Hendaya: And I'm Back

It's been a while, I admit. And for once, I will not blame the delay on my usual procrastination, or schoolwork (as I've been out of school for a month and a half now) or on travel or weather. Instead, I will point the finger of blame at my computer, whose ethernet jack is irreparably broken and can only access the internet through wifi, which I did not have in Canterbury. Perhaps this was a foolhardy move, however, as the finger of blame is now turning slowly to point back at myself, since I was the one who, in a tiny fit of rage, chucked my laptop onto the floor, thus destroying its jack. But all that is past, no? Onto the good stuff.

After Madrid, we set off for Nice- and this was no small feat, believe you me. "It doesn't look that far on the map" we bleated to each other in shock and dismay when we discovered the train trip would take 26 hours, although looking back, it actually is quite obvious on the map. Luckily, I find train travel pleasant, and more importantly, can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. The hours passed quite easily; when I wasn't napping I was learning how to crochet. Also luckily, we had one stop on the way to break up the bulk of travel- a little French city called Hendaya.

We only had about five hours there, but it turned out to be just the right amount of time. It was a fairly quiet place, and a calm, grey day. We wandered the streets, looking for food (I ended up with what was essentially a croque-monsieur, although sans ham) and sweets (macarons, of course). Down a side street, we saw the bay, which was, as you can see, iron-grey and scattered with boats.

We lingered on a small balcony, taking in the sights and socializing with a small, sleek, slightly dirty cat, dubbed Telemendes. He (or she, I suppose) was vocal, friendly, and needy. It looked disappointed as we left.

Monument to the dead of WWII

My friend and I turned out to be ideal travel buddies, in that we both have the same voyaging "style". We like to wander, to take our time, take nap breaks in public parks, and we both love cemeteries. This one we spotted from the bay, from a distance, and went scouting for an entrance. It was pleasant, although not as impressive as some we would encounter on our trip.

French cemeteries (and, as we later found out, many Western European ones) often have graves adorned with ceramic painted flowers. I suppose it is more practical than our ever-so-decomposable cut flowers.

Time seemed strange during there, both too long and too short. We walked back to the train station and just had time for a slightly underdone bar pizza before boarding, to return to crocheting, napping, and, eventually, Nice.

Madrid: (mostly) Fun in the Sun

Dali Plaza

Plaza Major

It was an overnight train from Lisbon to Madrid, something we would become very accustomed to. We arrived in the morning, dropped off our meager luggage at our hostel, and realized we had no idea of what to do next; but it was not too long before wandered past a churro shop and decided this would be a perfect discussion pitstop. My dulce de leche delicacy was delicious, but it was also the place where I learned that Spanish waiters, without exception, are jerkwads. However, the sun was again shining, and I momentarily forgave them. 

I'm sure by the end of my recountings, you will be as tired of cathedrals, churches, and stained glass as I was- even more so, I presume, since you don't even get the pleasure of visitation. Perhaps it is a bit hasty to say I grew "tired" of them- rather, I became overwhelmed by them. There is such a plethora of grand, gorgeous, historical, places of worship across Europe that one can feel pulled in a hundred ways at once, unsure of the worthiest. And, since many of them were Catholic by origin, at times one also feels accosted by gilt (wordplay!). 

And yet, each church is always lovely. Even when they began to all blur into each other, I never stopped feeling a sense of- well, not exactly awe, but close to it. The weight of history is palpable especially in all of these cavernous halls, and the pews seem etched with the echoes of centuries. Maybe that is why it can be overwhelming: most of us are ill-equipped to deal with the stark evidence of unfathomable years. 

One complaint, however- electric candles? You penny-pinchers, buy some real beeswax. 

 

I couldn't help but read the symbol on his pedestal as a dollar sign, and thus the cherub himself as some sort of pimpin' highroller, all about the benjamins. This probably reveals my cultural-centrism.

Parque del Retiro

Although we love tourist traps, monuments, and museums as much as any other visitor, we also need moments of rest and laziness. These moments tended to come in the welcome form of parks. This park is huge, and right in the center of Madrid, near the Museo del Prado (which, unhappily, we arrived at just in time for it to close half an hour later). 

We made daisy chains and watched the ducks. Later, I realized that this must have been the moment I lost my headband. It was worth it. 

On our first night here, we sipped goblets of sangria jangling with ice and oranges, in the illuminated square of Plaza Major. On our second and last night, we strolled back to the park, to while away the dusk hours; there was a festival of books just winding down at the time. We sat and listened to some avant-garde Spanish poetry which I couldn't understand but enjoyed, sitting on the concrete while the sun set over the stage. Our last meal was something of a disaster, thanks to the concerted efforts of Spanish waiters, once again. I was blatantly overcharged for a menu item I never ordered, but thanks to my choice to study French in high school, was unable to defend myself except to repeat the same few phrases over and over to his suddenly deaf ears. I slammed down the exorbitant sum on the table and stormed off, almost teary in my impotent frustration. 

But after I cooled down and slightly regretted putting Madrid on my "shit list" that I began in my notebook just for that occasion, I remembered the good times. The white, solemn crypt under the cathedral, the tapas tour (where the waiters grudgingly supplied a vegetarian option) the many glasses of sangria, the cool, creamy cup of horchata (look it up, it is delicious) we drank near the Dali Plaza- and I decided that I would not allow one waiter (or even multiple waiters) to take all that away from me. Thus armed with optimism, we went back to the hostel to grab a few hours of sleep before our early train at dawn to Nice.

A Grande Tour: The Beginning

This door represents the beginning of a voyage- the portal between two worlds, the boundary between before and after. It is also, of course, just a door- a random door in Lisbon, a city historically renowned for its tiles. 

Lisbon was the city where my friend and I began our Grand Tour. I'd always liked the concept of a Grand Tour, something traditionally undertaken by wealthy youth of means with the proclaimed goal of returning a better, more cultured person, linguistically matured and artistically ripened. This all sounded just fine to me, and so, we bought train passes and packed our bags for a three week trip all over the Continent. Planning and foresight is not our strong point, but spontaneity can be a virtue of its own (we told ourselves) as we set off, with only a list of the 9 cities we knew we would visit.

There is laundry drying everywhere, like proud flags flying from every window in the city. There is graffiti most places, too, on the cracked plaster of the alleys. It was political rather than artistic, on the whole. Here is the street we stayed on, in the lovely house of a lovely travel writer of Irish-German descent who opened her spare room to us through Couchsurfing. If you haven't heard of couchsurfing, you must, because it is my hippie dream of open hearts and harmony come to life. 

Don't these look like giant white chess pawns?'

Our first stop once we'd wandered a few streets was to head to the water. The large bay is bridged by-and this was highly disconcerting-an exact replica of the Golden Gate Bridge. I would see it out of the corner of my eye and experience an intense feeling of displacement. 

The Avenue of Flags, as I shall call it (perhaps even correctly) we visited in hopes of attending a food and wine festival; but our hopes were dashed when we discovered the entrance fee. However, ever adaptable, we then explored this plaza in the warm (too-warm) sunshine, the bay ever-present only a hundred feet away. Presently, we noticed a tram floating in the blue sky over our heads, and decided to investigate. I believe I have previously mentioned my love of trams. This tram was sweltering and stuffy once inside, and there was an unidentified vibrating sound. We loved  it. 

Later, we went to a fortress on near the very top of the city, perched on the highest hill, as battlements are wont to do. If you look closely in this picture, you may notice a tiny black shape at the foot of the walls; this is a cat, one of the dozens who live in the fort walls, happy and lazy. They wander anywhere they please, and sleep on the ancient walls. 

As we climbed higher and higher and reached new towers, more and more of Lisbon opened up to us. From this tower, I could hear children's shrieking and shouts, and realized that just beyond the pink house was a school courtyard, where a fierce game of dodgeball was happening. Notice, of course, the laundry drying in the warmth. As we stood quietly from another tower, watching the entire city in the gentle breeze and heavy sun, leaning on the stone walls which scratch my arms, I knew this was one of those rare moments when travel makes sense. It is why I travel, for those moments, when the hassles of planes and trains and luggage fall away, and I wish I could live forever within that single moment. 

On the last evening in Lisbon, we went to a terrace bar and ordered, of course, Port.  There was a canopy, of sorts, made of what must have been thousands of white paper loops woven together; it fluttered and rippled in the wind with a sound like a hundred people whispering at the same time. We sat at the edge of the terrace, in low slung chairs, and watched the sun slowly stain the horizon, and talked, and looked. The port was ruby red and thick, almost viscous in its richness, and as we sipped the last of it, I felt a surge of sadness, at the inevitability of endings, but also anticipation, for what would come next.

A Brighton-Sunny Day

The prototypically English seaside town has very specific charms, and any seaside town worth its sea-salt has a pier. Brighton's is possibly the most famed of all- although the era of the pier is over, people still flock to it, even in February on one of the coldest days I can remember. 

Nowadays, Brighton is more known for its lively, youth-oriented scene than for Victorian lovebirds strolling down a windswept jetty. We heard rumors that there was a Banksy piece somewhere downtown, but we never found it. There was, however,  a wealth of other interesting graffiti. 




The Royal Pavilion-which we didn't actually visit. I vaguely remember it from my childhood as being opulent, lush, and festooned in rich carpets. I wish I could have gone again, but time was running short, as tends to happen when none of us are willing to get out of bed before nine am. at the earliest. 

It was just as I remembered it-cold, thrilling, nostalgic. To give you an idea of the weather, as we returned to Canterbury that night, it started snowing, and didn't stop for two days. But I also had a distinct memory of hot sugared doughnuts at the end of the pier, a warming thought which sustained me and my companions while the wind whistled.

There used to be another pier here-as a matter of fact, there used to be a couple more piers here. Each one has met with disaster, which is the fate of all spindly wooden structures that try to defeat the ocean at the same time they attempt to entertain hundreds of eager flaneurs at a time. This particular one above met with multiple disaster. First, a storm shattered it, then, after a long period of neglect, fire decimated its already weak remnants. It was quickly becoming dusk as we walked along the beach, and this husk of a pier almost blended in with the greying sky. We speculated as to its likely haunted nature.

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If only the teller had been there! Even if I don't believe in the validity of such practices, what a setting to disbelieve them in...

Isn't it lovely, all lit up and lively? 

This sculpture, jutting out into the beach, looks very much like a doughnut. But in fact, it depicts the globe, curling into a gaping spheroid, the continents being sucked into the hole in the centre. The beach itself was rocky and dark, with only the occasional dog and owner crunching along the shoreline.

And in what seems to me to be a stunningly poetic way to end this post, here are real, non-sculpture doughnuts, cuddling together for warmth at the bottom of a crackling paper bag. Yes, we found the so-craved-for fresh doughnuts, at the very end of our journey, and they were everything we could have wished for. Warm, yeasty, fragrant, and sweet, with a crunch of sugar, they represent the best that English piers have to offer. They are familiar, sometimes to the point of staidness. They are comforting, and offer no challenge, either to the taste-buds or to the intellect. They are fun, cheap, and perhaps not very good for you. But a doughnut is hot, while the English seaside pier is very cold, most of the time....I think I'm losing the metaphor.I suppose what I'm trying to say is that Brighton is worth the calories. (Punsters, I apologize.)

The White Cliffs of Dover

My mother warned me about Dover. While acknowledging the cliffs' historical significance and iconic status, she added, "But the city itself is really boring." Thanks for your honesty, Mom, and yes- you were mostly right. But I'm still happy I made the visit. Perhaps the high street left much to be desired, and perhaps all restaurants closed at 3 pm, leaving my friend and I wandering the sidewalks deliriously, cursing each "closed" sign and forcing us to frantically order Indian takeout for home delivery while on the train back. But the sun shone that day, the hills were green, and the cliffs gave off a cool, pale radiance that made me glad we'd come.
See that door up there? I think it might have been part of the War Tunnels, which we did not explore. (Not enough time or money, although I felt a bit wistful about the omission.) It seemed mystical to me, rather than historical, however; as if a race of hill-dwarfs lived there, hidden from the human world. 

okay, the hills don't look so green here. but most parts were. 

There were small, mostly dingy houses pressed right up against the base of the cliffs, lining the tiny, cobbled street. This cat watched us pass by, serenely bored, remaining motionless but for the twitch of his tail even as we approached to stare him down. 

For a mere 20 p, we could attempt to see all the way across the English Channel. It sort of worked. It was better to just look with our eyes, watching the lumbering barges coming in so slowly it seemed as if they weren't moving at all, until they were suddenly docking. 

I wish this place were a Bed and Breakfast; I wouldn't necessarily want to live there forever, although it is very nice, if a bit isolated. But it is perched right on top of the green hills I was telling you about, with a clear view of the Channel, not 40 yards away, with the looming silhouette of Dover Castle visible on the woodsy mountaintop. It looked warm and homely, a good place to retreat for a day or two. There was some kind of symbol above the entrance- can you see it? It looked a bit like a rune of some sort, or a secret marking. I wish I understood it. 

The town itself, however, is a bit of a ghost town in places. In other places, it's a moderately busy, uninspired row of cheap stores and kebab shops, overrun by schoolchildren in uniforms, shouting and pushing. But look to the cliffs, and all will be well. 

Paris: The End

As you can tell from the title, this is honestly my last post about Paris. You must forgive my indulgences; I had a lot of swell tales to tell and photos to flaunt. But I'm done now, I promise. As a token of this promise, I am immediately, nay, simultaneously, publishing my next post, which is most definitely not French; it documents my short visit to Dover. Look, it's up right now, even as you read this! But now, to wrap up. 



The Luxembourg gardens were lovely and snow-dusted. This was my last day here, and my friend had to leave early on a morning train. I felt strange, at first, slightly overwhelmed and lost; then as I adjusted to my solitude I felt released, selfish, and free. It's impossible to be truly alone in a city anyway. I went wherever I wanted. I spent too long in grocery stores, a hobby of mine that bores most people, I took pictures of ducks and flowers, I got off at random metro stations and ate raspberry custard tarts in the thin sunlight. 



The crypt, where I gazed reverently at the tombs of Hugo, the Curies, and Voltaire, hoping not to encounter any troublesome ghosts.

The Pantheon (its remodelling a few centuries ago was inspired by the Roman monument, thus the confusing nickname) was flamboyantly gorgeous. Every wall was covered in paintings, and surprisingly modern ones at that, although I'm using the more academic use of the word. Most were Neo-classic in style if not exactly in era, with traces of Impressionism thrown in. Notice the depiction of St Denis, keepin' on keepin' on after his beheading: whatever one's personal opinions on the Legenda Sanctorum, they certainly have given us a plethora of fantastic images. 

I think it would be nice to be one of these statues, if one had to be a statue. They are in the middle of the glorious Pantheon, bathed in light streaming down through the interior dome, watching people come and go and noting the regular rhythmic oscillations of Foucault's Pendulum.

And I saved this one for last, as I always save the best for last. Perhaps it's not necessarily my most aesthetically striking picture, or the best composed, but I like the way it feels. It feels like magic, to me, which is hard to capture on film, and rare to encounter in reality. The reputation of Paris (city of light, city of love) is so ingrained in our collective consciousness that it would be impossible for any mere real city to live up to. But when I stood leaning against the icy railing and saw the city spread itself out like this before me, I felt that I'd been given a glimpse into a perfect world.