The Difference A Day Can Make

Wednesday sucked. Wednesday was the worst day I have had since the day I boarded a Delta flight from San Diego. Let's count the ways why Wednesday sucked:

1) I learned the Heineken Experience is closed until Summer.

I was looking forward to this a lot. For 10 euro, they give you a tour of the brewery, 3 bottles of their delicious beer and apparently there are some rides involved. After all, it's the Heineken Experience, not the Heineken Factory. Every Experience veteran with whom I have spoken says they LOVED it.

2) I left my water bottle at the restaurant where I had dinner.

To some of you out there, you may be thinking, "Ari, relax. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and go to a nearby supermarket. And while you're at it, buy another water bottle." What those of you who responded that way fail to realize is that this water bottle and I have grown immensely close. Since our relationship began when I traveled to Israel in early January, we have visited 7 countries and countless cities with each other. The Swiss-made, liter large, titanium water bottle goes everywhere I go. It has allowed me to save thousands of dollars (okay, maybe that's an exaggeration) on buying water throughout Europe because very few restaurants here serve tap water, and when they do, they typically charge for it. In short, this water bottle had tremendous functional and emotional value to me. If Warden Norton were asked of our relationship, he would likely reply, "thick as thieves they are".

3) I bought a really nice watch at the local market, only to realize a mere 2 hours later that it doesn't keep time.

No explanation necessary.

4) A British couple broke my electrical converter.

Not all of you were lucky enough to meet my electrical converter, but those of you out there who are familiar with it know how awesome this thing was. It was a tiny, black adaptor which could provide the appropriate plug for EVERY COUNTRY IN THE WORLD. I had used in Israel, the UK and all throughout Europe. And now it was broken. A couple asked to borrow it because there (likely inferior) converter was "not working". What they failed to mention was that it was "not working" because they "short-circuited" it by plugging in an incompatible hair dryer. Damnit.


If that wasn't enough, maybe this will convince you my day SUCKED....

4) One of my camera memory cards decided to delete itself.

Every picture from Ireland. Every picture from Portugal. Every picture from Spain. GONE. After a few hours of trying to attempting to salvage any data, I came to terms with the fact that they were gone. Even when I wrapped my head around the situation, I was devastated. Over the course of the more than three weeks in these countries, I had taken approximately 400 photos. I haven't been buying many mementos beyond postcards because I've found that my photos have kept me sufficiently happy. Now they were gone.

It's funny what a difference a day can make.


Thursday

Before tackling a number of museums by bike, I decided to check the restaurant for my water bottle. When the owner pulled it from underneath the counter, I felt what Andy must have felt when he saw Red walking towards him on the beach.

I learned the watch's ability to keep time wasn't as bad as I thought when I realized I hadn't the pin came undone on the watch, allowing the hands to move and alter the time. Thrilled, I began to wear the watch. A few hours later, I realized it, in fact, couldn't keep time. But it wasn't as bad as I once imagined, and reasoned that I would take it back to the kind woman who sold it to me at the flea market. I will keep you posted.

[Editor's Note: I went back to the market before I left Amsterdam, but the woman who sold the watch to me was not there. It took a few minutes of convincing that I had purchased the watch from their particular kiosk, but they eventually caved and gave me a new watch. So far so good.]

After many unsuccessful attempts to retrieve my photos, I decided to take it to a professional camera shop. Upon learning the problem, I was told they would run a Recovery Scan, and that I should return 45 minutes later.

I stopped in to a local coffehouse to calm my nerves, and analogized my situation to a loved one going through an experimental surgery. First, we struggle with accepting the harsh realities of our loss. We finally come to grips with the situation, but it still hurts. Now that we realize there is nothing to lose and everything to gain, we allow our emotions to be run through the mill yet again by undergoing a process that can yield either an all-time high or a gut-wrenching tease.

I came back in to the store, and was told they were still operating, but that vital signs looked normal. There was life. There was hope.

I came back 15 minutes later to hear that the photos were alive, but they were far from well. He was able to recover them (Thank God!), but a) when he tried to burn them to a CD, they repeatedly failed; and b) they could not be viewed from my camera. Feeling both relief and fear, I asked, "Can I see them?" He took the memory card, plugged it into the computer, and up they came. They were so beautiful, I almost cried. If I could upload them to the computer, then I should be able to He explained that there was definitely something wrong, but it was beyond his expertise to say exactly what the problem was. Disabled or not, I was glad to have my photos back. I thanked him for his time, and walked out of the store.

I will keep you posted as to the status of their recovery.



But wait. There's more.

Remember when I told you of my utter jubilation for finding March Madness on TV? Well, I went back to the same sports bar on Thursday and Friday nights to enjoy the Sweet 16 Games. I don't even need to into great detail of my experience at the sports bar. Just know these facts:

1) The sports bar televised all of the NCAA Tournament Games.

2) The sports bar offers a daily special of All-You-Can-Eat Ribs, Baked Potato and Salad for 12 euro.



3) Enjoying a certain coffeeshop substance in restaurants is completely legal.

Playing Local for a Day

I was totally unaware of this until I visited the city, but Amsterdam loves to bike. I mean, they really love to bike. Everywhere you turn, there are bikes, bike racks or bike signs. It's everywhere. You don't believe me? Well, facts don't lie, and here's Amsterdam's Fun Fact #2: Amsterdam has roughly 800,000 residents, but more than 1,000,000 bikes.

Continuing with my ongoing goal of immersing myself in another country's culture, I figured there would be no better way to do so than by renting a bike during my weeklong stay in Amsterdam. I like walking around cities (mainly so I can stop at many of the countless bakeries and breadshops along the way), so I only rented a bike for a 24 hour stretch. For the cost of 8 euro, I was able to feel like a Dutchman, avoid long walks to and from the city center and actually not mind getting lost. There were periods of time where I didn't really know where I was going until I biked upon a sign for a museum or a sight I had wanted to visit.



Biking in Amsterdam is more convenient than biking anywhere else I have ever been. Most of the streets have bike paths - designated by burgundy pathches - located between the driving lanes and walking paths. I looked to stay on these particular streets whenver possible because I HATED biking on streets without bike paths. Instead of sharing a lane with the pedestrians, I had to share one with all the cars traveling in the same direction. This continued to freak the hell out of me and often resulted in me swerving uncontrollably back and forth. I would try to hug the righthand shoulder of the lane as much as possible, which would lead to me getting uncomfortably close, which would lead me to try to go back left. This process sucked for me.

There was one time in particular when this process almost proved disastorous.

I was riding back home from the Red Light District when I turned on a dark, narrow road which I figured would be exempt from cars. Nope. Not exempt. Unable to turn off of the street for a few blocks, I had to manage to avoid car after car at all expenses. Then along came a BMW. I'm not sure what the model was, but it was a good size, so I'm guessing it was a 7-series (impressed, Brandon?). Looking back, the car was barely narrow enough for this street and my presence certainly did not help the situation. I was hugging the line as the car approached, and then swerved just a tad.

And we collided.

I never came into contact with the car, but my bike handle connected with what I think was his sideview mirror. I hopped off my bike and walked up to the now parked car. He rolled down the window, and with some apprehension in his voice, asked if I was okay. I was. Being the idiot that I am, I countered with, "Are you okay?" Shockingly, his body remained unscathed while seated on his leather upholstery. He asked if there was any damage to the car, and because it was dark, the most I could do was feel along the passenger side door for scratched paint. Luckily, there was nothing. I explained to him my theory of his mirror and my handle, and he seemed satisfied.

Before he changed his mind, I thanked him and ran back to my bike.

Running the Gamut of the Amsterdam Experience

In case you're scoring at home, the other museums and culturally-rich sights I visited included the Dutch Resistance (to WWII) Museum, the Van Gogh Museum, Amersterdam's Historical Museum and Anne Frank's House. All of the museums were impressive, so I'll just add a note about each:

- The Dutch Resistance was great because it gave a balanced account of Holland's actions - both good and bad - during wartime.

- The Van Gogh museum was great but it was smaller than I imagined and lacked "Starry Night" and "Cafe Terrace at Night".

- The Am. Historical Museum was perfect. If anything, it might have been too detailed.

- Anne Frank was moving and we were allowed to walk up to the attic, but I was disappointed to find the rooms barren. I think I would have better-appreciated the experience if we could have at least seen replica furniture in place to simulate their living situation.



After paying homage to Anne Frank, I decide to pay homage to the Red Light District. The District is larger than I imagined; it extends for a good number of blocks and also seems to extend into Chinatown. I figured no true District experience would be complete without....take-out Chinese food, so I ordered a plate from the buffet at a local restaurant and made my way through the red-lit streets. There isn't that much variation there - the streets are lined with sex shops, sex shows and rooms with bikini-laden women standing at the windows. I had heard that the most attractive women are out at night, so I made sure to pay (I used this term very liberally) a visit after sunfall. Some of the girls were quite frankly disgusting, but by and large most of them were quite attractive. I was pleasantly surprised. The only word that comes to mind for the whole experience is "surreal". The girls just tap at the window to get your attention or smile, wink and motion you to come join them (life should be that easy). And the whole time, I was trying to "play it cool" and act like this is totally normal. It didn't even feel that dirty to me, it was just that it was so far from reality, that I found myself taken aback. Then you walk back through a narrow tunnel, and you can immediately tell things are different again. You're back to normalcy, and you go about your way.

Dutch History, Dutch Food and Chalking Up Another Victory

Monday was the first day I truly explored the beautiful city of Amsterdam. The city is really cold this time of the year, but it feels like paradise to Windy, Frigid Paris. If the canals, colorful homes and pretty Dutch landscape were not enough, the scenery was made even more attractive by snowfall. This wasn't like snow that I'm used to you. Normally when I see snow falling it's in New York, where it falls to the ground and becomes brown, muddy slush. The snow in Amsterdam is straight from a gorgeous painting. It's picture-perfect.

I was unware of this, but Amsterdam offers a plethora of museums. In fact, there are more museums per meter in Amsterdam than any other city in the world. (That's Amsterdam Fun Fact #1. Stay tuned for Amsterdam Fun Fact #2.) Knowing that I was going to be in Amsterdam for just under a week, I decided to purhase a Museumkaart, a 22 euro, year-long pass good at 37 different museums and sights in Amsterdam.

My first stop was at the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam ("Amsterdam's State Museum"), which I found really impressive. The museum offered a really good introduction to Dutch history and Dutch art, especially during the Golden Age. On display were a number of Rembrandt works and those of his pupils. My favorite work happened to be "Amour Menacant", a sculpture by Etienne Maurice Falconet. The structure is of Cupid reaching for an arrow while simultaneously motioning someone to "sshhh". Adorable.



After paying a visit to the museum, I continued to walk around, hoping to get a good feeling for the city. I soon realized that it is very easy to get very lost, very quickly in this city. It seems like every street looks alike and sounds alike, while all of the canals appear more or less identical to one another. That being said, I stumbled upon a delicious and cheap Turkish restaurant for lunch.

While we're here, I think I should I mention how surprised I have been to find so many Indian, Pakistani and Thai restaurants throughout Europe. Virtually every single city I have visited, from Lisbon, to Barcelona, to Paris, to Amsterdam, has had its fair share of such cafes and eateries. The nice thing about this is that these places tend to be very cheap. What's really odd, though, is that they are expensive in Amsterdam. A falafel in Spain or Paris, for example, would run around 3-4 euro, but here they are 8-9. I'll keep you posted as I continue to uncover more of the continent.

[Editor's Note: Gyros and the like are all over Prague as well. And they're even cheaper here than they are in Western Europe.]

Anyway, I eventually made my way back to Leidseplein only to uncover Max Eurweplein Square, which is named for a famous Dutch chess master. In the square lies an enormous chessboard with pieces the size of small children. I sat and watched for a few minutes, as two guys squared off against one another. I found it comical how they literally took a step back to contemplate their next move. Once they made their decision, they would walk across the board, pick up the selected piece, walk over to its desired space, place it down and walk back off of the board.



Later that night I had what seemed to be my first dinner alone in weeks. It was nice to have some alone time during the day, but I felt a little awkward walking into Il-Palio, a local Italian restaurant whose claim to fame is that all of their pizza and pastas are only 5 euro.

The next day I paid a visit to the nearby Albert Cuypmarkt. The market is located on the longest street in Amsterdam and offers virtually everything under the sun. The different vendors sell electronics, clothing, souvenirs, watches, fresh meat and fish, produce, cheese and nuts. You name it, they probably sell it at Albert Cuypmarkt. I spent my time trying a spinach and cheese-filled croissant and the best sugar peanuts of my life (imagine warm and fresh Boston Baked Beans) while attempting to figure out what Amsterdam-related gifts I was going to buy for you people, and well, me.

I justified to myself that what I had eaten at the market were merely "snacks" so I had yet to have "lunch". I knew my rationalization of the situation was terribly flawed, but that certainly didn't stop me from eating more food. I felt like trying some authentic Dutch food so I ordered a herring broodje ("sandwich"), which is something I would NEVER order in the US. The sandwich was surprisingly really tasty, which means that I don't have to swear off trying the respective local food just yet.

After lunch, I made my way into my first Amsterdam coffeshop. In case you were wondering, I have yet to see coffee served in an Amsterdam coffeeshop. Let's move on.

Feeling good, I decided to feel a little less good by checking out the History of the Dutch Jews Museum. The award-winning museum was as impressive as it was depressing. I read stories of a long struggle to assimilate even before WWII, the atrocities of the Holocaust and the sad realities of post-war life.

I walked out of the museum feeling pretty down...until I realized that my visit to the museum unquestionably won me the Son of the Day Award, March 25, 2008.

Amsterdam, the American Way

While checking in to my room at the Stayokay Vondelpark Hostel, I met two Australian girls. After a few minutes of talking, we decided we would meet up in a few hours to go out drinking. After getting settled in and showering, we went out. Our plan was to pay a visit to a pub they had gone to the previous night, as I learned in Madrid, plans can change. And again, these amendments were for the better.

While walking along Leidseplein, the nearby area full of bars, restaurants and street vendors, I saw something I had not seen in weeks. It was something I had longed for. And I had finally found it.

March Madness.

I had looked the previous weekend in Paris, but was instead held captive to seemingly anything but the NCAA Tournament while in the Parisan bars. Rugby, soccer, swimming, women's gymnastics - you name it. Figuring it simply wasn't in the cards, I accepted that I would have to wait until next March to see the best three weekends of sports. But then good ol' Amsterdam bailed me out.

We walked by the bar, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a round, orange, leather object that strikingly resembled a basketball. I turned around and on a beautifully-large television was the end of the Tennessee vs. Butler game. Not even attempting to keep my composure, I became giddy with excitement. I hesitated about 3.6 seconds to explain, "Sorry, girls. I think I'm going to have to ditch you tonight, and this is where we part ways." Much to my delight though, they told me that they would be happy to join me, and that, "we can start here and then go some other place in a little bit". Little did they know that we would spend the next 4
hours (and more importantly 2 rounds of games) at Satelite Sports Cafe.



About an hour in to our stay, the girls said they wanted to meet up with friends of theirs. I said, "That's silly. Have them meet us here. You guys said the sangria is good, right? So stay. Have some more sangria. Waitress, can we get another liter of sangria? Thanks."

It was easy as that because about 30 minutes later in walked their friends. They were a group of 5 guys in their late 20's to early 30's donning matching bowling shirts. I guess the girls could read the look on my face because they immediately explained that the group were all former teammates in the English Football League and that they get together twice a year to party with one another. I thought about the justification for a second, and then realized I simply didn't care - basketball was on TV.

As it turned out, the guys were a lot of fun. For their bi-annual shindig, they play a card game that is similar to King's Cup (Sorry for any of you older than 30. I'll tell you what my parents told me when I was younger, "If you don't know, then look it up.") only this version was much more vindictive. And this game didn't really have an ending (except for the end of the basketball games - that was my cue to exit Stage Right), which meant a whole lot of alcohol consumption.



Amsterdam was off to a good start.

Looking Back...and Looking Forward

My week with Kelby was great. We had a wonderful time together and got along really well the entire time we were together. It's times like these that really make me laugh. Life is so funny this way. I met her in Madrid while she was getting ready to go to the Prado Museum. As it turned out, she had been planning on heading out earlier in the day, but she was out late the night before and slept in a few extra hours than she had originally intended. Yes, we would have met had she already left the room by the time I made my way in, but the odds of the replication of the events that were to follow are slim-to-none. I wouldn't have spent my entire time in Madrid with her and I certainly would not have boarded a flight for Paris three days earlier. Instead, you would be reading about my experiences jumping from a plane in the Swiss Alps. (If you would have found that more exciting, I apologize.)

I am tickled when I think of the huge role luck plays in our lives. Minor decisions that we think are meaningless can sometimes make the biggest of differences. Even beyond that, we never know what could have been. If I had gone to Switzerland, I never would have even fathomed Paris or Kelby, or any of the past week. I'm not one that believes in fate or "meant to be"'s; I am a believer in our lives being largely determined by factors that are seemingly out of our control.

As it turns out, Kelby and I are going to be visiting Prague at the same time. I am taking a flight from Amsterdam on Saturday, the 29, while Kelby arrives three days later. In case you're wondering, yes, we will be seeing each other there. As for what lies beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.

I guess I just got lucky this time around.

Traveling in Style

I took a train on Sunday morning from Paris to Amsterdam. I had been looking forward to this train ever since I had booked it 4 days earlier.

"Is it because you and Kelby were at each other's throats and wanted to get the Hell out of Paris?"

Good guess, but no.

For the first time in my life, I was traveling in First Class.

For whatever reason, the train company had discounts for Youth (under 26) travelers in First Class, but not in Coach. As a result, a Coach ticket cost 105 euro while my First Class ticket was only 85 euro. Good freakin times.

I was unsure whether they would serve food on the train, so I made sure to stop at the local bakery one last time just to be safe. My nerves were calmed though, roughly 2 minutes after the train left the station. All of us elite were handed lunch menus and were told that we had 6 different beers and wines from which to choose. Oh my God, I didn't want this train to stop. One full lunch, a few mini bottles of Argentian wine, numerous unexpected delicious snacks along the way and four and a half hours later, I arrived in Amsterdam.

Peaks and Valleys of Paris

Thursday saw a lot of walking in large measure because the Pompidou Centre was closed due to a "Public Demonstration". I still don't know what they meant by that because the area appeared fairly vacant to me. Anyhoo, we decided to walk to to the Jardin (Garden) de Luxemborg before heading to Happy Hour in the Latin Quarter. This area turned out to be our favorite part of Paris because its streets offered restaurant upon resaurant and bar upon bar.

The only odd thing was that we were only able to find a single Latin restaurant in the Latin Quarter. The Greek Quarter would have been a much more appropriate title, but that's just me.

Regardless, we hopped from bar to bar until the hours were no longer happy and then proceeded into a nearby restaurant which advertised its 3-course meals. My appetizer was better and so was my dessert. But my entree...Who would have guessed my grilled steak would come up short when compared to Kelby's pork? Not me, that's for sure. But before you argue that Kelby broke into the scoring column, here this: There were four entrees from which to choose on the pre-fixed meal. I was considering the steak and the pork, while Kelby was going to go with the fish dish. Instead of making the decision on my own, I decided to ask our waitress which dishes she recommended. She informed us that her two favorites were the steak and pork, and adamantly argued against the other two dishes (the fish entree included). Yes, Kelby swallowed her pride and ordered the good dish I did not. Yes, her pork was better than my steak. But I just can't award her as the victor. Left to her own devices and without my prodding of the waitress, I would have gloated with glee over yet another triumphant out-order.



Friday afternoon was a huge disappointment. Let's Go had told me of a feature at Parc Andre Citroen which allowed people to go up in a hot air balloon to enjoy views from higher altitudes than that of the Eifel Tower. To paraphrase Bob Ryan from Entourage, If I told you you could experience this hot air balloon ride for a mere 10 euro, is that something you would be interested in? I felt like Red when traveling to reunite with Andy in Zihuatanejo - that's how excited I was for this hot air balloon ride.

It was not to be. Upon reach our destination, we saw a sign which read, "Closed for Rennovations. Will Re-Open in the Summer."

Here's my problem: If you want to close the exhibit for the spring because it's the off-season, that's reasonable. But for rennovations? Really? Are you painting the balloon a different color? Are you tying a better knot on the rope?

Dismayed, we decided to pay a visit to the Eifel Tower during the day. After waiting in an hour long line in the frigid, windy air, we headed to the second level (apparently this is the optimal level - the first isn't high enough and the most expensive third floor offers views that are simply too high off the grouund to truly enjoy). The scenery from the tower were beautiful. Despite the wind and cold, we were REALLY fortunate because the 45 minutes or so were up there happened to be some of the sunniest and most picturesque moments of our trip. We kept joking that the clouds didn't look real and frankly, they still don't look real even when looking at the pictures.





After regaining feeling in my extremities, we walked to the Louvre. The museum offers free admittance to people under the age of 26 (Sorry, Justin. Sorry, Dave.) on Friday nights. One surprisingly nice feature of most Parisan museums is that they allow photography. Well, it was nice at first. I quickly became annoyed with the what seemed to be the paparazzi photographing works of which they had no appreciation. We were able to see famous works such as Mona Lisa and Raft of the Medusa, but the highlight of the museum for me was when Kelby pointed out the Nike of Samothrace, a sculpture of Nike, the Goddess of Victory. Now I know where Nike got its name! Have I mentioned recently how awesome it was that Kelby is an Art History major? Well, if I haven't, it was.

For dinner that night, we were both in the mood for Thai so we made our way towards a totally new side of town in the Paris' version of Chinatown in search of Lao Siam. When we walked in, we were delighted to see nothing but locals. Knowing that she wanted to enjoy what she ordered, Kelby suggested that we share a bunch of dishes. The highlight of the meal was the lemongrass with shrimp soup, which was in a tomato base and surrounded by delicious vegetables. Overall, the chicken curry, the beef with broccoli and the stir fried noodles did not disappoint. And it was cheap. Well done, Let's Go.



Saturday was a days of ups and downs. I'll spare you the details of the downs, but just know that we searched far and wide with no luck to find a particular produce, meat and cheese market. We scoured the area for an hour after getting off at the correct metro stop and asking three different people for directions. Still, no dice.

Also, we went to the Rodin Museum, but Kelby was lefty sorely dsiappointed because all of Camile Claudel's (Rodin's student and then mistress) work was on display in Spain.

Sidenote: In crazy news, I ran into my friend Riva when crossing paths at the Rodin Museum. Berkeley had just begun its spring break and she was on vacation in Paris. As she walked out, and we were about to walk in, I saw a girl who I thought looked like Riva. As we got closer, the girl even more resembled Riva. Still closer, I could swear it was Riva. Then we made eye contact, and she gave me a crazed look. But it wasn't one of those, "why the hell are you looking at me, you creepy guy" looks, it was a "no, that can't be Ari" look. Once we realized our eyes were not deceiving us, we stopped and talked for a few minutes. Riva earns special points in my book, because she made a reference to The Blog without provocation, citing that "this has to be in the blog". Kudos to my curly-haired friend.


Now for the ups.

On the flight from Madrid to Paris, I read that Let's Go referred to Berthillon as "the city's best ice cream". It turned out today was going to be the day we would hunt this place down, regardless of what obstacles were in our way. After leaving the Rodin Museum, we ventured toward the shop. Again, the street we were looking for was absent from our maps, so we were making guess after guess once we embarked from the subway. We deduced it was off of Ile St-Louis, so when we discovered Notre Dame Cathedral, we knew we were on the right track. After much treachery, and plenty of "this ice cream better be worth it"'s, we finally found our street. The street address Let's Go gave us for Berthillon was 31 Rue St-Louise-enl'lle, which meant that we were about a 4 minute walk from where we entered the street. Oddly though, I saw "Berthillon Ice Cream" virutally immediately after turning. I checked the address to verify this was the place to be, but the address was in the 90's. A bit skeptical, we asked if they had the specialty flavors Let's Go recommended; they had one of two. Still far from convinced, I asked if they had recently moved from down the street. When the woman behind the counter told me they hadn't, and that, "we sell under the same name as the people down the street", Kelby and I suspected someone was trying to pull a fast one on us. We agreed we would walk down to 31, just to make sure we got the real deal. Just one block later, we saw another Berthillon Ice Cream! Oddly confused, we marched on.

And then we saw it on the corner of the street. We could tell just by looking at the sign that we had struck oil. We walked into the store, which looked it was straight from a fairytale. On the right were extravagant pastries and chocolates, while the ice cream section was tucked in the corner. All their flavors were posted on the wall in both French and English, so the language barrier was not going to be an issue this time around. Their "parfums" ranged from the ordinary - chocolate, vanilla, coffee, mango, etc. - to the elaborate - mint peach, gingerbread, honey nougat and white chocolate, just to name a few. Gazing up and down the menu, I realized I wanted to try...well, everything. No dice. Apparently Berthillon knows how good they are because they do not allow ANY sampling. (I have to admit, this was one of the few moments in Paris when I said to myself, "those damn French!") At this point, I was flustered and had to go back to the drawing boards. No sampling? I had never heard such a thing. I was supposed to choose what I wanted without any assitance? What did they think this was, a restaurant? After much debate, I decided upon dulce de leche (supposedly a house specialty) and blueberry. Kelby went with gingerbread and coconut.


NOTE: I have sat in front of the computer screen with my head in my hands, deep in thought attempting to even begin to articulate how amazingly good this ice cream was. I can only muster two thoughts:

1) It was undeniably the best ice cream I have ever had

2) The flavors of the ice cream were so natural, it felt like I was eating a gingerbread cookie. It felt like I had just picked a cocunut off of its tree. It felt like fresh, sweet blueberries were squishing in my mouth, one after another. It felt like Aunt Jamima was in my mouth.

The ice cream was so good that we hadn't even made it off of the premises by the time we demolished our respective flavors. We were still leaning up against Berthillon's window! After much moaning and cup-licking, we looked at each other and simultaneously motioned towards the door. Time for Round 2. As I remarked to Kelby, I felt like an addict going in for another fix.



Even though the untraditional flavors had been a wild success, we decided to share 3 scoops and play it safe with the flavors: chocolate, coffee and mint. The chocolate and coffee were UNREAL, but the mint was in some ways the most impressive. Even though it was my least favorite of our seven flavors (Jesus!) because I thought its flavor was too subtle for ice cream, it truly felt like I was eating frozen mint leaves. My god, it was like eating a frozen mojito.

And don't worry: I made sure to curse at both of the Berthillon Phonies as we walked back down the street.

After Berthillon, we took another look at the Notre Dame Cathedral. Although we had ventured in a few days earlier, the outside was even prettier at night. It was only then that I realized how much prettier the streets, river banks and overall landscape are when they are lit up. It also helped that it was the weekend and there were still plenty of people out, but the ambience at this point was what I envisioned Paris to be.

After walking around for a while and buying a few postcards, we made our way towards a restaurant Let's Go highly recommended. The bad news: this place does not exist. The good news: the restaurant that was there instead was phenomenal. Gli Angeli (5 Rue Saint-Gilles) remains the best meal I have had in Europe. We began by sharing calimari as an appetizer. But this wasn't your traditional fried squid dish. The fish was fresh and was served a little chilled. In a tomato-olive oil base lay fresh tomatoes, artichokes and mushrooms. Yum. Kelby decided to save face by sharing two entrees - linguini with clams and veal scallopini. Double yum.

The Emotional Rollercoaster That Was Our Paris Picnic

The plan after D'Orsay was to have a wine, chesse and baguette picnic at Place des Vosges, Paris' oldest public square (and also the former home of Les Miserables writer Victor Hugo). We were to get off the metro, find all the necessary ingredients and make our way towards what was supposedly a couple's paradise. When we got off at our stop though, signs for the park were noticably absent, and neither of our maps displayed our particular street. Focused on the food-to-be, I told her we would eventually find Vosges and that we should get the food in the meantime.

Finding the wine was simple. We walked into a local supermarket, picked out an award-winning French wine for 3.50 euro, bought some plastic cups (we wanted to class it up a bit) and continued to walk down the street.

We then happened upon a bakery. Now the baguette was off our To Do List.

We kept walking, looking for cheese. Along the walk though, we realized a bottle of wine is more or less useless without a corkscrew. We came across a number of different stores and ventured in, but supermarkets, wine stores, restaurants and cafes all came up, er...dry. And still no cheese stores! As we began to get a little nervous about the prospects of our late afternoon meal, we walked past a deli which was roasting chicken on the street. I began to walk back, and I guess I had that look in my eye because Kelby asked if I wanted to add chicken to our menu. My response consisted of a coy smile and a nod. Buying the chicken was exciting, but I felt like we were still stuck in neutral without our corkscrew or cheese. On we marched.

We crossed paths with a guy holding a sausage from a butcher's shop, when all of a sudden, a guy from the butcher shop came running after him...to give him a napkin. Kelby kept on walking, but I stopped. If these guys were willing to go out of their way just to give an already-paid customer a napkin, what's to say they wouldn't open our wine for us? (I should mention at this point that asking favors in French is quite an arduous task. I know roughly three words of the language - none of which is "corkscrew" - and I wasn't exactly sure how to act out "corkscrew". It was times like these I wished Justin or Carol was with me.) Anyway, I walked into the back of the butcher's shop and made a bottle-opening gesture to the guy behind the counter. At first, he was confused. Then he got it. And he smiled. And he reached for my wine! He went to the backroom for a few seconds and reappeared with the prettiest bottle of wine I had seen in ages. With my head up high and a smile across my face, I walked triumphantly back to Kelby on the street.

At this point, I argued with myself that cheese is overrated, and that the dairy product is simply superfluous for a picnic. Then Kelby pointed it out. After walking down the same street for what seemed kilometers (or miles, for you people back home), we found our cheese store. Our excitement quickly morphed into frustration and confusion though, because again, we didn't know what kind of cheese we were looking for....or how to ask for it. With only so many options at our disposal, we each picked out a cheese that was of similar size to what we were looking for (FYI, we later learned that the cheese I picked out was superior to her's). We finally had our ingredients. But we still needed to find our eating spot.

We walked out of the cheese store and continued walking down the street. Roughly seven seconds later, we saw a sign for Place des Vosges. We stopped for a second and just laughed at our marvelous luck. Not only had we been walking the right way the entire time, but it was as if our route was built for our picnic. We walked into the park and found a bench that had at least a moderate amount of sun. I took out the wine and poured each of us a glass. We toasted to our meal, and took a sip.

What happened next falls under the "You Can't Make These Things Up" Category.

It began to rain. Then it began to hail. Hard. We immediately grabbed our food, bottled our wine and made our way for cover. After a few agonizing minutes of deliberating what to do, we agreed that the best idea was to hold the picnic....at you guessed it, the Hotel Montana.

Paris Girl and The Boy from Madrid Take on France

As we landed in Paris, I realized there was officially no turning back. I was in Paris, not Geneva, the city I had been planning to fly to for nearly a month.

The first thing I noticed about Charles de Gaulle Airport was that it has the most efficient baggage claim service in any airport I have ever flown been to. Ever. By far. We took approximately 12 steps off the plane and were directly in front of our luggage carousel. Three minutes later we were looking for the exit.

The second thing I noticed while in Paris was that the city is frigid right now. Unfortunately, it remained this way the entire week.

The third thing I noticed was that Kelby and I were going to get know each other very well in a very short amount of time. When we walked into our room at the Hotel Montana near the Gare du Nord Train Station, we both began to laugh uncontrollably. I wouldn't even call it a room. Remember in "Best in Show" when Eugene Levy and Cookie Googleman check in to their hotel only to receive the janitors closet as their quarters for the week? It was like that.

Although one thing that was nice was that Kelby was not once asked, "Kelby...Kelby Blakeley, is that you??"

I didn't take any pictures of the room, so my words will have to suffice. The door to the bathroom didn't completely swing open because it knocked into the bed. This meant that I would have to turn sideways whenever going in or out of the bathroom. Kelby too. And she's tiny. There was a TV, but it was on top of a dresser, so its screen was not visible from the bed. In fact, the chord to the TV was plugged into an outlet in the bathroom, which meant that the bathroom door was never completely closed. But my favorite part was the inside of the bathroom itself. When sitting on the toilet, my legs or knees managed to remain in constant contact with a) the porcelain of the toilet; b) the wall on the righthandside of the bathroom; c) the sink; and d) the door, when it was closed as much as possible. To top that all off, the Hotel Montana charged us the price of a Double room, despite the fact that the room was a Single. The most redeeming quality of the Hotel Montana is that they provide Internet service...at a mere 6 euro (between $9-10) an hour. Needless to say, my relationship with the Hotel Montana is over.

After settling in, we looked for a quick bite and found a cute place around the corner. Apparently, Kelby had given up on out-ordering me at this point. After perusing the menu for a minutes, she asked me what I was going to get, and I mentioned I was considering two different dishes. When I asked her the same question in response, she quickly replied, "Oh, well, we can just share the two you mentioned." Clearly the girl was traumatized, so much so that she was too scared to even say what she was considering ordering. Poor girl.

Realizing that all the touristy sights were closed for the evening, we decided to make an Eifel Tower at Night Run. The structure is really pretty and overwhelmingly large, but more importantly, I won a drink from Kelby when we bet when the tower was erected (1889, of course). The tower was lit up with bright orange lights running up and down, and we would later discover the tower exhibits a ten minute light show every hour, on the hour. In addition to the orange bulbs, fluourescent white lights shot up and down in increasing speeds, a nice touch for the already aesthetically-pleasing tower. We found a nearby bench and talked for a few hours before we realized how crazily cold it was. With the subway closed, we contemplated walking back. We walked for a few minutes and then stopped.

Those 6 euros I spent on the cab that night was some of the best money I've spent on this trip.

The next morning, we stumbled upon a local boulangerie (bakery) for breakfast. Having heard about Parisan bread ad nauseam, my expectations were sky high even for this quick bite. I was floored. I ordered two items: a small loaf of tomato basil bread and what appeared to be a flaky breadstick with mushrooms on it. The tomato loaf was delicious, but it paled in comparison to my flaky, buttery, chessy, mushroom, croissant-like, ungodly bread. We began walking as we left the store, and I couldn't help but stop in my tracks when taking my first bite of the mushroom deal. It was unlike anything I had ever eaten before. It was then when I realized this local boulangerie and I were going to have more amicable relationship than that between the Hotel Montana and myself. I could tell you what Kelby ordered, but all you need to know is that it wasn't as good as mine.

We found the Museum D'Orsay with ease and spent the next hour and a half exploring the huge museum. I enjoyed the works, but I was secretly counting the minutes until I could justify eating again.

***When analyzing the Crazy Level of our plan to visit France together, Kelby and I realized that to all my friends she would forever be known as "Paris Girl while amonst her circle I was "The Boy from Madrid".****

Madrid: Sophistication and Surprise

I only spent two full days in Madrid, but found myself really liking it. It is a much smaller city than Barcelona, and there are fewer touristy activities, but it felt much more like a Spanish city to me. There was no need to take the subway anywhere I went because everything was within walking distance. The food was significantly cheaper. The streets were mainly for pedestrians and not for cars. The streets were cobblestone and not blacktop concrete. The vibe was welcoming and I liked that.

Even though I only had two days to spend in the Spanish capital, I intended on taking a nap when I arrived at Cat's Hostel. I had not slept much at all the night before, and was exhausted by the time I made the trek from the airport to the hostel with my luggage in tow. As it turned out, I never I took that nap.

When I walked into my room, I was greeted by a cute, friendly girl named Kristen Kelby Blakeley. Kelby, who goes by her middle name, is a 22 year old exchange student currently studying in Leeds, England. She was visiting Madrid on her Spring Break. After talking for a few minutes, she invited me to accompany her to the Prado Museum. Sleep-deprived and physically-drained, I, of course...said yes. Little did I know that Kelby and I would spend virtually every second of the next week by each other's sides.

**QUICK SIDE NOTE** Madrid is known for cultural-richness. It has some of the most impressive museums and galleries in all of Europe. If you remember back to an earlier edition of The Blog, you will remember I know roughly nothing about art and art appreciation.

Anyway, back to real time. As we walk to the Prado Museum, I learn that Kelby is an Art History major. YES!! Nice job, Ari. I informed her she was to assume the role of Ari's Personal Tour Guide, to which she accepted. I'll spare you the details, but just know that I learned more in those two hours at the Prado than I had at all prior museum visits combined.

After having tapas at a local restaurant, we parted ways for a few hours. Remember when I mentioned that we would spend "virtually every second of the next week" together, well, it so just so happened my Internet Cafe stay was the entirety of our time apart.

This wasn't your normal internet cafe visit. This was for my annual Fantasy Baseball Keeper League Draft. Say what you will, I take few things more seriously than I do fantasy baseball. Europe or no Europe, I was not missing this draft. In case you were interested, the Braves I drafted were Brian McCann, Kelly Johnson and Yunel Escobar. I'll keep you posted as to the status of my team.

Feeling good about my team, I decided to treat myself to a hearty portion of Paella. As it turned out, it wasn't much of an indulgence. After having been at the mercy of hefty Barcelona prices for a week, I was ecstatic to learn that my mountain of seasoned rice and seafood cost 5.50 euro. The portion was so large, I couldn't even finish it. Okay, that was a lie.

Still having not yet slept, I internally debated whether I was to go out that night. There was a pub crawl departing from our hostel, and I could tell Kelby wanted me to go. I knew I would regret not going, so I rallied and went. We were with a group of about 40 people, but neither of us really talked to anyone else.

The next day, Kelby and I went to lunch at the same place from which I ordered the aforementioned mountain of Paella. Taking a page out of my playbook, she ordered said mountain, but I decdied to order a house specialty that involved ham, cheese, bread and sauce.

Even Kelby admitted I had out-ordered her.

I could tell there was something special about this girl when she used the term "out-ordered" without provocation. I mean, I use the term all the time. So does my family. And my friends. But we're screwed up people. Girls just don't tend to think in that way. This girl cared about food. She was okay by me.

From lunch, we walked to the Reina Sofia Museum, where Tour Guide Kelby informed me of more fun facts. I really enjoyed their Salvador Dali collection, but was disappointed that they didn't have his "Persistence of Memory". Also, the museum had a temporary Picasso exhibit, which was a nice complement to the Picasso work I had seen in Barcelona. While walking through the museum's many rooms, the two of us began to engage in a lengthy conversation over the legitimacy of "good" art. I maintained that art is so subjective, and that works by Picasso, or Van Gogh or Rembrandt or whomever else are famous because they were painted by a famous artist, not because the individual work stands above all else. My argument was only bolstered, when we happened upon the works of Jean Miro. Why is this in a museum? I think I made something like this when I was in second grade. No, wait. I stayed in the lines.




After the museum, we made it a point to find Ricci, a gelateria highly recommended by Let's Go.

Best. Gelato. Ever.

No joke.

I ordered a scoop of chocolate and one of some blueberry-raspberry medley-deliciousness, while Kelby ordered something a commoner would order.

Ari 2, Kelby 0.

Once we finished our euphoric treats, we made our way to Parque del Buen Retiro, a really pretty park behind the Prado Museum. We sat on a bench up against the water for about an hour, as Kelby and I talked and people-watched. As the sun was setting, and the day winding down, she asked me to go with her to Paris. After realizing she was being sincere and not simply offering a courteous invite, I told her I would mull it over.

I was having a good time with her, and thought a jaunt to Paris would be exciting, but even beyond that I had been looking to get out of my trip to Switzerland for some time. I'm not sure if you are aware, but the dollar is not doing very well right now, and money is an issue for little Ari. The only reason I wanted to go to Switzerland was to visit Interlaken, the tiny, yet apparently gorgeous extreme-sport trap located in the Alps. My plan was to land in Geneva, train to Interlaken, sky-dive, spend a night or two in Interlaken and then take a train out of the country. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized my plan was just not economically wise. Even though I was only going to be in the country for two nights, I figured the visit would cost roughly $1000, more than half of which would come from my airplane leap. I had been planning to visit Interlaken for a while, and it was going to be my one big splurge (or at least planned splurge) of my trip, but it just didn't make sense to commit to such an expense when I didn't know if I would NEED that money sometime down the road. Ideally, the good people at Wells Fargo National Bank will permit me to sky-dive in a few months, but it just didn't make sense to do it just yet. I had explored other travel options after having booked my flight to Geneva, but my searches had always come up dry. This was largely due to the fact that I had been planning to save my visit to France for May, when I was to meet my good friend Big Bri in Paris. Once Kelby invited me, I realized I might be enjoying baguettes sooner than I had imagined. Even still, I wasn't sure. I told her I would look into it.

Apparently the lack of sleep caught up to me. After getting a haircut, I came back to the hostel and passed out at roughly 9pm. The next thing I knew, it was 6:15 the next morning, and having realized I was still scheduled to be on 9:10am flight to Geneva, I raced out of bed, pleaded with the hostel staff to let me use the internet afterhours and checked out EasyJet's availability that day from Madrid to Paris. After a couple minutes of searching and one big sigh that screamed, "Well, here goes nothing", I was booked on the same flight as a girl I had met less than 48 hours earlier.

Batalloning and Saying Farewell to Barcelona

That night, I went out on the town with my Berkeley friend Rachel, who is studying abroad in Barcelona this semester. After meeting at her dorm, a group of six of us went out to dinner in the Born, a really cute district in the city known for its delicious food. The restaurant only served tapas, which was more than adequate, as we ordered a countless number, as well as beer and wine. The meal turned out to be the best I had in Spain. The moment was spoiled, however, when it came to paying. When the bill arrived, we were all astounded it was as cheap as it was. It turned out to be only 10 euro a person, which was quite a pleasant surprise. "So what was so bad", you ask. Glad you did. We were walking out (in fact, a few of us had already made our way out of the restaurant) when we were stopped. They had given us someone else's bill. Damnit. They then proceeded to hand us the real bill, which was more than twice the price of the original. Damnit.

After dinner, we met up with more of Rachel's friends and started to drink before heading to the club. We all love this activity known as "pre-gaming", but it's different in Spain. Instead of going to a someone's house, or even a bar before going to the clubs, Spaniards take part in a more natural setting. In what is called "Batallon-ing" ("bottle), everyone goes to a particular outdoors, public area and drinks. For us, on this warm night, we found ourselves in a desolate park. When we walked up to the park benches, there were roughly 10 or 15 people there. Slowly, but surely, more people started churning out. Eventually, the benches were full of a potluck of batallones and the park was full of roughly 150 people. As it turned out, this was more of the more culturally-intensive activities for me in Spain. I was one of only two Americans at this little shindig, so I found myself talking with locals about their country, their people and their politics in a laid back atmosphere. It was awesome. After all the booze was gone, we stumbled about 200 feet to the club. How smart are the Spaniards?

The best thing aspect of Batallon-ing: no waiting in line to use the bathroom.



The rest of Barcelona was just as much fun. The top two highlights of the rest of the city were its large market (La Boqueria) and the night show at The Magic Fountain, both of which I enjoyed on my last night in the city. A few friends and I decided to have dinner in La Boqueria, and just walked around, sampling deliciuos food after delicious food. We found some pre-cooked meat of salami, ham and sausage and ate as we went. I soon became thirsty, and bought a phenomenal cup of fresh strawberry juice. As good as the meat and juice were, they were pathetic compared to the package of tomatoes and fresh almonds I bought later on. Best tomatoes I have ever had. Best almonds I have ever had. True story. I love almonds. I eat them all the time. I like raw almonds, but I prefer roasted almonds. Even beyond that, I prefer roasted, unsalted almonds. What I'm trying to say is that I have enjoyed my fair share of almonds. And yet, these were the best ones ever. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "Ari must have been elated to find such enjoyable almonds." False. Ari was not elated. Ari was pissed off. (Well, for a about two minutes I was elated - I'll give you that.) I was pissed off because after eating these almonds, "I asked what I deem a fairly appropriate question: If almonds can be this delicious, then why am I only learning this now? If almonds can be this delicious, then why are they not always this delicious?

The light show at the Magic Fountain turned out to be a nice little find, simply because I had heard little about it and it was noticably absent from my Let's Go travel book. The only reason why I knew to even search for it online was because my friend Liz (thanks, again) told me I HAD to check it out. From 7 to 10 at night, the fountain hosts an amazing water show full of lights and accompanying orchestral music. Set against the night of the Barcelona skyline, it was a great way to bid adieu to the city.

Barcelona: Spain's Most Fun, Least Spanish City

Hey Kids, I'm still alive!

I know I haven't written for ages; everything is fine...nothing to worry about. I have had minimal internet access the past week. No need for concern, folks, I still love you.

I was in Barcelona for 6 nights and loved every moment of it. My one complaint about Barcelona, however, is that it doesn't really feel like a Spanish city; it feels like a metropolitan city, whose residents happen to speak Spanish. Barcelona was a really fun city, but it was much more hustle and bustle than any other Spanish city. I'm not saying this is necessarily the worst thing in the world, it's just that it took me by surprise given the countless amazing testimonials I had heard. Don't get me wrong, it was a lot of fun...

Brandon was only with me for one day so we tried to make the most of it. After returning the car and taking care of some last minute crap, we made our way towards the FC Barcelona Stadium (Camp Nou). The self-guided tour included being able to walk to the edge of the field, check out the visitors' locker room, walk inside the press box and admire the clubs 4321 (this is an estimate) trophies. The craziest part of the tour was stumbling upon a church INSIDE the stadium. That's not a typo - in Spain, they pray to God during the games. That's cool.



Next, we headed towards the Picasso Museum. I'm far from an art connoisseur, but I definitely enjoy art museums. As a friend and I later remarked, this museum was like a Beginner's Guide to Pablo Picasso. It offered many more of his early works and each room was replete with paintings in chronological order. Each of the 20 or so rooms contained paintings and a wall full of text explaining the context of the work. It was like Pablo Picasso's Wikipedia page.

I never realized that Picasso changed his style of painting so many times. Did you know that when he was younger he was actually sane? The museum was interesting, insightful and most importantly, easy to navigate.

Later that night, the hostel in which we were staying (Mambo Tango - Ari recommends) led a walk through the Montujuic Mountains. The 2 hour long hike was really cool because I was given a chance to meet a whole bunch of people with whom I would be living for the next few days. I met a couple girls from USD who were studying abroad in Italy and were on Spring Break in Barcelona. As it turned out, we had a couple mutual friends in common. Magic Man, I'm talking to you.

At the top of the mountain, we had a gorgegous view of the Barcelona night. Everyone was in awe, and don't get me wrong, I thought it was pretty, but when I admired the scenery, I remarked, "it looks like Coronado...without the pretty bridge." I was partially kidding, but this trip has definitely made me appreciate the San Diego and Northern California landscape much more than I used to. The views and the scenery have been gorgeous in Europe, but San Diego has so much to offer in such a small place. It's pretty funny that I needed to travel across the world to truly appreciate what my hometown has to offer.

The next morning was my first in Spain without my companions from home. Fortunately, I had met plenty of people the night before so I never flew solo for the rest of my stay in Barcelona. After having breakfast at the hostel, we decided to immerse ourselves in the historically-rich culture of the city by heading to...the Chocolate Museum. The museum was fun, but it soon became apparent it was intended mainly for kids. The walls in the various rooms were littered with writings of the history of chocolate and the process of how to make it. The highlight of the museum was that they had numerous Barcelona landmarks and historical scenes in the form of chocolate sculptures. The lowlight of the museum came at the end, when we all learned there would be no free chocolate-tasting.





We then made our way to have lunch at the Arc de Triumph, a gorgeous site in the middle of the city. The arc is located at the end of a long, narrow road and pours into Parc de Ciutadella. We grabbed quick takeout ("para llevar") of Duram and sat in the grass and took in the early afternoon sun. After about an hour of relaxation, we decided to tax ourselves by heading to a cafe for my first Cafe con Leche (sorry Justin, I am not going to translate this one).

My German friend Andrea was insistent on making dinner for everyone at the hostel, which to once again quote Red, "was fine by me." While he cooked, I sat around and drank with people at the hostel. Half an hour later, he served us Chili con Carne. (Alright Justin, I'll give you this one. It means "Chili with Meat".) After dinner, I got my first taste of the Barcelona nightlife, which even after having gotten lost looking for a particular club, failed to disappoint.

The next day we went to La Pedrera, one of the Antoni Gaudi houses. This was my favorite touristy site in Barcelona. Museum admission included an audio-guided tour, which went into great detail of the intricacies of Gaudi's work. Once the tour concluded, we went to the rooftop, which HAS to be the most modern roof in the history of time. I had heard the roof failed to possess a single straight line, but I was skeptical. I was on that roof for about an hour, and am not ashamed to say I found exactly zero straight lines. Kudos, Gaudi, kudos.

Another great aspect of the rooftop is that the building is much taller tha most in the city, which yielded a great view of the midday Barcelona businessday. Come to think of it, even the "great views" of Barcelona did not offer that many that aerial shots, so La Pedrera really was a treat.

For lunch, I killed 3 birds with one stone. I had yet to try a "Menu del Dia", or 3 course meal, which are very popular in Barcelona restaurants. Check.

I had yet to try restaurant-quality Paella in Spain. Check.

I had yet to try Tortilla de Espanola. Check.

Tortillas de Espanola, believe it or not, are a Spanish specialty. Imagine a quiche, whose inside is filled with a blend of potato, egg and onion. Go ahead, imagine it. Good, right? Overall, the restaurant was a great find. Both dishes were delicious and the meal (which also included a dessert and drink) came at a very reasonable price of 11 euro.

After lunch, we walked to La Sagrada Familia ("Holy Family"). I'm not an English major, so I won't even try to explain how impressive this Gaudi church is. Consruction of the monstrosity began in 1882 and still continutes today. No, that was not a misprint. The church is not due for completion until 2026, but I personally think even this estimate is overly optimistic. It is so breath-taking, that when I went to buy a postcard, I couldn't find a single one that did the structure justice, so I passed on all of them.

Sevilla to Barcelona

Brandon and I drove from Sevilla to Barcelona. The drive is roughly 12 hours, most of which are spent on Spanish highways. Because I have loved ones, you are learning this now. In case you are wondering, yes, I made it to Barcelona safe and sound...

Originally, I was going to take a train to Barcelona, but I am stupid. Let´s leave it at that. Then, I was going to fly. This story doesn't make me look stupid, so I will tell it to you.

I booked a flight through the website Edreams.com, which is basically a directory for flights, similar to Kayak or Priceline. Despite the fact that I was booking my flight only one day in advance, I receive an email from Edreams informing me I have to fax them a copy of my passport and credit card so they can verify the purchase. How RIDICULOUS is that? I say, "Very. Very ridiculous." Regardless, I had no other options and did what I was told. The problem though is that their fax isn't working - not one of the faxes the internet cafe sent went through properly. Frustrated, I email Edreams and inform their customer service of the situation. After more frustration, I decide there is nothing else to do at this point. The only thing is just wait to hear back from them in the morning.

In the meantime, Brandon, who if you don´t already know, is one of the most spontaneous people I know, starts to fantasize about renting a car to Barcelona. I write the idea off as one of his off-the-wall-implausible ideas...at least for the time being.

Apparently, Edreams is owned by Delta. They didn't email me back. And still haven't. How is that possible? How are they still in business? I hate Edreams.

In the meantime, Brandon has convinced me to drive. He reasons that it won´t be too hard to navigate, and that as long as we have Mapquest directions we should be fine. Everyone else we mentioned the idea to has other thoughts: The weathermen are anticipating a snowstorm in the Northern Spain tonight; You might get arrested; If you get lost, you will have no idea that you are lost - and when you finally do realize - you will have no way to know where to go.

Were these REALLY reasons not to make the drive?

Yes, yes they were.

To be perfectly honest, the drive was really smooth. At the last minute, we decided to rent a GPS Navigation system as well (only because it was much cheaper than the amount they originally quoted us). You´re going to have to trust me when I tell you I would probably be in France right now if we hadn't rented the GPS. No, really.



We left Sevilla at 10pm and made the 3 hour drive to Granada. We stayed at a elegant, but cheap place called Hotel Carlos V. In the morning, we hiked up to La Alhambra, the former palace and fortress complex of the Moorish monarchs. The exhibition is full of gorgeous Islamic architecture and overlooks the city. We walked the grounds, but did not pay the entrance simply because we didn't have time.
I could come up with some witty tag line here, like, "Barcelona was calling our names," but the truth is that we had to have the rental car back by 11pm.

The worst part of the drive was that we had no music. Anyone who knows me knows I never go a day without listening to my music. My iPod was virtually attached to me when I was in the US. Now, we were embarking on a 10 hour drive and we had nothing but Spanish radio to accompany us. Well, there were a few stations that played American music, but as I joked to Brandon, they only played "America's Top 5"...and we only heard 3 of those songs...and two of those songs were by Rihanna.

We stopped for gas about two-thirds of the way to Barcelona at a random stop. I went in to use the bathroom, and saw there were a vertical stand full of CDs. Intrigued, I wandered over. All I saw was Spanish music. I was annoyed, but I conceded it was the most logical collection for a gas station in SPAIN. About to give up on the music search, something familiar caught the corner of my eye. I turned the rack to see two (and only two) CDs in English.

U2's greatest hits 1980-1990 and 1990-2000 lay in front of me.

I'm not really sure how much you are appreciating the current situation; U2 is my favorite band of all-time. The only problem was that the CDs were 18 Euro each, which comes out to roughly 86 dollars. I told myself I would splurge by buying one (If not now, then when?), but I just couldn't justify buying both of them. I sat there for literally 5 minutes debating which one to buy. 1980´s is better overall, but I felt like 1990s was more fun for a road trip. Back and forth I went with myself. Given that we still had 4 hours to drive and had NOTHING else to listen to, the decision was made when I realized 1990s CD contained 2 more tracks than 1980s. Done. And done.

When I came back to the car with the surprise purchase, Brandon responded with, THAT'S exciting. We popped in the CD, cranked up the volume and started singing along immediately. I couldn't help but smile. I told Brandon I felt like Andy from Shawshank after he convinced Hadley to allow the inmates to drink beer on the prison roof. As Red said, "we felt like free men."

Sevilla with Friends

I took an overnight bus (somehow there are no direct trains or moderately priced flights) from Lisbon to Sevilla. The quarters weren´t nearly as bad as I thought they would be; the seat next to me was vacant, leaving with me an adequate amount of space to fall asleep. When I wasn't sleeping, I occupied my time by watching a few episodes of Rescue Me on my video iPod (thank you, Aunt Babs and Uncle Jonathan). For anyone who is familiar with any of the fX series', it will come as no surprise to hear the show is edgy and racy, but really good. Ari recommends.

Anyway, I arrived in Sevilla in the morning to meet up with one of my best friends, Brandon, and his sister Bethany, who is currently studying abroad in the city. Beth and her friend Amanda showed us around the entire city and took us everywhere over the course of the weekend. It was really nice to just be on cruise control and play Follow the Leader for a few days. In fact, I don't think I opened up my European guide book once the entire time I was there. We walked the streets of the town and found lunch at a local cafe. It was here where I enjoyed my first of many tapas, which are Spanish appetizers. (NOTE: If you want to hear the interesting story of why they are called tapas, you will have to read all the way to the bottom of this blog entry. See, you give a little, you get a little...)

My tour guides then took me Sevilla's Plaza de España...

[Editor's Note: Pretty much the only good thing about Spanish-oriented keyboards is that they offer ñ capabilities with ease.]

...This was, and still remains, the most beautiful site of my European trip. The square is a huge half-circle (clever, right?) of beautifully-colored tiled alcoves for each of Spain´s provinces (give yourself a pat on the back if you knew there are 50). The alcoves and the middle of the square are separated by a sliver of running water, which can be traversed by walking on an arched moat. In the middle of the plaza sits an impressive fountain. The backdrop to the site is a number of picture-perfect Spanish style buildings. The scene is jaw-droppingly gorgeous.



We then went to a beautiful park and took in the scenery. I´ll keep it short by telling you to imagine Balboa Park on a perfect day. But imagine more signs in Spanish.

From there, we met with Beth´s host mother. She offered us Coke and pastries, as we talked for roughly an hour. The woman only spoke Spanish, yet I found myself holding my own conversing with her. I took three years of Spanish in high school (from which I learned roughly zero Spanish) and a year in college, and apparently I have absorbed more than I realized. My Spanish has been so decent, in fact, that I have really enjoyed speaking the language with the locals (then again, most of our conversations have been regarding food, so it´s possible the euphoria I've felt hasn't stemmed from the language.) The pleasure of speaking another language is just one of the many unexpected joys of my trip so far.

That night, we went out and met Beth´s boyfriend, who was really nice and taught me a lot about Spanish culture. First we went to dinner (which begin at roughly 10pm in Spain) and then to a Flamenco show. We sat around and drank at the bar for a while. It was really fun catching up with everyone and seeing familiar faces in such an unfamiliar area.

The next day we did much of the same: tourist activities, enjoying the outdoors, food, alcohol. The highlight of the day was when we rented a paddle boat for an hour on the Guadalquivir River. Neither the weather, nor the surrounding scenery could have been any better. Along the river were hundreds of people on the river banks and grassy areas tanning, playing soccer or having a picnic.



Overall, Sevilla far exceeded my expectations. It was absolutely gorgeous, the locals were friendly and the food was cheap and tasty. I think the most appropriate word for the city is charming. Everything about it was pleasant. I highly recommend it for anyone looking for a relatively inexpensive, quick getaway.

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I appreciate your patience if you have lasted this far. Now for the story - it's short, but sweet: fruit flies used to fly into people's drinks, so restaurants began to cover their glasses with plates. The verb tapar means "to cover." Eventually, they began to put food on these plates, thus making them tapas.