Eurotrip in Barca

August 3- August 7, 2012

One year ago, I went to the Gili Islands where fate brought me to meet my new family: my soul sisters and brother. For almost a week, we became inseparable, every second spent chatting or just existing side-by-side on the beach. Parting ways was difficult, but we hugged and kissed with promises to see each other soon. Our August 3rd Barcelona reunion culminated during the planning of my Spain trip. It is today that we reunite for an epic city holiday and pick up right where we left off, one year older. Frank and Ellen jetset from Amsterdam and Jodie makes her way from the UK.

BARCELONA (from Park Guell)

The day we arrive in Barca, we are off to the main beach, where we each decompress while fending off peddlers selling club tickets, massages, and homemade mojitos. Our first night out, we skim the streets of el Raval neighborhood for a bar called el Moog. The journey itself strings us through a cutsie/sketchy barrio that is still sifting through some of its seediness by inviting artists and musicians to call it's streets home. Our mazing brings us to a giant feline statue. Everybody knows that when you see a giant bronze cat, you climb it. We each mount it via the long tail and shimmy our way up towards its bum to finally arrive on its back. Providing quite the show to passerbys since each one of us lacks the finesse to make this climb look effortless. We find El Moog and the rest of the night is unforgettable.

The next afternoon we rent beach cruisers and travel around Barca's gothic district. Tonight, we stop for cocktails at a lounge called Dry Martini. Among the purchases were cumquait and passion fruit mojitos and a chocolate cocktail named Sharon Stone.
Our club, this evening, is named Luz de Gaz. It's music selection is anything but uniform. The night lasts long and the lamp fades into the wee hours of the morning.

After a good sleep-in, we navigate the train system to head down to Sitges for a slightly more tranquil day by the sea. I lay on the beach and think about my last 12 months since last seeing these friends. My annual trips have become a sort of marker for my life, my progress. My thoughts and my world transition too quickly to carefully reflect while at home. Beachside on the beautiful Spanish coast, I let myself slip into neutral. No regrets, no forward momentum.

Ramping up the momentum, tonight we go big and we go gay, to a nightclub known for it's "dark rooms" and almost exclusively male clientele. This is no "Neighbors." The girls are a small minority and the judging stares lets us know our welcome will be postponed until we prove one of three things:

1) Superb dancing skills
2) Willingness to try new dance moves that involve commands like "spread your legs!!"
3) Resilience when quality of bathrooms quickly declines

We prove the first two and make friends with a couple different groups of men.  The third, I deem impossible, so we leave as soon as I can't hold it any longer.

Ceiling of Sagrada de Familia

Last day in Spain, last day of my trip, we spend being tourists. Shop till we drop, a trip to the most beautiful church: Sagrada de Familia, and a beer at Park Guell. It was magical a day wisping through Gaudi's ever-present modernisme style speckled with flamboyant Art Nouveau, Gothic, and Mediterranean influence. I am usually not a lover of temples and monuments. Ask me to go to a museum and I hesitate. Gaudi's works are worth staring at as they, in equal parts, excite and perplex.

Lizard at Park Guell

Ellen, me, Jodie, Frank, Cara

Winding down our holiday, we choose a modest organic restaurant for our "Last Supper." Despite our exhaustion from our most amazing day, we manage one last Cuban bar. An interesting place of closure for me, as my inaugural night in Lisbon brought the same good fortune. We salsa dance and order our last mojitos in Spain. I let out a couple tears for the goodbyes that come in mere hours.


The morning is rushed and sad. Goodbyes bring plans. We have next year. We have our lifetime. And we will always have Bali and Barcelona.

trying not to cry on our last night

Pintxos and Vino

July 27-August 3, 2012

Old town street inviting us in from the ocean

When people speak of San Sebastian, they do so with giant smiles ear-to-ear. This city seduces unassuming tourists into a love affair with its dramatically green beachside landscape, surf waves, world-renound food and welcoming ambiance. San Sabastian is a city worth returning to many times in a lifetime.

Arriving in the early afternoon, we manage to fit in 3 different pintxo (tapas) restaurants and head out to local old town pub. We meet some nice Spanish bartenders at El Fuego Negro and promise to return the next day. Irish bar follows for a flash mob dance party sparked by the cheers for the broadcast of the Olympic opening ceremonies on a flat screen floating above.

Just a couple hours after bedtime, my alarm rings to wake me for my dives. Today, the sun fails to show its face and winds sweep through the dreary bays. This yields turbulent conditions for our boat. 22 meters deep, the crashing waves above steady to a slow and subtle back and forth. The hardest dive I've ever done. We see a large octopus and a really cool giant fish of a reddish color sporting a giant mowhawk. I struggle with my weight belt, which comes loose more than twice and I am forced to re-visit my inner diving voice that says "serenity now!" when something goes wrong and panic begs to enter my thoughts. I quickly find my buoyancy and avoid crashing into rocks or ascending dangerously quickly. All is well.

Fitness Day!

Afterwards, it's time to play, the sun has come out and beach time is a must. We head out again tonight for pintxos galore and a night out with some new Basque friends. The next couple days in San Sabastian consist of more of the same. We rent bikes, go on a hike and complete a "fitness day" with push ups on the surf beach.
On day four, we meet our next, and most gorgeous travel companion: Paloma, the cherry red Volkswagen Polo. A change in car means a steep learning curve for the first few blocks. After repeatedly and loudly stalling at each roundabout, a friendly motorbike cop pulls up beside us. I fumble to justify why my driving is so poor. He points out a couple key features of the car, like where 1st gear is and we are on our way. I had been starting in 3rd.
Once smoothly on the road, we make one last stop in San Sabastian to SUP around the adorable little cove on La Concha Beach. The sun reflects off the deep blue ripples suggested by my paddle, boats skim by. Pure bliss before the long drive.

This afternoon, we set off into the barren landscapes of La Rioja region in search of wine. Arriving in the town of LoGroño is a shock. The large city is desolate and unwelcoming. All the wineries need advance reservations, and they are all kilometers away from one another. This is quite opposite of our visions of cute little wine owners tucked into corners of the old barrios. We decide an early check out is unavoidable, so we escape the following morning and detour to Laguradia to tour this famous wine town and the bodega called Carlos San Pedro. We enter an underground winos dream. Set atop a large plateau, this small village lives underground for the hot parts of the year. They've come up with a adequate system of colder dwellings and wineries with skylights and air vents lining the damp dirt ceilings. We are led around the cave to find vats of wine still perfecting themselves towards the final product. Our guide, the owner, suctions off the top layer and allows us to taste the flavorful aromas that compete to be noticed in each sip. We witness the creepy Cuckoo clock and hustle our way out to get to the beach before sundown.

Ragged, rocky edge of Tossa De Mar, castle in the distance

As Paloma whisks us off to Tossa, we skim past Barca, I can taste the sea, I feel the culture which we will return to in 3 days time. But now, a getaway, on the beaches of Tossa de Mar, a town snuggled up to the base of the large castle. I enjoy arroz negro (rice with squid ink), another incredible cave dive at Illas de Medes, and some much needed R&R before my long-anticipated reunion with my beautiful Bali family in Barcelona.

The Land of Caves and Beaches

July 25-July 28, 2012
Menorca is one of the smallest Balearic Islands and boasts a prosperous handmade shoe company and world famous gin. We stay in Ciutadella.

Hostal Paris is a bit bates motel-ish when we arrive, a son sits at the front desk and begrudgingly takes orders from his mother, the kooky hostess. Our accommodations are sufficiently equipped with a balcony, three twin beds and a sink that mysterious gurgles at random. Everything is clean and fresh towels await us, a coveted amenity when my travel towel has been washed twice throughout the duration of my last 4 weeks here (over share?).

We settle in and take some cat naps before my dive at noon with Diving Centre of Menorca. Arriving in the port, Pau, handsome, well-tanned and tastefully inked Spaniard, debriefs me on our dive. "Have you had any experience with caves?" he asks. My eyes light up. "We will be diving Canyons. " He goes on to describe our immersion, but nothing he prepares me for what I am about to experience.

Canyons is, in a word, magical. Grandiose crevasses tunneling into smaller spaces, a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. So tiny are these spaces, that we are not to flutter our fins, just wishfully grab for the next available rock to squeeze through. Truly terrifying and exhilarating as the sun glimmers down inviting me to an opening.
After an hour dive in saltwater, its time to feast, Cara and I enjoy a large plate of mussels, a seafood which we seem to have added to our list of food groups while on the islands. Next day is a beach road trip day. We burn through our first car about 15km into our drive and abandon it on the highway in exchange for a Hyundai Accent promptly given the name of Gloria Estefan.

Coasting on the open road with Beaches in mind, we get lost, REALLY lost. I blame it on the tourist map, which is about as clear as the treasure maps I would imagine pirates draw. After a few Austin Powers turn-arounds on a road meant for 0.75 cars, and some near-miss and NO-miss encounters with large SUVs, Gloria comes out without a blatantly obvious scratch. We find the beach and write a "how-to" book about relaxing: sleep, read, swim, sleep, swim and pee, walk, snorkel, sleep, end. To finish out our day Gloria rolls us to our final beach: Santandria, where we settle into Sa Nacra, a bar that has been built on a cliffside. Instead of walls surroundig the restaurant, there is a small rope fence to allow access to the wooden diving board provided for children to showcase their sickest flips while they await their meal. Crystal clear water glistens below and we watch fish swim about in anticipation of the delicious food that often comes flying down from a little hand above. Sunset here is long and gorgeous.





Tonight my dive man has guided us to La Margarete, a modern bar with a giant green lawn, lounge chairs and natural artwork. Our next stop is Jazzbah, in the port. Yes go ahead, say it out loud. We sip cocktails on the terrace and get sucked into the music emanating from the dance floor below. Elvis, Aretha Franklin, Twist, and Black Eyed Peas overflow the room. We pinch ourselves, yes we are still in Europe.

North Beach

Another day with Gloria Estefan takes us to the north coast for an amazing lunch and a hidden beach among the lush green hills. We make a quick pitstop at Cova d' en Xoroi in the southbeach to experience a bar that has been blasted out of a cliff side and takes advantage of the cavernous landscape to provide an amazing scene for worldwide partyers. We return our rental car with minutes to spare at Mahon airport and take residence at a small hostel nearby.

Cova d' en Xoroi 

San Sabastian is our next stop. The food capitol of Spain where tapas outnumber people.

Mallorcan hospitality: Sobrasada, Sa Posicio, and San Miguels

July 21-July 24, 2012

My Spanish explorations have landed me on Mallorca. Cara has spoke of Mallorca before. The year she spent assimilating here remains one of the best experiences of her life. She has so welcomingly included me in her visit with her family with whom she developed an unbreakable bond 8 years ago.
Clara, her Spanish sister, is an embracing host. After my ferry boat ride where I am forced to endure the movie "Cars" dubbed into Italian, I arrive to hugs and kisses from a room full of twenty-something Mallorcan women and a table heaped with meats, breads cheese typical to this island, a meal called Pombole. We will party tonight, but first, a feast.

I am an eager student learning the strategic makings of this dish.
Precise instructions below. I learned quickly that the order is not to be tampered with:
Step 1: select your bread. Mallorcans have their own bread is denser than the baquettes found elsewhere.
Step 2: while squeezing a halved tomato, rub onto bread
Step 3: salt
Step 4: olive oil drizzle
(my mouth starts to water)
Step 5: select meats: jamón serrano, embutido, sobrasada, and cheeses
Step 6: devour and repeat.
Love.

Wine flows and Spanish rum sneaks onto the table and into my glass. We laugh in our attempt to converse in English, Spanish and Mallorcan (a language similar to Catalan). Cara and I teach them our dirty American humor as they do theirs.

We spill out onto the streets and head towards Sa Posicio, a mysterious artistic haven set within an old Mallorcan home near the industrial district. A long dramatic walkway, lined with trees, greets our arrival to an open-air party housed inside a castle-like mansion. Colorful Artwork plasters the walls. Each courtyard encases music with a distinct and unique Spanish flare, shifting the Ambiance with each pass under the archways. A bar that is truly unique, absolutely local, embracing the past while seamlessly melding into the present. Dancing ignites, and like no time has passed, the sky above us illuminates as it begins its daily transition to light. The sun whispers, "buenos días" as we head for home.

A view of the countryside from Villademboas

Cliffside drinks

Sunday, I am introduced to the precious neighborhoods of Palma and the quaint village of Villadembosa. This town is nestled in the lush mountainous countryside that remains virtually undeveloped since its origins noted in the white stucko buildings and tall cathedral tower. Clara decides we need one last stop before winding home on the country road without headlights. A bar set along the edge of drastic green cliffs overlooking the ocean at sunset. The land ends where the sea begins many meters below. It is on this edge that we enjoy a cocktail.

Villadembosa

We arrive back in Palma just in time to return to our beloved Sa Posicio for its Sunday night market/exposition. Local artists, massage therapists, musicians, actors, dancers and restaurants set up shop to exhibit their talents and take part in the feeling of community that resonates within the walls. As we finish an amazing meal of San Miguels (spanish beer) pita pita with salmon (really just pita, but Mallorcans double the word), when a crowd gathers for a local improv group that has begun is show. At the end of the hilarious show, we stay for one last show: a fire dancer. He turns on his boom box (circa 1998) and starts throwing and molesting his fiery batons, dropping them every few attempts. We take a step back in shock at how horrible he is.

Beaches of San Jordi

Another morning comes and Cara and I rent a car (whom we nickname Roberta) for the day and head towards the southern beaches of Es Trenc and Colonia San Jordi. Roberta and her half manual/ half automatic transmission get us there safely And back. Tomorrow is Menorca and rental cars number 2 and 3.

Clara's most beautiful dog, Rita

The Club Can´t Even Handle Me

July 19 - July 21, 2012

Ibiza has been described as perfect mix of Vegas and Hawaii. And so it is. As we lay on the beach at sunset, we sip tinto de veranos (red wine and lemon fanta) and discuss the ever so important debate between tight/short dress or tight/short skirt. Impromptu dance sessions ignite in our hotel room as we listen to top European hits and settle on our fashions choices for the night. Our hotel has generously provided a hairdryer, so we go big and style our hair like it hasn't been styled in 3 weeks with some curls, body and hair spray. A girl's dream when you've been traveling as long as i have and the hair-dos have resigned to a side braid and high bun in order to mask the out-of-control-ness of my fly-aways and the inevitable beach hair, which looks like an equal combination crunchy, greasy and lazy.

A short walk from our hotel in Ibiza Town

We're about to do some serious clubbing. The kind of clubbing we only dream about in Seattle. Ibizan party culture is known for its effortless availability of drugs like MDMA, cocaine, and ecstasy. Tourists enjoy a high while fist pumping to house music, swimming in a sea of sweaty clubbers and strobe lights. So common is it for tourists to seek out such uppers, the streetside drugs dealers are gleefully shocked with our polite refusals. Dancing is my drug and I am addicted.

We arrive at the club to find dolled-up party-goers sardined within the old stucko Pacha decor from its origins in the 70s. Afrojack immediately earns our adoration on a tv screen that sits in the room adjacent to his DJ booth. He spins his hits passionately while his contagious charisma spreads like a wave of glittery fog across the crowd. Hearts in my eyes, Afrojack is my new future husband.

We attempt to squeeze through the human gridlock to reach the main room. I am an experienced party-goer and can usually cut through a large crowd like a knife on whipped butter. At pacha, this is not possible. David Guetta comes on in 30 minutes and people have posted-up hours before. The room is beyond capacity, so we watch and wait from the first, smaller room. David Gueta enters the booth and dazzles the crowd with his sick beats, and his humble and devoted love for playing weekly at Pacha.

I meet a cute new friend who teaches me his French dance moves in exchange for my instruction in the "stanky leg" and the Anna version of the moonwalk. The crowd starts to thin and it's time to find my friends again in the main room. Standing within the large threshold, i scan the sea of lights and spot platforms scattered and hovering above the crowds. Occupied by naked women pouring neon paint in each other bodies and bright shades of impressive outfits i see some of the most erotic professional dancing. 

David Guetta is to my left. I merge into the crowd and, with a bit of luck, stumble onto Maria who has acquired some glowing goodies since we last parted: a giant neon blue glowstick and the most impressive dancing accessory I have ever encountered: small gloves, jimmy-rigged with a battery pack that illuminates the fingertips with a blinking spectrum of colors. Dancing happens, and we leave the club confident that we will be back in Ibiza real soon, if the club can even handle us...

The following day proves a lazy one. We eat a 3 hour breakfast, and beach it up before heading to Bora Bora hotel to find a beach/pool party that has progressed into sloppy heap of drunken tourists. Here in Ibiza, we don't find the unconscious and sick, kind of drunks. Instead, everyone is shaking their hips and grooving to he DJ's beats as they maintain vertical and chat with new friends. Later this evening we go to Space Club for a night of dance offs with our English neighbors. We night cap with a quick bite to eat at a futuristic looking restaurant whose decor, we predict, will someday be the theme of a fancy diner on the moon. If I were the owner of said establishment, I would call it: Gravitational Bull. Mechanical bull rides for everyone!

In the morning, I have to leave the island for which I have fallen hard. A bittersweet day, we spend some time on the beach and, on our way to find some tapas, stumble onto a men's beach volleyball tournament. Hunks!
New future husbands identified.

Today the girls fly to Barcelona to finish out their travels. I celebrate my half-way point of my trip with a dual afternoon dive just before my ferry leaves the port. During my two dives, I qualify for my deep adventure certificate which allows me to descend 30 meters instead of the 18 that can sometimes be just a bit too shallow for some rare creatures. Today, I see barracudas almost a meter long, giant clams bigger than a dinner plate and a hefty octopus larger than Mr. Huxley, my cat (yes, I am using my little prince as a point of comparison). Octopi are cool, but a magically freaky organism that I wouldn't want to run into at 2am in a dark ally (They scare me).

I buy some superbly European pants and put down some gazpacho before setting off for Mallorca. My good friend, Cara, is awaiting my arrival for a traditional Mallorcan dinner and a night out in Palma with her Spanish friends. I board a large boat and spend the next two hours clinging to the distant sound of umphs, umphs, umphs from the club music that i so love. I anticipate an enriching holiday on my next Balearic island and contemplate my trip back to Ibiza next summer.

Costa Blanca, Aguas Azules

July 16- July 19, 2012

Our journey from Cabo de Gata to Alicante seems incredibly long. Laura and I make exhaustive attempts to keep our driver awake including, 20 questions, catch phrase and simply reading aloud from my Spain guide book.  In doing so, we gathered some pretty useless facts  about olives, origins of flamenco, and paella. 

Alicante is a beautiful beachside community with high rise apartments painted in a rainbow of colors enclosing in on the sea. Scattered along the sand for a day in the sun, most families set up campsite-like configurations with tables, canopies, and food for daaaays.

A view of Alicante from Castillo de Santa Barbara

Alicante becomes my home for next few days as María and Laura head north to Barcelona before our reunion in Ibiza. Alone now, I spend some time on the beach, tour the local market and travel by elevator up the middle of a mountain to visit the castle of Santa Barbara which offers an aerial vista of the coast, and my hostel which is nestled at the base of the massive mountain.

I begin my hunt for dive shops to charter a boat into the Mediterranean and soon discover that the high winds that heave massive waves on the beaches have also compromised the diving conditions in Alicante. I inquire beyond the city limits and find Ali-Sub, a dive shop in Villajovosa, a smaller town just 30  km north of the city.

I catch a northbound seaside tram that travels just inland from La Costa Blanca providing occasional views of oceanside castles and the astonishingly teal blue waters. 

Ali-Sub is a long walk down the hill to the port, I arrive drenched in sweat and immediately try to conjure up my Spanish that usually warms up with a few fumbled words, Like greasing a squeeky wheel, I start to roll. I set up my gear and embark the small vessel setting off into the sea. To my left:  a unique view of Benidorm, a metropolitan city to the north, To my right: open Mediterranean sea where the million shades of blue will never cease to take my breath away. As we tie up our boat just off the SW side of a small island, an area known as the dock, my dive master, Alejandro, celebrates, in broken English, that this will be my first dive in the Mediterranean! 

Villayovesa beachside apartments

My immersion goes smoothly and we immediately spot an eagle ray gliding along the sandy ocean floor. We follow this little fellow for a while, until my attention is drawn to  a school of large silver fish that guides a path upward to the rocky slopes that create this magnificent dive site. 

There is a moment of serenity while diving that you find neutral bouyency, when you can breath in and elevate, and exhale to descend. I relish this feeling to be weightless in the sea, living with the fishes like Ariel in little mermaid. Too bad I can't sing underwater. Cause I would...

Alejandro and I pause to appreciate the splendor of the schools of fish encircling us and  gliding above. We find crabs, rock fish, neon blue noodybrunch, tuna, and smaller fish that present in a spectrum of colors and sizes. I leave the water feeling energetic and I set off to find a small apartment near the market to stay for the night. 

I return to Alicante the following day to reunite up with some new friends for a standing dinner date and a night of dancing at a Havanna club near by. 

Having used a sketchy website to attempt to buy my ticket to Ibiza, I show up at the airport in the morning and purchasel an inflated ticket an hour before take off. .  It is Thursday and I go to Ibiza to dance at, arguably, the best nightclub on Ibiza, Pacha. Guest DJ: David Guetta. We pop champagne.

Spanish Holiday in San José

June 13- June 15, 2012

Advice from a guy at our hostel guides is to our next pin on the map: Cabo de Gata. A series of beaches imbedded in a nationally protected park, a spanish getaway that remains almost untouched by the Brits and Aussies that have been infamous for a recent  colonization in the coastal towns in Andalucía. It is here that we expect to meet more of the Spanish people that we have become so fond of. 

The three of us, whose experience driving a stick is rusty at best, depart from our beloved Sevilla in a manual Skoda midsize car. We have a map of Spain and absolutely now clue how the driving rules differ here. 

Maria takes the lead and, once again, proves her ability to succeed under pressure. We make it onto the A-7 highway and book it to our first destination in Spain's famous white hills, Antiquerra. Beautiful white buildings that look as if they had been nudged into the hillside hundreds of years ago.  We eat lunch, take a couple obligatory photos, and drive another couple hours to the beaches of Nerja for a short nap before completing our journey in San José. 

We arrive at Albergue, our absolutely perfect hostel that is better described as a villa with minute passage ways leading to hidden outdoor patios, an organic restaurant (right up my ally) and only a short walk from the town center. 

That night I enjoy some mariscos and a bottle of wine with my friends as we enjoy the serenity of the coast. The next day calls for a beach hop to Monsul, Las Negras, ending at la playa de San Jose for a sunset bottle of wine before hunting for the surprising hard to find tapas that we often crave. We discover a local restaurant and are easily convinced to order a giant platter of seafood including octopus, calamari, shrimp, and clams all acquired in the region. 

I´m wearing clothes, I promise

Sitting at a table Behind us, a bachelor party of Spanish men from the nearby city, Almería, just finishing their meals, generously offer us drinks and we spend the rest of the evening making jokes in Spanish and laughing at our lost in translation moments since most of us speak only one and a half languages. We head to dance club and are pleasantly surprised that the bartender hands out neon glow sticks like he would cocktail napkins. We dance with more confidence after we accessorize with glow-in-the-dark bracelets, antennae, and necklaces.

The following morning, we peel ourselves out of bed to make the long drive to La Costa Blanca. Un paraiso en el Mediterrineo.

Sevillian charm

July 11-July 13, 2012

For those that have never been to Sevilla, go. It is a city that has grasped the idea that tourists and locals can enjoy eachother´s company. Remarkable architectual beauty that serves as insight into the ancient histories of Muslims and Christians.

We love our hostel. It has a rooftop pool. Enough said. Quickly making new friends, the inevitable question is posed about our ages. We discover that our new french friends are 21, aussie: 25 and Belgian girls: 17. And it is these girls that break out in a giggle when we reveal our age. For the first time in my life I feel old. 

Together we parade into a neighborhood bar and order extravagently adourned Mojitos with sparklers that the bartender lights just before serving. Next is an outdoor discotecha which, on par with traditional Spanish nightlife, is open until sunrise. We dance among Spaniards listening to top European house hits from a swedish house mafia DJ. He takes note of our american presence and spins an appropriately timed conglomeration of the best biggie, tupac, snoop dogg songs. The crowd clears as we break out our most gangster dance moves. A night spent dancing for 4+ hours is a night well spent. We retire just before the sun comes up.

The next day we rent bikes and tour the Sevilla cathedral, la plaza de España and ride bikes through the unforgettable Parque de María Luisa situated in the middle of the city.

In the evening, we inquire about flamenco and set off into the darkness across the river where we are told there is a free flamenco show. We arrive to an empty bar and a bartender that informs us that they do not perform these shows during July and August. Our heads hanging he tells us there is a place call Lo Nuestro where we can also see this beautiful dance. Again, we encounter an empty bar, but this time there is a trio of musicians playing flamenco music. Our decision to stay is probably the smartest thing Maria has ever suggested. We order a drink and sit to enjoy the music. A slow trickle of people into the bar brings a group of 10 young spanish girls that begin flamenco dancing. We stare, admiring their grace with envy. I decide that it's time  for us to dance, so I ask one of the señoritas for lessons. Like flood gates are opening, they immediately begin passing us around, teaching us hand movements,  counting steps, correcting our form, and laughing together as we fumble through the sensual dance steps speaking only spanish. They leave, more spaniards step in to pick up where our friends left off. The bar is full, all eyes on us, a permanent smile on my face as locals eagerly step in to welcome us into the art of flamenco. Unlike my friend María who picks dance moves up quickly, I struggle to learn the first set (out of 4) practicing hundreds of times and i discover something quite shocking about myself and my now apparent dancing inabilities. I can NOT turn left. My last dance partner of the night, luckily a patient young man with a sense of humor, laughs at and with me as I incorrectly turn  right at the end each set without fail. Over and over and over again. ¡Olé! Finally a success!  

Towards the end of the night, a group of American guys make their way into the bar and we befriend them. They explain that they were hesitant to enter because they couldnt dance, but the bartender said "don't worry, there's a bunch of American girls dancing inside and they can't dance either." Pleased that we made such a name for ourselves we hand out besos to all our new compañeros and head for home. We plan to wake in the morning to hire our rental car, destination unknown. That night, I dream of beaches.

Pamplona: check

July 9 - July 11, 2012

I've started a bucket list, and with each check mark, my life, my soul is enriched. Pamplona is on said list.

After an almost comically exhausting trek from Lagos that includes 2 taxis, 2 trains, 1 plane, and 1 metro, I arrive at the Pamplona train station near midnight. I share a cab with two weary travelers from new York york and Newcastle, Australia. They pay it forward and grab my portion of the cost.  Expecting to never see them again, I thank them and part ways.

At Husa Noain Hotel, I am greeted by Laura, Maria and three bottles of wine which we promptly finish. I am so happy to see my girlfriends. After travelling with my best guy friend, i enjoy the luxury of my female travel partners that offer an opinion about my hair, clothes, shoes, and who enjoy dancing as much as I do. We set our alarms for the wee hours of the morning in order to bus into town to engulf ourselves in the madness that is San Fermín. 



We arrive to garbage strewn streets and  encounter a few zombie-like partyers that are wobbling their way back home, wreaking of sangria. We ascend the concrete stadium stairs and arrive just in time to hear the loud gunshot that signifies the releasing of the bulls into a crowd of thousands of  party-goers whose sobriety is questionable. Seconds after, the first runners spill into the arena welcoming the strong barrier that ensures safety surrounding the circular ring. Moments later an even larger wave people come storming into the arena, each taking refuge close to the edge creating a oil and water-like clearing in the middle. The Bulls follow. Another gun shot goes off, more bulls and people arrive as the workers armed with large sticks herd the gigantic animals to their exit, via a small corridor.

As the crowd continues cheering, chanting, singing, a young bull, whose horns have been corked, is released into the arena. What commences is a chaotic mass of men desperately proving their manhood by attempting ride, torment, and tackle this frightened creature. My hearts sinks. The three of us look at each other in culture shock. This feeling passes, and we begin to cheer and embrace this festival for the commrodery that it evokes as strangers pull strangers out from under the bulls hooves and use their own clothing as bait to distract the bull from trampling another. It's like nothing Ive ever witnessed, humanity at its most barbaric, yet, an absolute reflection of the empathetic bond that keeps us all afloat.

We leave the stadium on a high and gladly join a parade that consists of families with small children, singing and marching amidst a handful of ten foot tall puppets, that seem to be drunk themselves as they zig zag through the uneven streets. Taking my usual stride, we walk and walk, no map to guide us and end up figure 8-ing around Pamplona for a beautiful view of the city. We purchase some overpriced sangria later we head back to the hotel room for an afternoon siesta before what has been described as the "the best party in the world."

We wake at in the evening, grab a quick bite and don our festive clothing to venture into a sea of white and red clad drunken internationals near La Plaza de Torros. This scene is mayhem. Endless streets of bars so jam-packed that the real party occurs on the streets. Hoards of spaniards, and internationals singing, yelling, dancing, buying shots, fountaining sangria into mouths and cups thus staining white garments worn by all. 

The locals set off fireworks atop a giant bull costume that runs through the  masses. The drunks chase it and children fear it. We stumble upon my cab friends and decide to venture together into the crowds. We dance and dance and dance...

Running of the bulls day two: Today, there is more stake, today it's not just an anonymous group of people running, its my good friend. 8:20. first gun goes off, bulls, runners speed into the arena. Looking, watching worrying, Laura and I look up at the big screen to reassure ourselves as they show the med techs addressing the first victim. Not Maria. Sigh of relief. Second gun shot, more people, no sign of our friend.  The last bull runs in with a small assortment of people and we sing ¡Ave María! as we see our little lady jogging like she's taking a nice stride around Greenlake, trailing 15 meters behind the largest bull that we´ve seen that day. Survived! We cheer endlessly for our brave friend. 

After the event, We start scheming to escape a city which somehow swallows you whole like a week in Vegas.  Other travelers have commented on the same, and it is validated when we buy the last 3 bus tickets south, departure: 9:30. It's 8:45 now.  We buy, hurry back to our hotel and somehow the hurricane of clothes turns into three fully packed sacks, arriving back at the train sation just before the bus rolls out of the station. I spend the next six hours nodding off and waking up more than 5 awkward times with my head on my neighbor's shoulder. He doesn't speak English, but I  profusely apologize every time I wake up, and repeat when I dose off again. 

We arrive in Sevilla, a most majestic city, mid-afternoon to stay at Oasis Hostel in la Plaza de la Encarnacion. A visit to a beautfiul city and an experience that transpires to be one my top 10 lifetime moments.

Love Lagos

July 6, 2012- July 9, 2012
Imagine a place where the beaches are scattered with pristine white sand with drastic stunning cliffs set in the backdrop. Wine is cheaper than water, seafood is abundant, and the nightlife is just the right amount of crazy. Lagos is a picture of perfection. Set atop a clustering of bluffs, it is an old town that has refused to abandon its charm for sake of tourism.
The highlights of our stay include a sampling of the following activities: beachside massage, sunbathing in the sand, sampling great seafood at Linda's beach bar right along the water, dinner at our villa and late night club adventures.


Thanks to Andrew's stellar googling skills, we find a remarkable place to stay. Dom Pedro, encased in orange stucco, encloses a gorgeous pool overlooking the sea and a beautiful private deck overlooking the city. We quickly become friends with the front desk staff who, i think, attempt to kill us on our first night there by offering a "shot" of a Portuguese liquor. We find out later that this devil's juice is commonly used to kill a cough and when you have too much, you can hallucinate. That night, they have quite a laugh at our expense, it takes until the next morning for Andrew and I to find the humor in it.


My final day in Lagos, I bundle up in 7mm wetsuit for 2 scuba dives in the icy cold Atlantic waters. The Dives are decent: cold waters harbor less colorful reefs than what i am used to, but i manage to find an octopus, trigger fish, scorpion fish, a scattering of unique starfish of teals and oranges, and a ship wreck housing all sorts of fun creatures. It is a very fun day on the boat, only fueling my anticipation as I prepare to submerge myself in the warmer mediterranean waters later this summer.

Love

My last night in Lagos is a good laugh. We hit up Shakers, our new favorite spot, to request songs, drink with our new bartender friends and ignite a much needed dance party. One drink turns into many, and a low key night leads to a street parade ending at "Grand Café" night club, where I turn into a happy footed penguin.

Cat condos near the beach

Clock strikes 4 and we return to the hotel where pack for my 6am departure by train. Missing my travel buddy already (Andrew stays in Lagos one more day for shark fishing), I embark solo on a 16 hour day of traveling to catch up with Laura and Maria in Pamplona, Spain for the "San Fermín" festival: running with the bulls. Madness begins.

4th of July in Lisbon

July 3, 2012 - July 6, 2012
Setting off on my adventure for 5 weeks, I must say goodbye to my friends and family for too long. A great twist of fate evokes a run in with my sister, Claire; my niece, Iris; Tony and all of his family finishing their layover in Philadelphia airport on their return from Puerto Rico. It was a nice treat to see my family one last time before setting off for the unknown.


After a very sleepy plane ride (thanks, tylenol PM) from Philly to Lisbon, i am dropped off on the edge of the labyrinth that is bairro alto on July 4th and I am greeted by a familiar face as Andrew steps out from our new flat. We stay with a young braxilian dude named Fabio who is likely the friendliest person we've ever met. After a quick change into some patriotic colors, Drew and I set out for a day of exploration all red, white and blue of us.


Since Lisbon is set on a series of hills, we spot a castle atop another and make our way towards it. We see loads of spectacular buildings with and without beautiful graffiti and enjoy a portuguese bar hop that includes my first taste of port in Portugal (Phenomenal). We also have fallen in love with white vino verhde, a staple wine of Portugal, which is made with much younger grapes and tastes of summer. In the late evening, we demolish a bowl of traditional Portuguese dinner with seafood and rice mixture. Looking for a way to celebrate the fourth, we set out for a night cap at a 90s rock bar. A few ounces of whiskey, some Super Bocks (portuguese beer) and a couple Journey songs later, we trek around the corner to a Cuban bar where we find mojitos flowing, live Cuban music, and dancing. We belt out a few lines from our national anthem to celebrate our holiday with new friends. Details at this point settle into a fog, but my late hour search for a kebab goes unfulfilled as I go to bed at 4 am, stomach empty.


I wake up the next afternoon and we set off for a day of beach. A stop for Portuguese espresso, burger (with fried egg) and fries is essential as we navigate our headaches and we are off to la Praia (beach).
We arrive at Cascais beach to Sunshine and a wind that sweeps sand into my mouth, giving me a couple unpleasant crunchy bites. We walk along the gorgeous boardwalk coastline to discover a bar with bean bag chairs and a legitimate few hours of people watching. We befriend the bartenders, and lounge in the warmth until dark sets in. Back in Lisbon that evening, We enjoyed a most fancy dinner at Caldo Verde Fado for some traditional Portuguese music. I've heard nothing like it before, absolutely stunning vocals.


Dragging a bit and absolutely worn from our lazy adventures that day, we call it an early night (2am) and set alarms for the next day's trek to Lagos in the Algarve region, by train.

3,2,1 blast off

Tara Stone is getting married to an English bloke, so, for four days, we celebrated. She joined us for a sun-filled weekend at Lake Chelan. We had sick digs and a pool just across the way to relish some much needed sun time. We enjoyed many many margs, appropriately-timed fireball shots, and loads of wine. By the end of the weekend, we clown carred (sp?) our way home with 6 people in pook's explorer to make the essential hangover stop at Lakeview drive-in for some epic onion rings, fries, burger, and mozzarella sticks. Fabulous vacay before my pilgrimage through Western Europe. Midnight now, I continue to pack, a few glasses of wine deep. I've decided I want to take waaaaay more clothes than i really should carry in my 70 liter backpack. A short few hours until I will see my bed, my hair dryer, and my closet for the last time for 5 weeks. Bon Voyage! and hello to the world of blogging. First time for everything, so here goes. Love and hugs to you all!

xx

Adios Seattle, Hello Europa

In an attempt to satisfy a bit of my wanderlust, I will be spending the summer in Portugal and Spain. This blog is my endeavor to share my inevitable misfortunes and life-altering adventures as I continue to explore the world and seek those little moments that make my life rich.

Seattle Locks with a few of my loves (Maura, Siri, me, Kelly)