject of ex-pats, I should mention that the olive groves and farms in the hills of this part of Cataluña are surprisingly and overwhelmingly filled with British families, living British lives and creating very British communities. Likewise, the bookshelves are filled with the works of Chris Stewart (Driving Over Lemons), Jason Webster (Duende and Guerra), and Tim Moore (Travels With My Donkey), all Brits who came to this country to live out their fantasy lives by doing really unnecessarily difficult things (like, learning to play flamenco guitar, building a house and a life from scratch, or walking 800km on a pilgrimmage with a donkey). Staying here in the beautiful place Sarah has built from a decaying and long-abandoned farm, I have mixed feelings about the veritable land-grab that occured post-Franco, when farming families were free (for the first time in half a century) to move into sea-side towns and cities. Sarah is, for lack of better and less pop-lit comparisons, like a lumberjack Frances Mayes, or a British, stiff-upper-lip Elizabeth Gilbert. Following an ugly divorce, this park ranger, Sivananda yoga instructor, organic farmer moved to rural Cataluña to build a beautiful and fully functioning retreat center, revitalize acres of organic olives, and meet a nice, handy, helpful guy who doesn't try to steal her property or sense of well-being. Hard to judge or begrudge any foreigner who chooses to relocate life and, very often, extended family to this beautiful place, where (as I promise to explain in more detail next time), an impossibly bright full moon shines over deep and fertile valleys, the tinkling of bell-clad goats chimes through long afternoons, and a young American can come to practice yoga, wander in the hills, and scribble in a notebook.
Tuesday 31 May 2011
Thursday 26 May 2011
Long Overdue
Finally, the main attraction. The longest, most challenging, and most difficult to explain part of the trip which, luckily, I began chronicling on paper as soon as I arrived (there is no cell phone reception or, of course, WiFi at the yoga retreat). For your reading (or, procrastinating at work) pleasure, here is a real-time excerpt from the moleskin, penned almost two weeks ago:
May 14th
I think I hear the clanging of bell-clad goats as they move up the mountainside above me. What particular peak they might be headed toward I can only guess, as the hammock I am currently lying in is ringed around with peaks covered in scrubby low-lying plants and the occasional group of rugged pine trees. I arrived in the fishing village of l´Ampolla last night, and after a short but slightly anxious wait at the train station (a tiny two-platforms plus bar, filled to the brim with gruff looking fishermen drinking and smoking as they watch awkward backpackers arrive and wait around nervously), I was collected by Sarah, blonde and tall, in a hardy and dust-covered 4 x 4 that smelled gently of some of my favorite plants.
As we drove up the mountain to the retreat, she informed me that the day had been spent at a neighbor´s cherry orchard, and that she, George (the other volunteer) and four guests had collectively picked 19 kilos of cherries. Not wanting them to go bad, they spent the evening making cherry tart, cherry cake, cherry jam, and cherry salad (recipes to follow), all of which awaited my no doubt hungry arrival. Meeting Luna, Andrea, Magdalena, and Elaine over all the aformentioned dishes was an idyllic beginning, but slightly self-conscious, exhausted, and disoriented, I experienced a moment of genuine panic when Sarah guided me over to my sleeping arrangements. Expecting a spacious bell tent all to myself (like I saw on the website), I discovered that those were, in fact, for the highest paying guests, and that George and I each had our own little Quechua camping tent up behind the house.
Now, for all my supposedly outdoor-sy inclinations, I must confess that I have never actually lived in a tent. Alarm bells went off in my head as I started to unpack and awkwardly try to arrange my stuff inside it, and thoughts of 'You agreed to stay here for a MONTH!!!' buzzing around my head like mosquitoes. But, after a few minutes of organizing, I found that it was really a manageable space, and down the hill towards the swimming pool there was a sturdy and very clean building with two sinks, toilets, and, most importantly, hot showers. (There were also two little ornate mirrors, which I imagine are only used by the guests to keep tabs on just how wild and unkempt we are all looking as the days go by.) I also remembered that I HAD remembered to pack a small flashlight and warm socks, and found that, after a piece of cherry cake, and a little star-gazing, I was able to curl up in my little green tent on the side of a mountain and sleep, like a stone, for nine hours.
More to follow!
May 14th
I think I hear the clanging of bell-clad goats as they move up the mountainside above me. What particular peak they might be headed toward I can only guess, as the hammock I am currently lying in is ringed around with peaks covered in scrubby low-lying plants and the occasional group of rugged pine trees. I arrived in the fishing village of l´Ampolla last night, and after a short but slightly anxious wait at the train station (a tiny two-platforms plus bar, filled to the brim with gruff looking fishermen drinking and smoking as they watch awkward backpackers arrive and wait around nervously), I was collected by Sarah, blonde and tall, in a hardy and dust-covered 4 x 4 that smelled gently of some of my favorite plants.
As we drove up the mountain to the retreat, she informed me that the day had been spent at a neighbor´s cherry orchard, and that she, George (the other volunteer) and four guests had collectively picked 19 kilos of cherries. Not wanting them to go bad, they spent the evening making cherry tart, cherry cake, cherry jam, and cherry salad (recipes to follow), all of which awaited my no doubt hungry arrival. Meeting Luna, Andrea, Magdalena, and Elaine over all the aformentioned dishes was an idyllic beginning, but slightly self-conscious, exhausted, and disoriented, I experienced a moment of genuine panic when Sarah guided me over to my sleeping arrangements. Expecting a spacious bell tent all to myself (like I saw on the website), I discovered that those were, in fact, for the highest paying guests, and that George and I each had our own little Quechua camping tent up behind the house.
Now, for all my supposedly outdoor-sy inclinations, I must confess that I have never actually lived in a tent. Alarm bells went off in my head as I started to unpack and awkwardly try to arrange my stuff inside it, and thoughts of 'You agreed to stay here for a MONTH!!!' buzzing around my head like mosquitoes. But, after a few minutes of organizing, I found that it was really a manageable space, and down the hill towards the swimming pool there was a sturdy and very clean building with two sinks, toilets, and, most importantly, hot showers. (There were also two little ornate mirrors, which I imagine are only used by the guests to keep tabs on just how wild and unkempt we are all looking as the days go by.) I also remembered that I HAD remembered to pack a small flashlight and warm socks, and found that, after a piece of cherry cake, and a little star-gazing, I was able to curl up in my little green tent on the side of a mountain and sleep, like a stone, for nine hours.
More to follow!
Sunday 22 May 2011
Valencia
My five hours in Valencia were over a week ago, but here are some recollections/excerpts from moleskin note-taking :)
Sitting in the botanic garden in Valencia, I cannot understand why my guidebook tried to disuade me from visiting the city. Describing its 'charm' as 'somewhat debated' and the city as 'drab, provincial, and industrial,' Frommers suggested I spend my interim day at the beach instead. True, many of the streets around the train station are populated by chain restaurants and drug stores (and lined--of course--with cheap souvenirs), and the ride in from Madrid shows off the somewhat crumbling and grafitti-splashed factory areas, but just a five minute walk north of the main station and I found myself in the beautiful and impressive Plaza del Ayuntamiento (I haven't figured out how to get pictures on here yet, but I will post proof of the town square´s beauty as soon as I stop being so pathetically technologically challenged).
Sure, Valencia is kinda dirty (from what I saw--I mean I didn't make it to the huge and iper-modern Cuidad de las Artes y las Ciencias south of the city, which is supposedly spotless), but it´s Europe! It is an old and fascinating city, from the little I saw and learned, and even the ickiest little back streets convine you that age always comes before beauty in a city like this. Not that, in the least, Valencia is lacking in beauty (again, pictures pending...but I'm sure there are better ones online already).
After wandering a bit, I headed to the outdoor Mercado to pick up some lunch. I expected, foolishly, a tented marketplace full of little stalls selling fruits and vegetables, and maybe the occasional local delicacy and paella. Instead, I found a GIANT market housed in a train-station-sized and gorgeously built, decorated and domed building, an entire wing of which was dedicated to every kind of sea food you can imagine (and smelling like it, too), enough jamon to feed an army hanging from the ceilings, and the most incredibly delicious looking produce I have ever seen. I spent maybe ten minutes taking pictures of the Valencia oranges, and an hour just wandering around wondering how in the world people who go to Valencia for the day decide what to buy.
After being seduced by the oranges and strawberries, I thought I would be really nice and buy some dried fruit from a fairly neglected stall, supervised by a really sweet looking older man who didn't look like he got a lot of customers. There was a good reason for this, as I discovered almost immediately, as he was the absolute meanest person I have met on the trip so far, and I practically had to beg for my dried peaches. They turned out to be worth it, though...and for any of you who wish to avoid arguments with crotchety old men in Valenican markets in the future, peaches are melocotones and presseguer in Spanish and Catalan (he made sure I learned these words and could say them correctly before he handed the fruit over).
As the day was getting hot, and I would be spending a lot of it sitting on trains, I decided to take my Mercado loot and sit in Valencia's Jardin Botanico, which even my Valencia-hating guide book admitted was worth seeing. The garden is beautiful, and unique: while Madrid's lush botanic garden was intoxicating, full of giant multi-colored irises, looming pine trees, and fragrant vines, Valencia's is relaxing, rejuvenating...a retreat. Actually, as I read on the very informative board at the entrance, it was started in 1567 by la Universitat de Valencia as an orchard exclusively for medicinal plants, and remained so for over 200 years. And while most of the garden has been redesigned along more aesthetic principles, it still bears a studious, pragmatic, and slightly utilitarian look in some places. I sat in the back part of the garden on a bench in the shade, near an old fountain where I observed many visitors washing their hands and feet, and cats lapping up water (the garden is home to a pack of cats who wander around very aware of how adorable they are and how much attention they deserve, and being fed and cared for by the gardeners. One posed very nicely for a photo shoot in the sun, and three or four prowled around me the whole time I sat there eating lunch).
My day in Valencia passed so quickly, and therefore had me slightly worrying about the passage of time on the rest of the trip. In just a few hours I would be installed at the yoga retreat, the 'main attraction' and biggest unknown of the trip, and leaving Valencia I started to get the smallest nagging little doubts about just what the heck I thought I was going to do in the mountainous Catalunyan countryside for a MONTH, when there was so much more of Spain to see and so little time to see it. Passing, on the second stage of my train journey from Valencia to lÀmpolla, the dry red earth, low rolling fields, scrubby olive and orange trees, and increasingly impressive clefted mountain peaks of the Costa Daurada, little waves of nervousness ebbed around me, not at all helped by the fact that Renfe Regional trains do not announce their stops (nor do the train doors open automatically or for very long), and as my arrival time drew near I was constantly craning my neck in all directions trying to figure out where we were.
Views of the ocean helped to calm me down, as did the gorgeous rows of Italian cypress lining hillsides. Completely incongruous little factory towns (complete with big industrial buildings, tons of billboards, even what looked like a nuclear plant) appeared occasionally, looking so out of place, and I would soon be finding out a lot (from my host, Sarah, and her mom, Cherry) about the lives and history of the Catalunyans who live in them.
But those stories, and first impressions of the campo, will have to wait until next time.
Adeu, my friends, que vagi bé.
Sitting in the botanic garden in Valencia, I cannot understand why my guidebook tried to disuade me from visiting the city. Describing its 'charm' as 'somewhat debated' and the city as 'drab, provincial, and industrial,' Frommers suggested I spend my interim day at the beach instead. True, many of the streets around the train station are populated by chain restaurants and drug stores (and lined--of course--with cheap souvenirs), and the ride in from Madrid shows off the somewhat crumbling and grafitti-splashed factory areas, but just a five minute walk north of the main station and I found myself in the beautiful and impressive Plaza del Ayuntamiento (I haven't figured out how to get pictures on here yet, but I will post proof of the town square´s beauty as soon as I stop being so pathetically technologically challenged).
Sure, Valencia is kinda dirty (from what I saw--I mean I didn't make it to the huge and iper-modern Cuidad de las Artes y las Ciencias south of the city, which is supposedly spotless), but it´s Europe! It is an old and fascinating city, from the little I saw and learned, and even the ickiest little back streets convine you that age always comes before beauty in a city like this. Not that, in the least, Valencia is lacking in beauty (again, pictures pending...but I'm sure there are better ones online already).
After wandering a bit, I headed to the outdoor Mercado to pick up some lunch. I expected, foolishly, a tented marketplace full of little stalls selling fruits and vegetables, and maybe the occasional local delicacy and paella. Instead, I found a GIANT market housed in a train-station-sized and gorgeously built, decorated and domed building, an entire wing of which was dedicated to every kind of sea food you can imagine (and smelling like it, too), enough jamon to feed an army hanging from the ceilings, and the most incredibly delicious looking produce I have ever seen. I spent maybe ten minutes taking pictures of the Valencia oranges, and an hour just wandering around wondering how in the world people who go to Valencia for the day decide what to buy.
After being seduced by the oranges and strawberries, I thought I would be really nice and buy some dried fruit from a fairly neglected stall, supervised by a really sweet looking older man who didn't look like he got a lot of customers. There was a good reason for this, as I discovered almost immediately, as he was the absolute meanest person I have met on the trip so far, and I practically had to beg for my dried peaches. They turned out to be worth it, though...and for any of you who wish to avoid arguments with crotchety old men in Valenican markets in the future, peaches are melocotones and presseguer in Spanish and Catalan (he made sure I learned these words and could say them correctly before he handed the fruit over).
As the day was getting hot, and I would be spending a lot of it sitting on trains, I decided to take my Mercado loot and sit in Valencia's Jardin Botanico, which even my Valencia-hating guide book admitted was worth seeing. The garden is beautiful, and unique: while Madrid's lush botanic garden was intoxicating, full of giant multi-colored irises, looming pine trees, and fragrant vines, Valencia's is relaxing, rejuvenating...a retreat. Actually, as I read on the very informative board at the entrance, it was started in 1567 by la Universitat de Valencia as an orchard exclusively for medicinal plants, and remained so for over 200 years. And while most of the garden has been redesigned along more aesthetic principles, it still bears a studious, pragmatic, and slightly utilitarian look in some places. I sat in the back part of the garden on a bench in the shade, near an old fountain where I observed many visitors washing their hands and feet, and cats lapping up water (the garden is home to a pack of cats who wander around very aware of how adorable they are and how much attention they deserve, and being fed and cared for by the gardeners. One posed very nicely for a photo shoot in the sun, and three or four prowled around me the whole time I sat there eating lunch).
My day in Valencia passed so quickly, and therefore had me slightly worrying about the passage of time on the rest of the trip. In just a few hours I would be installed at the yoga retreat, the 'main attraction' and biggest unknown of the trip, and leaving Valencia I started to get the smallest nagging little doubts about just what the heck I thought I was going to do in the mountainous Catalunyan countryside for a MONTH, when there was so much more of Spain to see and so little time to see it. Passing, on the second stage of my train journey from Valencia to lÀmpolla, the dry red earth, low rolling fields, scrubby olive and orange trees, and increasingly impressive clefted mountain peaks of the Costa Daurada, little waves of nervousness ebbed around me, not at all helped by the fact that Renfe Regional trains do not announce their stops (nor do the train doors open automatically or for very long), and as my arrival time drew near I was constantly craning my neck in all directions trying to figure out where we were.
Views of the ocean helped to calm me down, as did the gorgeous rows of Italian cypress lining hillsides. Completely incongruous little factory towns (complete with big industrial buildings, tons of billboards, even what looked like a nuclear plant) appeared occasionally, looking so out of place, and I would soon be finding out a lot (from my host, Sarah, and her mom, Cherry) about the lives and history of the Catalunyans who live in them.
But those stories, and first impressions of the campo, will have to wait until next time.
Adeu, my friends, que vagi bé.
Wednesday 18 May 2011
Si, Madrid es la hostia
This phrase, Jeremy tells me, literally translates to: ´Madrid is the communion wafer.´ It is used by Madrileños, however, and by people who are smart enough to recognize the city´s greatness, to pretty much mean ´Madrid is the bomb.´I was so excited when he explained this phrase to me, because I thought for a second that my Madrid-as-hostess description was going to prove me both travel-savvy and also psychic. But I´ll settle for being a tourist who just gets it. Since I left Madrid almost a week ago, but faithfully wrote lots of stuff down on paper, you´re going to get an interesting and possibly incomprehensible mix of real-time and reflection writing, but I hope you´ll just skip anything you find too boring and let the good parts convince you to abandon your various posts in the world and head to España as soon as humanly possible.
It is almost impossible to miss how passionate Madrileños are about their city. Everyone, it seemed, was just enjoying it. Walking around, sitting around at outdoor cafe tables or in the park... so many places where I expected to find tourists, I found locals. Running into a massive crowd in Pl. del Sol on my way to the Prado from the Palace, I discovered that Real Madrid (the city´s football team) had crushed last night´s opponent 4-0 and was now parading off a bus in the middle of the square cheered by hundeds of fans who just showed up, in the middle of a Wednesday, to stand around for a couple hours and see them walk off a bus and into a building, which took approximately 3 minutes. Just as I was starting to get the feeling that spending 5 hours in a museum was possibly not the best way to enjoy this auspicious afternoon, I was invited to lunch with Daphne, Wendy and Panagiotis (please forgive me, dear friends, if I spelled that wrong) and got to spend the mid-day hours the way any respectable Madrileña would: that is, sitting around eating delicious tapas and enjoying equally delicious conversation. I would never have survived the Prado without it.
On the subject of massive museums:
If I ever get to design one, I have decided to simply line all the gallery floors with mattresses and pillows, and tilt all the paintings floorward (sculptures, I understand, may present a problem, but I´m sure we could figure it out). This way, visitors could simply roll from painting to painting, avoiding the sore feet and back-aches that unfortunately accompany great art these days, and no doubt discourage many people from visiting museums. Additionally, if like me you prefer to wander until something in the collection floors you, there would be a nice soft surface to break your fall and allow you to lie there in a stunned daze staring at whatever it is... until, inevitably, someone either rolls into you or falls on top of you, somewhat breaking the spell.
Clearly there are a few design flaws to be worked out.
But something tells me people would get on board with this idea, not only because it would be really fun, but also because there is a real need for some kind of cushioning when a true connoisseur steps in front of a work of genius. Phil, sadly, had to resort to a sort of crouch on the floor of the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum the day following my trip to the Prado, after a pure, unadulterated bolt of German Impressionism shot through him with not even a bench in sight.
More than any other museum, I think, the Thyssen should consider the mattress idea. Not only because (like many museums) it is absolutely stuffed with incredible pieces perfectly capable of making anyone lose the strength to stand, but also because it is organized chronologically (instead of by genre, which is only partially chronological) and visitors are meant to travel through the building almost like a chess piece moving across the board. Whether you are a diagonally inclined bishop or a skip-two-and-look-at-one-to-the-left knight, the other side of the board is everyone´s collective goal, and you get there pretty much regardless of what your path looks like (or whether the museum attendents have to forcibly remove you as the place is closing). The relaxed, reclining style of mattress viewing would also be perfectly compatible with the feel of the collection, which comes from one family´s estate. It is easy to get the feeling that every single piece you see was once someone´s favorite thing to look at in the whole world. And that´s why they bought it, and that´s why you get to see it in the museum today. Although ´The Worker Photography Movement, 1926-1939´ in the Reina Sofia won the prize for most mind-blowing Madrid museum experience on this trip, I think, like Wendy, I would prefer to visit the Thyssen again and again... especially once they install the mattresses.
Stay tuned for more about a night out with Charles (my Couchsurfing host), Venezuelan soap stars, and 5 hours in Valencia.
Tales of the Costa Daurada, (including goats, olive groves, and Ayurvedic healing) to follow.
It is almost impossible to miss how passionate Madrileños are about their city. Everyone, it seemed, was just enjoying it. Walking around, sitting around at outdoor cafe tables or in the park... so many places where I expected to find tourists, I found locals. Running into a massive crowd in Pl. del Sol on my way to the Prado from the Palace, I discovered that Real Madrid (the city´s football team) had crushed last night´s opponent 4-0 and was now parading off a bus in the middle of the square cheered by hundeds of fans who just showed up, in the middle of a Wednesday, to stand around for a couple hours and see them walk off a bus and into a building, which took approximately 3 minutes. Just as I was starting to get the feeling that spending 5 hours in a museum was possibly not the best way to enjoy this auspicious afternoon, I was invited to lunch with Daphne, Wendy and Panagiotis (please forgive me, dear friends, if I spelled that wrong) and got to spend the mid-day hours the way any respectable Madrileña would: that is, sitting around eating delicious tapas and enjoying equally delicious conversation. I would never have survived the Prado without it.
On the subject of massive museums:
If I ever get to design one, I have decided to simply line all the gallery floors with mattresses and pillows, and tilt all the paintings floorward (sculptures, I understand, may present a problem, but I´m sure we could figure it out). This way, visitors could simply roll from painting to painting, avoiding the sore feet and back-aches that unfortunately accompany great art these days, and no doubt discourage many people from visiting museums. Additionally, if like me you prefer to wander until something in the collection floors you, there would be a nice soft surface to break your fall and allow you to lie there in a stunned daze staring at whatever it is... until, inevitably, someone either rolls into you or falls on top of you, somewhat breaking the spell.
Clearly there are a few design flaws to be worked out.
But something tells me people would get on board with this idea, not only because it would be really fun, but also because there is a real need for some kind of cushioning when a true connoisseur steps in front of a work of genius. Phil, sadly, had to resort to a sort of crouch on the floor of the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum the day following my trip to the Prado, after a pure, unadulterated bolt of German Impressionism shot through him with not even a bench in sight.
More than any other museum, I think, the Thyssen should consider the mattress idea. Not only because (like many museums) it is absolutely stuffed with incredible pieces perfectly capable of making anyone lose the strength to stand, but also because it is organized chronologically (instead of by genre, which is only partially chronological) and visitors are meant to travel through the building almost like a chess piece moving across the board. Whether you are a diagonally inclined bishop or a skip-two-and-look-at-one-to-the-left knight, the other side of the board is everyone´s collective goal, and you get there pretty much regardless of what your path looks like (or whether the museum attendents have to forcibly remove you as the place is closing). The relaxed, reclining style of mattress viewing would also be perfectly compatible with the feel of the collection, which comes from one family´s estate. It is easy to get the feeling that every single piece you see was once someone´s favorite thing to look at in the whole world. And that´s why they bought it, and that´s why you get to see it in the museum today. Although ´The Worker Photography Movement, 1926-1939´ in the Reina Sofia won the prize for most mind-blowing Madrid museum experience on this trip, I think, like Wendy, I would prefer to visit the Thyssen again and again... especially once they install the mattresses.
Stay tuned for more about a night out with Charles (my Couchsurfing host), Venezuelan soap stars, and 5 hours in Valencia.
Tales of the Costa Daurada, (including goats, olive groves, and Ayurvedic healing) to follow.
Tuesday 10 May 2011
Madrid, te amo
Since I seem to be miraculously awake, I thought I might as well get this thing off to a good start.
I am sitting, at this moment, in an absolutely perfect and (for now) indescribably charming apartment in the slightly northern part of Madrid (for those who are familiar, near Bilbao). I have been welcomed here for three days by the kind, hospitable, and fascinating Charles--psychoanalyst and couch-surfing host extraordinaire-- who in the space of five minutes made me feel as if we´d known each other for years and were the best of friends (probably indicative of his style as a clinician...also I feel I should mention that he has an adorable little Freud doll in his bathroom, a somewhat perfect location for him). I am planning to collapse on his couch for a nap as soon as I finish this, because we are going out for a proper Madrid dinner around 9 o´clock, but first things first: some things are clamoring to be told.
Most important of these things, perhaps, is that I seem to have arrived on the very best day Madrid has ever seen. The sky is a cloudless blue, and warm (but not hot) sunlight sifts gently through the branches of trees that line every street. Stepping out of the metro to the tunes of a busking accordian player, I felt all the symptoms of city-love rush in on me, and felt not even a trace of the nervousness or bewilderment that sometimes intrudes on a brand new experience. Madrid is, so far, a supreme hostess. `You´re tired?' she perceives, `Here´s a shaded bench on every pleasant corner. You´re thirsty? Here are a dozen welcoming cafes on every street.´ Granted, my opinion of her has only had a few hours to form, but so far, I´m impressed.
And having passed what seemed like an entire season last week, and an accelerated dusk to dark to dawn on the plane last night, I am more than primed for a hostess like Madrid. More than ready to sit down on every bench I see and take in all this slow, gentle summer. To practice measuring, as one of my favorite imaginary people does, the ocean by the cupful, and to observe these elderly couples reading the paper, these shoes being shined, those people passing by and passing by like a parade.
At least, for the next three days.
Sunday 8 May 2011
Words from the road
'Instead of a Letter' is the title of a beautiful memoir by Diana Athill, one of my favorite writers and all time favorite people. She was born in 1917, and is responsible for ushering into print some of the most brilliant writing of the last century. Her memoirs are unbelieveably well written, and impossibly exciting. Stealing her title for this little travel experiment is... well... ironic at best.
But I hope, over the coming weeks, that if a little wave of curiosity should break gently over your mind, you will be able to still those questioning waters with a little glance in this direction. It won't, of course, be in my power to carve any new notches on the worn bed posts of travel writing, but for those few who may care to follow in my modest footsteps this summer, I hope to provide a few moments of amusement, and to keep from disappearing altogether from the lives of you lovely, important, and much missed people.
Much love,
Amelia
But I hope, over the coming weeks, that if a little wave of curiosity should break gently over your mind, you will be able to still those questioning waters with a little glance in this direction. It won't, of course, be in my power to carve any new notches on the worn bed posts of travel writing, but for those few who may care to follow in my modest footsteps this summer, I hope to provide a few moments of amusement, and to keep from disappearing altogether from the lives of you lovely, important, and much missed people.
Much love,
Amelia
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