I've been here exactly one month now and I've only met five Americans. (Peter met one other one morning when he went for coffee without me.) There are a decent number of foreign travelers here, but they're all from France, Australia, England, Canada, Germany, New Zealand, Switzerland, Belgium, or South Africa. Peter commented that it used to be easy to identify American travelers, but we've been surprised every time we hear a suspected American speak. I think we can safely attribute this to the pace at which fashion trends now sweep the globe and the degree to which cross-pollination happens. Hipsters across the globe look more or less the same, though I've noticed that older Europeans don't often fall victim to the khaki shorts, white socks, fanny pack and baseball cap combo.

 

From conversations we've had with other travelers, it seems the European economy is probably suffering more than America's. Besides, anyone who would have decided to fly here in the first place probably had the means to do so regardless of the hit on their mutual funds. I honestly have no idea if Vietnam or Southeast Asia has ever been a popular destination for Americans. Judging from some of the emails in my Inbox, I guess Mexico and South America are probably doing a better job wooing American travelers. It's a real shame because Vietnam's such an interesting place. It's definitely a bit challenging if you're not an adventurous eater, if you need to stick to a firm itinerary, or if you don't speak any Vietnamese, but it wouldn't be impossible even if you had to deal with all those things. And although the flight here is long and a bit expensive, the tickets I saw for Vietnam were cheaper than the ticket I bought to Argentina. The cost of everything here is even cheaper than it is in Argentina, too!

 

While it's sad there aren't more Americans here, I suppose we do have a reputation for finding ways to taint the places we visit or at least sh*t all over them for the ways that they're not like America. It's probably for the best that we're not running into Tom and Sally from the good old USA because, God forbid, they could be talking real loud on their cell phones, moaning about how even the sandwiches here are weird, while they unfairly burdened a cyclo driver or rolled their eyes at a waitress because her English isn't perfect...

I think I've mentioned it before, but it's a strange place to be: straddling that line between being Viet Kieu, Vietnamese-American, and straight up American. Being able to assume a role as circumstances require is certainly convenient, but it's not something I'm doing without considering the implications.

 

Do I smile blankly or pretend not to understand when hawkers call out to me, "Chi, oi"? Almost always. Do I feel a slight twinge of fear when ticket vendors ask if I'm purchasing a ticket as a nguoi Viet (Vietnamese person)? Yes, though I am by at least some definitions. Did I bristle when the curator/ticket checker at the Museum of Trade Ceramics in Hoi An questioned the validity of the Vietnamese-by-association ticket that I had purchased for my husband? Of course I did. Do I ever wonder if someone's talking to me even when they're just on the phone with someone else? All the time.

 

It's awkward, trying to claim some legitimacy as a Vietnamese person by heritage even though I can't claim it by country of birth. I have always thought of myself as Vietnamese. I LOVE it when, after a decent conversational exchange, people ask if I'm a tourist from Saigon, but I'm then immediately both embarrassed and relieved to explain that I'm from America. I guess I prefer to be the first in line to be dismissive of myself if anyone's going to be, but I also hate to spoil my fantasy that I could be accepted here... I also know that there's a lot about me that is distinctly and irrefutably American and I don't want to have to hide that.

 

And I don't just say that I'm visiting from America. I specify that I was born there. It's how I try to excuse my poor manners and even worse language skills. I also always say that my Dad's from Hai Duong, a town in the North, and that my Mom's from the South, near Ben Tre. This absolutely helps because it wins me favor with people whether they are on one side of the camp or the other. At the very least, it at least helps them understand why my vocabulary and pronuncation are an ungainly hodgepodge of both. I should mention that I've gotten blank stares and uncomfortable silences with quite a few people from mien Trung (the central provinces), who seem to require as much concentration to understand me as I need to understand them.

 

But I am Vietnamese if my parents are Vietnamese and I grew up steeped in the culture (albeit in a new incarnation), right? But is that claim not my birthright because my parents defected? Because I never lived in Vietnam and can't possibly know what it really means to live here? I can't help but wonder anyone would ever challenge me by doing something so simple as requesting to see my passport and then chewing me out because mine's blue and clearly states I was born in the States. And I don't think I could be sufficiently indignant if I had to defend myself in Vietnamese instead of English. Am I really "coming home," as I typically state, or am I just another foreigner to the people who live here? Naturally, there's no clear answer.

 

Tonight, we had the most amazing meal. The chef-owner sat with us at the end of the evening and told us about how his life led him from Vietnam to America to places all over the world, and then back to Vietnam. He said he came home, in part, to get back in touch with his roots, to really immerse himself in the language and culture so that when he had kids, they'd really be Vietnamese. Keep in mind this is a guy who was 17 when he left the country, only to make his initial return only nine years late. At one point, he described how much it pissed him off so much when he saw Viet Kieu come to Vietnam and pretend not to understand Vietnamese that he wanted to pop those people in the jaw whenever he sees them. He's Viet Kieu himself. It had never occurred to me that anyone might have witnessed this kind of behavior and formed an opinion about it, especially such a strong one. I couldn't help but interject to describe to him how it so often feels easier and safer to pretend you're just a generic foreigner. It's at those times that you aren't in a special class reserved especially for "traitors" or people who owe anyone else here anything in exchange for their having found a more comfortable life. For me, it says I'm someone who never had to make a choice between staying, leaving, or coming back. This is simply my first visit to Vietnam. Full stop.

 

This won't be my last visit to Vietnam, but I suspect that before I pack up and move here, I'll have to more clearly define and accept that I'll play significantly different oles in each place whether I like it or not. Not ideal, but still easier than trying to tackle those difficult and highly subjective questions.

I've been in Vietnam for a little over two weeks now and there are some cultural differences I'd like to note.

 

- napkins: people don't use them at home. Instead, everyone shares a wet washcloth at the end. When entertaining Westerners, hosts might produce a roll of toilet paper or a box of Kleenex or newspaper. You will be presented with wet wipes whenever you eat in a restaurant (as opposed to a street kitchen), but you'll be charged for them. If you don't use them, the cost can be deducted from your bill. Dry "napkins" (typically toilet paper encased in a plastic barrel) are free.

- detritus: in someone's home, you can just put fish and meat bones on the table. Anywhere other than the nicest restaurants (I suspect...haven't been to one yet), you just deposit any and all your trash on the floor. You put your beer bottles and cans here, too, to account for the number of drinks you've had at the end of the night. Like napkins, if you order a drink you don't open, you can have it deducted from the bill.

- bill: when you're ready, just holler out to any passing waiter or across the room to the cashier when you want your bill.

- menus: lots of places don't have them. Or, if they do, they don't necessarily have prices. I also suspect they have different menus for Vietnamese, Viet Kieu, and other foreigners.

- serving yourself: you never serve yourself until you've verbally invited everyone else to eat. The order in which you do this is important, too: eldest male followed by eldest female, and so on and so forth. Wait until the most senior person has picked up their chopsticks before you pick up yours.

- frequency with which people eat: maybe it's just because we're being entertained by family a lot of the time, but people eat all day long. We've had some fairly unbearable days when we've eaten a meal on our own, and then had to eat lunch at our aunt's house, followed by lunch at our uncle's house, followed by snacks at another uncle's house. You also see people at street kitchens all throughout the day.

- types of restaurants: There's a hierarchy of places to eat and prices vary accordingly. There are nha hang, restaurants housed within a proper building. I'm assuming prices are high because you pay for their electricity, fans, and stoves.

- stoves: gas plumbing is a luxury most people don't seem to have. I've only seen people cooking over coals or propane burners.

- low stance: we eat on the ground or near it a lot of the time. Furniture is another luxury good. Platters are used as tables and newspapers an extension of them when necessary.

 

- toilet paper: carry your own. In someone's home, you can use the do-it-yourself-bidet (aka bucket with scoop next to the toilet) or a sprayer coming out of the wall.

- soap: even when a public bathroom has toilet paper, it doesn't have soap. Carry Purell.

- sinks: bathrooms in people's homes don't have a sink.

- wet showers: no shower curtains or doors = less mildewed surfaces to scrub. It's humid here. Bathroom floors are always wet. You just wipe your feet on the towel or mat on the floor on your way out.

 

- pushing: I think I've mentioned the pushing. Absolute strangers have no problem whatsoever with pushing you out of the way. Nowhere is this worst than when boarding a plane. It's like people think they're going to be left behind if they don't get on straight away.

- thank yous: you're not expected to say "thank you" for much, especially not when leaving a shop or when a family member's done something for you. I've been called out a number of times for saying "thank you" to my aunts, uncles, and cousins. It's an oddity they say isn't necessary because we're family. I've received thank yous only after giving someone a cash gift, presumably because it's a bigger gesture to them than all the things they've done for me day-to-day.

- addressing others: social hierarchy rules are complex. It's okay to guess how to address someone based on their age, but to be safe, call them by a denomination that connotes respect. Sometimes, this means both of you call each other "older sister," which makes no sense, but is at least polite. If you call someone "Di" (aunt on your mother's side) when they're "Mo" (older aunt) or "Chi" (older sister/cousin) when they're "Em" (younger sister/cousin), they'll correct you.

 

- laws: I'm assuming there are laws, but pretty much anything goes. My cousin has even driven down the wrong way on a one-way street.

- scooters: there are more scooters than cars. Cars are a rarity. Most that you see are taxis. There are designated lanes for scooters, not that lane markings mean much.

- speed limits: because of the number of cars and the amount of passing that happens, the speed limits all throughout the country, even on highways, are low. We haven't broken 80km/hr even in the dead of night on long stretches.

- right of way: like Brazil, you are only responsible for being aware of what's happening in front of you. Everyone behind you is responsible for not crashing into you as they work their way around you. This means you can start a turn or lane change whenever you want as long as you do it slowly.

- pedestrians: cross the street by looking for any kind of opening and then just walking across in a predictable fashion, stopping only when absolutely necessary.

- honking: there are different types of honks, but people honk regularly to alert other drivers of their presence. Horns are loud, especially when you're a pedestrian.

- maps/street names: no one here uses a map. All the street names are the same from town to town. Pretty much anyone you ask can direct you to where you want to go.

 

- kids vs. adults: people are obsessed with kids' genitals. I've seen adults and other kids run over and grab a baby's package (lovingly) and have been invited to do so myself. Kids get undressed for portraits when they're really young. These portraits are displayed proudly by all. Toddlers will walk around in the street bottomless. Adult women, on the other hand, don't bare their shoulders or chest.

 

Leisure activities: they don't have them.

 

Sexism: I'll have to save that for an entirely separate post altogether.

I thought I might be able to escape the "Viet Kieu" designation seeing as to how I wasn't actually born in Vietnam and am therefore not returning to it, but there doesn't seem to be much sense in trying to explain myself because everyone would still treat me the same way. It's interesting how everyone you meet wants to know, first off, where you're from. "O ngoai (from outside)?" is what they usually guess before I even get a chance to answer. That threw me the first couple times I heard it because, while nonspecific, it definitely sets up a subtle us-versus-them dynamic immediately.

 

People here also ask, in undisguised disbelief, if I really speak "tieng minh (our language)". I do and I don't, depending on who you ask. Sometimes, they're shocked that I speak any at all, but then they're not impressed that I can read and write a little. It's as though, duh, of course you would if you speak it. Other times, after I've set expectations by telling them I speak only a little, that my vocabulary is not great, people are dismissive and say to each other, "Oh, she doesn't actually speak it at all." It's a little frustrating. I'm learning some useful new words, but for some reason, I still understand the comedy skits on those Vietnamese variety shows better than I do some of the conversations I'm a party to here... Accents are pretty strong. Some cousins speak very quickly, others very softly. A lot of the time, they have in-jokes already and I don't understand enough of the wordplay to get what's so funny, but I'm always happy as hell when I do catch on and can think of something funny to say myself.

 

I had an interesting experience at the roadside roast corn stand out in the countryside. One of cousins drove me out there on her scooter. We sat down with the vendor and a gaggle of women. She seemed to know all of them (small town, you know?). Everyone stared at me the entire time. I didn't sense anyone had made any particular judgments about me besides noting that I couldn't handle the jungle heat. I'm a profuse face sweater, especially when I eat. But as we were about to get up an leave, a new lady sat down and started chatting. After a minute or two, she noticed me and asked who I was. My cousin told her I was there visiting, so I smiled and said hello. She visibly jumped and then asked my cousin (not me; this is common, being alternately stared at and ignored), "She speaks our language?" I jumped in with my usual response. The lady asked my cousin how long I'd been away. My cousin exclaimed, "She was born there!" "Born there? She was born in America, but she looks so binh dan." I'd seen "com binh dan" on restaurant signs all over Saigon and I'd read in the guidebook that those are places where lots of ordinary Vietnamese people eat if they eat out, so I knew it connoted something like "ordinary" or maybe "like us". Even so, I clarified with my mom when I got back to my aunt's house because the phrase wasn't in my dictionary. My mom confirmed it meant "regular" or "typical". At this point, my cousin had come back in the room and I told her, "I didn't know if that woman was complimenting me or criticizing me!" I get the sense that a lot of Vietnamese people come back here with resculpted noses, laden in gold, and carrying designer handbags to show what they've made of their lives "over there". Meanwhile, I was just wearing linen capri pants and a mustard-yellow tee-shirt. No makeup. Hair pulled back. Lots of sweat and lots of bug bites. As my mom would say, "I looked like crap from America." I think the lady was a little dissapointed, but I took it as a compliment. I'm not flashy at home, so why be so in a place and situation where it would only serve to set up an even greater disparity between me and everyone else? There's already a Grand Canyon's worth of differences separating us that I have to sit with and have yet to fully sort out...

Meeting family has not been nearly as emotionally ravaging as I thought it would be. Mainly, I thought my mom would be a big ball of tears the whole time but she's been fairly stoic. I think she's listening to this one side of the story and is preparing to take in the other sides before she decides anything. I'm quite proud of her for that. After all, she's heard countless times from her other siblings that she shouldn't send any money home to the one aunt I've just met because that aunt is supposedly wealthy. (While she's certainly not destitute, I wouldn't call the house she lives in with her daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters a palace. Land is not cheap in Saigon and I think they paid what amounts to $30,000 USD for it. It's approximately 15-20 feet wide by 12 feet deep and two stories tall. I'm pretty sure she sleeps in the livingroom, a space that is considerably smaller than the bedroom where I spent most of my childhood and teen years and which also serves as the famiy room and diningroom. The space is devoid of all furniture except a small plastic stool and an entertainment unit where they keep their medicines, glassware, pillows, blankets, altar, and TV, among other things.) You know how it is with family. Everyone's got one side of the story and it always features them as the long-suffering soul.

 

There were a few tears when we first pulled up in front of my aunt's house. The visit was supposed to be a surprise. As far as everyone knew, we weren't due in for at least another day. Because of the ambush, there was more laughter than tears. My aunt is goofy like my mom. She poked her head out the door to see who it was, yelled, and then ran back inside the house. While my mom was still doubled over, my aunt came running back out and gave my mom a good smack on each butt cheek. Anyone who knows my family knows this is something we do to each other with regularity. I walked into her house and she did the same with me! It was such a familiar way of greeting someone you've never met that I couldn't help but be won over immediately. Even sweeter was the way my little niece Thuy Duong ran up to me and my mom and gave us big hugs in turn. She's only three, so it was a "bear hug around the legs" variety.

 

My cousin Diep, my aunt's eldest daughter, showed up minutes later on her scooter. She came in the house and smacked me on the arm first thing when I greeted her as "Di", which means "aunt". "Di? I'm your chi!" "Chi" is "older sister". Diep immediately went into the kitchen and came out minutes later bearing loads of food and fruit. We have eaten so much everyday we see them. Even if we've already eaten, they make us eat more. Diep's been a cook at a restaurant and really is a great cook. The amount of fruit has been insane. And it's all so so good. After every meal, we eat a bunch of soursop, dragonfruit, mango, pineapple, watermelon, bananas, or fruits I don't even know the name of.

 

Anh Hieu, Chi Diep's husband, is the person we spend the most time with because he's our designated driver. He won't let us go anywhere on foot or by taxi if he can help it. It's sweet, but unnecessary most of the time. His job is to drive tourists around, so we'll pay him for his time at the end of the trip. That's the only way I'd be okay with this, but in general, they all fall all over themselves to do everything for us. Hieu is softspoken and such a sweet person. His daughters are both a little louder like Chi Diep, but sweet too. I love the girls because they're so smart and loving, but they are smart and therefore a handful. The youngest is hell on wheels. I'm about to get in a car with her for a couple hours and not so sure if I'll make it... She climbs all over the place whether in the car or in the house.

 

Because we spend so much time at their house, I'm not at the hotel or near a computer nearly as much as I like. That situation's about to get considerably worse because I'm leaving with my mom for the countryside in a little bit. We're going to the family homestead in preparation for my grandma's memorial service. My mom says this is going to be the true test. She says she'll really bawl like a baby when she sees "the old people" (especially her oldest brother, who's blind and ill now) and the family farm. I kind of think of my aunt as old, so I didn't know at first what my mom meant by "old people"... My aunt is only ten years older than my mom. Hearing my mom called "Grandma" by my nieces has been a little weird. So has being called "Aunt" by them and the older nieces I met the other day. I've never been anybody's aunt before... I like it.

When ­we first got up North, my first thoughts were that I preferred it completely. I could understand better when people spoke. (The regional accents here are way more distinct than I thought they would be. Think of the Southern dialect here as a bit like the regional accent in "The South": ­words are drawn out, a little slurred, and lots of words aren't pronounced the way they look on paper. I speak a mix because my mom is from the South and my dad is from the North, but I prefer the Northern accent, however hoidy-toidy and affected it may sound. It's the dialect Vietnamese news people speak after all.) People were far more likely to be exact when answering a question. There seemed to be fewer cars and people. The chaos seemed ever so slightly more organized.

 

Out on the street, though, faces appear a little more unfriendly, but I think that's just my mom rubbing off on me. She is mildly afraid of...everything. It's a bit exhausting because I am afraid of almost nothing. (I should note here that she has been a great sport! A really, really great sport.) We've actually had a number of very funny and pleasant exchanges with folks who are titillated by a couple of Nam (Southern) women from "outside" visiting their part of the world. Still, you do get the sense that everyone is all business here even when they are not. I guess it feels a little like if there's any crime here, it might be more menacing. I am thinking of Hai Phong, which is where we are now until ­we go back to Saigon tomorrow. I liked everything about Ha Noi except the stubbly hotel sheets. Regardless, we explored nearly every nook and cranny here today. It was very w­alkable.

 

When we ­­walked around Ha Noi, my mom said she thought people looked poorer. I didn't see it there, but I see it here in Hai Phong. There are lots more people on bikes and the scooters are older. There are plenty of fancy new cars too. We even took a picture of my mom in front of a Mercedes stuffed into one of the tinier alleys. Despite the apparently higher level of poverty, or maybe as a side effect, people up North are way more fond of wearing (fake) designer gear. We've mostly seen "D&G" tees.

 

I have lots more to say, but the computer situation at this hotel is a little weird and my mom would die if I left the hotel, especially if I did it ­without her. Also, I am getting attacked by mosquitoes.

The first thing I noticed about Vietnamese is that there's not much sense of personal space. In line at the airport, at the bank, wherever you queue up, bodies slowly creep closer and it seems like everyone's trying to overtake you. At immigration, I saw two men (apparent strangers) standing so close to one another that they looked like they were spooning standing up. Not so good for my paranoiac tendencies with regard to my bulging backpack and dangling messenger bag. People don't seem to mind pushing each other out of the way at all, but that totally wigs the Western me out!

 

The deliberate wa that immigration agents insisted you pass through their gates stood in stark contrast to the mayhem just down below in baggage claim and then in customs. I've never seen a carousel so full or stopped so many times. Only one x-ray machine was open at customs ad it was every man for himself as people piled their bags high in the rush and crush to get out of the airport and into the loving arms of family outside. One lady I recognized from my flight, though, was nice enough to help me heave my huge duffel onto the belt. Then again, the bemused look she gave me suggested she mostly was trying to show me I'd never find an opening if I was going to be polite instead of shoving my way in... I tried to hand the customs agent my customs form, but she waved me on through the gate without so much as a glance at my paperwork or my bag, not that anyone could have known whose bag or box was whose in that mess.

 

Anyone who's done any research into traveling to Vietnam has heard about the notoriously bad cab situation. Bad cabbies, rigged meters, highjacker fares. Seeing as to how I was an hour and a half late, I never expected my driver to still be waiting, especially not after the rude awakening I'd gotten at the money exchange counter. (You see, I'd been summarily warned by family that everyone here's just out to make a buck. To that, I kept saying, "Pshaw! We can't possibly be any more evil a people than any other!" But then, the lady at the money exchange counter tried to hang on to $100,000 VND of my money, not thinking I'd notice. My math skills are bad, but not that bad!) Anyway, proving that not everyone in the tourism trade is out to get you (or kidnap you and chop you up into little pieces before making like a cannibal with your remains, as my mom and aunt would have you believe), my driver was sitting patiently among the throngs of people. (I should mention that the cabbies and greeters at Tan Son Nhat airport were the least noisy and pushy of any arrivals hall crowd I've ever encountered.) If I were a cab driver, I'd be out getting other fares instead of sitting around waiting for some stranger who's going to pay them a set--and not overly outrageous--fee. I felt bad about the fares he might have lost out on while waiting for me until we got to the hotel and the receptionist gave him $200,000 VND for his trouble.

 

If I hadn't confirmed up front that the hotel was going to pay the driver a flat fee, I would have been considerably more alarmed about: 1) the seemingly roundabout way he was taking to get us to the hotel (including taking a street that was apparently closed for sewer work and that required him to drive onto the sidewalk, between a tree and a storefront with an inch to spare on either side); and 2) the broken door handle on the rear left passenger door! Classic cab driver kidnap maneuver, right?? Lock your passenger in so they can't get out when you arrive at the abattoir! I felt bad even imagining that maybe this guy's taken passengers hostage for extra cash in his lifetime, but why else would you drive a cab with a broken door handle?? I haven't yet decided if I was stereotyping him or not.

 

The hotel where we're staying is definitely an older one (built in 1945), but it's nice enough. It is definitely roomy and I can see why the manager/owner kept harping on that in our conversations over the phone and in email. The floors and bed were clean enough, but I did take care of some detail work in the bathroom with the Lysol wipes I'd brought along. I did pack them, after all... The A/C is one of those in-room European jobs, but clearly an older model. Even after cranking for hours, it only dropped from 30 degrees Celsius that first night to 26 in the morning. I just position myself in the path of the air flow and it's surprisingly comfortable.

 

The sheer number of cars and motorbikes and people is a little hard to take. I keep thinking motorbikes are going to crash into each other or into cars, but I haven't witnessed any accidents yet. It was quiet enough when I hit the sack the first night and I prided myself on finding a quiet hotel in the midst of all the madness that is Pham Ngu Lao, but the sound of cars and horns started up before it was fully light out. It turns out we're staying in the De Tham part of Pham Ngu Lao (the backpacker area), which is in fact close to Thai Binh Market, just like my dad said it would be. We're close to everything, including lots of cheap food. And the place is totally crawling with white people. Well, maybe not crawling, since the Vietnamese still outnumber them by about 100 to 1, but it's still more than I thought there would be.

 

It's been interesting to see the variety of Vietnamese faces. I always thought I could pick out a Vietnamese face from other Asians, but I can't claim there's a standard "look." And it's funny, but my mom and I have totally been passing as non-Vietnamese. Cyclo, motorbike, and cab drivers have asked if we're from Singapore, we get lots of "ni haos" and I'm sure still others assume we're Filipina. When it's convenient, my mom and I speak English. Based on the first day's rip-offs, which I'll elaborate on in another post, it really does seem the price gouging is a bit less severe when they think you're not Viet Kieu (returning Vietnamese). We're not good about it, though. It's too easy to slip back into Vietnamese. And I never did practice mispronouncing common phrases like, "Cam on" and "Bao nhieu?" like Peter suggested.

 

It's a little disconcerting to see the number of prostitutes. It's pretty obvious who they are. I no longer worry anyone's going to assume I'm one when Peter gets here and we start walking around together. They're often with guys that aren't too awful looking, though we did see one dude today who defined "putz". Counting money out at a sidewalk cafe in front of a bunch of lookers-on (obvious, too!) and wearing shorts with Nordstrom labels all over and white socks pulled up to here! There's one guy wandering around Pham Ngu Lao who totally seems like he's just looking to get laid. He's given us a number of lecherous looks already. He even tried to reach out and shake my mom's hand when we were walking past him yesterday. He's young and not bad looking at all, so I don't know why he's so hard up! I'm a little embarrassed for him! He should probably just resort to a hooker instead of trying to hook up with other Vietnamese women... It'd be less sad to me, I think.

 

Anyhow, the hour is up, so we'll be heading back out into the muggy heat to play a real-life game of Frogger. More on our second day tomorrow!

I found the advice I got from Tina and Jenny before my trip to be immensely helpful, so I thought I'd post some observations here for anyone else who is curious about what Madrid will be like before they go there.

 

Madrid's public transportation system is amazing. I cannot shut up about how Madrid's Metro system is as good or better than the one in Paris. Then again, I think I used Madrid's system more extensively than I did Paris's, so maybe I'm biased. I also cannot believe the most we ever paid for a Metro ticket was 2 Euros (from the airport). All other tickets were 1 Euro!

 

We never had to wait more than five minutes for a Metro train, even late at night, and I never had train anxiety because every station has signs overhead that tell you, in real-time, when the next train will be in the station. You never see people running for the train and I think it's because there's always another three minutes behind.

 

Busses were good too, but I only rode the 27. It was super crowded every time. Bus stops don't have the real-time ETA display like they do in Paris and you sometimes have to wait ten minutes for the next bus during rush hour, but it's still a cheap and convenient ride.

 

It sucks that public transportation only gets good when it's used by people from all walks of life... In what is purportedly the third largest city in Europe (after London and Berlin), getting around without a car is a must. I don't know why anyone would even bother with a car in a place like Madrid.

 

Madrileños aren't super polite about sharing space on the Metro. People will grab the pole with both hands. Others will even lean their entire body against the pole. One older woman got on the Metro one afternoon, sidled up to the pole I was holding onto, and then leaned her back up against the pole with my hand still holding onto the thing! I guess she didn't think I looked like a pickpocket or that I would mind touching her.

 

People are quiet on the Metro, though. The only loud talkers on the Metro are Brits, Americans, or French. Occasionally, people will listen to their MP3 players at a shockingly high volume.

 

Don't expect to change US money at a bank. I had read this would be easy to do and have done it in other countries, but this did not work for us in Madrid. We kept our eyes open for banks that had stickers of various international flags out front and mentioned "cambio" on one of those stickers. What we failed to notice until after several failed attempts was that none of those flags were American flags. One bank seemed like they might change our money until they decided they would only take US dollars if we already had existing accounts at the bank...

 

Changing money at an official currency exchange is also complicated. You have to fill out an extensive form and provide them with your passport, social security number, and promise them your firstborn. We were not the only ones subjected to the third-degree. Lesson learned: don't bother bringing US dollars with you to Madrid. Just withdraw money from any ATM once you get there. There is a handy ATM right next to the currency exchange counter in the airport. The rates are better anyway. Also, Spain's space-age ATMs are somehow able to tell you your account balance (in Euros) even if you bank with a dinky credit union in the States.

 

Restaurants open late for lunch, usually around 1pm. The lunch hour typically lasts from 1pm or so until 4:30pm. The hours for places that serve after-work beers and snacks (cervecerías) were a bit more of a mystery. They seem to have long hours (staying open through lunch and into dinner?) and are the places most likely to be open when American tourists want dinner (aka EARLY). Proper restaurants don't open for dinner until 8pm at the earliest, but they serve food until midnight or so. Restaurants outside the touristy areas often offer a cheap menu del dia (menu of the day). By cheap, I mean 10 Euros or less. Some of these menus even have some flexibility and allow you to choose from a number of options in each category (appetizer, main, and dessert) and at least some restaurants include a glass of wine or beer in the price.

 

We didn't go to any of the vegetarian restaurants or chains while in Madrid, but if you are a strict vegetarian, it's best you stick with those. "Vegetable" sandwiches were, variously, tuna salad sandwiches or ham sandwiches with lettuce and tomato.

 

People weren't kidding about the seafood. It is fresh and abundant even though Madrid is landlocked. I ate more octopus and baby eel that week than in all the rest of my life. The squid in Madrid is unlike any squid you've had before. It's so tender you can cut it with a fork. There's even what appears to be a layer of fat on the squid that does what you might expect: makes it taste even better. :)

 

Asians aren't exactly a huge segment of the population in Madrid. I was expecting to get a lot of "ni hao" greetings like Tina did when she was in Spain, but I didn't get a single one. At first, I only saw ten Asians a day. As in other countries where we're the minority (except in the US), I saw many of them in service positions. Then, the minute I told Peter I'd only seen that many, I started seeing maybe forty a day! Even so, I guess we're still pretty exotic because I got a lot of stares, especially on the Metro. I always get a kick out of hearing Asians speak a language other than English.

 

A couple times, when I was struggling to express myself in Spanish or didn't quite understand enough of what someone said to me, I spoke those dreaded words, "Habla usted inglés?" The answer was almost always, "Muy poco" and we usually had to continue conducting conversation in Spanish. You couldn't even count on all the people at the front desk at the business hotel to speak English. This was surprising even though I'd been warned years ago that a smaller percentage of the Spanish population speaks English than the Portuguese population. I thought that, surely, this was another case of one country's pride coloring its observations about another, but the Portuguese I'd spoken with were right. In Madrid, you'd think there'd be a fair number of English speakers, but that wasn't my experience. On the bright side, it was refreshing not to have anyone automatically switch to English upon hearing me speak! I hear this is a problem in Paris, but we had Candice as our trusty aide the whole time, so I didn't get to see it happen.

 

 

 

Madrileños are big city folks and they dress accordingly. Everyone looks smart, very put together. You don't see many people wearing jeans, though if someone's in jeans this season, they are skinny jeans. My rule of thumb was to try and wear nicer clothes than I typically do in any given situation and that worked out well. That and to incorporate a jacket, scarf, and glasses into every outfit. People were bundled up like it was snowing even on days when it was a muggy 70 degrees.

 

Every Madrileño sports a spotless pair of leather shoes. Just look down at people's feet while riding the Metro and you'll see what I mean. How you keep suede shoes looking dry and clean in the rain is completely beyond me. Aside from my own, there was maybe one pair of scuffed shoes among every forty pairs. Bring a shoe shine kit or pay one of the shoeshiners on Calle Gran Via if you don't want to be conspicuous. A lot of women wore high-heeled knee-high boots. The only people who wear sneakers are teenage guys or girls. Even their sneakers are typically impeccably clean, though I did see a few dirty ones on a couple boys. The most popular sneakers this spring seem to be Converse All-Star hi-tops.

 

"Urban safari" is currently a popular look with the ladies. I saw lots of women in belted jackets in neutral-colored, linen-type fabrics. There is even a store called Coronel Tapioca, although I think that store might actually be meant for people shopping for adventuring apparel... It wasn't abundantly clear to me whether or not that was the case.

 

Guys wear well-tailored suits and ties almost everywhere. You don't see guys in suit coordinates unless they are from outside Madrid. When they aren't in full business mode, guys wear smart jackets or sometimes just a nice sweater with a collared shirt underneath.

 

Lots of people wear cute glasses. Some even coordinate their glasses with their outfits. I wore glasses everyday I was in Madrid because I felt more comfortable that way. I think I'm going to shop for a second, funkier pair.

 

People dressed fairly conservatively, but I saw lots of personal expression in their hair. I saw adorable blunt bangs on women ages two to ninety. I also spotted a surprising number of teenage and twenty-something girls sporting mullets. If I had a pixie face, I might try it once too. :O

On the seventh day, Peter rests. We sleep in later than we intend and don't get going or decide what to do today until late. Way late. We finally walk to the Chamartin train station at noon and buy tickets to Segovia. We take the next available fast train, which is approximately 30 Euros cheaper than the guidebook led us to believe. (As with most travel guidebooks, the Frommer's Madrid was wrong about most ticket prices. Also like other guidebooks I've used, it typically quoted everything as being half what it actually costs, not four times the cost. So, the 9 Euro train tickets were a very pleasant surprise.) Despite the fact that we took the bullet train, we didn't have time to really see anything in town. Had the bus to and from the train station not kept to its rigid schedule, we wouldn't have lost thirty extra minutes in transit on either end.

 

In town, we rushed from the aqueduct to the cathedral to the castle and saw as much as we could of the buildings on our town map on the way to the castle and back. It's like we're in a movie on fast-forward. I even sound like a chipmunk on crack trying to read aloud the descriptions of everything we pass. Sadly, none of the descriptions for the churches and cathedrals contain anything that mean anything to us. Apses? Naves? What??

 

After the brief trip to Segovia, we got back to the Chamartin train station and walked along a part of the Paseo de la Castellana that I hadn't yet traversed. We took our requisite pictures in front of the leaning KIO Towers. On the walk back to the hotel, we passed a bar that advertised "Karaoke every night". Naturally, we took a mental note. We also walked past a cart selling chocolate covered churros. We then turned around and bought a chocolate covered churro. Chocolate covered churros are good.

 

Back at the hotel, I scrambled to find a post office that could stamp and mail the postcards we'd written out on the train rides to and from Segovia. I had been certain that the post office in the financial district was open late, but the guys at the front desk said it was closed, seeing as to how it was half-past six. I freaked out in the hotel room because I knew I shouldn't have passed up the ugly postcards I saw earlier in the week and that I should have gotten everything stamped earlier in the day. Finally, I pulled myself together and went back downstairs to ask if maybe there was a machine that sells stamps or some other way I could buy postage. This time, the guy at the front desk said that tobacconists sell stamps, but that none in the neighborhood are open at this hour. (Let me use this opportunity to say that the Spanish aren't exactly forthcoming with advice. They take questions literally and only give you responses that answer your question directly. So, if you want more information, you need to ask more probing questions.) Anyway, I tell the concierge that I'm willing to travel and he sends me to El Corte Inglés, where there's a tobacconist downstairs!

 

 

 

When I got back to the room, I found a note from Peter indicating he was in the hotel bar (having a drink to flush away the memories of my earlier spaz attack, no doubt). I met up with him, his sales guy, and a woman from the conference. While down in the bar, we're joined by another American from the conference. He invited us up to his room to help finish the liquor his contingent purchased when they got to Spain. Obviously not the sorts to ever turn down a free drink, we obliged. At 10, we excused ourselves for dinner. Given free reign, I took everyone to Depintxos, a Basque tapas place I'd passed on my way home from the museum the day before. The menu of pintxos and txapatines is extensive and dinner is CHEAP. The bill came to 68 Euros for wine (35 Euros for the bottle) and an array of yummy little pintxos for the four of us. Some of the pintxos were a little unusual (is blue cheese traditionally available in Spain?), but most of them were good. Again, nothing was all that inspired, but everything was pretty inventive compared to the stuff we'd all eaten during the rest of the week. I guess what I'm saying is that onion confit and blue cheese seemed like radical experimentation after a week of mostly salt and paprika for flavoring. The only pintxo I didn't like as much as the others was the blue cheese toast that I expected to come with a fresh raspberry sauce, but had a raspberry jam concoction instead. I just re-read the menu and realize now that that was my mistake.

 

After dinner, I still got to dictate the evening, so we went to the karaoke bar! Again, it's lots of blonde wood surrounding the bar and going all up and down the walls and stairs. The bar is smoky and really really full, but we stay anyway. After ordering drinks from the bar, we tried to sit up in the balcony, but the smoke was too much. We only stood around looking bewildered for a few minutes before this girl came up to us and told us her friends wanted the Americans to join them for a drink. There's no question it was obvious we're Americans... Anyway, we sat with them through Peter's rendition of "Hero". As usual, the crowd went wild. This man has a way with an audience. Everyone in the bar joined him in his rousing performance. I've never felt prouder in my entire life. I have to confess that I'd been afraid they'd be offended or at least confused by an American taking the stage to sing a song by one of their hometown heroes.

 

The songbook was slim-pickin's, so I was actually relieved when no one else's song got called even though we submitted our songs on the same "group list". I figure it's the usual karaoke queue management and not anything against us in particular. After awhile, we got progressively bored and a little sketched out by the effusive Madrileña, so we thanked them and left before they could insist that we stay.

 

On the way back to the hotel, we passed another bar and were talked into one last drink by this woman from Chicago. The bar was oddly dark and empty. The only other people in the place were four women sitting on low couches in a dark corner of the bar. We headed straight to the counter and placed an order. I asked for licor de hierbas (herb liqueur) because it seemed like an appropriate nightcap. Peter's coworker made a beeline for the bathroom. By the time he rejoins us, we've realized that perhaps we've stumbled into an establishment that's less than legal. Some might call it a house of ill repute. I suddenly understood why my drink tastes like cider and why some Brazilian woman had sidled up to us rather menacingly and had asked if these guys were our boyfriends or our husbands. "Husband! He's my husband! And that's her husband!" I tried to think of the Portuguese word for husband, but all I pulled from the recesses of my brain was "novio," which isn't even Portuguese. I tried to restate in Portu-nish that we're there with our husbands and I could only hope I didn't actually use the word for "boyfriend".

 

Everyone finished the rest of their drinks in record time so we could ask for the bill. We're quoted an unthinkable sum for our drinks. Gabana 1800, this place is not. When we half-heartedly tried to contest the amount, the bartender showed us a baby bottle of champagne that he claimed was 65 Euros. Apparently, we'd bought that bottle for the nice Brazilian lady... It was right about then that we noticed there was a huge dude with a ponytail hunched over in a chair near the exit. I didn't recall seeing him when we came in, but he was there now and he was rubbing his knuckles in what would seem a cartoonish way except I suspect he took himself very seriously. Frankly, we took him pretty seriously too.

 

We (me and the other girl) stopped arguing about the bill so as to avoid getting the guys beat up. In the end, although we got rolled, only some of us were physically violated and in the most innocuous way possible (all things considered), so we count ourselves lucky for having escaped without more harm done. As we scurried out, I turned back to look at the place to see if there's anything that should have warned us about going on. There was nothing obvious. The place had a blue neon sign that very obviously said "bar" in it...

 

We were breathless and in a daze the whole walk back to the hotel. We collapsed into chairs down in the hotel lobby for a post-mortem. Everyone agreed tonight was a first. We also agreed that we were dumb to have thought the kids at the bar earlier in the night were going to try and scam us. If we'd never left that bar, we probably would have been better off. We also agreed that a certain credit card should be cancelled and that everyone should check to make sure they still had their wallets.

 

Later that morning, I woke up with a start. I was on top of the sheets and still half-dressed in my clothes from the night before. All the lights were on, including a bedside lamp that now seemed brighter than the sun. It took all my strength to sit up and get out of bed. I had trouble interpreting the dials on my watch. Peter wouldn't respond at all even though I was shouting that our international flight would leave in less than three hours. Finally, after I jostled him and kept yelling in his ear, he mumbled something. I'm grateful that he's alive/conscious. When I stripped in the bathroom, I discovered a bruise on my arm and my thigh. I have no explanation for either. I stumbled through a shower and through the packing process. My limbs wouldn't cooperate and several times I felt like I might fall down because my arms are so heavy. The worst feeling, though, is that my brain behaves like its made of cotton soaked in cough syrup. When Peter finally got up, we tried to talk to each other, but each of us only processed every fifth word or so. I felt like I wanted to cry, but I struggled to muster up a reason for why I felt that way. Ah, yes, it took me a minute, but I remembered that I'm upset because we're going to miss our flight. And, oh, yes, last night... Peter concluded that this is what it's like to be roofied. At first, I tried to argue that we were just hungover, but as I become more awake (notice I didn't say "alert"), I realized I hadn't had that much to drink, I didn't feel queasy, I didn't have any sign of a headache, and I'd never "fallen asleep" like that before.

 

We had exactly enough cash to pay for a taxi to the airport. (If you can avoid it, don't ever take a cab to the airport. It cost us 24 Euros. The Metro had been 2 Euros apiece.) We randomly picked the right terminal and we somehow made the cutoff. The airline attendant literally closed the gate right after we stepped in line. Although we had less than an hour to spare, we made our flight. I have never slept so much on a plane before.

On day six, I did almost nothing before going to the IFEMA convention center to attend SIMA (the international real estate show that we'd come to Madrid for). Night after night of so little sleep finally caught up with me and the half hour nap I intended to take after breakfast turned into a two hour affair. I woke with hardly any time to even shower, much less run to El Corte Inglés for postcards or to the Correos for stamps. Both these missteps would result in utter panic the next day.

 

SIMA was a total circus. It's like six Seattle Home Shows put together. You could also think of it as being like the Garden Show, RV Show, Home Show, Gun Show, Marriage-Con and Boat Show combined. When I got there at the appointed hour, Peter was still engaged in a business meeting, so I walked around a little bit and finally got to witness for myself the over-the-top displays (Chichen Itza made of foam core, the booth floor made of giant glass tiles resembling water that were lit up from underneath, and the booth with a fake beach and model hired to "suntan" on the aforementioned fake beach). There were also samba dancers who would burst into song up and down the aisles, girls in cowboy fringe, and animatronic singing clown bears. Sensory overload and cultural confusion all in one. After a few minutes in just this one small part of the conference, I returned to the International Business Center just in time for a beer and a lunch of heavy hors d'oeuvres. It was unclear to me who used the IBC other than folks who didn't pay for a booth and he told me lots of people came by just to sit down for a moment. Sure enough, I looked over and some guy in a business suit passed out right before my very eyes, his briefcase still resting in his lap.

 

After lunch, I asked if there was anything I could do until it was time for all of us to go back to the hotel. Peter decided he wanted information from the exhibitors at the conference, but he didn't want to carry the material home with him (and I sure didn't want to be saddled with anything he couldn't carry in his luggage), so he asked me to give out his business card and request that people mail him stuff. I soon found out that most of the vendors didn't speak English. Luckily, one of the first guys I talked to was able to figure out what I meant when I said "send" in English (and then usar los correos as corroboration) and was able to arm me with a new vocabulary word which I would use many times that day: enviar. It was trial by fire as lots of people wanted to know why they should send me catalogs instead of giving me one right then and there and what Peter's company does exactly. I found my Spanish tapes didn't adequately prepare me for conducting any real business in Spanish. In the end, I did come up with some sufficiently evocative, though succinct descriptions of his company. Then again, you could ask me to explain in English how Peter's company works and I doubt I'd do a much better job, so I guess I actually did pretty damn good! I suspect there will be a few who send their brochures and catalogs out of pity for this silly, ill-prepared marketer.

 

After a grueling afternoon for everyone, we finally left the conference. Because they'd been using cabs and shuttle busses to ferry back and forth, I got to initiate Peter's coworkers into the world of the Madrid Metro system. I think I kind of freaked them out by making them hide their wallets and telling them to watch their bags, but I figured it was better that no one get pickpocketed on their inaugural Metro trip. Although things are very very crowded at the Nuevos Ministerios stop during rush hour, we got back to the hotel without incident.

 

That night, we went to dinner at a restaurant I found on Spain's version of Yelp. The restaurant was called Portobello. I chose it for its proximity and price point, but also because it was supposed to be good for both seafood and rice dishes. To my dismay, I'd finally realized I hadn't yet had paella in Spain, so my goal was to have some at dinner. Peter and I shared Portobello's house paella, a mostly seafood version. I'm sad to report that I've made better paella. It was totally edible, but boring. We probably should have gone with a plate of oysters on ice or one of the other items on their per kilo seafood menu. The gambas al ajillo we had as an appetizer were really good, though. Instead of using giant prawns like we expected, they used shrimp. I was delighted to fish out and eat the garlic crisps from the still-bubbling oil in the dish. I also really liked the dishes de la casa that they included with the meal. Free green olives, boquerones (anchovy fillets marinated in vinegar), and bread before the meal and then an even better spread after dinner. While all we ordered for "dessert" was coffee and more beer, they brought us a bottle of their house-made Pacharan and a larger bottle of house-made liqueur filled with lychee, coffee beans, and cinnamon. Both liqueurs were excellent. (I have since purchased the green-glass bottles in which I plan to replicate this heavenly lychee nectar.) The free postres also included some wafer cookies and foil-wrapped candy. The candy included a chocolate covered sesame crisp, a chocolate covered maraschino cherry, and a chocolate covered candied orange slice. Those chocolate "oranges" we buy at Christmas don't even begin to compare.

 

During dinner, we hemmed and hawed about whether or not we'd show up to the big party hosted by the conference. I think we decided we'd all attend when ordered the coffees at 11pm. We really couldn't, in good conscience, pass up the remaining hour the conference organizers had booked at Madrid's most exclusive club. Although we thought we only had an hour, we should have known the party would go past midnight. After midnight, however, the drinks at Gabana 1800 went from being free to being 30 Euros a pop! I've since read that Gabana 1800 is a club the Beckhams would frequent when they lived in Madrid. Rich footballers can afford the 30 Euro drinks and the 700 Euro bottles of Scotch the club advertises in the glass case by the coat check, but us plebes were a little shell-shocked.

 

I eventually invited Peter's boss to dance! The Veep's got some moves! We were both only headbobbing wallflowers for the first twenty minutes or so, but he'd been saying earlier in the evening how he used to go clubbing a lot in Chicago back when he was single, so I knew he'd be willing to go out there and dance. After a couple drinks, I was like, "What the hell? Want to dance?" I didn't have to ask twice. We both got out there and, before long, had stripped off our outer layers of clothing. At Gabana 1800 that night, the Veep showed us his signature dance move! It was AWESOME. You haven't lived until you've seen an Indian executive execute a slick back-bend at a nightclub! I wish I could dance well enough to replicate the move myself. You'll just have to believe me that it was the greatest thing ever. I would only have been more stunned if he'd demo'd Emily's "tripod".

 

The only thing that wasn't that great about the club was that the DJ played so little Spanish music. This was probably a symptom of it being a party hosted for the exhibitors at an international conference, but I think everyone would have liked more Spanish music and less obscure 80s and 90s dance music. By the end of the night, I was good and sweaty and wished I'd worn a dress instead of the same sweaters and slacks I'd worn to the conference, but in the end, it was one less outfit to stink up with smoke. My voice was hoarse and my ears were ringing the whole cab ride home so you know it was a good party.

I decided to forgo all public transportation and walked all day. When you've made it a habit to consume approximately seven thousand calories at breakfast and have twelve hours a day to do whatever you please, why not? (Actually, I am exaggerating about the breakfast calories. While there's insane variety in the buffet and I consumed much of it, everything served is either tiny or shaved paper-thin, usually both. I love and thank the Spanish for preparing their food in doll-size portions. With their help, I gained no weight at all while on vacation!)

 

As I got ready to set out, I checked out the window of our hotel room. It was not only raining, it was hailing. I would, therefore, be required to buy an umbrella even if I only walked to the Metro stop two blocks away. Five minutes after I'd inspected every collapsible umbrella in one of the shops in the hotel lobby and finally purchased one, it was no longer hailing or even raining. Still, I wasn't interested in getting caught like I did the day before. The older lady running the shop was cute and very sweet. She sold me on one of her cheaper umbrellas (still 15 Euros!) by pointing out how it matched my grey sweater and blue skirt combo for the day. She also appealed to my practical/cheap side by telling me how the umbrella cover (with attached strap) could do double-duty as a pouch for a water bottle. Not that I was buying a lot of $3 water bottles in Madrid, but still.

 

The walk from the hotel down to the Thyssen-Bornemisza museum and back is completely flat and couldn't be more straightforward. You just head South down Paseo de la Castellana until it eventually becomes Paseo del Prado. Some people might find the walk a bit too urban because of all the car traffic that travels up and down this street, but I stuck to the green strip off to the East side of the street and felt pretty removed from the main part of the street. The green strip seems to be dedicated to Metro entrances, but it's great for pedestrians because there are trees the whole way and benches to sit down on if you need them. Because the adjacent lanes of traffic are for cabs and busses, you aren't constantly assaulted by dust and noise from the road.

 

By walking all the way from the Northern part of Paseo de la Castellana down to the museum, I got to see a bit more of the Castillejos/Chamberí neighborhood where we were staying and even found some promising restaurants and stores that I filed away for later. I also got a closer look at the many fountains and notable buildings that pepper this street. Up North, in the financial district, there were lots of skyscrapers I never identified except for the unmistakable KIO Towers. I also got an up close and personal look at the enormousSantiago-Bernabéu stadium (capacity: 80,400, home to the Real Madrid soccer team) and what I think was the equally large Nuevos Ministerios building. I also passed the National Library, the Natural Science/Geology Museum, and then, closer to the museum, the Banco de España building and the Palacio de Telecommunicaciones, which is so spectacularly grand you'd think it's home to the ashes of all the dead royals and rock stars who ever lived and not just the main post office.

 

I saw everything at the Thyssen-Bornemisza, including the Carmen Thyssen-Bornemisza collection and the temporary Modigliani exhibit. The museum like Madrid's Musée d'Orsay, though I wonder if they'd take offense if they heard someone describe it that way. But, basically, it's a more digestible museum (as compared to the Louvre or the Prado, which I also think of as counterparts) with lots of work from the 19th and 20th centuries. Laid out better than the Musée d'Orsay, the Thyssen-Bornemisza is set up, more or less, chronologically so that you can start in one corner on the top floor and then make one round of each floor until you get to the stairs and go to the next floor down. This system works well except that part of each floor is actually a new wing they added to the building to house the Carmen Thyssen-Bornemisza collection, a ridiculously huge formerly private collection. Because the special collection doesn't quite line up chronologically with the main collection, I decided to see all of the main collection first before heading back to the top floor to start with the second collection. As I expected, I liked the post-Impressionist and Expressionist work best, but I also found I liked Juan Gris's mixed media.

 

I took my time walking back to the hotel because the weather was still good and I didn't have to meet Peter there until 7:30. I knew we had a cocktail party to attend and we'd both figured meeting at 7:30 would give us plenty of time to get ready for festivities that surely wouldn't start until 9, possibly later. As I waited for the elevator up to our room, I heard a familiar voice. I turned around and saw Peter standing there with his coworkers. The VP shouted, "There she is!" It was only five minutes after 7:30 at this point, but they were all standing there fully dressed and looking like they were ready to go. Turns out the party is at 8... I am wearing a short denim-like poufy skirt, a grey sweater and cardigan, tights, and boots. Definitely not cocktail party apparel. They say I can change, so I run upstairs and dress in record time. I had planned on showering and doing my hair and makeup, but instead, I moisten a towel and give myself a quick sponge bath! There's no time to shave my legs, so I slip on a new pair of tights and a dowdier pair of shoes than the toeless heels I'd meant to wear. I slap on jewelry, lipstick, eyeliner, and perfume, and then I'm back downstairs ten minutes later. I'm pretty sure I must look a little unkempt, but all I can hope is that I don't smell like I did after I got back from the Prado the day before!

 

The cocktail party was hosted by the president of SIMA and his wife. While we'd all been looking forward to seeing their fabulous house, the venue had been changed at the last minute to La Quinta del Marqués de la Concordia, a sort of reception hall, due to the unexpected rain. These people must have personal assistants because everyone had new paper invitations in hand and the waitstaff and string musicians were all there as if that was the plan all along. I was disappointed not to see their place, but if I was them, I'd prefer having people track mud into a rented mansion instead of my own, too.

 

Dinner consisted of passed hors d'oeuvres and a glass of roseado (rosé) that never got less than half full before it was topped off by the very attentive staff. Among the dozens of hors d'oeuvres that came by, the ones that stand out in my memory are the foie gras with a sherry sauce and the empanadillas with a morcilla and cheese filling. I wish I'd paid more careful attention, but so much came by and things got a little fuzzy after what had to have been more than six glasses of roseado over the course of three hours. There were a number of seafood bites (everything from salmon to crab and scallops) and some vegetarian ones with mushroom, asparagus, and cheese. What struck me as funny was that, among the elaborate hors d'oeuvres, there were silver trays of nothing but plain jamón. I didn't know what to pick it up with when it came by, so I passed it up, but I saw later that people just grabbed the meat with their forefingers, taking it straight from the tray to their maws. With all the jamón I'd been eating every morning, I wasn't too sorry that I saved room for the foie. Everything was so tasty that I'm really sad I didn't keep track. The waiters were so persistent that there was hardly ever a break in the food. It eventually started to feel downright aggressive, with the same waiter making two passes within three minutes! I hope I wasn't rude in declining their tasty victuals.

 

After the event was officially over and trays were on the tables instead of in the hands of servers, we were invited by one of the younger SIMA organizers to walk from La Quinta del Marqués de la Concordia a few blocks over to a neighborhood bar. It was the first time we'd been to a traditional nightspot in Madrid. Think Cheers (lots of blonde wood) but with people standing shoulder-to-shoulder where they weren't sitting in booths or on stools and a floor covered in napkins like they were peanut shells. I had a couple glasses of vermut blanco con hielo (my pre-dinner drink of choice when in Madrid) and got to know some of the Americans, Brits, and a random Russian that Peter and his coworkers had gotten to know while working in the international part of the conference. Weird alert: I met a guy who had the exact same name as Candice's ex and while he was mock-offended by my comment that it was weird that he should have the same name, especially when I considered the last name so "unusual", I assert that it was a really strange experience for me.

 

I also noticed that night that bars in Madrid don't seem to play music. Some shops play music, but always American pop or covers (in English) of American pop songs. I guess the noise level is already so high without the music that there's no point in adding to it. You just don't ever experience that in the US.

 

Somehow, we closed the place out. I think some bars must close early to get people to go off to dinner. While some of us took a cab back to the hotel, others got into another cab and went off dancing for a couple more hours. Those crazy younguns. I was already dead tired and it was only 2am.

When I set out on day four (after another insane breakfast), I decided I would take the Metro only to the first on my list of sites to see and then spend the rest of the day seeing the others as I walked in a loop that would take me back to the hotel. (As it turns out, I took longer getting to the museum than I thought I would, so I had to take a bus the last part of the trip.)

 

I headed first to the Western-most edge of the city via Metro. I got off at Principe Pío stop with the intention of seeing Panteon de Goya (Goya's tomb) first. When I'd read about Goya's tomb in the section of the guidebook that listed interesting sites "outside the city center", I compared the address in the book to a street map and shook my head. Just because the site was on the other side of an especially big arterial didn't make it "outside the city center" in my book! Although I'd yet to consult a map with any indication of scale, by my calculations, Goya's tomb would be right across the street from the Principe Pío station. When I left the station at Principe Pío, I just started walking. It wasn't long before I came to an unexpected Y in the road and realized I'd headed in the wrong direction. I'd spotted a somewhat sketchy looking dude just outside the station when I left it (an unusual characteristic of Principe Pío station, I'd soon discover), and so, I'd walked straight up and out of the station very purposefully without pausing to consider anything including what compass direction or street I was walking towards so as not to look lost or otherwise vulnerable.

 

Anyway, once I turned around and headed back towards the station, I found that the station was much bigger than I'd anticipated and I'd somehow managed to pick the exit furthest away from everything. Because I still didn't see any indication of Goya's tomb near the roundabout across the street from Principe Pío station, I started walking South to see if the entrance to Parque de Campo del Moro really was easiest to access from this side. It was. Although the weather was looking iffy, with storm clouds coming in from the West, I entered the park anyway. I wasn't sure if I'd be heading this far West again and I'd been wanting to see the park since day one. The park charmed me from the moment I walked down the stairs into it. The way the tree branches by the entrance obscured the view a bit and the way the steps didn't lead straight down, but made you wrap around instead, gave me the sense the park might be very small even though it was very obviously bound by along Paseo Virgen del Pueblo by a very tall brick and metal gate the length of an entire city block. Walking down those steps to the entrance to Campo del Moro, I thought of some of my very favorite pocket parks in North Berkeley.

 

The weather improved while I was in the park and it actually got quite warm when the sun came out. I saw several other tourists there and it was the first time I'd felt very comfortable whipping out the camera. (For some reason, it seems only tourists and a few permanent loafers visit the parks in Madrid. I saw lots of other tourists again when I went to Parque del Buen Retiro later in the day.) I snapped some pictures of a resident peacock and a fountain and then examined the park map. It seemed pretty big, but when it took me only a few minutes to reach the old carriage house museum and see what a duck poop-filled mess its pond was, I understood I'd already seen a good chunk of the park. Rather than explore the shaded walkways and risk getting rained on later, I spent only a few minutes examining my map more carefully before hustling out of the park and back onto Paseo Virgen del Pueblo again. By consulting one of those handy city maps they have on the back of nearly every bus stop in Madrid, I finally realized I'd mistaken Glorieta de San Vicente roundabout for Glorieta San Antonio de la Florida roundabout and that Goya's tomb was actually at the latter. Still, it was not a long walk, just a bit further North than I'd anticipated.

 

The part of town where Goya's tomb is located didn't feel anything like the rest of Madrid (what I'd seen of it so far, anyway). There were very wide sidewalks, no very tall buildings, and a number of dollar stores and small fruit shops. In other words, it was kind of quaint. Also, I'd finally stumbled across the Rio Manzanares. The river really was just a muddy trickle. It wasn't much of a river, but I like water and bridges of all kinds, so it tickled me to have finally found both in Madrid. Curiously, there was also a gondola lift a bit off in the distance. I suppose it probably took people from "way out here" back into the "city center". Anyhow, Goya's tomb was in a very small church. On some maps, like the one I'd initially consulted, it seems to be referred to as "Ermita San Antonio de la Florida". I had to walk up to the door to read a small plaque to confirm I had the right place. Inside, there was a student tour group taking place, but my Spanish wasn't good enough to listen in. Instead, I read the various informative displays written in Spanish and admired his frescos on the ceiling. What I don't remember is whether or not he painted the frescos in this church thinking that it would someday be his eternal resting place. It was weird to think about having a hand in decorating one's own tomb, although I suppose it would be no different than picking out one's own casket or gravestone. Actually, yeah, doing any of those things would be a little weird.

 

After my short visit, I walked back towards the mall at Principe Pío station. I'd spotted a MNG store earlier and was curious to see if there was any other worthwhile shopping, so I ducked into the mall. After the previous day's near-drowning incident, I also thought I might go ahead and buy an umbrella already, too, since it looked like rain again. The first and only store that popped out at me from the mall directory was H&M! Unfortunately, nothing at H&M was that great this season and all priced too high for me anyway. I was really in the market for some skinny jeans to wear with my boots and a purse somewhat bigger than my clutch, but smaller than my doctor's bag, and cheap enough that I wouldn't care too much if it got slashed. I left with two sale belts (2,50 Euros!) and a square black and white plaid scarf like I'd been wanting for a long time (and like the ones that lots of kids and twenty-somethings around town were wearing).

 

It still wasn't raining when I got out, so I walked past Principe Pío, up Cuesta de San Vicente to Plaza de España, and then took Gran Via and Calle de Alcala, two streets that run across Madrid's center East and West, all the way to the entrance to Parque del Buen Retiro. Along the way, I stopped in a big bookstore on Gran Via and bought a paperback copy of a book I'd wanted to buy the day before: Marina by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. It was a young adult novel by the same Spanish author who'd written the book Gina lent me for the trip, Shadow of the Wind. I even had an opportunity to read the book later the same the afternoon.

 

I hadn't thought I'd get to Buen Retiro Park at all on this trip, what with the weather being so unpredictable and the park being rather far away and overwhelmingly large, but once I got there, I decided I'd check it out before heading on to Museo del Prado. In a repeat of the morning's park experience, the park wasn't as big as I'd thought it was going to be. Because it had gotten warm in the middle of the day and because I had walked so quickly across town, I was thoroughly soaked in my own sweat by the time I got to the park. I sat down on a bench across from the estanque (rowing pond) and took off my scarf and jacket. For fiteen minutes, I flipped through the catalog that the bookstore had included in my bag and did some people watching. The biggest contingents in the park that day appeared to be a family of adults from Central or South America rowing a boat in the pond and a big group of French teens on what must have been a school trip. Since there were so few people there, it was a little creepy at times to be in the more desolate and dark parts of the park even if it was nice to have a bit of tree canopy to protect me from the rain once it started coming down. Oh, I also saw a free art exhibit at the Palacio de Cristal (Crystal Palace) of Magdalena Abakanowicz's metal sculptures, "King Arthur's Court". (Madrid's museums seem to host a lot of free adjunct shows either at the same location at the museum's permanent collection or at various locations throughout the city. I encountered three examples of this while in Madrid. It's a pretty cool way to give people access to art.)

 

While at the Crystal Palace, I heard English-speaking tourists for the first time since I'd gotten to Madrid. When I confirmed they were looking at a guidebook, I intercepted them and asked if they'd been to any of the museums yet. They were the ones who told me I could see enough at The Prado in just a few hours to make it worth my while. (It was later in the afternoon than I'd meant for it to be, so I had to know if shelving the museum for another day was a better choice.) When I got to the museum, though, I saw it would be free if I could just wait a bit longer! Since the Thyssen-Bornemisza was nearby and I knew it closed an hour earlier than The Prado, I wondered if it had a similar entrance policy. With any luck, I could spend some time seeing some pieces at the Thyssen-Bornemisza for free before heading back to The Prado. While there was no such thing, the museum did have a free Otto Dix show that I checked out and liked quite a bit, especially the part of the show where the exhibits demonstrated how his work was influenced by various other artists. It was like science meets art, especially the bits showing his paintings under x-ray and other special imaging tools.

 

When I got back to The Prado, I spent thirty distracted minutes in the sun reading something like seven pages of my new book. It was slow-going, but I understood at least 80 to 85% of the Spanish and I really liked the story so I felt really happy about it all. Seven pages is certainly more than I read of my Portuguese copy of "Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone", anyway. After thirty minutes of reading, I noticed a line starting to form at the door, so I went up and asked one of the guards if it was the line for the free entrance. About ten minutes after I got in line, a Spanish (or Portuguese or Italian?) teenager came up to me and asked me the exact same question I'd asked the guard. There were at least fifty people in line behind me and about fifteen ahead of me, so I don't know why she chose me to ask, but I did understand her and was able to respond, "Si." You don't see a lot of Asian women in Spain, so I thought it was particularly strange that she should ask me.

 

The Prado is huge (and confusingly laid out), but I went through it embarrassingly quickly. Because I had to be back at the hotel to meet Peter and because there is no Metro stop near the museum, I was only able to skim most of the museum's masterpieces. I did see all the pieces by Goya, Velázquez, El Greco, Murillo, Bosch, and Titian. Luckily, like the other museums in Spain, there were no blurbs about the artwork, not even in Spanish, so I wasn't even vaguely tempted to try and read anything other than each piece's title and artist. That definitely helped me get out of there more or less in time to catch a 27 bus back up Paseo de la Castellana.

 

When I got back to the hotel, I was ten minutes late, but Peter was just lounging around in the room. It was weird not to see him in full business dress so I figured I'd caused us to miss whatever business dinner plans he had made, but it turns out he'd gotten a reprieve for the night! Finally, we got to check out another restaurant not located across the street from the hotel. Because most of the places I'd picked up off boards like Chowhound were really pricey, especially at today's exchange rate, I expanded my list to include restaurants in the guidebook. We eneded up at a neighborhood joint called El Bierzo for dinner. We showed up at 10pm, so we weren't the first people in the restaurant for once. The place was brightly lit like all other restaurants and bars in Madrid (it's the fluorescents) and full of families and young Madrilenos out with friends. The menus del dia were cheap (all under 12 Euros, including wine/beer, bread, and dessert) and full of options for each course. Naturally, they were out of the roast pig I wanted. On impulse, I went with a tortilla espanol as the replacement even though the waiter offered me a steak. It was not the best possible choice, I fear, although perfectly edible. Plus, I ordered it thinking Peter might want to try some, but he had enough to eat with his grilled fish.

 

The food was pretty unremarkable, but solid. The fact that it was a total neighborhood restaurant and the deal of the century more than made up for any disappointments I might have had. That said, I did love the mayonesa that came with my white asparagus. Also, the natillas I had for dessert was nice. I ordered it without knowing what it would be. It turned out to be a soft milk custard flavored with cinnamon and topped with a thin wafer. Finally, when the menu says the meal includes wine, it's not talking about some measly 4 ounce pour. It means two glasses per person! We got a whole bottle of rioja. Unfortunately, what Peter had wanted was cerveza, and when the waiter had clarified with me "Por dos?" I thought he meant, "As both a pre-dinner drink and your dinner drink?" not "Do you both want wine?" When I answered in the affirmative, he must have scratched out Peter's beer order.

 

It was great to go out at night just the two of us. It's so much easier to enjoy yourself when you don't have to be "on" until 1 or 2am and business deals are riding on your smarts, charm, or whatever. The two of us even acted like we would back at home and took silly pictures of ourselves at the Metro station and of funny signs on the train when there was only one other person in our car. I was giddy (in part from drinking most of the bottle of wine) and was laughing even when we went at least three stops in the wrong direction before I realized we'd somehow ended up at Principe Pío! We course corrected with minimal fuss and ended up back at the hotel at a reasonable hour, showered the smoke from our hair and skin, and got what was probably a "full" night of almost six hours of sleep!

I have now seen most of Western Madrid. Although, in contrast, I started out my day of touring by going to the Tiflological Museum, a museum by and for those who cannot see. Tiflo is the Greek root for "blind," and according to the brief introduction I got from the docent on staff this morning, although I'm unable to find something to confirm that. I was completely intrigued by the idea of seeing and touching (!) art, especially art by those whose sense of composition and space must be completely different. I was also very curious to see and touch scale models of monuments. I love miniatures. Also, Tina reminded me about her trip to the puppet museum on her trip to Portugal and I really liked the idea of something similarly quirky. Best of all, the museum is free and a Euro in the hand is worth $1.60 in the bank!

 

But first things first! I had the honor of partaking in the world's most amazing breakfast buffet! Okay, one of the world's best breakfast buffets, according to Peter's business associate, who's travelled widely and ranks this one right up there with one she in the Philippines. I didn't have high expectations because I have had some pretty amazing breakfast buffets, once at a not-that-fancy business hotel in Stockholm and another at a boutique hotel in Rio. I was simply not prepared for the experience. If you go to Madrid, you MUST go the NH Eurobuilding hotel's Magerit restaurant for the breakfast buffet. I have no idea how much it's costing us. The in-room breakfast gets you coffee/tea, orange juice, assorted breads, butter, and jam. All for the low, low price of 20 Euros. Plus tax. But room service is always inordinately expensive, so I'll be pleasantly surprised if the breakfast buffet costs less than 30 Euros a person. (We are only paying for my meal, after all.)

 

Back to the food. First off, the downstairs diningroom where they serve the buffet is, like the rest of the hotel, decorated in an elegantly minimalist 2001 kind of way: rich jewel colors (a tomato-cranberryish red on the walls and chairs) with cherry colored wood as an accent. White table cloths, sparkly glassware, lots and lots of waiters in full fancy dress, and dark ceilings with recessed lighting and sconces. Lights hang from the ceiling in the middle of the room where you first walk in. They hang low over the black granite counters and spotlight the main buffet table in the loveliest way. I think I gasped a little when I walked in from the effect. The jamón sat front and center and positively glowed against the plain white trays. There were about eight trays of jamón. Everything else is displayed on black one foot by one foot tiles and would recede into the background if it weren't so colorful. The array of food was unimaginable and all of it tasted amazing. The only thing I didn't like was the cube of fresh cheese. It tasted like very bitter cottage cheese. Here is what I ate, in list format so you feel just as full as I did when you're done reading as I did when I was done eating:

 

I suffered a head injury on Day 1 and lost it completely.

 

Just kidding. Actually, I did suffer an injury the morning  of our first full day in Madrid, but it was just a toe injury that eventually stopped bleeding enough for me to lower my foot and put the rest of my clothes on. And people wonder why I bring a styptic pencil and Band-Aids on every trip. In an article about packing light, Rick Steves says that kind of packing means you're planning for the worst. I'm not planning for the worst; I just know myself very well. Even if I didn't need those Band-Aids for my toe, I might have MacGyvered them into nipple shields for a strapless top or something. For example, this morning (this actual morning, on what I now consider Day 3), I used a comb in the place of a seam ripper. I also used a nail clipper when I needed scissors. If this isn't enough to make me a Martha Stewart-type tycoon or talk show personality, I don't know what is.

 

If Peter and I were superstitious types, we might not have left the hotel room yesterday. We didn't get up until 11am, but we thought it was 5am. Then, we thought it might be 5pm... And then we realized Peter had been reading his watch upside down. And then, I sliced my pinkie toe open on my suitcase. I'm still not sure how.

 

Anyway, we finally left the hotel around noon and set our sights on Mercado Chamartín to scope out what Frommer's touts as a "two-story food emporium" that's somehow also chic. I pictured a Metropolitan Market or Whole Foods kind of place, but it turns out the market was more like a permanent flea market for (mostly) fruit, meat, and seafood vendors. We barely made a half lap before we made a hasty retreat because we were ravenous and didn't think we would last long enough in the market to pick out a sensible lunch. A giant leg of cured jamon, a giant leek, and a jar of marmalade do not a lunch make. Not really. Only because Peter doesn't eat meat anymore.

 

We might have been better served with the giant leg of jamón, though, because the sandwiches we got from the pastelaria (pastry shop) a half block up from the market were less than great. Although, the aguja (salt cod empanada?) that we bought was pretty tasty. I presume all those other people in line were there to buy pastries and not the tiniest pre-made, crustless sandwiches you ever saw, no matter how cheap they were. (No prices were posted, but the total came to 3,70 Euros and the aguja was 1,70 of that.) Lucky for Peter, I study up on food words for trips because he might have been surprised to discover that his "vegetal" sandwich contained tuna. Not so lucky for me, my jamón y queso sandwich appeared to be sin mayonesa and therefore sadly dry and tasteless. Oh, about the aguja. I think we bought it thinking it would be dessert. It looked an awful lot like one of those cheap fruit pies that comes in a wax paper wrapper with a two-color print job that you can get at any convenience store in the States. It even had a hint of something red oozing from one of the vents in the pastry. It was not dessert, but it did get the taste of my crappy sandwich out of my mouth.

 

As we ate, we walked in a circuitous route back to the Cuzco Metro stop and took the Metro to Plaza de España to see the Templo do Debod (also known as Templo Egipçio). This ancient Egyptian temple was gifted to Spain for their help in building the Aswan Dam. It was taken down stone by stone and reconstructed in Madrid from 1969 to 1971. It was pretty, but probably more magical seen at night when all lit up, I think. We walked to the far end of the temple to where some people were leaning over the railing, looking at what we assumed was a pretty view. They were looking at a parking lot below. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, won't get fooled again. Or will I? We'd actually fallen for this strange Madrileño trick the night before. We were walking along Calle de Bailén in front of the Palacio Real when we saw couples leaning over the railing, appearing to marvel at something below. There was a magical glow indeed and we eagerly scurried over to find the source. We were assaulted by high-wattage spotlights used to light up the palace at night. When we recovered our sight, we saw that the rest of the scene was a parking lot. So, when we ambled up to the railing in the Templo do Debod plaza, I joked, "I bet they're just looking at a parking lot." And yeah, I knew it. That's exactly what they were doing. We actually headed north on the railing and caught a much nicer view of the city spread out below. It was a bit like looking down on Paris from Sacré-Coeur except, this time, the view wasn't quite fully unobscured.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our flight was an hour and fifteen minutes late arriving into Madrid, but we had the most relaxed customs experience ever, so it wasn't long until we coasted our way outside the airport. We walked fifty feet straight from customs to the outside. It was a premature exit. It's a long walk through the airport to the Metro entrance, but we accidentally walked outside looking for a bus or shuttle like you'd find in the States. The airport was so warm and muggy that it was nice to have had the respite, however brief. Madrid, in general, is pretty muggy. That's the only thing I've found not to like about it so far.

 

At the airport, luggage trolleys were free, which was so nice. Peter's bag was so heavy with brochures that it gave him a gangsta lean. The trip to the hotel was similarly nice and easy. Buying a Metro ticket was straightforward (and cheap! Just 2 Euros each). We took the Metro straight to the hotel, but not without a lot of debate about which stop/neighborhood the hotel was in. What we should have debated about was the hotel's location... Neither one of us had printed a map of the hotel's location. We had an address with a street that neither one of us could locate on the Metro map. And so, I got my first opportunity to practice my Spanish. I asked the Metro agent, "Sabe si el hotel Eurobuilding es cerca de aqui?" (Do you know if the Eurobuilding hotel is near here?") She responded with... "<something>...Padre Domain," which I already knew. So, I repeated, "Esta cerca de aqui?" at which point she said something about Paseo de la Castellana and something about the salida (exit) and esqueirda (left). And so, we left the station and headed left. Before going far, we looked up in the sky and saw the letters, "robuild". It was across the big paseo and over about two or three blocks. Time to review the "listen for" section of the phrasebook, I guess.

 

We showered and napped for two hours longer than we intended. Our first "tourist" site--the Mercado Chamartin--was closed when we got there. So, we got on the Metro at Colombia station and took two different lines to La Latina neighborhood. The exit we took was eerily like the Chateau Rouge stop for the apartment we rented in Paris last May. We headed southeast off the station and ran right into Cerveceria Cruz, a place I'd read would have great bar food at good prices.

 

We walked in and orderd a racion of gambas, were told we would be eating in the plaza outside and were swiftly upsold to two cervezas and a racion of navajas. I caught the bit about the cervezas, but not the navajas... Even now, all I know about navajas is: "Las navajas son un molusco como las almejas," which translates to "Navajas are a mollusk like clams." But they're not. They're more like squid in texture and worms in appearance. Peter calls them "tube worms." They were tasty, and although they were the most expensive item on the menu at 12 Euros, I don't think we got charged for them. Our bill, for two small beers, two big beers, three raciones (of navajas, calamares, y gambas a la plancha) and two bocadillos (una barra de pan y un queso manchego) was only 30 Euros. The squid was, to my surprise, breaded, and had a texture unlike any I've ever had. It didn't matter at all that the calamari came otherwise unadorned. The squid's texture made me think it had been sprinkled with a meat tenderizer. So not gummy, and HUGE. If you didn't know any better, you'd think they were onion rings. The navajas had the skinniest shells and were dressed in butter, garlic, and parsley. You really can't go wrong with those ingredients. We were the only non-Spaniards in Plaza Cascorro and, to tell the truth, the only ones with so much food on their table.

 

After our early dinner, we walked past Iglesia San Andres, where it looked like something was about to happen. In the end, I think that "something" was just a bunch of young people hanging out in a church courtyard on a Sunday night like it was a Friday.

 

Once we reached Calle de Bailen and consulted a map, we abandoned walking to Puente de Segovia. (It was well after sunset and I had wanted to see the bridge at the twilight hour.) Instead, we headed north. We passed Muralla Arabe and Palacio Real. At Palacio Real, we saw several couples with their heads close and their bodies directed towards the view beyond the railing. I wondered about the otherworldly glow coming from below. We ambled over to the railing and...looked over the edge into a parking lot lit up with super bright spotlights.

 

After this, we casually aimed for the Opera Metro stop, but somehow missed it while still finding ourselves on Calle del Arenal. We walked up the street, stopped for a digestif of licor de hierbas (herb liqueur) at Cafeteria Arenal, and then a cone of gelato. I had a scoop of jerez (sherry) with golden raisins while Peter had a cone of chocolate. It was this that prompted Peter to say, "You like to travel just so you can try out weird ice cream." In some ways, he's absolutely right, although I don't know what's so weird about sherry-flavored ice cream. Naturally, it was after we'd had our postres, that we circled back upon Museo del Jamon (Ham Museum). The place called to us like a beacon in the night. Seriously, the place was lit up like Christmas, all bright lights and surrounded by people. We took some goofy photos as I cooed over the jamon and the adorable old ladies munching on their jamon y queso sandwiches. If I was an old Spanish lady, I'd definitely take my girlfriends out for a glass of beer and a stringy ham sandwich on Sunday nights. No ham for us, though, not with sweets on our lips. And so, we headed home for the night, a couple of jet-lagged Norte Americanos in a city that never sleeps.

I have been thinking constantly about our upcoming trip to Madrid. Since Peter will be there on business, I am mostly on my own. I like to think I'm pretty independent, but am so rarely called upon to be so that I'm rather excited to see if I actually am! The last time I explored a foreign country alone was when I went to Stockholm on business back in 2003. This will be interesting in lots of ways. I am thinking, of course, of Jenny's passport theft and of the line in my Madrid guidebook that says, "Madrid has reported growing incidents of muggings and violent attacks, and older tourists and Asian-Americans seem to be particularly at risk." They are specifically interested in Asian-Americans?? I suppose I can always pretend to be Asian-Asian. Also, "Criminals frequent tourist areas and major attractions such as museums, monuments, restaurants, hotels, beach resorts, trains, train stations, airports, subways, and ATMs." As I read that list, I decided they may as well also just include, "...plazas, shops, cafes, parks, and all other open and closed spaces". I am actually not at all paranoid. I just thought it was funny that Asian-Americans are targets. I wonder why.

 

In Stockholm, I spent most of my solo time walking around town late at night because the conference I attended typically ran from 8am to 6pm and I often had dinner obligations with teammates and business associates. I never felt unsafe, but I was sometimes a little skittish for no good reason. I guess I realized I stuck out quite a bit. Everyone in Sweden is six feet tall and blonde. If anyone is ever a target, it's probably the odd man out. I didn't know any self-defense or kung fu back then either. If I had been a target, I'm not sure what I would have done to defend myself or to call for help. The only Swedish phrase I learned was, "Jag prater inte Svenska". I don't know if I spelled that right, but it means, "I don't speak Swedish" and came in rather handy. Most everyone speaks English in Stockholm, but they start all interactions using Swedish, which actually really tickled me because, well, I'm not six feet tall and blonde. Ever since then, I've made at least some effort to learn a little bit of the local language for whatever place I'm traveling to. For Spain, I'm actually listening to tapes to improve my comprehension (no Peter around to translate what anyone is saying) and reading textbooks to improve my grammar and vocabulary.

 

At kung fu, we've been doing punch and grab counters and some knife defense lately. It's been awhile since we worked on any of those things, so I've been pretty happy to refresh my skills. Unfortunately, the most useful workshop happening this spring won't be until after I get back from Spain. I love the hardcore joint locks and disabling techniques we learn whenever Professor teaches class. There's nothing quite like drilling the same movements for an hour to make you feel like you would actually be able to employ them if you needed to.

 

What I'm actually thinking about most for this trip is how to pack. I am a pretty light traveler. I always bring only one suitcase or backpack and one purse. Packing like this makes it easy to change flights, change trains, or change hotels. No matter how long I'll be away, I avoid checking luggage like the plague. I've been at too many airline customer service counters where harried travelers couldn't change their itineraries because their luggage wouldn't make it. And yes, more than once, I've been the lucky beneficiary when those other travelers lost out. So many hours saved not waiting because of flight delays, missed connections, or baggage claim wrestling matches.

 

Not only am I going to be in Europe where everyone's so fashionable and chic, the weather's going to be challenging: high 30s at night and up to the low 70s during the day. When it's that warm, I like wearing skirts and dresses, but when it's that cold, I like to have scarves and coats at my disposal. If it were only slightly warmer at night, I wouldn't worry about the packing because I'm pretty good at keeping warm. At it is, I have to pack a jacket and/or, God forbid, a coat. Where I'm going to find room for a coat in my tiny little suitcase, I don't know. And while I plan to shop while in Madrid, I probably won't spring for a coat, seeing as to how one Euro is worth approximately one billion US dollars. I've even scoped out stores and brands online and no one sells what I would consider an affordable coat. But, really, what's even harder is deciding what would make me look like a Madrileño when I'm out and about in museums, restaurants, train stations, and those ever-so-dangerous ATMs. There are plenty of blogs that follow street fashion in Paris and Milan. There are even several very good ones for Helsinki. But none that I've found for Madrid or Barcelona. What if this is like when we went to Portugal and I was like, "Why didn't I bring my red pants??"

 

 

One day, this entry will go on cabopartypals.com.

 

A is for Alcohol. It's taken me this long to figure out that alcohol is the A in "A-Game". At the supermercado near the airport, we bought two bottles of Appleton Jamaican rum, a bottle of rotgut Jarana tequila, a bottle of 1800 tequila, a case of Pacifico, a case of Negro Modelo, and an 8-pack of Corona Light. We left Mexico having drank all but three Pacificos, half a bottle of rum, half a bottle of the Jarana, and one shot of the 1800. The four of us were there for four nights (three full days and two half days).

 

B is for Buzzards. Or as we inexplicably referred to them, Boo-zzards. They kept swooping over, waiting for us to die. They must have smelled my cooking flesh.

 

C is NOT for CRON. After I surveyed the booze and chip situation, I didn't even bother trying to keep track of what I ate. Naturally, last night, our first night back at home, I dreamt about CRON and the comments I'd have to respond to regarding my last blog entry about CRON.

 

D is for Daylight Savings Time. None of us expected this to happen mid-vacation. The time change caused a bit of consternation and confusion. Luckily, we weren't affected by it. Although, missing the flight home wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world...

 

E is for El Corral. We stopped in at this roadside restaurant and had ourselves a magical first dinner in Los Barriles. The ladies who run this menu-less open-air restaurant serve giant papas (boiled/baked potatoes) with all the trimmings.

 

F is for Frijoles. We ate beans at most meals. I even learned how to make them in time for us to have bean dip for breakfast on Tuesday.

 

G is for Guacamole. Beth made guacamole twice on this trip. She's got a good recipe. It was even better the second time.

 

H is for Hielo. Thank heaven for freezers that work. We've learned never to expect a freezer to work properly in the tropics, but the fridge at this house functioned beautifully. There were plenty of ice cube trays waiting when we arrived, but DC shared a fresh bag of ice with us that we never even finished.

 

I is for Ice Cream. Lo and behold, there was a Thrifty ice cream shop downtown. They had about twelve different flavors, most of them the usuals. Predictably, they were nearly out of coconut pineapple. I kind of wish I'd tried banana nut, but I had a scoop of black cherry instead.

 

J is for Jell-O. Mark assumed Jell-o-master responsibilities on this trip and made a dish of Jell-O instead of trying to make shots. We ate them like they were jiggly slices of tequila pie.

 

K is for Kayaking. We only went out for a few minutes one afternoon and didn't get very far, but a fish almost jumped right in Peter's lap!

 

L is for Lounging. Those blue loungers were just like the ones you get at beach resorts. We dragged them from the tiled patio and left them in the sandy part of the yard until the day we left.

 

M is for Money saved. With only one exception, prices were cheaper in Los Barriles than we thought they would be. We spent approximately one third on accommodations compared to what we normally spend when we come to Baja.

 

N is for "No hablo español". Why didn't I learn Spanish in high school or college? I should have been like Tina and learned Spanish in high school and French in college. I can cobble together phrases using a phrasebook and can understand a fair amount, especially when it's written Spanish, but I can't speak off-the-cuff at all. When the guy at the resort restaurant asked, "Están aquí?" it took a moment before I realized he meant, "You're staying here?" and not "In here?" Not that I was able to think of how to say, "No, we are not staying here" or "Yes, we'd like to eat indoors".

 

O is for Ochoa's. We bought the best roast chicken ever from this place in town. Follow the main street past that last curve and as you're heading out of downtown Los Barriles, you'll see this small building to the left with "Ochoa's" painted on it. Buy yourself the "pollo entero" (whole chicken) meal that comes with papas fritas (french fries), corn tortillas, and salsa and then drive home as quickly as you can. Try not to burn yourself holding the piping hot bag above your lap.

 

P is for Pufferfish. The buzzards don't bother with them, so there were carcasses of varying size up and down the beach.

 

Q is for "Quiesieramos". The Spanish phrasebooks Tina lent me tend to start sentences with "queremos," which means "we want," but I didn't like how that sounds. When trying out a foreign language, I always err on the side of caution and try to come across as polite as possible even if I sound stodgy. So, "we would like" is what I used. The first time I used it, I think I said "quiesieremos" instead, but then I went back and studied the verb conjugation rules again. I think I got it right in the end.

 

R is for Rays. Stingrays, that is. A fever of stingrays liked to leap out of the ocean in front of the house. We would watch them chase each other into the air and catch the interest of pelicans overhead.

 

S is for Salsa. Salsa is good CRON food. I had big plans to eat salsa with slices of red and green bell peppers instead of chips. But we bought four bags of chips and I felt compelled to help finish them. I sliced up the two red peppers we had at the end and ate them all by myself waiting for our flight home. 

 

T is for Tacos and Totopos. We ate a lot of both.

 

U is for UV Rays. I spent the first full day of vacation sans sunblock. My rationale? I wanted to make sure to get a good base tan before I started using the communal SPF 15. I thought Peter was joking when he told me at 4pm on Saturday that my back looked red. He was not. Even on the last morning, when I impulsively decided on a final thirty minutes in the sun without sunblock, my chest got red.

 

V is for La Vaca. We saw wandering cows here like we did on the beach in Los Frailes.

 

W is for Wind. Los Barriles is the windsurfing capital of Baja, so we should have known there'd be some wind to contend with. Luckily, the mornings were calm and some days were much less windy overall than others. One day was actually so still that we got hot enough to take a break by spending some time indoors.

 

X is for X-words. We probably seemed a little nerdy when we exclaimed, "Ooh! Crosswords!" when we saw the game trunk during a tour of the house, but the crossword puzzle books provided good breaks from marathon reading sessions.

 

Y is for YouTube. YouTube is where we might have posted the silly videos we made if we hadn't seen "Memorial Day 2000," a vacation video that blows away all others.

 

Z is for Zero bugs. It is so nice to come back from vacation with no bug bites and not having seen a single cockroach!

We took a last-minute trip to Puerto Vallarta last weekend. Rather than re-live the soul-crushing experience of trying to get there using Fed-Ex-signature-required-not-going-to-get-to-you-in-time-for-your-trip-unalterable-nonrefundable-how-badly-do-you-really-want-to-go paper tickets, why don't I just focus on the positives? Namely, the trip itself. (I'll save my blow-by-blow account of how I plan to single-handedly prevent beachdestinations.com from ever having another customer ever again for another blog post. Which reminds me: you'd be crazy to use beachdestinations.com! Pay more somewhere else because you'll be more than glad you did! We purchased an all-inclusive flight and resort package from them because we just wanted something easy, to go somewhere solely to veg out for a few days. Once we were on the plane, everything was easy. There was a lot to hate about the resort experience, but we couldn't help ourselves and ended up loving it.)

 

Anyway, for Peter's birthday, he requested we go somewhere warm and sunny. We'd initially thought of Hawaii because it's so close and therefore cheap from Seattle. Then, I checked the weather report and found out it's their rainy season this time of year. Since we've been talking about taking people to this place we like to rent in Cabo, I decided we should go somewhere else in the meantime. I checked prices to various places in Latin America, but I kept coming back to Mexico. It seemed the easiest thing to do. Puerto Vallarta had the cheapest prices when I checked a few weeks ago and seemed like it would be pretty reliable weather-wise. And so, we went!

 

Partly cloudy is relative. Peter fretted about the weather forecast before we left, but by the time we were lounging under the palapa that first day, he remarked on the bright blue sky and pretty little puffs of cloud, "If this was what 'partly cloudy' meant in Seattle, we'd never have to leave."

 

SPF 2. Better than 0, I say. Because I'd never seen the likes of it ever before, I bought the SPF 2 "sunblock" at the Mega just up Avenida Francisco Medina Ascenscio (Av. Fco. M. Ascenscio to those in the know). If I'd known taken the time to decipher the Spanish and find out it was a tanning oil, I might not have been as sold on the novelty of it all. I only found out on the second day of our vacation, when I went to apply it and found myself an unwitting Exxon disaster in miniature. I probably could have used a second application after a couple hours in the tropical sun, but I was too busy fantasizing about how skinny my thighs would look with some additional color. I actually ended up a little burnt, but I blame that on the fact that I had also spent the hours of 9am to 4pm in the sun the day before without any sunblock on at all. (It doesn't seem to matter what I use on my face because it's always melted off five minutes into tanning. More sweat issues from the pores on my face than from any other part of my body. Now you know why you've seen me rolling the antiperspirant all over my face instead of my pits. Then again, we don't need to talk about Asians and deodorant for the umpteenth time, do we?)

 

I like grocery stores that smell like food. I find it so endearing that foreign grocery stores always smell like meat. Even the shiniest, newest big-box or grocery/department store hybrids don't seem as sterile when they're in a foreign country and, for some reason, I like that. In Portugal, the big grocery stores smell like bacalhau (dried salted cod) from the moment you step in the door. In Mexico, they smell of beef and pork. Even the Mega in Puerto Vallarta, which is basically a Fred Meyer or Walmart analog, smelled faintly like meat once we crossed the threshold into its air-conditioned confines.

 

Haven't they heard of Christina? Or Shakira? As far as Mexico is concerned, if you're going to have some English-language karaoke in your collection, you only need to include the following artists: ABBA, Britney Spears, Madonna, Elvis Presley, and The Beatles. It's true that these artists represent 95% of all the karaoke that's worth singing. In fact, you might want doubles of the Britney Spears and Madonna songs because you never know when some idiot's going to scratch the originals.

 

They announced at the end of the "international dinner show" on Saturday that the following night would be karaoke night. We gave ourselves whiplash turning to each other to confirm that we'd just heard them right. Karaoke was in the back of our minds all day Sunday and we scarfed down dinner in order to make sure we didn't miss the opportunity. Once there, neither one of us felt much like getting up on a stage to sing any of the songs from eight-disc selection. Although, I will say that I was pretty tempted by Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)". I did, after all, own the Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves soundtrack on cassette and had listened to Bryan Adams' warbling no less than five hundred times.

 

Resort food is pretty much what you might expect. When we filled out the survey for the Plaza Pelicanos at the end of our stay, I hardly knew what to say about their lunch offerings. Lunch had consisted almost exclusively of Coronas, margaritas, and pina coladas. Monday afternoon we actually took a break and ate burgers at fries at the Section 2 snack bar, but doing so was completely unnecessary because my stomach was full of booze. Breakfasts were the most satisfying and offered the best variety and quality. Every morning, my breakfast included chilaquiles and my beloved baby pan dulces. One morning they had a spiced ground beef dish with peas and carrots in it. I'm not averse to non-breakfast-type foods at breakfast, so I actually kind of really liked that one. At dinner, things were not that great. The food was edible, but never spectacular. I will say that I was pleasantly surprised by how decent their BBQ pork and chicken were.

 

Signage in the buffet line was always interesting. At breakfast one morning, Peter pointed out that "Jamon / Yams" was on the menu. They seemed to have the most problems getting the signage right at dinnertime. "Wonton Soup" turned out to be a watery broth with chicken breast and the merest hint of spinach and mushroom. "Butter Penne" was at first a tray of buttered potatoes and then turned into a tray of buttered spaghetti when I came by the buffet a second time. The best, though, was when the carafes of coffee were labeled "Beef Chop Suey". I wonder if I was the only one who actually kind of hoped to pour myself a cup of hearty beef chop suey.

 

I didn't know you could make flank steak appetizing without presenting it in carne asada fashion, but there was a steak-in-a-stroganoff-sauce dish that they served at the Section 2 restaurant the last night we were there that was good, but most people passed it over, I think, because it was plainly labeled "Steak" (or was it "Beef"?). The garbanzo bean salad was hard as rocks and there was no ice dispenser for the soda fountain. None of this mattered that much because it was a stiflingly humid 95 degrees in the open-air restaurant while it was probably only 70 degrees in the real outdoors and all I could think about was how much I wanted to get out of there and how much I wished my stomach wasn't so full of booze.

 

Canadians are taking over the world. And they're starting with Puerto Vallarta. Half the population at Plaza Pelicanos was from Saskatchewan. The other half were Mexicans. I really liked that the resort was popular with Mexican families, but I was shocked by the number of Canadians. As Peter will be pleased to inform you, Canadians come in all types. They are not the "noble race" he had imagined. Refreshingly, there were only five Americans in the whole resort. Including the two of us.

 

Like I said, there was a lot to hate, but so much more to love. I love me a bargain most of all and we ended up spending so very little, even when you take into account the generous tips we left for pretty much every person who came in contact with us. The service was good. The grounds and rooms were super clean and well-maintained. The location was ideal. In between the airport and downtown and extremely close to both. Peaceful. Sunny but not too hot. I think it'll be a toss-up between Puerto Vallarta and Cabo when it comes time to choosing our home-away-from-home.

Did I have a great Jamaican vacation? Yeah, mon. Am I tanner than I've ever been? Yeah, mon. Am I glad to be back at home? Yeah, mon. Do Jamaicans really say "mon"? Yeah, mon, they do. They answer, "Yeah, mon" to pretty much any and every question or statement.

Jamaica was pretty much what I expected: hot, humid, lush, and utterly relaxing. We arrived mid-day Saturday and were picked up by the owner of SunSplash Villa and her driver, Kenny. Had we rented our own van, it would have been Wednesday by the time we made it to Treasure Beach. Jamaica's not big on street signs.

We stopped at the Super S grocery store about ten minutes from the airport so that Joyce could change money. The rest of us had already changed money at the cambio at the airport. It was a JV move that cost us about ten cents on every dollar, but we weren't sure we'd get another opportunity to do it. Apparently, a lot of big grocery stores and other retail establishments will change money and offer you the official exchange rate to boot. If we hadn't changed money at the airport and hadn't stopped at the grocery store,  we would have been SOL, so it was better that we had some Jamaican money rather than none.

We loaded up on as many provisions as we could fit into the shopping cart, which turned out to not be so much. We loaded up on staples (chips, crackers, cookies, rum, beer, coffee, sweetened condensed milk, raisin bread, and mac and cheese) and crossed our fingers that the staff back at the villa weren't expecting us to bring the supplies for primary meals with us. We were all under the impression that breakfast and dinner were included in the price of our stay. Turns out we were wrong, but on the bright side, the cooks had already made purchases for the week's meals. (When a website states, "Rental of Property Includes: Housekeeping/Caretaking, Breakfast and Dinner preparation, TV, Fans in each room, Games and books available," you might be inclined to think the costs of meals was somehow prefigured into the price. Well, you'd be wrong. Shame on you for not being more jaded so as to clarify these kinds of costs up front!)

The ride to Treasure Beach was slow, but awesome because of the torrential rain. The rain let up as we drove into Bluefields on the South Coast. We stopped at Fresh Touch Hot Seafood Restaurant for lunch. Rain + Fresh Touch Hot Seafood Restaurant = quintessential Jamaican experience.

The speakers in the restaurant's sound system were aimed at the beach across the street and we were seated behind the structure in which they were housed, but we still couldn't hear each other over the music. I drank my Red Stripe, bobbed my head to the music, kicked my legs back and forth like a little kid, pondered the menu painted on the wall next to the pass-through window (sea puss? conch? escoveitched fish? festival and bammy? cooked food??), and just grinned because I could already tell this vacation was going to be kick-ass.

The chairs at palapa/table were designed for reclining, so I had to perch on the edge of my seat to eat my plate of curried goat (bones) because I couldn't very well ferry my food three feet from the table to my mouth... It was awkward but also incredibly charming. It was funny to think about how the reclining seats so perfectly personified Jamaica's laid-back ways.

Once we got to our vacation rental, it was already late afternoon, but we all changed into our bikinis and shorts immediately after meeting the staff--Percy, Miss Josette, and Miss Goldie--, inspecting the building, and then sorting out the room situation. The accommodations were bare bones and the house has seen better days, but everything seemed clean enough. The three bedrooms were not equal, but we spent so little time in our rooms that it really didn't matter that much. We spent ninety-five percent of our waking hours on the covered patio. (Miss Josette and Miss Goldie only asked once if we wanted to take our meals inside or outside. The question was such a no-brainer that I have to wonder now if I rolled my eyes when I answered on behalf of the group.)

The lawns were yellow when we arrived, but after it rained on the second night, the grass started to green right up. We scampered down the hill to verify that the beach was right at the bottom of the property. We gave the hammocks under the palapa test swings, and then ran back to the pool. The pool was so warm that it wasn't long before we started referring to it as the "hot tub". The ocean was similarly warm, but still refreshing to swim in after hours under the tropical sun. I found that the best way to cool off was to swim for a bit and then sit in one of the patio chairs while air-drying.

We didn't do anything but lay around until Tuesday. On Tuesday, Percy led us down to the beach where all the fishermen launch their boats. Visible from the beach: The Buccaneer. We had imagined it to be this castle in the sky (mostly because we weren't able to book it and because Mark wanted to get his hands on some of Adam Clayton's fluids). After witnessing its inferior location, we promptly declared it inferior to our own temporary residence.

Percy introduced us to his friend, U.K., who piloted us along the South Coast past the tiniest little villages toward Black River. Along the way, we ran into a pair of dolphins that I'm sure must be trained to hang out in the area for tourists because they just surfaced so many times.

Once in Black River, we headed directly into the mangrove forest. We spotted lots of lazy crocodiles and lots of birds. Halfway into the mangrove forest, U.K. docked. Percy climbed a tree and showed us how to swing from the tree into the crocodile-infested waters. Not in the mood for a near-death experience, I declared myself the photo documentarian. I cooled off with a Ting grapefruit soda and snapped pictures from the shore using Gina's lomo. I took only the briefest dip in the murky river. Naturally, I cut my pinkie toe open and banged up my knee climbing out. If I come down with a tropical disease, I'll blame the Black River.

We never stopped in Black River itself and I'm sad about that because it looked like a good place to soak in some authentic Jamaican flavor. Instead, we headed straight from the crocodile-infested waters to the Pelican Bar, a spindly structure out in the middle of the ocean on a sandbar. Here, the water was just as blue as any Jamaican postcard you've ever seen. It was unreal.

The food at the Pelican Bar was cooked over coals in little barbeques. While we waited for our food to finish cooking, we sipped Red Stripes and tried, in vain, to make sense of the conversation between the Jamaicans. I had the vegetable plate, which was basically just braised cabbage, carrots, and cassava served over white rice, but was surprisingly delicious. The fish was really good and so was the conch, which I would have ordered if Roger had described its texture as more like beef tendon (even though it's not at all like that) and less like "gummy clams".

The boat trip would be our only outing aside from two walks into town. One scorching hot afternoon, we ate the lobster and jerk sausage pizzas at Jack Sprat's in "downtown" Treasure Beach. Peter and Gina introduced the  locals there to our "Rum Ting" drink concoction while the rest of us swam in the ocean. Another evening, we had dinner at Jake's when we were unexpectedly told we'd have to fend for ourselves at dinner because Miss Josette and Miss Goldie were taking the evening off. We waited until the sun was on the horizon before embarking on this second trek and were very happy to have done so. There were more streetlights and fewer cars than we thought there would be; every driver seemed to expect pedestrians along the shoulder anyhow, so we never felt unsafe.

Dinner at Jake's was underwhelming. The prices were as you might expect for a resort-ish restaurant where you might see a "A-list celebrities," but the food was not that great. Then again, I may have made a mistake by sending my garlic shrimp back to the kitchen when it arrived with rice instead of potatoes. I ate the way too salty, not very garlicky, scrawny shrimp anyway. During the meal, I seemed to suffer from a shrimp paste overdose, but it turned out to be an upset stomach from the planter's punch I had gulped at the beginning of the evening. It was nothing a few swallows of Grace's Hot Pepper Sauce couldn't cure.

If you stop by Jake's, do it only to check out the precipitous drop from the walkway by the pool down to the ocean (not something you'd see in the litigious United States) and to snack on the corn fritters, pepper pot soup (like a thin, but tasty chicken gravy) or maybe even the jerk chicken, but don't bother with the shrimp. Even sample the planter's punch (a stiff fruit smoothie), but only if your brain's not so fried from the heat that you're likely to suck it down like a Shop-Vac.

Meals back at the house were better. I don't know if Miss Josette is really the best cook in town, but her fried chicken was unlike any I'd ever had. It was stuffed with browned onions and green bell peppers and was crisp, but juicy. We liked her fish, but didn't like the fish juice and vapors that tainted the "freezer" where it was stored along with our ice and beer. Her lobster dishes were flavorful (and half the cost of the chickens), but way overcooked.

Breakfasts were heavy on fruit, where fruit includes ten-dollar beefsteak tomatoes, and eggs, but a lot of the fruit went bad before we got to enjoy it all. I snuck a couple star apples as snacks before they got fed to the neighbor's goats and I'm really happy I did. Star apples look like oddly-shaped plums (or even beets), but the skins aren't tart. The flesh inside is stained pink where it meets the skin but is white elsewhere. The flavor is similar to a pear's, but the texture is more like a peach. Basically, it's a fruit I would have eaten everyday if I had known they weren't saving it for any of our meals.

I was disappointed that we didn't venture into town or mingle with locals more, but I think the oppressive heat and blazing hot sun really precluded a lot of exploring. We barely left the property even when our food and drink supply dwindled. As punishment for our xenophobia and sloth, we were raped by the "company store" adjacent to the property. Quick, convert 3400 jay into U.S. dollars in your head. What's left of the stingy person in me thinks that's too much to pay for a case of beer.

Price gouging and polymorphic light eruption aside, I had a really nice time. At the vacation's end, I came to the same conclusions I always do: 1. My life is good. Really good. 2. I need to own a vacation home/rental property. Right. Now. 3. I need to narrow down the list of places I want to go next!

I leave the country tonight. And, miracle of all miracles, I am mostly packed. There were a few minutes of panic this morning when my passport wasn't where I always keep it, but I found it, so I'm going to Jamaica after all. I have some items coming out of the dryer that will need to be packed, but this is the most prepared I've been for a trip since my honeymoon.

 

When Peter and I decided to spend a month in Portugal for our honeymoon, I knew I had to be ultra-organized and thoughtful about my packing because I didn't want to carry unnecessary weight on my back. For that trip, I actually laid out clothes and planned all the ways I could wear everything to make sure I wouldn't feel frumpy or unstylish. My backpack weighed in at a very manageable 16 pounds. Are you impressed? I sure as hell was.

 

Since then, I've gone back to my last-minute packing ways. Minutes before I leave for the airport, you'll find me dancing in front of the dryer, waiting for it to finish up so I can grab a final few items to pack. Because I'm so haphazard about it, I usually pack way more than I did for that one-month trip. Even for a weekend or overnight trip. It's embarrassing.

 

In order to pack light, you have to plan your wardrobe well. It needs to allow for infinite mix and match combos. If you can, bring only one pair of very versatile shoes. Shoes take up so much room. For Portugal, I brought:

I got a kick out of mixing and matching while in Portugal and never felt unhappy with my wardrobe, but I get to have a little more fun when packing for short tropical trips.

 

Packing light for a trip to a tropical location is a bit harder for me. The danger is in not packing light at all because every item of clothing takes up so little room! I'm always tempted to bring every single skirt and dress I own because it balls up into such a tiny package. Right now, I have an assortment of linen, cotton, and cotton-blend skirts, dresses, tank tops, tee shirts, shorts, capri pants, and seven bikinis. I don't have a color scheme, but so far it's looking like I'm going mostly green and orange. My bag is only half full. Even so, I'll pare down on the clothes when I get home, but it's nice to have so much variety.