40th birthday + Liz + Montreal = Hip Hop Hooray!!!!

Well, I would like to be able to say that turning 40 has been a time of reflection, growth, gratitude, and understanding of how I want the remainder of my life to unfold. But I cannot. It was none of those things. It was better! Liz and I both turned the big 4 0 this year and decided to take a trip to celebrate, in addition to her killer boat party and my booze soaked dinner party. We would have liked to have taken the show back to Europe, but doing that over a long weekend was just not feasible. So we decided to terrorize Montreal, Canada. Neither of us had ever been to visit our neighbors to the north; they may be wishing we still hadn’t.

We discussed how we would like to see our 4 days unfold. Websites were visited, “best of” books bought, cuisine investigated, and decisions made. Pretty much, we both decided the goal of this trip was to shop, drink, eat, people watch, walk around, drink, eat, drink, and drink. Lofty goals for such sophisticated women as ourselves, but we figured we could sacrifice museums and cultural centers this one time. We also looked into trapeze school, but in the end hangovers made that decision for us.

While we may have missed out on the cultural gems of Montreal, we did maximize our time and explored a vast array of liquid offerings as well as some kick ass food. By 10am on the morning of our arrival we were on a 2 mile trek for what are billed as some of the best bagels in Montreal. Not sure which way to turn on the street, we asked a girl walking towards us for directions. Well, well, well, didn’t that turn into a fabulous decision. Instead of just telling us where to go, she said “come, we will go together.” Um, ok. Turns out this girl is a serious career woman. Follow if you can: she is a trained professional dancer, a nightclub promoter, a clerk at a Zen tea shop, a tour/travel operator, a graphic designer, and a thoracic surgeon. Ok, I made that last part up, but you get the point. We learned every damn detail of this chick’s life in the block she walked with us; plus we got invited to the opening of one of Montreal’s newest most hip Restobars. And I became friends with her on Facebook. What a shitshow. Needless to say, Liz and I did not bring our finest slutwear and we weren’t sure if we would have to make out with her to gain access to the party, so we passed on attending. Sweet start to the trip!!!!!

the invite to the club opening. Enuff said.

We decided to take it easy on Thursday night, as getting up at 3:30am for our flight was exhausting. Please do not judge us for our choice, we more than made up for our easy Thursday night the following two. In spades. We had dinner at great place called Bieres et Compagnie a block or so away from our hotel. They have an enormous menu of microbrews and this is where we found the oh so delicious St. Ambroise Pale Ale brewed right in Montreal. Mmmm . . . good beer!!! The other outstanding feature of this restaurant and Montreal in general, is their love of the frites. Their French fries are not just a side dish, they are THE dish. And they have, wait for it . . . a MAYONNAISE MENU to accompany the fries. As a diehard fan of mayonnaise products, I thought Liz was going to shed tears over the choices.

Bagel shop worth the 2 mile trek!

giant ass hunk of dough the bagels are cut from

menu of mayonnaise!!

So after laying down a base of about 800 pounds of French fries, we headed to a great little bar right beside our hotel called L’Barouf. It was low key, full of tables of people having microbrews and chatting, served our new love St. Ambroise, and had a really fun bartender, shame we never learned his name. Somehow we started talking about the iTunes playlist for the bar. It was all low key, jazzy, bluesy type music. I decided he needed to kick it up a notch with some O.P.P as performed by Naughty by Nature. He actually had it in his library, but couldn’t program it into the playlist. Blood oaths were made to play it the next time we came in, which was hilarious considering playing that kind of music would be as appropriate as Frank Sinatra doing a Tupac cover. With that kind of commitment on the table, you know we were coming back. Yet, I digress. As Liz and I sat there swimming in beer and laughing, we made a new friend. In all honesty, I should say Liz made a new friend because she had the misfortune of sitting behind him. To this day, I still cannot remember his name; I know it had about 17 letters, started with a B, and was Moroccan. I simple chose to go with B Diddy. This guy was a certified nutjob who was insulted by just about everything we said (funny how that happens) but wouldn’t go away. He also had a serious drinking problem. And that’s saying a lot coming from us! And he stunk . . .bonus! To his credit, he did want us to enjoy ourselves while were in his adopted home town. The recommendations we gleaned from him were to go to some nail salon that served drinks and may or may not give happy endings and then to the strip club around the corner. ALLLL RIIIIIGHT! When we left L’Barouf, we did so Mission Impossible style, for fear of him following us and killing us in the middle of the side walk. Loved that guy!

Nothing says crazy like this guy!

L'Barouf with great bartender and B Diddy.

Friday was raining and cold, but we were not to be discouraged. We took off for the Latin Quarter and Old Montreal. The Latin Quarter is as expected, full of bars, restaurants, cafes, funky stores, a High Times, and a sex shop. Classy! Old Montreal was amazing. While the rain kind of sucked, we decided that the gray day added to the old world feel of that part of the city. It was full of cool little shops, ridiculously good looking restaurants, boutiques, art stores, etc. One of the several memorable quotes of the trip came as we walked into Old Montreal. There were two men dressed in beautiful suits, taking things from the trunk of a black BMW. The really really good looking one of the two looked at his friend and said in all seriousness, “I’ve never smoked pot in my life, and I’m kind of embarrassed about that.” The timing was perfect. Liz and I were right beside them on the sidewalk as he said this. She and I looked at each other, back at them, and then fell apart laughing.

We actually held off on beginning our drinking until noon and we visited the cathedral. See, the whole trip wasn’t spent face down in a glass of booze, ok most, but not all. After the cathedral, all bets were off. As we walked home we stopped at a bistro in the Latin Quarter where I discovered another tasty Canadian beer, Sleeman’s Silver Creek. Yum! We also witnessed the craziest OCD bartender known to humanity. She cleaned that place so well I would have sipped my beer off the counter. Everything was squared off, ordered, and sparkling. Even her lemons and oranges were perfectly arranged in their containers. Because we are essentially assholes, we put all of the coasters on the bar in off center positions. We didn’t want her to get bored later in her shift. Once we got back into our neighborhood of Mont Royal, we popped into a very cool café for more beverages. Stop judging, it had been at least 10 blocks since our last refreshment. Café Cherrier is a classic Montreal style café. It was very cool and served a rather gross apple pie. We mostly just laughed at it and stuck our fingers in it. You know where that discussion went . . . the movie “American Pie.” Fill in the rest for yourself, if you dare. Fortunately for us, Montreal also embraces gourmet chocolates in addition to beer and frites. It would have just been rude if we didn’t pop into Studio 88 for some tasty chocolate treats on our way back to the hotel. Shitgodamn, was that good chocolate. And in the spirit of drinking our way through the city, we indulged in “shooters”, cups of chocolate filled with Absolute Citron. BRING IT!!!!

funky bars/restaurants in Latin Quarter

Rue Saint-Paul Est in Old Montreal

Notre-Dame-de Bon-Secour Chapel

inside the chapel

beautiful lights inside chapel

cool restaurant in Old Montreal

Old Montreal

The Cathedral

main alter of the cathedral

Saint's head carved in the end of a pew in the Cathedral

notice the squared off citrus in the background. Crazy!

Cafe Cherrier

Not so delicious apple pie.

yummy yummy chocolate.

Because the writing was on the wall, we had to stop at a wine shop for a bottle to see us through the clothes change for our night out. Yup, if we stopped at that point, the day would have been over. It was so far from that!!!!! So one bottle of wine down, we headed to the Downtown area on Crescent Street for a good old fashioned boozefest. Liz heard about a nice little bar called the London Pub that became our first and last stops of the night. The place was tiny and the bartender was friendly and generous. Um, a little too generous, I might add. He learned it was our first time in Montreal and gave us a proper welcome with some maple syrupy shot thing. Very hospitable of him. Then he heard us mention something about a birthday and believed we needed another shot for that occasion. We then asked him what we got if we told him we were pregnant. Seriously, what is wrong with us! So after too many shots chased by beers we headed off to another recommended place. I no longer remember its name and barely remember being there at all. It was a huge cheesy clubby kind of place that merits a mention because of the delicious sandwich we had there. This sandwich will be important later. Remember it, because I really didn’t. From the bar whose name I cannot remember, we headed to Thursdays. As Liz put it when we walked in “It’s like Union Street, only bigger.” And so it was. Somehow someway we had four Canadian men, who were in town from somewhere (you can see I really cared about their details), join us. They decided we needed to go downstairs to the dancing part of the establishment. Down the stairs we go, check our coats (because in Montreal this is some randomass mandatory rule in some bars), and let our freakflags fly with the rest of the cheeseballs in the place. This part of the night becomes a bit hazy for me, but I do clearly and distinctly remember the dance floor. It, wait for it, . . . . revolves. OH HELL YEAH. The thing spins in a circle. I held our drinks while Liz boogied down; each time she passed me I handed her a glass for a sip. It was like handing water to runners in the New York Marathon. I’ve never loved such a cheesy venue so much in all my life. It screamed 2 dollar hooker with big hair and shiny shirts. LOVED IT!!!! After what seemed like 36 years of beer consumption and nonsense we made the excellent decision that we should cap off the night back at London Pub. It is at this point that I must point out that while we turned 40 and should know better, we just cannot find the discipline to walk away. When I arrived at the bar, there was yet another shot from Nick, the generous bartender, waiting for me. And did I turn it down, oh no, that would just make me a rude American. And, while I may be a lot of things, rude I am not. Sweet mother of god!

Finally, and I really don’t even know how it happened, we got into a cab back to the hotel. Our driver either didn’t speak English or decided we were not worth speaking it to. He was nice enough, though. Until Liz flipped a shit because she didn’t recognize the road we were on. Really? How is that possible? We have never been in the city, all of our blood has been replaced by booze, and we don’t recognize where we are. Go figure. The poor guy finally pulls over, takes Liz’s map from her, and starts trying to explain where we are going in French. I, mainly due to high levels of liquid confidence, decide I can have this conversation in French. Sadly, I use a mix of Italian, French, and Drunk to conduct the dialogue. No clue what we finally decided, but we made it back to our hotel. And then passed it. And then Liz told him to keep going. And then she told him to let us out. 8 blocks past the hotel. Huh. Ok, let’s get our walk on. And walk we did. Then it happened. I snap back into consciousness in a pizza place, with slices in our hands. Then. . . .fade back to hazy.

The next morning was epic. After getting our croissants from outside our door, we both break out our cameras for a recap. Sometimes the recap is better than the actual night, especially when you look at pictures and say “Who the fuck is that?” “What the hell am I doing and where the hell am I?” As we are discussing our bad decisions, I make a point of saying that NOT eating all night was our undoing, as one should always lay down a base. That’s when Liz says “yeah, laying down the foundation after you’ve already put the roof on is not the best way to go.” Huh? What foundation? She would be referring to the delicious sandwich we had at the bar whose name I cannot remember. Wait, what? What sandwich? Oh holy shit, I absolutely forgot about that sandwich. This never happens. I am the keeper of the memories and now I had forgotten about a piece of the evening. Damn that Nick and his graciousness! And someone in our group may or may not have woken up with pizza still in their mouth. Aaaaaahaaaaahaaaaaaa!!!!!

Welcome to Canada! Happy Birthday! Really Nick? Really?

Who the hell are all of you? Oh, Canadians!

I so sleepy.

some things have no explanation.

no words . . .

Hey look up; the ceiling is all mirrors. Let's take a picture.

Me: Is your name Pepe Le Pew? I know we are not actually in France, but you stink!!!

Mais si/oui! Nous andiamo alla Via/Rue St. Denis. Grazie/Merci. Shit!!!!

Saturday we walked around the Plateau neighborhood and down Mont Royal Street. It was funky little area with lots of people out on the street. We got to see the best named Basset Hound in the world get all badass on some fluffy white dog passing by, to which her owner said, “Jesus Lola!” Great name for a Bassett. The highlight of that day was discovering the best little piece of heaven to put in one’s mouth, at G Point. Drum roll please . . . the French Macaron. Sweet baby Jesus were these things perfection. People lined up out the door of this little bakery to fork over $1.50 a piece for these silver dollar sized cookies. And I was right there with them. They also served a bowl of hot chocolate that was like an opiate. I have never in my life been defeated by chocolate until that day. Liz is pretty sure she developed PTSD from her experience with the chocolatiness of that bowl. These little “wads of heaven” (name pending copyright by Liz) were so magical that we made the cab driver stop off on our way to the airport on Sunday. And, we have begun work on making our own through secret Macaron labs. We will be ready for retail by early 2010.

By about mid-afternoon, we have sufficiently rebounded from our huge Friday to start the nonsense all over again. We found this great little bar on the second floor of a restaurant with an outdoor balcony that was just about perfect for people watching. Several beers later we were ready for dinner and then a quick change of clothes and out for the night. Because we had set a precedent the night before, we headed to wine shop for a bottle to see us through the wardrobe change. Upon arrival at the shop we were greeted with a sight I’ve never quite seen. There was a line to get IN THE LIQUOR STORE. What the hell!!!

"Wads of Heaven"

The bowl of hot chocolate that defeated me. Who knew it was possible!

Awesome afternoon of people watching on Rue St. Denis

Before we really got on with our night, we had to make a pit stop back at L’Barouf. Someone had promised to shake things up with a little Naughty By Nature; no way was letting him off the hook on that one. As soon as we walked in, the bartender knew what we were there for and was ready to make good on his promise. Sadly, when he was looking for O.P.P to add to his night’s playlist, he discovered he didn’t have that one. But he did have another Naughty By Nature song, “Hip Hop Hooray.” It ain’t O.P.P., but it’s a good second. When the first beat blasted out of those speakers I was all arms in the air and white girl rappin!!
“I live and die for Hip HopThis is Hip Hop for todayI give props to Hip Hop so Hip Hop hooray...Ho...Hey...Ho”

Ok, so were in the cab headed back down to Crescent Street making all kinds of agreements about what we will and won’t do. I mean, seriously, we have to check out of the hotel at noon, entertain ourselves until about 5pm, and then head to the airport for our flight home. That kind of day leaves no room for ridiculous hangovers. I somehow survived the flight home to Rome from Dubrovnik the previous summer in Croatia; I don’t think luck will be that kind to me and allow for a second showing. So, the deal is no shots (ok maybe 1, but only 1) and we are going home at 1am. And we meant it. Until we landed back at the London Pub and met Chris Miller. A friend of Nick the bartender. And the wheels came off. This guy was one of the funniest people I have ever met and will drink until he literally falls down. He began his conversation with us by telling the story about how he shit himself while trying to open a checking account at the bank. I mean really? If that’s the introduction can you imagine how it ended? There was so much ridiculous conversation and tear soaked laughter that I had pains in my side. Sadly, we broke all of our promises but ended up with a new Facebook friend. Well worth it!

Remember, we agreed, just this one.

Oh really, Nick? You want to give us a shot? That's shocking.

We never knew why or how . . . but this is how he introduced himself to us. WTF!!!!

Chris Miller and Nick the Bartender

And so another international trip comes to a close. There were no police involved in this one, but that was only because we had just the right combination of American and Canadian money to pay the exact cab fare to the airport. That ride was a nail bitter. We both left that country with not a penny on us. The lovely bartender at the airport refrigerated our Macarons for us while we shoveled drinks in until the last minute of that trip. All in all, it was fabulous. And, as Naughty By Nature would say, “Hip Hop Hooray . . . ho . . . hey . . . ho . . . Smooth it out now!”

and this is what you get when you sit at a cafe drinking and people watching before you head to the airport. HILARIOUS!!

Modeling firetruck underwear at the airport bar. Nonsense to the bitter end.

Home Again

I'm back in VA, where everyone but me seems to think I belong. Actually, it's nice to sleep in my own bed and be in a place where I can understand what's going on if I choose to. I'm also incredibly grateful that I, and my luggage, made it when and where we were supposed to. The return travel, 18 hours worth, was definitely the longest route I 've ever taken from Europe: Sevilla to Barcelona; Barcelona to Paris; Paris to Dulles. For a girl terrified of flying, that was a lot of take offs and landings. Also probably the reason I drank a significant amount of gratis Champagne from Air France. Or I just love booze. Either way.

So, Liz picked me up at the airport, as has become our tradition; and, after about 2 hours of trying to clear customs and immigration, we hit the road for trouble. Being the most excellent friend she is, Liz had bottles of Vinho Verde and some snacks on hand to ease the pain of being home. We dropped my stuff at my house, cleaned up (meaning I brushed my hair and put on some makeup . . . no sense in scaring the villagers immediately upon my return), and headed to O'Connells. And, the rest is pretty predictable. I made bad choices by drinking Irish Car Bombs and Magners Cider on minimal food and no sleep for over 24 hours. But it was fun as hell and great too see everyone! In fact, one of the best statements ever, came from our collective bad behavior, in an email yesterday morning. To protect the not so innocent, I'm keeping the author of this line anonymous "My head is about to explode, I think I might ralph and my upper lip smells like man. It must have been a good night, though I don't recall much."

I spent most of yesterday asleep; in fact I think I was only really awake for about 5 hours total. I LOVE SUMMERTIME!!!!!!!!!

Merrin, me, Haley, and Loralei at O'Connells

Liz, honoring the "french fry incident" of last year's return home outing.

Liz wearing my friend's extra outfit that was stuffed into the smallest purse, ever! Kelly looks on with horrified amusement.

another Irish Car Bomb seems like a good idea . . .

on second thought, maybe not!

Alex, Liz (doing what, I'm not sure), me at Union Street

the beginning of the end, bar #3 Bayou Room

self-explanatory

"do whaaaaa!"

Alex, me, random guy at Bayou Room just before we all pour ourselves into cabs.

Bullshit . . . I mean Bull Fight

WARNING: this post is going to have the “F” word in it about 752 times. Click away if foul language is a problem.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. Ok, I try to be culturally sensitive when I travel. And I went into this bullfighting thing with an open mind. You know Hemingway wrote about it and made it sound so artistic and almost existential. Man against beast, the poetry of the matador maneuvering the toro around his body. What fucking ever. I made it through one dead bull and one possibly dead matador before I had to get the fuck out. I’m not going to lie. The costumes are fancy, shiny, and colorful. And, watching the bull coming charging out into the arena is really impressive. I will even go so far as to say that watching the matador simply maneuver the bull around with his cape is pretty and courageous and intriguing. And that’s where it ends. Once they start punching the banderillas into the bulls back to weaken its muscles and piss it off, now you’re just being a fucking douchebag. Let’s also be clear about something else. It’s not man against beast. It’s the bull against the goddamn swaying colored cape. That bull couldn’t have given two shits about the matador; he was naturally responding to the movement and color of the cape. Um, much like a kitten with a moving string. How the fuck is that man against beast. You’re the dumb shit waving the cape so close to your body, hoping he doesn’t get too close and gore your ass. At some points, the bull even stopped caring about the cape. The matador had to taunt it by waving it harder and even walking over to the bull and putting it directly in its face.

The first matador I saw apparently was not very good. He didn’t make a killing stab and the bull had to stagger around before it bled enough to fall down and then he could kill it. I stopped watching until I heard the crowd cheer and knew it was dead. Then the most fucking ridiculous portion of the event took place. Three beautiful horses all decked in red sashes, bells, and a yoke are paraded out to the dead animal. The carcass is hooked to their yoke and they drag it across the arena while some retard guys crack whips and yell shit. The crowd stands as if in honor of the dead bull. Unfuckingbelievable. I decided that I’d seen enough and was going to leave right after the second bull did the whole cape charging thing, but before they started hurting it. And, lo and behold the matador fucked up and got himself gored and trampled on. I had even just muttered, as the bull came charging into the ring, “I hope he gores your stupid ass.” I didn’t really mean it. Ok, I kinda did; but I didn’t necessarily need to see it. I’m pretty sure that guy was fucked up. All the little picadors, sort of rodeo clowns if you will, came running out to distract the bull with their capes and carry the wounded guy out. That’s when I picked up my stuff and beat it. As far as I’m concerned, that bull is still alive because I never saw differently; and, that matador got what he deserved for engaging in such a barbaric, pointless, and cruel event. And, the crowd . . . well I’m sure they are lovely humans, but what the fuck! I was the only person around who seemed in the least bit horrified. Everyone was all dressed up, snacking on nuts, drinking Cava, and otherwise acting like they were at Gold Cup. I just couldn’t believe it. I’ve asked several people, now, if they go to see the Toros. The answer is mostly a definitive no! Several times I’ve been told it is a “spectacle” that only the rich go to. If that is the case, the rich are some seriously fucking bored ass people if this is their version of entertainment.

I know I voluntarily went to this thing; and, I know I read about the how they wounded and then killed the bull, but I was still stunned and horrified. Pageantry, courage, and passion my fucking ass!!!!! I am less of a human for having watched this. I gave a homeless man some euro on my way home; hopefully that will balance things out!

liquid courage did not help when it came right down to it!

entrance to the shitshow, notice the man with a cooler of drinks and snacks.

the arena is really pretty when no animals are being killed in it

cape work is cool to watch; they should just leave it at that and not harm the bull. FUCKERS!

yeah, that bull is no longer interested, oh but let’s taunt it and then kill it anyway

the banderillas may be colorful and pretty but they are still cruel

the matador who got gored and the bull who won, as far as I’m concerned

civilized video I took on my way home to make myself feel better. No idea why its sideways.

Final Day inSevilla

I am, as usual, incredibly sad to report today is the last day of my trip. I’m especially heartbroken that this summer’s adventure was only half of what I normally do; it feels very strange to be coming home in July. Yeah, yeah, I know . . . I am lucky to be able to do any of this at all. And, I truly do feel fortunate, in addition to the spoiled bratty sadness that it’s coming to an end. Leaving also has a different feeling to it since I have been travelling in places that I am not familiar with. It has been quite a few years since I have travelled in countries that I have no familiarity with. I was truly a tourist and it was a huge amount of fun. My summers in Italy haven’t had that quality since I’m so used to the culture, language, trains, people etc. I am grateful for having had the opportunity to visit Portugal and return to Spain, to a region I had not been in before. Europe fucking kiss ass, plain and simple! Alright, on with a story . . .

Because I am a planner, when I’m not lounging about being a drunkard in Roma, I left today free to do some shopping (not under the influence of Sangria this time) , have a nice long walk in the park, and tapas bar hop for some final snacks, cerveza, sangria, and manzanilla (yes I am mixing). I’m also still planning on going to the bullfight tonight, against my better judgment.
Anyway, the day has been fabulous. The Maria Luisa Park is huge, beautiful, and awesome. It was the sight of the Iberoamerican Exhibition of 1929. Because of this they built some seriously impressive national pavilions, the best of course is Plaza de Espana. It’s so expansive, as a matter of fact, I couldn’t get the whole thing into a picture. The rest of the park is full of fountains, sculptures, green space, and thankfully shade. It’s hot as hell today!

This last bit of information will be especially meaningful to Angela. She is a huge fan of my alter ego, “Summer,” who made her first appearance in Spain. I stopped at a recommended tapas kiosk in the park for food and cerveza. The bartender/cook was this old man who made fun of every single customer at the place. He also sang your order, threw napkins at people standing around, and yelled nonsense at anyone who walked by. He was hilarious. When he realized that I had no game in Spanish and he couldn’t speak English, he took to whistling, pointing, and making assorted noises to get his point across. Apparently, instead of just swatting at a fly that was pissing me off, he wanted me to squash it with his menu. Um, yeah no. Not on the bar, thanks. So, I was quietly eating and watching him give these 3 guys, standing near me, massive amounts of shit. One of them returns an insult and he responds by grabbing his junk and pretty much telling them to suck it. I just happened to look at him at this exact moment and burst out laughing. Both the bartender and 3 guys thought my laughter was even funnier than the exchange they were having. It was also, apparently, an invitation, for the only one of them who spoke English, to come over and talk to me. At this point, I would like to be able to tell you that I met the modern day Don Juan of Sevilla, but that would just be an enormous lie. I did, however, meet a rather chatty, pushy, Spaniard who was also very attractive. Until he opened his mouth to reveal his ONE TOOTH. Holy. Shit. Looking into that pie-hole was like staring into the sun. I’m not sure if it was the spell of his dental issue (notice I used the singular of issue, not issues, because of his 1 tooth . . . get it!) or the muchas cervezas he bought me, but I revealed a little too much about my intentions for this evening. Since I was still deciding between a Flamenco bar and the bullfight, he decided he would accompany me to the bar; and, he wasn’t taking no for an answer despite my best efforts. Ok, let’s just put this out there, I am that shallow, that I can’t get past the missing 27 teeth. Thus, “Summer” arrived. She gave her name, the neighborhood where she was staying, and the time she thought she might be at the Flamenco bar. None of which remotely resembles me or where I will be. I love that girl!!!!

So, I may or may not be able to post about the bullfight tonight. I guess that will depend on whether or not I’m in the fetal position from all the inhumanity and bloodshed. If I don’t, be warned. Liz, per tradition, is picking me up at the airport tomorrow evening and we will be out terrorizing the citizenry of Alexandria until I pass out from exhaustion; join us if you will. That is assuming that I make all my connections in Barcelona and Paris. Oy!
Flamenco costume store; or what I envision and LSD trip would be like.

midget nuns who kept popping up while I was shopping. Yeah, I know this will land me in hell.

just for more perspective on how small they really are

Queens Sewing Box, former garden lodge of the Palacio de San Telmo

Plaza de Espana, right before I dropped by guide book into that stagnant water belonging to the fountain that is not running. Seriously??????? Good thing its my last day and I no longer need it. I think it might have Hep C.

one of 4 sets of bridges

each province in Spain is represented

province of Cadiz

pretty pretty fountains

Frog and Swan fountain

the Lions fountain

these things are all over Sevilla, on statues, fountains, the tops of buildings, and staircases

Museo de Artes y Costumbres Populares

statues everywhere

nasty post-park feet

Cordoba

Took the train out to Cordoba today to see what I like to call the Mosquedral. It’s this ridiculously awesome combination of a former Christian basilica turned Mosque, when the Muslims conquered, that the Reconquistadors took back and decided to build a cathedral in the middle of. Seriously, it’s crazy. The cathedral pushes right up in the middle of a forest of Moorish arches. The doors from the outside still retain their very Muslim architecture, with some statues and such to Christian saints too. The former minaret has been turned into a bell tower, as they all have in Andalusia. And, the courtyard used for ablations during Moorish times was full of palm trees that the Christians ripped out and replaced with orange trees. I have decided that I really do like Moorish architecture; there is just something about all the arches and smooth lines that is really nice. Baroque style can go f*uck itself; I had bad dreams, last night, about all those creepy cherubs, saints, and plaster doodad ornamentation covering every inch of some of these churches. Or maybe the bad dreams were from too much sangria? No. . . . because at this point, I am a professional!

Oh, and I have now run into my American friends from Massachusetts, for the 3rd day running, in odd and random places. They were in the Mosquedral in Cordoba today too. I met them in the square in front of the Cathedral three days ago, and then saw them while we were both buying water at some random shop the same day, and then again in the Cathedral the following day as well as while having drinks that night. And, I still don’t know what their names are. Nice, huh! This simply reaffirms my philosophy that you should never take the attitude of, “whatever, I’ll never see these people again.” Because you will; and they will bring back up how you tripped over your own flipflop and made a loud smacking sound on the floor of the cathedral while it was all quiet and such. And then made it that much worse by laughing out loud. Not that I did that. As far as you know.

Bell tower, previous minaret

Door of Forgiveness

along the outside walls

forest of arches in every direction you looked

Muslim influence infused with Christian symbols

you can see the main alter and nave area smack in the middle of the arches

Orange tree courtyard

Centro, Triana, and Arenal

Centro is the shopping district of the city. Pretty much anything you could want is here: designer clothes, ceramics, Flamenco costumes, custom made hats, Sephora, H&M, etc. There are a couple little churches tucked into the mess and of course little bars. Because the sun is so hot, they string these massive canvases across the streets so the pedestrian shopping zones stay in the shade. Very clever, these people.
Ayuntimiento, city hall whose frieze wasn’t finished because the city ran out of money. It sits on Plaza de San Francisco, the sit of public trials for heretics during the Inquisition.

a 1924 tile ad for Studebakers in the shopping district

La Magdalena church

Casa de la Condesa Lebrija, the home of a single countess who traveled the world in the 1800’s collecting Roman ruins, etc. She remodeled her 15th century house, often, to fit the antiquities she collected from her travels. Bitch, I can’t even afford to have a vase shipped home, much less move entire mosaic floors.

the glassed in porch leading to the summer dining room

some of the mosaics she had salvaged and moved to her home

the summer dining room. I want seasonal dining rooms!

the grand staircase

Baroque architecture officially freaks me out, Iglesia Del Salvador

restored courtyard of a bank. . . awesome!

Triana is the neighborhood across the river from Santa Cruz, Centro, and Arenal. Its known for being the home of most of Sevilla’s top Flamenco perfomers as well as the city’s ceramics producers. It definitely still has a working class vibe to it and is not as touristy as Santa Cruz. No English gets spoken on this side of the river. I’m still not sure if the way too expensive ceramic bowl I bought can actually be used to hold anything. And, I have no idea how I’m going to get this thing home in one piece. Good move on my part. I should have had my Tinto de Verano after I went shopping.

Rodrigo de Triana Monument; he was the lucky guy assigned crow’s nest duty on Columbus’ La Pinta when they were close enough to see land. His words “Tierra,” marking the first person to lay eyes on the Americas, are on the bottom of the monument. That’s just funny.

Iglesia de Santa Ana, legend has it that children baptized here are given the gift of Flamenco singing and dancing

Pila de los Gitanos, the baptismal font, I was going to take some holy water for my sister but didn’t want to curse myself

the underside of all the balconies have amazing ceramic tile work

statue honoring Traina’s many reknowned Flamenco dancers

Capalita del Carmen, random little chapel that sits at the end of a bridge into Triana

the passageway from the river, through which suspected heretics were dragged into the headquarters of the Inquisition
fresh food market of Triana

Ceramica Santa Ana, scene of expensive impulse buy

Arenal is between the Cathedral and the river. I walked back through this part of the city to find the Plaza de torros de la Maestranza, otherwise known as the Bullfighting Arena. I’m going to put on my big girl pants and go on Thursday night. I don’t know if I will stay to watch all 6 of the bulls be “dispatched,” (that’s the Spaniards’ polite way of saying they kill the bull by putting a sword between its shoulder blades to pierce its heart, in the ring, IN FRONT OF YOU), but I will at least be there for 1 to say I’ve done it. I may need therapy after this.

tile ad for Manzanilla, chilled sherry Hospital de la Caridad, founded in 1674 as a charity hospital; it stills cares for the elderly and sick

random traffic circle

Torre del Oro believed to once have been covered in gold

Tapas, Booze, Bars, and Flamenco

I know I’ve said this about a thousand times since I started writing this blog three years ago, but I seriously love café culture. People said spending 6 days in Sevilla would be way too long; it’s a pretty small city as far the historic part goes. I, however, have managed to fill my days just fine with about 6 hours a day walking around to see assorted whatnots and then another 6 spent at tapas bars and cafes. I would be eternally grateful if one of you could arrange to get this vibe going back home. You only have a few days until I come home, so you might want to get on with it. Please.
Sangria with tapas of roasted eggplant and mini-hamburgers in a garlic sauce

most squares have tables set up in them to hang out and have a drink or tapas

Sevilla’s oldest known coffee shop, with a Starbucks on one side and a McDonald’s on the other side. Seriously?

endless homemade candies & pastries . . . declicious café con leche!

classic tapas place, Bar Estrella. Covered with old photos of Sevilla and tile work.

best tapas so far, shrimp & fish flakes in an avocado with yummy sauce, stuffed mushroom caps, and cerveza

Bar Santa Ana in Triana, a seriously local bar with pictures of bullfighters and saints on the walls. I ordered a surprisingly delicious Tinto de Verano, red wine & lemonade.

I’m also enamored with Flamenco. My sister has been dancing and raving about the art for years; I just never really got into it. Last night I went to a show at Casa de la Memoria, an old palace that has been converted into a cultural center. They have a Flamenco show in the courtyard each night, featuring some of Sevilla’s newest up and coming talents. Last nights’ show featured a guitarist, singer, and female dancer. She in particular was spectacular. I know see why my sister loves this art so much; it is muchas muchas sexy stuff. I hooked up with both the singer and the dancer. Haaaaaa, no I didn’t. Or did I. . . Unfortunately, we were not permitted to take photos during the performance, only the last 5 minutes. So mostly, my pictures of the performance suck, but the venue kicked ass too!

Casa de la Memoria

the last few minutes of the show

taking a bow