Por Favor Espana!

After relaxing days spent on the beach we boarded a train to Barcelona for our small excursion into Spanish country – however, I soon learned we were in Catalania, not Spain. Catalan is a region in the North East part of Spain, bordering France and the Mediterranean sea, where there is a different dialect (Catalan), different cuisine, and different people. Literally, everything is translated into 3-4 languages, Spanish, Catalan, English, and French. 

Barcelona is the most beautiful European city I have seen thus far. All European cities knock the U.S. out of the water with their enormous public parks, their cleanliness, their old buildings, and their narrow, bricked streets. However, Barcelona has the most impressive architecture I have seen of all these European wonders. Apparently, some guy named Gaudi, who, by the way was chums with Dali and other famous-names-you-can’t-remember-from-art 101 artists, loved his homeland of Catalania and decided he would pretty much build the majority of the city up himself, with his own architectural designs. This provides a stunning tourist-bus drive (yes, I did one of those double-decker sight-seeing buses, strapped with my camera around my neck and my sunscreen on) of stunning buildings built not to expected style, but with curved or rounded tops, deep metallic colors of blues and greens, and the most famous of all, the Sagrada Familia – a cathedral so vast and beautiful you can’t really capture it all in one photograph no matter where you stand (google it for pictures). The cathedral itself is not even finished yet, as Gaudi died before his dream of 18 steeple tops that shoot into the sky could be completed; the construction continues from anonymous donors finances. 

La Rambla is another famous site of Barcelona that all tourists are sure to experience since it houses most of the hotels and hostels. What is it? Just a street. But a street with a walkway down the center that is lined with everything one could ever want to peak their interest: birds, turtles, guinea pigs, newsstands, flowers, characters dressed up in extravagant costumes, soccer players showing off their juggling skills, or human statues painted head to toe in metallic body-cover. Least to say, this is where all the tourists hang out and get drunk, and to try to sleep at night before 5AM is a lost cause. 

To our luck, we were there during the week of the big football World-cup qualifier game between England and Andorra, to be played at the famous Olympic Stadium in Barcelona; if you’ve never experienced English fans, well, imagine those annoying little girls that like to make up cheers and chant them all night long behind you at an OSU football game or something, then multiply that by about 20,000 Brits who want to be noticed in all their glory, all over Barcelona. They have hundreds of songs they enjoy getting started, one right after the other, in every bar you step into along La Rambla. After our pub crawl one evening, our last stop brought us into, I believe, the most crowded English pub with screaming, drunk Brits donned in their red and white jerseys. We finally engaged a sensible (if you can call it that) conversation with one group and were educated about the superiority of the English, the arrogance and ignorance of the Americans, and all about those “F***ing French collaborators! The rumors are true, the English hate the French. 

The next day, we took a tour through the wine country of Rioja Spain, to two vineyards owned by the “Wine Kings of Spain”, the Torres family. The countryside where these vineyards produce that drink that entices us all are so peaceful and uninterrupted by buildings or electrical lines or even people, you can’t imagine. We got to see the whole process of wine making: the cycle of the vine over a year, the picking, the fermenting, the aging in those dark, scary cellars, and the bottling with a pretty Spanish label slapped on. It is quite intricate and detailed. 

After the trip, we were determined to make it to this English football game and see these crazy fans at their best. A long walk over and an expensive taxi ride brought us up to the Olympic village, a beautiful sight, but a disappointing ending as the game was sold out. All we were going to experience was the sound of the screaming 23,000 fans from outside the stadium. I started strolling away, trying to console poor Michael and his loss of the one truly, manly thing he wanted to do in Barcelona… and someone offered to sell us tickets – not to the game, but to the COLDPLAY concert! Coldplay was playing in the Olympic dome the very same night, by my luck, and we went!! Although all concerts will forever be jaded by my incomparable experience with U2, this particular concert may have given them a run for their money. A truly talented band, they sound just as perfect live as they do on the radio, and their improvisation with their music proves they are real artists with a love for making new sounds. They played all their songs from the new album, while making sure to please with all their old favorites. Chris tried with all his might to speak a little Spanish to please the crowd, and the Spaniards we sat next to were incredibly friendly and fun to share the experience with. Coldplay loves its fans, even jumping in the middle of the stands to play one of their songs, and bowing for five minutes at the end while applauding their fans. It was an unexpected, unpredictable joy …. Much like much of this trip.

Le Plage

From Perpignan we took a short bus down to the beach community of Canet Plage – plage being the snooty-French sounding word, like all French words, as compared to our lousy Beach or the fun, Spanish playa. We spent two days here relaxing at the sight of the many shades of the blue in the Mediterranean sea that stretched it seemed forever into the horizon. The plage was one of the most peaceful beaches I’ve ever spent time on (besides the East of Oahu.. Kaneohe for anyone who knows, you’ll understand). There were few people, nice people, and a large stretch of sand almost 6 km long where everyone could have their personal space. 

I love Europe! I went for a walk tonight. First, I sat amidst the dark backdrop of the powerful Mediterranean ocean, with its booming waves pounding the shore in a mess of unpredictable patterns – it was like that poor sea just wanted to go to sleep but couldn’t stop tossing and turning in the sheets. I sat in the sand moistened by the rain a few hours earlier, looked out into that mysterious power that never ceases to amaze me, closed my eyes, and entered into meditation with myself and the intoxicating tune of the tide. Solitude is a precious thing that I don’t get to experience too often – it comes in small portions, is always tampered by distractions, and it only allows me sparing moments to capture the essence. But the solitude by the Sea, this is indescribable. The presence of a power as strong and as big and as mysterious as the Ocean cannot be subsided. The distractions seem to wither away. I feel small. I feel humbled. I feel calm. I feel outside of the control of things, and its nice. After a relaxing and reinvigorating number of minutes I couldn’t count, I continued the stroll down the beach. 

I had no direction, but was pleased to see the guiding light when I noticed the local bookstore was still open and, just to my luck, had a section of English novels. After the loss of my highly-interesting book about the Isreali-Arab conflict after only 30 pages read, I was having that yearn for a nice, soothing read to revitalize my imagination and intellect. I found just that, in a novel of four characters who crash into each other literally and historically in Hong Kong. 

After the purchase of the book, I turned back towards the hotel, thinking the night had been pleasant and ready for a slumber; yet, I was yet again given a blessing from the strength of the universe – the sound of the Spanish Morena music being played down the street in the center of town. I walked over to a stage set up in the surroundings of the cafes and restaurants with small area in front to dance. The site was beautiful. Couples danced the Mamba, the Pase Double, the Tengo Camisa Negra, the Por Favor Espana, and many more. Two couples in particular were quite impressive, knowing the steps to every type of dance and in sync the whole way. Some couples new some simple steps to some of the dances, and some just had no rhythm and looked ridiculous. But the beauty, the beauty is in their eyes and their smiles and their joy. The music took them back to their romantic twenty’s when they fell in love. They danced flirtatiously. The women felt beautiful. The men couldn’t stop adoring their brides. The little girls couldn’t stop smiling at their daddies. The grandmother’s adoringly looked on snapping photos.

A hitch-hiker's guide to the South of France

It all started when we stepped off the train and into the reality of signs marked only in French. Of the few French words I have learned, Sortie (exit), is one of them; therefore I followed the signs. That Sortie brought us to a deserted, ugly, completely non-French town that burned our expectations and left us walking aimlessly up the street in hopes of a helpful taxi. The aimless walking lead us to a SUV of men (whom I realized were drunk only after I got in the car) who wanted to take us to the nearest hotel. The nearest hotel was a lonely building in the midst of an abandoned area on the North side of Bordeaux with no restaurants, a dirty river, and only industrial plants for entertainment. We thought we had made a mistake, decided to cut our losses and take a tram to the center of Bordeaux and see if we could find some information about picking grapes. Our luck seemed to change... 

The next morning, the receptionist/owner of the hotel we had determined must be going out of business (for our perception we were the only occupants of a room that night in the abandoned hotel in the middle of no where!) turned out to speak perfect English, had contacts with a nearby vineyard in the Medoc wine-making region, and was eager to help the lost, American travelers. After informing us the grape-picking, or Les Vendages as it is called here in France, doesn't start until the 15th of September, she suggested us making the short trip across the border to Barcelona for the weekend. "Would you like to go by train (expensive) or hitch-hiking?" she asked. My response, "So hitch-hiking is a possibility?" Some might say this may not have been the smartest move, but hey - when in Rome, right? So, we hitch-hiked. 

After desperately standing at the corner of an intersection, a friendly telecommunications Frenchman drove us to the main highway entrance to Toulose. There, it didn't take long to meet a young married couple on their way back to their hometown of Toulouse who offered a ride in the back of their black, sleek car and with entertainment from 100s of favorite American bands all the way back to Bob Dylan and Elivs Presley! In Toulouse, we met the traditional semi-truck driver who carried us on to the truck stop at the highway split to Perignan, where a disabled women in a wheel chair opened her door for a free ride into the center of Perignan...Which is where I sit now, in a humble hostel amid the streets of a Mediterranean city in the South of France. I had a 2003 Bordeaux wine for only 15 euros tonight, sitting in an outdoor cafe, breathing in the fresh, clean air and admiring the beautiful, flowered apartment balconies of the European buildings. 

Surprisingly, the rides were neither scary nor difficult to find! At each stop, we waited no more than 5 minutes for a someone to offer their free seats, and none of the drivers lived up to the legend of snooty Frenchman. Each spoke at least a little English, and all at least understood the most important English phrase when passing through traffic with inept drivers, "Bullshit!" The road trip was indescribably beautiful. To the South lay the Pyrenees, to the North lay the Alps, but here I was riding through the flat lands of South-Central France that oddly reminded me of Oklahoma. Lots of agriculture (especially grapes!) and rolling hills dyed with colors of yellow, brown and green - I wondered, isn't this the France everyone should see? So different from the bustling city of Paris, flooded with noses stuck in the air. The countryside - this is the real France, the simple France, the France that can remind you of Southern hospitality at home - however, this France has the Mediterranean sea that I get to visit tomorrow, and Oklahoma has... lake Grand Lake?

If it wouldn't have been for that wrong turn out the back door of the Train station, if it wouldn't have been for that crazy group of men taking us to the abandoned hotel; if it wouldn't have been for that owner who suggested hitch-hiking to Barcelona... where would I be now?

Arequipa

Arequipa is apparently the Intellectual center of modern Peru, and by far one of the most beautiful cities I have visited here; so beautiful and popular that there is a following of people who want to move the capital from Lima to Arequipa! The plaza is pretty and peaceful, scattered with palm trees, flowers and an ever-flowing fountain, all lit by the lamps of the cafes and restaurants lining the sides with a mesh of all age groups and nationalities filling the spaces in between– very Europeanesque. We spent our first day celebrating the Areguipan football team at the local stadium (we figured, don’t you have to see a soccer game when you’re in South America?). Although the game resulted in a tie of 0-0, it was a fulfilling two hours of crazy, angry fans shouting phrases I was never given the privilege to learn in Spanish class. 

Arequipa also houses the gateway to the Colca Canyon, the Grand Canyon of South America, in which the sacred Condors of the ancient Incas fly and the green, mountainous views marvel; however, I regret to say, we failed to see the great Colca Canyon. Traveling always brings surprises and unpredictable mistakes - we have had few, but one occurred yesterday when our supposed bus ticket to the Colca Canyon led us only to an extremely small, desolate, almost abandoned town in the middle of everything dry. The whole day wasn’t a waste, as we walked to some natural hot springs and relaxed in the Equatorial sun in complete solitude. 

Today, we enjoy the sights of Arequipa once more until our overnight bus will take us to Lima where we will fly off to France. My South American portion of the journey is almost over. I feel ready to move on. I have learned so much Spanish, have met so many great people, have lived a rather poor lifestyle (at least for an American) with dirty bathrooms, bugs, and desert sand, and I have felt the dramatic, romantic aura of the Latin-American dreams. Now, on to Europe where I will attempt to work in the French countryside, enduring back-breaking labor for three weeks in order to make a couple extra bucks… it’s all for the experience, right?

The lost city of the Incas

Machu Picchu. Possibly one of the only Tourist Meccas I’ve seen that fully deserves its renowned stature. Beginning construction on the will of the great Incan leader and architect Pachacutec in the 15th century at the height of the Incan Empire, and abandoned by the Incas in 1536 in lieu of the incoming Spanish slaughterers, this city is the only remaining ruins of the Incan Empire never found by the Spanish Conquistadors, and therefore never destroyed. Thought to be the intellectual center of the Incas Sacred Valley inhabitants, Machu Picchu was a legendary city in the ears of the Spanish that was never to be discovered, thanks to the Incans decision to destroy the only remaining Incan Trail leading to the city, in hopes to preserve their magnificent architecture. That is until Hiram Bingham, an American anthropologist in search of Vilcabamba, the home of the last living Incan civilization, fell upon this New Wonder of the World by accident in 1911. Bingham, by the way, took up many of the gold, silver, idols, and other artifacts he found and brought them back to Yale where they are still housed today; the Peruvian government, as you can imagine, has some opinionated thoughts about this. 

As tradition goes (at least for the real travelers, we woke up at about 4:45 AM to meet our guide and head up to the bus station that would take us up the curvy mountain road, back 500 years, into the history and culture of the most famous Empire to inhabit the South American continent. Starting our journey into the city at about 6:00 AM and with a mystical fog and light drizzle hanging over us that only National Geographic can mimic in its special editions, my breath was literally taken away (how many times am I going to say that on this trip?) by the grandiose size of the site – it is bigger than you could ever imagine. Not until the fog cleared about two hours later could I really appreciate how vast this civilization really was. We began with the numerous terraces, cut in the side of the mountain in order to catch rain and better cultivate the crops that were grown to feed the city. Sprinkled amongst these terraces were the homes of the daily citizens, built with stones and mud; and don’t kid yourself, they had running water in this ancient city as well – springs in the mountainside were tapped and led to canals which fled into the city for showering, irrigating, or spiritual rituals. We moved on to the religious center of worship which was built a bit higher than the houses. This spiritual center was made only of the largest, monolith stones dragged from faraway peaks and chiseled into perfect rectangular pieces, placed together like a puzzle with no mistakes. There was a window to the East, where the sun could shine in on the stone structure in the middle, which would then cast a shadow on the ground in the shape of the Andean Cross. Also, there was a large figure in the middle resembling a Condor, the sacred bird of the Incas which had a wing-span of almost 6 feet! In some of the other, small places of daily worship, they constructed niches (windows but with no openings) where they could place there heads in to hum and meditate; the resonance of the sounds were said to go straight to the gods, and could also be heard from almost anywhere else in the city. We saw the plaza, the center of town where large gatherings were held and the Incan leader could speak to his people from a lookout point high above; a symbolic structure in the center was also destroyed by current president Alan Garcia when he decided to fly a helicopter in and land in the plaza. 

All in all, I was most impressed with the architecture and intricate construction of everything in the city. Large stones dragged from mountaintops could take months or even years to reach their destination for construction, and the chiseling and carving of the stones was usually one person’s life-long career. There was no money in Incan society; however, there were taxes – paid by one’s manual labor. Citizens from surrounding areas of the empire would travel especially to Machu Picchu to participate in the construction of the marvel. The abundant presence of their sophistication and civilization makes one wonder why the Spanish ever thought these “barbarians” needed saving; it also makes one wonder what the empire could have amounted to had the West not interfered. 

Fransisco Pizzarro and his Spanish conquistadors fled into the Incan Empire in 1536 and destroyed most of the civilizations they found including Ollantaytambo, Pisaq, and the capital Cusco. They heard of the intellectual center of Machu Picchu (which, by the way literally means “Old Mountain” and was not the original name of the city) but could never find it because of the destroyed path, and because of their preoccupation with finding the “El Dorado” of the Incas, Vilcabamba. After years of fighting and struggling with the Spanish to preserve their culture, the last Incan King took about 500 of his people and hid in the valley of Vilcabamba, continuing the Incan culture and customs, hidden from the Spanish for almost 100 more years. Finally, he was found and killed, along with the legend of the Incas. However, some believe the Incan spirit and heritage still live on in Peru, through the blood line of those who were captured forced into slavery by the Spanish, but never converted from the Incan treasures in their heart. 

After the fog lifted and the rain stopped, I headed back out to explore the highest point of the ruins, Incahuapac. It was an extremely long hike up (which makes me appreciate how great of shape these people were in!) but completely worth it. You can’t appreciate the size of this untouched city until you see it from the top, in broad daylight, with the backdrop of the green Andes behind it. I felt like an Incan, breathing in the fresh, mountain air and feeling the serene tranquility of being in the presence of such a magnificent ancient peoples. Although you must always come down the mountain, the surreal experience will remain in my thoughts forever.

Cusco

We made it to Cusco safely but sorely after the lovely Peruvian bus company failed to inform us that the “18 hour” prediction on the ticket was more like a 23 hour excursion in freezing conditions and switchback roads that woke you up to the sound of screeching metal every time you were just about to doze off. Maybe it was the fault of the bus attendant serving our food who admitted to smoking marijuana in the cockpit three times during the drive…? Least to say, we didn’t get much sleep but I finished my book, made a good start on my blanket I’m making, and met a nice girl from Florida.

Cusco is a brighten-your-day sight as you roll in, seeing the mountainside lit up by all the colors of the rainbow painted on the houses – just as any other Latin American proud city would be; it reminds me of flying in over Mexico City.

The city is very old and beautifully built, mixing the remains of the ancient civilizations that inhabited it with the European influences of brick roads, breathtaking churches, and narrow streets filled with cafes. It is also a tourist-packed city with people of all ages and nationalities being swarmed by the many street vendors offering the best package for this or that adventurous tour of the Incan ruins. We have a wonderful hotel in the town center, properly equipped with 4 blankets on each bed (to save us from the bitter cold in the evenings) and an endless supply of Coca Tea, made from the coca leaves of the region (to help with altitude woes!)

Overwhelmed with the opportunities abounding me here, I was glad to have the friendly Floridan allow me to tag along her hike to the city of Pisaq, a site of more Incan ruins (they are everywhere!) in what they call El Valle Sagrado, the Sacred Valley – a region of geographical and climatic benefits for the Incans, stretching throughout the length of the Sacred River. We took a short bus packed to the full with native Peruvians of descent I haven’t witnessed yet in the North – the traditional woman you see on the cover of National Geographic with her colorful skirt, long, dark braids, and a top hat to top it off. They all carry unbelievable loads of .. I don’t know what over their shoulder by a blanket tied to double as a satchel bag, and they have the most beautiful wrinkles and white teeth of anyone I’ve seen. On departing the bus, we were pleased to find the first thing we notice in this small Peruvian town in the Andes mountains is a coffee shop – a coffee shop owned by 5 traveling hippies from Argentina, Brazil, and Bolivia with long dreadlocks and a wonderful taste for making empanadas, a favorite breakfast substitute here. We chatted, drank the traditional coca tea, and made a friend named Junior from Brazil to accompany us on the hike.

Unfortunately, I got the Battery Blues and my camera went dead about 10 minutes after we commenced the hike. And, as always, the sights are indescribable. We didn’t want to be “touristy”, so Junior sort of formed our own path up the side of the mountain, through the business of some workers building a retaining wall, and literally straight up about a half mile of stairs from the old Incan city. Not too mention that I’m probably not the strongest person alive, but the mountain air requires about four breaths for every one I should need – I was tiiiired. Junior just laughed and strolled easefully up the stairs, whistling Brazilian tunes all the way. At the top, it was relaxing and beautiful, including the murmur of over 15 languages around me. The mountains were different than the Andes of Ecuador – much more inhabited and much less green, but anyone could see why the Sacred Valley was so sacred. As for the structure of the ancient city, one has to wonder how arrogant the Spaniards must have been in their assumption that these “barbarians of the New World” needed their help – canals, stairwells, rooms of all uses, and perfectly square stones placed in perfectly straight patterns obviate the intelligence of the Incas.

I hurried back to meet Michael and we rushed off to by some tickets for Macchu Picchu – an endeavor in which we failed. We are going to have to end up paying about $300 for the both of us to enter unless we can figure out a way to cheat the system (and don’t doubt us..) Also, there’s no seats until Friday so it looks like we’ll be spending a few more days here, which I don’t mind at all. We spent the evening in a packed Irish pub, the only place in town (maybe the country) with Guinness beer and good company from fellow travelers. Today, off to discover all the historically elegant legends and levels of Incan and Spanish history.

Layover in Lima

After the 14 hour ride from Piura, we found ourselves waking up to two excruciatingly sore backs, unstoppable yawns, and a foggy sky with no intention of lifting in sight. Lima hasn’t seen sun in weeks, maybe months, according to locals and the frequent Peace Corps visitors. After being disappointed by the lack of available seats on the continuing bus to Cusco we were hoping to catch that night, we opted to stay a night in Lima at the party hostel, Loki.

Our adventures have brought us terrible luck thus far after losing some precious goods to the charms of thieves; so we find ourselves in a capital city with the underworld of the market awaiting our heavy wallets. After a long taxi ride and a couple compliments from the driver on my ever-improving Spanish skills, we arrived at Polvos Azules, the blackest of black markets – so black, there are several venders armed with original boxes, stamped with brand names, wrapped in cellophane, ready for you purchase with a smile, until you return home to open the box and find, to your surprise, a rock instead of that $300 camera you thought you purchased. We came prepared, however, and left with some much-needed goodies bought at cheap prices; Michael’s Peruvian futball jacket was the buy of the day. We purchased our bus tickets for the following day and headed off on a long walk back towards Miraflores district in lieu of our lack of change for a taxi.

Craving a delicious meal, one that would break the mold of Santa Isabel’s limited options, we decided to head off to Larcomar, a shopping district built on a cliff overlooking the Ocean. Although the view was quite unimpressive due to the looming gray smog over the landscape, the meal was refreshing and overloading! Food has become my weakness in this trip. I fear I may really gain some weight on this year in world if I don’t start controlling my ravenous appetite for anything tasty! However, I digress on this guilt and give in because, hey, it is my year in the world, and if eating adventurously is something that adds to the experience, so be it. Michael got so excited at the word of an Irish Pub in the area of the hostel; the possibility of an ice-cold, tall Guinness was ringing in his mind as we headed off on the search for Murphy’s Irish Pub, advertised to the Western travelers. Yet to our dismay, the pub was closed and now we find ourselves tucked away at the bar in a popular backpacker’s hostel, soaked with travelers from numerous countries – all most likely dubbed the “hippies” of their culture: sporting sandals with socks, shaggy, unwashed hair, and a jacket that has traversed the whole of South America without seeing the inside of a washing machine.

We are soon off to Cusco, but first we must endure another excruciating 18-hour bus ride to reach our destination.