So, I'm rather pissed I didn't get a chance to see Croatia--tried on four separate occasions, but wasn't meant to be, apparently. As a result, I'm taking my frustrations out on Spain. Second stop, Valencia, and yes, home to the oranges, horchata, and most importantly, paella.
Paella is perhaps my favorite dish on earth, and the Valencians are hardcore about it. The traditional paella is made with chicken and rabbit, and many Spaniards consider it a regional dish, exclusive to Valencia. In contrast to the rest of the world, which views Paella as the quintessential Spanish dish.
Add garlic (optional), grated tomatoes, beans and sauté.
Add paprika and sauté.
Add water, saffron (and/or food coloring), snails and rosemary.
Boil to make broth and allow it to reduce by half.
Add rice and simmer until rice is cooked.
Garnish with more fresh rosemary.
Anyways, the paella is mind-boggling, there's miles of somewhat nude beaches, and some great gothic architecture. The tourists are largely absent from Valencia, and at night, I walk the medieval streets largely alone, with my head back and my hands fixed within my pockets. The city feels greatly more Spanish than Barcelona.
I'm not doing much here--don't intend on any museums, historical sites, or definitive sightseeing. The sweetness of doing nothing may be an Italian expression, but the Spanish have perfected it with quintessence.
Of note, and for the Milwaukeeans back home, Santiago Calatrava--architect for the Milwaukee Art Museum, is a native son of Valencia. His work is found throughout Valencia and there is some extravagant examples shown here. These should look familiar.
I arrive late to my apartment, a good distance from where the tourists have stomped the city into submission. I enter my key into the alley door, and a rumbling stirs from behind me, maybe a few hundred meters back. I stand alert, keys dangling from the lock, and I drift slowly to the end of the alley to peer. My careful walk is interrupted by a series of bangs and cracks that startle the inner workings of my brain.
At first, I assume rabbles of young Catalans are behind this raucous, but there's something synchronized about this disruption--It's drums. From beneath the cracks of fireworks, there's a fierce and steady beat that only bass drums provide. Immediately, I discern the acute snaps of snares, as well. It's a street parade, but it's not coming from one direction.
The noise begins to surround me, and my head swivels to find the source. I snatch my keys from the door and set off down the cobble stoned alley in an indeterminate direction. I'm perplexed as there's no sign of people down any street. I'm in a residential neighborhood, and it's fiercely loud. Why is no one noticing this?
Smoke seeps around a poorly lit corner. First, lurking through the cobble stones, and then up, dispersing amid the surrounding buildings. I pick up the pace, and self-determined, I put my head down slightly, hands in my pockets, and encounter the smoke. I turn the corner, a flash disorients me, and I pull my head to the side, against some centuries-old facade. I desire to move away, but can't, as I've found the mob.
I feverishly gain my senses, only to realize, I'm being funneled by the mob in one collectively understood direction. The mind-splitting blasts of the fireworks fades from attention, and I notice we're arriving in the village square--dark, cafe-lined, and governed physically by the Catholic church.
There are multiple drum teams, and they battle each other, with quickening paces, tribal choreography, and primal screams. I find a corner to lean in. Amid the drum teams are cloaked men, masked, and with horns like demons. These are the men responsible for the cracks that first peaked my attention. They run wild, acting as though just escaping their subterranean hell. They wield primitive pitchforks, and attached, are spiraling firecrackers that dazzle the mind. From my lean, I find myself sitting, consuming this sumptuous feast for the sense.
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Alright, so I take some of my feelings from yesterday back. Other than the Gaudi architecture, I found some aspects of Barcelona I like very much. However, I find that there is a great amount of division between tourist Barcelona and the local Barcelona. And the tourists treat this city like Vegas East.
La Rambla, the main tourist drag, full of shops, restaurants, and clubs, is ridiculous. I mean, if you enjoy dodging peddlers, two-bit thieves, and douche-bags, then by all means. But I don't get it. It was 3am, and there were thousands upon thousands of people on this street. Generally, though, Barcelonans operate at a later time frame. They live normally--just push the frame back four hours.
But the Gothic quarter, little tapas bars, and liveliness of the people are great. Also, It was hard to tell who was actually a native of this city. Inhabitants spanned the whole skin color spectrum. This is a strange city--gritty, gleamed over by tourism, dangerous, exclusive, sumptuous, and lively all at the same time. Not my favorite, but I don't regret coming.
Entering today, I had no idea where I was going. Amsterdam or Brussels looked like the logical choices, via train. However, early this morning, just 10 minutes on the interweb, and boom, Barcelona. I had no intention of going to Barcelona, but I've decided to slow things down a bit; take more shorter trips between stops. Spain seems like the perfect place to do so.
But first, a few notes on Germany and its people
1) Germany seems to have a healthier relationship with alternative energy. Only in Germany have I seen windmills and nuclear power plants in the same panorama.
2) The most vivacious country I've yet visited. There are families and children everywhere--a stark contrast to, let's say, Italy. Makes sense as Italy is now officially the second oldest country in the world, behind Japan.
3) Germans love apple flavored things, and I trust everything they make with this fruit.
4) Beer is bought, taken, and drunk nearly everywhere. I believe I said "Ein bier bitte" more than hello or goodbye.
5) Germans are famously efficient, and rightly so. At the airport today, maneuvering from bus exit to departure gate, took just eight minutes.
6) There's this pervasive feeling traveling through Germany, almost an instinct, that things are going very well here.
Great country, and a seriously under appreciated travel destination.
Other than that, it feels like this journey is winding down a bit. I'm weary from dorm beds, awkward shower stalls, the full days without communication, and over the counter food. It's a bold frontier traveling like this, and I'd say 5% of the people I meet are traveling alone. It's a cold and isolated occupation, and I can tell from the literature accompanying those 5%, that they're searching for something they couldn't find back home.
What's more strange, is that all the things I identified with back home--job, friends, people, music, gym, entertainment, events--are all completely absent. You feel naked with only the harsh light of unbridled introspection shining upon you. You can't make excuses if there's nothing to latch them on to. There's nothing to hide behind, and there's a forced necessity to face mistakes, decisions, and preconceived notions.
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Anyways, on to Spain, and particularly Barcelona--but to be honest, I'm not sure if Barcelona is a true representation of Spain. I see advertisements for paella, tapas, flamenco, and jamon iberico. But those things originate from other areas.
What is Barcelona? What's the culture here? I found myself asking these questions repeatedly.
First off, it's the worldwide home to drifters, grifters, and pocket sifters. A walk along the famed La Rambla quickly reveals roaming packs of unabashed street thieves and peddlers. I was amazed how brazen the thievery was here. Locals joke, calling your pocket being picked the "Barcelona Tourist Tax". I didn't like Barcelona initially, and it was the first city I visited to offer that feeling. However, one key detail to the city irrevocably saved my impression of Barcelona--the art nouveau stylings of one Antoni Gaudi. In no other city in the world is the work of one architect so singularly tied.
READING: The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway. (I love the terseness in which E.H. writes. Every sentence doesn't fuck around.)
Anyways, the paella is mind-boggling, there's miles of somewhat nude beaches, and some great gothic architecture. The tourists are largely absent from Valencia, and at night, I walk the medieval streets largely alone, with my head back and my hands fixed within my pockets. The city feels greatly more Spanish than Barcelona.
