*note the similarity between me and that bottle dude on the upper right .. hey-o!*
and to discount food and drink consumption!
(and eventually to Lyon!)
I manage to grouch the hostel breakfast fascist into giving us 2 croissants though we were 3 minutes late to breakfast. Take that! I have lived in France, I can grouch my way to what I want with the best of em. I used to nice my way…but I have learned that when in Rome…give the facists enough attitude that they’ll give you a frickin’ croissant! (that reminds me, there’s a student in my class who’s last name is Croissant. Someday he’s gointg to be Mr. Croissant! Can we just think about that?)
Then we go to Placa Del Sol, the main placa in Madrid. Madrid is, by the way, not on a grid system, so its really anyone’s best guess how to get one place to the other. We pretty much stuck to our neighborhood, and a lovely neighborhood it was! And we didn’t do so bad getting’ around, having somewhat navigated the streets of Old City in philly. We tried to go to Placa Real, the big old palace in Madrid…also known as Placa Real(ly Boring and really expensive to go inside), so we took some pictures outside and then wandered to elusive Chatas, a bar recommended by Claudia, but it was closed. So we get little toasty things somewhere else. I specifically asked for tap water, but I actually thought I saw a sea monkey in it. Whatever! Emilie really liked “salomorejo” that was on one of our toasts.
We then wandered to Placa Santa Ana, which I believe is where Hemmingway used to chill. We had beer, and I ate some olives (and they were SO GOOD). We sat next to some guys that Emilie decided were from the Netherlands, or they were Flemish. Emilie’s better at those kooky northern European Nordic languages. I was like,.. ?
Next up was fun with the Hapsburgs at the Prado. Emilie’s history teacher in high school was apt enough to point out that all the Hapsburgs were sortof pasty inbred mutant lookin’ people(come to think about it, did my history teacher mention this? I feel like he would’ve), and there were Hapsburgs to spare at the Prado – and the Hapbsburgs did not disappoint. Also saw the painting that Picasso re-did a million times called, something I forgot. There was a baby Hapsburg prominently featured! In a weird and rather unimpressive twist of fate we saw an old frat guy we both knew from Penn. It was unimpressive b/c he was not and is not awesome, so we were like, hey, fancy meeting you, yeah, peace out creeper. Anyone else we would’ve been like, hey, come jump on our magic carpet ride!
When we left the Prado it was rainin’, but that was ok, b/c bad guys don’t like rain! And we took Huertas back and we found the famed Sanabresa restaurant on the Via Del l’amor di dio or something - recommended by Claudia. We went home, had a beer, I wore the same thing and went to Sanabresa for a meal for 2 including a bottle of house wine for all of 19 euros (I tipped like, 3 euros, too – b/c at 17 euros for 2, I can afford to be a baller!)
Here’s what we had (all of which was delicious, btw):
Lori:
Paella Valencia (there were little baby crabs in it! ?)
Veal and French fries
Tarte helado (ice cream tarte, hey-o!)
Em.
Fried aubergines (eggplants)
Garlic chicken with French fries
Flan with cool little thick sweet whipped cream scoops on either side
We talked, we took our time, we drank our wine, it was just pretty much totally lovely.
We leave and we wander. We take a left. We take another left. We’re probably on huertas. It’s raining. My instincts told me to go to this little place in the middle of a somewhat deserted street, next to a Spanish tailor (I think) storefront.
Turns out this place is awesome, and by far my favorite place of the whole trip pretty much. Its sortof a bull fighting theme, but its not intentionally themed, just looks like the owners like bullfighting, and cool barfronts….unassuming, but cool. Oh I was so loving it! I made Emilie, who was anxious about her outsider status only briefly, order us up some beers. We ended up drinking a couple more sangrias (that they made up in front of us – wine, whiskey, orange juice and some fruity fruits…intense, man) and we soaked up the ambiance. I spotted some Zara-clad lady just kickin’ it with some impromptu flamenco and I knew I had found a good bar.
Though it was mostly a stand around and chill bar, there were dudes busting some virile flamenco moves in between sangrias, and drunker guys just sitting at the bar broodingly clapping to what I imagine was a flamenco rhythm (I KNOW the music was flamenco, but thats about it), though I have yet to understand how that time signature works. Who cares!?
I perfected what I like to call the “Spanish I-have-a-boyfriend face” and only had to use it a couple times and always to good result. Emilie ended up making friends with the two bartenders who loved her, just as I’d promised her when she was worried about our outsider status...what’s not to love about a blonde sweedey sweede who speaks Spanish and her not Spanish (nor Spanish speaking, but I did have a cool hat) friend just inconscpicuously chillin’ all incognito-like? There is no choice but to love that. The drinks were so CHEAP.
It was just really cool.
We wandered away before the place closed, and found the hostel, where Emilie had creepy dreams about the creepers in Goya’s painting of people renouncing Jesus. That painting, and others at the Prado, were fodder for some creepy nightmares, so it was bound to happen.
Ok, so its Friday and we were going to be leaving on a plane for Geneva in the mid afternoon so we wandered to Pull and Bear (like a Spanish urban outfitters) an other places.
Some highlights from English phrases on Spanish shirts include, “Life is short – Live it – Love it – Make it Worth,” “ Retro Explotion” and “Hair New Sound Imagine.” You gotta love that. After this linguistic adventure through the back doors of fashion, we tried to go to Chatas, only to find that it was closed AGAIN. When do Spanish people frickin’ eat lunch? It’s a mystery, it really is.
So instead we went to Taverna de Tirso Demolina…it was a challenge, but it was open, and after some debate amongst our hangry selves (hungry+angry=hangry) --- and after the waitress continuing to speak to me in super speedy Spanish even after Emilie was like, she does not speak Spanish, nada (in Spanish), and I was like, saying god knows what in Fritalian -- we decided on some seriously delicious dishes - ground chorizo peccadillo in some delicious spicy oil something, some fries with an egg on them, and some way good mushrooms in a delish salty oil sauce. Mmm. Hearty, and really the first excellent hangover food I’ve had since arriving on this, the fine continent of my ancestors.
We get back to the hostel, and head for the plane. It took some doing to get to the right gate, but we got there, and we were on the plane! I had tomato juice! Instead of taking 22 hours on a bus/train – it took us 2 hours to get to Geneva, and then only about 1 more hour from Geneva straight to Lyon.
One more night out in Lyon found us drinking extremely alcoholic beers and watching Texas play Baylor in football, meeting some crazy swiss germans, Emilie being adorably but completely wasted at Flemming’s – a place I love b/c the beer is SO COLD, its like wow, Emilie rallying after having consumed 1,000 glasses of water and after having sung some songs of the 80s classics and of the obscure Swedish band persuasion, meeting Hensley and Caroline – best friend friends ever, went to some party where we drank some more wine and danced around vintage Lori-Emilie style, went to French people sing-along/jamming and rock-out time at “Atmosphere” and then bonding with Caroline b/c she was really excited I was sortof southern (! – I love caro, she’s super cool) at “Le Bec de Jazz” – some sortof jazz club where they play Ray Charles and other ray charles-esque artists…where was Otis, I ask?, telling 2 french guys to stop talking shit IN FRENCH (arête de dire tes conneries – so gratifying, even if not altogether grammatically sound)…they got the point/were shocked (one was like, she just said that ?!?) into shutting up about how George Bush this and Iraq that…seriously make it stop, Em had some french DJ named Clement – who felt the need to tell her that he respected women for some reason -- fall in love with her, and somehow Em and I disappeared out the door, wandered into a cab with relative ease (that never happens), made it home safe and we sang a song Emilie wrote about Carlos and Emilie passed out on my floor with her cell phone in her hand.
A night well spent!
What a vacation.
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