life: January 2008 Archives
Another day more european musings:
Day 2 contd. 4th May - Barcelona
I arrived in Estacio Sants de Barcelona at around midday and spent an hour in the station fiddling with my computer before I finally braced my self and went out into the day. A feeling of pessism and paranoia was all over me and I lacked the willpower to shake it off. I became obsessed with looking over my shoulder and nothing felt good.
I had only two tasks for the day; first find the port and get my ticket from Iscobar (the ferry company); second try to find some accomodation for Tuesday night, this ocurred to me only after I'd collected my ferry tickets and I wondered where I would stay upon my return.
I found may way to the Port easily enough and with my one major task for the day completed my attention turned to my stomach. My disinclination to interact with other people was compounded by my experience with trying to communicate in Spanish. My efforts wound the Barcelonans up firstly because my spanish was so shit and I kept spluttering out french phrases only to answer english when they asked if I was French and secondly because they speak Catalan. My early conversations didn't go well. So by the time I was properly hungry (having only eaten a couple of bits of more or less stale baguette at the hostel at 7.30am that morning) I was in no mood for dealing with surly Barcelonans. So it ended up that I walked for about a mile past perfectly good cafe after perfecty good cafe before I took myself by the collar and walked into one - and even then only because it had started raining and it was getting ridiculous. I don't think I was cut out for travelling!
Even when I was in the midsts of the crowds of the Rambles after lunch I felt strangely alone, conscious of my massive backpack and sweating as I searched in vain for somewhere to stay on Tuesday. Once common sense kicked in I wisely headed away from the crowds of the most touristy part of Barcelona I'd seen (which granted isn't saying much) and head back towards the quiet dereliction of the Avinguda del Paral-lel, where I quickly found a hotel (of course, Hotel Paral-lel) and booked a room for tuesday.
After I'd sorted my room and had what I considered to be my first success I started to feel better and began to wander in an enjoyable way. I take pleasure in seeing the bleak sides of the city away from the well trodden tour guide paths and into the quiet unease of the back streets. Barcelona is no different to anywhere else and I found myself in comfortable surroundings soon enough. As in Perpignan, people with problems, not shopping or consuming but working or escaping or marking territory. In Barcelona the lanes are made dangerous valleys by tall buildings with ornate balconies where people hang their clothes to dry.
I knew there was a park that ran parallel with my favourite street Avinguda del paral-lel so I headed uphill towards that, enjoying the weight of the pack if not the hotness of my feet warning of blisters to come (why did I pack my smart boots rather than my walking boots?).
I felt smugly pleased then when I wandered up to a small park with a grand view of the city from which vantage point I could feel superior to the tourists who had driven up and yet had no pack to carry. On a minor note I could also enjoy the specatular view of the port and the city and caught my first glimpses of Barcelona's big ticket tourist items like the gaudi cathedral with its concommitant cranes.
I sat in that park and listened to Ole by John Coltrane and felt good for the first time since I left home.
Then I waited and wandered until I got on the ferry to Palma. Yawn.
ps If you have the opportunity to travel with Iscomar Ferries my recommendation is to avoid it.
Day 2 contd. 4th May - Barcelona
I arrived in Estacio Sants de Barcelona at around midday and spent an hour in the station fiddling with my computer before I finally braced my self and went out into the day. A feeling of pessism and paranoia was all over me and I lacked the willpower to shake it off. I became obsessed with looking over my shoulder and nothing felt good.
I had only two tasks for the day; first find the port and get my ticket from Iscobar (the ferry company); second try to find some accomodation for Tuesday night, this ocurred to me only after I'd collected my ferry tickets and I wondered where I would stay upon my return.
I found may way to the Port easily enough and with my one major task for the day completed my attention turned to my stomach. My disinclination to interact with other people was compounded by my experience with trying to communicate in Spanish. My efforts wound the Barcelonans up firstly because my spanish was so shit and I kept spluttering out french phrases only to answer english when they asked if I was French and secondly because they speak Catalan. My early conversations didn't go well. So by the time I was properly hungry (having only eaten a couple of bits of more or less stale baguette at the hostel at 7.30am that morning) I was in no mood for dealing with surly Barcelonans. So it ended up that I walked for about a mile past perfectly good cafe after perfecty good cafe before I took myself by the collar and walked into one - and even then only because it had started raining and it was getting ridiculous. I don't think I was cut out for travelling!
Even when I was in the midsts of the crowds of the Rambles after lunch I felt strangely alone, conscious of my massive backpack and sweating as I searched in vain for somewhere to stay on Tuesday. Once common sense kicked in I wisely headed away from the crowds of the most touristy part of Barcelona I'd seen (which granted isn't saying much) and head back towards the quiet dereliction of the Avinguda del Paral-lel, where I quickly found a hotel (of course, Hotel Paral-lel) and booked a room for tuesday.
After I'd sorted my room and had what I considered to be my first success I started to feel better and began to wander in an enjoyable way. I take pleasure in seeing the bleak sides of the city away from the well trodden tour guide paths and into the quiet unease of the back streets. Barcelona is no different to anywhere else and I found myself in comfortable surroundings soon enough. As in Perpignan, people with problems, not shopping or consuming but working or escaping or marking territory. In Barcelona the lanes are made dangerous valleys by tall buildings with ornate balconies where people hang their clothes to dry.
I knew there was a park that ran parallel with my favourite street Avinguda del paral-lel so I headed uphill towards that, enjoying the weight of the pack if not the hotness of my feet warning of blisters to come (why did I pack my smart boots rather than my walking boots?).
I felt smugly pleased then when I wandered up to a small park with a grand view of the city from which vantage point I could feel superior to the tourists who had driven up and yet had no pack to carry. On a minor note I could also enjoy the specatular view of the port and the city and caught my first glimpses of Barcelona's big ticket tourist items like the gaudi cathedral with its concommitant cranes.
I sat in that park and listened to Ole by John Coltrane and felt good for the first time since I left home.
Then I waited and wandered until I got on the ferry to Palma. Yawn.
ps If you have the opportunity to travel with Iscomar Ferries my recommendation is to avoid it.
Well there just aren't, are there? Eh?
I'm on my way down to Portsmouth for part two of the leasehold valuation tribunal and I was going to explain a bit about that and then post the next installment of the european adventure journal. Unfortunately blogging is not very social and therefore I was forced to interact with real people (friends who are kindly putting the ungrateful isolationist up for the night). So you'll just have to put up with the journal. I am going to have a bit of a rant about cycling and recycling in Bristol, but those topics will have to wait too.
Day 2 - 4th May
The people in Perpignan are defined by a journey, mostly one from Paris to Barcelona or in my case from London but it doesn't matter what the starting place is only that this is a transitory place. As I wandered the mostly deserted streets last night the only faces I saw were those of the disaffected; almost every person that I saw had a hand stretched out. I spoke to an old spanish man in a dirty suit camped outside the station - his car had broken down on the way to Barcelona, could I spare 10 euros to help him out. I walked along the canal, beautiful on a sunny day, less so bathed in the grey drizzly light, fearful of the group of crusties and their dogs camped out under the railway bridge. The first question in my mind as my pulse quickened not why, but what if? The next station is Cerberre!
My first thoughts when talking to the spaniard not, how can I help but I don't want to be conned, or robbed or worse when clearly this was a soul down on his luck, What's 10 euros to me? Just pride.
The whole place felt like the wrong side of the tracks. Maybe because it was a place so unaccustomed to not being drenched in the mediterranean sun that the grey skies and rain fitted like a shroud and banished all but the unhappy wanderers to safety and warmth wherever it could be found. On the literal other side of the tracks where the estates lay any pretence of civilisation were left far behind - characterised by tipped over bins, dogshit on the pavement, drinkers in the cafe not enjoying an aperitif as is the wont of the French but avoiding something sinister. On the streets the youths hurried on some clandestine urgent mission, crossing the tracks in their dark hoodies hunched.
I feel like the tone of my journey has been set by the place and it doesn't make me feel good. I spent the night sleeping fitfully feerful of being robbed in my sleep. But why? My Laptop, Palm, Phone, everything stolen? So what. All the trappings of a material life none important in the slightest. What of the human beings? Each of them with their own journey and yet I assume the worst. This is going to be a long journey.
Normally when I travel my yearning for home is everpresent reminding me which direction to go. But this time I have no home. My tristesse has no cure, I just need to keep moving and hope something turns up.
Day 2 - 4th May
The people in Perpignan are defined by a journey, mostly one from Paris to Barcelona or in my case from London but it doesn't matter what the starting place is only that this is a transitory place. As I wandered the mostly deserted streets last night the only faces I saw were those of the disaffected; almost every person that I saw had a hand stretched out. I spoke to an old spanish man in a dirty suit camped outside the station - his car had broken down on the way to Barcelona, could I spare 10 euros to help him out. I walked along the canal, beautiful on a sunny day, less so bathed in the grey drizzly light, fearful of the group of crusties and their dogs camped out under the railway bridge. The first question in my mind as my pulse quickened not why, but what if? The next station is Cerberre!
My first thoughts when talking to the spaniard not, how can I help but I don't want to be conned, or robbed or worse when clearly this was a soul down on his luck, What's 10 euros to me? Just pride.
The whole place felt like the wrong side of the tracks. Maybe because it was a place so unaccustomed to not being drenched in the mediterranean sun that the grey skies and rain fitted like a shroud and banished all but the unhappy wanderers to safety and warmth wherever it could be found. On the literal other side of the tracks where the estates lay any pretence of civilisation were left far behind - characterised by tipped over bins, dogshit on the pavement, drinkers in the cafe not enjoying an aperitif as is the wont of the French but avoiding something sinister. On the streets the youths hurried on some clandestine urgent mission, crossing the tracks in their dark hoodies hunched.
I feel like the tone of my journey has been set by the place and it doesn't make me feel good. I spent the night sleeping fitfully feerful of being robbed in my sleep. But why? My Laptop, Palm, Phone, everything stolen? So what. All the trappings of a material life none important in the slightest. What of the human beings? Each of them with their own journey and yet I assume the worst. This is going to be a long journey.
Normally when I travel my yearning for home is everpresent reminding me which direction to go. But this time I have no home. My tristesse has no cure, I just need to keep moving and hope something turns up.
As I mentioned the other day, I went to Europe last spring to ponder the future of my life. I wrote up my thoughts on the google map that I created to track where I went (click on the various flags to see the original words).
It's not such a good interface for for reading though so I thought I'd put them up here too, plus it gives me the opportunity to tidy them up a bit.
Day 1 - Perpignan - 3rd May
Reality strikes home. I've arrived at the hostel where I'll be spending my first night on the road and, well, it's raining. And a bit rough around the edges. And my plan to use the t3 with the hacked tomtom maps has pretty much come to naught - it looks like I'm gonna have to buy some maps after all.. sigh... And the free bus from the airport fucked off before I'd gathered my wits so I had to wait ages for a taxi, which then cost me 25 euros.
But on the flip side, I've negotiated everything in French so far, booked my seat on the train tomorrow morning and a room in the hostel (the oldest in France according to the yellowing newspaper report on the wall). This place is designed for better weather...
Let me describe the scene to you, not what I was expecting at all. The common area that I'm sitting in has the feel of a waiting room in a train station. The chairs are brightly coloured and cheerful enough but the whole place has an air of slow decrepitude - uncared for over the course of decades, this is like the victim of the slow torture of a committed serial killer; utterly atrophied and unable to resist being slowly picked apart.
The sound of french television the only interruption to the silence (that and the occasional footsteps echoing in the corridor). It's not a good sound. Who's idea was this again?
It's not such a good interface for for reading though so I thought I'd put them up here too, plus it gives me the opportunity to tidy them up a bit.
Day 1 - Perpignan - 3rd May
Reality strikes home. I've arrived at the hostel where I'll be spending my first night on the road and, well, it's raining. And a bit rough around the edges. And my plan to use the t3 with the hacked tomtom maps has pretty much come to naught - it looks like I'm gonna have to buy some maps after all.. sigh... And the free bus from the airport fucked off before I'd gathered my wits so I had to wait ages for a taxi, which then cost me 25 euros.
But on the flip side, I've negotiated everything in French so far, booked my seat on the train tomorrow morning and a room in the hostel (the oldest in France according to the yellowing newspaper report on the wall). This place is designed for better weather...
Let me describe the scene to you, not what I was expecting at all. The common area that I'm sitting in has the feel of a waiting room in a train station. The chairs are brightly coloured and cheerful enough but the whole place has an air of slow decrepitude - uncared for over the course of decades, this is like the victim of the slow torture of a committed serial killer; utterly atrophied and unable to resist being slowly picked apart.
The sound of french television the only interruption to the silence (that and the occasional footsteps echoing in the corridor). It's not a good sound. Who's idea was this again?
