Madrid: Joder!

I was looking forward to passing my time today (Sunday, August 12--my last full day in Madrid) in a leisurely manner--to completely embrace the Spanish way one last time: stop by Atocha train station to reserve a seat to Dusseldorf, Germany, visit El Rastro (Madrid's Sunday tradition--the largest open-air flea market in all of Europe), drink a cafe con leche by a fountain on a terraza and read a few pages and journal a while, camp for a couple hours in a locutorio to fill in the gaps of stories, insights and images of this adventure, and then have a beer with some Madrileños or viajeros. But no! Madrid said no!

After reserving my train tickets at Atocha and eating some patatas bravas (http://www.spain-recipes.com/patatas-bravas.html) at a nearby cafe, I debated whether to walk or take the metro to El Rastro. Seeing as it was already nearing noon and the flea market shuts down around 2PM, I decided efficient transportation was called for. To the metro! And all was going fine--took the blue line a few stops to transfer at Puerta del Sol. Waited for the red line headed towards Cuatro Caminos. Consulted the metro map in my bag one last time before hopping on the train (important detail: did not zip bag after consulting map). Subway doors opened, people are letting off and I feel some pushy old man behind me to which I want to respond (but don't because everything happens so quickly in the metro)--"Stop being so pushy! The people have to get off the train before we can board! (Oye! La gente tiene que bajar antes que podemos subir!)" And then, a flash of a thought entered my mind as I boarded the train, doors about to close, and the man who had been pushing me walked away from the train--"Thief?" No, couldn't be...my bag still on my shoulder--still tucked under my arm--what could he have taken?...relax. But a nagging feeling persisted until the next station. To put my mind at ease, I got off the train and sat on a bench and fumbled through the clutter in my bag. But my mind was not put at ease. "Where the hell is my 'safe traveler' pouch--home of my passport and train tickets?" I fumbled in disbelief a couple more times before I realized "No El Rastro for me." "Why the hell didn't I zip my fucking bag?"

I calmly reported the incident to the metro people and the receptionist at the Los Amigos Backpackers´Hostel. To the police station! To the Embassy! A phone call to the embassy revealed that they are closed on Sunday (and apparently employ very unhelpful people from the Southern United States to man the phones during their off hours).

"Excuse me sir, which subway stop is closest to the Embassy?" I inquired.

"Huh?" was his lethargic reply.

"The closest metro stop...I need to know for tomorrow morning." I repeated.

"Uh, I really don´t know...you speak spanish? Cuz I can transfer you if you do."

Glad this wasn´t a real emergency.

Next stop: police station. Policemen in Madrid: friendly, apologetic, helpful--all too familiar with the story of una extranjera being robbed in the metro. I made a police report by phone, was given a reference number and then was told to wait a few minutes to be called into the office to have the report printed. I waited. The office was empty. I was finally ushered in by the same man who told me to wait--he had finished his cigarette and his conversation with his friends--and was ready to work again. One must have priorities.

Next stop: train station Atocha. After realizing I would have to shell out a lot of extra money to replace my tickets to Germany (since Spain does not plug a name into the computer when making reservations), I started crying. And, though I wanted to stop, simply couldn´t shut the faucet off. I managed to stutter "lo siento" a few times as I wiped the everflowing tears from my face. "Puedes ir a la estacion de Chamartín y es posible que ellos pueden ayudarte porque hay una oficina internacional allá," was the response of the Renfe client services representative. (Translation: they can probably help you at the other station, there´s an international office there.) Embarassed by my emotional outpouring, I quickly left. On my way to the metro platforms I spotted a self service photo booth and recalled the advice the police officer gave me of "getting all my ducks in a row" before heading to the embassy tomorrow morning--one of the ducks: "bring a picture of yourself with you to expedite the process."

After drying my eyes in the public bathroom, I returned to the photo booth and inserted my 3 Euros without reading the instructions. A little box (with a red ribbon painted on it to look like a present) fell from the machine and left me temporarily confused. What´s this? I just want a photo! Well, it turns out I had just purchased the ugliest keychain photoframe in existence (hence the leading photo of this blog entry). Was this insult to injury? Yes! The most debilitating kind. Now I had no coin Euros left for the photo machine. And had yet one more errand added to my list--get change. I walked around the station in a cloud of frustration for a few minutes and finally decided buying a bottle of water was the best way to change my money--it would keep me hydrated as well (this is important after a good cry). Back in the photo booth, I deposited my money, pressed the button 3 times and had to decide which expression seemed appropriate. Smiling seemed like a lie. But the mug shot was too drastic and left no room for an improvement in my mood.

With my bag tucked firmly under my arm, I once again rode the metro....30 mintues one way to Chamartín--only to receive the same "Sorry, we can do nothing to help you...you must purchase a new ticket altogether. I don´t know why they told you to come to this station." Joder! My swampy sadness had turned to pure pissed-offness. My entire day gone to the dogs. And a violent image entered my mind--I wanted to break the knees of the man who snatched my safe traveler pouch! Even if he was an old man!

Alas, this is a long and tedious entry. And not full of the wonderful details of all the travel days leading up to today about which I wish to write: Flamenco, the Albaycin, the Alpujarras, Bar Anais Nin, Pacharán, Washington Irving´s Tales of the Alhambra, Stockholm´s archipelago, music at night in the park, barefoot futbol with Isak, Ingmar Bergman´s passing, Lasse on the ferry from Sandham, Gillian Welch in concert at the China Theater, Stelios in Paris, an email from Sergio Diaz, Madrid with Matt--the Ritz, violet candies, being blown away by the Velasquez paintings at the Prado, a picnic in Parque Retiro, Juan at Segovia´s Pensión Ferri, the brass band from Valga, intercambio and salsa dancing with David in Madrid...and so much more. For now, the pictures will have to tell the story...

Paris for a day...

A day in Paris and what to do? Tired with sore feet, but determined to fulfill my touristic duty...to the Louvre of course! Jewels from around the world and throughout time abound in this palace of art. One can take a contemporary self-reflective pause, however, at the funhouse mirror amidst Egyptian sculptures.

Thorsten Bjoresenius' Blueberry Pie

Thorsten Bjoresenius (pictured above on right, son Isak on the left) calls this pie "Supergood!" and he is right.

175 grams melted butter

1dL sugar

1 pinch salt

1/2 tsp. baking soda

3dL flour

Mix ingredients above and tamp 2/3 into the bottom of a pie pan. Cut a large banana and lay slices across the pie crust mixture. Fill the pie pan with wild blueberries. Sprinkle the remaining 1/3 of pie crust mixture on top and bake at 200 degrees Celsius for 20-25 minutes. Serve topped with vanilla cream or whipped cream. Voila! Supergood!

Las Alpujarras

The following text is excerpted from www.andalucia.com/villages/alpujarras.htm

The region of mountain villages known as Las Alpujarras clings to the southern flanks of the Sierra Nevada, cloven by deep, sheltered valleys and gorges which run down towards the Mediterranean. The Alpujarra, as it is popularly known, in the singular, is famous throughout Spain because of its unique mini-ecology. Its terraced farmlands are constantly watered by the melting snow from above, constituting a high-altitude oasis of greenery which stands in dramatic contrast to the arid foothills below.

The cultural interest of the region lies in its fifty-odd villages, which were the last stronghold of the Spanish Muslims, or Moors. Soon after the Castillians took Granada in 1492, all the city´s Moors were forced to convert to Christianity. Those who refused took to the hills, settling in this remote, inaccessible area. Constant pressure from the Christians led to a bloody uprising, the Morisco Rebellion of 1568, which was ruthlessly crushed out, with the public execution of the leader, Ben Humeya, in the main square of Granada. Soon followed a royal decree expelling from the Kingdom of Granada all people of Arab descent, since the "new Christians", as the converts were called, were all suspected of being ¨crypto-Muslims¨ in secret...

The villages of the Alpujarra were resettled with some 12,000 Christian families brought by King Philip II from Galicia and Asturias in north-western Spain. However, these unique hamlets have retained their traditional Berber architecture - terraced clusters of grey-white box-shaped houses with flat clay roofs - which is still common in the Rif and Atlas mountains of Morocco. Perhaps the most picturesque villages are the famous trio which cling, one close above the other, to the slopes of the Poqueira Valley, where red peppers and tomatoes are still set out to dry on the flat clay roofs, among the tall round chimney pots. Pampaneira, at the bottom, bustles with crafts shops and restaurants, as does Bubión, half way up the slope, with its massive square church tower standing on a plaza of rough paving stones. But to savour the authentic Alpujarra, go to Capileira at the top of the valley - the name is an Arabic derivation of the Latin word for head or top - and walk down from the road into the lower streets of the village, where the rocky streets, overhanging passageways and sagging, stone houses have still not been remodelled and prettified for contemporary living...

If you stray from the beaten path, you will be sure to catch sight of the region´s abundant wild life, such as the Cabra Hispanica, a mountain goat which roams the mountains in herds and is often seen standing on pinnacles, silhouetted against the sky. But as soon as it flairs the scent of man it will bound up the steepest slopes with amazing speed... The Alpujarra is also famous for its excellent birdwatching - the colourful Hoopoe with its stark, haunting cry, is a common sight. The capital of the region is Órgiva, on the lowlands, and the village of Trevélez - famous throughout Spain for its superb mountain hams, or jamón serrano - is, at over 4,840 feet above sea level, the highest village in Europe, overhanging a fast-flowing river and plunging mountain valley.

One of the many great travel books written about Spain is devoted to the Alpujarra - Gerald Brenan´s "South From Granada", which recounts the adventures of a young Britisher who, after serving in World War I, walked through Andalucia in search of a cheap place to live and write. He discovered the tiny village of Yégen, where he rebuilt a ruined house (now marked with a plaque in his memory) and lodged some of his friends of the famous Bloomsbury group of London. In his book - written in retrospect, long after he became a well-known journalist - Brenan describes the difficulties of getting such highly-strung aesthetes as Virginia Woolf and Lytton Strachey up the river gorges on mule back, as well as his bucolic existence among the local peasants.

El Sol! Granada is sun-soaked and, were there no closely constructed buildings or cafe umbrellas, shade would be something wars would be fought over. Sparrows fill the blue skies--darting and swooping around cathedrals and the Alhambra, which exudes a magnificent presence (though plain looking from the outside) over the Paseo de los Tristes. A wonderful city where the rhythm of the people is much like the tides--an ebb and flow that cannot be hastened--a pattern discernable only after a couple 24 hours cycles (oh! shops are closed now at 11AM...now people are eating at 2:30PM...now sleeping at mid-day...oh! one stays up until dawn..OK!). One has to submit to the leisure--to enjoy it! In my leisurely afternoon post-siesta at Hostal Lisboa I discovered the self-timer on my camera.

Donde esta mi iPod?!

Happy to have arrived in beautiful, sunny Granada, though have had to engage a zen-like acceptance of the loss of my beloved iPod. Gone! A swift hand found its way to my backpack pocket--perhaps while I was dozing on the train, perhaps with my head turned at the Madrid train station. May the perpetrator enjoy my taste in music. At least they left my wallet. Gracias!

"Kuba!"

Kuba is six years old as of July 5. He has an infectious, mischievious smile and is often found making up stories and trying to cause trouble. He is amped at high voltage from waking to sleeping and loves to eat. The family defines him by his love of food and his naughtiness. "Kuba!" can be heard at least one hundred times a day in tones varying from¨"I´m shocked" to "you should know better." He spoke to me as if I understood Polish, smiling the entire time, and I couldn´t help but be charmed.