Let's Stay Longer Europe

In the last episode Lucy and I rendezvoused with our friend Bill in the postcard-perfect town of Lucerne, Switzerland, to begin a three-week journey of discovery together before he continued his around-the-world odyssey. After quite nearly perishing in the Swiss Alps trying to scale the North Face of the Eiger, or maybe it was a hill nearby, we proceeded to Paris for a few days and took a side trip to Burgundy to visit a winemaker friend of Bill’s who had no idea who he was. Then it was rather rashly decided we should go to Spain because, well, it’s Spain, so we boarded a train southbound full of wine and anticipation.

Let’s Stay Longer Europe

After a sound sleep, we woke to discover we’d gotten on the wrong car, had been decoupled in the middle of the night from the train going south to San Sebastien, and were now attached to another engine steaming east through the Pyrenees headed for Andorra. Suddenly wide awake, we got off at the next stop, had a good laugh, and hats in hand purchased tickets for the next train to San Sebastien. All the laughter died in sorrow, however, when we discovered that train wasn’t due for another couple of hours. The weather was pleasant enough, but if you’ve never spent a couple of hours on the deserted platform of a tiny train station in the middle of the Pyrenees, don’t go out of your way.

Finally on the right train, I couldn’t help but feel like we were starring in the movie sequel to Nightmare on the Ferry to Greece, but once we arrived in San Sebastien all was forgotten and forgiven.

The town proved every bit as picturesque and charming as Bill had described, and although not quite up to the standard of a Swiss chalet, the pension we occupied was clean and comfortable. We were now anxious to get to Madrid, so we only stayed one night. But it was a very pleasant one, made even more so by my introduction to Spain’s wonderful tradition of tapas, their version of bar snacks.

Let me say right off the top that tapas are a noticeable improvement over beer nuts and pickled eggs.

These simple but delightful mouthfuls of gambas al ajillo – garlic shrimp, tortilla española – potato and onion omelet, patatas bravas – fried potatoes in spicy salsa – and the king of cured meats, Ibérico ham, are all stabbed with toothpicks and served on large platters placed on the bar top. Patrons help themselves to whatever their appetites and conscience permit and keep the toothpicks as a form of running tab.

Lucy was late to join us for dinner and by the time she arrived it was evident from the piles of toothpicks in front of us that Bill and I had perhaps gotten carried away and spoiled our appetites. And spent all our money.

But after the bartender counted the picks, did the math, and added however many glasses of Rioja we’d had, I think our bill came to something like 1,000 pesetas. Which sounds exorbitant but was the equivalent of around ten bucks. And, since I was still in the bloom of youth and a growing boy, I don’t recall having any trouble with dinner and more wine.

Delightfully hungover, we boarded a train the next morning bound for Madrid and were astonished when we arrived five hours later in Madrid not Portugal or Austria or Australia. And to cement the idea that our luck had turned, the pension we chose happened to be a very elegant room with heavy wood shutters which opened directly onto the Plaza Mayor, the beautiful public square at the heart of the capitol city a short distance from the Prado Museum and countless other attractions.

The only drawback to this inexpensive yet exquisite lodging was that it was a very small room with only one bed which caused some amount of consternation, especially for Lucy. I don’t recall what arrangement we chose but to my knowledge there were no mishaps.

The few days we spent in Madrid were magical, and for me the time when I fully realized the European way of life was considerably more attractive than what I had been living at home. Although this was still not long after the death of the Spanish caudillo Generalissimo Francisco Franco and there was still a very visible military presence on the streets, the people were warm and friendly, even the policiá with machine guns. And the weather was warm as well.

What was especially striking, though, was it seemed the entire population of the city, even the well-dressed and well-heeled businessmen, kept the same hours as we vagabonds did.

Their day, as well as ours, started with strong coffee and sugary pastries around ten, a long lunch around two with perhaps a tryst and siesta thereafter, tapas and drinks by six or seven, dinner at nine, and dancing until the wee hours. Not that we did any dancing, and trysts were out of the question what with the one bed and all, but these were clearly people who worked to live, not the other way around.

By this time, however, Lucy had begun to grow tired of Europe, and traveling with Bill, and of me. She increasingly found reason to spend time alone doing one thing or another, and consequently Bill and I explored together or separately which was a challenge because neither one of us could habla much Español.

Bill’s communication strategy was to speak slowly and loudly, repeating words or phrases he had picked up which may have been but likely were not correct usage. I, on the other hand, shyly attempted a little sombrero Spanish like hola, como esta, and hasta la vista, but relied mostly on exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures while flashing palms of pesetas.

Surprisingly, thanks to the warmth and charity of the Spanish people, we managed fine while sightseeing and dining on our daily paseos. My lack of language skills did lead to one hilarious encounter, however, when on a solo excursion I became hopelessly lost trying to make my way back to the Plaza Mayor and had to flag down an elderly couple who appeared to be locals. After some badly broken Spanish while fumbling with a crumpled city map, they both looked at me with bemused faces and after a well-timed pregnant pause the man told me in perfect English they were from St. Louis and pointed the way home.

Aside from Lucy’s swingy moods, we had some marvelous outings in Madrid as a threesome. A visit to the famous Museo Nacional del Prado was awe inspiring for its amazing collection of 19th century paintings, many of which were by French and Dutch artists but so what?

And on another occasion, we attended a soccer match featuring the famous champion club Real Madrid and experienced all the color, pageantry and absolute mayhem of European fútbol. And I’m talking about the subway ride. The actual game was nuts.

Being on a Let’s Go Europe budget, our dining in the city was mostly simple fare but delicious. I wish I could say I remembered where and what we ate but I can’t. Except for one meal that was especially memorable – a fabulous multi-course roast suckling pig dinner washed down with multiple bottles of a ridiculously good Rioja. I vividly recall not just the regal repast but how I nervously paid for it with my new Visa card expecting to be sternly admonished that our bill exceeded the modest credit limit. But when presented with la cuenta and assisted by our waiter to calculate the exchange, I was amazed and immensely relieved to discover that the entire bill amounted to about fifty U.S. dollars. I think I may have ordered more Rioja then, but can’t remember that either.

At some point that evening, during or likely just after dinner, with the weather cooling and winter fast approaching, we made a fateful decision. Being sun worshippers, going further south made sense and we briefly considered Morocco, which admittedly had appeal but mostly for the hookah bars and was too exotic for my taste, Bill suggested instead we fly to the Canary Islands, an autonomous Spanish community just west of Morocco in the North Atlantic. A flight and hotel were booked and within a couple of days we were at el aeropuerto waiting to board a plane bound for Gran Canaria and what promised to be a week of fun in the sun.

(to be continued)