Portugal Day 5: Why Couchsurfing is the most amazing thing in the world and you are incorrect for thinking otherwise

So I spent my last day in Portugal running up and down hills, which is essentially how I spent every other day in Portugal.  Technically it wasn't my last day, today is.  But today I went to the waterfront, sat down and found everything else I wanted to do today suddenly become a lot less interesting.  So here I am.  Writing a blog.  Because that's what first tier tourism is all about.  Doing the same thing in a different place.

I went to Sintra, which is a little city outside of Lisbon and home to one of the most elaborate, confusing castles I've ever seen.  This one, right here:

The picture doesn't do it justice, but in there are essentially three styles of castle: Arab, Medieval and Gothic-esque.  It's called the Palacio Nacional de Pena and was built to be the summer home of King Ferdinand II in 1842.  So, a kind of new castle, all things considered.  Apparently, it was home to the first indoor bathroom in Portugal.  High-tech, y'know.

I should actually say we went to Sintra, not because I feel royal today, but because I was picked up from Lisbon, driven to Sintra and guided up the hill by a Couchsurfer who turned out to be the nicest man alive.  He not only inundated me with Portuguese history, he guided me around the whole of the park around the palace, which consists of stuff like this:

And this:

So.  Valuable guide.  The whole park cost 14 euros, which made it essentially theme park price.  That's why I felt entitled to climb a few piles of rocks and whine that there was no cotton candy.

The second picture is of an old Moorish fort called, Castel Do Mouros.  It's much more my style, as the Pena Palace (Which translated to Pain Palace, ha ha ha ha ha) is a bit too modern, a bit too clean, a bit too full of tourists smelling like suntan lotion and cultural ambivalence.

Castel Do Mouros is like "No, screw you, there are stairs and they are steep and uneven and you just have to suck it up." Just like the Moors.

Back in Sintra, we had some tasty pastries.   One is called a Queijada, which is a kind of cookie filled with a cheese-related sweet mixture and the other is called a Travesseiro which, from what I can tell, is made out of crack cocaine.  It's flaky and sugary on the outside and filled with this sweet nutty goo that I wanted injected directly into my veins.

If that wasn't enough, the couchsurfer asked if I wanted to see the coast.  There's only one answer to that question and so we were off.  Within fourty minutes we arrived at the most western point in Europe.  Face with the full majesty of the Atlantic unfurled before me like a second sky I immediately put my thumbs in the air and said:

"Wassup America!"

Later, we went back to the couchsurfer's house and he cooked a really traditional Portuguese dish called Bacalhau à Brás which apparently means Bacalhau with potato chips.  Don't get me wrong, this was the most delicious substance I had ingested in all of Portugal.  But it kind of blew my mind that one gets it from adding potato chips to frozen fish.

Then I went to sleep in the amazingly comfortable bed the couchsurfer had prepared for me.  Honestly.  I'm not going to say that anyone who thinks couchsurfing is a good idea needs to get their head checked.  That's a bit too much.

I will say that they're wrong.  And I have a SD card of amazing pictures and a belly full of cod fish to back me up.

Side Note: Stories from the hostel

Let me set the scene.

There's some beers being passed around.  I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone when I guy I haven't talked to brushes by me.  But before moving past, he puts his hand on my stomach and begins to rub it.

It took me a second to realize this was really happening.  And then another second for me to remove his hand and tell him flatly, "Don't touch me, man."

He responds by looking both surprised and hurt, neither of which he had reason to be, and he begins to move on his way.  But, before moving completely out of view, he steps back and says:

"I'm not gay."

Well, what's important is that he tries.

Portugal Day 4: That's right, I forgot I'm still traveling

So I'm back in Lisbon, and let me tell you...

I forgot I was traveling.  And that traveling = stress.  Even in a spot as cool as Lisbon, if there's stress to be had, I will find it and rub it all over myself.

I got myself a fancy hostel as a reward for being so thrifty, which I guess defeats the purpose.  The hostel is posh, with scrambled egg breakfasts, a lounge with jazz playing and iPads to rent.  Yes, iPads.  No, they couldn't just let you borrow a functional and portable laptop, they need to give you Mac products.  That's the kind of posh this hostel was.  Mac product posh.

But I didn't even stay for a minute, I jetted out to see more of Lisbon.  The woman at the hostel advised that I take care as Lisbon is not just number one in hostels.  It's also number one in pick-pockets.  So, that little seed planted in my mind, I started suspecting every person that got too close.  I shoved my hands in my pockets and gripped my belongings as if these thieves had the capacity to phase through the fabric of my pants and steal.

I went to the Tower of Belem, which used to be a fort and prison and is now a bastion for ripping off tourists. Five euros to get in and wait in hallways as other tourists took pictures of each other in front of cannons.  On the way back, I ran into a random band playing in the park.  And, unlike most random concerts I run into, these guys didn't sound like they were holding instruments for looks.  Even more, they were GOOD.

Then I went to get pastries at this place that was famous enough to have an aggravating line of whiny white tourists bustling at the door.  It's called a Pastel de Belem and consists of a little custardy mess held by a flaky crust.

It is delicious.  There's not another word for it.

Next came the mistake.  Across the river from Lisbon is another city (technically, apparently it's sort of included in Lisbon, but people in Lisbon don't like to admit it).  From the waterfront of Lisbon you can see a statue that looks reasonably sized from that far away, but is actually an enormous stone Jesus with his arms outstretched as if asking why the fuck did they decide to put him in the middle of no where.

Because that's where he was.  I rode the ferry over, waited a half hour for a bus, got harassed by crazies on said bus, wait another half an hour while the bus navigated narrow streets with all the color and variety of canned meat and then finally I arrived at the top of the hill.

And the park was closed.  That's right, an enormous park with beautiful views of Lisbon is closed before sunset because fuck Portugal.

I remembered, then, that I'm traveling and as a result, periodically I have to hate my life.  The bus driver laughed at me (good-naturedly) and I contented myself to take pictures from behind the gate and kick the door.

I spent the night in Barrio Alto and continued to be impressed by how cool it is.  Looking back over this entry all that happened was I saw some sights, listened to great music and ate pastry.  Which doesn't, I guess, give me any reason to be stressed.  Sometimes I forget that I'm on vacation.

Portugal Day 2 and 3: Now with Pictures!

I missed some blog entries due to surplus of coolness. Lisbon turned out get gradually more awesome the more time I spent there. My first night I went out to Barrio Alto, which means High Neighborhood which is not just a name. The neighborhood is, in fact, elevated. To get there you either take a graffiti-ed trolley or you walk up a monstrously long, monstrously steep hill.

Then you get this: 

So people climb.  Every night. Because Barrio Alto is amazing. The same twisty windy streets and architecture which just oozes history, but dotted with a bunch of bars selling cheap cocktails which people tend to take with them to the many scene overlooks that dot the neighborhood.

It's sickening how neat the area is. Like, actually makes me nauseous. And no, that's not just the cocktails, though they are delicious.

The past two days I spent in Lagos which is, in every sense of the word, a beach town. What locals there are, having no real place to go for vacation, are high-strung and kind of rude. All of the bars/restaurants have English menus with London prices. It still manages to have the cool streets and buildings, but underneath it's the same as any Jersey shore neighborhood. A land where time stand still during the winter and allows everyone to develop a keen sense of haughtiness that fizzes on through the summer.

Doesn't stop Lagos from being beautiful. 

There's not just beaches, but these enormous cliffs casting themselves in various dramatic formations out over the water. There are beaches to be sure, beautiful white-sand beaches with clear blue water. A number of the beaches can only be reached by boat and are therefore very secluded and therefore filled with naked people. I always am struck with wonder at how a woman with their boobs hanging out can just walk around like it ain't no thang. And how the husbands resist the urge to form a full body shield around their wife.

The hostel was filled with characters. And by characters, I mean 20-year-olds. I've finally hit the age where people stop saying “Oh, I thought you were older” and instead just nod and smile encouragingly as if I had just told them a story of how I conquered heroin addiction. Aw, you're so brave to be 26 and in a hostel.

I hung out with people until I remembered why I like to travel alone, and then I did. Not that I didn't have fun with them, though. Together we discovered why Port wine is so popular and later discovered why the streets are empty during most mornings. It was a beautiful thing.

But I'm ready to be back in Lisbon. I got a taste and I'm hungry for more.

Portugal Day 1: Lisbon and the Concussive Kisses

Sitting in a hostel eating fresh cherries and watching flies drift lazily about feels like vacation.

I arrived in Lisbon full of confidence.  I had found my way through Madrid, a city so twisty-turny it seems actively engaged in getting you lost.  I had traversed Marrakech, which is specifically designed to get you lost in the souks until you spend all your money.  How hard could Lisbon, the capitol of a country a third of the size of the others, be?

The answer is fuck Europe.  For some reason Europeans have decided they're too good for street signs.  All that carrying on an telling people where they're going, nooooo, that's too easy.  Too...American.

So after not sleeping for a night, I bumbled into a city that would make a mapmaker commit suicide, if he could ever find a cliff to throw himself off of.  The sidewalks are painfully narrow, the cars are blindingly fast and the streets are made out of what looks like bathroom tile.  It's slippery enough without rain, I have no idea  what people do when it rains.  Maybe they just all live downhill.  The rain's like some kind of new public transit system.

But once I showered and made myself a real person again, I started to really get into the city.  What Spain does with mountains, it does with giant plazas.  Lisbon is, I'm going to venture a guess, 50% plazas.  I ran into at least ten of them, all with enormous columns with Greco-Roman statues doing dramatic things.  One of them, which I now can't find the name of, is a guy uppercutting two horses.

I kid you not, it's the most badass statue ever.  There's two angry horses on either side of him flanked by two giant vipers.  The name was the spiirt of Portugal or something.  Apparently Portugal is hardcore.

This fact is borne out by the Archaeological Museum.  It's situated on a cliff (like everything in Lisbon) and fills the ruined shell of an awesome gothic cathedral.  The exhibits contain random bits of ruins as well as mummies and arrowheads.  I don't know why, there's not really any narrative to it, but it's awesome.  It's like an action movie museum.  You don't need to understand to go "oooo" and "ahhhh".

But anyway, the title of this post pertains to something I've noticed about both Spain and Portugal.  Spanish and Portuguese couples kiss VERY loudly.  I was sitting on a subway and I see this couple getting all close and I'm like isn't that cute.  And then their lips touched.

At first I wondered if it was terrorists, if they had set some kind of public display of affection bomb, a PDAWMD if you will, set to go off when the two lips met.  The sound was something like two wet microphones being slapped against each other, it was deafening.

 I've never been so nauseated and turned on at the same time.

Then I thought, think of the weapons potential here! Rather than drop bombs on other countries, all you have to do is line up a few amorous couples in front of the enemy.  The sound will be enough to end any struggle.

This realization has made me somewhat frightened by the double-kiss.  Now I know within Spainish and Portuguese lips hide explosive potential.  Kissing that close to my ear could deafen me instantly.  Who knows if they need a matching pair as a catalyst?

Oh yes, be afraid ladies and gentlemen.  Hispanic lips carry a terrible secret.  And who knows.

You might be next.

Special Edition: Sleeping at Airports or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and HATE EVERYONE.

You know, the mind is an amazing thing.

It has the capacity to come up with creative new kinds of charity, ways to convert one's one satisfaction into worldwide happiness.

It also has the capacity to turn even the most innocent, doe-eyed, kind-faced wizened old woman into Satan's best friend.

Given the right situation, everyone's an asshole.  Lying in a desperate fetal position on a cold marble floor while an announcer drones on in two languages about the importance of keeping an eye on your baggage...it's the perfect asshole storm.

It really wasn't that bad, in the end.  I mean, the sleeping part didn't really happen, but I did, you know, survive.  It was actually funny to walk past all the bodies strewn all around.  People tried everything, sleeping on their luggage, spooning their luggage, using their luggage to wall off their sleep space.  There was one group that found a standing circle of luggage wheelie carrier things and had formed a kind of group cuddle puddle.  I wondered, for a second, if I could join.  Whether an airport at 3am knocked down some fundamental social boundary.

It doesn't.  The woman at the cafe said I couldn't sleep in the chairs.  Presumably because I was taking up space from their VAST clientele.

Yes.  She was doing her job and she's an asshole for it.  You see what I mean?

Madrid Dia last: Touring the suburbs.

Stop being pretty, Spain.

It's annoying.  Like, every goddamn town and park is so scenic, up on hilltops looking over sprawling vistas, it's really just disgusting.  You try too hard, Spain.  Get over your beautiful self.

I got a bad case of the lazy today and instead of going to Roman aqueducts and castles and stuff, I went to the suburbs.  Madrid has a very interesting system for getting people in and out of the suburbs.  It's like the subway, except, you know, not sub.  It's a system of 8 or so trains that come regularly and are a bit more outfitted for long-distance travel than the subway.  It seems to work pretty well.

EXCEPT.

Whatever European design genius decided to make it so all the seats face each other.  Like there are four seats and two by two they face one another so you are forced into this awkward staring contest with the random shmuck across from you.  If that's bad enough, the seats are close enough that your knees are almost touching.  And I couldn't think of the translation for "Get your fat knees off me".

But the ride was short and I arrived in what looked like the most boring, dirty suburb ever.  A few blocks cured that, of course, and I ran into a bunch of medieval-type architecture and winding streets.  You know, like ya do in Spain.  I walked for a while, eating my bread and chorizo out of a plastic bag (I'm starting to enjoy it).  I eventually got to a park with, you guessed it, beautiful mountain vistas.

Like, stop it.  Enough with the gorgeous, sprawling mountains, Spain.

Madrid Dia whothehellknows: Too much Jesus

Today I came up with the question: How much Jesus is too much Jesus?

And I also answered it.  I have had so much Jesus today I'm suffering from an upset stomach.  And my palms and ankles kind of hurt.

It occurred to me that there are a buttload of pictures of Jesus dying.  Like, the guy seems to have done nothing of consequence in his life except come to the brutal end of it.  He's constantly on crosses, being taken down from crosses, coming back and looking somewhat confused.

Furthermore, he almost always looks shocked.  Shocked that the Romans are beating on him, shocked that he's getting crucified.  But if he's the son of God, shouldn't he have seen that shit coming? And if I were him, I'd be pissed.  I'd come back not with staffs and poetry but machine guns and machetes.  Your Saviour's back, and he's here to clean house.

Anyway, the reason I haven't updated is because fuckalll happened Saturday and Sunday.  I'm in Toledo now, which is a little town on a hilltop that should appear next to the dictionary definition of "quaint".  It's got these twisting medieval streets and this high Gothic architecture and everything costs so much money.  Really, it's 7 euros to get into the center cathedral and I'll be damned if I'm gonna spend my food budget for the week on some hoighty-toighty God shack.

But it's a very pretty city.  Honestly, just walking around getting lost and elbowing tourists makes the trip worth it.  There's gorgeous vistas in every directions, archways and plazas and it's all so nice I didn't even feel guilty eating my ham sandwich out of a plastic bag while the stench of two-day-old clothes repelled clean-shaven tourists.

Ah, travel.

Morocco Day Five: "Snail soup"

Last post was a long one.

So this will be short.

I just ate snail soup.  It's not what it sounds like.  That is, if what it sounds like is that they took snails out of their shell and mixed them with veggies and other stuff to make an interesting treat.

No.

There are snails.  In their shells.  Boiled in what looks like mud.

I ate it because I hate myself.  And snails.

Morocco Day Three and Four: "Been through the Desert, but the camel had a name"

So I smell like sand and camel shit.  It's truly second tier tourism.

Here's how I see it.

First tier tourism: Major cities and vacation resorts.  All the modern comforts, no street without a conveniently placed McDonalds or Starbucks.  There are signs, people tend to speak your language or have the capacity/motive to communicate with you, not so much traveling as it is spending lots of money to sleep somewhere else.

Second tier tourism: Out-of-the-way places and cities that, for one reason or another, are unattractive.  These reasons may include hot temperatures, pushy salespeople and a general feeling of desperation.  In these places, expect to have to wash your clothes by hand, trust that the chef is not taking a shit in your burger and communicate in a series of angry gestures to a half-asleep tourist police that you're lost and it's hot and you're tired.

This is traveling in the sense that you are seeing something different, which happens to be wholly uncomfortable and will make for great stories later when you're in a bar trying to impress someone who can't believe you're 26 and not successful or married.

Third tier tourism: Cities that people go to exclusively to drink penny beers and have sex with penny prostitutes.  You're lucky if you get a bucket of water to wash yourself with and even then that bucket of water is probably filled with Malaria.  You eat well, because you are a fat American tourist and can basically have people cook their pets for you if the price is right.

This desert trip was second-tier and edging on third-tier tourism.  I hop on a bus half-expecting to be surrounded by families and children and hating my life for two days.  Instead it's all young attractive women and everything's okay.  We get on the road and realize our bus driver only speaks French.  Okay, no problem, they wouldn't be this disorganized, there's probably a guide meeting us on the road.

No.  There isn't.

Cue a series of confusing stops where we vaguely understand (through the help of one girl's high school French) what we're supposed to do.  At each of these stops, there appears to be the same souvenir salespeople.  Like, the exact same.  They're even on the fucking mountaintops.  I've come to the conclusion that they grow out of the ground and bloom like flowers in the presence of tourists.

We arrive, finally, in the "desert" And by desert, I mean rocky wasteland dotted with bits of brush and powerlines.  Yes, I shit you now, our desert expedition took place in view of a highway.  And streetlights.  It existed in the limbo of second and third tier tourism, where hot showers were possible, but they were simply being denied to us.

The camel ride was not only not intolerable, it was a lot of fun.  Helped somewhat by the camel's faces themselves.  They manage to look both slightly bemused and completely idiotic.  Which is still one-up on how we all looked on top of them.  There was another group with three Mexican girls who looked like they were on the verge of being thrown off an animal moving a whole 2 miles per hour.

And me?

I had my hands so tight on the saddle that I think I fused my skin to it.

We got to the camp where we would be sleeping and were entertained by the "Berberes".  Now, I'm sure these guys authentically have been raised as Berberes, but the fact that they knew American TV shows and that a couple of them were wearing Guess jeans makes me doubt the authenticity of the whole thing.  The experience took on a feeling of them capering around for our entertainment, "Oh look at our ridiculous hats and how we play drums that look oddly similar even though we insist that they weren't made in a factory down the road."

The experience took a sharp turn towards what the fuck when the Berberes coaxed the women in the group away to play the drums in private while leaving the men alone by the fire.  It got even stranger when I decided to follow the women.  The berberes employed every trick they could to get me to go back to the fire "Oh, I need help with something by the fire, let's go!"

Now, men being sneaky about women is no big deal.  But these were men who were entirely in control of my chances of getting home alive.

So, yes, a little uncomfortable.

I did get home alive, in fact, in case you were wondering.  All in all, even though the trip seemed as though it had been organized according to the philosophy "Now that you've paid me, go to hell" the fact that the places we went were so beautiful overshadowed all poor planning.  So it was a great trip, I'd just advise they replace the Berberes with hot showers.

Morocco Day Two: "Welcome to Morocco!"

This hotel keeps being awesome.  My room is a beautiful little alcove with a window over the street and a huge double bed.  The hotel has a terrace that looks over the big square in the center of the city.  The guys who run it keep getting nicer.  One of them took me into the souks today and ran me around to the best shops in town, the ones down little streets where tourists fear to tread.

Like I'm so intrepid, I realized how walking around with someone to his family friend's store makes me essentially obligated to buy one thing or another.

And that brings me to "Welcome to Morocco".  It is, without a doubt, the phrase I have heard the most in my time here.  It's a close second to "Hello" or "Bonjour" or "Salaam".  It seems like whoever first translated this phrase meant it to replace "I have no idea what you're talking about" and "Fuck you".

I argued for twenty minutes with a guy over a price and finally got a somewhat reasonable price.  He gives me my change and says "Welcome to Morocco".  Which I think translates to "I just ripped you off, stupid tourist."

I got annoyed with a guy who wouldn't let go of my hand even though I didn't want a tour of the street I was walking down and he lets go and says "Welcome to Morocco".  Translation: "Suck it up"

I was trying desperately to explain that I wanted help buying a hat so I don't burn my face off in the desert and the guy at the hotel throws up his hands and says "Welcome to Morocco".  Translation: "I don't speak English."

So.

Desert tomorrow.  Involves a 1.5 hour camel ride.  When I have children, they're going to walk with a limp because of this.

Morroco Day One: Learning to say "No" in three languages

Wow.

Okay, so it might be I'm not cut out for long trips.  This might be because of any of the following reasons:
A) I end up living like a poor person (Example: Eating a cheese sandwich in front of the grocery because it costs money to sit down)
B) I don't sleep.  (Example: Twelve people in a room.  Odds are, at least one of them snores.  Loudly.)
C) I don't have a nail clipper one day.  Or shampoo another day.  Or a toothbrush another day.  Right now I don't understand why I'm being asked for money, beggars should be handing me dirhams.

Marrakech is incredible and so so different.  From anywhere I've visited I mean.  The people act differently, the back-and-forth of selling/buying rolls differently, the air smells differently (mostly donkey shit).  It's really exhausting just to keep my eyes open for all of it.

Also, Moroccans seem to live life on the edge.  That is, the edge of being run over by a moped.  There's all these motorcycles and things careening down the street.  And when I say street, I don't mean demarcated lanes for traffic in and out along with crosswalks and sidewalks.  No, by street I mean strip of dirt.  This ranges from the size of everyone passing comfortable to so narrow that a donkey and a moped are likely to cause pileup.

I think all the stress of travel has hit me because I'm exhausted and would like nothing more than a bed at home with a bottle of iced tea clearly marked with a price.  It didn't help I spent an hour or so today either convincing people I wanted to buy their shit or I didn't want to buy their shit.  Some people get pushy.  Like, aggressive pushy.  One guy actually put a fabric over my face and was surprised and upset when I was surprised and upset.

But this hotel has really been a saving grace.  It's 8 bucks a night and I have my own bed overlooking the street from a few stories up.  In other words, I can flop around, sleep and eat and nothing will bother me.  It helps that the guys that run it are super nice.  Within minutes of checking in they told me to come with them to the construction site of their new hotel and eat tagine.  The tagine, by the way, was incredible, zucchini, tomato and chicken.  After a week of eating ham and bread, this was manna.

So my plan is to spend a day here and then go on an overpriced trip to the desert.  We'll see.  Anyway, more to come, I'm sure, unless I get run over by a moped or garrotted by an angry scarf salesman (That's for you, mom).

Dia Cinco: Spanish Customs

There are three, all of which are completely new to me and have never been mentioned to me outside of the country. They strike me as slightly important, as they involve the way everyone greets everyone else, the way everyone eats and the way everyone talks. These, typically, are important parts of staying any length of time in a country. That is, unless your stay involves talking to no one, eating nothing and staying completely silent.

Anyway.

First. Greeting people. I've been calling it “los dos”. It's where whenever I am introduced to a girl, instead of shaking hands like normal people, I am to press my lips to a complete stranger's face not once, but twice, one on each cheek.

Having only recently gotten used to the one kiss, this is a bit nerve-wracking for me. This is because of the danger zone.

As you can see, a normal one-kiss greeting involves dodging the danger zone only once. “Los dos” on the other hand, involves dodging it once and then having to come in for another pass. The zone is dangerous because if you for any reason mess up your lip trajectory, you are now making out with a stranger. This is especially bad if you are in front of their significant other. This is even worse if you are in a country whose language you don't speak and that boyfriend is Spanish.

Not that it's happened. But I can't help but brace myself for impact every time I meet someone.

Second. Ham.

So. Much. Fucking. Ham. There are ham stores. Stores that sell exclusively ham and ham related products. Every convenience store has some variety of ham. Ham comes on bread. On salad. With eggs. And sometimes it just hangs out on a plate on its own. That's right, you go to a bar, order a nice beer and get a side of HAM.

There's a restaurant called “El Museo del Jamon”. The museum of ham. This is a real thing. It's also a real thing that has branches ALL over the city.

Third. “Vale”.

Every other word out of a Spanish person's mouth is “vale”. It means “okay”, essentially, and from what I can gather, it's the only way Spanish people can exhale. Inhale, silence, exhale: “Vale”.

I kind of love it.

Dia Quatro: Overheard in Madrid

Said angrily: "Siempre estas allegre!"
"You are always happy!"

This was said by a hipster boy (Yes, hipsterism is an international disease.  They are called "modernos" here.) to a hipster girl.  Which strikes me as weird.  Because hipster people aren't supposed to EVER be happy.

It's also a strange thing to say angrily.  "You're so happy, I can't stand it anymore!" I fantasized that the guy was breaking up with the girl, saying he just can't be with a girl that's going to ruin his carefully manicured sense of self-loathing with her "happiness" and "general good will towards things".

No, the world is awful and you're awful for being happy in it.

I went to the Museo Nacional de Anthropologia today.  It cost three euros and consisted of three small exhibits of the drums of various indigenous cultures.

Try as I might, I couldn't think of the polite way to say "I want my fucking money back."

Dia Dos y Tres: Realizations.

Couple new things struck me in the last two days:

Madrid is not a place to spend more than a week in.  Apparently this is well known to everyone except the people I spoke to about my trip.

Madrid is expensive.  Like four dollar cup of coffee expensive.

People do not speak English in Madrid.  This, again, another fact known to everyone except the people I spoke to about my trip.

Pork can be really expensive.  On the other hand, pork in Madrid is delicious.  Eggs are cheap.  Pork and eggs are delicious and cheap.  I haven't had vegetables in three days.

So everything is going really well, I've seen quite a bit of the city.  I'm realizing I've seen almost everything, save for the Prado museum and the casa de campo park.  I'm faced with the fact that coming back to Madrid will involve me running around the sites I've already seen.  So, now I get to rearrange a trip I'm in the middle of.  This sounds bad/irritating/confusing, but actually, it's kind of fun.

I travel the way I live.  By the skin of my teeth.