InPictures: Street Seen...LaLatina, Lavapies

IN THE OLD CITY, as with most of central Madrid, the streets confound a a natural sense of direction. Little turns and not quite right angles lead into strange corridors and unknown quarters. Here and there a space opens up to reveal a vast stone pond-like plaza or a building site left on pause and forgotten. Don't pay attention to the clicks, hisses, and whistles you hear from the streets, and watch those short metal posts lining the sides; we call them knee-knockers. A false step ensures their spot in the memory.

MAYhemMadrid: Opening Weekend cont'd...

BACK up on the street at Metro Alonso Martinez, where barrios Malasaña, Chueca, and Salamanca muddle together and dress the land with disparate notes of high heels, jazz/funk bars, and stonebench perching 40oz clutching leather jackets. Suits breeze by scuffling chinos (this is not derogatory, but the Spanish word for chinese, which they are) and loud preoccupied girls while your three musketeers tap their phones and internalized maps to obtain the evening's provisions and participants.

Cross and cover calles and it's Tribunal, ground zero on any other weekend night that doesn't anticipate the city-only festivo for the uprising of Dos de Mayo. On this night, you head to the eponymous plaza, deeper in the heart of Malasaña. Here the twin Madrid commanders Velarde and Daoíz lead the insurrection against French occupiers from inside the armory. Armory is gone but the brick portal remains, arched above a statue of the heroes that takes up the center of the commemorative plaza. In 1976, Madrid's liberal La Movida reaction to the death of Franco began with a public striptease in the center. Now the plaza houses weekend nocturn botellons and hash circles and terrace meals all around the edges. And once a year people gather to celebrate the rebelliousness of this otherwise centralist capital. And the police come out to meet them.

Present our heroes, living presently among the stages of the past, looking past the crowds at the police presence, with hightened anxiety. Though many weeks of anticipation for the date had slowly passed, twas only in the last few days that we began to hear murmurs of the darker side of this particular festivo. Be careful, they said. Watch out for fights, they said. Watch out for police. Watch out for fights with police. Two years back the conflicts got out of hand and people were battered. Police have responded accordingly, tacking 2 bodies on every corner of every street. Our excitement for cheap collective revelry wheezed out of us like a circus balloon while we shuffled past dozens of navy blue neon yellow sentinels toward the amazing pizza place that occupies the NE corner of plaza dos de mayo. Rendezvouzed with many we did not know and marched through the one-lane cobbled calles of hardrock Malasaña filling with bodies bustling and streetlights buzzing. Through heavy Spanish doors and up creaky madrid stairs through darkened passage and file into remarkably well-furnished flat on planta uno (floor two for americans - our 1st is their baja or zero) where the party began (we had wine beer and blackberries looking up margarita recipes).

Good people and bottles later, we had developed the international test for relative urban importance (the ETT, otherwise known as the ID4 Test: would aliens come to your city in the first round of earth visits?), found out all about Korean ginseng remedies, and made some healthy new connections. Cocktails got sloppier and funny smells filled the air and it was time for our heroes to move on to bigger things. But amid the confusion one man fell behind and we had to bid Erok sweet dreams as another, Jose, took his place in the quest. A few detours and we found ourselves buzzing apartment 4c on c/ Dos Hermanos in Lavapies, itching to get up to American friend mike's springtime blowout.


Hosting with hospitality, Mike directs attention to the beverage buffet in the kitchen and then to bodies in the immediate vicinty before leaving one to ones own devices and tending stereo. Quite the multinational affair, Mike and his Italian flatmates have people all over the map and Your Humble finds himself unable to decide whether to speak English, Spanish, or the 5 things he knows in French to a friendly Parisienette. Give each a shot and decide things aren't sustainable in this place, and begin antics with sunglasses and introductions before having a smoke and shuffling out the door to sway in the cool breeze of the early AM air blowing through the narrow streets Lavapies.

Here some vestige of sense takes what hold it can and tells Your Humble to seek refuge from the Friday night demons of serpentine Spanish streets that hide in the shadows behind grinning faces. Au Revoir amigos, 'sta logo mes amis; must rest these bones before the sun breaks loose and sees you still out from the previous eve...

MAYhemMadrid: fiesta comida Gallega

KICK OFF the festive month in high fashion when upon Friday lands the initial day. May 1st carried sun, blue skies and a temperate breeze that staved off ill-famed Spanish heat for all but a few mid-afternoon hours. AM walk with E-rok through chairoscuro Malasaña streets included a better than average café cortado (Spanish macchiato) at a sun-filled corner café I'd been eyeing for some weeks for the chalkboard wine list and consistent local clientele; discovery of an innocuous artisinal panaderia; and the impression that after the 6am closing call of the downtown party crowd the night before, most madrileños had headed south for Sevillas Feria de Abril or at least somewhere afuera de la capital. Should we have peaced tambien?

Back at the flat poached eggs slathered in paprika and herb tomato sauce slid around atop fresh toasted integral (whole-grain) from above panaderia out on the terrace dappled in sun when Santiago the saint called on us to make a move. To Alcobendas, said he, for Gallician food fest of mythic delights! 30 minutes of tea and sobremesa (during/post meal conversation "overtable") and 50 more north on linea 10 (Alcobendas is not in Madrid) and we were set to begin feeding again. We made our way to the white-tented paradise where we were to start with awkwardly watching a Gallego folk band play the tambourine/bagpipe traditional tunes of the region surrounded by albariño drinking friends casting us uneasy glances. Onward and out we marched to pass innumerable pastries and cakes along our b-line to the sidra booth.


I remember the first taste of Spanish cider bringing a bitter revulsion but by the end of that first bottle I had begun the comaround. By now I'm deeply enamored with it's sour bitterness and short-term long-pour produced carbonation. We began, renewed, and ended our tenure at the food fair in the trusted hands of this charming beverage mistress you see pouring, without looking, my drink from a bottle held too high to capture in one image.

Other highlights were mejillones al albariño (mussels in Galician white wine sauce) which was slaved over for an embarassingly long time in attempt to savor the onion, pepper, and wine sauce with only the toothpicks provided,


Pulpo Gallego, an octopus dish so titillatingly delectable that Your Humble completely forgot to fotolyze. We walked by the booth and keen salesman with an eye for hunger offered your young heroes a sample. Why not? A young man grabs a tentacle lying on a board and slices off a few bits, upon which we approvingly chew and agree to a full ración. This time a full 'pus gets pulled out of the steaming 100 gallon cauldron, red as a lobster, and after a scissor flurry that would make Johnny Dep proud, salesman takes the wooden tray and dresses it with extra virgin Spanish (read:best) olive oil from a gas can, rock salt from the sea, and paprika and slides it over to your three trembling heroes. Not rubbery, not fishy, just hot salty and rich. Nary a meal so good to be had that day, not in all the mundo.

After a less than appointing tarta de queso, which is anything but the cheesecake of my youth, we three opted for consolatory sidra and found it no less than necessary to order the 10e tabla de quesos, with the famous Madonna-breast shaped smoked Galician cow's milk cheese, Tetilla (itself Spanish for "small breast"), Cabrales, the strongest blueest cheese I've ever tasted that's usually cow but sometimes blended with goat and sheep and more than sublty sweet, a soft cheese creamier and subtler than most bries I've known, and a fourth lesser known varietal that got our pick for planetary top 10. All quesos deemed worthy of bloodshed in their honor. But that would come later in the weekend...


And with that we strolled just short of achingly full back toward the city center for the beginnings of the evening goings-on. 45 minutes back underground and we emerged with the city still yet to have darkened. But this fin de proves more than a single post and must be continuted in time. Is postponed too obvious?

PlazaWatch; P. España

FIRST time I viewed Plaza de España was late October 08 betwixt 5 and 6am, after watching the lights go on at a friend's university-servicing nightclub out near Moncloa. I looked down the mild sloping gap in the buildings to my right and thought, "Shit, that's a lot of space. How did they manage that? How do I manage that?"
Twas to big to my fresh eye nerves to understand. I'd seen Sol, Mayor, Santa Ana, Santo Domingo and a few other major ones. All contained, all comprehensible in a sweeping glance. The size and topography of Plaza España mixed with the surrounding architecturescape and in the darkness it all comingled with my less than eagle eyes. I was momentarily stunned before heading past to the former La Latina digs. What's that massive plot doing in the middle of the capital? And what's going on beyond, it's like the city drops off to wilderness? It's no bigger than Copley in Boston but its that slope to the frontier that distinguishes this from the plain, tame lawn calmly sitting level in Boston and all the other walled and measurable plazas in Madrid.

Some time later I saw P. España again in the day and thought, "That's it? A bit busted, I'd say."

So that's it. Here I sit, in busted frontier country, scratching my lunacy in zeroes and ones.

But of course, that's not it.

A crossroads. confluence of 6 lane Princesa and Gran Via (heart of the center, massive boulevard carved out of 300+ preexisting edifi in 30s jazz age idolation). Site of Edificio and Torre España. Big streets with inadequate sidewalks, big buildings with inadequate architects. I remember looking at the obelisk in the middle of this grand plot and laughing. All that Spain was and wishes it still could be, and they put a chode with a ball on top in the center of the nation's plaza.


But it grew. What may be lacking in motorways and erections it makes up for in plaza and those houses that take a minute to see beyond the behemoths in the way.


Take a minute to sit, or lay on the grass, in the sun with the denizens who know that in the end Santa Ana and Mayor are for the tourists while, of course, tourists by the dozens stroll by here as well snapping shots of Don Quixote and his chubby pal behind aforementioned chode. Come through at night and look at all the spiked-hair purple black and white leather punks drinking kalimotxo and have a sip or two yourself before the everpresent fuzz clears it all out. Olive trees surround the obelisk and structural gems hold down the rear corners.


A michelin star restaurant lurks to the far right. In the side streets you can pay a euro and a half for a tomato, or nothing for one of the best fresh dates in the country. You can find yourself in one of my favorite cafes wondering why the floor is so clean or you can access a newly renovated Dia, which will be explained in the market blog. Around the corner begins Ferraz, another hefty ave, loaded with restaurantes, manoletes (again, later), and specialty shops like stationary. And before I forget, in the opposite direction stroll along the grasslined walkpath to feel some unmerited but real fulfillment in approaching the continent's largest royal palace, which I will share with you from my terrace.

It's not as stunning, especially now with the metric tonnes of unused scaffolding, as the other plazas in the city but give it some time and it grows to become your favorite, your home. Cheesy as it may sound, that's Madrid for you. A friend put it this way: Barcelona and Madrid are like two sisters. One is hot and you like her the moment you lay eyes. But the others got the personality to keep you loving her for life. Of course you like Barcelona, you have eyes. Yeah Plaza Mayor is beautiful and I'm sure you'll be telling yourself this is Spain after being there for a night. But Madrid is the treasure, and beer is a lot cheaper at Plaza de España.

Cambio del Aire!

A CHANGE in the weather looms large in the closing week of fine and holy April. Sol watches me again as I walk briskly from palatial place to metro mouth, to be spat out on the other side of central Spain among the business elite and all others suited to sweat off the sweetness of precrisis prosperity. Vegetation multiplies and expands its fingertips into vision's scope so that even when ruffled with fluctuating temps and angry winds, one senses the gentler side of Primavera the Conqueror. In fact, in certain hours on certain days it takes no imagination when the sun burns down on black-jacketed back walking through one of the city's thousand and three plazas. And, oh yes, the celebrations of coming seasonal salubrity

...

Even now with concrete, tempered glass, and a warm stove, there is cause for celebration when the world turns its other cheek and life begins again. Spring festivals may be considered among the world's most passionate. More research must be done on that... Now, of course, our venue is Spain, the world's most festive peopled pais (more research can't hurt...). Combine that with such anniversaries as the 201st year since the Spanish, or to be exact, the Madrileños said vehemently (and ultimately martyrously) "F*ck that!" to both their own governors and the French occupiers to whom said government was hewing, and the life/death of Madrid's patron peasant saint San Isidro, and you have yourself a month set to alter the Earth's rotation. Friends, lovers, compatriates of old and new, heed the call and make your way by hook or by crook to the land where the sun also rises, because things may never be the same.

Expect many more fotosandposts, as I try to track down whatever it is that makes Madrid so Madrid before the turning of another moon and the fortutious series of successive weekend visits from the best of all corners of this world bring mayhem on a Pantagruelian scale...

First days of SemanaSanta and bumbling into Paris...

HOLYWEEK (or Semana Santa in the language of those who truly celebrate it) is, for the fortunate, the entire week leading up to Easter. Such was my fortune that my holiday began postmeridian Thursday, the week before SS. The plan was thus: wrap up a few cosas around madrid after work then fly to Paris predawn Friday morning (this is 03abril) and spend the day kicking it in the city of lights with my coevals before the rentfolks arrive the following morning. Such was the plan.

Things went a bit more smoothly than predicted that Thursday after, and the kid got it in his head to have a little faux despedida. Chance obliged and some friends and friends-to-be had arranged a gathering at one fine Brazilian bar in Malasaña (Kabokla, which deserves a short approbative post of its own). Live music, cocktails, beer and introductions left one having to finally withdraw just before 2 in the am. Bags were packed, clothes were donned, and alarm was set, all so as to make for fast escape. Hours later I woke up with a yawn, just as the plane was taking off.

In the end the daylight hours were lost but I was able to make it to Paris by nightfall. There I made the fatal mistake of buying a simcard with too much haste from a company never before heard of, only to read in the fine print that all credit on said simcard would expire within 5days of the first call unless it was continually topped up with 10e or more. When I turned on my phone to start writing down contacts for payphone use, I found that my simcard had swtiched automatically to France, removing the need to buy a French card. Lesson: forget airport tellers and clerks, unless its a drink you need, wait until you reach the city. 30e down the drain before I even see a metro.
(Also, lesson: with early flights either stay up all night or sleep before 11. but does anyone really need to be told that?)

This that and the other, I did do one intelligent thing before leaving. I wasn't ready to completely surrender my day of parisian exploration, so I spent a few hours on google streetview, taking a good look at the neighborhoods where the hotel was, where my friend lived, and especially the routes to take on foot from metromouth to doorstep. I emerged on Avenue Victor Hugo feeling like I'd already been there, and walked right up to my friend's place, hoping the directions he sent me were legit. (By the way, this was arranged less than 12 hours before my late arrival. I went to bed the night before with no place to stay in Paris. Only once in my life have I done that, and that was the last time I went to paris. I'm not so sure we are creatures of will. At least, I dont think I am) Well, my brothers, they were fenomenal, and Chance continued to be my mischevious guide and led me to his door literally as he was turning things off to leave.

So we had a shot of the spanish brandy I brought along, caught up on the metro, and headed out to the Latin Quartier for my first bagless and stressless taste of Paris in 3 years. The beauty was palpable yet indescribable, and eluded any pinpointing. Maybe it was coming from the same scenery every day, maybe it was the subliminal measurements of city planning, who can say. The night was a blast as we partied in a masomenos irish bar with the rest of his cordon bleu classmates before heading to a different bar off the champs elysee, 5 minutes from the flat. Many rounds and attempts at french later and it was definitely time to head back. We crashed sometime around 4 after cabbing it round the massive feet of l'Arc, and again I slept with clothes on and bags packed. Just not on purpose this time.

The next morning I woke with a yawn and wondered, for just an instant, what the situation was. Then I recalled that my parents were to have landed sometime around dawn and expected me at the hotel to greet them. It was not quite 11. I rushed to the window dormer (top floor flat) in the kitchen to let out a stream of interjections and dial the hotel number without waking the household, and I beheld before me a sea of beautiful parisien rooftops, all with cream concrete vertical walls producing short irregular terracotta chimney tops, sprouting out of slate mansard rooves. I rubbed the cold from my eye and went for my camera as I shouldered the phone and squinted in the morning light. This was to be the beginning of a beautiful album. Interestingly, the camera would not turn on and I deduced that after taking the foto above, I left the camera on all night and drained the battery.

All this to explain, partly, why my Paris pictures will be so scant. You tell me the lessons here. Much more in the days to come...

He vuelto a Madrid...

OCHO DIAS en Francia and I'm back. Semana Santa could scarcely have been more action-packed, and there is much much much to report( including Valencia and other wanderings before the trip). Unfortunately, the return to the capital coincides with the return to work, but I'll be back at the keys in due time...

MadridSurvivalSeries: "I want/need..."

You land in Madrid with intent to inhabit. Flying is a bitch and packing is worse and you seek to expand beyond the minimum allowed weight of living items. Kitchen supplies. a clock. some records and a player. a knife. a shoulder bag. a gas mask. an empty picture frame.

Work. You need shirts. And 2-euro ties. Shoes. a 6-euro watch.

To your surprise, the seasons change here as well (not a joke). What's more, the temperature of the city never seems to level out. Moving along a constant wheel, it bottoms out between 2 and 5 in the small hours and continues to climb toward a peak on the opposite end of the clockface, whence it descends all over again. All of your sweaters and coats are back in the snowy north, and the people around you all seem to have fashionable neckwear. or the palestine picnic sheet, either way they make it work.
Much later, the Spanish heat looms in the not far distance. You will need some more cloth for to sweat in. Maximum sun exposure is desirable, and memories of white linen creep around. sunglasses because, after all, this is europe.

Friends and family have had it with your photos and stories. And their jobs/routines. Maybe your absence is even beginning to wear. You need gifts ("I've been to Spain!!"). Rings bracelets necklaces. Lude tshirts. Real Madrid kits. bullfight posters. belly dancer outfits. white linen. chain wallets. gas masks.

El Rastro.
[~9h - ~15h] 52 sundaes a year.
...

if you're clever, you'll come here and see what the locals do. follow them into a bar/bocadilleria and prepare your stomach for the Real Madrid. you may need assistance your first time...
look out for vermouth and anchovies. or the old favorite, calamares...

dais afueras...AlcaláDeHenares

ALCALÁ de henares. Home to Miguel de Cervantes, Spain's first university, the site where the Catholic Kings first listened to Cristobal Colón talk his jive, and abnormally large storks. Small and close, a decent day trip to escape the ballyhoo of the capital and pass out on a bench in the plaza de cervantes after a couple cañas and some tasty cerdo at the city highlight, Indalo tapas bar. Took a tour, all in spainspeak, and got a ride home from a pretty little Alcalan called Belinda. Supposed to go back and see the medieval Cervantes house, but I think I'll just grab lunch and siesta instead. TravelTip: if you've got a B-zone abono, make it visible and tell the ticket seller in Atocha train station, "quiero pagar el diferencia de los billetes de ida y vuelta", and you should find yourself there for less than 5e. Go for the cerdo.

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...