Stung Eye

I cannot bring myself to write group emails. My internet rations are spent booking hostels, trains, buses, flights; finding directions; updating this blog. I do, however, reply to the emails I receive. If you're missing my pseudonym in your inbox, send a message in a bottle. I will respond. The ocean isn't as formidable as it once was.

I've started a second blog: structured thought.

I wanted an online space for my experiments in prose and poetry. I wanted to see the improvements that Google has made to Blogger. I wanted structure and imagination.

Since last we spoke, we've relocated to Madrid. Our last weekend in San Sebastian was spent with Howie and Tania. Tapas and Paella were enjoyed. Beaches were slept upon. The Guggenheim, and the art within it, marveled at. (Saw 3 or 4 Kandinsky pieces. What a museum!) Crab and prawns were purchased, cooked, then devoured. Pubs were occupied. Clothing was bought. Sangria was made. Streets were wandered down, around, and through.

We spent today visiting Faunia, getting lost in the suburbs, and drinking espressos. The animals were magnificent; the suburbs, illuminating; the coffee, strong.

I am currently reading, The Game, by A.S. Byatt. I think she loves commas and semicolons, more than I.

Shan and I, after one too many drinks.

We spent a week living in a restored 18th century fort, 15 minutes outside of Lisbon, in Oeiras. Our hostel was beach front, complete with a paved 2km boardwalk for morning runs, and evening strolls.

Our directions for locating the fort were sketchy. We got lost. But only after taking the train from Lagos to Lisbon, locating and navigating the metro, locating the inter-rural train station, arriving in Oeiras, and walking to within 15 minutes of the hostel. We were lost for a good hour, in the dark, with our backpacks on. As always: Good times.

The night train from Lisbon to San Sebastian was long, yet un-eventful. We shared our sleeping quarters with two Portuguese grandmothers, and one grandpa. They fed us, even though we insisted that we were full.

We'll be making a day trip to Bilbao soon, in order to visit the Guggenheim.

Both Bilbao and San Sebastian are in Basque Country. Yesterday, in broad day-light, we watched as two kids peppered the streets around our hostel with Basque liberation and pro-ETA graffiti. [More Basque info]

Yesterday, I bought a 4 CD comp of Spanish Hip-Hop.

Howie and Tania will be here in under a week. Excitement.

I just booked our accommodations for the Czech Republic. Our first 9 nights will be spent at Romatika Apartment C, (for nearly half the listed price). The following week at the Arpacay hostel.

Yesterday, I swam in the ocean. Today, it rained. Tomorrow, Lisbon awaits: the anticipation of new.

Last night, we had fun at a local pub, chatting with the owners and fellow temporary friends.

Portugal is beautiful. The hostel in Portimao was a bit of a bust; It was on the edge of town, and nearly no one else was staying there. Combined with the occasional rain storm, this lead plenty of reading and walking.

It's been a while, since I've been able to tear through books at this rate. I'm glad most hostel facilitate used book trading; It's a great way to discover titles one might never have run across, at book stores or at the library.

Shannon is on antibiotics now. Her cough decided that it would stick around for two weeks, so we went to the Portimao walk-in clinic. From there, we went to the local Hospital for an X-Ray. We thought the X-Ray was a bit of overkill, but I guess over-cautious is better than under-cautious. The final prognosis was that of a chest infection.

Navigating the Portuguese medial system was a little tricky, considering the language barrier, but we managed.

The internet cafe we're sitting in right now, is in Lagos, Portugal. Good times.

In certain parts of Spain, 'C's and 'Z's are often pronounced as 'TH's. Whereas, I might be inclined to express my thanks with "Grassy-ass", a local will say "Gra-thi-as" or "Gra-thi-a." Similarly, the word "plaza" is spoken as "pla-tha."

I can't help but imagine hoards of lisping Roman soldiers, spreading their Vulgar Latin, through-out the Iberian Peninsula, during the 3rd to 1st century B.C.

Our bus to Portimao, Portugal, leaves in a couple hours. I'm told the pronunciation of Portuguese can be tricky for foreigners; the vowel sounds are often muted, or nasalised. Our phrase book describes one tourists impression of the language, as sounding like "a drunken Frenchman trying to speak Spanish."

One morning, while eating our free youth hostel breakfast (baguette, jam, tea) in Paris, an Asian couple asked us a question.

"You grew up with bread?"

They grew up with rice. The crusty bread, the French are so fond of, was driving them crazy; they were tired of all the chewing.

Yesterday, in the Granada bus station, we bumped into them again. They were leaving. We were arriving.

In a flurry of excitement, we traded travel tales. They had seen a bullfight, and had the ear of the bull in their backpack. I saw it: A rich chocolate brown. The exposed flesh was starting to rot. The attached hair was longer than I would have expected.

They gave us some fruit and some postcards. I gave them some stickers.

Later, when we arrived at our hostel, we were hungry and without food. A small shop around the corner supplied us with dehydrated soup, and a can of bean salad with tuna.

While waiting for access to the stove, we watched a soon to be friend, prepare a pasta feast. Our mouths watered. We looked down at our dehydrated soup, slowly hydrating in a small pot. The pasta chef looked down at our dehydrated soup. He smiled. We smiled back. Smiles of embarrassment at the inequality of our meals.

Let me tell you, the pasta was delicious. So was the salad and bread, that our new friend so graciously shared with us.

Hostel life is like that.

Tomorrow, we leave Valencia for Granada. I believe it's a six hour bus trip. Luckily, we have music, and 2 kilograms of Mandarin oranges. I am looking forward to visiting the Alhambra, a former Moorish fortress [google images].

Our stay in Valencia has been relaxing. Known as the orchard of Spain, due to it's fertile soils, Valencian farms are still watered via an irrigation system devised by the Moors, many moons ago. The fruit and vegetables here are tasty and succulent, yet cheap. A bottle of local wine cost 75 Euro cents.

In the mornings, we have been running in a picturesque park, which spans the entire city. After extensive flooding, the river that ran through town was diverted. The river-bed was converted into snaking green-space, soccer fields, fountains and trails.

We found the bus terminal today, and bought two tickets for Valencia. We leave on Saturday, at 14:30.

We also visited the Barcelona Aquarium. The sharks and penguins were our favourite aquatic beasts.

Shannon has been a little under the weather. Last night, she awoke to chills, and then a fever. To make matters worse, the man next to us was snoring, loudly. I reached for the earplugs.

I managed to purchase a bottle of cough syrup for Shannon.

The conversation:

Me: Habla Inglés?

Me: [Nod]

Props to Erin, for giving us our European phrasebook.

Yesterday, we explored Park Guell [google images], and La Sagrada Familia [google images], two amazing Gaudi creations.

There are parrots here. We are no longer in Paris. Barcelona is now our home.

Howie and Tania came to Paris on Friday. Hence, my recollection of Friday night is a bit of a blur. Our night began with 4 bottles of wine. I remember debating the limits of love with a fellow traveller named Chris. We ate Mexican food. We stumbled home, happy and full.

During our stay in Paris, we lived in 4 separate locations, in 3 different parts of town. By the time we left, my rusty French was starting to flow.

We had been warned that Parisians were rude. Not so. Perhaps they appreciated my rusty French?

Now, in Spain, Shannon and I find ourselves in the same boat: We do not speak the language. Actually, I should say languages. Since, Spanish, Catalan, Basque are all spoken in various parts of this country.

Last nights dinner was a true hostel experience. Our food provided by the kitchen's free shelf. All markets being closed on Sunday, past noon.

Friendly Giant

Just a quick note: I've uploaded a few photos from paris.