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Starting from the time we jumped into a cab outside our hostal room in Sevilla at 1pm on 12/28, we spent a grand total of 41.25 hours in transit by the time we walked in the front door last night at a little after 11. It was a 7 hour bus ride from Sevilla to Lisbon, then another cab to the airport there (we didn't have the heart to brave a bus with all our luggage in tow), then we camped out in the airport in Lisbon from about 10pm to 5:50 am when our flight left for Amsterdam. We had a nice little spot, in an alcove next to some shrubs, partly hidden, and even had an outlet to recharge my iPod, which was an absolute necessity. Then a 3 hour flight to Amsterdam with barely enough time to go through passport control and immigration and get on the next plane, which was scheduled to be a 10 hour and 10 minute flight to Seattle.
I say 'scheduled' here, because that's not how it worked out. Somewhere over North-central Canada, a young man started having some severe abdominal pain, and after consultation with medical personnel on board and the Mayo clinic by phone, the decision was made for an emergency landing in beautiful Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Sure looked cold there. It was about a 2 hour delay as they took the guy from the plane and then emptied the baggage holds in search of his bags, then reloaded and refueled and de-iced and everything else.
By the time we got to Seattle, we and everyone else had missed our connecting flights. From the looks of Sea-Tac airport, everyone else from everywhere had missed their flights, too. I've never seen such chaos and confusion in an airport in my life. We were initially booked on separate flights, with me not getting in until 11 or so, but with a bit of work and coercion we both got onto a 6:30 flight. But that was delayed, and delayed, and then our bags were shipped on a different flight, and neither of us ended up getting in until about 9:30 anyway. Then we waited for our bags (which still haven't shown up!), and our friend David waited for us, quite patiently.
So, at the end of it all, we made it home safe and sound, if a bit bleary-eyed and slightly delusional from lack of sleep. Slept like the dead last night in our own wonderful bed.
Strange to look out the window and see Boise. Still haven't gotten over the fact that we're back and life has gone on and everything is still everything, but we'll get there.
Thanks for reading this. I've enjoyed writing it and hope you've enjoyed it as well.
And remember, if you want to, check back in a week or two and it'll be a more coherent and complete work, including photos and all the stuff I've forgotten about or haven't had time to write.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Monday, December 27, 2004
TAPAS
All day long and well into the night, we wander the streets in a form of barhopping that takes that art to an entirely new level. Tapas have become a revolution in our experience of dining, one that we have embraced wholeheartedly.
Our favorite so far has got to be the grilled cod we had at Bar Europa, a thick chunk about 2 inches high and 2 inches around, sat next to a mound of some paste-like, sugar-egg sauce and sprinkled with green olives, capers, and tiny marinated onions. We got this one our first afternoon here, enjoyed with a beer and a glass of sangria, and followed by a lovely lamb kebob served over cous cous flavored with parsley and cinnamon. We knew immediately that we would be into this tapas thing.
Tapas common to most menus include the solomillos or lomos, different cuts of loin pounded flat and flash-cooked on a flat grill, served with a choice of sauces made from black pepper or whiskey or roquefort or some manner of very mild chile puree. These are presented either alone or on cous cous or next to potatoes or, sometimes, on tiny soft little buns or rounds of baguette. Seafood makes appearances on every menu as well, little prawns and calamari the most prevalent, with all manner of fried and grilled fish as well. The more generous joints also offer thin steaks of tuna or salmon, often done with a creamy cheese topping or something similar to a pepper sauce.
Croquetas are everywhere as well, little breaded and fried tubes filled with fish or cheese or pork or prawns or just about anything else you can think of. Usually they come with some raw shredded veggies like lettuce or cabbage or carrot, and often a mayonaissey sauce on the side.
Cathy is fond of the chiles rellenos, small mild versions of our Mexican favorites, stuffed with ham and cheese or prosciutto or fish or vegetables, cooked on a flat grill in the best of instances, breaded and deep-fried in the less-desireable ones.
Potatoes also take centerplate here, prepared boiled or grilled or fried, marinated in peppers and wine or topped with bitey cheese or, a very common twist, served cold, having been stored in a really nice vinegar, topped with fresh chives or olives or capers or strips of grilled pepper.
This concept of spending an hour or so three or four times a day sitting down to eat a plate or two or three of these food items, always with a small beer, is one of the best ways to mark time that I can think of, a time to catch up or say hi or just pause and enjoy yourself for a bit. They are pretty much all between 1 and 2 euros each, the more fancy ones approaching 3 euros, but we always walk away for between 5 and 6 bucks, warm and happy inside, looking for the next best place to stop.
All day long and well into the night, we wander the streets in a form of barhopping that takes that art to an entirely new level. Tapas have become a revolution in our experience of dining, one that we have embraced wholeheartedly.
Our favorite so far has got to be the grilled cod we had at Bar Europa, a thick chunk about 2 inches high and 2 inches around, sat next to a mound of some paste-like, sugar-egg sauce and sprinkled with green olives, capers, and tiny marinated onions. We got this one our first afternoon here, enjoyed with a beer and a glass of sangria, and followed by a lovely lamb kebob served over cous cous flavored with parsley and cinnamon. We knew immediately that we would be into this tapas thing.
Tapas common to most menus include the solomillos or lomos, different cuts of loin pounded flat and flash-cooked on a flat grill, served with a choice of sauces made from black pepper or whiskey or roquefort or some manner of very mild chile puree. These are presented either alone or on cous cous or next to potatoes or, sometimes, on tiny soft little buns or rounds of baguette. Seafood makes appearances on every menu as well, little prawns and calamari the most prevalent, with all manner of fried and grilled fish as well. The more generous joints also offer thin steaks of tuna or salmon, often done with a creamy cheese topping or something similar to a pepper sauce.
Croquetas are everywhere as well, little breaded and fried tubes filled with fish or cheese or pork or prawns or just about anything else you can think of. Usually they come with some raw shredded veggies like lettuce or cabbage or carrot, and often a mayonaissey sauce on the side.
Cathy is fond of the chiles rellenos, small mild versions of our Mexican favorites, stuffed with ham and cheese or prosciutto or fish or vegetables, cooked on a flat grill in the best of instances, breaded and deep-fried in the less-desireable ones.
Potatoes also take centerplate here, prepared boiled or grilled or fried, marinated in peppers and wine or topped with bitey cheese or, a very common twist, served cold, having been stored in a really nice vinegar, topped with fresh chives or olives or capers or strips of grilled pepper.
This concept of spending an hour or so three or four times a day sitting down to eat a plate or two or three of these food items, always with a small beer, is one of the best ways to mark time that I can think of, a time to catch up or say hi or just pause and enjoy yourself for a bit. They are pretty much all between 1 and 2 euros each, the more fancy ones approaching 3 euros, but we always walk away for between 5 and 6 bucks, warm and happy inside, looking for the next best place to stop.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Navidad de Flamenco!
A Merry Christmas and Feliz Navidad to all of you.
We spent our holiday in the most wonderful way, day and night, and I´d like to try to share it here.
We started the day with a late breakfast of tapas and beer. 11am, sitting in a cafe next to a large park and garden, sipping cold cerveza and taking turns on a cold salad of squid and prawns and vegetables a la escabeche. Strange and wonderful it was, and an early indication of the different sort of day we'd have.
We wandered the streets of the old city after this breakfast, still a bit hungry and wondering what we'd find open on the holiday. We would not be disappointed. There were a number of tapas bars open, and we took turns stopping in one after the next, sampling small plates of food as the morning turned to afternoon. After a brief time in the square behind the main cathedral, sitting and listening to a couple play guitar and violin, we decided to bite the bullet and part with a whopping 30 euros to take a horse-carriage ride around the city. I was skeptical (no shock to most of you, I´m sure), but it was a wonderful experience, huddling together in the cushy seat as our guide announced all the important structures of the various plazas around town. There were lots of people walking around and smiling, and the clip-clop of hooves and the sights and sounds of the city from our springy perch put us in the most festive of moods. It was quite romantic and beautiful, I admit, much to my pleasure.
After our ride, we had--surprise surprise--more tapas, stopping off one more time on the way back to our room for an afternoon nap. We were awakened 2 hours later by a phone call from Texas--'Hola?' I said. 'Hola d--khead!' came the answer from the other end. My brother Eric in his traditional holiday greeting, and I have to say it felt good to hear it. We talked at length (this 10-10-987 thing is a miracle, talking across the Atlantic for a measly 3 cents a minute), and the phone was passed from he to Mom to Dad, and then, truly, it felt like Christmas, imagining the slow unwrapping of presents and the cup after cup of coffee and the breakfast and the whole ritual that we were missing this year. After that, Cathy's mom called from Kansas City, and she got to talk to her as well as her cousin Matt (Congrats on the new baby! What a holiday gift!), and she too felt a warm glow that can only come from touching base with home on a day like this.
So then, fully grounded, we left our room and headed out into the evening. A stop at a tapas joint where we had a wonderfully broken conversation with two friendly older Spanish ladies who kept offering their food to Cathy (she did look hungry) led to more wandering and more beer and food and, eventually, we poked our heads into an unsigned doorway where we suspected something special inside. And indeed it was. La Carboneria, a converted coal-yard and one of the foremost flamenco haunts in this city lurked behind the wall, and it was an experience of a lifetime.
We entered into a small bar room with a piano at one end and lines of tables with small scattered enclaves around. The music was mellow, the inhabitants scattered, but it was early yet--only 10:30. Further investigation led us to a large back room, like a warehouse without the high ceiling, with rows and rows of low tables, a long bar, and at the far end, a foot high stage with four empty wooden chairs backed against the wall. We assumed a position at a table stage-right with the clearest angle for photos we could find, secured a large pitcher of sangria, and prepared for the show. One guitarrist, two men in normal clothes (stylish, of course), and a lone female in full flamenco regalia took the stage. No microphones or amps, not even a set of castanets, but the noise and the movement and the entire show proved absolutely wonderful. The dancer controlled the room, silencing the crowd with a single squinty glance, and as she twirled and shouted and waved her arms and stomped her feet, the guitarrist strummed for all he was worth, and the two men kept up a set of songs, seemingly improvised line after line, one after the other. The whole show continued in this vein, not so much a set of songs as a continual interplay, a musical and physical conversation between them, the crowd shouting 'Ole!' when it seemed appropriate, clapping like mad at any break. It was just fantastic.
We sat through the whole show, two sets worth, before adjourning to the other room for a last beer by the fireplace. In there, the piano was in demand, one player after another taking his turn at the bench and doing his best to get the crowd behind him. In a far corner a young Spanish guy was playing guitar and singing and clapping with a few friends, and all he asked in return was a constant supply of beer and cigarettes. We obliged some and spent the remainder of the evening in this corner, meeting people and trying to communicate (with much success, really--music and wine and beer loosen tongues and make friends fast), having the time of our lives. Somehow I kept Cathy out until 4 in the morning, and neither of us regretted sleeping the morning away as a result.
We're trying to figure out a way to spend the remainder of our time here in Sevilla, though we have to fly home from Lisbon. It'll take some doing, and probably one very very long day of traveling come Wednesday, but such is the appeal of this place.
So, again, happy holidays to everyone. The trip is winding down, we'll be home soon, but I hope for more experiences to record here before we leave.
And one further note: For you who are interested, please check back to this site in another week or two, as after we get home I plan to overhaul the journal aspects, filling in the inevitable blanks, and adding a whole mess of photographs to make the experience more complete. Cathy´s getting some amazing shots here, and I can´t wait to put it all together.
A Merry Christmas and Feliz Navidad to all of you.
We spent our holiday in the most wonderful way, day and night, and I´d like to try to share it here.
We started the day with a late breakfast of tapas and beer. 11am, sitting in a cafe next to a large park and garden, sipping cold cerveza and taking turns on a cold salad of squid and prawns and vegetables a la escabeche. Strange and wonderful it was, and an early indication of the different sort of day we'd have.
We wandered the streets of the old city after this breakfast, still a bit hungry and wondering what we'd find open on the holiday. We would not be disappointed. There were a number of tapas bars open, and we took turns stopping in one after the next, sampling small plates of food as the morning turned to afternoon. After a brief time in the square behind the main cathedral, sitting and listening to a couple play guitar and violin, we decided to bite the bullet and part with a whopping 30 euros to take a horse-carriage ride around the city. I was skeptical (no shock to most of you, I´m sure), but it was a wonderful experience, huddling together in the cushy seat as our guide announced all the important structures of the various plazas around town. There were lots of people walking around and smiling, and the clip-clop of hooves and the sights and sounds of the city from our springy perch put us in the most festive of moods. It was quite romantic and beautiful, I admit, much to my pleasure.
After our ride, we had--surprise surprise--more tapas, stopping off one more time on the way back to our room for an afternoon nap. We were awakened 2 hours later by a phone call from Texas--'Hola?' I said. 'Hola d--khead!' came the answer from the other end. My brother Eric in his traditional holiday greeting, and I have to say it felt good to hear it. We talked at length (this 10-10-987 thing is a miracle, talking across the Atlantic for a measly 3 cents a minute), and the phone was passed from he to Mom to Dad, and then, truly, it felt like Christmas, imagining the slow unwrapping of presents and the cup after cup of coffee and the breakfast and the whole ritual that we were missing this year. After that, Cathy's mom called from Kansas City, and she got to talk to her as well as her cousin Matt (Congrats on the new baby! What a holiday gift!), and she too felt a warm glow that can only come from touching base with home on a day like this.
So then, fully grounded, we left our room and headed out into the evening. A stop at a tapas joint where we had a wonderfully broken conversation with two friendly older Spanish ladies who kept offering their food to Cathy (she did look hungry) led to more wandering and more beer and food and, eventually, we poked our heads into an unsigned doorway where we suspected something special inside. And indeed it was. La Carboneria, a converted coal-yard and one of the foremost flamenco haunts in this city lurked behind the wall, and it was an experience of a lifetime.
We entered into a small bar room with a piano at one end and lines of tables with small scattered enclaves around. The music was mellow, the inhabitants scattered, but it was early yet--only 10:30. Further investigation led us to a large back room, like a warehouse without the high ceiling, with rows and rows of low tables, a long bar, and at the far end, a foot high stage with four empty wooden chairs backed against the wall. We assumed a position at a table stage-right with the clearest angle for photos we could find, secured a large pitcher of sangria, and prepared for the show. One guitarrist, two men in normal clothes (stylish, of course), and a lone female in full flamenco regalia took the stage. No microphones or amps, not even a set of castanets, but the noise and the movement and the entire show proved absolutely wonderful. The dancer controlled the room, silencing the crowd with a single squinty glance, and as she twirled and shouted and waved her arms and stomped her feet, the guitarrist strummed for all he was worth, and the two men kept up a set of songs, seemingly improvised line after line, one after the other. The whole show continued in this vein, not so much a set of songs as a continual interplay, a musical and physical conversation between them, the crowd shouting 'Ole!' when it seemed appropriate, clapping like mad at any break. It was just fantastic.
We sat through the whole show, two sets worth, before adjourning to the other room for a last beer by the fireplace. In there, the piano was in demand, one player after another taking his turn at the bench and doing his best to get the crowd behind him. In a far corner a young Spanish guy was playing guitar and singing and clapping with a few friends, and all he asked in return was a constant supply of beer and cigarettes. We obliged some and spent the remainder of the evening in this corner, meeting people and trying to communicate (with much success, really--music and wine and beer loosen tongues and make friends fast), having the time of our lives. Somehow I kept Cathy out until 4 in the morning, and neither of us regretted sleeping the morning away as a result.
We're trying to figure out a way to spend the remainder of our time here in Sevilla, though we have to fly home from Lisbon. It'll take some doing, and probably one very very long day of traveling come Wednesday, but such is the appeal of this place.
So, again, happy holidays to everyone. The trip is winding down, we'll be home soon, but I hope for more experiences to record here before we leave.
And one further note: For you who are interested, please check back to this site in another week or two, as after we get home I plan to overhaul the journal aspects, filling in the inevitable blanks, and adding a whole mess of photographs to make the experience more complete. Cathy´s getting some amazing shots here, and I can´t wait to put it all together.
Christmas Eve in Sevilla
We hope all who are reading this had a wonderful Christmas and Christmas Eve. Ours has been a Christmas like no other we´ve had, and one we will not soon forget.
It was a solid 2 days here in the amazing city of Sevilla before I had a moment to sit and write in my journal, let alone get access to and write in th¡s blog, and that in itself is very telling. In the same way my first trip to San Francisco of last spring was enlightening, in that I can understand why so many people from around the world claim it as their favorite city in the world, I now understand as well the hold that Sevilla puts on those who visit here. This is a city like no other I´ve visited, and I find myself not wanting to leave, longing for it already, even though I am still here. It´s odd and sort of ridiculous, but I guess that´s a product of our impending departure, of my knowing that our time here is very short.
The people here have an obvious--overwhelming, even--appreciation for the living of life, for the squeezing of pleasure out of all parts of the day. We are staying in El Centro, the center of the old city, where the streets are narrow and cobbled and there are restaurants and cafes and tapas bars (glorious, wonderful tapas bars) pretty much everywhere. We walk and we walk and we walk and still we look around us in amazement and joy.
On Christmas Eve, our first full day here, we took in the streets of our neighborhood and the adjoining Barrio de Santa Cruz. They eat and drink all day here--all day and all night--and we did as much keepng up as we could. The thing is, for the holidays, the hours of operation have been a bit off, and we found ourselves tired and hungry late into the night, as the locals for once spent the evening at home. We've since gotten onto the right schedule, though, and now all is well.
The churches here, of which there are so many it´s mind-boggling, opened to tourists for Christmas Eve services, and Cathy and I popped into a few in search of something glorious, with mixed results. The churches we went into were themselves awe-inspiring pieces of architecture, cavernous rooms with series of arches and altars and paintings and statues and gilded everything that seemed every one to be the work of ages and multitudes. Gorgeous structures testifying to the depth of commitment to religion and God in this city. But the services--well, we'll just say that I have experienced far more rousing hours of sermon and song in little wooden A-frame churches in the cornfields of suburban Illinois. Weird to experience the going-through of the motions in these places, to sense a lack of inspiration bred from familiarity in these buildings where I, no frequent participator in rituals myself, felt such amazement. But, also comforting to know that the sentiment comes not from the finery and the grandiosity, but from the hearts of those involved. Nothing against these people and their worship, to be sure, just the observation that a mass is a mass is a mass.
At midnight, we entered the main cathedral of the city, one of the largest structures of its kind in the world. Christopher Columbus´sepulcher is inside--his remains, as far as anyone knows (though no one is 100% sure) inside, having been brought back from Cuba around 1899 or so. Kings and queens and bishops and all other important folk are buried beneath the main floor, and they have a pipe organ that´s as big as a small apartment building inside. Just gigantic, and the sound it made was impressive indeed. We ended the night after this, tired from walking and looking forward to the next day.
That was Chrismtas Eve. Christmas would be very different.
We hope all who are reading this had a wonderful Christmas and Christmas Eve. Ours has been a Christmas like no other we´ve had, and one we will not soon forget.
It was a solid 2 days here in the amazing city of Sevilla before I had a moment to sit and write in my journal, let alone get access to and write in th¡s blog, and that in itself is very telling. In the same way my first trip to San Francisco of last spring was enlightening, in that I can understand why so many people from around the world claim it as their favorite city in the world, I now understand as well the hold that Sevilla puts on those who visit here. This is a city like no other I´ve visited, and I find myself not wanting to leave, longing for it already, even though I am still here. It´s odd and sort of ridiculous, but I guess that´s a product of our impending departure, of my knowing that our time here is very short.
The people here have an obvious--overwhelming, even--appreciation for the living of life, for the squeezing of pleasure out of all parts of the day. We are staying in El Centro, the center of the old city, where the streets are narrow and cobbled and there are restaurants and cafes and tapas bars (glorious, wonderful tapas bars) pretty much everywhere. We walk and we walk and we walk and still we look around us in amazement and joy.
On Christmas Eve, our first full day here, we took in the streets of our neighborhood and the adjoining Barrio de Santa Cruz. They eat and drink all day here--all day and all night--and we did as much keepng up as we could. The thing is, for the holidays, the hours of operation have been a bit off, and we found ourselves tired and hungry late into the night, as the locals for once spent the evening at home. We've since gotten onto the right schedule, though, and now all is well.
The churches here, of which there are so many it´s mind-boggling, opened to tourists for Christmas Eve services, and Cathy and I popped into a few in search of something glorious, with mixed results. The churches we went into were themselves awe-inspiring pieces of architecture, cavernous rooms with series of arches and altars and paintings and statues and gilded everything that seemed every one to be the work of ages and multitudes. Gorgeous structures testifying to the depth of commitment to religion and God in this city. But the services--well, we'll just say that I have experienced far more rousing hours of sermon and song in little wooden A-frame churches in the cornfields of suburban Illinois. Weird to experience the going-through of the motions in these places, to sense a lack of inspiration bred from familiarity in these buildings where I, no frequent participator in rituals myself, felt such amazement. But, also comforting to know that the sentiment comes not from the finery and the grandiosity, but from the hearts of those involved. Nothing against these people and their worship, to be sure, just the observation that a mass is a mass is a mass.
At midnight, we entered the main cathedral of the city, one of the largest structures of its kind in the world. Christopher Columbus´sepulcher is inside--his remains, as far as anyone knows (though no one is 100% sure) inside, having been brought back from Cuba around 1899 or so. Kings and queens and bishops and all other important folk are buried beneath the main floor, and they have a pipe organ that´s as big as a small apartment building inside. Just gigantic, and the sound it made was impressive indeed. We ended the night after this, tired from walking and looking forward to the next day.
That was Chrismtas Eve. Christmas would be very different.
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