God is back

Côte d'Azur

Sunday morning dawns cloudy and the beaches in Genoa lose out to Bologna as the next destination. But the fare's too high without the Eurail and Sudipta backs off. A call to Manu is answered by Shubha and I reroute to Nice, France.

Monaco Monte Carlo's the first stop on the Côte d'Azur. Two hours of wandering and I am not impressed. The F1 track is as invisible to me as to others before, a cheap sandwich is too cheesy to finish and the white yatchs at the port are a bit of an eyesore.

S receives me at Nice Ville station and the trek up the hill gets us to the house. It's less of an apartment and more of a holiday nest and I realize what's lacking at our place in Barca. Class on Tuesday morning back at ESADE mean the only things I can savour at Nice are the view from the balcony, a proper dinner after 2 days and a night's rest before I head to Cannes en route to home.

Monday the 24th

Cannes is Monaco with less of a hilly terrain. I manage a glance at the venue for the annual film festival and half an hour lolling on an almost empty beach and it's time to rush for the station. Being on the road (or the rail) four days a week can take the joy out of the best of places. Either that, or there's nothing to write home about The Azure Coast.

The route home is Cannes-Marseilles St.Charles-Pizzeria-Run with a mozzarella in hand a la Moose Miller-Marseilles St.Charles-Montpelier-Barcelona, with intermittent fits of How the mind works?, mental wandering and napping.

Back home, ID and Phuku add spice to a dinner of puliyogre. I decide to take a day off from travelling in the coming weekend, before retiring for the day.

Queen of the Adriatic

Italy is one step closer to India than is Spain. The train to Venezia gets delayed first by 10 minutes, and then by 5 more. The delays are used to dash off a mail to Partner about possible topics for our Design Management presentation and to pick up my first Happy Meal (eek!!). And finally on board the train, there's no place to sit but on the floor.

Habit forces acquisition of the Vencice map at 2.5 euros, when the LP map ought to've sufficed. First up is no.82 which criss-crosses the Grand Canal in a joyful ride to San Marco. As predicted by LP, I get lost amongst the lanes in search of Piazza San Marco (San Marco Square, the centre of Venice). But soon I am wishing I was here 15 years back, on a sunny morning in the summer holidays, with all day and two months more to go and nothing to do but explore the countless campi and canals.

Piazza San Marco mesmerizes. A tour inside the Basilica is turned down to linger amongst the pigeons and the tourists and gaze at the ancient facades which surround the square. For the first time on my crazy travels, I wish I wasn't alone. But soon enough, reality calls me back to my senses. The ATMs deny me the withdrawal of the last fifty euros in my Caja Madrid account and I am left with 20 euros for another day in Italy and the trip back to Barcelona.

Change of plans, again. A pepperoni pizza in a LP-indexed pizzeria later, I scuttle a night and another morning in dreamy Venice for the comfort of the floor in Sudipta's room and a loan of 50 euros.

23 years, 4 trains and a lockout

October 21st dawns like any other day. Its a dash to Barcelona Franca as I just about manage to catch the 0845 to Montpelier.

It's 12 hours and 35 minutes before I reach Milano Centrale. En route, I change trains thrice, at Montpelier, Lyon Part Dieu and Chambery-Challes-E with change over times of 15, 17 and 10 minutes, not without a degree of apprehension.

The Nokia and Phuku save me a night at a youth hostel as a detailed SMS guides me through two metro trains and tram no.9 and past the reception desk to Sudipta's room.

An attempt to bypass the reception desk as I forage for my b'day dinner misfires when we are locked out of the Bocconi hostel building but within the campus walls. Frantic waving at a passing resident gets us back in through the back door and it's past midnight when I go to sleep on biscuits and chocolate.

Gotta start sometime

Train to Milano at 0845 on birthday number 23 and the eyelids are heavy. But The European Diaries has been long overdue and I am determined to make a start. Two hours of punching into my laptop and finally we are on the way.

There ain't no free lunch

The train reaches Latour-de-Carol on the Spanish border too late for the connecting train to Barcelona. The next few hours are spent in the company of another Nigerian from Mallorca. But nothing is free and when the man’s wallet turns out empty, I’m obliged to pay for his fare to Barca!

Art attack at the Louvre

Cergy le Haut’s distance from Paris has taken toll and I leave with backpack for Musee du Lovure. How’s the Louvre? Exhausting! The backpack’s a mistake as I trudge through floors and acres of millions of paintings, sculptures and every imaginable thing a museum can hold. Attempts to capture the place on the Canon are quickly abandoned.

1630

It’s with some relief that I finally find my way out of the Louvre. An hour of sitting at the base of Arc de Triompf and gazing at passers by, another walk down Champs-Elysees and pop-ins into a couple of Parissy shops and a couple of by-lanes later, I work my way through the metro to Gare de Austerlitz for the train home. Paris has turned out to be underwhelming…

D-Day gone waste

Day 0 all over again. A late rise at 1130 leaves Loki, Jai and me on a 1600 train to Bayeaux in Normandie. This town is the base for exploring the D-Day beaches. But Sunday evening at 1730 and the place is asleep, rainy and cold. Omaha beach is 15 km away and Arromanches beach is 10 km away. Public transport is absent and good money and a Sunday are under-utilized. Bayeux is tranquil though and a walk across the town and back is soothing. The tourist brochure on the train back takes one back to 1944 and Saving Private Ryan and shows me what we missed out on.

0000 hrs

Pizzas for dinner as Tommy cuts a birthday margherita at midnight.

Day-0 in Paris

Paris. First impression’s that Paris is easier on the eye than Barcelona, and more multi-ethnic and cosmopolitan. Bath and some fabulous toast and omelettes at Loki’s place in Cergy le Haut in the suburbs sets me back by 4 hours but Chiru and Tommy from Bordeaux are added to the party. The Eiffel tower is looked at, the climb to the top put on hold and we walk to Arc de Triompf and down Champs-Elysees.

Touring around is funny business. Chiru’s aim is to click 10 GB worth of photos, Tommy looks perennially worried about how many and what places he can cover in a day, and Loki hates the fares for travel and entry into places. It was meant to be fun, wasn’t it?

The late start costs us dear. The other three head back home while I sit at the entrance to the Louvre and make plans. I decide not to miss the trip up the Eiffel. An old pedestrian bridge across the Siene plays host to dozens of tourists picnicking in the twilight with guitars and baskets and the works. But being alone, I walk on, guided by the sweeping beam from the tower.

The view from the top’s good, the air’s chilly, the flashing lights make a good photograph and the crowd has people from across the globe but no emotions are evoked. Now I’ve been there, done that, good bye.

Back at Cergy le Haut, tortillas and dal for dinner. The French tortillas are almost chapattis and totally unrelated to the Mexican / Spanish tortillas which are omelettes. Cricinfo’s reports on the Super Series are read and Normandie and the D-Day beaches are chosen for a Sunday outing.

Camp Nou

Just one day of home and classes and a new weekend starts. Vikash, Rohit and I visit Camp Nou, the home of FC Barcelona. Camp Nou translates as new camp, and is a popular name initially used to distinguish it from the old stadium. The guided tour through the stadium is neatly done. Half an hour is spent going up level by level and another hour soaking in the museum – a football fan’s paradise. The store houses original merchandise and I leave with a promise to come back.

1400 hrs

Barcelona’s glorious Mediterranean weather becomes rainy and Bangaloreish as we exit Camp Nou. I go through the Eurail timetable and decide that Lisbon is my next stop.

1610 hrs

The train to Madrid is full. Another scan through the timetable and Paris gets lucky. An SMS to Shuchi and a phone call with Loki later, I am headed to Paris. The direct overnight train is expensive and as I later learn, a blunder. For company, I have a German resident who is a Sikh from Punjab, a Parisian who is an African from Guinea and an Amsterdam resident who is a Pakistani from Lahore whereabouts. The African proves he is Muslim to the Pakistani by reciting from the Quran. The Pakistani is chatty and treats me to a post dinner repast of home-made samosa and rasgolla.

Home and high

I return to 43, C/Pavia with a feeling of quiet exultation at an adventure where things worked out. The good thing about the 2200 departure is that I have time for both bath and breakfast at home before setting out for college and classes.

A day on the road and night by rail

The sun’s not up yet when I reach the bus-stop. A backpacking couple soon joins me and we are introduced as we click each others’ photos. They are a German speaking Swiss pair studying in Madrid. The clock ticks past 0730 and there is no sign of the bus. It is 0810 when the brain finally sparks to life. It’s October 12^th, Spain’s National Day and the only reason I’m having an extended weekend. The 0700 bus does not run on Sundays and holidays. News revealed and accepted with some indignation by the girl ("Why didn't anyone tell us?"), we head to the beach for three hours of sunshine, breakfast and conversation about India, Kannada, Bollywood, Switzerland…

The journey home is long and I have Janine and Thomas for company all the way to Madrid, via Almeria and Granada, all by bus. They have Switzerland’s World Cup qualifier to watch, while I have the 2300 to Barcelona to catch.

2130 hrs, Madrid

I get to Madrid Atocha station after bidding goodbye to the Swiss with my e-mail id hurriedly scribbled on a scrap of paper, and traversing the concrete labyrinth of Madrid’s underground. Ticket to home booked, I await my order of a one-fourth chicken with salad and fries, watching Spain’s WC qualifier on the telly. As is my wont, I check once more that all my stuff: camera, passport, backpack, cap is safe and casually glance at my ticket. The ticket reads Departure Time: 2200 hrs and my watch reads 2154. Panic time. I point to my watch and say tren to the restaurateur. The man gets the idea and has the chicken wrapped in foil and plastic in under 30 seconds. Money paid, change collected after thoughts of abandoning it, and a dash towards the platform. The LED screen though still says Barcelona-Sants 2300. Confirmation at the counter and directions to platform 10 take 8 seconds and I bound down the stairs and the platform to the train. 10 seconds after my entry, the whistle is blown and I sigh with relief and settle down for the packed dinner and a peaceful sleep.

A manic hike

Almeria has a dual train and bus station. I take the bus to the village of Cabo de Gata. Southern Spain gives way to the eastern coast at Cabo de Gata or the Cape of Gata. The bus occasionally abandons the coastal highway to enter the villages for passengers. On both sides of the road, the land is sheathed with plastic sheets which act as greenhouse roofs for a proliferating bio culture industry. Otherwise, life here is quite and remote.

The beach at Cabo de Gata is called Playa Miramar and is a flat stretch of white sand leading into clear, brilliant blue Mediterranean waters. There are about 3 people on the entire beach on a sunny, hot day. I pause but for five minutes before ducking into the village where I ask for directions to San Jose, the biggest village on the Cape.

At the bus-stop, I encounter an Englishman, Tony, who is backpacking with Lonely Planet Andalucia in hand. Attempts to hitch a ride to San Jose show few signs of succeeding and Tony gives up and decides to find shelter at 1:00 pm, with a strong overhead sun. Rather tame, the English spirit, I think. But his Lonely Planet gives me the information I need: there’s no coastal road to San Jose, the only motorable road is back through inland; however one can reach it by foot: just a paltry 12 km away. I do some quick arith :) , figure I can get there before dark and take down some quick notes from the Lonely Planet:

Salt mines at La Almadraba de Monteleva
Cathedral – Iglesia de las Salinas
South of La Almadraba – lighthouse – Faro de Cabo de Gata (southern tip)
8.5 km walking track
Left hand turn @ Café Bar El Faro leads up to Torre Virgin Vela Blanca (atop cliffs)
Just before the tower, track leading to Playa de Monsul (3 km)
Out of the cove and a further 2.5km – Playa de los Genoveses – Borronal
Track continues a further 4 km – San Jose!

The next 5 hours is one memorable hike. At La Almadraba, I refuel with a large meal of calamares and fries and stock up with two 1.5 litre water bottles. The walk along another deserted beach soon ascends into rugged hill territory.

The hills on one side and a drop overlooking the sea on the other make for spectacular viewing. The big load on the back means that I stop every 20 minutes. Passers by in cars stare at the solitary hiker and several times I consider thumbing a lift. But then the landmarks in the notes start appearing on the horizon, one after the other.

After the left turn at Café Bar El Faro, it’s only a dirt track leading up to the Vela Blanca Tower. The Sierra Nevada is in the vicinity of Granada. These ranges are called the Sierra xyz. The shirt’s soon soaked in sweat but I trudge on, with quite a manic determination. The tower too falls behind, in time. There are two rangers at the foot of the tower. I expect questions and a passport check but instead get a friendly hola and raised eyebrows when I say San Jose. Nevertheless, they point out the track going downhill and I’ve made good time.

Quite a few parties pass me in the opposite direction, all trekking uphill towards the tower, and all with holas. Playa de Monsul is reached at 1730 hrs after ignoring several other playas (beaches) on the way. The waters here are clear and calm and I walk in about 20 feet with the sea just reaching above the waist. Two hours of the little swimming I know and sitting on the beach leaves me shivering visibly but thanks to a Frenchman and his jeep, I get to Albergue Juvenil de San Jose in no time.

2000 hrs

San Jose is a sleepy town and the youth hostel is cheap, charming and invites you to stay for ever. The other guests are all white and sit in a cosy group at a neat little garden bar over beer, music and conversation. I take a hot shower and go down to the town centre for a hot pizza at a homely little place. The bus to Almeria is at 0700 in the morning.

The Alhambra and onward

A rainy morning in Granada and the IIMB jacket and the cap come handy. The Alhambra is located across town from the youth hostel and the German’s bus card too proves useful. I stop for a mobile recharge and trek up the pedestrian access in a steady and cold drizzle, breathing steam under the weight of the backpack.

The Alhambra is ‘one of the greatest accomplishments of Islamic art and architecture,’ says the LP. I can’t quite see what the fuss is about, especially as I decide not to pay and enter Palacio Nazaries, the palace and centrepiece of the Alhambra. Nevertheless, walking around and taking in the gardens and the patio in a centuries-old setting is good fun.

Lunch is back down hill at Tabernas Salinas. The setting is out of a Western movie: all wooden walls, barely lit, old wine bottles resting in the loft... but an adventurous order of smoked fish is barely edible to my Indian tongue and I depart with the complimentary bread in a plastic bag to assuage my hunger on the bus to the station.

A huge map of Andalucia comes free with the guides to Costa Tropica and Costa de Almeria I purchase at the main tourist info centre. Almeria, the town, is located inland and to the northeast and I decide to try Motril (on Costa Tropica) down south from Granada, my first stop on the Andalucian coast.

Motril

Motril isn’t more than 10 km off Granada but the bus goes in and out of every village on the way and takes much longer than expected. Down at Motril, I ascertain the bus schedule to Almeria. I have 2 hours to spare and map in hand, walk towards the beach as pointed to by the directions printed off the Net at Malaga.

The walk turns into a march along an exit to the freeway. There’s little space for pedestrians and cars whiz by. On both sides of the road are automobile rentals, garages and salvage yards. Hoardings of the Nissans and the Peugeots scar the countryside. Everyone in Europe seems to own a car and past their prime, the cars are dumped in the Motrils, away from the pretty touristy towns and cities.

The exit soon reaches the highway to Motril and with no beach in sight still, I’m forced to turn back, and up to the station. I grab a bite and send an offline message informing Bangalore of my whereabouts, as they say, just in case, before boarding the bus to Almeria.

Almeria has no youth hostel. I ask the police at the station directions to Hostal Americano and check in for an expensive night. Two lessons from the day: read tourist guidebooks, even the LP, with just a pinch of salt; and remember that the beaches may be a wee bit away from the town.

Picasso and going solo

G’s off early to the station to book his ticket home while I use the lavanderia. (No, it’s not the lavatory, it’s the laundry service.) Breakfast’s included in the 12 Euro bill but Chief doesn’t respond to an SMS calling him back to base. It’s already 1130 when the drier reluctantly lets go of my clothes.

Slipping into solo pilot mode, the m.o. is clear. Head towards the closest tourist information centre, get a map and trace one of the recommended paths through the town. The path snakes in and out of beautiful cobbled streets and past a makeshift stage where local artists play rock on a sunny morning.

First stop is the Museo Picasso Malaga. The guy’s said to have said that it took him 60 years to learn to paint like a kid and how right he is. The pencil sketchings convince me that my Biology lab records have a future at the Louvre but I leave well entertained.

G’s been lost from my radar for 2 hours but I’m enjoying the solo trip and make no attempt to radio him. Pescado is too expensive and I settle for a pollo baguette and a chocolate cone. Admission to the Alcazaba (fortress) is free from 1400 but not at 1345. Fifteen minutes are filled with a visit to the remains of a Roman amphitheater, a stone’s throw away.

The Alcazaba is pretty, filled with gardens and provides a splendid view of the Malaga port. The Castillo Gibralfaro (a Moorish castle) is too far to tempt me into a visit, especially with the beaches of Malaga still to go. I head in the direction of the coast and the estacion, walk through manmade clusters of Mediterranean vegetation, and chance upon an Internet centre.

All mail accounts and instant messengers checked, an idea pops up. With 4 days of the ‘weekend’ left and only fuzzy plans to explore Granada, Madrid and maybe Lisbon, I google for info on the Andalucian beaches. What I read more than convinces me to head back south after Granada.

The train to Granada via Bodadilla leaves even while I’m mapping my route using the Eurail time-table. Directions to the autobus estacion from another uniformed officer and a friendly Nigerian who hands me anti Roman Cathloic Church propaganda take me to the bus station and about three hours later I am in Granada.

Granada

The tourist office is open even at 1830. An hour of map reading gets me to Albergue de Junventud. There are no single rooms on offer and I check into a room which is already occupied by a sleeping bag and a copy of National Geographic’s guide to Andalucia. A glance through the Nat Geo indicates that our partner for the night is not quite straight.

A shower later, I get to meet my German friend. He’s nice and polite and gives me his extra bus pass for Granada and directions to cheap eat-outs, both free of cost. I decide it’s time to find out what LP means by nightlife and strike a path for the ‘happening’ centre of the town: Plaza Nueva.

Just past the mandatory cathedral, a board advertises a Mughlai restaurant. The prices are high but the hole in my stomach :) is large. I fill it with my most expensive meal to date: 16 Euros of rotis, rice and vindaloo xyz. The nightlife hunt resumes post dinner and remains unsuccessful, despite what msb later claims.

The night trip has made my plans for Sunday clear though: check out the Alhambra and clear out from Granada. The walk back to the youth hostel is through desolated streets. Even the University area is bereft of all but one old man walking a dog and one young couple sprawled all over a park bench.

Se-vee-ya and an identity check

The Oficina Turismo at Sevilla Santa Justa is scheduled to open at 1000. But Chief Pilot G is in no mood to wait. Breakfast at the station, a couple of stretches, shoe-laces retied and Lonely Planet consulted, we march off towards the city centre.

Sevilla is the capital of Andalucia which was a stronghold of the Muslims in Spain in centuries gone by. First stop is at a Muslim monument, the Alcazar. The audio guide in English is well worth the money as the voice holds forth on Mudéjar architecture and Muslim royalty.

Lunch means calamares and fries for me and Pizzeria San Marco for G. An hour later I struggle to stay awake aboard the boat tour on River Guadalquivir but the message gets through: Expo ’92 was Sevilla’s moment in the sun and no one will be allowed to forget that.

1500 hrs

G will not patronize anything bloody and I am left in the company of treinta other tourists and a pretty guide for a fascinating tour of the bull-ring Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza.

Map in hand, I navigate to the last stop in Seville, Plaza de Espana, and reunite with Chief. Half an hour of rest and mouthfuls of masala puri later, we steer towards the station and Malaga.

Malaga

At Malaga station, G walks into the Renfe ticket office but my path is blocked by 3 uniformed officers. I have no clue what they want and call out to G for assistance. Passports are asked for and names are relayed one alphabet at a time to HQ. Showing our institute ID cards doesn’t help and I wonder what’s going to happen. But by the time the bags are X-ray screened, HQ has cleared us and we are free to go.

But it’s another hour before we can ease the backpacks off the shoulders at the Albergue Juvenil Malaga. Both Chief and Navigator are clueless where ‘1.5 km west of the city centre’ lies and eventually resign to taking a taxi.

Take-off to Andalucia

Monday’s class already happened yesterday and Columbus reached the New World on October 12th. One bunk on the Tuesday in between and I have 6 days to explore Spain. But B has visa issues and G has classes and I decide to wait. A session under the nimble scissors of Senorita mean 6.5 Euros and an afternoon are well-spent.

G is bent on getting to Malaga but non-availability of seats forces the two of us Seville-wards. The trenhotel compartments feel really small but one snuggles into a berth for a good night’s sleep.