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BARCELONA: Date: Wed, 8 May 2002 15:31:00

Missing Buses and Losing Memories

 ¡Hola!

 While it’s not that exciting to say "hola," you wouldn’t believe what kind of a kick we get from having upside down punctuation marks on the keyboard.  ¿Rica? ¡Queue Rica!

We spent our last days in France trying to see Provence.  We had a great time in Avignon, but once we tried to leave, disaster struck.  We went to see our travel agent to discuss the day’s plans with her.  The best way to get discount travel advice is to ask the bus station lady.  The problem can often be, however, that she isn’t on top of advice, just on top of selling tickets.  The bus schedule didn't work out in our favor.  The bus to Gordes left ten minutes before we got there.  The bus lady said we can get on a bus to Pont Du Gard, and then became excited with the idea of planning what she chose to call a "tour" for us through Provence.  We were very happy, as the restricted Saturday schedule seemed to be just right:  We would see three towns, and then arrive back in Avignon just in time to catch the 7:30 train to Arles. 

Off we went to Pont du Gard.  We knew nothing of the place.  We arrived in the middle of nowhere, with no village in site.  We heard an American guy greet his friends who were also on our bus and say, "Dude, that ride was killer."  We ran fast ahead, not so much to escape them, but to give us enough room so that Hagar could pee behind a bush.  We take our Asian habits with us.  She just about made it, and no French person saw the movements in the brush.  By the way, Hagar has the distinction of being one of the only people other than the French Kings to urinate in the immaculate Versailles Gardens.  There are no toilets there, but there are hedges.  Hedges so thick that no one knows of the toilet potential provided by the one-foot space between the hedge and the fence which they hide.  But necessity is the mother of... desperation.

So...

We arrived at Pont Du Gard.  It was a huge building that had a sign "expo center" on it.  "Not again!" we cried.  But it was okay.  We skipped it.  The Pont du Gard is a very impressive Roman aqueduct bridge with the largest central arch ever constructed by Roman engineers... and the largest collection of olive pits ever amassed in a single sitting by two people who happened to visit a French farmer market earlier that morning in an undisclosed location...  Ahem.

We had a nice picnic above the river, looked at the aqueduct from all angles, had a nice walk in the bushes, peed three times, and yet, still only one hour had passed.  We had two more to go.  The bus lady seemed to think three hours was too little for the aqueduct.  It was enough.  Barely. (Peeing takes time.)

We made our way back to the bus stop in plenty of time to catch the bus.  About half an hour had passed after the scheduled stop time, Michael wandered over to double-check the schedule.

M: Hagar, how do you say Saturday in French? H: Samedi. M: Uh oh.

And thus began a day of sitting and waiting for the bus.

We hitch hiked.

No one stopped.

But lots of people laughed at us.  We suspect that perhaps the way we were hitch hiking was a French version of giving someone the finger.  Judging by the reaction of the passing cars, that is.  Some people actually swerved to the other lane just in case we were thinking of diving into the road and grabbing onto their side-view mirrors.

Needless to say, the car that finally picked us up was driven by a German.  He dropped us off at the next town, and pointed us to a bus stop to wait at.  We walked over and waited, TRIPLE-checked the schedule after the bus was a no-show, and realized that we didn't know which bus station we were at.  It seems like we were at the wrong one.  So we bought a Monster Meringue that was so big and gave us such happiness that the pastry seller smiled throughout our excited whisperings and gasps and pointings. 

We ate our meringue.

No bus showed up.

Then a group o……….

Hagar typed the letter "o" about two hours ago.  This is how we spent the last two hours:

We checked for our bag beneath the chair just to make sure, as always, but this time it wasn’t there.  It wasn’t anywhere, not in the restaurant we just left and certainly not at the police station, where we waited for a good hour and a half before being given a piece of paper which they then photocopied and gave back to us.

So the point is that while we were writing a rambling email to you, our backpack with our cameras and 7 roles of exposed film from several European countries was stolen right under our noses.  Plus one wallet and some cash and a drivers license and one credit card.  The only irreplaceable loss is the film and we are sad. 

One bit of bright news is that we now love American Express.  Michael called collect, was connected to a real person within seconds who called him "Mr. Dickman" and treated him generally like a human being, and we are picking up our replacement card tomorrow morning.  Go American Express.

Boo robbers.

By the way, did we tell you we are in Barcelona, Spain?  Beware of robbers in Barcelona, Spain.  

ALMERIA TO GRANADA: Date Thu, 16 May 2002 03:15:21

    Subject: Home is where the backpack is

¡Hola compadres!

After we got robbed, we felt disillusioned with traveling and needed a break from the rain and gray sky of Europe.  So we went to Morocco. 

No we didn't.

We instead remembered that Lonely Planet said the sunniest region in Spain was Almeria.  So off we went, and sunny it was.  We tanned on the beach at Cabo de Gata, and did very little else.  And we ate very little too.  When you hear the term "low season" we now know it also means beach yes, accommodation yes, but food?  sometimes.  We arrived on Sunday, when two restaurants and one cafe were open, and loved taking in the lively beach scene with European-sized Coke bottles and European-sized bathing suits (male and female).  We were also treated to some great music by the bar girls, one of whom sings in a band in the high season.  They paused during "Unchained Melody" to argue about how to pronounce "much."  For about five minutes, there was nothing but, "Time can do sooo mutch..." "Mutch?" "Much much."  "Ah... mutch much mooch." We spent the afternoon on the beach, in the bar, on the promenade, moving from place to place, just as long as there was sun.

But when Monday came...

The only restaurant open was Bar Mediterraneo.  We had stopped there the day of our arrival to ask if they had rooms available (everyone in town said they did, as did Lonely Planet).  The waiter said, "Uhn."  Which in universal body language means, "Get out."  Michael tried again, "¿Tiene habitacion?" (do you have rooms?)  This time, a clearer response.  "No."  Righhhhht.  We decided to boycott the place after we sat for half an hour and waited for a menu, but when we finally gave up and asked we were yelled at: "Alright, alright.  I'm busy.  Later."  Righhhhht.

So that leaves the supermarkets.

We won't go into too much detail, but we will let you know that for dinner that night Hagar ate cheetos, cookies, flan and Smacks cereal, while Michael dined on hamburger buns with canned squid in ketchup, and some cheese.  And cheetos, flan, and smacks.  Righhhht.  We felt really hard core, and were proud of our survival skills. Plus we spent the whole day on the beach, sleeping in the sun to the sound of a soft sea.  Sun, cheetos and canned squid. Who could ask for more?

Language Difficulty Humorous Anecdote: When we were in Barcelona, before the fated abscondment occurred, Michael had called Seville to make reservations.  The women didn’t speak English, so Michael struggled with his high school Spanish (consisting mostly of, "Yes" and "Psst. Waiter!") to get a room.  The woman kept saying what sounded like, "Baile, baile!"  Michael thought and thought, and whispered to Hagar: "I think she’s saying ´Dance, dance!´"  Strange.  We almost started dancing in place.  Turns out, she was saying, "Vale" which means "OK." We learn new things every day.

The last night in Cabo de Gata was not as restful as our previous nights of leisure.  At about four in the morning, Hagar woke up and yelped, "Ack, mosquitoes!"  We flipped on the lights, Michael got up and whacked the wall.  Blood stains.  We went back to sleep. An hour later, the yelp came again and the lights came on.  But this skeeter had learned not to sit on the wall right next to the bed.  For the next two hours, we alternated between trying to sleep with the covers over our heads, yelping at the skeeters in our ears, and Hagar watching a half-naked Michael hop around the room like a crazed lunatic, whacking walls and curtains with Homer´s Odyssey, missing every time.  We woke up our neighbors.  Oops.  We tried to sleep again. Hagar all of a sudden woke up and whacked Michael on the head.  One down, one to go.

So anyway, three days in the sun, and we got ready to leave.  Lucky us.  On the day that we left, we took note of the cloudy sky and chilly breeze.  Never have we been so lucky.  Tan and happy, we took the bus to Granada.    So we are in Granada, and having a great time.  The Madrid soccer team won the Europe cup yesterday and the people took to the streets.  We participated in the party, even yelling "Ole! Ole! Salud a Madrid!" and other such cheers as we could make out.  Shirts came off, kisses went all around, and wine flowed from every orifice of the city.  We hung out with a German guy we met whose birthday is today, and celebrated with sangria at midnight.  Good times.

Today we saw the Alhambra, a Moor fort built many years ago.  Since we have no guide book (see last email about robbery), we have no details.  But it was beautiful and we have never seen a Muslim castle before.  It is very ornate in wall carvings, which are of a combination of 8-pointed stars, Chamsas (a hand for warding off the evil eye), and Arabic inscriptions.  Serene pools, rose bushes in bloom, and trickling fountains throughout made it easy to imagine walking through the halls barefoot in flowing robes, saying things like, "Get me grapes."  It was a very different castle than the others we have seen in Europe.  This one was plain, but still very royal.  The actual palace had marble floors, lots of sunshine, courtyards and light blue and yellow colors.  Very unlike the dark, red and gold themed medieval castles that overflow treasures.  it could be that the treasures of this castle have somehow made their way to Rome.  Who knows?

Tomorrow we are off to Seville, and then Toledo and Madrid.  Three days in London, and our eight-month, six-day jaunt around the world will be over.  Alas, such is life.

Hope you’re all well,

The Tanning Monkeys

MADRID, TOLEDO, LONDON: Date: Thu, 23 May 2002 12:12:47

    Subject: Hobnobbing with prostitutes, cabbies, and doormen from the Ritz

        Hulloa! What's this?

We were in Madrid but feel that it's nothing to write home about, so we just won't.  Yeah, right.  But we will stick to the important parts.

Important Part About Madrid: Prostitutes.

Although we have run across ladies of the night before in our travels, we haven't come all that close to soliciting their services until a few nights ago.  We had changed trains in Madrid to get to Toledo, and decided to reserve a room in a cheap hostel through the travel info desk at the station.  We got a double, one of the only ones left in the city according to travel desk lady, for a somewhat high 42 euros.  No problem with a bit expensive now and again, but we didn't quite expect the place... to be... sketchy.

[More on Toledo later.]  So we walked from the metro to our hotel, and took note of the fact that the further we got from the main street, the more sex shops and kebap (yes, that's K-E-B-A-P) places surrounded us. And finally we arrived at our hotel, opened the door and were greeted with what looked like a mix between a construction zone and a dump site.  No problem.  We just had to sidestep a huge pile of cement bags, hop over the gaps in the floor, avoid sharp rusty nails, and climb the wooden stairs that were being held up by... something, we hoped.  Maybe they were held up by roof shingles like our apartment in Providence...righhhht.

Anyway, the stairs were unfinished, and had that annoying quality of being too shallow--that is, you had to lift your legs high up enough so you don't stub your toe, but if you lifted too high, you were climbing half the stair case in one step which is a waste of energy.

So later that night, after we had eaten popcorn for dinner, we were coming back to our hostel.  Michael stopped at a metal door with graffiti all over it and a sort of dead look to the knob. 

"This is it, right?"

"No, it's the next one down."

"But... the..."

We went up to the fancy lady, who may have been (but somehow, we doubt it) just an innocent woman who enjoys wearing tight denim miniskirts and black tops that reveal enough cleavage to rival the Grand Canyon, as well as enough mascara to make the epithet "raccoony" an understatement.  It fell to Michael to ask her to move, but, not speaking Spanish well enough, there was a moment of confusion.  Fortunately our schlumpy looks and Hagar's wedding ring got her to understand that we merely wanted her to move aside, not come up.  Seriously though, there is a communication problem when a couple asks a prostitute, "can we have the menu, please" when in fact "excuse me, I want to open the door" is intended. heh heh.

So then we went up stairs and ate lychees.

In Madrid, we went to the Del Prado Museum, walked around some plazas and botanical gardens, and saw the Royal Palace, which holds an AMAZING collection of pharmaceutical bottles from the nineteenth century.  Picture the excitement! "Hagar!  Hagar! Bicarbonate of soda!"  "Oh, Michael, look!  Distilled water!"  No, seriously, it was very interesting, and the palace has over 600 clocks, crazy amounts of silver which are described as "for everyday use, as the best pieces were melted down by Napoleon" and a really bizarre variety of rooms (i.e. the Porcelain Room's walls were covered completely in porcelain!).  So we had a good time!  And then we decided it was dinner time, so we went to see a movie and ate popcorn. 

Toledo, by the way, was nice.  Old buildings.  We can't tell you too much about it because we saw it on a Monday, apparently Spain's national "we had such a good weekend, we need a day of actual rest" day.

But we did get to see a synagogue that was converted to a church in 1402, and it was remarkable how much like a mosque it looked!  The city is pleasant, if touristy, but the buildings are really something, and then there is the issue of escalators...

We had wandered outside the city walls, enjoying ourselves until we realized that walking down a hill may require a return trip of similar climbing (the city is perched on a hill).  But wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles!  We looked up and saw the light! The reflection of the metal on the side of an escalator!

Turns out the Spanish like climbing hills even less than the Swiss, and have actually built a series of 5 escalators that take you from the bottom of the hill all the way to the top.  We rejoiced, and counted our blessings (5 of them) as we watched the road drop down away from us.

And so we found ourselves in duty-free a few days later, marveling at the two-liter bottle of "authentic" sangria for six bucks.  Authentic, yes. Tasty, no.  But we bought it anyway.

And here we are in London. 

We love London.  First of all, there is something nice about not feeling obligated about eating the local food (we did that in Australia, and let us tell you, there is no adventure in eating Fish n' Chips--only a bad case of indigestion). Michael did sample a traditional English breakfast at the hostel, as it was the cheapest thing around.  Bacon, sausage, beans, and toast.  And a health-conscious hard-boiled egg.  Go Michael.  Not tasty.  We had a feast of Indian food yesterday, and we dare say it was the best Indian food we have ever had.  The portions were small, but it was delicious.

Second, there is the issue of toilets.  They are everywhere around the city!  And, to top it all off, they are sparkling clean, and free!  For the icing on the urination situation, there seems to be no lack of toilet paper in the city.  These innovations seem to have not yet made it to the continent.  Its a matter of policy in France to pay for the toilets, and in Spain there are no toilets anywhere.  It's gotten to the point that when one of us says, "Hey look! McDonalds!" we know it's not the French fries, but the "papel higienico" that calls us.  We have left our mark around many a Spanish city!

Today we saw London.  Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Somerset House, Citibank, the list goes on!  We saw shops and people, buildings and monuments, fountains and trees, and...

...we saw a horse pee seven gallons of urine onto the parade ground at the changing of the guard!  It had a weird Mr. Ed mouth thing going, too, and the crowd all giggled when the pee started flowing like the river Thames while the hard-voiced sergeant kept bellowing "Left face! Hghugh!"  Picture this:  Two rows of stiff guards facing each other, proudly seated on the most beautiful and well-behaved black horses we have ever seen.  The horses stand still, and then one thinks to himself, "I wonder what would happen if I would flop my lower lip up and down?  oh no, I have to pee.  Ahhhhh.  That's better."

After a trip around the London Eye ferris wheel (world's biggest! ... and most expensive, too), and a jaunt around the halls of Westminster, a view of Big Ben, and a glimpse of Westminster Abbey, we decided it was high time for tea time at the Ritz.  We allow ourselves an absurd splurge once in a while, and tea time in London is where it's at.  Especially at the Ritz.

So Michael fulfilled a lifelong dream by flagging down a black cab, hopping in, snapping his fingers (no sound, though, he's a bad snapper), and saying in his most posh accent, "To the Ritz."  The "my good man" that he wanted to add stayed silent, because you have to admit it's a bit ridiculous.  By the way, the cabs in London resemble a Limo.  There is much leg room! And the subways have couches with armrests, but that's another story.  Off we went.  ("to the Ritz" still ringing in Michael's ears... ahhhhh)  We arrived, and Hagar had to be helped out of the 4-foot high cab, as the doorman took notice of her confused crawl out.  It was just too awkward and difficult to step out, and crawling on her knees made sense at the time.

We confidently asked where we would find the afternoon tea room, and he paused.  And took a breath.  In hindsight, he was not looking us up and down admiring our youthful, fit, glowing bodies.  He was probably taking in the plastic bags filled with water bottles, half-eaten Bombay snacks (including marrow fat peas!), and tourist pamphlets; our dirty sweaters (laundry's not cheap, folks!) and scuffed hiking boots (nobody in the non-backpacking world of Europe has heard of anything other than shiny loafers or stylish high heels--our shoes stick out and we get stared at often); our uncombed hair; and Michael's crazy beard, which has a strange four inch hair sticking out, and has earned him a new and popular nickname, "Crazy Beard Guido."  Right.  Back to the story.

In a surprisingly friendly voice, he asked if we had reservations.  Um, no.  He asked if Michael had a jacket and tie.  Um, no. "You need reservations.  And a jacket and tie." "May we make reservations for tomorrow?" (did you catch the "mother may I?"  did you!?)

(periods, not commas in what follows) "At the Ritz. Reservations. Must be made. Two weeks in advance. Jacket and tie" -- long breath -- "is mandatory." "Two weeks?" "Tea time is very popular at the Ritz.  And you must wear a jacket and tie." (accompanied by hand motion of how a proper bow tie would be tied by a proper gentleman).  And then he added, "But you can go down the street to Brown's Hotel.  They're a five star hotel. They don't have a dress code, but they are friendly." ("how there BE such a thing" he seemed to imply, "is beyond me")

And thus began our search for the one afternoon tea place that would take us and our shabby clothes into their company.  Lets just say that we tried a total of three hotels, and ended up at Starbucks.

Weary but happy, and on our way home

Tomorrow is not just our last day in London, but also our last day of touring the world.  We are weary, but happy, with many pictures (although we are 7 rolls short), happy memories, and many emails.  We'll write our last farewell when we arrive in the States.  We hope you enjoyed reading our emails half as much as we enjoyed writing them. Don't worry, you won't be receiving weekly updates on our lives once we get back home... although that would be funny...

Sincerely yours,

    Crazy-beard Guido and Meathead

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