Tag: Spain

Impersonating a Pilgrim

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When in Rome one must do as the Romans do, and when in Santiago de Compostela this equates to attending the highly anticipated Pilgrim’s Mass, held in the city’s mighty Cathedral. With all the steps I had accumulated during my trip so far (remember Cinque Terre?) I felt it only rational that I, too, should be greeted by God / blessed by Baby Jesus / venerated by the Virgin Mary (or whatever one is granted at this kind of holy…communion?) (I had no idea what happened at Mass, let alone a Pilgram’s Mass; the only Mass I had ever been to prior was when we spent Christmas at my paternal grandparents’ house in Suffolk when I was circa six, and all I remembered about that was the chocolate fudge cake that was handed out to the congregation after all the boring biblical stuff – a delight at any time, especially when it is served at 8.30 am and constitutes breakfast. I hoped that this was one of the immovable aspects of global Mass protocol, and I was willing to forgive the city for its lack of free hot chocolate (see earlier blog post, The Beginning of the Home Straight) had this been the case.)

Arriving at the Cathedral I was greeted by hoards of pilgrims, all dressed totally appropriately in hiking boots and outdoor trousers, looking just the part and wholly spiritually aware. My appearance was a little different. With my faux-leather jacket (faux-fur collar in check), artificially ripped-at-the-knees skinny jeans and slightly soggy classic Nike sneakers I must have looked like some kind of Galician reject, getting steadily more damp from the ankles up as the puddle water seeped in through the holes in my trainers and spread, as if I were a paper towel, infiltrating every inch of me – right up to my barnet – to create a limp and lacklustre lump. I was determined to attend the Mass none the less, and joined the queue in between two groups of walkers whom I swear, had they not been waiting to enter a house of prayer, would have liked to bat my illegitimate butt out of the line with their oh-so-snazzy walking sticks. Yet I remained undeterred.

As the previous session ended and hundreds of blessed souls filtered out onto the streets we were allowed entry for our turn. We shuffled in slowly and silently, the cathedral already bursting at the seams once inside, and I took up position at the back of the hall, standing, for all of the bloody pews had already been bloody taken. Not only could I not see a thing (due to my height, or lack of) I was also unable to understand a single word (due to the recitation being in Spanish). Hey ho. But, luckily for me, with it being All Saints’ Day I was treated to a show from the Botafumeiro, otherwise described as a 53-kg incense pot which is operated by eight men (known as ‘tiraboleiros’, did you know) and swung around via a system of complex pulleys. This I could see. Given that said Botafumeiro is only used in eleven solemnities throughout the year, I felt really rather smug that I was able to watch the hypnotic spectacle. Not that I knew what it signified, but I’d never say no to some swinging incense action.

The Mass continued and as it did there was evermore movement from the Pilgrims. There was ever such a lot of standing up and sitting back down, and I suddenly became mightily glad that I was not, in fact, seated in a pew. Obviously I had no idea what the meaning behind the movement was, but, as I couldn’t see anything in the first place, it did not negatively affect my experience (but equally did nothing to help my overall comprehension). What it did do, though, was remind me of my Primary School days when my ‘culturally Jewish’ mother used to come in and do assemblies on all things Judaism, a fond highlight being her rendition of “Hevenu Shalom Aleichem” during which she made us stand up and sit down repeatedly throughout. (I was never quite sure why in that instance, either.)

As the more formal proceedings came to a close it was time for bread-eating and signing of the cross, for those that were willing and confident enough to walk to the centre of the stage. I was neither, and felt that taking a bite of bread would be one step too far in Pilgrim-fraudulence, and so made a dash for it before anyone found me out.

The Botafumeiro (left) during Pilgrim’s Mass at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela on All Saints’ Day 2017

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The Beginning of the Home Straight

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Once satisfied with my pursuit of Portugal’s picturesque coastline I crossed the border back into España, now very much on the last leg of my trip. As much as I endeavoured not to start the countdown to my return home – having just a couple of week’s worth of pitstops (and barely a week’s worth of budget) left to go – I couldn’t help but gaze fondly ahead to the Eurostar journey back to London St Pancras and the already-planned champagne reception met Moeder Moo Moo. Whether it was the anticipation of home, the grey autumnal weather, or the utter exhaustion of one hundred and seventy six days on the road taking its toll (yes, I did just count), I was starting to feel lethargic, lacklustre and a little bit lonely. And I couldn’t think of what better a state to be in to empathise and converse with those who had just completed the mighty Camino de Santiago.

Having only first learnt about this network of pilgrimages during earlier stages of my trip (feeling an utter pleb for the duration of my first conversation concerning it; a scholarly superior during my second), I was eternally grateful for my crash course four months prior as I entered the holy land, swarming with travellers far more saintly and spiritual than I could ever hope to be. Not only could I name-drop Eliot and Stuart, two real-life people that I had met in other countries, at separate instances, who had completed the Camino themselves (somehow I felt this made me a more legitimate visitor to the city), I could also, on occasion, blame my lack of energy on “all the walking”, and hope that people believed that I, too, was a now-enlightened pilgrim who had trekked all the way from the French Pyrenees and was deserving of free hot chocolate / private accommodation / a deep tissue foot massage. (I was offered not one by the people of Santiago de Compostela, and frankly rather disgruntled by this.)

But before I had even reached the city’s bus station, neigh – before I had even embarked on the bus out of Porto – any early signs of loneliness were to be curtailed, cut short, deemed utterly kaput, by a red-haired, toe-ring-wearing, fifty-year-old hippy from Finland. At first when she started talking to me (in Finnish) at the pick-up point I did my usual stranger-danger trick of pretending not to hear. This is a little more difficult to sustain when sitting on the same bench as the suspect; even harden when she starts to touch your arm with her henna-adorned hand. I concluded that I would have to acknowledge her presence at some point, or it might start to look like we were some kind of estranged inter-generational couple with severe communication issues. So I turned to her, my mouth smiling sweetly while my eyes shot out laser rays of irritation and hostility (at which point the handful of henna was removed from my forearm), and admitted, ever so politely, “I’m so sorry, I have no idea what you are saying.” “Ohhww!” howled the now even more animated Finn, “You are not Finnish?” Well. This changed things completely. Being assumed to be Scandinavian? I don’t think I’ve ever received such a compliment. We became then, immediately, bosom buddies, and spent the entire journey gabbling away, lamenting the lateness of the bus, the merits of Porto and our shared longing to partake in the grand Camino but, you know… ouch.

First on the agenda once checked in to our respective hostels was going for a beer, a pastime which I soon learnt to be more of a constant state of being for the Helsinkian. She liked her beer. A lot. I don’t think she ever ordered a glass of water or similarly non-intoxicating beverage, no matter the hour, and I concluded that this was half for the hippyness it afforded her, and half for the plate of free nibbles it was always accompanied with in this part of the country. Unfortunately for me these dishes always contained – mostly only contained – some kind of cured meat, of which I did not care for any more details, and did not care to put in my cake hole. So when we both had a beer, she got double helpings. (Perhaps that’s why she hung around me for so long.) She explained to me, though, that she was really actually a vegan, back home, and couldn’t stand the the concept of using animals as food. But that she broke this rule when travelling, especially when in Spain, for she could live fully-sustained buying only five-to-ten beers a day, and who could say no to that?

But before I realised the slight alcoholism, along with the elastic vegan tendencies, we had to find somewhere for our first (or, for her, first five-to-ten) bevvies. We stumbled upon this lovely little café-cum-bar, in the middle of nowhere, which was really rather busy on this random Tuesday night. With a beer in hand we sat down with some very strangely-dressed people at a large communal table, and soon realised that: a) we had gatecrashed their Spanish conversation class, and b) it was Halloween. I had a headache brewing and a stomach rumbling and was not overly keen to partake in either. Helsinki, on the other hand, had other ideas. (After all, she could line her stomach with all the free jamón she was stockpiling, and her day to day appearance (with all the henna, piercings, red hair) was kind of naturally Halloween-esque.) So after a couple of beers and an attempt to converse in Spanish small talk with a bunch of witches and draculas, I decided to bid bon voyage to my new, spooky, friends (my reason: “all the walking”), heading back to my hostel to make a microwave jacket potato and get a nice early night. (Hashtag living.)

I awoke to a number of photos and videos sent to me via Helsinki (gosh they must have travelled fast) detailing the night before, confirming that it entailed copious amounts of beer, witches, gratis jamón, draculas, and Finnish selfies. I did not regret my decision to pass.

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Taken

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Following a long break in my blog writing (sincerest apologies (since returning home from my travels I have been forced to partake in some strange phenomenon coined “earning money”, as opposed to frivolously spending it (and the vast majority of my waking hours) on local European delicacies and extortionately priced imported bottles of La Chouffe)) one might be concerned for the ability of my memory to recall and conjure (with the vivid description that you’ve all grown to love) the intimate details of my yet untold days spent exploring, which by now – you fear – could be but a distant haze in the ever changing scenery of the old brain box. Fear not my friends. For the following tale is so deeply etched on the surface of my hippocampus that it is truly immovable and totally there to stay. But it is, I hasten to add, the single worst experience which I encountered during my six-month jolly.

It began, as all good tear-jerking (we will get to that part in due course) nightmares do; with a very pleasant opening scene. The sun was fierce on arrival in the city (we’re in Seville now, FYI) (picture an overripe beef tomato caught in a rainstorm and you will be close to the appearance of my face), so the hostel’s PRIVATE ROOFTOP POOL was somewhat of a welcome revelation. The fact that I was also handed a ‘half-price sangria’ token at the reception desk was, too, warmly received (clearly – we were in excess of thirty-five degrees). So off I trotted (definitely not a gallop, and it would be a fabrication to deem it a canter) to my dorm, trading my sneakers for flip flops and my bright red glossy noggin for a more subdued, matte finish. And continued on up to the Sangri-La. Ahh.

During my time spent in Granada the previous week I had (as embarrassing as it is to admit) failed to secure myself a visit to the UNESCO World Heritage Site (and, more importantly, the bloody great photo opportunity) that is the Alhambra. The Moorish (in the Islamic architectural sense as opposed to that of Italia’s pistachio gelato) palace / fortress complex is one of the highlights (if not the highlight) of the region of Andalusia, let alone the whole of Spain, and had come highly recommended to me by every single living sole I had ever graced with the topic of my visit to the city. And I was too bloody late to get a bloody ticket to visit the bloody thing. (Although the very respectable couple (who I met on the free walking tour) who had booked their long weekend away to Granada six months ago – with the chief motivation of wishing to explore the iconic masterpiece – but had managed to neglect the need to pre-book their sightseeing tickets, just like me, made me feel a whole lot better about it.) But now in Seville, with its similarly Moorish, and equally UNESCO-status, Alcázar, I was not going to make the same mistake twice. So I was rather smug indeed as I bypassed the layman’s queue and entered the palace with all the grace and snobbery of a overly egotistical Spanish queen (who had pre-booked her ticket a mere twelve hours prior). The place was spectacular, and did nothing to ease my annoyance on missing its Granadian sibling.

Increasing my love of the city even further was the mushroom- / waffle-esque (and highly controversial due to this bizarre resemblance) timber-framed structure, the Metropol Parasol. It sticks out like the sorest of sore thumbs from the city’s gothic, historic centre, but, for me at least, acted as a rather funky addition to the traditionally beautiful skyline. (And any construction that resembles food has gotta be worth something, hey?) I believe I did said waffle in the best possible way (hair flick followed by fleeting self-congratulatory clearing of the throat). I implore you to follow my lead: The sun was due to set at (let’s say) 7 pm (don’t quiz me on the precise sun path) so I arrived at the ticket office at a respectable six fifteen. For just three euros (I don’t quite know why I’m acting as their international sales rep either, but let’s just go with it) you are permitted free reign to explore the structure, and a nifty one euro discount on a drink at the top floor bar (don’t mind if I do). The slightly tricky part (although only if you are on your lonesome (as I)) is to use the power of thought to keep one of the in-seriously-high-demand tables free while you are queuing at the bar to order your large glass of wine. My power of thought, as it happens, was not very strong at all. With glass of white in hand I hovered, quite obviously, trying to sound out which would be the next party to depart, and thus which would be the next free table on which I could pounce. There was absolutely no movement. I approached a group of three ladies to ask if I could make use of their free fourth seat, to which I was faced with broad smiles and a knowing gaze – they were all total strangers too, and clearly watching the sunset as a lone ranging female was somewhat of a fashion in these parts. So my seat was secured, my wine was in hand, and all I had to do now was watch the city go from day to night. I love this precious time of day in any situation, but experiencing it while in a wooden-beam giant waffle is really something quite spectacular. And once the sun has gone to bed the illuminated swirling walkways take you up, down and around the impressive edifice, before you saunter back home in a daze of mushroom-made wooziness.

All of this sounds far too jubilant for the nightmare weekend for which it had been billed. So now for the bloody great palaver…

It was my third and final day in the city. Having achieved all of my sightseeing goals while the sun did not even think about relenting, all I wanted to do was to lie in the park all day long with nothing much more strenuous that a little bit of reading and a little bit of lunch. So I found my park, I found my spot, and I took up position. It was lovely. I had just downloaded a new book (Laurie Lee’s As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning, which, incidentally, had been recommended to me by the rather respectable couple from Granada) and relished the opportunity to get stuck into the story with merely the reapplication of suncream as a distraction. The hours went by, I topped up my tan, I went for a spot of lunch, and I reassumed my position on the grass. After another hour or so of Laurie I decided to have some horizontal action, and so lay down on my towel and closed my eyes – bliss. To give an idea of setting – I was alone, next to a tree, with a scattering of other groups – teens, adults, families – lying, chatting and playing in the park around me. When I got up to do the next application of sun protection my day suddenly turned sour. My bag was gone. Literally gone. Nowhere to be seen. And in it was my iPhone, iPad, purse, suncream, etc., etc. I thought I was going crazy. It can’t have gone! But it most definitely had.

After talking to some of the groups nearby – who were very sympathetic but had nothing useful to tell me – I went on the hunt for a policeman. I could not find any, and so my search now centred on finding a police station. (It was a Saturday which really didn’t help the police station opening hours situation.) However without a phone I didn’t have a map (note to self: do not rely on iPhone for all of life’s needs), and without a map I was pretty much stuck. And without being able to converse in Spanish I was really up shit’s creek without a paddle. Turns out miming ‘police station’ to less than friendly restauranteurs while somewhat distressed is something of an art form which I am yet to master. Suffice to say that almost three hours after I left the park I entered the estación de policía. After making my statement over the phone to an English-speaker in Madrid I had to wait my turn to be called in to sign it off. A few hours later (God knows how many) I was called in to see the officer. I sat down, showed him my reference number and waited. He printed off the document for me to check and approve, and then waited, watching me expectantly. The document was totally in Spanish and he didn’t speak a word of English. This was going to be interesting… At just that moment there was a knock on the door (I don’t know who was more relieved – me or the police officer). The Polish girl who had also had her bag stolen (right out of her basket while cycling along the street (bastards)) anticipated my current quandary and came to save the day with her abilities in both the English and Spanish languages. She was my angel. (She was my Liam Neeson.) But the story does not conclude here (I regret).

I made my way back to the hostel (again – no map, and probably via the most inefficient route) to cancel my bank cards and find my device serial numbers with which to take, along with my passport, back to the police station to complete my statement (all for insurance purposes – I really couldn’t have cared less for reporting the crime itself). I soon learned that trying to log onto ANY DAMN THING from a unknown device when you do not have ANOTHER FRIGGIN’ DEVICE WITH WHICH TO CONFIRM YOUR IDENTITY is near ruddy impossible. So accessing my email was declined. As was my iCloud. Thank God I had caved and created a Facebook account the month before – at least I could then tell people about my endless frustration. So with passport in hand I made my way back to the police station, by which point it was circa midnight. I waited – again – to be called in to amend my statement, this time with an officer who knew some English. Along with my passport number and serial number of my phone, I wanted to add my hairbrush to the list of stolen items (it’s Mason Pearson, I’d had it since the age of about five, and it’s really fucking expensive). At this point he began to chuckle. He was mocking me for the addition of my hairbrush. At which point my floodgates opened and suddenly we were under Niagara Falls. And it wasn’t just the tears. Snot, too, was cascading down my face, dripping from chin to table, covering my initial (hairbrush-less) statement with blobs of yellowing gunk and pools of inky mess. It really wasn’t my greatest hour, but I have never been so thoroughly and genuinely apologised to in all my life (must remember that one).

Off I trundled back to the hostel once more (at some point in the early hours), longing for some rest but wondering how the heck was going to wake myself up the following morning with no electronic device, no alarm clock, and not even a ruddy analogue watch to know that I had overslept and missed my bus / stare at all not night long to prevent any bus-missing. At the hostel reception desk was a lovely man who reinstated my faith in the kindness of humanity. Clearly seeing there was something the matter (whether he could tell I had been crying or assumed I had been victim in some sort of savage gunge-throwing attack I will never know), he offered to personally wake me up at 7.15 am to ensure I caught the next morning’s bus. He did, I made the bus and I am eternally grateful.

Pie Yay Ya

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If you thought Barcelona (or my cooking class instructor Alfredo) might have paella’d me out you would be very, very wrong. Turns out it had merely whet the old appetite. Because the next destination on my list was in fact the place in which paella was born (, raised, and catapulted into a national, neigh – international – superstar. (I’m sure Simon Cowell has shares in that partnership somehow.)) And when one is in the home of such a renowned (and often butchered) dish, one simply has to taste the original creation (or one of the three hundred claiming to be at least). Now let’s get the technicalities over and done with right away. Paella is not a dish. Well. It is. It is a dish. Literally. It is the pan within which the cooking happens. The contents therefore are referred to by ingredient: seafood paella, chicken (? 😱) paella, vegetable paella, etc., etc.. One must never go to a Spanish (particularly Valencian) restaurant and order just ‘paella’; the best outcome would be a hearty side portion of ridicule and pity, the worst being presented with an empty pan with which to cook your own meal. So that’s your first piece of insider know-how. (You’re welcome.) Second up is timing. Paella is always eaten at lunch time, never in the evening. The (very sensible in my opinion) reason for this is that YOU SHOULDN’T EAT A BLOODY GREAT (in both senses of the word) PORTION OF RICE JUST BEFORE GOING TO BED! Seems sensible, hey? The Spanish prefer to have their bigger meal at lunchtime to allow themselves the time necessary to properly digest the heavy food (and then snack on a little tapas in the evening if the tummy rumbles start to holla (or should I say ola)). So never order paella (seafood / snail / something else) in the evening as a) you will again be served an appetiser of mockery and shame, and b) you will be served the lunchtime service’s scraps. So (to recap for the over 60s readers 😉) go at lunchtime, order a ‘seafood paella’, and celebrate with a jug (or five) of sangria (you always deserve it).

I became a member of a very bizarre threesome during my stay in Valencia. (NOT sexual in ANY way, THANK THE LORD.) The first member of the group was the Danish post-grad student Johannes. Never out of his royal blue football shirt (literally never (we were in the same dorm which makes me a reliable eye witness (even post-shower (of which I was definitely not a witness) the shirt went straight back on))) and barely ever out of bed (I arrived at 5 pm and he was still napping), Johannes had (in the least offensive way possible) wild, unbrushed, overgrown hair; a questionable wardrobe; and a less than impressive conscious to unconscious state ratio. However. Appearances can be deceiving, and luckily, despite the very tangible, questionable hairdo, dress sense and sleep pattern, Johannes was fun and chatty and, most crucially, up for some tapas for dinner. Completing the trio was the American bartender Chad. At just 21 years old he was a calm, contented and cheery traveller (after the first 30 minutes of our co-existence, during which he made no noise whatsoever, made not a second of eye contact with anyone in the room (which was probably just me and sleeping Johannes, though, to be fair to him) and kept his headphones firmly in his ears). But with my friend-making neurones furiously firing I soon got beneath the near silent exterior and had myself a dinner date for three at a local tapas bar. (Chad was even up for sharing some sangria which gave him multiple bonus points.)

Following our calamari-fuelled bonding session, naturally we attended the city’s daily free walking tour the next morning as a well-established posse (we definitely gave the current Sugababes line up a run for their money). If you have never before partaken in a free walking tour you will be unaware of the fate you put in the hands of your guide when you sign that sheet / scream your nationality / walk with the group to the first talking point. You will either have signed up for two to three hours of entertainment, insight and great recommendations, or two to three hours of annoying, unfunny, cringeable jokes, boring history about the city (featuring the country’s past three thousand Royal Heads of State) and unjust, clearly paid-for, plugs for the most touristy spots in town. This tour was unfortunately one of the latter. Let’s start with the guide herself. A perfectly chirpy young Spanish woman (my word do you need to be chirpy to get through multiple hours worth of Civil War stories without wanting to shoot yourself in the head) led our group, but who’s ill-fitting attire was so offensive to me that I do believe it negatively impacted my overall enjoyment of the outing quite substantially (or at the very least added to the shitness). Her bright orange company t-shirt (I know I can’t blame her directly for that) was not only blinding the old retinas, but also showed off her three-cup-sizes-too-small bra which housed (just about) her buoyant bosom, which got more and more animated as the climax of each story neared. I honestly didn’t know where to look. And it wasn’t just the bazookas that had me bewildered. For the first HOUR (no exaggeration) we did not move from the main square in which we initially gathered. We did move within the square (by distances no greater than 25 metres each time) which just made things even more disconcerting. Eventually we (and the bouncy boobs) moved from the main square to other areas of the city, and for a further two hours were fed (un)interesting facts and dried fruits (I kid you not – pulled out of dear María’s rucksack (actually one of the highlights of the tour)), before the three-piece dream team made a run for it without paying the voluntary (100% expected by every tour guide there ever was and ever will be) tip, and escaped to find some lunch in the home of the sacred paella.

And oh was it pie YAY ya. Seafood paella for three, served in one large paella (the pan, remember), after enough of a wait to suggest they definitely made this thing from scratch and to order. It was sticky. It was chewy. It was dark and tempting. Spread thinly across the vast pan it had just the right amount of char and crunch around the edges while being comforting, rich and melt-in-the-mouth. We scraped the dish clean in ten minutes flat. And thus the tour, the square and the jubilant jubblies were all forgiven in a matter of mouthfuls.

As for the city itself? Beautiful cream, brown and rose gold hues adorned the decorative buildings, and every spare wall was crammed full with the most bizarre and wonderfully grotesque street art, creating an enticing, almost hypnotic juxtaposition which I, for one, ruddy loved. Right up my street, honey. (Literally.) Adding yet another dimension of magically misplaced construction was the Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències (I’ll let your translation skills flex with that one), just a short walk away from the central (bloody) square. Comprising of futuristic, spaceship-type structures (one of which I’ve now (almost three months later) discovered is a huge digital 3D cinema (!)); large hatted-head sculptures (my personal favourite being a rather serene and eloquent lady donning an oversized, slanted cowboy / floppy sun hat hybrid, named Pamela); and a great expanse of water filled with multiple human-sized hamster wheel / bubble type sphere situations, each of which inhabited by an energetic youngster trying to stand up and roll around on the water (a great invention by frustrated parents wanting a break from the little rascals if you ask me). A relaxed sunset stroll through the seemingly never ending stretch of adjoining parks and gardens took me along the outside of the city and back to the hostel in the intriguing and beautifully mis-matched centre. Surely it was time for some more paella by now?