Spanish Excursion and a wee bit o Ireland

Spanish Excursion – March 7-11th, 2007

The trip to Spain started at the train station at UNH. I took the Amtrak train from Durham, NH to Boston, which took about an hour. I then had to get on the Boston subway lines and find my way to the airport, which would be easy for anyone possessing legs, but not all trains are created equal, much less accessible. After getting thoroughly confused about which side of the tracks to place myself, and nearly dropping my chair onto a blind person and their dog while trying to exit a train, I found myself at the airport.

As things turned out, I would be flying to Madrid via Zurich, ensconced in posterior of a SwissAir jet. While I was checking in, the SwissAir staff constantly reminded everyone that they were offering “a great deal” on an upgrade to business class, for a mere, paltry, pocket change sum of $400. It turned out to be such a great deal that hardly anyone accepted. When I finally got to the plane, I had the pleasure of sharing my row of seats with another fellow whom must have stuck his tongue in a light socket, because his hair was in a natural, disorderly afro. This fellow, as it turned out, had a name…Boris Rappo. I managed to get some of his story out of him, and I found out that he is a Swiss National, about my age, who attends a photography school in Lausanne, a city on lake Geneva. He also has a sister who is older and has been divorced once. Boris had been visiting his girlfriend in Rhode Island whom he met when she was on an exchange program in Switzerland. That is all I can remember about Boris, besides that he smokes like a chimney, and was about to go into withdrawal after seven hours on the plane. When we got to Zurich, Boris and I parted ways, not before he had two smoke breaks however.

The flight to Madrid did not put forth any interesting individuals however, and was much less exciting. Madrid airport is huge, and this detail will play more of a role in a later narrative, but this flight dropped me off at the main terminal, which also contains the entrance to the metro. After several miles of playing human slalom in the never-ending terminal, I found the metro and began my journey into a world few wheelchair users would dare to go. I would like to note that the US is relatively much more accessible than any other place in the world, largely due to the piece of legislation called “Americans with Disabilities Act.” Unfortunately, such accommodations do not exist in the rest of the world, especially Spain. I have to give them credit for making a few key metro stations accessible, but a few other stations required that I remember “Ayudame!!” Unfortunately, my Spanish does not possess a vocabulary far beyond that, so philosophical discussions about making all metro stations accessible were out of the question. After several hours navigating the metro, I found myself at Atoche Renfe, the Madrid equivalent of Grand Central Station. I then went to the train ticket desk to attain my ticket for a train to Granada, which turned out to be very difficult because I did not speak Spanish, and the ticket clerk did not speak a bit of English. Anyway, I eventually acquired my ticket and spent the next six hours wandering around the station and surrounding city, waiting for my train to leave. The immediate surrounding city proved to be a bit boring, but the man-made jungle (see pictures) inside the station provided some entertainment.

The train to Granada was an uneventful five hours. I am going to add a quick note on the terrain of Spain, the terrain I could not see from the train because of the late hour. Flying over Madrid, the city sprawls out on a flat plain, with various conglomerations of high-rise apartment buildings in big patches outside of city center. Outside of the city and the terrain appears to be split with ridges and patched with small hills and plateaus. The climate this time of year appears to be semi arid, with farms surrounding the city that have seemed to have forgotten what water looks like. The only exciting thing about the train ride was trying to sneak to edge of isle and take a glance at this man in his early 20’s who was sporting a very attractive mullet. Other than snooping, I had a hard time explaining to the train operators that I could get to my seat on my own power, but that they should carry my backpack. This was no easy task, for few people in Spain speak English. After a long ride, I finally arrived in Granada, where I met John and a few of his friends. I was hoping John would meet me wearing his redwing boots, adventure pants, green fleece jacket, and blue handkerchief around his hair (his usual get-up for adventures), but he only wore the adventure pants (nylon pants that zip into shorts and can go from wet to dry in less than 20 minutes). We then walked back to his apartment, ate garbanzo bean soup (this would have cause for celebration in my digestive system later), then went to bed.

The next morning was brutal. John had class from 10am to 2pm, so I was on my own. I had spent the night in a spare room in John’s apartment, and I first awoke at 11am to someone trying to break into the room, whom I found out later was John’s host mother trying to clean. I had locked the door, and I had no reason to be cleaned, so I went back to sleep for another hour. When I woke up again, I had a horrible headache and I was feeling extremely sluggish and hungry from the traveling. I left the apartment in search of a cappuccino, the only cure for mornings such as these. I found a café with a good cup, and soon the life was flowing back in to me. I met John back at the apartment a few hours later to plan our adventures for the day. We decided to venture up to Plaza San Nicolas, a church plaza on top of a hill overlooking the city, from which we might catch a good sunset over the Castilian countryside. The push up the hill was treacherous for wheelchairs, and if it were not for my incredibly ripped physique and John’s chair carrying skill, it would have been impossible to reach the summit. We had to ascend the hill through the Albaicin district, or Little Morrocco as they call it, which is the oldest part of the city and also has the worst paving. The roads are worse than cobblestone, consisting of fist sized rocks and pebbles frozen in concrete, which make for a spine jarring and momentum stalling travel. When we finally got to the top, we found the plaza full of people. Some were hippies with guitar cases, trying to sell various knickknacks pinned to sheets or umbrellas. I eventually learned that it was illegal to sell knickknacks in public places because the police showed up on motorcycles and made a dramatic show of taking off their helmets, giving all the hippies ample time to pack up, which they did with alarming speed, exiting the plaza at every possible entrance. Everyone else were students and young couples, out to see the sunset and enjoy the view.

The descent from Plaza San Nicolas was treacherous, as I had to hold a wheelie over the many steps and “artistic” pebble paving. The streets were windy and narrow, but every so often there was a break in the claustrophobic architecture of this old city which afforded us a distant view of the alpenglow of the Sierra Nevadas. There was, however, little time to reflect upon the profound beauty of our surroundings, for we had to find ourselves a tatelleria. A tatelleria is a tea shop, somewhat unique to the fusion of Moroccan/Moorish/Spanish culture. John had previously located a particularly good shop, a “hole in the wall” located deep within the maze of the Albaicin. As we squeezed through the narrow doorway, John had to lift my wheelchair above the heads of other customers huddled around small, intricately decorated tables, each one dominated by a large hooka. The shop was very small, not more than twenty feet deep and ten feet wide, and we were lucky enough to find ourselves a small table in a dimly lit corner. The menu of teas presented to us was intimidating, containing hundreds of choices of teas and flavors of tobacco for use in the hooka. After a bit of deliberation, we chose our respective teas and a portion of apple flavored tobacco for our communal pleasure. As we waited for the tea to present itself, we discussed many deep and profound things, with accompanying hand gestures for emphasis being illuminated by the conglomeration of candles surrounding the hooka. The tea eventually made it out of the kitchen, every flavor we ordered contained in a separate pot, accompanied by an ornately decorated goblet. We soon had the hooka warmed up as well, the apple scented smoke creating a haze around us as we passed the nozzle around the table.

Feeling sufficiently mellowed by the tea and hooka smoke, we decided that it was time for dinner. We walked back to John's apartment, where I finally got to meet his host mother, whose name escapes me. Regardless, she is a culinary composer of infinitely wondrous and delicious concoctions...most of the time. This night, as she had in the previous, prepared a dish based on garbanzo beans. I believe she had our digestive health in mind, but garbanzo beans never really light up the imagination as they do to the intestines. She was very nice, however, and I think she liked me but I could not understand a word.

After dinner John decided that I needed a bit more culturing for the night, so we went tapas bar hopping. Tapas are small h'ors d'oeuvres that must, by law, accompany any alcoholic beverage served in this part of Spain. They can be anything from small bocadillos (sandwiches), to mini portions of curry or stew. The exciting part of the night was not knowing what to expect. We started the night at a bar called Poe, which is owned by an Englishman, but not nearly big enough to accommodate the number of people who manage to find it within the maze of streets where it is located. John and I sampled a Spanish beer, along with a small beef stew and teryaki pork on a stick, and came to the conclusion that while the tapas were good, the beer was only a slight improvement upon US domestic brands (meaning it tasted really bad), so we decided to try another location. We eventually found ourselves at another bar where we ordered Belgian beers, Kwak and Duval, both of which were very tasty and came in very amusing glasses. This time around we were presented with small, cured ham sandwiches, which were also very tasty. Even with the sandwiches, the alcohol was beginning to catch up with us, especially with me since I am a mere hundred pounds or so. We decided it was time for bed, so we left.

One last note before I start the narrative for the next day. When we got back, I was chilling in John's room, sitting in my chair, when all of a sudden my tire (tyre for you British people) explodes and goes flat, for reasons I cannot fathom. Having a flat a flat tire on your wheelchair is equivalent to having your foot cut off at the ankle: you can still walk but its terribly inconvenient. Time for bed, for real.

Saturday came around, as it does after most Fridays, along with our withdrawal from the illusionary world of mystical dreams. We spent the small bit of morning that we were awake replacing the tube on my tire. John and I then walked to a park in the middle of the city where we met a bunch of his American friends and started a game of frisbee. The average Spaniard had no idea what a frisbee was, and after a while we had many wide-eyed on lookers and spell-bound kids as spectators.

Frisbee had made us very hungry, and the only remedy that seemed suitable at the time was a fried waffle dipped in chocolate. This delicacy is, in fact, the only food one should eat when one is done playing frisbee, particularly in Granada. Waffles could only get us so far though, specifically as far as the apartment, where we ate a more substantial lunch.

After lunch John and did some general exploring through the city. Our first stop was Park de Garcia Lorca, a magnificently well manicured maze of paths and hedges. Throughout the park you find many signs with illustrations of various exercises one could perform in an effort to stay healthy. I saw no one partaking in the use of these health tip stations, but I appreciate the city for at least trying to keep their population physically fit. Other stops on our excursion included a pond full of ducks (ducks are not interesting at all) and a spice/herb shop where I acquired a package of saffron, which is worth more than its weight in gold in any other country except Spain, and is the key ingredient for a paella.

Our next stop was a churros bar. Churros are fried strips of dough, but in Spain they are always accompanied by a cup of chocolate. The cup of chocolate is literally just a bar of melted chocolate, into which you dip the churros. There are few things in this world that taste better, while at the same time taking years off your life, than fried churros dipped in chocolate. It was a “near religious” experience. Anyway, after that gastronomic delight, we walked back to the apartment through a small square, in the middle of which was a large ring of people, all intently watching two street performers. This was an odd pair of male performers, one of whom was wearing a tight black dress, the other a mime suit, because that makes sense. The one with the dress was bald, but to make up for his lack of hair, he tied a paper cup to the top of his head and paraded around the ring shouting “Veti! Veti! Veti!” while the mime chased him, holding a pair of fake eyeballs. I can offer no reasoning behind these actions, I do not believe it is for us to understand. When we finally got back to the apartment John, myself, and all of his roommates had dinner. I managed to have a brief conversation, mostly in Spanish, to one of John's friends named Jesus. I managed to convey to him our plans for tomorrow, and that I attended UNH and was studying geography, using the extremely limited vocabulary at my disposal. John claimed that my Spanish “wasn't bad”, but I do not believe him.

After dinner John and I decided to experience the ultimate in relaxation and rejuvenation, the kind that only an Arab bath house can provide. We found this place on a small side alley in an otherwise nondescript part of the city. As we entered the lobby of the establishment, a blast of herbs and warmth blasted our senses, taking us into a world that was far removed from reality. After a bit of waiting so that the previous bathing session attendees could vacate the inner sanctum of the bathhouse. We each got our own towel, each one embroidered with a unique colored letter of the alphabet. We were then allowed to open the heavy, steel belted door sealing off the interior bathing area. The interior was very dimly lit, and we could just make out six baths of various shapes, depths, and temperatures. The atmosphere was very quiet, and we all had to keep our voices down so as to not disturb the tranquil atmosphere. The protocol of bathing in this situation was to start with the cold bath, then choose one of the other five hot baths, alternating back to the cold one before choosing another hot one. It was a very relaxing experience, and I even managed to fall asleep while floating on my back in one of the shallow, hot pools. In between pool transitions, we visited a narrow, dark hallway on the side of the room. On one side of the hallway was a long bench, in front of which was a table with a large pot of mint tea and a stack of cups. We filled up many times during the session, nearly completing the experience. We decided to opt out of the full body massage, as there was a lack of incredibly hot female Scandinavian masseuses. Several times during our bathing we were somewhat distracted by a young, scantily clad, rather curvaceous and well endowed female wondering between pools. We eventually made it to all of the pools, then discovered that an extremely fat and hairy individual had absconded with John's towel. Not wanting it back, John stole another one and we got dressed and left.

After the bath we decided to go for more tapas. We met some of John's friends at the Poe bar again, and after a few glasses of wine we engaged in deep and profound discussions about the meaning of life. Correction, John engaged in deep and profound discussions, emphasizing every word with overly extravagant hand gestures, while I amused myself by mocking him. I believe he eventually found the answer to why life exists, but no one can remember precisely what that was. We went to bed soon after this, very relaxed and exhausted from the day's events.

The next day we got up very early. I believe we were the first people under sixty who had seen a 9:45 Sunday morning in Spain. After some very essential coffee, we started off on our final adventure, the exploration of the Al Hambra fortress and palace. On our journey up to the top of the ridge upon which it is built, we saw many churchgoers in their Sunday best, all over sixty. Old Spaniards dress impeccably, with a silk tie, fine collared shirt, inner vest, jacket, and outer jacket, gingerly making their way across the cobblestones, relying heavily upon a cane.

The road up to the Alhambra is treacherous for a wheelchair. All of it uphill, you often have to listen carefully for the roar of a diesel engine as the public buses blast their way around the hilly Albaicin district, giving little room for the unsuspecting, wheelchair bound tourists. After a much pushing and very sore arms, we finally reached the main gate of the Al Hambra. The entire fortress is a marvel of engineering. It is high upon the end of a ridge that dominates the entire city. Standing at even the lowest battlement, you are at least 500 feet above any other part of the city. This fortress must have seemed insurmountable by the Spanish who eventually conquered it, eliminating the last stronghold of 700 years of Moorish civilization on the Iberian peninsula. The fortress even has its own water supply coming down the ridge from the distant snow-covered peaks of the Sierras.

The main gate of the Al Hambra would prove nearly impossible to break through if one had a vast army at their command. The entrance is equipped with a very heavy and thick wood and steel door, through which is a short hallway. Ten feet into the gatehouse, and the hallway turns 90 degrees to the right, then ten feet later, turns 90 degrees again, making a zigzag. With this architecture, it would be very easy to block off the hallway at one of the turns with just a few shields, and that is only if anyone managed to break the actual door. Finally entering the main fortress, we found ourselves in the middle of a large courtyard. On one side was the massive keep called the Al Kazab, which would normally house the local garrison. On the other side was the Spanish Palacio de Carlos V, built after the Spanish conquered the stronghold. John and I soon made our way up to the palace, to find that the interior was a big, round courtyard, in an otherwise square building. The interior was very impressive, lined with massive Roman columns on two levels.

Behind the Spanish palace was the Moorish palace. Entering through an otherwise nondescript building, we entered a complex and ornately decorated palace of grandeur. There were many rooms and courtyards, the walls of which were intricately decorated with frescoes of Arabic script, colorful tiles, exotic woods, and incredibly detailed carvings of many wondrous things. Very few flat surfaces were left untouched, and it seemed that entire books were carved onto the walls. The windows looking out to the city were wonders in their own right. Originally covered in a myriad of stained glass, they now resemble extremely an complicated geometry of latticework. Every door to a different section of the palace is arched in traditional Moorish fashion, with the ends of the arch coming back on themselves, closely resembling the tops of a stereotypical mosque spire. Some of the archways look like they have been carved with an ice cream scooper, resembling an arc of pock marks.

While the Moorish palace was breathtaking, the Al Kazab was waiting. John and I soon made our way to the front of the fortress, dominated by the keep. This structure had one central tower and two smaller towers on either side, with each wall squared off and surrounded by battlements. After navigating through a maze of passageways and stairs, we found ourselves on top of the central tower, high above the city. As any tourist worth their salt would agree, points of historical interest, particularly high points overlooking a vast territory, require an obligatory photo shoot. John and I lined ourselves up with the outer edge of the ramparts, easily a few hundred foot drop to the outer walls of the fortress. John, being significantly taller than most people, and me especially, required that I climb up onto the edge of the wall so that I could be about eye level with him. I thought this was a good idea because it allowed the photo to be framed properly while still getting the city in the background, but an old lady standing next to me thought I had lost my marbles. She flipped out yelling something in Spanish to the effect that I was giving her a heart attack, and that I should get away from the precipice immediately. As many of you know, I hardly respond to requests to get down from anything, so I refused her pleas, and she eventually ran off, huddled over and clutching her chest. We got a great photo.

One final note about the Al Hambra. The tourist guides claim that the complex is accessible to wheelchairs. They lie. Even if you possess the skill to get up to and through the main gate, only then do you find easy going in the vicinity of the central courtyard. None of the palaces or the Al Kazab are accessible, and this is one of the many reasons why I keep John around. He is very strong and can carry a wheelchair, myself, a week of food, plus a tent and a canoe many miles, even blindfolded. Needless to say, he brought my chair where none had gone before, and I owe him many pints of brew wherever he decides to have them.

When we finally left the Al Hambra, we celebrated our adventure with a healthy helping of helado, which has the unique ability of making anything feel better, especially sore muscles. Back at the apartment we took a nap on the couches in the dining room. This may seem like a boring tidbit of information, but between these couches was a table with a brasero (heating coil) underneath. Plugging that in and draping a blanket around the table and yourself provides a very warm and relaxing atmosphere in which to take a siesta. That night I discovered the extent of which Spaniards use mayonnaise in their cooking, which is altogether way too much. They put it on everything! If something needs a bit of seasoning or some “zazz”, mayonnaise is there to help. Mayonnaise does not work well with microwaves. John found this out, much to his displeasure. We went to bed soon after, for a long travel day awaited me.
The next morning John and I woke up early so that I could catch a bus to Malaga, a neighboring town about two hours to the west. We took a taxi to the bus station where I left John and continued my adventures into Ireland, where I would soon meet up with my roommate Alex and his girlfriend, Katrina. The bus ride was uneventful, and once in Malaga I waited around for another bus that would bring me to the airport nearby. While I was waiting, I struck up a conversation with a Quebecois named Andreana. Over coffee, I learned that she was a teacher in Montreal, and was traveling in Spain to visit friends, much like me. We shared our adventures, then helped each other get to the airport and find our respective gates. She spoke Spanish however, so it was mostly her translating every sign to me, which proved useful, for Malaga is a very large airport. I then boarded my plane, flying in the direction of the Emerald Isle.

I have found that throughout all of my adventures, I enjoy the traveling the most, especially when you meet individuals who are willing to be friendly and share a bit of themselves with you. It is always a challenge to extract the life story out of someone, but infinitely rewarding when you succeed. Many travelers often keep to themselves, afraid to ask a random stranger the sequence of events that lead them to be sitting next to you on plane to Zurich or a bus to Malaga. You lose nothing by asking questions, and it beats reading SkyMall or trying to decifer newspapers with titles such as “Die Zeitung” or “El Mundo”. Anyway, thats all for now, perhaps I will narrate Ireland later.