You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April, 2009.
I started writing about my journey in Spain back in March but didn’t get a chance to finish because I got distracted by… well… Spain. If you are curious, I recommend reading part one before continuing. Otherwise, carry on, as you were.
March 11, 2009
Every day at the Oasis Backpackers’ Hostel, you can partake in any number of activities, whether it be a quick Spanish lesson or a tour of gypsy caves tucked in the hills surrounding the city. This morning, they are offering a guided walk of Granada. Usually, I invent my own tour with little more than a map, a sense of adventure and perhaps a guide book. But a bunch of people from the hostel planned on taking the walk and I thought it might be nice to join them. By the time the tour guide arrives, however, everyone has bailed and I am the last one standing. So it is just me and this tour guide, Eric, standing in Plaza Nueva and I assume he is going to cancel the tour since I am the only one there, but instead he says: “Screw the tour, do you want to have a picnic and see my favorite spots in Granada?”
My answer? Yes, please.
The one thing you should know about Eric is that he has the craziest eyebrows I’ve ever seen. He told me that a homeless man once stopped him on the street in Barcelona and said “I’d be able to pick you out of a crowd because of those eyebrows“, to which Eric replied “Thank you, homeless dude“. It’s true, his eyebrows are very Jason Schwartzman circa I Heart Huckabees. And it is of absolutely no relevance or importance to this story, but it helps put a face to the name and gives you insight into his whimsical personality. Eric reminds me of Buck 65 – a story teller, a troubadour, a song and dance guy, most definitely of the quirky variety. I have a feeling we are going to get along very well.
Our first stop is Café de Bocadillos where we buy omelette sandwiches and coffee to go. We then slowly weave our way up the mountain, stopping at his favorite view points, sipping coffee, chatting, then moving up further until we eventually reach the cemetery at the top of the hill. It is here that we spend the remainder of the morning and early afternoon.
Have I told you about my love for/fascination with cemeteries? Because I do. Love cemeteries. And this one, is heavenly. Overlooking the entire city, overshadowed only by the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains. We eat our corn chips and bocadillos with the dead and talk about all sorts of things. Life, mainly. He explains to me that the reason they plant cypress trees in cemeteries is because they grow tall and thin, like a finger touching the sky, pointing towards heaven. When I die, I want my ashes scattered under a cypress tree.
Eric is 23 years old and started making a documentary years ago for his unborn grandchildren. He goes around with his video camera asking people to share advice, life lessons, stories, truths. He points the camera towards me and asks me to say something in French. On the spot, all I have in my head is a refrain from this Thievery Corporation track and so I say “Vie ta vie, elle est si belle, c’est la tienne“. Translation: live your life, it is beautiful, it is yours. It seems appropriate as we are surrounded by death.
We eventually part ways at La Alhambra and will meet again later, by the fountain under the clock tower in Plaza Nueva
La Alhambra sits majestically atop a hill overlooking Granada. Once the residence of Muslim rulers and Moorish kings, it is a palace and fortress, an extensive group of buildings built chiefly between 1230 and 1354. It is the epitome of Islamic architecture.
If Washington Irving said, in the face of La Alhambra’s beauty “How unworthy is my scribbling of the place“, I fear my words would never do it justice. I spend the next 4 hours walking, in awe. The beauty is, indeed, astounding.
As the sun starts to set, I take the 32 bus back into town, enjoy a double scoop of ice cream (chocolate picante and menta) then head to the hostel for a short siesta. For someone who has taken only a handful of naps in her adult life, I sure am getting used to this siesta thing. One quick nap, sweet dreams and a shower later, I enjoy a hostel meal with backpackers from England, Canada, the Netherlands, Mexico and the US. 4 Euros (5 if you want a beer with your meal) and pretty much all you can eat avocado, tomato and iceberg lettuce salad (the closest thing to green I’ve had since arriving in Spain) and pad thai cooked in a giant pan set over a fire.
I leave the hostel, walk the dark alleyways to Plaza Nueva to meet Eric under the full moon as the clock strikes 10 times over the Sierra Nevada. From there we go tapas bar hopping. We start at The Loop – a really cool spot that doubles up as a record shop during the day. It is a small smoky dive but the music is fantastic. As soon as I hear this song by Broken Social Scene (Canadian band), I know this is the place to be. The wall is plastered with record covers – Spoon, Fleet Foxes, Bob Dylan (the famous cover). We stand at the bar, have a couple copas of wine and talk about music. The great thing about Spain is that most bars offer tapas for free when you order drinks. There you are enjoying a glass of wine and out comes a plate of bite-sized munchies. I’m usually all over that, but tonight I’m so full of pad thai, I just can’t muster another morsel of food.
From The Loop, we go to Yamato, a Japanese restaurant. The restaurant is empty. And by empty, I mean there is not a single soul there except for the waitress, Eric and I. We sit low to the ground in a giant room and order 1 carafe of saki and 4 cervezas. It’s all very random and strange and 20-something, yet, wonderful. It makes me feel about 10 years younger when I used to go out for drinks at Peel Pub, where the beer was cheap and the food cheaper. Ah! The poor University years.
We end the night at his favorite flamenco spot. Some underground bar, off the beaten path in a dark remote corner of some dark remote alley. There is no sign, the door is black and it almost feels like you need a secret knock to get in. We walk in, it is dim and cave-like but alive with music. Two guys sit at one piano, someone plays a guitar, another man sings and the entire bar joins in with the infamous flamenco clap. We sit by the piano, share a glass of wine, listen to a few songs then head out.
Back at the Plaza, in the wee hours of the morning, he kisses me. And I think why not? When am I ever going to kiss a 23-year old boy with crazy eyebrows under a full moon in Granada again in my lifetime? Wouldn’t you have done the same?
The next morning (or that morning, as it were) at 6:30am, I hop on the bus back to Malaga. Smoky clothes, unbrushed teeth, greasy hair, sleep in my eyes, Granada under my belt, smile on my face.
Christmas 2005. Gifted matching sweaters? returned. Cheesy photo? priceless.
Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, in a time that feels like yesterday, it was the four of us, living and working together in a small town in Nova Scotia. The four of us plus our friend Paul (who owned the house) made five. Five people. Five distinct personalities. One roof. One bathroom undergoing slow renovations. One dog. Many mice. Four cold winter months.
Not only was it a full house… it was a gathering spot for friends. The house on Whiterock road was always whiterockin’ (no more cheesy puns past this point, I promise). Given its location, our friends saw it as a stopping point for a quick hello or beer or coffee on the way to or from somewhere. The barn hosted many-a-late-night jam sessions and the hill behind the barn, beneath the forest line, was perfect for the annual luge party each February.
But though we loved each other deeply, you might have guessed that living together wasn’t without its challenges (after all, we were in each others’ faces 24/7). And so, we drank, a lot, during the winter of 2005. It seemed to narrow the gap between our (minor) differences and made the winter seem less long and filled the woodstove-heated kitchen with laughter. So even if there were times when we wanted to whack each other over the head with a cast iron frying pan, you could say that the five of us made a great team, shared fantastic meals and wicked laughs and that the good times always outweighed the fact that someone inevitably left their dirty dishes in the sink.
That Spring, Brian and Saffa flew from the Whiterock nest and moved to England. A few months later, Kevin and I bought our first house in a nearby town and by Fall, Paul sold his house and left to teach up North. And though so much has changed in three years… we each carry memories from that winter and I’m sure they look back on it with as much fondness as I do.
3 years later…
March 8, 2009
It starts to drizzle as I board the bus to Bristol. The sun held on as long as it could for my short visit with Susannah and it is now hiding beneath soft shaded blankets, taking a nap (it must be exhausting being the sun). The heavens open as we near Bristol and it hails against the window pane. The sound is soothing. We get stuck in traffic and arrive 30 minutes late at the train station, where Saffa is waiting for me. We hop in the car and take a million wrong turns in search of the boat yard, which ends up being right around the corner from the train station (we blame our lack of orientation on the pissing rain, being in a city we don’t know and the shittiest map every drawn; I bet they have better maps of remote villages in Africa). But… because of that, by the time we arrive at the boat yard, the rain has stopped, the sun has woken and it is blue skies. Ta Da!
We unload our stuff on her friend’s old boat where we will be spending the night (thank you Gary) and head out in search of a café (this time, walking). Don’t you find chats are always better when your hands are wrapped around a mug of soy latté? Maybe it’s because espresso is fuel for speech. It has been 3 years since I last saw Saffa and there is much catching up to do. So much has changed. Mainly… the two brothers are no longer in the picture and we’ve both left Nova Scotia. I don’t know what makes our friendship different from what it used to be but it feels lighter. Perhaps because we aren’t tied to relationships that make us unhappy. We have grown into ourselves more. And I have to say that the new me and the new her get along splendidly.
After coffee, we walk around until pint time (which varies from person to person… in my book, it’s anytime after noon and it’s always noon somewhere in the world, yes?). You’d think, England… a pub around every corner right? You would be wrong in that assumption. I finally ask someone on the street if they know of a good pub and they point us towards Start the Bus. We sit on the leather couch, drink Bath Ales, eat Devon chips and listen to some indie tunes (we always shared similar taste in music). Bliss and… more bliss.
We go back to the boat for a wee snack (Saffa made quiche with goat’s cheese and rosemary sweet potatoes). The boat is old and made of wood and feels like the home of a captain. The deck is full of terra cotta pots with green sprouts poking out. There are two swans in the water by the front. The inside is small and packed with stuff. A single man lives here and there are beans in a can and hot dogs in a jar (have you ever seen such a thing?) and half an onion drying on the counter. It smells of oil and sea. I love it all.
When the sun sets, we look for a place to eat. We walk forever only to eventually end up right where we started, at The Hole in the Wall, beside the harbour, where I get my first fish and chips and a Guinness. Saweet! Wilbur plunges head first into the thick foamy top. He is delirious and passes out before long. I tuck him into bed. The gnome, ever used to partaking in a cheeky pint (or thimble), keeps a watchful eye over him.
2 girls
3 years of catching up
1 boat
1 bottle of wine
1 hard to find cork screw
1 camera
hmmm. Looks like a recipe for effin fun with 2 capital Fs, me thinks. We decide it’s time for a photo shoot. Without my trustee tripod, I must improvise and build a tower for the camera. Always a good idea to put a camera on a Tupperware bowl on top of an ashtray containing screwdrivers and wrenches and paper clips and pennies (or pence, as it were). And then add a couple dvds and books for good measure. The leaning tower of crap aka Jeanine’s last minute MacGyver tripod. And after all that, we still manage to cut our heads off in every shot. Go figure. You’ve seen it before… wine-induced photo shoots can get pretty silly, which is why I am only posting one photo. The one where Saffa says we look like elf rejects, “like we weren’t quite what Santa was looking for, but maybe we should try again next year”. Dat true (that was for you Safski – wink)
We go to sleep in the bed under the plastic with the big puddle. Let me explain. Old boats are prone to leaks when it rains. So there are pots and pans and bowls on the floor, by the sink, on the table and all around the boat to catch the droplets. Over the bed? A big sheet of plastic. And since we’ve already established that it pissed rain earlier, the plastic did its job. A big round belly of water now hangs over the bed. This has us giggling for minutes on end. We fall asleep to the sweet sound of a boat creaking on the water, swans barking at 2am (who knew such graceful birds sounded so awful)… with fingers crossed that the water won’t break.
***
You never, ever, EVER know where life is going to take you. Just because you are on one path, doesn’t mean the road won’t suddenly fork, doesn’t mean you can’t turn around and find a short cut or a long scenic route to a different place. When you see people you haven’t seen in ages, people who were walking along the same road as you and then you bump into them years later, in a whole different world… it can be pretty surreal.
And then it’s good to know that some things don’t ever change. We may only be two now, but we are still all jokes. The girl brings out the laughter in me.
***
At 4:30am, I put my huge pack on my back, walk up the ladder, climb over the wire, hop on top of the white boat next door, jump down, cross the bridge to the cab waiting for me. 20 quid and 30 minutes later I am at the airport eating a croissant and sipping an espresso. Getting ready to leave this beautiful country and start a whole new adventure in Spain.
This concludes the England segment of my trip. If you missed the beginning, start again here. If you’ve been following all along, stay tuned for Spain (and thank you for all the lovely comments — I am so enjoying reliving this trip all over again, with you). If you would like to see other photos of England, I am slowly uploading them to my Flickr account. If you would like to watch a funny video, click here. If you would like to win a million dollars and travel the world? Join the club.
Cheers England! Thanks for the good times. Ola Spain! Here I come.
March 7, 2009
My definition of a perfect day: sunshine, walking around for hours capturing beauty, pointing my feet towards whatever my camera lens is drawn to, stopping once in a while for coffee and sweets, enjoying a nice meal with friends, laughter (always), good music (a must), writing or chilling with a good book at the end of the day. Better yet though? Doing it with someone who enjoys it as much as I do. Better still? Spending it in a foreign country where everything is new and bathing in soft light and I can take it all in because my mind is vacant for any experience, my eyes are wide open, my heart is beating like a hammer. Today is such a day.
We play with polaroids on her living room floor in the morning then venture into the Botanical Gardens, croissant and espresso in hand. We find Spring there, kelly green lawns carpeted with soft purple crocuses. Bees going about their business and trees with flower-tipped branches are an added bonus. They become our subjects for hours.
Eventually, Susannah turns the camera on me. Perhaps I’m just speaking for myself but I think most people who spend time behind the camera loathe being in front of it. And though I’m not 100% comfortable, she puts me at ease. I let her move me around as I would do with Wilbur and end up having a good time of it. I carefully sit in a bed of flowers and she shoots with her vintage Polaroid and heavy Hasselblad (this camera is a beauty, I nearly weep at the sight of it).
photo by susannah conway
After the gardens, we head to Jamie Oliver’s Italian restaurant for lunch. We sit in the room with torn vintage wallpaper and exposed plaster and order three pastas to share. Tagliatelle Genovese (basil pesto with heritage potatoes, green beans and pecorino cheese), sausage pappardelle (Italian sausage, tomatoes, red wine and parmesan) and spicy prawn linguini (pan fried garlicky prawns with tomatoes, chili, rocket and fennel) with a basket of Italian breads (focaccia, rosemary crisps and sourdough country bread) served with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Absolutely divine.
At the Bath Abbey, a choir practices for a performance that evening. Angelic voices echo off the high fan-vaulted ceiling. A rugby game attracts an enthusiastic crowd near the Pulteney Bridge across the River Avon. We walk around the city for awhile then stop at a little café for espresso in the late afternoon. I introduce her to Wilbur. He likes her a lot.
The past two days have been inspiring, relaxing, eye-opening, confidence-building and just the career-changing back-to-school boost I needed. I wish I had words to describe how lovely it was to meet Susannah and what a beauty she is. She is nothing short of stupendous. I adore every bit of her. Her ability to tell a story, her wicked sense of humor, her willingness to share herself, her ability to make you feel extraordinary and help you tap into your source of creativity and her skills as a writer and photographer inspire me to no end. Thank you, beautiful, for everything. I hope to be able to return the favor someday, dans ma belle ville de Montréal.
photo by susannah conway
