by Isaure Cointreau

Let’s not get too sentimental as the academic year has passed so quickly. We are already in June and most of the Erasmus students are taking their leave. One after the other, the despedidas are taking place as the summer starts and the holidays are the next best thing on the menu. People are, for one going back home and then either they work or travel but one thing is for sure, they are not coming back.

Reminiscing our crazy nights, our laughs, incredible trips and fiestas, who knew the power of goodbye would make us reach for the past more than helping us set a foot in the future? However before moving on, I like to think about what an incredible adventure this was.

I remember when I left for Madrid I had nothing more than my suitcase and no connections whatsoever. I was the only one of my program to have chosen the Spanish capital as a destination; however it turned out pretty well. My first encounter happened in the plane and eventually became my roommate. Meeting people randomly in bars, clubs or the Metro, the Erasmus card could be played repeatedly as a member of the foreign community was never far away. Before Uni started everyone was completely lost but was enjoying the hell of it, embracing a new life.

After a while, the exploration of Madrid became a little less thrilling than what was surrounding it. With our will to change sights and our motivation on taking every opportunity to get a good grasp of the Iberian culture, trips were organized. Segovia, Avila, Sevilla, Salamanca and many more were our destinations and some of us fell in love with the Spanish soil. Splashing its cultural goodness in our faces, we were stroked by its incredibly rich variety. The heritage embodied in the architecture and history, the warmth and pride of the people, the respect of traditions and the will to move forward and of course the proximity of the beach, what is there not to love?

Madrid offers a grand welcome to all newcomers and to those who embrace it well, it can almost feel like home. I am not one who will contradict that feeling. Although my studies at the Autonoma have come to an end, my stay hasn’t. Desperate to postpone my leave, I was on the hunt for a reason to stay such as a job or an internship. Now that I have found such an occupation, the few stayers and I bid our farewells to the ones flying back. How odd it is to see that life goes on in Spain without those we lived everything with. Feeling almost like family, I believe these friends we made here will stay as such for long.

As much as it feels like a page is turning to never be flipped again, I only see it as Act 3 starting. The huge difference between the first and second semester is the reason why it feels like this. Though seeing as the latter was such an improvement from the other, I can only have high hopes for what is coming. However I will always feel a bit of nostalgia when thinking of Halloween in Sevilla, the Chupeteria in Salamanca, St Patrick’s day, Marco and “El olivo”, and the crazy Americans at “The penthouse”. 

Erasmus although you are long gone and initiated the concept of studying abroad indirectly, I would like to thank you. Though you were more of an inspiration, you were the seed that made the project bloom. This experience is an enlightenment upon life through experiencing the unknown and understanding another culture. For those who have been able to enjoy the studying as much as the traveling and partying, meeting new people in a new country, I feel I can say that this was an eye opening experience that will stay with us forever.

by Isaure Cointreau

Before going out of the office the other day, I naively thought the weather would be nice outside. “It is 4 p.m, the heat must have cooled off”, I assumed. Well, think again. Walking towards my flat in jeans and shirt, I couldn’t breathe. Is this a preview of what is coming to us this summer?  Gathering my thoughts, I took a jug of water and drank all I could, wishing that in the future the heat would never get above that 35 degree itch.

After a nice refreshing shower I finally got out of there though this time dressed accordingly. I guess that from now on shorts and sandals are compulsory.

As my footsteps were leading me towards the Metro Station, I noticed that shutters covered every window and the streets were empty. Some shops were closed and it felt like it was Sunday again. Was it still siesta time? Assuming it would only end when Spaniards felt like it, I started thinking about what are the other possibilities of escaping the verano heat wave. Jumping into the subway, the air conditioning felt like salvation. Thus there came my first response to THE question. However, one would have to be prepared to make some compromises, such as accepting certain delicate smells from some of our dear fellow men.

Until I arrived to my destination, the sight of a pool surrounded by long chairs with me on one of them, a drink in one hand and a fan in the other made me wonder. Wouldn’t life be sweet? Being more realistic and leaving the drink aside, Madrid offers various options as far as swimming pools are concerned. So I guess the only question now, is which one should I pick? Close to that dream of mine the one at the Emperador Hotel could do the trick, though the price doesn’t seem right for a poor student like me. However wouldn’t it be a sight to be seen? That view over Madrid between Gran Vía and the Palacio Real would make anyone drool of envy. This made me think of a third possibility to solve the problem.

When too hot, one looks for some shadow or fresh air to cool off, thus here is the answer. Why not try to escape the sun surrounded by nature and under a tree? It’s not like Madrid misses out on parks or gardens. Depends on what feels right at the moment. Urban mood at the “Retiro”, or if it is more Rural then the “Dehesa de la Villa” park seems more appropriate. As for the lookout of somewhat of a breeze, roof terrace bars in the evening appear as a first class choice, and of course “The penthouse” seems to be on the top of the list.

While I was walking down the Circulos de Bellas Artes’s stairs, after becoming an official member, I figured this would also be a nice place to avoid dehydration and the chance of being a red-skinned. Holding in my hand the CBA card that would give me access to the art studio, the library and all the exhibits for free during the whole summer, I was proud of my new investment. The idea of painting far away from the outside world seemed like a good compromise.

Thus, although it will become at times insufferable, there are infinite ways to cope with our upcoming heatstrokes.  

by Kika Patrick

So on Wednesday morning I was planning a nice early start. Unfortunately I overslept so that wasn’t what I got. Obviously recovering from the horrendous night’s sleep before. A quick breakfast later, I was up and about walking in the fresh morning air of Barcelona on my way to Casa Milà, Gaudi’s last apartment block he designed. At the till to get in, which I was surprised to find not many people in line for at 11am, I flashed my Bus Tour coupon and my ISIC card and the lady pointed to which one I could use. Inside, audio guides were included in the price and thank God too. What I’ve noticed about Spanish sites of interest is they’re not overly keen on giving you info as you walk around. There is usually nothing labelled or anything to read up on in the particular place you’re in. So if offered an audio guide and it’s not included, I’d recommend you’d go for it to get the best out of your visit.

At the Casa Milà I found more out about Gaudi himself and other things he designed such as furniture. This information is mostly given in the loft of the building. Then you are guided down to a typical recreated apartment of the period in which it was completed. And this is the overall sense of the museum I got–not something completely on Gaudi but more about life and arts of the period. This is heaven for me as I love anything Art Nuevo and turn of the century. In the gift shop (a must of course in capitalist tourism) I found a print book of Alonso Mucha’s work which I had been looking for. That was purchased along with a book of Chanel Turn of the Century designs.

That museum took up until lunchtime and I had planned on taking a bike to the next one to save time as I knew I wanted to do a lot that day. I had noticed, from the bus tour that along with a fantastic looking tram system, Barcelona offered another unique form of public transport. As you explore the city you come across several handily situated bicycle stations. Here you swipe some sort of a card at a post which then unlocks a bike from a bar at the side of the street where many bikes are docked. However I was told at the hostel that I would not be able to use the system as I was not a local resident. Barcelona has many bike lanes making getting around the city this way incredibly easy and safe. When the system was first introduced a few years ago, local bike tour companies wanted tourists to be banned from using it for fear of competition. Personally I feel it a bit of a swizz but one sees the point.

So I walked to my next destination as I didn’t want to spend money on Metro tickets. I hadn’t invested in the 10-ride ticket as I thought being overland I’d see a lot more. Singles are more expensive than Madrid costing a Euro and 35cents. Although I probably should have taken the Metro to the Joan Miro Foundation Museum because it was up in Montjuic Hill overlooking the city. By the time I got up there after lunch I only had little over an hour to smooch round. Worth it though if you are into Modern Art. Though the guy at the hostel thought going to Barcelona’s official modern art Museum, MACBA, was a better option. It was centrally located also. But it was a good walk round for me, no audio guide I’m afraid. But there were the odd info boards in English. The museum is situated just down the road from the city’s overhead cable car system that gives good views of the city and park. Here I decided to splash out on the Metro back. Bit of a treat down to the city – the Metro carriages are on a slope and I think cable operated.

That evening I crashed out in front of Barcelona vs Athletic in the Spanish football cup final in the common room with other guests. Barcelona won and the city didn’t sleep that night. I did however and the next day rose, on time, and dashed out for brekkie on the run. I was on my way to Pueblo Espanyol. This is a faux Spanish village that was built for the 1929 International Exhibition. It’s aim was to show visitors examples of architecture from across Spain’s different regions. Now it plays host to many artisans’ workshops where they sell their wares and numerous places to eat. I had breakfast here in a café overlooking its Plaza Mayor. Again, with audio guide in hand, I spent near on 4 hours ambling around, taking in the various info about Spanish building styles and checking out all the things being made in the little shops. By the time I had finished I hadn’t much time left before I had to catch my bus back to Madrid. I caught the Metro back to the Gothic quarter of the city which is the oldest part and very atmospheric. I walked from here back up to the hostel though of course it was then that it decided to start raining. How terribly British.

I checked out, managed to leave my towel there in the process and took the Metro back to Estación Nord. Barcelona’s bus station isn’t bad, if a bit tatty. Bus was practically empty back and apart from a rather uptight driver and a man who missed his stop because the driver didn’t announce it properly, the journey passed fairly quietly. I had remembered to bring the earphones from the bus tour to plug in as Alsa busses have personal earphone things that I wanted to check out. Unfortunately, out of 8 channels, only 3 worked and when the film did eventually pop up on screen, none of these channels offered the soundtrack. This annoyed me a lot as it was Something About Mary being shown and I’d never seen that. Mind you, it probably would have been dubbed anyway. I could lip read well enough.

Barcelona: Great for Architecture, playing volleyball on the beach and remember your Audio Guides.

What a bunch of foreign residents of Madrid love and hate about living in the Spanish capital.

by Isaure Cointreau

Last Thursday at 6h30 my roommate and I met up in front of the Teatro Real to get our tickets for the night’s show. “Romeo and Juliet” was then performed by the tremendous Stuttgart Ballet. Thus, after twenty minutes of queuing and a long chat over coffee, the stage curtains opened on the lively streets of Verona. Before our eyes Shakespeare’s tragedy was exquisitely illustrated by dance and music filling us with a fluttering feeling of delight. This classic piece had everything of a must see. Hence, the moving music of Prokofiev, the thrilling choreography, the fit dancers in stretched pants, and the drama would make any girl cry for more.

Other than the fact that we loved the show, we loved the price we had paid for it. Thanks to the “ultimo minuto” discount my ticket was 1.95 euros instead of 95. Isn’t life sweet? When the cashier asked for the payment saying the amount out loud I thought I hadn’t heard properly and even when she repeated it, I still thought my Spanish comprehension was at his worst. Thus after different states of shock going through incomprehension, gaze and overexcitement, we finally took our tickets and left the impatient sales assistant.  

Our seats at first were not bad but we could only see half of the stage between rows of different heads. However once the music started and the lights started to dim, we spotted empty chairs up front. In a few seconds we were taking our bags and moving up to the 1^st class seats, no questions asked.

During the first intermission we went out on the terrace to enjoy the sunset on the Palacio Real. The place looked surreal in this light, and adding to this the view of the plaza, it couldn’t feel more magical. When we went back inside, God knows how we ended up there, but we were in a private salon surrounded by glasses of wine and canapés. Assured that we were allowed to feast ourselves, we started to enjoy what was offered. We came back at the 2^nd intermission, though we then understood that we were really lucky to be there. While having a sip of Champagne, Cecile pointed out that people were being checked in showing their tickets to a doorman. Though it didn’t disturb our enjoyment, we stayed as discrete as we could.

The last half hour was intense. It felt like I was not the only one enjoying myself in there, as if we were all in communion with what was going on stage. As if the public was trying to grasp every minute of the Ballet, trying to remember every move and every sound of it, the eyes of the spectators were drawn towards the two protagonists. In the end, while Romeo and Juliet were dying, the man sitting next to me was silently crying and I was desperately wishing the show would go on for ever. However, although all good things have to end, the magic that happened in the Opera House stayed with me all night.

In other words, the show was an enchantment.

by Alexandra Atiya

A very cool thing to look out for this week: Cómo hacerse un cuerpo sin órganos.  It’s a “RadioPerformance” by Ángeles Oliva and Toña Medina, the two directors of the Experimental Radio Lab at La Casa Encendida and former presenters and writers for Radio 3.  

I discovered them while writing a piece for radio-themed issue of an online magazine in New York.  What they do is quite unusual.  They started doing “RadioPerformance” a couple of years ago, and they have a distinctive style, even though they’ve only produced two performance pieces so far.  They incorporate elements of theater into a live radio show.  In their last show, they used balloons, water, bottles, talking dolls, high heels, old radios, and tape recorders (among other things) to create live sound effects while they narrated stories about fear. 

This particular piece, which will also include the work of four other radio-artists, is based on a radio program that Antonin Artaud made in 1947.  That program, which you can also listen to in the Artaud exhibit in the basement of Casa Encendida, was a little strange, well, more than a little strange, and it was censored.  It never aired in his lifetime. 

I’m curious to see how they’ll reinvent it. 

The show goes up this Thursday and Friday (May 21 & 22) at La Casa Encendida at 10pm. 

by Kika Patrick

Let’s start at Avenida de America bus station in Madrid. I arrived at 10am on a Monday and the place was practically a ghost station. First of all, amazingly tiny screens makes finding right platform number for the bus extremely difficult. Secondly, venturing out to platform–not a soul to be found anywhere. Hanging around, 5 mins before departure, found someone who resembled a driver who told me to go a couple of platforms down, different to one on screen that hadn’t changed. There, a small group of travelers waited in mild confusion only to be collected by another driver person who took us to a completely different platform at the other end of the station. Result–not impressed, Estacion del Sur at Mendez Alvaro still the best bus station in Madrid for ease and facilities.

7 hours and two motorway stops later, I had arrived in Barcelona’s Estacion Nord. First task–find hostel. I had booked into Sant Jordi Hostel off Paseo de Gracia via hostelworld.com. Very good website, trusting traveler reviews who have actually stayed there so no nasty surprises. Instructions from hostel were detailed about which metro to catch and what exit to take and other than a short debate with a metro employee who didn’t agree with the instructions, I found the hostel relatively quickly. I was tired from the journey and wanted to settle in as soon as possible and find something to eat.

Sant Jordi hostel is small and friendly. It is freshly decorated with a well kitted out kitchen and common room. They are so accommodating here that they organize socials each night. That evening was named ‘Nasty Mondays’ on the walls of the common spaces. The international set of Australians, Canadians and Americans gathered in the kitchen for drinks before heading out to a club one of the hostel workers knew which did great Mojitos. Once back at the hostel at something O’Clock in the morning I was ready to crash out. Unfortunately the room I was put in was a) at the front overlooking a busy main street, b) right next to the kitchen and topping it off, c) my bed was pushed up to a set of doors connecting  into the kitchen where at 5am I was awoken by a couple of Germans. It all amounted to a very bad night’s sleep.

In the morning I was delighted to find, for only €2 an amazing spread for Breakfast. Just what I needed to start my day’s exploring. I decided to do the traditionally touristic thing of taking an official bus tour round the city. Bus tour views vary from a waste of time and money to an informative way to orientate yourself. I took the latter view and spent nearly the whole day on three different tours. Of course it was hop on, hop off type but at €21 for a day ticket (27€ for 2 days), I was going to make the most of it. I had a fantastic lunch by the harbor and gained some great ideas of what to see in Barca. However because there really is no point sitting on the bottom deck due to the amount of wonderful buildings the city has to offer and constantly looking up, I was on the top in the sun for near on a day. This amounts to one thing for a girl of Celtic roots–an amazing sunburn even in May when it wasn’t especially hot there.

With a little time in evening before I ate, I visited the Casa Batlló which was just on the corner of the street from the hostel. This house was designed by Gaudi for a Textile Factory owner and, Oh My God! I am completely in love with Gaudi architecture now. You either love him or hate him but you can’t visit Barcelona without exposing yourself to at least one of his works. One comment was that the house is a bit expensive to visit but with the bus tour, I got discount slips on nearly all the places of interest. Also if you have the ISIC card, which I really recommend, discounts are abound on all these types of places. At the sites I visited, I asked which discount would be best as the amount discounted varied.

That evening I asked to change rooms as I was not up for another night of light dozing. The lady behind the hostel desk was very nice and jiggled a few things so I could spend my last two nights in a quiet room at the back. That evening’s activities were Sangria drinking with the guests at the other Sant Jordi Hostels. Or ‘Crazy Tuesdays’ as it was labeled. After some crammed socializing in the kitchen everyone was invited to a club with free entry and a free drink. I wasn’t up for it as I wanted an early start the next day and also the club played House and Hip Hop music and that’s not my thing.

by Hayleigh Stewart

First off, I must apologize to my dear readers for my complete and utter laziness these past few months.  I know you were devastated without my blog to read, but – hurrah! – you can now rest assured that there will be a new blog fairly regularly (I’m hesitant to put a timeframe because I probably won’t stick to it).  As you may have noticed, I used the phrase “dear readers” before to imply that I have more than one.  I did this to mask the fact that I have but one lone reader, who is a charming, beautiful, and highly-intelligent woman, who, coincidentally, also gave birth to me.  She can’t help it if she happens to have impeccable taste in reading material. 

The past few months have been shockingly unproductive for this blog, and not only because my mom calls me enough to know anything that’s going on in my life, but also because I’ve been groping for things to say and, quite obviously, failing at the endeavor.  Just a few minutes ago, however, while I was in the shower, (one of the rare times of the day that I actually think – and if you knew how often that was you’d be shocked) I came upon a not-quite-life-changing, but good-enough, epiphany.  Why not go to a new place every weekend and write about my travels?  This idea would solve two of my many problems.

1.       I can get out of Madrid and see other things besides the bottom of a beer glass at Triskel’s. 

2.      I will have something to say in my blog.

Sadly, I don’t know if my bright idea will solve any problems for you, dear readers.  However, it might give you a possible reason to look away from Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, Gchat, reddit, and someecards, and waste just a little bit more of your precious time.  No need to thank me, really.

Anyway, let’s get started.  This weekend my friend and I went to Aranjuéz, which is a little town about 45 minutes outside of Madrid.  A tip for those non Spanish-speakers who want to go – learn how to emphasize the last syllable so that you are almost screaming by the end of the word.  All week, I had been telling my students proudly about my plans to go to Aranjuez, and all week they had been misunderstanding me.  This is usually how it went:

Me:  “This weekend I’m going to go to Aranjuez.”

Them:  “Where?”

Me:  “I’m going to Aranjuez.”

Them:  “Ohh, AranJUÉZ.” 

Me:  “Yep.”

My friend and I were both excited to visit AranJUÉZ to see the strawberry fields and eat the asparagus.  These are the two food items that AranJUÉZ is famous for, as I learned from talking with my students.  So we set off with high hopes for the amount of antioxidants we would consume that day, and the funny way our pee would smell when we got home.

Each of us purchased a two-way Cercanias ticket from the Atocha train station for only 6.40 euros.  Apparently, there is also an antique “Strawberry Train” that starts running in June, but as of yesterday, it wasn’t running.  (I would look up dates, prices, and times, but I’ll leave that up to you, since I know how you like to do that kind of thing.)  We were also looking forward to our visit because I had heard that The Beatles wrote their song Strawberry Fields Forever while staying in AranJUÉZ.  I have no idea whether or not this is true, or even who told me this.  It doesn’t really matter though, because I’m still going to brag to my friends that I’ve been to the town that inspired Strawberry Fields Forever.  I’m sure the town of AranJUÉZ won’t mind if you do the same.  They’re good people, those AranJUÉZians. 

The train only took about 45 minutes, and the whole thing was ridiculously easy to manage (thus making it even more pitiful that we’d been trying for weeks to go but were always too hung-over or tired to bother).  From the train station in AranJUÉZ, we took a short walk to the palace (take the first right and then the first left; you can’t miss it).  For such a small town, the palace is stunning.  Actually, the palace would be stunning even in a really big town, or in a city for that matter, but I guess it’s just surprising that such an enormous home is in such a small village. 

My friend and I marveled at the idea that this huge palace (it probably has more square footage than the town itself) was probably just a summer home for some King or Queen.  “Oh yes,” we imagined them saying, “the views from the Madrid palace were really getting me down, so I just had to escape.  I had to get away, to my other palace, in the middle of enchanting gardens and strawberry fields.”  We also imagined the massive parties that they would have in the plaza outside the palace.  You’d need at least 20 kegs, we decided.

The palace’s size is second only to its architectural elegance and the natural beauty and scope of its lawns and gardens.   It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re an extra on the set of Pride and Prejudice or Cruel Intentions.  (I have to relate this feeling to a movie, because I am quite sure that Queen Isabella I of Castile wore Uggs and drove around in a car, and that this whole “history” thing is a big Hollywood hoax.)  The ambience in AranJUÉZ is such that after walking through the gardens, you feel like you should ride up to the palace on your horse and then, after playing a lively game of croquet, maybe consider some skeet-shooting before teatime. 

Sadly, the palace was closed to visitors for the holiday, so I can’t report on what is inside.  I have been telling myself that the inside of this palace is an exact replica of the Royal Palace in Madrid, to try to convince myself that I haven’t missed out on anything.  Besides, I like to think that palaces are a bit like McDonald’s – you pretty much know what to expect.  (If you’ve been inside the palace in AranJUÉZ, and now you can die happy because you’ve seen the coolest thing that anyone could ever see, please don’t tell me about it.) 

We did, however, get to take a cute little bus, which was cleverly disguised as a train, (5 euros each and can be caught right outside the palace) for a 40-minute tour of the gardens.  The gardens are exquisite and well worth the visit on their own.  We saw fountains, flowers, and two peacocks.  And I swear I saw the Darcy’s picnicking in one of the wildflower-covered fields.  Really, what more could you want?

The thing that struck me about AranJUÉZ was the feeling of calm that comes from getting out of the city and being in a small town.  It was incredibly refreshing to walk slowly down tree-covered paths without being surrounded by people, concrete, and cars.  It’s funny how you don’t notice your fondness for open space until you’re in it.  In fact, it reminded me a little bit of my hometown.  Except that instead of a palace, we have a Super Wal-Mart, and instead of asparagus and strawberries we have really good Egg McMuffins.  So, you know, pretty much exactly the same. 

After the fake train-ride, we had a good Menu del Día for 15 euros per person at a restaurant right across from the palace.  We had asparagus as an appetizer, and it was the best part of the meal.  For dessert we had strawberries with real cream, which was as delicious as one would think.  And, in true Spanish fashion, after our big lunch we hijacked one of the white marble benches outside the palace and took a little nap in the sun.  It was nothing short of delightful.

After our nap, I remembered the value of not-so-open space – mainly that there are things to do – and we decided it was time to catch the Cercanias back to Madrid.  Overall, our trip to AranJUÉZ was a very enjoyable retreat at what I now like to refer to as my “country palace”.  And we even came home with the added bonus of that funny pee smell, just to prove we were there.

by Matt Johnson

The supposed inspiration for Disney’s Magic Kingdom Castle, the Alcazar was built on quite an impressive location. Sitting atop a cliff at the highest point in town, the castle perches protectively over its kingdom like a mother grizzly watching her cubs. The surrounding hamlets and hillocks seemed to be bowing towards the Alcazar as well, and it was almost as if the very land itself was sculpted for the sole purpose of paying it homage.

When we crossed the drawbridge over the dried up mote and entered the castle gates, I couldn’t help but feeling that I was walking through a portal into another time, and it was easy for the child-soldier in me to imagine being suited in armor atop a trusty steed, my battle-bloodied blade victoriously sheathed, returning home with honor after a successful conquest in the name of the king.

I was a bit disappointed to learn however, that this castle, like so many other Spanish landmarks, had been badly burnt during one of Spain’s numerous wars, and was now just a partially rebuilt replica of what it used to be. The outside at least, along with many artifacts, had managed to have been salvaged somehow, and although the inside did contain slight twinges of modern masonry, the time-traveling effect still remained on in full force.

Our view from the castle windows looking out over the red roofs of the village below was enough to cause temporary amnesia of this fact however, and the thrones and tapestries remained well preserved, too. The antique furniture and tiny suits of armor on display served as a comical reminder of how small people used to be in those times as well, and I laughed to think that the war heroes of yesteryear only came up to my chest. If only I’d been born a few hundred years earlier – too small to make it in the world of pro sports today, I could have easily been a battle proven warrior back then – knighted by the king, sending enemies of the throne into knee-knocking fits of trembling terror, and causing unsuspecting señoritas to swoon with a smile.

Another highlight of the castle was its store of rescued armory artifacts. Two rooms at its far end served to display various full bodied suits of armor, stainless steel swords and arrows, iron cast corroding cannon carcasses, and glass box displays of expertly crafted cross bows and antique archery equipment. As fascinated as all these weapons of war were to examine, it was eerie to think how many lives had been taken at the expense of their sharpened tips, and difficult to imagine trying to fight hand to hand not only while encaged in a constricting shell of clamorous, clanking metal, but to simply see anything at all through the narrow slits of the knights’ enormously globular helmets. The shadows of late afternoon were starting to stretch longer though, and so it was with a determinedly devout demonstration of self restraint that I begrudgingly obeyed the “NO TOCAR” signs pasted all over creation and turned to the exit – head down, hands in pockets, and ready for the last leg of our castle tour.

For the perfect punctuation to this picturesque day, we wound our way up the 152 spiraling stairs to the tower’s top terrace where we could see for miles on every side – a truly panoramic piece of optical opulence. To the south and west, a quiet village nestled itself cozily into the hills like a blanketed infant in sound slumber; to the north and east, a sleepy river snaked through thickets of trees, past the walls of Segovia’s town limits, and upwards towards the mountains; and everywhere we turned the landscape was awash in the glowing warmth of golden sunshine. While we stood taking it all in and regretting the advancing short hand of the ever-impatient clock, a light breeze carrying with it the springtime scent of budding blossoms played winsomely at our flapping shirt sleeves as we wistfully watched the shadows of a sinking Spanish sun deepen like puddles of twilight in a summer squall, splashing navy blue tiger stripes across the countryside and bringing with them the close of another beautiful Iberian afternoon.

All in all it was a perfect day. I was sad to say goodbye to Segovia, my new favorite neighbor, but thanks to Spain’s increasingly efficient system of high speed railways, it’s little less than a stone’s throw away. And although I won’t be making monthly visits, I can at least take comfort in knowing that whether I’m homesick for green grass and fresh air or just hungry for some roasted piglet, Segovia, like its aqueduct has proven, isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

by Matt Johnson

So we headed away from the aqueduct, pictures snapped and memories logged, in the direction of Segovia’s ancient cathedral. The gently sloping uphill walk took only about ten minutes or so, and we shortly found ourselves shivering in the damp darkness of the cavernous cathedral hall. Now, no matter how many cathedrals I’ve visited during my European conquests, the shear enormity of their size never ceases to amaze me. As I stood, neck craning and eyes squinting to make out the faint figures depicted on its many altitudinous apertures, I figured that from front to back, minus the gigantic choir lofts and pulpits occupying its center space, one could play a proper game of full-contact football, or at a stretch, a pickup game of summer stickball. Aside from these pre-modern Megadome fantasies, I took in the glowing golden altarpieces and intricately carved capillas, imagining with wonder the amount of time and money that must have gone into such a construction. If we’d taken just five seconds to examine each piece of artwork, I’d probably still be there today – no doubt jobless, dehydrated, and certainly not writing about it for your intellectual enjoyment. Regardless, we wandered around freezing through our t-shirts for about an hour or so before deciding to listen to our growling stomachs that it was finally time for our long awaited first taste of Segovia’s specialty: roast suckling pig, or cochinillo.

To many this may seem a cruel endeavor, the slaughtering of innocent infant animals. My apologies to PETA. But to me, baby animals, adult animals, raw animals, small animals, fluffy animals, fried animals, happy animals, sad animals – everyone’s welcome to the palate party. My taste buds don’t discriminate. A bit barbaric, yes – but I’m an omnivore, damn it – all of the above simply spell delicious, and cochinillo, the Spanish delicacy that I’ve for so long seen devoured by TV hosts on travel programs back home, was certainly worth the hype. Cute? I guess. Cuddly? Perhaps. Tasty? You bet your shorts. Would I like to pet one before I eat it? Well, let’s not get carried away, but we did have some laughs over the idea of a cochinillo petting zoo before the meal was served. And when the food finally did arrive, it took all I had to keep from going face to plate like a county fair contestant in the no-hands pie race. It was therefore with a well-mannered exercise of sophisticated self control that, cutlery wielded and ready, I ignored the guilty gut pangs in my gullet and mother’s sorrow-sick sighs of sympathy, and, putting knife to piglet, crunched through. What ensued was a Graceland of gourmet goodness; a flavor phenomenon of paradisiacal proportions; in essence, the pinnacle of pork-dom on earth: an outer layer of crispy, khaki-colored skin giving way to a succulently savory, slightly salty white meat center; altogether so tender and delicate that the grinning camareros who quartered it tableside were able to do so using only the blunt edge of a dinner plate. It was a no holds barred display of carnivorous corpulence; a whizzing whirlwind of fork to mouth fiendery; the one negative about this delectable delight being that it had most certainly ended too soon. I could’ve eaten more – much more, and it saddens my heart (but not my waistline) to know that cochinillo isn’t something I can order every day at my corner-side café. Regardless of this post-coital-like comedown, we dabbed satisfactorily at the corners of our now mollified mandibles, regrouped once again, and continued on to the day’s last destination: Segovia’s Alcazar.