Spring has sprung! The grass has ris - I wonder where the birdies is? Outside my kitchen window, as it so turns out, sitting in the tall trees directly in front of our Northern wall (kitchen area), chirping and singing and showing off their glorious feathers to me. I love the views we have from our apartment - views to the North, South and West (East is an internal wall we share with next door - two apartments per floor) are filled with trees and birds and spring loveliness.
What a lovely week I've had. Two weeks into being in Madrid, and I'm starting to get a sense of just how completely different our cultures are. For example. No, you cannot order a beer and a water at the same time, that's just bizarre. BUT you can totally order a wine and a water together, that's acceptable. It's impolite to refuse the 'free-but-not-free' bread. You can sit outside alfresco style if you want to have a drink and maybe a tapa, but it's weird to sit outside if you want to eat. 2:30pm is no man's land between appertivo and lunch. Yes, they have pre-lunch. They also have pre-dinner. It's not just drinks, it's drinks and tapa. I get accused of eating a lot you know, but when a country actively makes you eat twice for each meal - who's really to blame?
We've done several lovely walks around our neighbourhood this past week - it was Easter of course, so A had Thursday and Friday off work, giving us a four day mini holiday together. We spent it mostly at home playing our game side by side (yes yes I know), but we did get out and about each day as well. Friday we went for a glorious three (or so) hour walk, heading South in our neighbourhood so A could show me the best pastry shop our side of town.. then West up the big hill to Retiro, where we meandered for a good hour, watching families, listening to the birdies, talking to the feral cats I found. It was very pleasant, the sun gently warming our faces, the brilliant blue sky framed by semi-naked spring branches scratching young green leaves across the azure heavens. We did a loop and ended up outside Trenque Lauquen (possibly misspelling that horribly) which is the Argentinian restaurant A took me to during my visit last September. They love him there - big warm greetings and lots of smiles and affection.. I met the owner, Sonia, who reminds me of someone I can't quite place. Some spectacular empanadas later and we were refuelled and ready for the twenty minute walk back home. For such a big city, it really is nice to be able to walk the streets at night without fear sinking cold into your bones; I get no spidey sense nearly everywhere I've been. I did stumble upon an alleyway last week when I was trying to short-cut home after doing an extensive amount of shopping (read: it was bloody heavy and I wanted to get home before my arms fell off) and felt those tiny little hairs raise up, so I did a 180 and marched right back up to the main road where I immediately felt safe again. But that's been the only occasion.. for the most part Madrid feels safe, open, no danger lurking in corners, no fear of street harassment (which frankly surprises the hell out of me) or pickpockets. I know we don't live in the "gypsy district" but it has a whole different flavour to other European cities I have visited.
Speaking of beauty.. I'm sure some of you have seen the photo I posted of our garden? Our apartment complex is actually two apartment buildings, and each one has its own big beautiful garden - the exterior hedged and the interior a beautiful lawn complete with big trees and lovely flowers including roses and margaritas (daisies!).. they're idyllic to look at, and that's all you're allowed to do. Look. Each garden is fenced and has a gate that is padlocked. No, residents do not have keys to this padlock (which would make sense to me). It is literally a look-but-don't-touch garden. You're not allowed to sit in there and read a book, or kick a ball with your child, or walk your dog. These are big gardens I'm talking about - half a block each. Beautifully taken care of - but again, you're not allowed to actively enjoy/use them. Does anyone other than me find this terribly strange? Yet another Spanish oddity.
I must move, as I have goals to achieve today, and that won't happen sitting around my living room writing blogs and zoning out remembering all the good times I've had the past week. Goal #1 - find a gym I like. Until then, I'm going to continue to get to know every street, every laneway, every hill, until they're written in my memory like fine threads winding into the overall tapestry that will be my mental Madrid map. And if I happen to see some interesting shoe stores on the way, so be it.
Till next time!
M x
Monday, April 20, 2015
Segovia.. an expedition back in time
Friday night BF was all excited smiles, telling me we had to go to bed at a reasonable hour so we could get up early as he had plans for us the next day. My clues? "A lot of walking, and a lot of stairs." Uh-huh. I do love a good surprise though, and I have utter and complete trust in this man (there's a first..) so I just smiled back at his gorgeous face and said "sure, let me know if what I'm wearing is OK".
I'm not entirely sure why, but I had assumed we were walking - from the house. We were in fact, not. As he opened my car door for me, I had a small thrill of anticipation, I had absolutely no idea where we were going, but I hoped it had something to do with the mountains I had seen from the highway last week. As it so turns out, he can read minds, because soon we started heading for the mountains, and I relaxed into the very comfortable leather of the passenger seat, and took in the beautiful countryside beginning to unfold itself to us as we zipped out of Madrid's city limits.
Segovia is about 90 mins out of Madrid, nestled in the hills, frozen in time with stunning sandstone buildings, cobblestone streets, and of course, the ancient Roman aqueduct. We parked in the more modern part of the town, and walked our way up steep narrow streets, winding, winding, winding until eventually we were right in front of some of the arches of the aqueduct itself. We did a lot of walking, and then proceeded to climb a lot of stairs. The view from the top was absolutely breathtaking. It is unimaginable - the sheer volume of rock that was chiselled and carved and moved, lifted, to form this masterpiece of engineering. The city itself is such a quaint and picturesque little town, and it captured my heart entirely.
After walking the length of the "ruins" (I use inverted commas because it is in impeccable condition, given it's a couple of thousand of years old), BF wanted to show me an equally ancient cathedral. I've seen a lot of churches, cathedrals and other religious constructs in my time but this was something truly special. I took so many photos I nearly ran out of battery. Gold plated designs in the interior.. stained glass that would rival the beauty of those found in the Catholic churches in Italy.. it is something truly special. I had a spiritual moment inside that caught me very off-guard, and I found I needed to sit and breathe and just let it wash over me. Something spoke to me while I was inside that church, and I heard its message very clearly. As we left I felt so overwhelmed, and wanting to share what I had just experienced, but I couldn't do it justice walking, so we walked to a closeby bar and sat to enjoy appertivo (pre-lunch drink and tapa). After soaking in a villager wedding right next to our table, and then watching a demonstration about something-or-another (loud, annoying, protest elsewhere please..), we made our way through the winding cobblestone streets to the restaurant BF had booked for our lunch.
Boy was it a treat. The local dish is suckling piglet - roasted whole, served with something delicious. BF ordered our food, and I was in heaven. It was complimented beautifully by the vintage red he ordered, and we ate and ate and drank until I thought my pants might burst. It was such a perfect day, and the drive home was filled with views of the gorgeous Spanish countryside.
Segovia is a little slice of heaven. I would happily go there again some day.
Till next time,
M x
I'm not entirely sure why, but I had assumed we were walking - from the house. We were in fact, not. As he opened my car door for me, I had a small thrill of anticipation, I had absolutely no idea where we were going, but I hoped it had something to do with the mountains I had seen from the highway last week. As it so turns out, he can read minds, because soon we started heading for the mountains, and I relaxed into the very comfortable leather of the passenger seat, and took in the beautiful countryside beginning to unfold itself to us as we zipped out of Madrid's city limits.
Segovia is about 90 mins out of Madrid, nestled in the hills, frozen in time with stunning sandstone buildings, cobblestone streets, and of course, the ancient Roman aqueduct. We parked in the more modern part of the town, and walked our way up steep narrow streets, winding, winding, winding until eventually we were right in front of some of the arches of the aqueduct itself. We did a lot of walking, and then proceeded to climb a lot of stairs. The view from the top was absolutely breathtaking. It is unimaginable - the sheer volume of rock that was chiselled and carved and moved, lifted, to form this masterpiece of engineering. The city itself is such a quaint and picturesque little town, and it captured my heart entirely.
After walking the length of the "ruins" (I use inverted commas because it is in impeccable condition, given it's a couple of thousand of years old), BF wanted to show me an equally ancient cathedral. I've seen a lot of churches, cathedrals and other religious constructs in my time but this was something truly special. I took so many photos I nearly ran out of battery. Gold plated designs in the interior.. stained glass that would rival the beauty of those found in the Catholic churches in Italy.. it is something truly special. I had a spiritual moment inside that caught me very off-guard, and I found I needed to sit and breathe and just let it wash over me. Something spoke to me while I was inside that church, and I heard its message very clearly. As we left I felt so overwhelmed, and wanting to share what I had just experienced, but I couldn't do it justice walking, so we walked to a closeby bar and sat to enjoy appertivo (pre-lunch drink and tapa). After soaking in a villager wedding right next to our table, and then watching a demonstration about something-or-another (loud, annoying, protest elsewhere please..), we made our way through the winding cobblestone streets to the restaurant BF had booked for our lunch.
Boy was it a treat. The local dish is suckling piglet - roasted whole, served with something delicious. BF ordered our food, and I was in heaven. It was complimented beautifully by the vintage red he ordered, and we ate and ate and drank until I thought my pants might burst. It was such a perfect day, and the drive home was filled with views of the gorgeous Spanish countryside.
Segovia is a little slice of heaven. I would happily go there again some day.
Till next time,
M x
Adventures in Spanglish: Part 2 (ha! knew it!)
Goodness me. This really was an adventure in Spanglish today. It started off well; I considered where I had walked the past six days, and thought that instead of heading West/North or some combination thereof, I would head West/South. Gasp! Rebellious little me.
Madrid is divided up into neighbourhoods, or barrios, and some are more desirable than others, as is usually the case in large cities. Up to this point, I had been spending my time exploring the salubrious neighbourhoods to the North and West of our neighbourhood (Estrella). Today, I decided I would just wander in a different direction, still in the larger barrio of Retiro, but just go a little further South than I had before. This turned out to be a really, really great idea. Not only did I get to wander through the quaint, cosy and simply beautiful streets of Nino Jesus, I ended up in Pacifico, a cultural melting pot full of immigrants and interesting shops galore. I came because Trip Advisor told my hungry stomach that there was a high rated but low priced restaurant about a mile from where I was standing, and at this point, my phone's internet was working, so I walked south/west/south/west until eventually I came upon the right Calle, and fronted up to the famous restaurant. Which was closed. Bloody hell Madrid, it's 11am! I'm hungry here! So I found a bench, and I sat, and people watched for a good hour. Texted BF to ask if I could expect the restaurant to be open at 12pm.. his response was something like "maybe". Then another text, asking where I was. To which I responded, "I think I'm in Pacifico?". This did not go down well; apparently my now much-liked Pacifico is a somewhat dodgy neighbourhood. Wanting to stay and eat at the restaurant, but also wanting to heed BF's advice, I was torn only briefly, before I reluctantly left my happy spot on the bench, and meandered back to the safer, prettier Nino Jesus instead.
All this walking will make a girl hungry (hey! it'd been a good three hours!), so I decided to try a bar in our local Estrella instead. Boy oh boy, was this a lesson in Spanglish. Naturally, my phone's internet had died again at this point (it hates me, truly), so I was left with literally only the Spanish I could remember, which is insufficient when faced with a waitress who was determined to be stubborn as hell (yes, stubborn. No, not unable to understand English, actually stubborn. Because I found out later she spoke English reasonably well), and a brain that is tired from too much sun & walking and not enough water. I pointed to a few items on the menu, and before I knew it, I was enjoying a beer and boquerones fritos - flash fried boquerones (white anchovies). Delicious! I could get used to all the gorgeous different raciones here - I'm beginning to recognise some of the names which is helpful.
Must run - things to see!
M x
Madrid is divided up into neighbourhoods, or barrios, and some are more desirable than others, as is usually the case in large cities. Up to this point, I had been spending my time exploring the salubrious neighbourhoods to the North and West of our neighbourhood (Estrella). Today, I decided I would just wander in a different direction, still in the larger barrio of Retiro, but just go a little further South than I had before. This turned out to be a really, really great idea. Not only did I get to wander through the quaint, cosy and simply beautiful streets of Nino Jesus, I ended up in Pacifico, a cultural melting pot full of immigrants and interesting shops galore. I came because Trip Advisor told my hungry stomach that there was a high rated but low priced restaurant about a mile from where I was standing, and at this point, my phone's internet was working, so I walked south/west/south/west until eventually I came upon the right Calle, and fronted up to the famous restaurant. Which was closed. Bloody hell Madrid, it's 11am! I'm hungry here! So I found a bench, and I sat, and people watched for a good hour. Texted BF to ask if I could expect the restaurant to be open at 12pm.. his response was something like "maybe". Then another text, asking where I was. To which I responded, "I think I'm in Pacifico?". This did not go down well; apparently my now much-liked Pacifico is a somewhat dodgy neighbourhood. Wanting to stay and eat at the restaurant, but also wanting to heed BF's advice, I was torn only briefly, before I reluctantly left my happy spot on the bench, and meandered back to the safer, prettier Nino Jesus instead.
All this walking will make a girl hungry (hey! it'd been a good three hours!), so I decided to try a bar in our local Estrella instead. Boy oh boy, was this a lesson in Spanglish. Naturally, my phone's internet had died again at this point (it hates me, truly), so I was left with literally only the Spanish I could remember, which is insufficient when faced with a waitress who was determined to be stubborn as hell (yes, stubborn. No, not unable to understand English, actually stubborn. Because I found out later she spoke English reasonably well), and a brain that is tired from too much sun & walking and not enough water. I pointed to a few items on the menu, and before I knew it, I was enjoying a beer and boquerones fritos - flash fried boquerones (white anchovies). Delicious! I could get used to all the gorgeous different raciones here - I'm beginning to recognise some of the names which is helpful.
Must run - things to see!
M x
Friday, September 19, 2014
Adventures in Spanglish: Part 1
I've titled this "Part 1" because I just know that there will be many adventures in Spanglish for this intrepid explorer.. I am learning quickly, very quickly, and am able to understand an awful lot of Spanish which is encouraging, but sadly, unable to communicate back in Spanish, so am having these mildly frustrating but otherwise entertaining psuedo-conversations with the natives. Absolutely undeterred, I head out each day into the wide world and choose a completely different path out of our neighbourhood, seeing if I can expand my mental map of Madrid, and colour it in glorious detail now that I seem to have the bones laid down. By "colour it" I mean "choose a different road and hope to hell I still have good bird-brain because I have no bloody gps on my phone here and I still cannot read road signs or ask for directions from the locals". It appears to be working. Four blocks East, then two blocks North, there is an absolutely divine smelling bread shop, that I have been resisting for two weeks. Opposite it, half a block further North, is a greengrocer, who closes for siesta (will NOT be caught out by that again..). Keep going another two blocks, and you hit Parque del Retiro - or simply "El Retiro". So I did just that - winded my way East/North/East until eventually I saw the Eastern gates marking the entrance to El Retiro.. and I knew from our walk on the weekend, that the Argentinian restaurant boyfriend had taken me to was close-by.
My first lesson in Spanglish, was ordering lunch at the delightful Trenque-Lauquen. After assuring the waiter that it was indeed just me eating (why is this Universally such a hard concept to grasp??), and no, boyfriend was not joining us (he really is loved there), I somehow managed to order a still mineral water instead of a sparkling one - but hey, who cares, it was bloody hot - and three empanadas. Empanadas here are large, very large, and three is a meal. The espinaca (spinach, for those of you playing at home) emmanada was simply a culinary relevation. Very simple ingredients combined to make something that I cannot do justice with words.. but allow me to attempt to convey the experience.
Hot, buttery pastry held between two fingers (only heathens eat empanadas with cutlery BF assures me) that is heavier than it looks, for its size. I blow softly on the first bite, trying to release some of the heat trapped inside this pillow of pastry perfection; crisp, soft, slightly crumbling, leaving small wet marks of grease on my fingertips. The first bite is mostly the twisted, bunched ends of pastry, but even that elicits a small satisfied sigh from my lips. The next bite is more serious; I can see the deep, dark green of the spinach now not so much as hiding inside the pillow, but inviting me to get to know it better. A hit of nutmeg surprises me; the soft, yielding and almost reminiscent of rubber texture of the feta-esque cheese inside adds a layer of textural contrast, and when I find the sweetness of golden raisins married with the gentle bitterness of the spinach, I am officially in heaven. Soon, I discover it really is too hot to eat like this, so I reluctantly put this marvel of food back on my plate, and resort to the very uncouth use of a knife and fork. I make short work of the rest of my espinaca empanada, and its two friends: carne & aceitunas, and queso & cebolla. Very happy, slightly full but not uncomfortably so, I embark upon the Spanglish dance of requesting the bill, and assuring my eager-to-please waiter that I do not need dessert. It is at this point he gives me a message for BF in Spanish which I quickly text across to him before I forget. Apparently it was something lovely, because I get an enthusiastic "thanks to the waiter!" back. Sadly, I cannot remember what was said, and after prompting my beloved, neither can he. Some things will remain a mystery I suppose.
Another walk through El Retiro; grass and leaves alike dappled with the energising afternoon sun, a bird dancing on the almond-coloured sand pathway, daring me to take its photo. I happily oblige, fairly confident the photo will not turn out at all, as I haven't brought my DSL, but am rather using my iPhone which is not so great for action shots. I do love this bird though, and he has become my Tennessee cardinal; my elusive colourful bird who taunts me every other day, flaunting his bright sapphire feathers at me, teasing me with flitting close and then far, never stopping long enough for me to get a decent shot. I haven't seen this bird outside of Madrid and I am quite curious as to what he is, so I will perhaps do some research, squinting at the shoddy photos I have, and come up with a species to satisfy my avian curiosity.
The mission for today, however, is Museo del Prado; one of Europe's premier and oldest art museums. There are two collections on display today - the permanent collection, featuring artists such as Rembrandt, Poussin, Goya; and the temporary exhibitions, one of which is a tribute to El Greco, and includes his works but also works of other artists inspired by him. Picasso, for example.
I do love a good art gallery. I spent hours walking the quiet halls, climbing the old winding staircases and discovering what felt like hidden chambers tucked away inside bigger rooms. The El Greco exhibition was spectacular, his work made my heart fill with feelings of awe, joy, sadness and amazement. If you are unfamiliar with The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, or An Old Gentleman, or Lady in a Fur Wrap; I suggest you make yourself familiar, if and when possible. The talent, the precision, the passion, the ability to tell as story through brushstroke and manipulation of colour and texture is amazing. I don't normally wax lyrical about art, I think a great deal of it is a great deal of wankery.. but some art is just so captivating it truly deserves a mention. At any rate, after I had spent a good hour in the El Greco exhibition alone, absorbing all the works inspired by Jesus Christ and the events surrounding his life, I was probably full-up on what I have dubbed "Jesus art". Sadly, the Prado had different ideas for me. Full you say? Oh no! You can see more! More! MORE! MOOORRREE!!
I ended up leaving the Prado after another hour, because I simply could not survive any more paintings of Jesus on the cross, Jesus' ascension, Jesus being received by God and cherubs and angels and other creepy child-like entities. It seemed everywhere I turned there was JC, looking mournfully at me with bloody wounds to his scrawny pasty body. It began to completely overshadow the experience of the art for me, so I stepped out into the stunning gardens outside, took a few deep breaths of fresh late-summer air, and began the long walk home.
More sunshine, more small children smiling up at me, more little dogs trotting along the footpath, more fast-spoken Spanish, a left, a few rights, and I was home again.
M x
My first lesson in Spanglish, was ordering lunch at the delightful Trenque-Lauquen. After assuring the waiter that it was indeed just me eating (why is this Universally such a hard concept to grasp??), and no, boyfriend was not joining us (he really is loved there), I somehow managed to order a still mineral water instead of a sparkling one - but hey, who cares, it was bloody hot - and three empanadas. Empanadas here are large, very large, and three is a meal. The espinaca (spinach, for those of you playing at home) emmanada was simply a culinary relevation. Very simple ingredients combined to make something that I cannot do justice with words.. but allow me to attempt to convey the experience.
Hot, buttery pastry held between two fingers (only heathens eat empanadas with cutlery BF assures me) that is heavier than it looks, for its size. I blow softly on the first bite, trying to release some of the heat trapped inside this pillow of pastry perfection; crisp, soft, slightly crumbling, leaving small wet marks of grease on my fingertips. The first bite is mostly the twisted, bunched ends of pastry, but even that elicits a small satisfied sigh from my lips. The next bite is more serious; I can see the deep, dark green of the spinach now not so much as hiding inside the pillow, but inviting me to get to know it better. A hit of nutmeg surprises me; the soft, yielding and almost reminiscent of rubber texture of the feta-esque cheese inside adds a layer of textural contrast, and when I find the sweetness of golden raisins married with the gentle bitterness of the spinach, I am officially in heaven. Soon, I discover it really is too hot to eat like this, so I reluctantly put this marvel of food back on my plate, and resort to the very uncouth use of a knife and fork. I make short work of the rest of my espinaca empanada, and its two friends: carne & aceitunas, and queso & cebolla. Very happy, slightly full but not uncomfortably so, I embark upon the Spanglish dance of requesting the bill, and assuring my eager-to-please waiter that I do not need dessert. It is at this point he gives me a message for BF in Spanish which I quickly text across to him before I forget. Apparently it was something lovely, because I get an enthusiastic "thanks to the waiter!" back. Sadly, I cannot remember what was said, and after prompting my beloved, neither can he. Some things will remain a mystery I suppose.
Another walk through El Retiro; grass and leaves alike dappled with the energising afternoon sun, a bird dancing on the almond-coloured sand pathway, daring me to take its photo. I happily oblige, fairly confident the photo will not turn out at all, as I haven't brought my DSL, but am rather using my iPhone which is not so great for action shots. I do love this bird though, and he has become my Tennessee cardinal; my elusive colourful bird who taunts me every other day, flaunting his bright sapphire feathers at me, teasing me with flitting close and then far, never stopping long enough for me to get a decent shot. I haven't seen this bird outside of Madrid and I am quite curious as to what he is, so I will perhaps do some research, squinting at the shoddy photos I have, and come up with a species to satisfy my avian curiosity.
The mission for today, however, is Museo del Prado; one of Europe's premier and oldest art museums. There are two collections on display today - the permanent collection, featuring artists such as Rembrandt, Poussin, Goya; and the temporary exhibitions, one of which is a tribute to El Greco, and includes his works but also works of other artists inspired by him. Picasso, for example.
I do love a good art gallery. I spent hours walking the quiet halls, climbing the old winding staircases and discovering what felt like hidden chambers tucked away inside bigger rooms. The El Greco exhibition was spectacular, his work made my heart fill with feelings of awe, joy, sadness and amazement. If you are unfamiliar with The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, or An Old Gentleman, or Lady in a Fur Wrap; I suggest you make yourself familiar, if and when possible. The talent, the precision, the passion, the ability to tell as story through brushstroke and manipulation of colour and texture is amazing. I don't normally wax lyrical about art, I think a great deal of it is a great deal of wankery.. but some art is just so captivating it truly deserves a mention. At any rate, after I had spent a good hour in the El Greco exhibition alone, absorbing all the works inspired by Jesus Christ and the events surrounding his life, I was probably full-up on what I have dubbed "Jesus art". Sadly, the Prado had different ideas for me. Full you say? Oh no! You can see more! More! MORE! MOOORRREE!!
I ended up leaving the Prado after another hour, because I simply could not survive any more paintings of Jesus on the cross, Jesus' ascension, Jesus being received by God and cherubs and angels and other creepy child-like entities. It seemed everywhere I turned there was JC, looking mournfully at me with bloody wounds to his scrawny pasty body. It began to completely overshadow the experience of the art for me, so I stepped out into the stunning gardens outside, took a few deep breaths of fresh late-summer air, and began the long walk home.
More sunshine, more small children smiling up at me, more little dogs trotting along the footpath, more fast-spoken Spanish, a left, a few rights, and I was home again.
M x
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Day One of Solo Madrid
Now that the weekend is over, and my beloved has gone back to work, I find myself with at least eight hours a day in which to explore Madrid solo. I think we all know I'm good at solo travel; so this is hardly a problem. Where to start, is more the problem. I have my usual Lonely Planet guide to the city, and Trip Advisor has lots of suggestions for me as well. I decide that walking is my best bet, and head off in a vague direction of North-West. I have tried explaining to my boyfriend that I have an excellent sense of direction; we'll see, shall we? Soon I am deep in the Retiro barrio (neighbourhood), and feeling reasonably confident that I am heading in the right direction, I continue pounding pavement, until eventually - yes! I see Parque del Retiro - the beautifully landscaped inner-city park he took me to the day prior, to look at the rose gardens. Such a romantic. The map of our neighbourhood is coming together in my head nicely, and feeling confident, I spend some time wandering through Retiro park. It is just so beautiful, with the autumn colours beginning to creep into the otherwise lush and dense foliage luxuriously lining hundreds of trees. The sand pathways are a subtle contrast to the brilliance of the blue sky, the soothing greenery and the black lacework of the metal fences and lamp posts that line the park's paths. Birds live here, happily and plentifully, and my heart soars to hear their singing; it is at this moment that I know I will spend a lot of time in Parque del Retiro.
I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.
I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.
M x
I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.
I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.
M x
Madrid... Latinos... Latin America... America?
So I'm in Madrid, Spain. I figure if you squint hard enough and extrapolate like I did in the title of this blog, it's passable to include it in my America travel diary. I have to admit, it is very, very odd being on holidays in a country that isn't the USA, and even more odd to be on holidays with my boyfriend. Not that he's on holidays; he lives here. But, after the past however long of travelling solo, and spending all my free time and money exploring the USA.. it's a bit of a culture shock. Sure, the language is different (unless you're talking So Cal, in which case you'd be used to hearing Spanish) but it's more than that.. it's a whole world apart from the Southern Hospitality I've been used to the last few years. Spaniards are strange, but wonderful. Siesta does my head in like you wouldn't believe, and it seems to be the time every single day where I decide I need something from the shops, only to find out yet again that most shops are closed mid-afternoon.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Eureka Springs is a quaint little place. Its main streets are deep in the valley between two ridges; its shops terraced along the steep, curving streets cut out of the cliff rock.
I arrived at The Crescent Hotel a little worse for wear after my GPS going into melt-down mode when the grid structure Americans use to navigate their towns failed to work due to the actual roads following the cliffs and ridges instead of a neat pattern of grids. Numerous times I was instructed to turn right literally off the edge of a cliff; it is enough to make you paranoid that your iPhone is out to get you. As I climbed higher and higher I could see an impressive structure perched on the edge of the tallest ridge, its presence imposing and demanding attention against the green surrounding forest. When I finally ignored my GPS and made my own way using sense of direction, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I saw the looming "The Crescent Hotel, est 1886" sign marking the entrance to the car park. I pulled in, and felt a wave of joy sweep over me, for the Hotel truly is magnificent, the grounds manicured in a perfect echo of the old time glory of the building itself. My joy was short lived however, when upon impulse I decided to check my itinerary (something I hadn't done in days), and to my dismay discovered that I was meant to be staying at The Arkansas House in Jasper - a town I'd passed through around four hours earlier. Worse yet - I'd already paid (in full) for this hotel room. Dangnabit!! Not to be disheartened, I rang the owner and apologised profusely and explained my predicament, and he gruffly agreed to refund my room and promptly hung up on me. Oh well, at least I got a good outcome, I told myself as I shook it off and made my way to the grand entrance of the Crescent. Old world manners live here, and I was greeted by a dashing young man opening the huge silver and glass door for me. In a matter of minutes, I had: patted one very cute cat who reminds me uncannily of Henri Le Chat Noir; been given the king balcony suite with jacuzzi for $99 instead of the initially quoted $269; and handed a glass of raspberry iced tea by one of the lovely hotel staff. I have to say, I felt rather chuffed at this point. I booked in for the 8pm hotel ghost tour and took my suitcase upstairs to the awaiting luxury suite. It really is a thing of beauty - massive antique king bed made from cherrywood, delightful curtains complementing the wallpaper, huge jacuzzi positioned to look over the balcony but with white gauzy curtains for privacy (the balcony is shared between two suites). The balcony itself was wonderful - massive, compared with the usual balconies I've had attached to hotel rooms - you could easily host a part of 30 out there. Lovely garden furniture, including tables with mosaic crescent moon symbols inlaid on the table tops. Best of all, I had been given a suite with a view of the valley and the opposing southern ridge. Beautiful. Make sure you check out the photos of the view and the "HC" hedge seen by looking directly down from my balcony. I decided a long hot jacuzzi with book in hand and balcony doors wide open to let in the mist was just what the doctor ordered.
The Crescent Hotel has been many things in its long life, one of which is a hotel set up for the rich and famous, indeed only those on the elite invitation list were able to come and holiday there for quite some time. Quite on the opposite end of the spectrum, a torture house and morgue for wealthy elite suffering from cancer. Advertised as a cancer-curing treatment retreat, the unscrupulous new owner (bought from the original owner after the great depression set in and no one could afford lavish hotel stays anymore) had no idea how to cure cancer, and was only interested in making a quick buck rather than actually treating people. He injected them seven times a day with a horrid concoction of herbs and acid. Many people tried to write their relatives to tell them that the 'treatments' were hurting them worse than their original disease, however his racket wasn't discovered for many, many years. When you entered the treatment facility, he would have you sign a blank letter. If you happened to die at the facility, he would fill in the blank letter with something along the lines of "I'm great! Improved dramatically, very happy, keep the cheques coming!" and post it to your family. In addition to treating your cancer, it was supposed to be a nice retreat, a break away from the stressful 'real life' back home. Well, many of his patients were in agony from their illness, and doubly so from their treatments. Some people in severe pain have been known to moan, wail, and even scream. Well this was disrupting the other guests' stay, so he had reinforced steel rooms built to be completely soundproof, so he could put these noisy creatures in and shut the door, and not have the peace disturbed for the other patients. As you can imagine, being locked up, writhing in pain and near death's door... many of these poor folk who died in these rooms aren't the most restful of souls. Indeed so many people died, he had to build a morgue in the basement of the hotel, to cope with the bodies. I'm sure by now you're getting a picture of the people who haunt this building, and why they're so unhappy and restless. The ghost tour was informative and very interesting; I realised I had already encountered two of the phenomenon earlier in the afternoon. I was out on the back porch, enjoying the view when I could smell the beautiful sweet scent of fruit tobacco, and I thought at the time how odd it was, because no one else was on the back porch with me, and I couldn't see anyone walking the gardens either. I did a bit of a sniff around and strangely, the scent was gone as quickly as it had come. Later on that night, we were told about one of the doctors who worked at the original hotel (as an on site doctor for the wealthy hotel guests) who was always seen wandering around with a pipe in his hand, his tobacco of choice? Cherry flavoured. Apparently it's quite common to smell the tobacco in small whiffs every now and then, and his ghost has actually been seen several times, crossing from the elevator across the hallway into his old office.
I did love this hotel, with all its quirks and freaky sensations and even the trip to the morgue which was slightly terrifying, was also enjoyable. Incidentally, SyFy did a show on The Crescent Hotel, and two amateur ghost hunters went down to the morgue with a thermal camera, and captured a rather creepy very clear image of a man standing in what appeared to be a civil war uniform, right next to one of the ghost hunters. Freaky, freaky stuff. I stood in the spot where this was caught on film and it was a little unnerving - the ghost caught on film didn't exactly look like he wanted to be best friends.
Slightly unnerved, I headed back to my room to try to get some sleep.. which just didn't happen. A combination of me being paranoid, and the ghosts (and guests) making all their unwelcome noises kept me waking every few hours. I packed up all my kit (which by now had grown to almost unmentionable size) and lugged it downstairs, unsure what I'd be doing for the day, but knowing that I wasn't going to stay another night in a hotel I just cannot sleep in, no matter how comfortable.
I drove towards downtown, wondering what I'd do for breakfast, when I happened to see a little house with a sandwich board sign out the front, advertising Oscar's Café. BINGO! What better way to get to know the locals, than get to know the locals off the beaten path? This proved to be a really wonderful idea, as the delightful English & American couple were happy to let me sit and plan my day, and he took time out of the kitchen to make suggestions and draw me a very helpful mud map. The homemade bagel with smoked salmon and massive side salad with absolutely perfect light lemon vinaigrette was a total hit. I walked in at the same time as a man covered in glitter, and as he twinkled in front of me, and ordered the same meal as me, I decided I'd like to get to know him. He turned to me once we'd ordered at the counter and said "so! where are we sitting?" YES. We chose a table on the porch and got to know each other. Sparky hails from Hot Springs, and is relatively new to Eureka Springs, but is finding everyone delightfully whacky (like attracts like!), and was in the process of getting ready for the afternoon's art street fair. I do now, with the benefit of hindsight, sincerely wish I'd just taken his hand and said "lead on!", but silly me, I thought I'd visit Branson. If you're ever in Eureka Springs, go and pay them a visit. The street is gorgeous - residential, so not covered in tourists - the house is very sweet and quirky, and the food is so good and healthful you'll forget you're in America.
One of the places the owner/chef had suggested was Black Bass Lake - a totally off the beaten path, not even signed, down a gravel road and round a few bends, locals' spot. You can walk the perimeter of the lake, take in its beauty, observe the wildlife, fish, sunbake - whatever takes your fancy. I did just that - whatever took my fancy - and spent a whole lot of time getting good photos of beautiful bright blue butterflies.
Downtown Eureka Springs is a gorgeously quaint little town; its shops built into cuts in the ridges, terraced shops lining both sides of the winding, climbing street. Dangerously steep in places, ramshackle (but not unsightly) in others, squeal-worthy cute in some - the two main streets were definitely worth the few hours I devoted to walking them.
But as is life, all good things must come to an end, and I was as far North in Arkansas as I could be, so the next stop was Missouri. I bode Eureka Springs and Arkansas a very fond farewell, and began the climb into the mountains to cross the border. Another beautiful countryside and forest drive, and I was over the border, and into the grand lakes of Southern Missouri.
If you'd like to see some photos, click here.
Till next time,
M x
I arrived at The Crescent Hotel a little worse for wear after my GPS going into melt-down mode when the grid structure Americans use to navigate their towns failed to work due to the actual roads following the cliffs and ridges instead of a neat pattern of grids. Numerous times I was instructed to turn right literally off the edge of a cliff; it is enough to make you paranoid that your iPhone is out to get you. As I climbed higher and higher I could see an impressive structure perched on the edge of the tallest ridge, its presence imposing and demanding attention against the green surrounding forest. When I finally ignored my GPS and made my own way using sense of direction, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I saw the looming "The Crescent Hotel, est 1886" sign marking the entrance to the car park. I pulled in, and felt a wave of joy sweep over me, for the Hotel truly is magnificent, the grounds manicured in a perfect echo of the old time glory of the building itself. My joy was short lived however, when upon impulse I decided to check my itinerary (something I hadn't done in days), and to my dismay discovered that I was meant to be staying at The Arkansas House in Jasper - a town I'd passed through around four hours earlier. Worse yet - I'd already paid (in full) for this hotel room. Dangnabit!! Not to be disheartened, I rang the owner and apologised profusely and explained my predicament, and he gruffly agreed to refund my room and promptly hung up on me. Oh well, at least I got a good outcome, I told myself as I shook it off and made my way to the grand entrance of the Crescent. Old world manners live here, and I was greeted by a dashing young man opening the huge silver and glass door for me. In a matter of minutes, I had: patted one very cute cat who reminds me uncannily of Henri Le Chat Noir; been given the king balcony suite with jacuzzi for $99 instead of the initially quoted $269; and handed a glass of raspberry iced tea by one of the lovely hotel staff. I have to say, I felt rather chuffed at this point. I booked in for the 8pm hotel ghost tour and took my suitcase upstairs to the awaiting luxury suite. It really is a thing of beauty - massive antique king bed made from cherrywood, delightful curtains complementing the wallpaper, huge jacuzzi positioned to look over the balcony but with white gauzy curtains for privacy (the balcony is shared between two suites). The balcony itself was wonderful - massive, compared with the usual balconies I've had attached to hotel rooms - you could easily host a part of 30 out there. Lovely garden furniture, including tables with mosaic crescent moon symbols inlaid on the table tops. Best of all, I had been given a suite with a view of the valley and the opposing southern ridge. Beautiful. Make sure you check out the photos of the view and the "HC" hedge seen by looking directly down from my balcony. I decided a long hot jacuzzi with book in hand and balcony doors wide open to let in the mist was just what the doctor ordered.
The Crescent Hotel has been many things in its long life, one of which is a hotel set up for the rich and famous, indeed only those on the elite invitation list were able to come and holiday there for quite some time. Quite on the opposite end of the spectrum, a torture house and morgue for wealthy elite suffering from cancer. Advertised as a cancer-curing treatment retreat, the unscrupulous new owner (bought from the original owner after the great depression set in and no one could afford lavish hotel stays anymore) had no idea how to cure cancer, and was only interested in making a quick buck rather than actually treating people. He injected them seven times a day with a horrid concoction of herbs and acid. Many people tried to write their relatives to tell them that the 'treatments' were hurting them worse than their original disease, however his racket wasn't discovered for many, many years. When you entered the treatment facility, he would have you sign a blank letter. If you happened to die at the facility, he would fill in the blank letter with something along the lines of "I'm great! Improved dramatically, very happy, keep the cheques coming!" and post it to your family. In addition to treating your cancer, it was supposed to be a nice retreat, a break away from the stressful 'real life' back home. Well, many of his patients were in agony from their illness, and doubly so from their treatments. Some people in severe pain have been known to moan, wail, and even scream. Well this was disrupting the other guests' stay, so he had reinforced steel rooms built to be completely soundproof, so he could put these noisy creatures in and shut the door, and not have the peace disturbed for the other patients. As you can imagine, being locked up, writhing in pain and near death's door... many of these poor folk who died in these rooms aren't the most restful of souls. Indeed so many people died, he had to build a morgue in the basement of the hotel, to cope with the bodies. I'm sure by now you're getting a picture of the people who haunt this building, and why they're so unhappy and restless. The ghost tour was informative and very interesting; I realised I had already encountered two of the phenomenon earlier in the afternoon. I was out on the back porch, enjoying the view when I could smell the beautiful sweet scent of fruit tobacco, and I thought at the time how odd it was, because no one else was on the back porch with me, and I couldn't see anyone walking the gardens either. I did a bit of a sniff around and strangely, the scent was gone as quickly as it had come. Later on that night, we were told about one of the doctors who worked at the original hotel (as an on site doctor for the wealthy hotel guests) who was always seen wandering around with a pipe in his hand, his tobacco of choice? Cherry flavoured. Apparently it's quite common to smell the tobacco in small whiffs every now and then, and his ghost has actually been seen several times, crossing from the elevator across the hallway into his old office.
I did love this hotel, with all its quirks and freaky sensations and even the trip to the morgue which was slightly terrifying, was also enjoyable. Incidentally, SyFy did a show on The Crescent Hotel, and two amateur ghost hunters went down to the morgue with a thermal camera, and captured a rather creepy very clear image of a man standing in what appeared to be a civil war uniform, right next to one of the ghost hunters. Freaky, freaky stuff. I stood in the spot where this was caught on film and it was a little unnerving - the ghost caught on film didn't exactly look like he wanted to be best friends.
Slightly unnerved, I headed back to my room to try to get some sleep.. which just didn't happen. A combination of me being paranoid, and the ghosts (and guests) making all their unwelcome noises kept me waking every few hours. I packed up all my kit (which by now had grown to almost unmentionable size) and lugged it downstairs, unsure what I'd be doing for the day, but knowing that I wasn't going to stay another night in a hotel I just cannot sleep in, no matter how comfortable.
I drove towards downtown, wondering what I'd do for breakfast, when I happened to see a little house with a sandwich board sign out the front, advertising Oscar's Café. BINGO! What better way to get to know the locals, than get to know the locals off the beaten path? This proved to be a really wonderful idea, as the delightful English & American couple were happy to let me sit and plan my day, and he took time out of the kitchen to make suggestions and draw me a very helpful mud map. The homemade bagel with smoked salmon and massive side salad with absolutely perfect light lemon vinaigrette was a total hit. I walked in at the same time as a man covered in glitter, and as he twinkled in front of me, and ordered the same meal as me, I decided I'd like to get to know him. He turned to me once we'd ordered at the counter and said "so! where are we sitting?" YES. We chose a table on the porch and got to know each other. Sparky hails from Hot Springs, and is relatively new to Eureka Springs, but is finding everyone delightfully whacky (like attracts like!), and was in the process of getting ready for the afternoon's art street fair. I do now, with the benefit of hindsight, sincerely wish I'd just taken his hand and said "lead on!", but silly me, I thought I'd visit Branson. If you're ever in Eureka Springs, go and pay them a visit. The street is gorgeous - residential, so not covered in tourists - the house is very sweet and quirky, and the food is so good and healthful you'll forget you're in America.
One of the places the owner/chef had suggested was Black Bass Lake - a totally off the beaten path, not even signed, down a gravel road and round a few bends, locals' spot. You can walk the perimeter of the lake, take in its beauty, observe the wildlife, fish, sunbake - whatever takes your fancy. I did just that - whatever took my fancy - and spent a whole lot of time getting good photos of beautiful bright blue butterflies.
Downtown Eureka Springs is a gorgeously quaint little town; its shops built into cuts in the ridges, terraced shops lining both sides of the winding, climbing street. Dangerously steep in places, ramshackle (but not unsightly) in others, squeal-worthy cute in some - the two main streets were definitely worth the few hours I devoted to walking them.
But as is life, all good things must come to an end, and I was as far North in Arkansas as I could be, so the next stop was Missouri. I bode Eureka Springs and Arkansas a very fond farewell, and began the climb into the mountains to cross the border. Another beautiful countryside and forest drive, and I was over the border, and into the grand lakes of Southern Missouri.
If you'd like to see some photos, click here.
Till next time,
M x
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