Madrid it seems is in atmosphere a lot like the great urban places in the world. It takes weeks to start soaking it in, which was time not in my possession. The two days and nights were just a taste, to know this was a city that could be enjoyed in the future. Because of some local friends, the good tapas bars were suddenly in our reach without trying. As for sites, tourists might be bored easily, it is not rich in "things to see" so much, but getting beneath the surface is the only way to experience Madrid, and I can't wait to do it someday.
On an evening drive to Barcelona, we pulled the rental car off the road at a windmill farm somewhere in the nothingness. After driving about 10 minutes on a gravel road away from the highway, the noise of traffic was gone, and the endless fields of windmills were the only thing stimulating our senses. Never before had I touched a windmill base, felt it vibrate, and been so close to the whirring menace of its rotating blades. An experience certainly to recommend.
Barcelona is magic. I am sure many of you have been there before so my previous email and your impressions can reinvent it in your minds. It is hilarious to me that as one spirals up the towers of Sagrada Familia, you can see McDonalds, Starbucks, and Pizza Hut (or was it KFC?). They are easily looked past though to see what you are really after.
There exists a tiny country in Europe that sits atop the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain that has always captured my imagination for some reason. Its quaint remoteness, high elevation, and an area less then the size of a Wal-Mart car park all had me dreaming to visit since a very young age. Sadly, the country is quite disappointing in terms of everything. It was an ugly community dedicated to feeding the needs of value seekers, and had basically turned the whole capital city into a duty-free zone with French and Spanish people flooding the sidewalks carrying television sets and cigarettes back to their cars. Beautiful mountain scenery and location? Yes, I will give it that. A funny meeting with the French border guard on the way out happened when he was asking us what we bought in Andorra and our answer was nothing. "You bought NOTHING in Andorra?" Seemingly disgusted with our lack of duty-free-induced greed, he waved us through.
In the course of this day that began in Barcelona, I left behind one of the greatest cities in Europe, climbed a mountain range and descended to the other side (all in a tiny Fiat in winter, mind you), visited two other countries (one new to me), and returned to Spain in a new region and very new weather. The San Sebastien that everyone talks about must take place during another season. We pushed on through the rainy night to Bilbao, where in the wee hours of the drenched evening I got to reflect on Frank Gehry and curved titanium. I'm thinking this might be the way to experience this building for someone who is not a fan of the architect's work. I imagine the afternoons crammed full of tourists milling around the building taking pictures. You have it all to yourself at night. In the freezing cold (the rain thankfully let up as we rolled into Bilbao), I must have made my companion very upset as I spent quite a bit of time soaking it in.
On your way into to Portugal, don't forget to fill up with "cheap" petrol in Spain. The price before you cross the border is nearly 0.20 Euro cheaper. That must be 6 or 7 American dollars by now.
After a day of driving and a pit-stop at Bom Jesus for the very photogenic church, we arrived in the coastal city of Porto as the sun was setting. The town was unexpectedly dark, much darker than I am used to in a large city. I think Europe might continuously do this to me, but I find myself initially intimidated for some reason, until I get my bearings and explore a little. It also happened in Dublin last year, but something about the language of Portuguese and the fact that I know nothing of it makes the darkness that much more intimidating.
Lisbon is the same way I find, but for some reason more agreeable. More diversity? Maybe. Bigger? Possibly. I do at times have to remind myself that I like Lisbon though, maybe very much. It is dark, yes, but we're getting used to that.
On Christmas day we were in Lisbon, witness to The Most Depressing Christmas Ever. The homeless, the sick, the hopelessly alone and unwanted all seemed to come out on Christmas Eve and Day to have what for them may have been a splendid meal. We could not figure out the system in the small restaurant we were in for lunch, but it appeared as if some of these meals were free. A few of the eaters had three course meals, got up and left without paying. Normally they would have been arrested, but nothing happened, so seemingly it was allowed. Something was happening in Portuguese, but obviously we were not witness to the conversation. The streets were vacant, the shops were closed, the attractions and subway were free, but no one seemed to be enjoying themselves. The city was beautifully decorated in festive lighting, but only a few scattered tourists seemed to be enjoying it. The city's motto must have been "Christmas in Lisbon: stay home and don't ever leave." Very different from the United States where families immediately run out to stores and theatres after they finish ripping open their presents.
After Lisbon, a day again spent on the road. Oh look! It's Spain again.
Must get to Morocco, things are cheaper there. The Euro is crushing the dollar. The rock of Gibraltar is hardly worth talking about. But the seediness of Algeciras, the port town with ferries to Tangier in Morocco, was somewhat entertaining. Coming and going, hints of Morocco that will be my next two weeks. Hardly any customs, the doors are wide open, I wonder if getting back will be the same. A man who apparently does not know his own name borrows my pen to fill out his customs form. Hmm... I wonder why he needs to look at "his" ID to fill out the answers to questions like "name" and "nationality." You have to love the funny business.
Upon arriving in Tangier, I immediately boarded a bus headed to Rabat, the capital city. It makes me selfishly and stereotypically happy when the driver turns on the radio, as the Arabic music is a fantastic soundtrack to the ride and the brand new sites beyond the pane of glass. It does not make me happy when Celine Dion comes on.
As I sit in a bus station halfway between origin and destination, I gaze out the window to see many things. Some of the highlights: A woman with red soles shuffles past, sits on a box, then moves the box to another spot and sits again. A man bikes past with two sheep and much other cargo strapped on. Vendors pile themselves behind mountains of peanuts. Can they sell that much in a day?
As in some past countries I have visited, a long-distance bus is a significant point of interest for people on the streets. They watch from afar and try to see the faces inside when alongside.
Fields are separated by cacti instead of fences or rocks. Perfect.
I do not learn much in Rabat, or Casablanca for that matter, but this is alright with me. I know they are just a warm-up for Marrakech and Fès. The highpoint must be the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca, for its overwhelming scale. The plaza is enormous, and turned out to be a great place to meet Moroccan students that were here from all parts of the country to study with the main religious leaders. All of them eager to practice some English, I was descended upon. It is funny for me to have a better second language than someone else, but we reverted back to French many times to get points across. My French was surprisingly good. Within a couple days, I was pulling words and correct (I think?) verb tenses out of the blue.
When I did try using Arabic words, I found that the reception to this was far less rewarding than in other countries. Moroccans must seem patronized by white people trying to speak their language, because rarely did anyone react kindly, as I found was always the case in Asia. Oh well... I gave up after a while and stuck to French.
On the bus ride from Casa to Marrakech, I bought my ticket a day in advance and was the proud owner of seat #1. In Morocco, there are always seat assignments on the long distance buses of certain companies. This is not always in your favor you see, I learned quite a few years ago that in countries with both poor road conditions AND a view of driving less as a means of transportation and more as a war of attrition, it is safer to take a seat away from the front, with less risk of being witness to thousands of what we would call "close calls" but what are merely normal driving conditions.
There are many paces to Marrakech. As I sit in a cafe and watch the sun-drenched alley outside, up to a dozen people might fill the frame of storefront window at any one time. They all move at different paces, and last for different lengths of time in view, making for a very enjoyable frame of reference while waking up in the morning with coffee. In order from fast to slow, there are motorbikes, fast-paced businessmen, above-average paced people (on-track tourists, smartly dressed women), the leisurely tourists and groups of men, the lost tourists, and the slow elders.
Back in Casablanca, I noticed a lot of people eating soup in the evening. In Marrakech I decided to investigate. It turns out to be a delicious Moroccan specialty, made slightly differently by all who serve it, and available practically everywhere. For the cost of a quarter for the soup and some bread, it was a full meal. Well, I usually had two... but still, fifty cents. Harira soup, an excellent find, and much more alive in taste than the tajines and couscous readily available for tourists at all the stalls.
Souks and soups. A good combination in Marrakech.
There are a surprisingly numerous bunch of generous souls in Marrakech only interested in making sure tourists find their way to the Tanneries, a large open air facility within the Medina walls where all the animal skins go to be dyed. But they are not guides! This they make sure you know immediately. From the moment you step east of the main square (and I stepped east a couple times), they are walking along with you, just happening to be headed there. The particular non-guide that first approached me greeted me very kindly and made sure he was not a guide by including the fact that he played for the Marrakech football club, quite prestigious! Nevermind a star athlete carries around a picture of the Tanneries and is over eager to tell you of their wonders and take you there, he is not a guide! Interestingly enough, even though there is a game later in the day, he ended up needed a little pocket change after my "tour" was over. I obviously disappointed him with my offering, but hey, I was trying not to listen all along, and told him I had no money. I just did not want trouble.
After four days in Marrakech, it was time to move on. I normally do all my transportation during the day so that I can watch the landscapes go by, but to save money, I grabbed a seat on a nine hour overnight bus to Fès, a quite grueling ride along the lower regions of the Atlas Mountains. Happy to see straight streets once again, I got off the bus, stepped on firm ground, and immediately checked into the first hotel I saw so that I could finally sleep.
Fès is amazing. I cannot do it justice by talking. I will not even try. Go there.
It had its share of faux-guides as well, but by this time I had honed my skills, and dressed down a little to look even more broke. They were not hassling me by the second day. These unfortunate people in Marrakech and Fès were not enough to distract me from the beauty of Morocco and its people. There were so many more friendly "Hello!" or "Bonjour! Ca va?" and "Welcome to Morocco!" greetings from people that far and away offset the nasty people who are very persistent and sometimes upsetting and insulting when you turn down their "services." It took some time to handle them properly, and quite a few techniques were tried. No matter what I always kept a smile and was respectful, but their utter disrespect in return to another human being was disgraceful. I guess you get the thugs that ruin it for everyone wherever you go. Again though, the smiles, curiosity, and genuine welcome from dozens and dozens of warm-hearted people will not be forgotten. I have traveled to a few countries whose citizens will never have the opportunity to leave and see the world by costly traveling. Their curiosity and friendliness towards the strangers that enter their country is inspiring. I never get tired of telling them about where I come from or where I have been, because unfortunately it might be their only taste of something foreign.
After Fès it sort of felt like more of a journey home rather than a continued adventure. I stopped for a night in Chefchaouen (beautiful white and blue-washed mountain town) and then continued back to Tangier. In the final stretch, without stopping except for "layovers" I was in four different modes of transportation for around 38 hours. A bus from Chaouen to Tangier, the ferry back to Spain, an overnight train up to Madrid, and the flight back home.
Jared-- your blog is beautiful and your prose is lovely! I am so glad to read it-- and I will be headed Morocco in a few days-- so was very interested to read this post! I plan on doing some cooking classes and such and take advantage of that Moroccan light!
ReplyDelete