Aurora Wasteland

I am on my way to Apsen Seating in Denver and eventually to Summit County to test a new monoski. Unfortunately I have to burn a day so I am staying at the fabulous Sleep Inn in Aurora. Set amongst the rolling prairie of Colorado with the Rockies in the background, like a giant saw blade in the otherwise non-descript monotony of the prairie. Sounds charming, eh? Um...not so much.

Aurora, to most people, is one giant suburb of Denver. Technically another city, you would never notice while driving that you have left Aurora and entered Denver. The city is a fine example of American suburbia, complete with ranks upon ranks of houses that look exactly alike (mine is the brown cape on the left, can't miss it!), with the occasional cul-de-sac. Every few blocks you come across a gas station and some combination of small Chinese restaurant, an Applebees, and assorted non-sense stores no one ever shops at. Scattered amongst this sprawling and depressing suburbia are gated communities with names that make you feel like the residents within wished they were anywhere else but where they live. Names include Aurora Hights, Highlands, Hills, and Knolls, Del Mar, Havana Heights, Heritage at Eagle Bend, and Tollgate Run at Kingsborough. Even with these "communities" I get the sense that there is little community here at all, and hardly any character.

Tonight I find myself in one section of Aurora that is just hotels, and only the typical chain hotels, complete with the chain restaurants you expect to find at every freeway exit in America. I can't imagine anyone actually wanting to live or work here, and probably only do because there is not much other choice they have.

There is no personality here, no character, nothing interesting in the least. This is not a part of American culture that I am proud of. We have managed to manufacture our culture into a series of generic boxes that one can find along every freeway in the US. The only reason people visit these boxes are so that they can get somewhere else that is more exciting. Hopefully tomorrow will get more interesting.

Disclaimer: If anyone who is reading this is from Aurora or knows someone here, I am sure you/they are a great person. I am judging the area just from what I have seen as I drive through it. I know it is shallow but I am going to write it anyway.

NOTE: Since writing the above post, I have learned that Aurora does, in fact have a downtown area with a main street. The negative aspects described above really just apply to parts of the periphery of Aurora, among many other parts of the country.

Westward Wanderings

I recently completed a long drive from Franconia, NH to Vail, Colorado. It is a long way, about 2000 miles. Drives like these are only somewhat practical in the US, due to our extensive and usually well-maintained system of freeways, as well as outrageously cheap gas (compared to the rest of the developed world). If you have never done this drive before, let me tell you that the US is an unbelievably vast and geographically diverse country. Traveling across the country by plane deceives you into thinking its just a hop skip and a jump from one end to the other. It is not! Driving out of New England is rather exciting due to the mountain valleys you wind through and the exhilaration of blasting through hordes of traffic as you near New York City. East coast driving, especially near the coast, is a mess of freeways and highways that often seem hopelessly complicated and redundant. Near big cities where freeways come together one has to navigate towering webs of interchanges that make the simple cloverleaf seem like the most basic thing in the world. The complicatedness is likely due to when the east coast was developed, which was much earlier, several hundred years in some cases, than many parts of the west. Trying to convert a transportation network from horse and buggy to one that can accommodate automobiles must have been like shoving 10 pounds of fecal matter into a 5 pound bag.

My first stop was near Philadelphia, PA, where I visited my grandparents. The visit was fun but for one issue. The amount of traveling advice, maps and food supplies given by family members has an exponential relationship to the particular generation of relatives giving said advice, maps and supplies. My parents just wanted to know that my car was functioning properly, that I knew the general direction I was traveling, and that I didn't overtax myself. My grandparents, on the other hand, gave me a bag full of maps of each state I was passing through, as well as a general atlas of the US, Canada and Mexico (just in case I stray a thousand miles north or south). We then proceeded to go over every detail of the route no less than four times, coming up with a more complicated set of directions each time. I did finally come with the route to which I wanted, and left with a large box and a large bag of rations which I am still, a week later, trying to finish. I did appreciate all the help, but I tend to prefer going on adventures where there isn't a whole lot of planning, with the hope that random, exciting, but not life-threatening events take place. Regardless, I did find my way, and ate well the entire journey.

I left Philadelphia two days later and started blasting across the country. Pennsylvania is quite boring until you reach the western side where you start to notice that the economic well-being of the east coast does not always penetrate to the interior. Think about trickle down economic theory that is often favored by the loony Republicans; it really is a trickle. There are some regions in western PA and beyond that have never seen too much money, which is fleetingly obvious as you race along the freeway, usually at such a speed where its hard to take in the surroundings. I did, quite accidentally, take a slight detour in northern West Virginia. The freeway signs were misleading and I suddenly found myself in the middle of a decrepit small town, where the only thing it seemed to have going for it was a single traffic light that blinked properly. Losing my morale quickly, I turned around and got back on the freeway, but most people never see this place because there is almost no reason to stop there.

After the mountainous region of northern West Virginia the scenic distractions from the monotony of the freeway promptly ceased. Entering Ohio you begin to realize just how straight you will be driving for the next 24 hours or so. Realizing this, I picked up the pace and blasted through Columbus, Dayton and Indianapolis in quick succession. Driving through the cities was quite exciting though, because tons of traffic usually converges at cities including massive semi trailers which look like they will eat you if you are unfortunate enough not to pass them as soon as you are able. I spent the night in a motel just past Indianapolis.

The next day I arrived in St. Louis about mid morning. I stopped here for a while in order to see the Arch. This was quite exciting but I did have to become a standard tourist for a while. The welcome center at the arch was packed with crazy school children which always seem to occupy tourist sites such as these. I took the elevator up to the top, which consists of a string of seven capsules which are winched to the top. The view was just what you might expect. Your are high above the city, and you can see everything. Not terribly exciting...but the hordes of overweight Americans and screaming school children often find it so. I don't mean to diminish the importance of the Arch, but not much can beat the top of a mountain in the middle of a wilderness.

I left St. Louis about midday and started across Missouri. Missouri doesn't have much going for it. I could describe, in great detail, the vastness of the farms and plains of this fine state, but I feel that you might fall asleep before coming to end of my narrative. With that said, we move on to Kansas.

Kansas City is the entrance to the state itself, if you drive on I-70. If you have not yet bothered to look at a map of Kansas/Missouri (and there is no good reason why you should if you don't actually have to live there) then I must point out that the "happening" part of Kansas City is in Missouri, not Kansas. I cannot explain this, it makes no sense. There is a Kansas City in Kansas, just across the river, but its not nearly as built up as the other side. I did not stop here, however, but proceeded to cross the immense state that is Kansas. I also stopped turning the steering wheel at this point, owing to the fact that I-70 is exceedingly straight until you get to Denver. If Kansas were a word, it would be "boring". It is a state of farms, as far as the eye can see (which, in case you were wondering, is about 15 miles on a flat sea). The terrain, however, is not as flat as you might imagine. It is instead an endless sea of rolling, identical hills. There are very few cities or towns, but numerous gas stations, truck stops and budget motels that cluster at almost every freeway exit. Otherwise, all you see are perfectly straight highways going north or south into the oblivion that is the Kansas countryside.

As I was driving the vastness of Kansas I was wondering how I would capture the culture of the plains states in writing. What I decided to do was describe the culture only from what I could see from the freeway and hear on the radio. This is not, I should mention, an academically sound thing to do, but it should prove interesting. Therefore, lets begin. Most man-made features are very plain, with little embellishment. People here really like to construct roads that are as straight as possible. Bigger is better. If you can make whatever you own seem bigger than it was originally, then there is absolutely no logical reason why you shouldn't do so. There is a great need to stop at adult superstores at nearly every freeway exit. The people here must have a constant need for the latest "toy" or illustrated publication. God and/or Jesus (aka Messiah, Yahweh, the Savior, the Lord) is big here. These people must need religion, lest they go insane from the nearly unchanging scenery. If you are homosexual, your parents must not have given you the proper balance of masculine and feminine experiences. The liberal tree-hugging conspiratorial idea that you could actually just be born with a natural disposition to be attracted to the same sex is just absurd, and if you believe it, you must hate God, and therefore freedom. There is absolutely nothing beyond what you can see from the freeway, unless you see a sign for "World's biggest prairie dog!!!! 8000 pounds!!! Must see to believe!!! Exit Now!!" or "Foot High Pies!!". The concept of "fun for the whole family" is usually signaled by several big billboards advertising two different adult superstores and a family dining establishment in the same town. If the town also has a gas station, that is all that is required for a full service pit stop. Country and western songs also tell you that men will cheat on women and women will cheat on men, but Bobby-Sue will set you true. Also, nothing is more important than for men to be as masculine as possible, and women just need an honest man to be happy, but not much more. Country men are also vastly superior to city boys because they can grow their own groceries and have a truck and dawg to boot. If their dawg is run over by their truck, however, the world comes to an end.

So that is the cultural interpretation. I apologize to anyone from the mid-west. I have no doubt that you are all amazing people and the countryside is an infinitely fascinating place. I am not quite done with my journey yet, however. Kansas took about 10 hours to get across, and eastern Colorado proved equally as boring, but the speed limit was raised to 75. After Denver I proceeded into the mountains along I-70, which is exhilarating, to say the least. After two days of flat driving the freeway starts to climb quite quickly. The air is also much thinner, so your car must work harder to climb through the passes. It also started to blizzard in this area, which was also quite a contrast and kept me very alert. Eventually I climbed to the top of Vail Pass, which is about 10500 feet and started my descent towards Vail and the town of Minturn, where I am currently staying with my teammate, Ralph. Beyond this will require another post later on, so I will stop for now. My fingers have nearly fallen off.

My Travels

Hey Everyone,

I have created this blog madgigger so that everyone can keep up to date with what I am up to, and hopefully some of you will do the same. I am going to start by posting several old write-ups of past travels and try to keep up to date as I go. Feel free to leave comments or email me.

Lueneburg Lunacy II

Hello Everyone,

I have just realized that I had not written anything for a while, so I came to the conclusion that it was time to enlighten all of you on my adventures of late, such as they are. I recommend you find a comfy chair and a tub of good ice cream, for if you find my narrative to not be of an “edge of your seat” nature, then at least you have consumed a good amount of delicious ice cream in your boredom, and therefore feel good about yourself. At least you should, because if you had any sense at all you would have chosen Ben and Jerry's Dublin Mudslide, which is of a unique amazingness. According to my spell checker, “amazingness” is not even a legitimate word, but I shall use it anyway in spite. To hell with my word processor. Anyway, I should get to the point.

I have been in The Fatherland for a month and I have learned many things, mainly how crazy the German language can get, especially if one is used to the neutrality of English. We have spent a good amount of time learning the genders of nouns, which apart from being masculine, feminine and neuter, the genders have very little to do with what the word actually means and they all have completely different articles. For example, a man is “der mann” and a woman is “die Frau” but a girl is “das Maedchen”, which is neuter. A lollipop is “der lolli” however, in my mind there is very little masculinity surrounding a lollipop. Could you imagine a bunch of rednecks at their buddy's house, watching “the game” and each of them drinking a beer, all of them exuding an aura of “I am so manly, my man-osity is beyond manness!” Then one of them reaches for a bag of lollipops, passing them out to their shocked buddies, “Der lolli ist sehr mannlich, ihr habt keine idee.” I shall not imagine the beat down that would have probably ensued. Anyway, the point I am making is that adding genders to everything is ridiculous, especially when they don't make sense. Regardless, I have a grasp of it, and all of my tests and homework have been quite proficient.

Conniving in Cologne

Now, on with the adventures. Two weeks ago I took a trip with the international students to Cologne, which is a 2000 year old city on the banks of the Rhine river in Western Germany. Originally a Roman settlement of 40000 people, it is now Germany's 4th largest city with the seat of the Archbishop of Germany, located within the largest Cathedral in Europe, the Dom. The people of Cologne, much like people from most of the other German cities and states, have a very unique culture. Aside from all Cologners speaking German, even though they have their own dialect (Koelsch, which barely resembles German), they might as well be a separate city-state. They brew a unique beer, also called Koelsch, which is only served in small, strait glasses. It is meant to be drank quickly because it goes stale easily, forcing the waiters and waitresses to develop strong arms to carry the massive trays full of refills that the Cologners constantly demand. The people also have a fascination for Roman ruins, some of which they stumble across while building a parking garage under the Dom, renovating the town hall, or building bomb shelters to escape relentless retribution of the Allies during the last world war. The city is littered with museums and random Roman buildings, walls, and statues which they have found and either built the museum on top of them, or lifted the ruins to street level. We had the opportunity to tour many of these places, one of which was the remains of a palace, exactly underneath the present town hall.

The Dom dominates the entire city, easily the tallest and most distinct building in the center of the city. Built by a Frenchman in the Gothic style, most horizontal lines have been eliminated, giving one the idea that they have little or no significance in the shadow of such a massive building, and by association, the Catholic religion. Having no qualms about this, I decided that one of the bell towers needed to be climbed. Everything, however, costs money. Everyone in my group paid a few Euros and began climbing the 509 steps to the top. When I got to the ticket counter I asked for a ticket, completely surprising the clerk. He must have thought that I was a few quarts short of a gallon when he understood that I wanted to climb on my hands the whole way, so he waived the fee, more or less saying that if I was crazy enough, it didn't matter. Climbing tight spiral staircases not much wider than my shoulders, I slowly made my way up, every few minutes catching a glimpse of the surrounding city from a drainage hole along the outer edge of the steps. Finally reaching the top and completely destroying my muscles and joints, I had a commanding view of the city and the Rhine. Later on, after the descent, we toured the majestic naives of the Dom. In the oldest section sits a magnificent, intricately carved gold chest, enclosed in glass and illuminated by spotlights. The Dom claims to have the remains of the Three Wise Men in this chest, but I have my doubts. How does one wise man who witnessed the birth of Christ end up Cologne, much less three wise men? Obviously it took three not-so-wise men to bring their bones thousands of miles to their present location. And who told them they could be so wise? I was told I was being wise once, and for some inexplicable reason I was slapped shortly thereafter. Wisdom then showed me that it was not wise to be wise, especially when you know that you wisdom is far superior. Enough ranting.

We spent our free time at night, visiting various pubs and cafes. Both nights I went pub hopping with another guy from my group, Chris, who is a philosophy and literature major, and enjoys nothing more than to flex his philosophical ideas onto others whilst using as many long, complicated words as he can muster, which I must say is quite a few. Regardless, we found ourselves at an Irish pub that sold Beamish, an equally tasty but not as popular Guinness style stout. The bartender, we concluded, is the coolest bartender ever. Authentically Irish, he greeted us with “What'll it be today, lads?” As he took our orders he started a conversation with us about our struggles to learn German, comparing it to his own methods of learning the language. The following conversation was highly entertaining, as Shammy (his name) used the uniquely Irish word “fook” in every possible way the word could be used, and some he invented on the spot. In one story involving his first experiences learning pubdeutsch he explained that a lady came into the pub and asked him if she could bring her dog in with her. Having no idea what she was saying, he just said yes (which works in many situations) and the lady brought her dog in. Later on, as he was taking her drink order (he had not realized she brought the dog in) he tripped over the dog. Finding his balance, he picked up her dog, exclaiming “What the fook is this? A fookin dog? Well fook! What the fook is a fookin dog doin in me bar?” At that, he dropped the dog from several feet, onto the floor. Shammy went on with several other equally ridiculous stories, at the end of which I concluded, yet again, that the Irish have the best pubs.
Other than what I have typed thus far, there is not much else to say other than what you would not see in my Koln picture album on Facebook. We had a bus ride from hell on the way to Cologne, literally. The air conditioning on the bus did not work, but the heat sure did, which pumped full blast the entire 6 hours of the journey. Needless to say, we were all “well done” by the time we reached our hostel.

Damn, I must go and finish my homework. I have yet to be outside today as well, so I must go wander somewhere. I have been waiting most of this day for something exciting to happen itself upon me, but I have come to the conclusion that I should go and find excitement. Stay tuned though, there should be more narratives on the way, for things do have a tendency to happen, so to speak.

Lueneburg Lunacy

I have been molding this update in my head for some time now, and hopefully I can pass on some creativity and humor into it. In the meantime, sit tight. I flew from Boston to Zurich on Swiss air, then on to Hamburg. Each of these legs were relatively uneventful, I was only able to talk to one lady, Lutsija. She was, unfortunately, not too open to my “Hey what events in your life caused you to be sitting next to me?” interrogation, but I did find out that she grew up in Czechoslovakia, back when the country was one large section of the Iron Curtain. She eventually moved to Germany, slowly learning the language, but eventually moving to the US. She did not make the most interesting story ever, but flights across the Atlantic can be mind-numbingly boring. Anyway, upon arrival in Hamburg, the plane parked in the middle of the tarmac, well away from any gates. Because of this, they summoned the Deutsches Rotes Kreuz (German Red Cross) for my benefit only. For some odd reason, the Lufthansa authorities thought I needed a two-man medical crew capable of performing a triple bypass, just to get off the plane. Regardless, I got a ride in the back of a medical van, across the tarmac, and even persuaded the medical crew to get me around the crowd at passport control and collect my bags for me! They are sure putting their extensive medical school training to good use. Once I was through customs I met a USAC professor, Soeren, who led me to the train station and eventually back to Luneburg.

When I finally arrived in Luneburg, Soeren helped me find my housing, which ended up being a campus apartment with a full bathroom and kitchen which I share with another person. My flatmate turned out to be a girl, Xin Wang, from China. Upon arrival I could hardly speak any German, and that is all I could manage to ask her, but there will be more about her later. That night I met up with all of the other USAC students, all Americans, at a pub called Die Maelzer, which brews its own beer, hefeweizen and pilsener, both of which are amazing. We hung out at this pub for several hours, each of us trying to break the ice with basic introductory questions to each of our neighbors. When we left that night, I walked home with several members of the group. When I reached my apartment, we said goodnight, then I realized that I had no alarm clock. The others offered to stop by and wake me up, but being the independent person that I am, I refused, briefly explaining to them how a mental alarm clock works (repeating the desired wake up time in your head a few hundred times before you go to sleep). They were very impressed that I had this ability, so they went on their way.

The next morning we had a brief orientation at 10 o clock. My mental alarm clock usually works flawlessly, but occasionally misinterprets my meaning. This particular morning it woke my up at exactly 10 am, much to my dismay. Literally hopping in my chair and grabbing my gloves, I blasted out of my door, setting land speed records on my way to the center of Luneburg where we would start the orientation. Halfway there, I met up with two girls from the group whom were also very late. More relaxed now that I knew I was not the only one fashionably late, I walked with them to town. We made it to the rendezvous point, only to miss our group by ten minutes. We decided to facilitate our own tour of the city, striking off in various locations from the center of the city. The center of the city, by the way, is a big cobble-stoned plaza called Am Sande. On each side of the plaza are old facades of preserved buildings, dating back at least 500 years. (The town itself is over 1000 years old). At one end of the plaza is the massive St. Johannis Kirche. Complete with a huge, copper and brick steeple, the church is more the size of a cathedral. The steeple is so large and tall, one can easily use it to navigate around the city. Anyway, back to the tour. We wandered our way down several pedestrian-only main streets, two of which were Greater and Lesser Baker Streets. On either side, no matter where we went, we saw ritzy boutiques, small kiosks, bakeries, and at least one cafe/restaurant every 50 feet. Realizing the staggering number of cafes per capita, we decided to take advantage of this, so we sat down at one particular cafe owned by some Brazilians. The cappuccino was amazing, as was the marble cake. Halfway into our breakfast, Soeren, who was giving the tour for the group that was on time, found us sipping coffee. He decided to give us a personal tour, much to our surprise. Accompanying him all over the city, he explained the various sights, such as the best bars and cafes, the super-secret hidden bars and cafes, and Der Alte Kran, an old wooden crane that stands next to the banks of the Ilmenau River, which runs through Luneburg. Aparently this crane is over 1000 years old and was used to haul goods to and from boats, especially salt, which was mined underneath the town and sold all over the known world, making Luneburg a very rich city. As we crossed several streets, Soeren pointed out small brass stones set amongst some of the cobblestones in front of various houses throughout the city. Inscribed with family names, each “stumbling stone” marks a house where there used to live a Jewish family who was exterminated in the war. We then walked across Markt Platz (Market Square) where, neatly laid out across the entire square was a sea of tents, each selling various fresh produce. The farmer's market, Soeren told us, had many delicious types of food, but he cautioned us about dealing with the “farming folk”, whom he deemed very blunt, easy to cross people. Markt Platz is also the location of the famous Rathaus (town hall). Other than the church already mentioned, there are two other churches, both at least as big as St. Johannis, but one has a neo-gothic spire and the other has a short, rounded spire. The latter of the two is a church where J.S. Bach sung at, back in the days of yore. There will be more about this church in a later update.

That night we had dinner at a restaurant called Hemmingway's. The food was delicious and feeling daring, I tried spargel, which turned out to be white asparagus, a specialty of northern Germany. It was good, but they slobbered way too much hollandaise sauce on it. Afterwards I demonstrated my wheelchair skills to the group, bumping down several stairs to the bathroom. There was much ooh-ing and ahh-ing. Anyway, after dinner I had to head back to my apartment near campus, which is a good 15 minute walk from the center of town. Later that night I tried to find a billiards establishment where the rest of the group was going to hang out, but I got horribly lost. I ended up in the rough side of town, where I came across several groups of punks/grunge/sketchy hoodlums, all of which were dressed in various forms of black clothing, too much make-up and tattoos, most of whom were drinking some kind of beer (which is not illegal on the street). Giving them an awkward “hallo”, I managed to get past them and through the narrow, gloomy alley that I had found myself in.

Some side notes:

I did end up remembering enough German to ask my flat-mate who she is. Apparently she is 29 and used to live and work in Peking as a journalist of sorts. She has been living in Germany for 3 years, and now she works at the University, teaching students Chinese. She has a big family, with a sister who works for Chinese customs. I asked her what her parents did for a living, and she only told me that they work for the government. I thought later that most people in China must work for the government, so I will have to inquire some more. She likes to cook, and we even cooked some pesto and brats together one night, which she ate with chopsticks. I tried to do the same, and I failed miserably and was laughed at. She is really nice though and very helpful with my language difficulties. Occasionally I get very frustrated because the only language we have remotely in common is German, so I must speak what little I know. She has this super language computer, however, that can translate any word from English, to Chinese, and then to German, then it can also speak the word to you.

Other than that, Luneburg is home to many ethnically diverse peoples. The majority are Turkish, but there are several Africans of sorts, Brazilians, and Cubans. Turkish food is amazing. I have had a doener several times at this place in Am Sande and it is delicious.

My classes are awesome! I am actually learning and retaining what goes on in class! The teacher, Michaela, is very good at making sure you remember and keeping your attention by not staying on one topic too long. The University is very nice. It is a converted army base, with classes in the old barracks and a few cafes, a bookstore, copy center and such in the old tank garages. There seem to be a lot of students as well and they are often outside doing something, making it seem like there are more people here than there really is.

In conclusion, I am having an awesome time, learning a lot, and meeting really cool people.

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.