when 2011 becomes 2012

At 11 p.m., just one hour short of the New Year, Ed and I are setting out in search of food. Typically this would be an easy hunt. Is there anyone in Spain who even thinks dinner thoughts before nine or ten? But it’s New Years Eve and so many eating establishments are either closed or they’re posting expensive five course menus. That’s not Ed and me, not today, not these years ever.

So we go from one place to the next and when we do come across causal tapas bars, they're packed, with many waiting at the side for the possibility of getting in before midnight, when, just on this day, the food scene in Seville will shut down (so that everyone can party).

But we get very lucky. Two unhappy lovers are just getting up from a table at one tapas place. The waiter points to the empty chairs. We're in.

Except that no one in the kitchen feels like cooking anymore. We order a pitcher of Sangria and food. Any food. What do you have? Fried croquettes. Fried potatoes. Empanadas.

We’ll take the empanadas.





And we’re happy with that. You set out late, you want to be adventurous, you make do with a dinner of empanadas at 11:40 p.m. on New Year’s Eve in Seville.

But as we munch and people-watch (imagine the people watching on this night, just imagine! Everyone’s out on the streets, inside, outside, it’s a palpably frenzied movement of people, hurrying who knows where, probably nowhere at all), the waiter comes over and shows us a plate with a large freshly baked fish. In garlic, over potatoes. Would you like this? It’s so good!

Where did it come from? Why was it made? Imponderables. We say yes, yes, indeed.





And so we eat the fish and drink the sangria and besides us the TV is showing a Sevillian pair of entertainers enthusiastically talking down the minutes, with the clock, moving closer and closer to midnight.

At a minute before twelve, the staff abandons all tasks. A few dressed up revelers come up to the TV with little tins of seeded grapes and they join the restaurant staff, themselves with plates of grapes, ready for the Spanish countdown. And the clock strikes twelve and they’re all popping grapes, one by one, twelve in all.






And at this particular tapas place, they give us the leftovers.





There is a lot of kissing and hugging and I remind Ed that this is what happens at midnight and he pretends it’s all news to him, but he’s grinning and searching his mind on how to say happy new year in Spanish. (¡Feliz Año Nuevo!).


We walk among revelers once more. The moon is bright and the pops of crackers are loud and I can’t think of a better way to welcome the new year.





In the hotel Ed pours a little more Cava and we bring out the chocolate and the cookies that somehow made their way back with us earlier in the day and when I say Happy New Year once more, he doesn’t protest all that much and indeed, as if on automatic now, whispers Happy New Year right back.





And in the morning, Ed is Ed again, the same old Ed, the Ed who'll show me the Dilbert cartoon in the paper:

Girl - Happy New Year!
Dilbert - Whoa! Settle Down. I don't celebrate the magical thinking that says one random point in the space-time continuum is somehow special.
Girl - It's just a hug. You'll enjoy it.
Dilbert - You're like some sort of oxytocin drug dealer.

Welcome, 2012.

from Seville: New Year's Eve

Outside, the thank-goodness-it's-Friday-and-not-just-any-Friday joviality continued nearly all night long. We’re on the fourth floor of our Madrid hotel and so the sound does not keep us awake. And, in fact, I probably never jet lagged my way out of Europe time because the sleep cycle clicked in for me instantly here.

Still, Ed and I have a habit of being awake at some part of each night, often, as this time, watching a snippet of one thing or another – on this night of a woman teaching her cat to walk on a leash, gratis the New York Times.

One reason to love being away is that the day’s schedule shifts around so much for us then. Ed tends toward a whimsical pace even back home, but when we’re away, our time becomes a fantasy of hours. Eating, hiking, reading, playing, sleeping – they’re all interchangeable. Nothing has to be.

But this Saturday morning we did have to be somewhere – at the train station, by noon. Our backpacks are light – you learn to go lighter each trip, remembering awkward moments of lifting and heaving on previous ones. The day is gloriously bright. Madrid appears very forgiving now. Gentle and still. Like Manhattan on holiday.






Lacking chaos, it becomes very dignified. Almost staid.





And blissfully quiet.






We head back toward the Prado. I want to walk to the train station through the Botanical Gardens there, but we can’t. There’s only one entrance/exit. So I console myself with camera glimpses from the outside.






We’re at the station now. The trains – oh the trains of Europe!


 


335 miles in 2.25 hours. One stop along the way.

Lovely and comfortable and smooth.  I watch the family across the aisle...






...but mostly, I watch the escape from the city (modern housing blocks in Spanish cities are so often like this: irregular rather than boxy, colorful)...






...into the vast, beautiful open spaces. If you had no knowledge of Spain’s agriculture, you would learn from the train ride that olives are a big deal here.





A very big deal.






But as we get closer to Andalucía, the slate green of olive trees gives way to the deep green of oranges leaves. We’re south alright. In less than two and a half hours, we’ve changed climates.


New Year’s Eve in Seville. It just worked out this way. We’ll be hopping around Andalucía – no more than three days in any one place. Seville is merely a good starting point. And, for us, it’s good to get the biggest cities out of the way first. We lose patience with them quickly. The longing for a slower paces overcomes us. And so we begin here, Seville, the capital of Andalucía.





Seville. Beautiful, colorful Seville.

Our tiny hotel is a gem (the Alminar) and it’s just two minutes from the Cathedral—the focal point of the old center. But no one can direct us to it. There, go there. We go there. Nothing. Maybe down that street. Not there either. We wander around like this for a while, never minding one bit, because the street scenes are so beguiling, so captivating, as here, too, life spills out onto the pavement. Usually around bars, cafes and restaurants.






And so we go, up one narrow alley, down the next.






Ah, the Alminar Hotel.  Finally identified... here it is:






We leave our packs at the hotel and set out again. Around the cathedral, inside the cathedral, moving from one square to the next, reading a little on this place, forgetting to do so on another...














...and we continue in this way until I say stop! Lunch break. For me. Ed has eaten an excessive breakfast (don’t let him loose at buffets: he eats enough for the day and refuses meals thereafter). But I’m used to this odd pattern of meals and nonmeals. I have a wonderful salad and a glass of wine...







...and we both indulge ourselves in a protracted period of people watching. You could never tire of it. We never tire of it, Ed and I.












And then we walk again (and we're not the only ones)...


 
 


...through the old Jewish quarter, getting lost there – yes, of course, that’s what you’re supposed to do...
















...emerging once again by the Cathedral.






It’s nearly 11 p.m. as I post this now and I’m breaking from my posting habits just to put this up before midnight. We haven’t eaten supper yet and I’m not quite sure where we'll be for that, or if we’ll be outdoors at midnight. The air turns a chilly 40 then. But this is the time to open the welcoming Cava from Madrid and drink a toast. Ed looks at me half indulgently, half scornfully, but always, always kindly. Here it is – my toast to Ocean readers – Happy New Year to all. May you have a good one.

from Madrid: getting started

Have you noticed that trips, even well planned, too well planned trips often start off with a bit of a rock and tumble? It’s as if you needed a test: prove that you’re worthy. Prove that you can smile at the little annoyances!

We are in Madrid. I’m not a huge fan of the city, but it’s not really the fault of Madrid. I have a history of false starts here. Nearly all past visits have had a tinge of the unfortunate. Indeed, the very first time I took my daughters to Europe, we landed first in Madrid. My youngest, then five, ate a Spanish burger and got violently ill for the next 48 hours. Welcome to Europe. Thanks, Nebraska Cafeteria.

Ed says – you can’t be happy. You don’t like Madrid. I respond – I am super happy to be here. Happiness is complicated.

The flight into the city is beautiful. You don’t quite think of mountains when you think of Madrid and yet, they are not that far from the plain in Spain where, in fact, there is at present no rain.





The bus into the city is cheap (but crowded!), the walk from the stop is quite majestic and not too long...


 


...the hotel, the Regina, seems fine, too.

I booked a Christmas special rate. You receive welcoming treats as part of the package. A bottle of Cava, fruits, sweets. [Actually, a superb deal. In addition to Cava and goodies, you get a full breakfast buffet, free Internet, etc etc. All for 105 E. Pretty much what you expect to pay for Econolodge in Escanaba, except it’s Madrid and it’s not Econolodge.]


There aren’t treats in the room when we arrive and we feel obliged to wait for them. You don’t want to disappoint the gift giver and not be there when it’s delivered.

Stupid idea. The gift giver forgot and we waste an hour of sunshine waiting for a Cava that neither of us at the moment is even inclined to drink.

Next testy element: in my zealous over-prepared approach to travel, I become convinced that we should have in hand tickets for tomorrow’s train to Seville. The Internet ought to help with this, but I got burnt purchasing rail tickets for the Polish trains online, only to find them one third less at the ticket agent’s at the station. But in our one afternoon and evening in Madirid, do we really want to loop away from the sights, down toward the station? No. I say we go to the nearby department store, El Corte Ingles, where a friendly agent can and will sell us rail seats.

Off we go into a chilly forty degree sunshine, toward Plaza Mayor.

Oh my, where did all the people come from? The entire country of Spain has emptied her population onto the historic center of Madrid.  Of course. It’s a holiday week-end and people are out and about in the way that they always will be, if given lovely and welcoming communal spaces where they can congregate.

There must have been a thousand street vendors and performers, pandering mostly to kids, but not only.





The pedestrian-only squares are cluttered with booths – left over holiday markets, but selling really just about anything. Very popular are these wigs. People appear to be wearing them to make a New Year’s statement.





We make (push?) our way through crowds of sales shoppers at the El Corte Ingles...





...then wait for a good while at the travel desk, only to be told at the last minute that there will be a 10% fee to purchase tickets there. Us? Pay and an extra 10 Euro? Forget it. Off we go to the train station, pausing briefly at the Mayor, just for a glance, up at the burnt orange, balconied buildings...





...and all around, where street theater and street sales dominate the vast rectangular space.









In the end, it’s good to get away from the central city crowds. We follow a commercial road toward the station and it isn’t an especially beautiful street, but if you look this way and that, you’ll be pleasantly surprised with vignettes of a quieter Madrid.





...all against a late afternoon brilliant blue sky.






I’ve been going on the transatlantic flight breakfast and I say to Ed that it’s time for me to pause at a counter for a shot and a bite.





Perfect. A macchiato and a cookie.





By the time we buy our tickets, it is nearly 6. The sun has disappeared, faded away. It’s still around forty, but I’m glad I have my jacket. A sunless forty can feel nippy. We walk up the wide, tree lined Paseo del Prado...


 


...not really intending to stop at the museum on this brief run through Madrid, but we see a line, a very long line and any Pole my age will get in line if she sees one, asking only after what it’s for. Except this one’s obvious. The Prado has free entry in the weekday evening hours (6 -8). How utterly lovely! Our fortunes have spun around and the rest of the evening is one foggy blissful dream.





It’s about a half hour wait as the line moves slowly, what with security check and crowd control measures, but oh, is it worth it! I’d just been reading the latest New Yorker on the plane – with a review of "Velazquez and the Surrender of Breda," and now here I am standing before that very painting and Las Maninas too (this was taken before I was told that photography was not permitted. Who knew. No signs.)...





Velazquez, Goya, El Greco, Rubens, room after room of great masters.

And now we are really spent. Ed’s threatening to fall asleep on the spot and I have to admit, I’ve pushed us around just a tad too much on too little rest and protein. We make our way toward the center again and at the first crowded tapas bar/restaurant, we pause. Delicious mussels and a heavenly salad, dripping with this year's fruity olive oil...





...and now we’re feeling jovial indeed, but you can’t just stop at one tapas place. We pass another, raucous, crowded corner bar and eatery...


 


...with a big paella pot on the counter.
What kind? Ed asks
Chicken and seafood.





We eat this as well and now we are satiated, walking, tottering from tiredness and good eating, making our way back to the hotel, past holiday lights and holiday crowds, on a good roll now, happy indeed.

in transit

Someone asked me recently if I travel alone frequently. The answer -- oh yes, very much so. True, these days I sometimes (often?) have a travel companion at my side, but let me qualify that: said person – Ed – is, in travel, a presence, but a quiet presence. Nose in book or paper or computer, mind set on preoccupation du jour, we are often compatible in silence, tracking each other, sometimes engaging, but oftentimes only at the margins.

We have been lucky on this trip. Air France is packed (as always), so much so that we both got the coveted business upgrade. I had a chance to stretch in a reclining position and it was sublime. I’m good now for the two dozen sardine trips I’m likely to make in years ahead – I had my fill of pleasure on this one flight.

In Paris now, but only at the airport.

...writing because we’re both on our computers and so it seems right. In a few minutes we’ll be in flight again, reading.