Montserrat

Hanna has been pestering me to write about Montserrat, and while my entry on the Diamond Pony Pineapple Guardians is also pressing, I have decided The Mountain comes first.

It happened by mistake. We underestimated the time it would take to get to the train station and by the time we arrived the train to Valencia was long gone. We could have caught another one, but the previous night a friend suggested we go to Montserrat - a mountain housing a monastery that he knew from his grandfather's travels during the war. There is a sort of sneaky joy at following the wind and engaging these silly whims, so we caught the next train to Montserrat instead. Or at least we tried.

Despite waking up at six AM, we didn't actually make it to Montserrat until 2PM (It's about an hour outside of Barcelona). We were advised to take the wrong train - which we did - all the way out and back - which took about two or three hours, and then when we finally thought we were on the right train and got off at what we thought was the right stop, we realized the mountain was still a valley away and the train station we'd stopped at was deserted, boarded up, and covered in graffiti.

Awesome.

That was about when we met Betty:

We met Betty because she was the only person within easy walking distance of the abandoned train station.  We told her we needed to get to Montserrat, and she laughed at us and went back in her house. Hanna and I, somewhat dumbfounded, watched as she returned with keys and pointed to her car. Oh god. I don't need to hablo to comprendo that.

She looked cheerful, was wearing orange, and we were in the middle of hella nowhere. So what did we do?

Yes, yes, we got in the car.

I videod the whole thing - just in case she killed us - but it turns out that Betty is just one of those genuinely awesome human beings. She drove us the several kms to the funicular at the base of the mountain, and we promptly rode it to the monastery about halfway up the mountain.

Going up!

So we make it to the Monastery, both of us in interesting moods given the amount of travel mishaps we've had, and the lack of food that went along with it. We ask the information booth what the most beautiful place to take pictures is, and she smiles and says "The top of the mountain".

It's a 2-3 hour hike. Upwards. The mountain is 1.2 miles high. There is no water, no bathrooms, nothing but blazing sunshine and steep rock steps.

About this time, my Challenger persona flicks on. I have been given a difficult task and enough time to do it before nightfall. I am capable and stubbornly motivated. I want to climb the mountain, crushes and memes aside, to prove to myself that I can.

So we buy food and water and we start to climb the mountain.

And lo, we made it to the top.

Challenge met, obstacle overcome. We went home exhausted and empowered - as it should be.

pop culture reference:

Ocean (Sans Ponies)

Most of you know that three years ago I did the Semester at Sea program – studied on a cruise ship while it sailed places and wandered those places when we got there and there were no diamond ponies in the ocean.

*brief skirmish*

(and I got my computer back from Chelsea…)

I blather about it often, so I beg your indulgence if I go back to it briefly.

Before Semester at Sea I was hugely excited about spending so much time close to the ocean. I’ve been relatively close to Lake Erie most of my life, but it isn’t quite the same thing. The oceans, the seven seas, have inspired so much. Poets and explorers alike have been captivated by the sea for thousands of years. And I admit, I was looking to be impressed.

And I wasn’t, really. It was vast, incomprehensibly so – I remember realizing that it would take me an hour or so walking straight down to reach the earth beneath my feet – but not what I was looking for. It also gave me horrific motion sickness.

I found the ocean fascinating in the way a screensaver can be, or the DVD symbol bouncing ever closer to the corners of a TV. While diverting, it was not the stuff of poetry.

And thus it remained for the first week or so. Then we hit rough water between Hawaii and Japan. The waves were double my height, and the forbidding storm grey, steel gray that is the province of poets. The sun set on this ocean, unobstructed save for the horizon and I leaned out on the slick rail. Sea spray hit my face and I tasted salt. And I have loved the ocean since.

And I have missed her for three years.

So getting to spend time in places near the various oceans and seas has been important, like running into an old friend. Who still makes me queasy if I’m not careful.

We’ve skimmed over our ocean voyages so far on the blog – mostly because the first few we slept through, and our last was governed by incredibly rough water and our gloom at having departed the Englands and England.

I would like to put in a good word for the Irish Sea, as providing a gorgeous backdrop for Wicklow and a sunrise I had not intended to see over it. The residents insisted that it was possible to swim, but Chelsea and I declined.

In Barcelona and Nice we actually went and fluttered about in the ocean. In Nice especially the waves had a kick to them, enough to knock the knees from under you if you weren’t paying attention. And I find it strangely comforting to be so very small and to play, carefully, with something so very big.

In Nice too we got to see jellyfish. Chelsea noticed them first – small black leaf-like critters – and decided it was best to evacuate the area.

She did not tell me what led to her haste. I chilled in the water for another moment and upon perceiving that Chelsea was done with the water I too climbed out. Then she explained why she retreated to dry land. To her credit, she was not sure they were jellyfish, they might just as easily have been leaves and paranoia.

A minute later an older man came towards us, holding out a Pringles can. As Chelsea and I tried to politely decline his offer of chips he showed us a tiny captive jellyfish. He had mistaken it for a condom until he noticed there were lots of them.

We have since learned that these were velella velella and they are Chelsea’s new favorite jellyfish. We have also learned that they are harmless to humans, although one should wash ones hands before touching ones eyes and face after handling them. And nudibranchs eat them.

Now we are on the way to Geneva, and away from the ocean. For now.

(ps. the ponies will make sense next time. Promise)

Dodge the Ferrari

So before Orange and Avignon, Chelsea and I spent a few days on the Cote d’Azur, wandering the various seaside towns of the French Mediterranean. We spent some time in Monaco and Cannes, but stayed in Nice.



Now, we have spent nights in various sorts of accommodation on this trip. Mostly dorms found on www.hostelbookers.com or in the occasional one star hotel near the train station. We also had our fabulous evenings with the Englands. The dorms have all been quiet, although averaging 8 beds or so. Some hostels have had owners we sat and talked to, like in Wickow, and others have been more like hotels.

The hostel in Nice however was our first truly ‘hip’ hostel.

Coming into Nice we met a French girl on the train also looking for a hostel. She ended up following us to ours, and when we got there, no one at reception spoke French. It was disconcerting. After spending around a week in countries that do not speak English we’ve grown accustomed to apologizing and communicating with one or two words and smiles. And here, not only the receptionists, but the massive staff (bartenders, cooks, shuttle drivers, laundresses, etc…) all spoke English. Most, I would guess, were Australian.

We were told where the bar was and directed to the signs for that night’s dinner. The hostel had a bar as well as a kitchen, half of which was public, with the other half reserved for a few fellows cooking pizzas and making salads for the general crowd. For which, I will mention, we were grateful – a long day of traveling with food at the end is much preferable to a long day of traveling followed by a search for food.

As we sat waiting for our meal, bouncing our heels to the loud music and sipping our drinks, I realized something odd. My drink was still cold. It had ice in it. I’d gotten so used to drinks with no ice that it felt strange.



Looking around I felt stranger still.

All the girls at this hostel had done hair, and I think I counted five or six that were not wearing short skirts.

I think Chelsea and I might have stood out.

Her bright orange pants and my ragged baggy ones, our hair, which while cute is not coiffed, and our distinct lack of interest in good party spots or guys might have set us apart. Also our lack of social skills.

Give us nudibranchs and fantasy novels, games or politics, and conversation zooms. But what we did last night? Ummm . . . slept.

I don’t know how we both missed this skill. Talking to the woman in the chocolate shop about food and Los Angeles? Easy. To Trish in Wicklow about Facebook? Peaches. To Veronique about organic farming? Done. To our peers with loud music in the background and alcohol available?

Epic fail.

That said, it was an awesome hostel, and we did have a good time, just not the same way everyone else did.

Monaco was a different kind of disconnect. The streets were not actually as bad as I thought they would be. The people on the streets were mostly tourists like us, here for a day to glimpse the casino. The people driving were a different matter. Hence the title. All my stereotypes were fulfilled by a youngish gent driving a Ferrari with slicked back hair, a polo shirt and aviators that probably cost more than everything in my backpack.

The yachts were also impressive.

We choose to spend a chunk of our time at a Haagen Daz Cocktail Bar a few blocks from the Monte Carlo Casino. We paid ridiculous prices for excellent smoothies while catching snatches of the conversation next to us that seemed to consist of the words “Dubai” and “investment”.



All in all we learn more about ourselves, our limits and comfort zones and our ability to laugh at the ridiculousness of a situation, even as it happens.

Peace, my friends.

Ode to Orange

I've had "a thing" for orange since 2005, when I decided, abruptly and for no reason I can remember, that it was an amazing, invigorating, quirky, and especially underloved member of the rainbow. I made orange curtains. I made those curtains into pants. I purchased 75% of all orange inventory in IKEA. It is why this blog is orange, and why my entries are orange. I am obsessed.

So today we went to Orange.

I made sure to dress appropriately.

And of course, we had to find the orange store. Even more reliable than McDonald's or Starbucks, these Orange stores are EVERYWHERE. I have made a point to take a picture by each one we come across, but there is little more satisfying than wearing ALL ORANGE in front of the ORANGE STORE in the city OF ORANGE. Can you guys tell this made my life?

I had a field day.

Orange Car in Orange:

Candied Orangettes in Orange:

The COUNT of Orange in Orange:

I will pause to say we didn't go ENTIRELY because the town was named Orange but because, in fact, there is an amazingly well preserved Roman amphitheatre there:

I can happily say I don't know which delighted me more, but suffice it to say I have had a brilliant orange day.

Barcelona is a Dangerous Place

As we climbed down the stairs to the entrance of Parc Güell, Chelsea and I were damning Barcelona. Our feet ached and bled, the various straps of our bags had embedded themselves so deeply into our sunburnt shoulders that to shift them even slightly sent sharp pains through our skin, and our legs were raw from rubbing together as we walked.

And as we came down these stairs we stopped. Music echoed up from an artificial cavern conceived by one of Barcelona’s patron saints, Gaudí. A man sat over what looked like a metal tortoise shell, and by bouncing his fingers on the indentations of this instrument he produced a sound similar to a steel drum, but sweeter and so full of color that it matched the mosaics marching along the walls. And we forgave Barcelona.

This city made us forget, in one moment, how tired and resentful we had been a second before. The bitterness came back a short distance down the road as our flip flops dug into the tender flesh between our toes, and yet the enchantment lingered and we laughed on our way to the hostel.

Barcelona is a beautiful city, from the Gothic Quarter’s narrow streets to the curved and colorful architecture of the aforementioned Gaudi. And these too, have their dangers. The danger of the fabulous architecture in general is very mundane: one looks up rather than where one is walking.


This phenomenon is made more dangerous not only by the usual hazards (walking into other people, walking into each other, walking into walls, telephone poles, street vendors, bicyclists, etc…) but by the fact that around each of the many trees littering the streets and adding to the urge to look skyward, there is a pit. Now this is not always a deep pit; some are scarcely six inches. Others range to about a foot or so. One can, I hope, readily see the dangers inherent in this.

You are not convinced yet of the dangers?

Would you like to know how many pairs of pants we have bought in the two days since we arrived?

Four.

And this only, by exercising the greatest restraint.

Now, in my defense, three of these four are Chelsea’s.

In her defense. Well. Nothing.

I joke. These are giant poofy pants that come in all manner of colors and textures (including orange and soft. Chelsea got one of each. Well, two orange). They are magnificent and full of win. The pants have been our splurge. But so much more could have been.


The clothing here is amazing: bright colors and strange designs (http://www.desigual.com/#/videos/). And the sandals. You know there is something strange going on when Chelsea and I have to resist shoe shopping. And possibly also with somewhere where we both wanted to go to the beach.



One final word of warning: Chocolate con churros are wonderful.


Adios amigos!

On Recapping

The reader will have noticed, if you are following our journey with any attention at all, that our updates of late have been scarce, or perhaps missing would be more accurate. In the intervening time, a period of a week or so, many things have happened. And while I intend to oblige our readership with more detailed accounts of our more engaging episodes, I feel that it is perhaps necessary to supply some brief overview of highlights so that we do not fall too far behind in informing you of our travels.

(Please note that I have been reading a novel written in the high romantic style, and thus my own prose has taken on a perhaps more indulgent tone than it is wont, and I beg you, dear reader, to bear with me)

Of Fudge and Pheasants

Our most recent update concerns the emerald isle, but if you will permit me I find it necessary to backtrack slightly and say two words about Edinburgh.
It is a charming city, neither too large nor too small, and seemingly built entirely of an imposing grey stone, rather akin to the color of the sky (The English one, at least).

We partook of a range of culinary experiences, from an establishment where pizza is made (it referred to itself as a ‘hut’ although I find this odd as it was decidedly more comfortable than the quarters one usually associates with the word) to a tureen of pheasant and venison at a pub and to a most excellent purveyor of fudge.
Our stay in Scotland was brief, and yet complete in that we did have the privilege, while wandering this great city’s streets, to observe a man in traditional dress (a stripped skirt accompanied by all the accoutrements of that country) playing gaily upon his bag and pipes the tune known as “Scotland the Brave”.

Of Ferries and Military Time

It seems to be a requisite for any traveler of esteem to have those stories which are more entertaining in hindsight, and it is one such that I shall now briefly relate with a view to returning to the subject in the future.To be brief I purchased our passage from Britain to Ireland upon a ship. I assumed that this fine vessel departed at 2:45pm, since no sane person would leave at the corresponding time in the a.m.

I was proven sadly wrong.

Of Sweet Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland

Despite arriving with little sleep and at an hour whose very existence is unpleasant to recall, dear Chelsea and I arrived in Wicklow to find that the powers of the universe do indeed reward suffering and perseverance with blessings.Wicklow, with fascinating landscapes, ruins, and the most charming hosts we could have wished for, enchanted us within the hour and drove away thoughts of sleep with alacrity. I would endeavor to describe these wonders, but my poor scribe’s tongue lacks the vocabulary. So I shall simply add a few visual aids.
Of Equestrian Happenings

I have protested to my dearest travel partner that given her lovely and idyllic entry discussing the nature of horses and our first encounter with them on our trip, I should refrain from commenting on the experience. However, she insists, and who am I to refuse the request of a companion and honest friend?

Horses and I harbor a mutual distrust, stemming from their natural preference for contact with humans who know what on earth they are doing and from my own keen self-awareness of this precise lack in my education.

I would also like it to be recorded that the last time I rode any beast it was a camel, and this more than three years ago with the constant help and attention of a staggeringly brave ten-year-old.

However, not to be cowed, I did attempt the same journey which Chelsea recalls so fondly. I will gladly attest to the beauty of the scenery, and also to the bright sunshine which attended it to the glory of both.I must admit myself slightly distracted by my primary objective in this endeavor: not to be dislodged from my mount until such time as it was appropriate and under my own volition.

This objective was complicated by the fact that I never learned to “trot” and that without stricter guidance than was available I did not in fact learn in this particular instance. I am told that I bounced with rather alarming consistency and height, and, I may add, that it was with no small amount of discomfort.

I will not say that I was won over by the experience, but rather that it strengthened my resolve to caulk the gaps in my skill.

Of Buses and Punctuality

Upon our last day in the heavenly Wicklow, we rose before the sun to catch our first of several forms of transportation, this being a bus meant to pick us up at 4:30 am. Upon waiting for said bus to appear with no favorable result to report after half an hour we proceeded both to curse the national buses of Ireland and to alter our plans accordingly.

I shall not bore you with details at the moment, since I already fear that this entry has run verbose. But I will mention that “Children of Dune”, a small bog cat, “brekkers”, timely hot cocoa and friends all played parts in getting us through the mishaps caused by that bus.

On Monuments, Present and Past


Before continuing on the outline of our journey I must pause with an unjust brevity to remark upon the kindness of our hosts in Plymouth, the Englands. Throughout the sadly few days we were able to stay with them their exuberance, concern for our well-being and amiable demeanor enchanted and comforted us upon our journey.

Under their guidance we were conducted to a marvelous garden dominated by strange honeycombed buildings made of some thin and obviously durable material. The purpose of this place seems to be the preservation of the environment in general as well as the cultivation of such optimism as is possible in the face of the impending threats to our planet devised with such careful cunning by ourselves.
Beyond this we fearlessly challenged the elements in an attempt to see a ruin, of which history I was personally enamored, and discovered an alarming number of shops claiming proprietorship by a long dead king and his various relations and counselors. This ruin, was indeed there, diminished somewhat in glory by the hotel set on the hill above it and meant to imitate the structure now battered by time and the elements into so many crumbling walls.
I must not neglect to mention that during this trip we stopped at various points to enjoy such picturesque and charming villages as the countryside offered.

Of Our Current Situation and Disposition

We are currently onboard a ship once more, and pursuing a course for Saint Malo on the coast of France with the utmost expedience. You may assume, dear reader, that we have arrived safely if this is posted, since only in such condition shall your humble writer be able to do so.

I hope that my concise report meets with your approval and that your curiosity is satisfyingly piqued and any anxiety allayed. Until next we meet, au revoir.

Realized Dreams

For a good six years of my life Ireland was "the dream". I played celtic reels on my viola, giggled with friends about adjusted blessings ("May the road rise to meet your face, may the wind blow always through your teeth"), and fell in love with the idea of rolling green hills and ancient rocky ruins.

The past two days in Wicklow have blown my daydreams out of the water.

I don't know if I dream in a gamut, but the hills are a burning green, the water windexed clear, the sky so blue I almost itch to turn it down. I didn't think places like this actually existed. I swore they were secret, unreachable locations preserved for postcard makers to plant dream-seeds and unfulfilled wishes in the common populace. And yet I'm here, and the hills and the sky are alive and furiously vivid. I can touch the grass and no matter how much I expect my fingers to come back covered in the green paint I know they must have slathered on it, there's nothing. It's real.

A dream realized.

Today I rode a chestnut gelding named Prada at the back of a line of four horses watching stereotype after stereotype pass me by. We saw the bright green hills with their mossy stone fences, the sun glittered forest with soft brown earth paths. Our horses clomped over bridges that covered babbling brooks trekking whitely down from waterfalls. It was a three dimensional world created out of postcards and pages from National Geographic. I had to remind myself over and over again: "This is real, you're here, you're in Ireland. Just like you always dreamed."