Only the Wind Knows Where...: Travel tales from long ago

*note to my readers: I can’t remember the last time I wrote in story form. This was an experiment that didn´t turn out as I´d hoped. And, if you were wondering: Yes, I am aware I don’t stick to one tense (past or present). To all grammarians, tough cookies! At least I use the subjunctive mood properly. Thank you, Meg. :D

Once upon a puente de la constitución, an auxiliar de conversación, Megan began her excellently planned, 788 km trip (815 all the way to Granada) to the south of Spain: Andalucía! Oh, Andalucía! Land of… lax: in behavior and speaking; vices: wine, coffee, cañas, cigarettes; Flamenco: dancing, signing, and blasting it in the car; Andalucía: the Spain that the world knows!

December 2^nd: It was an ordinary Thursday, besides the particularly cold weather and 36 liter backpack Megan had slung over her shoulders before she rushed out her apartment door. She chose the elevator, rather than her usual ritual: the stairs, and made it to the main entrance. As she walked out of Ingeniero Montaner, Number 4 (HP, anyone?) her neighbor, and coworker from the colegio Juan XXIII was waiting for her. He stood speechless, trying to make sense of the odd sight that had just appeared. People are quite… expecting here in Spain. Unlike America, the goal is to NOT stand out in any sort of way. If you do stand out, you can expect to be looked at, talked about, etc. Logically then, Megan´s coworker stood gapping at her Quecha bag filled with granola bars, apples, and clothing for her impending trip, and finally exclaimed “¡pero qué mochila llevas!” (What backpack you´ve got there!)“Yeap,” Megan said. “I´ve got to catch the 12:15 bus to Zaragoza, to begin my puente trip toward Andalucía. I was hoping it wouldn´t be a problem to leave school a few minutes early, today.” As she had expected, absolutely no problem.

11:45: Megan stealthily slipped out of her third grade classroom, leaving behind twenty-eight diligently working students. She picked up her hiking backpack, and was on her way. Although she had plenty of time, she booked it to the station, because despite her constant movement from place to place she´s a rather anxious traveler. Her friend, Andrea, arrived in accordance to Spanish time—three minutes before departure. The girls tossed their bags in the storage underneath the giant ALOSA coach, and climbed up to find their seats.

Within less than an hour they had arrived to Zaragoza, and headed directly to Andrea´s house for a quick and early lunch. Although a “quick” visit, Andrea´s family managed to feed Megan quite well: rice and lentils with bread to start; lamb, chicken, salad, for the main course; and dates for dessert. Having been a first time guest in many Spanish houses, Megan had expected nothing less than to leave with enough fuel in her stomach to last her well into the evening.

After lunch, Andrea accompanied Megan back to the bus station. Megan gave Andrea dos besos, tossed her luggage under the bus once again, and then it was off to Madrid. FREEZING COLD Madrid.

Upon arriving, Megan gleefully took the escalator up to Madrid´s metro. Why gleefully? Because, despite her nerves while traveling, Megan LOVES LOVES LOVES the metro. Well, she mostly loves loves loves the metro. Her only complaint, naturally, are some of the people that climb on the trains and start playing their flute to a terrible tape: world´s most corny and bothersome music—like the radio show “elevator ride from hell”. Nevertheless, as far as Megan is concerned, the metro in Madrid still rocks: 12 lines and 295 stations getting you where you need to go. It´s easy. It´s cheap. It´s the way to come and go. All advertisements aside, the metro gives Megan the sensation that SHE CAN. She can get anywhere, and do anything without getting lost. A perfect example: her hostal.

When Megan arrived to the hostel she was more than pleasantly surprised. Often times she disagrees with hostalworld.com´s guests, but this time she was in complete agreement with the Cat´s hostel in Madrid´s score. IT ROOOOOOOOOOCKED. First, it had a huge center room that was decorated like the Alhambra. Second, every guest had a bracelet that was like an iped that gave her and the other guests access to: 1. The main section of the hostal 2. The guest´s specific room 3. Their locker in the room. The hostal also was equipped with five-star vending: hot chocolate, coffee, cappuccino, soft drinks, energy drinks, beer, cookies, sandwiches, chocolate, croissants, gum, etc. In the basement, the hostal housed a bar, a dancing floor, and computers built into the wall. (Note to readers: Megan didn´t take pictures. Stupid. OR an excuse to go again?!)

After checking in and taking a few moments to stare at the awesome design, Megan headed up the steps, entered her room, and placed my things on the floor beside her locker. Within 10 seconds of setting her things down, a boy came in and introduced himself (a student from Lisboa) and invited Megan to go meet his friends downstairs. As Madrid was really just a convenient place to stop to make the bus in the morning on time, she agreed.

Within 5 minutes Megan met a girl from Canada, one from Sweden, and boy from California. While everyone was decently interesting, most entertaining award would have definitely been given to Miguel (Mr. Portugal, himself). He HAD to share everything he could about his prized culture, country and language. Megan quickly highlighted the thesis of his testimonies: Portugal has the best food in the world. His supporting details: Lists of ingredients for specific menu´s and the cultural practices that go along, for example, wine may start as early as 9 am, and friends come over to talk while meal is being prepared, this as he explained to his intently listening audience “is the love that goes into the food.”

With all the food talk Megan encouraged her friends to go with her to get Churros and chocolate in Madrid´s most famous: San Ginés. Everyone was more than pleased with the treat that the Churros, Porras, and Chocolate ended up replacing dinner. Afterword, the new group decided to part ways: some heading out for the hostal´s Thursday night bar crawl, and others back to the warm and comfortable hostal. Megan, in the latter group, was subjected to nearly another hour and a half of Miguel´s thesis part II: “Portugal´s culture is the grandest of them all,” before finally she was able to escape to bed.

The next morning, Megan woke up late, making her plan either a shower or breakfast, not both. Obviously, she skipped the shower, shoved down a quick breakfast, and made it Madrid´s “Estación del sur” to catch the bus to Córdoba.

4 some uncomfortable hours later, Megan had arrived to Córdoba, Andalucía. She excitedly climbed down from the bus, grabbed her hiking backpack and was off on her next adventure: find hostal. She spent 5 minutes walking circles around what she believed to be a tiny bus station, before she realized that the train station, and more importantly, tourism office were right across the street. With a huff, disapproving of her stupidity, she walked quickly across the pedestrian walk, and entered a much larger building (the train station). She halted and her eyes went to work with her brain: “Where are you little tourism office?” she thought. Until, “AH HAH”— office spotted. She quickly made her way over, anxious to get on the bus and over to her hostal. As she approached the little room fenced in by all glass windows, she noted the lights were off. She pushed on the door, realizing it had pushed back at the same time her eyes caught that it was closed until 4 pm. It was 2:30, they had just closed. “MIERDA,” was the word that appeared in her head. Megan huffed again, disapprovingly. Why had she not printed out a map of the city? She rested her hands on her hips, and let her eyes off back to work. Something… someone, had to have a map. BINGO. RENFE. The train company. “Por favorrrrrrrr,” she prayed as she marched over to the desks and computers, and confidently approached the man at the counter. “Excuse me,” Megan said. (obviously in Spanish) “Do you have a map of the city? I´ve just arrived, and as you can see, the tourism office is closed.”

The RENFE worker commented on Megan´s luck as he pulled out a spare map he happened to have guarded under his desk. He even offered directions to her hostal. Megan was pleased. Megan felt a new energy run through her, as if it were the Amazing Race and she had just been given her next clue. She used the high to pick up the rhythm of her step and focus her mind. Within 20 some minutes, she had successfully made it off the bus, but still had a hostal to find. Problem. She was near the center of Córdoba, and all the streets were the same: narrow, lined with buildings painted in white, and boarded in golden yellow. And, I think she got off at the wrong bus stop.

She pulled her map back out and carefully situated herself—“Right the Guadalquivir river is back there, and so is the la Plaza del Potro meaning I need to go back, turn into the plaza, and then turn left.” As soon as it all made sense, the error, her current location, and the proximity of her destination, Megan once again picked up the pace. She was back in the game. Traveling by herself. In less than five minutes, Megan had arrived.

She checked in, and headed up to take a shower. After all, it had been a while. The shower was… freezing cold. Worse than those semi-cold showers she use to take in her host mother´s house the first time she was in Spain. The solution: mainly focusing on just washing her hair. She may have put a few soap suds on her arms and face, but more than that was unthinkable. Megan doesn´t like cold. Cold weather. Cold water. And hey… everyone has their pet peeves.

After “cleaning up” Megan grabbed another granola bar and headed out to something she hadn´t expected: cold weather. Normally, Megan would have become grumpy to have the cold wind hit her face and penetrate her jacket (she really didn´t bring a real coat to Spain), but she was too excited to be in Córdoba. How can you become upset when you are in a city that is estimated to have been the most populous in the 10^th and 11^th century? How can you wear a frown when you are on the grounds of Europe´s intellectual core and gem for these same centuries? How can you complain when you are four minutes away from seeing La Mezquita, a mosque whose construction began in 786 and is currently the third largest in the world? You can´t. So, Megan walked contently towards the Mezquita, stopping occasionally to stare at the next street that looked just like the last.

Finally… she reached La Mezquita. She wouldn´t go inside until the next day, but still... all she could do was stare with her jaw on the floor.