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Spain: Time for a Private Room? - GoNOMAD Travel
Spain: Karen Horst is a woman of a certain age who writes about staying in Spanish youth hostels.
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Spain: Time for a Private Room? - GoNOMAD Travel Spain: Karen Horst is a woman of a certain age who writes about staying in Spanish youth hostels.
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Kayaking and camping in Missouri and Pennsylvania, snowboarding in Colorado January to present 2014. This year I have not traveled outside the US. I drove from Columbia, Missouri, to Keystone, Colorado, and then back again for Spring Break to Arapahoe Basin, Colorado, spending a week in each resort for snowboarding. For the January trip we had blustery, cold temps. For Spring Break, fresh powder! I took two white water kayaking trips to western Pennsylvania in the Allegheny Mountains, running the class III lower Yough several times. I swam through nearly every major rapid, including Dimple and Cucumber, but managed a whitewater roll four times, twice even in a hydraulic that windowshaded me, flipping me over once I righted myself. We had some warm, sunny days, then buckets of rain and cold. Glad I brought my westsuit. I tried to mountain bike the McCune Trail but slipped over every wet rock and wound up with a frightening bruise on my butt. One night I dreamed my tent washed away. My whitewater outfitter of choice in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania, is Wilderness Voyageurs (wilderness-voyageurs.com). The state campgrounds are super, I even found a cabin at a reasonable price for a few nights so I could dry out. (www.dcnr.state.pa.us) In Missouri we basked in cool, sunny summer weather during July, so Michael and I camped out on the Niangua River in Southern Missouri and kayaked fourteen miles down the class I waters from the outfitters' headquarters north of Bennett Spring State Park (mostateparks.com/park/bennett-spring-state-park) to Oldhams Riverview. Our float down the Niangua was a true Ozark safari. We found families of otter reintroduced to the rivers, turtles, fish, crawdads, Great Blue Herons, deer, snakes, hawks, and all kinds of native critters. And not too many mosquitoes!
Chicago weekend getaway for a writer's conference
September 17 - 20, 2013. A long bus ride back to Madrid. Beautiful countryside. Jane met me as I walked off the bus and we headed to my new home for the next two nights, a small but styling hostal with shared bathroom near Puerta del Sol. After several vinos y tinto de veranos en La Latina barrio, we joined one of Jane's friends, Alonso, for a dinner of grilled vegetables and french fries smothered with fried eggs at a quiet restaurant. The next morning I went for the free walking tour through the city. Two young, attractive female pickpockets hit some of the tourists but left empty-handed. I learned more interesting tidbits about Madrid before ending the tour at the AMAZING Palacio Real! The castle's interior is so fabulously decorated that my jaw dropped. The throne room and the dining hall was absolutely fabulous. The best part, however, was the armaria. I almost missed it, as the small sign pointing toward a door at the end of the palace wing did not tantalize me after passing through ornate throne rooms. The museum featured tons of full suits of armor modeling in stance or mounted on armored horses displayed on raised platforms towering overhead complete with jousting spears. Truly AWESOME! The darkened room sparked my imagination as the armored figures came to life. I wanted so badly to steal a picture but more signs warned against photography. After my menu del dia, I wandered back to my room and spent the rest of the day relaxing and watching Game of Thrones, which has helped me visualize Spain's medieval, regal history. On my last day in Madrid, I took the metro to Reina Sofia. I patted my back for managing the system without a meltdown, although la tourista officina did tell me which metro line to take. Picasso's Guernica dominates a massive wall in the mueso. The exhibit includes his preliminary sketches as well, depicting details Picasso chose to eliminate from his final work. His wife took photos as he painted, showing how he changed the composition midway through the piece. I saw Goya sketches from the Spanish Civil war, Dali, political artwork and photographs of Spain from the 1960s. Some of the art was a tad avant garde for me. Spanish artwork in Reina Sofia contrasts with the more traditional religious and royal depictions in the Prado. I walked Calle Huertas back to my hostal. I had to sample the Madrid McDonalds as other travelers told tales of tasty regional differences, but I found the same old boring Big Mac. For my last supper in Spain, Jane and Carlos took me to a small hillside town outside of Madrid to see the Monastery of San Lorenz, which was the burial ground for many royalty. Beautiful vistas, delicious dinner with more excellent Spanish vino rioja, followed by chupitos. I chose the lemon instead of the Baileys; I can always drink that at home! The next morning Carlos and Jane dropped me off at the airport, and of course, I was crying when I said hasta luego a mi prima Jane. I don't know when I will see her again. Tambien, estoy muy triste porque me gusta Espana mucho, y este viaje fue fantástica. Fue todo que quiere en mi víaje. Yo regresare a Espana un dia pronto.
Farewell Madrid, hostels, museums, my loaded backpack I checked in my luggage rather than haul it around and worry whether or not they would accept it as carry-on. Looking at it, I'm really amazed that I traveled for almost six weeks with so little stuff. Still, I did not need as many changes of clothes. I hardly used the cool weather gear, and of course the jogging shoes and slip-on pumps were a complete waste. My Teva sandals were PERFECT. I did not use the socks, but I would still bring them just in case, including the windbreaker/rain jacket. No books next time, just an I-pad. For the beach I can buy books while I'm traveling or borrow from a hostel's lending library.
I did not lose a single thing of value on this trip, not even the electrical outlet converter I always expected to leave behind. I routinely set down and forgot my disposable water bottles I re-used. Before boarding the overnight train from Tarragona to Granada I accidentally abandoned on the platform my plastic bag of condiments: a bottle of olive oil, balsamic vinegar and some dry pasta. Otherwise, I returned home with everything except those damn books I donated to one hostel or another after reading. This trip was amazing. I did have my moments of frustration, but otherwise, smooth sailing. I learned the value of spending more time in each place. In the future I plan to stay at least one week in each city I visit. If I don't like the hotel/hostel, I will change my reservation. If I really like the area, I will have enough time to change my hotel reservations with notice, or take day trips from the hotel/hostel where I stayed. I'll purchase train tickets ahead of time to save money if I plan a long ride: Madrid to Girona, Tarragona to Granada, for example. I will definitely alternate hostels with the more private pensiones or hostals, or at least pay extra for a private room in a hostel. I will consider an apartment if more affordable in a central location for several weeks, taking day or overnight trips from a base. Absorbing more in one area, traveling less via bus/train/airplane with fewer transitions. When visiting a country like Spain, it's easy to put together a list of "must-sees." But you can't visit every city, every monument, every museum, every scenic vista. In Spain I stayed mainly in northeastern Catalonia and on the Mediterranean coast, leaving only for Granada in Andalucia, Madrid/Toledo and Seville. I've only seen a fraction of Spain: no Cordoba, Valencia, Malaga, Ronda, Cadiz, Salamanca, Pamplona, San Sebastian ... There are many ways to travel; the way I traveled worked well. I had the most trouble with transitions, moving into a new city or new lodging, making reservations, repacking to relocate, finding the correct bus/train, etc. I made twelve transitions inside Spain, not including flying in and out of Madrid. And although I was in Spain for 37 days, that's a lot of moving carrying a loaded backpack. Some transitions were easier than others, such as Jane and Carlos driving me from their place back and forth to the hostal/pensions in Madrid. However, each transition came with unique stresses. And next time I'm going to work on the language before I go or carry a smart phone to help with translation. Plus, I will focus on the trip overseas, not tack it onto a major expedition through the US. For almost six weeks prior to leaving for Madrid I'd been driving across the US, in and out of campsites, in and out of motels, in and out of people's homes, in and out of dozens of cities unfamiliar to myself, and to be quite honest, I'm amazed at how well I've handled all the changes and the travel after years of waking up almost daily to coffee while soaking in my hot tub surrounded by my familiar trees and flowers. Flying home over Madrid and western Spain was amazing. The patchwork of golds, reds, oranges, browns, greens and blacks separating the land into circles, squares, ovals, triangles, rectangles, trapeziums and parallelograms reminded me of a cubist painting. I know now where Picasso found his inspiration. Saying hasta luego to Spain was surprisingly emotional for me. I had an incredible journey. On my last night, mi primo Carlos asked me which experience stood out the most. I just kept listing one after another. I immensely enjoyed getting to know mi prima Jane mejor. I'm crying as I write this. She is an amazing woman and she and Carlos made my trip to Spain beyond memorable. And even though I was traveling on my own, Jane and Carlos made sure I could contact them if I needed help. Jane kept in touch via e-mail, making suggestions and reservations for my stay in Madrid, touring with me to Toledo. I did not feel alone and it was wonderful knowing I had familia standing by in case I needed help. September 13 - 16, 2013. I had a relatively fluent conversation with an older Spanish couple while waiting for the bus in the Granada station. The bus ride to Seville took three hours, and I even snoozed a little. I hiked with the backpack to my hostel; I checked ahead this time and got good directions. My confidence at transitioning surged and I even pouted for a minute that this would be my last stop before Madrid and the flight home. Seville presents more tame and traditionally Spanish than Granada, not the Bohemian hangout or overrun tourist trap. My little hostel is in a sedate neighborhood. The rooms are clean and spacious. The atmosphere overall is quiet. Boring compared with Makuto. I'm in a 4-cama all-girl dorm with its own bathroom. There's a terrace on the rooftop. The Friday evening free sangria only attracted a handful of guests, including a Spanish couple contemptuous of my pathetic attempts at conversation in a language I have studied sporadically since junior high school. I left the lounge and wandered up to the rooftop terrace. Someone had hung their wet laundry the length of the narrow terrace, ruining the ambience as well as the view. Opening the front door to my spacious hostel in Seville, I initially sucked in a lungful of peace and serenity. The German girl at the reception desk spoke in a whisper. I arrived starving around 6:30 p.m. They serve free sangria at 9, so I planned to be back in time. I went out by myself for something to eat. A large plaza near the hostel was crowded with locals mostly for a Saturday night out with friends and family. I stood at one bar and they ignored me, so I went to another and sat for awhile until this short, thin Spanish man came and spoke to me. I couldn't understand him. I assumed he was the waiter, but then no, guess not, and he pointed me in the direction of the bar. I ordered a tinto de virano hoping I would get some tapas, but no, no comida until after 8:30 and then, of course, you have to pay. Free munchies with a drink is not the norm in Seville. Irritated, I left and found an abandoned Chinese restaurant and ordered el menu del dia for 6.5 euros, plus had enough to take home for breakfast! The free Sangria did not attract many hostel guests. I sat next to a Spanish couple traveling from elsewhere in Spain. They spoke rapidly and were not very patient with my broken Spanish. Frustrated, I went up to the terrace. Someone had all their laundry hanging up, which ruined the ambience as well as the view, so I returned to my room and read. When my roommate returned, she seemed very nice but quiet, so I kept reading, stayed up late and finished "The Walking Dead, the Road to Woodbury" from the hostel's library. The next morning in the communal kitchen for breakfast I drank coffee and ate the rest of the bread someone had abandoned in the kitchen. The tall blonde from Denmark announced she was going to the Museo del Spanish Inquisition. I tagged along with her and the German receptionist, Vanessa. The museum is located next to the bridge to Triana in the excavated ruins of el Castillo de San Jorge. The museum mixes modern media with the ancient foundation walls of San Jorge to tell this frightening story. I stewed over the powerful exhibits, angry about the cruelty and stupidity of the Catholic Church. 300 years of ignorance, fear, torture and murder condoned by monsters claiming God's Grace! Afterward we found a cafe for a coffee. I of course had cafe con leche and a large piece of chocolate cake. We had a fascinating discussion, mostly in English for my sake, about historical guilt-trips. Vanessa grew up in Germany ashamed about the Nazi's but reluctant to shoulder responsibility for their crimes, while I countered with my country's background of slavery, genocide of the native Americans and the A-bomb. We walked past the Cathedral, Christian iconography turning my stomach for the moment, and toured the Palacio de Pilato, a privately-owned palace designed during the 15th and 16th century based on the home of Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem. The family still lives in apartments upstairs. Although not as exquisite as the Nazrid Palaces, the decorative walls and ceilings mimic the Alhambra's intricate honeycombed, carved and woven designs in plaster, tile and woodwork. The richly colored wall and ceiling coverings helped me visualize even more how beautiful the Nazrid Palaces would have appeared during the time of the Moors. Interesting but also weird to think of a family living in this massive place. They had the run of the entire palace until opening part of it as a museum in the 1980s. They still use some of the living rooms and large dining rooms during "special" occasions. They had family portraits painted from the 15th century along with framed color photographs that looked from the 1960s. When you walked on the clay tiles in the hallway on the top terrace, they made this musical clicking, clacking sound like wind chimes. Cruising the shopping areas of Seville, I marveled at the gorgeous dresses in the windows. A wedding party passed by, and the women's hats outshined the bride's brilliant white gown as its train trailed across the pavement. After returning from our tour, I napped. My roommate in the four-bunk dorm left after my first night and I had the place, including private toilet and shower, all to myself for the next two nights. I took advantage and chilled-out with writing, reading and watching television via internet. I did not feel like going out for the evening, so I ate "free" pasta and bread from the kitchen, and read until about 4 a.m. Slept in and made myself go for another self-guided tour. I had to walk to the bus station to buy my tickets, as the company cannot get its act together to sell tickets online, just like ALSA. I walked along the River Guadalquivir, which was really beautiful but so poorly maintained. I enjoyed the graffiti artwork splashed across every concrete surface, but not the trash, cigarette butts and tons of broken glass. The landscaping was pathetic, with mowed grass and weeds along the river. You could see how Spain's recession had gutted public works projects. I walked through Triana, proclaimed as the home to flamenco, ate a horrible menu del dia but in a wonderful location right by the river, then strolled back to the hostel along the river. I'm ready to go home. I'm tired of traveling. I miss Michael and the comforts of home. I'm eating too much junk, drinking too much wine and I'm getting pretty crabby. I've loved this trip, but three months on the road is enough for me. I am looking forward to Madrid, seeing Jane and Carlos, but then really looking forward to the flight home. September 10 - 12, 2013. I didn't need to worry about missing my stop on the overnight train from Torredembarra via Tarragona to Granada. The conductor banged on the compartment door at 8:30 a.m. I didn't have the greatest night sleep. The sound of the train and the movement kept waking me. Then at one point I woke to a silent stillness. The train had stopped for a while sometime around 4 a.m. Otherwise I had a lovely introduction to Granada. Upon leaving the train, two of the women from my sleeping cabin invited me for coffee. Both Granada locals, the niece spoke very little English and the aunt none, so I tried my weak Espanol on them. Theresa and Fina bought breakfast, refusing to let me pay for mine. Then they took me downtown, buying my bus ticket using their discount card and directing me toward la officina de turista. I'd struck gold with this connection in a strange city, as I had forgotten the name of my hostel and directions, so I had to go to la officina de turista for assistance. Fortunately, I remembered my password to the hostel website and the office allowed me to look up my reservation on the internet. They would not allow me to check my personal e-mail account, so thankfully my memory did not completely fail me. I called them my "transitions", moving from one city to the next. I always found transitions challenging while hefting my backpack and my cumbersome bag of paperback books, Lonely Planet Guide to Spain and laptop, but especially after a weird night sleep on a train and not knowing even the name of my hostel. I hiked through the old quarter, el Albaicin, up and down hills to my hostel, luckily finding it in the maze of narrow cobbled passageways and buildings. The hostel staff at Makuto Guesthouse were the most welcoming and friendly group in all my travels. Syrmo greeted me and refused to discuss payment or paperwork until I'd set down my baggage and drank a cup of tea. The hostel itself is spacious inside and out. I have a 4-person room with its own bathroom and private kitchen shared by just one other room, so mucho peace and quiet compared with the awful hostel in Barcelona. My roommates were gone a lot, staying out until 6:30 a.m. one morning, so it felt almost private and muy tranquilo. I joined the walking tour with a group from the hostel that was led by a British guy who works at the hostel. He took us on this incredible tour that included an area on the hillside looking down on Granada peppered with inhabited caves. Manmade over 1000 years ago for the workers who helped build the Alhambra, las cuevas are now home to squatters including gypsies, Senegalese Muslims, Spaniards and hippies. We stopped at one cave and drank tea with the people living there. Then we hiked to an overlook featuring a beautiful view of the Alhambra lit up at night. Afterward wine and tapas in the hostel patio. The next morning I rose around 7 a.m., the stars still twinkling, then walked to the Alhambra. Just amazing! Even in its faded state I could imagine how beautiful it once was with all the intricately designed plaster walls, ceilings, latticework and archways. Still fantastic in its current state, I imagined how much more beautiful it was centuries ago: originally painted in vivid reds, blues, golds and greens; the royalty with their guests and dignitaries wandering through the palaces and the gardens; the soldiers on horseback galloping over the mosaic stone passageways or pacing the towers on guard. WOW! I was not expecting to enjoy my visit to Alhambra so much and appreciate the experience. I was ready for just another tourist "must see." The crowds are controlled through a reservation system and except for the occasional group tour passing through, I found private corners and alcoves in some of the Nasrid Palace complex with only a few other visitors, sometimes I had an area to myself for several minutes. The gardens were gorgeous. Fantastic city panoramas from the towers of the Alcazaba. I took almost 1,000 pictures that day! I've had a hankering for middle eastern food since arriving, so I finished my tour at an Arabic restaurant downtown with hummus, falafel and of course, dulces. The following day I took a tour of Granada's olive country south of the city, about a 25-minute drive. I was only one of six in the group, so again, very intimate and relaxing. We walked through orchards of trees loaded with ripening olives and almonds, toured an old olive mill complete with this massive press made of huge, thick beams of wood lashed together with rope. The mill demonstrated olive oil processing methods used for centuries up until the past 50 years when mechanization took control. Then I indulged in the best part of the tour: the olive oil and olive tasting, complete with different olive oils, iberian jamon and goat cheese and of course, wine. We tasted four different wines, sipped eight distinct olive oils, and sampled three types of olives. The olive oils were flavored with spices, fruits and herbs, but we also tried one sweetened with sugar. I took a delightful nap when I returned to the hostel, then after some tapas at a restaurant in Albaicin, ate dinner with the group at the hostel. After dark we headed up to las cuevas for a religious fiesta that the local Senegalese hold every Tuesday and Thursday night. My senses reeled as I danced to the drumming while looking up at the stars and over the city of Granada, and of course, the illuminated Alhambra. Walking around the Albaicin was a trip. The place is a maze. Leaving the hostel for Gran Via or Alhambra or finding a place to eat never posed a problem. You just had to head downhill. But finding the hostel on my return trip was always interesting. I don't think I ever took the same route back, sometimes wandering in circles until I would chance across the right street or one close to it. At night after sangria it was a tad frustrating. The only time I found it easily was the first time as I followed the map exactly. The streets turn and twist and it's hard to find the lower entrance of Calle Balbole: it almost looks like a private doorway. Some of the widest streets dead end suddenly into a garage door or walled space, then others narrow into almost nothing and you think, "this is another dead end" but no, you'd found an alleyway or another thoroughfare that provides enough room for a tiny car or two people to walk abreast. I had a great workout during my visit to Granada hiking around Albaicin, up to las cuevas and two roundtrips to the Alhambra. Back at the hostel, the French guys played flamenco guitar while I lounged in my little cave, an alcove under the stairs that opened onto a jungle of plants and hammocks next to the patio tables and chairs. I developed a friendly rapport with all the travelers and hostel workers. Many are in their twenties, some in their 30s, but mostly college-age. Some are looking for places to live in Granada, they love it so much. Most are from Australia, France and Germany. I met a couple from Spain, Switzerland and Belgium. Two women staying here came from the US, but other than my olive tour group consisting of all Americans, that's a first for me on this trip to Spain. I call the two Dutch girls "the Queens of Denmark" because I always find them lounging in the two large, throne-like wooden chairs draped with bedspreads pushed up against the patio wall. It seemed like every time I returned to the hostel or walked through the patio, they were sitting there as if holding court. So I dubbed them "The Queens of Denmark" although they are constantly reminding me with a laugh that they are actually from Holland. I tell them I like the sound of Denmark rather than Holland, and since I'm just an ignorant American, that's how it is. For karaoke night one of the Australian girls challenged me to sing. A guy with a shaved head, his arms and torso plastered with tattoos, joined me for Madonna's Holiday. Then the Aussie and her friend along with Tomoko, sat around and indulged me as I shared pictures on my computer of my "gorgeous" son; of course they all seconded my opinion. They viewed my pictures of my summer's journey prior to arriving in Spain and listened to my stories about traveling. The Aussies were both so cute, just 18 and ready to spin the globe. They are on a three-month tour and announced "We're already planning our next trip." Girls after my own heart. Meeting these young women who are taking on the world sent me soaring. They left the next day for Morocco. Granada has a very international feel. The hostel is a mini-United Nations as well. In addition to the hostelers I've already mentioned, we have Syrmo from Greece via Italy, a couple of Germans, a man from Poland, Richard from Britain and Tomoko from Japan. Makuto Guesthouse of Granada ROCKS! This hostel stay is almost one of my favorites, as not only does the place provide different spaces for privacy, socializing, etc, but the hostel staff treat everyone like friends and family. It truly is a guesthouse and I've had a fantastic time meeting everyone. Someone is always playing guitar and drums in the afternoon, providing a sensational soundtrack to the treehouse, the cave and the patio. Every time someone checked out, anyone hanging around sent them off with "Hasta luego, buen viaje!" Even the silly young kid Tom turned into sort of a gem. I was sitting in the cave working on my computer, and he's walking around in his dirty t-shirt and multi-hued harem pants popular in the Arab bodegas of the Albaicin, calling for someone to hang out with. Although I was probably three decades his senior, he invited me to join him and three Australian guys, including the two Chrises, on the top of the treehouse. The next day he woke up feeling sick to his stomach with diarrhea and the mother in me told him to drink water and eat some good yogurt. The hostel staff cooked an international buffet with dishes representing their countries and it was TO DIE FOR! After dinner, I joined the two sisters from Baltimore for a flamenco show, reservations courtesy of the lovely Syrmo. The show was presented in a small, cavelike tavern right off the River Darro, seating only about 40 people. Guitarra, cantor y bailor in the traditional gypsy flamenco style. I returned to the hostel and headed to my room, but the Queens of Denmark waylaid me and began buying me more sangria. Then Richard started serving everyone shots of schnapps. Queen Marlouse and I taught everyone how to play charades; they immediately got my Michael Jackson impression. My laughter left me gasping. Tomoko said she went to bed around 2:30 and I was up much later than that. I finally made it to my room, slept sort of and woke around 9:30 for coffee. The Dutch girls left; I almost missed them. When I heard them holler my name, I ran down the cobblestone street after them for hugs and kisses goodbye. They tried to talk me into following them to Malaga, but I had reservations in Seville and stuck to my plan. Another plus with this hostel is that when you are out and about, especially in the Albaicin, you always run into other Makuteros and a smiling greeting, so it's almost like you live here with friends and family. On my way back from buying my bus ticket (ALSA sucks, you can't buy a ticket online with a credit card or even hold a ticket with a credit card), in a small plaza I found the two French guys playing guitar with the two European blondes as their audience. One of the women told me how she had just found un piso to rent; she planned to stay in Granada to improve her Spanish. I sat on the steps with them enjoying the flamenco music with happy tears as I reflected on my magical Granada experience, trying to smile because it happened, not sad that it was over. Hugging Syrmo goodbye made my eyes mist. I may never see these wonderful souls again. Espero que todo MAKUTEROS tienen buen viajes todo sus vidas. September 1 - 9, 2013. The beachfront in Torredembarra reminds me of Venice Beach, California, from the 1970s, before the weirdos and hordes of tourists invaded, but less bohemian and more oriented toward middle class families. Torredembarra's beachfront Passeig de Colom is a wide concrete walkway bordering the sand and low-rise apartments. Couples, families, grandparents pushing strollers, bicyclists, elderly women with leashed dogs, toddlers untethered from their parents and an occasional rollerblader or skateboarder meander the uncrowded boardwalk. Outdoor cafes open morning to night pepper Passeig de Colom. The beach in early September is populated but hardly crowded. On one end yachts of all sizes dock in a marina and farther north catamarans and skiffs pull up on the beach. There's always a sailboat or two in the bay. Muy tranquillo! One evening I walked beyond Passeig de Colom on the wooden pathway that runs north through the ecological preserve of Els Muntanyans, hiking almost to the next seaside town of Creixell just as the sun set. I backtracked along the ocean relatively alone. Little development marred the seven kilometers of protected sand dunes and marshes that at one time covered the Catalan coast. The afterglow from the sunset over the city of Torredembarra and the surrounding hills was just amazing. No need for a car, taxi or even public transportation here. The old city center is about two kilometers from my room at Hotel Morros. I restocked for evening wine and tapas on my balcony at a grocery store less than a kilometer away or bought fresh vegetables at a temporary produce stand in the plaza nearby. Everybody walks here – flocks of families, older couples, children – even after dark. No loud disco music or swarms of carousers. At night people actually remained quiet if out and about, not hollering to wake the dead at 3 a.m. like in Barcelona or Tossa de Mar. The few cars traveling at night drove slow and did not honk at every stray object. Even the train passing through town was relatively inconspicuous. I felt safe walking alone on the beach or through the city streets day and night. Everyone engaged me and smiled patiently at my broken Spanish, from the Morrocan gentleman who served me cafe con leche every morning at the beachside cafe to the store clerk who could not believe I'd flown all the way from the United States to visit her town. My Spanish did not venture beyond my basic conversational blurbs, but c'est la vie! I was vexed by the mix of Catalan into the local dialect and signage, such as platja not playa, but I managed as most everyone here understood enough English to get by with the basics. In Torredembarra I fell into a delightful daily pattern. I had a decent sleep every night. I woke when I felt like it, anywhere between 9 and 10 am., then headed to the boardwalk for cafe con leche, sipping slowly as I watched the ocean, the early birds setting up their beach chairs, the joggers huffing past (did I used to do that?) and walkers strolling. After my second cup, I wandered back to my room for computer time, then I headed to the beach. After a couple hours of sunning, swimming and reading, I'd pick a cafe on the boardwalk for el menu del dia, which usually included a glass of red wine, a salad, bread, a meat or seafood entree, dessert and sometimes if I was lucky, another cafe con leche or chupito. Then either back to the room for a nap or to the beach for a rest in the sun. In the evening, tapas y vino rioja on my balcony while listening to the waves; I could hear but not see the ocean from my room. The first three nights I walked into town for festival activities after tapas. Some mornings I found a temporary fruit and vegetable stand in the plaza next to my hotel for my tapas, once using a halved-avocado to hold the salad dressing for dipping the lettuce, carrots and cucumbers. If I can wash my clothes in the hotel tub, certainly I can manage tapas on my hotel balcony without dishes. I basked in the peace and quiet, reading on the beach or writing on the balcony and doing just exactly what I wanted to do, even if it was NOTHING! This part of the trip has been the epitome of Rest and Relaxation! I hiked about a mile south on the rocky trail along the cliff above the beach toward Tamarit on a gorgeous sunny day. I made it to Platja del Canyadell and went for a swim. I saw a jelly fish in the water and avoided it. I did not have my camera and decided to return to finish the hike to the castle another day. I went for menu del dia at a wonderful "Italian" restaurant, Bogaly d' Or. The food was FANTASTIC and the waiter even brought me a lemon chupito, all for 13.5 euros. Saturday I drank coffee at my usual restaurant, Voramar, with the guapo hombre de Morroco and the Spanish mujere muy simpatico and set off on my trek. It was overcast and cloudy, but even my waiter said it would not amount to anything as you could even see patches of blue sky. After I walked about 45 minutes on the rocky cliffside trail, the gray clouds started to sprinkle. I found shelter in a thick grove of trees just past the lighthouse. I waited awhile for the rain to let up before retracing my steps toward the hotel. The downpour grew heavier and drenched me. Rivers of muddy water streamed across the stone pathway. My soaked hat and beach wrap protected me from the pelting rain, but I worried about keeping my camera dry in my pocket. The thunder roared louder and closer, jarring me into a frantic run. I reached La Terraza, a cafe on the cliff overlooking the beach of Torredembarra. The plastic chairs and tables on the covered patio signaled I could settle in dripping wet. The menu del dia was 17 euros, Hay caramba! I had to stay due to the weather. I lucked out as lunch included a full bottle of red wine plus a dessert called "whiskey torta," a slab of cake with whiskey poured over the top. Then Mother Nature got nasty. Suddenly the wind and rain blasted, whipping the plastic awning in every direction and tossing empty chairs. The staff moved me and the other guests and our tables and chairs away from the patio's edge and lowered the awnings' wall curtains. The wind began howling even louder, blowing the walls of the plastic enclosure sideways and everyone quickly ducked inside. I clung to my glass and bottle of wine. The water poured onto the patio from every direction and the wind sent everything flying. I ate my meal and drank the rest of my wine in the tiny restaurant. Eventually the tempest calmed, the other customers began leaving and I peeked outside to watch the storm. A huge lake had buried the once wide, sandy beach. Shoulders hunched, I fled the restaurant between cloudbursts, buffeted by the wind with only my limp, water-logged sunhat and saturated beach cover-up for protection. I scurried past tons of debris, including metal parts of window awnings. The road leading to town under the train tracks was full of water! Overall, an exciting and beautiful day. If I had not had so many glorious days lying on the sand in the sun, I might have felt disappointed. I know the shopkeepers and restauranteurs were bummed and their dismay reminded me of the Hartsburg PSYCHO Depot, so weather dependent and depressing when it stormed on weekends. This was one of the last summer weekends for this seaside community and they were counting on it. The following day arrived sunny with a slight breeze, so I steered for Tamarit Castle once again. The ocean had lost its clear, turquoise color, but its previously gentle waves had gained size and strength. In Platja del Canyadell I dove in to bodysurf. The cove set up a challenging current as waves crashed against the cliff on the western side before retreating eastward to collide with the swell hitting the beach from a southern angle. If you caught a wave you would either run into the rocks or the kids on rafts. Board surfers commandeered the point farther south at Platja d'Altafulla. I caught some great rides bodysurfing the waves of Platja d'Altafulla and Platja de Tamarit. I finally reached Tamarit Castle, perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the coastline. I would have stayed for menu del dia at one of the local restaurants along the boardwalk, but aggressive smouldering clouds from the mainland kept edging toward the coast. Instead I dined at a restaurant closer to home for a long siesta meal and the obligatory glass of wine. On the Monday of my departure I moped through my routine, knowing it would be my last day in Torredembarra. The Morros Hotel allowed me to keep my room without any additional charge or fuss until I left at 8:30 in the evening for my overnight train to Granada. I spent the day at the beach. The waves still curled perfectly for bodysurfing: gentle and easy although short rides. I lunched at my favorite restaurant, Bogaly d' Or, but had coffee at a different beach cafe than my usual Voramar because they did not open that morning. Fewer beachgoers compared with the week prior. The season had drawn to an end. Of all the wonderful places I've visited around the world, Torredembarra remains on my list to sample once again. I loved my visit to Torredembarra, but I had grown too comfortable and needed to move on and try something different. I took the 9:30 Renfe Tren Hotel to Tarragona after more credit card drama as the woman at the hotel's reception desk did not know how to use the machine. I've started watching Game of Thrones, which is sort of pertinent to my travels as I'm visiting so many medieval castles, fortresses and cities with museums featuring antiquities and unfamiliar cultures. I took an Advil PM to help me sleep on the train, praying someone would wake me at 9 a.m. so I wouldn't miss my stop in Granada! September 1, 2013. If Tarragona was wonderful and the Hotel Lauria palatial, Torredembarra is almost heaven. The only thing missing are all the people I love. I stayed in a not too expensive but very nice hotel with a balcony and a two-minute stroll to the beach. Upon arriving I discovered the town was celebrating its annual Festa Major de Santa Rosalia. I power walked to the old quarter just in time to catch a throng of castellers wrapping up with back braces and black cloth in preparation for creating "human castles." The sport of castelling originated near Tarragona in the 18th century and involves teams of mostly men but also some women standing on each other's shoulders, with smaller and smaller castellers clambering up their backs to create a human tower. Two small children in helmets climb to the very top. I watched them build one that reached as high as the surrounding buildings with seven levels of people, eight if you count the kids who really don't stand up, just climb up and down. Everyone cheered when the children reached the top and with each layer dropping back down, but the greatest applause was always for the guys at the bottom and those who bolstered their efforts with their bodies and hands. My emotions ran away with me while I watched; castelling demonstrates not just teamwork but the importance of depending on others, working together and achieving something exciting and although fleeting, a powerful display of human spirit and comradery. Torredembarra's Festa Major de Santa Rosalia enthralled me with a vivid close-up of Spanish culture that I had hoped to discover on this trip. Although I'm sure other tourists like myself attended, most of the people in the streets appeared to know each other, so I soaked up a lot of local flavor with this festival. Torredembarra is not even listed in my 2013 Lonely Planet Guide to Spain. Most of the tourists here are Spaniards. August 29 - 31, 2013. The sun shone over Tarragona as I took an easy walk from the bus station to my ten-star hotel on La Rambla Nova. I gasped as I opened the door to my private room, which featured two queen beds, desk, full bath and complete silence. I worried I wouldn't be able to sleep with so much space and quiet. The place looked like a palace compared with where I'd stayed the previous two nights! Close to the beach and steps from the walkway on the bluffs that tower over the ocean, la balconi mediterraneo. I had a delicious paella lunch at an outdoor cafe on La Rambla Nova, followed by a rest and a read in my room. Once the lights flipped on, I walked along la balconi mediterraneo. The industrial port is a hike south and the train runs along the beach below. I passed some of the Roman ruins, ancient walls and sights that I planned to return to and savor the following day. For dinner I found a cafe in an unassuming plaza near my hotel. I caught the tail end of a brass band performance, obviously local high-school age musicians. Lots of families, locals, some tourists. And my dinner included BROCCOLI, which is the first time I've seen that on the menu for ages! Of course I had to reward myself with some chocolate gelati before heading to bed and a fantastically sound sleep. This place reminds me of Santa Monica 50 years ago, maybe Santa Barbara/Carpenteria thirty years ago. Some tourists, but most are Spaniards. Throngs of locals, little old ladies in colorful print dresses and elderly men in dress pants and tie, families, lots of children and pregnant women. The weather is fantastic. The beach, PERFECT! The access is limited due to the train tracks, so the beach is relatively uncrowded, especially compared with Tossa de Mar on a sunny day. The water is clear and warm with tiny but shapely waves. I loved watching the children playing in the ocean and in the sand, reminding me as usual of my own bambinos. I toured the Roman amphitheater ruins, the crumbling Medieval walls, the fortress and took another million pictures. I hiked along the seaside cliffs on the northern peninsula and found a private cove. I returned later to swim and sun and was joined by just a handful of people. There's an established hiking trail along the coastline all the way to Tamarit, approximately three hours north. Despite the problems with the credit card company (don't get me started) and some challenges with understanding my travel options from the very friendly but not very knowledgeable ladies at the tourist office, I have had an absolutely superb stay here. The people-watching is the best and yes, I saw another older Spanish woman with PURPLE HAIR! I had lunch at an outdoor cafe and met some locals, two gay men, whom I conversed with in Spanish mas o menos. I left Tarragona for Torredembarra north ten minutes by train on the Costa Daurada (Catalan for "gold coast"). On the menu, miles of beaches, more medieval castles and old fortresses, some Roman ruins and tons of local culture and delicious food. I'm getting fatter and tanner. August 27 - 29, 2013. I did not want to leave Tossa de Mar. The day started out poorly with a lousy night sleep, the terrace at Mana Mana closed for my morning coffee because the receptionist was too lazy to open it up, claiming they were expecting rain; blue skies did not deter her. I arrived in Barcelona Estacio Nord after taking a bus along the beautiful Costa Brava through Lloret de Mar. One glance at that tourist-saturated town seconded my decision not to go there. When I arrived in Barcelona I made the mistake of asking someone for directions to the Metro. You'd think a bus station would have a sign, but no. The tourist office was packed, so I asked a woman traveller who blew me off. Then I asked another woman. She was an older woman and appeared very helpful. She of course didn't know what she was talking about, so she led me around in a complete circle. When I finally found the Metro, it was right up the stairs and outside the first door I came to when I initially asked the woman for help. I can't imagine she did it maliciously, just sheer stupidity, I bet. I tried to buy a Metro pass from the automated machine, but it would not take my credit card without a PIN #, so I had to use some of my precious euros. I later found a Metro employee and he said I needed a PIN # and practically threw my credit card back at me when I told him I did not have one. So fuck the Metro. When I reached Plaza de Espana I had a challenging time finding my way out of the Metro station to the street. Again, a little signage would help us tourists. So I made it outside and by sheer luck found the hostel without wasting my time asking for help. Down the street from the Plaza Espana and only thirteen euros a day! That should have warned me. For two noisy nights I slept fitfully as one of six bodies sandwiched into a closet overlooking a busy street. Three packed dorm rooms shared the one and one half-bath flat with a kitchen carved out of the hallway. After arriving at two in the afternoon I couldn't use my locker or rest my head until the odoriferous man snoring in my designated bunk woke for his reassignment to the correct dorm. Give me a break! I don't understand how difficult it is for these hostels to make room assignments. TK had requested I be in her room and instead that same morning they assign this new guy to my bed, knowing that I was on my way. I always found a line for the bathroom or a locked door, especially when the girls down the hall opted to use the shower room as their personal sauna/day spa. With so little space in our cramped dorm rooms, people chose to sleep, reorganize their backpacks and somehow monopolize the loveseat that served as the hostel's lounge. When I first checked in I literally could not find a place to sit. For lunch we headed to the main calle nearby and found a nice bar/restaurant THAT TAKES CREDIT CARDS, and I ordered the menu del dia for ten euros. Delicious! Afterward we walked to the Caixa museo, housed in a stunning example of Moderniste architecture. Then we walked by the Magic Fountains, not running at the time, up to the art museum, then through the park to Joan Miro's Fundacio, which we wandered into without purchasing a ticket. The artwork and stick figures reminded me of my son's colorful creations drawn when he was three. The outdoor gardens with the sculptures refreshed my artistic senses. Then after a major hike up streets thick with trees, gardens and views of the city, we found the funicular (cable cars). We rode those to the top of the southern peninsula (Montjuic) and toured the castle as this massive storm descended from the north. From our safe southern vantage we watched the lightning and the dark clouds as the rain pelted the northernmost portion of Barcelona and the ocean, along with gorgeous views of the entire city, some still bathed in sunlight. The view of la Sagrada Familia sufficed for me, as most of the building's exterior is covered in scaffolding, massive cranes, and every tourist I spoke with talks in horror about the entrance lines that snake around the building starting at 9 a.m. We wandered down Montjuic through a heavily wooded area and the storm eased enough that we caught an amazing sunset exploding over the western mountain ranges. An incredible afternoon in Barcelona! We walked to the marina and found Rambla del Mar swarming with tourists. We drank a pitcher of sangria at a tacky, expensive restaurant on the pier, but we sat inside because of the cool evening as we had dressed for the heat of the earlier afternoon. We hiked a long way along Carrer Paralel to eat dinner at a restaurant recommended to TK that we both agreed was actually pretty bad and I'm sure a chain. As it was late and we were hungry and tired, we stayed and I took our order up to the guy at the window while TK sat at the table. I was not paying much attention, but then suddenly the guy taking my order at the window runs off and minutes later he's carrying TK's purse back into the restaurant. Fortunately this waiter was paying attention as someone from inside the restaurant had run off with the purse and he caught the thief in the act. We lost nothing but our complacency, but it hit home with me that Barcelona is really, really not where I wanted to be right then. The universe kept sending me these little messages and that was a big one. It's a large city, incredibly noisy and the tourist areas are crowded and full of thieves. And I absolutely hated our hostel. Good night sleep after taking two Advil PM and even though some of the kids noisily left early in the morning, I woke refreshed. TK slept until 11 a.m., so after a light breakfast of coffee, olives and cheese, we toured Barri Gotic including a short visit to the incredibly crowded La Rambla. In the Barri Gotic we literally had to step over puddles and streams of urine from either dog or man or both. After more wandering we found a restaurant that served an entire bottle of red wine with the menu del dia for under ten euros! TK laughed at how my eyes lit up. Then we strolled to the marina and found a terrace restaurant/bar on top of the Catalunya Museo Historica, enjoyed a view of the city and the coastline while sipping cafe con leche, followed by a walk to the beach. The apartments towering over the beach were quite seedy and I think at one point we witnessed la policia shaking down two alleged pickpockets. We drank mojitos from a street vendor while sitting on filthy concrete steps as we listened to a Cuban-inspired street band while several couples danced. Then we returned to the hostel and discovered a French bloke passed out on the living room couch. He was there the following morning, awake, but I bet he spent the night there. We stepped out for wine at the restaurant where I devoured my menu del dia on my first day (El Kikiriki ?). Overall, Barcelona was interesting but so far my least favorite spot out of Madrid, Gerona and Tossa de Mar. And NOISY, NOISY, NOISY. Too many cars, too many people and I was beyond ready to head south to Tarragona! After absolutely no sleep due to noisy hostelers, street traffic, etc, I bid a fond but sad adieu to TK, who headed back to London as she ended her Spain "holiday." No drama taking the Metro as the line I needed had reopened; it had closed the previous night forcing us on a long, winding tour through the Metro back to the hostel. The Barcelona bus staff had scant patience for my limited Spanish and provided little help and poor directions coupled with the station's lousy signage. Fortunately I had made it a point to arrive early and despite my bewilderment, I caught the correct bus to Tarragona. |
AuthorKarene Horst is a writer and wanderer currently with a home base out of Sugarloaf, California. Categories
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All photos and content on this blog are the experiences, opinions and property of Karene Horst and may only be used with written permission.
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