Euros Ate My Dollars

I really want to tell you all about our sparkling week in Paris, which was a great last European hurrah, and I promise we’ll get to all of it. But I wanted to post a quick update to let everyone know that … [drum roll] … we’re in Bangkok! After nearly 14 hours on a plane, a strange layover in the United Arab Emirates, and a taxi ride (I know! A taxi. What unimaginable luxury!), we’ve arrived at a guest house just outside of the Bangkok city center which is costing us about $3 per night. It’s also sunny and ninety degrees. I love Thailand already.

On the other hand, there are ants crawling out of my computer keyboard, I am trying to get used to the idea of eating rice for breakfast every morning, and Ben keeps telling me everything tastes like Hepatitis A.

Disease-free in Thailand

Ben and I decided about a month ago that our budget would never allow us to stay in Europe for as long as we’d originally planned with the dollar weakening pretty much hourly, so we bumped our tickets to Thailand up. Unfortunately this gave us very little time to plan for our Southeast Asian journey, so we have no idea where we’re going from here. During our last days in Paris we frantically tried to prepare, and we did do some stuff: shipped our remaining winter/European trip items home, switched to tiny jungle-friendly suitcases, and somehow managed to muddle through getting all our proper vaccinations. Now we’re invincible! We did not, however, get a guidebook, as the cheapest we could find an English guide to Thailand was 30 euros, and that’s just far too much to pay for knowledge. So that’s the number one item on today’s agenda.

More updates to come, very soon. I would say goodbye in Thai, but since we don’t have a guidebook, I don’t know how. I just asked Ben how to say it and he said: “I don’t know! The only Thai word I know is ‘baht.’ Oh and ‘pad thai.’”

Once upon a time in a far away land there was a beautiful (/intelligent/self-sufficient/independent) peasant girl on a mighty quest. She was seeking a magical castle deep in the enchanted forest, where Prince Charming (who appreciated her for her wit and personality) awaited to sweep her off her feet and make her the princess she longed to be. And THEN it would be perfectly socially acceptable for her to wear tiaras every day of the week and NO ONE could say ANYTHING because SHE’S A FRIGGIN’ PRINCESS, OKAY?

And then reality dawned, at the moment I realized I’d paid to enter this park, had been wearing the same shirt for a week, and my Prince Charming was running around up ahead pretending he was Link from Zelda. Theme song and all.

Although we really were in a forest. On our guidebook’s recommendation, we’d hopped a train from Lisbon to Sintra, a nearby small town that contained several noteworthy and picturesque palaces. The sight that most intrigued me, based on pictures I’d seen, was the Palace of Pena, a monastery-turned-royal-residence on the outskirts of town.

So after disembarking from the train in Sintra (okay, and after a brief stop at Pizza Hut because I was craving some good old American grease. Note: don’t eat at Pizza Hut abroad, where breadsticks = dry toast), we hopped a rickety bus to the top of a mountain where the palace was allegedly located.

Which is how I found myself trudging through a forest in the middle of Portugal, without a clue where to go and very much regretting my decision to let Ben lead. Although that forest really did seem enchanted — with dappling sunlight and moss-covered stones and so many other woodsy clichés. I felt that if I burst into song all the sprightly woodland creatures would bound of the forest to perch on my lap. I may or may not have tested this theory with the only song I could think of at the moment. FYI, “Who Let the Dogs Out” does not inspire nature to flock.

At the point I became convinced there was no way we were getting out of these woods alive, the towers of a gigantic castle emerged above the treetops just ahead of me. It was everything I knew a castle could be — and more! It is the castle out of every fairytale you’ve ever read. Seriously, people, check this out:

Now THAT is what I’m talking about! It looks like this awesome My Little Pony castle I had when I was little, with its pink, purple and lemon-tinted facade. But that one ALSO had a basket-lift for the purple baby dragon, which Pena was lacking.

Ben and I spent hours exploring the battlements, buttresses, and ramparts of Pena Palace. Okay, so I have no idea what those words mean, but I generally associate them with castles, so, you know, whatever. I mean, I probably saw those things, right? I was going to write as if I knew what I was talking about even though I have no idea (we’ll call that Ben-style writing), but then I figured it’d be really embarrassing to be called out on my own blog. I should really disable comments.

Visitors to Pena have a surprising amount of wandering capability when it comes to Pena’s exterior (we’re used to a large percentage of the sites we visit being closed to the public), but the rooms of the well-preserved interior were mostly roped off. Which meant that I couldn’t search for secret passageways like I’d planned, which was a bummer. Though the red-velvet-oil-painting-19th-century-esque decor starkly contrasted with the castle’s whimsical exterior, and I was quickly bored.

We then wandered down the mountain road and back a few more centuries to the ruins of an old Moorish castle. When we’d heard that the castle was ruined, I’d figured it was really ruined, along the lines of the Roman Forum. But entire sides of the defensive walls remained intact! And the scenery was incredible: the town of Sintra below, Pena on a neighboring hillside, misty mountains in the distance… unlike the ruins in Rome where, no matter how many times you tell me that those column bases once supported a temple to Zeus, I’m never really going to be able to get that, it was very easy to imagine Sintra’s Moorish castle in its prime.

Unfortunately, upon our return from a land called Honah Lee, we had some practical, real-life things to take care of to prepare for our trip to Thailand. Things like prevention of disease and imprisonment. So we promptly visited the local Thai embassy in Lisbon, having been informed that you need a visa for a stay in Thailand longer than 30 days. We showed up at the door of a building that looked a family home in what was a very residential neighborhood. But a small, gold plaque to the left of the gate confirmed it was indeed the Thai embassy. After ringing the doorbell (yes, a doorbell) for five minutes, the gate clicked open and we were permitted entrance.

We explained our situation, filled out all the proper paperwork, made copies of our passports, and were nearly finished our application when the old Portuguese woman behind the counter pushed a slip of paper towards me with a number written on it in a blank after the word “Amount”: 50.

“Fifty euros?!” I said, aghast. “EACH??”

“Yes, of course.” she replied.

So then I backpedaled. We were never entirely positive we needed a visa, but wanted to be overly cautious when it came to travel in SE Asia. It’s very hard to get into the nitty-gritty of Thai immigration law with a Portuguese woman who doesn’t speak the best English, but we were able to (eventually) confirm that you do NOT need a visa if you’re traveling in Thailand for less than 28 days at a time. This essentially means that we can stay in Thailand for 28 days, hop into another country like Laos or Cambodia for one night, and the next day be permitted back into Thailand for another 28 days, if we want. Seriously! It’s a nonsensical system, but it saved us $150. So it looks like we’ll be going to Laos or Cambodia and it might be time to actually consult a SE Asian map.

Our next stop was a Lisbon health clinic that our Portuguese friend Joao had contacted so that we could obtain Hepatitis A vaccines (I know, I know. This is stuff that should’ve been taken care of BEFORE our trip). We hiked up the stairs of the office building, took a number, and waited. When we were finally called, we quickly assessed that no one behind the counter spoke a lick of English, nor were they particularly concerned with helping us (pretty much the only grumpy Portuguese you’ll encounter are the ones who are working). But when it became clear to them that we weren’t going away — particularly when Ben kept attempting to pronounce “Hepatitis A” in various accents in hopes they might help us if he said Ehp-AH-Tee-Tees-Ah a couple dozen times — a large man lumbered over from behind a partition and grunted in our general direction.

“Hi.” I said. “We’re here for a Hepatitis A vaccination. We called this morning.”

“What is your address?” he replied.

“No, no. We don’t live here. We’re traveling.”

“Where is your hotel?”

“My hotel? I’m not sure of the street name.”

“What neighborhood?”

“Um, the Bairro Alto, I think.”

“We can’t see you.”

“What? Why not?”

“Health clinics divided by neighborhood. You must go to the Bairro Alto clinic.”

“You mean, because my hotel happens to be a couple blocks that way, you can’t see me?”

“Go here,” he said, shoving a piece of paper with a street name on it into my hand. Despite our attempts to say that we were just kidding! Our hotel is just downstairs actually! They wouldn’t see us. So we managed to achieve nothing we’d set out to do with only a week left before we hopped a plane to Bangkok. Oops!

We did see a few more sites in Portugal — a couple more ancient and priceless monasteries and palaces, none quite as impressive as those at Sintra. But mostly we ate, delighting in the fusion of foods Portugal offers, from South American to Northern African. I surprised myself with how comfortable I am eating fish that are served to me with the head still on. I also ate pig ears because Ben happened to leave that fun little detail out when he sat a plate of food down in front of me. He knows I can’t not eat food within my reach!

The final leg of our European journey was in Paris, where we were meeting my family and catching our flight to Thailand. Next on E.A.M.D.: our worst transportation experience yet!

A week in Lisbon might not make me an expert on how to achieve the authentic Portuguese experience, but then again, it might. We arrived in Lisbon with very little idea of what (if anything) defines this strip of coastline that has managed, through all these years, to not be Spain. I have to agree with Brittany’s assessment that Portuguese sounds far more like Russian than Spanish, which teaches us one important lesson: don’t trust the testimony of your Spanish friends when it comes to the Portuguese experience. Instead, trust ME when I tell you that THE authentic Portuguese experience comprises the following three elements…

Fado
You ever hear the one about the undersized European nation with the oversized heart? Their unquenchable thirst for discovery meant that they were the first European nation to scope out all sorts of prime colony and trading location in Africa, the Americas, and even Asia. But their tiny size prevented them from holding on to their claims when the bigger bully countries showed up. And so it was that Portugal kept on a-findin’, and England, France, and Spain kept on a-lootin’. Sucks, right? Portugal thinks so too. And that’s only part of the painful story - back on the homefront, the country’s domestic history can be summed up as one oppressive, and entirely disastrous, regime after another. But since the people can’t do much else in the face of their star-crossed fortunes, they have decided to sing. This is fado.

You can’t sing fado until you’ve really been kicked to the curb. By 6′10″ WWE Superstar The Undertaker. Wearing cleats. Not because there’s a background check, but simply because you wouldn’t be ABLE to. More than singing, fado is a gut-wrenching wailing that keeps the neighbors awake down the street. Except they don’t yell at you to stop that racket - they just close their eyes, look to the heavens, and mutter in Portuguese, “sing it, sister.” Again, Portugese sounds like Russian to us, but I assume this is what all the teary-eyed patrons in our fado bar were saying as they shook their heads at the ceiling. Our Israeli friend Dvir told me that he doesn’t like fado because he dislikes music he can’t dance to. I suppose he has a point, but look at it from the Portugese perspective: you probably don’t feel much like dancing when you realize Spain just stole South America. Again.

Football (aka Soccer)
We hit Portugal at the end of January, meaning we’d been in Europe 5 months without seeing a football game. I know, I know… inconceivable! Cut as a break though: we tried to go see AS Roma play in their home stadium, but then there was the small issue of arriving at the stadium to find the terrified riot police barricading themselves inside against the masked pyromaniac hooligans, and screaming at us to run for our lives. I still don’t get why that match was canceled. But now, with only two cities left on our European tour, we were determined to attend a football match while in Lisbon.

Fortune smiled upon us this week. Portugal has 3 major football clubs, who, between them, have won every single national football championship for something like the last 75 years. Two are based in Lisbon, and one in the northern city of Porto. Whenever two of the clubs play each other, the event is called a “Classic,” and everybody who’s anybody wants to be at the match. Soon after arriving in our hostel, we learned from some football fanatics that Lisbon’s Sporting Club would be hosting Porto in the latest “Classic” match during our stay. I’ve been searching for a football club to make my own throughout our European tour, and destiny was made clear when I discovered the Sporting wears the same glorious green as the New York Jets* and Boston Celtics. As the locals say, “Sporting sempre!” (”Sporting forever!”)

The big game was set for Sunday night, but fearing a sellout, we headed to the stadium to purchase our tickets in the early afternoon on game day. There, at the box office, we received painful news: the cheapest tickets available were 50 euros ($75) each. At this point, we actually debated whether or not to go to the game. But all the Sporting enthusiasm from the fans partying around the stadium convinced us that we needed to be a part of the upcoming spectacle. We bought our tickets (which, presumably, have liquid gold cores) and headed back to the metro station, excited about returning in the evening.

But on our way out, we spotted a tiny cellar-looking door at the base of the stadium, surrounded by a few loitering Sporting fans. We decided to check it out, and discovered the dark little closet to actually be the Sporting Fan Club office. And lo and behold, they were selling off unclaimed Fan Club tickets for the night’s game at the attractive price of 30 euros each. Already tasting the instant savings of 40 euros, I immediately sprinted back to the box office and tried to return our expensive tickets. No dice. Which I suppose is not surprising, since the entire operation is probably a scam to fleece stupid tourists like us. But never ones to give up so easily, we decided to try on the hat of that rightfully despised third-lowest form of life: the ticket scalper.**

For the next hour, we hovered in front of the box office, accosting every potential ticket buyer with our broken and unintelligible mix of Spanish, English, and Portuguese. In the beginning, Brittany asked if scalping was even legal in Portugal, but there were two police officers posted at the box office, and neither was making any effort to stop us, so I figured it must be OK. Waving our two tickets wildly in the air, we made every shameless attempt possible to unload them on OTHER unsuspecting tourists, even going so far as to engage the box office in one or two hotly competitive pricing wars. After an hour’s worth of failure, I really couldn’t believe what terrible luck we were having. Especially when I noticed a rival scalper hook two buyers out of the ticket line. But then he did something strange - he led his prospects away from the box office, and around the corner of the stadium to a darkened corner. I know this because I followed them, in hopes of stealing his business. I noticed that only once they were there, in the shadows, did they conduct their exchange. And then it struck me: what we’re trying to do IS illegal. The only reason the cops have left us alone is because we haven’t committed the crime YET. Suddenly quite happy to sit in our overpriced seats instead of a Portuguese prison cell, I ran back to Brittany to call off the scalping plan, and we made a hasty escape.

Returning to the stadium that evening, we bargained for a couple of green Sporting scarves from a vendor outside the stadium, and made our way to our 50 euro seats. Which turned out to be at the midfield line, in the 2nd row of the upper tier. From this prime vantage point, we finally watched our first European football game. And perhaps more importantly, we wached the passionate football fans, in all of their flag-waving, homemade-smoke-bomb-throwing glory. Together, we cheered on the underdog home team to a satisfying 2-0 victory. One of the most lasting impressions I’ll take away from that game is the behavior of the visiting Porto fans. Despite their team going down early, and never really threatening victory, the Porto fanbase stood and cheered loudly the entire game, and not a fan seemed to leave before the final whistle. The stark contrast to the behavior of my own fanbases back home made me more than a little ashamed. I’ll try to get things turned in the right direction back home with a few well-placed homemade smoke bombs.

Pasteis de Belem
The third and final element of the essential Portugese experience is our favorite dessert in Europe, a Portuguese specialty called pasteis de nata. But we visited a bakery in the Belem neighborhood of Lisbon which has (perhaps arrogantly) renamed its own version of this dessert: pasteis de Belem. Fittingly, the bakery itself is also called Pasteis de Belem, and it’s been around since the 1830s! Even if the fine folks at this bakery aren’t arrogant, they would have every right to be, because these are the only pasteis that matter.

The dessert itself is a palm-sized tart of sweet, fluffy egg custard in a light, flaky crust. It’s served warm out of the oven, with shakers of powdered sugar and cinnamon for sprinkling on top. In an effort to fit in with the pasteis conossieurs at the tables surrounding us, we had ours with coffee, and the effect was unforgettable. We ate four at our table, brought four more back to the hostel to eat that night, and on our last day in Lisbon, made the 40-minute round-trip tram ride to Belem, just to eat four more. Words are frustratingly inadequate to describe the epic perfection of this dessert, but trust me when I say that if you ever visit Lisbon, put Pasteis de Belem at the top of your itinerary. Brittany says that, much like Naples pizza, this is one of the things that will cause her tears of longing in years to come.

So there you have it: the 3 keys to THE authentic Portuguese experience. And since I’m just some guy who wandered around Lisbon for a week with little directional bearing and no grasp of the language, I should know.

*Please no comments on the Jets’ 2007 season.

** For the record, the 3 lowest life forms are…
3rd lowest: Ticket scalper
2nd lowest: Gypsy pickpocket
Lowest: “Alexander Nava” from South Star Company in Barcelona. I’ll get you!!!

We hopped the bus from Seville to Lisbon, Portugal, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to go. We wanted to TRAVEL and LEARN and DO STUFF. It’s unfortunate, then, that Portugal was our next destination, as the Portuguese aren’t really into the whole “doing stuff” thing. As the most laid back people I’ve encountered in my life, they spend their days eating and drinking in cafes, playing games in the park, and enjoying Portugal’s many warm, sunny days. By the end of our week in Lisbon, we spent most of our time eating pasteis, drinking vinho verde and playing cards with our hostel mates. Which, actually, makes this one of our more successful cultural immersions.

Our week in Lisbon did not start so smoothly. Naturally, we didn’t have a place to stay upon arrival, so we scooted on over to the nearest hostel, thinking we’d find more permanent accommodation the next day. Having heard so much about how inexpensive Portugal is, we were looking forward to cheaper nights’ stays.

The next day, I stayed back to do some work, while Ben went out to hunt for a hostel or pension that could house us. Apparently, Lisbon has taken advantage of its status as the new, hot backpacker destination, because when Ben returned, without room or prospect, he reported that despite wandering the entire city, he couldn’t find anything for less than 30 euros a night. Not a bad price, but not “cheap” by our trip standards. He was also in one of the foulest moods I’ve seen him in, mumbling about how EVERYTHING is THE WORST. Pretty much the only thing you can do when Ben’s in such a state is feed him, so we took a break to hit up a local restaurant for a good meal.

So, Portuguese is a hard language. I was expecting it to be pretty much Spanish, I guess. And many words are similar in spelling — but the pronunciation? Sounds like Russian to my American ears. So in addition to not being able to read the menu, we couldn’t understand a lick of what the waiter was saying to us. As usual in such situations, we pointed to something on the menu, ordered it (in a “uhhh…that one…i guess?” kind of way), and crossed our fingers.

Most of the time we get lucky and this method of ordering has produced some of the best meals on our trip. Other times, we’re not so lucky. Like that time we were served what was basically olive oil soup.

This meal, our first in Portugal, turned out to be incredible. Slices of meat (don’t know which kind, would probably like to keep it that way), rice, spinach, beans — all wonderfully seasoned and garlic-y. And when the waiter wheeled over the dessert cart piled high with moist pastries, the finest I’d seen since France, I officially fell in love with Portugal. Especially when the waiter looked visibly disappointed when we declined — not in the my-tip-will-be-smaller way, but in the genuine you-don’t-know-what-you’re-missing way.

Word of warning for those dining in Portugal: you’re charged for every little thing they put on your table. I’m used to being charged for bread in European restaurants, but usually the accompanying butter is complimentary. Not so in Portugal. You opened that tiny packet of garlic butter? Eighty cents please. And since Ben spent the first half-hour of our meal opening tiny packets of yummies he’d never seen before (FISH PATE? what’s that? I’ve never tried fish pate before!!), our bill was an unexpected surprise.

Thankfully, that evening, we were lucky to come across a recently-opened hostel in the Bairro Alto neighborhood of Lisbon, whose owner was willing to negotiate a weekly rate. We moved in, gorged ourselves on free rolls from a local bakery, and took advantage of free wifi by downloading episodes of all the TV shows we’re missing at home.

The next morning (okay, afternoon), we began our exploration of the city in earnest. Lisbon, like its people, is an extremely likable city. It’s wide and open and clean. And beautiful! The sidewalks are paved in tiny blocks of black and white stone, arranged in beautiful patterns. The buildings, interiors and exteriors, are covered in azulejos – decorated tiles — that are a proud and prevalent Portuguese tradition. From three-hundred-year-old ornate blue and white tiles, to modern, art-deco-style tiles, it seems that no structure in Lisbon (down to the interiors of the metro stations) isn’t plastered in these things.

Pretty much every European city has an “old town” neighborhood, which is inevitably picturesque and quaint. But modern life never fails to seep in: bars, boutiques, souvenir shops, and tourists never fail to remind you it’s 2008. I’m convinced the old neighborhoods of Lisbon haven’t changed a bit since the late 19th century. In fact, Lisbon built Europe’s first funicular in the 1800s, and the same funicular operates today. Granted, it moves so slowly it’d be faster to walk up the hill than ride it, but still. I also saw a tree growing out of someone’s window. That thing had definitely been around for more than 100 years, with no one bothering to cut it down. Instead the homeowners work around it, using it to hang their laundry. Which should tell you a lot about the Portuguese.

During our explorations, we came across a small neighborhood cafe in the Bairro Alto district that served gooey, warm sandwiches — the best we’d had since Italy. One of the many reasons this method of slow traveling is interesting is that many locals start to recognize you. We get to know the local patisserie employee, the market owner, the guy who works nights at the hostel. We ended up frequenting this tiny cafe in Lisbon so often that the staff (well, all two of them) knew Ben’s order by heart.

Lisbon’s Bairro Alto also offers the best nightlife of any place we’ve visited thus far. Around midnight, the young people of Lisbon flock to the neighborhood, thanks to the concentration of bars and clubs that line its narrow streets. However, if you should actually go inside one such bar on any given night of the week it would be completely empty. Why? Because no one is actually inside the bars. Instead, the crowds pack the streets, mingling and drinking while wandering around aimlessly. They pop into bars for a quick, cheap refill, and then run back out into the street to continue the party. The bars don’t even stock glasses — all drinks are served in portable, plastic cups. It’s hard to fathom how awesome this is until you realize how it solves so many quintessential bar problems: no more fighting your way through a jostling crowd to ask the bartender for another drink, no more attempting to squeeze yourself and your group of friends around the only remaining too-small table in the back corner, no more wondering who is where and how in the world you are supposed to get to them.

We went out that first night with two American girls studying in Barcelona, and Dvir, an Israeli guy currently on a worldwide soccer game tour. Dvir recently finished his obligatory military service and also recently discovered alcohol, meaning with one glass of sangria, he was flirting with, pursuing and not-so-discreetly kissing both girls accompanying us. He was then confused as to why, instead of fighting, the girls couldn’t just calmly decide amongst themselves who should have the honor of making out with him.

A legitimate question, if you ask me. Paper, rock, scissors?

How does one find themselves in the town of Arcos de la Frontera, southern Spain’s very own version of what we Americans like to call “the boondocks”? In our case, by laying out a map of Andalucia, blindly jabbing at it with a finger, and agreeing to journey to the closest inhabited locale to the fingernail. And so it was that we found ourselves on a bus to this town we’d never heard of, seen pictures of, or ever been able to find in a Spanish guidebook. As luck would have it, Brittany’s finger did us proud, because we have since come to learn that Arcos is considered by many to be the prettiest of Andalucia’s Pueblos Blancos (White Villages).

Believe it or not, tiny Arcos de la Frontera (Arches of the Frontier?) must receive sufficient annual tourism to warrant the labeling of a “high season” and “low season” calendar in the local tourist office. Despite the beautiful weather, we found ourselves in Arcos in the middle of the so-called “low” season. Information like this comes in handy when negotiating a week’s stay in a spacious apartment in town. As does my smattering of Spanish, which meant that, for once, the object of my negotiating attentions was able to halfway understand the gibberish coming out of my mouth. For purposes of contrast, all I ever really figured out how to say in Greek was “please”, “I agree”, and “very very nice”, so you can imagine how much negotiating leverage I enjoyed on Crete.

Arcos probably has an interesting history, but we didn’t exactly get around to learning it. And it has some magnificent looking churches, but we didn’t exactly get around to going inside. After months of being inundated with history, art, and church interiors, we made a pact upon arriving in Arcos to avoid, at any cost, those who would have us learn anything, or soak up any more of that infernal “culture” we keep hearing about. Instead, we spent our days picnicking beside the lake outside of town, and napping in the warm, sunny fields. Most of our nights were occupied by renting movies from the small video store below our apartment.

The biggest challenge here, aside from ensuring that your selected movie can actually be enjoyed in English, is figuring out exactly what you’re renting. Familiar movie titles are not only translated into Spanish, but are often changed entirely. For instance, “Bruce Almighty” is known to Spain as “Como Dios” (”Like God”). My personal favorite has to be “Not Another Teen Movie”, which Spaniards know as “Not Another Stupid American Movie”. On a more somber note, I regret that I was unable, despite all of my language-barrier-bridging efforts, to locate “Shawn of the Dead”. I can’t imagine what the Spanish title would be, but I made a stab at it by asking the clerk if they carry “Shawn de los Muertos”. This, accompanied by my excellent zombie walk and brain-hungry moans, earned me his suggestion of “28 Semanas Despues” (28 Weeks Later), but no satisfaction. Someone please let me borrow Shawn of the Dead when I get home, because I saw Hot Fuzz right before leaving the States, and I loved it. Which reminds me, I owe an apology to every British person I have met, and will yet meet.

————
Dear once and future friends,

Despite appearances, I DO realize that just because you’re British doesn’t mean you automatically love Hot Fuzz, or want to discuss each one of my favorite scenes at length. But when I hear your silly accent, all your words seem to translate to “please interrogate me about the one British movie you’ve seen!” I can imagine that you must get quite sick of enduring discussions about British comedy with every English-speaking foreigner, so I will make every effort to restrain myself. I promise. Oh, but one last thing before I go: have you ever heard of this group called “Monty Python”?

Love,

That bloody Yank
————

While I’m on the subject of renting movies, I must not neglect to mention the Irish girl who works the counter several nights a week in our favorite Arcos video rental store. How she ever ended up in Arcos remains a mystery, but since English speakers are hard to come by out in the boondocks, she enjoyed finding excuses to engage us in conversation. Startlingly, the first thing she ever said to us in English was: “get out of Arcos while you can!” It’s hard to convey exactly what this was like, but when you’re staying in a strange town where you’re fully accustomed to hearing nothing but Spanish, and a girl you hadn’t noticed in the background suddenly leans over a counter to loudly whisper that you should get out of town WHILE YOU CAN, you tend to be interested in what it is she has to say.

We pressed her on her suggestion, and she came to inform us that wife beating is a prevalent and accepted tradition in Arcos, as is the distateful practice of taking your hunting dogs that displease you out into the backyard, and BURYING THEM ALIVE. Michael Vick would be proud. Now, before the Arcos de la Frontera Ministry of Tourism starts bugging me with e-mails/tries to bury ME alive, let me disclaim that I don’t know how much of the Irish girl’s story holds water, since it’s hard to get a feel for local culture while asleep. I can personally vouch for her reliability in recommending the tastiest local brands of mixed nuts, but in the interest of objectivity, I also feel obligated to disclose the fact that she suffers from a condition that I think is most concisely described as “crazy eyes.” I allow the reader to come to his or her own conclusions about Arcos society.

We did have some waking hours in Arcos de la Frontera, and I’m happy to say that some of these were spent atop the famous horses of Andalucia. Well, technically, only one hour, but that’s what happens when the price for horseback riding is 20 euros per hour, per person! Brittany has had the pleasure of riding a horse once or twice in her life, but as with many activities on this trip (see skiing in the Dolomites) this was my first time. Thankfully, it turns out that I am able to stay on top of a horse much better than I am able to stay on top of a pair of skis! I don’t think it hurt my cause that the guide knew we were novice riders, because the wild stallions he chose for us were far more interested in the delicious foliage growing alongside our riding path than the prospect of galloping/trotting/strolling somewhat briskly. In hopes of feeling the wind on my face, I finally resolved to kick my horse about half-way through our alloted hour of riding. He stirred for a moment, but ultimately, did not wake up.

Picnics, movie rentals, and horses. Yes, I think that just about sums up our week in Arcos de la Frontera. If you’re ever headed to Arcos, give us a shout, because we can recommend an apartment with a great roof for sitting out and enjoying the view over the town. There’s a video rental place right downstairs, and a diner nearby where all the locals will turn and look at you with bewilderment the first four or five times you enter, but will eventually come to tolerate your presence. You may even end up joining them for that tasty Spanish refreshment, tinto con limon (red wine + carbonated lemonade). Then again, I can’t really think of a reason why you couldn’t picnic/rent movies/make drinks on a Saturday afternoon at home… but oops! Out of time! We’re off to Portugal!

Look, we ALWAYS buy tickets for the metro/bus/tram in every city we visit, no matter how many people we see successfully jumping turnstiles, or how few officials we see actually checking passengers’ tickets. But on the morning we were to catch a bus from Seville to Arcos de la Frontera, we found ourselves running late getting out of our hostel. Rolling luggage in tow, we booked it for the nearest tram stop, where we could catch a ride across the city to the bus station. We hurried through several city blocks, and as the tram stop came into view, we could see a yellow tram pulling up to the boarding platform. There wasn’t time to fumble with the platform’s ticket machine AND catch this tram before it took off again, and it had been something like two months since we’d even seen a transportation controller checking tickets on a ride like this. So we made the quick decision to go ahead and board the tram without buying a ticket, for ONCE in our law-abiding, goody-two-shoes lives.

The Seville tram has only four stops. We boarded at Stop 1, and were bound for the bus station, located at Stop 4. With so few stops, riding the length of the journey takes only a few minutes. Common sense said: “Waste time buying a tram ticket, and you’ll miss your bus to Arcos! You’re only going to be on the tram for five minutes anyway; what could possibly go wrong?” Or maybe it was the wee devil on my shoulder who said that, because wouldn’t you know it? At Stop 2, for the first time in MONTHS I TELL YOU, controllers boarded our tram to check tickets.

To my own credit, I spotted the controllers before they boarded the tram. But to my eternal discredit, I hesitated. I wasn’t 100% sure that these men in green coats were actually Seville’s public transportation officials, and sitting around considering it wasted valuable escape time. I got my confirmation when they boarded the tram, clipboards in hand, but by now it was too late. I whispered to Brittany, “We need to GO!”, and pulled her behind me as I sprang for the door. Smashing fellow passengers’ knees with our awkward suitcases, we managed to reach the door JUST IN TIME for it to close in my face. Desperately, I tugged at the door handle in hopes of springing us, but my thrashing efforts only succeeded in catching the eye of the nearest controller, who hustled over to rebuke me in Spanish for trying to pry open the closed door. He forced me to back away from the exit, and I watched freedom pass us by at the speed of the accelerating tram.

There was a moment or two here, in between the closing of the doors and the inevitable ticket check from this controller, which would be my only chance to evaluate the specifics of our predicament, and try to formulate any sort of plan, escapade or caper. I said to myself: OK, old boy, it’s time to think fast. I said this quietly so the controller couldn’t hear. As best I can recall, my thoughts happened like this:

From where I stand, I can see that there are two controllers on board. One is already checking tickets at the other end of our tram car, and the other is now, rather inconveniently, focused squarely on us. We have no ticket, and there is really no getting around this fact. Based on prior close calls (see Italy) I know that the fine for riding without a ticket is in the lofty realm of 50 euros. And I also know that these men in green are trained to not accept ignorance of the rules as an excuse for disobedience. And finally, I know that there’s no getting off this tram before it reaches Stop 3 in two minutes. All visual evidence indicates that the tram windows are shatter-proof, but even if they aren’t, there’s the issue of getting these heavy suitcases out of here too. Probably not viable. In conclusion, it’s just us and this controller for the next two minutes, and he’s got me right where we wants any dirty no-ticket-buying tram-hopping lowlife. All evidence considered, things aren’t really looking good for my hopes of a successful caper. Instead, I can really only think of one possible approach to this scenario: stall like crazy, in an effort to hold out until these doors open again at Stop 3.

I’ve mentioned before that I studied a little bit of Spanish in school. I believe I learned just enough to make myself more of a nuisance in Spain than a tourist who speaks no Spanish at all. Nonetheless, if there were ever a time for the hours spent in those classes to pay off, this would be it. Please note: in the following account of my conversation with the controller, I apologize for the lack of proper Spanish punctuation. This English keyboard lacks fun things like upside-down question marks.

Ben (our hero): Por favor, senor! Hay estacion numero dos? Please, sir! is this station number two?

Evil Controller: Si, Hay estacion dos. Yes, this is station two.

B: No! Dios mio! Necesitamos estacion numero dos, pero las puertas! Cerrado! No! My God! We need station number two, but the doors! Closed!

EC: Por que? Adonde quiere ir? Why? Where do you want to go?

B: Este tram, es a estacion de autobuses y regresar? Es posible a (here I motion getting off the tram) en estacio tres y regresar con un otro tram? This tram, is to the bus station and to return? Is it possible to (here I motion getting off the tram) in station three and to return with another tram?

EC: Hmm, si, es posible. No es una problema, senor, pero adonde quiere ir? Hmm, yes, it’s possible. It’s not a problem, sir, but where do you want to go?

B: Es bueno, es la verdad. Ai! Pero mi carta! Is good, is the truth. Ahh! But my map!

EC: Su carta? No comprendo… Your map? I don’t understand…

B: Mi carta dice que nosotros hostel esta de estacion numero dos! My map speaks that we hostel is from station number two!

EC: Creo que comprendo, pero… I think I understand, but…

(Here he rattles off a string of upper-level Spanish, clearly oblivious to the fact that I only made it through 202. And what little hope I do have of understanding him is shot due to my concentration on the current speed of the tram. Is it slowing down yet? How much longer until it starts slowing down? Also, I’m running out of things that I know how to say. Is he still talking?)

B: Ayudame! Donde esta la biblioteca? Help me! Where is the library?

EC: Como? La biblioteca publica? What? The library? The public library?

B: Si! Nosotros hostel esta en la proxima de la biblioteca publica! Donde esta, por favor? Yes! We hostel is in the near of the public library! Where is, please?

EC: La biblioteca publica. No es dificile del estacion tres. Se va a la izquierda del estacion, y… The public library. It is not difficult from station three. Go to the left from the station, and…

(Another indecipherable monologue ensues. But suddenly, I feel something. The tram… it’s starting to slow down! Just a little longer, old bean…)

B: Es perfecto! De aqui, la biblioteca a la izquierda y vamos a el hostel con la carta! Is perfect! From here, the library to the left and we go to the hostel with the map!

(Pulling up to the tram station now…)

B: Muchas gracias, senor! Muchas gracias por todos! Thank you very much, sir! Thank you very much for everything!

I’ll never know if he heard my last words of thanks, because the doors opened while I was mid-sentence, and I sprang from the tram faster than the words from my mouth.* Feeling the controller’s eyes behind us, we headed to the left from the station, in accordance with his directions to the library. We hid behind a building for a while, and when we felt assured he had gone, we re-emerged and headed right, along the tram tracks, to the bus station and Arcos de la Frontera. And perhaps most importantly, to a future where we always wake up early in order to have ample time to buy required tram tickets.

Although, if you think about it, that’s really only ONE controller in two-plus months. What are the chances of actually running into another one?

*No small feat, if you ask those who have had to endure a lifetime of me.