The "Monasterio del Escorial" looks more like an ancient fortress than a place where kings once lived. But apparently Phillip II was very religious so there you have it. The stone front rises up menacingly and when you walk in, the cold stone halls seem infinitely more austere and plain than the Palacio Réal with its enormous sculptures, golden curtains and velvet walls.
The tour takes you through the most important parts of the monastery which range from the architectural museum detailing the plans of the monastery to the collections of paintings (which include the painting El Greco produced to try and win over the king) to the chamber of tombs (where all the kings of Spain are buried) to the incredible library situated directly above the main entrance (symbolizing the overhwelming power of knowledge).
After leaving this magnificent hall with shelves and shelves of beautifully bound gold-leaf books, Chris and I wandered out to where the tour supposedly ended. But just as we were about to round the corner that would lead us to the exit, Chris remembered to take me to her favorite part. We retraced our steps a few paces and turned the corner only to find a thick red cord roping off the section which was normally open to the public. Looking all around us we quickly ducked under the rope and dashed up the stairs. I didn't see what was so incredible until I looked up, noticing that the entire ceiling was a beautiful fresco. Just as I was taking it in, a voice called us from the bottom of the stairs. At that moment, the guard had noticed us sneaking in and she yelled at us until we ran down the stairs and out of her sight. Well worth the scolding I must say!
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Watching
6/15:
This Ryanair thing is really getting under my skin. All I see are people suffering, frantically redistributing weight, pulling out sweaters, stuffing in souveneirs.
Something is wrong here...
This Ryanair thing is really getting under my skin. All I see are people suffering, frantically redistributing weight, pulling out sweaters, stuffing in souveneirs.
Something is wrong here...
Waiting
6/15:
Nine hour lay-over. What do you do with yourself if you're in one building for nine hours?! I've already bought myself a sandwich a the crappy candy store but being as it is Par-ee the baguette is absolutely delicious. I've also won my first ever game of solitaire on my ipod. Woohoo! And I feel like I've managed to listen to all 1300 songs I have. I've even read an entire book which is very rare for me these days when time like this is scarce. Success!
Nine hour lay-over. What do you do with yourself if you're in one building for nine hours?! I've already bought myself a sandwich a the crappy candy store but being as it is Par-ee the baguette is absolutely delicious. I've also won my first ever game of solitaire on my ipod. Woohoo! And I feel like I've managed to listen to all 1300 songs I have. I've even read an entire book which is very rare for me these days when time like this is scarce. Success!
The BFG
6/15:
3am. 3am!!!!! I creep out of my bunkbed and make it down to the reception where I pick up my pack. Enter Daniel. Hugely tall, chubby, and above all, supremely awkward. He is the essence of nerd, with philosophy papers and rubix cubes spilling out of his bag (3x3 and a 7x7!) which he has sprawled across the floor. With slightly crooked teeth but kind eyes he acts sort of like a boy trapped in a giant's body. His awkwardly large hands fumble at the zippers as he finally shuts his suitcase shut with a grunt.
Seeing that I'm travelling too, he asks where and when I'm going and we decide to go together since it is afterall the crack of dawn. He's from Spain and compliments my Spanish. We spend the next few minutes picking up our bags and trying to guess how much they weigh. (Ryanair is the epitome of strict for weight limit, 15kg check-in, 10kg for carry-on). Without much luck, we look at each other confused about what to do until our Moroccan friend from reception comes out smiling his bright smile with a scale in his hands. We thank him and then the next twenty minutes are spent laughing as the three of us strike funny poses with the luggage, trying to find the best measurement.
Daniel steps on the scale first, warning us not to look at the numbers. He gets back on this time carrying his ENORMOUS bag and nearly topples over. Mine are just on target but his is 20kilos. But just like a little boy, he is very optimistic. "It'll all be fine," he grins. We thank our friend and make our way out. When we step onto the grungy street I am so thankful to have him here with me. A big friendly giant is just what I need on these streets. For they are littered in beer and smell like piss. Every half block we find a different group of hoodlums. Some half naked people are doing cartwheels by the side of the road, others burp loudly as we walk by. Not quite as aggressive as his stature suggests, Daniel even admits he's a little intimidated.
We walk the yellow-green streets under neon lights but when we are more than a block away from the bus stop, we feel a big woosh of wind rushing by us. The great aircoach is already way ahead of us! I look at him and we make up our minds, I grip my bags harder and take off at a sprint, lugging my 15.5kg pack the whole way. Daniel lumbers along at half the speed but I reach the bus and between breaths manage to grab hold of the rail and pull myself in. The driver tries to leave but I beg for one more passenger and he waits grudgingly. On the bus I can still hear my heart drowning out all other noises.
We get to the airport much faster than we expect and step off the bus into the glow of the airport. Once inside we go upstairs to the Starbucks, the only place open besides McDonalds. Daniel orders a venti iced mocha and downs it in seconds. I can't help staring a bit so he says, "I drink a lot." I want to say "yea, I can see that" but I don't. "Yesterday I bought 1 liter of water, drank that, bought another, drank that, and had to buy another," he tells me. "America is better because they have waterfountains. Here you have to buy everything." But I'm pretty sure that's the only thing America gives for free. He buys another and we turn to find a place to sit but the place is like a graveyard. There are bodies covering every inch of the food court. Not one of them moves as we maneuver our way towards the only open table.
He tells me he's just spent one month in New York working at a hostel and at an animal shelter. His bags are so heavy because they are chock-full of books he's brought back. "This will last me maybe four months" he explains. I feel tenderness for him in this moment of fabulous nerdiness. His bag is all books and two rubix cubes, a few shirts, socks and a coat or two.
When it's time to check-in the trouble begins. His bag is over but he doesnt want to pay so I help him over to the side now that I've gotten rid of my own bag. We go through his stuff and he throws out almost everything besides the books, NOT the books, anything but the books! Toothpaste, deodorant, shampoos, soap, papers all go to the trash but his books stay safely tucked inside. Next we move onto clothes. It's painful to watch him, he explains these are pretty much his only clothes. Five or six old t-shirts, a pair of ratty sneakers, sweatpants, and 3 sweatshirts. He throws out socks but then starts piling on half of his wardrobe. Within minutes he is pouring sweat and his hand trembles slightly as he gives his brow a futile swipe. His hand glistens with sweat when he pulls away and he wipes it on his pants before moving back into line. But it's still overweight so we pull over again and he piles on more clothes. The rivers of sweat continue. Probably out of pity, they finally take the bag. But unbeknownst to them he still has two carry-ons which he's smuggled past. He peels off layers and carries his huge bundle out for a smoke, we say goodbye and I move on to catch my flight, happy to know that there are BFGs out there.
3am. 3am!!!!! I creep out of my bunkbed and make it down to the reception where I pick up my pack. Enter Daniel. Hugely tall, chubby, and above all, supremely awkward. He is the essence of nerd, with philosophy papers and rubix cubes spilling out of his bag (3x3 and a 7x7!) which he has sprawled across the floor. With slightly crooked teeth but kind eyes he acts sort of like a boy trapped in a giant's body. His awkwardly large hands fumble at the zippers as he finally shuts his suitcase shut with a grunt.
Seeing that I'm travelling too, he asks where and when I'm going and we decide to go together since it is afterall the crack of dawn. He's from Spain and compliments my Spanish. We spend the next few minutes picking up our bags and trying to guess how much they weigh. (Ryanair is the epitome of strict for weight limit, 15kg check-in, 10kg for carry-on). Without much luck, we look at each other confused about what to do until our Moroccan friend from reception comes out smiling his bright smile with a scale in his hands. We thank him and then the next twenty minutes are spent laughing as the three of us strike funny poses with the luggage, trying to find the best measurement.
Daniel steps on the scale first, warning us not to look at the numbers. He gets back on this time carrying his ENORMOUS bag and nearly topples over. Mine are just on target but his is 20kilos. But just like a little boy, he is very optimistic. "It'll all be fine," he grins. We thank our friend and make our way out. When we step onto the grungy street I am so thankful to have him here with me. A big friendly giant is just what I need on these streets. For they are littered in beer and smell like piss. Every half block we find a different group of hoodlums. Some half naked people are doing cartwheels by the side of the road, others burp loudly as we walk by. Not quite as aggressive as his stature suggests, Daniel even admits he's a little intimidated.
We walk the yellow-green streets under neon lights but when we are more than a block away from the bus stop, we feel a big woosh of wind rushing by us. The great aircoach is already way ahead of us! I look at him and we make up our minds, I grip my bags harder and take off at a sprint, lugging my 15.5kg pack the whole way. Daniel lumbers along at half the speed but I reach the bus and between breaths manage to grab hold of the rail and pull myself in. The driver tries to leave but I beg for one more passenger and he waits grudgingly. On the bus I can still hear my heart drowning out all other noises.
We get to the airport much faster than we expect and step off the bus into the glow of the airport. Once inside we go upstairs to the Starbucks, the only place open besides McDonalds. Daniel orders a venti iced mocha and downs it in seconds. I can't help staring a bit so he says, "I drink a lot." I want to say "yea, I can see that" but I don't. "Yesterday I bought 1 liter of water, drank that, bought another, drank that, and had to buy another," he tells me. "America is better because they have waterfountains. Here you have to buy everything." But I'm pretty sure that's the only thing America gives for free. He buys another and we turn to find a place to sit but the place is like a graveyard. There are bodies covering every inch of the food court. Not one of them moves as we maneuver our way towards the only open table.
He tells me he's just spent one month in New York working at a hostel and at an animal shelter. His bags are so heavy because they are chock-full of books he's brought back. "This will last me maybe four months" he explains. I feel tenderness for him in this moment of fabulous nerdiness. His bag is all books and two rubix cubes, a few shirts, socks and a coat or two.
When it's time to check-in the trouble begins. His bag is over but he doesnt want to pay so I help him over to the side now that I've gotten rid of my own bag. We go through his stuff and he throws out almost everything besides the books, NOT the books, anything but the books! Toothpaste, deodorant, shampoos, soap, papers all go to the trash but his books stay safely tucked inside. Next we move onto clothes. It's painful to watch him, he explains these are pretty much his only clothes. Five or six old t-shirts, a pair of ratty sneakers, sweatpants, and 3 sweatshirts. He throws out socks but then starts piling on half of his wardrobe. Within minutes he is pouring sweat and his hand trembles slightly as he gives his brow a futile swipe. His hand glistens with sweat when he pulls away and he wipes it on his pants before moving back into line. But it's still overweight so we pull over again and he piles on more clothes. The rivers of sweat continue. Probably out of pity, they finally take the bag. But unbeknownst to them he still has two carry-ons which he's smuggled past. He peels off layers and carries his huge bundle out for a smoke, we say goodbye and I move on to catch my flight, happy to know that there are BFGs out there.
Dublin
6/14:
So here's the thing about being on the road, you get hungry after lugging baggage around. And after seeing what felt like the entirety of the Irish countryside I was quite hungry. After dropping my stuff off at the hostel I went to go explore Dublin. But after a while sure enough my hunger came after me.
After browsing all the tourist-geared pubs, I opted for the cheaper version which was the nearest Spar. Afgter browsing I finally found some precooked rice and some decent looking curry sauce. Normally I would never stoop so low as to buy dinner from a corner store but being optimistic I thought rice with some spicy sauce couldn't be all that bad. But ohhh, how wrong I was. With the first bite inducing almost instant nausea, I still ploughed on thinking maybe that particular spoonful had had something wrong with it. I kept telling myself this until by the sixth or seventh spoonfull I was really feeling ready to hurl. Holding back my queezy stomach from doing any funny business, I promptly tossed the whole of it in the trash and set off to find some real food. I ended up sitting down happily with a pint of Guiness and a heaping plate of fish and chips. It's times like these when you're sure it's worth the extra cash.
So here's the thing about being on the road, you get hungry after lugging baggage around. And after seeing what felt like the entirety of the Irish countryside I was quite hungry. After dropping my stuff off at the hostel I went to go explore Dublin. But after a while sure enough my hunger came after me.
After browsing all the tourist-geared pubs, I opted for the cheaper version which was the nearest Spar. Afgter browsing I finally found some precooked rice and some decent looking curry sauce. Normally I would never stoop so low as to buy dinner from a corner store but being optimistic I thought rice with some spicy sauce couldn't be all that bad. But ohhh, how wrong I was. With the first bite inducing almost instant nausea, I still ploughed on thinking maybe that particular spoonful had had something wrong with it. I kept telling myself this until by the sixth or seventh spoonfull I was really feeling ready to hurl. Holding back my queezy stomach from doing any funny business, I promptly tossed the whole of it in the trash and set off to find some real food. I ended up sitting down happily with a pint of Guiness and a heaping plate of fish and chips. It's times like these when you're sure it's worth the extra cash.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
