One can honestly describe Cadaques -- a cozy, white-washed Cataluña town tucked into a Mediterranean cove -- as picture perfect. That’s exactly what it is. Seaside stopovers don’t get any more picturesque than this.
Salvidore Dali, the famous Spanish artist, apparently thought so. In the 1920’s he and his wife made this remote port their home. Dali was an artist of many media, including film, and although his popularity as a painter was as as a Surrealist, he became less so in later years and produced several large-scale historical paintings.
We toured his eclectic home on Saturday and got a peek into the public and private life of a man who lived “Dali” like a vaudevillian actor hamming up his signature role. He mugged for the press with his pie eyes and waxed moustache, and yet left a serious mark in the world of art that is considered edgy even by today’s standards.
Cadaques was perfect in another way: as a final stop on our Spain adventure. We had just enough time there to enjoy the sun, to sample the wide variety of locally-caught seafood, and to meet a few locals along the way.
Most important, we had time to reflect. We talked about what was most meaningful, as well as fun, on this trip. What's not to love about the ancient architecture we’d seen throughout the country, the vibrant city life, the long stretches of hills and valleys spotted with signature gray-green olive and almond trees, not to mention the bursts of brilliant colors that were everywhere during the festivals we visited. I figure the Spaniards must hold some kind of record for number-of-festivals-per-year.
One of our favorite travel writers made a comment that touches on more than the surface sights and sounds of Spain, as exciting as those can be. “Travel is recess,” he wrote, “and we all need it.” Boy is that true. I’d take the school analogy one step further, however. Travel can also be a much-needed field trip, where you not only see the sights but where you expand your knowledge base and broaden your life-experience in ways that you never imagined. Much of that takes you by surprise as you strike up a conversation with a local vendor, or the exchange students sitting next to you as you wait (and wait!) for a bus. There was the man sitting across the aisle from me on one of our flights who is one of the executive directors at Cedars of Sinai Hospital and who has a perspective on health care reform you rarely hear discussed on the news. That was unexpected.
These “souvenirs” don’t make it into scrapbooks, but maybe they should. They are takeaways of timeless value, giving you a perspective that expands your horizon and enriches your life. You return home refreshed, educated, and in a better place.
Sure, I liked recess in school as much as every other kid, but I can’t say that recess was anything close to life-enhancing. I can say that this trip was.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Wednesday, Thursday & Friday, September 9, 10 & 11
Barcelona is the Paris of Spain, and that’s where we spent a few days.
Vibrant, grand, bustling, and with sidewalk dining for as far as the eye can see, Barcelona is a creative blend of old and new, no more evident than in the city’s architecture. We’d be strolling along one of the narrow, ancient alleyways, step through a 2-inch thick hand-carved wooden door, and suddenly we were in a chic café or trendy boutique as modern as we’d ever seen.
Getting around this city on the Metro was a bit confusing at first. We had a tough time decoding the many colors, numbers, names and shapes they use to identify routes. But with a minimum of adventurous detours we were eventually where we wanted to be.
Our first day was everything Gaudi, Barcelona’s most famous artist and architect. His playful use of curves and arches permeate the houses, apartments, park and church that are the result of his public-spirited creativity and that draw long lines of visitors. He struck me as the Walt Disney of design, defying convention and playing to the crowds. Enjoy the photos we took.
After climbing hundreds of steps through Gaudi’s structures, and having put many sightseeing miles under our belts traveling from upscale uptown to urban chic downtown to the breezy boardwalk along the harbor’s edge, we finished days one and two dining on tapas, giving our feet a much-needed rest, and checking the map for our final half-day's journey. It too would take us through the tapestry of neighborhoods that makes Barcelona unforgettable -- and difficult to leave.
Ahead would be our final stop – the sun-drenched coastal paradise of Cadaques.
Venga!
Vibrant, grand, bustling, and with sidewalk dining for as far as the eye can see, Barcelona is a creative blend of old and new, no more evident than in the city’s architecture. We’d be strolling along one of the narrow, ancient alleyways, step through a 2-inch thick hand-carved wooden door, and suddenly we were in a chic café or trendy boutique as modern as we’d ever seen.
Getting around this city on the Metro was a bit confusing at first. We had a tough time decoding the many colors, numbers, names and shapes they use to identify routes. But with a minimum of adventurous detours we were eventually where we wanted to be.
Our first day was everything Gaudi, Barcelona’s most famous artist and architect. His playful use of curves and arches permeate the houses, apartments, park and church that are the result of his public-spirited creativity and that draw long lines of visitors. He struck me as the Walt Disney of design, defying convention and playing to the crowds. Enjoy the photos we took.
After climbing hundreds of steps through Gaudi’s structures, and having put many sightseeing miles under our belts traveling from upscale uptown to urban chic downtown to the breezy boardwalk along the harbor’s edge, we finished days one and two dining on tapas, giving our feet a much-needed rest, and checking the map for our final half-day's journey. It too would take us through the tapestry of neighborhoods that makes Barcelona unforgettable -- and difficult to leave.
Ahead would be our final stop – the sun-drenched coastal paradise of Cadaques.
Venga!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, Monday & Tuesday September 6-8
Yes, the ugly rumor is true. There are places in the world where there is no Internet access. One of them, we discovered, is in Ronda, a charming ancient town in southern Spain. No rain, or blogging, in this region.
I could retrace our steps and summarize now all that we've seen and done over the past few Internet-free days, from taking the high-speed train from Madrid to Seville, where we rented a car and drove to our destination, a ranch 4 miles outside of Ronda. Ronda was putting on their annual fair, and we didn't want to miss it. It's one of the largest fairs in Spain.
But since a picture is worth a thousand words, and I'm about to connect you to many of the pictures we've taken recently, you will have thousands of words to introduce you to what we've seen. So here's the link. Enjoy!
I could retrace our steps and summarize now all that we've seen and done over the past few Internet-free days, from taking the high-speed train from Madrid to Seville, where we rented a car and drove to our destination, a ranch 4 miles outside of Ronda. Ronda was putting on their annual fair, and we didn't want to miss it. It's one of the largest fairs in Spain.
But since a picture is worth a thousand words, and I'm about to connect you to many of the pictures we've taken recently, you will have thousands of words to introduce you to what we've seen. So here's the link. Enjoy!
Saturday, September 5th
Culturally, Americans and Spaniards have little in common, which is what makes visiting Spain the adventure that it is. Americans don’t routinely begin dinner at around 10pm, for example, or spontaneously dance in the streets, or shut down most businesses at 2pm for a 3-hour siesta. Americans do baseball; Spaniards do soccer – and an occasional bullfight. Americans are wired for high-speed; Spaniards are wired for leisure.
But Friday morning, while on the hunt for my morning Spanish treat – churros with chocolate - I discovered a bit of common cultural ground. Spaniards, like many Bostonians I’ve encountered over the years, will act as though they know for sure – that is, with absolute certainty – that they know how to get from point A to point B. Ask for directions to some shop or restaurant and they will confidently point you in a particular direction and send you off with the utmost conviction that the place is actually there, where they say it is – when it’s not.
That morning we asked three different times and three different people where we could find a café that sells churros with chocolate. The person working the front desk of the hotel, a woman in a local gift shop, and a server at a restaurant (OK, he probably wanted us to get lost since he didn’t sell them himself), and each answered without hesitation. “It’s one street over,” the hotel receptionist told us. We went there and looked up and down and up and down the street. It wasn’t there. Then there was the woman managing a gift shop. “Go through those arches over there,” she said, “over to the next street, and look for it there on the corner.” There were men using jack hammers on that street corner, and there were lots of retail shops on that street, but there were no places selling churros on that street. Trust me, we looked.
Eventually Jo Ann and I walked in a totally different direction than anyone had suggested, spotted a corner café, walked in, and there they were -- stacks of freshly baked churros together with warm, thick-as-pudding chocolate for dipping. I was in paradise.
I’m convinced there are printed instructions for this kind of misdirection, and the central distribution points are probably throughout Madrid and in Boston’s Back Bay. You could ask a local in either city where to find such a pamphlet just so you can learn some tricks of the trade, but you know how that will go.
But here’s one giveaway I picked up from a day or so of wandering in the wilderness. Note how much time elapses between your request for directions and the person’s response. Anything over a nano-second of silence – no matter how convincing they sound when they begin to speak – is a sure sign of trickery. They DON’T KNOW. Step back, thank the person, then leave. If you stay and continue to listen to the colorful directions you will be hypnotized. Trust me, I speak from experience. You will believe they know what they’re saying is true, and that you only need to go through those arches or turn that corner and -- voila! – you’ll be in Camelot. You won’t. You will be in the Land of the Lost.
The Land of the Lost is not a happy place to be. The people there have tired feet and they have frowns on their faces. They’re not happy people. Hungry most likely, but not happy. I know that too. I was there, in the Land of the Lost. If you happen to want directions for getting there just ask me.
But Friday morning, while on the hunt for my morning Spanish treat – churros with chocolate - I discovered a bit of common cultural ground. Spaniards, like many Bostonians I’ve encountered over the years, will act as though they know for sure – that is, with absolute certainty – that they know how to get from point A to point B. Ask for directions to some shop or restaurant and they will confidently point you in a particular direction and send you off with the utmost conviction that the place is actually there, where they say it is – when it’s not.
That morning we asked three different times and three different people where we could find a café that sells churros with chocolate. The person working the front desk of the hotel, a woman in a local gift shop, and a server at a restaurant (OK, he probably wanted us to get lost since he didn’t sell them himself), and each answered without hesitation. “It’s one street over,” the hotel receptionist told us. We went there and looked up and down and up and down the street. It wasn’t there. Then there was the woman managing a gift shop. “Go through those arches over there,” she said, “over to the next street, and look for it there on the corner.” There were men using jack hammers on that street corner, and there were lots of retail shops on that street, but there were no places selling churros on that street. Trust me, we looked.
Eventually Jo Ann and I walked in a totally different direction than anyone had suggested, spotted a corner café, walked in, and there they were -- stacks of freshly baked churros together with warm, thick-as-pudding chocolate for dipping. I was in paradise.
I’m convinced there are printed instructions for this kind of misdirection, and the central distribution points are probably throughout Madrid and in Boston’s Back Bay. You could ask a local in either city where to find such a pamphlet just so you can learn some tricks of the trade, but you know how that will go.
But here’s one giveaway I picked up from a day or so of wandering in the wilderness. Note how much time elapses between your request for directions and the person’s response. Anything over a nano-second of silence – no matter how convincing they sound when they begin to speak – is a sure sign of trickery. They DON’T KNOW. Step back, thank the person, then leave. If you stay and continue to listen to the colorful directions you will be hypnotized. Trust me, I speak from experience. You will believe they know what they’re saying is true, and that you only need to go through those arches or turn that corner and -- voila! – you’ll be in Camelot. You won’t. You will be in the Land of the Lost.
The Land of the Lost is not a happy place to be. The people there have tired feet and they have frowns on their faces. They’re not happy people. Hungry most likely, but not happy. I know that too. I was there, in the Land of the Lost. If you happen to want directions for getting there just ask me.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Friday, September 4th
Spain’s got talent!
Last night our taste buds were treated to tasty Spanish food and dance. Casa Patas was the restaurant/bar/tablao (cabaret-style theater) that's tucked away on a side street in Madrid but hardly off the radar of those who were looking for tantalizing tapas or fiery flamenco. The college abroad “tapas crawl” crowd, local adults, and we tourists dropped in at Spain’s typical dinner hour of around 10:00pm. When I first heard of the Spaniard’s reputation for late-night dining I imagined quite a party crowd filling the restaurants. In fact, the summer sun here doesn’t set until around 9:30pm, so dinner at ten isn’t unusual at all.
As much as I love tapas, I admit that my system didn’t come programmed to order small portions of anything. So my first inclination is to request supersize. The bad news: that’s not an option with tapas. The good news: Jo Ann is more measured and almost without fail I’m quite content with the four or five appetizer-size dishes she asks for – in Spanish! We’ll have gambas (prawns in garlic oil), chorizo (sausage), tortilla espanola (Spanish potato omlette), and maybe boquerones (anchovies) when ordering tapas. Add some bread at the table, follow the meal with dessert and, believe it or, you’re ready to push away from the table when you’re done.
At that point we didn’t have far to go. In the adjoining tablao we sat just a few rows from the young cajon player (terrific on the rhythmic hand drum), the gritty-voiced and hand-clapping female vocalist, the competent musicians, and the slowly graceful but lightening fast feet of the male and female dancers.
Flamenco was common among the gypsies of Spain and was their way of expressing the range of emotions of everyday life, from the signature “cry” and facial expressions representing their heartbreak, loss, or oppression, to the occasional joyous smile and eye-to-eye contact with someone watching nearby. Tonight’s flamenco performance was a refreshing fusion of traditional and jazz, incorporating the sounds of flute and harmonica with the passionate Spanish guitar, and a hint of interpretive jazz movement with the brisk foot-stomping dance.
All-in-all it was the kind of nighttime entertainment that Spain is known for, and the best way to quickly forget the list of to-dos you left at home and connect with an exotic culture that treats you as a friend of the family. Ole!
Last night our taste buds were treated to tasty Spanish food and dance. Casa Patas was the restaurant/bar/tablao (cabaret-style theater) that's tucked away on a side street in Madrid but hardly off the radar of those who were looking for tantalizing tapas or fiery flamenco. The college abroad “tapas crawl” crowd, local adults, and we tourists dropped in at Spain’s typical dinner hour of around 10:00pm. When I first heard of the Spaniard’s reputation for late-night dining I imagined quite a party crowd filling the restaurants. In fact, the summer sun here doesn’t set until around 9:30pm, so dinner at ten isn’t unusual at all.
As much as I love tapas, I admit that my system didn’t come programmed to order small portions of anything. So my first inclination is to request supersize. The bad news: that’s not an option with tapas. The good news: Jo Ann is more measured and almost without fail I’m quite content with the four or five appetizer-size dishes she asks for – in Spanish! We’ll have gambas (prawns in garlic oil), chorizo (sausage), tortilla espanola (Spanish potato omlette), and maybe boquerones (anchovies) when ordering tapas. Add some bread at the table, follow the meal with dessert and, believe it or, you’re ready to push away from the table when you’re done.
At that point we didn’t have far to go. In the adjoining tablao we sat just a few rows from the young cajon player (terrific on the rhythmic hand drum), the gritty-voiced and hand-clapping female vocalist, the competent musicians, and the slowly graceful but lightening fast feet of the male and female dancers.
Flamenco was common among the gypsies of Spain and was their way of expressing the range of emotions of everyday life, from the signature “cry” and facial expressions representing their heartbreak, loss, or oppression, to the occasional joyous smile and eye-to-eye contact with someone watching nearby. Tonight’s flamenco performance was a refreshing fusion of traditional and jazz, incorporating the sounds of flute and harmonica with the passionate Spanish guitar, and a hint of interpretive jazz movement with the brisk foot-stomping dance.
All-in-all it was the kind of nighttime entertainment that Spain is known for, and the best way to quickly forget the list of to-dos you left at home and connect with an exotic culture that treats you as a friend of the family. Ole!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Thursday, September 3rd
Transatlantic travel still amazes me. We nod off as we leave the soggy ground in Boston and several hours later we're awakened by the pilot's welcome as we touch down in the bone dryness of Spain.
Staring out the window as we approach the terminal in Madrid I flashed back to a man I hadn't thought about in decades. I met him in Bakersfield, California, and had commented to him that I had just made the drive there from Los Angeles (about 90-minutes). He looked up and said, "I've never been to Los Angeles."
Long pause.
“Really?” I said in disbelief. This guy must have been in his late 30’s, he owned a nice car and had a decent job, as I later learned. There wasn't any hardship preventing him from making the trip. And yet the 2nd largest city in the U.S. was 90-minutes south of his front door and he simply never bothered to take a peek.
There was a graduation speaker who, many years ago, encouraged his audience to see the world. I wish this guy had heard him. He said, “Imagine having the means to travel and yet going nowhere.” I wondered if that guy is still there, still sticking close to home.
Why does that matter? Lots of reasons actually, not the least of which is that a stay-in-your-comfort-zone-at-all-costs attitude is a barrier to discovering the whole spectrum of life that's here to be lived. This isn't so much about exotic travel; it's about getting to know the neighbor just down the street, in the next city, or perhaps across the ocean. As one person illustrated the point: “Imagine you love reading books and one day the librarian mentions there’s an upstairs.” And to think you might have missed it.
What holds us down? I imagine it's the usual suspects: ignorance and fear. They hold us in our seats and rob us of the wonder, the mobility, the happiness, and the joys we experience when we venture out of our boxes and see what life has to offer -- and embrace it. If we’re not open to learning something new about a nearby community or a faraway land, it’s more difficult to spot what's new and good here in our own lives.
I'm heading into a country where I can't speak the language, where I don't know most of the people, and yet where I'm convinced there are exciting discoveries to make, people to meet, unfamiliar cultural practices to get used to, and because of all that an enormous value to be added that will enrich my life.
I think I hear that librarian whispering to me, “There’s an upstairs!”
Staring out the window as we approach the terminal in Madrid I flashed back to a man I hadn't thought about in decades. I met him in Bakersfield, California, and had commented to him that I had just made the drive there from Los Angeles (about 90-minutes). He looked up and said, "I've never been to Los Angeles."
Long pause.
“Really?” I said in disbelief. This guy must have been in his late 30’s, he owned a nice car and had a decent job, as I later learned. There wasn't any hardship preventing him from making the trip. And yet the 2nd largest city in the U.S. was 90-minutes south of his front door and he simply never bothered to take a peek.
There was a graduation speaker who, many years ago, encouraged his audience to see the world. I wish this guy had heard him. He said, “Imagine having the means to travel and yet going nowhere.” I wondered if that guy is still there, still sticking close to home.
Why does that matter? Lots of reasons actually, not the least of which is that a stay-in-your-comfort-zone-at-all-costs attitude is a barrier to discovering the whole spectrum of life that's here to be lived. This isn't so much about exotic travel; it's about getting to know the neighbor just down the street, in the next city, or perhaps across the ocean. As one person illustrated the point: “Imagine you love reading books and one day the librarian mentions there’s an upstairs.” And to think you might have missed it.
What holds us down? I imagine it's the usual suspects: ignorance and fear. They hold us in our seats and rob us of the wonder, the mobility, the happiness, and the joys we experience when we venture out of our boxes and see what life has to offer -- and embrace it. If we’re not open to learning something new about a nearby community or a faraway land, it’s more difficult to spot what's new and good here in our own lives.
I'm heading into a country where I can't speak the language, where I don't know most of the people, and yet where I'm convinced there are exciting discoveries to make, people to meet, unfamiliar cultural practices to get used to, and because of all that an enormous value to be added that will enrich my life.
I think I hear that librarian whispering to me, “There’s an upstairs!”
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