The Rain in Spain. . .finally happens.

Hike # 2

Its raining outside right now, great news for Spain, since the lack of water has been top on Spain’s list ( right up with unemployment) of national concerns. It was less than a decade ago that drought had stressed Granada’s water supply, forcing the government to cut off water after 10 PM nightly. Things have changed since then, but house rules are still pretty stingy when it comes to using water. Anyways, the rain is well-received here. . . to say that it drives everyone back inside, and brings me here, home in Edificio Brasilia.

Two weeks ago Jamie and I, and two other guys from our group, met up and took the bus up to the Sierra Nevadas for our 16 kilometer trekking trip with the University of Granada. We filed out of the bus, and I realized my mistake. I looked around. It was like walking into a Patagonia ad. Shock light staffs (high tech walking sticks), Bulging brand name backpacks, stuffed with various uneccesary hiking survival essentials, not to mention a dozen or so GPS units out. These were the kind of people I avoided, the kind that would walk up to me and talk equipment asking with a loaded tone, “So, what’s your view on carbon stays?”

My eyes finally rested on our group, who seemed to be in the same, expressionless state as I was. Graham, still on a hangover from the night before, blinked at the provided map, “What does it mean ‘duration 6.45 hours? I thought this was like a two hour thing.” Rick was punching the projected distance into the distance converter of his phone. “Sixteen kilometers, ten miles. . . that’s not so bad,” he offered weakly, “hey does anyone have water? I forgot.” Jamie and I looked at each other, then our tennis shoes, which had immediately called attention from the guide, who remarked to the whole group the necessity of hiking boots. This was going to be a long hike.

Optimistic

Another surprise was that even though this was a University sports program, the majority of hikers, the University faculty, were over twice my age, and probably twice as fit. On the bright side, it’s a lot easier to climb up a 1,280 meter summit when the person in front of you is a sprightly eighty-year-old bounding over boulders. It brings a strange new motivation.

Anyways it turned out to be surprisingly marvelous hike. We did a break for lunch, and instead of powerbars, energy drink and sandwiches. . . we were surrounded by wine. everywhere. In the most literal of terms, it was a fiesta in the middle of the Sierra Nevada wilderness. . I watched speechless as riojan wine and artisan chorizo sausage with a paring knife was passed around for community consumption, and when they finally broke out the chocolate for dessert, I began to wonder why I never had brought this approach to hiking in the past. Next week we’re bagging the powergel and Luna bars, and stopping by Mercadona to feast like the Spaniards. Rioja, anyone?

My favorite part of the hike was talking for a few hours with Lenette ,NATO interpreter who just came back from working with the US relief in Kosovo. Spanish has amplified, not only allowing conversation with the Spaniards here, but has been a link enabling conversation with people from other countries like Germany, Belgium, Morroco, and Bosnia, to name a few. It was funny to encounter, when we visited France, people who spoke French and Spanish, but not English, and realize that we could still communicate without needing English.

Beyond the excursion this weekend, I’ve spent some time making trip arrangements for Semana Santa to visit Alexis, who is currently in school in the beautiful town of Lugano, Switzerland. I’m starting in Basel, and departing in the south, in Milan, couchsurfing on the way down.

Je ne parle pas francais!

“STOP! In the name of love, before you break my heart,” “L. Is for the way you look at me. O is for the only one I see.—“I keep on falling in love with you,” “And I’m free, free falling.” “I’m free. To do what I want—“

It 4 o’ clock AM. And we are sitting outside of the airport in Sevilla, playing the song game.

Earlier, at 2, Sevilla Airport was the venue of a dance competition in the middle of the taxi lane. 3 o’clock, an hour running back and forth doing hurdles over construction barriers that separate the drop off lanes. Closing time was 12 o’clock, and Sevilla Airport has been transported into the quintessential playground. Suddenly, a car is seen across the pick-up lane in the fog, and we all scramble back to the bench where our baggage is. We sit quietly, as if it were normal to be loitering on a bench outside of a closed airport at 4:15 AM. Our flight isn’t until seven in the morning and we are stranded outside of the airport. We bundle close on a bench until the car appears out of the fog. It was a security guard, who, probably amused, suggests to us that it be warmer to stay in the outside elevator until the airport opened.

Tired but grateful, we finally arrived in Paris Orly Airport, and the apartment, discovered by my friend Andrea, was amazing. After corresponding with the friendly and helpful owner , we ended up getting this jewel in the heart of Paris for 20 euro a night per person. I definitely recommend it. (http://www.parisholidayapts.com/apartments/louvre.html)

Ther French were, in my opinion, more friendly than most Andalusians I’ve met. . And for a country with a reputation for being anti-US, there was a suprising amount of interest in the elections. My favorite question repeatedly asked by taxi-cab drivers and market clerks was “Hee-layr-eee or Ooobama?” . From the vendor at the market who treated us to free gourmet cheese, the friendly student who offered to escort us from the Louvre to Centre Pompidou, to the Edith–Piaf-remniscent-singer who serenaded my café table, the Parisians were very engaging.

Some of the trip highlights:

Louvre—We navigated our whole trip through the streets of Paris and didn’t get lost once. I did, however, get lost in the Louvre. The art was absolutely stunning, although the Mona Lisa was a little disappointing. A giant wall dwarfs Da Vinci’s masterpiece, the size of the mirror on my bathroom cabinet. Overall, though the Louvre was unforgettable, and even better free every first Sunday of the month.

Sacré-Cœur

Montmartre was the artists district, the ideal plaza filled with open cafes and eager easels, as artists grab your arm and try to sweet talk you into shelling out money for a portrait. A part from swarming tourists, the plaza was absolutely charming. It centers around the beautiful basilica Sacre Couer, and the day we went happened to be a holiday celebrating the Christ. Hundreds of Schoolchildren filled the steps, and on the signal of the basilica’s bells, released balloons, filling the sky with an array of bright colors. We walked inside the church and listened as they sang traditional songs, waving yellow scarves back and forth in celebration. The steps in front of Sacre Couer were filled with more people spilling out onto the plaza from which one can see the whole city. A local cover band was playing Beatles classics, and the whole group began to sway and sing the words to Lean on Me.

We passed Moulin Rouge, and bought some fresh tomatoes, basil and garlic. I made Dad’s classic tomato basil sauce with pasta, complemented with bread, cheese, and wine given to us as a gift by the apartment owner. To finish the night off, we walked down the beautifully lit Champs Elysee to the arch de Triumph, the second largest arc in existence.

One of my favorite French neighborhoods, near Place du Tertre

Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday followed, with: Musee d’Orsay, Centre Pompidou, I’le St. Louis, Luxembourg Gardens, the Opera, I’le le Cite, mass at Notre Dame, Saint Chapelle, the Eiffel Tower, and some side trips.

Au Renoir!

"Le Moulin de la Gallete,"