Good Night and Good Luck

As the sun rose in Paris, I reflected on my trip. I can't believe I was saying goodbye. 1 month ago I entered this new continent and here I stood 5 countries and 8 cities later a changed man.

Before the ultimate reflection let me recount my past 48 hours. Of all the cities along our route, I believed Paris would be grandest. I always dreamed of France. Whether it be because of the cooking, the language, the culture, or the nostalgia and romance associated with the country is beyond me, but I nonetheless dreamed of it. So, upon arrival, I took off like a lighting bolt, fearing that my time in europe was running short. I sprinted to the hostel, dropped off my bags and told my companions to meet me for dinner at Le Petit Cler at 21:00. Out on the street alone, I was in heaven as Montmarte reminded me of a European New York with its diversity and energy. My first task was the Eifel Tower, I needed to see it. I went straight for the river Seine and took a right. This journey would have taken but 15 minutes by rail but I got drunk off the hour plus long walk along the river. I firmly believe that the best way to see a city is on the ground and after this walk, I stand by this judgment. Along the way I saw the grand cathedral Notre Dame and saw all the youths of paris crowded along the banks of the river. I saw parks and skateboarders, little dive bakeries, and street vendors selling the infamous one dollar Eifel tower statuettes. When I caught a glimpse of the tower over the tops of buildings, I began running scratch that sprinting. As fast I could I "excuse-moi"-ed my way through the streets and lay at the feet of the grand tower, on my knees, I felt complete. I had come full circle. From this point on, the trip took on a lighter note, I wanted to leave center city Madrid, see Europe and end at the Eifel tower in one week and I had done it.

Completely fulfilled, I met alvaro and kristy for dinner and we had a fine meal. Roasted chicken, baked potato, Sour cream, curry, bread, a salad with French dressing, and dessert all sat in the belly well. We thanked our waiter, left an uncharacteristically high tip for Europe and were on our way back to the tower where we sat in awe among the crowds for an hour. Once the lines faded, we went into the great structure. I raced alvaro up the stairs and hands on my knees catching my breath I looked up and beheld Paris. My city. I only wish there were couches to catch me. I only wish I never had to go back down.

Another race down the stairs and we were off to the jazz club in the latin quarter. A low key club, we snapped our fingers to the beat of Nat King and Coltrane before going back to the street for a new adventure. Outside another club we met some locals and tourists hanging out. They invited us to chill down by the seine and looking for the authentic experience we could not say no. I shared words with a Moroccan, a dane, a parisian, and a Saudi about love, life, and the pursuit of happiness while dangling my foot above the mighty river. I caught the metro home, tomorrow would be an even grander day.

Up bright and early I woke up my whole dorm and sprinted out the door. I messaged the guys to meet me at the Louvre in a few hours and went to find some croissants. I believe I found the best in Paris. I wandered down an alley in a side street to a cafe. I sat down and carefully articulated my desire for a croissant and a cappucino to the parisian who couldn't speak a lick of English. I enjoyed the soft, flaky, buttery piece of perfection and it's caffeinated counterpart so much I had another round and once again tipped the man more than expected for reasons I don't think he understood. Off to the meet the guys I stopped at a bakery and accomplished my dream of eating a whole french baguette as I walked through town. It needed no butter, oil, cheese, or meat inside. Complete deliciousness in and of itself.

Waiting in line at the louvre, I assumed this would steal much of our time. Fortunately, fate was on our side and a woman approached my sector of the line saying she had two extra tickets. I reached my long arms over the other piranhas and paid the women. We were in the louvre.

We visited all of the masterpieces of this tremendous museum. The ancient Venus de Milo and Winged victory of Samothrace were especially enjoyable as their antiquity was astonishing. Just as when I was in Rome, I couldn't even comprehend their beauty and their history. A few masterpieces later, I found her, the infamous lady, Ms. Lisa. She is tiny and as emotionless as she is rumored to be. I quick asserted myself to the front of the line once again using my God-given lengthy extremities to my advantage to snap a quick photo. She gave me that smirk, said thanks for visiting and told me to move along cause no one could see her over me. I agreed and finished the louvre in perfect time to meet alvaro and go to lunch. Nestled just off Boulevard Saint-Germain a peaceful cafe fed us proper. I tried escargot, had more bread and devoured flank steak. I realized that I was eating no longer out of hunger but out of gluttony, I was unashamed. We went and walked the historic shopping Boulevard and I dreamt of the day that I would be able to actually purchase some of the street's wares. Stopping at the top of the street for more fuel, we decided crepes would be nice. We found our way back to the latin quarter and ordered a creperie's best from an alley-side window. Ham, egg, and cheese for salty then Nutella and banana for sweet. The food coma was worth it.

With the hours passing quick and fatigue setting in, alvaro and kristy split back to the hostel for a nap as I decided to make the two hour walk to the arc de triomphe, where alvaro would meet me via the metro after his nap. I walked in silent reflection, browsing various stores and bakeries, wondering what this trip taught me. I ducked into a sweet shop and had a 20 euro cream puff to help with said reflection. As I bit into the soft, whipped baked good, I decided that this trip was partly about decompression. So much western stress had built up inside of me that I didn't even realize I was about to blow. My biggest decision this night was whether or not to get a cream puff or an eclair, an enviable position for any type A overachiever.

I finished my puff, met alvaro and we walked the streets until the early morning hours, both of us afraid to say goodbye.

The flight to madrid passed quickly as did the trip to our residence then back to the airport. My time in Europe was over. From the streets of san fermin to the beaches of northern spain and the deserts of madrid, from the chaotic streets of italy to the coffeehouses of vienna, and from the gothic chapels of germany to the lawn of the Eifel Tower,  I experienced it all and the only thing left to do was go home.

I wish I had a great philosophic lesson to bestow upon the readers of this blog, but I don't think I do. The worst part is is that that's okay. Travelling is for the traveller, another realm of consciousness opens up inside of you and life becomes easier and more clear. After this travel, I know more about myself than I could have ever learned from reading a book or taking a test. I know that I contain infinite possibilities. I am an atom bomb. If you need me or have any questions, you can meet me on the road looking for my next adventure under the sun. Good night and good luck. 

Vienna waits for you...

They say about travelling you have to lose yourself to be found and such is the case with venice. The streets of this sinking city form a natural corn maze  and are virtually unnavigable. Despite this unpleasant fact, we saw this beautiful Renaissance city. We had pizza along the grand canal upon arrival then wandered until we found San Marco square. I wanted to roar just like Saint Marks lion, the symbol of venice when I saw it. The beautiful square is easily the most picturesque in italy due to its grand watchtower and canal backdrop. After saying hello to the best fed pigeons in the world, I began to walk the streets. I saw the weaving water roads and the gondola traffic, I heard sweet music playing In every corridor, I smelled the raw fish at the rialto market and soaked it all in. I passed endless street vendore selling venetian fabrics, drapes, notebooks, quills, masquarade masks, and glass. I also passed the finest italian brands like gucci, and prada. Venice is very appripriately given its high tourist population is bursting with places to shop and eat. Although much of venetian culture is overlooked this way (simply shopping), just to walk around the city is enough.

Being exhausted from the heat not much could be accomplished this day anyway. I sat multiple times at cafe lavena for the caffe freddo and used this day to relax. When the outdoor band played La Vie En Rose I knew this was the right decision. I stopped in one of the numerous churches to say a prayer as this practice always relaxes me. Then, as the evening progressed we met with Alvaro's friend Marco and hit the streets once more. We stopped for more pizza, which puts our American stuff to shame, and made it to the train station.

Now after this day of rest, I am ready for vienna and the last leg of this trip. I will be singing Billy Joel the whole way there and pray that his words were true.

We have seen the south and now head north. I am becoming more than what I have ever been before. My core reality is changing and I couldn't be happier. I could bear any backpack load, navigate any street, eat any food. Live any life.

Joie de Vivre

My whole life, I have dreamt of paris. I took three years of french, probably remembering only a week's worth, just to get a taste of French culture and prepare myself for my trip there one day. That day is today.

However, let me backtrack. We head to paris from munich via Stuttgart this day at 1030. We are fresh off an overnight train from vienna and our bellies are full of pastries and sausage. Last night we toured the mighty vienna, by having coffee and chocolate wafers at cafe sperl (a historic viennese coffehouse), by strolling through the naschmarkt (an outdoor market with every food you've ever wanted), by gazing, jaw dropped (as usual), at st. Stephens cathedral with it's line of taxi horses out front, by strolling up kohlmarkt(outdoor market with every piece of clothing you ever wanted), by having lunch at caffe landtmann with its spicy sausages, apple strudel, and ristretto, by relaxing in an authentic Turkish bath house, by standing in the shadow of the imperial hofburg palace, and by eating from the bitzinger sausage stand with lines around the corner. All of this was done on bike and much of what was seen in vienna can't be quantified. The feel of the city, it's great sites, it's art, poetry, and music. You can feel the grandiosity of the old austrian empire and the impact it still has today.

Moreover, the problem with munich was that we couldn't stay longer and the 4 hour layover was well worth the delay in getting to paris. We witnessed a magical moment while waiting outside a small german cafe named schmalznudel. The cafe opened at 8 but we arrived early, 730. Though very hungry, we were more than happy to watch the owner of the shop prepare the day's pastries as he wondered why there were Americans staring at him through the window. We watched him lay out the dough, toss it in the fryer and coat his masterful confections in sugar. I cant quite explain why this moment was so important except that it made me feel like a little kid again. I felt the same as when my dad and I would walk the boardwalk in Atlantic city. He put me on his shoulders as we passed the saltwater taffy stores and I saw them prepare the sticky sweets. I consumed the pastries when they opened dipping them in my perfect coffee. However sometimes it's just as good to watch from the window and wonder.

After our hectic couple of days in italy, it is good to be well rested and ready to travel to paris. Vienna and Munich were restorative. I realize my experience is now ending though and I must make sure to leave all of my blood, sweat, and tears on the streets of paris. I will leave no stone unturned as now Paris shall know our velocity!!!!

All Roads...

Good times in barcelona passed into the early morning and few short hours of sleep found us at the airport. Asleep the whole flight, I awoke in Rome and the cab dropped us off in the center of the ancient city. I would love to regale any readers of this blog with the details of this trip and how it made me feel but words can't express the power of this empire even thousands of years after its fall. However, I will try. The old streets twist and turn endlessly and in addition to the towering buildings, each and every one as historic as the next, you feel as a mouse in a maze. We started our adventure with espresso and despite the small quantity, it was just enough fuel to propel us along the main street to the Vatican. Boiling in the sun, the pope gave us his Angelus and the sheer number of people gathered to hear his words is a spiritual event in and of itself. A million years isn't enough for reflection on the vatican churches but we only had one day and had to make the most of it. We zipped down a few side streets and found the ultimate dive pasta joint where we refueled and got ready to charge through rome. And such is exactly what we did. We had gelato at piazza navona, lay on the floor of the pantheon staring up through its perplexing hole, we made our wishes at the trevvi, and sprinted the stairs of the Spanish steps in such a way as to put rocky to shame.  Next came the long haul to the collosseum and we saw the center of the world. Standing in the shadow of the collosseum with ancient ruins on both sides of you, i felt infinitely small yet infinitely capable. The achievements of collective human endeavor are absolutely astounding. It's so great that an individual life seems worthless. With no time to waste we hustled to campo de fiori for dinner. The walk back to the hostal passed in a blur as rome was becoming illuminated and more alive. The whole town was a work of art, every building and every brick had a story to tell.
Left the hostal at the crack of dawn and slept a few hours in the station before boarding the train to Florence. Though we would love to have enjoyed the italian countryside, the body once again demanded rest. In florence we went straight to caffe donini for an italian breakfast then straight to trattoria mario for an Italian lunch. This small eatery is home to the best pasta I have ever had. Just as I felt small in rome, the pasta made me feel like there was a part of me yet to experience the best that the world has to offer. I made the joke that the reason for such great Italian opera is because you take one bite of good italian cooking and you start singing to the heavens. We moved on.
We went and took a spanish siesta at our hostels and met at the duomo a few hours later. Another shot of espresso and we were off to our next gastronomic experience, this one even better than the previous. We stopped quickly on the world famous Ponte vecchio bridge and felt as if we were part of history. Dinner at Casa linga was incredible. After dinner we hiked to Piazza Michaelangelo and saw all of florence amidst all the kissing couples, that view and this night shall forever be burned in my head; my day under the Tuscan sun. We meandered back to our hostels stopping everywhere along the way to point, gawk, and dance on the street with other travellers. The night passed quickly and before I knew it, I found myself sitting in the Santa Maria train station, waiting to go to Venice. I have become confident that there is nothing better you can do than take a new road every day no matter where it takes you. 

Burning Passion

No minute has been wasted since touching down in Barcelona. We danced all night and immediately upon waking up went sprinting to the beach. We got the lay of the land from no more than a screenshot and stopped along the way for croissants from the critically acclaimed Baluard. The crisp hot croissants exploded with chocolate and being satiated we downed some coffee embracing the fact that we made it to the first stop of our european tour. The beach was calling and once again sprinting we shoved through the catalonia freedom fighters, found the beach, dropped our towels, and plunged into the cool water. Most beaches are similar but the hot sands and the calm water of Bogatell beach is second to none. All the wading, sunbathing, and volleyball with the locals helped us work up quite an appetite. And we devoured tapas in the shadow of the 14th century Basilica of St. Mary of the Sea. The pimientos and then the potatoes reminded us of why catalonian cooking is so widely renowned. Much still to be done, we rushed through the streets after another coffee stop and stood in awe of the grand Sagrada Familia, a church decades in the making and one of the biggest buildings I've ever seen. It will not even be completed until 2026. Words mean nothing while reflecting on this church and we sat nearly speechless in the wake of its magnificence; gaudi architecture never fails to excite. We, now, have finally made it back to the flat where I have received the wifi necessary to publish this brief update. But now we must leave for the houses of gaudi and the fountain of monjuic, our adventures In barcelona have just begun. Tomorrow we are off to Rome where Italy shall know our velocity as well.

You Shall Know Our Velocity!!!

Time to step out from behind the curtain. At last my ultimate adventure has arrived. We will travel to 7 european cities in 5 countries in as many days at a breakneck pace. We will see the glory of the western world and hopefully live to tell the tale. Blood, sweat and tears will be spilled along the way. Late night train rides, cramped legs, and sore backs await us three musketeers. All we carry for the next week is one backpack carefully packed to 10kg. Updates from the road will be sporadic and fragmented. But for all those who read this please know we are searching for ourselves and the meaning of the world, though I doubt we will find either. What is for certain is that we will experience life as few get the chance. We will give our souls a breathe of fresh air. We will scream to God from the top of mountains. Stop #1 is Barcelona and our ride is waiting, so I am off, Carpe Diem my friends, Carpe Diem.

Adios Madrid

Dear Madrid,

I would like to say thank you for these past three weeks. It's really been a wild ride old girl. We danced in the streets, walked for hours, stood jaw-dropped at eloquent masterpieces, peered from the sides of mountains, and ate till our stomachs could hold no more. We talked for hours without saying a word. We laughed. We cried. We embraced life.

Oh Madrid, I must declare before I depart that this last week has really made me love you. After all the excitement of the first two weeks, I like to think I used these last few days to show you my sensitive side and to express this love. I went to your Basilica de San Francisco and crooned over your enormous frescoes. It may be the fourth biggest by the world's standards but it will always be the absolute biggest to us. When I bowed my head to pray, I swear I heard you whisper to me that all is well and will be well forevermore. A bold promise that only you are capable of keeping.

I dined at your Cafe Commercial, a haunt of the writers and artists that use you as their muse. I, too, must say I felt the inspiration as I ate your calamari, sipped your coffee, and enjoyed the views of fellow writers looking for a story. How selfless, Lady Madrid, we use and abuse you for inspiration and you ask nothing in return.

I ambled, as I have many a night since being here, in your center. I moved with the people like blood towards your heart; your streets serving as arteries. I felt as a part of your body. I felt your boundless energy with your street performers and post twilight dinners, your pride with your majestic buildings, town halls, guards, statues, fountains, festivals, and fairs, your appetite with your gourmet paella, cocido, jamon, salmorejole, churros, and tapas concoctions, your love with your romancing couples in the park and your passion for living, and your intellect with your monumental museums chalk full of nautical, artistic, architectural, and societal innovations.

Oh Madrid, you took me out to dinner on my last night. You took me to the oldest restaurant in the world. You treated me just as you did Hemingway years ago to the roast suckling pig. And I felt like the old bastard as I listened to the hum of the vibrant crowd and the acoustic music emanating from upstairs. I sat in a hobbit hole of a cellar that has been used for the purposes of fine dining for nearly 300 years. I was astonished at the brisk movements of the bow-tied waiters as they navigated though said tight space. It was here in this solitary cellar, in the bowels of Madrid, that I felt how hard it would be to leave you. And in the same moment I became so glad that you were a part of my life for however brief a time.

I realize, Madrid, that I don't own you. You belong to everyone. You will stand for centuries providing the same passion for life to others as you provided me. And as I leave you today Madrid, I know that not only was I a part of you,  but that you will always be a part of me.

Yours Truly,
Bryan Anthony McIntyre

El Toro

The sounds of synchronous horns jolted me upright. I must have dozed off for a few minutes because I don't remember being surrounded by so many people...and they were cheering. The fight just started. Men in elegant, sparkling, and colorful suits marched out to greet the roaring crowd. After what amounts to a small parade, the bull came charging forth. The matadors toyed with him for 15 minutes having him run to one of the ports that lay on all sides of the arena before the main matador drew his sword. After having the raging animal chase his red cape in a perfect circle around the entirety of his body with no more than six inches to spare between his torso and the horns, he drove the long, thin sword through his neck. The lifeless animal was then dragged in a full circle around the ring by horses. There he was, so full of life no more than two minutes ago, being jeered at in the shadow of the bowing matador. Maybe it was my lack of sleep or my misunderstanding of this ritual, but I left halfway through the event and quickly returned to my residence for a rest that was two days coming.

It all started Friday afternoon when I met Alvaro at Plaza De Castilla. His rugby team was getting together for summer training and fancying myself a sporting man, I jumped at the invitation. We played for two hours in the sweltering sun under the guidance of his coach and I fell in love with the game, though I could not understand a word anyone was saying to each other. The event proved to me how sports can transcend. The silent camaraderie among my team both old and young, male and female brought strength to my muscles and air to my lungs. I ran around that Spanish field as a kid in the summertime who knows no other sound than his mom calling him home for dinner. And this was exactly what happened next.

Alvaro invited me into his home after the match for traditional Spanish tortillas and cold tomato soup. I thought I tasted good cooking in Madrid, but I knew nothing. If I could tell his mother that her food was what dreams are made of, I would have. Alvaro and I then caught the late bus back to Madrid. The following morning we would travel to Pamplona for the running of the bulls.

The people on the bus shouted continuously, I brought a book to read but quickly put it away. No reading would take place on this journey, the riders wanted to party. Sangria bottles rolled across the floor and everyone sang traditional Spanish melodies with a relentless fervor. Before I knew it, we touched down in Pamplona. We started to walk towards the center, none of us knowing what to expect, and no one was to be seen. How could hundreds of thousands of people be partying in this town when I could only see a few scattered here and there. However, a couple twists and turns later, the crowd lay before me. Immediately, we jumped into a circle of dancing party-goers, in the middle of all us a band strummed a joyous ballad. From here, came pictures on the grand bull and matador statue. From atop the bull, I beheld the scores and scores of people all wearing white and red. From the sky, it would seem as if the streets were a continuous, pure pattern of these very colors. I stepped down and began to wander stopping every few blocks to dance. We soon ate chorizo boccadillos and the cafe proved to be a welcome respite from the madness. Out into the street again, we were swept up in a marching band parade and danced, danced, danced. Amazingly our whole contingent remained as one. Not only this but we were feverishly alive. We let the madness consume. We joined it and welcomed it. Our souls were breathing the crisp Pamplona air.

Soon a disco appeared and we hung out just within ear shot of the music to avoid the door charge. This is when Alvaro and I split from the group. We plunged into the masses and made it to the square where we conversed with a most eclectic crowd, meeting people all the way from the hills of Ireland to the shores of Australia. Some amount of time later, we stumbled across our group when Alvaro paused to use the Pamplona public restroom otherwise known as the street. At this point, the alcohol spilled on the streets amounted to quick sand with its stickiness.

Laying on the grass, I leaned back and looked at the sky, how could this type of party be legal? This whole event centered around some simple bull runs, the concept astonished me. If this energy could be retained for daily life, the world would be capable of anything. Bored with the lounging, Alvaro and I prepared for our next adventure and dove back into the masses to find some churros. On any other day, this trek would have lasted but 10 minutes, however on this day it took us over an hour.

As one of our mates began to get intimate with a woman he had just met, Alvaro and I split for our next adventure. It was two in the morning now and our bus would leave from where it dropped us at nine. We rejoined the party in the street and danced again, getting lost in the crowd numerous times. The flow of people both ways and the large rhythmic mass of dancers in between left us literally stuck in place for extended periods of time. At around 5 in the morning, I sat down to regain my wits as a couple of men from Mexico tried to ask me questions about America. I broke from them and proposed to Alvaro that we look for our friends. Meandering back towards the center, one of our mates came into view. He was without his bag, which contained his wallet, passport, and phone. Someone stole said bag when he ventured to the park with the woman we left him with some hours before. That we found him was nothing short of a miracle. He would worry about his missing bag when we got home.

The three of us then found a bakery for some croissants and hot chocolate to help recharge before the running. Once again, we plummeted into the crowds to get a view of the sanctioned off street. The runners and bulls passed in a flurry and it was over. I told myself that one day, I would run.

It was now 8 am and we needed to return to the station. We strolled past a few more women going to the bathroom in the street as well as a litany of passed out party-goers going to the bathroom on themselves. We kicked empty alcohol cans with our arms around one another and recounted our night. As the bus stop came into a view, I looked down at my white shirt, which was now maroon with sangria and other fluids which were not even mine. My red bandanna smelled god awful and my shoes were red as well. We survived Pamplona and just like the climber who gets depressed after climbing Everest, I doubted I would ever find a party quite as lively. Not even drunk, I was high on the thrill of it.

The roaring bus crowd quieted to a whimper on the ride home. I drifted into unconsciousness and awoke in Madrid. Being upset over not really seeing any bulls, I said ado to my friends, us now carrying a sacred bond, and headed to Madrid's bull ring. Inside the ring, I passed out in my scorching hot seat. The sounds of synchronous horns then jolted me upright.

What happened on the streets of Pamplona over those 24 hours will forever live in infamy in my head. No names will be remembered, no Facebook friends made, only the memories of the raw energy of life will last. And those types of memories never fade away.

Taking a Knee

Religion and art continue to be bound together in our culture. Some of the greatest works of art are huge canvases of religious figures and some of the greatest churches are made such by their elaborate frescoes and architecture. Basilica de San Antonio de la Florida is no different. The small Chapel, situated on a surprisingly low-traffic street given its prominence, lies next to the Rio Manzanares in West Madrid. Inside this delicate and quaint chapel, built in the late 1790s, are the remains of the infamous Spanish painter, Francisco de Goya. This chapel stands as a truly fitting resting place for the master considering that possibly his greatest work towers over his tomb. This great work, an elaborate series of frescoes depicting the Miracle of St. Anthony (my grandfather's namesake and my middle name) steals the muscle function from one's face as jaw drops and eyes widen. For all of the masterpieces in Madrid's numerous museums, this church displays only Goya's fresco and it need display nothing more. To sit on the pew at the base of the alter and simply gaze upward serves as a reconciliation not only with god, but with humanity. One can sit and ponder all of life's questions from here and seemingly have the answers. The legend of St. Anthony where he raises a man from the dead to acquit his father of the man's murder depicts many of life key themes; a son's love for his father, the lengths we would go to for love and family, the corruption of the justice system, and how belief results in accomplishment of the impossible. I knelt on my way out for two reasons: one, to pay homage to the great spiritual presence of the cathedral and wish my loved ones good tidings, and two, to recoup after beholding such magnificence.

We walked out of the chapel a little lighter, and as I looked at down at my watch, though time certainly seemed an irrelevant concept at this point, I realized that we had some time to kill before Alvaro met us for dinner.

This time translated into a hike up the mountain to the centuries old Templo de Debod. This Egyptian temple, which happens to be older than Christ, was gifted to Spain for their patronage in a temple restoration initiative in Egypt. Moreover, Egyptians transported the temple to Madrid brick by brick. This temple also showcases some of the best views of Palacio Real in specific and Madrid in general that one could ever see.

Rounding out this day of contemplation, spirituality, and awe, we hiked backed to town and met Alvaro for dinner. We ate a fine roast chicken dinner at Casa Mingo, the Asturian cider house, and rode back into Sol like champions of the night. With an extra pep in my step, I thought of the impending San Fermin festival.

 

Feels Like Home

With only a week and a half to go before the epic final week of travelling around Europe and with only days left before the world-renowned running of the bulls in Pamplona, it became necessary to take a day to map out how the rest of our time will be utilized. However, the idleness of laying in my bed and making reservations on my computer got to me and as any idleness usually does.

I quickly jotted down all relevant attractions that must be seen before departing Madrid and ensured all post Madrid travel plans were in check. We would leave for San Fermin (Pamplona) on Saturday morning giving us two days to see both Goya's fresco in Ermita de San Antonio de la Florida and Museo el Toro. The following week contained a day trip to El Escorial and  a visitation of Basilica de San Francisco el Grande coupled with some more of Madrid's most famous eateries. Plans set, I grabbed my pocket Spanish phrasebook and dashed out the residence.

A few short metro stops later, I found myself in Malasana, the hipster den of Madrid. I felt like I was back home in downtown Clark Summit as I gazed at its local, all natural shops and its chic crowd of young people. I ducked and dived down one-way streets and alleyways until I came upon Toma Cafe. This small coffee shop transported me back to America's organic coffee movement and I fit right in with the crunchy granola crowd. I jumped in line and shared nice coffee talk with an aussie who made me the best flat white I have ever had and the best coffee I have yet had in Madrid. To be honest it rivals most I have tasted at home. I couldn't resist going back up for another. The sweet caffeine of Central America surged through my veins and  I zipped back through the streets after thanking the baristas for making me feel at home.

This charge was exactly what I needed as now I have a fueling station for the rest of my Madridian adventures and boy am I going to need it. As time becomes shorter, I become restless, afraid to miss something. Time to drop it into fifth and keep trucking through.

Shout out to all my all caffeine addicts out there and put Toma Cafe on your list......

The gift that keeps on giving

I am the spark plug. I am the energizer bunny. I am the endless oil field in the Middle East. At least I was before I met Madrid.

TripAdvisor lists 1,837 things to do and 7,626 restaurants in the city. As the eternal optimist I fancied myself prepared to take the whole city by the horns (literally due to its bullfighting history) and see all that it has to offer. It took me a week and a half to realize this is impossible. This is not a pessimistic realization, but rather a liberating one. To be in a city so full and limitless means every day is a new adventure. It means one can never tire. Madrid is the gift that keeps on giving. 

But back to the story. At this point in our trip Kristy and I must be on our fourth, maybe even fifth wind. I scour tour books looking for the best attractions and every day we see something new. My poor metro map is worn to tatters and the soles of my Sperry's are smooth as a baby's bottom. Monday brought us back to Plaza Mayor and the Mercado de San Miguel. This elegant structure is a daily festival of sorts. All of the greatest food merchants throughout the city gather in this market every day to sell a sampling of their finest food. One can wander this lively market without end if they so pleased with every loop revealing a new delicacy. We enjoyed the Paella con Chorizo and Carne Empanadas. Needless to say, they were outstanding. 

With the help of Lonely Planet's Pocket Madrid, I was able to locate some stores that sold traditional Spanish wares. We found sombreros (meaning only hats in Spain, sorry my wide-brimmed compadres), Bato de Vinos, intricate paper mache figurines, and, nestled cozily on an empty side street, a flamenco store that made even me want to take up the sport. After the shopping trip, more side streets led to the Chocolateria San Gines, Madrid's most popular churro shop. The 100 degree weather did not stop Kristy and I from diving into the soft, fried confections with their sizzling chocolate topping. The only problem with the churros was that there was not more of them.. Another metro ride home, and another successful day, 

Back at the residence the cumulative fatigue struck like lighting and bam...I was out at 21:00. Some dream about my dog chasing my car down a a snowy road and my eyes open, 7 am, time for work. We rode to an off site Sodexo location and got to see a towering Madridian University. We were told that the two most popular sports in the country were futbol and futbol. Retail reports filed and brainstorming for new way to increase our margins done, we're back on the bus home. I only could read a few pages in my book before, boom, out again. The heat and fatigue were starting to hit me. The bus arrives at Moncloa and I shake it off, we have work to do.

Up to this point, we saw two points of Madrid's Golden Art Triangle, the Prado and the Reina Sofia, today we would see the Thyssen. This third museum is the mix of its two neighbors, offering a taste of the classic and the contemporary. Such artists as Carvaggio, Van Gogh, Degas, Manet and Monet (there is a difference), Ernst, Rembrandt, Dali, Lichtenstein, Picasso, Pollock, and Raphael. This collection is among the most eclectic in the world. Art inspires and enlivens. The fatigue in my legs slipped away with Carvaggio, my eyelids felt light with Van Gogh, and my heart fluttered with Degas. I walked out of the museum, face to the sun, "Madrid, I'm thirsty for more..."

Dinner and gym time at the residence, and the sweet Spanish sunset.........  

Tears on a Mountain

Halfway up Mount Urgull, something strange began to happen. I began to cry. I vigorously fought back the tears as I continued my ascent to the top. Once there, I sat down before the tremendous statue of Jesus Christ and contemplated my feelings. The tears came from an unknown location and I was dumbfounded by their appearance. As I turned to enjoy the vista from this mountain, locally hailed as the greatest view in Europe, I felt both the pain and the joy of my salty emanation.

The joy, of course, spawned from the absolute freedom of my experience. Hopping a bus to the beach just like Kerouac or Hemingway and enjoying some tasty pintxos (finger food, or appertizers) in the shadow of a decades old cathedral, walking home in the twilight as the tide brushes against my sandy feet, drifting asleep in a cramped yet historic and surprisingly comfortable  hotel, waking up to fresh croissants and cafe, and taking a morning run to the top of a mountain is the foundation of my dreams. It can be well understood that I would cry at the beauty of this moment.

The pain, however, is much harder to understand. Upon embarking on this journey, I left behind my life. And the longer the journey continues the more I feel myself changing into someone I don't yet understand. I feel that which I was running from when I boarded the massive Boeing aircraft across the Atlantic. I can see the life I left behind with more clarity than ever. I can see how my search for freedom can destroy those I love. I run away. And I keep running. I run to the top of mountains where no one can find me. My pace quickens in the hope that I never have to look back. My affinity for the road over my home leaves me unsettled. I reach the top and offer my pain to the heavens.

Back down the mountain, enlightened by this experience, I spend a vigorous 8 hours in San Sebastian. I jump in the cool water and swim to the dock. I gaze at the coastline in wonder. I swim back and bathe in the hot Spanish sun. I enjoy some lunch then repeat my swimming and sunbathing ritual. The second time I lay on my back in the water with an inability to hear the outside world; at peace in the tremendous ocean, simply floating. After dozing off on the beach with the burn on my back already being felt, I take to the paddle board and catch the first wave of my life. All these firsts fill me with indescribable joy.

I grab my bag from the hotel then to dinner. I meet two Americans who prep me for the festivities that I plan to attend in Pamplona the following weekend. I buy a red bandanna and jar of traditional Basque peppers and nearly miss my bus. The seats on the bus crowded and I contort myself for optimal comfort. I briefly try to keep up with the conversation of two German women in front of me to no avail, I try to read some, but ultimately, I pop in my headphones and drift in and out of consciousness as the bus weaves through the Spanish countryside.

Back in Madrid, I meet up with Alvaro, who's all too ready to take me to the Disco. It's late, 1 AM, but the city is as alive as ever and I'm not quite ready to throw in the towel. We dance all night to mostly American music in various clubs along the road then meander to the metro as it opens at 6:30 AM. Exhausted, I leave a trail of clothes to my bed and am out, blackness.

Eyes open, 15:30, first thoughts are of food and water. I put the dozens of messages aside for the moment and head downstairs. I consume then wash off the vigorous weekend in the shower. Feeling tired, I opt for a light day and Sunday stroll the magnificent garden of Buen de Retiro. And now as I write this blog, I still taste those tears. And I still ponder their various meanings. I have three more weeks for this sort of contemplation with each successive weekend promises more excitement than the previous, though I will never forget San Sebastian.

More later.....

Fleeing North

My first week in Madrid was filled with endless tapas trips with fellow expatriates to dawn, early mornings walks to the metro, ginormous marketing reports, enough cafe con leche to kill a small(or a large) animal, enough culture and history to fill a library, enough strange and delightful food to satiate even the toughest critics, and late night walks to the metro with tired legs and a sun-drained mind. And after all this, it is time for me to take refuge on the sandy beaches of La Concha in San Sebastian.

To my understanding Northern Spain is referred to as the Basque region and it comes complete with its own culture including food (pinxtos), history, and dialect. A highly contested region (claiming a separate identity from Spain), it was  among the first to be ravaged during the brutal Spanish Civil War and within it lies the subject of Picasso's most famous work, Guernica. Bilbao also has an interesting history due to its proximity to France. Bilbao and regions in the South of France have exchanged many ideas and people across the Pyrenees and their coastline is the same. San Sebastian specifically, opens up into a calm bay and is protected by an arc of mountains. Many a time has it served the same purpose of retreat that it will soon serve me.

I plan to use this northern utopia as a respite from lively Madrid. I will make this trip alone as sub-escape. Though I don't expect San Sebastian to be any less lively, I am very excited about enjoying the restorative effects of the ocean. I also plan to jog to the top of Mont Urgull, hailed to be the best view in the world, and visit the centuries old churches. I will read on the beach, work on my Spanish tan, and maybe get to work on that novel I am always talking about. I will drift into the water on my back and look back on the beautiful promenade just as Hemingway did. And on the six hour bus ride home, I will sleep with the peacefulness that only a free man can feel.

San Sebastian, here I come...........

A Surrealism Experience

As the burning sun and the endless Madridian streets were trying to steal my energy, I found new sources of inspiration and I am yet restored. It all started at Cafe de Oriente which lies in the shadow of the colossal  Palacio de Real. I sat outside basking in the sun after 3 days of endless wandering and sipped on my cafe con leche. My body pleaded for rest, but mind refused to grant its request. Using a tortilla (Spanish Omelet) as fuel, I strolled the Jardines de Sabatine and felt able to ponder life's biggest questions like why Europeans don't regularly eat Peanut Butter. This stroll turned into a certifiable hike as I made a journey all the way to the Gran Via. And as I silently walked among the crowds I realized how holistically regenerative it is to be a stranger in a strange land. I blended in with the locals and tourists alike with nothing to say partially because I don't exactly have a grasp on the Spanish language and partially because there was no need to. I was perfectly able to take in the beauty of Spain and enjoy my freedom. No responsibilities, no smartphone, no school books to study, no car to get stuck in traffic, no distracting voices, and only my thoughts among the soft hum of small fuel-efficient European cars, lively street performers, and a few thousand Spaniards wandering the same as me.

Moreover, today I traveled to the Reine de Soffia which is the modern art counterpart to the classical Prado. Though I don't much understand terms like impressionism, surrealism, (post)modernism, cubism, etc...., I nonetheless was able to enjoy the beauty of works by Dali and Picasso. Dali's paintings so real, they could be confused for high-def photographs, and Picasso's works so diverse and rich, one could spend a whole day simply gazing, jaw dropped, at Guernica. My trip to this museum revealed to me the darker aspects of Spain, the toil, plunder, and strife. More importantly, artists have used the great misfortune that accompanies every civilization to foster a contagious passion for pushing the boundaries of perception. Though I may not understand it completely, I understand passion and the desire to always see things differently.

But I digress. I close by saying that if anyone should ever find themselves in the Golden Triangle of Madrid, I highly recommend the boccadillo de calamares from El Brillante. It's muy buenisima.

Real Madrid

My first weekend in Madrid consisted of tourism and exploration but under no circumstances could an American abroad absorb the full culture of another country without some help. Over the past 36 hours I was blessed with the opportunity to experience Madrid as the locals do.

Starting with my new job, i'm working in a large corporation in Spain specializing in food services. After some trouble with translation, we found someone who knew English well enough to brief us not only on our new jobs as retail analysts but also on life in Madrid. They told us where to eat, shop, and hang out. We came to understand that corporate Spain operates much like corporate America and that hard work is an integral part of the modern Spanish framework. That being said, Spaniards are particularly laid back and easy to deal with. They ameliorated any concerns over working in a foreign country and immediately made us feel part of their family. They say eastern civilization values collectivism and western " values individualism. I believe Spain is a crossroads of this theory. Their individualism shines through but is no less apparent to their high valuation of relationships. This model for civilization is enviable.

Moreover, you can't have business without pleasure. And after a long day of orientation at the office, I met up with a local Madridian whom speaks English very well. We met through a mutual friend who recently studied abroad and agreed to meet up with me; boy did he show me a good time.

He let me run with his mates and we toured Madrid like no tourist could and had a lively night of Tapas in City Centre. He answered all of my questions about Madrid such as what locals are like (Spaniards are very lively conversationists with a way making you feel just as excited as them)and what big differences Spain has with America  (they don't have peanut butter or walmart). I then answered his questions about America (Yes, we are very self-confident and borderline pompous, but we also dream big and shoot for the moon, literally).

I long to bring the hospitality of my new friend back to America with me and greet every foreigner with a smile (and a big mac and a gun). I wish I could dine by the gran via every night and watch the city come alive. I pine to have every American taste the splendor encapsulated within a fine carne empanada.

In the midst of this chronic longing, I am reminded of my future. Where will I go and what will I do after Madrid? And to answer these questions I will use the word serendipity or a fortunate happenstance. Such is my time in Madrid and such I believe will be my life. So many events that almost didn't happen yet led to immense happiness for me. I plan to continue trusting this process and sail with the winds of adventure from Waverly to Madrid and back again, stopping plenty of times along the way to find more Gran Vias, more friends like Alvaro, and more Carne Empanadas.

NO FOTOS!!!

I should not have even tried anyway to take a picture of Velasquez's Las Meninas, but I could not help myself. The beauty of the work jumped off the canvas and into my soul. Fortunately, the security guard let me off with a warning which I certainly took into consideration with every subsequent work I gazed upon. (P.S. He let me keep the photo) Such was the case, though, with nearly all of the paintings I saw today at Museo del Prado. Surreal beauty the likes of which I had never before taken the time to appreciate. The rich history of Art in general and Spanish Art in specific is astounding.

Every painting not only tells a story, whether it be religious, historical, or mythical, but it also lets you peek into the mind of the artist who made said story come to life. Today, I saw Saturn eating his kids to maintain his power. Undoubtedly a lesson in the extremes we would go to to secure our positions in the world. I saw the garden of earthly desire where all our vices are transient, ultimately meaning nothing in the afterlife. Life is fleeting do good while you can. I saw Jacob dreaming of God and Christ in all of his forms. Religion seems to be inexplicably tied to art. I saw a naked women who told me more about the beauty of the human form than I thought was possible from a simple painting. Side note, the women painted on the canvases were all said to be of exquisite beauty and they certainly were, however, their waistlines were large, their bodies had fat, and in the characterizations, they showed no shame over their appearance. Moreover, one of my last stops was at Goya's drowning dog, about to be enveloped in a monstrous wave. The painting was meant to demonstrate the fatality of life, but I took a different view. The way the art liberated me today made me feel as if I was that drowning dog, but I was saved by a life raft named the Prado.  

This trip to the museum enlightened me beyond belief. I stopped for lunch on the gran via on the way home and ate a filling meal of two carne empanadas withe cafe con leche. I watched the city come alive and received a smile from an older woman whom you could tell had so much love in her heart. The only fault I have found with Madrid is that I didn't find it sooner.

Suspended in Flight

The flight is long over and the veil of jetlag fallen, but my flight continues. I remain supensed fueled by rich history and culture. The streets of Madrid are simply intoxicating.

What does not seem real may just be a dream come true. One can only read of the wonders of visiting Europe's great cities but to be here conjures up feelings that words cannot express. Everywhere you turn a different fountain, statue, building, restaurant, each with their own story.

Today we hoofed it for 8 hours and got wrapped up in downtown madrid. We saw the Plaza de Espana complete with Don Quixote's statue, and we saw Plaza Mayor with it's street performers and lively crowds, we tried tapas and I enjoyed a bowl of cold tomato soup with parmesan ice cream as well as a potato egg and cheese tortilla, we saw the magnificence of the Golden Triangle of Madrid's museums including the Prado which we plan to visit tomorrow. We soaked it all in. Along the way we found the most affable of Spaniards to help guide us along and despite logistical travel issues, our first day was a resounding success.

As I lay in my bed tonight breathing in the warm spanish air I reflect on what made all this bliss possible and feel tremendously grateful for those that helped get me here. Their names too numerous to mention but all in my prayers as I wish for a litany of more incredible days of culture absorbtion. Despite the mental clarity attained from this day, I will expound on my experiences at a later date as I'm tired and unable to express my joy completely.

Until then let it be known that it is what they say it is. Travel is the most potent drug a human can take. It excites and relaxes simultaneously. It makes you feel small in a big world yet intimately connected to all of humanity. Hallelujah and Adios

Hola Madrid!!!

Months of anticipation culminated in our arrival at Madrid-Barajas airport. Though we nearly missed the flight, we arrived safely. I had the pleasure of sitting next to Julie from Puerto Rico on the plane. She taught me the ways of the Spanish people and upon arrival I fumbled through a conversation with our affable taxi driver, Luis, as we made our way to our new home.
Who knows the wonders that await upon the vast corridors of Madrid, but for now it's time for sleep. Travel can certainly drain you but the takeaway from this first day of travel is that, people are nice enough if you let them be. Smile, reach out, have no fear. Kind hearts can get you settled.

Tomorrow, it's only a day away....

Pre-trip jitters haunt my restless soul as I lie awake in my bed. This very day I will embark on a journey unlike any other in my life. I will fly to europe and soak in the sweet splendor of the world's greatest civilizations. I will run with the bulls, stand in the shadow of the collosseum, gaze upon David, drift down the Grand Canal, taste a Vienna sausage, enjoy the gardens of Germany, and see if I could get Mona Lisa to lighten up and crack a smile. Whilst on this trip, I hope to forget this bed I'm in and rest peacefully on the clouds of new experience.
And as I look on these three bags that contain a months worth of my life, I wonder what baggage I take with me that can't be packed and unpacked and what new baggage that I might bring back home....