Venice in Black and White

Inspired by this beautiful post by Garance Dore, I decided to post my favourite pictures I took in Venice, converted to Black and White. Such a timeless place.

Bargain Hotel in Rome

All right, so it's not really that much of a bargain considering I spent around 60Euros (the 35 Euro a night place in Paris, now THAT was a bargain). But it still wasn't bad, for Rome in peak season.

In Rome, I stayed at the Hotel "Aenea Superior Inn" or something like that. It was a very non-descript hotel, especially since I walked past it a few times before figuring out what building it is. There is no sign saying HOTEL on the door or anything, just a buzzer number....

In fact, the hotel is shared with an apartment building and perhaps some offices. The first floor (really, the 2nd one) was where I was placed, a long corridor and several air conditioned rooms. The reception was the next floor up, through another locked door. The people who worked there were very friendly and there if you needed them, but required you to buzz them or call...and sometimes there was no one in the building at all.

Doesn't matter though, because I was shown to my very small but very lovely room. Best thing about it? Not the view of the church courtyard (beware of nuns)
or its modern bathroom

But the fact that the AIR CON was on full blast! Bliss! So nice since you fucking soak you shirt in Rome just by standing outside for a few minutes. Oh, and the bed, small and wee just for me, was comfy too...

The location of the hotel was brilliant too. Yes, the area near the Termini train station can be a bit dodgy, but you wouldn't know it from the hotel. Steps away from the famous St. Maria Maggiore church and close to Via Nazionale which has many great Italian shops, you can't go wrong. The Colluseum and the Roman Forums are scarily close, which I discovered by accident walking down the street one day. Turn a corner and BOOM you are in the middle of a THIS IS ROME postcard and you have no idea where to turn your camera.

All in all, the hotel is a great choice. It was so clean, the staff (mainly the wonderful David) was beyond friendly when it comes to telling you the best palces to go in Rome and the location can't be beat. The only problem I had was the price...fine for a night or two, but if on a budget, I might shop around. Oh and the fact that the hotel doesn't have a public phone or phones in your room. That said, I did end up staying there again on my way out of Rome, so I can definitley recommend it.

AENEA & NEW WING** Sup.Inn
Via Urbana, 156.
00184 -ROMA
==
Email: aenea_rome@yahoo.com
Fax #: +390648916434

No Siesta por 36 horas!

This is a story I have been meaning to write about for awhile but have never had the time or motivation. But, heck, it should be heard.

It was the first time I went to Spain.

The first time I went 36 hours without sleep.

The first time I freaked right out whilst traveling.

It was all of that and more.

The day started in Cannes, France. After spending a few days lounging on the beach, getting caught in the rainstorm in Grasse and generally just hanging about, it was time to go.

I had, truthfully, found Cannes to be a bit of a bore. It wasn't as "Hollywood-ish" or "exciting" like I had hoped. I have a huge interest in the "retro" filmworld and even then I was dissapointed I couldn't find much more about Bardot, Monroe, Montand or anyone else.

So, after spending the morning at this island, I went back to my hostel to collect my bags...um, and find my passport which I had forgotten under the matress of my bed. Oops.

Anyway, that evenings plans included an overnight train ride to Barcelona, where I would catch the train to Tarragona the next day. The train didn't leave for awhile, so I hunkered down at the Mexican bar underneath the hostel and helped myself to two strong Pina Coladas.


Suffice to say, that by the time I was ready to trek to the train station, I had quite the buzz going. No matter, I thought to myself, I've paid extra for the sleeping compartment so I should be fine to just pass out and wake up in Barcelona.

I get to the train station and am immediately confused. The only train leaving that evening was to Bordeaux. For you who don't know, Bordeaux is on the opposite side of France. Not in the direction I was going at all.

So I asked the conducter in my broken French where I was to catch the train to Barcelona and he told me to just take the one to Bordeaux, the same track.

Well, I went and waited by the track and just assumed that my train would be coming after. While I was waiting where I was supposed to board my car, I saw another young girl. She looked American-ish but was definetly NOT a backpacker since she was lugging the biggest piece of luggage I have ever seen. She could barely pick it up.

I sort of tsk tsked inside my head and then went back to worrying about the train. At about the time my train would have left, this train seemed to get going. The conducters were sorta yelling all aboard and that really annoying "do, dah dah dah" jingle from the SNCF came over the intercom (if you have ever traveled by train in France, you will know what I mean) and that woman's voice announced the train was leaving.

Not knowing what to do, I ran up to the girl with the luggage, who was having a hell of a time trying to get it on the train, and asked her if this was going to Barcelona.

"I hope so!" she said, exasperated. An American after all.

So, I jumped on the train and as it started moving down the tracks, we both kind of looked at each other, not knowing where the hell we were going.

Turns out though, that we were both in the same compartment. That is, until I got to the compartment...not a sleeping cabin at all but just reclining chairs out in the open. We were both pissed off at spending our money on nothing and sat down across from each other and got to talking.

Her name was Becky and she was doing an exchange program though the University of Washington (a Seattlelite, small world) and had been in Barcelona for the last 6 months with her friend Lucy, who was in another compartment on the train. They had decided to do some traveling before they were due to fly out of Madrid in a day or two. Hence, the huge suitcase she had been lugging around.

We talked some more, then sort of fell asleep, only to wake up in Marseille having people saying that if you were going to Barcelona you had to get off at Port Bou. I had no idea where Port Bou was and how far off it was, so we sort of just sat there, on edge, eyeing each train stop. By now it was well past midnight and my earlier buzz had just left me feeling drained.

Worried about Port Bou, I walked up and down the train, looking for a conductor or someone who knew what the hell was going on. But our part of the train was sanctioned off from the rest of train and we were stuck with having no one to inform of us what was happening.

Eventually we went and joined Lucy, who was further down the cars and together we thought about our possible scenarios. Where was Port Bou? Why aren't we going to Barcelona? Why does the train say Bordeaux? Where are we? Etc.

We weren't alone though in this dilemma, and it seemed a lot of people in this part of the train were going to Port Bou as well.

We found that out as the train stopped at some random railway station. And then the other half of the train took off. Heading to Boedeaux, I suppose, while our end was abandoned on the tracks in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.

Eventually though, there was a bit of commotion and I suppose our train was being attached to another train or something. All I know is that we started moving again, plowing steadily to Port Bou. Only....

We never made it to Port Bou.

We made it to Narbonne where we were promptly told to get off the train and go into the railway station.

By now it was 3 AM, we were confused and tired.

Then that train took off and we, meaning hundreds of people, were stuck inside this station. We couldn't escape the station because the doors were barred. We couldn't leave the other way because the tracks were there. We were station prisoners.

There were no train people in the station to tell us what was going on and why we were here. All we had was a sign on the tickets office telling us they would open at 6AM and that was it. The only sign that we were remotely in the right place was the schedule which said a 7 AM train to Port Bou was leaving in a few hours.

So what is a girl to do at 3 AM when you don't know where you are, aren't even sure if you are in France or Spain and you are stuck in a train station?

This:


Let me tell you, it's not as easy as it looks. There was no where to lie down and nothing to do, so all of us stranded passengers were just passing out on the floor and in corners, on benches, whatever we could find.

Me and my two American amigas found our own little spot and tried to get some rest. But despite my eye mask and seemingly relaxed pose, I didn't sleep a wink. All I could think about was the fact that I didn't know where I was and what was going on.

My new freinds had it no better since they had a flight to catch in Madrid the next day and they had no idea if they would even make it there on time.

And as the new day approached, things just seemed to go from bad to worse.

To be continued....(see post below :)

No Siesta: Continued

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Here.

The train station, trying to get some shut eye.

As you know, that didn't quite work.

So, as the sky began to lighten with the early pastels of morning, me and my traveling companions, Becky and Lucy, decided to call off this whole sleeping thing and make way to use the toilet, located outside, by the train tracks.

We heard rumours about this thing. That it eats you alive.

I was always prepared to tackle the Turkish toilet. I read it about. I heard about it. I cancelled hotel bookings when I found out that one would be present in my room (or even worse, communal). But it wasn't until I encountered this toilet face to face, in the wee hours of the morning, in some strange part of France/Spain, that I understood.

Turkish toilets aren't fun.

I went into the dirty room. There was a hole in the ground...a porceline hole, but a hole nonetheless. It was gushing water, spouting it, churning it like some out-of-control bidet/white water rapids, the constant flurry of a quickly-moving flood. Before I even had a chance to grasp what I had to do, Becky pointed out that the door didn't lock. No, it barely closed. I promised her if she would watch out for me, I would watch out for her.

I tackled that scary thing tentatively. I squatted, using my hands to hold on to the wall for balance. You couldn't get down too low or the rush of water would sweep up your bum and carry you down the drain. I nearly slipped on the wet tiles. Twice. Those were the most terrifying moments of my life.

But somehow I made it out of there, alive. I watched out so that no one ambushed Becky and we were on our merry way. Later on, we heard Lucy tell us her horrible story of her squatting over the toilet and peeing while some guy just opened the unlocked door and barged in. Eeeek.

I made a silent vow to not pee until I got on the train. If we ever did get on the train.

Soon the train station information desk was open and somehow we found out that our train was due to leave for Spain shortly. Since I was the one with the grasp of French, I had to translate. My translation leaves a lot for the imagination. But I got the idea that our tickets were still valid. However, since Becky and Lucy had to reschedule their train to Madrid, the French ticket office couldn't do anything about it.

Apparently, even though it's all the EU, the Eurail train system has some flaws, in that a delay in France due to France train troubles has no bearing on the trains in Spain (fall mainly on the plain....sorry). So even though the girls spent money on their spain trains, the fact that they had to miss them due to circumstances out of their control, they still had to pay for it. Had the delay happened in Spain, it would be fine but apparently the two countries trains don't converse with each other.

I felt badly for them, especially as they stewed over their situation for awhile.

Soon enough, it was time to board the train. We sat in our seats and headed off into the morning mist. I fell asleep for most of the journey, waking up only at scenic times to see a fog covered, milky green pasture alloted with phantasmic silhouttes of horses, grazing along still ponds.

Unfortunately this scenery came to a quick end as our train soon stopped in Who The Hell Knows Where, Spain. We were across the border, near the water....but again, nowhere near our destination of Barcelona.

We didn't have much choice but to get off the train and congregate in yet ANOTHER train station. By now, everyone was well pissed off (as if we weren't already). During our four hours in Buttfuck Nowhere part 2, I managed to call Kelly on the payphone and complain to her while she was in the middle of managing a shift at Swiss Chalet.

Meanwhile, the Seattle girls found out that this whole delay would not only cancel their stay in Barcelona - they had to take the overnight to Madrid that night instead - but that they would in fact not be reimbursed for the train ride they had involuntarily missed. I would have been right pissed off if I were them. In fact I was pissed off but I was also so sleep deprived I didn't care.

Which didn't bode so well for me and and my day in Barcelona.

See, I wasn't planning on staying the city (I had, foolishly, heard too many bad things about it) so I had booked a resort cabin in Tarragona for that night and the next few days. I had another train to catch from Barcelona, but as far as I knew it was just an hour long and left every hour as well.

So I decided to brave Barcelona with my two disgruntled tour guides.

We had a wonderfully Spanish meal at a restaurant on Las Ramblas, consisting of sangria, tapas and paella.

It was a superb introduction to Spain. If only I had the functioning mental capacity to enjoy it. Remember, at this point, it's three in the afternoon and I am on 40-minutes of sleep. Thankfully the rest of my time in the city consisted of staring down pickpocketers and perusing the Las Ramblas market, where I picked up a sweet bracelet for myself.

As evening approached, I said goodbye to my new friends and hopped the train to Tarragona. To safety and security, a roof over my head.

Oh Gawd, if only it was that simple.

I arrived at the Tarragona train station, dazed and confused. Ever think you have a town figured out in your head and then you arrive and realize that it is NOTHING like you imagined?

Someone could have told me that Tarragona had one bad ass hill and that the train station was nowhere near where I needed to go.

And where did I need to go? Well, after a quick check to my notes scribbled haphazardly in my journal, I knew that in order to get to the beach cabins that were 7 km out of town, that I had to catch the "9" bus from Hotel Imperial.

So I started up the hill, with my increasingly heavy backpack, praying for death or for some rich Spaniard to take pity on me.

Neither happened. What did happen was that I slowly realized that while I could get away with rudimentary French in France and guidebook Italian and Germany in Italy, Austria, Germany, I could not converse my way in Spain. None of the people I met on the street, when asking for directions, spoke English. It was Spanish all the way, or nothing at all. I had forgot that earlier I had been depending on my Seattle friends for their translation, without realizing how rare English was.

Somehow though, I made my way to the main street where the buses took off from. I waited. And waited. And waited. The old people on the bench next to me looked confused. I was confused. I did not know where this "9" bus was except that someone had directed me here.

Twenty-minutes into my waiting, a bus came by. The doors opened and I tried to explain my situation to the non-English driver. I combined all the Spanish words I knew but they didn't make sense. He did, however, get what I was saying, or so I thought, so he pointed at the next street over and nodded.

I took this as "Go to the bus stop on the street parallel" so I did. And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, I got out the resort's phone number and tried to give them a call to find out how best to get to them and where to get the bus.

There was no answer.

No, it even worse than that. There was a person saying that there was NO resort at all. Resort "non existo" or something.

This was the point I felt like crying. In fact I did cry. My bag was heavy, my feet hurt, I didn't know where I was going, I couldn't speak the language, I had no place to stay and worst of all, I had no sleep which meant I was not able to cope with any of the above like a normal person was. I felt completely, and utterly, helpless.

So, with my tears fallling behind my sunglasses, I slugged towards the water. I had no idea where I was going but figured at some point, I would find a way.

I soon spotted a large hotel overlooking the sea. The Hotel Imperial. And outside it, a bus stop.

Feeling bouyed by this discovery, I waited, hoping that the buses still ran since it was getting late and dark.

A bus stopped in front of me. It was the same bus driver from before. Once again, I tried to explain where I wanted to go. He shut the doors, refused to accept payment from me, and then acted like he was doing me a big favour. In some ways he was; he listened to me try and say "I'm sorry, I haven't slept in 36 hours" in Spanish, which came out as "No Siesta por trez seize horas"....um, not the same.

Anyway, the bus stopped at one point and he told me to get off. If I continued down the road I would reach the resort. I thanked him profusely....though never understood what the big deal was since that stop by the resort was one he would have made anyway and that the bus I actually had hopped on was bus "9."

At any rate, I limped my way to the main office, sweat-covered and dusty from the road. To my surprise the person at the front desk did not speak English, but he did speak French and for the first time, I felt relief. I was able to tell him - and the old French couple that was waiting in the office - about my horrible day....and all in French! They all understood and even laughed at the jokes I made about my sore feet. For once, I conversed without fear or misunderstanding. That moment was definitely a highlight of my trip.

Another highlight was yet to follow. The man gave me the keys and a tour of my cabin. Bliss! I have to do an entire post about this place and my relaxing days there because it truly is a gorgeous, unique place and I was beyond lucky to have found it.

Thankfully with my horrid day from hell, there was a pot of Spanish gold at the end of this rainbow.

Next post: The Best Deal in Spain - Supreme Accommodation in Tarragona

And in future posts (and in honour of so many people I know going off to the great city): A landmark tour of Paris. Stay tuned!

Overlooked: La Alberca, Spain

La Alberca is a little known town in the northwest of Spain, just a hop, skip and a jump from Salamanca and the Portugal border and a four-hour bus ride from Madrid.

I found my way to this quite little town by force. I had signed up for my volunteering English teaching position for a week through the highly recommended Pueblo Ingles and was sent to the program's outpost in this wee place.

I've blogged about the program before (though not in depth, which I should do one day. although right after the program was finished I did blog this MEMO), but never really about what the village really has to offer. After all, besides the gaggle of English-unundated Spaniards and Anglos that come here to learn every week, other tourists come to La Alberca.

Why?

First off, the village is ancient...over a thousand years old and extremely well-preserved, as you can see in it's fabulously medieval architecture, cobblestone roads and thatched roofs. In fact, all new buildings must be made in the same manner and style as the old ones. It also the first village to be declared a National Historial Monument by Spain and it's easy to see why:











Reported fountain of youth

Built in the 1300's, the town church may look unassuming from the outside but inside it tells a different and historically rich story. The Church of the Asunción, houses many revered wonders such as a 16th-century pulpit sculpted in granite, a splendid Gothic copper processional cross and a figure of Cristo del Sudor.

The scenery is astounding too, as the village combines softly pastoral landscapes with the rugged Sierra de Francia mountains.


Also worth noting is the local cuisine and shops. People flock to this village to sample the tasty, but pricey, serrano hams. These black pigs get fat on acorns...

...before the are sold in any of the numerous Jam shops...

...and make their way to your dinner table.

The local shops are vivid, quaint and all-encompasing, catering to the young tourist:

Old tourist:
And locals:
Details:
*Located an hour and a half from the lively student city of Salmanca, with daily bus services.

*The hotel I stayed at is primarily used for the volunteer program, though the chalets can also be rented out. Otherwise, The Paris Hotel (http://www.hotelparislaalberca.com/, +34 923 415 131) is closer to town and comfy.

No place like home...in Norway

As many of you know, my dad is Norwegian.

He was born in the tiny village of Todalen, located on the country's West Coast, at the end of a long fjord.

A two-hour drive south of Trondheim, the place is stunning and one that holds a thousand memories for me.

View of the family house and South side of the village of Todalen

Memories of being a little girl in a foreign country, of seeing and hearing my dad speak Norwegian with his brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts, parents and nieces and nephews. Of cutting down Xmas trees in the cold snowy forests. Of riding a sleigh at a 2PM sunset. Of hearing stories of trolls under bridges and neighbourhood gossip (guess who's sheep gave birth?). Of feeling like though it was all so unreal to my young head, I knew in my heart I was of this land.

Ten-year old me and my Bestamor (Grandma)

I went back to Norway two years ago. I spent two glorious weeks in Oslo, Trondheim, Bergen and Floro. And, of couse, Todalen. Sleeping by myself in the family houe that my dad gew up in, loitering in the empty kitchen that still smelt like the waffles my then 96-year old, non-English speaking Grandma would make me. Freaking out at the sounds the old house made in the night. And poking around forgotten corridors, drinking expensive Norwegian beer and perusing old photo albulms.

Photos of the house...
The house
My cousin Arvid's dog Knuten and I on the front lawn
The street (house is at the end, on the left)


My cousin Bebe and I, on the steps of the house

Where I slept, my aunt's old bedroom

getting into old chests of wardrobe

The sky at Midnight by the fjord

Next week: A photo essay of the town....