Spain travelog – Madrid, Andalucia, and Catalunya

March 9, 2007

In the morning I threw together a few last items for my travel bag and went to work by around 10 am. It was my last day at Jefferies, so all I had to do was start the weekly report, go on a courtesy visit to Starbucks with my boss, and say goodbye. I also had a doctor appointment in Brooklyn, which took about four hours round-trip. One final errand: I had to buy a new pair of pants since I had forgotten to pack any.

The AirTrain delivered me to JFK well early, by about 4 or so for a 7 pm flight. I killed time talking to dad while eating a quesadilla in the restaurant alongside the British Airways gates. It was a little nostalgic sitting there, thinking of the 2005 trip to Asia that kicked off from the same gate area--and in similar circumstances since I had just left Deutsche Bank.

The flight left for London roughly on time. My seatmates were Ivan (yes, from Russia) and a talkative woman from North Carolina going to the Balearic Islands on holiday. She discovered that her seatbelt didn’t work, and she was relocated to another seat, giving me some needed legroom. However, Ivan wanted to interrogate me about oil and my personal economic forecasts, as well as sell me on the idea (at least in principle) of investing in Ukrainian port facilities. The next morning our flight circled Heathrow a few times before coming in directly over the Docklands, the City of London, the London Eye, and Parliament.

March 10, Saturday:

On prior visits to Heathrow I had always been either connecting to another international flight in Terminal 4 (i.e. from a BA flight from South Africa in 2001 or BA to Madras in 2005) or going directly to London. Thus I hadn’t understood the tremendous hassle of transferring to another terminal—in this case Terminal 4 to Terminal 1. There was a long line just to catch the bus to the terminal, with very few signs indicating where to go or why to go there. Then, on reaching the main terminal cluster, there was a huge queue for security. I talked to an agent and was “invited” to go to a shorter line—this seemed to be an important trick to getting through Heathrow. As soon as I’d put my shoes back on I ran to a monitor to look up my flight data, then sprinted down an escalator and across the main Heathrow shopping area, coat flailing, following close on the heals of another guy obviously heading for the same flight. It was a heady run, but I was totally winded on making the gate.

Our flight again took the scenic route, passing directly over Windsor Castle, albeit too high to see if the queen’s standard was flying, then on over the Channel Islands, Brittany, the snowy mountains of northern Spain, and finally the plains around Madrid. The sun was out and the views of red soil dotted with fruit trees and bosques of pine seemed iconically Spanish.

Barajas was a huge, modern, and efficient airport—and it seemed almost too spacious. The Metro entrance seemed closed for construction, so I ended up taking a rather expensive taxicab to my hotel, the Conde Duque, located by the San Bernardo stop about a half mile from the tourist heart of the city. Most of the other hotels were marked as full when I had looked earlier online. The Conde Duque was fairly mid-scale, with smallish but nice rooms. After getting changed I took the subway a few stops to the pretty plaza in front of the main post office (or Communications Ministry), and then found my way to the Prado by around noon.

The Prado museum was hot and stuffy inside, and I was barely able to keep my eyes open due to jet lag—actually I even dozed off briefly on a couple of benches inside. The famous pictures are all El Greco, Goya, Velasquez and Rubens. I was particularly taken with two groups, one of Goya’s representing his most modern period, when it is said he may have invented the concept of modern art a century ahead of its time, and the second of Goya’s nude and clothed Maja (the former the first non-allegorical full-sized nude portrait).

Next I wandered over to the Recoleto park and meandered up and down its hills, then headed back towards the Via Acala towards the subway station I’d gotten off at initially. I ran into a huge Partido Popular (PP) demonstration, which had been gathering all afternoon. Red and gold Spanish flags filled the air and quickly it became difficult to move among the throngs. The next day the papers estimated the crowd at over 350,000—all demonstrating against President Zapatero and his administration’s decision to reduce the jail term of Jauna Chaos, an ETA terrorist jailed back in the 1990’s.

I ordered some bocadillos at a little restaurant on the Via Acala—and was surprised to learn that word meant sandwiches. Then I went back to the hotel with a stop by the royal palace as the sun was setting. I turned in about 8 and slept right on to past 10:30 am the next morning.

March 11, Sunday:

I took the subway again to the Atocha railway station, grabbing breakfast croissants at the station at around 11:30. Part of the station was closed off for the three-year commemoration of the March 11 (11-M) bombings at Atocha and on the Cercanias rail lines—the president, king, queen, and princes were all there, along with the opposition. I was on a fast AVE line train to Cordoba, a sleek and beautiful service that put us into Cordoba in just two hours.

Cordoba’s outskirts were fairly deserted. I made my way through a long pedestrian park and broad avenue towards the old quarter, centered on the mesquita/cathedral and old Roman walls. It took a while to get my bearings in the narrow old streets of the juderia, but once I found it there was no problem checking into the hotel recommended by the Lonely Planet, los Patios. I had a little walk around town, along the river and past the old Arab mills and fortified bridge (under reparation, unfortunately) before buying my ticket to see the mesquita and its famed hundreds of brick round arches. The interior proved darker than I expected, but it was still pretty atmospheric wandering around trying to imaging it as a center of prayer in a bygone dynasty. Some of the adapted parts of the cathedral (retrofitted into the center of the structure after the reconquest) were pretty and ornate as well, though they obviously clashed with the spare design of the original building. The space was so huge that one hardly noticed the other tourists poking about.

That evening I had a steak and fries at the hotel restaurant (the hotel desk manager came out to ask if I spoke Swedish—he did, apparently). Again I turned in early.

March 12, Monday:

After a quick breakfast downstairs I checked out and walked to the train station to catch the AVE on to Sevilla Santa Justa. This proved to be a cavernous modern building well away from the center of Sevilla, a much larger city than Cordoba. I tried taking the bus into the historic quarter, but I got off way too early and had to walk about 20-30 minutes to reach the Alcazar, arriving sweaty and tired at a little place under the walls suggested by the LP. This hostal, which cost just 30 euros or so, proved a little below-standard, with walls so thin I could hear the snoring of other guests all through the night.

I wanted to see the Alcazar right away, but Mondays were a closing day in Sevilla apparently. I spent a few minutes checking my email before moving on to wander the streets of town. Most of the main streets of the central historic district were being torn up for the installation of a new light rail system, creating clouds of dust attended by sounds of jackhammers and heavy lifting equipment. I stopped for tapas in an alley courtyard away from the noise—albondigas and chorizo—then moved on to the main shopping area. The architecture and design touches on most of the buildings really blew me away.

After grabbing more meatballs and fish at another tourist-oriented tapas place near the cathedral I turned in at around 9 or 10.

March 13, Tuesday:

I got up as early as possible and left my bag downstairs, then hurried in to the Alcazar just as it was opening. The Alcazar is incredible due to the intricate stonework on the interior spaces, especially in the throne rooms of the Muslim rulers. The European additions are mostly notable for spare wooden-beamed ceilings and decorative ceramics that, though pretty, don’t come up to the level of the abstract arabesques in the Muslim portions of the palace. The Alcazar was pretty but its spaces seemed cold and bare, and the lack of interpretive material also left me feeling a little unenlightened.

After grabbing my bag at the hotel I made my way to one of the main avenues marked as a bus stop on the Lonely Planet map. This area was being totally ripped out for the light rail and it was difficult to locate the bus stop, let alone reach it with all the pedestrian detours and heavy road traffic. Out of desperation I took the first bus going to the station, even though I knew it was taking a longer route—it ended up a much longer and more frustrating trip than I expected, mostly because I was anxious about catching my train for Granada. I needn’t have worried. The next train didn’t leave until after 3, and I got to the station at around 1.

After a couple of croissants and a nap on a bench I found the right platform and got my seat on the slow train to Granada. I was seated next to an American tourist couple. The husband, Robert, was a geologist and we soon got around to talking about his views of peak oil and the future of energy: he foresaw fusion as the answer, albeit 50 years away, but meanwhile he was investing in oil sands and other similar things. He was an eccentric, but it was an interesting conversation since his wife (I’ve forgotten her name) kept throwing in sarcastic remarks—she told how they’d been cheated in Sevilla by a loud-talking but uninformed guide. The last stretches of the ride took us through the mountain country outside Granada, a castle dotting the hills now and then.

In Granada I took the bus to Plaza Neuva—despite Sevilla, I was pretty confident with public transit in Spain—and searched out a cheaper hotel called the Lanzakuri on the road leading up to the Alhambra. The room was on the fourth floor (third in the European system) and across the hall was a terrace looking up to the fortress walls high above. The room was cheap and a little institutional, and the front door only opened when a surly older woman buzzed you in.

I took a nap in the afternoon, then in the evening went for tapas at a great bar recommended by the LP—only two euros for wine with free tapas, plus three euros for an extra chorizo tapas. The whole meal only cost five euros. The clientele seemed like a mix of tourists and locals, and it wasn’t too full to feel comfortable on my own. Back at the hotel I munched Ritz crackers and Chips Ahoy and enjoyed the fresh bottle of shaving cream I’d bought at a pharmacy for five euros.

March 14, Wednesday:

Goaded by the LP text, I got up at 7 am and hiked up the street to the Alhambra, where a short line of perhaps a dozen people was already forming for the limited tickets. Again, I needn’t have worried, there were hundreds of tickets available.

The first sections of the Alhambra tour are the sumptuous Muslim palaces, centered around two large courtyards dominated by pools of water and surrounded by intricate abstract stone carvings as at the Alcazar. Best was the court of myrtles, with its smooth square pool, columned arcade, and two fortress blocks overlooking everything. The European additions put in by Charles V were, again, simple wooden structures with little ornamentation or ostentation, but with good views of the city of Granada, and especially its old Arab quarter in the valley below. After the palace is the fortress proper, where Ferdinand and Isabella had the bells rung to announce the capture of the Alhambra in January 1492. The final part of the tour is of the palace gardens, where the Muslim royals had their actual family quarters, basically built around a similar series of pool-dominated courtyards but in slightly less sumptuous style. I thought this was the most well-balanced style of the entire grounds, albeit I suspect the entire place looked fairly different when it was actually inhabited.

After retrieving my camera and returning for some shots of the garden and its palace views, I headed down for some croissants and then crossed into the Arab quarter to admire the views of the Alhambra, with the snowy Sierra Nevada mountains as a backdrop. The sky was clouding up a bit, so I wandered down to the little tourist cafes along the stream separating the Alhambra grounds from the Arab quarter and got a couple glasses of wine, then headed back to the hotel to read the paper. That night I had tapas at the same place as the prior night.

March 15, Thursday:

It was another early morning as I rushed to check out and grab a taxi to the airport for my flights to Barcelona. The Granada airport was fairly far from town, but I made it with plenty of time and even managed to talk the woman at the desk into giving me a direct Iberia flight to Barcelona rather than connecting me through Madrid. (And in Spanish to boot.) The only downside was that the flight was filled with older retirees who had no clue about security lines—they took forever asking about whether belts, shoes, and coins would have to come out. On the plane it smelled like BO, so I didn’t feel so guilty about not showering myself. But it was an easy 1:15 flight to Barcelona’s El Prat airport.

The whole trip I had been a little anxious about the concept of renting a car in Europe, which I’d never done. Getting the rental was a snap—I handled it in English to be sure, but there was no problem in any case. The little red Fiat Punto had a manual transmission and a very sensitive brake pedal, but I managed to ease it out of the lot without attracting any attention. I got directions for the highway out of town, but even though I knew I needed the C-32 I still ended up going in circles a couple of times and winding up on the main A-7 to France. After driving on the superhighway for about an hour I decided to take an exit and pull off to the side of the road for a real look at the map. From there I got back on the freeway and then went for a road heading towards the coast—it proved a twisty and steep road, but it got me to the C-32 where I wanted to be. In turn the C-32 funneled me along the coast, through a bunch of non-descript tourist and resort areas, and finally to the less populated region known as the Costa Brava, where I finally halted at my initial target, the pretty little castle-dominated town of Tossa de Mar. That’s where I locked my keys in the car.

I had just finished having a plain lunch of spaghetti when I decided to go back to the car for a map and to put on a sweater. Somehow I left the keys in the trunk when I shut it, realizing immediately after. The tourist office a block away was closed for several hours, so I went to the police station opposite and, with my politest Spanish, pleaded for help. The man at the desk I talked to proved willing to look up the number for the Avis office in Barcelona, and when he couldn’t get a person on the line he called another number and left a message, and had me wait outside while awaiting a response. The response wasn’t too hopeful: Avis either wanted me to find a local locksmith, or they would tow the car back to Barcelona at my expense. I said I’d try the former option, and this was where the policeman really came in helpful. He made a few phone calls and said a friend of his, also of the force, would be willing to come see if he could break into the car for me—and if I wanted I could offer a little something on the side.

His friend Julio, “el Gordito,” proved a jovial character eager to have me join in the fun of breaking into the Punto—a task which he pronounced “muy dificil.” He had me wedge the door open a crack with a iron bar to get the wire in, then got the window rolled down a little so I could open the fold-down rear seat and get the keys out. A small crowd developed to watch. “?Que le parece, un robo de vehiculos?” he asked sarcastically as we worked the wire. “Oh no, es una cosa de la policia,” said one old man. It was certainly the instance I made most use of my Spanish. Once we were done I gave him a 50 euro note, which seemed like a steal compared to towing the car back to Barcelona.

After that minor ordeal (which was actually sort of fun, once I realized the problem was solvable) I strolled into the beach area looking for a hotel. Almost all were shuttered, and there were just a handful of people strolling about, despite the nice weather and sun. With the help of the tourist office I found one hotel that was open, the Cap d’Or, LP-recommended and with clear views of the beach and shore. I splurged for a 65 euro double with a splendid view. That night I grabbed dinner at one of the few open restaurants while solving the sudoku puzzle in El Pais, then strolled along the beach looking at the stars. The searchlight at the top of the castle hill played its beam around the skies at a rapid clip. The entire town was deserted and it had a pleasant but eerie feeling to it.

March 16, Friday:

The next day I slept in, then grabbed a quick breakfast and drove up the coastal road towards San Feliu. This was the curvy road recommended by Don and the inspiration for my entire Barcelona/Costa Brava visit. The views were indeed incredible—in fact, so pretty that it felt bittersweet to watch the sparkling blue seas and the sun-drenched yellow rocky headlands knowing I would have only a couple hours to enjoy it all before moving on to more prosaic vistas. I stopped at just about every turnout to contemplate the setting. There were few other cars on the road, and the curves quickly developed a rhythm all to themselves—it was a glorious morning for a drive up the Costa Brava.

San Feliu and the towns further north were mostly non-descript beach sprawls, with the exception of Calella, where I stopped for a glass of wine and a newspaper. Most of the hotels were shut up, but it would have been a fine place for a stroll along the rocks if there had been just a few more people about. But it was time to move inland.

Lunch was in Girona, a quick overpriced spaghetti at an outdoor cafe in the historic center (I chose the place based on my need for an immediate run to the bathroom). After that I made a quick walk around the Roman walls and medieval fortifications and cathedral in the center of town. Overall, Girona had a gritty industrial feel and the historic old town left me a little underwhelmed despite the absence of tourists and pleasant weather. The road was just calling me.

Back on the highway it was only about an hour more until the Pyrenees proper began, and the roads began to get unexpectedly curvy and mountainous. I considered stopping in the mountainous Ribes de Freser for a ride on the cog-wheel train, but decided instead to head directly for Andorra. The signs indicated 50 km to the gateway town of Puigcerda. The road headed up a fairly substantial mountain pass to a fog-enshrouded ski resort just above the snow line. The curves were starting to get to me, and I felt time was pressing since I could make no better than 40 km/hour on the mountain roads. At km 45 the road finally descended down out of the mountains and onto the plains near Puigcerda on the border with France.

Puigcerda was a pretty little town capping a small hill in the center of the broad valley between mountain ranges. I continued along the road a bit to the ski hamlet of Llivia—the small Spanish enclave surrounded by France on all sides. Llivia was an odd place for a ski resort, since it was really a flat area quite a distance from the ski zones. After a quick drive around I headed back to Puigcerda and, after getting lost in a warren of small steep streets, opted to head back on the main highway to Seu d’Urgell, another 50 km away.

The highway to Seu d’Urgell was fairly fast, but by the time I reached town it was getting dark. I decided to call it a day and checked into the Hotel Avenida (or Avinguda). The Avenida had a nice exterior, but the inside was under renovation, and the rooms were pretty sterile and institutional. The windows had to be shuttered to block out the exterior lighting, not to mention the smell of manure that seemed to pervade the small town, which consisted of just a few blocks of project-like European-style apartment buildings. I took a quick walk around town before buying some croissants and retiring to my room. The woman at reception clucked that it must be hard for me to “find anything” since not many people in town spoke English—I had opted to deal in English with her since I knew no Catalan and I sometimes wondered if my Spanish efforts tired people in the tourism trade. I had no comment for her.

March 17, Saturday:

I was up at 7 and back on the road before sunrise. It was only 10 km into Andorra; the mountain canyon started well before reaching the border. At the border crossing a customs guard rolled down his window and stretched his hand out when he saw me coming, but I just rolled past without acknowledging him. Despite the guidebook warnings, there was little traffic in the gas-station and apartment block filled valley of Andorra la Vella. I snapped one picture before getting back on the road up towards the steep and picturesque mountain passes north of town. This was ski country—I must have passed a half-dozen lifts and everywhere there were people ambling about in snowpants carrying skis. The snow was deep along the side of the road, but the sky was clear and the views were pretty—someone honked at me when I stopped for a picture on the shoulder along the nearly-deserted three-lane road.

The road down the other side into France was also pretty, and I hardly noticed the curves. Back in the valley, now in France, I finally spotted a sign for a boulangerie and bought myself some authentic French croissants and pain au chocolat—heaven at last! It was so wonderful I had to stop at a second one a few clicks down the road at the border near Puigcerda.

It was only about 11 in the morning, so I decided to brave the curvy 50 kms back to Ribes de Freser on the interminable N-152. Somehow on the way back it didn’t seem quite so tedious, maybe because there was little traffic and I could take it at my own pace. Back in Ribes I parked and searched around a while before locating the cog-wheel train station. I got a ticket and found myself seated amidst a snowpants-clad family with three cute little boys, one of whom wanted to tell me what he was seeing in Catalan the whole way. His mother kept telling him to speak Castellano (once I mentioned to her I could understand it), but the boy kept slipping into Catalan. “He mixes the languages,” she said with a roll of the eyes. About 20 minutes into the 40 minute trip the cog wheel kicked in and the train started up a steep rock-hewn slope with views into the green Swiss-like rolling mountain foothills, then into a barren rocky landscape leading up to the pass of Nuria. The main view was of the walkers on an incredible trail on the opposite side of the valley—incredible because of the work that must have gone into carving it out and building the rock walls that held it up against the high mountain gorge.

Nuria proved to be a fancy little ski resort with a big grassy area and artificial lake for ice-skating. There was little snow to be seen, though, and the parents were obviously disappointed—but the little boys were so excited just to see even a few scattered snowbanks. “E neu!” shouted the boy at his mom and me—then he corrected himself in Castellano for me: “!!!Hay nieve!!!”

I have no idea what their family did for the rest of the day. I just rode the same train back down into the valley, got in my car, and headed down the sunny road for Barcelona.

The 100 km return trip seemed to go like a breeze, and I soon found myself negotiating heavy traffic on the trip through town and to the airport. Returning the car caused a little unneeded language confusion—I didn’t make it clear enough I was returning and not renting out a new vehicle.

From there it was a tedious train-and-subway ride into central Barcelona, where I had to search out a hotel for my last two nights. The first couple two-star places were filled, but I found a reasonably decent pension, the Alba, for 65 euros per night. Again, my room was a little small and Spartan, and the sounds from the neighboring alley in what was apparently the Arab quarter were a little loud. But the young woman who checked me in was extremely friendly and complimented my Spanish several times, so maybe that made the place feel nicer than it was. I had dinner across the tourist-thronged Rambla in a little character-filled local place with cheap tapas and plentiful supplies of wine, then I turned in and worked on a little sudoku, which had become a habit.

March 18, Sunday:

I slept in the next day, then headed out to the Rambla trying to decide what to do. It was a bright sunny day, and with a few croissants there seemed little need to hurry. There was the Columbus statue and column, and a pretty sailboat marina with a new rotating bridge to watch. The sun was bright, though, so I headed in to explore the town a little before grabbing a good tapas at a busy, tourist-dominated place along the Rambla. Then I took a little siesta that afternoon. After 3 or so I decided to at least see the Sagrada Familia, the famous Gaudi work still in progress, and took the subway just as shadows were lengthening across town. There were tons of tourists out and about, and I got a funny shot of a good-looking couple riding around on a Segway taking digital photos from seemingly every angle.

That night I worked for hours at sudoku and grabbed dinner at yet a touristy tapas bar in the Royal Family Plaza before heading back to the hotel.

March 19, Monday:

By this time I was eager to return home to my own bed—especially given the complicated return itinerary. First, there was another tedious subway and train ride to the airport—the airport trains ran infrequently and slowly, plus I had to skip boarding one because it was too crowded. Next there was a long wait in line at the Air Europa check-in at El Prat. Once airborne, the flight was one of the most turbulent I’ve been on. At Barajas I had a fairly easy connection to Iberia, though I had to take a connecting bus to the international terminal and go through security again. Then, in London, it was another run though the terminal connection bus/security gauntlet as I made my way to Terminal 4 and my flight to JFK. This time I had plenty of time and there were no crowds.

Out the plate-glass windows you could see a wall of black clouds rolling in over Heathrow, and soon a thunderstorm developed. Our flight was delayed for two hours and we had to sit aboard for 45 minutes of that while de-icing. Then it was a slow roll down the taxiways and a queue at the runway before takeoff. It was a night flight with little interest, but once we were on the ground at JFK there were no hassles. After a cab ride shared with a finance guy returning from a wedding in Guatemala I found myself back in my own apartment at 2 am New York time—I’d gotten up that day at 8 am in Barcelona.

Overall it was a good, relaxing trip, and one that achieved a bunch of objectives. On the tourism front I’d seen southern Spain, an old objective, plus gotten to check off Andorra in my country list. I’d practiced a little Spanish, and had a great time renting a car and checking out the winding coast roads. Tossa de Mar and Andorra were the undoubted highlights of the trip. The low points were probably eating alone, especially in Barcelona—it was a real pity I couldn’t share that part of the trip with friends or family.