So there I was; stranded alone at a bus stop outside Calais with a suitcase, a rucksack and two euros seventy-five in my pocket. I managed to use the pictograms on the bus stop to figure out which bus would take me back into town. After wandering cluelessly around the city for an hour or so, I managed to find an affordable hotel and some food. I couldn’t get through to Qantas from my hotel phone that night, so I had to wait until the next day to try to straighten the whole mess out.
The following morning I made my way down to the Calais tourism office to begin my quest. I had to walk around the block a few times before I even started, since the office didn’t open until eleven o’clock. Apparently French tourists like to sleep in.
I got directions to an internet/phone café and got busy. The first place I rang was Qantas’ France office. I spoke to a friendly American man there, but unfortunately he told me he wasn’t able to change any bookings for London flights at his office, and he gave me a number for the London office. As you might imagine, at this point I wasn’t particularly optimistic about the possibility of getting any help at all from the English. As it happens I was right, but fortunately the English unhelpfulness extended as far as having their office shut completely. I was automatically patched through to the New Zealand office. It was a pleasant surprise to be asked “how cen Oi hilp you” from the other side of the world.
Thankfully the Kiwis knew exactly what had to happen. I could change my booking from “London to Adelaide” to “Paris to Adelaide” for only a small fee, but they would need a copy of my passport and a copy of the document denying me entry to the UK. Fortunately the internet/phone café was also a fax café. I sent all my papers from Calais to Aukland, and by lunch time the next day I was all sorted out to come home. Thank God for the Kiwis. And thanks for nothing, you stupid useless whinging Pommy bastards.
So now here I am at an internet point in Changi airport, Singapore. I’m almost two thirds of the way home, and killing time while I wait for my next flight. Buying a whopper meal with a credit card is a really strange sensation.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
31 August 2009
29 August 2009
Good Old Fashioned British Hospitality
Travelling on mainland Europe was great. It’s land full of culture, history and food, but, as I boarded a bus bound for London Town, I have to confess I was looking forward to getting to England. If for nothing else, for the feeling of heading for a place where I might fit in a bit better. A place that spoke my language (more or less). And a place where saying “I’m from Australia” wasn’t accompanied with an inherent feeling of “what the hell are you doing here?”
They call England the mother land, and while I think of Old Blighty as something more like a great-grandmother land these days, it was strangely comforting to know I was heading back to the Commonwealth, where a weary continental traveller could take his ease among friends before the long journey home.
“Ugh. You haven’t even filled out an immigration form, have you?”
This was my first taste of English hospitality, as I greeted the staff at the border security office in Calais, just before the entrance to the channel tunnel.
“Um… Can I have an immigration form please?” was my slightly aback-taken reply.
“Here. You really need to be better prepared than this. Go away and fill this out, then come back and see me.”
It was a fairly rude sort of introduction, but I knew it was just a long day. Once I could show him my passport and reassure him that I was just a passing traveller and not a threat to national security everything would be alright.
“Right, now let’s see here. You’re Australian?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re seeking entry to the UK for a period of 5 days?”
“That’s right.”
“And where are you staying during that time?”
“With my aunt in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?”
I started to notice the officer’s rather annoying habit of repeating everything I told him as a question, just to make sure I was aware of how unreasonable my responses obviously seemed to him. It was at about this point that I started to suspect things might not be going quite according to plan.
“And what is your aunt’s address in Oxford?”
“I don’t actually know. She’s picking me up form the bus stop.”
“Oh she’s picking you up, is she?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re staying with her until the second of September, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“And do you have your tickets for that flight with you now?”
Of course I didn’t. The people of a more sophisticated country might have realised that no-one uses print-outs of their tickets anymore because it’s unnecessary and it wastes paper and the internet is so much more convenient. But here in England, they did things the old fashioned way, apparently.
“So, then, do you have any proof of your departure date, a booking card or something?”
“Not on paper, but if I can have access to the internet, I can show the booking online, if you like.”
I couldn’t have access to the internet. Either it was against protocol, or they don’t have it in England yet.
“So this flight is booked for Tuesday evening, is it?”
“Yes. About 10 o’clock from memory”
“Which airline is it with?”
“Qantas.”
“And you don’t have any proof of this?”
“… No. …”
“How much money do you have with you?”
Now things really went downhill. My pay from the summer camp was pretty much all gone, so I had been getting rid of as many Euros as I could, so I could withdraw money in Pounds when I got to London, rather than pay a stupid commission getting Euros converted. All told my wallet contained…
“Two Euros and seventy five cents”.
“Two Euros Seventy?” The officer stopped looking at me like I was a potential threat and started looking at me like I was a complete idiot.
“Okay. Do you have any luggage on the bus?”
“Yes. I have a suitcase and a rucksack.”
“A suitcase and a backpack? Alright. They’ll have to come off the bus, I’ll need to detain you for questioning.”
So that’s what we did, and now my day really started to get fun. I’d never been detained by the police before. We went out to the bus and got my stuff off. The bus then left without me, so things were really looking up.
The first thing that happened was that my luggage was all locked away in a big cage, while I was searched for firearms on my person. They didn’t find any, so after asking me to leave my belt with them so I couldn’t hang myself with it, they escorted me to a glass-walled room and locked me in.
I should point out at this point that the staff who looked after the holding cell were much nicer than the officer who sent me there. They made sure I had food and a hot drink, and I was made comfortable. Well… comfortable apart from the fact that I was locked in a glass-walled room somewhere outside Calais.
After a short wait the officer returned and escorted me to an interview room, where he proceeded to ask me all the same questions he had asked me out the front, only this time he wrote my answers down instead of repeating them back to me. After all this, apparently he still didn’t believe me, so he agreed to call my aunt to confirm. I had to leave the room while he spoke to her, presumably so I couldn’t tell her the answers to the officer’s questions before he had a chance to ask them. It was good to know that there was at least a little bit of sanity to be found in the facility; it would all be cleared up soon.
After my aunt confirmed my travel plans, I was taken back to the main office to collect my bags. I was looking forward to getting out of that damn office and getting on with my journey on the next available bus.
But it wasn’t to be. Actually I was collecting my luggage ready for a full bag search. My luggage and I were taken into another small office and locked in, and I was made to take every last thing out of all my baggage and tell the officer what it was and where I got it. I don’t know what they were looking for, but they didn’t find it, so I packed it all back into the bags while the officer stood by and shook his head in annoyance at how long it was taking. Then the luggage went back in the cage, and I went back into the glass room.
Half an hour or so later the officer returned and took me down the hall to another room to be fingerprinted. Yep, fingerprinted. I’m not sure why, but I suppose if I ever try to do something mischievous like ‘catch a bus to London’ again (not bloody likely, I’m here to say), Interpol will be on the case.
So after all the hoops had been jumped through, all the necessary confirmation made and all the ink washed off my fingertips, the officer finally returned with the final paperwork and informed me:
“As I am not satisfied you have the financial means to return to Australia, and as you have not provided sufficient proof of your intention to return to Australia within the required time frame, I am denying you permission to enter the United Kingdom.”
“You’re denying me permission to enter?” I asked disbelievingly, more to give the stuffy clipboard monkey a taste of his own medicine than to request clarification.
And that was that. After incarcerating me for two hours, searching me and my bags and fingerprinting me on suspicion of ‘trying to go to England’, the British Border Patrol rang up their friends at the French Border Patrol who came and collected me in a big white van and then dropped me off at a bus stop just outside Calais at half past five in the evening. I had no accommodation, no real idea where anything was, and no idea how to speak French.
And that was my experience of all that England has to offer. Nothing but a complete load of bollocks.
Far from home (far from home?)
Garry with 2 Rs
They call England the mother land, and while I think of Old Blighty as something more like a great-grandmother land these days, it was strangely comforting to know I was heading back to the Commonwealth, where a weary continental traveller could take his ease among friends before the long journey home.
“Ugh. You haven’t even filled out an immigration form, have you?”
This was my first taste of English hospitality, as I greeted the staff at the border security office in Calais, just before the entrance to the channel tunnel.
“Um… Can I have an immigration form please?” was my slightly aback-taken reply.
“Here. You really need to be better prepared than this. Go away and fill this out, then come back and see me.”
It was a fairly rude sort of introduction, but I knew it was just a long day. Once I could show him my passport and reassure him that I was just a passing traveller and not a threat to national security everything would be alright.
“Right, now let’s see here. You’re Australian?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re seeking entry to the UK for a period of 5 days?”
“That’s right.”
“And where are you staying during that time?”
“With my aunt in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?”
I started to notice the officer’s rather annoying habit of repeating everything I told him as a question, just to make sure I was aware of how unreasonable my responses obviously seemed to him. It was at about this point that I started to suspect things might not be going quite according to plan.
“And what is your aunt’s address in Oxford?”
“I don’t actually know. She’s picking me up form the bus stop.”
“Oh she’s picking you up, is she?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re staying with her until the second of September, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“And do you have your tickets for that flight with you now?”
Of course I didn’t. The people of a more sophisticated country might have realised that no-one uses print-outs of their tickets anymore because it’s unnecessary and it wastes paper and the internet is so much more convenient. But here in England, they did things the old fashioned way, apparently.
“So, then, do you have any proof of your departure date, a booking card or something?”
“Not on paper, but if I can have access to the internet, I can show the booking online, if you like.”
I couldn’t have access to the internet. Either it was against protocol, or they don’t have it in England yet.
“So this flight is booked for Tuesday evening, is it?”
“Yes. About 10 o’clock from memory”
“Which airline is it with?”
“Qantas.”
“And you don’t have any proof of this?”
“… No. …”
“How much money do you have with you?”
Now things really went downhill. My pay from the summer camp was pretty much all gone, so I had been getting rid of as many Euros as I could, so I could withdraw money in Pounds when I got to London, rather than pay a stupid commission getting Euros converted. All told my wallet contained…
“Two Euros and seventy five cents”.
“Two Euros Seventy?” The officer stopped looking at me like I was a potential threat and started looking at me like I was a complete idiot.
“Okay. Do you have any luggage on the bus?”
“Yes. I have a suitcase and a rucksack.”
“A suitcase and a backpack? Alright. They’ll have to come off the bus, I’ll need to detain you for questioning.”
So that’s what we did, and now my day really started to get fun. I’d never been detained by the police before. We went out to the bus and got my stuff off. The bus then left without me, so things were really looking up.
The first thing that happened was that my luggage was all locked away in a big cage, while I was searched for firearms on my person. They didn’t find any, so after asking me to leave my belt with them so I couldn’t hang myself with it, they escorted me to a glass-walled room and locked me in.
I should point out at this point that the staff who looked after the holding cell were much nicer than the officer who sent me there. They made sure I had food and a hot drink, and I was made comfortable. Well… comfortable apart from the fact that I was locked in a glass-walled room somewhere outside Calais.
After a short wait the officer returned and escorted me to an interview room, where he proceeded to ask me all the same questions he had asked me out the front, only this time he wrote my answers down instead of repeating them back to me. After all this, apparently he still didn’t believe me, so he agreed to call my aunt to confirm. I had to leave the room while he spoke to her, presumably so I couldn’t tell her the answers to the officer’s questions before he had a chance to ask them. It was good to know that there was at least a little bit of sanity to be found in the facility; it would all be cleared up soon.
After my aunt confirmed my travel plans, I was taken back to the main office to collect my bags. I was looking forward to getting out of that damn office and getting on with my journey on the next available bus.
But it wasn’t to be. Actually I was collecting my luggage ready for a full bag search. My luggage and I were taken into another small office and locked in, and I was made to take every last thing out of all my baggage and tell the officer what it was and where I got it. I don’t know what they were looking for, but they didn’t find it, so I packed it all back into the bags while the officer stood by and shook his head in annoyance at how long it was taking. Then the luggage went back in the cage, and I went back into the glass room.
Half an hour or so later the officer returned and took me down the hall to another room to be fingerprinted. Yep, fingerprinted. I’m not sure why, but I suppose if I ever try to do something mischievous like ‘catch a bus to London’ again (not bloody likely, I’m here to say), Interpol will be on the case.
So after all the hoops had been jumped through, all the necessary confirmation made and all the ink washed off my fingertips, the officer finally returned with the final paperwork and informed me:
“As I am not satisfied you have the financial means to return to Australia, and as you have not provided sufficient proof of your intention to return to Australia within the required time frame, I am denying you permission to enter the United Kingdom.”
“You’re denying me permission to enter?” I asked disbelievingly, more to give the stuffy clipboard monkey a taste of his own medicine than to request clarification.
And that was that. After incarcerating me for two hours, searching me and my bags and fingerprinting me on suspicion of ‘trying to go to England’, the British Border Patrol rang up their friends at the French Border Patrol who came and collected me in a big white van and then dropped me off at a bus stop just outside Calais at half past five in the evening. I had no accommodation, no real idea where anything was, and no idea how to speak French.
And that was my experience of all that England has to offer. Nothing but a complete load of bollocks.
Far from home (far from home?)
Garry with 2 Rs
27 August 2009
An Australian Writer in Paris
When I left Madrid my stated intention was, at the very least, to see the rest Spain, along with Rome and Paris. Having checked Spain and Rome off the list (along with Morocco, Portugal and Switzerland as bonus prizes) there was nothing left but to hop one more train bound for the city of love.
I arrived in the early afternoon and checked into my hostel. Hostels in Paris have a strange convention where guest are locked out of their room from 11 or so in the morning until 4 or so in the afternoon for cleaning. I had to leave my baggage in a storage room downstairs and spend the afternoon walking around Paris which was basically what I planned on doing anyway, so it wasn’t a problem.
In the end, I got a bit carried away on my walk and ended up staying out until nearly midnight. I walked down to the Seine and then west along the Right Bank. The first thing I came across was a great big Notre Dame which someone had carelessly left on an island in the middle of the river. I decided not to go inside since the queue was very long, but instead I kept on walking downstream towards the Champs Elysees. It was at about this time that my watch told me I should head back to the hostel. However it was also at about this time that I spotted the Eiffel Tower sticking up over the buildings, so I decided to push on until I got there.
The Eiffel Tower, as it turns out, is quite large. Consequently when viewed over the tops of other buildings, it appears closer than it actually is. I did eventually get there, but not until seven o’clock that night. It was totally worth the trek though. It was getting towards dusk, and most of the tourists had cleared out to go and find some frogs’ legs, or champagne or something, so the queue at the base of the tower was relatively short. I managed to time it perfectly so that I got up to the top of the tower as the sun was going down. Watching the lights come on all over Paris from 300 metres up was absolutely beautiful, and surprisingly peaceful, given the crowds of people at the top. I stayed up there for a couple of hours at least.
I didn’t fancy trying to walk all the way back in the dark, so I decided catching the metro instead would be easier. Unfortunately the Paris metro system is not quite as logical and user friendly as the Madrid metro and I soon had the ironic pleasure of being quite literally lost alone in the Paris underground. I was expecting to be beset by Merovingians, or masked vigilantes, or the lost spirits of a thousand unanswered phone calls, or something equally poetic and alternative. As it was, I just found a map and made my way back without meeting a single other soul. So much for Bohemia.
The next day I set out to cross of a couple more must-sees off the Paris list. First stop was the Louvre. I’m not much of an art aficionado, but I made sure I saw all the important bits. There was some sort of security scare while I was there, and a whole wing got shut down just after I left. I never did find out what it was all about. In the afternoon I caught the metro out to the Arc de Triomphe. I hung around for the changing of the guard and then started to walk back down the Champs Elysees towards the river. Unfortunately I got about half way and it started to rain, so I got back on the metro and scuttled back to the hostel.
My third day in France I headed just outside the city to Versailles. I wasn’t quite ready for how amazing that place was. I allowed myself half a day there, but really it needed a full day at least. As someone who likes to spend time wandering aimlessly through acres and acres of sculptured vegetation, I could have stayed in Marie Antoinette’s backyard all day. The palaces themselves were opulently magnificent too, particularly the now infamous hall of mirrors.
After so much hedge viewing, I finally got back to central Paris thoroughly exhausted, and ready for the final phase of my trip: Mother England.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
I arrived in the early afternoon and checked into my hostel. Hostels in Paris have a strange convention where guest are locked out of their room from 11 or so in the morning until 4 or so in the afternoon for cleaning. I had to leave my baggage in a storage room downstairs and spend the afternoon walking around Paris which was basically what I planned on doing anyway, so it wasn’t a problem.
In the end, I got a bit carried away on my walk and ended up staying out until nearly midnight. I walked down to the Seine and then west along the Right Bank. The first thing I came across was a great big Notre Dame which someone had carelessly left on an island in the middle of the river. I decided not to go inside since the queue was very long, but instead I kept on walking downstream towards the Champs Elysees. It was at about this time that my watch told me I should head back to the hostel. However it was also at about this time that I spotted the Eiffel Tower sticking up over the buildings, so I decided to push on until I got there.
The Eiffel Tower, as it turns out, is quite large. Consequently when viewed over the tops of other buildings, it appears closer than it actually is. I did eventually get there, but not until seven o’clock that night. It was totally worth the trek though. It was getting towards dusk, and most of the tourists had cleared out to go and find some frogs’ legs, or champagne or something, so the queue at the base of the tower was relatively short. I managed to time it perfectly so that I got up to the top of the tower as the sun was going down. Watching the lights come on all over Paris from 300 metres up was absolutely beautiful, and surprisingly peaceful, given the crowds of people at the top. I stayed up there for a couple of hours at least.
I didn’t fancy trying to walk all the way back in the dark, so I decided catching the metro instead would be easier. Unfortunately the Paris metro system is not quite as logical and user friendly as the Madrid metro and I soon had the ironic pleasure of being quite literally lost alone in the Paris underground. I was expecting to be beset by Merovingians, or masked vigilantes, or the lost spirits of a thousand unanswered phone calls, or something equally poetic and alternative. As it was, I just found a map and made my way back without meeting a single other soul. So much for Bohemia.
The next day I set out to cross of a couple more must-sees off the Paris list. First stop was the Louvre. I’m not much of an art aficionado, but I made sure I saw all the important bits. There was some sort of security scare while I was there, and a whole wing got shut down just after I left. I never did find out what it was all about. In the afternoon I caught the metro out to the Arc de Triomphe. I hung around for the changing of the guard and then started to walk back down the Champs Elysees towards the river. Unfortunately I got about half way and it started to rain, so I got back on the metro and scuttled back to the hostel.
My third day in France I headed just outside the city to Versailles. I wasn’t quite ready for how amazing that place was. I allowed myself half a day there, but really it needed a full day at least. As someone who likes to spend time wandering aimlessly through acres and acres of sculptured vegetation, I could have stayed in Marie Antoinette’s backyard all day. The palaces themselves were opulently magnificent too, particularly the now infamous hall of mirrors.
After so much hedge viewing, I finally got back to central Paris thoroughly exhausted, and ready for the final phase of my trip: Mother England.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
23 August 2009
Switzerland
From Rome I headed in a general North by Northwest direction, aiming to eventually meet my flight home from London. I had one night in Venice, but I wasn't actually that impressed. Yep, I saw the canals and St. Mark's Square. That took about ... forty minutes. After that I got bored and couldn't afford a gondola ride, so I moved on to Switzerland.
Bern, the rather understated Swiss capital, was an unexpected highlight of my trip. Old Town in Bern is built into the bank of the River Aar. There was the usual bustle of a captial city, but on the whole it felt extremely peaceful (possibily even neutral?) after the utter chaos of Italy.
The afternoon of my arrival was apparently quite hot for the locals, although it just felt like a nice summer day to me. The thermometer showed twenty-eight degrees centigrade in the sun, which to the Swiss is an absolute scorcher. Basically anyone with spare time had gone down for a swim in the Aar, which looked like great fun, so I joined them. The water was cool and clean (which made a nice change from Venice); you could see the bottom of the River from just below the surface. The current was quite swift, so the idea was to walk a few hundred metres up the bank and then jump in and float back down. After an hour or so of this I was feeling thoroughly refreshed, so I decided to take a walk around Old Town.
Another big feature of Old Town is the apartment in which Albert Einstein lived with his wife and in which he is believed to have written much of the theories of General and Special Relativity. It's now a museum with letters and photographs from his life. Not being a physicist, I appreciated it more for the insight into the great man's personality and lifestyle than for the fact that it was the room in which our understanding of the physical universe was turned upside down (or downside up, depending on your frame of reference).
On my way out of Switzerland I also had one night in Lausanne in the French-speaking west of the country. My guidebook described it as Switzerland's sexiest city, but it didn't seem all that sexy to me. There again, it's likely that the guidebook authors and I have very different ideas on what constitutes sexy. I didn't see any cellists or monsoon storms anywhere. The waterfront around the edge of Lake Geneva was colourful and fun, but a bit glitzy and touristy for my taste.
I didn't visit the Swiss Alps, but I did stock up on some Swiss chocolate. I couldn't find any Swiss cheese, but I did buy a Swiss army knife, so I didn't do too badly from three nights.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
Bern, the rather understated Swiss capital, was an unexpected highlight of my trip. Old Town in Bern is built into the bank of the River Aar. There was the usual bustle of a captial city, but on the whole it felt extremely peaceful (possibily even neutral?) after the utter chaos of Italy.
The afternoon of my arrival was apparently quite hot for the locals, although it just felt like a nice summer day to me. The thermometer showed twenty-eight degrees centigrade in the sun, which to the Swiss is an absolute scorcher. Basically anyone with spare time had gone down for a swim in the Aar, which looked like great fun, so I joined them. The water was cool and clean (which made a nice change from Venice); you could see the bottom of the River from just below the surface. The current was quite swift, so the idea was to walk a few hundred metres up the bank and then jump in and float back down. After an hour or so of this I was feeling thoroughly refreshed, so I decided to take a walk around Old Town.
Another big feature of Old Town is the apartment in which Albert Einstein lived with his wife and in which he is believed to have written much of the theories of General and Special Relativity. It's now a museum with letters and photographs from his life. Not being a physicist, I appreciated it more for the insight into the great man's personality and lifestyle than for the fact that it was the room in which our understanding of the physical universe was turned upside down (or downside up, depending on your frame of reference).
On my way out of Switzerland I also had one night in Lausanne in the French-speaking west of the country. My guidebook described it as Switzerland's sexiest city, but it didn't seem all that sexy to me. There again, it's likely that the guidebook authors and I have very different ideas on what constitutes sexy. I didn't see any cellists or monsoon storms anywhere. The waterfront around the edge of Lake Geneva was colourful and fun, but a bit glitzy and touristy for my taste.
I didn't visit the Swiss Alps, but I did stock up on some Swiss chocolate. I couldn't find any Swiss cheese, but I did buy a Swiss army knife, so I didn't do too badly from three nights.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
20 August 2009
Is the Pope Catholic?
And does his wife shop at K-mart? The answer to both questions is "that's a stupid question." I was going to include this post in with the previous Rome post, but on reflection I decided my trip to Vatican City deserved its own headline. So, a more useful question might be, "Is the Vatican worth a visit?" The answer to that is a resounding "Yes."
I got there later in the day than I had intended after queuing for an hour and a half for a train ticket for the following day, so I had to rush through the museum a bit to get through it before it shut. That didn't bother me too much; I still spent a good two hours there, but if I were an art enthusiast or a fan of white stone sculptures of ancient Greek people's heads I could have easily stayed for a week without getting bored.
Of course the highlight was the Sistine Chapel, although it was so jam packed with noisy tour groups (scourge of Europe) that it couldn't really be appreciated properly. I also got a lot out of the rooms painted by Raphael and his students that lead up to the Sistine Chapel, which is saying something since I almost never get anything much out of giant paintings. After all the not-so-biblical Virgin Mary oriented decorations I saw so much of in Spain, I was surprised (perhaps unfairly) by how Christ-centred much of the art in the Vatican was. At some point someone in the Holy See obviously had the right idea. Or at the very least, Raphael and Michelangelo did. The jury's still out on Leonardo and Donatello.
After the museum and the chapel, I went to look at St. Peter's Basilica. I had seen a lot of pretty ornately decorated cathedrals in Spain and Portugal, so I thought I had some idea of what I was in for as I walked through the front door.
Nope. It's not really a good idea to walk into arguably the most sacred site in the world and exclaim "Holy crap!" but that's pretty much the response it got out of me. For one thing, it's freaking huge, much bigger than the outside suggests. For another, the architecture and interior decorating create the striking impression that whole place is built of light, despite the only source of natural light being the huge dome over the sanctuary. They were about to start a mass, and I was quite tempted to join in, but in the end my inability to speak Latin and the fact that I'm still not entirely sure what the deal is with the Roman Catholic Church led me to the conclusion that I was about to make a giant hypocrite of myself, so I politely declined and headed for the door.
I wasn't such a fan of having a room full of dead popes interred in the basement; I've said before that is just sailing too close to the zombie invasion wind. But at least, if they do get up and start wandering around, they'll be far too distracted by the pretty building they're in to launch any sort of holocaustic attack on the rest of Italy.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
I got there later in the day than I had intended after queuing for an hour and a half for a train ticket for the following day, so I had to rush through the museum a bit to get through it before it shut. That didn't bother me too much; I still spent a good two hours there, but if I were an art enthusiast or a fan of white stone sculptures of ancient Greek people's heads I could have easily stayed for a week without getting bored.
Of course the highlight was the Sistine Chapel, although it was so jam packed with noisy tour groups (scourge of Europe) that it couldn't really be appreciated properly. I also got a lot out of the rooms painted by Raphael and his students that lead up to the Sistine Chapel, which is saying something since I almost never get anything much out of giant paintings. After all the not-so-biblical Virgin Mary oriented decorations I saw so much of in Spain, I was surprised (perhaps unfairly) by how Christ-centred much of the art in the Vatican was. At some point someone in the Holy See obviously had the right idea. Or at the very least, Raphael and Michelangelo did. The jury's still out on Leonardo and Donatello.
After the museum and the chapel, I went to look at St. Peter's Basilica. I had seen a lot of pretty ornately decorated cathedrals in Spain and Portugal, so I thought I had some idea of what I was in for as I walked through the front door.
Nope. It's not really a good idea to walk into arguably the most sacred site in the world and exclaim "Holy crap!" but that's pretty much the response it got out of me. For one thing, it's freaking huge, much bigger than the outside suggests. For another, the architecture and interior decorating create the striking impression that whole place is built of light, despite the only source of natural light being the huge dome over the sanctuary. They were about to start a mass, and I was quite tempted to join in, but in the end my inability to speak Latin and the fact that I'm still not entirely sure what the deal is with the Roman Catholic Church led me to the conclusion that I was about to make a giant hypocrite of myself, so I politely declined and headed for the door.
I wasn't such a fan of having a room full of dead popes interred in the basement; I've said before that is just sailing too close to the zombie invasion wind. But at least, if they do get up and start wandering around, they'll be far too distracted by the pretty building they're in to launch any sort of holocaustic attack on the rest of Italy.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
19 August 2009
A series of historically derived clichés
The city of Rome has held a fascination for students of just about everything for literally thousands of years. Literature and common folklore have thrown up all sorts of expressions and traditions centered around this ancient city. What many scholars have failed to realise until now is that many of these cliches relate specifically to aspects of the four days I spent there.
All Roads Lead to Rome
Patently untrue as my previous post will testify. However, it must be said that I did eventually get there, and checked into the dankest, most overpriced excuse for a cheap hotel known to man. It was, at least, close to the train station, lending it its chief virtue; it was easy to get out of.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do
I wasn't really sure what to make of this one. What do Romans do, apart from walk around in the sun, drink lots of coffee and speak Italian? I wasn't really keen on any of these, but thankfully I stumbled upon the answer while sightseeing on the Spanish Steps.
To compensate for the fact that all the clubs in Rome close down for the summer, the local government sponsors concerts and public cultural displays in the evening. I could see they were setting up for something on the steps, but I wasn't sure what. I decided to go back later and find out.
When I stepped out of the metro later that night I found myself in the middle of an opera recital, which was just perfect. What could be more Roman than sitting on an ancient monument and listening to opera? Sitting on an ancient monument and listening to opera while drinking lots of coffee and speaking Italian, I suppose.
The opera, by the way, was fantastic. I'm no opera buff, but I can tell when something is being done well. When the tenor sang Nessan Dorma (the only opera number I can recognise by ear) and nailed the last few notes he just about lifted the roof, which, considering we were outside, was no mean feat.
A Roman Stone Gathers No Moss
No... wait. Hang on...
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day.
Well, no, probably not. Just to make sure, I went on a walking tour of the city's ruins and monuments. The forum, the Spanish steps, the Flavian Amphitheatre (known colloquially as the Colosseum), the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon (not to be confused with the Parthenon which is a different shape, a different colour and in Greece), the Capitoline Hill; I did it all and can confidently assert that they were probably not all built on the same day. I also saw the church built on what is believed to be the site of the prison where Peter was held. You could still see the foundations under the building. That was quite cool.
All things considered, I would have to say that Rome definitely lived up to expectations, which was nice since so many things don't these days. Like iPod batteries. Or the Australian batting order.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
All Roads Lead to Rome
Patently untrue as my previous post will testify. However, it must be said that I did eventually get there, and checked into the dankest, most overpriced excuse for a cheap hotel known to man. It was, at least, close to the train station, lending it its chief virtue; it was easy to get out of.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do
I wasn't really sure what to make of this one. What do Romans do, apart from walk around in the sun, drink lots of coffee and speak Italian? I wasn't really keen on any of these, but thankfully I stumbled upon the answer while sightseeing on the Spanish Steps.
To compensate for the fact that all the clubs in Rome close down for the summer, the local government sponsors concerts and public cultural displays in the evening. I could see they were setting up for something on the steps, but I wasn't sure what. I decided to go back later and find out.
When I stepped out of the metro later that night I found myself in the middle of an opera recital, which was just perfect. What could be more Roman than sitting on an ancient monument and listening to opera? Sitting on an ancient monument and listening to opera while drinking lots of coffee and speaking Italian, I suppose.
The opera, by the way, was fantastic. I'm no opera buff, but I can tell when something is being done well. When the tenor sang Nessan Dorma (the only opera number I can recognise by ear) and nailed the last few notes he just about lifted the roof, which, considering we were outside, was no mean feat.
A Roman Stone Gathers No Moss
No... wait. Hang on...
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day.
Well, no, probably not. Just to make sure, I went on a walking tour of the city's ruins and monuments. The forum, the Spanish steps, the Flavian Amphitheatre (known colloquially as the Colosseum), the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon (not to be confused with the Parthenon which is a different shape, a different colour and in Greece), the Capitoline Hill; I did it all and can confidently assert that they were probably not all built on the same day. I also saw the church built on what is believed to be the site of the prison where Peter was held. You could still see the foundations under the building. That was quite cool.
All things considered, I would have to say that Rome definitely lived up to expectations, which was nice since so many things don't these days. Like iPod batteries. Or the Australian batting order.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
16 August 2009
Great and not so great train rides of the Mediterranean coast.
After all the action and excitement of Santiago, I skipped over to the east coast for two nights in Valencia and two in Barcelona. This was more about me hanging out on the beach and getting some sun than about historical buildings and culture, although I did do a walking tour of Valencia. I didn't see a single orange while I was there, but I did try the local beverage known as 'horxata' (pronounced 'whore charter,' but don't let that put you off) which is made from milk, sugar and tiger nuts, which turn out to be a locally grown legume rather than the testicles of a big cat, served cold. It tasted like a vanilla milkshake with... basil in it or something, but it went down alright on a hot afternoon.
I had already been to Barcelona, so I spent most of my time there wandering through the Ramblas and sorting details for my next great European experiment; travelling to southern Italy. I had hoped it might be a simple as flashing my Eurail pass and saying 'One ticket to Rome, please'. It wasn't.
First leg was from Barcelona to the Spain/France border in a town called Cerebre. As I changed trains here, disaster struck as I managed to leave my trademark black fedora on the first train and only realised as it pulled out bound back to Barceona. Curses!
Meanwhile, in the blink of an eye, everything changed from being in Spanish to being in French, which added an extra dimension to the whole experience.Second leg was from Cerebre to Beziers, from whence I was told I would be able to buy tickets to Rome. Wrong again. I managed to get a ticket to Nice via Montpellier and Marseille. I didn't arrive in Nice until twelve-thirty that night on the last train to arrive at the station, at which point the not-so-friendly station staff turfed us out of the station and locked the doors for the night. The first trains out weren't until six or so the next morning, so a group of about 40 of us camped out on the steps of Nice train station until morning.
Third leg was to Ventimiglia on the Italian border where I was finally able to get a ticket through to Rome, with a two hour stopover in Genova. So the fourth leg was to Genova, where I went exploring for an hour or so, though by this point I was running seriously low on energy. Fortunately I just had the fifth and final leg to complete; a seven hour marathon from Genova to Rome.
The trip, while long, was quite nice as it followed the Mediterranean along the west coast of Italy. There were beautiful beaches and rocky coves to look at all the way, which was handy as I wasn't awake enough to do anything except stare out the window. I couldn't sleep because I was stuck on some rubbish seat up the back with no back rest, but that was fine since it would have been a shame to travel all that way and miss the scenery.
And so it was that, 27 hours after leaving Barcelona, I collapsed hatless into my hotel bed in Rome and slept for somewhere in the region of twelve hours.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
I had already been to Barcelona, so I spent most of my time there wandering through the Ramblas and sorting details for my next great European experiment; travelling to southern Italy. I had hoped it might be a simple as flashing my Eurail pass and saying 'One ticket to Rome, please'. It wasn't.
First leg was from Barcelona to the Spain/France border in a town called Cerebre. As I changed trains here, disaster struck as I managed to leave my trademark black fedora on the first train and only realised as it pulled out bound back to Barceona. Curses!
Meanwhile, in the blink of an eye, everything changed from being in Spanish to being in French, which added an extra dimension to the whole experience.Second leg was from Cerebre to Beziers, from whence I was told I would be able to buy tickets to Rome. Wrong again. I managed to get a ticket to Nice via Montpellier and Marseille. I didn't arrive in Nice until twelve-thirty that night on the last train to arrive at the station, at which point the not-so-friendly station staff turfed us out of the station and locked the doors for the night. The first trains out weren't until six or so the next morning, so a group of about 40 of us camped out on the steps of Nice train station until morning.
Third leg was to Ventimiglia on the Italian border where I was finally able to get a ticket through to Rome, with a two hour stopover in Genova. So the fourth leg was to Genova, where I went exploring for an hour or so, though by this point I was running seriously low on energy. Fortunately I just had the fifth and final leg to complete; a seven hour marathon from Genova to Rome.
The trip, while long, was quite nice as it followed the Mediterranean along the west coast of Italy. There were beautiful beaches and rocky coves to look at all the way, which was handy as I wasn't awake enough to do anything except stare out the window. I couldn't sleep because I was stuck on some rubbish seat up the back with no back rest, but that was fine since it would have been a shame to travel all that way and miss the scenery.
And so it was that, 27 hours after leaving Barcelona, I collapsed hatless into my hotel bed in Rome and slept for somewhere in the region of twelve hours.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
12 August 2009
The Way of St. James
A few posts ago I mentioned (amidst a bunch of otherwise irrelevant observations) an interest in Santiago, which is a city in North West Spain, and also the Spanish name for the apostle we call St. James in English. The city is named after him because the cathedral of Santiago is believed by some to contain the apostle´s remains. The story of how they got to be there is a pretty good one, but that doesn´t seem to diminish the appeal of the city. As a result, the city is visited by thousands of pilgrims every year, and the route through North Spain you walk on to get there is known as the Camino de Santiago, or Way of St. James.
Some people do the walk for genuine reasons of faith. Others, like me, just think going hiking for a week through Spain sounds like great fun. Unfortunately, when I picked my rucksack up when I left Madrid all those weeks ago, it became obvious fairly quickly that I wasn´t going to be carrying it 400km across the north coast, so I abandoned that idea. But I´ve also never let the fact that I haven´t actually done something stop me writing about it like I know what I´m talking about. So I hereby present my impressions of the Camino de Santiago.
What would have happened
As I lay in my hacienda in Barcelona, looking up at the stars and wondering what had happened to the roof, I had a sacred vision. I saw St. James walking over a field of sunflowers. I could tell it was St. James because of his pilgrim´s staff and his sea-shell emblem. He was also wearing a pirate hat and a kilt, but I suspect that had more to do with the extra chorizo I had with dinner than with liturgical iconicry. In any event, they were almost certainly non-canonical.
St James was beckoning me westward and offered me a stone tablet, upon which was inscribed "You won´t walk 750km to Santiago and visit my crypt".
"I will" I replied. And with that, I set off, armed with only the clothes on my back, a big stick with a sea-shell on it, my bible and my iPod. With only the stars to guide me, I set my face to the west. When I reached the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, I decided to buy a compass. Navigating by the Southern Cross gets a bit tricky in the Northern Hemisphere.
The first couple of hundred kilometres were lonely and perilous. I was plagued by visions of inner demons and of sirens, telling me they´d saved me a spot on the beach and asking me where the bloody hell I was. Fortunately as I made my bed for the night in an out of the way albergue in Frómista I happened upon a small group (although I believe the fashionable term these days is 'connect group') of pilgrims also bound for Santiago.
There was Nikolai and his charming wife Svetlana who had both walked all the way from St. Petersburg and were quite obviously completely nuts. There was a Kiwi girl named Ella and a big Frenchman named Claude who had come on the pilgrimage hoping to be blessed with the recipe for the perfect dim sim. I think he may have been slightly misinformed.
But the pilgrim who immediately caught my attention was a young woman, sitting slightly apart from the group, her face covered by a long forest green hood. She said nothing, but her very countenance exuded a feeling of peace, well being and fair trade. I now had two reasons to make the journey to Santiago; one, to find the identity of this mystery woman, and two, ... hmmm, nope, I guess I just had the one reason then.
Over the next few days, as we drew closer and closer to the city, the pilgrimage began to take its toll on the group. The summer heat was becomming a problem for the Russians, who as it turned out were made of parmesan cheese. As we approached Ponferrada they began to melt and had to turn back to Russia. Ella was picked up in Cebreira for over staying her visa and deported back to Wellington. Somewhere between Sarría and Lavacolla Claude was accosted by a band of gypsies who demanded that he surrender immediately. Being French, he agreed and ran screaming into the hills.
That just left me and the mysterious stranger. Given that she didn´t talk, that didn´t leave us with many options in terms of stimulating conversation. Eventually I decided to make her a deal.
"I´ll make you a deal," I said, redundantly. "If we make it as far as the cathedral, will you at least tell me who you are?" The woman still said nothing, but nodded her assent.
As more days passed and we got closer and closer to Santiago, I grew more and more curious, but less and less enchanted, as her thick velvet hood was covered in mud and sweat and was starting to stink a bit. Finally, when it seemed I could no longer stand the suspense and she could no longer stand the smell, we arrived at the gates of la Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.
"Now, sir, I believe I have a promise to keep," said an enthralling, but oddly familiar voice from beneath the veil. "It´s time you learned my true identity". With an anti-climactic flick she flipped her hood back to reveal...
"Oxfam Girl? Oh you´ve got to be kidding me.
"What? I thought you´d be pleased to see me."
"Yeah, I am. It´s just... don´t you think this gag is getting a bit old?"
"Oh gee. You really know how to make a girl feel special, don´t you?"
"Oh shut up and help me find this damn shrine so we can get the hell out of here."
We climbed inside the main sanctuary and I was immediately struck by what a firm grasp of the basic tennets of Christianity the folk who commissioned the cathedral must have had. Everything was so huge and overstated and covered in gold. It would have been enough to make St. James roll over in his grave, if it wasn´t for the fact that, actually, it was his grave.
We passed through the sanctuary and now I have a certificate I can show St. Peter, redeemable for a 50% reduction of my time in Purgatory, assuming I get as far as St. Pete in the first place, that is. Quite how I´m going to transport the certificate into the hereafter with me is anyone´s guess, but I´ve decided to take the Pope at his word. Oxfam Girl was unfortunately deemed unworthy and was instantly transformed into a sea-shell.
She got better
Far from h... Oh no, wait...
What actually happened
I caught the train in from Porto and found myself a bed for the night, then set out to view the cathedral. I walked under the sanctuary to see the big silver coffin that supposedly contains the apostle´s remains. Not being Catholic or remotely superstitious, it would probably have been an utterly underwhelming end if I had walked all the way from Bilbao to get there. The pipes for the organ looked like they could blow the roof off the place (maybe even wake up St. James) if you pulled all the stops, but I couldn´t see the keyboards anywhere. They must have been tucked away in a loft up the top.
While all this was taking place, the flu (non-porcine, thankfully) that I had been attempting to out-run finally caught up with me, which was ironic since I was supposed to be a in a city of purity and healing. I decided to stay an extra night and rest up, leaving me with just a little too much spare time on my hands, since apart from the cathedral, there´s not much to see in Santiago as it turns out. This may or may not have resulted in the quantity of inane drivel you had to get through to make it this far.
Enough already!
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
Some people do the walk for genuine reasons of faith. Others, like me, just think going hiking for a week through Spain sounds like great fun. Unfortunately, when I picked my rucksack up when I left Madrid all those weeks ago, it became obvious fairly quickly that I wasn´t going to be carrying it 400km across the north coast, so I abandoned that idea. But I´ve also never let the fact that I haven´t actually done something stop me writing about it like I know what I´m talking about. So I hereby present my impressions of the Camino de Santiago.
What would have happened
As I lay in my hacienda in Barcelona, looking up at the stars and wondering what had happened to the roof, I had a sacred vision. I saw St. James walking over a field of sunflowers. I could tell it was St. James because of his pilgrim´s staff and his sea-shell emblem. He was also wearing a pirate hat and a kilt, but I suspect that had more to do with the extra chorizo I had with dinner than with liturgical iconicry. In any event, they were almost certainly non-canonical.
St James was beckoning me westward and offered me a stone tablet, upon which was inscribed "You won´t walk 750km to Santiago and visit my crypt".
"I will" I replied. And with that, I set off, armed with only the clothes on my back, a big stick with a sea-shell on it, my bible and my iPod. With only the stars to guide me, I set my face to the west. When I reached the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, I decided to buy a compass. Navigating by the Southern Cross gets a bit tricky in the Northern Hemisphere.
The first couple of hundred kilometres were lonely and perilous. I was plagued by visions of inner demons and of sirens, telling me they´d saved me a spot on the beach and asking me where the bloody hell I was. Fortunately as I made my bed for the night in an out of the way albergue in Frómista I happened upon a small group (although I believe the fashionable term these days is 'connect group') of pilgrims also bound for Santiago.
There was Nikolai and his charming wife Svetlana who had both walked all the way from St. Petersburg and were quite obviously completely nuts. There was a Kiwi girl named Ella and a big Frenchman named Claude who had come on the pilgrimage hoping to be blessed with the recipe for the perfect dim sim. I think he may have been slightly misinformed.
But the pilgrim who immediately caught my attention was a young woman, sitting slightly apart from the group, her face covered by a long forest green hood. She said nothing, but her very countenance exuded a feeling of peace, well being and fair trade. I now had two reasons to make the journey to Santiago; one, to find the identity of this mystery woman, and two, ... hmmm, nope, I guess I just had the one reason then.
Over the next few days, as we drew closer and closer to the city, the pilgrimage began to take its toll on the group. The summer heat was becomming a problem for the Russians, who as it turned out were made of parmesan cheese. As we approached Ponferrada they began to melt and had to turn back to Russia. Ella was picked up in Cebreira for over staying her visa and deported back to Wellington. Somewhere between Sarría and Lavacolla Claude was accosted by a band of gypsies who demanded that he surrender immediately. Being French, he agreed and ran screaming into the hills.
That just left me and the mysterious stranger. Given that she didn´t talk, that didn´t leave us with many options in terms of stimulating conversation. Eventually I decided to make her a deal.
"I´ll make you a deal," I said, redundantly. "If we make it as far as the cathedral, will you at least tell me who you are?" The woman still said nothing, but nodded her assent.
As more days passed and we got closer and closer to Santiago, I grew more and more curious, but less and less enchanted, as her thick velvet hood was covered in mud and sweat and was starting to stink a bit. Finally, when it seemed I could no longer stand the suspense and she could no longer stand the smell, we arrived at the gates of la Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.
"Now, sir, I believe I have a promise to keep," said an enthralling, but oddly familiar voice from beneath the veil. "It´s time you learned my true identity". With an anti-climactic flick she flipped her hood back to reveal...
"Oxfam Girl? Oh you´ve got to be kidding me.
"What? I thought you´d be pleased to see me."
"Yeah, I am. It´s just... don´t you think this gag is getting a bit old?"
"Oh gee. You really know how to make a girl feel special, don´t you?"
"Oh shut up and help me find this damn shrine so we can get the hell out of here."
We climbed inside the main sanctuary and I was immediately struck by what a firm grasp of the basic tennets of Christianity the folk who commissioned the cathedral must have had. Everything was so huge and overstated and covered in gold. It would have been enough to make St. James roll over in his grave, if it wasn´t for the fact that, actually, it was his grave.
We passed through the sanctuary and now I have a certificate I can show St. Peter, redeemable for a 50% reduction of my time in Purgatory, assuming I get as far as St. Pete in the first place, that is. Quite how I´m going to transport the certificate into the hereafter with me is anyone´s guess, but I´ve decided to take the Pope at his word. Oxfam Girl was unfortunately deemed unworthy and was instantly transformed into a sea-shell.
She got better
Far from h... Oh no, wait...
What actually happened
I caught the train in from Porto and found myself a bed for the night, then set out to view the cathedral. I walked under the sanctuary to see the big silver coffin that supposedly contains the apostle´s remains. Not being Catholic or remotely superstitious, it would probably have been an utterly underwhelming end if I had walked all the way from Bilbao to get there. The pipes for the organ looked like they could blow the roof off the place (maybe even wake up St. James) if you pulled all the stops, but I couldn´t see the keyboards anywhere. They must have been tucked away in a loft up the top.
While all this was taking place, the flu (non-porcine, thankfully) that I had been attempting to out-run finally caught up with me, which was ironic since I was supposed to be a in a city of purity and healing. I decided to stay an extra night and rest up, leaving me with just a little too much spare time on my hands, since apart from the cathedral, there´s not much to see in Santiago as it turns out. This may or may not have resulted in the quantity of inane drivel you had to get through to make it this far.
Enough already!
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
08 August 2009
Putting the Port in Portugal
After Granada, I stopped over in Seville for a night to get my hands on a rail pass. There was really nothing else to say about that stop, I was only passing through. So...
To shut Kim up and because I was in Westernish Spain anyway, I decided to keep going and check out Portugal. I hopped on a train bound for Lisbon, which ironicly took me all the way back to Madrid before turning towards Portugal, but I wasn´t too fussed. I figured Lisbon would be worth the extra effort.
I was wrong. Lisbon was a dirty smelly excuse for a capital city, the place could make Canberra look positively... habitable. There was plenty of colour, but there just wasn´t a single welcoming person in the whole city. Or, at least not in the five or so blocks of it that I saw. The Portuguese have an unnerving habit of staring at newcomers with what I could only describe as suspicion. At first this was quite off-putting, until I hit on the idea of staring right back at them until they gave up.
Wandering the streets, I found myself in the main city square in the middle of the kick off of the tour-de-Portugal bicycle race. I think I may have accidently got myself onto Portuguese TV. It was all being hosted by a man who, judging by the number of middle aged Portuguese women clambering to meet him, must have been Portugal's answer to Karl Stefanovich.
The one highlight was the castle of St. John, which was just exactly that; A big stone medieval castle plonked in the middle of the city that you could get inside and climb all over. That was great fun.
Having been so underwhelmed by the national capital, I did not hold high hopes for the rest of the country as I made my way north to Porto.
I was wrong again. Porto (often called Oporto in English) was awesome. It´s a traditional style European town built into the banks of the River Douro. As its name might suggest, it´s famous for its portwine production, especially its dry white ports, which you can´t really get anywhere else. And with good reason; they tasted horrible. I did, however, enjoy sampling numerous sweet white and tawny red ports, and was amazed to discover how well I could speak Portuguese all of a sudden. Tragically the effect had worn off the following morning. Hmmm...
So after four nights in Portugal, I boarded a train bound back to Spain. Next stop: Santiago de Compostela.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
To shut Kim up and because I was in Westernish Spain anyway, I decided to keep going and check out Portugal. I hopped on a train bound for Lisbon, which ironicly took me all the way back to Madrid before turning towards Portugal, but I wasn´t too fussed. I figured Lisbon would be worth the extra effort.
I was wrong. Lisbon was a dirty smelly excuse for a capital city, the place could make Canberra look positively... habitable. There was plenty of colour, but there just wasn´t a single welcoming person in the whole city. Or, at least not in the five or so blocks of it that I saw. The Portuguese have an unnerving habit of staring at newcomers with what I could only describe as suspicion. At first this was quite off-putting, until I hit on the idea of staring right back at them until they gave up.
Wandering the streets, I found myself in the main city square in the middle of the kick off of the tour-de-Portugal bicycle race. I think I may have accidently got myself onto Portuguese TV. It was all being hosted by a man who, judging by the number of middle aged Portuguese women clambering to meet him, must have been Portugal's answer to Karl Stefanovich.
The one highlight was the castle of St. John, which was just exactly that; A big stone medieval castle plonked in the middle of the city that you could get inside and climb all over. That was great fun.
Having been so underwhelmed by the national capital, I did not hold high hopes for the rest of the country as I made my way north to Porto.
I was wrong again. Porto (often called Oporto in English) was awesome. It´s a traditional style European town built into the banks of the River Douro. As its name might suggest, it´s famous for its portwine production, especially its dry white ports, which you can´t really get anywhere else. And with good reason; they tasted horrible. I did, however, enjoy sampling numerous sweet white and tawny red ports, and was amazed to discover how well I could speak Portuguese all of a sudden. Tragically the effect had worn off the following morning. Hmmm...
So after four nights in Portugal, I boarded a train bound back to Spain. Next stop: Santiago de Compostela.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
02 August 2009
Rediscovering The The Red (One)
Every guidebook, website and tourist information brochure I´ve read has said that if you only visit one city in Spain it should be Granada. As it happens, I´m in the process of visiting much more than one city, so the above paradigm doesn´t really apply to me. But since I happened to be passing through the area, I decided to stop in for a quick squiz.
The reason you´re supposed to visit Granada is that it is home to the Moorish stone fortress known in Spanish as 'La Alhambra'. It´s a curious name, because 'Alhambra' is derived from the Arabic name, which means 'The Red (One)'. so, presumably the Spanish would translate as something like 'the the red one'.
Well, however superfluous the extra articles may or may not be, the monument they specify was certainly spectacular. Built by successive generations over a period of several hundred years, beginning in the Xth century (research this number first, don´t write Xth in the actual blog, obviously) it ended up abandoned and neglected when the catholics reconquered Granada. Sometime in the 1900s, an American travelling historian named Washington Irving 'rediscovered' it and the process of restoring the Alhambra to its former glory began. Quite how he managed to claim credit for discovering a giant stone fortress built on the side of a hill in the middle of a major city is beyond me, but that´s American travelling historians for you.
The other cool thing about Granada was the generous helpings of tapas. I stopped in at a bar around the corner from where I was staying and ordered a glass of red. Taking a leaf out of old Washy´s book, I 'discovered' an entire dinner plate of free food in front of me. So I ate it.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
The reason you´re supposed to visit Granada is that it is home to the Moorish stone fortress known in Spanish as 'La Alhambra'. It´s a curious name, because 'Alhambra' is derived from the Arabic name, which means 'The Red (One)'. so, presumably the Spanish would translate as something like 'the the red one'.
Well, however superfluous the extra articles may or may not be, the monument they specify was certainly spectacular. Built by successive generations over a period of several hundred years, beginning in the Xth century (research this number first, don´t write Xth in the actual blog, obviously) it ended up abandoned and neglected when the catholics reconquered Granada. Sometime in the 1900s, an American travelling historian named Washington Irving 'rediscovered' it and the process of restoring the Alhambra to its former glory began. Quite how he managed to claim credit for discovering a giant stone fortress built on the side of a hill in the middle of a major city is beyond me, but that´s American travelling historians for you.
The other cool thing about Granada was the generous helpings of tapas. I stopped in at a bar around the corner from where I was staying and ordered a glass of red. Taking a leaf out of old Washy´s book, I 'discovered' an entire dinner plate of free food in front of me. So I ate it.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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