Last day wanderings...

Can't say we never tried, right?

Budapest boasts: FashionableFowl

That multicolored centraleuropean charm I wrote of

Last Night East - Castle hill and Pest cafébar

PestEats - Mangelica pig festival

Not sure if these ones got eaten too, but they could definitely
smell which way the wind was blowing...

PestEats - Mangelica pig festival

Stirrin' the pot - goulash for all

Mustardy pork and onion fantasy (loose translation) -
One of the best meals I've had in europe. Ate that entire plate and wanted more.

PestEats - great market hall

Market stalls below the massive roof for everyday groceries
and life-changing pastries
----

Food fair diners on the mezzanine fill you with hot wine and stuffed cabbage
while you pick out ChainBridge tshirts and castle hill ashtrays

Street Shots: Pest

TravelsEast iii

The sun was shining weakly when we got up on our last day. An easy morning, more tea and the couch. We knew we had seen much but there was much left to see. I do not like to run a trip if I can help it, so I put it to erik where we should go. We would have to return before 2pm, and it was coming on 10, so we had only time enough for one good trek. Even before arriving, erik had expressed desire to see this island dividing the Danube between Buda and Pest, and he repeated this to me then. Coats on and belly's empty we made our way north to pass the parts of the city we had been wandering throughout thus far. Our plan was to find a café and breakfast with old world wood and glass before crossing to the island.

We rounded Koroly Ave for the last time and came back upon the plaza in front of Chain bridge and the majestic art-nouveau hotel across from it. The sun continued to persist through the clouds and the streets were emptier than ever. I don't remember what we talked about, and maybe we didn't talk at all. Erik is good to travel with. He appreciates the experience of a city without needing to visit museums and castles. He shares a passion for food, and you find it easy to be silent around him. There's no need to talk if there's nothing you need to say. We continued north taking whatever streets had intirguing views or attractive corners and began to see great spires above the tops of buildings. Around us the sidewalk transformed to pink marble, and a great space opened up ahead of us. We passed a final building corner on our right and fell into the plaza in front of St. Steven's Basilica. The massive beige recangular stone building shot high into the sky as though it had been hurled down from space and landed with the force of a comet. Statues occupied inlets in the walls and up above the arches and windows were 3 green copper domes, one great and two small. Inside, it was not much darker than the overcast morning and many people sat for mass. Churches always seem harder to appreciate during Sunday mass. It's like going to a car show instead of finding your dream car under a tarp surrounded by dusty parts in a garage. People came in behind us and took pictures and I wanted to leave. The dark green walls and gold accented, polished marble pilasters were no less impressive, but they just didn't have the charm under such exposure. We looked out on the paved plaza before turning away and continuing toward the island.

We came into another plaza and the green grass and dark buildings were nice after the monstrous cathedral. The only remaining soviet monument - a peach stone obelisk topped by a gold 5point star and hammer/sickle - stood at the end of the sqaure and we stopped to consider. directly beyond it to the NorthWest stood the famous Hungarian Parliament building. As soon as I saw the dark red dome and the white stone walls I recalled having seen it in so many architectural history slides. The burgundy dome is ribbed on the outside with black sinews that meet at the apex and stab upward like a great black javelin. We walked over, took some fotos, and laughed to ourselves when we heard some women talking about what would never fly in America. At this point we were hungry and began hunting for a café.

Further north, as the sun began to beat the clouds we stepped into a bright spot with large windows and wooden tables beside a small riverside park. The coffee came almost white in a tall skinny glass like the ones used for cocktails so we opted to eat somewhere a little less strange. Across the street we went into a much more traditional place with yellow walls, large mirrors, and a mezzanine level around the wall. The waitresses all wore some kind of apron/blouse combination uniform and the tall blonde barrista was one of the most beautiful women of the trip. Food here was a mistake. Words we didn't recognize were much more appetizing on paper than plate. I think I got a shit version of a scone and E-rok, a cinnamon roll. They charged me for the butter to spread on my stale butter pastry. Caloric intake out of the way, back into the sun.

We consulted a map and found that Margaret (Margit in Magyar) Island was right in front of us. I think we could see it from the windows of the funny coffe place. Across a bridge and down onto the island among runners, bikers, familys and 4-seater bicycles. We talked about running regularly around the island on the trails provided if we lived there. Another place I've gone to leaving with the desire to reside. That always seems to happen. I used to declare that "I will live here" every time I took a weekend trip from London to Europe. I think I still have 3 or 4 countries that I'm committed to. The other day I was rereading a journal I kept from my days in London and I came upon my first trip to Spain. It was late and the hunt for food and nightlife was a poor success and I had written that it was my first Eurotrip that I would rather not repeat.

Margit is a long, narrow isle straddled by the Danube amid the northern areas of Buda and Pest. It is mostly fields and trees but it contains some strange structures and places of dubious appearance. Trails encircle and interweave throughout, and along them vendors sell the delicious hot red wine and the less so but still good hot white version. There's food too, maybe corn. or roasted nuts. Probably would have been better than the scone. In the fields people kick soccer balls and throw things to one another, and run with dogs or sticks or children. You may pass low, moss and mold covered concrete structures that appear out of use. The mold is because the island is wet. The dirt gives way under your feet like right after rain, and now I recall that it did rain the previous day. By now the sun had lost to the clouds and the wetness felt wetter under the lead sky. After watching brothers and sisters struggle for control over multi-person cycles and children struggle through mud in small and annoying motorised cars we came upon a zoo. Just sitting there. All we saw were birds, I guess making it an aviary, and they were the standard fare. Fowls, eagles, peacocks. The strange thing was the style of duck or rooster. Same bird, but totally different appearance. Like a futuristic catwalk. Everyone crowded at one corner around a peacock exposing the full power of his plummage to a completely indifferent female. We passed an old stone church that smelled of cellar inside and a small settlement of stone wall ruins preserved with cement. Some park complex with a tower that was closed off and then a hotel restaurant at the far end. Before leaving we passed some scary looking motel recreation center on the Buda-facing side that looked to have been abandoned years ago. Horror films could be shot there.

Back on the bridge we took to the island we marvelled at the view of the parliament riverside facade. What began as a move to get a better angle became a decision to head back on the Buda side, as it was now time to retrieve our things from the bubble. This time we stayed low, along the river and below castle hill. Some amazing views of what has become one of my favorite buildings in the continent mixed with street views of the older half of BP. Something about the colder European architecture attracts me. It's tall. It's less uniform in colors of cream, white, or peach. In Buda it's uneven and fitted into the sharply rising hillside. Bars beckon with signs of good beer and pancake houses wail like sirens. It's old and calm, textured and colored. Not assuming airs of majesty or preeminence. Just a cohabitation meant to be somewhat efficient and very pleasant.

Crossed chain bridge for the last time and looked down at the wide river below. By now the feeling of departure was set and work was on the mind. We both wanted to stay and eat more pork and drink more palinka (hungarian brandy that will destroy your palate and gullet), but neither of us spoke about it. We mostly walked back in silence, noting that a strange aspect of Pest is how new so much of it looks within what Olga told us were the old city walls. Then I remembered reading about how much of the city was bombed during the last world war, and again we fell silent. How such a place could be treated as a commodity or casualty of war. It's like were always children, never seeing beyond the scrapes on our knees no matter how old we or the world seems to get. We stepped into a famous café that Erik had wanted to see and felt the cold indifference of commercialism. The place had a history and capitalised on that to stifiling degree. I think only tourists and madonna go in there. Back at the hostel, we picked up our things. I wrote a short note poorly expressing my appreciation for all the Olga had done, but she turned up just as we were about to take off so there were hugs and sadfaces. Out the door, a breif moment of panic in the metro as we realized we had no clue about the direction, standing in the dark grey rain by the construction site we had cheerily viewed days earlier in the sun, and into the airport for some buffet salad and duty free liquor.

...

That was our first trip outside Spain since arriving on the anniversary of Columbus' big day. It had been four months in Madrid. Within four months we all met our present group of friends, cohabitants, and coworkers. We went to school again and graduated again. We started our present careers. New barrios became known, good friends flew home, and we occasionally made our way to different ciudades in Spain. The Hungarian trip was healthy. We didn't go there to party, and we didn't go in a large group. I'm not even sure we would have gone together if we were back in our familiar homes. For me, the draw to eastern Europe had been present for at least 2 years. I don't recall what set it off, maybe reading Bulgakov or Dostoevsky, maybe just tiring of western osmosis. Maybe it was hearing that women from those countries love American men, or even playing Goldeneye as a teenager. Either way, that drive has been an influential force in my life for a while now. It's a large part of the reason I'm in Spain now. Bulgaria was my first choice. For Erik, this whole time has been his first trip from the patria and I imagine it has been inside him for some time as well. We were two, then, bound by a common desire to experience something fresh. We spent 48 hours feeling the city with our eyes and looking for something with our legs. Neither of us could have said what, and I don't think we could now. But it was good to get out of Spain. Good to get away from our jobs and our flats and our gang. Good to get away from tapas and Mahou. The taste of the food, the smell of the air, the sound of our steps echoing off the heavy stone walls is all gone, but it made a difference. I go back there at times, and I'm back there now. As with every place I have ever been. Even hospital beds and jail cells. The faces of the people I met are still smiling in my mnd, though they may be sleeping or crying today. I left Budapest with a feeling of accomplishment and affirmation, but incomplete. I felt foreign there and I desired to be at home. But at home there. I walked the streets thinking about what I would be saying to or where I would be leading the person I brought back with me. Do all these things, to do them again. As I try and draw some concrete conclusion about travels from this lengthy account, I'm reaching. Maybe that's what it always is. Reaching even when I'm there or have been there. Reaching back for the first time since the last time. I don't know where it will take me but it feels right and, either way, I just can't stop.

TravelsEast: BudaPest ii

I awoke from my bed feeling truly rested. A night in clean, flannel sheets on top of a larger, more comfortable mattress than I have been using for the past 3 months was one of the best parts of the trip. What's more, I had gone to bed nearly sober so my stuff was all arranged and I made sure to get comfortable instead of laying down fully clothed. For these reasons, it was a treat to wake up in Budapest. We headed down to the kitchen and took our time making our smuggled tea and planning our day. Olga helped us decide on a few places of interest while erik checked online and found a festival in city park later in the day. We suited up and headed south to the great market hall.

We walked for about fifteen minutes through they grey and somewhat chilly day as the skies began to lightly open up and we finally felt what we imagined to be the meteorological equivalent to the soviet experiment. Walking by the national museum, we gazed in through the stern iron fence. On barron dirt stood a few concrete plinths supporting bronze and copper busts of former leaders and heroes of the people, and some children played with a dog while a grandma or great aunt watched. Beacuse of their size, the streets seemed empty though there were people walking, as if the city had experienced a recent exodus. As we neared the river we came upon the massive red and golden brick market hall on our left.

Inside, the place is like the early train stations that the impressionists loved so much. Massive, spacious interior supported by a network of thin but strong iron lattice that allows for a feeling of maximum openness. We took a staircase to our right up to the second level, so we could get a good view of the whole place. Down below us, residents did their routine shopping in the massive produce market, buying cured meats, fish, fruits, vegetables, bread and various oils and vinegars, all at separate specialized stalls. One directly below us must have been of specific interest because it drew a substantial crowd. Later, we would hunt for some local cheese until nearing the exit, where we realized that the crowd came for the only cheese stall. Anyway, up top we walked by people already getting beer and realized it might be a good time to get some eats. Thus began our no reservations tour of Budapest, as we passed stall after stall showing dozens of local dishes and accompanyments. We stopped at one so erik could get a massive stuffed cabbage drenched in sour cream and liberally seasoned with paprika, the national spice. I had a few bites and got myself some hot wine. Different from the english variety, the hot wine in budapest is less spicy. Some low quality, big fruity red brewed with cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg and some other sutff yields a most delectable beverage. I must have had 4 or more that day, and maybe 2 the next. Which is saying a lot, because I went for the large size every time.

Sated and buzzed, we walked around looking at the typical tourist fare: bags hats scarves keychains pens mugs shot glasses ashtrays, all declaring one's visit to the city. A few places sold soviet "relics" and erik got a sick leather bound flask with a hanmmer/sickle red star emblem. I do like that flask. I looked for a while for something for you, mom, but everything was as good or worse than what we could pick out at rastro here in madrid. and i didnt just want to get you a shirt or something with a picture of a bridge and the name budapest. So we walked for maybe 30 minutes until i found a tshirt for a local football team and bargained down to 5euros. As it turned out, the logo has almost completely come off, but its a nice green and now it looks a little vintage, so fuck it.

After looking for cheese downstairs among the odors of a living market, i forced a stop for some pastry and got a delicious thing with some kind of sweet cheese stuffing and sugar butter stuff on top. it was rich yet flaky, sweet and a bit chilly in the thicker-than-creamy center. Heaven. We split that and headed out the door to retrace our steps past the museum and the hostel on our way to andrassy ave, a 2 mile unesco site flanked by rich examples of old european architecture and the eastern penchant for statues. In one rotunda we stood surrounded by 3 massive heroes and one equally scaled but less masculine guy holding a quill and paper where we chose favorites. Erik picked a dude standing on some bodies and I a guy with a flat topped hat, a labrador-tail moustache and a conan style sabre. In almost exactly an hour from the door of the market hall we found ourselves in heroes square, a great open space flanked on either side by classical museums 200 meters apart that gives out into city park through a semi-circular concrete colonnade. In the middle stands a 60 foot obelisk topped by some kind of truth bearing prophet with wild robes and beard, surrounded at its base by 8 or 10 serious dudes on horses. These guys looked like the 12 disciples of badass, 15 feet tall and scultped with the conviction of titans. One guy must have killed an ancient reindeer and fastened the horns on his horses head to look like demon tusks. If these guys were in Lord of the Rings, There would be no question of victory. Whoever they supported would win.

Inside we walked through a craft market where Erik got his own pastry, a larger flaky shell filled with both cheesy stuff and berry preserve, but inferior to the treat from earlier. We headed for the rebuilt transylvanian castle in the middle, where crowds filed in for the annual mangelica (wooly cow-style pig) festival. Inside, more hot wine and some traditional magyar folk performance while we strolled around watching people feast in the light rain and crowd around steaming cups of coffee or wine. eventually the sights became to much and we walked down the side of a long hut until we saw a pot with the most appetizing contents and pointed to it. 12 euros later we found a seat with our 4 pount plates and proceeded to have one of the best meals i have had since i left the states. amazing pork and onion stew in some rich, thick mustardy sauce that makes my mouth water writing about it now. More food matter in a single meal than i have eaten in months, but i could not stop. We walked some more among the stalls serving people dining, drinking, desserting. I would live my last days there, eating until I could no longer move. We came upon a spot where round pink people huddled around cauldrons suspended over flames and shelled out free bowls of goulash, and were tempted to take some, but felt bad about taking advantage when we had already gorged beyond responsibility. We walked off the meal a bit more and got some coffee (which by the way, is awful. it was great to get some quality food and beer, but ill take spanish coffee anyday) before going back out the way we came, stopping again to marvel at the green copper force of heroes before walking back down andrassy ave.

Back at the hostel we basically collapsed and even considered sleeping, were it not for all that we still had not done. Shorty after, the rest of the people from the previous night shuffled in and we all related our day's experiences over some more tea as it was now somewhere arond 4. Erik and I were the only ones with a plan so we got everyone together and headed back out, this time westward toward the danube and Buda beyond. We all crossed the famous chain bridge and exchanged our ideas about its relative majesty as we walked over the river whose breadth astounds me even now, through memory. It's nothing like the Hudson at the tappan zee or what i imaine the widest parts of the mississippi are, but for being in the middle of an old city like that, its a superstar.

On the other side we opted to walk up castle hill, the great incline right in front of us, and took to a stone staircase slicing its way diagonally up the side. every time we looked back a new set of lights had turned on along the bridge or back in Pest so there were plenty of opportunities to stop to catch breath as lilac became violet became plum. We finally reached the top and felt like we were in a completely different place. Pest was a major city that had continued to thrive and grow and adapt over the decades and centuries as I'm sure the rest of Buda had as well, but Castle Hill seemed to have been preserved over a hundred years ago. Bright orange lights spilled along the shiny cobbled floor from their globes above our heads and we looked out over the city some 400 feet or so above. To our right perched a bronze eagle that could have picked any one of us up like a kitten had it only been of flesh. We sat with that tought for a moment when this shysty old man approached us and took out this tiny photoshopped guide liscence and proceeded to advertise his tour. Some of us walked off immediately, but I have to say I was mesmerized by this guys voice. He spoke english with such a strange tone and accent, fluctuating in volume and stress like no human on earth, whistling through his ancient moustache and beckoning us to "save our time and save our money" with him. Eventually I broke from the spell, leaving only erik to fend him off. I wish I could have that guy read to me every night.

So we walked along, for some reason in the opposite direction of the massive stately building guarded by the eagle but toward the small stone village instead. We stopped in a market and exchanged our respective knowledge of eastern beers in front of a cooler before we all got pint sized cans and rolled back out to check out a church with a scaffolded spire and the castle-wall lookout beyond. The lookout was great, like the parapets of some feudal fortress, built into the walls of the hill sloping below us into the river. The only problem was, since the architecture was so picturesque, it was lit from below with some super powerful bulbs to make it visible from all of Hungary, so if you got too close to the edge, the light prevented you from seeing anything. Perhaps to stem suicides, which happened to become the topic of conversation. We strolled for maybe another hour around Buda, talking about countries wed vsited and shit like that until we turned back for some beer and wine in a proper setting.

Back in Pest I led people to a bar I remembered passing the night before, a place similar to the cafe erik and i went to but larger and much more animated. We drank a bit and one of the group left to get ready for the monthly turkish bath party, which the rest of us chose to save 20euros and not got to. So we had a few drinks surrounded by international 20somethings and served by staff that acted as though theyd seen 100 carbon copies of each of us and had had their fill. Still, with the bric a brac furnishings, murals of paintings and toys attached to the walls, and live DJ languidly spinning upbeat yet mellow tracks, it was a good spot to rest.

To round off our anthony bourdaine day, erik and I hit a nearby liquor store. As my funds were dwindling, I went cheap and got something that I couldnt read but I knew would do well in a flask, while Erik went lux and got some pear brandy called palinka. Back at the bubble he couched on the verge of passing out while I alternated sips of our spirits. Mine was just some neutral grain buzz fluid but his was a strange, clear concoction of old bitterness with multiple fruit accents. Interesting though far from lovely.

Flash forward and were back in the condemned building bar, this time with about 6 other travellers in our own private room upstairs having a great conversation about conflicting cultural mores after my proposed get-to-know-you-through-

sexual-confessions drinking game had tanked. It was pretty good for a while until i noticed that erik was not enjoying things and proposed that we move downstairs. He wanted a change of scenery and we had another beer or two and bounced. We went to a few spots but there was nothing spectacular, and certainly no amazing street life like we have here in Madrid, so after one extra shitty bar, the three of us that remained together opted to buy some hungarian "bulls-blood" wine and head back to the hostel. There we drank with a few other people who made it back but again i was hit with the same wave of total fatigue that had come over me the night before and i woke up at some point to olga removing my shoes as i lay on the community couch. I thanked her for her care and scurried upstairs were i curled up and rested for the third and final day of my first journey into strange and ancient eastern europe.

pt iii to follow...

TravelsEast: BudaPest i

I suppose I allowed enough time to elapse since the trip that the memories and motivation to scratch it all down have faded. I am not quite sure why, except that maybe the entire time I was there I was feeling a distinct flavor that I could neither identify nor describe.

Nonetheless we landed in a tiny airport with a lobby rivaled by most city hospitals. I had read that there was no way toward the center other than hiring a taxi or minibus for 10+ people, which of course I scrambled to do before the place could empty. To no avail. Luckily we found the tourist information office telling us to take a 1e bus to the end of the metro system, and hop on into the center from there. Craning our necks throughout the bus ride, Erik and I took stock of a countryside bathed in morning sun and scrubbed of all niceties. Quarries, Fabrication plants, defunct railroads and squat, unsettlingly sketchy concrete skeletons of all-purpose construction sites populated our flanks until we started to pass residential districts composed of square-plot homes topped with inane pyramidal terracotta tile rooves that were as tall as the walls themselves- all set at illogical angles amid grassless plots behind chest-high whitewashed concrete walls. We couldn't decide whether to gape or grin. As I had mentioned, the metro station itself was the crowning image of our preconceived portraits of post soviet haste to industrialize left to rot: a massive plain of all tones of machine, rust reds and steel blues, conrete greys and chemical whites, cautionary oranges and yellows, and dead dirt brown. 200ft high cranes stood motionless like trees left in a clearning and behind them were massive rows of concrete public housing blocks repeating each other in monotone chorus of despair. We each drank a liter can of beer ("sure") as we congratulated eachother on making the trek while our freinds laid around in the comfort of cheap familiarity. The metro itself was a trip to see. The gun-metal blue cars were horizonatally riveted from top to bottom and bore no decoration aside from scratched windows and the necessary identifications. The doors opened abruptly and aggresively, giving way to a lime-green cream interior of hard benches along the walls and a hundred hanging handles resembling beer bottle openers. We flew along the metro line listening to the muffled modyar announcements that we imagined were recording sometime around the invention of the phonograph. Luckily we realized we were in the heart of Pest in time and disembarked into our first disaster.
The escalator is what did it. Those things rise up at somewhere between a 45-55 degree angle, and they climb about 50 feet. I'm no stranger to massive climbing subterranean staircases, but these were a totally different animal. Everyone drifting by looked to be in the middle of a backwards fall, frozen in a still-frame photo of zen. My puppy-like awe must have been painted on my face, making me an easy target for those happy souls whose job it is to screen the metro-riders and fine those who may have neglected to pay the 50 extra Hungarian Florints -Huf- (which amounts to just over 12 euro cents) a total of 6000 Huf. I had faced similar situations in the past and elected to find a money exchange somewhere in the city and return as soon as I found one, but Erik was not so saavy and after paying the 20euro charge, was detained until I returned sullenly defeated by their wisdom. The mission was immediately altered to acquiring strong drink.
Emerging streetlevel was a joy, despite the previous moments. Proud buildings of another time towered over cars speeding to cross the danube, wearing the stains of the years like old gentlemen carrying their canes. Amid the colors of cream, chocolate, cooked earth, and stone were bright tiles, marble statues, and green awnings. We crossed the street, heading south into a small sqaure where the sound of the avenue died down and we were able to take a closer look at the textures of the city. This is where memory fails, and I recall vague fluctuations in surface composition, shape, and height, supporting people of all ages engaged in watching, speaking, moving, flirting, smoking, searching, drinking, touring. Across at an angle we spotted the typical signs of driniking establishements - green canvas awnings, dark wood stained exterior, dark windows with advertisements and names frosted onto the glass. Despite our recent arrival into the city air, we needed to head in to the dim empty room with quietly private wooden booths and ease the shock of our abrasive entry with two tall ass glasses of black as night beer. Dreher bok is thick, heavy and smooth with caramel flavors and tobacco/coffe/cacao notes that leave your palate as drunk as you. Leaving, we felt much more satisfied than when we had entered minutes before. From here we realized we had no idea where our hostel was nor where we were. I remembered that in previous bouts of travelling I liked to take at least one lesson with me, on top of whatever cultural, social, or introspective awakenings that may have occurred. This trip had thus taught me two valuable lessons: 1) always make sure the transport ticket/fare is equal to the distance you need to be traveling at that time and 2) print out the information on travel and accomodation before landing in the foreign country. I know those seem ridiculous at this point of travel experience but thats the funny thing. Only a few months ago Barcelona taught me (for perhaps the second time, im not sure) to always bring a second pair of pants. Really. ANYWAY, the hostel info was easily found at an internet cafe and before we knew it we were walking along the avenue that encompasses the extent of the ancient city of Pest and crossing at the National History Muesum to buzz the hostel door, marked with nothing other than a small brass plaque that reads "Bubble" (for Budapest Bubble), directly adjacent to the massive neo-classical cream colored museum.
Inside we glimpsed our guiding light. Through soft plastic flaps reminding us of old automatic car washes, which we later learned were a vestibule favorite among the more folk-oriented establishments of the city, we first saw her. I have since desribed Olga as an angel, a proprietress of benevolence, and a gravitational force of good. Her smile greets you like your own mother's and her eyes tell you there has never been any sorrow the world can't overcome with love. Then she tells you you are welcome and shows you to one of the two communal rooms. Yours is the larger, upstairs room by the bathroom and washing machine, with half-circle windows overlooking the street and a desk for writing or drawing the small wooden artist's model perched on his post in the air. Your bed is the top bunk but you don't mind because everything is quiet, calm, and clean and your sheets are soft flannel in midnight blue, wrapped around your full twin sized mattress that is larger and more comfortable than the one you pay rent to sleep on in your spanish quarters. She then brings you into the kitchen where coffee and tea are free and the cabinets are stocked with food bought by her and past guests. Olive oil, sachels of fresh hungarian paprika, bottles of wine, apples, and sheesha flavored sheesha. You consider the possiblity of moving in. Somehow you snap out of it and Olga is telling you about the various districts of the city and what is to be found where. Luckily you and erik share similar views of exploring the dark corners and seeking out the ill-exposed and so you both head out to roam the utcas (streets) of the jewish quarter.
The small streets between avenues were quiet and barely populated as we moved away from the danube toward the north and east. Again, a memory of snapshots and basic shapes has replaced a more vivid news reel of hungarian strolling. Buildings here and there appeared to have been riddled with bullet holes as they loomed over narrow streets and even narrower, uneven sidewalks that spoke silently but gravely of not so pasts. We hopped along happily, talking loudly of our appreciation and the feelings inspired by all that we saw, confident that our language fell on deaf, if any ears. I suppose when in the capitol of spain, 1 our of 6 or 7 people can understand you depending on your exact location, you become immune to anxiety of the eavesdrop. As we scurried through the old utcas, stopping here and there to admire some random view between buildings and say some similarly random words about "different" and "cool", we came upon a rather nondescript building whose derelict facade (and open door) beckoned entry. The main hall was not long but retained a cavernous feel, dimly lit and oddly adorned with castle-like objects as one moved beyond black iron gated passages and torch posts. A door at the back left opened into a cafe, the likes of which i do not believe i have ever seen before. High celings with rounded corners like some kind of homemade urban vaulting suspended the most random assortment of chandeliers, air ducts, and brik a brak while music played too softly to be distinguished as anything other than a melody. Behind the bar a young man and woman ducked down and reemerged amid struggles with some imagined technical foe and a group of spaniards sat smoking, hunched over coffees and conversation in the corner. Erik and I got (unfortunate hungarian versions of) cafe con leches and took our own table between the bar and the windows facing the street, drinking as we admired the strange street-art approach to the walls and discussing some or other topic when it popped into our heads. Despite the feeling inside the place, which gave me the impression that, given a pen and paper, i could write like burroughs, the coffee was disappointing and we decided there were better things to do in budapest than strive to be nonchalant and comfortable in a cafe. shit, if nothing else, we could do it in 5 more cafes and have 5 more opportunities to be cool. We left.
By now the streets had left the golden behind and taken on a mixture of copper and plum hues and we decided to cut the shit and head finally for the river. Yet by the time we got back to where we had first stepped on the street earlier in the day, we were both hungry and unwilling to wait much longer. Apparently all it takes is standing outside a window to get service because in no time, a woman was saying good evening to me in every language that I knew existed. Out of reflex I responded to buenas noches and she launched into a tirade of menu options and food descriptions that made me sad to think i could only do such a thing in english eventhough i had been living in spain for 4 months already. still, she was obliging and within another minute erik and I were sat at a table with waters, waiting for our first hungarian dish. A delicious bowl of beef, tiny pasta like bits, and a strongly flavored, dark red sauce of paprika and similar spices sated us like kings and we were out within 10 minutes feeling great. It had been quite some time since we had eaten anything with such robust flavor, let alone with beef. The night was going well as we finally made our way to the massive expanse of the danube, where we walked to the water's edge to rinse our hands. we looked across at the towering hills of Buda and the massive edifice perched atop castle hill to the northwest. from here the city is a gem. everything is marked with glimmering golden lights amid the darkness where forms can still be made out and dance along the great reflective surface of the flowing waters. We walked below the riverside street where the sound drowned at the river's edge and everything towered above. we passed beneath one bridge and looked up river to another - the famous chain bridge that first linked the two cities and was a great source of pride in its day. its difficult to imagine from such a remove, and after drinking my fill of New York City's bridges and the golden gate, it's hard to find awe in too many other places. It is however beautiful, especially at night, and when we got there, the fin-de-siecle hotel on the Pest side bathed in its own light and we crossed the bridge to admire the expanse of the river, the grandeur of castle hill, and the view of Pest for a while before heading back.
On our way back, after taking the popular and beautiful promenade of vichay utca, we turned west toward the hostel until we came upon a towering building that was so dark that it seemed to absorb every ray of light nearby. This alone was an awesome sight, but a glimmer inside the door pulled me inwards and I found myself standing in an interior where words would fail. Classical orders dripping with precious metals and colored marbles, barely illuminated as a chior sang at the altar and i was left speechless, motionless, thoughtless. Since then, something within me has been triggered and I can no longer walk by a church without at least trying to get inside. And since then I have seen none as gripping. It was quite small, esp for the size of the exterior but still it captivated me in the strangest way. I had to pull myself out, but I managed to do so, and by the time we got back to the Bubble, I was brimming with impressions and stories with which to drench my heavenly hostess.
There, we found some of the other guests and made a few friends as we changed, got refreshed, and told gleaming Olga about our walk. She of course knew every place we had been to, but loved our enthusiasm just the same. I still think about how my environment can influence my age and attitude. There were moments there when I felt 18, even 16 again. That may come in handy later on down the line. Anyway, we made plans to meet Olga and whoever else was sticking around in an irish pub where her friends were performing some blues down near the river, and we headed out with a third member from Queens Land, Australia. Along the way, I stopped in a 24h store to get something and saw a guy about my age carrying a curved staff in a bag. I pointed and pantomimed shooting an arrow and the man grinned as he nodded. I expressed appreciation for such a badass trade and he responded by telling me in English that "it's our history". Come again? "it is our history. we are horsemen archers." It took some effort not to explode with enthusiasm for the awesomeness that this guy was made of, and I walked out freshly energized to take on the night. Chance must have been aware of this, because I found myself facing three cute and slightly inebriated Hungarian girls with a random looking guy looking to chat. I began with them until the guy pulled me aside and asked if I knew a hostel in town. Thinking he had come with girls in tow, I was all about telling him exactly how to find the Bubble and by the time I looked up the girls were gone. I could hear chance laughing as the guy thanked me and said he'd see us at the bar after checking in.
An hour or so later, the hostel people were at the bar and we took turns buying overpriced pints and telling stories. The place did not have the crowd we were seeking and just as we elected to leave, another hostel guide offered to take us to one of the nightlife gems. As we walked I began to feel my stamina giving way, and no amount of enerygy drinks acquired along the way were helping. However, he girl proved to be worth her salt as a guide and we found ourselves in a massive, multichambered bar/club night hall drink meet talk spot. The place was packed cavern wall to cavern wall and I was hardly able to notice specifics about the interior other than its labyrinthian nature and jovial atmosphere. I remember talking to and drinking with some of the people in the bar but by this point it was all i could do to keep on my feet. I even recall giving away a half finished beer because I knew it would leave me unconscious. Still we moved, and by the time we walked across town to the rooftop bar where the womenfolk were welcoming and the dancing was on, I was unable to continue and Erik and I were walking back and in our beds before 3am.

Night falls on the Danube

All taken in Pest:

Castle Hill on the Buda side of things


Chain Bridge to Castle Hill


E-Rok's first album cover (or novel jacket-sleeve)

Touchdown in the East...

After landing in BUDAPEST, rode this train...

from outskirts...

...to center

Doy a Vuelta

BEAUTIFUL was today. The sun shone even as I emerged from the metro at 8am and continued unfettered by clouds to the end. Thursdays are usually the best of my workweek - I have only 3 classes and after 15:00, week becomes weekend. Today was different. Here in Spain, many empresas receive federal cash to fund the process of Anglification. Ironic, after all the isolationism still surviving from darker years. Anyway, the government is wary of allowing its loot to reach untaxable outlets such as myself, and they are performing inspections. Consequently I have lost 2 of my classes, 4 hours of my workweek, a decent chunk of my monthly income, and 9 of my students. I had become fairly close with some of them, which made it all the worse when I was told not to tell them that today would be our last meeting. I prepared a lesson around an article on love and relationships, and tried to stimulate as much friendly, philosophical discussion as possible. They excelled in the reading and grammar, and I let them know it. In the last 10 minutes of each class, as in the beginning, I avoided any "English" work and just talked. Talked about them, their interests and opinions and plans. In the end I tried to intimate through subtle hints that I wished them well, but they just left smiling and saying see you next week, as though there deviation had been ousted for good. These were initially my hardest students to win over, as I was already their 4th teacher in a little over a month. I suppose, then, that I should be flattered by their taking me for granted. I wish I could have told them goodbye, though. I wonder how they will feel on Tuesday. I suppose anything would be better than betrayal. But the ego feels as the ego will feel.

Last night, a student interrupted the class to tell me that she thought what we were doing was a waste of time and that she wanted to do exercises or something else. Infuriated, I told her to open her book and work. I then put my head down in an attempt to quell my rage. This was the first 15 minutes of the lesson, and we were studying the grammar rules in the book because the other student had missed them in the previous class. Throughout the lesson I fumed inside, thinking how selfish it was of her to avoid even thinking to consider that the lesson did not revolve around her, that I had more in store in an hour and forty-five minute lesson than 10 minutes of grammar study, that I had scoured books outside of class for answers and spent literal hours trying to figure out the best way to approach the particular subject. I concluded that she was not worth it. If she didn't appreciate all the work I put in for just one of my nine different classes, then she could get fucked. Then I looked at her more than normally haggard face and noticed the cloth she clutched. I realized this woman has a family, and is staying late at a job that she obviously stresses about on the regular, to hear from me until the dark hours when she could be at home sipping rioja. It's ridiculous how we take each other for granted in our pursuit of satisfaction. Satisfaction that, by the way, would probably be much more attainable if we valued what we had and the labor that goes into everything we see and do.

This evening I went out for a walk (doy a vuelta) as the sun went down. Vague missions to find some earwear and search out a few sights, I began after passing the Palace by going into one of Old Madrid's large churches and gaping at altars and statues. I have been drawn to curches since the night in Budapest, but I have yet to find a comparable experience. But I drink them in all the same and love them top to bottom. I hope they never disappear. From there, an easy walk down Calle Mayor took me to the increasingly croweded Puerta del Sol, thinking of my parents all along the way as I stopped in pastelerias (pastry shops) to sample the fare with my eyes and nothing the locations of landmarks, both of my life and the city's. Up the start of the "red light district", Calle Montera is a plethora of urbanity. Prostitutes line the street along with cervezerias, salons de juegos (casinos), souvenier shops, moda (style) shops, gold purveyors, travel outfitters, and one of the city's most modern and dramatic police HQ's. I got some discount earrings and made way for one of the city's landmark and oldest pastry shops, known for their Christmas cake (roscón de reyes) all year round. Along the way I noted a decent wine bar next to a sidreria near the Plaza Santa Ana near Huertas, one of my favorite barrios. It was around this time when I began to crave a companion. I considered calling some friends but the idea that they would not only be busy but wondering what could be on the agenda besides buttressing a mental map with new streets and sitios deterred. I spent the rest of the walk- during which I entered another, less appetizing church, walked by young travellers smoking non-chalantly outside the first place I stayed in the city, and found another wine bar and small Andalucian garden before heading home to type this up as I padded my nerves with some Crianza before shoving steel into my earlobes- wondering what I was looking for. I search out spots to go into, check them out to make sure I would go, and then put them down to memory for another, accompanied moment. I walk randomly in oblong ovals, but with a vague itinerary that I'm not even sure I would want to follow on a different day, let alone expect another to share my motivation. I love every cobble that I tread and every corner that I round, but I know it goes one way, and I wonder how long that can last. Walking, I thought about all the music and movies I acquire in order to share. I half-jokingly imagine myself like someone stockpiling canned consumables for that distant Day. Today my students and I discussed quotes of love, ranging from ultra cynical to equally idyllic. I told them that I read or heard once, in a strangely intimate conversation between strangers, that friends love us as the part that we play in their lives. I am not sure how much they understood me and maybe I wouldn't understand myself. But the resonation has followed me ever since, echoing now down the calles and callejons of my newfound home. Whether or not it's best to walk alone, it was a fine night for it tonight.

Transluscence

ONE WEEK into the month of February and the sun has finally returned to la capital. Yesterday was Thursday, which for me not only begins my weekend but is my shortest day. At 3:30 I was already at my flat eating lunch on the terrace, considering how to spend the remaining four hours of sun. I decided that it was too late to take the metro to a park across the city so I threw on a scarf and some shades and headed out on foot to Retiro. I entered from the SouthWest and walked up a beautiful hill toward the eastward crest. Turning left, I began to amble along a massive boulevard of rollerbladers, bikers, and the octogenarian army. Something to my left kept pulling me off the tarmac and into the green until I finally found myself rolling down a slope along a network of strange statues and busts. All of a sudden I saw through the trees what looked to be the skeletal outline of a roof and stumbled upon the Crystal Palace. Not quite 1851, but a magnificent structure all the same that elected to introduce itself to me at the exact moment of this very sort of day during this very sort of season when it would be able to house all of the light hitting its Western facade within its crystal skin. Chance alone?

...

This week I have realized the folly of dichotomizing the week and its fin. I had been living four days of the week in a hibernation state, working, reading, studying, lesson-planning, and spending no money or time on enjoying myself in madrid. Hours divided up among classes, metro rides, office visits, and home work. Weeks flew by at a speed exceeded only by their ends and the months slipped through my fingers like sand. I spent Tuesday evening with Natalia drinking some of the finest Belgian beer and talking about our lives with a 19 year old Spanish porn star who offered me 3kilos of moroccan hashish to go home with her until Natalia and I finally broke away and got to spend an hour or two sitting with some 1e cañas at a quiet bar in Los Austrias thinking about the absurdity of life. Last night I met with Natalia and Erik and we had a 3 hour tour of Malasaña wine bars smoking, drinking, and talking. Thai people call it sanuk - fun time with friends - and only a short while ago did I realize that the Spanish do it as chronically. Walk down any street with a bar on it and you see groups of Madrileños sitting, talking laughing and gesturing with vivid enthusiasm four hours with no concern of "what are we doing next?" This is what they're doing. And we were able to pull it off with less than 10e. I found this to be one of the best weeks I've had in months, both at and after work as well as bodily and mentally. Chance alone?

I have recently read a book about a British xpat in Paris and it not only helped me consider aspects of my own situation here, but it reminded me of Paris. This of course begged multiple comparisons, and I thought of the nocturnal armies of streetsweepers that scrub each city every night. I recalled that the Parisians turn their rues into waterways as they remove the debris, while I had only seen Madrileños walking down the calles in teams of threes with a wide broom, a small broom and shovel, and a rubbish cart. Last night, as we left el pozo after some basque, rioja, and ribiera del duero copas, we found the streets glistening after the water tanks had driven by and soaked and scrubbed the streets like celebrity teeth. All this on a chance February Thursday. Chance alone?
...

Nieve en la captial

I awoke after a lame date to the abrasive sound of my mobile phone ringing way too early on this past Friday morning. "Go to your window. Motherfucker, run." Only Juan - the young lawyer from Murcia and one of my favorite living creatures - could deliver one of our more vulgar expressions with such limitless charm. And only he could be excited enough about a city blanketed in snow to wake me from my necessary slumber. In truth it was a sight to behold, but I got that over with in less than ten seconds, and returned to my cama to finish dreaming.

In the early afternoon, I made some tea and cereal and headed out for a day of peliculas and medication over at the Tribunal flat. All around me, Madrileños frolicked in the rare weather and made sincere but lousy attempts at snowmen and snowballs. Still, I couldn't shake this morose feeling. Normally I take the street of the kings to that of the holy spirit by foot, but today I was in no mood and opted for the metro. Before submerging, I turned back to look in the direction of my flat and the Palacio and took the shot you see above.

When I got to Juan's we chilled in the kitchen to chat and wash dishes together in order to save the girls from a smoke-filled room. After that we got down to business and threw on Memento, a film I had not yet seen and still cannot rid from my mind. By the time the sun was down my spirits had lifted and the night was on the mind. Later on, as I walked with Brittany toward Santiago's housewarming gala near plaza de Toros, she took my lack of snow-inspired enthusiasm and shattered it with one line. "Snow gives it a reason to be cold."

Daytrip: SEGOVIA

I emerged from my bed between 8 and 9 am on monday morning. had some coffee and cereal and got on the cercanias line which is a train that goes to only select major subway stations to make cross-city commute a snap. of course i got it facing the wrong direction and instead of being one stop away from the Chamartin train sation, i went around the entire city and thus held up the group from catching the 10am slow train for 6 euros. not a huge deal because we got to tide spain's high-speed line a half hour later for 9euros that reduced a 2 hour trip to 30 minutes. the views leaving madrid were gorgeous as we descended down from the plateau of the city and rolled across a mostly barren plain before coming to the foothills of the northern sierra. we passed a gorgeous glass lake surrounded by a small village before plunging into the mountains themselves, reemerging on the otherside to see more barren country and the backside of those mounts, blanketed in virgin snow. the day was crystalline - piercing sunrays and endless blue sky. in a few more minutes we landed at segovia guimar and got out to inhale the freshest air we'd had in months. It's all around you on the walls and streets but it's easy to forget how dirty the air is in Madrid. It was like stepping out of a bar into the sunshine.

Outside the train station, a line of camera toting city dwellers in black and rotund tourists from small central european towns had formed and waited patiently to board a short blue bus that was not qualified to bear them all. We stood squinting and musing about the shabby cattle that mingled lazily in a barron beige pasture on a nearby hill. Standing on the bus we guessed at the uses of buildings that drove by and imagined how much of a city the place might be. Unlike the photos which manage to decieve without lying outright, it was unclear while approaching as to where Segovia proper was situated. There are settlements and roads all around it, and the one dominant building to be seen hides its majesty from a distance. It was not until the bus was doing the european swing around one-lane hairpin turns over cobbled streets among uneven beige and terracotta buildings that we realized we were near. And then there was the Aqueduct. When hearing about Roman aqueducts and that they are the main attraction of a city, one wonders what could possibly be worthwhile there. A few decaying arches reminiscent of the vapid grandiose Roman administration and engineering? I'll be at the bar. But this is no crumbling suggestion. This massive structure stretches clear across a valley and encircles the town without seeming to have lost a single stone. It's massive, and the double stack of arches that support the waterway above are all the more impressive, when one learns that they were (and are still?) held together without mortar. That is dubious in some parts, esp. near where it begins but the most impressive stretch shows off without any visible binding agent. So we stood around for a while as the bright sun poured in pale morning yellow rays from the southern sky and made the worn stones of the street glisten. Cigarettes and pictures as we tried to get our bearings in the age old male fashion of looking around and guessing.

Our first move was for a market, and we headed down what looked to be a main street. Fortunately we were right, and we stepped into a Dia, the same kind of market I frequent here and buy the essentials: milk, cereal, red wine and the occasional vegetable. This time we planned to have a picnic outside in order to save money so we bought some baguettes, two kinds of cured pork, olives, pasta salad, and, of course, a few bottles of tinto. After the painful process of waiting in the only open queue with grumbling geriatric segovians, we headed back to the aqueduct to take the other main road which led to the center of town. Calle Juan Bravo, much narrower than the previous street, is actually the main throughway of pedestrian Segovia. It ascends from the lowlands of the aqueduct in jerking, angular turns between a hodgepodge of stone and wooden buldings dating from very recently all the way to the times when men rode horses and drank in torch-lit taverns, I imagine. Christmas light nets hung above our heads as we moved in and out of shade on our way toward Plaza San Martin. There stands a beautiful ochre church in Spanish romanesque style. We parked outside the church and found a stone platform in the sun next to the escalating terraces of the inclined plaza and took off our coats as we developed layers of sweat while trying desperately to hackey-sack with any proficiency. People walked by and chatted, stood to watch the strange activity of 4 colorful young men, and took pictures by fountains, statues, and architecture. Across the Plaza a building stood in a much different style than the church - red brick outlining sections of wall mostly made-up of pulverized grey stone mortared together with only an arched clerestory at the top to let in light under a flat wooden roof that jutted out about 2 feet beyond the wall. Very old and rustic spanish looking, contrasting with the golden hue of the great stone church. After a while we lost interest in sucking with the hackeysack and went off in search of a picnic site. 

A little ways ahead, the street divides and we took the low road that descends in broad steps to a short, wide stone arch and opens out onto a wide dirt boulvard that hugs the city wall to the north with a bench-lined swath of green grass and trees in the middle. Open air feasting summarily begun and as we wrapped pieces of bread with jamon and chewed on olives, we watched the eternal and ubiquitous small groups of unknown aging spaniards sit on benches in solidarity while two young children dressed in church clothes sped around on aluminum scooters, stopping every once and a while hop back to where their shoes had come off. We spoke inconsequentially as we ate, and after we rested for a minute and polished off a bottle of tinto, we set off to re enter the city further along the wall.

By now, I am realizing the time I have spent on this account and the fact that I've already seen a new pueblo and a birthday and end of year celebration has passed, I feel the need to complete this tomfoolery. We walked through some super narrow alleys, lit by diffused sunlight bouncing in angular waves from the tops of the walls to our feet. Enter el Plaza Mayor. Totally different from the enclosed square of madrid, this one is quite a bit more charming and more like what you would expect a main square to be. Away from the major auto roads, elevated and situated a point where all small ambulatories seem to converge, set between the gorgeous pale yellow romanesque cathedral where isabella was coronated and the peach colored teatro real. we spent quite a bit of time here, digesting and soaking, comparing this with our own plaza mayor. I think i'm the only one who didn't immediately prefer the segovian model. Having taken at least a half dozen pictures each of the outside of the cathedral, we opted to check out the inside. Much less dark than one would expect from a pre-gothic cathedral, it was spacious and frigid inside. Massive pillars flanked the nave and over a dozen chapels with the typical ornate altars and ceilings piqued our fancy as we spread out and admired in silent contemplation. some nice photos, though one wishes they had more than a little point and shoot at their disposal to render these sorts of places. How people can worship there on a regular basis is beyond me. Aside from the need to constantly be wearing a parka, how do you feel genuine? People come from all over the world and pay to get in a take illegal photos, and you sit and believe in it all? Guidebooks at the door? The building is amazing but doesn't that render it useless for its initial purpose? I imagine stargazing in a famous planetarium or cooking fish over a fire in a life-size diarama in the natural history museum. Maybe it's a quality possessed only by the faithful. Anyway, we bust out and stand in the sun for 5-10, allowing our blood to rise above amphibian temperatures before heading down a shabby cobbled alley in search of the most famous edifice in the city - el Alcazar.

Pass by a witchcraft museum and stop to stand in single file for numerous infuriating autos before coming around the corner to a sunspot before a grove of trees and an iron gate. to your immediate left a vendor sells swords, canes, and post cards. 10 lb man-killing letter openers. ceramic ashtrays that read segovia. beyond him, you walk to a shin-high wall of solid stone that looks out over an expanse of land  stretching for miles to the mountains that divide this land from the plain of madrid. photo op. here most sound has dispersed and you walk alongside picturesque euro cars from the 50's parked on a gravel drive like film props and finally you see a massive keep rise in the middle of castle walls, standing at the other end of a bridge over a 40 foot moss-lined stone drop to a tiny serpentine moat. it's almost too authentic till you remember that its an 18th or 19th century reconstruction of the ancient moorish castle that stood guard over the vast expanse of nothing beyond it. two rivers converge a few hundred meters below the westernmost extremity of the castle. 4 euros to climb the keep, but shit, what else did we come for? suckling pig? maybe next time. 152 spiral steps later we hit the top and set up camp for 20 minutes while we individually recuperate from the strain on our lungs and bask in the sunshine and crystal clear air. at this point im farting like a bastard and we are all chuckling as we give my flatulence epithets like castle-crop (dust) on the spiral stair. the thought crosses our mind to roll up some hash but the boys are fearful and i accept their decision as a fortunate defense from the darkness of confinement. rather, we do the tourist thing and snap foto after foto. the views to the east show the bell tower emerge from the cathedral in the center and look out over the entire pueblo, ecompassng fields all around and nearby settlements and, of course, those eternal mountains behind. finally, we have used up the castle and descend to make another pass around the city. 

Take the low road by some ancient looking homes and take another break at a tiny grass square to toss a frisbee, juggle a hackysack, and burn some tree. somehow our hacking has improved 5fold and we get a real kick out of it this time. but there is more city to see and we move along. on this side of plaza mayor there is little traffic, foot or otherwise, and we are able to spread across the roads and admire different aspects at our leisure. every now and then a strange statue marks our progress; juan bravo the poet (?) stands with pointed features and an upturned face, in a dontellan pose; even further a strange figure in garb identical to our ku klux knights stands firm, grasping and touching to his nose a massive, ominous iron cross. a creepy sight. one more small plaza contains a playground and at its northwestern corner a gate looking into what used to be the inside of a building but has since been derooved and left to the devices of nature, who has planted what looks to be the softest verdant moss along the once marble floor. here in this plaza there is a small drinking fountain one must stoop to reach that pours the coldest, freshest tasting water in the whole of spain, I am convinced. i fill my bottle, and we all swig and feel the purity slide down our gullets. onward.

more views more pictures more buildings and streets and back at the aqueduct. still time to kill, but there is one thing we have set out to do and have not yet achieved - ponche. according to the spain guidebook, a native segovian desert, some sort of richness drenched in local sweet liqueur and worthy of the most fervent adoration. on to the cafe Limón y Menta, right off the plaza mayor to the southwest. 3 euros gets you a cube a bit smaller than your palm, and introduces you to one of the finest culinary delights one can ever enjoy. I will not attempt to describe the taste, however once your fork pierces the sweet, delicate, dumpling-like casing and grabs a slice of the dense yellow cake-like interior and dutifully delivers it to your anxious mouth, you will never consider another desert worthy of a moan again. the holiday lasted over 3 weeks, and among all of the meals, parties, events, sights, women, and trips, this delight remains in the top tier. i will never forget eating that thing, whatever it was. 

sated, we decided to kill another hour in a bar, drinking coffee and wine and actually getting to pick the tapas we received - a rare privilege, reader, i assure you. as the sun went down we learned we had yet another hour before the bus arrived and decided to follow the aqueduct till we could follow it no more. this took us to the edge of the old town, where the start of the structure is marked by a small obelisk and a stone plaque. a few more pictures and we found ourselves more than ready to head back to the city. on the train we busted out the rest of our food and had a crumb-factory feast as we guzzled the last bottle of wine and finished our ham and bread and pasta and everything. Like the royalty of olde, we took a leisurely day to enjoy the quietude of the country, and we were pleased.

Segovia showed us it doesnt take a lot of advanced planning to have a good trip. it doesn't take a lot of money and it doesn't take a lot of endurance. We saw another side of Spain for less than 40 euros for the entire thing, and i was back in time for an hours-long calimocho session with an old friend from the shire...