Pióro

If you ever again, or for the first time, go to Granada, please stay at Rambutan. It is in the Albayzin, the old Muslim district across the Rio Darro from the Alhambra. Worlds cannot describe how wonderful it is … well yeah I guess they could, but more than I am prepared to write in this cyber cafe. The people were great, the food was great, the view was great, watching the rising sun shining on the Alhambra after staying up all night drinking Alhambra beer was great. Even the psycho kitty rescued from the cactus patch was great.

We didn’t want to leave, even after over-extending our stay.

Oh yeah, and the rest of the city is pretty cool too.

So our lonely planet has been helpful, don’t get me wrong… it’s just that I’m not so sure about their idea of a shoestring budget. Either that, or the prices have gone up in the past year. We haven’t had much success, or enjoyment out of the places that the book recommends, accommodation and mostly food wise (they’re pretty good at suggesting an itinerary, the obvious places to hit). But maybe this is a good thing, as we have had lots of enjoyment when we find something on our own, or through word of mouth.

Such as when we finally got instructions to the good restaurant in Lisbon by the French speaking construction worker… lto Minho… where the food, which was all ordered for us by our friend who knew what we should eat better than we did, was incredible. When the bill arrived, we had to do a double take as we were sure that there was no way it could be right, or that maybe the rest of the bill was coming later…

Or Flamenco for instance.

We were inundated with advertisements for Flamenco shows in Seville, but the price just wasn’t right, though it did sound like fun.

So, when we heard about the free Flamenco shows at a local bar, we were all over that… problem was, we couldn’t find the bar. Many people had been there, but usually after a lot of drinking, and if you’ve been to the old city, the streets can confuse even the most sober directionally-enhanced people. On our last night in the city, we hooked up with some Canadians from our hostel (see: This just in: Canadians are the new Australians), who had been there already, and we managed to find it without too much difficulty. The sets may have been a little short, but the performances were genuine, and the price was right! Flamenco is something to see. We sat right up close, were you could really see the expressions… so serious… almost angry, or painful… very passionate… not really supposed to be funny, but for me was on the verge of farce as I kept picturing an inebriated Tim Wilbur up on stage.

The bar was something too, a good mix of locals, tourists, young and old. And on the back patio, which felt like one I’d been to in Montreal, we reminisced about College street (see: This just in: Canadians are the new Australians), and felt a little silly.

We were very happy to have met our fellow College/Dufferinite though, as when discussions turned to Granada, it was she who told us about Rambutan…

In Toronto, I was never offered pot. Never. I say this because every time Mar and I walk through the main squares of Lisbon, we are offered hash. Countless times a man would walk by, and quietly blurt out “’ash?” In the time it took him to utter that syllable, he’d flash a chunk the size of two zippo lighters. For all I knew, the stuff was chocolate. We always declined, subtlety and politely. I guess carrying a backpack in Lisbon is like sporting dreads in Toronto.

ANDALUCIA—Tired of not meeting anyone in Toronto? Go to Spain. Hear locals say, “You too? You’re lying. Everyone says they are from Canada.” Sit in the common room of your pension with five other as one says, “So, are we all Canadians then?” Nod in agreement. Go to a flamenco show in Seville and reminisce about the Starbank corner store at College and Dufferin because your new friend lived in a house just north of it. Be a walking ad for College Street as your new friend guesses (correctly) that your glasses are from Rapp and your girlfriend’s necklace is from Red Pegasus. (I’m serious. This really happened.) See the world and stay close to home.

Arriving in Seville, we found out that the way the hostels work, is that they quote you one price on the phone to get you hooked, and once you show up, tired, dirty, and ready to crash… oops, that room isn’t available, but you can have this one that is more expensive.

So we decided to shop around.

A middle aged Australian man saw us hostel shopping, and in his attempts to sell us incredibly inflated Flamenco tickets, brought us to a hostel that he knew, where he spoke very fast and very good Spanish with the owner, arranging for us a room. We mistakenly told him that the lowest price we could find was 30 euros, but that we were looking for less. We should have lied and told him that we had found 24 euros, or even less… oh well, we are learning the street smarts as we go.

So, tired and dirty and ready to crash, we took the 30 euros room, and felt a little hoodwinked, and majorly bummed… the bathroom had no toilet seat, the yippy dog didn’t seem to like us, and we didn’t even know where we were (crazy tiny, winding streets).

We decided to just stay the one night, and after eating some lunch, we would go looking for another place.

So we sat, in the actually very nice central patio, full of chirping birds, and many, many plants, and nice shade, and made friends with the dog, and found the clean bathrooms down the hall with the toilet seats, and chatted with a med-school girl from California about Jose Saramago and free Flamenco, and found out what street we were on, and met a local painter/artiste, and talked about literature and art, and were given free delicious strawberries from the owner, and decided that it totally rocked and that we would stay. The end.

A few days ago, Mar and I were at the Mosteiro des Jeronimos in Lisbon. This 17th century monastery has a great courtyard. Full on Manueline architecture. We were wandering around with. Mar was taking pictures. She then turned to me and said, “I wish those garbage cans weren’t there.” I could understand. Although the discrete little cans would keep the place orderly and clean, they did detract from pictures. The picture wouldn’t seem authentic. After all, how are you expected to travel back in time if you have 20th century chrome in the picture?

Knowing that the pictures are digital, I said, “Hey, you can just PhotoShop them out later.” A contemporary bit of software could make the real picture more authentic by doctoring the image. The fake would be more real than the original. So the end result would be the courtyard, as it really looked in the 17th century, not how it really looked in the 21st. Not that I really know how the courtyard looked in the 17th c. Really, I’m just guessing.

(This, grasshopper, is what happens to a mind that took its BA studies too seriously.)

For the PhotoShop Eggheads, PSD is the acronym for the Portuguese Social Democratic Party. I never thought software would lean to the left!

I’ve been wondering about the difference between a traveller and a tourist and how you differentiate one from the other. The romantic in me definitely wants to become a traveller. After all, the word does have better connotations. However, the cynic in me says there isn’t really a difference between the two. The romantic would defend himself with:

“I have a backpack, not a suitcase.”

To which the cynic would add:

“A backpack is the suitcase for those under thirty. It’s from one of those outdoor stores, driven by all those who buy into the ‘adventure industry.’”

“But I’m not staying in hotels and travelling around with tour groups.”

“Your youth hostels and fellow ‘travellers’ armed with copies of Lonely Planet or Let’s Go are little different. You want to take pictures of the Eiffel Tower don’t you?”

“Yeah, so what. I’m still a traveller.”

“Worse, you’re a cheep tourist with a superiority complex.”

“At least I don’t have a Canadian flag on my backpack.”

I don’t believe the debate ends there, but I’ll keep you posted.

We were at Cabo Roca yesterday (I think that was what it was called).

The most western point on continental Europe. Very, very high up. On a cliff. No guard rails. Not even a sign saying “be careful”, or “watch your step” or “don’t stand so close to the edge, what are you crazy?!”

I love Europe.

Portugal breeds strong calf muscles. My mind and eyes are saying “Yes. Yes. More!” while my legs and feet are threatening mutiny. ‘Spose I better get used to it.

When Mar and I arrived in Lisbon, after an over-night train ride (love the couchette), we were feeling a little, hum, corked. Martha thinks it was due to the magnesium enriched bottled water we picked up in Paris. Anyway we needed to do something. And what get’s the body movin’ better than Rotten Ronnie’s. So I went to one of the main squares in Rossio, in the centre of Lisbon, to the Golden Arches. Two Big Mac meals later, I was hurrying back to the pensao, hoping I wasn’t attracting too many disdainful glances.

When I walked in to the pensao, there were two construction workers or labourers doing some tile-work. The older one made many noise of disapproval. The one I understood was “Merde!” I responded in my best French that I knew it was merde, but I needed something fast. He said something to the effect of, “Well of course shit is fast.” I don’t think he knew how close to the truth I hoped he was.

After some chit-chat (he thought I was from Belgium!), he said he’d take me to a true Portuguese restaurant. Still hasn’t happened yet, but we’ll see.