More chocolate with a side of sugar

(Computer is fixed, and even though I'm back home, I had one last blog that never got posted. So, here it is to end my international trip #2.)

I think I've gained weight since I've been in Madrid. In France I lost weight because I ate as little as possible due to the high prices. Here, I've been eating like royalty. As well, in most places, every time you order a coffee, you receive a piece of chocolate with it. So, a cup of coffee with lunch and dinner equals 2 chocolates a day, and then this doesn't include all the other chocolate devoured.

I also never realized how many varieties of chocolate that could be made. In Spain, you have a continuum of chocolate varieties, all depending on the percentage of cacao. The best part is that when you order a cup of hot chocolate, they serve it with a sugar packet on the side for garnish.

With all the sugar, butter and chocolate in this city, I don't know how more people aren't overweight.

Put the lemon in the Coca Cola...

No pictures can capture Spanish life, and no pictures can capture the beauty and tranquility of Madridians. No photo could show the breathtaking moments that fill my time in the capitol of España.

Spain loves chocolate; it comes in every variety and consistency. They don´t mess around with a cup of hot chocolate either. A cup of hot chocolate is literally a cup of melted chocolate, which they drink as either a dessert or in the manner one would drink a cup of coffee. It is amazing to watch someone sip on a giant cup of dark chocolate as it slowly drizzles down the side of the porcelain mug.

In France it was about coffee and bread, but in Spain it´s about chocolate and wine - who wouldn´t love it here? Everyone who lives here seems to agree with that statement, which is obvious in the way the locals treat tourists. They don´t care, really, if you´re a tourist because they realize for one, we help their economy tremendously, and two, if you are a tourist travelling to their country, then you must enjoy their city at some level. It is because of both these reasons that they try to share their country with tourists as much as possible. "Go see this, go see that..." I went to the museum of natural sciences today, and every time I walked by one particular worker, he would ask, "Did you go downstairs to the right yet?" because this was where his favorite exhibition was located.

As well, almost every waiter will give you their favorite suggestions and will also tell you what mosts tourists don´t end up liking because it is too different from what our tongues are used to. Even better is when you ask, "Hable ingles?" and if they can´t speak English you can see the look of disappointment. This does not mean, however, they will not still try to communicate, and often it turns quickly into a game of hand gestures.

Another way you can see how the Spanish love their country is their awareness toward the environment and recycling. They still use glass bottled Coca Cola and other sodas and waters, and in the morning restaurant workers can be found exchanging empty glass bottles will freshly filled ones with the various distributors. It makes me feel like I am in a time warp to the 1950s. Coca Cola is also normally served with a glass of ice that has one lemon slice waiting for you at the bottom.

In order to make the most of their days (most bars don´t open until about 8 p.m. and dance clubs open after midnight) the Spaniards like their siestas. Thought it´s not as a common as it once was I am told, many places of business close between the hours of 2 p.m. and 5 p.m., where people go home to nap.

Let´s return to the wine. While imported beer is harder to find, wines from all over the world can be found at most restaurants. And a glass of wine is not retstricted to a few ounces such as in the U.S. but is a glass of whatever size filled a little over halfway - there is no regulation in the pour.

In one last note: Americans have this idea that we are the most hated country around the world, and while this may be true when it comes to our government, actual Americans aren´t included in this position, which brings me back to the French. No matter who I talk to, whether it´s the local Madridians or the various internationals staying at my hostel, French people are the first to be made fun of by anyone. After all, while our McDonalds and Starbucks have overrun businesses in most countries, Americans gave the world Coca Cola, so how could we not be liked?

(No picture included in this entry due to problems with my computer!)

Buttery men

Politeness and smiles are rampant in Madrid. Prices are reasonable and walking about the city is far more realistic than Paris. The uneven bricks and stones don’t jab into the bottom of my feet as was the case in Paris. Locals in Madrid are happy to help as tourists here are far less frequent. Overall, attitudes are more pleasant—I think I’ve found my city. I could see myself living here, no problem.


The men here are worth noting. Their congeniality makes you fall just a little for each of them, and maybe it’s because they love American women, but I receive compliment after compliment—not in the creepy, annoying way. The men here can be compared to the Spaniards’ love and use of butter. They like butter on everything so they are sure to make it to an exquisite taste; it is always smooth and is often made with some kind of special flavoring, all of which is whipped to perfection…

Parque del Retiro

Finding bones and hidden treasures

As I depart through the skies of France and goodbye to the clouds that rest over Paris, I feel relieved to leave. While the stay wasn’t entirely bad (mostly because of the adventures of my last day) I am not sure how much of a desire I have to return to the city. The only time I would make it back here is if I were with my love, and even then I think we could find a better place in the world. The city seems to be so overrun by tourists—even in the dead of winter—that its own local flavor gets lost, or is at least hard to find.


Yesterday, though, I did stumble across of some of this lost culture in the old windy streets where artists such as Van Gogh once frequented. After meeting a Canadian who seemed just as frustrated with Paris as me, and who had no plans on what was also going to be his last day, I asked him if he wanted to join me and my itinerary. He was overjoyed, and as a history major with a particular interest in U.S. history and politics, we had many conversations throughout our day of exploration, while also making fun of Parisians and other tourists. This was all very refreshing.

After going to so many churches, I needed some science in my life, so we went to the Musee de la Histoire Naturelle. The museum at first appeared as if it were a storage center filled with animal bones as far as the eye could see. From primates to frogs and dinosaurs, it was every science lovers’ dream because of the close proximity they allow visitors to go to the current and ancient bones. Many of the bones were those gathered from the famous scientist George Cuvier.

I was the Canadian’s guide as he picked my brain on ancient human history and evolution. I was in the middle of explaining to him the truncated version of humans becoming habitually bipedal, starting with the find of Australopithecus afarensis, when he taps me on the shoulder and points to some bone fragments sitting in a glass case. I couldn’t believe my eyes: Shoved into the corner of this tucked away museum, which it seemed only locals knew about, was the famous Lucy skeleton (pictured left)! “Weren’t you just telling about her?” he asked. I was ecstatic and still get giddy when I think about seeing it.

I couldn’t believe this wasn’t advertised by the museum; it wasn’t even in the guide pamphlet that tells you where some “key” skeletons were throughout the museum. This find made my journey to Paris well worth it.

Now, it’s off to Madrid.

Praying to saints for all the wrong reasons

After so many years of not stepping into a church, it’s quite ironic how many I have walked through in the last few days. Nothing was quite like the Notre Dame (pictured above). In fact, I have not prayed in many years, and there was something so powerful about this cathedral that made me feel like I needed to kneel before the altar. It seemed that something so great and powerful begged for my faith, but then I remembered that it wasn’t God who was giving me this feeling, but a material object built by humans.


God never would have wanted us to expel so much into building a monument dedicated to him (though mostly it seems to be dedicated to various saints — which is even more pagan). So, I decided that if I am going to pray again someday, God would not want it to be in such a monstrous place that almost scared me into praying again because then it would not come from the heart.

These extravagant churches and cathedrals are testimony to the absurdity that has become religion, or at least, Catholicism. Jesus was against wealth and those who were wealthy. I can’t then, for all my life, understand Catholicism and how it has oppressed the poor and so many others for centuries. For example, in Paris and I know this happened in England as well, a Protestant wasn’t allowed to be treated by a doctor until they abolished their faith and converted to Catholicism. One of the museums had a list of people who refused and died from sickness because of these religious laws.

Palin and Napoleon I

In trying not to think about the tragedy that is Sarah Palin and the shootings that occurred yesterday in the states (everyone here is talking about it), I am in instead thinking about fritas (fries). Fritas here are classified as a serving of vegetables — every American’s dream; it makes for a good excuse in eating plenty of them!

I just finished visiting the Louvre (entryway pictured above), where the Mona Lisa and many other famous artworks are held. Most of the art (including a 3,000-year-old Egyptian piece that once stood in front of the Sphinx that now stands outside the Louvre) became a part of France during the reign of Napoleon I. Most countries will tell you that Napoleon stole most of the art that sits in the Louvre during his days of conquering the world; he “liked” many things. The French maintain this isn’t the case and refuse to give any art back to the respective countries. Egypt, by no surprise knowing how protective their archaeologists are, are the only ones who seem to give a damn and send a letter to the French government every year asking for the return of quite a few items. One item in particular the Egyptians wish to have back is the 3,000-year-old monument that tells the story of Ramses in hieroglyphics. It sits next to the only female statue of the city masquerading as a piece of French history. It’s quite laughable really.

This attitude of reminds me of the American government attitude. In fact, it was after hearing this story that I realized why the American-French relationship is so up-and-down. I have a cousin who is like a sister to me, and we often fight like sisters. My mother always said it was only because we’re so much alike that we fight in the manner that we do. The Americans are like the younger sister to the French — the basic mentality is so similar that we butt heads. We have our versions of the truth that is superior to everyone else — no matter how far it is from reality.

The French government claims the 3,000-year-old monument was given to Napoleon by the Egyptians and find it deplorable that they’re asking for it back. So here are two versions of the story on how this art arrived, but of course the French version is the most illogical. Somehow, though, the French win every year and keep this out-of-place statue that sits in alignment to the Arc du Triumphe and their national assemble; it is truly an odd site to see this hieroglyph sitting between all this French-ness.

Locking in love

More and more I see how this is the city of “love.” Aside from the bridge dedicated to lovers who attach locks to the wire railing and throw the key of the side into the Seines (the river that runs through the city) as a token of their eternal feelings for one another, menus are dedicated to appetites of two. Couples fill restaurants throughout the day sharing stories, discussing Franco politics — and probably American, as well. If they’re not snuggled up next to each other, many of these couples reach across the table with their hearts in hand, clasping the fingertips of their lover as if they can’t get enough.


And since I’m here without mine, for now I’m enjoying my newfound love: cheese fondu! Where has it been all my life and will I ever find anything so great in the states? I stab the fondue fork into the rock hard sourdough bits and swirl it around in the bliss that is cheese fondue until the bread softens. In between bites I listen to the cackling of the flame and sip my red wine. I don’t know what keeps the flame lit and that captures me even more. The potatoes dipped are good as well, but dry and bland compared to the cheese-covered bread. And once again, all is accompanied by a misty water vase that reflects the pink and red lights of the café.

As the fondue begins to brown (a sign that it’s time to stop!) the rain starts to fall onto the awning before making its way down to the cold, stone sidewalk.

Coffee and history

One of the many statues that adorn the city.

Café. The French know how to make a good cup of joe. If it is not good, then you much not have greeted the server properly upon entering. Tourists think the French are rude, and the French think tourists are rude. To avoid this misunderstanding, all a visitor must do is say “bonjour” upon entering any place of business, whether it’s a restaurant, a shoppe or a pharmacy. Pharmacies here are frequent and from the outside look like a California pot shop with a giant green cross lit up at the entryway that can be seen blocks away.


I sit here eating lunch mesmerized once again by the French present their food — everything is placed beautifully on the plate. Even the water is served formally in a clear glass bottle personally for each table to pout in the mini-wine glass. The food might not taste as great as it is presented, but I think to the regular French customer, this does not matter.

Across the way sits a woman who resembles my grandma Norma strikingly, but I do not know if she was actually French or not. I’ve seen many older French women, who resemble this grandmother and my great grandmother Deary on my mother’s side, who I do know was of French descent. I even smell her around the city, or maybe it’s the overwhelming amount of Catholic churches and holy water that I actually smell. Surely, I have French in my blood, and it’s a curious thought to wonder what distant relatives remain here, or at least connected ancestors of some kind…

I am glad I quit smoking cigarettes before coming here — it would have been too easy to make it a worse habit than it already was. Cigarette packs here read in bold, black letter, “Smoking kills.” in English on one side and French on the other. In 2007, the government outlawed smoking in public places, but I’m not sure what that means because people seem to smoke anywhere. Maybe the law means no smoking inside because that, mostly, doesn’t happen.

Today has been beautiful. Not a drop of rain has touched the ground.

There are several original Statues of Liberties that range in size throughout the Paris.

All is safe

I realized earlier that something I had said to a person in my hostel (thought I’m not sure I actually believed it at the time) couldn’t be more true: If I can do New York, I can do Paris. They say Paris can be a dangerous city, but I feel rather safe here.


I remember my first image of New York at the age of 9 was a ragged man sitting on the stairs to the metro with a stack of wallets. No one seemed to notice that he sat there separating the cash from the credit cards. You would never see anything of the like here as even the thieves have more respect and sophistication in their mischievous lifestyles. Like New York, however, the metro is the breeding ground for crime, which is why at first I thought I would avoid it as much as possible, but now I have other reasons. Paris is not that big. I don’t know the numbers exactly, but it is much like the size of Long Beach. More importantly, why would a visitor want to spend so much time traveling through the city underground when ever rue and avenue has so much amazing architecture to bear witness to?

With that in mind, I understand that part of the “perks” of staying in a hostel is getting to meet people, but I’m not here to make lifelong friends or to have sex. I hope it was just this one Brazilian who seemed to think it was okay to lecture me about traveling with a boyfriend at home as if hostels are for a place of “hooking up.” Can it just be that I’m a tight-budgeted traveler who wanted to visit this city since I knew of its existence? As well, I do not need a short companion to enjoy what I want from any city, and I think this man’s addiction to that is quite sad. For a city of “love,” these travelling men don’t understand the idea of fidelity and the sanctity of love.

I have lived alone since 20 — I am not one who needs others surrounding me to enjoy life. In fact, I get more joy observing from the outside, such as this moment while I write. I’m sitting alone nibbling away at my pizza as I take moments to watch the workings of the restaurant, giving the occasional smile and nod as necessary. My peace is sitting here alone without having to engage in conversation, and listening to every murmur around me; these are things I wanted to come to this city — and any place for that matter — to witness, and how can one do that without observing?

We could all maybe learn a few more things about each other if we stopped our mouths and opened our eyes wider. Infants are capable of learning so much their first couple years of life. Granted, much of this has to do with biology, but maybe it also has to with their inability to talk. When one isn’t using one of the senses, the others are heightened. Who is to say that speaking can be included in this theory?

The top photo is of the military grounds (which includes a Catholic church) and the photo above is one of the many different types of metro entrances.

Fashion, rain and cigarettes

It is wet. Like the sun acts for cheery Californians, the rain suits Parisians well. It is relentless and sophisticated the way it runs down the intricately placed cobblestones of the streets. The rain is always rushing to go some place, and it only has one form. Unlike the rain, though, Parisians do have a smiling place beneath their flat-lined lips — their expressionless gaze that makes one assume they’re unhappy. They hide this place of cheer behind their cigarettes and cups of espresso, and behind their language of formality. In France, the Parisian happiness rests inside the bars, where some laughter can be heard, and inside the chocolate shoppes, which are as frequent as 7/11 and Starbucks are in the U.S.


Scarves, silk, extravagant boots and jackets — Paris is not much for the ill-fashioned. Without these you are clearly the backpacking visitor or the poorest Parisian. There isn’t much color except the occasional red.

Women seem to dominate the city. This aspect may be my favorite of Paris. Men push the baby strollers and are often seen feeding the infant and cooing them. One would think this is a matriarch, though I am sure it is not.

International trip 2: Paris and Madrid

I have decided to convert my old blog into a travel log for journeys throughout my life. This is not for professionalistic purposes, but is for myself and those who care enough to read.