Honeymoon Journal - Day 5
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
July 9, 2007
Our phone rang at 7:15 this morning, waking us up for the day. It isn’t the earliest we’ve been awake on this holiday – one morning in Barcelona we were both up at 5 a.m. sharp all on our own – but it is earlier than our alarm has ever woken us. We had a terrific sleep in our new quarters; our room is cool, dark, and the bed so very comfortable. On our first full day at sea (three full days away) I don’t suspect it will be hard to sleep most of the morning away. After getting all ready for the day we headed up for breakfast at the buffet, which was about as good as it sounds; nothing fabulous, but pretty good all around. Lindsay found an omelet station that makes custom omelets to order. I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled for that tomorrow. After breakfast we headed down to the big theater onboard, the Pacifica Theater, to get our tour groups and wait for an available tender to the much smaller port of Villefrance.
Tendering into Villefranche seems to me to be the preferable way of arriving in this small French town. Barcelona’s port, and I believe the rest of the port stops we will be making, tend to be in industrial areas far removed from the cities and towns we will be visiting. The 10 minute trip from the Brilliance to Villefranche was terrific, an opportunity to photograph the boat as we pulled away, and snap some pictures of the town as we got nearer.
There is a long peninsula to the east side of Villefranche I later learned is colloquially referred to as “The Billionaires Peninsula” because of the number of super wealthy people who live there. I marveled at the picturesque villas on it, their trees shaped and perfect, the houses clean and gleaming in the early morning sun.
All along the harbor front in Villefranche there were tall buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, each a different color – red, blue, yellow – with their shutters open to the breeze as people strolled past going about their daily business. I have the feeling most of those people are tourists, but for now I’ll ignore that fact and allow Villefranche to remain unspoiled by tourists in my mind.
After we stepped off of the tender we were immediately herded into our groups and were introduced to our tour guide for the day, a young French woman with excellent English. Her name is escaping me right now, but I’m sure Lindsay will remember. We boarded an enormous bus and quickly headed out to the first stop on our tour – Nice. If our guide hadn’t told us when we first entered Nice, I never would have known we switched towns – everything seems to run together here in the south of France. Nice is every bit as picturesque as Villefranche, with beautiful facades facing the ocean. The buildings seem to date from the 1800’s, and are as tall and close as Barcelona. The ocean looked inviting this morning, but we were shocked to hear the beaches in this portion of the French Riviera are not sand, but stone. Oh well – no time to swim anyways. We had a brief stop at the local market in Nice that is a flower market six days a week, and an antique market the one day of the week we are here. Our guide talked to us about the market, and a bit about the square it is in, and then gave us 30 minutes to explore on our own. I immediately led Lindsay out of the market and into the narrow warren of streets behind it. We stopped for an early morning gelato (my first exercise of french, but – dammit – I said gracias instead of merci!) and wandered, but not too far away. I wanted to head farther into Nice but Lindsay, who watched me navigate Barcelona by luck as much as anything, wanted to stay closer to the pick-up point. This time, she won.
We boarded the bus again and finished a driving tour of Nice before heading to our next destination. The whole city seems very clean and safe, and more than a little affluent. As the bus climbed the cliffs and hills farther inland we got a better view of Nice, and of the port of Villefranche, in particular the houses and villas. Our guide informed us that, if we were thinking of moving to Nice and wanted to live in a nice little villa, the price tag starts at twenty million Euros. My heart sank a little at that news.
The next stop on our trip was the small medieval town of Eze. We drove for about 45 minutes to get there, which gave us time to admire three things; the scenery, our guides extremely expansive knowledge, and the skill of our bus driver. The scenery is pretty obvious and doesn’t require a lot of explanation. Our guide is so knowledgeable on so many topics about Nice, Villefranche, and Eze it’s kind of crazy. She knows dates, names of architects, when different nations took control of the city, which monuments date from which period…it would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so impressive. Our bus driver, now, here is something truly impressive. In a world of small cars and shift, scooters, he navigates a Greyhound-sized bus so quickly and surely, making the sharpest hairpin turns without so much as a pause to check if he’ll fit, that I am as much in awe of him as I am the city around me.
Eze is a tiny town of only 200 inhabitants, perched high up on a cliff for defensive purposes. There wasn’t a whole lot to see that was really impressive, but the town itself is very cute in its own regard. The streets are narrow, winding about at will, and full of stairs. No vehicles can get into Eze, and they have to park halfway down the cliff and walk up – we saw a delivery guy hauling large boxes up the cliff by hand, poor guy. Every shop is an artist’s store it seemed, selling glass sculptures, paintings, woven cloth, olive oil, and some touristy knick-knacks. After a little free time to explore Eze, we all met again at the bottom of the cliff for lunch. Lindsay let me explore a little more this time, and we still arrived on time. I suppose the fact that there is only one way in or out of the town might have had something to do with that, but I’ll take what I can get. Lunch was good, if simple. We dined with four other people, a husband and wife from Miami, and a mother and daughter from Texas. Still haven’t met any other Canadians on board. After lunch it was back on the bus and we headed off to Monaco.
If Nice had a penisula full of millionaires, Monaco is an entire nation full of them. A few quick stats, courtesy of our tour guide (who Lindsay reminded me is named Stephanie): rent for a small 2 bedroom apartment starts at 3,000 Euros per month. Buying that same apartment will cost between 400,000 and 800,000 Euros. For a small 2 bedroom apartment. I can’t fathom how regular people can afford to live here. I’m not overly impressed with Monaco. Am I such a jaded traveler already? It is very busy and very affluent, but lacking some of the charms of Nice and Villefranche. The apartments are nice, clean and well maintained, but not overwhelming.
We took a walking tour of the Old section of Monaco, from the Oceanographic Museum, past the Cathedral where Prince Renier married Grace Kelly, making her Princess Grace of Monaco, to the Prince’s Palace. The streets are cobblestone, narrow, shady from the tall buildings lining them, like most old European cities so far, but nothing really special.
After the walking tour we had a little free time to wander the old town before we were to meet back at the museum. We walked along a narrow road next to the ocean, enjoying the scenery, and the next thing I know, it’s time to meet up with the tour again and I haven’t the slightest idea where we were, or how to get back to the museum without completely back tracking, which would have taken far too long. I knew we were heading in the right direction, but Lindsay wasn’t having any of my guessing and poor judgment any longer. We found a couple old men who of course did not speak any English, and discovered my French was indeed good enough in a pinch – “Ou est la musee Oceanographique?” One of them pointed up the path a little further and said it was not far away. I believe I said thank you to him. I hope I did. We found our group without being too late, and without Lindsay panicking too much, and we were soon back on the bus, headed for Monte Carlo.
If Monaco is truly a land of Millionaires, then Monte Carlo must be their playground. The Grande Casino of Monte Carlo is beautiful, on the outside anyways as we did not enter and explore the inside. The cars parked outside were beautiful as well. Dozens of Mercedes, Ferraris, a few Lamborghinis, even a Bentley and an antique Rolls Royce. We avoided the casino itself (except to snap a few pictures) and went window shopping past Dior, Cartier, Celine, Fred Paris, Chanel, Yves St. Laurent, and don’t forget Louis Vuitton.
After we headed back to the meeting place, plenty early this time, and then it was a short ride back to Villefranche where we bid adieu to Stephanie and our miraculous bus driver.
The rest of the evening looks to be pretty quiet. Lindsay has a headache, so it was early to bed for her. It’ll be early to bed for me as well – tour starts at 7:30 tomorrow morning, so at least a 6:30 wake-up call. In the meanwhile, I think I’ll go find the coffee shop and relax with my book for a while.
Our phone rang at 7:15 this morning, waking us up for the day. It isn’t the earliest we’ve been awake on this holiday – one morning in Barcelona we were both up at 5 a.m. sharp all on our own – but it is earlier than our alarm has ever woken us. We had a terrific sleep in our new quarters; our room is cool, dark, and the bed so very comfortable. On our first full day at sea (three full days away) I don’t suspect it will be hard to sleep most of the morning away. After getting all ready for the day we headed up for breakfast at the buffet, which was about as good as it sounds; nothing fabulous, but pretty good all around. Lindsay found an omelet station that makes custom omelets to order. I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled for that tomorrow. After breakfast we headed down to the big theater onboard, the Pacifica Theater, to get our tour groups and wait for an available tender to the much smaller port of Villefrance.
Tendering into Villefranche seems to me to be the preferable way of arriving in this small French town. Barcelona’s port, and I believe the rest of the port stops we will be making, tend to be in industrial areas far removed from the cities and towns we will be visiting. The 10 minute trip from the Brilliance to Villefranche was terrific, an opportunity to photograph the boat as we pulled away, and snap some pictures of the town as we got nearer.
There is a long peninsula to the east side of Villefranche I later learned is colloquially referred to as “The Billionaires Peninsula” because of the number of super wealthy people who live there. I marveled at the picturesque villas on it, their trees shaped and perfect, the houses clean and gleaming in the early morning sun.
All along the harbor front in Villefranche there were tall buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, each a different color – red, blue, yellow – with their shutters open to the breeze as people strolled past going about their daily business. I have the feeling most of those people are tourists, but for now I’ll ignore that fact and allow Villefranche to remain unspoiled by tourists in my mind.
After we stepped off of the tender we were immediately herded into our groups and were introduced to our tour guide for the day, a young French woman with excellent English. Her name is escaping me right now, but I’m sure Lindsay will remember. We boarded an enormous bus and quickly headed out to the first stop on our tour – Nice. If our guide hadn’t told us when we first entered Nice, I never would have known we switched towns – everything seems to run together here in the south of France. Nice is every bit as picturesque as Villefranche, with beautiful facades facing the ocean. The buildings seem to date from the 1800’s, and are as tall and close as Barcelona. The ocean looked inviting this morning, but we were shocked to hear the beaches in this portion of the French Riviera are not sand, but stone. Oh well – no time to swim anyways. We had a brief stop at the local market in Nice that is a flower market six days a week, and an antique market the one day of the week we are here. Our guide talked to us about the market, and a bit about the square it is in, and then gave us 30 minutes to explore on our own. I immediately led Lindsay out of the market and into the narrow warren of streets behind it. We stopped for an early morning gelato (my first exercise of french, but – dammit – I said gracias instead of merci!) and wandered, but not too far away. I wanted to head farther into Nice but Lindsay, who watched me navigate Barcelona by luck as much as anything, wanted to stay closer to the pick-up point. This time, she won.
We boarded the bus again and finished a driving tour of Nice before heading to our next destination. The whole city seems very clean and safe, and more than a little affluent. As the bus climbed the cliffs and hills farther inland we got a better view of Nice, and of the port of Villefranche, in particular the houses and villas. Our guide informed us that, if we were thinking of moving to Nice and wanted to live in a nice little villa, the price tag starts at twenty million Euros. My heart sank a little at that news.
The next stop on our trip was the small medieval town of Eze. We drove for about 45 minutes to get there, which gave us time to admire three things; the scenery, our guides extremely expansive knowledge, and the skill of our bus driver. The scenery is pretty obvious and doesn’t require a lot of explanation. Our guide is so knowledgeable on so many topics about Nice, Villefranche, and Eze it’s kind of crazy. She knows dates, names of architects, when different nations took control of the city, which monuments date from which period…it would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so impressive. Our bus driver, now, here is something truly impressive. In a world of small cars and shift, scooters, he navigates a Greyhound-sized bus so quickly and surely, making the sharpest hairpin turns without so much as a pause to check if he’ll fit, that I am as much in awe of him as I am the city around me.
Eze is a tiny town of only 200 inhabitants, perched high up on a cliff for defensive purposes. There wasn’t a whole lot to see that was really impressive, but the town itself is very cute in its own regard. The streets are narrow, winding about at will, and full of stairs. No vehicles can get into Eze, and they have to park halfway down the cliff and walk up – we saw a delivery guy hauling large boxes up the cliff by hand, poor guy. Every shop is an artist’s store it seemed, selling glass sculptures, paintings, woven cloth, olive oil, and some touristy knick-knacks. After a little free time to explore Eze, we all met again at the bottom of the cliff for lunch. Lindsay let me explore a little more this time, and we still arrived on time. I suppose the fact that there is only one way in or out of the town might have had something to do with that, but I’ll take what I can get. Lunch was good, if simple. We dined with four other people, a husband and wife from Miami, and a mother and daughter from Texas. Still haven’t met any other Canadians on board. After lunch it was back on the bus and we headed off to Monaco.
If Nice had a penisula full of millionaires, Monaco is an entire nation full of them. A few quick stats, courtesy of our tour guide (who Lindsay reminded me is named Stephanie): rent for a small 2 bedroom apartment starts at 3,000 Euros per month. Buying that same apartment will cost between 400,000 and 800,000 Euros. For a small 2 bedroom apartment. I can’t fathom how regular people can afford to live here. I’m not overly impressed with Monaco. Am I such a jaded traveler already? It is very busy and very affluent, but lacking some of the charms of Nice and Villefranche. The apartments are nice, clean and well maintained, but not overwhelming.
We took a walking tour of the Old section of Monaco, from the Oceanographic Museum, past the Cathedral where Prince Renier married Grace Kelly, making her Princess Grace of Monaco, to the Prince’s Palace. The streets are cobblestone, narrow, shady from the tall buildings lining them, like most old European cities so far, but nothing really special.
After the walking tour we had a little free time to wander the old town before we were to meet back at the museum. We walked along a narrow road next to the ocean, enjoying the scenery, and the next thing I know, it’s time to meet up with the tour again and I haven’t the slightest idea where we were, or how to get back to the museum without completely back tracking, which would have taken far too long. I knew we were heading in the right direction, but Lindsay wasn’t having any of my guessing and poor judgment any longer. We found a couple old men who of course did not speak any English, and discovered my French was indeed good enough in a pinch – “Ou est la musee Oceanographique?” One of them pointed up the path a little further and said it was not far away. I believe I said thank you to him. I hope I did. We found our group without being too late, and without Lindsay panicking too much, and we were soon back on the bus, headed for Monte Carlo.
If Monaco is truly a land of Millionaires, then Monte Carlo must be their playground. The Grande Casino of Monte Carlo is beautiful, on the outside anyways as we did not enter and explore the inside. The cars parked outside were beautiful as well. Dozens of Mercedes, Ferraris, a few Lamborghinis, even a Bentley and an antique Rolls Royce. We avoided the casino itself (except to snap a few pictures) and went window shopping past Dior, Cartier, Celine, Fred Paris, Chanel, Yves St. Laurent, and don’t forget Louis Vuitton.
After we headed back to the meeting place, plenty early this time, and then it was a short ride back to Villefranche where we bid adieu to Stephanie and our miraculous bus driver.
The rest of the evening looks to be pretty quiet. Lindsay has a headache, so it was early to bed for her. It’ll be early to bed for me as well – tour starts at 7:30 tomorrow morning, so at least a 6:30 wake-up call. In the meanwhile, I think I’ll go find the coffee shop and relax with my book for a while.
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Honeymoon Journal - Day 4
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
July 8, 2007
Embarkation day! We woke up a little later today than normal and took our time with breakfast. Toast this morning for me, which looked like it had been cooked on a barbeque. Lindsay enjoyed the rich hot xocolata they serve, nice and warm and rich. After we took our time packing everything up, and then bid adieu to Hostal Palermo. We will miss your hard beds and narrow showers, and especially your very small rooms.
When we walked out of our shady section of Boqueria Street and into the sunny Ramblas, a fortuitous sign greeted us: a cab, waiting by the curb. Well, not waiting for us, exactly, but for someone who hadn’t shown up yet, and we took the liberty of stealing their cab. A few short minutes later we drove up the incline of Littoral Drive, an interesting bridge leading to the port, and were greeted with our first glimpse of our ship, the Brilliance of the Seas.
If you’ve never seen a cruise ship up close and in person, it is difficult not to be a little bit shocked by the size of them, particularly the recent breed of super-large cruise ships designed to carry in excess of four thousand passengers. I believe the Brilliance has room for 2,400 guests, and a crew of more than 900. Royal Caribbean actually has two classes of ships larger than the Brilliance. Our ship has twelve fully inhabited decks above water, some strictly staterooms and suites, some a mix of public areas and rooms. Only decks 11, 12, and 13 have no guest quarters. Since we arrived at the ship quite early, check in was very quick and painless. Staterooms wouldn’t be ready for almost two hours, so we first sat down to lunch in the Windjammer Café, the main buffet on board. The food was quite good, but as with most buffets, the selection was greater than my appetite, and my plate ended up piled far too high for me to eat without exploding. After lunch we set off to explore the ship.
We discovered the mini golf course and the climbing wall (Deck 13), both outdoor pools and the indoor solarium pool (Deck 11), and the well equipped fitness center (deck 12). They offer classes in yoga, Pilates, spin, and a whole bunch of lectures on health and fitness related topics. We took a tour of the spa with a guide who could not have been more obviously Irish if she had tattooed a shamrock and the Irish flag on her forehead. They have just about every kind of treatment you could think of, and a few I’d never heard of before. If it weren’t for the price I’m sure Lindsay would have had a massage or seaweed wrap on a nightly basis. Alas, the prices are steep, so we’ll have to see if we take them up on any of their services.
After the top three decks had been thoroughly explored, we went through the rest of the ship a deck at a time. Each has something on it. A library, a coffee shop, computers for Internet access, even a few quiet areas to sit and relax (maybe with a coffee and a library book?) and enjoy the view. Decks 4 and 5 are busy again, with a large two-story theater at the front of the boat, a large duty free shop, photography store, lounge with live music, and a two-story dining room at the back of the boat. Finally, after 1PM and we were getting a little footsore, we were allowed into our stateroom.
After three nights in a glorified shoebox in Barcelona, it seemed like stepping into a very fine hotel. The bed was huge – a queen at least – with soft, warm bedding. Our window let the afternoon sunshine in, brightening the whole affair. There is a small couch and table, and a desk-slash-dressing table, TV, and a compact washroom. All right, the washroom is a little small, but it is clean, and most importantly, not shared with other guests! The only problem is that, at some point in the past someone was too lazy to go up on deck to smoke and did so in the bathroom, and it still smells like it. I hope the smell goes away pretty quickly.
Our main luggage wouldn’t arrive for some hours yet, so we changed into our swimsuits and headed up on deck. On route we met our room attendant, Brito, who looks to be Indian. He is very friendly, with a big smile all the time, and he had our names down pat once he saw what room we came from. The only problem? Mr. & Mrs. Merryfield. None of that, in my opinion. We arrived up on deck a few minutes later (the elevators are very busy as people board, and we weren’t about to walk from the third to the eleventh deck) and flopped down to read for a while. After a few minutes we had both almost overheated, and so we hopped into the pool. The good news – it’s blessedly cool but not so cold it’s a shock to hop straight in. The not so good news – it’s a saltwater pool. For one, I always get a little water in my mouth, and constant salt isn’t a terrific taste (it ruined the rest of my beer), and second, once we dried off I could still feel the salt clinging to my skin. It feels like I’m dirty everywhere. Oh well. I guess Ill have to squeeze into the shower before dinner.
The pool closed at 5PM for the mandatory evacuation drill at 5:15. This was, as I’m sure you expected, more boring than not, and longer than it should have been since everything had to be repeated in four or five languages other than English. All of the non-English announcements are handled by two crewmembers that each speaks something like four separate languages, most of them quite fluently. This is a very international sip. Not only do the passengers come from all around the world (there are a lot of Americans, but more Europeans that I expected), but also the crew is a collection of people from every corner of the globe. I think I’ve seen crewmembers from every continent – South and Central Americans, Europeans, Africans, North Americans, Asians, and all with a good grasp of the English language and a terrific attitude. Man of the passengers seem friendly as well, but the crew are all so helpful and inviting that it’s hard not to enjoy yourself.
After the drill, our luggage was delivered, and we spent the next hour unpacking entirely – one of the great perks of cruising, in my estimation. Most of my clothes could do with a good ironing, but no irons are allowed in the staterooms as they pose a fire hazard. Lindsay hasn’t brought just a lot of clothes – I think she’ll have to work hard and change often in order to wear everything once. It seems a bit ridiculous to me, but she might have the last laugh when, on day 11 of the cruise, she still has fresh things to wear while I try to determine which shirt still smells the freshest before I go out for the day. Oh well. Such is life.
About seven o’clock we headed up top for a little snack and to watch the ship head out to sea. We found a nice little café up on deck twelve that serves pizza, pasta, and paninis, all made fresh to order. We sat and ate and watched as the ship began to pull away from the dock, and as soon as we had finished eating we went on deck and got some photos and video of us heading out to sea. The water was pretty calm, and as soon as we were in open water the captain put the hammer down and we started cruising at about 20 to 25 knots – impressive for a ship of this size, at least to me. We relaxed on deck a while longer until it was 9PM – time for dinner.
The dining room is a truly huge room. We’re tucked away in a smaller side room, at a nice little table for four, which is just perfect. Some tables seem to hold a dozen or more. I assume this is for larger groups all cruising together, but it’s hard to tell. The first people we were introduced to were our main waiter and his assistant, Lauro and Meisso. Lauro is from the Philippines, looks to be in his 30’s, and would not be out of place as a James Bond villain. He is very professional, but not quite friendly. Maybe he’ll warm up as the cruise goes on. Our assistant waiter, Meisso, is a whole bundle of fun. He’s from somewhere in the Caribbean I believe, and has a pretty heavy accent. He also is sooooo excited to be working on board, I think. Everything he does is so important, from getting us water to offering us bread. I have the impression that this is his first cruise and he is so excited to have a job on ship that he is trying so very hard. Lindsay’s dad would have a riot hassling the poor fellow. Our dining partners showed up just as we were ordering – a young couple about our age, from Los Angeles, named Shawn and April. They’re very pleasant and easy to talk to, which is nice. I’ve had bad dreams of us being seated with a couple grandparents had having absolutely nothing to talk about.
Shawn & April are in their mid-to-late twenties, and were just married in April; this is their honeymoon as well. I was already about half full from the pizza we had earlier, so I contented myself with a spinach salad for dinner, rather than a full meal I would likely only eat half of. Lauro commented that I mustn’t be very hungry when I ordered it, and when it arrived, I saw why. I was half expecting a dinner-sized salad, but I received a very small starter salad. I’m sure if I had tried hard enough I could have got the entire salad, including garnish, into my mouth all in one bite, with room to chew. Lindsay, Shawn, and April all laughed at me. Ever Lauro smiled a bit. Oh well, more room for dessert.
Early to bed tonight, now. Tomorrow is the first of three very early days in a row, due to the excursions we chose. Tomorrow we dock in Villefranche and will tour Nice, Eze, and Monaco. I hope my French is up to par, and that I remember to use it. I keep replying to people on the boat in my pidgin Spanish – lots of gracias everywhere. Remember Jay… it’s merci….
Embarkation day! We woke up a little later today than normal and took our time with breakfast. Toast this morning for me, which looked like it had been cooked on a barbeque. Lindsay enjoyed the rich hot xocolata they serve, nice and warm and rich. After we took our time packing everything up, and then bid adieu to Hostal Palermo. We will miss your hard beds and narrow showers, and especially your very small rooms.
When we walked out of our shady section of Boqueria Street and into the sunny Ramblas, a fortuitous sign greeted us: a cab, waiting by the curb. Well, not waiting for us, exactly, but for someone who hadn’t shown up yet, and we took the liberty of stealing their cab. A few short minutes later we drove up the incline of Littoral Drive, an interesting bridge leading to the port, and were greeted with our first glimpse of our ship, the Brilliance of the Seas.
If you’ve never seen a cruise ship up close and in person, it is difficult not to be a little bit shocked by the size of them, particularly the recent breed of super-large cruise ships designed to carry in excess of four thousand passengers. I believe the Brilliance has room for 2,400 guests, and a crew of more than 900. Royal Caribbean actually has two classes of ships larger than the Brilliance. Our ship has twelve fully inhabited decks above water, some strictly staterooms and suites, some a mix of public areas and rooms. Only decks 11, 12, and 13 have no guest quarters. Since we arrived at the ship quite early, check in was very quick and painless. Staterooms wouldn’t be ready for almost two hours, so we first sat down to lunch in the Windjammer Café, the main buffet on board. The food was quite good, but as with most buffets, the selection was greater than my appetite, and my plate ended up piled far too high for me to eat without exploding. After lunch we set off to explore the ship.
We discovered the mini golf course and the climbing wall (Deck 13), both outdoor pools and the indoor solarium pool (Deck 11), and the well equipped fitness center (deck 12). They offer classes in yoga, Pilates, spin, and a whole bunch of lectures on health and fitness related topics. We took a tour of the spa with a guide who could not have been more obviously Irish if she had tattooed a shamrock and the Irish flag on her forehead. They have just about every kind of treatment you could think of, and a few I’d never heard of before. If it weren’t for the price I’m sure Lindsay would have had a massage or seaweed wrap on a nightly basis. Alas, the prices are steep, so we’ll have to see if we take them up on any of their services.
After the top three decks had been thoroughly explored, we went through the rest of the ship a deck at a time. Each has something on it. A library, a coffee shop, computers for Internet access, even a few quiet areas to sit and relax (maybe with a coffee and a library book?) and enjoy the view. Decks 4 and 5 are busy again, with a large two-story theater at the front of the boat, a large duty free shop, photography store, lounge with live music, and a two-story dining room at the back of the boat. Finally, after 1PM and we were getting a little footsore, we were allowed into our stateroom.
After three nights in a glorified shoebox in Barcelona, it seemed like stepping into a very fine hotel. The bed was huge – a queen at least – with soft, warm bedding. Our window let the afternoon sunshine in, brightening the whole affair. There is a small couch and table, and a desk-slash-dressing table, TV, and a compact washroom. All right, the washroom is a little small, but it is clean, and most importantly, not shared with other guests! The only problem is that, at some point in the past someone was too lazy to go up on deck to smoke and did so in the bathroom, and it still smells like it. I hope the smell goes away pretty quickly.
Our main luggage wouldn’t arrive for some hours yet, so we changed into our swimsuits and headed up on deck. On route we met our room attendant, Brito, who looks to be Indian. He is very friendly, with a big smile all the time, and he had our names down pat once he saw what room we came from. The only problem? Mr. & Mrs. Merryfield. None of that, in my opinion. We arrived up on deck a few minutes later (the elevators are very busy as people board, and we weren’t about to walk from the third to the eleventh deck) and flopped down to read for a while. After a few minutes we had both almost overheated, and so we hopped into the pool. The good news – it’s blessedly cool but not so cold it’s a shock to hop straight in. The not so good news – it’s a saltwater pool. For one, I always get a little water in my mouth, and constant salt isn’t a terrific taste (it ruined the rest of my beer), and second, once we dried off I could still feel the salt clinging to my skin. It feels like I’m dirty everywhere. Oh well. I guess Ill have to squeeze into the shower before dinner.
The pool closed at 5PM for the mandatory evacuation drill at 5:15. This was, as I’m sure you expected, more boring than not, and longer than it should have been since everything had to be repeated in four or five languages other than English. All of the non-English announcements are handled by two crewmembers that each speaks something like four separate languages, most of them quite fluently. This is a very international sip. Not only do the passengers come from all around the world (there are a lot of Americans, but more Europeans that I expected), but also the crew is a collection of people from every corner of the globe. I think I’ve seen crewmembers from every continent – South and Central Americans, Europeans, Africans, North Americans, Asians, and all with a good grasp of the English language and a terrific attitude. Man of the passengers seem friendly as well, but the crew are all so helpful and inviting that it’s hard not to enjoy yourself.
After the drill, our luggage was delivered, and we spent the next hour unpacking entirely – one of the great perks of cruising, in my estimation. Most of my clothes could do with a good ironing, but no irons are allowed in the staterooms as they pose a fire hazard. Lindsay hasn’t brought just a lot of clothes – I think she’ll have to work hard and change often in order to wear everything once. It seems a bit ridiculous to me, but she might have the last laugh when, on day 11 of the cruise, she still has fresh things to wear while I try to determine which shirt still smells the freshest before I go out for the day. Oh well. Such is life.
About seven o’clock we headed up top for a little snack and to watch the ship head out to sea. We found a nice little café up on deck twelve that serves pizza, pasta, and paninis, all made fresh to order. We sat and ate and watched as the ship began to pull away from the dock, and as soon as we had finished eating we went on deck and got some photos and video of us heading out to sea. The water was pretty calm, and as soon as we were in open water the captain put the hammer down and we started cruising at about 20 to 25 knots – impressive for a ship of this size, at least to me. We relaxed on deck a while longer until it was 9PM – time for dinner.
The dining room is a truly huge room. We’re tucked away in a smaller side room, at a nice little table for four, which is just perfect. Some tables seem to hold a dozen or more. I assume this is for larger groups all cruising together, but it’s hard to tell. The first people we were introduced to were our main waiter and his assistant, Lauro and Meisso. Lauro is from the Philippines, looks to be in his 30’s, and would not be out of place as a James Bond villain. He is very professional, but not quite friendly. Maybe he’ll warm up as the cruise goes on. Our assistant waiter, Meisso, is a whole bundle of fun. He’s from somewhere in the Caribbean I believe, and has a pretty heavy accent. He also is sooooo excited to be working on board, I think. Everything he does is so important, from getting us water to offering us bread. I have the impression that this is his first cruise and he is so excited to have a job on ship that he is trying so very hard. Lindsay’s dad would have a riot hassling the poor fellow. Our dining partners showed up just as we were ordering – a young couple about our age, from Los Angeles, named Shawn and April. They’re very pleasant and easy to talk to, which is nice. I’ve had bad dreams of us being seated with a couple grandparents had having absolutely nothing to talk about.
Shawn & April are in their mid-to-late twenties, and were just married in April; this is their honeymoon as well. I was already about half full from the pizza we had earlier, so I contented myself with a spinach salad for dinner, rather than a full meal I would likely only eat half of. Lauro commented that I mustn’t be very hungry when I ordered it, and when it arrived, I saw why. I was half expecting a dinner-sized salad, but I received a very small starter salad. I’m sure if I had tried hard enough I could have got the entire salad, including garnish, into my mouth all in one bite, with room to chew. Lindsay, Shawn, and April all laughed at me. Ever Lauro smiled a bit. Oh well, more room for dessert.
Early to bed tonight, now. Tomorrow is the first of three very early days in a row, due to the excursions we chose. Tomorrow we dock in Villefranche and will tour Nice, Eze, and Monaco. I hope my French is up to par, and that I remember to use it. I keep replying to people on the boat in my pidgin Spanish – lots of gracias everywhere. Remember Jay… it’s merci….
Honeymoon Journal - Day 3
Monday, August 06, 2007
July 7, 2007
Today was another bright and early day for us in Barcelona. After breakfast we headed out determined (and attired) to explore two separate churches: The Cathedral of St. Eulalia where we were denied entrance yesterday, and the Sagrada Familia. First stop was the Cathedral of St. Eulalia.
We entered the Cathedral, this time without incident. The building itself is exceptionally old, built between the 13th and 15th century. Immediately to your right as you pass through the doors is the sacristy and chapel which are used for daily mass. Right next to that, and continuing all the way around the rest of the cathedral, is a long series of naves, each with an altar and artwork honoring a different saint or holy person. The artwork depicts scenes from the person’s life, and was so fragile that flash photography is not permitted. The main church altar, at the center of the cathedral, is also extremely beautiful; stained glass high overhead shines a serene multicolored light onto the veined marble floors and golden altar. Words don’t quite do justice to the distinctly beautiful and serene Cathedral of St. Eulalia. Each nave was in its own way a different experience. Of particular note, in a special alcove beneath the main altar, we discovered the tomb of St. Eulalia, patron saint of Barcelona. It really brought home for me that the history of Barcelona is tangible to outsiders, and very much present and treasured by the locals as well. After completing our exploration of the building, including the immensely detailed choir area, we lit a candle and asked for a blessing on our stay in Barcelona, and the remainder of our trip as well.
The walk from the Cathedral to Sagrada Familia was more than an hour long, and it took us out of the more touristy Ramblas area and led us through a more contemporary Barcelona neighbourhood. The streets were still narrow, but not as much as the area our hostel is in. Sidewalks are much wider, and there were far fewer people out and about. Traffic was about the same though, with the same herds of small cars and scooters scampering about with only the slightest regard for the lines on the road. Cars were parked at absolutely any spot that they could fit into, regardless of whether or not they happened to be blocking another car in. There was a new collection of small shops on display. These no longer sold tourist trash, but new mattresses and electronics and regular everyday groceries. It was on this walk that I finally figured out that every pharmacy we come across has a gaudy flashing neon sign out front, a great blinking plus sign. These pharmacies are not the all-encompassing stores we are used to in North America either. They are strictly cosmetics, personal hygiene products, and medicines. There seems to be a flashing sign every two or three blocks, for some reason. I suppose Barcelonans want to have shampoo and Tylenol available as close to home as possible. Before long, we caught a glimpse of our final destination for the day, peeking up above the buildings around us.
La Sagrada Familia, for those who have never seen it in person, is completely overwhelming. If the towering spires, which reach over 120 meters into the sky, do not take your breath away then it will be by the stunning sculpture on both facades, one facing east, one facing west. It has been under construction since 1881, and is currently just over half completed. The exterior is mostly complete, with eight main spires divided evenly between the two completed facades. Plans are for four more of equal height to the eight that are already constructed (12 in total, for the apostles), in addition to one taller tower (for the Virgin Mary), four even taller towers (for the four evangelists), and a final tower, reaching 170 meters, representing Jesus Christ. Sections of the roof are not yet completed, and the interior is in a mostly rough state, with little more than the main structure completed. Even in this partial state, the building makes a lasting impact. The scale seems out of place in the compact city I have come to love – the great columns that support the roof look to have been placed there by titanic hands, sinking the bases deep into the bedrock before twisting and braiding them upwards to where they meet the roof. The spires tower overhead so far it seems as though the world bends a little beneath their massive bulk. As a feat of engineering, La Sagrada Familia deserves it’s place in history alongside man’s greatest feats of construction: the St. Peter’s Basilica, the Pyramids of Giza, and the Great Wall of China, among others.
As a piece of artwork, however, it is almost unmatched since the renaissance. The western façade depicts Christ’s crucifixion and death in overwhelming size and power. The sculptures themselves are rough hewn out of the rock, angular and severe, stripped of nuance but enhanced in their power. The most powerful of which is the scene directly over the entrance, of Jesus hanging from the cross as many players in the Stations of the Cross stand at his sides. A fifteen-foot pillar with a scourged Jesus greets you as you enter through the western façade – a terrible reminder of the terrible price paid for our sins.
In stark contrast, the eastern face is a triumph of classical sculpture. Angels, saints, popes, and priests share space with a key depiction of the nativity scene, with Joseph and Mary looking down at their newborn son. Where the western façade is focused and intense, with a particular scene dominating a nook or corner with a fair stretch of bare stone surrounding it for emphasis, the eastern face does not have a bare spot on it. Every opening is full of life and vigor, with some figures rejoicing and praising, others in deep conversation with those about them. Smooth faced angels and brawny soldiers vie for space with bearded saints, each trying to get a better look into the manger. If Antoni Gaudi accomplished no other piece of art beyond this temple in his lifetime, he would still deserve to be remembered along with the other visionary architects and artists of the renaissance like Michelangelo and Leonardo. La Sagrada Familia is truly one of the wonders of the world.
(As a side note after the fact, I find it telling that, in describing his intentions in building and designing La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi meant for it to be “the last great sanctuary for Christendom”. It certainly lives up to that particular moniker, in my estimation.)
After finally departing we had lunch at a picturesque café we happened across while on our way to La Sagrada Familia. I’m amazed at how well we get by without knowing a lick of Spanish, let alone Catalan (the local language for this part of Spain). Si, non, gracias, por favor, and dos are about all we’ve picked up. Maybe English is common enough here in the south of Spain that we aren’t hampered overmuch. I doubt we’d be doing nearly as well in deep rural Spain. I’m excited to give my French a try in Nice, once we get there. Dinner tonight was similar to last night, and once again it’ll be early to bed – long day tomorrow. It’ll be bittersweet for me. As much as I’m looking forward to the cruise tomorrow, I’ve come to appreciate Barcelona, and I think I’ll want to return again someday. Someday soon, my heart says. Lindsay seems to feel the same way, so hopefully we can follow through on this desire.
Someday soon, hopefully.
Today was another bright and early day for us in Barcelona. After breakfast we headed out determined (and attired) to explore two separate churches: The Cathedral of St. Eulalia where we were denied entrance yesterday, and the Sagrada Familia. First stop was the Cathedral of St. Eulalia.
We entered the Cathedral, this time without incident. The building itself is exceptionally old, built between the 13th and 15th century. Immediately to your right as you pass through the doors is the sacristy and chapel which are used for daily mass. Right next to that, and continuing all the way around the rest of the cathedral, is a long series of naves, each with an altar and artwork honoring a different saint or holy person. The artwork depicts scenes from the person’s life, and was so fragile that flash photography is not permitted. The main church altar, at the center of the cathedral, is also extremely beautiful; stained glass high overhead shines a serene multicolored light onto the veined marble floors and golden altar. Words don’t quite do justice to the distinctly beautiful and serene Cathedral of St. Eulalia. Each nave was in its own way a different experience. Of particular note, in a special alcove beneath the main altar, we discovered the tomb of St. Eulalia, patron saint of Barcelona. It really brought home for me that the history of Barcelona is tangible to outsiders, and very much present and treasured by the locals as well. After completing our exploration of the building, including the immensely detailed choir area, we lit a candle and asked for a blessing on our stay in Barcelona, and the remainder of our trip as well.
The walk from the Cathedral to Sagrada Familia was more than an hour long, and it took us out of the more touristy Ramblas area and led us through a more contemporary Barcelona neighbourhood. The streets were still narrow, but not as much as the area our hostel is in. Sidewalks are much wider, and there were far fewer people out and about. Traffic was about the same though, with the same herds of small cars and scooters scampering about with only the slightest regard for the lines on the road. Cars were parked at absolutely any spot that they could fit into, regardless of whether or not they happened to be blocking another car in. There was a new collection of small shops on display. These no longer sold tourist trash, but new mattresses and electronics and regular everyday groceries. It was on this walk that I finally figured out that every pharmacy we come across has a gaudy flashing neon sign out front, a great blinking plus sign. These pharmacies are not the all-encompassing stores we are used to in North America either. They are strictly cosmetics, personal hygiene products, and medicines. There seems to be a flashing sign every two or three blocks, for some reason. I suppose Barcelonans want to have shampoo and Tylenol available as close to home as possible. Before long, we caught a glimpse of our final destination for the day, peeking up above the buildings around us.
La Sagrada Familia, for those who have never seen it in person, is completely overwhelming. If the towering spires, which reach over 120 meters into the sky, do not take your breath away then it will be by the stunning sculpture on both facades, one facing east, one facing west. It has been under construction since 1881, and is currently just over half completed. The exterior is mostly complete, with eight main spires divided evenly between the two completed facades. Plans are for four more of equal height to the eight that are already constructed (12 in total, for the apostles), in addition to one taller tower (for the Virgin Mary), four even taller towers (for the four evangelists), and a final tower, reaching 170 meters, representing Jesus Christ. Sections of the roof are not yet completed, and the interior is in a mostly rough state, with little more than the main structure completed. Even in this partial state, the building makes a lasting impact. The scale seems out of place in the compact city I have come to love – the great columns that support the roof look to have been placed there by titanic hands, sinking the bases deep into the bedrock before twisting and braiding them upwards to where they meet the roof. The spires tower overhead so far it seems as though the world bends a little beneath their massive bulk. As a feat of engineering, La Sagrada Familia deserves it’s place in history alongside man’s greatest feats of construction: the St. Peter’s Basilica, the Pyramids of Giza, and the Great Wall of China, among others.
As a piece of artwork, however, it is almost unmatched since the renaissance. The western façade depicts Christ’s crucifixion and death in overwhelming size and power. The sculptures themselves are rough hewn out of the rock, angular and severe, stripped of nuance but enhanced in their power. The most powerful of which is the scene directly over the entrance, of Jesus hanging from the cross as many players in the Stations of the Cross stand at his sides. A fifteen-foot pillar with a scourged Jesus greets you as you enter through the western façade – a terrible reminder of the terrible price paid for our sins.
In stark contrast, the eastern face is a triumph of classical sculpture. Angels, saints, popes, and priests share space with a key depiction of the nativity scene, with Joseph and Mary looking down at their newborn son. Where the western façade is focused and intense, with a particular scene dominating a nook or corner with a fair stretch of bare stone surrounding it for emphasis, the eastern face does not have a bare spot on it. Every opening is full of life and vigor, with some figures rejoicing and praising, others in deep conversation with those about them. Smooth faced angels and brawny soldiers vie for space with bearded saints, each trying to get a better look into the manger. If Antoni Gaudi accomplished no other piece of art beyond this temple in his lifetime, he would still deserve to be remembered along with the other visionary architects and artists of the renaissance like Michelangelo and Leonardo. La Sagrada Familia is truly one of the wonders of the world.
(As a side note after the fact, I find it telling that, in describing his intentions in building and designing La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi meant for it to be “the last great sanctuary for Christendom”. It certainly lives up to that particular moniker, in my estimation.)
After finally departing we had lunch at a picturesque café we happened across while on our way to La Sagrada Familia. I’m amazed at how well we get by without knowing a lick of Spanish, let alone Catalan (the local language for this part of Spain). Si, non, gracias, por favor, and dos are about all we’ve picked up. Maybe English is common enough here in the south of Spain that we aren’t hampered overmuch. I doubt we’d be doing nearly as well in deep rural Spain. I’m excited to give my French a try in Nice, once we get there. Dinner tonight was similar to last night, and once again it’ll be early to bed – long day tomorrow. It’ll be bittersweet for me. As much as I’m looking forward to the cruise tomorrow, I’ve come to appreciate Barcelona, and I think I’ll want to return again someday. Someday soon, my heart says. Lindsay seems to feel the same way, so hopefully we can follow through on this desire.
Someday soon, hopefully.
Honeymoon Journal - Day 2
Sunday, August 05, 2007
July 6, 2007
Ah, Barcelona! What a beautiful city! Isn’t it amazing how a new day, and more importantly eight solid hours of much needed sleep, can change your entire outlook? Our hostel room was the same as the night before, but after a nice hot shower, it didn’t seem as confining as the night before. The day started with a simple breakfast at the next-door café: orange juice, coffee, and croissant. We stepped out of the café, ready for the day’s adventures, and were embraced by the perfect European city my mind had always imagined. The streets that were clogged with people just a few hours earlier were now only somewhat busy. People were going about their daily business, drinking down a quick morning espresso, opening their little shops, and getting on in a much more leisurely fashion than the night before. The roads I remember being strewn with trash and dark were freshly swept and cleaned, and spotted with bright sunlight that found its way to the ground. It was as though a new city had sprung up in place of the hovel I recalled. A cool breeze blew down the narrow road, rushing between the tall, tightly packed buildings, whispering to us to follow it through the maze of avenues and alleys.
We started our exploration the way all good, dreamy explorations have: with only a vague sense of direction and the willingness to spend a little time finding our destination. The first place we came across was the Barcelona Cathedral. We literally stepped from the dark and cool of an alley into a large sun-baked square with an antiques market huddling in the middle and the cathedral towering on the north side. When we tried to enter we were halted, however. Lindsay, in shorts and a tank top, was not dressed appropriately. We had previously been warned we would encounter this from time to time, so this wasn’t a complete surprise. We would be back!
Lindsay’s little map of Barcelona (provided so helpfully by the Barcelona airport’s Tourist Info Center) led us to our next discovery – the Museu Frederic Mares. The first two floors were set aside to house a vast collection of his striking, powerful, and deeply spiritual work. It was difficult looking into the graven eyes of Jesus, his form hewn in wood in the pose of the crucifixion, particularly once this singular expression of Jesus’s passion was literally nailed to a tree that had been stripped of it’s branches and bark, but not shaped at all. Senor Mares seemed especially drawn to the topic of the crucifixion, but the breadth of his work also touched on Jesus’s birth, his life, and teachings, and even the lives of the saints. The top two floors of the museum were set aside by the wish of the artist to preserve the way of life in Barcelona from the 19th century, something that also greatly interested him. These floors, while interesting in an esoteric historical sense, held none of the power of the lower floors, and we were soon on our way.
Our next destination was the Picasso Museum, but when we sat down at an open air café for a moment to refer to our trusty map, a waitress approached us and lunch became the issue of the moment. I don’t recall ever having had sangria before, but now I don’t imagine myself sitting beneath the noontime Spanish sun without one. That and the delicious focaccia we had gave us another moment to reflect on the newness our European experience was showing us. Knowing intellectually that the buildings are tall, close together, and beautifully decorated is one thing. Actually seeing how comically close these stunning structures are to one another is something else entirely. Watching a herd of scooters and small cars, seasoned with larger trucks, vans, and tourist busses navigate these skinny roadways makes me afraid to ever rent much more than a bicycle if we were to visit again. This brings me to my next topic – European cars. The current North American small car market is very poorly serves, it seems to me. I have seen more inventiveness and style driving down the streets of Barcelona than I ever have at any auto show I have ever been to. I think there is a significant market for these small, efficient, economical cars that is both untapped and unserved. The day I can park either a Peugeot or a Citroen in my garage will be a very good day indeed.
We arrived at the Picasso Museum, or rather the Museu Picasso, without any further adventures. From what I could tell, the author himself donated the bulk of the artwork on display. It was striking, watching the change in his style from his earliest years as a teenager learning his craft; to the utterly unrestrained master he was in the last years of his life. There were subtle technical improvements in the beginning, as he learned to master color and composition, and to perfect his representation of the human form. There is a massive rift suddenly, during the years of 1908 to 1913, where he invented cubism and transformed from the technical and academic pictures of his past into multidimensional representations of each subject he painted, showing the past, present, future, open expressions and innermost desires of each. One room in particular was striking. Picasso painted 49 separate introspections on a single 17th century piece of art, Velasquez’s Las Meninas, each strong and affecting in their own way. To compliment the museum, there was a temporary display of the photographs of Lee Miller, one of the 20th centuries most pioneering female photographers, and a close friend of Picasso’s. Her pictures helped to paint a portrait of the man as eccentric, comical, grounded, introspective, extroverted, and above all, staggeringly human. It was a fitting culmination to the Muesu Picasso.
That afternoon back at the hostel we partook in another terrific Spanish invention – the afternoon siesta. Maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was the heat, but for three of the hottest hours of the day we were fully unconscious and woke in time for dinner, which doesn’t truly start until 8:30PM anyhow. Most of the restaurants we ran across were open for lunch, closed for about five hours, and reopened at 8:30 to lines of hungry patrons. After much frustrated wandering and more than a generous stroke of luck we found the only restaurant that had been suggested to us before we left Edmonton – La Fonda. The food was good, the service quick, and the pitcher of sangria we ordered was mostly consumed by me. After dinner we wandered some more, examining the graffiti we found (it’s everywhere in Barcelona) and looking for interesting shops to return to the next day. After wandering drunkenly for an hour or so (at least, I was drunk) we finally made it back to our room and, even though we had a multi hour nap that afternoon, soon passed into sleep.
Long story short – Day 2 was much improved over Day 1.
Ah, Barcelona! What a beautiful city! Isn’t it amazing how a new day, and more importantly eight solid hours of much needed sleep, can change your entire outlook? Our hostel room was the same as the night before, but after a nice hot shower, it didn’t seem as confining as the night before. The day started with a simple breakfast at the next-door café: orange juice, coffee, and croissant. We stepped out of the café, ready for the day’s adventures, and were embraced by the perfect European city my mind had always imagined. The streets that were clogged with people just a few hours earlier were now only somewhat busy. People were going about their daily business, drinking down a quick morning espresso, opening their little shops, and getting on in a much more leisurely fashion than the night before. The roads I remember being strewn with trash and dark were freshly swept and cleaned, and spotted with bright sunlight that found its way to the ground. It was as though a new city had sprung up in place of the hovel I recalled. A cool breeze blew down the narrow road, rushing between the tall, tightly packed buildings, whispering to us to follow it through the maze of avenues and alleys.
We started our exploration the way all good, dreamy explorations have: with only a vague sense of direction and the willingness to spend a little time finding our destination. The first place we came across was the Barcelona Cathedral. We literally stepped from the dark and cool of an alley into a large sun-baked square with an antiques market huddling in the middle and the cathedral towering on the north side. When we tried to enter we were halted, however. Lindsay, in shorts and a tank top, was not dressed appropriately. We had previously been warned we would encounter this from time to time, so this wasn’t a complete surprise. We would be back!
Lindsay’s little map of Barcelona (provided so helpfully by the Barcelona airport’s Tourist Info Center) led us to our next discovery – the Museu Frederic Mares. The first two floors were set aside to house a vast collection of his striking, powerful, and deeply spiritual work. It was difficult looking into the graven eyes of Jesus, his form hewn in wood in the pose of the crucifixion, particularly once this singular expression of Jesus’s passion was literally nailed to a tree that had been stripped of it’s branches and bark, but not shaped at all. Senor Mares seemed especially drawn to the topic of the crucifixion, but the breadth of his work also touched on Jesus’s birth, his life, and teachings, and even the lives of the saints. The top two floors of the museum were set aside by the wish of the artist to preserve the way of life in Barcelona from the 19th century, something that also greatly interested him. These floors, while interesting in an esoteric historical sense, held none of the power of the lower floors, and we were soon on our way.
Our next destination was the Picasso Museum, but when we sat down at an open air café for a moment to refer to our trusty map, a waitress approached us and lunch became the issue of the moment. I don’t recall ever having had sangria before, but now I don’t imagine myself sitting beneath the noontime Spanish sun without one. That and the delicious focaccia we had gave us another moment to reflect on the newness our European experience was showing us. Knowing intellectually that the buildings are tall, close together, and beautifully decorated is one thing. Actually seeing how comically close these stunning structures are to one another is something else entirely. Watching a herd of scooters and small cars, seasoned with larger trucks, vans, and tourist busses navigate these skinny roadways makes me afraid to ever rent much more than a bicycle if we were to visit again. This brings me to my next topic – European cars. The current North American small car market is very poorly serves, it seems to me. I have seen more inventiveness and style driving down the streets of Barcelona than I ever have at any auto show I have ever been to. I think there is a significant market for these small, efficient, economical cars that is both untapped and unserved. The day I can park either a Peugeot or a Citroen in my garage will be a very good day indeed.
We arrived at the Picasso Museum, or rather the Museu Picasso, without any further adventures. From what I could tell, the author himself donated the bulk of the artwork on display. It was striking, watching the change in his style from his earliest years as a teenager learning his craft; to the utterly unrestrained master he was in the last years of his life. There were subtle technical improvements in the beginning, as he learned to master color and composition, and to perfect his representation of the human form. There is a massive rift suddenly, during the years of 1908 to 1913, where he invented cubism and transformed from the technical and academic pictures of his past into multidimensional representations of each subject he painted, showing the past, present, future, open expressions and innermost desires of each. One room in particular was striking. Picasso painted 49 separate introspections on a single 17th century piece of art, Velasquez’s Las Meninas, each strong and affecting in their own way. To compliment the museum, there was a temporary display of the photographs of Lee Miller, one of the 20th centuries most pioneering female photographers, and a close friend of Picasso’s. Her pictures helped to paint a portrait of the man as eccentric, comical, grounded, introspective, extroverted, and above all, staggeringly human. It was a fitting culmination to the Muesu Picasso.
That afternoon back at the hostel we partook in another terrific Spanish invention – the afternoon siesta. Maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was the heat, but for three of the hottest hours of the day we were fully unconscious and woke in time for dinner, which doesn’t truly start until 8:30PM anyhow. Most of the restaurants we ran across were open for lunch, closed for about five hours, and reopened at 8:30 to lines of hungry patrons. After much frustrated wandering and more than a generous stroke of luck we found the only restaurant that had been suggested to us before we left Edmonton – La Fonda. The food was good, the service quick, and the pitcher of sangria we ordered was mostly consumed by me. After dinner we wandered some more, examining the graffiti we found (it’s everywhere in Barcelona) and looking for interesting shops to return to the next day. After wandering drunkenly for an hour or so (at least, I was drunk) we finally made it back to our room and, even though we had a multi hour nap that afternoon, soon passed into sleep.
Long story short – Day 2 was much improved over Day 1.
Honeymoon Journal - Day 1
Saturday, August 04, 2007
July 5, 2007
We arrived in Barcelona today after a flight experience that, while relatively problem free, I could only describe as interminable. The flight from Edmonton to London was my first substantial flying experience. We flew on an Airbus A330, and were crammed into somewhat comfortable chairs like proverbial sardines. We had the two seats nearest the window (Lindsay was gracious enough to give me the window seat since it was my first time that far up in the air). A friendly English man who reminded me of a balder, fatter Tim Curry took the third seat. He was certainly a hefty individual, and ended up invading Lindsay’s space more than she was comfortable with, but as a flying companion, we certainly could have had worse.
This was my first flight of any distance, so several things stood out to me that might be regular to a frequent flier, but they were strange to me.
1. We flew much further north than I had expected. I recall learning in school that the straightest, most direct route to London was north a fair ways and not straight across like we would expect from looking at a flat map. Shortly after takeoff we set a course Northeast, soon passing over Hudson’s bay, beyond the northern tip of Quebec, and crossed Greenland about a third of the way up the continent. We were so far north, and the date is so close to the summer solstice, that the sun never truly set. It became progressively darker as evening settled in and the clouds became red in the twilight. I waited for darkness to fall and the stars to come out, but no, time stood still and for hours we were suspended in this reddish twilight before the sky lightened and turned to dawn.
2. There were a lot of clouds blocking my view of land. I had expected to see some, of course, but within 45 minutes of takeoff, I could not see much more than the occasional circle of land poking through the thin clouds. Twice the teased me with a larger break; once, as we crossed from land into Hudson’s Bay; and, once as we crossed over Greenland. Greenland struck me as a particularly harsh but beautiful land. There wasn’t a spec of green, just long expanses of rock scarred by glaciers and driven into the most apocalyptic and forbidding mountains I’ve ever seen, all jagged peaks and deep, impassable valleys. The ocean clouds were no match for these towering sentinels, and were broken like waves on a rocky shore, some finding their way far inland from the coast, flowing far up the steep valleSoon, the clouds returned to dominate the view, and the remainder of the trip was spent above a puffy white blanket of clouds.
3. Farmland in North America is very regular when compared to its European relatives. Shortly after takeoff I noticed the complete geometric regularity of Alberta’s farmland, mile after mile of squares only occasionally broken by a river, lake, or major road. It was as if someone had unrolled a titanic chessboard across the prairies and colored it in shades of green and brown. England, in contrast, is a miasma of geometric shapes: triangles, trapezoids, pentagrams, and a dozen more, with all sides at different lengths, some straight, some curving. There was no order, no rhyme or reason, just the comfortable irregularity of a centuries old agrarian tradition.
If the flight from Edmonton was like a can of sardines, then debarking in London was closest to stepping into 1984. London Gatwick was positively Orwellian. The airport was cold and sterile, long confusing hallways full of us proles all making our way through the maze while a mysterious voice repeated security warnings as if they were slogans. We waited in three lines to pass through security and have our papers checked, all the while with Big Brother watching us through the ever-present surveillance cameras. In one room I counted no fewer than eleven cameras, each describing me from a different angle as I passed through. The main holding area for us before we boarded the next leg of our flight was a pool of commercialism designed to keep us occupied as the government processed our identifications. We quickly found a café serving somewhat healthy fare and, after an abortive attempt to sleep in the terminal, boarded our flight to Barcelona. I passed out just after takeoff and did not wake again until we landed.
Barcelona is a much busier city than I expected. I had read that it was similar in size and makeup to Edmonton, but if that was once true, it no longer is. The bus ride from the airport to the Ramblas was through congested freeways and obscenely busy streets. Small cars and trucks vie for space with massive tourist busses, all the while scooters and motorbikes snake between lanes in and small passage they can find. The bus dropped us at Placa de Catalunya, a major bus stop and important city square. We struggled with our luggage down the Ramblas (the major road through the old section of Barcelona) and through a warren of narrow and congested streets that are the norm for this part of town, dodging both traffic (which has no issue with driving right where you are walking) and other pedestrians. Eventually, through luck as much as anything, we arrived a C. Boqueria 21, Hostal Palermo, our lodging here in Barcelona.
The halls are narrow and humid, the rooms small and not quite up to North American motel standards in terms of cleanliness, and all for 60€ a night, almost $100 Canadian.
At least breakfast is included. Long story short – I am less than impressed by Barcelona, and cannot wait until we board our cruise and bid this city a not-so-fond farewell.
We arrived in Barcelona today after a flight experience that, while relatively problem free, I could only describe as interminable. The flight from Edmonton to London was my first substantial flying experience. We flew on an Airbus A330, and were crammed into somewhat comfortable chairs like proverbial sardines. We had the two seats nearest the window (Lindsay was gracious enough to give me the window seat since it was my first time that far up in the air). A friendly English man who reminded me of a balder, fatter Tim Curry took the third seat. He was certainly a hefty individual, and ended up invading Lindsay’s space more than she was comfortable with, but as a flying companion, we certainly could have had worse.
This was my first flight of any distance, so several things stood out to me that might be regular to a frequent flier, but they were strange to me.
1. We flew much further north than I had expected. I recall learning in school that the straightest, most direct route to London was north a fair ways and not straight across like we would expect from looking at a flat map. Shortly after takeoff we set a course Northeast, soon passing over Hudson’s bay, beyond the northern tip of Quebec, and crossed Greenland about a third of the way up the continent. We were so far north, and the date is so close to the summer solstice, that the sun never truly set. It became progressively darker as evening settled in and the clouds became red in the twilight. I waited for darkness to fall and the stars to come out, but no, time stood still and for hours we were suspended in this reddish twilight before the sky lightened and turned to dawn.
2. There were a lot of clouds blocking my view of land. I had expected to see some, of course, but within 45 minutes of takeoff, I could not see much more than the occasional circle of land poking through the thin clouds. Twice the teased me with a larger break; once, as we crossed from land into Hudson’s Bay; and, once as we crossed over Greenland. Greenland struck me as a particularly harsh but beautiful land. There wasn’t a spec of green, just long expanses of rock scarred by glaciers and driven into the most apocalyptic and forbidding mountains I’ve ever seen, all jagged peaks and deep, impassable valleys. The ocean clouds were no match for these towering sentinels, and were broken like waves on a rocky shore, some finding their way far inland from the coast, flowing far up the steep valleSoon, the clouds returned to dominate the view, and the remainder of the trip was spent above a puffy white blanket of clouds.
3. Farmland in North America is very regular when compared to its European relatives. Shortly after takeoff I noticed the complete geometric regularity of Alberta’s farmland, mile after mile of squares only occasionally broken by a river, lake, or major road. It was as if someone had unrolled a titanic chessboard across the prairies and colored it in shades of green and brown. England, in contrast, is a miasma of geometric shapes: triangles, trapezoids, pentagrams, and a dozen more, with all sides at different lengths, some straight, some curving. There was no order, no rhyme or reason, just the comfortable irregularity of a centuries old agrarian tradition.
If the flight from Edmonton was like a can of sardines, then debarking in London was closest to stepping into 1984. London Gatwick was positively Orwellian. The airport was cold and sterile, long confusing hallways full of us proles all making our way through the maze while a mysterious voice repeated security warnings as if they were slogans. We waited in three lines to pass through security and have our papers checked, all the while with Big Brother watching us through the ever-present surveillance cameras. In one room I counted no fewer than eleven cameras, each describing me from a different angle as I passed through. The main holding area for us before we boarded the next leg of our flight was a pool of commercialism designed to keep us occupied as the government processed our identifications. We quickly found a café serving somewhat healthy fare and, after an abortive attempt to sleep in the terminal, boarded our flight to Barcelona. I passed out just after takeoff and did not wake again until we landed.
Barcelona is a much busier city than I expected. I had read that it was similar in size and makeup to Edmonton, but if that was once true, it no longer is. The bus ride from the airport to the Ramblas was through congested freeways and obscenely busy streets. Small cars and trucks vie for space with massive tourist busses, all the while scooters and motorbikes snake between lanes in and small passage they can find. The bus dropped us at Placa de Catalunya, a major bus stop and important city square. We struggled with our luggage down the Ramblas (the major road through the old section of Barcelona) and through a warren of narrow and congested streets that are the norm for this part of town, dodging both traffic (which has no issue with driving right where you are walking) and other pedestrians. Eventually, through luck as much as anything, we arrived a C. Boqueria 21, Hostal Palermo, our lodging here in Barcelona.
The halls are narrow and humid, the rooms small and not quite up to North American motel standards in terms of cleanliness, and all for 60€ a night, almost $100 Canadian.
At least breakfast is included. Long story short – I am less than impressed by Barcelona, and cannot wait until we board our cruise and bid this city a not-so-fond farewell.