About 30 hours after returning from Ibiza, I was on a plane to England. Because I’m crazy. “I thought you hated London,” my mom said after I told her I’d landed safely. I really don’t like to use the word hate. It’s such an ugly word. I prefer to describe my first visit to London with a reluctant, I… didn’t love it. So, how did I find myself flying back to Gatwick so soon?
I visited England and Spain for the first time this past May. My 3-week vacation started in London because it was cheaper to fly there from the states than to Girona and I thought, what the hell, I want to see Big Ben and shit. For any of you other hopefuls anticipating to see the clock tower (or hear it chime), you might want to wait until 2020 when repairs are supposed to end and it will be unveiled to the world again. But fear not if you’ve already booked that ticket, because London does have a lot more going for it like, rich history and culture, free museums, a queen, etcetera and so forth. Just keep in mind that your Oyster Card doesn’t work for the train to Stansted (even if it scans and looks like it does – you better ask someone where to buy that paper train ticket or cough up 5 times the cost in fees – trust me).
ANYWAY, I met some great people between London and Spain with whom I’ve kept in touch one way or another. Travelling solo is an amazing way to meet people if you’re open to it. What’s crazy to me is in all the time I spent last year hoping to cultivate a new friendship by trying new things and regularly visiting places I adored in my home city, I instead found someone half-way around the world at a café in a city in which neither of us lived. My thought process has left me to conclude that if I had made the connection I was looking for in Houston, then I might still be there unwilling to budge and you all wouldn’t have this wonderful blog to follow.
My new acquaintance resonated with my situation and planning
to live abroad. We’d kept in touch via
e-mail and her encouraging words helped make the whole thing a little less
scary. We were hoping to meet again in
Madrid, but it didn’t work out that way.
So, I was happily surprised when she extended an invitation to visit her
in Alfriston. Girl, let me get on this
price checking stat! I found a decently
priced roundtrip flight and booked it. Ibiza
was booked later and at the time I was more concerned with cheap than sleep.
She planned the meetup and places to visit during my stay
and I was happy to not have to think about it.
I love planning, but I’ve been doing so much of it I think I’ve exhausted
myself. My only goals were to relax and not
take the wrong train. Did you know
trains in England split, by the way? Ha,
yep. Not anything I would have thought
to ask, so a huge shout-out to the woman from the station who informed me to
sit in the rear.
Lewes Castle
I don’t quite recall how it started, but I wound up getting
a history lesson from two other customers at the café in Lewes while waiting
for my friend. Thomas Paine, author of
Common Sense, apparently, was a bit of a troublemaker around town before he
made his way to America. Virginia Woolf
took her last breath in Lewes before finally succumbing to the darkest depths
of depression. Queen Anne of Cleves received
a home there through her annulment with King Henry VIII, but ultimately, she never
visited the property. And lastly, Guy
Fawkes Night (remember, remember, the fifth of November) brings spectators and
participants from around the country to the annual bonfire celebration in Lewes. The women sharing these stories told them in
so much detail while I shamefully sat there recounting to myself what little American
history I knew. My friend didn’t take
long to arrive and whisked me back to the present.
It was so good to see her again in the flesh. We took a quick tour around Lewes, had lunch and headed to Alfriston to enjoy the rest of the evening comfy cozy with a fire, cuddling doggies and a homecooked dinner. The next day was spent gallivanting around Brighton. The weather held up just enough for us to enjoy pockets of sunshine as we popped in and out of shops and cafes. We walked out over the English Channel on Brighton Palace Pier where violent winds sent waves crashing over each other and carried mist across my face. Ten-year-old Kat would have liked to stand in the splash zones for the full effect, but grown up Kat worried about getting wet in the cold and healthcare costs without insurance. We picked up some goods for dinner at M&S and took in another early evening in Alfriston which I rather liked, and don’t think I told her how sexy it was she didn’t want to be out until fucking midnight like everyone does here.
Cuckmere River
The next morning we dined on tea and toast and I had my first proper scone with clotted cream and jam. Isn’t this presentation adorable?! We spent the time I had left in England walking around her neighborhood. Immediately, I found 2 very old music books at the local bookstore I decided to walk away from to fully consider the decision of flying with that extra weight. We then followed a path down by the Cuckmere River where it was slightly overflowing from the previous evening’s rain and admired the cascading water pooling near the trail and the lush hills in the distance. Our leisurely stroll took us to a trendy resale shop where she bought a dress that looked like it was made for her. Then back to the bookstore where I bought the books I didn’t need.
It’s another long one, boys and girls! I think I treat my writing the same as many other parts of me. Like, if my hair wants to curl up one day and fall flat the next, I try to work with it either way. Or, if I start a painting that isn’t turning out like I wanted, I just keep rolling with what’s happening and hope the result looks ok. This post started as a play by play story and so, here we are with a long recount.
One thing I meant to do much sooner was spend a relaxing weekend on a beach and soak up the final days of the lingering summer warmth. Initially, I pictured Bilbao – I read about some beautiful beaches up that way and looked forward to seeing a bit of the north of España. Before I knew it, though, October was steadfastly approaching and the weather up north was no longer ideal for the beach. Also, I was in the midst of a dilemma wondering if $250 for a flight and 2-night stay in Brussels for a Lola Marsh concert was worth the expense, particularly, since spending so much on Munich. It’s a curse and a blessing to always think about the practicality of spending money… I was supposed to see Lola Marsh at Pukkelpop in 2016, but missed their time slot. So, I thought it would be cool and funny to see them in Brussels. But after a couple of weeks of price checking and feeling uncertain about the cost I started looking at “everywhere” searches on Skyscanner to see if there was another appealing destination for less money.
Ibiza and The Canary Islands surfaced and I was suddenly again intrigued by a beach getaway. I selected Ibiza for the price and sheer ease of a 1-hour flight to a 30-minute bus ride to a hotel on a beach. I think not working has brought a little more spontaneity back into my life, because I planned nothing more beyond which flight to choose and which hotel to stay at. I kept thinking, I’ll just play it by ear; if I feel like renting a car, then I’ll rent one or if I feel like just lying in the sand in front of my hotel, then I’ll do that.
It was mid-afternoon when I checked into the hotel and headed out for a dip. The views were beautiful around Figueretes, but the beach wasn’t anything spectacular. The water was blue, but murky, and there was a lot of dead seaweed accumulating in pockets nearby detracting from the overall beauty. I was disappointed but it easily convinced me to visit a different part of the island the next day. I did a little research and decided Cala Conta and Cala Bassa were the perfect destinations being only a 35-minute walk from each other. It was really difficult to pick based on pictures, because all of the well-known beaches around the island looked equally stunning, but this decision allowed me to check out two different ones.
Ibiza Port
I spent the evening wandering around Ibiza and eventually found myself at the main port captivated by the setting sun’s colors and the night lights of the marina. I chose a bench on the dock and sat staring out at the boats and distant hills feeling so at peace with the moment. I sat there until the sun was gone and a full moon surfaced from the east; bold, bright and so much larger than I remember seeing it before. I think I could have sat there all night.
Eventually, I left and found a restaurant, by chance, near the Portal de ses Taules. After dinner I watched some people walk up to the draw bridge and followed them wondering where I was going. I passed through an archway that led to a myriad of restaurants and shops down little alleys. I followed the main path until I found a woman sitting on a step smoking and asked her if I could buy a cigarette. (I can get carried away as a social smoker, so I keep reminding myself how disgusting it is and to not buy another pack.) She refused my money, handed me one and we got to talking. We chatted for maybe an hour in our best Spanglish before she needed to close up her dress shop.
The next day I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at Parc de la Pau then, after gathering my things from the hotel, followed Google’s instructions to the bus stop 17 minutes away. Instead of taking me to the main station, Google instructed me to cross over a busy road and walk several minutes out of the way to a bus stop that didn’t list the line I needed.
Crudely drawn, yet accurately portrayed map of Sant Antoni Line 3 pick-up from Parc de la Pau.
Real conversations with people as I searched for my stop:
Me: Perdon, hablas inglés? Woman: Yes, a little. Me: Great! Do you know where the bus stop is for Line 3? Woman: *looks around* I think you cross the bridge over there and it’s around the corner. Me: *points* Just over there? Thank you!!
A few minutes later…
Me: Perdon, señor, hablas inglés? Only bus driver at the station: No. *smiles* Me: *chuckles* Ok, buscando autobús de línea tres. Only bus driver at the station: Ah, este aquí! Me: Oh, yay! Cuanto? Only bus driver at the station: *says a bunch of words I didn’t pick up except for ‘billete’ and points towards the nearby building* Me: *panicked expression* Oh, no. (Knowing I have to catch my transfer by 12:30 or wait through the lunch break until afternoon services resume at 3:30) Only bus driver at the station: *says something about 5 minutes before he leaves* Me: *sprints away, finds ticket box and sprints back to bus* Only bus driver at the station: *laughs* Eh, buenos días! Me: *laughs* Buenos días, gracias.
About an hour later we arrived to Sant Antoni where I had time to poke around some nearby shops until my transfer.
Cala Conta
If I had known what awaited at the end of the Cala Conta bus line, I would have booked my stay there. A feast for the eyes and, without doubt, one of the most unbelievably gorgeous places I’ve ever visited. The brilliant blue, crystal-clear water gently rolling against the tawny rocky coast with views of islets left me awestruck in a surreal daze. No picture I saw online looked half as lovely. Excitement overcame me as I followed a rocky path down to the soft sand where sun bathers sprawled and the edge of the water greeted my toes.
My La Tomatina goggles came in handy for a second time when I broke through the water’s surface to discover what I’d hope to see by my hotel: sea life. I can barely explain in words the absolute child-like joy I felt as I dipped my face in and out of the water capturing short breaths and watching silver fish slowly swim all around me. I think it’s the happiest I’ve felt during this whole adventure. I swam around for over an hour watching the world below wafting weightlessly with the current.
It was about that time I realized it was noticeably windier and the sun lost its game of peek-a-boo with the amassing clouds. Towel-less, I anticipated to rely on the sun to dry me off. I decided I better go in case the weather doesn’t clear. Back atop the cliff the coastline views were even more gorgeous as the clouds dominated the sky and their casted shadows somehow brought to light deep, rust colored hues from the rocks. I took one last picture and veered east where the road would lead me to the next destination.
It was a quiet walk down a gravelly, sandy road with fields of overgrown wildflowers on either side. As I drew closer to an intersection to switch roads, the scenery transformed to private lots hidden behind walls and trees. The intersection was confusing and there were two signs pointing the way to Cala Bassa… in different directions. I chose the one that looked more like a road and soon a car passed from behind me. It pulled over about a 5-minute walk ahead and I watched it sitting there for a minute before growing concern urged me to make sure I was going the right way. Technically, there wasn’t a wrong way, but I had chosen the longer path, so I turned around to take the quicker one. (Thank you, little red car!) Every new road thereafter became more difficult to navigate by flip flops and unfit for any sort of motorized vehicle. The pavement was nearly gone and the ground showing through was tawny rock, similar to that of the coast of Cala Conta. I wondered how easily the neighboring homeowners got around and if I was trekking an abandoned road. Eventually, I came to a main street and Google assured me Cala Bassa wasn’t much further.
Cala Bassa
It’s such an enchanting feeling to stumble out of a shrouded place and be rewarded with breathtaking views of shimmery blue water and distant rolling hills. I walked along the coast to the beach and dipped my toes in the freezing water. The clouds nor wind had abated during my trek so I decided to have a bite instead of another swim. I walked to the opposite side of the sandy shore where rock resumed and a little restaurant was serving beer and pizza. I ate, drank and inhaled the views for a long while. As the sky grew ever darker, I decided my day was coming to a close and checked the bus schedule. Quickly I made my way back toward the road unsure of where exactly the stop was located. I saw a sign where a couple of people were standing by a rotunda, but asked a man in the nearby parking lot if he knew where I could wait for the bus. He pointed and I gathered he was saying the stop is right where I thought, but he used so many words to do so, I wanted to be sure. I asked if it is very close and his eyes widened and he pointed and laughed. I’m pretty sure he said, yeah, we can see it right there so I repeated I can see it and laughed with him. The timing of the bus was perfection. Moments after boarding the dark clouds finally released what they’d been threatening all afternoon.
Back at the Sant Antoni station I saw the number 3 ready to depart as soon as I left the Cala Conta line. I ran up to ask the driver how much time I had before he needed to leave. He was leaving right at that moment, so I took my time walking to the ticket booth… to find it closed. Immediately my ears perked up when I heard a woman at another booth ask about Line 3. I couldn’t make out the answer so I asked the ticket seller as well and she said I will need to purchase one from the bus driver. I wondered again how in the fuck does this system here work, but at least it was a short wait as the buses back to downtown Ibiza were running every 15 minutes. The highlight of the ride back was the rainbow peeping through as the weather began to clear.
I took it easy the rest of the evening and had a so-so dinner close to the hotel. I slightly regretted the dining choice when it came time to pay and the waitress said they didn’t accept credit cards. Oh, shit, I thought, I won’t have enough to use the bus lines tomorrow. Because yes! I was already planning to go back to Cala Conta and bask in its beauty until my very late return flight to Madrid. I followed up dinner at a pub around the corner and made sure credit cards weren’t a problem. I chatted with the bartender and told her a bit about how I came to be in Madrid. I’ve found when I do this it invites people to tell me how much I will love visiting their home country. Had I ever considered visiting Serbia before meeting this woman? Nope, but now I’m curious.
A cold front blew in that night and, although it was sunny the next morning and I found a Deutsche Bank ATM (B of A customers still get to pay international transaction fees), it was chilly and I decided against going back to Cala Conta if I wasn’t going to swim.
Ses Figueretes
I checked out of the hotel at noon and walked along the beach until it disappeared into rocks. I followed an old road uphill past homes and gardens soaking in the gorgeous views across the sea toward the edge of Punta del Calvari. From there I turned back to the city to wander around and thought I’d try to visit the woman I met at the shop during my first night. I found her and it was another delightful visit of Spanglish – and English when her friend from Switzerland showed up. I soon said goodbye and left them to talk while I wondered what on earth to do to kill a couple more hours before seeking lunch. Some 1o minutes of meandering later I was face to face with the contemporary art museum. Sometimes the universe truly provides.
After lunch I had had my fill of aimless wandering and figured I’d just go to the airport a godawful number of hours early and work on my Spanish lessons. The airport bus stop was easy to find since Line 3 drops off across the street from it (and Google accurately told me how to get there).
Crudely drawn, yet accurately portrayed map of Sant Antoni Line 3 drop-off and Airport Line pick-up from Parc de la Pau.
You may not be surprised to hear that I fell in Ibiza. No, it wasn’t while I was climbing around slick rocks along the beach or the busted-up road on the way to Cala Bassa. It wasn’t even while I was walking up and down stairs around the city (because we all know about that love-hate relationship). No, no. I fell at the bus stop. As I explained to one friend back in Houston, the “enclosed” space of the stop had window panes on two sides, but not on the back. One could just walk through the stop as if walking under a scaffold. But be forewarned, there is a bar near the ground connecting the two sides with panes. I didn’t see the bar. The good news is it was one of the more graceful falls I’ve ever had. My right foot kind of hooked around the bar which made it feel like I was falling a bit slowly and I was able to catch myself with my hands. Since my foot was hooked and held up, my knees didn’t touch the ground and my hands didn’t skid around and get cut up. A week later the top of my foot is still bruised, but the rest of me is fine. I’ve been watching a lot of Archer lately and think maybe I should seek out someone like Dr. Krieger to fix my feet.
I loved my short experience on Ibiza. And! There’s still a chance for me to catch Lola Marsh in Latvia or Israel. We’ll see.
(Serious side note; shocked, but glad to hear there were so few injuries from the tornado that touched down on the island last night.)
Things I like, things I’ve found, things I don’t like and
all the things I’ve been up to!
Things I don’t like about Madrid after 7 weeks:
9PM dinners – This may be the thing I dislike most because I have so many reasons why! 1) If you recall my restoring comfort post – I miss waking up before the sun. 2) There are tons of restaurants around here, but they’re small, so the place you wanted to go to for dinner may not have room for you. 3) I am hungry at 7.
Unpredictable restaurant hours *edit 10/10/19: unpredictable everywhere hours* – My first two weeks here near the end of August were particularly rough because it seemed like half of the neighborhood was closed for vacation *edit 10/10/19: including art galleries with incorrect information on their sites.* But Café Melo’s nears the top of my most memorable disappointments. I stopped there for a beer on my way home from school once unaware of this thing they serve called a zapatilla. Days later I came across these outstanding reviews for the giant meat sandwich. It sounded like the best thing ever and I was so excited to have it! I was famished, but had to wait until 8PM when Google and TripAdvisor suggested they open for the night. That little hole in the wall laughed in my face when I walked by later and found it dark and locked up.
Walking up hills and around other people – Houston is flat, Madrid is not. Besides being tired from walking up and down hills, I’m thoroughly fucking tired of people not paying attention, stopping in front of me or aimlessly walking into me no matter how much I scooch over. I think it’s worse here than in NYC and London – yeah, I said it.
Dog shit on the sidewalks – The owners leave it for the aimless to step in, which is fine by me, but still gross.
Now that I’ve finished griping, please enjoy pictures of everything else!
When I walked onto the fairgrounds of Oktoberfest I immediately felt a twinge of disappointment. (I mean, look at this sad picture.) Maybe it was the weather, maybe my expectations were too fantastical. I guess I was picturing something more like The Renaissance Festival – a dip into ye olde times with entertainers, vendor stalls galore and a little razzle dazzle? I didn’t even hear music. I later discovered all the magic was hidden inside the tents, but I’ll get to that soon!
I visited the Haus der Kunst right after checking into the Airbnb because I figured since I paid all this money (13€) for a day pass, I may as well do something besides going straight to day drinking. Y tambien arte! It was a good call; I liked the exhibit. Afterwards, I took a lovely, long walk in the rain through Hofgarten to get to the subway. An overcast garden was quite a perfect venue for artsy photo ops. I left the Holga and digital camera behind due to the weather, but, luckily, one is never without a camera these days. With no one to help me, I propped my cellphone up as best I could for a timer selfie. This was a good enough first try for me to move on and be silly with my umbrella further along the park.
Now then, I had one more pit stop before the festivities. Oktoberfest is a cash only spectacle and I needed to find a currency exchange store. There was a Ria a mere 12-minute walk from the park, but I wanted to make the most of that damn day pass. Joking aside, my right foot has been bothering me for the past few weeks, so I really didn’t want to have to walk any more than necessary.
I reached the subway and found the platform where the train I needed was sitting there doors open. I sprinted down the stairs and inside the car. Soon after, the doors shut. About 10 seconds later the doors opened. A few more people hopped on and the doors shut. About 10 seconds later the doors opened. The train played this song and dance about 5 more times before the driver of the U6 asked everyone to get off because of a problem. I stood there with the 100 other people needing to be somewhere wondering, if this train doesn’t move, then how will I catch the next U6…? I walked to the exit of the platform thinking it best to leave by foot afterall when I noticed a sign for a different train that I recalled Google noted as another option to get to Marienplatz. I walked to the next platform and got on a working train. It was the wrong train. I promptly got off at the next stop and was mostly fine with my error when I discovered a different Ria nearby… a 10-minute walk away. I walked my aching foot where Google said the Ria should be and in its vicinity was a giant, blocked off construction zone. I asked a barista in a coffeeshop around the corner from the construction site if he knew where the Ria was, but he didn’t. I couldn’t find the store back in the subway tunnel, either. I think the moral of this story is sometimes Google is wrong and it might be best to just walk for 12 minutes in the rain before you wind up wasting an hour on misdirection and malfunctioning trains.
A short time later I finally made it to Theresienwiese with euros ready to burn. I could tell right away what I was in for as I passed by patrons stumbling in my direction towards the subway station. I smiled at them. I don’t like being surrounded by drunk people (says the woman walking into Oktoberfest), but they are funny to watch. I walked onto the grounds, took my sad picture and found the first place that looked like a bar. It was a wine only bar – dafuuuq – I turned and left.
I intended to walk around the entirety of the park, but the first actual beer tent I walked up to I didn’t leave until the band stopped playing! From what I understand, only a section of the tables are reserved in advance while the rest are left vacant on a first come first serve basis. As a single, unthreatening, kind of hot woman wanting to go into a tent already at capacity, it wasn’t a problem entering. Imagine a giant hall of 2000 adults decorated in lederhosen shouting, laughing, drinking, stumbling in and out of their tables dancing to a live band while 50 waiters run around them serving beer. That’s what I walked into.
I soaked up the atmosphere walking around the main hall before flagging a waiter to ask if I can order a beer. One must be seated at a table to order. I felt overwhelmed and considered leaving with this new knowledge that meant I had to find a place to squeeze my fat ass somewhere just to get a drink. I gave it a go and asked a table of very good-looking dudes if they had any room. No, we’re all full, was the surprising response I got as they eyeballed me. Whether my penis wasn’t big enough for them or they’ve been fooled by pretty moochers before, I can’t say.
The second table I asked to join welcomed me and the moment I had that seat everything about the evening was perfectly brilliant. I made friends with a bunch of locals and a couple of Finnish guys. I drank giant beers that tasted like pansy bitches, but were actually pretty fucking strong. I ate Käsespätzle. I danced with my new friends on our bench for hours. I made out with somebody. I rode a violent rollercoaster before leaving because it sounded like a good idea. (Drunk people, am I right?) I had the most amazing experience with only a slight hangover to endure the next day. It was so worth it, you guys.
Maybe it was the weather, maybe my expectations were too fantastical. I guess I was picturing something more like The Renaissance Festival – a dip into ye olde times with entertainers, vendor stalls galore and a little razzle dazzle? I didn’t even hear music. I later discovered all the magic was hidden inside the tents, but I’ll get to that soon!
From what I understand, only a section of the tables are reserved in advance while the rest are left vacant on a first come first serve basis. As a single, unthreatening, kind of hot woman wanting to go into a tent already at capacity, it wasn’t a problem entering. Imagine a giant hall of 2000 adults decorated in lederhosen shouting, laughing, drinking, stumbling in and out of their tables dancing to a live band while 50 waiters run around them serving beer. That’s what I walked into.