Travel

The Story of my “TC” (and Salt Spring Island)

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

I’ve been using the moniker “my TC” or just “TC” to refer to my, well, TC, for so long that I sometimes forget what it originally meant or why I chose those initials in the first place.

Taking a trip down memory lane (and into my archives), “TC” actually stands for “travel companion”, a label I originally made up so I could mention TC when he brought me to visit Salt Spring for the very first time (March 2011). Even though we hadn’t gone abroad or anything, I needed to invent a label because at the time, TC was not my boyfriend, technically. It was all about convenience.

Back then, I hadn’t quite expected two things:

  1. That I would shorten it to “TC” and continue using the term a year and a half later.
  2. That a year and a half later, my TC and I would still be making little travels ’round the province/country together, and living together, and being in love.

You see, I wanted to be practical. I needed a label–I found one. I liked TC and enjoyed his company. And I respected him. So sure, let’s go to Salt Spring, I could really use a weekend away. My heart was feeling grey and pinched in the grey and pinchy city. Away, away!

And then–ocean. Space. Looming rocks and weather-beaten piers. And then–a small yellow-painted cafe. Tea. TC’s fun Australian aunt and two little cousins lifting big shy eyes to look at this new lady (me!). And then–a house with a fireplace and full of books. The girls’ shyness falling away and sudden overwhelming energy taking its place. Sock puppet shows and board games. Scotch for the adults. Bed for the girls. Reading Goodnight Moon to TC’s (then) four-year-old cousin and nearly crying over it. Telling TC that I was glad he brought me here because now I knew the hard choices I’d made in my life thus far were the right ones.

The second time we went to Salt Spring, I needed it badly then too. I’d heard only two weeks before that one of my childhood friends was gone–suddenly, tragically, irreversibly. I snuck away to look at the view and have a cry. TC found me and sat quietly with me until I was done and I had to go inside to change because there was tree sap on my pants.

During our third visit to Salt Spring, TC and I acknowledged that we were officially “in a relationship” with one another, not that we hadn’t been unofficially for months anyways.

By the our fourth visit to Salt Spring, TC and I were officially “in love”, not that we hadn’t been for months anyways. I watched a blood red sun rise over the Gulf Islands. TC was sleeping so I shared the moment only with a little brown rabbit who was hopping by. I was terrified by the idea that because my TC loved me, it was possible for me to hurt him. Could I continue under the threat of this possibility? The thought stopped my heart.

By our fifth visit to Salt Spring, I had moved in with TC and his rabbit, who has an actual name, but whom I prefer to call Bunny. I had returned from my month travelling in Europe by myself, and I knew that TC was a choice I wanted to make. Everywhere I went, I had carried him with me, and at the end of that month we were carried back to each other.

We visited Salt Spring for the sixth time in April. Spring was busy this year–sometimes I would have only 15 min at home after work to change or grab a bite before rushing off to class or a rehearsal. During these times my TC would have a grilled cheese sandwich waiting for me so I wouldn’t starve. I never slept enough. I was irritable most of the time. Emotionally I was very fulfilled but mentally and physically I was exhausted and feeling grey and pinched in the grey and pinchy city.

And then–ocean again. Playing “C is for Cookie” on the ukulele with the girls. And then–a silence so present and soothing I slept for ten hours. Waking up and drinking tea in the sun on the back deck. So much fresh air I begin wondering how I could ever breathe anything else.

August. Our seventh Salt Spring visit. This one a little more hectic than usual, much of it spent helping TC’s parents move into their new summer house on the island. The sunny window seat in the dining room is dubbed “Lauren’s Spot” because I spend as much time as possible there, napping or telling stories to one of TC’s cousins. I’m struck with the realization that I have been accepted into TC’s family–they like me and care about me. Suddenly, in addition to my beloved own, I have a whole other family who wants the best for me. It’s such a gift and such a responsibility.

Labour Day weekend. Visit number eight. Through the window of a little Salt Spring Air float plane, my TC and I wave to his parents and (visiting) grandparents who are waiting on the dock and step out of the plane into a flurry of hugs.

This time, I’m not visiting the island merely to be rescued by its beauty and tranquility. Sure, we’re a little sleepy from our early flight but our eyes are bright and our hearts are smiling. This time, no euphemisms or nifty monikers are required.

I know just what to call my TC. On his own, he’s a lot of great and interesting things. To me, he is my partner in everything, my confidante, my support, and my best friend. But to use a quick term, I’ll just call him my fiance.

[P.S. Of course, I’ll still use TC. It’s worked out so well so far.]

Adventures in BC: The Chief and Nat Bailey Stadium

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Summer is upon us, and with the summer comes the opportunity to explore the “supernatural” province that we live in. If you don’t have much time (or money), what better way to enjoy beautiful BC than to enjoy the natural and cultural gems existing close to home?

Part I:

In which NiftyNotCool and her TC hike the Chief

One warm BC Day, on a whim (and after getting pumped up by watching the classic 80s film Labyrinth), TC and I borrowed his brother’s car and headed towards Squamish to hike the Chief. (For those who don’t know, the Chief is a granite cliff/mountain that you can hike to the top of. Pretty spectacular.)

After a short and scenic drive along the Sea-to-Sky highway, we arrived at the Shannon Falls Provincial Park so we could check out the pretty falls before beginning our hike to the summit of the Chief’s First Peak, which is technically part of the Stawamus Chief Provincial Park (beginning your journey at Shannon Falls adds negligible time and effort to the overall hike AND involves a waterfall! Score!).

After hearing I’d been up the Chief, one of my coworkers asked if the hike was “reasonable”. This really depends on your version of reasonable. If a reasonable hike to you is over in an hour and a half and can be done in tennis shoes or sandals, then no, the Chief is by no means a reasonable hike. If, however, climbing up (just up, not ever sideways, just up) for almost two hours, sweating like a beast as you clamber over rocks and tree roots, climbing the occasional iron ladder or needing to hold chains to avoid slipping down a granite rock face and then getting rained on and absolutely filthy on your (equally tricky) descent sounds like a reasonable hike to you, then the Chief just might be your idea of a pleasant afternoon.

Sweating and getting muddy aside, TC and I had a great time. Standing more than 600 metres above sea level on a granite peak, feeling the wind and rain whip our faces and knowing there is nowhere to go from here but down was an absolutely exhilarating feeling, worth the sweaty clamber up and slippery descent. TC and I shared a kiss on the summit and headed on our way. My legs were shaking by the time we got back to Shannon Falls but we were both smiling from ear to ear. The entire hike to and from the First Peak took us just under 3.5 hours and we felt sore and exhausted and fantastic.

Part II

In which NiftyNotCool and her friend Colleen watch the Vancouver Canadians beat the Yakima Bears 2-1 at the Nat Bailey Stadium

On Tuesday my friend (and baseball fanatic) Colleen was in town and this is why I ended up spending my Tuesday evening cheering and rhythmically clapping for the Vancouver Canadians at the splendid Nat Bailey Stadium (at 4601 Ontario Street, which is, by the way, easily accessible by transit).

According to Colleen, whose baseball-related facts I always trust, Nat Bailey Stadium is one of few beautiful outdoor baseball stadiums in Canada (and 7th largest) and should be considered a gem of Vancouver. I’m not going to argue with that. It really is an awesome venue and we had great seats for only $16 a pop.

And then, for some reason, sushi raced.

It had been a long time since I’d watched baseball but the rules are pretty simple and the innings are pretty quick. Between innings, the stadium took care to entertain the crowd with various small events: a smart car taking a spin around the diamond, a “sushi race”, dance routines by the ground crew, everyone doing the bird dance in the stands, and finally, everyone singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”. I had a beer and a hot dog and reveled in nostalgia and the warm evening.

I really couldn’t have asked for more, except maybe for a win for the Vancouver Canadians. And then, at the bottom of the 9th, they made it happen! What a day. And what a stadium! Nat Bailey is a great place to kick back, shoot the shit, and watch some ball.

—————————

So what are you waiting for? Whether you prefer drinking a beer in the stands or scaling a peak, our warm weather and sunny skies won’t last forever. Get the heck outside you lazy bum, and have a summertime adventure.

That time I went to a summer camp in Ukraine

/ Lauren / 2 Comments

Illustration by Sonja Kresowaty

When I was 10, I went to a summer camp in Ukraine.

I don’t mean that my parents shipped me off and told me to have fun with macrame and Ukrainians and that they’d see me in a few weeks. My whole family had been living in Latvia (the home of my mother’s predecessors) for the previous year, and after the school year and the Jāņi (Midsummer) celebrations were done, we hopped an overnight train to Ukraine, my parents rented a “microbus” van (complete with driver) and we drove into the Carpathians to visit the homeland (on my father’s side–where did you think “Kresowaty” came from?).

I didn’t quite realize this at the time, but by the end of our year in Latvia, we weren’t exactly rolling in money with which to tour another Eastern European country. This, I imagine, is why it seemed like a good idea to spend a few days staying in a cabin in a children’s summer camp, sleeping on the cheap and eating camp dinners with the kids. And for all intents and purposes, it was a good idea, since it worked out just fine.

The camp was pretty and the woman who ran it was very accommodating. After realizing that we spoke English, the children staying there treated us like celebrities, crowding around us to get a look (which was a bit scary for my sisters and me at first but wasn’t mean). Our cabin was large and bright compared to some of the hotels we had recently stayed in (or the hay-covered floor we had slept on after the Jāņi festivities).

As for the camp’s facilities, I remember only that I had to eat mashed potatoes (even though I hated them) because that was what was being served, and that the “bathrooms” at the camp were cement cubicles with small holes in the floor. My aim (as a child of 10 who was used to sit-down toilets) was not so great, so whenever I could I took advantage of the WC provided by the Great Outdoors. I can’t remember if we were ever able to shower while we were there, or whether we bathed in a river or something instead (there was a beautiful little waterfall nearby where we could jump off the rock into the pool below).

But no matter. My parents revealed to me this year that they’re pretty sure that a lot of the kids at the camp were from the Chernobyl contamination zone, spending a summer away from the ever-present danger of radiation (the disaster had only occurred about a decade ago at that point). That freaked me out a bit because I’ve read that to spend time living with a Chernobylite is essentially to spend time with a nuclear reactor (human bodies hold radiation just like everything else), but it also made their kindness all the more touching.

Despite my sisters and my shyness, the other kids (girls especially) were friendly and inclusive and those who could speak a bit of English seemed excited to try it out on us. An older girl took charge of us at the camp’s “Disco” night, asking us what music we liked (I told her Ace of Base) and making sure the teasing boys behaved themselves. On our last day at the camp, some of the girls presented us with little gifts they had bought from the ladies who sometimes set up little booths there.

I want to point out that these kids had nothing. Ukraine was a very poor country following the collapse of the USSR only five or so years before (running water only available some parts of the day, hot water hardly at all) and I think these girls were even poorer than that. I can’t remember how my sisters and I reacted to receiving the plastic earrings, bottle of perfume, and the small bottle of “Venus” deodorant we were given (I don’t think it was a slight, this seemed to be one of the prized items for sale). I think even as (comparatively) privileged Canadian kids we realized how nice this was. I don’t remember any of the girls’ names, but the memory of their generosity only becomes more amazing to me as I grow older. I don’t know many children, poor or otherwise, who would ever think to buy presents out of pocket for complete strangers.

Illustration by Sonja Kresowaty

On our last night, my sisters and I were roused from sleep. The lady who ran the camp was there, to feed us some type of corn porridge and sell my parents a heavy wool blanket (the “Ukrainian blanket” is the warmest blanket my family owns, popular on the couch in Saskatchewan winters or when camping). There was a lot of eating with strangers in Ukraine. Wherever we went, it seems people wanted to feed us. That’s just how it was.

Most of that trip through Ukraine feels like a dream to me now. Not because I was young (I have vivid memories of being much younger than 10), but because it was all so unusual to me. My memories of the country are just little snatches now: Fanta in sugar-rimmed glasses. The gilded opera house in Lviv where gorgeous women in stilettos went clack clack clack up marble staircases. Paying 1000 “kupons” (5 USD) for a carved wooden jewellery box. The cherries that looked good but had worms in them. The family we found who may or may not have been related to my grandmother (no way of telling since the village church records were destroyed by the Soviets) but who invited us for lunch anyways. Spending the night in a hotel that wasn’t open to the public yet (and didn’t have toilet seats). My mom celebrating her birthday on the train somewhere in Belarus and blowing out matchsticks stuck into a bun. Dill on everything.

On one of our last nights in Ukraine, we stayed in the apartment of relatives of our travel agent (for free, I think). They had a great big book of Ukrainian folktales in English. The folk art illustrations were stunning. The owners of the apartment gave the book to us, maybe just because they didn’t have use for an English book, maybe because they wanted to give us something. I have it on my shelf now and it is one of the possessions I am most careful with (especially because it belongs to my sisters too, not just to me).

I don’t know why I am thinking of Ukraine today. Maybe because my friend Aliya (who is also half-Ukrainian) mentioned that she would like to go. Maybe because the warm sunny weather and my recent trip to the Prairies has me dreaming of blue skies and yellow fields. Maybe because I encountered some of the most generous people I’ve ever met in my life there. Maybe because there’s a tiny part in me, however small, that cries for the home of my blood.

Or maybe because today I just wanted to tell you, in case you didn’t know, about the time I went to summer camp in Ukraine.

Ooh Saskatchewan!

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Driving through southern Saskatchewan.

Last Friday, my TC and I packed our bags for a week in Saskatchewan. Our trip took us through Saskatoon (briefly), Weyburn (for a wedding) and Cochin, but most of our time was spent in the house I grew up in, situated on 240 acres of forest and fields (mostly forest) in northwest Saskatchewan. Technically I did not grow up on a farm (I grew up on an acreage), but considering how far we lived from the nearest town (Turtleford–at least a 30 min drive from us, population 500) and the fact that at different times we’ve had rabbits and roosters and laying hens and a duck (in addition to the more usual dogs and cats), I suppose I could forgive your confusion.

This trip was TC’s first time deep in the country, and there are a few things he found a little bit “crazy”:

  • Saskatchewan is flat–you can see power lines for miles. Except only really in the south. It is not that flat where I’m from, comparatively, or nearly as open.
  • Giving directions includes, “Head eight and a half miles out of town on the highway and turn right at the white barn.” In our defense, we were in Weyburn for a wedding, and none of us were familiar with the community. Had we known where we were, the instructions would have certainly included the family surnames of the farms we were passing.
  • Dirt roads. We do not live on a dirt road. The roads out here are gravel thank you very much.
  • There’s no street signs out here. Of course there are no street signs out here. There are no streets. We get to our houses via roads (see above). Gravel roads don’t need names.
  • Wild strawberries. Heck yes wild strawberries.
  • Massive properties with hundreds of old cars and some buildings erected to form a kind of “car village”. To be fair, the property TC is referring to is a neighbour’s farm, and this neighbour is a devoted collector of vintage (and rare) cars.  The bison farm he owns with his wife is a pretty special, very unique place, not the norm for Saskatchewan farms. The fact that his collection and its set-up is not commercialized in any way is also very special.
  • Cows and other “critters” on the side of the road. Yes, this happens sometimes. And yesterday, we saw a badger!
  • There are three cats in the house. This is only crazy because TC is so ferociously allergic to cats. For the rest of us, it’s just triple the cuteness.

Our provincial flower, the Western Red Lily.

It’s hard for me to describe my home because I love it so much. I love the fields, I love the woods, I love the gigantic skies. I love driving the gravel roads that form a near-perfect grid across the province. I love Bright Sand Lake, I love the neighbourliness, I love the quiet (except in its own way, the Prairie is very loud). I love watching thunderstorms roll in. I love that my parents and their friends talk about hilling their potatoes, and the weather (because it impacts more than their mood and their beach plans), and never about salaries or how much people are paying in rent/mortgage/car payments etc. (which is somehow acceptable conversation in a city). I love that we ate good food all week and no one took a photo of it. I love being in the house my dad designed and built (except I hate when things inside it change). It’s the home of my soul, and always will be.

Despite his cat allergies and his newness to the region, TC and I had a lovely time. My only regret is having to head back to the city tomorrow. Sigh.

A thunderstorm rolls in.

My woods from my favourite place, Crocus Hill.

One of many abandoned farm houses–this one between Livelong and Glaslyn.

Beep beep.

[All photos by my TC.]

Sunshine Coast Adventures: Nifty at the Painted Boat

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

View from our patio at the Painted Boat

Sometimes, a lady just needs a holiday. And not just any old holiday, which often involves headaches and penny pinching and a hotel room overlooking a dumpster and crack deal. Sometimes, a lady just needs to vacation like a rich person.

Enter 604pulse.com, and their recent contest to win a free 2-night stay in a villa at the relaxing, beautiful, and oh-so-luxurious Painted Boat Resort on the Sunshine Coast. On a whim, I entered the contest back in February, never expecting to think about it again. Until I won. Wooohooo! Nifty got a rich-person vacation!

On Friday, the TC and I packed our rental car (obtained super-cheap by booking through hotwire.com and by buying our insurance through ICBC instead of through the rental company, FYI) and headed up the Sunshine Coast. With the sun beaming down and a compilation of 90s alternative hits rocking the stereo, we enjoyed a pretty but winding drive to Madeira Park. We accidentally passed our turn twice but in no time at all we were at our destination.

And what a destination it is. Every villa at the Painted Boat resort has a waterfront view. Because it was off-season, the resort was fairly quiet and I suspect this is the reason we were bumped up from the standard two-bedroom villa I had won to a two-bedroom villa that also had a loft (this place was twice the size of our decently spacious apartment). The master bedroom had a king-sized bed and overlooked the bay. Its en suite bathroom had a huge stone-tiled shower and a massive bathtub. There was a fireplace. A large patio with a barbecue. A beautiful kitchen with granite counter tops. There was even a washer and dryer in one of the closets (which came in handy on our first morning when I spilled milk down my sleeve).

Minions, build me this bathroom!

Minions, build me this bathroom!

Needless to say, I spent my weekend “star-fishing” the massive bed, taking more baths than I needed, and “ballet dancing” all over the beautiful expansive hardwood (which of course becomes “figure skating” when you are wearing socks). Obviously, whenever we were in our villa, TC and I wore the plushy robes provided by the Painted Boat (my assumption is that rich people don’t restrict themselves by wearing actual clothes any more than they have to, I wouldn’t).

Kayaking on the sea!

Kayaking on the sea!

Though on Friday night we kept matters frugal by cooking supper ourselves (excellent steaks barbecued on waterfront patio, courtesy of my TC) and relaxing under the stars in the resort’s hot tub, for our second day we decided to live it rich and take advantage of the resort and its activities. Late afternoon massages at the Spa (I had a salt scrub first) put us in a lovely mood for dinner at the Restaurant at the Painted Boat. It was a luxurious, spendy, delicious day.

My favourite activity was actually the cheapest one–before our fancy massages and dinner, TC and I rented a double kayak from the Painted Boat and spent two sunny hours paddling around the bay and various little inlets near Madeira Park. During these two hours, in addition to the regular seagulls, geese, and crows, we saw the following wildlife:

  • sea stars (purple, orange, and white)
  • a cormorant (we think)
  • a loon
  • a bald eagle
  • a blue heron
  • clams and sand dollars beneath the water
  • a crab being viciously killed and eaten by a crow
  • a SEAL splashing around and having a great old time (he didn’t let us get too close though).

Basically, this place is awesome. I don’t have much more to say, except that my weekend was awesome. Not only is the Painted Boat itself a beautiful and beautifully located resort, its proximity to the rest of the wonders on the Sunshine Coast meant that after checking out on Sunday, TC and I were able to take a very short drive to hike in the Skookumchuck Rapids Provincial Park and make it back to the Langdale ferry before 4:00 pm.

I miss you already.

Yeah…my weekend was awesome. Thank you so much to Robyn at 604Pulse and to Jennifer and Lori at the Painted Boat Resort for providing my TC and me with this amazing opportunity to live rich and relaxed for a glorious weekend on the Sunshine Coast. For all its being a 4 1/2 star resort, the Painted Boat retains a relaxed and outdoorsy atmosphere that was not at all stuffy or classist. My heart cries for the beautiful kitchen and the fabulously huge bathtub, but I am fully content and happy with my new memories of the unceasingly beautiful province of BC.

Disclosure: Not much to disclose, actually. Our stay at the Painted Boat was free because I won a random-draw contest held by 604Pulse.com. I do not believe any of the parties involved knew I was a blogger, and I certainly was not asked to blog about my visit.

European Travel Nifty-style: Some Recommendations

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

Porto, Portugal

Howdy Travel Fans! NiftyNotCool here, back in Canada and feeling fine. I survived a month of hostel living, train riding, and living out of a backpack, and I managed to tear myself away from the charms of Portugal and Spain and return to you all to give you my recommendations for European travel Nifty-style (lucky you!).

I. Preparations

Guidebooks: I bought a Lonely Planet for Portugal and also one for Spain. At first they felt a little pricey (about $30 a pop) but they were absolutely invaluable. A lot of train and bus stations don’t actually have a tourism office or provide free maps of the city you just arrived in. Even though the maps in the books are rather small, without my Lonely Planet there are a few times I would not have found my hostel, the train station, the site I was looking for, etc.

I also stayed in Lonely Planet recommended hostels and hotels through most of my trip and I was not disappointed in them. They were clean, safe, usually centrally located, and, because they were recommended in the Lonely Planet, they helpfully appeared on the Lonely Planet maps.

Because I didn’t know all that much about that places I was going, my guidebooks were also invaluable in helping me plan my trip and decide where I wanted to go and what I wanted to see. They give an overview of regions, history, language, transportation, accommodation, safety, and just about anything else I would wonder to myself about the country I’m visiting. Even if you get to a place and decide to just wing it, get a guidebook. I consider mine practically life saving.

Travel insurance/travel medical: I got mine through World Nomads (recommended by Lonely Planet of course) and it only set me back around $150 for four weeks. Whichever company you decide to become insured with, do become insured. I think lots of people like to think nothing will ever happen to them, and usually nothing does, but when I was sick in Madrid I remember thinking that if I got much sicker I would need a hospital (because I simply couldn’t take care of myself in a hostel) and I was so glad that I had insurance and therefore had that option.

Passports: I usually renew mine as soon as it expires. It’s a good idea because they can sometimes take a long time to obtain/renew and you don’t want to have a whole trip planned and be worrying you won’t receive your passport/visas in time. As a Canadian and British citizen, I did not need a visa for EU countries.

Itinerary: I didn’t completely plan out everything I did, but I do think it’s a good idea to at least narrow your travels down a bit. For me, having an abundance of choice is paralyzing. Once I decided I wanted to work Portugal north to south, and then focus half of my Spanish adventure on the Andalucia region, it was far easier to choose the specific cities I wanted to stay in and the things I wanted to see. Which makes it easier to pin down accommodation, transportation, etc. down the road.

If you do want to try to get off the beaten path and out of the cities, make sure you do your research ahead of time, and make sure you won’t need a car, a certain time of year, etc. to access the nature you’re trying to see. This will save you a bit of heartache and quite a big headache.

Documents: I made sure I brought my flight itineraries and my statement of insurance with me. I also brought photocopies of my passports and credit card, along with the number to call if my credit card was stolen. I left a copy of all of these documents with my TC as well, just in case the bag these documents were in was stolen. I have also heard of people keeping a photocopy of their passport in their shoe, but I did not do this.

Guarda, Portugal

II. Packing

The pack: First things first– If you’re going to be living out of a backpack for a few weeks like I was, you should have a good backpack. Schlepping 40 lbs. around the Iberian Peninsula sort of took it out of me and I was incredibly happy I’d shelled out the money not only for a swanky Osprey backpack with a zip-off day-pack, but one that was a women’s size small (because I am a small woman). The fact that the bag was well-balanced and fit me properly made a huge difference in how easy it was to lug around.

The stuff in the pack: It’s a family joke that I am a terrible packer (like the time I brought only one t-shirt on a trip to the Rockies in the heat of July because “the mountains are cold”). Thanks to some consultations with them pre-trip I was actually able to do a pretty decent job packing this time round. I checked the weather in Portugal and Spain beforehand and saw it was going to be unseasonably warm, but it’s good to be prepared for anything. I brought one pair of long pants, two pairs of capri pants, and one pair of shorts. I also brought two sweaters, two long-sleeved shirts, four t-shirts, and four tank tops (given how hot it was for parts of my trip I’m glad I had the option to change my shirt often). I brought a pair of hiking shoes, a pair of walking sandals, and (at my sister’s insistence) a pair of flats to wear to nicer places, like the flamenco restaurant I went to in Madrid. I brought pajamas, one dress, a bathing suit, my Hat With A Brim, and a windbreaker jacket. AND underwear and socks of course. I must have done a good job packing this time because I wore everything I brought except one exceptionally fluffy pair of socks, and there was no article of clothing I regretted leaving at home. And all of this fit into my pack, which I managed to carry around with me for four weeks. So congratulations me.

My major packing regret is that I did NOT take my student card, which would have saved me almost 50% at some tourist sites. Sigh.

III. Transportation

Air travel: I can’t really say much about the actual booking of flights because I am a little sucky-poo and I have a mother who is really good at finding cheap flights and she booked my flights for me. I flew cheaper airlines because I’m not made of money but I do have this to say:

Thomas Cook Airlines (the airline you get when you book with Air Transat to London) is terrible. The seats are tiny and incredibly close together (I pretty much felt like a chicken in a crate for 10 hours). Every seat had a black electrical box mounted underneath it, leaving no room for your carry-on (or your legs). The seats did not recline, not because they were broken, just because they didn’t. Words cannot describe how disgusting the food was. Terrible airline food is a cliche but this really hit new lows. Not only was it all, without exception, revolting, the portions were tiny. Basically, they give you enough food-like substance to legally claim they didn’t starve you. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

Greenland (I think)

Condor airlines (the cheap airline I flew back from Frankfurt with following my connection from Barcelona) is, by comparison, fantastic. I didn’t get my own TV, but that does mean my feet actually got room. The seats were a little larger, and reclined. For our “hot meal” we received a cole slaw, a large vegetarian lasagna, a roll with a triangle of real Camembert, and a lemon square. Oh yeah, and a complementary alcoholic beverage (I declined) and all the fruit juices were REAL juice. Then we got a snack and more juice. Then for our “cold meal” a breaded chicken cutlet, potato salad, and rye bread. I know I’m gushing a bit much for a charter airline but compared to Thomas Cook it was absolute heaven. Flying over Greenland and seeing a landscape that was simply pure untouched snow as far as they eye could see was pretty great too.

Train travel: The train is a very civilized and pleasant way to see Europe. My train days allowed me time to relax (i.e. have a nap), slow down, and think grand thoughts while watching beautiful countryside fly by. It’s more expensive than busing though (in some cases a LOT more expensive) which is why I bought a Eurail Pass.

The pass was rather convenient, but in the end I don’t really think the Eurail Pass saved me much money. I bought three travel days in Portugal and six in Spain, but only used four of my Spanish travel days. To use a Eurail Pass properly, you really have to make sure you are going to be covering a lot of ground, and plan your trips carefully. I overestimated the amount of travel I’d be doing and ended up making day trips just to use my pass. Since you have to pay in Spain and Portugal to reserve seats on trains anyways, even with your pass, if you aren’t making many trips you may as well just buy individual tickets for the journeys you want.

Bus travel: Bus travel is MUCH cheaper than taking the train and the bus usually reaches more locations. Being a romantic, I definitely preferred the train but I enjoyed the three bus journeys I did take during my travels and both Spain and Portugal seem to have rather good long-distance bus services.

Real Alcazar, Seville, Spain

IV. Accommodation

Hostels: Most of the time, I looked to my Lonely Planet for accommodation recommendations (the Madrid hostel where I saw bedbugs was NOT a Lonely Planet suggestion). One hostel group I can certainly add my thumbs up to is Oasis. (I stayed in the Oasis Lisboa, Oasis Sevilla, and Oasis Granada.) These hostels were slightly pricier but they all included breakfast, free access to wi-fi and computers with internet, and safe storage (the first two had electronic safes and Granada had a locking cupboard). They had cheap food in the evenings, cheap booze, kitchens, and information about all sorts of tours, activities, and sites. The friendly atmosphere helped me meet a lot of cool people and I was probably more social and had more fun in these hostels than anywhere else.

Because I was travelling solo, I really appreciated hostels not only for their affordability (they’re SO much cheaper than staying in hotels I’m really not sure how anyone my age could afford to travel without hostelling). but also so that I didn’t have to spend my entire trip eating alone and talking to myself. That would have been quite lonely. I also appreciated the informative and helpful staff I encountered in most places I visited who could provide me with maps, tours, admission booking, and transit info.

What to bring if you are staying in a hostel: I am glad I brought a luggage lock (my combination lock was too big for all of the lockers I encountered), a flashlight (there’s ALWAYS someone asleep in the hostel room, at all times it seems), a travel alarm clock (no wake up calls in hostels!), and a facecloth (works as a towel when you don’t have one). I’m also glad I brought camp laundry detergent so I could wash things by hand. I wish I had brought a travel towel, a better luggage lock to use on the lockers, and a pair of flip flops to wear in the hostel showers.

Granada, Spain

V. Food

I believe that eating is a very personal experience, so my recommendation for food is simple but mighty: go to a grocer or a supermarket, buy food (esp. fresh fruit which I found an abundance of in both Spain and Portugal) and have some food and water with you at all times. There’s nothing as tiring and frustrating as trying to look for a good restaurant or cafe when you’re already so starving you’d eat at McDonald’s even though you’re in an exciting new city. So take food and water with you so you can hold out for an eating experience you really do want (P.S. I never did eat at McDonald’s thank the gods).

VI. And one last recommendation…

Travel itself: I recommend it. If you want to go, I recommend that you go. If you are scared to go, I recommend that you go. For some (like me), the idea of four weeks of solo travelling in Europe would be daunting. For some it would be no big deal. And that’s fine. The journey is personal, it’s what you make of it, and for me it was exactly the balance of challenge and security I needed.

This was the right trip at the right time. The reasons I had for going changed as I planned, but the good I knew it would do me stayed the same. I returned to Vancouver not disappointed with the city and the cold as I expected I might be , but rejuvenated and able to see the beauty of my West Coast life afresh. The thing I had hoped to find on my journey was right here where I left it, right where I hoped it would be. And that’s worth searching for.

Beautiful Barcelona, Figueres, Good-bye

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

“Beautiful Barcelona!”

It’s a cliche phrase I know I’ve heard somewhere before and I was hesitant to use it. And then I thought, what the hell, it’s cliche because it’s true. Barcelona is beautiful. This is what struck me about the city. It’s actually a bit small, a bit crowded, a bit touristy, but my god, it is beautiful. Emerge from the Metro–beauty. Duck into an alley–beauty. Turn a corner–beauty. And that’s when you’re not even looking for it, so imagine the gob-smacking beauty you encounter when you actually make the effort to go to a park or a touristy site.

My relationship with Barcelona began as anything but beautiful. When I climbed out of the Liceu metro station onto La Rambla it was pouring rain. This rain became even harder once I checked into my hostel (located most conveniently right in Placa Reial, though I was too dejected at the time to notice). I knew it would be a bit hard to return to a hostel after my two nights at the Holiday Inn in Madrid, but I was unprepared for how hard I’d actually take it. The internet in the hostel was expensive. The hostel was a party hostel and all I could hear when I checked in, tired and hungry, was noise noise noise. The hostel didn’t rent towels, just sold them for 10 euros. My trip almost over, there was no way I was going to spend 10 euros for a giant towel I didn’t have the room to bring home again, so I was forced for four days to dry myself with the Doctor Who facecloth I had bought as a souvenir in London (it has a picture of a Tardis on it, and, Tardis-like, there was more to this tiny flannel than met the eye because it actually did not half badly). And to top it all off, I couldn’t even escape the noisy stupid no-towel hostel, because outside it was raining and thundering and being as miserable as I felt.

Basically, at that moment, I was emotionally done with my trip. I didn’t want to spend five more nights in Barcelona, I wanted to go home. To hell with the Sagrada Familia and the pretty streets. I wanted my kitchen and my bed and my glorious bathroom filled with glorious towels.

Luckily for me, all storms pass over and my emotional one subsided as soon as I met some people from my room, ate a decent dinner, and spent the better part of the evening discussing the finer points of Harry Potter with an Australian and a Brit (note: Dobby would win in a cage fight against Dumbledore). Fun fact: the Brit is a boom operator on Coronation Street! Wow!

On Tuesday morning the sun came out and I am sure glad I didn’t say to hell with the Sagrada Familia because it is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. From the outside it looked pretty cool, I mean, I’d certainly never seen a church before that replaced gargoyles with giant lizards, but it is also still under construction and cranes and scaffolding sort of take away from the general splendor. Waiting in line, I was impressed but wasn’t really sure what the church’s insides would hold.

Sagrada Famila, Barcelona

Beauty. Exquisite, unconventional, organic beauty. The Alhambra was beautiful, but the Alhambra is heavy and saturated with luxury and tradition. The inside of the Sagrada Familia is a surprising forest of pillars and light. It is open, it is airy, and it is incredibly incredibly joyful. Even the crucified Christ is suspended beneath a circus-like tent hung with grapes made of glass, and bathed in so much natural sunlight that it makes his predicament seem, again, joyful. Each angle inside the church reveals a whole new sense of wonder. The architect, Antoni Gaudi, carefully studied natural supportive structures formed by mineral crystals and plant growth in order to create his designs, and it shows. The Sagrada Familia does not feel built, or human-made. It feels like it grew. I met people in my travels who saw the Alhambra and were unaffected, but I have not met one person who has seen the inside of the Sagrada Familia whose eyes do not light up when retelling the experience.

I soaked up every bit of the church that I could, visiting all of the museum areas (highly recommended, especially the exhibit relating to Gaudi and nature) and taking the lift into the towers. I decided that after my Gaudi morning I wouldn’t mind a Gaudi afternoon so I made a point of visiting Barcelona’s Park Guell, a park designed by Gaudi whose gates are flanked by two Hansel-and-Gretel style houses. It is an interesting and very pretty park (and free!), and I was pretty much obsessed with everything Gaudi at this point, but the place was crawling with tourists and illegal souvenir vendors and after the devout and tranquil beauty of the Sagrada Familia it was a bit anti-climactic.

Candy stall in La Boqueria

The Sagrada Familia and the Park Guell were my only real goals for Barcelona, so on Wednesday I made loose plans for myself (the best kind of plans when travelling) and basically wandered around all day loosely achieving them. I wanted to check out the beaches of La Barceloneta so I wandered down there and did that. Kneeling on the shore to touch the Atlantic a giant wave came and soaked my sandals so I was forced to sit on a beach chair and read in the sun for half an hour while they dried off (poor me!). Got lost and wandered around some more, ate a doughnut, bought some fruits and vegetables at La Boqueria (St. Joseph’s Market) just off La Rambla. Ate a muffin and read a TIME magazine.

Parc de la Ciutadella

Wednesday afternoon: visit the Parc de la Ciutadella. Lovely fountain. Inexplicable giant statue of a woolly mammoth. Another pond with rowboats. Ducks. And then, music. Two guitarists sitting under a tree playing extremely well. Someone on the grass saw me watching and waved me over. When they found out I could sing I was brought to the guitarists and we had a magical musical hour or so. We sang the Beatles. We sang Bob Dylan. We jammed (vocal improvisations on my part…not my finest moment probably but I did my best). I think our best numbers were “I Will Survive” and “Eye of the Tiger” with amazing guitar solos courtesy of Pedro, a Venezuelan who moved to Barcelona ten years ago and was, the day I met him, on day four of being sober and delighted to discover he could play the guitar without alcohol. While I couldn’t quite shake my self-conscious caution throughout our jam session (I never took off my backpack) and insisted on excusing myself as soon as it began to get dark, jamming with these open-hearted musicians, total strangers to me, was a new and wonderful experience. If you know me you’ll know that while I am loud and talkative with those I know, I’m actually a little frightened of those I don’t. Opening myself up and being brave is actually something I’m a little bit proud of.

I knew that Thursday would be rainy so instead of spending it in the hostel or tramping around Barcelona pretending not to mind being wet and cold, I took the train to nearby Figures to see the Teatre-Museu Dali, the museum Salvador Dali built in his home town. My two-hour train ride also gave me lovely views of the interesting (and old-looking) city of Girona, which I would love to explore sometime.

Painted ceiling, Teatre-Museu Dali

I am a fan of Salvador Dali’s paintings and jewellery and I enjoyed those displayed in the museum (for example, I was surprised, though I shouldn’t have been, to realize that “Atomic Leda” is obviously a painting of Dali’s wife, Gala, with whom he was artistically obsessed). I am not sure I like the museum itself. Housed in Figueres’ old theatre, the passages between the rooms were narrow and crowded and many of the spaces seemed cluttered and full of installation-type art that felt….junky. As if you hung Dali’s paintings in a gallery space and then you had your tacky “artsy” grandmother fill the rest of the space with old brocade, velour, and stuff she found in her garage.

Mae West Room, Teatre-Museu Dali

Do I think my trip to Figueres was a waste? Nope. If I hadn’t gone I would have wished that I had. Besides, captivating art is captivating art no matter how you feel about its surroundings. (By the by, Figueres also has a Toy Museum, which, if you’re looking for something to tack onto your day in the city, is a cute, and kind of creepy, attraction.)

Friday was my last full day in Barcelona and I decided to check out of my loud crowded party hostel and check into the super pricey Hotel B, just off the Placa Espanya (right near a stop for the airport bus) for my last night. Before I did that, though, I visited the beautiful Santa Maria del Mar church. I sat in a pew and stared at the stained glass oriel window above the altar for a long time and thought many thoughts. I thought about the past year and those I have lost. I hoped that wherever they are, if they are anywhere, that they have peace. I thought about the people I know who are struggling with difficult circumstances and I hoped that those things would get better. I thought about the trip I had taken, and how lucky I was that I had the opportunity to travel for a month on my own, how lucky I was that I had been safe and, for the most part, my plans had worked, and how lucky I was that I was going to return the next day to the people who loved me.

I do not practice any faith. But I do like a nice, quiet place to reflect once in a while and an old Barcelona church did the job nicely. After four weeks of constant movement to return to a point of internal stillness and contemplation helped prepare me to say good-bye to my adventure, good-bye to the beautiful city that had been so good to me, and say hello to my old life as the new person I have become, a person who is older now, more independent, less anxious, and has more beguiling images stuffed in her memories than anyone should be allowed to have.

So until we meet again, my beautiful bewitching Barcelona, gracias. Thank you so very much.

View from my hostel room, Placa Reial

Madrid: A Tale of Boos and Yays!

/ Lauren / 2 Comments

Boo: Waking up in Granada on Thursday morning and throwing up all the lovely Moroccan food I ate the night before.

Yay: Making it on time to the train station anyways and having a solid nap on the train.

Boo: Having to wait an hour and a half at the hostel before my friends from Canada (whose paths I was crossing in Madrid) arrive.

Yay: Meeting a man named Ricardo in the hostel lounge who speaks only Spanish and French and actually using my French to have a half-hour conversation with him, albeit a very limited one. (“Ne sont pas cher!” I exclaim as we look at his souvenirs, because I can’t remember the word for cheap. “Magnifique!”).

Boo: Still feeling too nauseaus to really eat dinner or enjoy walking around the city with my friends.

Yay: Eating dinner and walking around the city with my friends. It’s nice to have them there.

Boo: Waking up on Friday and throwing up again.

Yay: Free and very bland hostel breakfast that makes me feel much better.

Boo: The Spanish Civil War. It was very bloody and lots of people died on both sides.

Yay: Informative, educational, and enjoyable Spanish Civil War walking tour. Did you know that Madrid was the first city to be blitzed (that’s right, the Nazis tried out blitzing in Madrid BEFORE WWII)? You do now!

Boo: Madrid’s glaring lack of monuments to the Republican (i.e. non-fascist) victims of the Spanish Civil War (not surprising given the decades of Franco rule that followed, ending only with his natural death).

Tempe Debod, Madrid. Bigger inside, "Tardis effect".

Yay: The Egyptian Temple Debod, which is full of cool things like heiroglyphics. It is the only Egyptian monument to be gifted to a European country (as in, all that stuff in the British museums is STOLEN!), for Spain’s help in preserving Egyptian monuments during the building of the Aswan Dam.

Also Yay: Ice cream and row boats on the large pond in the Parque Buen Retiro. Also yay to singing Canadian sea shanties while rowing (such as “Farewell to Nova Scotia” and “I’se the B’y”) and my friend Kayleigh’s siren song, performed while lounging siren-like at the prow: “Come to me boys/ Come into my lair/ I love you so much/ La la la la la!/ These rocks aren’t very sharp at all/ They’re actually very rounded/ La la la laaa!”

Rowing ´round Buen Retiro

Boo: Still not feeling up for drinking while on tapas/Flamenco tour.

Yay: Having a great assortment of tapas (with chorizo and goat cheese and potatoes with garlic sauce and fried hollandaise balls) at a nice bar while on tapas tour, and then moving on to a Flamenco show.

Boo: Pillar that blocks my view at Flamenco bar.

Yay: Actually seeing a Flamenco show and NOT getting kicked out, and seeing a show with dancing this time! Feel the fire! Feel the passion! Let’s just say if everyone behaved the way these people dance all the time, the streets would be red with blood. Epic.

All in all, Friday was a great day in Madrid. And then, just as I am laying myself down to sleep……

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO: Bedbugs! Ew ew ew! Crawling next to my pillow.

Yay: Checking out the very next morning (after checking my pjs for more bugs and finding none) and heading out to spend the next two nights in the Holiday Inn Express – Alcobenda. Luxury!

Boo: Me being too careless to write down the actual address of the Holiday Inn, or drawing us a map, or anything. Showing up at the metro station in Madrid’s equivalent of industrial South Burnaby with no idea where you’re going is silly indeed.

Yay: Helpful taxi driver who saw us wandering around being lost. He goes into a gas station, gets directions to the hotel, and takes us there. Gracias, senor!

Boo: LONG metro ride back the centre which means we will need to take an expensive cab back after Saturday night dancing.

Yay: Free afternoon at the Reina Sofia art gallery.

Boo: The destruction of Guernica and death of its citizens during the Spanish Civil War.

Yay: Picasso’s “Guernica” (it’s huge) and the preparatory sketches also on display at the Reina Sofia. The piece is full of movement and grief and, in comparison to some of his sketches, surprisingly subdued. He was searching for exactly the eyes, hands, tongue, etc. that would best show the horror of that night, and the exploration next to the final painting is very interesting.

Boo: Paying 20 euro admission at Club Kapital, where they throw away not only my water and juice at the door, but also my baguette, for some reason.

Yay: Dancing in a massive club in Madrid on a Saturday night, a club so big and crazy it has exotic dancers on a stage and a sound and light show that rates about as epic as a “Pirates of the Caribbean” film, and silver confetti, and seven floors, AND some kind of crazy machine that blasts the dance floor with ice cold air every once in a while that makes you think the world is ending but completely rejuvenates you for more dancing!

Boo: Realizing on Sunday that my shins hurt and I’m tired of walking.

Yay: Riding the Teleferic cable car over the city! Wheeeeeeeee!

Boo: The first rain I’ve seen my entire trip.

Yay: Getting to spend a lot of time indoors at the Prado (fine art gallery) where I enjoy the Titians and Goyas but mostly the painting known as “The Garden of Earthly Delights” by Bosch.

Boo: Final night in the awesome comfort that is the Holiday Inn and having to say good-bye to my friends while we continue our separate journeys.

Yay: Heading onwards to beautiful Barcelona! Stay tuned…

Granada: the Sierra Nevada and the Alhambra

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

As a lone traveller without a car, it can be very difficult at times to escape the trap of simply travelling from city to city to city without ever escaping into the countryside. My heroic attempts at hiking in the Serra da Estrela in Portugal had come to naught and although I knew that the Sierra Nevada mountain range rose up behind the city of Granada, I had no plans to visit it.

This is where the awesome organization at the Oasis Granada hostel comes in. On my very first night I saw that a trip to a thermal pool outside the city was running that evening for 12€ so I hopped aboard. I have no idea where exactly we went, or what the pool was called. All I know is that we bumped along unholy roads before being dropped off, in total darkness, at the pool. It was warm, the stars were bright, some nice folks from my hostel shared their beer with me, and I had an interesting and relaxing evening (my evening made more interesting by a group of men whose actions I will perhaps recount someday as The Tale of the Naked Frolicking Spaniards). Then it was back into the too-full van, back onto the unholy roads, and back to the hostel, where I discovered a layer of bright red clay now covered me and my bathing suit. In some ways, though I’m sure I was completely safe the whole time, the experience felt so weird I’m just glad we all returned unscathed.

Sierra Nevada, Spain

On Monday, on a whim, I decided to join up with a walking tour into the Sierra Nevada. I am so glad I did. Our guide took us on the bus to a little mountain village called Monachil and from there led us on a hike into the mountains, over wood and cable bridges, through a gorge, into a gorgeous valley with the red cliffs of the Sierra on all sides, and back again with a stop at a small waterfall. I’m glad I had good walking shoes because the hike was a little more intense than I had anticipated: crawling almost on my hands and knees under rocks, walking on an embankment so narrow that where the rock face hung over the trail there were handles put into the rock so you could lean back over the river and navigate around the rock without falling backwards. The landscape was impossibly rugged and wild and beautiful, with cacti, boulders, and a backdrop of blue sky everywhere you looked.

Such is the artistry of Mother Nature.

If you are interested in human artistry, Granada can certainly provide it in the palaces of the Alhambra, the city’s most famous landmark:

Oh. My. Stars. It was beautiful.

While the Alhambra and Generalife (garden) complex is actually huge, the most beautiful (and famous) parts of the site are the Nasrid Palaces. These are the parts you need to pay to see, and these are the parts you need to purchase a ticket for. If you want to purchase a ticket on the day you go, people begin to line up at 7am or so and the available tickets are usually gone shortly after the site opens. I did NOT line up at 7am, I paid the extra 2€ to book a ticket through my hostel (I could have saved a little booking on my own online but I would have needed to do that two weeks in advance).

Nasrid Palaces, Alhambra

I ended up spending almost five hours in the huge Alhambra complex and about 45 min in the Nasrid Palaces alone. These palaces are the location of some of Spain’s finest Islamic architecture (I’d make the leap and say it’s the finest but some people I met liked the Alcazar better). The attention to detail and the level of skill required to make something so intricate and so beautiful is absolutely mind-boggling, almost overwhelming, and truly has to be seen to be believed. My photos hardly do justice to the exceptional work of the artists who created these palaces.

The entire time I was wandering through the Alhambra I tried to imagine what it would have been like for the noble personages inhabiting these grounds: what it would be like if the Generalife gardens were mine for my own private enjoyment, how it would feel to be a commoner summoned to one of these palaces for an audience with royalty, how daunting (or perhaps excitingly challenging) the task of decorating and maintaining these spaces would have been. I wonder if any of those people had an inkling that one day, long after they were gone, these palaces would be here still, with thousands of people walking through these rooms daily, exclaiming at their beauty, taking photographs, writing blogs and postcards, and wondering.

Wall detail, Alhambra

Occupying Sevilla

/ Lauren / 3 Comments

Flamenco bar in Seville

When I arrived at my Seville hostel on Thursday afternoon, it was so hot (35 degrees!) that I decided not to do anything with myself until the evening (good call). I signed up for a little tapas and Flamenco tour being offered through the hostel and figured it would be a nice way to make something of my first evening in Seville and to meet people in my hostel.

Check and check. Seville is a tapas town, and although that evening was unfortunately the only time I actually “did the tapas thing” during my time there, I enjoyed my sangria and beer, as well as the two tapas I ordered (fried vegetables and, much to my eternal delight, fried camembert). The Flamenco was, unfortunately, fleeting. When we all packed ourselves into the tiny bar it was pretty obvious that it would be soley a Flamenco music show, as there was no space for any dancing. I knew I was too tired to last until the show ended at 3 am so I stood near the door (and the tiny bit of breeze that was wafting in) and prepared to enjoy the music.

I certainly did enjoy the music. The three musicians (two guitaristists and a man playing a drum) played and sang with love and their ability to project their voices in such a packed and acoustically poor space was incredible. I have no idea what they were singing about but their music provoked a longing feeling I often get when I listen to something that sounds beautiful and powerful and sad, even if I don’t understand the language.

What the tapas and Flamenco tour leader forgot to tell us, and what made my Flamenco experience “fleeting”, is that the owner of the bar would require us to buy a drink to be able to remain in the bar. That actually makes a lot of sense, but since I didn’t know, and since I was sort of standing all squished in at the back, I didn’t really feel like ordering a drink when she came by, so she kicked me out of the flamenco bar.

That’s right. I, Lauren Kresowaty, who has never been kicked out of anywhere in her life, was kicked out of a Sevillian Flamenco bar. Oh well. I tell myself I was about to leave soon anyways, and at least two of the girls standing near me ended up in the same predicament so we were all able to walk back to the hostel together (which was on the other side of the river). Absolutely sumptious raspberry gelato, which I found at a gelato bar still open after midnight, made everything better.

I only officially visited two tourist sites while in Seville. On Friday, I went to the Seville’s cathedral, and on Saturday, I visited the Real Alcazar, a huge palace and garden complex (sometimes referred to Seville’s answer to the Alhambra).

Cathedral, Seville

Perhaps the fact that I have visited so many cathedrals already coloured my feelings about Seville’s, but I feel that for an admission fee of 7,50€ (compared to other cathedrals so far which charged about 3€), something really ought to be pretty cool. Seville’s cathedral is impressive because it is very VERY big, and very rich. It also houses the remains of Christopher Columbus (although there are still many reasons to believe his remains are actually still in the Dominican somewhere).  For me, the most interesting part was the tower of the cathedral, which is actually a minaret left from on earlier mosque that had been on the same site. If you like cathedrals and haven’t already gotten sick of them, I think you may really enjoy Seville’s. If, however, cathedrals don’t really float your boat and/or you’ve already seen so many that it doesn’t impress you anymore, you may wish to take pictures of the impressive outside and give paying the 7,50€ admission fee a miss.

Another aspect of the cathedral you should also pass on are the women outside who will try to give you “rosemary” and read your palm. I unfortunately fell prey to this one and before I knew what was happening I had some green sprigs in my hand and was being told I’d have two children, and also that Santa Maria would now like me to give this woman 5€. I wasn’t into a confrontation so I gave her the 3€ that were in my pocket, but I wasn’t too happy about it. The fortune she told me was quite nice but I don’t trust her palmistry any more than her horticultural skills–the “rosemary” in my hand did not look or smell like rosemary, and I’m quite certain that it was just a clipping from a nearby hedge.

Islamic architecture, Real Alcazar, Seville

Saturday’s visit to the Real Alcazar was another slightly pricey affair but much more worth it to me. The palace complex is so large that even though I spent two hours within I don’t think I saw everything there was to see. My favourite parts were probably the Mudejar Palace (the section featuring the beautiful Islamic architecture) and the huge gardens. The gardens were complete with fountains, benches, a hedge maze, and peacocks. In fact, the gardens were so big that I almost forgot I was in the middle of a city. I guess it just goes to show that anyone can have the tranquility of country living in the city provided they have enough money and space.

It turns out that because the Alcazar gardens are so beautiful, it is a favourite spot for wedding photos in Seville. I saw five or six different newlywed couples wandering around the Alcazar, being followed by a photographer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many brides in one day. It was kind of exciting to see so many people celebrating a special day in one place.

Aside from the major landmarks, the thing I actually loved most about Seville was the atmosphere. Although the city was almost intolerably hot (and therefore completely quiet) during the siesta hours, its evening life more than made up for it. As I was wandering through the streets at around 9 pm on a warm Friday evening, I found the city incredibly active, but also not at all busy. People were drinking and eating tapas in restaurants. Families were bringing their children into the squares and the kids were all over the place, skateboarding, playing on scooters, and chasing one another. While I was eating dinner in the Plaza Encarnacion, I watched a little boy practice kicking his soccer ball, completely intent on getting it over a concrete retaining wall and heedless of the passers by. I absorbed the activity all around me but still felt relaxed and centred as I enjoyed a beer with dinner.

Occupy Seville, Plaza Encarnacion

On Saturday night the square became even more active as the Occupy Wall Street movement found its way to Seville. I watched from the roof of the hostel as hundreds of people poured into the Plaza Encarnacion, dancing, drumming, blowing whistles, waving signs, cheering, singing. People at home asked me what the police presence was at the protest but as far as I can tell there wasn’t any. Occupy Seville was a completely positive experience, with families present and venders selling roasted nuts to the protesters.

My evening (and my time in Seville) ended with pizza in the Santa Cruz district with a Winnipegger I met in the hostel. We talked about travel, we talked about politics, but mostly, we talked about love.

And truly, what else is there to talk about on a warm night in Seville? Warm hearts and warm-blooded passion are all over the city and it was such a priviledge to stop trying to be such a rush-rush tourist for three days and simply drink it in.